A Wicked Deed (42 page)

‘It seems to me that some old madwoman has taken it for her home, and she and her dog do not like visitors,’ said Bartholomew, rubbing his eyes.

‘Tuddenham will drive her out.’

‘I hope not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Where would she go? The village is deserted anyway, so why not let her live there if she likes.’

‘Because she ambushes travellers,’ said Michael promptly. ‘She has attacked you twice now, and her dog has people from miles around too terrified to go anywhere near the place.’

‘Not from what I saw last night,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I am sure there were more Grundisburgh folk out in the woods than there were at home.’

‘Looking for the golden calf,’ said the landlord of the Dog in a soft voice behind them, making them jump. ‘The reward for finding it and giving it to Sir Thomas is ten marks – two years’ pay for most people. But ten marks would not induce me to go out at night to hunt for the thing.’

‘And why is that?’ asked Michael.

The landlord crossed himself. ‘Because of Padfoot. Ten marks is no good to a dead man, and that is what anyone who sees the beast will be. I heard Deblunville died last night. I always said it was only a matter of time before he was laid in his grave after seeing Padfoot.’

Having made his point, he left them to their meal, talking in a low voice about the inevitability of Deblunville’s demise to the man with the pig who had been so vociferous at the debate.

‘The Barchester woman had badly infected eyes,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Stoate said the person he saw running from the church was rubbing his eyes.’

‘It might have been her,’ said Bartholomew, unruffled by Michael’s sarcasm. ‘Stoate and Norys both said they were unsure whether it was a man or a woman. Although she was very small and somewhat crooked – you would think one of them would have noticed that.’

‘And can you see this woman having the guile to wear a cloak – long, according to Stoate, but short according to Norys – to hide her wretched rags? She does not sound to me as though she has enough of her sanity left to take care of herself, let alone effect a crafty murder that has confounded the University of Cambridge’s Senior Proctor.’

‘Well, that proves it was not her, then,’ said Bartholomew dryly. ‘Far be it for old women to get the better of the University of Cambridge’s Senior Proctor. But at least we now know who owns the abandoned skirt and shoe we found there.’

He was eating a slice of tart when there was a deafening roar that shook the building to its foundations. Fragments of plaster drifted down from the ceiling, and the cat that had been stalking mice in the rushes flattened its ears with a yowl and tore from the room. Bartholomew and Michael looked at each other in confusion.

‘What was that?’ asked Michael, picking a flake of wood out of his stew and flicking it on to the floor. ‘It sounded as though one of the bells has fallen out of the church tower.’

Wiping his hands on his apron, the landlord went to find out, accompanied by the man with the pig. Excited shouts and running footsteps suggested that others were curious, too, but Bartholomew could see nothing through the window to warrant abandoning his meal. He had barely sat down again when Cynric burst into the room.

‘The Half Moon!’ he cried, reaching out to haul Bartholomew from his seat. ‘It has gone!’

‘Gone where?’ asked Michael, not pleased at being interrupted while he was feeding.

‘Gone!’ yelled Cynric frantically. ‘Gone completely!’

With trepidation, Bartholomew followed him out of the tavern and down The Street. Cynric was right. The Half Moon was nothing but a vast pile of burning rubble and teetering walls. A thick pall of black smoke poured from the twisted beams, and timbers and pieces of glass crunched under the feet of the milling spectators. The thatch was ablaze with flames that licked this way and that, sending showers of sparks high into the sky and, even as Bartholomew watched, one precarious wall collapsed with a tearing scream in a cloud of dust.

The villagers gasped in horror and started back as sharp snaps heralded pieces of plaster and burning timber being catapulted across the ground toward them. One man shrieked as his cotte began to smoulder. With great presence of mind, Stoate bundled him to the stream and pushed him in before the flames could take hold. But Bartholomew saw only the burning building.

‘Alcote!’ he whispered in shock. ‘Roger Alcote was in there.’

‘Thank God!’ he said shakily. ‘I thought you were inside changing your clothes.’

‘Where is Alcote?’ asked Bartholomew urgently.

‘I do not know,’ said Eltisley in a whisper. ‘I was in the kitchen cooking your meal when this happened. I only escaped because the force of the blast blew me outside.’

‘You mean the tavern exploded?’ asked Hamon in bewilderment. He came toward them, dragging his shocked uncle with him. ‘How can that have happened?’

‘Gasses,’ announced Walter Wauncy, in his sepulchral voice. ‘I have heard of this happening in other places. Malignant gasses build up and then give vent to their fury – like volcanoes.’

‘It was him,’ said William, pointing an accusing finger at Eltisley. ‘This is the result of one of his vile experiments, not any gasses!’

‘I do not experiment with exploding compounds,’ protested Eltisley in a high squeak. ‘My mission in life is to repair and heal things, not destroy them. I have no need to explore the nature of such diabolical powders. But maybe it was him,’ he said, turning suddenly on Bartholomew. ‘He went out last night picking strange plants in the dark. Perhaps they did this.’

‘Do not be ridiculous,’ said Michael coldly. ‘But we should discuss this later. Now, I am more concerned about Alcote. Has anyone seen him?’

‘Alcote was in there?’ whispered Tuddenham in horror. ‘With my advowson?’

‘Damn the advowson!’ shouted Bartholomew furiously. ‘What about my colleague?’ He appealed to the crowd, desperation cracking his voice. ‘Have any of you seen him?’

There were shaken heads, and fearful glances toward the fire.

