A Wicked Deed

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘I told you that Deblunville killed old Pernel,’ said Hamon, sheathing his sword. ‘But you did not listen to me.’

  ‘Deblunville was more persuasive than you, Hamon,’ said Janelle, rather bitterly. She turned to Bartholomew for support. ‘Who did you believe – the dashing and personable Deblunville, or the oafish, inarticulate man who hates him because his uncle tells him to?’

  Bartholomew did not like to answer. He felt he did not know Hamon or Deblunville well enough to tell who was the more truthful of the pair, and was not inclined to come down on the side of Deblunville anyway, with Hamon glowering at having been described as oafish.

  ‘And Deblunville was obsessed with the search for the golden calf,’ Janelle continued, when no reply was forthcoming. ‘He was out every night, despite my attempts to keep him with me. He believed Hamon was close to discovering it, and wanted to get to it first.’

  ‘I am close to finding it,’ protested Hamon.

  ‘How?’ asked Bartholomew curiously. ‘Have you discovered a clue, such as the foundations of the old chapel near which the calf is said to be buried?’

  ‘Well, no,’ admitted Hamon. ‘Not yet. But I will.’ He looked fondly at Janelle. ‘And then I will be richer than Deblunville. I will have my uncle’s estates, and you will have Clopton and Burgh. Together, we will be a powerful force in the county.’

  ‘But Isilia’s child will inherit your uncle’s manors,’ said Bartholomew, unable to stop himself.

  Hamon regarded him coldly. ‘We will see about that.’ He turned back to Janelle. ‘Marry me! Wait a week or two, until it is seemly, and then marry me. Our alliance will make us rich and powerful, and I think we are a couple who could get along nicely together.’

  ‘That is true,’ she said, considering. ‘My brains and your strength will make us a formidable force. We could rule the whole of the Lark Valley.’

  Hamon’s eyes glittered with excitement, and he took her into his arms. Disconcerted by the display of naked ambition and craving for wealth, Bartholomew backed away.

  ‘You will not tell my uncle about my betrothal to Janelle,’ ordered Hamon over his shoulder, more interested in his woman than in the retreating physician. ‘I would rather tell him myself. I will kill you if you mention it before I am ready.’

  ‘To start the rule of your kingdom as you mean to continue?’ asked Bartholomew, who had reached the trees at the edge of the glade, and was sufficiently disgusted to feel like being rash.

  Hamon ignored him, his attention wholly on Janelle. Janelle, however, was less sanguine.

  ‘Can he be trusted?’ she asked, regarding Bartholomew uncertainly. ‘How do we know he will not go straight to your uncle and tell him of our plans?’

  ‘He has an advowson to write,’ said Hamon. ‘Now Alcote is dead, the Michaelhouse men have to rewrite the whole thing. He will be far too busy to meddle in our affairs.’

  ‘But he was not too busy to follow you here,’ Janelle pointed out.

  Hamon sighed, and turned to face Bartholomew. ‘If you tell my uncle about me and Janelle, I will tell William that you stole Eltisley’s beef and buried it under an oak tree at midnight to effect a charm against Padfoot. He will have you dismissed from your College for practising witchcraft.’

  ‘How do you know about that?’ asked Bartholomew, aghast that the jaunt he had sought so carefully to conceal was apparently common knowledge.

  ‘This is the country, Doctor. There are few secrets here. I know that Deblunville’s men encountered you in the woods near Barchester, that a piece of beef was stolen from Eltisley, that Brother Michael’s new linen disappeared, and that your servant is suddenly cured of his malady. I am not stupid, you know. You used Mother Goodman’s charm to break Padfoot’s hold.’

  Bartholomew gazed at him. It was certainly true that William would react immediately and uncompromisingly on hearing Bartholomew’s role in effecting Cynric’s recovery. And the fanatical friar might do much worse than having Bartholomew dismissed from Michaelhouse – he would call in his Franciscan inquisitors and have him tried as a warlock. Janelle was unfair when she intimated that she had all the brains: Hamon’s method of ensuring Bartholomew’s silence was a brilliant one, given William’s outspoken views on the subject of heresy.

  The lovers’ voices drifted back to Bartholomew as he made his escape.

