A Wicked Deed mb-5

by Susanna GREGORY

  Opposite the Tuddenhams were some specially invited guests. Grosnold sat in the best chair, his jet armour exchanged for a black cotte, hose and cloak. Next to him was a small man with a crooked spine and shabby clothes, who fidgeted throughout the mass as though sitting still was painful for him. Wauncy, his robes swinging about his skeletal form and his white face more than usually gaunt, looked like the Angel of Death in the gloom. He joined in the singing of a psalm with a voice so deep and resonant that it sent an unpleasant chill down Bartholomew’s spine. The physician sang louder so that he would not have to hear it, drawing curious glances from Michael and Alcote.

  By the time the mass was over, the sky had clouded to a menacing grey. Bartholomew and Cynric lifted Unwin’s shrouded body from the parish coffin and lowered it gently into the gaping rectangular hole under the yew tree that had been prepared the day before. By the time they had finished, rain was beginning to fall in a misty pall. Drops pattered lightly on the now-empty coffin, making a dismal accompaniment to the drone of William’s prayers.

  Eventually, it was over and the villagers began to drift away. There was work to be done in the fields and woods, and there were animals to be fed and turned out to graze. Stoate touched Bartholomew lightly on the elbow and offered his condolences again, following up with a shy invitation to visit an infirmary at Ipswich, which had something of a reputation for dealing with diseases of the lungs. Bartholomew thanked him, but even the prospect of learning new medicine could not rouse him from his sadness at the futility of Unwin’s death.

  He stood with Michael while Cynric shovelled dirt on top of the white bundle that lay in its sandy grave. Alcote and William accepted the sympathies of the departing parishioners, while Deynman had his arm around Horsey, who was sobbing uncontrollably.

  The man with the crooked spine, whom Bartholomew had noticed in the church, was talking to Tuddenham and Grosnold. The rain was now coming down hard, making Grosnold’s pate gleam even more than usual, and people were scurrying for cover.

  ‘John Bardolf,’ said Tuddenham briskly, introducing the small man to Bartholomew. ‘My neighbour from Clopton, whose daughter disobeyed me and married that scoundrel Deblunville.’

  Bardolf came to stand next to Bartholomew, who was still watching Cynric methodically shovelling, neither hurried nor impeded by the sheeting rain.

  ‘I was sorry to hear about this,’ said Bardolf, nodding down at the grave. ‘I had hoped that young man might heal the rifts that are widening between our manors.’

  ‘Between yours and Tuddenham’s?’ asked Bartholomew.

  ‘Yes. And between Deblunville’s and Hamon’s, and Deblunville’s and Grosnold’s, and Grosnold’s and mine. And so on.’

  ‘I had the impression that everyone was united against Deblunville,’ said Bartholomew.

  ‘At the moment,’ said Bardolf, ‘although that will change if Grosnold dams his stream again this summer, or sparks from my wheat stubble ignite Tuddenham’s ripening crops. And the parish priests are just as bad: they fight with just as much viciousness as we do.’

  ‘The marriage of your daughter to Roland Deblunville should reduce some of the conflict,’ said Bartholomew.

  Bardolf shrugged. ‘Between Clopton and Burgh, certainly. But it seems to have aggravated matters between me, and Grundisburgh and Otley. Tuddenham is talking about applying for an annulment of the marriage, would you believe! But Unwin could have made peace among the priests — they could then have worked for unity among the lords.’

  ‘Do you think that is why he was killed?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. ‘To prevent him from acting as peacemaker?’ He thought about what Eltisley had claimed to see. Had Grosnold returned after his spectacular and very obvious exit to see where Unwin stood on the notion of harmony between the manors? Unwin would almost certainly have told him he would strive for an armistice, and thus provided Grosnold with the motive to kill him.

  But then what about the cloaked figure? Was that one of Grosnold’s henchmen fleeing from killing Unwin as he prayed at the altar? Or did Grosnold stab Unwin himself, so that there would be no other witness to the crime? He gazed down at the half-filled grave, wishing yet again that he had been able to do something to save the student-friar.

