A Wicked Deed

by Susanna GREGORY

  I would not soil my hands,’ said Michael loftily, lifting one out, and reading it with distaste. ‘Here is a pardon for having lusty thoughts over another man’s wife. You should ask him if you can buy it, given the way you have been ogling Isilia. And here is one for the sin of greed.’

  ‘One for you, then,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is nothing here, Brother. We should leave that poor tanner in peace.’

  Michael made as if to demur, but there were few places in the single-roomed cottage where anything could be hidden, and even he had to admit they had searched it as well as they could. He sneezed once more, took a final look round and stalked out, closely followed by three yellow cats.

  ‘Have you finished?’ asked the tanner, hammering furiously and looking up as they passed. ‘Did you find anything that might help him? I wish he would come back; he knows I worry about him when he stays away more than a night or two, and this time he has been gone since Wednesday.’

  ‘Where does he sleep when he is in Ipswich?’ asked Michael. ‘A tavern?’ He managed to give the word an insalubrious feel, as though it were somehow sinful to be staying in such a place, regardless of the fact that he was thoroughly enjoying his own sojourn at the Half Moon.

  ‘He always stays at the Saracen’s Head,’ said the tanner nervously. ‘Are you thinking you might go there to see if he is all right? You must be concerned if you are considering that – you must think something dreadful has happened to him.’

  ‘No,’ said Bartholomew, to soothe him. ‘We have no intention of going to Ipswich. I am sure your nephew will arrive home safely soon.’

  ‘What is that?’ asked Michael suddenly, pointing at something. The tanner’s cottage was untidily thatched with reeds, and had a chimney in the middle to allow smoke from the cooking fire to seep out. Near the chimney was a bundle, almost hidden by the nettles that had sprouted all over the roof. The tanner peered at it, too, surprised by its presence.

  ‘I do not know what that is,’ he said, squinting at it with the narrowed eyes of a man whose long-distance vision is poor. ‘Perhaps my nephew put it there.’

  ‘Did he now?’ said Michael, snatching up a stick and trying to hook the bundle down. ‘Damn! I cannot reach. Matt, you will have to climb up and grab it.’

  ‘I will not,’ said Bartholomew, laughing at Michael’s audacity. ‘You do it.’

  ‘Would you have this poor tanner homeless because my weight has collapsed his roof?’ asked Michael with arched eyebrows. ‘You are lighter than me, and I will help you. Here.’

  Michael formed a stirrup of his hands and, reluctantly, Bartholomew placed one foot in it, scrabbling at the roof as he was propelled upward faster than he had anticipated. He gained a handhold on one of the bands that held the thatch in place, and hauled himself up. The object of the precarious exercise was just out of his reach, and he began to ease himself toward it, almost losing his grip as a cat leapt on to the roof next to him. Eventually, the very tips of his fingers touched the bundle, and he leaned to the side as far as he could to try to dislodge it. It came loose at about the same time that the thatch band broke, precipitating Bartholomew, bundle and cat downward in a tangle of hands, legs, claws, dirty cloth and tail. The cat gave a tremendous yowl and shot back into the house. Bartholomew sat up, rubbing his elbow.

  Michael’s attention was on the bundle, which had burst open when it hit the ground. Scattered under his triumphant gaze were a bloodstained shirt and hose, and Unwin’s purse, all wrapped in a long, dark cloak.

  ‘But my nephew does not own hose that colour,’ protested the tanner, as he sat on a low stool in the middle of the main chamber at Wergen Hall. He was watched by Tuddenham’s household, who sat in chairs near the health, or leaned against the walls with folded arms. If Tuddenham had meant the circumstances to be intimidating, he had been successful. He and Hamon were cold and menacing; Wauncy fixed the tanner with a sepulchral gaze, as if reminding him of the terrors of hell to come; Dame Eva was angry, and Isilia was simply repelled.

  Alcote sat at the table near the window with his scrolls and deeds, while. Bartholomew and Horsey were employed in sorting through a large box of household accounts that Dame Eva had discovered in her chamber the previous day. None were relevant to the advowson – which was why Alcote was prepared to accept their help. Meanwhile, Michael stood over the tanner with Tuddenham; Deynman, not trusted with documents – even unimportant ones – was looking after the morose Cynric; and William was out questioning the remaining villagers.

