A Wicked Deed

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘I have been thinking about nothing else,’ said Michael untruthfully, regarding the number of empty platters that surrounded him. ‘Norys did it. That weaselly pardoner killed poor Unwin just as surely as you are sitting there.’

  ‘I do not think so, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, leaning back against the wall and closing his eyes. ‘What evidence do you have, other than the fact that you do not like pardoners?’

  ‘He has gone to Ipswich and will not be returning,’ said Michael. ‘That is a sign of his guilt.’

  Bartholomew opened his eyes quickly. ‘Really? How do you know he will not come back?’

  Michael sniffed. ‘No one can find him. He is not in the village.’

  Bartholomew sighed and closed his eyes again. ‘That does not mean he has gone permanently. His uncle said he often stays in Ipswich for several days at a time.’

  ‘But I told him not to go. I believe his sudden absence is too coincidental, given that I hinted I thought he might be involved in Unwin’s murder. The man has fled, I tell you.’

  ‘He would have fled a lot earlier if he had been guilty. You are on thin ice with this, Brother.’

  ‘He knew I suspected him of the murder, and so what did he do but invent a fictitious figure running out of the church in great haste. No one else saw this person – I have been tramping all over the village with William this afternoon, and no one saw a thing.’

  ‘But Stoate also saw someone leaving the church.’

  Michael glared at him for interrupting. ‘And Norys expects me to believe that he noticed this person’s belt and shoes, but not his face, or even whether it was a man or a woman!’

  ‘But that happens,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘And to prove it, I did a similar thing with the lepers I visited this afternoon.’ Michael edged away from him. ‘I could tell you in great detail what stages the disease was at, and what symptoms the leper was suffering, but I am not sure I could tell you how many men and how many women I saw.’

  ‘But that is completely different,’ said Michael. ‘It is not easy to tell a man from a woman when the face is swathed in bandages.’

  ‘But women wear dresses and men wear hose, just as they do anywhere else,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I did not pay attention to that while there were more interesting things to see.’

  ‘You enjoyed yourself, then?’ asked Michael dryly. ‘Did Deynman?’

  Bartholomew laughed. ‘I should say. He had the tail off Stoate’s horse, and cooked it with garlic as a cure for leprosy. But Norys is right – we often only notice the things that interest us. I saw a fascinating case of leprosy of the mouth today, but I could not tell you what that person wore, or what was the colour of his – or her – hair.’

  ‘Do you know, Matt, if someone had told me ten years ago that my closest friend would be a man whose chief sources of pleasure in life are poking about with leprous sores and telling people about sewage in drinking water, I would never have accepted the Fellowship at Michaelhouse.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Bartholomew, intrigued. ‘What would you have done instead? I should have thought nothing could suit you as well as all the subterfuge and intrigue at the University, not to mention the enjoyment you get from working as the Bishop of Ely’s spy.’

  ‘True,’ admitted Michael. ‘Politics and affairs of state pale by comparison.’

  They sat in comfortable silence, listening to the agitated twitter of a wren as a cat slunk past its territory, and the hypnotic coo of a dove in the churchyard elms. As the sun sank lower in the sky, people began to return from the fields, their tools carried over their shoulders, and their clothes caked in dust. They looked bone weary, all of them with sweat-stained faces and skin that was burned a deep red-brown. A few stopped at the Dog for ale to wash away the grit that stuck in their throats, but most went home to where smoke issued from the roofs of their houses, indicating that something was cooking on the hearth. Why they would then want to walk a mile to Wergen Hall to hear a debate about the rotation of the Earth was beyond Bartholomew.

  ‘Father Peter, who cares for the lepers, keeps a diary of his observations,’ he said conversationally, turning his mind from the tired labourers to his visit to the hospital.

  ‘A diary of leprosy! That must make fascinating reading,’ said Michael caustically. ‘In fact, it probably equals the preliminary draft of the advowson Alcote wrote today.’

