‘Not lately,’ replied Michael.
‘It is no mean task, I can assure you. I tried to burn it, but it smouldered for days and I was still left with a sizeable chunk. I had to chop it into small pieces, and leave it out for Padfoot – although he did not seem to be very interested.’
‘Probably prefers his human corpses raw,’ suggested Michael.
Eltisley continued. ‘Anyway, after he died, I took the clothes off Freeman, donned them along with some potions to disguise my face and went into Grundisburgh church, intending to have a conversation with Walter Wauncy. My ingenious plan was that Wauncy would say he had seen the hanged man alive and well, and your story would be dismissed as fantasy – drunken scholars reeling from a night in the taverns, claiming to find a dead man who was later seen in a church by our priest. Who would question the word of a priest?’
‘But instead of Wauncy, you found Unwin, who was dead,’ said Michael, ‘so you ran away.’
‘I tried to give him some of my potion, but in my excitement at finding a subject so unexpectedly, I spilled it. Vapours wafted into my eyes, and I could barely see what I was doing. I decided to abandon the experiment before someone accused me of a murder I did not commit. I ran away across the fields behind the church, although the shoes were too smalclass="underline" they slopped, and made haste difficult.’
So, Stoate had been telling the truth, thought Bartholomew. He had seen a man running from the church rubbing his eyes. And Norys had seen him wearing Freeman’s shoes and belt – recently stolen from Deblunville by Janelle. Deblunville’s shoes had not fitted Eltisley, and they had slopped, something peculiar enough to lodge in Norys’s mind.
‘Norys saw you,’ said Michael. ‘He described the belt and shoes – but not the dagger, because you left that with James Freeman’s body.’
‘I was impressed by Norys’s observing powers,’ said Eltisley. ‘Although I was relieved that he did not recognise anything else. For a dreadful moment, I thought he was going to come to help disentangle my cloak from the tree it snagged on. I ripped it pulling myself free.’
‘And how did you manage to take the afternoon away from your tavern to conduct your experiments during the Fair?’ asked Michael. ‘Did people not demand to know where you were?’
‘I have a wife,’ said Eltisley loftily. ‘I have better things to do with my time than selling ale to peasants. But later I was arrested for the priest’s murder anyway, because of that bloody knife.’
‘I suppose the knife was the one you used to kill an animal – to provide the blood you needed to make Freeman’s “death” appear convincing.’
‘Exactly,’ said Eltisley. ‘Ironic, do you not think? But you were kind enough to come to my rescue, and provide evidence that Norys was the culprit, not me, so I was free to continue my work.’
Bartholomew rested his head against the cool stone and felt sick. He did not stay still for long. Something furry bumped up against his leg, forcing him to push it away. How much longer could he repel the things? Would they get him first, or would Eltisley?
‘And who is it who is financing these great experiments of yours?’ asked Michael. ‘Isilia?’
Bartholomew heard Eltisley clap his hands in delight. ‘At last you have reasoned it out! Mistress Isilia does not want that loutish Hamon to inherit Tuddenham’s estates over her brat, as is likely to be stipulated in Tuddenham’s will. She asked me to relieve her of your presence so that the will cannot be written, and since I was running a little low on funds, I agreed.’
‘And is there anyone else who pays you?’ asked Michael. ‘You seem to possess a great deal of equipment and supplies, and Isilia cannot give you that much money – Tuddenham would be suspicious of her spending too much.’
‘Many people are interested in my work,’ said Eltisley blithely. ‘Everyone has a loved one they would like to see again. I have even been paid by priests, who want me to raise a saint for them.’
‘There is not much left of most saints to raise,’ said Michael. ‘Bones, hair, teeth, nails, fingers and beard have been scattered all over the country as relics.’
‘That will be dealt with when the time comes,’ said Eltisley grandly.
Their voices faded away into silence. In a brief moment of hope, Bartholomew thought they had forgotten to replace the chest that held down the slab, but there was a rumble and a thump, and that was that. He sat with his head resting on his knees, wondering how he had ever become embroiled in the whole mess, and fervently wishing that he had never left Cambridge in the first place. He thought of Unwin, dead because he had been foolish enough to let Stoate bleed him, and Alcote, dead because Isilia did not want Hamon to inherit Tuddenham’s estates. And then he thought about Michael, Cynric, Horsey, Deynman and William – who would go the same way. He was angry enough to beat his fists uselessly on the stone slab to vent his frustration.
It was not long before the rats intruded into his thoughts. One of them started to scramble up his back, while a scaly tail slid across his arm. He stood and shook them off, hearing them tumble down the stairs. Then it occurred to him that the rats could not possibly have squeezed themselves through the tiny gap around the edges of the trap-door, and that he must have been right in his original assumption, scoffed at by Michael, that there was another way in – and out.
But he was in almost complete darkness and surrounded by rats. How was he to find it? He groped around on the step, and found Cynric’s tinder. Now all he needed to do was to locate the stub of candle he had dropped when he had stepped on his first rat – assuming they had not already eaten it. It took all his courage and self-control to make his way down the steps in the gloom and feel about among the milling rats on the floor.
Immediately, he found the crossbow quarrel that Eltisley’s henchman had kicked from Cynric’s hand, and used it to stab randomly while he searched with his other hand for the stub. Expecting to be bitten at any moment, he forced himself to feel around until his cold fingers finally encountered it. It had been chewed, but was still functional. With unsteady hands, he scraped the tinder until it caught, and watched leaping shadows fill the vault. Some of the rats slunk away. But not all of them.
Hoping that the stub would not sputter into nothing as it burned down, he began his search, watching the rats to see if he could tell whether they were coming or going in any particular direction. The rats, however, seemed as interested in him as he was in them, and their beady eyes were fixed unswervingly on his feet. His first exploration of the vault told him nothing, other than it was solidly built – something he already knew. He poked at every stone near the altar, then paced the floor to see if there were rings in the paving slabs that might lead to another chamber. There was nothing.
Trying to hold the candle still, he next concentrated his attention on the shelves and their sombre contents. As gently as he could, he moved the shrouded shapes to peer at the wall behind, looking for hidden doors. He coughed as the mouldering bodies began to crumble. The ones on the upper shelves released clouds of dust, while those on the lower ones broke apart because they were damp. They smelled of ancient bone and rotting material, and Bartholomew felt himself becoming nauseous from the lack of clean air.
Just as he was about to give up, the final stack of bodies revealed what he had been looking for. The lords of Barchester had apparently been running out of space for their dead, and the most recent additions to the vault had been placed on shelves that were newer than the rest – and that rested against a blocked door. A rat eased through the rotting wood at the bottom of it even as he watched. He leaned down and grabbed at one of the broken timbers, relieved to feel it break off in his hand as he pulled. But there were three ancient corpses in the way.