A Wicked Deed

Chapter 5

By the time Stoate left, Bartholomew was sleepy and excused himself to go to bed, knowing it would not be long before he would have to relieve Father William for Unwin’s vigil. Eltisley led him to the upper floor, explaining that he and his wife used one room, while the other two were reserved for guests. The chambers were pleasant enough, with mullioned windows, polished wooden floors, and several straw mattresses that were piled with more blankets than even the most chilly of mortals could require during an early-summer night. Wearily, Bartholomew found a bowl of water and began to wash. After a moment he became aware that Eltisley was still in the room, fiddling with one of the windows.

‘What are you doing?’ Bartholomew asked, wiping his face with a piece of sacking.

‘I am tying a piece of twine to the latch on the window so that you can open it without getting out of bed if you become too hot during the night.’

‘Why should I need to open it without getting out of bed?’ asked Bartholomew warily.

‘Because then you would be too cold,’ said Eltisley, still tinkering.

‘But if I felt the need to open the window because I was hot, I would not be too cold the instant I stepped out of bed,’ reasoned Bartholomew. ‘Please do not worry. I am quite happy to open a window without the need for a piece of rope.’

‘It will only take a moment,’ said Eltisley persistently. He gave Bartholomew a superior look. ‘I saw that the bottle containing my potion was empty when I came for the dirty dishes. You changed your mind and took it, I expect.’

‘It was an interesting colour,’ said Bartholomew evasively. ‘I have never seen anything quite like it.’

Eltisley gave a happy grin, assuming an implicit compliment. ‘I might be persuaded to part with the recipe when you leave, after all. I am not a man who believes in keeping effective remedies to himself. It is not ethical.’

Bartholomew nodded, and turned his attention back to washing.

‘I was very sorry to hear about Unwin,’ said the taverner, continuing to fiddle with the window. ‘Did I tell you that?’

‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But thank you anyway.’

‘It is a curious thing,’ said Eltisley absently, engrossed with his piece of string, ‘but I am sure I saw him talking to Sir Robert Grosnold – the bald lord of Otley manor – in the churchyard just after the feast started. Of course, that is not possible. I must be going mad.’ He beamed at Bartholomew in a way that made the physician sure he was right.

‘You must be mistaken,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Grosnold rode with us from Wergen Hall, and then set off immediately to return to Otley. He thundered across the village green like a maniac.’

‘I saw him,’ said Eltisley. ‘Worse, he ran me over. Look at my leg.’ Unceremoniously, he hauled down his hose to reveal a semicircular bruise that would doubtless match one of the shoes on Grosnold’s destrier. ‘I will take a purge for it tomorrow.’

‘What good will a purge do a bruise?’ asked Bartholomew, startled.

‘It will take away the evil fluids from the wound and reduce the swelling. Bruises mean an increase of humours in the body, and so vomiting must be induced to balance them again.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, understanding exactly why many physicians so fervently believed the adage that a little knowledge could be a dangerous thing.

Eltisley beamed at him absently. ‘But this business with Grosnold is odd, is it not?’

‘Very,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Are you sure he was not talking to Unwin before he trampled you with his horse?’

‘Quite sure,’ said Eltisley. ‘I have been in considerable pain ever since. When I saw Grosnold talking surreptitiously to Unwin a few moments after he trampled me, I considered giving him a piece of my mind. Then I decided I did not want to hang for impudence, so I left it.’

‘What do you mean by “talking surreptitiously”?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘“Surreptitious” means furtive or sly,’ said Eltisley. ‘I thought you would have known the meaning of that word, Doctor, you being from Cambridge. But we all learn, I suppose.’

‘What I meant was what were they doing to make you think they were surreptitious?’

‘Well,’ said Eltisley, touching a finger to the bridge of his nose. ‘Let me see. Grosnold – although it could not have been Grosnold since he had left the village – had Unwin by the arm and was whispering something in his ear.’

‘Is there anyone else it could have been?’ asked Bartholomew, beginning to feel a little irritated by the man’s vagueness. Unwin had been murdered after all, and Eltisley might well have seen the man who had done it. ‘Is there someone you might have mistaken for Grosnold?’

Eltisley stopped tampering and gazed out of the window, frowning. ‘No,’ he said eventually. ‘There is only one man I know with a suit of black clothes and a pate that glistens like Grosnold’s. But then, as I said, what I saw was not possible, because Grosnold had already gone home. I asked a few of my patrons whether any of them had seen Grosnold after he rode across our green so carelessly, but none of them had. So, I must have been mistaken.’

Bartholomew was perplexed. ‘So did you see Grosnold with Unwin or not?’

Eltisley shrugged. ‘My eyes told me yes, my mind tells me no.’

‘Was he wearing a long cloak?’ he asked, thinking of Stoate’s observation. ‘Or was there anything wrong with his eyes?’

‘His eyes?’ queried Eltisley, taken aback. ‘No, not that I could see. They seemed normal enough – beady, just as usual. And he wore his black cotte and hose – he likes to think he looks like the Prince of Wales in them. Foolish man! The Prince is not bald, forty and pig-ugly! Have you ever seen him? The Prince?’

‘Not recently,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But if the man you saw talking to Unwin was wearing these distinctive clothes, then it must have been Grosnold. There cannot be two people in the area with an outfit like that. Perhaps he came back for something.’

‘I suppose he must have done,’ said Eltisley, brightening. ‘And it is certainly true that no one else that I know of possesses clothes like Grosnold’s. Perhaps he forgot something, or realised that he needed to speak to Unwin before he returned to Otley. I am not mad, after all!’

That by no means followed, thought Bartholomew. Could he trust Eltisley’s observation, or had the whole scene come from the jumble of nonsense that passed for his brain? He rubbed a hand through his hair, and flopped heavily on one of the straw mattresses. He was so tired, he did not know what to think.

‘There,’ said Eltisley triumphantly, standing back with his twine in his hand. ‘This little invention of mine will work perfectly. Watch.’

He sat on the bed nearest the window, and gave the twine a gentle tug. Nothing happened. Puzzled, he tried again. The third tug was more savage, and with a screech of ancient metal, the latch plopped out of its frame and dropped to the floor. The window remained closed.