  ‘These long-term observations have made a number of things clear to me about the progress of the disease,’ began Bartholomew. ‘First, when the lesions appear initially—’

  ‘Perhaps you can tell me about leprous sores when I have finished eating,’ said Michael, quickly snatching up a piece of chicken. Once the physician started to discuss some aspect of medicine that interested him, he was difficult to stop, and Michael was not in the mood to be regaled with lurid descriptions of nasty diseases.

  ‘Hurry up, then,’ said Bartholomew, looking at the mountain of food that still waited to be packed away inside the monk’s ample girth. ‘Or we will be late for the debate.’

  ‘As I was saying, before you so cunningly changed the subject, that pardoner is as guilty as sin. Did you see his face when I pointed out how he would be unable to see a person’s belt if he wore a cloak? That trapped the little weasel!’

  ‘Actually, I think he raised that point himself,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You have no reason to accuse him of anything.’

  ‘Your midwife thinks he is guilty. She suggested we interrogate him.’

  ‘She suggested we ask him whether anyone had tried to sell the stolen relic,’ said Bartholomew patiently. ‘She was not presenting him as a suspect, but as someone who might be able to help us solve the crime. And Norys did not have to tell us what he saw; he did so because he wants the killer caught as much as we do.’

  ‘Rubbish!’ snapped Michael. ‘He made all that up. What better way to divert suspicion from himself – and he only admitted he was in the churchyard because he knows someone probably saw him there, and he does not want to be caught out in a lie – than to invent some mysterious character running from the church at the precise time that the murder was committed? It is brilliant! It is like something I would have thought up myself.’

  ‘But Stoate also saw a person running from the church,’ Bartholomew pointed out again. ‘Or is he lying, too?’

  ‘Of course not, but Norys and Stoate have not given us the same description. The man Stoate saw wore a long dark cloak, which led him to think that a prank was being played and made him concerned that the wearer would faint from overheating. Of course, our esteemed pardoner owns a long cloak, as do all vermin of his trade, so the cloak Norys’s man wore is short, and conveniently caught on a tree to reveal his studded belt. Stoate mentions no studded belt or over-small shoes…’

  ‘But Norys explained why he noticed those: because he was trained as a tanner, and so tends to observe leather. Similarly, Stoate noticed the person rubbed his eyes, because he is a physician.’

  ‘But Norys did not mention the rubbed eyes, did he? Something as obvious as that, and he did not mention it. Did you look at his eyes, Matt? Did they look as though they had been rubbed?’

  ‘Something as obvious as that, and you did not notice it?’ asked Bartholomew in a very plausible imitation of Michael. The monk narrowed his eyes, not amused. ‘But you see my point, Brother? You do not recall whether Norys’s eyes were sore, and neither, necessarily, would anyone else, unless they happened to have a special reason for doing so.’

  ‘So were his eyes red or not?’ snapped Michael irritably.

  ‘They were not. Mind you, that is not to say that they were not red when Unwin died.’

  ‘Aha!’ pounced Michael. ‘You think he is guilty, too.’

  ‘God’s teeth, Brother!’ cried Bartholomew in exasperation. ‘You are like the Inquisition, twisting words in a way that Father William could only dream of! What is the matter with you? Will you allow a mere pardoner to ruffle your immaculate composure in a way th
at crooked merchants, cunning murderers and deceitful academics can never do?’

  Michael leaned back against the wall and eyed him narrowly, breathing heavily as he fought to bring his temper under control. Eventually, he gave a wan smile.

  ‘Forgive me, Matt. You are right. I will never prove this pardoner’s guilt if I allow him to make me too angry to see reason.’

  ‘And you will not see reason if you are too fixed on this man’s guilt,’ said Bartholomew.

  Michael gnawed on his lip. ‘I do not know why I listen to you telling me how unreasonable I am in my dislikes, when you have developed an irrational hatred of our poor landlord, Eltisley.’ He took a gulp of wine and sighed. ‘And you can say what you like, but there are inconsistencies in the tale Norys told us, and the one Stoate did. Mistress Freeman, for a start.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew, considering. ‘Norys maintains he was with her all afternoon, until after Unwin was killed, while Stoate says he was talking to her when this mysterious person came running from the church.’

