‘What are you doing?’ Bartholomew asked, wiping his face with a piece of sacking.
‘I am tying a piece of twine to the latch on the window so that you can open it without getting out of bed if you become too hot during the night.’
‘Why should I need to open it without getting out of bed?’ asked Bartholomew warily.
‘Because then you would be too cold,’ said Eltisley, still tinkering.
‘But if I felt the need to open the window because I was hot, I would not be too cold the instant I stepped out of bed,’ reasoned Bartholomew. ‘Please do not worry. I am quite happy to open a window without the need for a piece of rope.’
‘It will only take a moment,’ said Eltisley persistently. He gave Bartholomew a superior look. ‘I saw that the bottle containing my potion was empty when I came for the dirty dishes. You changed your mind and took it, I expect.’
‘It was an interesting colour,’ said Bartholomew evasively. ‘I have never seen anything quite like it.’
Eltisley gave a happy grin, assuming an implicit compliment. ‘I might be persuaded to part with the recipe when you leave, after all. I am not a man who believes in keeping effective remedies to himself. It is not ethical.’
Bartholomew nodded, and turned his attention back to washing.
‘I was very sorry to hear about Unwin,’ said the taverner, continuing to fiddle with the window. ‘Did I tell you that?’
‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But thank you anyway.’
‘It is a curious thing,’ said Eltisley absently, engrossed with his piece of string, ‘but I am sure I saw him talking to Sir Robert Grosnold – the bald lord of Otley manor – in the churchyard just after the feast started. Of course, that is not possible. I must be going mad.’ He beamed at Bartholomew in a way that made the physician sure he was right.
‘You must be mistaken,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Grosnold rode with us from Wergen Hall, and then set off immediately to return to Otley. He thundered across the village green like a maniac.’
‘I saw him,’ said Eltisley. ‘Worse, he ran me over. Look at my leg.’ Unceremoniously, he hauled down his hose to reveal a semicircular bruise that would doubtless match one of the shoes on Grosnold’s destrier. ‘I will take a purge for it tomorrow.’
‘What good will a purge do a bruise?’ asked Bartholomew, startled.
‘It will take away the evil fluids from the wound and reduce the swelling. Bruises mean an increase of humours in the body, and so vomiting must be induced to balance them again.’
‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, understanding exactly why many physicians so fervently believed the adage that a little knowledge could be a dangerous thing.
Eltisley beamed at him absently. ‘But this business with Grosnold is odd, is it not?’
‘Very,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Are you sure he was not talking to Unwin before he trampled you with his horse?’
‘Quite sure,’ said Eltisley. ‘I have been in considerable pain ever since. When I saw Grosnold talking surreptitiously to Unwin a few moments after he trampled me, I considered giving him a piece of my mind. Then I decided I did not want to hang for impudence, so I left it.’
‘What do you mean by “talking surreptitiously”?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘“Surreptitious” means furtive or sly,’ said Eltisley. ‘I thought you would have known the meaning of that word, Doctor, you being from Cambridge. But we all learn, I suppose.’
‘What I meant was what were they doing to make you think they were surreptitious?’
‘Well,’ said Eltisley, touching a finger to the bridge of his nose. ‘Let me see. Grosnold – although it could not have been Grosnold since he had left the village – had Unwin by the arm and was whispering something in his ear.’
‘Is there anyone else it could have been?’ asked Bartholomew, beginning to feel a little irritated by the man’s vagueness. Unwin had been murdered after all, and Eltisley might well have seen the man who had done it. ‘Is there someone you might have mistaken for Grosnold?’
Eltisley stopped tampering and gazed out of the window, frowning. ‘No,’ he said eventually. ‘There is only one man I know with a suit of black clothes and a pate that glistens like Grosnold’s. But then, as I said, what I saw was not possible, because Grosnold had already gone home. I asked a few of my patrons whether any of them had seen Grosnold after he rode across our green so carelessly, but none of them had. So, I must have been mistaken.’
Bartholomew was perplexed. ‘So did you see Grosnold with Unwin or not?’
Eltisley shrugged. ‘My eyes told me yes, my mind tells me no.’
‘Was he wearing a long cloak?’ he asked, thinking of Stoate’s observation. ‘Or was there anything wrong with his eyes?’
‘His eyes?’ queried Eltisley, taken aback. ‘No, not that I could see. They seemed normal enough – beady, just as usual. And he wore his black cotte and hose – he likes to think he looks like the Prince of Wales in them. Foolish man! The Prince is not bald, forty and pig-ugly! Have you ever seen him? The Prince?’
‘Not recently,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But if the man you saw talking to Unwin was wearing these distinctive clothes, then it must have been Grosnold. There cannot be two people in the area with an outfit like that. Perhaps he came back for something.’
‘I suppose he must have done,’ said Eltisley, brightening. ‘And it is certainly true that no one else that I know of possesses clothes like Grosnold’s. Perhaps he forgot something, or realised that he needed to speak to Unwin before he returned to Otley. I am not mad, after all!’
That by no means followed, thought Bartholomew. Could he trust Eltisley’s observation, or had the whole scene come from the jumble of nonsense that passed for his brain? He rubbed a hand through his hair, and flopped heavily on one of the straw mattresses. He was so tired, he did not know what to think.
‘There,’ said Eltisley triumphantly, standing back with his twine in his hand. ‘This little invention of mine will work perfectly. Watch.’
He sat on the bed nearest the window, and gave the twine a gentle tug. Nothing happened. Puzzled, he tried again. The third tug was more savage, and with a screech of ancient metal, the latch plopped out of its frame and dropped to the floor. The window remained closed.
‘Mend it tomorrow,’ pleaded Bartholomew, sensing the taverner was going to spend half the night with it.
It was not easy persuading Eltisley to leave, but at last Bartholomew was alone. He doused the candle, lay on the crackling mattress, and hauled one of the rough blankets over him. Somewhere, a mouse scurried across the floorboards, its feet skittering on the shiny surface, and from the tavern below, the muted voices of his companions were raised in some kind of debate. Still thinking about why Grosnold might want to kill Unwin, he fell into a deep sleep, and knew nothing more until he was awoken by Michael shaking his shoulder some hours later. Candle wax splattered on his bed-covers as the monk leaned over him, his bulk casting monstrous shadows on the wall.
‘I have no idea what the time is, Matt, but it is long past midnight,’ he whispered, trying not to disturb Alcote. He was clutching his stomach, and in the candlelight Bartholomew could see that his face was contorted with pain.
‘I suppose you feel ill,’ he said unsympathetically.
Michael nodded. ‘It must have been the green stuff that was all over the hare I ate. I scraped most of it off, but there must have been enough left to make me sick.’
Bartholomew reached out and touched the monk’s face in the darkness. It was hot, but not feverish. ‘I ate the vegetables, and I am all right’