A Bone of Contention хмб-3

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘What do you want here?’ said the priest. ‘You are not welcome – not in my church and not in the village.’

  He made as if to move on but Bartholomew stood in front of him and blocked his path. ‘And why would that be?’ he asked. ‘On whose orders do you repel travellers?’

  ‘Travellers!’ the priest mocked, looking hard at the tabard that marked Bartholomew not only as a scholar of the University of Cambridge but as one of its teachers.

  ‘I know who you are, Doctor Bartholomew.’

  Bartholomew was startled when the priest gave his name. The man looked smug when he saw Bartholomew’s astonishment.

  ‘They said you would come,’ he said. ‘You or Brother Michael. You will find nothing to interest you here.’

  ‘I wish the answers to two questions,’ said Bartholomew, ‘and then I will go. First, where is the house where Dominica Lydgate is supposed to be staying? And second, who told you to expect us?’

  The priest sneered and started to walk away. ‘You will learn nothing from me, Bartholomew. And do not try to cow me with threats because I know you have been ill and your stars are unfavourable. I was a fighting man once, and could take you on with one hand behind my back.’

  Could you indeed? thought Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps you might like to repeat that to the Bishop when I bring him here to celebrate mass with you next week. The Bishop is also a fighting man, especially after hearing bastard Latin in his churches.’

  The man turned back, and Bartholomew saw him blanch. ‘The Bishop would not come here,’ he said, but his voice lacked conviction. Although he could not be sure that a scholar like Bartholomew would have sufficient influence with the Bishop of Ely to induce him to visit Chesterton, he was certainly aware that the Bishop could have him removed from his parish in the twinkling of an eye. It was clear the priest was not popular with his parishioners and it seemed unlikely that any of them would speak in his favour.

  Bartholomew shrugged. ‘You will know next week,’ he said, and began to walk back the way he had come. He heard the priest following him and turned, uneasy with the man so close behind.

  The priest sighed and looked out towards the meadows.

  ‘First, Dominica was in the tower-house, but she is no longer here. Second, this manor is owned by Maud’s Hostel, so I need not tell you on whose instructions we are bound to silence.’

  The man’s arrogance had evaporated like mist; Bartholomew suddenly felt sorry for him in his shabby robes and dirty alb.

  ‘Who lives in the tower-house?’ he asked.

  ‘That is your third question,’ said the priest, some of the belligerence bubbling back. ‘It belongs to Maud’s, and Mistress Bigod lives there. Now, please leave.’

  ‘What relation is she to Thomas Bigod, the Master of Maud’s?’ asked Bartholomew before he could stop himself. He looked apologetically at the priest, who grimaced.

  ‘Since I have already told you what I was expressly forbidden to reveal, what can other questions matter?’ he asked bitterly. ‘Mistress Bigod is Thomas Bigod’s grandmother.’

  ‘His grandmother? Thomas Bigod is no green youth, so she must be as old as the hills. Does she live there alone?’

  ‘She has a household of servants and retainers,’ said the priest. ‘And she is probably eighty-five or eighty-six now. I have given her last rites at least four times over the past two years.’

  Bartholomew reflected. So much for the Lydgates’ claim that Dominica had been staying with relatives.

  She had been left in the care of a kinswoman of none other than the surly Master of Maud’s Hostel – a man whose name seemed to crop up with suspicious regularity whenever Bartholomew and Michael discovered something odd. The last time Bartholomew had encountered Master Bigod had been when the man had tried to rob him on the dark street during the thunderstorm.

  The priest was growing restless. He was keen to be away from the person to whom he had been forbidden to speak, but was still afraid that Bartholomew might have the influence to persuade the Bishop to visit Chesterton’s church. The physician promised not to reveal the source of his information, although it would not be difficult for anyone to guess, given that several villagers had watched him speak with the priest, and gave his word never to mention Chesterton and miserable Latin in the same breath to another living soul. The priest remained uneasy but there was little Bartholomew could do to convince him further that he had far better things to do than to hang around in Ely waiting for an audience with a busy bishop, who would not be interested in a remote and unimportant parish anyway.

