A Wicked Deed

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘It is a latch I have designed myself,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘It will mean that the door can be locked from the inside and, as the bar drops, its weight will turn a mechanism so that the metal facing the outside will turn to this part that has been painted red.’

  ‘Ingenious,’ said Michael, bemused. ‘But what is it for? If you are inside operating the lock, you will not be able to see whether the metal outside is red or not.’

  ‘It is to warn people outside that the stall is temporarily unavailable,’ said Eltisley primly. ‘Then no one will be in the terrible position of being inside, while someone on the outside is frantically pulling on the handle to get in.’

  ‘Well, that is a relief,’ said Michael, struggling to keep a straight face. ‘I shall rest easier in my bed knowing that.’

  ‘The only problem is that I cannot get the device to stay in the doors without falling out,’ said Eltisley, scratching his head. ‘So, I suppose I will have to rethink the design.’

  He began to walk away, taking his mechanism with him.

  ‘All is not lost,’ Bartholomew called to his retreating back.

  ‘No one will need to rattle the handles now that you have placed these convenient holes in the doors – we can just look through them and immediately see whether someone is inside or not. No one will ever be embarrassed by unwanted rattling again.’

  Michael roared with laughter, leaving Eltisley looking from his device to the doors in some confusion. Bartholomew shook his head in disgust.

  ‘See what I mean? He has damaged three perfectly good doors in order to try out some unworkable mechanism, thus leaving everything in a worse state than it was in before. I am surprised that latrine is still standing, given that he built it.’

  ‘Ah, but he did not,’ said Michael. ‘I admit I was impressed when I first saw it, and I mentioned it to Tuddenham. Apparently, Wauncy designed it, Hamon supervised the building of it, and all Eltisley did was to select the site.’

  ‘So that explains why it drains into the river just where the people collect their drinking water,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The man is a liability.’

  ‘It is unlike you to take such an irrational dislike to someone,’ said Michael, laughing at the physician’s vehemence. ‘Poor Eltisley! He is not that bad.’

  ‘Here he comes again!’ hissed Bartholomew in alarm, gripping Michael’s arm as the landlord stopped, turned and began to walk back towards them. ‘Quick, Michael, run!’

  He took the monk’s arm and hauled him away before the eccentric landlord could catch them, Michael gasping and puffing as laughter made it difficult for him to move at the pace Bartholomew was forcing. Fortunately, it was not far to the small wattle-and-daub house with the reed roof that belonged to the tanner. He sat in his garden with a workbench between his knees, scraping at a hide with a piece of pumice stone.

  The smell from his workshop was overpowering, just as Mother Goodman had warned – a combination of the urine and polish used to tan the leather, and a thick stench of rotting as newly prepared pelts were stretched to dry in the sun. He looked up as they approached, and gave a grin. Bartholomew was startled to see the Tuddenham teeth – long, yellow and not very functional. Some lord of the manor, perhaps even Sir Thomas himself, although he would have been very young, had evidently been active among the village maidens.

  ‘New soles?’ asked the tanner hopefully. ‘Broken straps? Uncomfortable saddle that needs softening?’

  ‘All saddles are uncomfortable,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But we came to speak to your nephew, Will Norys. Is he in?’

  The tanner looked disappointed. ‘He is preparing himself for Ipswich market. Walter Wauncy has forbidden him to sell his pardons here, so he travels to the city to work most days.’

  ‘He is leaving rather late, is he not?’ asked Michael. ‘The market will be almost over by the time he arrives.’

  The tanner grinned. ‘He came home very late last night.’

  He tapped the side of his nose and winked conspiratorially.

  ‘He was enjoying the company of young Mistress Freeman.’

  ‘Can we go in?’ asked Michael, pushing open the garden gate and making his way to the door of the house. He was inside before the startled tanner had nodded his assent. Bartholomew followed quickly, afraid that Michael might lose his temper at the mere sight of a man who dealt in the trade that Michael despised with all his heart.