  ‘We will ask her about it first thing tomorrow,’ said Michael, picking listlessly at his chicken. He flung down his knife in disgust. ‘That odious pardoner has made me lose my appetite!’

  ‘You are not hungry because you have not stopped eating all day,’ said Bartholomew, laughing.

  ‘I do not suppose Master Stoate furnished you with any more details about the man he saw running from the church?’ asked Michael, ignoring the comment.

  ‘No,’ said Bartholomew, ‘although we twice went over what he saw as we rode to the leper hospital. I thought if he told the story more than once he might add a detail that he had previously forgotten, but he had nothing new to say.’

  ‘And the cloak he saw this person wearing was definitely a long one?’ asked Michael.

  ‘Yes, down to the ankles. I asked whether it might have concealed a suit of black clothes, but he said no. He thinks the person he saw was not big enough to be Grosnold.’

  ‘Well, that is something,’ said Michael. ‘Can we eliminate the bald lord from Otley, then?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He has plenty of retainers. He may have had this odd conversation with Unwin that Eltisley saw in the churchyard, then dispatched someone else to kill him in the church later.’

  ‘He would have to act quickly, though,’ said Michael, frowning. ‘Think about the chain of events: just before the feast, Grosnold thunders out of the village, trampling half the residents, and then doubles back to waylay Unwin in the churchyard. Immediately after the feast – and we saw how little time that took – Norys takes Mistress Freeman for a stroll around her late husband’s grave (or Mistress Freeman stands talking with Master Stoate by the ford, depending on who you believe), and out comes this mysterious figure in the cloak.’

  Bartholomew took up the tale. ‘Within moments, Horsey goes in search of his friend, and finds his body. We know Unwin had not been dead long, because he was still warm and I thought I might be able to bring him back to life.’

  ‘So, three people saw this figure running from the church: Norys, Stoate and Mistress Freeman. Siric, Tuddenham’s steward, said he spoke to Mistress Freeman, and she confirmed she saw someone run from the church just after the feast, but she was unable to provide a description of him.’

  ‘Did Siric ask whether she was with Norys or Stoate when this took place?’

  Michael shook his head. ‘He had only been instructed to ask her what she had seen, not who she was with. But we can ask her ourselves tomorrow. And I will catch her out if she lies to me.’

  ‘Why should she lie to you?’

  ‘It seems to the Norys is more fond of this widow-of-a-few-days than is entirely appropriate. She may have claimed to have seen this person running from the church because Norys told her to.’

  Bartholomew sighed, and thought about Norys’s story. ‘What about the shoes and silver-studded belt that Norys described? They sound remarkably similar to the garments worn by the man we found hanging at Bond’s Corner. I do not see how Norys could have known about that, and so I am inclined to believe him.’

  ‘He would have known about them if he were also the man who did the hanging in the first place,’ pounced Michael. ‘It is simple. Norys kills some poor peasant, who happened to have stolen Deblunville’s clothes, and hid the body after we almost caught him at it. He then pretends to have seen someone wearing these same clothes running from the scene of Unwin’s murder-or perhaps he even wore them himself. In order to confuse us further, he suggests Deblunville, or another of Suffolk’s quarrelling knights, is responsible, and not one of the villagers. He is muddying the waters, but he cannot stir up the filth enough to fool me.’

  ‘Then why, when I showed him the stud I recovered, did he not use it to his own advantage?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘He could have assured us that it definitely belonged to the belt worn by the hanged man. Instead, he said he was uncertain.’

  ‘He might have been uncertain. For all he knew, you might have just pulled it off your own belt, and then he would have been caught out in an untruth.’

  ‘For someone you consider dull-witted, you are accrediting Norys with a good deal of intelligence,’ said Bartholomew doubtfully.

  ‘Not intelligence, Matt. Raw cunning. Like one of those damned cats he has creeping about the house. Did you notice how much he looked like one?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Bartholomew, standing and stretching. ‘But we cannot do anything more tonight because of this debate. After we bury Unwin tomorrow morning, you and I will visit Mistress Freeman, and then we will know who is lying and who is telling the truth.’

