A Wicked Deed

Chapter 4

Bartholomew pushed his way through the milling villagers, splashed through the ford, and ran as fast as he could to the church. Michael panted behind him, while Horsey urged them to hurry. The door to the church was closed, and Bartholomew struggled to open it, his haste making him clumsy with the heavy latch. It clanked ajar and he shot inside.

Like many parish churches, Our Lady’s of Grundisburgh was shadowy and intimate, its narrow windows admitting little of the fast-fading light of day. It smelled of the beaten earth that formed the floor of the nave, of the old cobwebs that hung like tendrils of mist from the wooden rafters of the roof, and of cheap incense. Wooden benches were placed at the back for those not able to stand during masses, and a single tallow candle burned on the altar at the eastern end. The walls were covered with paintings, some of them crudely executed with a good deal of black and red, others more delicate, like the one of St Margaret wearing a wimple and touching a hand to her heart.

‘Over here!’ yelled Horsey, grabbing Bartholomew’s sleeve and hauling him toward the chancel. ‘He is here.’

Unwin lay face down in front of the altar. Unlike the nave, the chancel had been paved with patterned tiles, and blood seeped from under Unwin to form a smooth black pool across them. Bartholomew felt for a life-beat in the student’s neck, but there was nothing. He hauled him on to his back, and put his ear against Unwin’s chest, straining to catch the muffled thud of a beating heart.

‘Is he dead?’ demanded Michael. ‘What killed him? What happened?’

‘Michael!’ snapped Bartholomew, covering one ear to listen. ‘I cannot hear.’

‘Hear what?’ shouted Michael. ‘Is he dead?’

‘He must be dead,’ said Horsey in a horrified whisper. ‘Look at the blood!’

Bartholomew snatched a candle from the altar, prised open one of Unwin’s eyes, and passed the candle back and forth near it, looking for some movement that would tell him there was still a spark of life left. The eye was flat and glassy, like that of a landed fish. He balled his fist, and gave the student a hefty thump in the middle of the chest, following a procedure his Arab master had taught him to make the heart start again.

The door clanked, and Father William entered at a run with Alcote and Deynman behind him.

‘What has happened?’ the friar demanded. ‘I saw you three race in here as if the Devil was on your heels.’ He stopped when he spotted Unwin lying on the floor, and drew in his breath sharply. Alcote and Deynman stood next to him, gaping in shock as they saw the prone student and the blood on the tiles.

Bartholomew tore open his bag and fumbled for the phial of foxglove juice he carried there. In large amounts the plant was a deadly poison, but it was possible to use a little to stimulate a heart into working. He lifted Unwin’s head, and poured some of the colourless liquid into his mouth, although his face had the pale, waxy look that suggested death had already won the battle.

Bartholomew thumped the student’s chest again, and put his own face near Unwin’s mouth, hoping against all odds to feel the warmth of breath against his cheek. There was not even the slightest whisper.

‘He has gone, Matt,’ said Michael, touching the physician gently on the shoulder. ‘He was dead before we arrived.’

‘Not yet,’ muttered Bartholomew. He poured a few more drops of the foxglove into Unwin’s mouth, willing him to swallow them and start to breathe again.

‘It is over.’ Michael tugged at Bartholomew’s tabard to pull him away. ‘We were too late.’

Bartholomew shrugged him off, thumped Unwin’s chest a third time, and then listened. The only sounds were the distant, angry voices of villagers arguing over food on the green, William’s prayers for the dying, and Michael still panting from his run. Bartholomew sat back on his heels, and felt for a life-beat in Unwin’s neck for the last time. The skin was still warm, but there was no pulse under his fingers. He rubbed a hand through his hair and looked up at Michael in despair.

‘Let him go, Matt,’ said the monk softly. ‘You have done all you can. Now it is our turn.’

Horsey moaned and dropped to his knees, taking one of Unwin’s hands and cradling it to his chest. Michael crouched next to him and chanted a requiem, his strong baritone echoing around the church, while Father William began to anoint the body and grant it absolution. William, like many priests, believed that the soul remained in the body for a short time after death, and that giving a corpse absolution would help with the soul’s journey to wherever it was bound. Alcote’s reedy tenor joined in Michael’s dismal dirge, while Horsey wept silently.

Bartholomew moved away and sat with his back against one of the pillars, watching his colleagues. He was suddenly reminded of the plague, when dying people were far more grateful for the absolutions and masses of Michael and William than any feeble, useless treatments Bartholomew had to offer. So engrossed was he in his morbid thoughts that he was not aware that Michael had finished his prayers until he was tapped smartly on the shoulder.

‘I need you to tell me what happened to him,’ said the monk. He peered at Bartholomew in the gloom. ‘What is the matter? You are as white as snow.’

‘I wish I could have done more to help him,’ said Bartholomew, scrubbing tiredly at his face with fingers that felt clammy and cold. ‘And that poor man at the gibbet. I am not used to losing two people in such quick succession – at least, not since the plague.’

‘Their hour had come,’ announced William, in a voice that was kinder than usual. ‘You did all you could to snatch them back, but even your heretic medicine cannot cheat Death of his prey.’

Bartholomew supposed William was trying to be comforting, but to be reminded of his own mortality as well as the limits of his medical knowledge was not particularly consoling.

‘Come on,’ said Michael, holding out a hand to pull the physician to his feet. ‘We are all shocked by this, but we must try to understand what happened. Was Unwin stabbed? There is blood everywhere.’

Reluctantly, Bartholomew went to look at the dead student. One sleeve was soaked with blood, and there was more of it on his stomach. Bartholomew knelt, and used one of his surgical knives to make a slit in Unwin’s habit. Below the ribs there was a puncture wound about the width of two fingers. Bartholomew probed it carefully. It looked deep, certainly deep enough to kill him.

‘Stabbed,’ he said in answer to Michael’s query, although the amount of blood and the gash should have made the cause of death obvious, even to a monk.

‘By someone else?’ asked William, somewhat indignantly. ‘He was murdered?’

‘I suppose so,’ said Bartholomew. ‘In my experience, most people driving knives into their own stomach use two hands – only one of Unwin’s is bloodstained. And the weapon seems to have disappeared.’

‘So,’ said William, when a quick search of the church failed to locate any knife or other sharp instrument, ‘we can conclude that someone murdered him, because had he killed himself the weapon would still be here?’

Bartholomew nodded.