‘Mend it tomorrow,’ pleaded Bartholomew, sensing the taverner was going to spend half the night with it.

It was not easy persuading Eltisley to leave, but at last Bartholomew was alone. He doused the candle, lay on the crackling mattress, and hauled one of the rough blankets over him. Somewhere, a mouse scurried across the floorboards, its feet skittering on the shiny surface, and from the tavern below, the muted voices of his companions were raised in some kind of debate. Still thinking about why Grosnold might want to kill Unwin, he fell into a deep sleep, and knew nothing more until he was awoken by Michael shaking his shoulder some hours later. Candle wax splattered on his bed-covers as the monk leaned over him, his bulk casting monstrous shadows on the wall.

‘I have no idea what the time is, Matt, but it is long past midnight,’ he whispered, trying not to disturb Alcote. He was clutching his stomach, and in the candlelight Bartholomew could see that his face was contorted with pain.

‘I suppose you feel ill,’ he said unsympathetically.

Michael nodded. ‘It must have been the green stuff that was all over the hare I ate. I scraped most of it off, but there must have been enough left to make me sick.’

Bartholomew reached out and touched the monk’s face in the darkness. It was hot, but not feverish. ‘I ate the vegetables, and I am all right’

‘But you have an unnatural constitution, Matt. I keep telling you that green things are bad for me, but you will not listen. Now I am proven correct. Again.’

‘Take this,’ said Bartholomew, groping in his bag for the remedy for over-indulgence and indigestion he frequently dispensed to Michael. ‘And then go back to sleep.’

‘Matthew,’ came Alcote’s tremulous voice in the darkness. ‘I am ill. Help me!’

‘Summon Master Eltisley, then,’ said Bartholomew, unmoved. ‘He can give you some of his goat urine and cloves to drink.’

Alcote retched suddenly, so Bartholomew went to his aid, holding his head while the goat’s urine made its reappearance, along with the rest of Alcote’s dinner.

‘I feel dreadful,’ he wept, clutching Bartholomew’s hand. He raised fearful eyes to Michael. ‘You will have to grant me absolution, for I shall not live to see the light of day. Help me, Matthew!’

‘But you have no faith in my medicine,’ said Bartholomew, feeling vindictive. ‘You said so at dinner, while you were eating the hare that was swimming in grease.’

Alcote retched again, and when he had finished, Bartholomew helped him to lie back with a water-soaked bandage across his forehead.

‘We have been poisoned by vegetables,’ said Michael, still holding his stomach.

‘You have been poisoned by greed, and Roger has been poisoned by Eltisley’s foul concoction,’ said Bartholomew. ‘That will teach him to drink something prepared by a man who does not know what he is doing.’

But it was not a lesson Alcote would remember for long. It was not the first time Bartholomew had been summoned to tend Alcote in the dead of night because he had swallowed some potion that promised miraculous results, and it would probably not be the last. He mixed poppy juice and chalk in a little water, and handed it to the Senior Fellow to drink.

‘Thank you,’ said Alcote, pathetically grateful with tears glittering in his eyes. ‘I shall never take medicines from anyone except you ever again.’

‘Until next time,’ muttered Bartholomew, who had heard this before. ‘Now rest, and you will feel better in the morning.’

‘You should go,’ said Michael. ‘It feels later than midnight to me. William should know better than to trust you to wake up on time. You sleep the sleep of the dead, even when you are not tired.’

‘Go to sleep,’ Bartholomew whispered. He pushed Michael on to his back, sorted out the tangle of blankets, and pulled them up under the monk’s chin.

He dressed in the darkness, crept out of the bedchamber, tiptoed down stairs that seemed to creak louder the more quietly he tried to walk, and let himself out of the front door. A breeze that smelled of the sea whispered in the trees, and somewhere a dog barked once and then was silent. He glanced up at the sky. The moon was a thin sliver, and the only other light was from the mass of stars that glittered above, dancing in and out of clouds that drifted westward.

He groped his way down the lane, past still, dark cottages. When he stumbled in a pothole, he realised how familiar he was with Cambridge’s uneven streets. The raucous call of a nightjar close by made him jump, and he tripped again, wishing he had borrowed a candle to light his way.

Eventually, he arrived at the green and walked across the grass to one of the fords. He leapt across it, landing with a splash in the shallows on the far side, and aimed for the church. It was in darkness, and Bartholomew saw that someone, probably Cynric, had closed all the window shutters. He was raising his hand to the latch when a voice at his elbow almost made him leap out of his skin.

‘Easy, boy!’ said Cynric softly. ‘I just wanted you to know that I am here.’

‘I wish you would not do that,’ said Bartholomew, clutching his chest. ‘Is William inside?’

Cynric nodded. ‘He is not pleased that you are late. He wanted me to fetch you, but I told him you had instructed me not to leave him alone. I think he was rather touched.’

‘Touched is a good word for him,’ mumbled Bartholomew. ‘Are you coming in, or do you want to stay here?’

‘I think I will stay outside,’ said Cynric. ‘I like to see the stars. They remind me of home.’

‘Wales?’ asked Bartholomew, feeling sympathy for a man who was homesick.

‘Cambridge,’ said Cynric, sounding surprised. ‘It is where I live, boy. And where that Rachel Atkin lives – your brother-in-law’s seamstress. Do you think I should wed her?’

It was a question that caught Bartholomew off guard. ‘If it will make you both happy,’ he said carefully. ‘Have you asked her yet?’

‘She asked me,’ said Cynric. ‘I said I would let her know.’

‘I hope you sounded a bit more enthusiastic than that. I am no expert with women, as you well know, but you should not regard an offer of marriage in the same way that you would consider some kind of business deal.’

‘Why not?’ asked Cynric. ‘That is what marriage is, is it not? A business deal? Anyway, you should be going inside, or Father William will be after your blood.’

Father William, however, was sleeping. He sat with his back against one of the smooth white pillars, and snored loudly with his mouth open. Bartholomew did not blame him. It had been a long day, Bartholomew had been late in coming to relieve him, and it was always difficult to remain wakeful in a silent church. The physician knelt next to the parish coffin, bent his head and began to recite the offices for the dead.

