A Wicked Deed

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘Sheep, man, sheep,’ said Bardolf. ‘You have crops, but I have sheep. I do not want my poor animals terrified in the middle of the night because some greed-crazed lunatics are digging in my pens. Nor do I want my beasts worried by the mongrels that always accompany them.’

  ‘His people are edging ever nearer my manor house,’ said Deblunville. ‘He invented the tale of Padfoot so that any of his villagers who are caught on our land will have an excuse for being there – they can say they were being chased by this ghostly hound.’

  ‘Perhaps Tuddenham owns a white dog,’ said Bardolf, yawning. ‘Perhaps he lets it loose at night to frighten people, so that they will not go out. And then no one will see his diggers at work.’

  ‘That is possible,’ said Deblunville, nodding. ‘The animal is definitely real. Ghosts do not leave hairs behind them, and there are enough hairs on the doctor’s cloak to stuff a mattress.’

  ‘So, all this is about a mythical golden idol,’ mused Bartholomew, almost to himself. ‘I suppose poor Unwin was killed because of it, too.’

  ‘How?’ asked Deblunville. ‘He was stabbed in the church, not on someone else’s land, and anyway, he had not been in the village long enough to have been recruited for gold-digging.’

  Bartholomew did not care to speculate, although the obvious answer was that Grosnold had told Unwin about it, and then killed him when he declined to have anything to do with it. And Unwin was not killed in the church, but outside it, where his blood still stained the grass and grey stones of the buttress. He stood, and prepared to take his leave.

  ‘All I know is that I would like this wretched deed signed and sealed as soon as possible, so that we can leave this treasure-hunting and intrigue for those that enjoy it. I will come back tomorrow to see your wife, if you like, although I am certain she will recover, if you let her rest.’

  ‘You can come back to see me, too,’ said Bardolf comfortably. ‘That laudanum is powerful stuff. I can feel my aches draining away.’

  ‘Good,’ said Deblunville. ‘Perhaps it will improve your temper.’

  ‘Cheeky whelp!’ muttered Bardolf, shooting his son-in-law a genuinely venomous glower. He turned to Bartholomew. ‘I am only here to ensure he does not do away with Janelle in the first two weeks of his marriage, as he did the poor old widow, Pernel.’

  Deblunville laughed carelessly, although Bartholomew was not entirely certain that Bardolf had been jesting. The physician went to help Cynric to his feet, alarmed by the lack-lustre look in his book-bearer’s eyes, and took his leave of Deblunville and Bardolf. As they walked the short distance to Grundisburgh in the pale light that lit the land before dawn, Bartholomew did all he could to convince Cynric that the dog was as mortal as any other animal, but Cynric refused to accept that Padfoot was anything other than a hound from hell, sent to snatch him away in the prime of his life.

  ‘I should have married before I left Cambridge,’ he mumbled. ‘Then I would have died happy.’

  ‘So, you have decided then?’ asked Bartholomew encouragingly, to try to take Cynric’s mind off his impending doom. ‘You sounded uncertain whether the married life was for you when we last spoke about this, and now you say it will make you happy?’

  Cynric did not answer but pointed down the road. ‘Someone is there,’ he said flatly. ‘Waiting for us in the bushes.’

  ‘You mean lying in ambush?’ asked Bartholomew, alarmed. ‘Again?’

  ‘We do not seem to be particularly welcome around here,’ said Cynric morosely.

  ‘Is your bow ready?’ asked Bartholomew, peering down the still-dark lane to where Cynric had pointed. He could see nothing, but his book-bearer’s intuition in such matters was infallible. ‘We might frighten him off.’

  Lethargically, Cynric took his bow from his shoulder and stood with it held loosely in his hands.

  ‘An arrow might help,’ suggested Bartholomew nervously. ‘Waving an empty bow is not very menacing. Come on, Cynric! You do not need me to be telling you all this. Do you want us attacked and killed?’

  ‘You will survive it well enough,’ said Cynric gloomily. ‘You did not see the white dog.’

  Bartholomew sighed. ‘Stay here, then, and keep watch. I will cut round behind him and see if I can flush him out.’