‘But why?’ demanded Alcote crossly, as though the murder of Unwin was a personal affront to his dignity. ‘Is it something to do with you cutting down that hanged man, do you think? Was it a villager who does not want Michaelhouse to be granted the advowson? Or was it just that someone did not like the look of Unwin for their parish priest?’

No one could answer him, and they stood in silence around the dead student, looking down at him helplessly.

‘How did you come to find him?’ asked Michael of Horsey. ‘He is still slightly warm, and so has not been dead for long. Were you with him? Did you see anyone else in the church?’

Horsey shook his head, tears glistening on his cheeks. ‘After the spectacle of that food frenzy, Unwin said he wanted to pray for the people who would soon be under his care. I think he was deeply shocked by their behaviour. I should have gone with him to the church, and then this would not have happened.’

‘You cannot know that,’ said Bartholomew gently. ‘How long was he in the church before you came to find him?’

Horsey shook his head, distressed. ‘Not long. I was listening to Lady Isilia talking about her husband’s sheep. Sheep! While some vicious killer was slaying poor Unwin in a church!’

‘Easy,’ said Bartholomew, sensing Horsey was about to become hysterical. ‘So what made you decide to come to look for him?’

Horsey swallowed. ‘Unwin is my closest friend, and I know he is terribly anxious about his future responsibilities here. I felt I should be with him, so I excused myself to Lady Isilia, and came to find him. There was no one else here – the church seemed empty. Then I saw him lying on the floor, and all that blood… I just ran to fetch you. I thought you might be able to save him.’

The last part held the hint of an accusation, and Bartholomew winced. But once a knife or a sword had been thrust deep into a man’s innards, there was very little that could be done to save him. Vital organs were ripped and punctured and they could not be repaired. If the damage did not kill him, the resulting infection would. Bartholomew’s Arab teacher had told him it was possible to suture organs, and that the victim might live to tell the tale, but Bartholomew had seen him try many times on battlefields, and never with success. Bartholomew’s attempts to start Unwin’s heart with punches and foxglove were as futile as had been Ibn Ibrahim’s struggles to mend the slippery intestines of injured soldiers.

‘Why is one sleeve drenched in blood?’ asked William. He answered his own question. ‘I suppose he fell on to his arm, and it leaked out from his stomach wound.’

‘No, he was lying just as you found him,’ said Horsey shakily. ‘Both arms were above his head, and he was resting on his face.’

‘He must have been moved, then,’ said Michael, frowning. ‘I noticed both arms were stretched above his head before Matt moved him, and yet the blood on his sleeve must mean that he lay in a different position immediately after his death. I can only conclude that he was killed elsewhere, then brought to the chancel.’

Bartholomew pushed up Unwin’s sleeve, and pointed to a small gash near the elbow. ‘It looks as though he was injured defending himself, but the fatal wound was the one to the stomach.’

‘But we have not answered Roger’s question,’ said Michael, rubbing his chins thoughtfully. ‘Why should anyone kill Unwin? He has not been here long enough to make enemies, surely?’

‘Unlike Roger himself,’ muttered William, eyeing Alcote with dislike. He spoke aloud. ‘Perhaps Unwin caught some thieves trying to make off with the church silver.’

‘What silver?’ asked Michael, gesturing to the plain wooden cross and the rough table that served as an altar. ‘There is nothing here worth stealing. Anyway, Wauncy does not strike me as the kind of priest to leave valuables lying around – especially if that feast were anything to go by.’

‘I hope Unwin’s death was not a deliberate attack on Michaelhouse,’ said Alcote darkly. ‘It might mean that we are not safe here, and that we will be picked off one by one until we are all dead.’

‘Foolish monk!’ snapped William. ‘Why should anyone want to do that?’

‘Unwin probably caught someone doing something he – or she – was not supposed to be doing,’ said Bartholomew reasonably. ‘The people are wild tonight, because it is the end of the Fair. Perhaps there were lovers here, enjoying the solitude, and he caught them.’

‘In God’s holy house?’ bellowed William in horror. ‘That is a disgusting suggestion, Matthew!’

‘No more disgusting than murder in a church,’ Bartholomew pointed out.

‘Just like Thomas à Becket,’ mused Alcote solemnly. ‘He was slain by four swordsmen at his own altar. And he is a saint now.’

‘Becket was a little more than a student-friar, and his murder was on the order of a king,’ said Michael irritably. ‘I do not think his death and Unwin’s are in quite the same class. But we should tell Tuddenham about this, and ask him to send for the local Sheriff. The murder of a priest is a serious crime, and should be looked into immediately.’

‘Whoever did this will burn in hell for eternity,’ growled William. ‘He will be consumed by fire and tormented by screaming demons–’

‘Since Unwin was a member of Michaelhouse, I will conduct my own investigation,’ said Michael, before William could start one of his colourful tirades about the terrors of hell. For a friar, William knew a great deal about hell. ‘Meanwhile, I will also send word to the Bishop of Norwich, whose see we are in – because Unwin was a priest, this will come under the jurisdiction of canon, not secular law.’

‘You might find Tuddenham does not agree,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘It might be prudent to make your enquiries discreetly, since there are no beadles to help you if the villagers resent your questions and become uncooperative or aggressive.’

‘Do not fear, Matthew. I will be there to assist Michael,’ announced William firmly. Michael looked uneasy. ‘I will act as your Junior Proctor in this matter, Brother. It will be good practice for the future.’

‘Oh, Lord!’ breathed Michael to Bartholomew, as the Franciscan preened himself. ‘What is about to be inflicted on me?’

While Bartholomew and Michael moved Unwin’s body to one side of the chancel, Alcote went with Horsey to tell Tuddenham what had happened. Deynman was dispatched to borrow the parish coffin, and William offered to locate Cynric: one of the scholars would need to keep vigil over the body during the night, and whoever it was would be safer with Cynric and his long Welsh dagger nearby.

‘It is extremely difficult to think clearly with William bawling his opinions at me all the time,’ said Michael watching Bartholomew straighten Unwin’s limbs and smooth down his clothes. ‘I hope he is not going to dog my every move during these enquiries.’

‘I think he will try,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Unless you want your tactful questions to become blatant interrogations, you will have to give him the slip. Discretion is an alien concept to William.’

Michael gave a laugh that was almost a sigh. ‘He was a member of the Inquisition, Matt! He is not an easy man to escape from – as I am sure many of those poor so-called heretics in southern France will attest.’

