Authors: Susanna Gregory
Tags: #Mystery, #Historical, #blt, #rt, #Cambridge, #England, #Medieval, #Clergy
Bartholomew nodded slowly. Pliny’s
Historia Naturalis
did indeed recommend the inhalation of pennyroyal and mint infused in vinegar as a remedy for fainting. His anger towards
Stoate dissipated to a certain extent; he had prescribed ointments and salves himself, and patients had later complained that they tasted unpleasant or had made them sick. However, he had learned from his experiences, and never left people with potentially dangerous medicines until he was certain they understood what they were to do with them. And Stoate, Bartholomew thought, should have done the same with Janelle. But Stoate’s casual attitude towards dangerous herbs did not explain why he was skulking in the woods so early in the morning.
‘What were you doing here anyway?’ he asked. ‘A man of your station should not be grubbing around in trees in the dark.’
‘Unlike you, you mean?’ retorted Stoate. He relented suddenly, and smiled. ‘I suppose it does look odd, but I can assure you I was doing nothing untoward. I am just going to visit Tuddenham.’
‘At this time of day? And why the secrecy?’
‘He does not want anyone to know,’ said Stoate mysteriously.
‘Know what?’ Bartholomew was tired from his eventful night, and his patience was beginning to wear thin.
‘Come with me, and I will show you.’
Bartholomew hesitated, not wanting to be party to any more secrets – particularly ones that necessitated hiding in bushes before sunrise – but Stoate was insistent, piquing Bartholomew’s interest by hinting it was a medical matter. With Cynric trailing behind like a mourner at a funeral, Stoate led the way along a little-used path that ran behind the village, and up the hill to Wergen Hall. It was in darkness, but Stoate tapped three times, very softly, on one of the window shutters, and within moments the door was opened. Siric, Tuddenham’s faithful steward, stood there.
‘You are late,’ he mumbled to Stoate. His eyes narrowed
when he saw Bartholomew and Cynric. ‘What are they doing here?’
‘I brought them,’ whispered Stoate. ‘It would be good to have Doctor Bartholomew’s opinion.’
‘Are you mad?’ hissed Siric furiously. ‘Sir Thomas will never allow it!’
‘He would be a fool to refuse,’ Stoate snapped back.
He elbowed his way past Siric, and beckoned for Bartholomew to follow, while Cynric waited by the embers of the fire in the hall. Stoate made his way stealthily up the spiral stairs and headed for the upper chambers. He listened carefully, before opening a door and slipping inside, pulling Bartholomew after him. Siric remained outside, evidently keeping watch. Their movements were so practised that Bartholomew could only suppose that they had been going through the same routine for weeks, if not longer.
‘What is he doing here?’ demanded Tuddenham hoarsely from the large bed that almost filled the room. ‘For God’s sake, Stoate! What are you thinking of?’
Stoate raised an imperious hand. ‘I met Bartholomew on my way here, and it occurred to me that it might be wise for you to draw on his expertise as well as my own.’
‘But if news of this seeps out…’
‘Physicians are known for their discretion,’ interrupted Stoate smoothly. ‘You can trust Bartholomew, as you can trust me.’
‘But I cannot trust you, it seems! You promised me you would never tell a living soul about this, and now you bring one of the Michaelhouse scholars to see me. It could ruin everything!’
Bartholomew looked from one to the other in confusion. ‘Master Stoate has told me nothing,’ he said. ‘And if you do not want me to be here, I will leave.’
‘Stay,’ said Tuddenham, leaning back against the pillows wearily. ‘Speculation about what you have seen will do far
more damage than hearing the truth. Well, come on then, man, examine me. I imagine that Stoate brought you here so that you can tell me what he dares not utter himself. You are a damned coward, Stoate, with your false cheer.’
Thus admonished, Stoate busied himself by inspecting the flask of urine that Tuddenham had provided, studiously avoiding the knight’s eyes. Bewildered, Bartholomew went to sit on the bed, taking Tuddenham’s hands in his to feel their temperature. He was surprised he had not noticed before, but there seemed to be a tautness about the skin of the face and a dullness about the hair that did not signify good health. Hoping his own hands were not too cold, he began his examination. There was a hard lump the size of an apple under the skin of Tuddenham’s stomach.