  When Siric had returned from Ipswich a second time without tracing Norys, Michael had decided that the only way forward was to question the tanner again, and had asked Tuddenham to arrest him, hoping that a night in Tuddenham’s cellars might frighten him into revealing his nephew’s whereabouts. Since William had declared such an interrogation could not take place on a Sunday – none too subtly implying that anyone who disagreed with him was in league with the Devil – the tanner had been left in peace until dragged from his bed at dawn on the Monday, interrupted in the very act of downing a cup of Eltisley’s black tonic to fortify him for a day with his leathers.

  Bartholomew had gone with Hamon to fetch him to Wergen Hall, because he felt sorry for the little man and was sure he knew nothing of Norys’s disappearance or Unwin’s murder. He wanted to make sure that Hamon did not use more force than was necessary, although he need not have been concerned: Hamon had been hostile and angry, but not rough.

  ‘Anyone could have thrown that bundle on to our roof,’ the frightened tanner protested bleatingly, as Tuddenham paced in front of him.

  ‘Brother Michael tells me that it was cunningly concealed next to the chimney,’ said Tuddenham coldly. ‘I ask you again, Master Tanner, where is your nephew?’

  The tanner was almost in tears. ‘Please believe me! I do not know where he is – he has been away since Wednesday, and no one in the village has seen him since.’

  ‘But you admit these bloody clothes and the murdered priest’s purse were on your roof?’

  ‘Of course I do!’ cried the tanner. ‘I was there when they were found. But they do not belong to me or my nephew. I have never seen them before. The cloak is not his – he is not very tall, and it would be too long for him.’

  ‘And what about Unwin’s purse?’ asked Michael, in a kinder tone than the one used by Tuddenham. ‘In it, he had some chrism and a few hairs from St Botolph’s beard wrapped in parchment. The chrism has been left – holy oil does not fetch much of a price unless you happen to know any witches or warlocks – but the relic is missing.’

  ‘I do not know where it is,’ whispered the tanner, swivelling to look at Michael. ‘Really, I do not. And my nephew would never steal a relic – it would earn him eternal damnation.’

  ‘He was prepared to ask around Ipswich market for a relic of St Botolph for me to take home as a souvenir,’ said Michael. ‘He was most obliging on that front.’

  ‘But obtaining a relic to sell to you is not the same as stealing one,’ said the tanner. ‘My nephew knows lots of merchants in Ipswich, and he is very good at finding people things they want. But he does not steal.’

  ‘You really should consider being more cooperative,’ said Tuddenham sternly. ‘Or I might begin to suspect that you have something to do with all this, as well as your nephew.’ ‘No!’ The tanner was on the verge of dropping to his knees in front of Tuddenham to plead with him. ‘I know nothing about any of this. And my nephew is not a violent man. He would never harm anyone, let alone a priest.’

  ‘And you have no idea where he might be?’ pressed Tuddenham. ‘You do not have him hidden away somewhere, waiting until all the fuss has died down so that you can enjoy the spoils of your wicked crimes at your leisure?’

  ‘I do not!’ cried the tanner, tears trickling down his leathery face. ‘My nephew has not been seen since he went to Ipswich. In fact, the last people to see him were these Cambridge men. Perhaps they killed him, and threw that bundle on to our roof so that
Eltisley will be freed and they will not have to stay in the Dog instead of the Half Moon.’

  Bartholomew wondered whether he and Michael really appeared to be the kind of men who would kill in order to reside in the tavern of their choice.

  ‘So, we had better release Eltisley, then,’ said Hamon, from where he leaned against the wall watching the scene in some disgust. ‘It is clear that this bloody knife Siric found in the landlord’s garden was tossed there by Norys as he ran from the scene of his crime.’

  ‘That is not clear at all,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is no evidence to support such a conclusion.’

  Hamon spat into the rushes. ‘Evidence! You scholars are not interested in justice, only in finding ways to weave and twist your way around the law.’

  ‘Accusing Norys of throwing the knife into Eltisley’s garden is not justice,’ said Bartholomew.