It was not long before dawn began to break. The sky changed from black to dark blue, then grew steadily paler until the church was filled with a dim silvery light that flooded through the clear glass of the east window. Bartholomew stood stiffly, and went to open the shutters, waking William who looked around him blearily. He gave a sudden yell of terror that made Bartholomew spin round, and Cynric come rushing in from outside.

‘I am swathed in a shroud!’ the Franciscan howled, struggling to free himself from the sheet that was wrapped round him.

Bartholomew went to his aid. ‘You were shivering and there was nothing else to use. I had already put my tabard under your head.’

‘But a shroud, Matthew!’ cried William aghast, flinging it from him in revulsion and scrambling to his feet. ‘It was like waking up in a grave!’

‘It is only a sheet,’ said Bartholomew, surprised that the friar could be so easily unnerved. ‘It will not be a shroud until it is wrapped around Unwin, later today.’

‘A woman is due to come and do all that this morning,’ said William with a shudder. ‘Wash the corpse and put the shroud round it.’

‘The woman is here,’ came a voice from the back of the church. Bartholomew recognised her as the matronly figure who had been chaperoning the young people the night befofe.

‘Mother Goodman?’ asked Bartholomew politely, recalling that Tuddenham had said that the midwife usually took care of the village’s dead. ‘Can I fetch anything you might need?’

The woman shook her head. ‘You are the physician,’ she said, looking him up and down appraisingly, and making him feel like some piece of meat at the market. ‘Although you do not look like a physician – you are too shabby.’

‘That is because he likes to work among the poor,’ said Father William. ‘He, like me, does not care for fine clothes and possessions. Such things are nothing but vanity.’

‘Well, I have no time for physicians, rich or poor,’ said Mother Goodman, pushing past them. ‘Nor for pompous friars. So you two stay out of my way, and we will get along very well. Where is the corpse?’

‘Unwin’s earthly remains are in the coffin, madam,’ said William coldly. ‘I am going for some breakfast. I would stay to say prime, but I do not think I would be able to concentrate with all your chatter. I will see you later, Matthew.’

While Mother Goodman stripped the bloody habit from Unwin’s body and washed him, Bartholomew knelt again and tried to say another requiem. But Father William had been right: it was difficult to concentrate through the sound of heavy breathing and splashing water, not to mention the pithy curses when Unwin’s stiffening limbs proved difficult to handle. Finally, Bartholomew gave up, and sat on the chancel steps to watch her.

She was a large woman, whose powerful arms and competent red hands suggested she had performed such duties many times before. Her ample hips swayed as she worked, swinging her rough brown skirts this way and that. She wore a faded scarf around her head with her hair tucked inside it, although a wisp of grey had escaped on one side. Bartholomew supposed she was about fifty, although her skin was remarkably free of wrinkles and blemishes.

‘You are the midwife, I understand,’ he said. ‘Janelle at Burgh mentioned you.’

‘So?’ she said, pausing in her scrubbing, and giving him a belligerent glower. ‘What of it?’

‘Nothing,’ said Bartholomew, sorry he had spoken. He looked at Unwin’s body as Mother Goodman began to wrap it in the shroud. It was pale from a life of studying indoors, and the stomach wound was dark and red. Impatiently, the midwife elbowed Bartholomew out of the way, and he went to sit on the chancel steps again, trying once more to recollect whether any of the celebrating villagers had paid Unwin and his purse particular attention. No matter how hard he thought, he could recall no one who had seemed to be acting suspiciously, even with hindsight.

And what about the people Stoate and Eltisley had seen? Had Grosnold returned unexpectedly to converse with Unwin? But why? With sudden clarity, Bartholomew remembered Unwin and Grosnold talking together at Otley the night before the scholars had arrived in Grundisburgh. Bartholomew had been surprised to see Unwin actually inside the bailey and even more surprised to see him talking to the lord of the manor. And then Unwin had declined to tell him about it.

Bartholomew rubbed a hand through his hair. Was that the answer? Had Grosnold been trying to lure Unwin into some future plot against his neighbour Tuddenham – or even Deblunville – and then killed him when he declined to become involved in a local squabble? Or did their acquaintance stretch back further than a few days? And what of Stoate’s mysterious figure, with the heavy cloak and sore eyes? Was he the killer? Bartholomew put his hands over his face and scrubbed at his cheeks. It was some moments before he realised he was being watched.

‘If I wanted a consultation with you, how much would you charge?’ Mother Goodman demanded, hands on her hips.

‘It depends on what was wrong with you,’ said Bartholomew. He stood hastily as she marched towards him purposefully, feeling somewhat intimidated.

‘I want to increase my milk,’ she said unexpectedly. ‘It is drying up.’

‘You have had no child recently,’ said Bartholomew, recovering from his surprise quickly and thinking that she would have had no children for a good number of years. ‘Do you want to know a cure so that you can pass it on to one of your patients?’

She regarded him coldly. ‘So, you will not tell me?’

‘I did not say that,’ he said. ‘But you should not be dishonest with me, if you want me to help you. What I might recommend for a person of your years and… size, might be very different from what I would suggest for a younger, smaller woman.’

She glared at him angrily, her eyes glittering coals of hazel deep inside her puffy face, and he thought she was going to end the conversation there and then. If she did, it was none of his affair, and he was more concerned with thinking about who might have killed Unwin than with dispensing remedies to someone else’s patients.

‘Very well, then,’ she said after a moment. ‘She is sixteen summers, and this is her first infant.’

‘Is it just a case of no milk?’ he asked. ‘Is there anything else wrong with her?’

She considered. ‘She is always tired, but that is to be expected of a new mother.’

‘You can try fennel boiled in barley water,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Use common fennel, because the wild variety will be too strong. If that does not work, you can give her a small amount of viper’s bugloss steeped in milk. For the tiredness tell her to eat beans cooked in sugar, and eggs and cabbage, if she has them.’

