A Wicked Deed mb-5

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘Of course it was Norys,’ said Dame Eva. ‘Who else could it have been? He escaped justice for the murder of Unwin, and decided to chance his luck again. After all, everyone here knows that Alcote is the most wealthy Michaelhouse scholar, and would be the best one to rob.’

  ‘You think the motive was theft?’ asked Bartholomew.

  ‘Why else would a scholar be ambushed in the middle of the night?’ asked the old lady. ‘Norys must have lain in wait on the path that leads between Wergen Hall and the village, knowing that no one would hear Alcote’s cries for help there.’

  ‘It is a terrible business,’ said Tuddenham worriedly. ‘Alcote told me yesterday that the advowson was almost complete, and that he would have a working draft today. I had hoped to have the thing all signed and sealed by tomorrow, but I can see that this attack will delay matters.’

  ‘Was anything stolen from him?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Documents or writs?’

  ‘Alcote says not,’ said Tuddenham. He frowned anxiously. ‘I told him to ask Hamon to accompany him to the Half Moon, if he planned to work after dark — especially given what happened to Unwin — but he slipped out while Hamon was asleep.’

  ‘I awoke to find him gone,’ said Hamon. ‘There was no need for him to return to the tavern anyway, when he could have had a blanket next to the fire in Wergen Hall.’

  Recalling that a good many servants vied for the coveted position near the hearth in Wergen Hall’s main chamber, Bartholomew understood exactly why that proposition was not an appealing one to the fastidious Alcote.

  Dame Eva eyed Hamon critically. ‘You knew it was not safe for the poor man to leave the hall with Norys at large, and yet you selfishly slept while he did battle with ruthless killers. You are a self-centred lout, Hamon!’

  ‘Deblunville died last night,’ said Bartholomew, before a full-blown row could begin. ‘He hit his head on a rock.’

  There was a startled silence. Dame Eva and Isilia exchanged a glance of stupefaction, while Tuddenham and Hamon regarded each other rather uncertainly, as though each were wondering whether the other had anything to do with it.

  Tuddenham swallowed hard. ‘Are you saying my neighbour was murdered? Again? Or is this another mistake — like the fellow you claim was hanged at Bond’s Corner?’

  Bartholomew bit back a flash of irritation. ‘I saw Deblunville’s body. His men do not think he was murdered — they believe he slipped on wet grass and brained himself.’

  ‘Just like his first wife, Pernel,’ said Hamon in awe. ‘She died of a cracked head.’

  ‘We all know Deblunville killed his first wife,’ said Dame Eva to Bartholomew. ‘No one ever believed that was an accident — even his own people. But I heard rumours that Janelle’s marriage was not as happy as a union of a few days should have been. She has had a lucky escape from that monster.’

  ‘Poor Janelle,’ said Isilia softly. ‘I think she was genuinely fond of Deblunville when she beguiled him into taking her to the altar.’

  ‘But this is good news,’ said Hamon, pleased. ‘It means Janelle is a widow.’

  Dame Eva regarded him coldly. ‘Foolish boy! Do you think she will fall into your arms now Deblunville is dead? Had she wanted you, she would have accepted you when you offered yourself at Yuletide. And you should curb your unseemly delight at Deblunville’s death, or there will be rumours that you did it.’

  ‘But I did not!’ cried Hamon, alarmed. ‘I did not even see him last night.’

  ‘That is a curious thing to say,’ pounced Dame Eva, fixing him with a wary look. ‘Why should you see him last night? What were you doing while Christian folk slept?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Hamon guiltily, realising too late the implication of his words.

  Tuddenham stepped between his mother and his nephew. ‘We will not discuss this matter here. However Deblunville met his death, there will be no celebration in Grundisburgh. I will not have the Sheriff told that there are people here who delight in my neighbour’s demise.’

  ‘So, Padfoot had Deblunville after all,’ said Dame Eva, more in awe than malice. ‘I told you no one escapes a vile fate after setting eyes on Padfoot, and I was right. Deblunville may not have been the corpse on the gibbet, but Padfoot had him in the end, regardless.’

