A Wicked Deed (40 page)
Authors: Susanna Gregory
Tags: #Mystery, #Historical, #blt, #rt, #Cambridge, #England, #Medieval, #Clergy
But it was an unequal battle in the end, and it was not long before Bartholomew found he held an old woman, spitting and fighting in his grip. Her grey hair was long, filthy and matted, and she had no teeth at all that he could see. She wore an odd combination of clothes, including the skirt he had seen ten days before, all of them sticky with dirt. It was her eyes that caught his attention, however: the whites were rubbed to a startling pink rawness, and the lids were inflamed and swollen. Tears ran unheeded down her wrinkled skin, mingling with the rain that rolled smoothly from her greasy hair. Was this the cloaked figure whom Stoate had seen run from the church in Grundisburgh
at the time when Unwin had been murdered, rubbing its eyes? Surely not, he thought. What could an old woman have against Unwin?
‘Easy, mother,’ he said softly, trying to quell his own fright. ‘I will not hurt you.’
She struggled even more frantically, and he began to worry that she might hurt herself. He released one hand, but she tried to claw him with her long nails, and he was forced to grab her again, pushing her against the church wall to stop her fighting him. Just when he thought he had succeeded, and her futile attempts to attack him were beginning to subside, he heard a low growl from the bushes. He glanced around, but could see nothing. When he looked back at the old woman she was smiling, her inflamed eyes bright with malice. The growl came again, louder, and she began to croon softly to herself, rocking back and forth in Bartholomew’s arms.
There was an explosion of movement from the undergrowth as something pale smashed through it. Swallowing hard, Bartholomew released the old woman and took several steps backward. He had the merest glimpse of a white form tearing toward him before he turned and fled. He could hear its rasping breath at his heels and was certain it was gaining on him. He ran harder, oblivious to the branches that slashed and slapped at his face. He reached the main street and raced across it toward the shrubs on the other side, ducking and weaving through the trees, and aware that the dog was right behind him.
Then his foot caught on the root of a tree and he tripped, tumbling head over heels down the hillside, his world spinning as he crashed through the bushes. He thought he saw the dog tracking him as he rolled, and he knew it would be on him the moment he stopped moving. He was helpless; he did not even know which way was up and which was down. Then he collided with a sturdy oak tree that stopped him
dead. Aware that the thing would tear him to pieces if he lay still, he scrambled to his feet, but staggered as the woods tipped and swirled in front of him. He closed his eyes and waited for the worst to happen.
The woods were totally silent except for his ragged panting. Rain dripped on him from the trees that arched overhead, and he could hear the crackle of twigs under his feet. When he opened his eyes, there was nothing to see and nothing to hear. The white dog had gone, just as if it had vanished into thin air. Shakily, he peered through the undergrowth to see if he could see flashes of white as the animal moved through it. But the forest was as still and soundless as the grave.
With unsteady hands, he brushed himself down and began to make his way back to Cynric and Deynman. Casting nervous glances over his shoulder, and expecting to hear the guttural growls that would herald another attack, he crossed the stream and jogged up the slope on the other side. As if by magic, the rain eased to a light drizzle. By the time he reached the shepherd’s hut it had stopped completely, and his heart was no longer thudding deafeningly in his ears.
A wisp of smoke eased through the door, and he assumed Cynric had made a fire to keep himself warm. He rubbed a shaking hand through his hair and strode into the shelter, craving normal human company. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the gloom and the smoke inside the hut. What he saw made him cry out in horror.
Cynric lay face down on the ground. Or what was left of Cynric. Smoke rose in thready tendrils from his body, of which little remained but two charred arms, a torso and a head.
‘Did you say it?’ came Cynric’s eager voice behind him. ‘Is
it done? Am I safe?’ Bartholomew spun round, and grabbed at the door frame for support.
The Welshman nodded at the corpse on the floor. ‘We did not feel much inclined to share with him while you were off on your mission, so we sheltered round the back. You have been a long time. Are you sure you recited the prayer as fast as you could?’
Bartholomew nodded unsteadily. He looked from Cynric, to the corpse, and then back again. ‘I thought that was you. Did you not hear me coming?’