  Finally tearing himself away, Bartholomew walked towards the untidy collection of shacks that comprised the village, but left quickly, unnerved by the hostility that brooded in the eyes of the people he met. A short distance away, certain he was not observed, he found a suitable vantage point, and settled in the long grass to watch the tower-house for any indication that Dominica might still be there. There was little to see, however, and he soon grew chilled from sitting still.

  Perhaps around ten o’clock, the church bell rang for mass again. The occupants of the tower-house evidently preferred the later sitting, for a large number of people trudged through the drizzle to the dismal church. In the midst of them, carried in a canopied litter, was the old lady. Bartholomew’s professional eye could detect no signs of senility, no drooling or muttering. If anything, she seemed to exercise a rigid control over her household, and her sharp, strong voice wafted insistently to where Bartholomew listened.

  When the church doors had been closed to block the draughts, probably on the old lady’s orders, Bartholomew left his hiding place and made for the tower-house. He skulked around the outbuildings, attentive for signs that someone had remained behind, but heard nothing. It seemed Mistress Bigod’s entire household was obliged to attend the ten o’clock service: the tower-house and its stables and sheds were deserted. He walked quickly into the yard and looked up at the keep. It was a simple structure, based on the Norman way of building: a flight of steps outside led up to the main entrance on the middle floor; the upper floor had glazed windows and was probably the old lady’s private apartments; the lower floor was virtually windowless and was doubtless used for storage.

  Climbing the stairs, Bartholomew found that the heavy, metal-studded door was shut but not locked. He pushed it open and walked lightly into the large room that served as a hall. He glanced around quickly but there was nothing much to see: trestle-tables had been set up ready for the midday meal and trenchers laid at regular intervals along them.

  Quelling his nervousness, Bartholomew tiptoed across to the narrow spiral staircase in the far corner and ascended to the upper floor. This was divided into two smaller rooms, each with a garderobe passage and a fireplace. One room was unmistakeably masculine, and a scholar’s tabard thrown carelessly over a chest indicated that Thomas Bigod probably used it when he visited his grandmother. Bartholomew’s heart began to thump, as his fear of being caught grew with each door he opened.

  But there was nothing in the hall, or the chambers above, of remote interest to him, and no sign that Dominica had been kept there.

  He crept back down the staircase to the hall. At the far end, opposite the hearth, was a screen, behind which stood a long table for the servants to use when preparing meals – like many houses, the kitchens were in an outbuilding to reduce the ever-present risk of fire.

  Under the table was a trapdoor with a ladder that led to the lower floor. The basement was lit by narrow slits, and smelled musty and damp. The dankness suggested that it was not used for storage and was usually empty. A quick glance round told Bartholomew there was nothing to see whatsoever, that he should give up his wild notion of locating where Dominica had been and leave the tower-house before he was apprehended.

  Suddenly he became aware of voices and froze in horror. Surely the mass could not be over yet, bad and fast Latin notwithstanding! He felt his stomach churn in anticipation of being discovered, realising that he ha
d been foolish to enter the tower-house alone. What if Bigod found him? His henchmen could easily knock him on the head, dump him in the river and no one would ever know what had become of him. And even if Bigod did baulk at cold-blooded murder, Bartholomew would be hard-pressed to explain to the Sheriff what he was doing prowling around the house of someone he had never met while she was at church.

  He fought down his panic. The voices were not coming closer. In fact, they seemed to be emanating from underneath him. Cautiously, he peered around in the gloom until he saw a second trapdoor leading to another chamber – like a bottle-dungeon below ground level that he had once seen in a castle in France. He eased the trapdoor up a fraction, noting that the hinges were well oiled, and that the wood was new. The voices came clearly through the gap now. A woman’s voice, remonstrating with a man. Dominica?

  He eased the trapdoor up a little more, so that he could see down into the lower storey. What he saw was not a bottle-dungeon, deep and dark and rank-smelling with offal, but a well-lit, pleasantly decorated room. A wooden ladder led up to the trapdoor and there were no locks to seal it from without. This arrangement was obviously not to keep someone prisoner but to allow its occupant to come and go at will. He glanced around the chamber in which he knelt. Piles of rushes were heaped around the walls and a heavy-looking chest stood nearby. Doubtless the rushes could be spread and the chest dragged across the trapdoor to hide it, should the underground chamber need to be kept from prying eyes.