Eltisley followed their gazes, and rubbed a hand over his face. ‘My tavern! My home! My workshop! All gone!’ he groaned.

‘But Alcote!’ yelled Bartholomew, grabbing the shocked landlord by the front of his shirt. ‘He must still be in there. We have to put out the fire.’

‘If he was in there when it went up, he will be beyond any medicine we can give him,’ said Stoate gently, prising him away from Eltisley.

‘No!’ shouted Bartholomew, refusing to believe that the fussy little scholar should die in such a horrific manner. ‘He might be buried and still alive. We have to help him.’

‘We should douse the fire anyway,’ said Hamon practically, ‘or we might lose the entire village to it.’

Tuddenham dragged himself out of his state of shock, sensing the need for quick and effective action if the fire were not to spread to the thatched roofs of the neighbouring houses. ‘Fetch water holders,’ he ordered the gaping bystanders. ‘Anything will do: buckets, pots, pans. And form a line from the ford to pass them along. Well, do not just stand there like frightened rabbits! Move!’

The villagers raced off in every direction, appearing moments later with all manner of containers with which to scoop water from the river. Eltisley watched the scene distantly, as though it were a bad dream and he would wake up to find it had not happened. The man with the pig and the landlord of the Dog put their arms around his shoulders, and led him to sit on the grass away from the inferno. Nearby, Dame Eva was holding a cup of water to Mistress Eltisley’s bloodless lips, comforting her in a low, kindly voice.

‘It is unstable, boy. That wall will collapse at any moment!’

Three of the Half Moon’s four walls had already toppled, while the last leaned outward at an angle that defied all natural laws, and with flames pouring from its blackened windows.

Bartholomew thrust Cynric away and moved still closer, scanning the burning plaster, wood and thatch for any sign of Alcote. His eyes smarted, and the heat was so intense that the rubble wavered and swam in front of him. He thought he glimpsed something white, and he inched further forward, bent almost double as the heat blasted out like that from a blacksmith’s furnace. Unable to see properly, he stumbled over a piece of timber and fell flat on his face. At the same instant there was an ominous rumble, and the precarious wall began to teeter. He was helpless, lying full length on the ground at exactly the point where the wall would crash down. He felt himself hauled backward as it fell, and closed his eyes, lifting one hand in a futile effort to protect his head.

With a tremendous crash, the wall smashed to the ground. Pieces of plaster pattered over him, and he found himself completely enveloped in a dense cloud of choking dust. Someone grabbed his tabard again and the whiteness thinned, so that he found he was able to suck in great mouthfuls of clean air. When he could see, Michael was kneeling next to him, his black habit pale with plaster and both hands pressed to his chest as he hacked and wheezed.

‘What were you thinking of?’ gasped Michael furiously. ‘You might have been killed, and if Alcote was in there when it … well, whatever happened to it, then he is dead. You sacrificing yourself will do nothing to help him now.’

‘He was in there,’ said Bartholomew in a hoarse whisper, turning a tear-streaked face towards the monk. ‘I am certain I saw his hand before the wall fell.’

Michael was silent, green eyes fixed on the roaring, spitting heap that was now Alcote’s pyre. Cynric stood next to him, gazing up at the pillar of smoke that blackened the sky and mingled with the clouds far above.

‘You are a brave man, Brother,’ said William, touching Michael on the shoulder. ‘I thought you were both dead when you disappeared in that ball of dust. Matthew is lucky to have such a friend.’

‘And lucky to have one so strong,’ added Cynric, smiling at the monk in shy admiration. ‘I could never have managed to drag him back as you did.’

Michael acknowledged this praise with a gracious inclination of his head. ‘Thank you, Cynric. Perhaps you would keep an eye on him while I go and assist the villagers to douse the fire. Do not allow him to dive into the flames after corpses again.’

Wondering if he were in the depths of some hideous nightmare, Bartholomew watched the villagers struggling frantically to smother the flames. As Hamon had predicted, the wind had carried sparks to nearby houses, the thatches of which were already beginning to smoulder. People laboured furiously to spread wet blankets across them, while the nearest cottage had been deemed unsalvageable, and several men were hacking at the straw with long knives, struggling to tear the roof apart before it could ignite in earnest.

Everyone was battling with the blaze that threatened their settlement Even Dame Eva and Isilia were busy, standing in the line of people who passed water containers from hand to hand. Tuddenham ran this way and that, encouraging the labouring villagers with promises of cool ale, while Hamon stood nearest the fire, directing where the water should be thrown to best effect. Wauncy was to one side, bony hands clasped in front of him and his deep-set eyes raised heavenward like one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, while Horsey knelt next to him, his hands folded in prayer, but his attention fixed on the greedy flames. Deynman was one of a group of young men who poked at the smouldering rubble with long sticks, trying to break it up to make it easier to douse, and William, Cynric and Michael were near the ford, using their brawn to help fill some of the larger vessels.

Unsteadily, Bartholomew went to join them, standing up to his knees in the river and filling buckets and pans as quickly as they could be passed to him. He lost count of the times he leaned down to scoop up water, trying to ignore the ever-increasing ache in his back. For a while, it seemed that the struggling villagers would lose the fight, and that the flames would spread to the other houses. Tuddenham seemed tireless, striding back and forth, and exhorting the villagers to work harder and faster, when most of them were so exhausted they were ready to give up and let the fire have their homes and belongings. Then they reached a stalemate, with the fire held at bay but still likely to send sparks flying toward the vulnerable houses at any moment. And then they began to win.