‘Do you suggest fennel because it is a herb of Saturn?’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew shortly. ‘I suggest fennel because I have had considerable success with it for this complaint in women in the past. And anyway, it is a herb of Mercury, not Saturn.’

‘Are you sure? Master Stoate told me it was Saturn.’

‘I am quite sure. Master Stoate is mistaken.’

She gave him a sudden grin. ‘I am glad to hear it. Master Stoate believes he is never mistaken. Now, how much will this consultation cost me? You have a choice: I will mend that rip in your shirt and sew a new patch on your tabard where it is beginning to fray; you can have a bottle of the wine I make from cabbage stems; or I can read your palm and tell your future.’

‘None of that is necessary,’ said Bartholomew, thinking the choices were at least an improvement on a ring made from a coffin, ‘but if this woman’s condition does not improve in two or three days, you should tell her to come to see me. She may require something stronger. Is there a wet-nurse for the child in the meantime?’

‘Yes, but she is overly fond of garlic, and I do not consider that healthy for a baby.’

‘Why not?’ asked Bartholomew, interested. ‘Do you think it causes colic?’

‘I believe so,’ she said. ‘But a good cure for colic in babies is ground cumin with a little anise. Have you tried that?’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew. ‘How is it prepared?’

‘Equal parts soaked in wine for three days, then left on a board to dry for nine days, then ground into a powder over the fire.’

‘I will remember that,’ said Bartholomew thoughtfully. ‘I have never used cumin for infants, but it is a gentle herb.’

‘You are an odd sort of physician,’ she said, regarding him curiously. ‘Master Stoate never asks me for my cures.’

‘Perhaps he has no need, if you can dispense them. But there is a shortage of good midwives in Cambridge. Master Stoate does not know how lucky he is to have one in his village.’

‘That is certainly true! I have cured more people than he has, and killed a lot fewer! He practises surgery, you know. He bleeds people, and even stitches wounds on rare occasions.’

Bartholomew also stitched wounds, but, from the disapproving tone of her voice, he did not consider now an opportune time to mention it. He watched as she turned her attention back to Unwin’s body, scattering fragrant herbs into the coffin so that their heady scent mingled with the all-pervasive odour of incense and the earthier smell of blood.

‘The killer stole his purse, then,’ said Mother Goodman, picking up the stained habit from where she had thrown it. ‘Much in it?’

‘Nothing of any value to a thief,’ said Bartholomew. ‘A phial of chrism and a piece of parchment containing some of St Botolph’s beard.’

She stared at him. ‘A relic? Someone stole a relic?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘Why? Do you know someone who wants one?’

‘Not one that has been stolen – it is more likely to bring a curse than a blessing. And anyway, I think poor St Botolph’s remains have been treated badly enough in Grundisburgh already.’

‘I read about that – some monks stole them from a chapel near here.’

She smiled suddenly. ‘I would have expected you to say the monks “rescued” them, or “removed them to a safer place” –that fat Benedictine certainly would say so. But you are right. “Stole” is what those men did with our saint’s relics. And now you say someone took his beard from this friar’s purse? From here, inside the church?’

‘It looks that way,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And killed poor Unwin to do so.’

She rubbed her chin. ‘You might try having a word with Will Norys. He knows his relics like no other man, and is highly respected in the village. He might be able to help you – no one could sell a relic in this area without him knowing about it.’

‘Will Norys?’

‘He is a pardoner who lives with his uncle, the tanner. You cannot miss their cottage – you can smell that tannery from Burgh. Will Norys often works in Ipswich, because Walter Wauncy is not keen on him selling his pardons and relics in the village.’

‘Thank you,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I will talk to him this morning.’

‘Discreetly, though. I do not want him thinking I have been maligning him. You can use your medical training – there are few men who can lie as well as a physician.’

‘Is that so? Well, I have met a few midwives, not to mention a good many priests and merchants, who could prove you wrong on that score,’ retorted Bartholomew tartly.

She inclined her head to one side. ‘I doubt it, but then I have never been to Cambridge. Is it as dangerous as everyone says? Will Norys went there last winter, and he said the students were rioting and setting the town alight every night. He said there were murders at every street corner, and that whores flaunted their wares openly in the Market Square.’

‘It has its good points,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The Colleges have some splendid books. And anyway, it seems to me that Grundisburgh is not exactly a haven of peace: two men have died since we arrived – I did see a dead man on the gibbet no matter what Tuddenham says – and all the lords of the manors are at each others’ throats.’

‘It was very peaceful here until Roland Deblunville came two years ago. He married Pernel, the dowager of Burgh Manor, but he murdered her so that he could rule alone. Now he has married that harlot Janelle for her father’s lands at Clopton, and will doubtless slay her in time, too.’

‘What evidence is there that Deblunville murdered his first wife?’ asked Bartholomew, sure that the merry Deblunville had done nothing of the kind and that the tale was a malicious rumour spread for the sole purpose of fanning the flames of hostility between Grundisburgh and Burgh.

‘Evidence!’ spat Mother Goodman in disgust. ‘This is not a court of law, or one of your University debating chambers! Everyone knows Deblunville killed Pernel, and that is all the evidence we need. Deblunville is the Devil’s familiar. He was dead on the gibbet only to appear alive at his castle the next day.’

‘Deblunville was not the man on the gibbet. The hanged man was wearing clothes stolen from him, so either it was a case of mistaken identity and someone thought he was dispatching the hated lord of Burgh Manor, or the fellow was killed for some completely unrelated reason.’

She looked relieved. ‘A different man? Then Deblunville did not rise from the grave by diabolical means to torment us all for the rest of our lives?’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘Who told you he did? Tuddenham?’

‘The rumour that Deblunville is now a living corpse is all around the village. But then, you see, we were expecting to hear about his death anyway, because he saw–’

‘Saw what?’ asked Bartholomew when she stopped, lips pursed. ‘Dame Eva mentioned Deblunville seeing something, but Tuddenham said it was nonsense.’

‘He is afraid to admit the truth,’ said Mother Goodman. ‘Dame Eva is not, but then her mother was a witch, and so she is familiar with such things.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, feeling as though the conversation had suddenly left him behind. He knew many villages were steeped in superstitions and myths, but walking dead, witches, peas on lintels and rings made from coffin handles were far beyond anything he had expected to encounter.

