A Wicked Deed mb-5

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘Are you ready for this consultation with Grosnold?’ asked the monk, bowing politely to the ladies before seizing Bartholomew’s arm and bearing him off.

  ‘I am not doing it,’ said Bartholomew firmly.

  Michael shook him gently by the arm. ‘Alcote is right. You cannot refuse your services to one of our prospective benefactor’s friends, just because you feel like it. That kind of behaviour might lose us the advowson in itself.’

  ‘I do not care about the advowson. I have had enough of this place. It has killed Unwin, and now we are ordered about like servants. As soon as Horsey is well, I am leaving.’

  ‘Fine, Matt. You can go tomorrow, if you like. I may even come with you, if I have tracked down Unwin’s killer. We can leave Alcote here to complete this business, and we can wait for him at St Edmundsbury. But you should go with Grosnold now.’

  ‘No,’ said Bartholomew.

  ‘Think, Matt,’ said Michael urgently. ‘This is an opportunity for you to discover whether Grosnold doubled back on himself and returned to Grundisburgh to speak to Unwin as Eltisley claims. We might not have another chance like this. Go, and take Cynric with you.’

  Bartholomew sighed and rubbed a hand through his wet hair, reluctant to capitulate, but knowing that Michael was right — it might well prove to be the only opportunity to wheedle information from the black knight of Otley. ‘Very well. But please make sure Deynman looks after Horsey. We do not want him catching a fever that will keep us here for days.’

  Michael nodded. ‘I will see him to the tavern myself. Then I will locate Mistress Freeman to ask her about this cloaked figure she saw. She has been out every time I have called at her house so far, but, if she is away today, I will wait there until she returns.’

  He leaned back against the church wall, where rain slicked down his fine brown locks to make his head seem pear-shaped. Suddenly, his sandalled foot shot out from underneath him, toppling him to the ground. His first reaction was shock, his second amused embarrassment.

  ‘Wet grass,’ he explained as Bartholomew and Cynric helped him up. ‘Leather-soled sandals are useless in the rain, and this is not the first time this has happened to me. I only hope it does not occur when I am in the midst of some solemn proctorial ceremony. What is the matter, Matt?’

  Bartholomew was staring at the ground where Michael had slipped. It was stained a reddish brown.

  ‘Is it blood?’ asked Cynric, peering over his shoulder. ‘There is masses of it!’

  Bartholomew nodded, pointing to where more of it turned the white heads of daisies dark. He looked at Michael.

  ‘I think you have just found the place where Unwin was killed.’

  Chapter 7

  It was not a pleasant journey through the dripping woods from Grundisburgh to Otley. Bartholomew had assumed that Grosnold would have his astrological consultation at Wergen Hall, but the knight had insisted that all the information Bartholomew would need was at his own manor, and so Bartholomew was obliged to travel home with him. Since Bartholomew had been loath to read Grosnold’s stars in the first place, he bitterly resented riding miles through the rain to do it, especially since what had started as a shower seemed to have settled in for the day, and fine, but drenching, drops pattered on his shoulders and head and trickled down the back of his neck.

  Otley was several miles to the north-west, along the valley of the River Lark and across the Old Road where Bartholomew and Cynric had encountered the outlaws the previous week. As they passed the Grundisburgh-Otley boundary, Tuddenham’s scrubby pastureland gave way to Grosnold’s strips of corn and barley, waving brilliant green in the rain. Off to the left were the ruined roofs of the abandoned village of Barchester, and Bartholomew noticed that Grosnold and his steward, Ned, did not follow the path that ran through the centre of it as the scholars had done, but took a newer, well-used one that skirted the settlement at a safe distance. Cynric, riding behind Bartholomew, crossed himself and looked in the opposite direction.

  ‘Barchester is inhabited by plague dead,’ Grosnold stated matter-of-factly when Bartholomew asked him about it, more to take his mind off his sodden clothes and wet feet than for information. ‘And a great white dog often roams there — any who set eyes on that will be dead within the week.’

  ‘Unwin saw a white dog,’ said Bartholomew. ‘When we left Otley last week, we took the path that runs through the middle of Barchester by mistake, and Unwin said he spotted a white dog in the trees. No one else saw it.’