  Bardolf squinted up at him. ‘Yes, I would say that Grosnold would kill a priest, if he thought that priest might negotiate for an end to the fighting that would leave him the poorer — he would have to give up the toll he has imposed on Clopton and Burgh folk to use the road through his manor for a start. But then both Tuddenham and Hamon would kill if they thought they might lose the land on which Peche Hall stands; Deblunville might kill if peace meant an annulment of his marriage to Janelle; I might kill if Tuddenham tried to claim Gull Farm — my father stole it from his, but I have grown fond of it over the last thirty years.’

  Bartholomew regarded him in amazement. ‘How can you live with all this uncertainty?’

  ‘It keeps us on our toes, and adds a spice to our lives that has been missing since Crécy. But I am growing too old for such things, and my bones throb from the cold and the damp. If I am attacked while I am stricken with this damned backache, I will lose everything anyway.’

  ‘So, you want a truce because you think your neighbours might wait until you are ill, and then pounce?’ asked Bartholomew.

  Bardolf moved his head from side to side in a curious motion. ‘Essentially. If I do not press for conciliation while I am still strong, I will lose everything when I am weak. I suppose you do not have a cure for me, do you? Stoate is worse than useless. I take his damned purges every Sunday, and all they do is make me feel like death for an hour.’

  ‘There are poultices you can try,’ said Bartholomew, not wanting to poach what was probably one of Stoate’s most lucrative sources of income. ‘Ask Stoate about them.’

  ‘He does not prescribe poultices. He bleeds, and he purges, and he gives astrological consultations,’ said Bardolf. ‘I have tried all those things and my back still pains me. I want a cure.’

  ‘Did you find anything in all that earth?’ asked Tuddenham casually, coming up behind them and addressing Cynric. He gazed speculatively at the pile of soil the book-bearer was shovelling.

  ‘Such as what?’ asked Cynric, puzzled by the question.

  ‘Objects?’ said Tuddenham vaguely. ‘Bits and pieces. Things.’ He became aggressive. ‘This is my land. Anything dug up here belongs to me, and no one had better forget it.’

  ‘Cynric is not a thief,’ said Bartholomew coldly, immediately understanding the reason behind Tuddenham’s enquiry. ‘If he had found Grundisburgh’s lost golden calf, he would return it to you.’

  Bardolf gave a sharp laugh. ‘These scholars are too quick for you, Thomas! You should keep an eye on them, or they will be going back to Cambridge with more than your golden calf!’

  Sir John Bardolf turned his back on Bartholomew, and began to hobble to where a servant held the reins of his horse. Tuddenham poked Unwin’s grave with his toe, but apparently decided the pile was too small to hide a golden calf and went to join Hamon and Siric in the shelter of one of the churchyard yews. It was now raining hard, and Bartholomew was soaked through. He waited until Cynric was patting down the soil in a muddy mound, and then started to return to the Half Moon with him.

  A shout of alarm from Deynman made him turn back. Horsey was sitting in the grass, his face as white as snow. Kneeling, Bartholomew rested his hand on the student’s head. He was shivering, but Bartholomew thought his illness no more serious than the chill of the rain and a sudden spell of dizziness induced by grief. He instructed Deynman to take him back to the tavern and put him to bed, making it clear that he should ensure that Horsey changed into a dry robe first. It was something that would have been obvious to most people, but Bartholomew had learned from bitter experience that nothing should be left to Deynman’s common sense.

  ‘I want my astrological consultation today,’ said Grosnold to Bartholomew, as the physician prepared
to accompany the students to the Half Moon.

  ‘Ask Stoate,’ said Bartholomew, none too politely. There was something about the belligerence and insensitivity of the Suffolk lords that he found unusually provoking.

  ‘I want you,’ said Grosnold uncompromisingly. ‘Now. I take it you have no objection?’ The last question was directed towards Tuddenham, not Bartholomew.

  ‘Master Alcote is drafting my advowson, so you will not be inconveniencing me by taking him,’ replied Tuddenham, with an indifferent shrug.

  ‘Right, come on, then,’ said Grosnold, snapping his fingers at Bartholomew.

  ‘Sir Thomas is not my master to say where I can and cannot go,’ said Bartholomew stiffly. ‘And I do not conduct astrological consultations.’

  ‘I do,’ offered Deynman, who had been listening. ‘And I am much less expensive than him.’