‘Then you will have to work with him. I suppose you could ask him to speak to some of the more hostile or uncommunicative villagers on your behalf.’

‘Not a good idea, Matt. I do not think the Inquisition ever obtained confessions by the cleverness of their cross-examinations. I heard they used techniques during which even the most sainted of people would have admitted to any crimes the twisted minds of the inquisitors cared to dream up. And if William tries using those on the good people of Grundisburgh, we will lose the advowson for certain.’

‘And we cannot risk losing the advowson, can we?’ said Bartholomew, suddenly bitter. ‘A Michaelhouse scholar lies murdered, but that is fine so long as we still have the advowson!’

‘Matt,’ admonished Michael gently. ‘I am only being practical. There is no need to vent your distress over Unwin on me. We must ensure that William practises restraint, or we may never find the culprit of this terrible deed. So I shall need your help over the next few days.’

‘How could we have been so foolish as to imagine that we had left murder and intrigue back in Cambridge,’ groaned Bartholomew.

‘Cambridge is not the only place where foul crimes are committed, you know,’ said Michael. ‘There is murder and intrigue wherever there are people. And the more people there are, the more crime there will be. Look at London and Paris and Rome! Murder is so commonplace in those places, that no one gives it a second thought.’

‘But this is a village with two hundred inhabitants,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is not a city with thousands. And we have had two peculiar deaths since Saturday. People may begin to think we have something to do with them, since that is when we arrived.’

‘I think not,’ said Michael confidently. ‘First, no one believes there was a hanged man at the gibbet anyway; and second, why should we kill one of our own scholars – especially one who was about to leave us and take up a lucrative post?’

‘They might suggest one of us wanted the position,’ said Bartholomew, with a sigh. ‘And with Unwin gone, one of us will have to take his place.’

‘Not me,’ said Michael firmly. ‘I do not want to spend my days granting absolutions to sheep molesters and men who covet their neighbour’s pigs.’ He shuddered. ‘Rural Suffolk is a place that seethes with unnatural vices, Matt, and I want nothing to do with it.’

‘It cannot be me either – I am not a priest.’

‘Then this might be an excellent opportunity to rid ourselves of Alcote or William,’ said Michael, eyes gleaming thoughtfully. ‘This is a benefit to the College I never looked for! Which would you rather lose – the bigoted William and his obsession with heresy, or the duplicitous Alcote with his secret wealth and unsavoury business connections?’

‘Perhaps we could leave one here and persuade Deblunville to take the other at Burgh,’ said Bartholomew, smiling. ‘But we should not be talking like this – it is exactly what I meant when I said people might begin to look at who will benefit from Unwin’s death.’

The latch to the door clattered, and agitated voices echoed in the dark church. Tuddenham strode up the nave and into the chancel, his metal spurs clanging on the tiles. Hamon was behind him, still wearing his best clothes and with a sword strapped incongruously to the decorative belt at his waist. In their wake scurried Alcote and the lovely Isilia, while Dame Eva followed more sedately, clinging to Horsey’s arm for support. Tuddenham’s steward kept curious villagers out, struggling against the press of bodies as they strained to see past him.

‘What evil has been perpetrated here?’ demanded Tuddenham, gazing down at the corpse. ‘What has happened?’

‘Unwin is dead,’ said Michael.

Isilia’s hands flew to her mouth and her eyes became round with horror. Dame Eva appeared to be more offended than shocked, while Hamon studied the body with the same dispassionate expression he had worn since he had discovered Janelle had married his arch-enemy Deblunville.

‘How?’ asked Tuddenham, when he had recovered from his surprise. ‘There is blood on him. Did he have some kind of fatal seizure brought on by excessive choler?’

‘He was stabbed,’ said Bartholomew bluntly. ‘In the stomach.’

‘You mean he was killed by someone else?’ asked Isilia in an appalled whisper. ‘Murdered?’

‘We believe so, madam,’ said Michael. ‘Doctor Bartholomew has some experience in these matters, and has helped me to investigate crimes of this nature in the past.’

‘You mean you have been involved in murders before?’ asked Tuddenham distastefully. ‘I thought Michaelhouse men were scholars, devoted to matters of the intellect, not the kind of people to probe into the unsavoury affairs of killers.’

‘Perhaps murder has followed you here, then,’ said Hamon, looking at each of the Fellows in turn. ‘I can assure you that unlawful slayings do not commonly occur in Grundisburgh.’

‘I told you that is what they would say,’ muttered Bartholomew to Michael.

‘What about Alice Quy?’ asked Isilia, startled. ‘She was murdered last month.’

‘She died of childbirth fever,’ said Tuddenham dismissively. ‘If you heard there was any foul play involved, then you have been listening to gossip that has no foundation in fact.’

‘Well, what about James Freeman, then?’ demanded Isilia. ‘He was found with his throat cut only last week.’

‘Suicide,’ said Tuddenham brusquely. ‘That is why he was buried in unconsecrated ground, if you recall.’

‘None of this would have happened in my husband’s time,’ said Dame Eva sadly. ‘Things were different when he was lord of the manor.’

‘He did not have the after-effects of the Death to contend with,’ snapped Tuddenham, rattled. ‘He did not have vast tracts of land with no one to work them, or the constant clamouring of peasants for higher wages.’

‘If he had, he would have known how to deal with them,’ said Dame Eva defiantly. ‘This was a prosperous manor in his time, and now it has murderers strutting unchallenged along its paths.’ She regarded her son soberly. ‘And Isilia is right about Alice Quy and James Freeman. Their deaths were not natural. We all know what they saw. And Deblunville saw it, too.’

‘Saw what?’ asked Alcote curiously. ‘You mentioned Deblunville seeing “something” before.’

‘Superstitious rubbish!’ said Tuddenham in exasperation, ignoring Alcote’s question. ‘You will refrain from discussing such pagan matters in a church, madam, especially in front of our guests from Michaelhouse.’

‘Deblunville may have seen it, but he is still alive, more is the pity,’ said Hamon bitterly.

‘Hamon!’ barked Tuddenham angrily. ‘I said that is enough. Now, we must arrange for a vigil to be kept over this poor friar. Master Wauncy, please see to it.’

‘I will do it,’ bellowed Father William, as he strode up the nave with Cynric gliding like a ghost through the shadows behind him. ‘And Horsey will assist me.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew, seeing that Horsey’s face was still grey with shock. ‘He needs to rest. Cynric will stay with you, and I will relieve you at midnight.’