‘I am not sure if I should tell you any more about it,’ she said, regarding him sombrely. ‘You seem a pleasant sort of man for a physician, and I have no wish to frighten you.’

‘I have been frightened before,’ said Bartholomew dryly. ‘And I would rather know about whatever it is than be taken unawares by it.’

‘It is the white dog,’ Mother Goodman announced in a ringing voice. She folded her arms across her substantial bosom, and regarded him expectantly.

‘The white dog,’ he repeated, looking blankly back at her. ‘Does it belong to someone?’

‘It is not a domestic animal,’ she said, as though he was stupid. ‘It is Padfoot – a ghostly vision that appears to people when they are about to die.’

Bartholomew stared at her, suddenly recalling what the hanged man had whispered with his dying breath: ‘Padfoot’. At the time he had not understood, and had even thought he might have misheard. But it made sense now – or at least, it explained what the man had said. He sighed, and wondered how to excuse himself so that he could return to his vigil. Chatting to the village midwife about spectral hounds and cures for colic would not be doing Unwin much good, and Father William would be outraged if he discovered how the physician had spent his time – although, Bartholomew thought wryly, he could always point out that at least he had not fallen asleep.

‘You do not know the story,’ she said, ‘or you would not be so indifferent. Padfoot is a big white dog that appears to people before something dreadful happens. Deblunville saw it, and that is why none of us were surprised when we heard he had been hanged up at the gibbet. James Freeman the butcher saw it, too, and two days later he was dead of a cut throat.’

‘Tuddenham said that was suicide.’

Mother Goodman shook her head. ‘James Freeman had no reason to kill himself. He was newly wed, and he had just inherited his Father’s business. But Padfoot came to him, and two days later he was discovered in his own slaughterhouse with his neck slashed like one of the pigs he used to dispatch. Poor Dame Eva found him when she went to buy pork, and was lucky that Tobias Eltisley – the landlord of the Half Moon – heard her cries for help. Our priest, Walter Wauncy, said the great pools of blood and the stained knife were the vilest things he had ever seen.’

‘Did you lay him out?’

She shook her head. ‘His head was almost severed from his body, according to Master Eltisley. I saw his clothes, though, drenched right through with blood. It was a terrible business, and I am glad I did not have to tend his corpse.’

‘I thought you would have been used to such sights.’

She looked surprised. ‘This is a peaceful village, and we seldom have violent deaths. Because James Freeman’s body was so mutilated, Master Eltisley kindly made a special coffin – he likes to make things – and closed it before Freeman’s wife could see what had happened to her man. But for all his efforts, it dripped blood all the way from the slaughterhouse to the church.’ She shuddered.

‘So James Freeman was murdered,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Someone broke into his slaughterhouse and killed him.’

She gave him a mysterious look. ‘It was no earthly hand that took his life: it was a demon’s, directed by Padfoot. And we all knew James Freeman was a doomed man from the moment he set eyes on the white dog.’

‘Are you sure it was not simple fear, and Freeman took his own life?’ asked Bartholomew.

She took a deep breath, offended. ‘I can see you place no faith in our stories. Well, that is your prerogative. But James Freeman ended up as dead as every other soul who sets eyes on Padfoot. Alice Quy was another. I did all I could for her, but she went to old Padfoot just the same.’

‘She was the woman who died of childbirth fever?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘That is what Tuddenham told you, was it? Well, physician, how many women have you known to die of childbirth fever when the infant is six months old?’

‘She was not bled, was she?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘That is not always good for people, and can cause them to die unexpectedly.’

‘Stoate came nowhere near her, and I do not bleed people. All she took was a potion Master Eltisley made to ease her pain. She could not afford any of Stoate’s remedies.’

‘A potion of what?’ asked Bartholomew suspiciously. ‘Eltisley is not a physician or an apothecary. You should not dispense his cures to people, just because they cannot afford to buy real ones. They might do more harm than good.’

‘They always work better than anything Stoate prescribes,’ said Mother Goodman defensively. ‘I take Eltisley’s potions myself daily. He is very good – and his tonic made of she-goat urine for the stomach is marvellous. Most of the villagers take it. You must have noticed how healthy we are, compared to others around here.’

Bartholomew had indeed noticed that most people seemed fit and well.

‘But we are digressing,’ said Mother Goodman. ‘Alice Quy died with Padfoot’s name on her lips. She said he was in the doorway, waiting to drag her down to hell in his gaping jaws.’

‘She must have been delirious,’ said Bartholomew. ‘People do ramble when they are in the grip of fatal fevers.’

‘She died because she saw the white dog,’ said Mother Goodman firmly. ‘And any man, woman or child in the village will tell you the same.’ She peered into his face as he took a sudden sharp breath. ‘What is the matter? You have not seen a big white dog, have you?’

‘Not me,’ said Bartholomew, slightly unsteadily as he recalled with sudden clarity something else that had happened. ‘But Unwin did. He said he saw it moving in the woods at the deserted village of Barchester, just before we arrived here.’

A handful of parishioners came to celebrate prime with the cadaverous Walter Wauncy, many of them shooting curious glances at the sheeted figure of Unwin, and at Bartholomew kneeling next to it. Not long after the last of them had left, the latch clanked again and Deynman arrived, bringing with him the white-faced Horsey. Bartholomew was reluctant to leave the grieving student with the body of his friend, but Horsey insisted that he be allowed to perform this final service for Unwin, and Deynman, unusually subdued and attentive to his fellow student, promised not to leave him alone.

Grateful to be away from the hushed atmosphere of death and bereavement, Bartholomew strode across the village green to the Half Moon, intending to join the rest of his colleagues for breakfast. The tavern was occupied only by the surly men, who ate a silent meal of thick oatmeal and watered ale while Eltisley bustled around his domain importantly. The landlord informed Bartholomew that Tuddenham had summoned the other scholars at daybreak to begin work on the advowson. When one of the men favoured Bartholomew with a hostile glower as he accidentally knocked a wooden plate from a table as he passed, causing it to clatter noisily to the floor, he decided to forgo breakfast in the unfriendly atmosphere of the Half Moon, and walk to Wergen Hall instead.