  ‘We found that corpse, too,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is in the shepherd’s hut near Barchester, where someone has been trying to incinerate it.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’ asked Tuddenham, suddenly suspicious. ‘You say you saw Deblunville dead, and now you announce that you have found the body of the hanged man. Brother Michael told me you were praying for Mistress Freeman last night, but now I discover you were roaming half the county under cover of darkness. What were you doing?’

  It was a question Bartholomew had hoped would not be asked, and it was one he did not know how to answer. He hesitated.

  ‘He was looking for sea urchins,’ said Deynman defensively, fiercely protective of his tutor. He fingered the small dagger in his belt, and Bartholomew saw that Cynric was doing the same.

  ‘Sea urchins?’ echoed Tuddenham, bewildered. ‘Just how far did you roam last night?’

  ‘Sea wormwood,’ corrected Bartholomew, relieved that at least someone had his wits about him. He opened his bag, and showed Tuddenham the bunch he had picked. ‘It is good for worms and diseases of the liver.’

  ‘There is no truth in these tales about the golden calf, you know,’ said Tuddenham abruptly. ‘So there is no point in you digging up my fields to look for it, while pretending to pick flowers.’

  For a man who had been keen to know whether Cynric had discovered anything when he had dug Unwin’s grave, Tuddenham’s denial of the possibility that the golden calf existed was revealing. Was it he who had killed Deblunville, Bartholomew wondered, as, like Hamon, he supervised his villagers in their nightly searches of his neighbours’ lands? Was a sleepless night the real reason why he looked so weary that morning and not his encroaching illness at all?

  ‘I can assure you that the golden calf could not have been further from my mind,’ said Bartholomew, resenting the implication that he was a thief. ‘These leaves are far more valuable to me than some idolatrous ornament!’

  ‘It is not wise to wander from the safety of our parish in the dead of night,’ said Isilia reprovingly. ‘And you promised us at Unwin’s funeral that you would stay away from Barchester. It is no place for honest folk.’

  Dame Eva agreed. ‘Not as long as Padfoot sees fit to haunt our paths and woodlands.’

  ‘But why not collect your herb during the day, anyway?’ pressed Hamon suspiciously. ‘Why steal about during the night looking for it, like a criminal?’

  ‘Collecting it on a moonless night increases its efficacy,’ said Bartholomew, feeling the colour mount in his cheeks as it always did when he told brazen lies.

  ‘Hamon,’ admonished Tuddenham mildly, assuming Bartholomew’s sudden redness was because he had been insulted. ‘You are not my heir yet, and you have no right to assail my guests with unpleasant accusations.’

  ‘He will never be your heir,’ said Isilia, clutching at Dame Eva’s arm for moral support. Her chin jutted defiantly. ‘My child will inherit before him.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ said Tuddenham wearily. ‘But not until I am dead and gone. So, Bartholomew, you say you have your hanged man back at last. Who is he, do you know?’

  Bartholomew shook his head. ‘But the fact that someone is so intent on disposing of his remains suggests that he was murdered.’

  ‘Deblunville said the clothes worn by the hanged man were stolen from him,’ said Tuddenham thoughtfully, ‘and so it seems to me that Deblunville took the law into his own hands, and had the man executed for theft. Now Deblunville is dead, there is nothing more to be done. Later today I will send Siric to bring the remains here, to be buried decently in the churchyard.’

  ‘Is that it?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘The affair is closed without any further questions?’
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  ‘Yes,’ said Tuddenham. ‘Deblunville killed your hanged man, and Deblunville is dead. There is an end to the matter.’

  His determined look suggested that Bartholomew would be wise to drop the subject. Confused and angered by Tuddenham’s callous dismissal of the hanged man’s fate, Bartholomew trailed along The Street in search of Michael.

  He was surprised to find the Half Moon in chaos. Eltisley’s sullen customers ran this way and that, while Eltisley himself stood in the middle of his courtyard looking like a lost child. There were dark patches on his clothes and his hair appeared to be singed. Bartholomew supposed that his appearance had something to do with the flames that had spurted from his workshop the previous evening.

  ‘There you are,’ said Michael, emerging from the tavern and wiping the remains of breakfast from his mouth. He looked Bartholomew up and down, taking in his sodden, mud-splattered clothes. ‘What have you been doing?’

