A Wicked Deed (34 page)

‘And what about the cloak?’ asked Michael. ‘Who, but a pardoner, would own a long cloak?’

‘Many people, I expect,’ said Bartholomew. ‘This is not a poor village, and a number of people might be able to afford such a garment. In any case, perhaps the person who was seen running from the church was not the killer at all. It might have been some innocent who stumbled on the body and was too frightened to raise the alarm lest he be accused of the crime. It does not prove that Norys is Unwin’s murderer.’

‘Perhaps not, but it all adds up to a pretty good indication that Norys is involved in something untoward,’ said Michael. ‘And now he is missing. But we should let Sir Thomas go about his business, so that Eltisley can be released.’

‘Eltisley was freed as soon as I heard about this bundle,’ said Dame Eva from her wicker chair near the hearth. Tuddenham looked startled, and she shrugged. ‘I told you yesterday that I did not think Eltisley killed Unwin, Thomas. He was in his tavern all that day, serving ale to the villagers. There was no way he could have slipped out and murdered someone, without there being a riot by villagers demanding their drink. The Fair was in full swing when Unwin was murdered, remember?’

‘That sullen troop who are here for crop-weeding would have mutinied had Eltisley slipped away, even for a few moments,’ agreed Isilia. She cast Hamon a disgusted look. ‘I do not like them. They huddle over their ale in the Half Moon like a band of cut-throats, and have no place in a village like ours. They should not have been hired.’

‘They were the only men available for work,’ said Hamon defensively. ‘It is not easy to find labourers these days.’

‘So you hired a band of ale-swilling louts,’ said Dame Eva disdainfully. ‘Typical of you!’

‘What do you mean by that?’ demanded Hamon, looking belligerent.

Dame Eva shook a pitying head at him. ‘Only that Thomas is wrong to believe that you will make a good heir for his estates. My husband would never have agreed to leave them to you.’

‘Your husband is long dead, and has nothing to do with who inherits here,’ snapped Hamon. ‘And I do not know why you believe him to be such a fine man. He was a bully and a scoundrel!’

‘Hamon!’ exclaimed Tuddenham, shocked.

‘It is true!’ shouted Hamon, too angry to be silenced by his uncle’s displeasure. ‘We think our claim on Peche Hall is legitimate, but Wauncy tells me he is not certain of the authenticity of the deeds that prove it is ours. In his cups one night, he told me he thought they were forged by her noble husband.’ He glared unpleasantly at Dame Eva, while Wauncy, horrified at this indiscretion, turned even whiter than usual.

‘And is this how you think you can run our manors?’ asked the old lady in disgust. ‘By losing them on the word of a drunken priest? You are not fit to mention my husband’s name!’

‘He will not inherit, anyway,’ said Isilia, to soothe her. She patted her stomach, bulging under her dark green dress. ‘There will soon be children with a greater claim than his.’

Bartholomew thought she looked particularly beautiful that day, with her glossy hair tied in two thick plaits that hung down her back, and a delicate gold cross around her neck. Unlike poor Janelle, whose child made her sick and pale, Isilia bloomed with health and vitality.

‘Will you send a man to Ipswich to look for Norys again?’ Bartholomew asked Tuddenham, acutely embarrassed by the exchange, and keen to change the subject before Hamon revealed any more family skeletons.

‘He never was,’ whispered Dame Eva, gazing at Hamon in shock. ‘You are a liar!’

‘Siric has been twice already,’ said Tuddenham, relieved to be discussing something else. ‘But there was no trace of Norys. He must have left the country.’

‘Look at him,’ spat Hamon spitefully, pointing at the tanner. ‘Just look at his face, his eyes, his teeth, and tell me he is not your husband’s offspring.’

The tanner ducked his head down quickly, in a way that suggested that the identity of his natural father was already known to him. It was not known to Dame Eva, however, who stared at the tanner in mute disbelief.

‘Hamon,’ warned Tuddenham softly. ‘Your anger is making you rash. It is not only my mother you are offending with these accusations, but me, too. I have always treated you like a son, so please show me some respect. It is not respectful to accuse me of being a tanner’s brother.’

Finally ashamed, Hamon hung his head. Isilia went to kneel next to the old lady, whose wrinkled face glistened with silent tears, and put an arm around her thin shoulders. Dame Eva had been right, Bartholomew thought, as he watched them: Hamon was an ignorant lout.

‘Now, perhaps we can work on my advowson?’ asked Tuddenham, although his voice lacked its usual enthusiasm for the subject. He turned to smile wanly at Alcote.

‘I need to read and summarise these,’ Alcote said, gesturing at a pile of deeds and dipping thin fingers into the new dish of raisins. ‘I will work better and faster alone, without people looking over my shoulder and delaying me with stupid questions.’

This was a none too subtle dig at Wauncy, whose own interest in Tuddenham’s material possessions was driving Alcote to distraction.

‘All this is all taking a damnably long time,’ complained Tuddenham. ‘You arrived ten days ago, and the thing is still not written.’

‘It takes time to do properly,’ said Alcote pettishly. ‘You would not want me to rush it, and then discover in three years’ time that there is something we have overlooked that invalidates the whole transaction. This advowson is to last for ever, so we must ensure it is done correctly, no matter how keen we all are to have it finished in a hurry.’

