‘Excellent,’ said Michael, impressed. ‘But how did you manage to find them, when I asked these same people and was told they had seen nothing?’
‘It is amazing how lies dissolve into truth when people are threatened with eternal damnation,’ said William proudly. ‘I merely informed them that they would burn in hell for lying, just as they would for stealing and murdering.’
‘But why should they lie at all?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Everyone keeps telling me how the entire village will do anything to help us catch Unwin’s murderer.’
‘Apparently, they feel sorry for Norys,’ said William in some disdain. ‘They all know he is the one accused of killing Unwin, and they are reluctant to provide us with information that may harm him. He is a popular man in the village, because he grants them pardons.’
‘He does not,’ said Michael immediately. ‘Wauncy does, not allow him to practise his vile trade in the village — he goes to Ipswich.’
‘He goes to Ipswich a good deal less now than he did before the plague,’ said William, delighted to answer Michael’s questions and show off his prowess at interrogation. ‘Wauncy is so busy saying masses for the dead that he has little time for his living parishioners. They feel it is better to buy a pardon from Norys than to wait all day for Wauncy to find a spare moment to grant them absolution.’
‘No wonder Wauncy was keen to have Unwin as his apprentice,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘Unwin could have taken on all the dealings with the living, while Wauncy himself could continue to amass a fortune from the dead.’
‘And Wauncy is not even a real parish priest,’ said William with relish. ‘He was only an acolyte before the Death, and simply took on priestly duties when Tuddenham could find no one else.’
It was a tale repeated in villages all over the country — after the plague, priests had tended to select the more lucrative posts, leaving small parish churches struggling to find replacements. Bishops had been reduced to employing men from the laity, who had no proper training, but who were better than nothing at all.
‘I see,’ said Michael. ‘And did anyone recognise this person who rushed from the church?’
William looked crestfallen. ‘Unfortunately not. And three of them said he wore a short cloak, and three said a long one.’
‘Damn!’ said Michael softly. ‘That gets us nowhere at all. We still cannot prove that Norys is lying when he said he saw a short cloak.’
‘So, we have Stoate and three others saying the fellow wore a long cloak, and Norys and three others saying it was a short cloak,’ summarised Bartholomew. ‘Were there two of them, then?’
‘How could there be?’ asked Michael wearily. ‘Unwin was only killed once.’
‘Then perhaps one was an innocent party — either coming from the church before Unwin was placed there, or fleeing afterwards because he did not want to become involved with the unlawful slaying of a priest. Who can blame him? Both Norys and Eltisley have been accused, and the evidence to implicate either is thin.’
‘So,’ said Michael dispiritedly, ‘all we can say with certainty is that six people plus Norys, Stoate and Mistress Freeman saw a figure in a cloak running from the church at about the time Unwin was slain. We do not know whether one or both of them had anything to do with Unwin’s death. Did you learn anything else, William?’
‘That no one has seen Norys since Wednesday, and that no one saw him throw a bloody knife into the garden of the Half Moon, although I realise of course that does not mean he did not do it.’
‘Well done,’ said Michael, appreciative of William’s reasoning — especially since it fitted with his own. ‘You will make a splendid Junior Proctor one day. Is that all?’
‘Only that the village thatcher claims the bundle you discovered on Saturday was not on Norys’s roof on Friday morning,’ said William. ‘It is one of the roofs he thinks need replacing, apparently, and he always looks at it as he passes, hoping to see signs of leakage. He said the bundle must have been put on the roof after midday on Friday.’
‘That is odd,’ said Michael, puzzled.
‘That means either Norys did not put it there, or he is not in Ipswich,’ said Bartholomew.
‘He must have returned,’ said Michael, refusing to accept the alternative.
‘But why would he hurl such an incriminating package on his own roof?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘It would have been better to throw it on someone else’s, to implicate them. He is not stupid.’
‘Perhaps he is just trying to confound us,’ said William. ‘There is no understanding the criminal mind, Matthew. It is not made of the same physical material as yours and mine.’
‘Really?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘And how would it be different, exactly?’
