Authors: Susanna Gregory
Tags: #Mystery, #Historical, #blt, #rt, #Cambridge, #England, #Medieval, #Clergy
A Wicked Deed (37 page)
As he gazed across the green to the haphazard line of houses opposite the church, Bartholomew saw that he had two choices. He could ignore the whole business and let
Norys hang for the murders of Unwin and Mistress Freeman, and return to Cambridge never to think about the miserable affair again. Or he could make some enquiries of his own.
There were too many unanswered questions for him to accept that Norys was guilty: for example, why had Mistress Freeman’s throat been cut after she had died, and the pig’s blood scattered over her house to make her death appear a murder? Had Norys really been stupid enough to hide his bloody bundle in such an obvious place? Where was Unwin’s relic? What had Grosnold been talking about to Unwin before the friar died? Why had Bartholomew been attacked in Barchester as he had ridden back from Otley with Cynric? There had been a slathering white dog, but there had been people, too, and earthly, not ghostly, hands had toppled him from his horse. Were they thieves after the gold coin Grosnold had given him, or did Grosnold want him silenced for some reason? Had Tuddenham resurrected the legend of Padfoot so that his villagers would have a valid excuse when they were found on Deblunville’s land looking for the golden calf? And finally, who was the man who had been hanged in Deblunville’s stolen clothes, and what had happened to his body?
He sighed. The more he thought about it, the more queries rattled about in his head. He was tired and he was worried about Cynric, afraid that Eltisley might try to ‘cure’ him of his gloom with some potion of his own making. He walked slowly across the village green in the dying light, and headed for the Half Moon. Michael was in the main chamber, eating again, and accompanied by Horsey and Deynman. The sullen men were, as usual, hunched over their ale at the table nearest the door, while Stoate joked with some of his young companions near the fire. It was a contented scene that signalled cosiness and normality. Michael beckoned him over for supper, but Bartholomew
had no appetite for the rich food over which the monk was drooling, and said he was going to bed.
In the chamber upstairs, Cynric sat at the window and watched the dusk with unseeing eyes. He was pale, and his usually neat clothes were dishevelled and dirty. He did not even look up as Bartholomew entered, and jumped nervously when the physician spoke, claiming he had not heard him. Such inattention was unprecedented in the wary Welshman, and Bartholomew appreciated, yet again, quite how seriously his book-bearer took Padfoot’s threat to his life.
‘How do you feel?’ he asked kindly, sitting next to him on the windowsill.
‘How do I look?’ asked Cynric anxiously. ‘Do I seem to have a contagion? You must think so, or you would not have asked after my health.’
‘You look like a man who needs a good sleep and a decent meal,’ said Bartholomew practically. He made a decision: Cynric’s well-being was more important than trying to prove the innocence of a man who had sensibly fled Grundisburgh, and who probably had no intention of returning. ‘I am taking you back to Cambridge tomorrow – whether the advowson is completed or not.’
Cynric smiled sadly. ‘That will not prevent the inevitable, boy. I am doomed, and there is nothing you can do about it.’
‘This is insane,’ said Bartholomew, standing and pacing in agitation. ‘You are willing yourself to die, because of some silly fairy tale.’
Cynric turned his morose gaze to the dusk again, and declined to reply. Through the window, Bartholomew could see that the door to Eltisley’s workshop was open, and a series of smashing sounds indicated that the landlord was in it. As he watched, a huge tongue of flame shot out of the entrance with a dull roar. Almost as quickly, it had gone.
Alarmed for Eltisley’s safety, Bartholomew was about to run down the stairs when the landlord staggered out, soot covering his face and his clothes smoking. Hacking and wheezing, he brushed himself down, and regarded his workshop with a puzzled expression, as though he considered it, and not himself, responsible for the mishap.
‘You are in far more danger from that maniac than from your spectral hound,’ said Bartholomew, sitting down again. ‘He will have his tavern in flames if he is not careful.’
Cynric gave a wan smile. ‘You do not think much of Eltisley and his inventions, do you?’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew shortly. ‘He believes he has an intellect superior to everyone else’s, and that this gives him the right to test his theories on the unsuspecting. He might have killed you with that dog mercury he tried to give you last night.’
‘He told me it would make me sleep.’
‘It would have done, although whether you would have woken again is another matter. Apparently, he gave Tuddenham a poultice made from death-cap mushrooms for his bunions last winter. Thank God Tuddenham had the sense not to use it.’