‘How long have you had this?’ he asked, pulling the night-shirt down and sitting back.
‘I noticed it at Christmas. It has been growing steadily larger and more painful ever since. Stoate tells me I will live to be an old man yet. What do you say, Bartholomew?’
Bartholomew glanced at Stoate, who was still holding the urine up to the light and refusing to look at anyone. Tuddenham gave a sharp laugh.
‘Are you afraid to contradict the opinion of a colleague? Or are you afraid to tell the truth?’
‘Neither,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Despite Master Stoate’s attempts to cheer you, you seem to know the truth anyway.’
I did not want him to give up,’ said Stoate, lowering the flask and looking at Bartholomew defiantly. ‘In my experience, telling a patient he will die simply hastens his end – he loses the will to live and gives up on life.’
There was more than a grain of truth in Stoate’s reasoning. Bartholomew had seen many patients give up the ghost when they might have lived longer: it was certainly true of Cynric, sitting shrouded in gloom in the hall downstairs. But it made
no sense to use such tactics on Tuddenham, who had already guessed the seriousness of his condition. He looked back to the knight, who was still waiting for his answer.
‘A few months,’ he said. ‘No longer.’
‘Will I live to be a father? The child should be born in November.’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew.
Tuddenham stared at him for a moment, and then took a deep breath. After a moment he smiled sadly. ‘What a pair you two make! One too frightened to tell me I am ill; the other so brutal in his honesty. Somewhere in between might have been more pleasant.’
‘I am sorry,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But you are lucky to be expecting a child, Sir Thomas. This disease often brings infertility.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Tuddenham bitterly. ‘I am lucky indeed! I would have been luckier still if I could have had my first sons with me now, but the Death took them. I survived that, only to die of this insidious disease that is rotting my flesh, even as I live and breathe.’
Bartholomew turned to Stoate. ‘What are you doing for him?’
‘A potion of three grains of foxglove, mixed with wine and honey. I bring it each morning, so that Sir Thomas can pass the day without too much pain, and without anyone knowing of his condition.’ He shrugged. ‘I was considering sending him to Ipswich for surgery.’
‘It is too late for surgery,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is very little you can do now. I would recommend you use poppy seeds, rather than foxglove, but you will need to increase the dose as time passes.’ He looked at Tuddenham. ‘And your family do not know?’
‘No one knows,’ said Tuddenham. ‘Just Stoate, Siric and now you. Even Wauncy does not know.’ He gave a soft laugh, a rustle at the back of his throat. ‘It is ironic –
Wauncy looks like a walking corpse, yet it is I who am mortally sick.’
‘They will find out,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You will not be able to hide it from them for much longer.’
‘I will keep it from them as long as I can,’ said Tuddenham. ‘I do not want to worry Isilia yet, and it will only give Hamon and Dame Eva something else to argue about. You will not tell them, will you?’ He gripped Bartholomew’s hand hard.
‘Of course not.’
Tuddenham relaxed. ‘Good. You see, Bartholomew, one of the things I am bargaining for with that crafty Alcote is the provision of a mass priest to pray for my soul when I am dead. His stipend will be paid for out of the money Michaelhouse will make from the living of the church. Alcote may not agree to that condition if he thinks Michaelhouse will have to start paying at the end of the summer, and not in twenty years’ time.’
Bartholomew smiled. ‘He will not discover any of this from me. And anyway, our rates for masses are not quite so high as those of Master Wauncy.’
Tuddenham smiled faintly. ‘Thank you. Now, give me my medicine, Stoate. And tomorrow I will have poppy, not foxglove.’
Bartholomew collected Cynric from the hall, and headed for the Half Moon, relieved to be away from a consultation for once. There were aspects of his trade that he did not enjoy, and breaking that kind of news to a patient was one of them. With Cynric trailing listlessly behind him, he walked down the path to the village.
‘Matt!’ cried Michael, running down The Street as fast as his plump legs would carry him. ‘Where have you been? You are covered in mud! And what is wrong with Cynric? He looks as though he has seen a ghost.’
Cynric groaned and put his hands over his face, while
Bartholomew told the monk what had happened. Michael took a deep, unsteady breath.
