Authors: Susanna Gregory
Tags: #Mystery, #Historical, #blt, #rt, #Cambridge, #England, #Medieval, #Clergy
‘It is not a domestic animal,’ she said, as though he was
stupid. ‘It is Padfoot – a ghostly vision that appears to people when they are about to die.’
Bartholomew stared at her, suddenly recalling what the hanged man had whispered with his dying breath: ‘Padfoot’. At the time he had not understood, and had even thought he might have misheard. But it made sense now – or at least, it explained what the man had said. He sighed, and wondered how to excuse himself so that he could return to his vigil. Chatting to the village midwife about spectral hounds and cures for colic would not be doing Unwin much good, and Father William would be outraged if he discovered how the physician had spent his time – although, Bartholomew thought wryly, he could always point out that at least
he
had not fallen asleep.
‘You do not know the story,’ she said, ‘or you would not be so indifferent. Padfoot is a big white dog that appears to people before something dreadful happens. Deblunville saw it, and that is why none of us were surprised when we heard he had been hanged up at the gibbet. James Freeman the butcher saw it, too, and two days later he was dead of a cut throat.’
‘Tuddenham said that was suicide.’
Mother Goodman shook her head. ‘James Freeman had no reason to kill himself. He was newly wed, and he had just inherited his Father’s business. But Padfoot came to him, and two days later he was discovered in his own slaughterhouse with his neck slashed like one of the pigs he used to dispatch. Poor Dame Eva found him when she went to buy pork, and was lucky that Tobias Eltisley – the landlord of the Half Moon – heard her cries for help. Our priest, Walter Wauncy, said the great pools of blood and the stained knife were the vilest things he had ever seen.’
‘Did you lay him out?’
She shook her head. ‘His head was almost severed from his body, according to Master Eltisley. I saw his clothes, though,
drenched right through with blood. It was a terrible business, and I am glad I did not have to tend his corpse.’
‘I thought you would have been used to such sights.’
She looked surprised. ‘This is a peaceful village, and we seldom have violent deaths. Because James Freeman’s body was so mutilated, Master Eltisley kindly made a special coffin – he likes to make things – and closed it before Freeman’s wife could see what had happened to her man. But for all his efforts, it dripped blood all the way from the slaughterhouse to the church.’ She shuddered.
‘So James Freeman was murdered,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Someone broke into his slaughterhouse and killed him.’
She gave him a mysterious look. ‘It was no earthly hand that took his life: it was a demon’s, directed by Padfoot. And we all knew James Freeman was a doomed man from the moment he set eyes on the white dog.’
‘Are you sure it was not simple fear, and Freeman took his own life?’ asked Bartholomew.
She took a deep breath, offended. ‘I can see you place no faith in our stories. Well, that is your prerogative. But James Freeman ended up as dead as every other soul who sets eyes on Padfoot. Alice Quy was another. I did all I could for her, but she went to old Padfoot just the same.’
‘She was the woman who died of childbirth fever?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘That is what Tuddenham told you, was it? Well, physician, how many women have you known to die of childbirth fever when the infant is six months old?’
‘She was not bled, was she?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘That is not always good for people, and can cause them to die unexpectedly.’
‘Stoate came nowhere near her, and I do not bleed people. All she took was a potion Master Eltisley made to ease her pain. She could not afford any of Stoate’s remedies.’
‘A potion of what?’ asked Bartholomew suspiciously. ‘Eltisley
is not a physician or an apothecary. You should not dispense his cures to people, just because they cannot afford to buy real ones. They might do more harm than good.’
‘They always work better than anything Stoate prescribes,’ said Mother Goodman defensively. ‘I take Eltisley’s potions myself daily. He is very good – and his tonic made of she – goat urine for the stomach is marvellous. Most of the villagers take it. You must have noticed how healthy we are, compared to others around here.’
Bartholomew had indeed noticed that most people seemed fit and well.
‘But we are digressing,’ said Mother Goodman. ‘Alice Quy died with Padfoot’s name on her lips. She said he was in the doorway, waiting to drag her down to hell in his gaping jaws.’
‘She must have been delirious,’ said Bartholomew. ‘People do ramble when they are in the grip of fatal fevers.’