  ‘And if Grosnold dies without an heir, we could persuade him to name my child his successor,’ schemed Janelle.

  ‘You mean the child Deblunville fathered?’ asked Hamon, sounding startled.

  As he glanced back, surprised at the suggestion himself, Bartholomew glimpsed Janelle’s unreadable smile.

  ‘I am not carrying Deblunville’s child,’ she said enigmatically. ‘Despite what you may have heard, and what I may have allowed people to believe.’

  ‘You see?’ said Michael, looking at Unwin’s relic – the twist of parchment with the cluster of ancient hairs inside it – that Bartholomew had found beneath Norys’s body the night before. ‘I was right all along. Norys did kill Unwin to steal his relic.’

  They were sitting in the church together, in the small hours of the following night, and Michael was taking a rest from his labours with the deed to hear Bartholomew’s story about Hamon. The monk had been overly optimistic about what he could achieve that day. Exhaustion had claimed him and he had slept all afternoon and much of the evening, too, and had decided to work through the night: not at Wergen Hall, but in the church where he could claim he was praying for Alcote’s singed remains.

  Bartholomew, who also had slept much of the previous day, was keeping him company, while Cynric and William were at Wergen Hall, carefully packing the few belongings that had survived the fire in the Half Moon, so that they would be ready to leave the instant the deed was completed.

  As far as Bartholomew was concerned, Hamon’s rash infatuation with Janelle made him a stronger suspect for killing Alcote. Janelle was very interested in material possessions, and Hamon might well see preventing Michaelhouse from owning the living of the church as something that would persuade her of his devotion. Michael was more interested in discussing the murder of Unwin, remaining convinced that Norys somehow lay at the centre of that mystery.

  ‘We know that whoever killed Unwin probably also stole his purse. The purse – minus the relic – was then found with the bloody clothes on Norys’s roof. Now, just when Norys’s body reappears, the relic falls from his clothing on to the floor beneath his body, to be found by you.’

  ‘The relic was not in his clothing,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I looked for it there. And it was not under the table before Tuddenham and his retinue arrived.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’ demanded Michael. ‘It is dark in here. I can barely see you, and you are standing right next to me.’

  ‘I am sure because I looked very carefully before the Tuddenhams arrived. I wanted to make certain that nothing had dropped from Norys’s clothes, so I checked. I am absolutely positive it was not there before Tuddenham and his household came.’

  ‘Then any one of them might have dropped the relic, or left it there for us to find,’ said Michael, closing his eyes tiredly. ‘Tuddenham, Hamon, Dame Eva, Isilia, Wauncy, Siric. Damn!’ He slammed his clenched fist on the windowsill in frustration. ‘If only we had been more observant!’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew ruefully. ‘Because we know that the only way someone could be in possession of the relic would be if he had killed Unwin, or had some knowledge of his death. Therefore, whoever put the relic under Norys’s body is the murderer.’

  ‘I suppose this killer wanted us to think exactly what we did,’ said Michael, disappointed to learn, yet again, that absolute evidence of Norys’s guilt was lacking. ‘That the relic fell from Norys’s clothing, and is therefore confirmation of his guilt.’

  ‘No!’ exclaimed Bartholomew suddenly, his voice loud in the silent church. ‘That is not what happened. It is not even what we are supposed to think, because it is n
ot meant to be there at all. Stoate dropped it!’

  ‘What?’ asked Michael dubiously. ‘How have you arrived at that conclusion?’

  Bartholomew straightened from where he been leaning against the wall, and began to pace as he reasoned it out. ‘Stoate was in such a hurry to reach the side of his most affluent patient that he tripped up the chancel steps in his haste. His bag came open and some of its contents spilled out. The relic must have fallen with them.’

  ‘Stoate killed Unwin?’ asked Michael in disbelief. ‘But why? This makes no sense, Matt!’

  ‘Oh, no!’ groaned Bartholomew, putting his hands to his head as the whole affair became crystal clear in his mind. All the disjointed scraps of evidence suddenly snapped together to form a picture that was so obvious, he was appalled he had not seen it before. ‘I see what happened. How could I have been so stupid?’

  ‘You tell me,’ said Michael.