  The tanner’s cottage was dark, and smelled strongly of cats. The window shutters appeared to have been painted closed, so it was difficult to see. After a moment, Bartholomew’s eyes grew used to the gloom and he made out a sturdy table standing on one side of the room, and two straw mattresses on the other. The beds were heaped with blankets, and both were alive with cats. There were also cats on the table and up in the rafters, while more rubbed themselves round his legs and tripped him as he followed Michael inside.

  ‘Perhaps this is what your white dog wants,’ the monk muttered. ‘It is a hound’s paradise in here.’ He sneezed three times in quick succession.

  ‘A sign of good luck, Brother,’ came a sibilant voice from a dark corner.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ demanded Michael nasally.

  ‘To sneeze three times is a sign of good luck,’ said the voice. ‘It means someone will give you a present. Of course, a cat sneezing three times means that its owner will soon have an ague.’

  ‘There is a new theory for your treatise on fevers, Matt,’ said Michael, dabbing at his nose with a small piece of linen. He peered into the room. ‘Will Norys? Come out, where I can see you.’

  ‘Have you come for a pardon?’ A small figure emerged from what Bartholomew had assumed was just another pile of cats.

  ‘We most certainly have not,’ said Michael indignantly. ‘I can do all the pardoning I need myself, thank you very much.’

  ‘Of course, Brother,’ hissed the pardoner. ‘If it is new leather you want, my uncle is outside.’

  Michael sneezed twice, but Norys said nothing – perhaps two sneezes was not a good omen.

  ‘Perhaps we should stand outside,’ said Bartholomew after Michael’s sixth sneeze. Norys shrugged, and followed them into the garden. He had a round face and vivid green eyes. Unlike his uncle, he had tiny, rather pointed teeth, which he had a habit of running his tongue over in a furtive flicking movement. Bartholomew was sure he was not the first person to note the similarity between Norys and his feline friends.

  ‘Do you sell relics, by any chance?’ asked Michael, dabbing his nose fastidiously with his linen. ‘Only we would like to purchase a souvenir from our visit to Suffolk for the Master of our College, and I thought something of St Botolph’s might be suitable.’

  ‘I do have some relics,’ said Norys, moving towards the monk as he sensed a sale, ‘but nothing from St Botolph. He is popular around here, given his history. I can do you a fingernail of St Cuthbert, and I have a piece of the bowl in which Pontius Pilate washed his hands.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Bartholomew, puzzled. ‘Why would anyone want to buy something belonging to Pontius Pilate? He was scarcely on the side of the good and the just.’

  ‘People will buy just about anything these days,’ said Norys confidentially. ‘I heard of a man in Norwich who paid ten marks for a rib-bone of the whale that ate Elijah.’

  ‘But it was Job who was swallowed by a whale,’ said Bartholomew.

  ‘Precisely,’ said Norys. ‘But, to go back to your original question, it is not easy to come by relics of St Botolph. I have heard of none in these parts for many years. You might do better asking the monks at St Edmundsbury. The Benedictines there are not averse to raiding his hair and teeth on occasion. No offence, Brother.’

  ‘You have not heard of a few hairs of his beard being available in Grundisburgh recently, then?’ asked Michael casually.

  Norys shook his head. ‘But I can ask in Ipswich for you today, although I do not hold out much hope. And, if I am successful, it will be expensive.’ Pointedl
y he eyed the wooden cross, which Michael prudently wore in the place of his silver one lest someone decided to kill him for it.

  ‘Try anyway,’ said Michael icily, offended that the pardoner should think he was impoverished. ‘We are staying at the Half Moon.’

  ‘Are you?’ asked Norys, surprised. ‘You would be better at the Dog. The food is nicer and the landlord is sane. A word of advice: keep your windows open at night, so you will be able to escape if Eltisley sets the place on fire with one of his experiments. It would not be the first time, and his patrons’ luck is bound to run out sooner or later – although I might have a charm I could sell that would protect you against that sort of mishap.’

  Bartholomew turned away to hide his amusement, while Michael looked suitably outraged that a man of God should be offered the opportunity to buy such an unashamedly pagan object.

  ‘No, thank you,’ said the monk stiffly. ‘Were you at the festivities on the green recently?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Norys. ‘I would never miss the Pentecost Fair.’

  ‘I do not suppose you own such a thing as a long dark cloak, do you?’ asked Michael, while he shoved his piece of linen back in his scrip.