It was a glorious morning, and he enjoyed the stroll through the woods to Tuddenham’s manor house, although the day was already warm and the exercise made him hot and sticky. When he arrived he found Alcote sitting at the table in the window, surrounded with deeds and writs, while Michael and William reclined near the hearth, devouring what was probably their second breakfast of the day. Alcote still seemed pale to Bartholomew, although breadcrumbs on his habit suggested that his stomach pains of the night before had not prevented him from enjoying someone’s hospitality.

‘I should begin an investigation into the murder of Unwin today,’ said Michael, wiping his lips on his sleeve and reaching for another piece of bread.

‘No,’ said Tuddenham sharply. ‘I will deal with that. You work on my advowson.’

‘Let him investigate, Sir Thomas,’ said Alcote. ‘I am more than capable of drafting an advowson by myself, and I would feel safer knowing that he and Bartholomew are hunting down this ruthless killer of poor Unwin.’

‘And me,’ said William eagerly. ‘I will solve this case, too.’

‘Lord help us!’ muttered Michael. ‘With Master Diplomacy dogging our every move, we will never catch the murderer.’

Alcote cleared his throat nervously. ‘I would like you to remain with me, William – there are documents that need to be transcribed.’ Michael and Bartholomew gazed at him in astonishment – no one willingly spent time in William’s company, and his scribing skills were mediocre at best – and the Senior Fellow hastened to explain. ‘The truth is that I would feel happier knowing that Michael is putting his skills and experience to good use without hindrance from William. I do not feel safe with a killer roaming, unchecked in the village, and I want him caught.’

‘Are you suggesting I am not up to the task?’ demanded William huffily.

Alcote shook his head. ‘Not at all, but you have the physique of a wrestler, and your robes are thick with the filth of poverty; I am more delicate, and my garments indicate that I am a man of some standing. The killer will be more likely to strike at me than you, so it is in my interests to have you here to protect me, while Michael and Matthew look into Unwin’s death.’

‘But there is no suggestion that Unwin’s death was anything other than an isolated incident,’ said Tuddenham, peeved. ‘You make it sound as though someone plans to dispense with the whole lot of you.’

‘I am not interested in the whole lot of us, only in me,’ snapped Alcote, brutally honest. ‘I am the wealthiest person here, and the one who will be doing most of the work on the advowson. Therefore, I am also the most vulnerable.’

‘No one else will die,’ said Tuddenham firmly. ‘I plan to begin my own investigation this morning with my steward, Siric. In fact, Siric is already in the village, asking questions and ferreting out information. He will send any promising witnesses to me here, at Wergen Hall, so that I can question them myself.’

‘Good,’ said Michael. ‘But Unwin was a friar, and his death must also be explored by an agent of the Church, like me. You have no problem with me initiating my own enquiries?’

Tuddenham clicked his tongue in annoyance. ‘I can assure you, Brother, that is wholly unnecessary. I will have whoever did this dreadful thing behind bars within a couple of days. That I can promise you.’

‘I am sure you will,’ said Michael in a placatory tone. ‘But the chances of success will be greatly improved with two of us working on it.’

‘Perhaps,’ conceded Tuddenham reluctantly. ‘But what about my advowson, not to mention the fact that there is also my will to be written.’

‘All that is under control, Sir Thomas,’ said Alcote. ‘I will be able to work far more quickly on my own anyway, than with the others distracting me with their silly questions and careless mistakes.’

‘I do not make mistakes,’ said Michael indignantly.

‘You do,’ said Alcote. ‘Writing an advowson is a complex business, and it cannot be rushed. Since this one will give Michaelhouse the living of Grundisburgh church “for ever”, it needs to be drafted with care, and with considerable attention to detail. You are too impatient, Brother. Sir Thomas would do better to place me in charge of it, while you go away and do what you are best fitted for – chasing criminals.’

Tuddenham raised his hand to prevent Michael’s outraged retort. ‘Very well, then. But you will be wasting your time investigating this crime, Brother. I will have the culprit before you know it.’

Leaving Alcote and a resentful William to their deeds and documents, Bartholomew and Michael walked back through the woods toward the village. Bartholomew was concerned that Alcote was prepared to take all the responsibility for the advowson, afraid that he might not be fully recovered from his sickness of the night before.

‘There is nothing wrong with him,’ said Michael dismissively. ‘He is relishing the opportunity to present himself as indispensable and important. You see how he has convinced Tuddenham that he is the only man competent to write this advowson.’

‘That is fine with me,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I have no interest in spending days on end working on the thing. But that does not mean to say that I feel comfortable leaving Alcote to do all our work.’

They had not travelled far when they met Dame Eva and Isilia, who had been for a stroll in the sunshine. Dame Eva leaned heavily on Isilia’s arm, and inched along at a stately pace that must have been frustrating to a young, healthy woman like Isilia. But Isilia was gently patient, and gave no indication that she would rather be doing something more invigorating. When she saw Bartholomew and Michael, her face broke into a beam of pleasure and the physician felt his heart melt.

‘Any news?’ asked Dame Eva, her faded blue eyes anxious. ‘Has my son found the killer of that poor young friar yet?’

Isilia’s smile dimmed when Barthlomew shook his head. ‘Thomas has been up since before dawn, talking with Siric about how best to catch the murderer. Do not worry: the vile fiend will not escape him.’

‘I am shocked that such wickedness should be perpetrated in the church, so near to where my husband lies buried,’ said Dame Eva. ‘But you two look tired. You doubtless slept badly last night after the shock of finding your friend dead. I know there is nothing I can say to lessen your distress, but if there is anything we can do to help, you must not hesitate to ask.’

‘Thank you,’ said Bartholomew, touched by her concern.