  ‘Matt,’ warned Michael. He turned to Tuddenham and Hamon, both of whom were looking angry at Bartholomew’s interruptions. ‘He is still shocked from being attacked in Barchester…

  ‘And I suppose that was Norys, too?’ said Bartholomew caustically. ‘All the evidence you have against Norys is circumstantial: no one actually saw him enter or leave the church, or saw him with this bloody knife, or saw him put the bundle of clothes and Unwin’s purse on the tanner’s roof.’

  ‘And what about the cloak?’ asked Michael. ‘Who, but a pardoner, would own a long cloak?’

  ‘Many people, I expect,’ said Bartholomew. ‘This is not a poor village, and a number of people might be able to afford such a garment. In any case, perhaps the person who was seen running from the church was not the killer at all. It might have been some innocent who stumbled on the body and was too frightened to raise the alarm lest he be accused of the crime. It does not prove that Norys is Unwin’s murderer.’

  ‘Perhaps not, but it all adds up to a pretty good indication that Norys is involved in something untoward,’ said Michael. ‘And now he is missing. But we should let Sir Thomas go about his business, so that Eltisley can be released.’

  ‘Eltisley was freed as soon as I heard about this bundle,’ said Dame Eva from her wicker chair near the hearth. Tuddenham looked startled, and she shrugged. ‘I told you yesterday that I did not think Eltisley killed Unwin, Thomas. He was in his tavern all that day, serving ale to the villagers. There was no way he could have slipped out and murdered someone, without there being a riot by villagers demanding their drink. The Fair was in full swing when Unwin was murdered, remember?’

  ‘That sullen troop who are here for crop-weeding would have mutinied had Eltisley slipped away, even for a few moments,’ agreed Isilia. She cast Hamon a disgusted look. ‘I do not like them. They huddle over their ale in the Half Moon like a band of cut-throats, and have no place in a village like ours. They should not have been hired.’

  ‘They were the only men available for work,’ said Hamon defensively. ‘It is not easy to find labourers these days.’

  ‘So you hired a band of ale-swilling louts,’ said Dame Eva disdainfully. ‘Typical of you!’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ demanded Hamon, looking belligerent.

  Dame Eva shook a pitying head at him. ‘Only that Thomas is wrong to believe that you will make a good heir for his estates. My husband would never have agreed to leave them to you.’

  ‘Your husband is long dead, and has nothing to do with who inherits here,’ snapped Hamon. ‘And I do not know why you believe him to be such a fine man. He was a bully and a scoundrel!’

  ‘Hamon!’ exclaimed Tuddenham, shocked.

  ‘It is true!’ shouted Hamon, too angry to be silenced by his uncle’s displeasure. ‘We think our claim on Peche Hall is legitimate, but Wauncy tells me he is not certain of the authenticity of the deeds that prove it is ours. In his cups one night, he told me he thought they were forged by her noble husband.’ He glared unpleasantly at Dame Eva, while Wauncy, horrified at this indiscretion, turned even whiter than usual.

  ‘And is this how you think you can run our manors?’ asked the old lady in disgust. ‘By losing them on the word of a drunken priest? You are not fit to mention my husband’s name!’

  ‘He will not inherit, anyway,’ said Isilia, to soothe her. She patted her stomach, bulging under her dark green dress. ‘There will soon be children with a greater claim than his.’

  Bartholomew thought she looked particularly beautiful that day, with her glossy hair tied in two thick plaits that hung down her back, and a delicate gold cross around her neck. Unlike poor Janelle, whose child made her sick and pale, Isilia bloomed with health and vitality.

  ‘Your husband was unfaithful to you!’ howled Hamon, now incensed beyond reason. The colour drained from Dame Eva’s face, making her seem suddenly older and more frail. She gazed at Hamon with such an expression of anguish that even he could not meet her eyes.

  ‘Will you send a man to Ipswich to look for Norys again?’ Bartholomew asked Tuddenham, acutely embarrassed by the exchange, and keen to change the subject before Hamon revealed any more family skeletons.

  ‘He never was,’ whispered Dame Eva, gazing at Hamon in shock. ‘You are a liar!’

  ‘Siric has been twice already,’ said Tuddenham, relieved to be discussing something else. ‘But there was no trace of Norys. He must have left the country.’

  ‘Look at him,’ spat Hamon spitefully, pointing at the tanner. ‘Just look at his face, his eyes, his teeth, and tell me he is not your husband’s offspring.’

