‘In God’s holy house?’ bellowed William in horror. ‘That is a disgusting suggestion, Matthew!’
‘No more disgusting than murder in a church,’ Bartholomew pointed out.
‘Just like Thomas à Becket,’ mused Alcote solemnly. ‘He was slain by four swordsmen at his own altar. And he is a saint now.’
‘Becket was a little more than a student-friar, and his murder was on the order of a king,’ said Michael irritably. ‘I do not think his death and Unwin’s are in quite the same class. But we should tell Tuddenham about this, and ask him to send for the local Sheriff. The murder of a priest is a serious crime, and should be looked into immediately.’
‘Whoever did this will burn in hell for eternity,’ growled William. ‘He will be consumed by fire and tormented by screaming demons–’
‘Since Unwin was a member of Michaelhouse, I will conduct my own investigation,’ said Michael, before William could start one of his colourful tirades about the terrors of hell. For a friar, William knew a great deal about hell. ‘Meanwhile, I will also send word to the Bishop of Norwich, whose see we are in – because Unwin was a priest, this will come under the jurisdiction of canon, not secular law.’
‘You might find Tuddenham does not agree,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘It might be prudent to make your enquiries discreetly, since there are no beadles to help you if the villagers resent your questions and become uncooperative or aggressive.’
‘Do not fear, Matthew. I will be there to assist Michael,’ announced William firmly. Michael looked uneasy. ‘I will act as your Junior Proctor in this matter, Brother. It will be good practice for the future.’
‘Oh, Lord!’ breathed Michael to Bartholomew, as the Franciscan preened himself. ‘What is about to be inflicted on me?’
While Bartholomew and Michael moved Unwin’s body to one side of the chancel, Alcote went with Horsey to tell Tuddenham what had happened. Deynman was dispatched to borrow the parish coffin, and William offered to locate Cynric: one of the scholars would need to keep vigil over the body during the night, and whoever it was would be safer with Cynric and his long Welsh dagger nearby.
‘It is extremely difficult to think clearly with William bawling his opinions at me all the time,’ said Michael watching Bartholomew straighten Unwin’s limbs and smooth down his clothes. ‘I hope he is not going to dog my every move during these enquiries.’
‘I think he will try,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Unless you want your tactful questions to become blatant interrogations, you will have to give him the slip. Discretion is an alien concept to William.’
Michael gave a laugh that was almost a sigh. ‘He was a member of the Inquisition, Matt! He is not an easy man to escape from – as I am sure many of those poor so-called heretics in southern France will attest.’
‘Then you will have to work with him. I suppose you could ask him to speak to some of the more hostile or uncommunicative villagers on your behalf.’
‘Not a good idea, Matt. I do not think the Inquisition ever obtained confessions by the cleverness of their cross-examinations. I heard they used techniques during which even the most sainted of people would have admitted to any crimes the twisted minds of the inquisitors cared to dream up. And if William tries using those on the good people of Grundisburgh, we will lose the advowson for certain.’
‘And we cannot risk losing the advowson, can we?’ said Bartholomew, suddenly bitter. ‘A Michaelhouse scholar lies murdered, but that is fine so long as we still have the advowson!’
‘Matt,’ admonished Michael gently. ‘I am only being practical. There is no need to vent your distress over Unwin on me. We must ensure that William practises restraint, or we may never find the culprit of this terrible deed. So I shall need your help over the next few days.’
‘How could we have been so foolish as to imagine that we had left murder and intrigue back in Cambridge,’ groaned Bartholomew.
‘Cambridge is not the only place where foul crimes are committed, you know,’ said Michael. ‘There is murder and intrigue wherever there are people. And the more people there are, the more crime there will be. Look at London and Paris and Rome! Murder is so commonplace in those places, that no one gives it a second thought.’
‘But this is a village with two hundred inhabitants,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is not a city with thousands. And we have had two peculiar deaths since Saturday. People may begin to think we have something to do with them, since that is when we arrived.’
‘I think not,’ said Michael confidently. ‘First, no one believes there was a hanged man at the gibbet anyway; and second, why should we kill one of our own scholars – especially one who was about to leave us and take up a lucrative post?’
‘They might suggest one of us wanted the position,’ said Bartholomew, with a sigh. ‘And with Unwin gone, one of us will have to take his place.’
‘Not me,’ said Michael firmly. ‘I do not want to spend my days granting absolutions to sheep molesters and men who covet their neighbour’s pigs.’ He shuddered. ‘Rural Suffolk is a place that seethes with unnatural vices, Matt, and I want nothing to do with it.’
‘It cannot be me either – I am not a priest.’
‘Then this might be an excellent opportunity to rid ourselves of Alcote or William,’ said Michael, eyes gleaming thoughtfully. ‘This is a benefit to the College I never looked for! Which would you rather lose – the bigoted William and his obsession with heresy, or the duplicitous Alcote with his secret wealth and unsavoury business connections?’
‘Perhaps we could leave one here and persuade Deblunville to take the other at Burgh,’ said Bartholomew, smiling. ‘But we should not be talking like this – it is exactly what I meant when I said people might begin to look at who will benefit from Unwin’s death.’
The latch to the door clattered, and agitated voices echoed in the dark church. Tuddenham strode up the nave and into the chancel, his metal spurs clanging on the tiles. Hamon was behind him, still wearing his best clothes and with a sword strapped incongruously to the decorative belt at his waist. In their wake scurried Alcote and the lovely Isilia, while Dame Eva followed more sedately, clinging to Horsey’s arm for support. Tuddenham’s steward kept curious villagers out, struggling against the press of bodies as they strained to see past him.
‘What evil has been perpetrated here?’ demanded Tuddenham, gazing down at the corpse. ‘What has happened?’
‘Unwin is dead,’ said Michael.
Isilia’s hands flew to her mouth and her eyes became round with horror. Dame Eva appeared to be more offended than shocked, while Hamon studied the body with the same dispassionate expression he had worn since he had discovered Janelle had married his arch-enemy Deblunville.
‘How?’ asked Tuddenham, when he had recovered from his surprise. ‘There is blood on him. Did he have some kind of fatal seizure brought on by excessive choler?’
‘He was stabbed,’ said Bartholomew bluntly. ‘In the stomach.’
‘You mean he was killed by someone else?’ asked Isilia in an appalled whisper. ‘Murdered?’
‘We believe so, madam,’ said Michael. ‘Doctor Bartholomew has some experience in these matters, and has helped me to investigate crimes of this nature in the past.’
‘You mean you have been involved in murders before?’ asked Tuddenham distastefully. ‘I thought Michaelhouse men were scholars, devoted to matters of the intellect, not the kind of people to probe into the unsavoury affairs of killers.’
‘Perhaps murder has followed you here, then,’ said Hamon, looking at each of the Fellows in turn. ‘I can assure you that unlawful slayings do not commonly occur in Grundisburgh.’