Cynric nodded. ‘Of course. Do you think I have lost my touch?’
‘Then you might have warned me. You must have known I would see that thing and think it was you. I thought my Latin was too late!’
‘But this body has been here for days,’ said Cynric, puzzled by his reaction. ‘Come on, boy, what is the matter with you? You are supposed to be the one skilled in this kind of thing, not me.’
Bartholomew looked closer, and saw that Cynric was right. The body had been smouldering for some time, and molten fat had seeped across the floor in a sticky mass. An animal, probably a fox, had attacked it, so that parts of the intestines had been eaten away. The smell was sickening, and Bartholomew pushed past Cynric to sit on the grass outside. Resting his head on his arms, he tried to control the churning in his stomach. Cynric knelt next to him, and put a hand on his shoulder.
‘What happened?’ Deynman’s voice was fearful. ‘Did you see Padfoot, too? Will we need to do all this again tonight for you?’
Bartholomew shook his head, not looking up. ‘I saw a white blur before it chased me out of the village. But I met its owner.’
Cynric drew in his breath sharply. ‘The Devil?’
‘An old hag with no teeth and filthy clothes. She attacked me and the dog came to help.’
‘Oh, Lord, boy!’ groaned Cynric. ‘Why did I let you go? That vile place is the Devil’s home!’
‘It is the home of some crone and her dog,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘Do you think I could best the Devil in a hand-to-hand tussle? I know some people believe my medicine borders on the heretical, but I am not Satan’s equal!’
Cynric smiled, and held out his hand to Bartholomew to help him to his feet. ‘Rob and I have not been totally useless while we waited. We found these.’
He led Bartholomew round to the back of the hut, and pointed at something on the ground. There were two legs, presumably belonging to the person in the hut. They, too, were charred, and someone had been trying very hard to chop them into small pieces, bits of which had probably been spirited away by animals.
Bartholomew went to look at the torso again, taking a deep breath so he would not have to inhale the heavy, sweet odour of burned flesh. Against the wall leaned a long knife with a curved, stained handle, and a hefty mallet lay next to it. The body was warm to the touch where it still smouldered.
‘Why not burn it completely?’ asked Deynman in revulsion. ‘It would be much less repellent than all this chopping.’
‘Bodies do not burn very easily,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is too much liquid and grease in them. It seems to me that whoever did this thought he could rid himself of the body by burning it, and then found himself with a half-charred corpse to dismember instead.’
‘Then why not bury it?’ persisted Deynman. ‘No one would find a shallow grave out here.’
Bartholomew shrugged. ‘I have no idea. All I can say is that whoever did this must be desperate. Chopping up a body must be a vile task to undertake.’
Distastefully, he turned it over to look at its face, but it was too charred to be recognisable. The head flopped limply at an awkward angle, but the body seemed to have undergone such rough treatment since its demise that Bartholomew had no way of telling how it died. He laid it back and looked at the clothes, trying to see if there was anything he could take to effect some kind of identification. They were either burned away or fused to the body, and there was nothing that would help any bereaved next of kin to recognise it.
He was about to give up and suggest that they leave the grisly business to Tuddenham, when he saw he had missed something. Glittering dully under one shoulder was a dagger. Bartholomew tugged it out. It had once been covered with gilt, but most of that had come off, and all that remained was a rather shoddy-looking iron knife with a hilt decorated with coloured glass. The dagger Janelle had stolen from Deblunville to give to her father had been gilt, not gold, and Bartholomew recognised its shape and size immediately. So did Cynric.
‘Well, boy,’ said the Welshman, taking it from him and carrying it out into the light. ‘It looks as though we have found our hanged man at last.’
T
HERE WAS NOTHING MORE TO BE DONE WITH THE
dead man in the shepherd’s hut, so Bartholomew walked with Cynric and Deynman back to Grundisburgh. It was a cold, wet morning that seemed more like March than May, and heaped grey clouds threatened another storm. Bartholomew wanted to find Michael, and tell him about Deblunville’s death and the body in the hut, so that they could reason some sort of sense into the jumble of facts and circumstances that had accumulated, before passing the information to anyone else. But as he headed up The Street he was hailed by Tuddenham, who was just leaving the church.