  ‘Collecting sea wormwood,’ said Bartholomew, brandishing his bunch at Michael. ‘Tuddenham told me Alcote was attacked last night. Is that what all this fuss is about?’

  Michael dabbed at his lips with his sleeve. ‘Have you seen that fine piece of linen, which that nice landlord of the Dog gave me? It seems to have disappeared — along with a sizeable piece of beef from Master Eltisley’s kitchen. That is what all this commotion is for — Eltisley is looking for it.’

  ‘I see,’ said Bartholomew.

  ‘I am sure you do,’ said Michael, regarding him expressionlessly. ‘This could not be anything to do with Mother Goodman’s charm against Padfoot, could it? Stealing a piece of beef and wrapping it in a white cloth at midnight?’ Bartholomew shot him a guilty look and Michael sighed. ‘If you had told me, Matt, I might have been able to help.’

  ‘Would you?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I assumed you would dismiss it as witchcraft.’

  ‘Well, so it is, but that is not to say that I would not have gone along with it to see Cynric restored to his usual self. You could have trusted me!’

  ‘I am sorry. But how did you guess what we were doing?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.

  ‘Deynman interrogated Mother Goodman about it mercilessly last night, and it did not take a genius to guess what had transformed Cynric from a man doomed to a man with a purpose. I assume it worked, then? My piece of linen was sacrificed for a good cause.’

  ‘Cynric believes he is free of the curse, and that is what matters. But aside from stealing from my friends and dabbling in pagan rituals, I have had a busy night.’

  He took Michael’s arm and led him to stand under the eaves of the tavern, out of the drizzle, while he told the monk about Deblunville and the hanged man, and of the reaction of Tuddenham’s family to the news. Michael listened carefully, without interruption, until he had finished.

  ‘Perhaps Tuddenham is right,’ he said. ‘If Janelle stole Deblunville’s clothes as a gift for her father, and someone else found them by chance, it is entirely possible that Deblunville hanged the poor fellow for theft. Then, realising perhaps that the man was innocent, he suddenly found himself with a corpse to dispose of, if he wanted his mistake to remain hidden.’

  ‘Deblunville’s dagger was with the corpse in the shepherd’s hut,’ said Bartholomew. ‘So, it seems as though the charred remains and the hanged man are one and the same. But there was no sign of Deblunville’s other clothes. Since Norys saw someone running from the church after we found the hanged man wearing what sounded to be the same belt and shoes, we are still left with a mystery.’

  ‘Not if we accept that Norys is lying because he killed Unwin,’ said Michael. ‘We can even take this further — Norys might have been the one who found the bundle of clothes, and sold them to some poor unfortunate, who then was hanged for theft while he was wearing them.’

  ‘Poor Norys,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It seems he is to blame for everything. It is probably his fault that it is raining this morning, too.’

  ‘There is no need for heretical thoughts, Matthew,’ said Michael primly. ‘But what of Deblunville? You say you could not tell whether his death was accident or murder?’

  ‘There are so many people who want him dead that an accident seems rather opportune. I cannot help wondering whether Deblunville caught some of Tuddenham’s villagers digging for the golden calf, and one of them killed him.’

  ‘You mean you think they might have found the calf, and murdered Deblunville to keep the discovery a secret?’ asked Michael, green eyes glittering at the thought.

  ‘Of course not, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Deblunville was probably killed — if he was killed deliberately — because he caught some of the Grundisburgh villagers trespassing on what he thinks is his land. God knows, there were enough of them out there last night.’

  He looked up as Alcote, leaning heavily on Father William’s arm, walked slowly from the direction of the church. He was limping, and he held one hand to his chest as though in pain.

  ‘He has been saying a mass to thank God for his safety,’ said Michael contemptuously. ‘While Mistress Freeman was committed to the ground, Alcote knelt at the altar and prayed for himself.’

  Alcote was almost at the Half Moon when he saw Eltisley’s wife walking toward him. Immediately, the limp disappeared, and he scurried on what seemed to Bartholomew to be two healthy legs into the tavern, slamming the door behind him. William exchanged a grin with Michael, and came to join them.