‘I am sorry, Matt. This is all my fault! I urged you to go with Grosnold when I should have seen it was not safe, even with Cynric. And things are not much better here. Tuddenham has arrested Eltisley for the killing of Unwin, and has him locked in the cellar at Wergen Hall. And I went to see Mistress Freeman yesterday, as I told you I would, only someone had been to see her first, and she lies dead in the church with her throat cut, just like her husband!’
T
HE BODY OF MISTRESS FREEMAN LAY IN THE SAME
parish coffin that had been used for Unwin. Mother Goodman was fussing over the corpse, cursing under her breath when the cloth she had tied around the woman’s throat did not succeed in hiding the gaping gash from view. Bartholomew had inspected the wound while the midwife washed the rest of the body. It was an ugly cut that sliced through the muscles of the neck, exposing the yellow-white of the pipes underneath. Judging from the marks on her arms and hands, and the chaos that Michael had reported in her house, Mistress Freeman had put up something of a fight.
‘Do you think her neighbours might have seen or heard something?’ asked Bartholomew of Michael, as they stood together in the nave watching Mother Goodman work.
Michael shook his head. ‘Very conveniently for her killer, the butcher’s property stands alone on the outskirts of Grundisburgh – on the river, so that the blood and offal can be washed downstream and away from the village.’
‘That is unusually courteous,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Butchers do not often concern themselves about such matters. Of course, the river then flows on through Hasketon, so I suppose Freeman could rest contented that he was probably poisoning someone. So, the neighbours did not report anything untoward, then?’
‘No,’ said Michael. ‘Although I would not expect him to say so if he had heard anything. Her nearest neighbour is none other than our good friend, the pardoner.’
‘Norys?’ asked Bartholomew. He frowned. ‘I suppose you consider that evidence of his guilt?’
‘Of course,’ said Michael. ‘Particularly since he still has not returned from Ipswich. I knew we should not have let him remain at large. He has absconded, just as I guessed he would if we did not tell Tuddenham to arrest him immediately.’
‘But if he has been in Ipswich since we spoke to him, then he could not have killed Mistress Freeman,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘He would not have been here.’
‘She was last seen by her friends early Wednesday morning,’ said Michael immediately, clearly having worked it all out. ‘That was
before
we went to speak to Will Norys. She was supposed to change the church flowers after nones that same day, but failed to arrive. Wauncy – who remembers the time because he had just delivered the documents he had collected from Ipswich to Alcote at Wergen Hall-assumed she had forgotten, and asked someone else to do it instead.’
‘He should have known something was wrong right then,’ announced Mother Goodman, who had been listening. ‘Mistress Freeman loved to arrange the church flowers and never missed her turn. That she did not come should have warned Wauncy that something was amiss.’
‘Well, it did not,’ said Michael, none too pleased at being interrupted by the forceful midwife. ‘And no one thought to look for her until I found her yesterday – Friday – at about noon. I am no medical man, but even I could see she had been dead for at least a couple of days, and not just a few hours. I am getting better at this kind of thing, Matt; I will have no need of your services soon.’
‘Good,’ said Bartholomew with feeling. ‘My business is with the living, not the dead, and I would be delighted if you did not call on me to pore over corpses.’
‘Corpses demand every bit as much respect as the living,’
put in Mother Goodman haughtily from the coffin. ‘More so, since they are already gone the way we will soon go.’
‘She is a cheery soul,’ muttered Michael, regarding the midwife coolly. ‘But, as I was saying, Mistress Freeman was probably killed on Wednesday. She was last seen a short time before we spoke to Norys, and then no one saw her until I found her yesterday. Meanwhile, Norys has been missing since just after we questioned him. He must have paid a visit to Mistress Freeman as soon as we had gone, killed her, and then absconded.’
‘But Norys wanted us to talk to Mistress Freeman,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He believed she would prove his innocence. Why should he kill her?’
‘Because she refused to lie for him,’ said Michael promptly. ‘I imagine he went to see her the moment we left, and told her what she had to say to us. Then, when she refused to back him in his falsehood, he slashed her throat.’
The speed with which Michael’s answers came suggested to Bartholomew that he must have spent the better part of the previous night mulling over the evidence and thinking of ways to convince himself of the pardoner’s guilt. Michael claimed to have spent the time with William and Deynman, fretting over Bartholomew’s failure to return. They had been saddling up to search for him when he and Cynric had arrived back again.