  The speakers were out of sight; Bartholomew looked down at the tapestries on the walls and the rich woollen rugs on the floor with astonishment. Delicate silver drinking vessels stood in a neat line across a table draped with a lace cloth; the remains of what had probably been a fine breakfast sat in a tray nearby. By changing position, Bartholomew saw that the underground chamber housed two compartments. The second was probably a bedroom.

  The voices suddenly grew louder as the speakers moved into the room immediately below Bartholomew. Thomas Bigod’s distinct accent wafted up first, accompanied by the unpleasant nasal wheedling of Cecily Lydgate. So that was where she had been hiding from her husband, thought Bartholomew, mystified.

  Bigod put his foot on the bottom rung of the ladder to climb up it, as, in the same instant, voices came from the hall above. Lowering the trapdoor in panic, Bartholomew looked round desperately for somewhere to hide. There was only one possible place and he was relieved beyond measure to find the chest was empty.

  He had just managed to close the hefty lid with unsteady hands when, simultaneously, he heard footsteps on the ladder from the hall and Bigod pushing open the lower trapdoor.

  Inside, the chest was airless and pitch black. Bartholomew dared not try to lift the lid a fraction, lest it make a noise and give him away. His heart was thumping so much that he wondered if it were shaking the chest.

  He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and tried to concentrate on what was being said in the basement outside.

  Bartholomew deduced, from her characteristic whine, that Cecily Lydgate had followed Bigod up the ladder.

  Did that mean that she was with Dominica in the hideous underground boudoir? Bartholomew strained his ears but with the chest sturdily made, it was difficult to hear much at all.

  ‘Edred did,’ he heard Cecily say, ‘with Thomas.’ Which Thomas? Bartholomew wondered: her husband Thomas Lydgate or Thomas Bigod? ‘… relic is in Valence Marie.’ Bigod again, talking about the skeletal discovery that would make Valence Marie rich.

  Bartholomew tried to ease the lid open to hear better, but felt the hinges judder and knew it would squeak if he tried to raise it further.

  ‘Thomas does not know yet… Werbergh has been told not to tell him…’ Cecily’s whine. She must be referring to her husband now, since she was referring to a Godwinsson student. Bartholomew determined to talk to the untruthful Brother Werbergh again as soon as possible – if he ever escaped from his predicament.

  There was a long pause, during which Bartholomew thought he heard the trapdoor being lowered into place, and Cecily, in childishly giggling tones, bid Bigod farewell as she went back down to her underground hideaway.

  Bartholomew was so tense that his palms were slippery with sweat and stung where his nails had dug into them; his shoulders and neck ached. If Bigod were to pull the chest across the trapdoor to hide it now, Bartholomew’s weight would surely betray him! Or perhaps Bigod would just snap shut the sturdy lock that hung on the side of the chest, and leave him there. That thought made the saliva dry up inside Bartholomew’s mouth and he felt as if he could not breathe. He bit his lower lip hard and tried to control his rising hysteria.

  ‘Dominica dead…’ came Bigod’s Norfolk-accented voice, a few moments later. So Dominica was dead after all, and he had been right. He wondered if the identity of her killers was what Werbergh was not to tell Thomas Lydgate. Unless it was Thomas Lydgate who had killed her, with Edred. But that seemed unlikely, for if so, why would Lydgate then risk going to his daughter’s grave? ‘And the next riot will be on Thursday night,’ came a new voice, loud and clear, with a note of finality. The voice was familiar but Bartholomew could not place it.

  He heard footsteps climbing the ladder to the hall, then the chamber was silent. Cautiously, he pushed up the lid of the chest, his stomach flipping over for an unpleasant moment when it stuck. There was a low, but very audible, groan from the protesting hinges as it rose and Bartholomew was glad he had not tried to raise it when Bigod and his co-conspirators were in the room. He listened carefully. Cecily was now safely ensconced within her underground chamber with the trapdoor closed. Some of the rushes had been scattered, so that, unless someone knew where to look, the lower trapdoor was concealed from casual observers. The upper trapdoor remained open.