‘How do you like the Half Moon?’ asked Isilia. ‘It was my idea you should move. I thought you would be more comfortable in a tavern, than fighting with the servants for places near the fire at Wergen Hall. I told Eltisley to spare no expense to make your stay a pleasant one. Poor Eltisley is rather eccentric, but he means well, and will take his obligations seriously.’ She smiled again, and Bartholomew found he liked the way glints of laughter showed in the depths of her green eyes.

‘And he has,’ said Michael. ‘He has been a most generous host.’

‘Mother Goodman mentioned that you said Unwin saw a white dog near Barchester,’ said Dame Eva, changing the subject. ‘Is that true?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘No one else did, but Unwin spotted it moving in the trees.’

Dame Eva and Isilia exchanged a look. ‘There,’ said the old lady. ‘What did I tell you? The poor boy saw Padfoot, and now he lies in his coffin. It was the same with James Freeman and Alice Quy – both saw Padfoot and both were dead within days.’

‘But you also said that Deblunville spotted this ghostly hound, yet he is still hale and hearty,’ Michael pointed out, determined not to let an inconsistency in their superstitions go unremarked.

‘You wait and see,’ said Isilia. ‘It will not be long before Padfoot comes to claim what is his.’

Seeing he would not prevail against such firmly entrenched ideas, Michael nodded noncommittally, and took Bartholomew’s arm to lead him away. He was obliged to tug fairly insistently when the physician indicated that he wanted to linger and speak a little longer to the lovely wife of their benefactor. Isilia declined Bartholomew’s offer to escort her back to Wergen Hall, although she did so with some reluctance, clearly considering the prospect of spending some time in the company of intriguing strangers more appealing than walking with her mother-in-law. Eventually, they parted, the ladies to Wergen Hall, and the scholars to the Half Moon, so that Michael could exchange his heavy habit for a lighter one. At the same time, the monk took the opportunity to order some bread and cheese to fortify him for the questioning that lay ahead.

It was pleasantly cool in the Half Moon’s upper chamber. The sky was an almost flawless blue, with only a line of pearl-grey clouds low on the horizon marring its perfection, and sunlight streamed into every corner of the room. Bartholomew flung the window – still latchless from the landlord’s efforts of the previous night – open as far as it would go, and leaned out to inhale deeply a breeze rich with the scent of flowers and cut grass. Blackbirds sang loudly, one perched on the very highest twig of one of the mighty elms that stood in the churchyard. In the distance, cuckoos called, while on the hills the bleat of lambs was answered by the deeper grumble of ewes. It did not seem like the kind of day that should be spent investigating a murder.

‘You believe the stories about these ghosts, don’t you?’ asked Michael, stuffing bread into his mouth as he waited for Bartholomew to finish mending his spare shirt – torn when the robbers on the Old Road had chased him through the undergrowth – so that he could look reasonably respectable when they went to question the villagers. ‘You, a man of science and reason, accept that there is a spectral canine trotting around Suffolk driving people to their deaths?’

‘It just seems a coincidence that Unwin saw a white dog that no one else did, and that the hanged man whispered the name “Padfoot” with his dying breath.’

‘You have not mentioned this dying word before,’ said Michael dubiously. ‘Are you sure you heard it correctly?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘It was an odd word, and it stuck in my mind. I did not mention it before, simply because I did not understand its significance.’

‘And what is its significance?’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘That Unwin saw this dog, and that now he is dead.’

‘You should not have eaten those vegetables last night, Matt – they are interfering with your powers of reason!’

Bartholomew sighed. ‘Perhaps Tuddenham is right, and Unwin was killed just because a drunken reveller wanted to steal his purse. But what if theft were not the motive? What if it were something to do with this dog? We should keep an open mind about these folktales – there may be some grain of truth in them. And, therefore, I think we should talk to the families of the other two people who died after seeing this dog – the butcher and the woman who died of childbirth fever.’

‘As you pointed out to me only yesterday, Matt, we have no authority to pry into village affairs. Unwin’s death is a different matter – he was a friar, and as such his murder should be investigated by an agent of the Church. But these other deaths are none of our business.’

‘But what if Tuddenham is involved in them?’

Michael gave a laugh of disbelief. ‘Now you are allowing your imagination to gain the better of your common sense.’

‘Then why is he so keen to give Michaelhouse the living of the church? You said yourself that such gifts are usually to atone for a sin. We should discover what this sin is before we accept it.’

‘But there is nothing to suggest that this sin – if there is a sin – has anything to do with happenings in the village. Anyway, you heard Tuddenham suggest that the gift was to ensure the health of his unborn child.’

‘How do we know he is not lying?’

Michael sighed. ‘We do not. But even if he is, it is not for us to deny him an opportunity to make his peace with God by refusing his advowson. Besides, if we do not take it, he will only give it to someone else – he might even approach the Hall of Valence Marie or Corpus Christi, and then where would we be?’

‘But it is one thing to accept a gift from a contrite sinner, and wholly different to accept one from a man who offers it while he continues his crimes.’

‘Alcote will look into that while he is trawling Tuddenham’s personal documents – and you know how meticulous he can be. If there is anything untoward written down, he will find it.’

‘But things like this are never written down,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Alcote will find nothing.’

‘Then there is no problem,’ said Michael. ‘But I am sure Unwin’s death has nothing to do with Tuddenham’s deed. You are trying to complicate a simple situation: Tuddenham is giving us the church because he lost three sons to the Death, and he wants to curry favour with the saints to protect his unborn child; meanwhile, Unwin was the victim of an opportunistic thief. The other two deaths, plus our hanged man, have nothing to do with any of it, and this ghostly dog of yours is rank superstition.’

Bartholomew leaned on the windowsill and rubbed a hand through his hair. Michael was almost certainly right, and he was giving the motive for Unwin’s death a significance it did not have. Tuddenham’s eagerness to have his advowson completed quickly was probably nothing more sinister than an attempt to secure allies in Michaelhouse before Deblunville took him to the courts over the disputed land near Peche Hall.

He broke the thread on the patch he had just sewn, and began to pull the shirt over his head. ‘So, what do we have left? There is the black knight – Grosnold – seen talking “surreptitiously” to Unwin after Grosnold is supposed to have gone home; and we have the cloaked figure seen by Stoate leaving the church just before Horsey found Unwin dead. Either one of those two might have killed him.’