The knight looked tired and ill, and leaned heavily on Hamon’s shoulder. Bartholomew saw it would not be long before his family would realise that there was more to his pale face and unsteady gait than just a case of too much wine the night before. By contrast, Hamon looked fit and vital, and had about him the air of a man for whom things were going well. Did he already know about Deblunville, because he had had a hand in his death? Or was he always cheerful and hearty after funerals – the Tuddenhams, apparently, had just attended the mass for Mistress Freeman.
Dame Eva and Isilia walked behind, looking suitably solemn. Isilia wore a dark blue dress under a matching cloak, a colour that suited her black hair and turned her green eyes to turquoise. As she turned to help the old lady down the step, Bartholomew was struck yet again by her grace and
elegance. Dame Eva gave her a grateful smile that faded when she saw Bartholomew.
‘You have the look of a man who is about to impart bad news,’ she said astutely, regarding him with her sharp, bright eyes. ‘Has the shock Master Alcote had last night made him sick?’
‘What shock?’ asked Bartholomew, suddenly nervous. ‘Has something happened to Roger?’
‘Alcote was attacked by two men last night,’ said Tuddenham. ‘He worked on my advowson until well after midnight at Wergen Hall, and someone tried to ambush him as he returned to his bed in the Half Moon. How is it you do not know of this? Where have you been?’
‘Attacked?’ asked Bartholomew in horror. ‘Is he hurt?’
‘No,’ said Hamon, with an inappropriate grin. ‘He is made of sterner stuff than he admits, and suffered no ill effects from the experience, except the indignity of falling in some cow dung.’
‘This is no laughing matter,’ admonished Tuddenham sternly. ‘What will these Michaelhouse men think if they cannot walk from my house to the village in safety?’
‘But who would attack Alcote?’ asked Bartholomew, aghast.
‘It was Will Norys,’ said Hamon confidently.
‘Unfortunately, last night was dark because it was cloudy, and Master Alcote did not see who attacked him,’ corrected Tuddenham. ‘But he said that there were two of them, and that one might have been Norys.’
‘Of course it was Norys,’ said Dame Eva. ‘Who else could it have been? He escaped justice for the murder of Unwin, and decided to chance his luck again. After all, everyone here knows that Alcote is the most wealthy Michaelhouse scholar, and would be the best one to rob.’
‘You think the motive was theft?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Why else would a scholar be ambushed in the middle of the night?’ asked the old lady. ‘Norys must have lain in
wait on the path that leads between Wergen Hall and the village, knowing that no one would hear Alcote’s cries for help there.’
‘It is a terrible business,’ said Tuddenham worriedly. ‘Alcote told me yesterday that the advowson was almost complete, and that he would have a working draft today. I had hoped to have the thing all signed and sealed by tomorrow, but I can see that this attack will delay matters.’
‘Was anything stolen from him?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Documents or writs?’
‘Alcote says not,’ said Tuddenham. He frowned anxiously. ‘I told him to ask Hamon to accompany him to the Half Moon, if he planned to work after dark – especially given what happened to Unwin – but he slipped out while Hamon was asleep.’
‘I awoke to find him gone,’ said Hamon. ‘There was no need for him to return to
the
tavern anyway, when he could have had a blanket next to the fire in Wergen Hall.’
Recalling that a good many servants vied for the coveted position near the hearth in Wergen Hall’s main chamber, Bartholomew understood exactly why that proposition was not an appealing one to the fastidious Alcote.
Dame Eva eyed Hamon critically. ‘You knew it was not safe for the poor man to leave the hall with Norys at large, and yet you selfishly slept while he did battle with ruthless killers. You are a self-centred lout, Hamon!’
‘Deblunville died last night,’ said Bartholomew, before a full-blown row could begin. ‘He hit his head on a rock.’
There was a startled silence. Dame Eva and Isilia exchanged a glance of stupefaction, while Tuddenham and Hamon regarded each other rather uncertainly, as though each were wondering whether the other had anything to do with it.