There was a loud crash followed by muffled cursing, as Deynman, Michaelhouse’s least able student, struggled into the church carrying the parish coffin. Whoever had built it had intended it to last, for it was made of solid oak, and was apparently very heavy. It comprised a rectangular box with a hinged lid, and a slat of wood inside on which to rest the head.

‘I will have the midwife prepare the body,’ said Tuddenham. ‘She always performs that service for the village dead. It is too late to do much else tonight, but at first light tomorrow Hamon can go to Ipswich with a message for the Sheriff, and I will begin to make some enquiries of my own. I do not anticipate it will take long to uncover the monster who did this vile thing.’

‘Do you have any idea why someone might want to kill Unwin?’ asked Michael.

Tuddenham shook his head. ‘Times are hard, Brother, and although we appear to be a wealthy village there are those among the bonded villeins who are resentful that some people are richer than they. I would imagine this to be a simple case of theft.’

‘Theft of what?’ asked Michael, unconvinced, ‘Unwin had nothing to steal. His few possessions are in the saddle bags outside; and the cross he wears is fashioned of nothing more variable than baked wood.’

‘But he had a purse round his waist,’ said Tuddenham. ‘I saw it earlier, and it is not there now.’

Bartholomew looked down at Unwin’s habit and saw that Tuddenham was right. He was angry at himself for not noticing it sooner. The leather thongs that had tied the purse to Unwin’s belt had been severed – perhaps with the same knife that had been used to kill him.

‘But Unwin’s purse contained only a phial of chrism and a tiny relic – some hairs from St Botolph’s beard in a twist of parchment,’ said William. ‘We friars do not permit ourselves to accumulate worldly goods.’

‘A thief was not to know that the purse contained nothing of value,’ Tuddenham pointed out. ‘Especially in a dark, shadowy place, like this church.’

‘So, you believe we should be on our guard?’ asked Alcote, by far the wealthiest of the scholars. ‘Anyone carrying a purse in Grundisburgh is asking to be murdered by jealous villeins? Should Matthew rid himself of his medicine bag, lest someone believes it to be stuffed full of treasures? Should I hire a bodyguard?’

‘Of course not,’ said Tuddenham testily. ‘This is an isolated incident, not something that happens regularly – as Hamon said, murders do not occur in Grundisburgh. However, I imagine that the copious amounts of ale I supplied today had more than a little to do with it: a villager became drunk, saw Unwin enter the church with a purse swinging at his side, and killed him for it. I will begin a search for it at first light tomorrow, while you work on my advowson.’

He nodded curtly to the scholars and left the church, his family at his heels.

‘If Unwin had no money, how did he come to have this relic?’ asked Bartholomew. He was angry, mostly at whoever had dispatched Unwin so casually, but partly at Tuddenham for reasons he did not yet fully understand. When they had first arrived, the knight had seemed hospitable and charming, but Bartholomew had not liked his careless attitude towards the missing man from the gibbet, nor his pettiness over the border squabbles with Deblunville. He wondered afresh whether it was in Michaelhouse’s best interests to accept gifts from such a man, and worried about what the knight might ask for in return – especially given his curious eagerness to have the advowson completed as soon as possible. Bartholomew knew Alcote would be unscrupulous in agreeing to whatever it took to secure the living of the church for the College, and was unsure whether he could trust Michael not to turn a blind eye to certain irregularities in order to place Michaelhouse third, rather than sixth, in the University’s hierarchy of wealth.

‘The relic was a gift from me,’ said Horsey in a strained voice. ‘I bought it for him while we were at St Edmundsbury Abbey. You see, St Botolph’s body lay in Grundisburgh before it was taken to the Abbey, and I thought a relic from that saint would protect Unwin, and keep him safe in his new post…’

Bartholomew stood and rested his hand sympathetically on the student’s shoulder. Horsey choked back a sob.

‘And where did you find the money to pay for this relic?’ asked William coolly. ‘I did not know you were a wealthy man.’

‘I had a silver cross that my sister gave me,’ said Horsey. ‘The only time I ever wore it, you lectured me about the immorality of worldly possessions, so when one of the monks at the Abbey offered me a few hairs of St Botolph’s beard in exchange for the cross, I did not hesitate.’

‘You mean one of the monks is removing parts of the saint’s body and selling them off?’ asked Michael, appalled.

William made an unpleasant noise at the back of his throat. ‘What did you expect from a House of Benedictines? Every one of them has but a single ambition, and that is to amass fortune and power in this world with no thought for the one that comes after.’

Leaving William to begin his vigil for Unwin’s soul, Bartholomew followed the others out of the dark church. The sky was a deep blue, and the branches of the trees that had shaded the graves from the sun were silhouetted black against it. Bartholomew took a deep breath, trying to dispel the smell of mustiness and cheap incense that seemed to hang in the air around him.

‘I will stay with Father William, boy,’ said Cynric softly. ‘And I will be here when you come to relieve him at midnight. I have my dagger at the ready.’

‘Be careful,’ said Bartholomew, not liking the way their visit to rural Suffolk had so suddenly degenerated to the state where Cynric felt he needed to have his weapon drawn while William kept vigil over a dead student. ‘But do not forget that someone might enter the church with purely innocent intentions. We do not want another needless death today.’

Michael was watching Alcote and Horsey pick their way through the long grass of the graveyard toward the village green. ‘When we first arrived here, I thought we had come to paradise, with all those children laughing and dancing around the pole, and those mountains of food waiting to be enjoyed. Now we discover from old Dame Eva that there have been other suspicious deaths in the village over the last month – the woman who died of childbirth fever and the man with the slit throat – not to mention the hanged man at the gibbet whose body has been stolen, and poor Unwin.’

‘Women do die of childbirth fever, and people do commit suicide,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is probably nothing in all this but the coincidence of four unexpected deaths occurring in a short period of time.’

Michael shook his head slowly. ‘I am not so sure. I have the distinct feeling that there is something strange going on in this village.’

‘If you start meddling in Tuddenham’s affairs, you will lose your precious advowson for certain,’ said Bartholomew, taking the monk’s arm and leading him out of the churchyard. ‘It would not be polite or prudent to start interfering with the way he runs his estates.’