‘So, you think Will Norys killed Unwin
and
Mistress Freeman?’ asked Mother Goodman, looking up from her work and addressing Michael. ‘Master Norys is a popular man in the village, and has never been involved in anything like this before.’
‘He is a pardoner,’ said Michael, as if that explained all. ‘Anyway, we have evidence: Norys was seen running from the church at about the time Unwin was murdered.’
‘Stoate saw someone wearing a long cloak,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He did not say it was Norys.’
‘And Norys, very conveniently, also claims to have seen someone running from the church,’ said Michael, not to be outdone. ‘Only his someone was wearing a
short
cloak. And the rascal said he was talking with Mistress Freeman at about the time that Stoate said he was doing the same.’
‘I saw them,’ said Mother Goodman unexpectedly. ‘Both of them.’
‘You mean figures with long and short cloaks running from the church?’ asked Michael, bewildered. ‘You might have mentioned this earlier.’
‘No, not them,’ said Mother Goodman impatiently. ‘Stoate and Norys. I saw Norys walking Mistress Freeman around the churchyard – he is fond of her – and then I saw her speaking to Stoate by the ford just after the feast started.’
‘She cannot have been in two places at the same time,’ said Michael, unconvinced.
‘She need not have been,’ said Bartholomew, thinking quickly. ‘Perhaps she walked around the churchyard with Norys, and then stopped to talk to Stoate after Norys had left her.’
‘Yes,’ said Michael, eyes narrowing. ‘So, Norys escorts Mistress Freeman around the churchyard, sees Unwin go inside alone, and decides to rob him.’
‘But the blood we found by the buttress, and the fact that Unwin was moved after he died, suggests he was killed
outside
the church,’ Bartholomew pointed out.
Michael pursed his lips impatiently. ‘Then he must have seduced Unwin out of the church, and carried him back inside again after he was dead.’
‘Without anyone seeing?’ asked Bartholomew incredulously.
‘Unwin was not heavy. His killer could have moved him by draping one of Unwin’s arms over his shoulder and carrying him – from a distance they would look like a pair of revellers the worse for drink. But, as I was saying, after Norys sees
Unwin alone in the church and decides to murder him for his purse, he leaves Mistress Freeman by the ford, dons his long cloak to hide his clothes, and stabs Unwin. He then hauls the body back inside
the
church to keep it hidden long enough to make good his escape. Mistress Freeman and Stoate spot him running from the church in his long cloak, and Norys kills her when she will not lie and tell us he was with her all day.’
‘It is possible, I suppose,’ said Bartholomew reluctantly.
‘It is more than possible,’ said Michael keenly. ‘It makes perfect sense. And Norys has now fled the scene of his crime, and is in hiding somewhere.’
‘He would not leave his cats for long,’ said Mother Goodman. ‘He adores cats. If it were not for them, I think he would have offered to marry Mistress Freeman when her mourning was over.’
‘Why should cats prevent him from making a lonely widow happy?’ asked Michael, puzzled.
‘Mistress Freeman did not like cats,’ said Mother Goodman. ‘Some people do not, although they provide good protection against Padfoot. He will not come where there are cats, because they hiss at him, and Padfoot does not like to be hissed at.’
‘Who does?’ said Michael.
‘Norys loves animals, especially cats. He gives me their urine for treating warts.’
‘Most generous of him,’ said Michael, taking Bartholomew’s arm and leading him outside so that he could expound his theories without the midwife offering her opinions. ‘You must excuse us, madam. We have business to attend.’
A low wall surrounded the churchyard, mainly to act as a barrier to keep out the pigs, cows and sheep that wandered freely through the village. Bartholomew sat on it, and looked out across the green. The scene was peaceful,
with a robin singing sweetly from the top of one of the willow trees and a duck waddling toward the ford with a clutch of fluffy yellow chicks strewn out behind her. The gentle bubble of the stream, slightly swollen from the rains of the previous day, was almost drowned out by the raucous caw of rooks from the elms behind the church.
Michael sat next to him, stretching his fat legs to display a pair of pallid ankles. Bartholomew rubbed a hand through his hair, still wet from where he had washed the mud from it. He had donned his spare tabard and Cynric was supposed to be cleaning the one he usually wore, although the physician was not sure that his book-bearer would do a particularly good job given his preoccupation with his impending death. He dragged his thoughts away from Cynric’s predicament, and considered Michael’s unseemly determination to have the pardoner convicted of murder.