  ‘You are also unqualified,’ said Alcote in alarm, hurrying over from where he had been talking to Walter Wauncy. It did not take a genius to know that letting Deynman loose on Grosnold would prove disastrous for all concerned, but especially for Grosnold. ‘Doctor Bartholomew will be delighted to do your consultation,’ he added, smiling ingratiatingly at the black knight.

  Bartholomew rounded on him angrily. ‘You are not my master, either. I am not doing it. Horsey is ill, and I want to stay with him.’

  ‘Horsey has only fainted like some fragile maiden,’ hissed Alcote unsympathetically. ‘You will do as Master Tuddenham desires, so long as we are his guests. Everyone in Grundisburgh has been good to us, and we will not offend them by behaving churlishly.’

  ‘Someone in Grundisburgh murdered Unwin,’ retorted Bartholomew, goaded to imprudence by Alcote’s bossiness.

  Tuddenham pursed his lips, angry at the implied criticism. ‘I can assure you that I am doing all I can to locate Unwin’s killer.’

  ‘Of course he is,’ gushed Alcote, glowering furiously at Bartholomew. He took the physician by the arm, and hauled him out of earshot. ‘For God’s sake, show some grace, man! I worked hard to persuade Tuddenham to give us this advowson. I do not want it all ruined because you are an unmannerly lout!’

  ‘And how did you “persuade” Tuddenham to give it to us?’ demanded Bartholomew furiously, pulling his arm away. He was almost angry enough to accuse anyone of compliance in Unwin’s murder, even Alcote, whose negotiations with Tuddenham had resulted in Unwin being appointed as Grundisburgh’s parish priest. ‘Do you know some dreadful secret about him, which you threatened to tell unless he gave Michaelhouse the deeds to the church?’

  Alcote glared at him. ‘That is a foul thing to say. What do you think I am? And, for your information, I arranged the transaction with Tuddenham through one of my business connections in Ipswich. Tuddenham was going to donate the church living to one of the merchant guilds there, but I was able to convince him that a Cambridge college would be a better option for him. I mentioned that we have lawyers who will act as his executors when he dies, and who will ensure his will is carried out exactly as he wants it to be — not to mention the fact that his heirs will save a good deal on legal fees when the time comes.’

  ‘So, why is Tuddenham so desperate to have it completed quickly?’ asked Bartholomew, strongly suspecting that Alcote was being less than honest with him. ‘He has not stopped pestering you about finishing it since you arrived. There is something odd going on, and I think you know what it is.’

  Alcote looked smug. ‘I know a great many things that you do not, my boy. But you should not vex your little mind with them. Just trust me. I know what I am doing.’

  ‘I would sooner trust a viper,’ snorted Bartholomew, disgusted. ‘And if I find out that you know some dreadful secret about the Tuddenhams, and you accept this advowson and bring Michaelhouse into disrepute, I will see you never interfere in College affairs again.’

  Alcote gave a sneer. ‘And how will you do that? You are only interested in chopping off people’s legs and inspecting their urine. Tuddenham is insisting that the advowson is written quickly because he is an impatient man. He knows that I am the only one who can do it, and that the rest of you are next to useless. He wants you all gone, so that he does not have to pay Eltisley to keep you.’

  ‘Thomas has always been impatient,’ said Dame Eva, the closeness of her voice making them jump. ‘It is just his way. But do not let him bully you into working quicker than you should, Master Alcote. He would have you labouring all night if you let him.’

  Alcote eyed her with some hostility, before hurrying off to placate Grosnold. The old lady watched him depart with her sharp eyes, while Bartholomew fervently wished he would trip over his flagrantly expensive robe and break his scrawny neck. Considering that he had just been berating Bartholomew for his rudeness to Grosnold, Alcote’s behaviour towards Dame Eva was inexcusable. Predictably, however, the old lady was slow to take offence. She smiled at Bartholomew and took his arm, patting it sympathetically when she sensed the tension and anger in him.

  ‘Isilia was right — that man fears women more than he fears the Devil himself.’

  Bartholomew looked down at her. She was wearing her yellowed wimple and an over-large cloak that looked as if it might belong to her son. But, unfashionable and inelegant though she might appear, she was the only member of Tuddenham’s household who was not wet and shivering. Once again, Bartholomew admired her for putting her personal comfort before appearances.