‘It might be very prudent considering that one of us is already dead,’ countered Michael. ‘I do not like the notion of standing idly by while one of my colleagues is slaughtered – although I might be prepared to look the other way if Alcote is the next victim.’

‘Michael!’ admonished Bartholomew, more because Alcote might overhear than because he disagreed with the sentiment. ‘But Tuddenham is probably right: someone killed Unwin in order to steal his purse. There is nothing to suggest that the rest of us are in any danger – although I would hide that jewelled cross you are wearing, if I were you.’

‘Tuddenham claims the killer was probably drunk,’ said Michael, tucking the cross down the inside of his habit. ‘I can assure you that no one could have become drunk on the paltry amount of ale he provided. First, it was poor quality stuff with no flavour and no bite; second, most of it was spilled during the fight to get it; and third, no one could have managed more than a single cup of it at the very most – there was simply too much pushing and shoving.’

‘And what is this “something” that Dame Eva keeps talking about?’ asked Deynman, speaking softly behind them and making no secret of the fact that he had been listening. Bartholomew jumped, uncomfortably aware that he should be more cautious about people overhearing his conversations until he was certain Unwin’s death was no more sinister than a case of random robbery. ‘She says the two people who died saw “something”. Does she mean that they witnessed a terrible act, and were killed so that they could not reveal it?’

‘I doubt it, Rob,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Dame Eva seems to know what they saw, and she would not be telling everyone about it if she believed someone might kill her, too.’

‘It is the same “something” that Deblunville is supposed to have seen,’ said Michael. ‘But he is alive and well, and doubtless enjoying himself tremendously with the woman of Hamon’s dreams at this very moment. But it is late and we are all tired. We need to rest, not to start frightening each other with all these wild speculations.’

Alcote had met Walter Wauncy by the ford, and was waiting for them. The night had become chilly, and Alcote was shivering. The village priest, however, seemed more a creature of the night than of the day, and appeared almost lively. His cowl was pulled up against the cool night air and he carried a thick staff, so that Bartholomew thought he looked exactly like the depiction of Death on the wall paintings in St Michael’s Church in Cambridge. He shuddered, unnerved by the similarity.

‘I am on my way to help with the vigil,’ said Wauncy with a graveyard grin. He raised a white, bony hand magnanimously. ‘I will not, of course, be charging my usual fourpence for these services for Unwin – tonight anyway.’

‘You are too kind,’ said Michael expressionlessly. ‘I am sure Unwin’s soul will rest easier knowing he has a few free masses secured for this evening.’

‘I was just explaining to Master Alcote that Sir Thomas has hired you rooms in the Half Moon for the rest of your stay,’ said Wauncy, after regarding Michael uncertainly for a moment. ‘Although the food is better at the Dog.’

‘Sir Thomas had intended us to stay with him at Wergen Hall for the whole of our visit,’ explained Alcote, ‘but he thinks that we will be less cramped in the tavern. What he really means is that he will be less cramped at Wergen Hall without seven guests. I told you our party was too large.’

‘That is kind of him,’ said Michael, sounding relieved that he would not have to sleep under Tuddenham’s roof again. ‘Where is the Half Moon?’

Wauncy gestured across the green. ‘Cross the ford here, and the Half Moon is near the edge of the village, overlooking the River Lark. Your servant has already deposited your bags there.’

It was almost completely dark by the time they found the tavern, a large building with an inexpertly thatched roof that looked like the head of an ancient brush, and thick, black supporting beams running at irregular intervals along its facade. It was dull pink, as a result of the local custom of adding pig’s blood to the whitewash, and the horn windows gleamed a dull yellow from the flickering firelight within.

Alcote elbowed his way past Bartholomew and took the best seat nearest the fire. Immediately there were howls of laughter from a group of young people sitting at one of the tables, apparently directed at Alcote and one of their number – the flaxen-haired beauty who had asked Bartholomew to dance with her at the Fair. Alcote glowered at them, but that only seemed to add to their mirth.

As the others hovered uncertainly in the doorway, a taverner in a white apron came toward them. He was a man of indeterminate years with a neat cap of thick silver hair, a strangely swarthy face and restless dark eyes. Tied on a piece of twine around his neck was a smooth piece of glass, the kind Bartholomew had seen short-sighted scribes use to aid eyes worn out from years of deciphering illegible writing in bad light. The man saw him looking at it, and smiled.

‘Please,’ he said, gesturing with his hand to indicate that they were to enter. ‘I have been expecting you. I am Tobias Eltisley, the taverner.’ He held up his eye-glass like a trophy. ‘At the risk of sounding presumptuous, I would like you to know that I am a man of some learning, and look forward to many intellectual discussions about science and the nature of the universe.’

‘That sounds delightful,’ said Michael, smiling politely. ‘But not this evening, with our colleague dead in the village church.’

‘Tomorrow, then,’ said Eltisley. ‘But it is chilly outside. Come and sit near the fire while I finish preparing your rooms.’

As they took seats at one of the inn’s tables, Bartholomew looked around him. The tavern had a large room on the ground floor, while a flight of narrow steps led to the upper chambers. The unsteady flames in the hearth made it difficult to see, but the walls seemed surprisingly clean for an inn, and the table tops had been scrubbed almost white. The room smelled of wood-smoke, cooking and the lavender that had been mixed with the rushes scattered on the floor. It was a pleasant aroma, and reminded Bartholomew of his sister’s house outside Cambridge.

There were five tables with benches in the room, suggesting that Eltisley’s trade was good. Two of them were already occupied, one by a group of sullen-looking men who hunched over their beakers in stony silence, and the other by the young people who had laughed at Alcote. Some of the girls wore flowers in their hair, while their beaus had coloured ribbons tied around their waists and wrists. A large, matronly woman sat to one side, sewing, although how she could see in the gloom, Bartholomew could not imagine. It seemed she was acting as a chaperon, for whenever one of the young men moved too close to the girls, she would give him a menacing glare and he would obediently, if reluctantly, back away.

‘Can I fetch you anything?’ asked Eltisley. ‘Wine or ale? Something to eat?’

‘Yes,’ said Michael before anyone else could speak. ‘I could eat a horse – although I would prefer you not to bring me one. A chicken will suffice, or perhaps some mutton. And plenty of bread to mop up the gravy. But no vegetables.’

‘I will inform my wife,’ said Eltisley, hurrying away through a door at the rear of the room.