‘I am going to the Half Moon to see if Eltisley has recovered sufficiently from his ordeal in Tuddenham’s cellar to make me something to eat,’ interrupted Michael before they could start a debate. ‘You two can do what you like.’
‘We will join you,’ said William. ‘I have not eaten anything today and questioning people always gives me an appetite.’ He stretched expansively and then looked at Bartholomew. ‘Have you fully recovered from your encounter with the white dog, Matthew? Cynric has not. He is convinced he is going to die, and is refusing to leave the tavern.’
‘I know,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I have tried to reason with him, but he will not listen to me. Deynman is supposed to be looking after him.’
‘Cynric will be seeking his death a lot sooner if you impose that ignoramus on him for long,’ said William, following them along the woodland path to the village. Bartholomew was perfectly aware of that, hoping that too much of Deynman’s company might jolt the Welshman from his gloom. While Michael and William discussed the relative merits of the cuisine at the Half Moon and the Dog, Bartholomew fretted about his book-bearer, racking his brain for a way to break the black mood that had turned Cynric into someone he barely recognised.
‘There is Eltisley,’ said Michael, as they reached the Half Moon. ‘I wonder where he is going.’
Eltisley, looking around him so furtively that it was comical, was tiptoeing across the yard of his tavern to one of the sheds that stood as a lean-to against the rear wall. Curious, Bartholomew followed him, wondering what he was up to. With Michael and William watching in amusement, he walked stealthily to the shack into which Eltisley had disappeared.
‘Sir Thomas released you, then,’ he said, in a deliberately loud voice to the landlord’s back. Eltisley spun round in alarm, pots flying from the table in front of him to smash on the floor. Bartholomew looked around the room with interest. It was a workshop, with herbs and plants hanging in bunches from the rafters, pots and bottles ranged along shelves, and a bench that ran the full length of one wall. It smelled of burning, and of mint vying for dominance over rosemary, but it was not unpleasant.
‘What are you doing here?’ demanded Eltisley, placing a firm hand on Bartholomew’s chest, and shoving him outside. He slammed the door behind him, and glared at the physician. ‘This is private property, not part of the tavern. It is not open to customers.’
‘Is this where you make your remedies?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘You need a licence to be an apothecary, you know. You cannot just produce concoctions, and then test them on people.’
‘I can if I do not sell them,’ said Eltisley. ‘I never ask for more than they cost to make, because I want to see my fellow villagers in good health.’
‘It is illegal,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You might kill someone, whether you mean to or not.’
‘What I do with my free time is none of your business,’ said Eltisley unpleasantly. ‘I am not some scholar, bound by rules and regulations. I am an explorer of science, and my task in life is to understand the meaning of things and how they work.’
‘Tell Father William that and he will have you burned for heresy,’ said Bartholomew. He pointed to the shed. ‘What is in this room that you are so keen to hide away?’
‘Nothing
to interest a man with a closed mind,’ said Eltisley, turning away from him and securing the door with one of the largest locks Bartholomew had ever seen. He wondered whether Cynric would be able to pick it. ‘Just an experiment.’
‘What kind of experiment?’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘Is it dangerous?’
Eltisley smiled his vague smile. ‘Not in the slightest.’ He sighed heavily. ‘All right. I will tell you, since you are interested in my work, but you must promise to keep it to yourself.’
Bartholomew said nothing, but Eltisley, already forgetting his hostility now that he had captured an audience, did not seem to notice that the physician had promised nothing.
‘I am inventing a way to make cows produce more milk. It involves feeding them with water infused with chalk. You see, I reason that if you put a lot of something white into them, you will get a lot of something white out.’
‘I think you will find that cows’ digestions do not operate like that,’ said Bartholomew, now convinced more than ever that the man was not fit to be out of Tuddenham’s cellar. ‘All you will do is block their innards and give them colic.’
‘What would you know of cows?’ asked Eltisley dismissively. ‘You are a mere physician. I, on the other hand, am a man of vision.’
‘But why the secrecy? Is it because you are afraid of someone stealing your ideas?’