  The tanner ducked his head down quickly, in a way that suggested that the identity of his natural father was already known to him. It was not known to Dame Eva, however, who stared at the tanner in mute disbelief.

  ‘Hamon,’ warned Tuddenham softly. ‘Your anger is making you rash. It is not only my mother you are offending with these accusations, but me, too. I have always treated you like a son, so please show me some respect. It is not respectful to accuse me of being a tanner’s brother.’

  Finally ashamed, Hamon hung his head. Isilia went to kneel next to the old lady, whose wrinkled face glistened with silent tears, and put an arm around her thin shoulders. Dame Eva had been right, Bartholomew thought, as he watched them: Hamon was an ignorant lout.

  ‘Now, perhaps we can work on my advowson?’ asked Tuddenham, although his voice lacked its usual enthusiasm for the subject. He turned to smile wanly at Alcote.

  Alcote had listened to Hamon’s accusations with a malicious amusement that Bartholomew found distasteful. Despite the fact that he had complained of stomach pains since his arrival in Grundisburgh, Bartholomew saw Alcote finish one bowl of raisins, and flick his fingers at Siric to be brought another, pointedly disregarding Bartholomew’s advice to abstain from them to allow his digestion to recover. Bartholomew, who did not like raisins, thought it was not surprising that the fussy little scholar suffered cramps and loose bowels.

  ‘I need to read and summarise these,’ Alcote said, gesturing at a pile of deeds and dipping thin fingers into the new dish of raisins. ‘I will work better and faster alone, without people looking over my shoulder and delaying me with stupid questions.’

  This was a none too subtle dig at Wauncy, whose own interest in Tuddenham’s material possessions was driving Alcote to distraction.

  ‘All this is all taking a damnably long time,’ complained Tuddenham. ‘You arrived ten days ago, and the thing is still not written.’

  ‘It takes time to do properly,’ said Alcote pettishly. ‘You would not want me to rush it, and then discover in three years’ time that there is something we have overlooked that invalidates the whole transaction. This advowson is to last for ever, so we must ensure it is done correctly, no matter how keen we all are to have it finished in a hurry.’

  As much as Bartholomew disliked Alcote, he knew the man was right: an important deed needed to be written with care if it were not to be overturned in a court of law at some later date. However, at the back of his mind was the nagging suspicion that Alcote
’s care was not wholly altruistic, and that scraps of information were being carefully stored to be brought out later, when they could benefit him in some way – particularly financially.

  ‘But rest assured,’ Alcote continued, ‘I am working as fast as I can. In fact, I can predict with some confidence that I will have completed all the groundwork this evening, and should have a working draft for you late tomorrow.’

  ‘I am going hunting,’ said Hamon, unfolding his arms and looking out of the window at the sun. ‘The last of the venison is finished and we should not slaughter any more of my pigs.’ He spoke bitterly, although Bartholomew could not imagine why. ‘Will you come, uncle?’

  Tuddenham caught Bartholomew’s eye and hesitated. It was clear he was tempted, but it was also clear he knew it was not advisable, given his worsening physical condition.

  ‘I will remain here, and spend a little time with my wife,’ he said.

  Isilia’s lovely face broke into a happy smile, and she took his hand in hers.

  ‘We can walk by the river,’ she said brightly. ‘Or pick elderflowers in the orchard.’ Her delight faded when she remembered the old lady sitting dejectedly by the fire. ‘No. We will stay here and work on Dame Eva’s tapestry. The light is good for needlework today.’

  Tuddenham smiled gratefully, and they went to sit on either side of the old lady, bantering with each other to try to take her mind off Hamon’s thoughtless words. Bartholomew felt sorry for her, knowing that the elderly often looked back on days more golden in their thoughts than in reality. It had been cruel of Hamon to disillusion her.

  ‘Will you come hunting with me, Master Alcote?’ asked Hamon politely, apparently feeling remorse, and deciding that some relief from his guilty conscience might be gained by extending an invitation to the man who was working so hard for his uncle. ‘If we are lucky, we may catch a wild boar.’

  ‘No,’ said Alcote with a shudder at the notion of the physical effort that would be needed. ‘I will stay here and work. Bartholomew would be no kind of companion for you, either – the only lancing he enjoys is that of boils. But Michael rides well, and may relish a little blood sport. He is a Benedictine, after all.’