‘Wauncy said the food was better at the Dog,’ complained Alcote under his breath. ‘What is wrong with you, Michael? Are you losing your taste for fine meals after all the rubbish we have eaten during the journey here?’

‘I am ravenous,’ replied Michael. ‘And I am not prepared to go wandering around in the dark looking for another tavern, when this one is offering hospitality. What I need at the moment is quantity, not quality.’

‘My wife said the food will be with you in a few moments,’ said Eltisley, appearing breathlessly from the kitchens.

‘Good,’ said Michael. He rubbed his hands together and smiled pleasantly at the landlord. ‘There is a chill in the air this evening, Master Eltisley, despite the warmth of the day. It is good to see a fire.’

The landlord beamed an ingratiating smile. ‘In that case I will stoke it up for you, Brother.’

‘That is not necessary,’ said Bartholomew quickly, feeling the room was already too hot for the summer evening. ‘Please do not trouble yourself.’

‘It is no bother,’ said Eltisley, seizing a pair of bellows that would have been more at home in a blacksmith’s furnace than a tavern, and setting to work with considerable enthusiasm. Smoke billowed from the logs as the gigantic bellows did their work, and ashes began to fly everywhere. Michael coughed, flapping at the cinders that circled around his face, while Bartholomew’s eyes began to smart and water.

The young people yelled at Eltisley to leave the fire alone, but the landlord stopped only when one of the handles, probably weakened from years of such abuse, broke with a sharp snap. There was a sigh of relief from all the patrons, and Deynman went to open the door to clear the room of the thick, swirling pall.

‘There,’ said Eltisley, standing back to regard the roaring fire with satisfaction. ‘That should warm the place up. Who opened the door?’

‘I did,’ said Deynman. ‘To let some of the smoke out.’

‘No, no, no,’ said Eltisley, closing it firmly. ‘The flames will create a natural draught that will suck the smoke out of the room within moments. There is no need for doors.’

Coughing dramatically, Deynman went to open it again, but a silent, brooding man, who sat at the table nearest the window stood up threateningly, and Deynman hastily pretended to be inspecting the whitewashed walls instead. When the man took a step toward him, the student scuttled back to his companions, trying to hide behind Bartholomew.

‘But we could be dead in a few moments,’ gasped Michael to Eltisley. ‘Did no one ever tell you that if you allow your patrons to breathe, you are more likely to keep their custom?’

‘Then I will open a window for you,’ said Eltisley reluctantly. ‘That will create a cross-draught but will not allow any of the heat to escape.’

‘This man is a lunatic,’ said Bartholomew to Michael, watching the landlord in disbelief. ‘Why does he imagine heat will escape through a door, but not a window? And flames do not suck smoke from a room!’

‘Here is the food,’ said Michael, reaching into Bartholomew’s medicine bag for one of his surgical knives, smoke forgotten. ‘What do we have here? Goose, I believe, and duck. And some mutton. What is this scarlet stuff, madam?’

‘Red-currant sauce,’ said Eltisley’s wife, ‘and this is a dish of buttered carrots, simmered in vinegar and honey and then flavoured with cinnamon.’

‘Vegetables,’ said Michael eyeing them in distaste. ‘Never mind those. Where is the bread? And what have you smeared over that delicious meat?’

‘That is hare, fried in white grease with raisins and onions, and garnished with dandelion leaves and cress.’

‘Oh, well, I suppose the greenery can be scraped off,’ sighed Michael in a long-suffering way. He glanced up, and smiled as a serving girl appeared with more dishes. ‘Here comes the bread now. And what is this? Lombard slices! One of my favourites.’

‘What are Lombard slices?’ asked Bartholomew, unused to the rich food over which Michael was drooling.

‘Almonds and breadcrumbs cooked with honey and pepper,’ said the monk contentedly, ‘and served with a syrup of wine, cinnamon and ginger. Delicious! Try some.’

He cut Bartholomew a small piece, and then ate it himself when the physician was slow to claim it, washing it down with a substantial swig of wine.

‘This will be expensive,’ said Alcote anxiously. ‘I hope we will have enough money to pay. The Master’s allowance for travelling was not overly generous.’

‘Everything will be paid for by Sir Thomas,’ said Eltisley graciously. ‘You are Grundisburgh’s guests, and it is our pleasure to ensure you have everything you need. Will there be anything else?’

‘No, thank you,’ said Bartholomew quickly, before Michael could ask for more. Eltisley had clearly been ordered to treat them well, and there would be no limits to Michael’s greed unless his colleagues curtailed him.

‘And you must each drink a measure of this before you start,’ said Eltisley, waving a clear glass bottle in which something grainy-looking and black slopped ominously.

‘What is it?’ asked Bartholomew suspiciously.

‘Just a little potion of my own that aids digestion,’ said Eltisley proudly. ‘I dabble in medicine occasionally – just like you, Doctor – and my remedies and tonics are in great demand in the village.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, resenting the implication that he ‘dabbled’. ‘And what exactly is in this potion of yours?’

Eltisley tapped the side of his nose. ‘That would be revealing a professional secret. I cannot have you stealing my ideas, can I?’

Bartholomew took the bottle from him and sniffed at its contents dubiously. He jerked backward as the sharp odour stung his nose.

‘You expect us to drink that?’ he asked incredulously. ‘It smells like urine and camphor, boiled together until burned.’

Eltisley looked disappointed. ‘The urine of a she-goat,’ he corrected pedantically. ‘Simmered with white starch and camphor, and flavoured with cloves. It is a syrup that is hot and dry in the first degree – according to Galen – and is excellent for diseases of the stomach. I usually make it paler, but I forgot to bank the fire when I cooked it and it ended up a little blackened. But it will work all the same. Drink up!’

‘Galen would never recommend drinking such a concoction,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘And neither will I.’

‘Of course he would,’ said Eltisley, pouring the charcoal sludge into some goblets. ‘If you do not drink it, you will pay with dreadful indigestion during the night.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Is your cooking so bad?’

‘Matthew!’ snapped Alcote sharply, as Eltisley looked offended. The fussy scholar snatched one of the goblets from the landlord, and had drained it before Bartholomew could stop him. ‘There,’ he said hoarsely, when he could speak again. ‘Now perhaps we can eat in peace.’

‘That was rash,’ said Michael as Eltisley walked away, satisfied. ‘I would not drink boiled goat urine flavoured with cloves – especially given that Matt advised against it.’