  It had been closed when Bartholomew had entered the basement. Was someone planning to come back? Were the servants and the old lady back from mass yet? He listened, but could hear nothing. Just as he was about to climb out, the trapdoor darkened and someone began to descend the ladder, whistling as he came. Bartholomew swore softly to himself, ducked inside the chest, and eased the lid back down. This time, to give himself some air and to allow him to see and hear what was happening, he groped around for something to wedge between the rim of the chest and the lid. His fingers closed on the handle of an old pottery jug that had been lying in the bottom of the chest with sundry other bits of rubbish: some rags screwed up into balls, a rusty knife, and some flowers withered to a crisp brown.

  Legs paused in front of the chest, and Bartholomew reached silently for the rusty knife, bracing himself for the lid to be thrown open. What would he do if it were? His legs were numb from crouching and he doubted whether he would be able to react fast enough to prevent the man from raising the alarm. Bartholomew held his breath, feeling sweat begin to form on his face and back.

  With a small thump, something landed on the chest.

  The man had tossed something on to it. Bartholomew released pent-up breath slowly: someone would hardly put something on the lid if he intended to open it. He forced himself to relax and watched as the man began to walk around the chamber. The man began to whistle again. Bartholomew saw him wrench an old sconce from the wall with a creak of ancient metal and try a new one for size. It evidently did not fit, for there was an irritable pause in the whistling and one or two grunts could be heard as force was applied.

  The man came back to the chest and Bartholomew heard the clink of metal. It had been his tools he had put there. A few moments later, there came the sound of metallic rasping as something was filed into shape. The sconce was tried again, but to no avail. The man advanced on the chest once more, then sat on it heavily.

  A loud snap exploded in Bartholomew’s ears as the pottery handle broke under the man’s weight. Bartholomew heard him curse and stand to inspect the chest. By now, Bartholomew almost wished he would be discovered, just to end the unbearable tension. The lid had been forced down over the broken handle, which was
now wedged firmly between the lid and the side of the chest. With horror, Bartholomew saw the man’s fingers curl under the lid as he attempted to prise it open.

  Fortunately for Bartholomew, the attempt was a halfhearted one; with a grunt, the man gave up and sat down again, forcing the lid to jam further shut with his weight. The whistling was resumed, accompanied by filing in time with the rhythm of the tune. It seemed to go on for ever. Bartholomew eased himself into a slightly more comfortable position and waited.

  Alter an age, a voice drifted down into the chamber.

  The workman called back, and Bartholomew heard them share a joke about the eccentricity of a mistress who wanted new sconces fitted in rooms that nobody used.

  At last, the man seemed happy with the sconce’s fitting, and his whistle receded as he climbed the ladder. There was a deep thump as the upper trapdoor was dropped into place and then there was silence.

  Taking a deep breath, Bartholomew pressed his back to the lid of the chest and pushed. Nothing happened.

  He tried again but the lid was stuck fast. Bartholomew felt his heart begin to pound and his mouth go dry.

  What could he do? He could hardly call for help! He took several deep breaths and concentrated on using even ounce of his strength in forcing the lid to open, lust when it seemed the task was impossible, and he was on the verge of giving up in despair, it flew up with a tremendous crash that reverberated all around the small chamber. Bartholomew winced at the noise and stood shakily, his legs wobbling and burning with cramp and tension. And came face to face with Cecily Lydgate.

  As Cecily opened her mouth to scream, Bartholomew raised his hands in a desperate gesture to beg her silence, and saw that he still clutched the rusty knife that had been at the bottom of the chest. In the light from the lamp in the new sconce – that Cecily had evidently been in the process of lighting – he saw that it was not rusty at all, but thickly coated in dried blood.

  Cecily saw the knife, too, and the scream died before it reached her throat. She looked at Bartholomew with a rank fear that sickened him. Unsteadily, he climbed out of the chest and walked towards her. His blood began to circulate again, sending unpleasant buzzing sensations down his arms and legs. He longed to be away from this dank cellar and its vile secrets.