‘I told you that is what they would say,’ muttered Bartholomew to Michael.
‘What about Alice Quy?’ asked Isilia, startled. ‘She was murdered last month.’
‘She died of childbirth fever,’ said Tuddenham dismissively. ‘If you heard there was any foul play involved, then you have been listening to gossip that has no foundation in fact.’
‘Well, what about James Freeman, then?’ demanded Isilia. ‘He was found with his throat cut only last week.’
‘Suicide,’ said Tuddenham brusquely. ‘That is why he was buried in unconsecrated ground, if you recall.’
‘None of this would have happened in my husband’s time,’ said Dame Eva sadly. ‘Things were different when he was lord of the manor.’
‘He did not have the after-effects of the Death to contend with,’ snapped Tuddenham, rattled. ‘He did not have vast tracts of land with no one to work them, or the constant clamouring of peasants for higher wages.’
‘If he had, he would have known how to deal with them,’ said Dame Eva defiantly. ‘This was a prosperous manor in his time, and now it has murderers strutting unchallenged along its paths.’ She regarded her son soberly. ‘And Isilia is right about Alice Quy and James Freeman. Their deaths were not natural. We all know what they saw. And Deblunville saw it, too.’
‘Saw what?’ asked Alcote curiously. ‘You mentioned Deblunville seeing “something” before.’
‘Superstitious rubbish!’ said Tuddenham in exasperation, ignoring Alcote’s question. ‘You will refrain from discussing such pagan matters in a church, madam, especially in front of our guests from Michaelhouse.’
‘Deblunville may have seen it, but he is still alive, more is the pity,’ said Hamon bitterly.
‘Hamon!’ barked Tuddenham angrily. ‘I said that is enough. Now, we must arrange for a vigil to be kept over this poor friar. Master Wauncy, please see to it.’
‘I will do it,’ bellowed Father William, as he strode up the nave with Cynric gliding like a ghost through the shadows behind him. ‘And Horsey will assist me.’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew, seeing that Horsey’s face was still grey with shock. ‘He needs to rest. Cynric will stay with you, and I will relieve you at midnight.’
There was a loud crash followed by muffled cursing, as Deynman, Michaelhouse’s least able student, struggled into the church carrying the parish coffin. Whoever had built it had intended it to last, for it was made of solid oak, and was apparently very heavy. It comprised a rectangular box with a hinged lid, and a slat of wood inside on which to rest the head.
‘I will have the midwife prepare the body,’ said Tuddenham. ‘She always performs that service for the village dead. It is too late to do much else tonight, but at first light tomorrow Hamon can go to Ipswich with a message for the Sheriff, and I will begin to make some enquiries of my own. I do not anticipate it will take long to uncover the monster who did this vile thing.’
‘Do you have any idea why someone might want to kill Unwin?’ asked Michael.
Tuddenham shook his head. ‘Times are hard, Brother, and although we appear to be a wealthy village there are those among the bonded villeins who are resentful that some people are richer than they. I would imagine this to be a simple case of theft.’
‘Theft of what?’ asked Michael, unconvinced, ‘Unwin had nothing to steal. His few possessions are in the saddle bags outside; and the cross he wears is fashioned of nothing more variable than baked wood.’
‘But he had a purse round his waist,’ said Tuddenham. ‘I saw it earlier, and it is not there now.’
Bartholomew looked down at Unwin’s habit and saw that Tuddenham was right. He was angry at himself for not noticing it sooner. The leather thongs that had tied the purse to Unwin’s belt had been severed – perhaps with the same knife that had been used to kill him.
‘But Unwin’s purse contained only a phial of chrism and a tiny relic – some hairs from St Botolph’s beard in a twist of parchment,’ said William. ‘We friars do not permit ourselves to accumulate worldly goods.’
‘A thief was not to know that the purse contained nothing of value,’ Tuddenham pointed out. ‘Especially in a dark, shadowy place, like this church.’
‘So, you believe we should be on our guard?’ asked Alcote, by far the wealthiest of the scholars. ‘Anyone carrying a purse in Grundisburgh is asking to be murdered by jealous villeins? Should Matthew rid himself of his medicine bag, lest someone believes it to be stuffed full of treasures? Should I hire a bodyguard?’
‘Of course not,’ said Tuddenham testily. ‘This is an isolated incident, not something that happens regularly – as Hamon said, murders do not occur in Grundisburgh. However, I imagine that the copious amounts of ale I supplied today had more than a little to do with it: a villager became drunk, saw Unwin enter the church with a purse swinging at his side, and killed him for it. I will begin a search for it at first light tomorrow, while you work on my advowson.’
He nodded curtly to the scholars and left the church, his family at his heels.
‘If Unwin had no money, how did he come to have this relic?’ asked Bartholomew. He was angry, mostly at whoever had dispatched Unwin so casually, but partly at Tuddenham for reasons he did not yet fully understand. When they had first arrived, the knight had seemed hospitable and charming, but Bartholomew had not liked his careless attitude towards the missing man from the gibbet, nor his pettiness over the border squabbles with Deblunville. He wondered afresh whether it was in Michaelhouse’s best interests to accept gifts from such a man, and worried about what the knight might ask for in return – especially given his curious eagerness to have the advowson completed as soon as possible. Bartholomew knew Alcote would be unscrupulous in agreeing to whatever it took to secure the living of the church for the College, and was unsure whether he could trust Michael not to turn a blind eye to certain irregularities in order to place Michaelhouse third, rather than sixth, in the University’s hierarchy of wealth.
‘The relic was a gift from me,’ said Horsey in a strained voice. ‘I bought it for him while we were at St Edmundsbury Abbey. You see, St Botolph’s body lay in Grundisburgh before it was taken to the Abbey, and I thought a relic from that saint would protect Unwin, and keep him safe in his new post…’
Bartholomew stood and rested his hand sympathetically on the student’s shoulder. Horsey choked back a sob.
‘And where did you find the money to pay for this relic?’ asked William coolly. ‘I did not know you were a wealthy man.’
‘I had a silver cross that my sister gave me,’ said Horsey. ‘The only time I ever wore it, you lectured me about the immorality of worldly possessions, so when one of the monks at the Abbey offered me a few hairs of St Botolph’s beard in exchange for the cross, I did not hesitate.’
‘You mean one of the monks is removing parts of the saint’s body and selling them off?’ asked Michael, appalled.
William made an unpleasant noise at the back of his throat. ‘What did you expect from a House of Benedictines? Every one of them has but a single ambition, and that is to amass fortune and power in this world with no thought for the one that comes after.’
Leaving William to begin his vigil for Unwin’s soul, Bartholomew followed the others out of the dark church. The sky was a deep blue, and the branches of the trees that had shaded the graves from the sun were silhouetted black against it. Bartholomew took a deep breath, trying to dispel the smell of mustiness and cheap incense that seemed to hang in the air around him.
‘I will stay with Father William, boy,’ said Cynric softly. ‘And I will be here when you come to relieve him at midnight. I have my dagger at the ready.’