Tuddenham swallowed hard. ‘Are you saying my neighbour was murdered? Again? Or is this another mistake – like the fellow you claim was hanged at Bond’s Corner?’
Bartholomew bit back a flash of irritation. ‘I saw Deblunville’s body. His men do not think he was murdered – they believe he slipped on wet grass and brained himself.’
‘Just like his first wife, Pernel,’ said Hamon in awe. ‘She died of a cracked head.’
‘We all know Deblunville killed his first wife,’ said Dame Eva to Bartholomew. ‘No one ever believed that was an accident – even his own people. But I heard rumours that Janelle’s marriage was not as happy as a union of a few days should have been. She has had a lucky escape from that monster.’
‘Poor Janelle,’ said Isilia softly. ‘I think she was genuinely fond of Deblunville when she beguiled him into taking her to the altar.’
‘But this is good news,’ said Hamon, pleased. ‘It means Janelle is a widow.’
Dame Eva regarded him coldly. ‘Foolish boy! Do you think she will fall into your arms now Deblunville is dead? Had she wanted you, she would have accepted you when you offered yourself at Yuletide. And you should curb your unseemly delight at Deblunville’s death, or there will be rumours that you did it.’
‘But I did not!’ cried Hamon, alarmed. ‘I did not even see him last night.’
‘That is a curious thing to say,’ pounced Dame Eva, fixing him with a wary look. ‘Why should you see him last night? What were you doing while Christian folk slept?’
‘Nothing,’ said Hamon guiltily, realising too late the implication of his words.
Tuddenham stepped between his mother and his nephew. ‘We will not discuss this matter here. However Deblunville met his death, there will be no celebration in Grundisburgh. I will not have the Sheriff told that there are people here who delight in my neighbour’s demise.’
‘So, Padfoot had Deblunville after all,’ said Dame Eva,
more in awe than malice. ‘I told you no one escapes a vile fate after setting eyes on Padfoot, and I was right. Deblunville may not have been the corpse on the gibbet, but Padfoot had him in the end, regardless.’
‘We found that corpse, too,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is in the shepherd’s hut near Barchester, where someone has been trying to incinerate it.’
‘How do you know all this?’ asked Tuddenham, suddenly suspicious. ‘You say you saw Deblunville dead, and now you announce that you have found the body of the hanged man. Brother Michael told me you were praying for Mistress Freeman last night, but now I discover you were roaming half the county under cover of darkness. What were you doing?’
It was a question Bartholomew had hoped would not be asked, and it was one he did not know how to answer. He hesitated.
‘He was looking for sea urchins,’ said Deynman defensively, fiercely protective of his tutor. He fingered the small dagger in his belt, and Bartholomew saw that Cynric was doing the same.
‘Sea urchins?’ echoed Tuddenham, bewildered. ‘Just how far
did you
roam last night?’
‘Sea wormwood,’ corrected Bartholomew, relieved that at least someone had his wits about him. He opened his bag, and showed Tuddenham the bunch he had picked. ‘It is good for worms and diseases of the liver.’
‘There is no truth in these tales about the golden calf, you know,’ said Tuddenham abruptly. ‘So there is no point in you digging up my fields to look for it, while pretending to pick flowers.’
For a man who had been keen to know whether Cynric had discovered anything when he had dug Unwin’s grave, Tuddenham’s denial of the possibility that the golden calf existed was revealing. Was it he who had killed Deblunville, Bartholomew wondered, as, like Hamon, he supervised his
villagers in their nightly searches of his neighbours’ lands? Was a sleepless night the real reason why he looked so weary that morning and not his encroaching illness at all?
‘I can assure you that the golden calf could not have been further from my mind,’ said Bartholomew, resenting the implication that he was a thief. ‘These leaves are far more valuable to me than some idolatrous ornament!’
‘It is not wise to wander from the safety of our parish in the dead of night,’ said Isilia reprovingly. ‘And you promised us at Unwin’s funeral that you would stay away from Barchester. It is no place for honest folk.’
Dame Eva agreed. ‘Not as long as Padfoot sees fit to haunt our paths and woodlands.’
‘But why not collect your herb during the day, anyway?’ pressed Hamon suspiciously. ‘Why steal about during the night looking for it, like a criminal?’