‘You put far too much faith in his medicine,’ said Alcote, regarding Bartholomew coldly. ‘I do not trust his heretic methods at all. He could not save Unwin, and he could not save the criminal at the gibbet on Saturday.’

‘Have some more of this sludge, Roger,’ said Michael, pouring the Senior Fellow another cup of Eltisley’s remedy. ‘With any luck, he might not be able to save you, either.’

Alcote was about to reply with something equally unpleasant, when Deynman’s elbow put an end to the discussion. The bottle tipped to one side and knocked into the cups, spilling all their grisly contents into the rushes on the floor. Michael scuffed the mess into the beaten earth underneath with his foot, and gave the embarrassed student a conspiratorial wink.

‘Best place for it,’ he said. ‘Other than in Alcote, that is.’

‘There is rather a lot of this,’ said Deynman, eyeing the piles of food with trepidation. ‘Will we finish it all, do you think?’

‘Of course we will,’ said Michael, his cheeks bulging with fresh bread. ‘It is a mere mouthful.’

‘We should save some for William,’ said Bartholomew, watching Michael scrape the greens from his portion of hare. Under the cress, the dish swam with grease, and Bartholomew felt queasy as Michael plunged his bread into it and sucked on the sodden crust.

‘William claims not to like elaborate food,’ said Alcote. ‘He will not want any.’

‘He will,’ said Bartholomew, knowing that what William said, and what William did, were not always the same. ‘But this is all very rich. We will be ill if we eat too much of it.’

‘A contradiction in terms, Matt,’ said Michael, spearing a duck’s leg with Bartholomew’s knife. ‘“Food” and “too much” are words that do not belong together, like “fun” and “physician” or “friar” and “intelligent conversation”.’

‘Or “monk” and “moderation”,’ added Bartholomew. ‘Do not eat so fast, Brother. This is not the Pentecost Fair, you know. There is plenty here for all of us and there is no need to gobble.’

’I never gobble,’ said Michael loftily. ‘I merely enjoy the pleasures of this life while I can. And so should we all – after all, as Unwin has just shown, who knows how long we may have to do so?’

It was not long before Michael had reduced the fine meal to a mess of gnawed bones and empty platters. Alcote, always a fussy eater, consumed very little, and Bartholomew and the students had little appetite after seeing Unwin dead in the church. While Michael tried to lift the spirits of his subdued companions by telling some ribald tale about a Cambridge merchant’s wife, Bartholomew stared at the fire and tried to recall whether he had seen any villager acting oddly after the feast, hoping he might remember a furtive look or a nervous manner that would provide some clue as to who killed the student friar.

After Eltisley’s wife had cleared away the greasy dishes, a man from the lively group at one of the other tables came to join them.

‘I am Warin de Stoate,’ he said, bowing low. ‘Grundisburgh’s physician. I wanted to tell you that I was delighted to see you put that charlatan Eltisley in his place – he has been plaguing the village with his worthless cures and concoctions for years.’

Bartholomew rose to introduce himself, pleased to meet another medical man. Stoate was in his late twenties with thin hair, pale brown eyes and a face ravaged by ancient pockmarks, partially concealed by a large moustache. He wore hose and a matching cotte of a deep amber, and a fine white shirt. Bartholomew recalled him as the man who had been tossing – and dropping – the small child on the village green earlier that day. Like Bartholomew, Stoate carried a bag containing the tools of his trade, although his was smaller than Bartholomew’s and of a much better quality.

‘We were all shocked to hear about the death of your colleague,’ said Stoate, gesturing to his friends at the next table. ‘Do you have any idea as to why someone should do such a thing?’

‘No,’ said Michael. ‘But he was almost certainly killed by someone who lives here. Can you think of a reason why anyone might want to murder a Franciscan as he prayed in the church?’

Stoate shook his head. ‘But I saw someone leave the church not long before the alarm was raised by him.’ He pointed at Horsey. ‘I did not think much about it at the time, but now it seems as though it might be important.’

‘It might,’ said Michael, sitting upright. ‘Who was it?’

‘I did not see his face,’ said Stoate, to Michael’s disappointment. ‘I was standing near the ford talking to Mistress Freeman, and I just glimpsed someone leave the building.’

‘Why did you notice him at all?’ asked Bartholomew curiously. ‘I imagine people were in and out of the church all day.’

‘They were, but he caught my eye because he was wearing a long cloak,’ said Stoate. ‘It was warm in the sun today, and I remember thinking how foolish he was to be wearing such a thick garment when he would overheat. We medical men notice that sort of thing.’

‘Do you?’ Michael demanded of Bartholomew.

The physician shrugged and then nodded. ‘Yes, I suppose so. Do you recall anything else?’ he asked Stoate.

‘Not really. He did not look familiar, but there are so many people in this village that I might not immediately recognise someone – particularly swathed in a thick garment with the hood up.’

‘Was this person acting furtively?’ asked Michael. ‘As though he had just done something he should not have done?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Stoate with certainty. ‘He kept looking about him, and then he disappeared off into the trees on the far side of the churchyard. At the time I just assumed it was a lad setting up a prank to play on his fellows – water in a bucket over the door, grease smeared on the doorstep, that kind of thing. But now I realise a practical joke was a long way from that man’s mind.’

‘And it was definitely a man?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Could it have been a woman?’

‘A woman? Why should a woman want to kill Unwin?’ asked Alcote, looking up from where he was trying to read some of Tuddenham’s accounts in the firelight.

‘Why should a man want to kill him?’ countered Bartholomew.

Stoate shook his head, trying to remember. ‘It might have been a woman, I suppose. There was no way of assessing how big he was when there was no one else nearby. I am sorry, I know I have not been of much help. Had I known that this person was leaving the scene of such a terrible crime, I would have been a lot more observant.’

‘Thank you for telling us,’ said Michael. ‘But we are forgetting our manners. Please, sit with us and take some wine. It is apparently the best that insane taverner has to offer.’

Stoate sat at the table next to Bartholomew, and began to enquire about the latest medical theories that were being expounded at Cambridge. Unfortunately, since the plague had killed so many physicians, and the few who were left could earn ten times the amount by practising their trade on the wealthy than they could teaching medical theory to students in a University, Cambridge was not overly endowed with them. Oxford fared little better, although Paris, Salerno and Montpellier were thriving. Stoate said he had studied medicine first in Paris, and later at the University of Bologna.