  ‘The night Unwin died, Stoate introduced himself in the tavern. We had a lengthy conversation about various aspects of medicine.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Michael, remembering. ‘All of them highly unpleasant.’

  ‘I am sure Stoate told me he practised surgery – mainly bleeding, from the sound of it.’

  ‘Yes, he did,’ said Michael. ‘You were inappropriately delighted about the whole business.’

  ‘He denied yesterday that he ever said so,’ said Bartholomew. He flopped on to the bench next to Michael, and closed his eyes. ‘He said that Mother Goodman does it if it is needed, but Mother Goodman has told me that he did it on at least two occasions, including once when she was present. She interrupted our conversation in the Half Moon the first night we stayed there, to tell us the prices Stoate charged for opening vessels in different parts of the body, and he did not contradict her.’

  Michael nodded. ‘I remember that. So, Stoate is a liar. However, that does not also make him a murderer or a thief. I do not see where all this is leading, Matt.’

  ‘Unwin’s body had an injury on the arm, near the elbow, and one sleeve was drenched in blood. I see exactly what happened. Unwin went to Stoate to be bled, and Stoate bled him to death!’

  Michael gazed at him for a moment, and then gave a short laugh of disbelief. ‘The fatal wound was the cut to the elbow and not the stab in the stomach?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is more easily done than you might think. If the incision made for phlebotomy is too deep, or the wrong vein is cut, a person can bleed to death very quickly if the surgeon does not know how to stop it. Stoate is not a surgeon, and has not been trained to practise phlebotomy. He killed Unwin with his ignorance and arrogance!’

  ‘So you are not exaggerating when you say bleeding is bad for the health?’ said Michael. ‘You had me convinced long before all this happened, but now I can promise you that no barber with his bloody knives will ever come near my veins.’

  ‘I wish none had come near Unwin’s,’ said Bartholomew fervently. ‘I suppose his anxiety for his new post made him feel a need to drain away the humours that were making him nervous.’

  ‘And Stoate killed him outside the church where we found all that blood,’ said Michael, scratching his head.

  ‘That was why there was so much of it on Unwin’s sleeve. How could I have missed it?’ Bartholomew ran a hand through his hair in agitation. ‘It did not escape William: he asked me why there was blood on Unwin’s arm, and I made a bad assumption – that it had drained out of the stomach when he had been lying in a different position than the one in which we found him.’

  ‘And now Stoate is busily denying that he practises phlebotomy, lest you associate the small cut on Unwin’s elbow with a physician who dabbles in surgery.’

  ‘But why did he not deny it from the start?’ asked Bartholomew, rubbing his head. ‘Why claim that night in the tavern – within a very short time of Unwin’s death – that he did bleed people?’

  ‘Two good reasons,’ said Michael, considering. ‘First, Mother Goodman was sitting near enough to hear every word; her position as village midwife means that she knows he bleeds people – and we have seen enough of that lady to guess she would not sit quietly knitting, while a physician she loathes lies about what he does. And second, you were very persistent with your questions, whether you appreciated it or not, and had the poor fellow scrambling to provide you with answers.’

  ‘I did not!’ protested Bartholomew. ‘You make me sound like William in inquisitor mode.’

  ‘You can be very intimidating, Matt, particularly to people who do not have your training. And on that subject, I can also say that I very much doubt Stoate has been to Paris and Bologna Universities as he claims. He is too young, and why should someone with those qualifications settle in a remote village like this? He would be in London or York or Norwich, making his fortune.’

  ‘He certainly dispenses odd cures,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘Like ground snails for sore eyes. Our eyes are better, but the eyes of everyone who slapped that paste on them are still inflamed.’

  ‘So, crushed snails is not something that the mighty physicians of Paris recommend, then?’ asked Michael with a smile. ‘Nor do they teach bleeding?’

  ‘They do not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is heartily denounced as something tradesmen do. But I cannot believe I was so blind about that cut on Unwin’s elbow. After he had bled to death, Stoate must have dragged Unwin back into the church, and then stabbed the body and stole the purse to make it appear as though he had been murdered by an opportunistic thief for his belongings.’