  ‘Where is William?’ hissed Michael anxiously to Bartholomew as the light faded from the sky behind Wergen Hall.

  Bartholomew shrugged, wondering whether he should go to look for the absent friar. The debate was due to start at any moment, and it would be a very short one if only one side of the argument were presented. Michael fretted, pacing up and down in the dusty courtyard outside Tuddenham’s manorial home, as the villagers filed past him to take their seats in the main chamber. Bartholomew felt almost guilty when he saw the keen anticipation on their weary faces, certain that they were in for a tedious evening.

  He was on the verge of leaving to hunt William down, when the friar appeared, hurrying along the path from the village. His grey robe flapped round his ankles, and his face was red with effort and agitation.

  ‘Where have you been?’ demanded Michael. ‘We are almost ready to begin, and I wanted to go through a couple of your arguments with you beforehand, to…’ He hesitated.

  ‘To make sure Matthew does not savage the too brutally in the debating chamber?’ finished William. Unaccustomed to such self-effacement from the friar, Michael was, for once, at a loss for words. ‘Well, you need not concern yourself, Brother. I have had more than enough time since you left me to hone and refine my own contentions.’ He scowled unpleasantly.

  ‘Why, what have you been doing?’ asked Bartholomew, puzzled.

  ‘I have been locked inside that damned latrine for the best part of the afternoon,’ snapped William angrily. ‘Some lunatic put a device on the door that can only be operated from the outside. Once you are in and the door is closed, the only way to get out is if someone opens it for you.’

  ‘Eltisley!’ said Bartholomew, trying not to laugh. ‘He was meddling with the doors yesterday, trying to fit some mechanism that would prevent desperate people from rattling the handles of occupied stalls. It was probably that which caused you problems.’

  ‘It was a red metal thing,’ said William. ‘In the end, I had to unscrew the hinge and remove the whole door, or I would still be there now, since no one answered my calls for help. Eltisley intended that lock to mean business!’

  ‘Come on,’ said Michael, taking his arm and leading him inside the manor house. ‘Or the people of Grundisburgh will be thinking we are afraid to show them our talents.’

  ‘Or perhaps they do not w
ant to see them – hence William’s imprisonment,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I cannot imagine that no one walked past the latrines all afternoon. Perhaps it is their way of telling us they would rather be elsewhere.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said William grimly. ‘These peasants will have an excellent time this evening.’

  ‘Will you tell them that, or shall I?’ asked Michael, grinning behind the friar’s back.

  He walked up the stairs, entered the main hall and sat in a large wooden chair that had been placed in the middle of the room, while Bartholomew and William stood on either side of him. The hall was full and overly warm, with some people leaning up against the walls at the back and others sitting on the floor near the front, as well as those perched on benches in the middle. Somewhere a goat bleated, and there was an atmosphere of tense expectation. The window shutters stood open, but the air was too still to admit a breeze, and the room smelled of sweat, stale rushes and cut grass. Michael cleared his throat and an instant silence fell over the crowd.

  ‘We are here to discuss a question,’ the monk began grandly. ‘And the answer to that question lies at the very heart of our understanding of the universe. The ideas and theories you will hear expounded today come from some of the greatest minds the world has ever known – ancient philosophers, such as Aristotle and Ptolemy, and respected authorities from our own time, such as John Buridan.’

  He paused for dramatic effect, and Bartholomew saw that one or two people were already beginning to shift restlessly, while a group of small children at his feet was far more interested in racing some insects through the rushes than in anything Michael had to say.

  ‘The only way to learn and to understand complex philosophical, theological and scientific issues is through disputation,’ continued Michael pompously. ‘If any one of you wishes to state a theory or to ask a question, you are welcome to do so at any time.’

  ‘How long is this going to last?’ called a burly man from the back, who held a piglet in his arms. ‘Only I need to get back to the sow.’

  ‘I will bear that in mind,’ said Michael. ‘But I prefer that any questions asked relate to the issue we are debating, namely: “Let us consider whether the Earth rotates”.’