  ‘Of course I do, Brother. All pardoners wear long dark cloaks. It is part of our traditional costume, so that people recognise us for what we are.’

  ‘Unfortunately, most people do not,’ said Michael. ‘So, tell me, Master Norys, what it is about this Pentecost Fair that you enjoy, specifically. The food provided by Tuddenham? The drink? The people? Dressing in your finery? Sitting in the church when there is no one else there?’

  Norys looked bemused. ‘I am not robust enough to join Tuddenham’s food fight, so I usually bring something from home. Most respectable villagers do, and only the rabble attempt to partake of Tuddenham’s provisions. I saw you try, though, Brother. Very admirable. Were you successful?’

  ‘Moderately,’ said Michael. ‘But what did you do at the Fair, other than eat your own food?’

  ‘I spent time with Mistress Freeman. Her husband died recently – he had his throat slit a week ago – and she needs company. In the evening, we took a walk around the churchyard.’

  ‘That is a curious place for a stroll,’ pounced Michael. ‘The church is scarcely a great distance from the Fair and it is an odd choice of location to inflict on a recent widow. What did you do: dance on Freeman’s grave?’

  Norys’s face hardened. ‘What are you implying? That I killed the priest in the church? I can assure you, I had nothing to do with that vile crime. Anyway, because James Freeman was deemed a suicide by Wauncy, he was not buried in the churchyard – we walked nowhere near his grave.’

  ‘And what do you know about Unwin’s death?’ asked Michael with a predatory smile.

  ‘There is not a man, woman or child in the village who does not know every detail about that, and has done since the crime was first discovered,’ said Norys. ‘This is the country, Brother; things do not stay secret for long.’

  ‘Really,’ hissed Michael. ‘In that case, Master Norys, perhaps you will be so kind as to tell me who committed so foul a crime against a man of God? If your village is so terrible at keeping secrets, then who killed Unwin?’

  ‘If I knew, I would tell you,’ said Norys, his eyes glittering with anger, ‘despite your offensive manner. The whole village was shocked by the murder, and we feel it as a personal loss – he was to have been our priest, you know. But I can tell you two things. First, I am sure you will find it was no common villager who killed the priest – you should look elsewhere for your culprit.’

  ‘I suppose you are thinking of Roland Deblunville?’ said Michael sarcastically. ‘Well, he is newly wed, and I am sure he had other things on his mind that night than killing priests.’

  ‘Then you do not know him,’ snapped Norys. ‘Ask him where he was when Unwin died. I wager you St Botolph’s teeth it was not in his wedding bed. And you might do well also to look to the other manors near here. Tuddenham may give you the impression he is on good terms with his neighbours, Bardolf and Grosnold, but they might well tell you a different story. Either one of them might dispatch the priest provided by his powerful new Oxford friends—’

  ‘Cambridge friends,’ interposed Michael. ‘We do not mention that other place.’

  ‘…just to prove to him that he is not untouchable. And the second thing I can tell you is that while I was in the graveyard I saw someone leave the church in a great hurry. Mistress Freeman and I thought nothing of it at the time, but with hindsight, I see it might have been the killer.’

  ‘It might,’ said Bartholomew, glancing at Michael to warn him to silence. Norys was trying to be cooperative, but Bartholomew sensed he would not tolerate much more of Michael’s rudeness. The fact that Michael did not like pardoners was no reason to lose what might prove to be a valuable witness to the murder of their colleague. ‘What did he look like? Did you recognise him?’

  ‘We just saw him run, zigzagging through the graves and jumping over the wall behind the church, to the fields beyond.’

  ‘Was it a man or a woman?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘You keep saying “him”.’

  Norys frowned. ‘I assumed the killer would be a man.

  There is nothing to say it was not a woman, though: it could have been either. The only other thing I can remember is that he was wearing new leather shoes with silver buckles, and a leather belt with silver bosses.’

  ‘How can you remember a belt and shoes when you do not even know what sex the person was?’ demanded Michael, exasperated. ‘This is ridiculous! How can you expect us to believe all this?’