‘She died because she saw the white dog,’ said Mother Goodman firmly. ‘And any man, woman or child in the village will tell you the same.’ She peered into his face as he took a sudden sharp breath. ‘What is the matter? You have not seen a big white dog, have you?’
‘Not me,’ said Bartholomew, slightly unsteadily as he recalled with sudden clarity something else that had happened. ‘But Unwin did. He said he saw it moving in the woods at the deserted village of Barchester, just before we arrived here.’
A handful of parishioners came to celebrate prime with the cadaverous Walter Wauncy, many of them shooting curious glances at the sheeted figure of Unwin, and at Bartholomew kneeling next to it. Not long after the last of them had left, the latch clanked again and Deynman arrived, bringing with him the white-faced Horsey. Bartholomew was reluctant to leave the grieving student with the body of his friend,
but Horsey insisted that he be allowed to perform this final service for Unwin, and Deynman, unusually subdued and attentive to his fellow student, promised not to leave him alone.
Grateful to be away from the hushed atmosphere of death and bereavement, Bartholomew strode across the village green to the Half Moon, intending to join the rest of his colleagues for breakfast. The tavern was occupied only by the surly men, who ate a silent meal of thick oatmeal and watered ale while Eltisley bustled around his domain importantly. The landlord informed Bartholomew that Tuddenham had summoned the other scholars at daybreak to begin work on the advowson. When one of the men favoured Bartholomew with a hostile glower as he accidentally knocked a wooden plate from a table as he passed, causing it to clatter noisily to the floor, he decided to forgo breakfast in the unfriendly atmosphere of the Half Moon, and walk to Wergen Hall instead.
It was a glorious morning, and he enjoyed the stroll through the woods to Tuddenham’s manor house, although the day was already warm and the exercise made him hot and sticky. When he arrived he found Alcote sitting at the table in the window, surrounded with deeds and writs, while Michael and William reclined near the hearth, devouring what was probably their second breakfast of the day. Alcote still seemed pale to Bartholomew, although breadcrumbs on his habit suggested that his stomach pains of the night before had not prevented him from enjoying someone’s hospitality.
‘I should begin an investigation into the murder of Unwin today,’ said Michael, wiping his lips on his sleeve and reaching for another piece of bread.
‘No,’ said Tuddenham sharply. ‘I will deal with that. You work on my advowson.’
‘Let him investigate, Sir Thomas,’ said Alcote. ‘I am more
than capable of drafting an advowson by myself, and I would feel safer knowing that he and Bartholomew are hunting down this ruthless killer of poor Unwin.’
‘And me,’ said William eagerly. ‘I will solve this case, too.’
‘Lord help us!’ muttered Michael. ‘With Master Diplomacy dogging our every move, we will never catch the murderer.’
Alcote cleared his throat nervously. ‘I would like you to remain with me, William – there are documents that need to be transcribed.’ Michael and Bartholomew gazed at him in astonishment – no one willingly spent time in William’s company, and his scribing skills were mediocre at best – and the Senior Fellow hastened to explain. ‘The truth is that I would feel ‘happier knowing that Michael is putting his skills and experience to good use without hindrance from William. I do not feel safe with a killer roaming, unchecked in the village, and I want him caught.’
‘Are you suggesting I am not up to the task?’ demanded William huffily.
Alcote shook his head. ‘Not at all, but you have the physique of a wrestler, and your robes are thick with the filth of poverty; I am more delicate, and my garments indicate that I am a man of some standing. The killer will be more likely to strike at me than you, so it is in my interests to have you here to protect me, while Michael and Matthew look into Unwin’s death.’
‘But there is no suggestion that Unwin’s death was anything other than an isolated incident,’ said Tuddenham, peeved. ‘You make it sound as though someone plans to dispense with the whole lot of you.’
‘I am not interested in the whole lot of us, only in me,’ snapped Alcote, brutally honest. ‘I am the wealthiest person here, and the one who will be doing most of the work on the advowson. Therefore, I am also the most vulnerable.’
‘No one else will die,’ said Tuddenham firmly. ‘I plan to begin my own investigation this morning with my steward,
Siric. In fact, Siric is already in the village, asking questions and ferreting out information. He will send any promising witnesses to me here, at Wergen Hall, so that I can question them myself.’
‘Good,’ said Michael. ‘But Unwin was a friar, and his death must also be explored by an agent of the Church, like me. You have no problem with me initiating my own enquiries?’