‘I cannot see why Grosnold would want to kill his neighbour’s new priest,’ said Michael doubtfully. ‘He seems to be one of the few people Tuddenham likes.’

‘Nevertheless, our landlord saw him with Unwin shortly before Unwin died,’ said Bartholomew. ‘If we can believe a word Eltisley says, that is.’

Michael agreed. ‘We might be allowing Eltisley to mislead us with his story. Whilst I do not think he is lying, I also do not know that he is telling the truth. If you spend too much time in a different reality from everyone else, the distinction between truth and falsehood eventually blurs.’

‘I suppose we should bear his story in mind, though,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Along with the fact that Unwin and Grosnold met in Otley, and Unwin refused to tell me what they had discussed together. We should also talk to Will Norys, the pardoner. Mother Goodman tells me that he deals with relics, and he may have heard something about the one that was stolen from Unwin.’

‘A pardoner?’ asked Michael, sitting upright, good humour gone. ‘Pardoners are a loathsome breed of vipers who prey on the vulnerability and fears of the poor and foolish; rancid excuses for men who should not be allowed to taint the lives of honest folk. Evil, sinful agents of the Devil…’

‘You do not like them, then?’ remarked Bartholomew, who knew very well Michael did not.

The monk glared at him. ‘They are carrion who ply their repulsive trade–’

‘I take your point,’ said Bartholomew, raising his hand to stem the flow of invective. ‘Perhaps I should visit Norys alone, in view of your feelings. I would not like there to be another murder.’

‘Do not worry,’ said Michael disdainfully. ‘I would not sully my innocent hands with the black blood of a pardoner.’ He mused. ‘So, we have the pardoner to question, and we need to find out whether Grosnold returned to the village after we all saw him leave.’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘And then, in the interests of thoroughness, we will talk to the families of the two dead villagers, just to prove your contention that they are unrelated to Unwin’s murder.’

Michael sighed gustily. ‘You are in one of your stubborn moods, I see. Well, whoever killed Unwin – which was done with the sole intention of stealing the purse – is probably stupid enough to try to sell the relic it contained. We will catch him easily. And that will be the end of the matter.’

Bartholomew remained unconvinced. ‘Why risk eternal damnation by killing a friar in a church, when anyone looking at Unwin would see he is not wealthy: his robe is threadbare, one of his sandals is broken, and he is a mendicant. Why not aim for Alcote, wearing that big golden cross? Or why not me, carrying a bag that could contain all sorts of valuables?’

‘Probably because neither of you were alone yesterday. Or, as you have already suggested, perhaps Unwin caught the culprit doing something he should not have been doing, and was killed to ensure his silence. His purse was then stolen because it was there.’ He stood and opened the door. ‘Did I mention that Tuddenham has asked us to organise a debate for the entertainment and edification of the Grundisburgh villagers?’

‘I am sure they will be thrilled by that prospect,’ said Bartholomew dryly.

‘Father William thinks it an excellent idea – far better than fairs and feasts.’

‘He would,’ muttered Bartholomew.

‘I managed to persuade Tuddenham that Alcote taking part in the debate would interfere with the writing of the advowson,’ said Michael, sounding pleased with himself. ‘You know what a bore he can be at debates with his flawed logic, and his “anyone-who-does-not-agree-with-me-is-stupid” reasoning. The villagers will enjoy the occasion far more if Alcote does not take part. But we should not be standing here chatting: we have a murderer to catch.’

But it was not as easy to catch a murderer as Michael had predicted. While he asked the villagers they met about the person Stoate had seen leaving the church, Bartholomew enquired whether anyone had seen Grosnold after he had made his dramatic exit across the green on his destrier. Neither line of enquiry met with much positive response. Most of the villagers tried to be helpful, but none had anything to say that was of any import. A few seemed nervous or sullen, but Bartholomew could not blame them for being wary of any involvement in an enquiry regarding the death of a priest.

The investigation took another downward turn when William tracked them down and proudly placed his powers of detection at their disposal. It did not take a genius to deduce that Alcote had regretted keeping William near him for protection – even a murderer at large, apparently, was preferable to the friar’s dour company.

Their spirits sank further still when William told them that Alcote had found some of Tuddenham’s documents to be so old and faded that it was not possible to decipher them properly. Since the advowson needed to be based on accurate information if it were to last, Tuddenham had dispatched his priest, Wauncy, to Ipswich to acquire copies. Bartholomew groaned, anticipating that Alcote’s exactitude would cost them days, and they would be later than ever in returning to Cambridge. William, however, assured them that any delay caused by Wauncy’s trip was unlikely to be serious: Wauncy would not linger while there were pennies to be earned from saying masses for Grundisburgh’s dead, and the facts to be checked against the newer texts were relatively minor.

‘I suppose you can come with us when we question this pardoner,’ said Michael to William reluctantly. ‘I do not mind you exercising your nasty inquisitional skills on him.’

‘Will Norys?’ asked the villager whom Michael had just finished questioning. ‘He works in Ipswich on Tuesdays. You will have to catch him tomorrow.’

‘Damn!’ muttered Michael, who had evidently been looking forward to venting some of his frustration and spleen on a man whose trade he loathed.

And so, with William at their heels, they continued with their questions, each time gaining the same response: no one had seen anything amiss, and everyone was appalled by the brutal death of the man who was to have been their parish priest. Everyone, however, had heard that Unwin had set eyes on the spectre of Padfoot, and so few professed themselves surprised by the young friar’s demise, horrified though they were by the manner of it.

The scholars returned to the Half Moon that evening tired and dispirited. As he undressed for bed, questions tumbled around in Bartholomew’s exhausted mind. Who would want to kill Unwin? Was the culprit Grosnold, seen talking to him ‘surreptitiously’ by Eltisley after the feast and by Bartholomew in the castle bailey at Otley? Or was it the mysterious figure seen running from the church by Stoate the physician? What might the pardoner know about a relic that might have been offered for sale in the last day or so? And what of the white dog, which had so many of the villagers terrified out of their wits?