A Wicked Deed

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘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 f
ussy 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.’