  ‘Well, there you are then,’ said Grosnold, exchanging a knowing glance with his redheaded steward. ‘That explains why he met his end so suddenly.’

  ‘But you do not believe these tales of haunted villages and spectral hounds,’ said Bartholomew, certain that a proud soldier like Grosnold would not be unnerved by such stories. He saw the intense expression on the black knight’s face. ‘Do you?’ he added uncertainly.

  ‘Of course I do,’ said Grosnold, with such conviction that Bartholomew wished he had never broached the subject. ‘Barchester has been infested with demons since the pestilence. It drove poor Mad Megin to her death in the river last winter, although how she lived among those tortured souls all those years is beyond me.’

  ‘She was mad,’ said Ned, the steward, by way of explanation, adding mysteriously, ‘and she did not keep her Good Friday loaf.’

  ‘Her what?’ asked Bartholomew, nonplussed.

  Ned shook his head at this monumental ignorance. ‘Her Good Friday loaf-the loaf of bread cooked on a Good Friday that hangs on a string in the homes of all good Christians.’

  ‘It prevents the bloody flux,’ explained Grosnold. ‘I thought you would have known that, being a medical man. Megin ate hers, instead of keeping it safe, and look at the terrible end she met.’

  Ned jerked his head toward the woods. ‘Padfoot was out and about last night,’ he remarked conversationally. ‘Siric, Sir Thomas’s man, heard it snuffling about near the moat.’

  ‘Did he see it?’ asked Bartholomew, aware that a good many things snuffled about in the night.

  Ned regarded him as though he were insane. ‘Well, of course he did not. If he had set eyes on it, he would die, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘But if he did not see it, how did he know it was the white dog, and not some other animal?’

  ‘He knew,’ said Ned. ‘And so would you if you heard it. There is no mistaking Padfoot.’

  ‘Aye, that is true,’ agreed Grosnold. He changed the subject slightly. ‘I heard Will Norys, the pardoner, is wanted for questioning in relation to Unwin’s murder.’

  ‘Apparently Brother Michael questioned him, and by the next day he had fled the village,’ said Ned. ‘Such flight is a sure sign of his guilt.’

  ‘True, true,’ said Grosnold. ‘Poor Norys! He will swing for the murder of the student-priest, even though he was only a tool in the hands of Padfoot. As far as I am concerned, Unwin set eyes on Padfoot, and his fate was sealed. Norys was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, and Padfoot used him.’

  Or was he? Bartholomew was still not certain that Norys was the culprit. He frowned, wondering how to broach the subject of Grosnold’s own mysterious meetings with Unwin — one in the castle bailey at Otley, and the other in the churchyard shortly before Unwin’s death. Grosnold glanced at him, and misunderstood his thoughtful expression.

  ‘Have no fear, physician. Norys will not get far. Tuddenham will have him under lock and key before you know it.’

  And if that happened, Bartholomew was sure the pardoner would be given a token trial with a foregone conclusion, and would end up on the gibbet at Bond’s Corner like the mysterious hanged man. The whole thing would be swift and decisive and, whether Norys was guilty or not, Bartholomew was certain there would be questions that would remain unanswered after his execution.

  ‘Do you think the evidence is sufficient to convict Norys of Unwin’s murder?’ he asked.

  Grosnold seemed surprised. ‘Evidence? What are you talking a
bout? Norys killed the priest for his purse. What other evidence do you need?’

  ‘That is not evidence, that is conjecture,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Supposing Norys is not guilty? You might be condemning the wrong man.’

  ‘You think he is innocent?’ asked Grosnold, astonished. ‘But he is a pardoner and an occasional pedlar of relics. He had every reason to kill your friend.’

  His logic, if that was what it could be called, would have appealed to Michael. Bartholomew sighed, deciding he would not proceed very far with that line of enquiry. Poor Norys was already perceived as guilty by men like Grosnold, and basically, it was all because Michael did not like pardoners. But, Bartholomew recalled, Norys had suggested that a lord of the manor might be responsible for Unwin’s death. Was that significant? Or was Norys simply trying to cast doubts on the impartiality of the men who might ultimately have the power to hang him? Bartholomew wiped the rain from his eyes, not sure what to think.