‘Maybe Stoate did it,’ he said, trying to consider all possibilities, and not just the one Michael had adopted with unnatural passion. ‘He might have killed Unwin, run from the church, and then stopped to talk to Mistress Freeman at the ford.’
‘Oh, that sounds very likely,’ said Michael caustically. ‘He would have been drenched in blood, and you are suggesting that he paused in his bid for escape to exchange pleasantries with the butcher’s widow? “Good evening, Mistress Freeman. And how are you today? Do not mind the fact that I am covered in blood; it has nothing to do with the dead priest in the church, you understand, and you will be used to a little gore, being the wife of a butcher.” I do not think so, Matt!’
Bartholomew tipped his head back and looked up at the leaves of the elms shivering in the morning breeze. ‘You are too fixed on Norys’s guilt.’
‘Because he is the most obvious suspect?’ asked Michael.
‘Well, your suggestion is ludicrous! Stoate is a wealthy man, and does not need to kill impoverished friars for their purses. Anyway, Stoate is not under suspicion: he told us what he saw because he was trying to be helpful.’
‘He is a dismal physician,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He should have made certain that Janelle knew not to drink the potion he prescribed; he gives purges that people do not need; and he treated inflamed eyes with sugar water!’
‘How disgraceful,’ said Michael dryly. ‘But it does not matter whether Stoate is a charlatan or the best physician in Suffolk: he could not have killed Unwin, because whoever did it would have been covered in blood – we know that because we saw it splattered outside the church.’
‘True,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And Stoate wore the same clothes when we met him at the tavern the evening Unwin died that he had worn all day – dark amber cotte and hose. I remember, because at the feast I saw him tossing a baby in the air and catching it again – well, actually he dropped it, which is why the incident stuck in my mind. I recall him in his yellow clothes quite clearly.’
‘And Norys had changed by the time we went to see him!’ Michael pounced triumphantly.
‘Yes, but we saw him two days later,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He was probably wearing his best clothes for the Fair, and is hardly likely to wear them to Ipswich market, too. And there is still the issue of Grosnold. Did Eltisley see him talking to Unwin in the churchyard or not?’
‘Grosnold’s reaction when you questioned him about it seemed odd,’ said Michael, scratching one of his chins. ‘Thus, I am inclined to believe it was he – or his men – who attacked you at Barchester to ensure you kept quiet about it. I cannot believe you were so rash as to tell Grosnold what Eltisley said he saw – especially given that we are talking about a murder here.’
‘I was running low on ideas,’ said Bartholomew tiredly.
‘To be honest, I expected there to be an innocent explanation of what Eltisley saw, and did not anticipate Grosnold denying it.’
‘Perhaps it was Grosnold who hired Norys to kill Unwin,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘So, our black knight slips back to Grundisburgh after his dramatic exit, for a secret meeting with Unwin. He found Unwin would not do what he wanted – whether it was working for peace as Bardolf believes, or becoming involved in the hunt for the golden calf – and paid Norys to dispatch him.’
‘Was there enough time for all this to have happened?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Eltisley said he saw Grosnold with Unwin moments after the end of the feast, and it was not too long after that when Horsey went in search of him. I would have thought it would take longer than that to hire a killer.’
‘We will go to Norys’s house and have a good look for bloodstained attire this morning,’ said Michael, ignoring the inconvenient question. ‘If Norys wore his best clothes to the Fair, he would not throw them away because they are spoiled – he would keep them and try to wash the stuff out. Pardoners are a mean breed, and do not waste fine garments just because they are bloodstained.’
‘There was probably a lot of blood when Mistress Freeman was killed, too,’ said Bartholomew, too tired to contest Michael’s gross generalisations. ‘Slit throats are invariably messy.’
‘This was,’ said Michael with a shudder. ‘I have seldom seen such a grisly sight. Blood was splashed up the walls, and there was not a piece of furniture that was not covered in it.’
It was not windy last night,’ said Bartholomew, gazing out across the green. ‘Sounds carry on quiet nights, and even though Mistress Freeman’s house is a fair distance from the nearest neighbour, I am surprised nothing was heard.’