Sensing that the discussion would soon become unpleasantly spangled with references to grotesque diseases, Alcote slipped away. As he left, Stoate’s companions began to laugh, and nudged and jostled the fair-haired woman in a gently teasing way. Alcote glowered furiously, and scuttled from the room as fast as his spindly legs would carry him.

‘What are they laughing at?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused by their reaction to the fussy scholar.

‘Rosella found a pod with nine peas this morning,’ said Stoate, as if that explained all.

‘So?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘So, she takes the ninth pea, and places it on the lintel of the door,’ said Stoate impatiently. ‘The first man over the threshold will be her sweetheart.’

‘And Alcote was the first of us to come in,’ said Bartholomew, smiling. ‘Poor Rosella! Alcote has a morbid dislike of women in any form, but young and pretty ones in particular.’

‘Why?’ asked Stoate curiously. ‘They are among God’s finest creations.’

‘I have no idea. But if you have any regard for Rosella, you will advise her to shell a few more peas. And speaking of peas, have you tried them cooked in sugar to help those recovering from the sweating sickness?’

Deynman listened to the conversation for a while, but his concentration span was short, and he was soon kicking Horsey under the table to play dice with him. Michael closed his eyes and began to doze, pretending not to notice the illicit gaming in the darkest corner of the tavern and hoping it would keep Horsey from dwelling too much on the death of his friend.

It was not long before the plague became the topic of conversation, and Stoate told Bartholomew how he had cured people with a purge of pear juice mixed with red arsenic, lead powder and henbane. It was not a recipe with which Bartholomew was familiar, nor, after hearing the amounts of arsenic, lead and henbane Stoate used in his concoction, was it one he intended to try. If Stoate’s patients had survived both the plague and the remedy, they were possessed of stronger constitutions than the citizens of Cambridge.

But it was good to be able to discuss medicine with someone who was interested. Stoate told him of country cures for chilblains, cramp and nosebleeds, and then went on to describe purges for all occasions.

‘Is that what you do most?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Prescribe purges?’

‘That is what most people summon me for. It is my contention that it is cheaper for physicians to prevent diseases than to cure them. I recommend that everyone should be purged of evil humours once a week, and bled at least three times a year.’

‘And you find this helps to keep people in good health?’ asked Bartholomew, uncertainly.

Stoate gestured around him. ‘Ask my patients. Most are in excellent health. Are yours?’

Michael gave a soft snort that might have been laughter or might have been an innocent noise made while asleep. His eyes remained closed.

‘No,’ said Bartholomew, looking back at Stoate. ‘But then, living in a town is far less healthy than life in the country. There is often not enough to eat, and the water from the river is filthy.’

‘What has the water to do with anything? Try some of my purges on these ailing patients of yours and you will notice a difference within a week. And there is nothing quite like bleeding to improve the health, of course.’

‘Is there a surgeon in Grundisburgh, then?’ asked Bartholomew, disappointed that Stoate was like all the other physicians he had met. Bleeding, to rid the body of the excessive humours that caused imbalances, was seen as the answer to everything – even the plague. In Bartholomew’s experience, phlebotomy served to weaken the patient if he were ill, and was a waste of time if he were not.

‘Our surgeon died during the pestilence,’ said Stoate. ‘Do you have a good remedy against lice? We had a spate of them last summer, and even Eltisley professed himself at a loss for a solution.’

‘Not really,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But who bleeds your patients if there is no surgeon?’

‘Master Stoate bleeds his patients himself,’ said the formidable matron who had apparently been listening to their conversation from her fireside seat. Her eyes, however, were fixed on Deynman’s dice. ‘He is a most accomplished surgeon, and charges tuppence for a vein to be opened in the foot and threepence for the hand.’

‘You practise surgery?’ asked Bartholomew, startled.

Stoate looked uncomfortable. ‘Well, blood-letting is not exactly surgery, and I only do it if I feel a patient should not make the journey to Ipswich.’

‘That is excellent!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, delighted. ‘Well, not the bleeding, but to meet a physician who is prepared to use surgical means to help his patients. I have performed a number of operations including trepanation, cauterising and suturing wounds, amputations…’

‘Have you?’ asked Stoate doubtfully. ‘That is strictly forbidden. The Lateran Council of 1215 says that priests are not allowed to practise cautery.’

‘I am not a priest,’ said Bartholomew impatiently. ‘But what else do you do, besides phlebotomy? Have you tried pulling teeth? It requires more skill than most surgeons believe – if the tooth breaks in the jaw, it can cause infections and even death from poisons in the blood.’

‘I have not,’ said Stoate with a shudder. ‘I have an infallible remedy for extracting teeth without the need for physical effort on my part: powder of earthworms. Just a pinch of this in the hollow of a tooth will make it drop out within days.’

Bartholomew winced. ‘What about bone-setting? Do you do that?’

‘No,’ said Stoate. ‘As I said, I do not practise surgery if I can avoid it, and I have not bled anyone for several weeks now. But I did once remove the blue skin that forms over the eyes of the old, so that the person could see again.’

‘Really?’ asked Bartholomew, fascinated. ‘Tell me how you did it. I have tried that procedure twice, but in both cases the blindness returned within three years.’

‘My patient died of a bloody flux about a week later,’ said Stoate. ‘But I learned two things: the knife must be sharp, and the patient must lie still.’

‘Well, that goes without saying,’ said Bartholomew, regarding him doubtfully. ‘But did you use witch-hazel as a salve afterwards? Or did you use groundsel as Dioscorides recommends?’

‘I used sugar water,’ came the unexpected reply. Stoate gazed at Bartholomew and suddenly slapped his hand hard on the table, waking Michael, who regarded him in alarm. ‘That is it! I knew there was something else!’

‘That is what?’ asked Michael, irritably.

Stoate looked pleased with himself. ‘Ever since I learned of your Franciscan’s murder I have been thinking about the person I saw coming out of the church. I knew there was something I should have remembered, but it had slipped to the back of my mind. Talking about surgery to the eyes has suddenly jolted my memory, and I now know exactly what it was that has been bothering me: the person in the long cloak was rubbing his face.’

‘You mean as though he had been crying?’ asked Bartholomew, not sure that this had been worth waiting for.

‘No, rubbing his eyes hard with both fists, as though there was something wrong with them,’ said Stoate. ‘So, you are probably looking for someone with an eye infection, Doctor Bartholomew. That should narrow down your list of killers!’