‘Be careful,’ said Bartholomew, not liking the way their visit to rural Suffolk had so suddenly degenerated to the state where Cynric felt he needed to have his weapon drawn while William kept vigil over a dead student. ‘But do not forget that someone might enter the church with purely innocent intentions. We do not want another needless death today.’
Michael was watching Alcote and Horsey pick their way through the long grass of the graveyard toward the village green. ‘When we first arrived here, I thought we had come to paradise, with all those children laughing and dancing around the pole, and those mountains of food waiting to be enjoyed. Now we discover from old Dame Eva that there have been other suspicious deaths in the village over the last month – the woman who died of childbirth fever and the man with the slit throat – not to mention the hanged man at the gibbet whose body has been stolen, and poor Unwin.’
‘Women do die of childbirth fever, and people do commit suicide,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is probably nothing in all this but the coincidence of four unexpected deaths occurring in a short period of time.’
Michael shook his head slowly. ‘I am not so sure. I have the distinct feeling that there is something strange going on in this village.’
‘If you start meddling in Tuddenham’s affairs, you will lose your precious advowson for certain,’ said Bartholomew, taking the monk’s arm and leading him out of the churchyard. ‘It would not be polite or prudent to start interfering with the way he runs his estates.’
‘It might be very prudent considering that one of us is already dead,’ countered Michael. ‘I do not like the notion of standing idly by while one of my colleagues is slaughtered – although I might be prepared to look the other way if Alcote is the next victim.’
‘Michael!’ admonished Bartholomew, more because Alcote might overhear than because he disagreed with the sentiment. ‘But Tuddenham is probably right: someone killed Unwin in order to steal his purse. There is nothing to suggest that the rest of us are in any danger – although I would hide that jewelled cross you are wearing, if I were you.’
‘Tuddenham claims the killer was probably drunk,’ said Michael, tucking the cross down the inside of his habit. ‘I can assure you that no one could have become drunk on the paltry amount of ale he provided. First, it was poor quality stuff with no flavour and no bite; second, most of it was spilled during the fight to get it; and third, no one could have managed more than a single cup of it at the very most – there was simply too much pushing and shoving.’
‘And what is this “something” that Dame Eva keeps talking about?’ asked Deynman, speaking softly behind them and making no secret of the fact that he had been listening. Bartholomew jumped, uncomfortably aware that he should be more cautious about people overhearing his conversations until he was certain Unwin’s death was no more sinister than a case of random robbery. ‘She says the two people who died saw “something”. Does she mean that they witnessed a terrible act, and were killed so that they could not reveal it?’
‘I doubt it, Rob,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Dame Eva seems to know what they saw, and she would not be telling everyone about it if she believed someone might kill her, too.’
‘It is the same “something” that Deblunville is supposed to have seen,’ said Michael. ‘But he is alive and well, and doubtless enjoying himself tremendously with the woman of Hamon’s dreams at this very moment. But it is late and we are all tired. We need to rest, not to start frightening each other with all these wild speculations.’
Alcote had met Walter Wauncy by the ford, and was waiting for them. The night had become chilly, and Alcote was shivering. The village priest, however, seemed more a creature of the night than of the day, and appeared almost lively. His cowl was pulled up against the cool night air and he carried a thick staff, so that Bartholomew thought he looked exactly like the depiction of Death on the wall paintings in St Michael’s Church in Cambridge. He shuddered, unnerved by the similarity.
‘I am on my way to help with the vigil,’ said Wauncy with a graveyard grin. He raised a white, bony hand magnanimously. ‘I will not, of course, be charging my usual fourpence for these services for Unwin – tonight anyway.’
‘You are too kind,’ said Michael expressionlessly. ‘I am sure Unwin’s soul will rest easier knowing he has a few free masses secured for this evening.’
‘I was just explaining to Master Alcote that Sir Thomas has hired you rooms in the Half Moon for the rest of your stay,’ said Wauncy, after regarding Michael uncertainly for a moment. ‘Although the food is better at the Dog.’
‘Sir Thomas had intended us to stay with him at Wergen Hall for the whole of our visit,’ explained Alcote, ‘but he thinks that we will be less cramped in the tavern. What he really means is that he will be less cramped at Wergen Hall without seven guests. I told you our party was too large.’
‘That is kind of him,’ said Michael, sounding relieved that he would not have to sleep under Tuddenham’s roof again. ‘Where is the Half Moon?’
Wauncy gestured across the green. ‘Cross the ford here, and the Half Moon is near the edge of the village, overlooking the River Lark. Your servant has already deposited your bags there.’
It was almost completely dark by the time they found the tavern, a large building with an inexpertly thatched roof that looked like the head of an ancient brush, and thick, black supporting beams running at irregular intervals along its facade. It was dull pink, as a result of the local custom of adding pig’s blood to the whitewash, and the horn windows gleamed a dull yellow from the flickering firelight within.
Alcote elbowed his way past Bartholomew and took the best seat nearest the fire. Immediately there were howls of laughter from a group of young people sitting at one of the tables, apparently directed at Alcote and one of their number – the flaxen-haired beauty who had asked Bartholomew to dance with her at the Fair. Alcote glowered at them, but that only seemed to add to their mirth.
As the others hovered uncertainly in the doorway, a taverner in a white apron came toward them. He was a man of indeterminate years with a neat cap of thick silver hair, a strangely swarthy face and restless dark eyes. Tied on a piece of twine around his neck was a smooth piece of glass, the kind Bartholomew had seen short-sighted scribes use to aid eyes worn out from years of deciphering illegible writing in bad light. The man saw him looking at it, and smiled.
‘Please,’ he said, gesturing with his hand to indicate that they were to enter. ‘I have been expecting you. I am Tobias Eltisley, the taverner.’ He held up his eye-glass like a trophy. ‘At the risk of sounding presumptuous, I would like you to know that I am a man of some learning, and look forward to many intellectual discussions about science and the nature of the universe.’
‘That sounds delightful,’ said Michael, smiling politely. ‘But not this evening, with our colleague dead in the village church.’
‘Tomorrow, then,’ said Eltisley. ‘But it is chilly outside. Come and sit near the fire while I finish preparing your rooms.’
As they took seats at one of the inn’s tables, Bartholomew looked around him. The tavern had a large room on the ground floor, while a flight of narrow steps led to the upper chambers. The unsteady flames in the hearth made it difficult to see, but the walls seemed surprisingly clean for an inn, and the table tops had been scrubbed almost white. The room smelled of wood-smoke, cooking and the lavender that had been mixed with the rushes scattered on the floor. It was a pleasant aroma, and reminded Bartholomew of his sister’s house outside Cambridge.