Tuddenham clicked his tongue in annoyance. ‘I can assure you, Brother, that is wholly unnecessary. I will have whoever did this dreadful thing behind bars within a couple of days. That I can promise you.’
‘I am sure you will,’ said Michael in a placatory tone. ‘But the chances of success will be greatly improved with two of us working on it.’
‘Perhaps,’ conceded Tuddenham reluctantly. ‘But what about my advowson, not to mention the fact that there is also my will to be written.’
‘All that is under control, Sir Thomas,’ said Alcote. ‘I will be able to work far more quickly on my own anyway, than with the others distracting me with their silly questions and careless mistakes.’
‘I do not make mistakes,’ said Michael indignantly.
‘You do,’ said Alcote. ‘Writing an advowson is a complex business, and it cannot be rushed. Since this one will give Michaelhouse the living of Grundisburgh church “for ever”, it needs to be drafted with care, and with considerable attention to detail. You are too impatient, Brother. Sir Thomas would do better to place me in charge of it, while you go away and do what you are best fitted for – chasing criminals.’
Tuddenham raised his hand to prevent Michael’s outraged retort. ‘Very well, then. But you will be wasting your time investigating this crime, Brother. I will have the culprit before you know it.’
Leaving Alcote and a resentful William to their deeds and documents, Bartholomew and Michael walked back through
the woods toward the village. Bartholomew was concerned that Alcote was prepared to take all the responsibility for the advowson, afraid that he might not be fully recovered from his sickness of the night before.
‘There is nothing wrong with him,’ said Michael dismissively. ‘He is relishing the opportunity to present himself as indispensable and important. You see how he has convinced Tuddenham that
he
is the only man competent to write this advowson.’
‘That is fine with me,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I have no interest in spending days on end working on the thing. But that does not mean to say that I feel comfortable leaving Alcote to do all our work.’
They had not travelled far when they met Dame Eva and Isilia, who had been for a stroll in the sunshine. Dame Eva leaned heavily on Isilia’s arm, and inched along at a stately pace that must have been frustrating to a young, healthy woman like Isilia. But Isilia was gently patient, and gave no indication that she would rather be doing something more invigorating. When she saw Bartholomew and Michael, her face broke into a beam of pleasure and the physician felt his heart melt.
‘Any news?’ asked Dame Eva, her faded blue eyes anxious. ‘Has my son found the killer of that poor young friar yet?’
Isilia’s smile dimmed when Barthlomew shook his head. ‘Thomas has been up since before dawn, talking with Siric about how best to catch the murderer. Do not worry: the vile fiend will not escape him.’
‘I am shocked that such wickedness should be perpetrated in the church, so near to where my husband lies buried,’ said Dame Eva. ‘But you two look tired. You doubtless slept badly last night after the shock of finding your friend dead. I know there is nothing I can say to lessen your distress, but if there is anything we can do to help, you must not hesitate to ask.’
‘Thank you,’ said Bartholomew, touched by her concern.
‘How do you like the Half Moon?’ asked Isilia. ‘It was my idea you should move. I thought you would be more comfortable in a tavern, than fighting with the servants for places near the fire at Wergen Hall. I told Eltisley to spare no expense to make your stay a pleasant one. Poor Eltisley is rather eccentric, but he means well, and will take his obligations seriously.’ She smiled again, and Bartholomew found he liked the way glints of laughter showed in the depths of her green eyes.
‘And he has,’ said Michael. ‘He has been a most generous host.’
‘Mother Goodman mentioned that you said Unwin saw a white dog near Barchester,’ said Dame Eva, changing the subject. ‘Is that true?’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘No one else did, but Unwin spotted it moving in the trees.’
Dame Eva and Isilia exchanged a look. ‘There,’ said the old lady. ‘What did I tell you? The poor boy saw Padfoot, and now he lies in his coffin. It was the same with James Freeman and Alice Quy – both saw Padfoot and both were dead within days.’
‘But you also said that Deblunville spotted this ghostly hound, yet he is still hale and hearty,’ Michael pointed out, determined not to let an inconsistency in their superstitions go unremarked.
‘You wait and see,’ said Isilia. ‘It will not be long before Padfoot comes to claim what is his.’