As much as Bartholomew disliked Alcote, he knew the man was right: an important deed needed to be written with care if it were not to be overturned in a court of law at some later date. However, at the back of his mind was the nagging suspicion that Alcote’s care was not wholly altruistic, and that scraps of information were being carefully stored to be brought out later, when they could benefit him in some way – particularly financially.

‘I am going hunting,’ said Hamon, unfolding his arms and looking out of the window at the sun. ‘The last of the venison is finished and we should not slaughter any more of my pigs.’ He spoke bitterly, although Bartholomew could not imagine why. ‘Will you come, uncle?’

Tuddenham caught Bartholomew’s eye and hesitated. It was clear he was tempted, but it was also clear he knew it was not advisable, given his worsening physical condition.

‘I will remain here, and spend a little time with my wife,’ he said.

Isilia’s lovely face broke into a happy smile, and she took his hand in hers.

‘We can walk by the river,’ she said brightly. ‘Or pick elderflowers in the orchard.’ Her delight faded when she remembered the old lady sitting dejectedly by the fire. ‘No. We will stay here and work on Dame Eva’s tapestry. The light is good for needlework today.’

Tuddenham smiled gratefully, and they went to sit on either side of the old lady, bantering with each other to try to take her mind off Hamon’s thoughtless words. Bartholomew felt sorry for her, knowing that the elderly often looked back on days more golden in their thoughts than in reality. It had been cruel of Hamon to disillusion her.

‘Will you come hunting with me, Master Alcote?’ asked Hamon politely, apparently feeling remorse, and deciding that some relief from his guilty conscience might be gained by extending an invitation to the man who was working so hard for his uncle. ‘If we are lucky, we may catch a wild boar.’

‘I would,’ said Michael keenly. ‘But not today with Norys at large and insufficient evidence to prove his guilt. I should spend the day talking with your villagers, if you have no objection.’

Hamon shrugged indifferently, and went into the yard to prepare for the hunt. Horses wheeled and whinnied as they were brought from the stables, their shod feet clattering on the hard ground. Each man carried a bow and a long lance, as well as a quiver full of arrows. Hamon looked happier than he had been since Bartholomew had first met him. His hair shone in the sun, and his long teeth flashed white as he grinned at his uncle. Servants dashed this way and that, carrying cloaks, knives and saddles, while hounds bayed and circled, adding to the general mayhem.

Eventually, they were ready, and the horses streamed out of the courtyard with the servants running behind them. The last two hauled a cart on which the prey would be stacked if the hunt were successful. When they had gone, Isilia and Tuddenham walked slowly towards the bower near the house with Dame Eva between them. Isilia looked back and gave Bartholomew a cheerful wave and the smile of an angel.

‘You should not encourage her to do that,’ said Michael critically. ‘It is bad enough having Tuddenham thinking we are dragging our feet over this wretched deed, without you exchanging lecherous looks with his wife. Still, at least William is out of trouble.’

‘Why? What have you done with him?’

‘Here he comes now,’ said Michael. ‘You can ask him yourself.’

‘Good,’ said Michael, pleased by his diligence. ‘And what have you discovered?’

William’s self-satisfaction reached new heights. ‘I have found another six people who saw the cloaked figure running from the church after the feast.’

‘Excellent,’ said Michael, impressed. ‘But how did you manage to find them, when I asked these same people and was told they had seen nothing?’

‘It is amazing how lies dissolve into truth when people are threatened with eternal damnation,’ said William proudly. ‘I merely informed them that they would burn in hell for lying, just as they would for stealing and murdering.’

‘But why should they lie at all?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Everyone keeps telling me how the entire village will do anything to help us catch Unwin’s murderer.’

‘Apparently, they feel sorry for Norys,’ said William in some disdain. ‘They all know he is the one accused of killing Unwin, and they are reluctant to provide us with information that may harm him. He is a popular man in the village, because he grants them pardons.’

‘He does not,’ said Michael immediately. ‘Wauncy does, not allow him to practise his vile trade in the village – he goes to Ipswich.’

‘He goes to Ipswich a good deal less now than he did before the plague,’ said William, delighted to answer Michael’s questions and show off his prowess at interrogation. ‘Wauncy is so busy saying masses for the dead that he has little time for his living parishioners. They feel it is better to buy a pardon from Norys than to wait all day for Wauncy to find a spare moment to grant them absolution.’

‘And Wauncy is not even a real parish priest,’ said William with relish. ‘He was only an acolyte before the Death, and simply took on priestly duties when Tuddenham could find no one else.’

It was a tale repeated in villages all over the country – after the plague, priests had tended to select the more lucrative posts, leaving small parish churches struggling to find replacements. Bishops had been reduced to employing men from the laity, who had no proper training, but who were better than nothing at all.

‘I see,’ said Michael. ‘And did anyone recognise this person who rushed from the church?’

William looked crestfallen. ‘Unfortunately not. And three of them said he wore a short cloak, and three said a long one.’

‘Damn!’ said Michael softly. ‘That gets us nowhere at all. We still cannot prove that Norys is lying when he said he saw a short cloak.’

‘So, we have Stoate and three others saying the fellow wore a long cloak, and Norys and three others saying it was a short cloak,’ summarised Bartholomew. ‘Were there two of them, then?’

‘How could there be?’ asked Michael wearily. ‘Unwin was only killed once.’

‘Then perhaps one was an innocent party – either coming from the church before Unwin was placed there, or fleeing afterwards because he did not want to become involved with the unlawful slaying of a priest. Who can blame him? Both Norys and Eltisley have been accused, and the evidence to implicate either is thin.’