  I do not care whether you do or not,’ said Norys coldly. ‘But before I became a pardoner, my uncle was training me to be a tanner, like him. I happen to know a great deal about leather, and I nearly always notice shoes and belts and suchlike. For example, I only had a glance, but I could tell you exactly what your saddles were like from when you first rode into Grundisburgh.’

  ‘This belt,’ said Bartholomew, feeling in his bag for the stud he had found after the body of the hanged man had disappeared from Bond’s Corner. ‘Were the silver decorations like this?’

  He handed Norys the boss, and the pardoner inspected it minutely, spitting on it and scrubbing it on his sleeve to see it better. In the end, he handed it back with a shrug. ‘It might be. It would be about the right size, but I cannot be certain because he – or she – was too far away. The same goes for the buckles on the shoes, although they were clearly too small for him – his feet did not fit in them, and they slopped.’

  ‘I do not suppose you noticed whether this person was wearing a blue doublet sewn with silver thread, and whether he carried an ornate dagger, did you?’ asked Michael heavily, watching Bartholomew put the stud back inside his bag.

  Norys shook his head. ‘Whoever it was wore a short cloak that hid his upper clothes – and before you ask, I saw the belt because the cloak caught on one of the trees, and I saw the studs sparkle in the sun as this person tried to free it.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘I almost went to help, but he wrenched free when he saw me watching. It was just as well I did not offer to assist him, or I might have gone the same way as the priest.’

  ‘Yes, that was lucky,’ said Michael nastily. ‘So, it looks as if the person you saw could well have been the killer – running in such haste from the church that he became entangled on a branch. Very convenient!’

  ‘What are you insinuating?’ demanded Norys.

  ‘He means no offence …’ began Bartholomew.

  ‘Yes, I do,’ interrupted Michael. He pushed his face close to that of the pardoner. ‘I do not like men who prey on the weaknesses of others, and I find your occupation odious in the extreme. Someone killed my colleague and, as far as I am concerned, a man like you might well be the culprit.’

  Norys’s eyes widened, but he did not flinch at Michael’s menacing hiss. ‘You have no evidence to connect me to that. I was with Mistress Freeman when Unwin was
killed. Ask her!’

  ‘Oh?’ asked Michael smoothly. ‘And when was Unwin killed precisely?’

  ‘Just after the feast,’ replied Norys. ‘The whole village knows that, so do not think my knowing it proves anything.’

  ‘Thank you for your help, Master Norys,’ said Bartholomew, tugging at Michael’s habit to try to make him leave before he irreparably damaged the chances of prising further information from the pardoner in the future. ‘We appreciate your help.’

  ‘We most certainly do,’ said Michael, finally allowing Bartholomew to pull him away from his confrontation.

  ‘I was with Mistress Freeman all afternoon,’ Norys repeated firmly. ‘Just ask her.’

  ‘Oh, we will,’ said Michael threateningly.

  ‘Come on,’ said Bartholomew, dragging the monk out of the garden past the tanner, who watched in confusion. ‘That is enough, Brother!’

  ‘We will be back to see you again, Master Pardoner,’ Michael yelled as Bartholomew opened the gate. ‘Besides being a trusted ally of the Bishop of Ely, I am an agent of the Bishop of Norwich in whose see you live, so do not even think of angering him by absconding to Ipswich.’

  ‘You are not an agent of the Bishop of Norwich,’ said Bartholomew under his breath. He shot the monk an uncertain look. ‘Are you?’

  ‘So, just watch your step!’ Michael howled as Bartholomew bundled him out of the gate. The physician shoved the monk away with both hands, then glanced back at the pardoner, concerned that Michael’s outburst might have given an innocent man cause to complain to Tuddenham. He did not want Michaelhouse’s grand deputation sent back to Cambridge in disgrace because Michael was unable to keep his temper under control while in the presence of pardoners. It was not the first time Bartholomew had been forced to rescue one of them from the monk’s irrational fury.

  ‘Thank you,’ he shouted politely to Norys. ‘You have been very helpful.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ called Norys with a pleasant smile, apparently oblivious to Michael’s spitting hatred. ‘And I will see what I can do about a relic of St Botolph for you by next week.’