  Cynric nodded careless acquiescence, and Bartholomew ducked off the path and began to make his way to the back of a thicket, where he assumed the ambusher was hiding. He was concerned, aware that the Welshman would never have allowed him to undertake such a task had he been himself. Wincing as he trod on sticks that cracked loudly, and rustling through leaves like a rampaging boar, he crept steadily forward, wishing he had paid more attention to Cynric’s past advice on stealth.

  The would-be attacker knelt behind a bush, peering up the path. In the half-light of early dawn, Bartholomew could see nothing more than a shadow muffled in a cloak. As far as he could tell, the man was alone; no accomplices lurked in the undergrowth. With a yell that made the figure leap to his feet in shock, Bartholomew dashed toward the bush and hurled himself at him. There was a brief struggle, during which Bartholomew shouted to Cynric not to fire, and fists and feet flew wildly on both sides, but neither with any precision. It was not long before Bartholomew, taller and stronger, had the man pinned down on the ground by both wrists.

  ‘Stoate!’

  Bartholomew gazed at Grundisburgh’s physician in confusion, while Warin de Stoate stared back, his eyes huge in the gloom.

  ‘Bartholomew! What in God’s name are you doing? Let me up!’

  Bartholomew hesitated, but then released him, watching as Stoate stood and brushed himself down. Cynric remained where Bartholomew had left him, his bow dangling from his hands. He showed no reaction at all when he saw it had been Stoate waiting in the bushes, and trailed miserably toward them with his feet scuffing the litter on the woodland path.

  ‘What were you doing?’ Bartholomew demanded of Stoate. ‘Men with nothing to hide do not skulk around in the bushes first thing in the morning.’

  ‘I did not want to be seen,’ said Stoate enigmatically, still picking leaves and grass from his cloak. ‘I was going to wait until you passed, and then be on my way.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Cynric thought you were going to ambush us.’

  ‘Why should I do that?’ asked Stoate, genuinely puzzled. ‘You have nothing I want – no offence intended. And I am not the kind of man to commit robbery on the roads – I am a respected member of the community, and people look up to me.’

  ‘I wanted a word with you, anyway,’ said Bartholomew, still not certain that he believed him. ‘I have just come from Janelle Deblunville. She became ill after drinking a potion you prescribed her, containing betony and pennyroyal.’

  Stoate’s jaw dropped. ‘She drank it? She drank my potion?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew coldly. ‘That is what you instructed her to do, is it not?’

  Stoate drew himself up to his full height. ‘I can assure you it was not! She is with child – betony and pennyroyal are abortive agents. The potion I gave her was to be added to vinegar and inhaled as a cure for dizziness – as the great Pliny suggests. She was most certainly not supposed to drink it. Is she all right?’

  Bartholomew nodded slowly. Pliny’s Historia Naturalis did indeed recommend the inhalation of pennyroyal and mint infused in vinegar as a remedy for fainting. His anger towards Stoate dissipated to a certain extent; he had prescribed ointments and salves himself, and patients had later complained that they tasted unpleasant or had made them sick. However, he had learned from his experiences, and never left people with potentially dangerous medicines until he was certain they understood what they were to do with them. And Stoate, Bartholomew thought, should have done the same with Janelle. But Stoate’s casual attitude towards dangerous herbs did not explain why he was skulking in the woods so early in the morning.

  ‘What were you doing here anyway?’ he asked. ‘A man of your station should not be grubbing
around in trees in the dark.’

  ‘Unlike you, you mean?’ retorted Stoate. He relented suddenly, and smiled. ‘I suppose it does look odd, but I can assure you I was doing nothing untoward. I am just going to visit Tuddenham.’

  ‘At this time of day? And why the secrecy?’

  ‘He does not want anyone to know,’ said Stoate mysteriously.

  ‘Know what?’ Bartholomew was tired from his eventful night, and his patience was beginning to wear thin.

  ‘Come with me, and I will show you.’

  Bartholomew hesitated, not wanting to be party to any more secrets – particularly ones that necessitated hiding in bushes before sunrise – but Stoate was insistent, piquing Bartholomew’s interest by hinting it was a medical matter. With Cynric trailing behind like a mourner at a funeral, Stoate led the way along a little-used path that ran behind the village, and up the hill to Wergen Hall. It was in darkness, but Stoate tapped three times, very softly, on one of the window shutters, and within moments the door was opened. Siric, Tuddenham’s faithful steward, stood there.

