‘It looks that way,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And killed poor Unwin to do so.’
She rubbed her chin. ‘You might try having a word with Will Norys. He knows his relics like no other man, and is highly respected in the village. He might be able to help you – no one could sell a relic in this area without him knowing about it.’
‘Will Norys?’
‘He is a pardoner who lives with his uncle, the tanner. You cannot miss their cottage – you can smell that tannery from Burgh. Will Norys often works in Ipswich, because Walter Wauncy is not keen on him selling his pardons and relics in the village.’
‘Thank you,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I will talk to him this morning.’
‘Discreetly, though. I do not want him thinking I have been maligning him. You can use your medical training – there are few men who can lie as well as a physician.’
‘Is that so? Well, I have met a few midwives, not to mention a good many priests and merchants, who could prove you wrong on that score,’ retorted Bartholomew tartly.
She inclined her head to one side. ‘I doubt it, but then I have never been to Cambridge. Is it as dangerous as everyone says? Will Norys went there last winter, and he said the students were rioting and setting the town alight every night. He said there were murders at every street corner, and that whores flaunted their wares openly in the Market Square.’
‘It has its good points,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The Colleges have some splendid books. And anyway, it seems to me that Grundisburgh is not exactly a haven of peace: two men have died since we arrived – I did see a dead man on the gibbet no matter what Tuddenham says – and all the lords of the manors are at each others’ throats.’
‘It was very peaceful here until Roland Deblunville came two years ago. He married Pernel, the dowager of Burgh Manor, but he murdered her so that he could rule alone. Now he has married that harlot Janelle for her father’s lands at Clopton, and will doubtless slay her in time, too.’
‘What evidence is there that Deblunville murdered his first wife?’ asked Bartholomew, sure that the merry Deblunville had done nothing of the kind and that the tale was a malicious rumour spread for the sole purpose of fanning the flames of hostility between Grundisburgh and Burgh.
‘Evidence!’ spat Mother Goodman in disgust. ‘This is not a court of law, or one of your University debating chambers! Everyone knows Deblunville killed Pernel, and that is all the evidence we need. Deblunville is the Devil’s familiar. He was dead on the gibbet only to appear alive at his castle the next day.’
‘Deblunville was not the man on the gibbet. The hanged man was wearing clothes stolen from him, so either it was a case of mistaken identity and someone thought he was dispatching the hated lord of Burgh Manor, or the fellow was killed for some completely unrelated reason.’
She looked relieved. ‘A different man? Then Deblunville did not rise from the grave by diabolical means to torment us all for the rest of our lives?’
Bartholomew shook his head. ‘Who told you he did? Tuddenham?’
‘The rumour that Deblunville is now a living corpse is all around the village. But then, you see, we were expecting to hear about his death anyway, because he saw–’
‘Saw what?’ asked Bartholomew when she stopped, lips pursed. ‘Dame Eva mentioned Deblunville seeing something, but Tuddenham said it was nonsense.’
‘He is afraid to admit the truth,’ said Mother Goodman. ‘Dame Eva is not, but then her mother was a witch, and so she is familiar with such things.’
‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, feeling as though the conversation had suddenly left him behind. He knew many villages were steeped in superstitions and myths, but walking dead, witches, peas on lintels and rings made from coffin handles were far beyond anything he had expected to encounter.
‘I am not sure if I should tell you any more about it,’ she said, regarding him sombrely. ‘You seem a pleasant sort of man for a physician, and I have no wish to frighten you.’
‘I have been frightened before,’ said Bartholomew dryly. ‘And I would rather know about whatever it is than be taken unawares by it.’
‘It is the white dog,’ Mother Goodman announced in a ringing voice. She folded her arms across her substantial bosom, and regarded him expectantly.
‘The white dog,’ he repeated, looking blankly back at her. ‘Does it belong to someone?’
‘It is not a domestic animal,’ she said, as though he was stupid. ‘It is Padfoot – a ghostly vision that appears to people when they are about to die.’
Bartholomew stared at her, suddenly recalling what the hanged man had whispered with his dying breath: ‘Padfoot’. At the time he had not understood, and had even thought he might have misheard. But it made sense now – or at least, it explained what the man had said. He sighed, and wondered how to excuse himself so that he could return to his vigil. Chatting to the village midwife about spectral hounds and cures for colic would not be doing Unwin much good, and Father William would be outraged if he discovered how the physician had spent his time – although, Bartholomew thought wryly, he could always point out that at least he had not fallen asleep.
‘You do not know the story,’ she said, ‘or you would not be so indifferent. Padfoot is a big white dog that appears to people before something dreadful happens. Deblunville saw it, and that is why none of us were surprised when we heard he had been hanged up at the gibbet. James Freeman the butcher saw it, too, and two days later he was dead of a cut throat.’
‘Tuddenham said that was suicide.’
Mother Goodman shook her head. ‘James Freeman had no reason to kill himself. He was newly wed, and he had just inherited his Father’s business. But Padfoot came to him, and two days later he was discovered in his own slaughterhouse with his neck slashed like one of the pigs he used to dispatch. Poor Dame Eva found him when she went to buy pork, and was lucky that Tobias Eltisley – the landlord of the Half Moon – heard her cries for help. Our priest, Walter Wauncy, said the great pools of blood and the stained knife were the vilest things he had ever seen.’
‘Did you lay him out?’
She shook her head. ‘His head was almost severed from his body, according to Master Eltisley. I saw his clothes, though, drenched right through with blood. It was a terrible business, and I am glad I did not have to tend his corpse.’
‘I thought you would have been used to such sights.’
She looked surprised. ‘This is a peaceful village, and we seldom have violent deaths. Because James Freeman’s body was so mutilated, Master Eltisley kindly made a special coffin – he likes to make things – and closed it before Freeman’s wife could see what had happened to her man. But for all his efforts, it dripped blood all the way from the slaughterhouse to the church.’ She shuddered.
‘So James Freeman was murdered,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Someone broke into his slaughterhouse and killed him.’
She gave him a mysterious look. ‘It was no earthly hand that took his life: it was a demon’s, directed by Padfoot. And we all knew James Freeman was a doomed man from the moment he set eyes on the white dog.’
‘Are you sure it was not simple fear, and Freeman took his own life?’ asked Bartholomew.
She took a deep breath, offended. ‘I can see you place no faith in our stories. Well, that is your prerogative. But James Freeman ended up as dead as every other soul who sets eyes on Padfoot. Alice Quy was another. I did all I could for her, but she went to old Padfoot just the same.’