  ‘Poor Rosella,’ said Isilia, coming to join them, and following their eyes to Alcote, who scurried fawningly at Grosnold’s heels. ‘She had high hopes that a handsome young student would step past her pea on the lintel, but instead it was Alcote — a man who prefers men to women.’

  ‘He does not particularly like men, either,’ said Bartholomew, trying to force his irritation with Alcote to the back of his mind. ‘He just sees them as a lesser evil.’

  Isilia laughed, and he noticed, yet again, how lovely she was with her pale pink cheeks and fine green eyes. ‘I have tried hard to make him feel welcome at Wergen Hall — my husband expects too much of him sometimes, with all those piles of writs — but I think I only succeed in making him more nervous than ever. He would rather starve than have me bring him his food.’

  ‘I see young Horsey is unwell,’ said Dame Eva, pointing to where Deynman was helping the student-friar to the tavern. ‘Poor boy — it must be the shock. I will send some eggs for him from Wergen Hall, and some beans. I do not like to see him so wan.’

  ‘That would be kind,’ said Bartholomew, touched that someone as grand as the lord of the manor’s mother should notice a mere student, and consider his needs.

  ‘We are so sorry about this,’ said Isilia, gesturing towards Unwin’s grave. ‘We would do anything to bring him back.’

  ‘Isilia and I have already given Walter Wauncy ten shillings, so that a mass for Unwin’s soul can be said each morning for the next thirty days,’ said Dame Eva. ‘If he thinks more masses are needed after that, we will pay him to continue.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Bartholomew.

  The old lady gazed across at the far corner of the churchyard for a moment, and then took Bartholomew’s arm and led him toward a group of ancient yews that stood over a jumble of coffin-shaped tombs.

  ‘This is my husband’s,’ she said, stopping at the only one that was well tended and that had fresh flowers on the top. ‘He was a good and honourable man, and would be so saddened to see the day when a poor young priest was slain in the church he loved.’

  ‘How long since he died?’ asked Bartholomew gently, seeing tears gather at the corners of her wrinkled eyes and trickle down her cheeks.

  ‘Twenty years,’ said Isilia, when the old lady could not answer. She looked sympathetically at Dame Eva, and took a frail hand in her young, smooth ones. ‘Come, mother. We should not stand here in the rain for you to take a chill. I will sing to you this afternoon — one of the songs your husband wrote, if it would please you.’

  Dame Eva nodded grat
efully, and clung to Bartholomew’s arm as he escorted her back to Tuddenham, who was waiting for her with a litter. She stopped suddenly, and gripped Bartholomew so fiercely that he winced.

  ‘You are a kind young man, and I would not like to see you come to harm. You must promise me you will go nowhere near Barchester. It is one of the gateways to hell, and no place for the god-fearing. If Unwin had not gone to Barchester, he would not have seen Padfoot and we would not be attending his requiem mass today.’

  Bartholomew nodded, feeling sure he would have no cause to visit the deserted village anyway. ‘I will avoid Barchester, if I can.’

  ‘You must never set foot in the place,’ declared Isilia with huge eyes. ‘It seethes with evil and is Padfoot’s domain!’

  ‘Padfoot!’ spat Hamon in disgust, coming to help them into the litter. ‘What nonsense have you been spouting, Isilia?’

  ‘It is not nonsense,’ said the old lady, a spark of anger flashing in her eyes. ‘It is simple truth, and only a fool would choose to ignore it.’

  ‘Hamon is a fool,’ said Isilia, eyeing him coldly. ‘He is an insensitive oaf, who is only interested in hunting and dogs and smelly horses.’

  Hamon gave an unpleasant laugh. ‘Better that than wasting my time on frightening gullible physicians with tales of ghostly dogs.’

  He gave Dame Eva a hefty shove that accelerated her into the cart faster than was necessary. Bartholomew stepped forward in alarm, afraid that the rough push might have damaged the old woman’s brittle bones, but she waved him back with a resigned flap of her hand. Eyes flashing furiously, Isilia thrust Hamon away and climbed in unaided. Then Dame Eva saw the ugly nag that had been coupled to the litter that would bear her home, and she and Hamon began a spirited argument about that, while Bartholomew looked around desperately for Michael, seeking a way to escape before he was dragged into it.