  ‘You are late,’ he mumbled to Stoate. His eyes narrowed when he saw Bartholomew and Cynric. ‘What are they doing here?’

  ‘I brought them,’ whispered Stoate. ‘It would be good to have Doctor Bartholomew’s opinion.’

  ‘Are you mad?’ hissed Siric furiously. ‘Sir Thomas will never allow it!’

  ‘He would be a fool to refuse,’ Stoate snapped back.

  He elbowed his way past Siric, and beckoned for Bartholomew to follow, while Cynric waited by the embers of the fire in the hall. Stoate made his way stealthily up the spiral stairs and headed for the upper chambers. He listened carefully, before opening a door and slipping inside, pulling Bartholomew after him. Siric remained outside, evidently keeping watch. Their movements were so practised that Bartholomew could only suppose that they had been going through the same routine for weeks, if not longer.

  ‘What is he doing here?’ demanded Tuddenham hoarsely from the large bed that almost filled the room. ‘For God’s sake, Stoate! What are you thinking of?’

  Stoate raised an imperious hand. ‘I met Bartholomew on my way here, and it occurred to me that it might be wise for you to draw on his expertise as well as my own.’

  ‘But if news of this seeps out…’

  ‘Physicians are known for their discretion,’ interrupted Stoate smoothly. ‘You can trust Bartholomew, as you can trust me.’

  ‘But I cannot trust you, it seems! You promised me you would never tell a living soul about this, and now you bring one of the Michaelhouse scholars to see me. It could ruin everything!’

  Bartholomew looked from one to the other in confusion. ‘Master Stoate has told me nothing,’ he said. ‘And if you do not want me to be here, I will leave.’

  ‘Stay,’ said Tuddenham, leaning back against the pillows wearily. ‘Speculation about what you have seen will do far more damage than hearing the truth. Well, come on then, man, examine me. I imagine that Stoate brought you here so that you can tell me what he dares not utter himself. You are a damned coward, Stoate, with your false cheer.’

  Thus admonished, Stoate busied himself by inspecting the flask of urine that Tuddenham had provided, studiously avoiding the knight’s eyes. Bewildered, Bartholomew went to sit on the bed, taking Tuddenham’s hands in his to feel their temperature. He was surprised he had not noticed before, but there seemed to be a tautness about the skin of the face and a dullness about the hair that did not signify good health. Hoping his own hands were not too cold, he began his examination. There was a hard lump the size of an apple under the skin of Tuddenham’s stomach.

  ‘How long have you had this?’ he asked, pulling the night-shirt down and sitting back.

  ‘I noticed it at Christmas. It has been growing steadily larger and more painful ever since. Stoate tells me I will live to be an old man yet. What do you say, Bartholomew?’

  Bartholomew glanced at Stoate, who was still holding the urine up to the light and refusing to look at anyone. Tuddenham gave a sharp laugh.

  ‘Are you afraid to contradict the opinion of a colleague? Or are you afraid to tell the truth?’

  ‘Neither,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Despite Master Stoate’s attempts to cheer you, you seem to know the truth anyway.’

  I did not want him to give up,’ said Stoate, lowering the flask and looking at Bartholomew defiantly. ‘In my experience, telling a patient he will die simply hastens his end – he loses the will to live and gives up on life.’

  There was more than a grain of truth in Stoate’s reasoning. Bartholomew had seen many patients give up the ghost when they might have lived longer: it was certainly true of Cynric, sitting shrouded in gloom in the hall downstairs. But it made no sense to use such tactics on Tuddenham, who had already guessed the seriousness of his condition. He looked back to the knight, who was still waiting for his answer.

  ‘A few months,’ he said. ‘No longer.’

  ‘Will I live to be a father? The child should be born in November.’

  ‘No,’ said Bartholomew.

  Tuddenham stared at him for a moment, and then took a deep breath. After a moment he smiled sadly. ‘What a pair you two make! One too frightened to tell me I am ill; the other so brutal in his honesty. Somewhere in between might have been more pleasant.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But you are lucky to be expecting a child, Sir Thomas. This disease often brings infertility.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Tuddenham bitterly. ‘I am lucky indeed! I would have been luckier still if I could have had my first sons with me now, but the Death took them. I survived that, only to die of this insidious disease that is rotting my flesh, even as I live and breathe.’