  ‘What was that about?’ asked Bartholomew, bewildered, as Mistress Eltisley tried to open the door, only to find it had been locked from the inside. She rattled the door impatiently, but the sole response was the sound of a heavy bar falling into place.

  ‘She brought some water to wash the mud from Alcote’s face after he was attacked last night,’ Michael explained. ‘Rather rashly, but only to be kind, she attempted to perform the service herself. Feeling a woman’s hand on his person terrified him a good deal more than the ambush, I think!’

  ‘That is not surprising,’ said Father William mysteriously. ‘Given his history.’

  ‘You mean the reason he is hostile to women?’ asked Michael with interest. ‘You know it?’

  ‘Of course,’ said William haughtily. ‘There is nothing a man like me cannot discover, if he puts his mind to it. That is why I would make such an outstanding Junior Proctor.’

  ‘Quite so,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘But what do you know about Alcote?’

  William paused for effect, looking around him to ensure he could not be overheard. ‘I asked a few questions when he first arrived in Cambridge. He comes from Winchester, where I have several very good friends from my days in the Inquisition. I primed them to make enquiries on my behalf.’

  ‘And?’ prompted Michael, when the friar paused again. He snapped his fingers in sudden enlightenment. ‘Ha! Do not tell me, I can guess. Alcote had a wife — he escaped from a marriage that had turned sour.’

  ‘He escaped from two,’ said William, smiling in satisfaction when he saw the expressions on his colleagues’ faces. ‘Roger Alcote is a bigamist.’

  Bartholomew and Michael stood outside the Half Moon and gazed at William in astonishment. Then Bartholomew started to laugh.

  ‘I do not believe you, Father! Alcote hates women, and would never allow himself to be put into that sort of position. Your friends were playing a joke on you.’

  ‘They were not,’ said William firmly. ‘It so happened that I had business in Winchester myself a year or so later. I met both his wives — and I am sure it will not surprise you to learn that they were women of some wealth. They told me they had been wed to Alcote for several months before one discovered the presence of the other. They joined forces, and I had the impression they planned some dire revenge on his manhood, but were thwarted when he escaped.’

  ‘Then why did he become a scholar?’ asked Bartholomew, far from certain that William’s story was not a product of his vivid imagination. ‘Bigamists, who by definition like their women, do not suddenly b
ecome misogynists like Alcote.’

  Michael grinned. ‘I think you probably already have your answer to that. William has just told us that it was not for love that Alcote took these two beauties, but for their money.’

  ‘I still do not believe it,’ said Bartholomew.

  ‘You might if you heard his views on the plague,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘He thinks it will come again, unless men give up all relations with women. He told me only yesterday that the Devil would claim as his own anyone who was not celibate.’

  ‘And why should he mention that to you, Brother?’ asked Bartholomew, raising his eyebrows.

  ‘What in God’s name is he doing?’ said William, watching as Eltisley took a large saw to the leather hinges on the door, still firmly barred and with Alcote safe from Mistress Eltisley on the other side of it. The saw slipped, leaving a long, pale scar across the lovingly polished wood. Eltisley raised it again, hacking vigorously at the hinges, while his sullen customers stood around him, and watched in disbelief as the landlord inflicted as much damage on the saw as he did on the door in his bungling attempts to enter.

  ‘Master Eltisley,’ called Bartholomew, watching his efforts with amusement. ‘Would it not be easier to go through the entrance at the back of the tavern, and then unlock the front door from the inside?’

  Eltisley regarded him uncertainly, but his wife gave an exasperated sigh before disappearing round the side of the house. Moments later, she emerged through the door Eltisley had savaged, and stood to one side to let her husband in, giving him a clout on the ear as he did so.

  Alcote had locked the door to the upper chamber, too, and it took some smooth talking on Michael’s part to persuade him to open it. Casting anxious looks this way and that, Alcote hauled his colleagues inside and barred the door again.

  ‘I do not want her near me,’ he announced, returning to a small table piled high with parchments, pens, and sand-shakers for drying wet ink. ‘Women are agents of the Devil. I became a scholar at Michaelhouse to escape their evil clutches, and all I want to do is return there. Not only does one of them attempt to seduce me, but I am attacked by a band of ruffians, armed with ferocious scimitars, in the middle of the night.’