‘It is because I do not want to raise the hopes of the villagers,’ said Eltisley. ‘Not all my experiments work immediately, and I do not like to see them disappointed.’
‘So, you think you will fail?’
Eltisley glared at him. ‘I will succeed eventually. These things take time. But I would not expect you to understand: you have no scientific imagination. How do you know my experiment will not work until it has been tried?’
‘Common sense,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I also know that you will not fly if you jump off the church tower, but I would not recommend you to try it just to prove my point.’
Eltisley looked up at the tower and frowned thoughtfully, and Bartholomew could see his peculiar mind mulling over the probabilities. It would not take much to convince him to attempt something so stupid, and Bartholomew wondered whether someone, for the sake of the rest of the perfectly normal, law-abiding members of the village, should undertake the responsibility.
Leaving Eltisley gazing at the church, he went to the garden, where Michael and William were sitting, enjoying the sun. Michael took a deep breath through his nose, and smiled.
‘This unpleasantness is almost over. As soon as Alcote has our deed finished — and he says he will have a version tomorrow — we can be away from this place, hopefully never to return.’
‘One of us will have to stay,’ said William grimly. ‘With Unwin dead, one of us will need to take over his duties as vicar.’
‘No,’ said Michael. ‘We will go back to Michaelhouse, and the Master will appoint another student. Jakobus de Krek would do well here: he is devious and mean-spirited.’
William agreed. ‘I will recommend him to the Master. That is an excellent idea, Brother: he would suit Tuddenham very well. I never did think Unwin was a good choice — far too tolerant.’
‘But we cannot leave until we have brought Unwin’s murderer to justice,’ said Bartholomew.
Michael sighed irritably. ‘We have Unwin’s killer, Matt. Norys will soon be under lock and key. He cannot remain in hiding for ever.’ He chuckled nastily. ‘Anyway, if he is like the rest of the villagers, he will be afraid to be out at night in case he claps eyes on the spectral hound.’
‘Speaking of Padfoot, have you spoken to Alice Quy’s husband?’ asked Bartholomew of William, thinking of the woman who had died of childbirth fever. ‘Did he mention anything about her death?’
‘He tried, but I told him that to acknowledge the existence of such beings was opposing the omnipotent will of God,’ said William grandly. ‘And I said that if he persisted in such beliefs, he would burn in the fires of hell for eternity and so would all his children. He did not mention it again.’
‘But what did he say before you terrified the life out of him?’ asked Bartholomew.
William scratched his nose. ‘He said she was out near Barchester one evening, just after sunset, and she saw the white dog sniffing around in the trees. She ran so blindly with fear that she ended up on Deblunville’s land. He sent her home, and within two days she was dead of childbirth fever.’
Bartholomew sipped the cool ale Eltisley’s wife brought them, and considered. Was Alice Quy out digging for the golden calf as Deblunville had believed? Was her death coincidence, or had some mysterious force been at work to kill her, as so many villagers thought? As he pondered, he heard someone call his name, and looked up to see Stoate approaching. The Grundisburgh physician smiled at the scholars, and sat down on the bench opposite, wiping his face with the sleeve of his shirt.
‘It is hot today. We will have a good harvest if this keeps up.’
‘Eltisley,’ called Michael to the taverner, who still gazed up at the church tower. ‘Bring wine for our guest. And none of that sour stuff you gave us last time, either; I want that sweet red claret that tastes of honey. You might bring a morsel to eat, too, such as a bit of pheasant or a slice of bacon. But nothing green. My stomach is still unsettled from when you poisoned me with those weeds last week.’
‘You have not taken any of Eltisley’s black tonic, have you?’ asked Stoate anxiously, after the landlord had gone. ‘Only it is said to contain goat urine. I wish he would not dispense that particular remedy to the villagers.’
‘The man is a menace,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He claims to be a man of science, but he no more understands the basic rules of physics than does his cockerel.’
Stoate smiled. ‘You are a little harsh. He is a good-hearted man who invests most of his energy and a good deal of his income in developing cures for the villagers. He is working on a method to increase the yield of cows’ milk at the moment, because poor Master Quy’s animal is drying up. With his wife dead of the childbirth fever, he needs that milk to feed his children.’