  He considered Bardolf s claim that one of the warring noblemen might have killed Unwin, because he might have effected a peace agreement, and tried to see how it might fit with Norys’s accusation — if Norys were telling the truth. Still, by the time Bartholomew had finished Grosnold’s consultation and returned to Grundisburgh, Michael would have spoken to Mistress Freeman, and at least they would know whether Norys had been honest about that part of his story. Mistress Freeman had already told Tuddenham’s steward she had seen the figure running from the church, and so all that remained was to ascertain whether she was with Norys or Stoate.

  They rode in silence. The rain had turned the path into a quagmire, and the horses stumbled and skidded in slick mud. But once they had crossed the Old Road it was not long before they reached Grosnold’s manor of Nether Hall, dark and squat inside its wooden palisades. The bailey seemed to be inhabited by nothing but men, all wearing dull brown homespun tunics, so that it appeared a dreary place. Alcote would have approved, thought Bartholomew, looking in vain for some female presence, although the atmosphere was more debauched than monastic.

  Grosnold led the way into a hall-house that was gloomy, and stank of kitchen slops and garderobe shafts that had long been due for a rinse. The reeds on the floor crawled with vermin, and a pig rooted happily among them for scraps. Ned herded it to the other end of the room, while Grosnold flung himself into the only chair and yelled for refreshments.

  A dirty-faced squire brought greasy goblets and a jug of wine so sour that Bartholomew wondered that Grosnold still had any teeth if he drank it regularly. The physician set it down on the windowsill after a single sip, for some desperate servant to find and drink later.

  ‘Now,’ he said, keen to start — and therefore to leave — as quickly as possible. He drew a bundle of astronomical tables from his bag — tables that were frayed and battered not from frequent use, but because they were always dropping out when he was searching for something else. ‘Where is this information that you wanted me to have?’

  Grosnold nodded to Ned, who rummaged around in a large chest near the fireplace until he emerged with a sheaf of parchments. He set them on a small table near the window, and provided Bartholomew with a pen and a small bottle of ink. While Bartholomew tried to resurrect the viscous pigment into something serviceable using dribbles of the wine, Grosnold bellowed at his squire to light the fire and bring him something to eat.

  What came were bread trenchers that had been used before, and some cold lamb that had fused into a solid mass from the grease that had been cooked into it. There were also some small, sharp apples, a handful of nuts and a rind of sweaty cheese. Bartholomew left the meat and cheese to Grosnold, while he took the nuts and fruit. They ate in silence, punctuated by occasional grunts from the black knight — once when the pig made a nuisance of itself near his feet, and once when he dropped a piece of food in the rushes and could not find it again. Bartholomew silently cursed Michael for suggesting he comply with Grosnold’s demand. He even began to think Alcote’s self-important prattle would be better than the brooding company of the bald soldier.

  After the meal, Grosnold picked his teeth with a long knife and Bartholomew sat on the windowsill to look at the documents he had been given. Several were old manorial rolls, giving information regarding who lived where and who owned what cattle. Another was a list of the cost of spices from the Ipswich market in June of 1347. Bartholomew was interested to see how much prices had risen since the plague, but it did not help him to construct Grosnold’s horoscope. Finally, there were two documents proclaiming that Grosnold had paid fourteen shillings for six sheep and a cow, and a crumpled parchment proving his ownership of Nether Hall.

  ‘I should keep this safe, if I were you,’ said Bartholomew, showing it to him. ‘You might need to produce it in a court of law if your neighbours persist in their squabbles over manor boundaries.’

  ‘What is it?’ demanded Grosnold, holding it upside down.

  ‘Proof of purchase of Nether Hall by Hugh Grosnold in 1292,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He was your grandfather?’

  ‘That is none of your business,’ snapped Grosnold, crumpling up the deed angrily. ‘And it is false. Everyone knows that I was given Nether Hall by the King for my bravery at Crécy.’