‘Medicine is not the only profession he likes to dabble in,’ said Cynric, casting a mournful glance out of the window to Eltisley, still standing outside his workshop. ‘He took my bow and said he was going to treat it with a special oil that would make the string more taut, so that my arrows would fly faster.’
‘Did you let him? I would have thought that the string is already at its optimum tautness for the strength of the bow. If he tampered with it, you might find it does not draw properly.’
‘I told him to leave it alone, but he took it anyway while I was out. I tried to use it when we were attacked in Barchester, but the balance was all wrong – that is why I missed Padfoot.’
‘Damn the man,’ said Bartholomew crossly. ‘Did he take anything else of ours to “improve”? I am only grateful I never leave my medicine bag behind, or I might find half my salves had been replaced with something toxic.’
‘I have no idea,’ sighed Cynric. ‘Can I close this window? I do not want to die of a chill from the night air.’
‘I thought you liked sleeping under the stars,’ said Bartholomew, reluctant to shut the window when the room was so stuffy and hot.
‘That was before,’ said Cynric, pulling it closed firmly.
After a while, as the room grew steadily darker, Deynman entered, bringing apples and a piece of cheese for Cynric, who stared at them as though they might choke him. Bartholomew was reading by candlelight, scanning a list of remedies for gout that Stoate had lent him. The candle was one of Eltisley’s creations – a shapeless lump of tallow studded with cloves, which he assured his guests would give off a pleasant scent as it burned. The cloves either dropped into the pool of melted tallow long before the flame came anywhere near them, or they popped and crackled nastily before emitting a foul odour of scorching.
‘I know how to break this curse of Padfoot,’ said Deynman, flopping nonchalantly on to Bartholomew’s mattress. ‘Mother Goodman told me.’
‘And how is that?’ asked Bartholomew absently, more interested in Stoate’s cures.
‘You steal a piece of beef at midnight, and bury it under an ash tree in a piece of white cloth. Then, at sunrise the following day, someone must stand on the exact spot where you saw Padfoot, and recite the
Paternoster
in Latin as fast as he can. And then you will be free of the curse.’
‘There you are then, Cynric,’ said Bartholomew, smiling at the ludicrous nature of the charm. ‘You are saved.’
‘And this will work?’ asked Cynric. Bartholomew looked up sharply when he heard the note of hope in the book-bearer’s voice.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Deynman confidently. ‘Mother Goodman was positive. I wrote it all down and then read it back to her to make sure I had it right. You know how I can get muddled sometimes.’ This understatement almost made Bartholomew laugh. ‘She said the charm had to be done exactly right or it would not work. That is why it failed to save those two villagers.’
‘Alice Quy and James Freeman?’ asked Cynric. ‘The two who died after seeing Padfoot?’
Deynman nodded. ‘One used pork instead of beef, and the other recited Psalm Twenty-Three instead of the
Paternoster
. So, when will you do it, Cynric? Tonight?’
The book-bearer’s face changed abrupdy from hope to resignation. ‘I can never do it, boy. I cannot recite the
Paternoster
in Latin. I can barely recite it in Welsh.’
‘But Doctor Bartholomew can,’ said Deynman, beaming at his teacher. ‘He knows everything like that. He will do it for you.’
‘Thank you, lad,’ said Cynric, clutching Bartholomew’s hand in a grip that was painfully tight. ‘I will never forget this.’
‘Just a moment,’ said Bartholomew in alarm. ‘We cannot go stealing beef in the middle of the night, and creep off to a plague village to perform all sorts of bizarre rituals in the dark.’
A look of intense hurt crossed Cynric’s face, while Deynman frowned in confusion. ‘You mean you will not do it?’ the student asked, bewilderment giving way to disbelief. ‘You will let Padfoot have him instead?’
‘Padfoot is not real,’ said Bartholomew, unnerved by Cynric’s distress. ‘It is just a folktale – one embellished by Tuddenham to allow his villagers to hunt for the golden calf
on other people’s land, according to his neighbours. This ritual will make no difference to Cynric’s well-being.’
But he could see it would. The flicker of optimism that had sparked in Cynric’s eyes had gone, to be replaced by a pained dismay. Bartholomew thought about Stoate, and how he had advised Bartholomew not to dismiss people’s beliefs and ideas too quickly in favour of rational, scientific explanations. He rubbed his face tiredly. Stoate prescribed dangerous herbs to pregnant women, and his choice of foxglove to treat Tuddenham’s illness was a poor one, but for all that he was a better physician than Bartholomew. Stoate understood his patients, and he gave them what
they
felt they needed to make them well – purges and tonics and bleeding. Stoate, Bartholomew was sure, would not have hesitated to recite a prayer at Barchester, if he felt it would effect a cure.