‘Eltisley seemed to consider that experiment a secret,’ said Bartholomew.
Stoate laughed. ‘This is the country. Secrets do not remain secrets for long, and everyone is hoping Eltisley will be successful. But just because Eltisley is kind-hearted does not mean to say that you should drink his black tonic.’
Michael chuckled. ‘It made Alcote as sick as a dog, but it was his vegetables that made me ill.’
‘Eltisley’s wife is an excellent cook and the fare is rich and plentiful,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Not all of us know when to stop.’
‘Typical of a monk,’ muttered William, reaching for a large helping of pheasant. ‘Greedy!’
Stoate regarded Michael thoughtfully. ‘A cup of water before a meal helps to fill the innards and reduces unnecessary overloading. Have you tried that?’
‘I most certainly have not,’ said Michael frostily. ‘I only take water as a last resort — and never before food.’
‘Does water help?’ asked Bartholomew of Stoate, interested.
‘No medicine while we are eating, if you please,’ said William firmly. ‘You can do that when you are alone together.’
‘Did you tend Alice Quy?’ asked Bartholomew, ignoring him.
Stoate shook his head. ‘Of course not. Physicians do not deal with women’s problems, particularly when there is a midwife like Mother Goodman to call on. I was summoned eventually, but she was dead before I arrived. Had I been contacted earlier, I might have been able to counteract the infection, although I do not really think so.’
‘Mother Goodman said this fever came six months after the birth of her last child,’ said Bartholomew. ‘That seems unusual.’
Stoate sighed. ‘It was six months after the birth of one child, but it is my belief that she became pregnant again almost immediately, and it was the loss of that baby which killed her. She claimed she saw a ghostly white dog, and came tearing h
ome in such a panic that I am not surprised the unborn child was lost.’
‘Do you think she convinced herself that she was going to die because she saw the white dog?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘You said only the other night that people often give up all hope of recovery if they believe themselves to be seriously ill.’
‘Yes,’ said Stoate nodding keenly. ‘I have seen that many times. It is very possible that Alice Quy simply gave up. It explains why she died so quickly, too, when other women with that fever tend to linger.’
‘Then do you think that James Freeman slit his throat because he believed he was going to die?’
‘Possibly,’ said Stoate. ‘The poor man was beside himself with terror. You need to make sure the same thing does not happen to your servant. There is a rumour that he saw Padfoot, too.’
I cannot imagine why Cynric is so disturbed by it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It was not a pleasant experience, but it did us no real harm.’ For Stoate’s benefit, he described the attack.
‘But you did not see the thing,’ Stoate pointed out. ‘It sat on you and breathed on you, but you did not actually set eyes on it. Cynric did, and that is why he is so afraid. Padfoot is supposed to herald the death of anyone who sees it, not anyone it sits on.’
‘But it was a real dog, not some spectre,’ protested Bartholomew. ‘It was flesh and blood.’
‘That is not the point,’ said Stoate. ‘The legend says nothing about how it feels, sounds or smells, or even tastes. It says that anyone who sets eyes on it will die within a few days.’
‘You speak almost as if you believe it,’ said Bartholomew.
Stoate finished his wine and stood. ‘I do. I learned years ago not to mock local customs and stories. There is nearly always some grain of sense behind them that should not be dismissed too lightly.’ He tapped Bartholomew on the shoulder as he left. ‘Do not close your mind without fully investigating the issue, my friend.’
Having devoured another monumental meal at Tuddenham’s expense, Michael was in no state to accompany Bartholomew to the Freemans’ house, and was forced to retire to the bedchamber to lie down. Bartholomew took William with him instead. He left the friar at the tanner’s home — against Bartholomew’s pleas for clemency, the petrified tanner had replaced Eltisley in Tuddehham’s cellar — while he walked along the river until he reached the butcher’s property. It was deserted and silent, almost like the wooden hovels at Barchester. He pushed open the door and stepped inside.
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