  Bartholomew did not want to meet the knight’s eyes. He was no authority on deeds to manors, but this one seemed genuine enough to him. Grosnold’s claim that it had been granted by the King was a blatant falsehood. He had probably inherited it from a grandfather who had never bothered to visit it, as was often the case when a man owned several manors, and so Grosnold had found he had been able to invent his own story about how he came by it. So, thought Bartholomew, as he walked back to the window, Grosnold was a liar. What other untruths had he told? And what had been his business with Unwin?

  Grosnold continued to glare at Bartholomew. ‘Just get on with the horoscope. That is what I am paying you for, not to pry into my personal affairs.’

  ‘I need more than this,’ said Bartholomew, gesturing at Grosnold’s household papers.

  ‘Why?’ demanded Grosnold. ‘They are all Stoate ever uses. If they are good enough for him, they should be good enough for you.’

  No wonder Stoate did not mind performing consultations, thought Bartholomew. If he based them on the cost of pepper six years before, and on the breeding records of sheep, then there would be very little arithmetic involved, and Stoate basically could predict what he pleased. Or what he thought might please Grosnold. For a fleeting moment, Bartholomew considered doing the same: Grosnold was an arrogant lout, who could not tell the difference between a shopping list and an incriminating deed of sale and who would not know whether anything Bartholomew calculated was accurate or not. But when he had become a physician Bartholomew had taken an oath he considered sacred, and he was not prepared to break it by cheating Grosnold, tempting though that might be.

  ‘I will be able to predict your horoscope far more accurately if you can remember certain dates,’ he said. ‘We can start with when you were born.’

  ‘Winter,’ said Grosnold helpfully. ‘Quite a few years back now.’

  It was slow going, and Bartholomew’s head began to ache. In order to relate the celestial calendar to the kind of information Grosnold was giving him, he needed to invent formulae to cope with the degree of error, and it was far more complex than anything he had done before. Cynric was asleep by the hearth, and Grosnold was already thinking about his next meal by the time Bartholomew put down the pen and showed Grosnold his conclusions.

  The knight was impressed. He took the scraps of parchment with the tiny figures and equations scribbled all over them, and peered at them from every angle.

  ‘All these are mine?’ he asked, awed. ‘For my stars?’

  Bartholomew nodded and began to tell him what it meant, although he could not imagine that predicting the knight would be vulnerable to rheums in the head when Venus was dominant in three days’ time, or that he should avoid herbs of Saturn while the moon was waxing lest they
inflame the liver, could be of remote interest to a hardened warrior like Grosnold. He was wrong. The knight listened intently and then repeated it faithfully to Ned, to be passed on to the cooks in the kitchens, with every intention, apparently, of following it to the letter. When Bartholomew had finished, Grosnold leaned back and smiled.

  ‘Good,’ he said, clearly relieved. ‘Now I know that I should go to Ipswich next Tuesday, not Wednesday, and that I should decline the invitation from Bardolf to dine with him on Monday. I shall inform him that I will come on Thursday instead. But you took your time with all this, man; Stoate is far quicker at his calculations. Still, I expect you will get better with practice.’

  ‘I am sure I will,’ said Bartholomew, amused. He stood and stretched. ‘I should leave. It will be dark soon.’

  ‘You have your servant with you,’ said Grosnold, gesturing to Cynric. ‘He looks like a fellow who knows how to look after himself. Anyway, outlaws will not bother themselves with a physician who is slow with his horoscopes, especially one who is as impoverished as you appear to be.’

  Bartholomew was almost out of the door before he realised that he had not attempted to discover what Grosnold had been discussing with Unwin in the bailey, or whether Eltisley really had seen them together in the churchyard before Unwin’s death.

  ‘I must tell you how much I admire your armour,’ he said as they stood together in the doorway, hoping to appeal to the man’s vanity and start a conversation. ‘It is very splendid.’

  ‘Modelled after that of the Prince of Wales,’ said Grosnold proudly. ‘He always wears black. I can give you the name of the smith who made it, if you are interested.’

  ‘I am no fighting man,’ said Bartholomew, wondering what his colleagues would say if he arrived at high table in Michaelhouse wearing a suit of metal. ‘Your destrier is a handsome animal, too.’ Bartholomew actually had no idea whether the stocky beast was a handsome animal or not: he was an abysmal judge of what did or what did not constitute a good horse.