‘Collecting it on a moonless night increases its efficacy,’ said Bartholomew, feeling the colour mount in his cheeks as it always did when he told brazen lies.
‘Hamon,’ admonished Tuddenham mildly, assuming Bartholomew’s sudden redness was because he had been insulted. ‘You are not my heir yet, and you have no right to assail my guests with unpleasant accusations.’
‘He will never be your heir,’ said Isilia, clutching at Dame Eva’s arm for moral support. Her chin jutted defiantly. ‘My child will inherit before him.’
‘Yes, I know,’ said Tuddenham wearily. ‘But not until I am dead and gone. So, Bartholomew, you say you have your hanged man back at last. Who is he, do you know?’
Bartholomew shook his head. ‘But the fact that someone is so intent on disposing of his remains suggests that he was murdered.’
‘Deblunville said the clothes worn by the hanged man were stolen from him,’ said Tuddenham thoughtfully, ‘and
so it seems to me that Deblunville took the law into his own hands, and had the man executed for theft. Now Deblunville is dead, there is nothing more to be done. Later today I will send Siric to bring the remains here, to be buried decently in the churchyard.’
‘Is that it?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘The affair is closed without any further questions?’
‘Yes,’ said Tuddenham. ‘Deblunville killed your hanged man, and Deblunville is dead. There is an end to the matter.’
His determined look suggested that Bartholomew would be wise to drop the subject. Confused and angered by Tuddenham’s callous dismissal of the hanged man’s fate, Bartholomew trailed along The Street in search of Michael.
He was surprised to find the Half Moon in chaos. Eltisley’s sullen customers ran this way and that, while Eltisley himself stood in the middle of his courtyard looking like a lost child. There were dark patches on his clothes and his hair appeared to be singed. Bartholomew supposed that his appearance had something to do with the flames that had spurted from his workshop the previous evening.
‘There you are,’ said Michael, emerging from the tavern and wiping the remains of breakfast from his mouth. He looked Bartholomew up and down, taking in his sodden, mud-splattered clothes. ‘What have you been doing?’
‘Collecting sea wormwood,’ said Bartholomew, brandishing his bunch at Michael. ‘Tuddenham told me Alcote was attacked last night. Is that what all this fuss is about?’
Michael dabbed at his lips with his sleeve. ‘Have you seen that fine piece of linen, which that nice landlord of the Dog gave me? It seems to have disappeared – along with a sizeable piece of beef from Master Eltisley’s kitchen. That is what all this commotion is for – Eltisley is looking for it.’
‘I see,’ said Bartholomew.
‘I am sure you do,’ said Michael, regarding him expressionlessly. ‘This could not be anything to do with Mother Goodman’s charm against Padfoot, could it? Stealing a piece of beef and wrapping it in a white cloth at midnight?’ Bartholomew shot him a guilty look and Michael sighed. ‘If you had told me, Matt, I might have been able to help.’
‘Would you?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I assumed you would dismiss it as witchcraft.’
‘Well, so it is, but that is not to say that I would not have gone along with it to see Cynric restored to his usual self. You could have trusted me!’
‘I am sorry. But how did you guess what we were doing?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.
‘Deynman interrogated Mother Goodman about it mercilessly last night, and it did not take a genius to guess what had transformed Cynric from a man doomed to a man with a purpose. I assume it worked, then? My piece of linen was sacrificed for a good cause.’
‘Cynric believes he is free of the curse, and that is what matters. But aside from stealing from my friends and dabbling in pagan rituals, I have had a busy night.’
He took Michael’s arm and led him to stand under the eaves of the tavern, out of the drizzle, while he told the monk about Deblunville and the hanged man, and of the reaction of Tuddenham’s family to the news. Michael listened carefully, without interruption, until he had finished.
‘Perhaps Tuddenham is right,’ he said. ‘If Janelle stole Deblunville’s clothes as a gift for her father, and someone else found them by chance, it is entirely possible that Deblunville hanged the poor fellow for theft. Then, realising perhaps that the man was innocent, he suddenly found himself with a corpse to dispose of, if he wanted his mistake to remain hidden.’