‘I will do it, Cynric,’ said Deynman, with a defiant look at Bartholomew. ‘I will ask Father William to teach me the Latin tonight, and I will go to Barchester and recite it for you at dawn.’
Cynric nodded gratefully, but Bartholomew could see the Welshman did not trust Deynman to learn it sufficiently accurately for the charm to work – and with good reason, given Deynman’s reputation for intellectual pursuits.
‘Very well, then,’ said Bartholomew reluctantly. ‘I will help you. But this
must
remain a secret between us. No one – not even Michael – can know about it.’
Cynric grinned at him in relief, and took an apple from the plate, eating with more enthusiasm than he had done for days. Bartholomew took the paper with the charm written on it, and read.
‘An oak tree, Rob,’ he said. ‘It says the beef should be buried under an oak tree.’
‘That is what I said,’ protested Deynman.
‘You said ash,’ said Cynric, worried. ‘Which is right?’
‘Whatever is written down,’ said Deynman. He blew out his lips in a gusty sigh. ‘You can see why I wrote it out; my memory is dreadful. If it says elm there, then elm it is.’
‘Right,’ said Bartholomew, putting it in his bag. ‘We need a bit of beef and a white cloth.’
‘Here is the white cloth,’ said Deynman, holding up the piece of fine linen that the landlord of the Dog had presented to Michael to dab his lips with after his monstrous meals.
‘That will do very well, boy,’ said Cynric, sounding pleased. ‘And there will be plenty of beef in the village. That should not be difficult to find at midnight.’
‘When do we start this shady mission, and how do we leave here without anyone asking us where we are going?’ asked Bartholomew, his misgivings growing the more he thought about what they were going to do.
‘We will say we are going to pray for the murdered woman in the church,’ said Cynric promptly. ‘No one will question that.’
‘We had better go now, then,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But not you, Rob. You stay here.’
‘But you will need me,’ protested Deynman, appalled at the prospect of being excluded from the nocturnal adventure. ‘Cynric might be attacked while he is waiting for you to finish reciting the prayer, and I will be able to save him.’
Bartholomew regarded him doubtfully, but supposed there would be no harm in allowing the lad to join them, although he suspected he would later regret it. It seemed Deynman had given Cynric a new lease of life, and Bartholomew felt he owed him something. Feeling like a schoolboy embarking on some mischievous prank, he followed Cynric and Deynman down the stairs and through the tavern.
‘Where are you going?’ asked Michael immediately. ‘It is almost dark.’
‘Nowhere,’ said Bartholomew guiltily, a response that promptly earned the monk’s full attention.
‘To pray for Mistress Freeman’s soul,’ said Deynman, for once showing more presence of mind than his teacher.
‘Then I shall join you,’ said Michael, levering his bulk up from his chair.
‘No!’ said Bartholomew in horror. ‘We do not want you.’
‘I see,’ said Michael, easing himself down again, and now entirely convinced that there was something illicit in progress. He shrugged, pretending to be uninterested, and sketched a cross at them in the air. ‘Go, then, with God’s blessing.’
With relief, Bartholomew escaped into the cool night air, certain that the fat monk now knew exactly what they were doing.
‘You handled that skilfully,’ remarked Cynric facetiously, becoming more his old self with each passing moment, now that there was something practical he could do against the curse of Padfoot. ‘Now he will be certain to follow us.’
‘Let him,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We will spend several hours in the church anyway. He will tire of watching us long before midnight. If not, I will distract him while you steal the meat.’ He turned to Deynman. ‘Are you sure it needs to be stolen? Can we not just ask for a piece?’
‘Mother Goodman was most insistent about that. A lump obtained honestly will not work.’
‘Eltisley will have some,’ said Cynric. ‘It is a good thing we are not at Michaelhouse. Stealing food from the kitchens with Agatha the laundress on the prowl would be dangerous work indeed.’
‘Especially given what happened to her teeth,’ said Bartholomew, giving Deynman a sidelong glance. The student flushed deep red and looked sheepish. It would be a long time before that unfortunate incident would be forgotten at Michaelhouse.