  Bartholomew turned to Stoate. ‘What are you doing for him?’

  ‘A potion of three grains of foxglove, mixed with wine and honey. I bring it each morning, so that Sir Thomas can pass the day without too much pain, and without anyone knowing of his condition.’ He shrugged. ‘I was considering sending him to Ipswich for surgery.’

  ‘It is too late for surgery,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is very little you can do now. I would recommend you use poppy seeds, rather than foxglove, but you will need to increase the dose as time passes.’ He looked at Tuddenham. ‘And your family do not know?’

  ‘No one knows,’ said Tuddenham. ‘Just Stoate, Siric and now you. Even Wauncy does not know.’ He gave a soft laugh, a rustle at the back of his throat. ‘It is ironic – Wauncy looks like a walking corpse, yet it is I who am mortally sick.’

  ‘They will find out,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You will not be able to hide it from them for much longer.’

  ‘I will keep it from them as long as I can,’ said Tuddenham. ‘I do not want to worry Isilia yet, and it will only give Hamon and Dame Eva something else to argue about. You will not tell them, will you?’ He gripped Bartholomew’s hand hard.

  ‘Of course not.’

  Tuddenham relaxed. ‘Good. You see, Bartholomew, one of the things I am bargaining for with that crafty Alcote is the provision of a mass priest to pray for my soul when I am dead. His stipend will be paid for out of the money Michaelhouse will make from the living of the church. Alcote may not agree to that condition if he thinks Michaelhouse will have to start paying at the end of the summer, and not in twenty years’ time.’

  Bartholomew smiled. ‘He will not discover any of this from me. And anyway, our rates for masses are not quite so high as those of Master Wauncy.’

  Tuddenham smiled faintly. ‘Thank you. Now, give me my medicine, Stoate. And tomorrow I will have poppy, not foxglove.’

  Bartholomew collected Cynric from the hall, and headed for the Half Moon, relieved to be away from a consultation for once. There were aspects of his trade that he did not enjoy, and breaking that kind of news to a patient was one of them. With Cynric trailing listlessly behind him, he walked down the path to the village.

  ‘Matt!’ cried Michael, running down The Street as fa
st as his plump legs would carry him. ‘Where have you been? You are covered in mud! And what is wrong with Cynric? He looks as though he has seen a ghost.’

  Cynric groaned and put his hands over his face, while Bartholomew told the monk what had happened. Michael took a deep, unsteady breath.

  ‘I am sorry, Matt. This is all my fault! I urged you to go with Grosnold when I should have seen it was not safe, even with Cynric. And things are not much better here. Tuddenham has arrested Eltisley for the killing of Unwin, and has him locked in the cellar at Wergen Hall. And I went to see Mistress Freeman yesterday, as I told you I would, only someone had been to see her first, and she lies dead in the church with her throat cut, just like her husband!’

  Chapter 8

  THE BODY OF MISTRESS FREEMAN LAY IN THE SAME parish coffin that had been used for Unwin. Mother Goodman was fussing over the corpse, cursing under her breath when the cloth she had tied around the woman’s throat did not succeed in hiding the gaping gash from view. Bartholomew had inspected the wound while the midwife washed the rest of the body. It was an ugly cut that sliced through the muscles of the neck, exposing the yellow-white of the pipes underneath. Judging from the marks on her arms and hands, and the chaos that Michael had reported in her house, Mistress Freeman had put up something of a fight.

  ‘Do you think her neighbours might have seen or heard something?’ asked Bartholomew of Michael, as they stood together in the nave watching Mother Goodman work.

  Michael shook his head. ‘Very conveniently for her killer, the butcher’s property stands alone on the outskirts of Grundisburgh – on the river, so that the blood and offal can be washed downstream and away from the village.’

  ‘That is unusually courteous,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Butchers do not often concern themselves about such matters. Of course, the river then flows on through Hasketon, so I suppose Freeman could rest contented that he was probably poisoning someone. So, the neighbours did not report anything untoward, then?’