  ‘And it stands to reason that if Stoate stabbed Unwin’s corpse to make his accidental death seem like murder, he also did the same to Mistress Freeman’s throat. You were right all along, Matt. The killer heard that Norys had been accused of killing Unwin, and Mistress Freeman was desecrated to make us believe that was true.’

  ‘So, what shall we do?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Stoate is with Tuddenham at Wergen Hall now.’

  ‘We must confront him,’ said Michael. ‘And the sooner, the better.’

  They headed up the path toward Tuddenham’s manor. Since dawn was only just beginning to lighten the sky, most of Wergen Hall’s inhabitants were still in bed, and the house was in darkness. Eventually, Siric answered the door to Bartholomew’s insistent hammering.

  ‘What now?’ he snapped. ‘Sir Thomas is sleeping, and needs no more leeches tonight.’

  ‘Is Stoate with him?’ asked Michael.

  Siric shook his head. ‘Sir Thomas had a bad night, but about an hour ago he started to sleep like a baby. I did not want a physician prodding him and disturbing his rest, so I sent Stoate home.’

  While Cynric went to rouse William to continue the vigil for the charred remains in the church – feeling, no doubt, that the slippery Alcote needed all the prayers he could get – Bartholomew and Michael took the path back to the village, and made their way to Stoate’s house. His horse, still tailless thanks to Deynman, was saddled, and weighted down with two hefty bags.

  ‘It looks as though Stoate knows the game is up,’ Michael whispered to Bartholomew. ‘He is about to leave.’

  There was a sharp click and both men swung round. Stoate stood behind them holding a loaded crossbow.

  ‘Stay where you are,’ he ordered sharply. ‘I will use this if I have to.’

  For a moment, no one said a word. Bartholomew and Michael gaped at Stoate’s crossbow, while Stoate glared back challengingly. A gleam of desperation in his eyes suggested to Bartholomew that Stoate would indeed use the weapon if necessary – and perhaps even if it were not. Michael stepped forward.

  ‘You might hit one of us,’ he said calmly, ‘but you will not have the time to reload before the other attacks. Michaelhouse men do not approve of charlatan physicians who kill with their ignorance and greed – you would not stand a chance.’

  ‘Greed?’ asked Stoate, startled.

  ‘Yes, greed,’ said Michael. ‘Making a few extra pennies by bleeding poor villagers who do not know that
you are no more a physician than I am.’

  Stoate’s finger tightened on the trigger of his crossbow. ‘I studied in Paris and Bologna,’ he said angrily. ‘Ask anyone around here.’

  ‘How would they know?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘They, like us, only have your word for it.’ He began to move away from Michael, making it impossible for Stoate to point his weapon at both of them at the same time.

  ‘Stay where you are,’ said Stoate, understanding what he was doing immediately. He waved the weapon at his house, and glanced up at the sky. ‘Go inside and close the door.’

  ‘Which do you want us to do?’ asked Michael, deliberately aggravating. ‘Stay where we are, or enter your charming home?’

  ‘Move!’ snapped Stoate. He glanced anxiously at the sky again. Rutted roads and recent rain meant that riding fast while it was still dark would be tantamount to suicide, yet he knew he needed to be away before people awoke and clogged the paths as they walked to the fields. Bartholomew took several steps and then hesitated, wondering how he might delay Stoate’s departure until either he was prevented from making a speedy escape by the labourers on the roads, or Cynric realised that something was amiss and came to look for them.

  ‘Do not try my patience, Bartholomew,’ hissed Stoate. ‘It will not be you I shoot, it will be your fat friend. I know you would never leave him while he is mortally wounded, and that will allow me to make a clean escape. Or you can move into my house, and no one need be hurt.’

  Michael pushed open the door, and Bartholomew followed him inside. Stoate stood in the entrance, watching them minutely, his finger never leaving the trigger of his weapon.

  ‘Now sit against that wall, and put your legs out in front of you.’

  It was a position that would make any sudden lunge at Stoate virtually impossible – unless the lunger had no objection to being impaled by a crossbow quarrel. Stoate looked at the sky again.

  ‘All this started with Unwin, did it not?’ said Michael, trying to make himself comfortable on the floor. ‘You bled him – at his request, probably – but you were careless, and he bled to death.’