‘Did you manage to grab anything?’ Michael asked Bartholomew as they walked away. ‘I got a handful of meat and three eggs.’
‘You did well, then,’ said Bartholomew, not surprised that the monk had emerged from the mêlée with something, but astonished that he should enter it in the first place. ‘I did not even try. It was all over before I realised it had started.’
‘It was rather sudden,’ agreed Michael. ‘You can have one of my eggs. Or maybe you can ask someone to swap something edible for that bit of coffin in your pocket. Cramp ring, indeed! This place is most odd, Matt. The sooner we return to the normality of Cambridge, the better. There, at least, your patients usually pay you with something practical.’
Bartholomew peeled the hard-boiled egg as they walked, appreciating the fact that Michael, who had eaten very little all day, was being unusually generous in sharing his spoils. ‘This business with the hanged corpse is odd. I suppose we shall never know what all that was about.’
Michael shook his head, his mouth full of roast lamb. ‘Some thief stole Deblunville’s clothes, and was probably mistaken for him by one of his many enemies. I suspect we interrupted the killer, who then waited until we had gone, crept out and spirited the corpse away, so that no one could investigate further.’
Bartholomew thought about it. ‘But the man who died was quite large. How could he have been mistaken for Deblunville, who is small? It is not as if the attack took place in the middle of the night.’
Michael waved a piece of meat dismissively. ‘I doubt these lords of the manor do their dirty work themselves. They probably hired some louts to do it for them – louts who did not know Deblunville personally.’
‘But that explanation assumes that the lords gave the killers a description of Deblunville’s clothes, and Deblunville himself told us they were not ones he wore very often,’ said Bartholomew, finishing the egg, and wishing Michael would share his meat.
‘Well, as you said yourself, we will probably never know the answer to all this, so it is best you put it from your mind.’
Bartholomew supposed he was right, and sat on the low wall that encircled the pleasant garden of the Dog, the inn that looked across the village green. Michael lounged next to him, finishing his meat and holding forth about the accuracy of his prediction that the food provided for the Fair’s grand finale was inadequate to feed the whole village.
Bartholomew listened with half an ear, his mind wandering from the hanged man to Janelle’s morning sickness. He saw Tuddenham ensure that the attentions of his wife and mother were on the activities on the village green, and then seek out Alcote to present him with a handful of pens and a sheaf of parchment. The fussy scholar was escorted to one of the empty food tables and invited to sit, while Tuddenham peered over his shoulder as he began to write. Even at the Pentecost Fair finale, the advowson was not to be neglected, apparently.
Time passed, the sun set and Bartholomew began to feel drowsy. He asked Michael where he thought they might sleep that night – Tuddenham had mentioned moving Michaelhouse’s scholarly deputation from the floor of Wergen Hall’s main chamber to one of the village’s two inns, where he said they would be more comfortable. Bartholomew did not much care – one straw pallet was very much like another, although he hoped one would be made available reasonably soon. He had found sitting in one place all day, reading and writing, far more tiring than teaching or visiting patients.
Michael opened his mouth to reply, when frantic shouting caught their attention. Thrusting his way through the crowd that still hovered around the ravaged food tables came John de Horsey, the handsome student-friar whom Isilia had mistaken for Unwin. He was breathless, and his eyes were wide and staring.
‘Whatever is the matter?’ asked Michael disapprovingly. ‘You are making a dreadful spectacle of yourself.’
‘It is Unwin,’ Horsey gasped, trying to steady the trembling in his voice. ‘I think he is dying!’
Chapter 4
Bartholomew pushed his way through the milling villagers, splashed through the ford, and ran as fast as he could to the church. Michael panted behind him, while Horsey urged them to hurry. The door to the church was closed, and Bartholomew struggled to open it, his haste making him clumsy with the heavy latch. It clanked ajar and he shot inside.
Like many parish churches, Our Lady’s of Grundisburgh was shadowy and intimate, its narrow windows admitting little of the fast-fading light of day. It smelled of the beaten earth that formed the floor of the nave, of the old cobwebs that hung like tendrils of mist from the wooden rafters of the roof, and of cheap incense. Wooden benches were placed at the back for those not able to stand during masses, and a single tallow candle burned on the altar at the eastern end. The walls were covered with paintings, some of them crudely executed with a good deal of black and red, others more delicate, like the one of St Margaret wearing a wimple and touching a hand to her heart.
‘Over here!’ yelled Horsey, grabbing Bartholomew’s sleeve and hauling him toward the chancel. ‘He is here.’
Unwin lay face down in front of the altar. Unlike the nave, the chancel had been paved with patterned tiles, and blood seeped from under Unwin to form a smooth black pool across them. Bartholomew felt for a life-beat in the student’s neck, but there was nothing. He hauled him on to his back, and put his ear against Unwin’s chest, straining to catch the muffled thud of a beating heart.
‘Is he dead?’ demanded Michael. ‘What killed him? What happened?’
‘Michael!’ snapped Bartholomew, covering one ear to listen. ‘I cannot hear.’
‘Hear what?’ shouted Michael. ‘Is he dead?’
‘He must be dead,’ said Horsey in a horrified whisper. ‘Look at the blood!’
Bartholomew snatched a candle from the altar, prised open one of Unwin’s eyes, and passed the candle back and forth near it, looking for some movement that would tell him there was still a spark of life left. The eye was flat and glassy, like that of a landed fish. He balled his fist, and gave the student a hefty thump in the middle of the chest, following a procedure his Arab master had taught him to make the heart start again.
The door clanked, and Father William entered at a run with Alcote and Deynman behind him.
‘What has happened?’ the friar demanded. ‘I saw you three race in here as if the Devil was on your heels.’ He stopped when he spotted Unwin lying on the floor, and drew in his breath sharply. Alcote and Deynman stood next to him, gaping in shock as they saw the prone student and the blood on the tiles.
Bartholomew tore open his bag and fumbled for the phial of foxglove juice he carried there. In large amounts the plant was a deadly poison, but it was possible to use a little to stimulate a heart into working. He lifted Unwin’s head, and poured some of the colourless liquid into his mouth, although his face had the pale, waxy look that suggested death had already won the battle.
Bartholomew thumped the student’s chest again, and put his own face near Unwin’s mouth, hoping against all odds to feel the warmth of breath against his cheek. There was not even the slightest whisper.
‘He has gone, Matt,’ said Michael, touching the physician gently on the shoulder. ‘He was dead before we arrived.’
‘Not yet,’ muttered Bartholomew. He poured a few more drops of the foxglove into Unwin’s mouth, willing him to swallow them and start to breathe again.
‘It is over.’ Michael tugged at Bartholomew’s tabard to pull him away. ‘We were too late.’
Bartholomew shrugged him off, thumped Unwin’s chest a third time, and then listened. The only sounds were the distant, angry voices of villagers arguing over food on the green, William’s prayers for the dying, and Michael still panting from his run. Bartholomew sat back on his heels, and felt for a life-beat in Unwin’s neck for the last time. The skin was still warm, but there was no pulse under his fingers. He rubbed a hand through his hair and looked up at Michael in despair.