‘She was the woman who died of childbirth fever?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘That is what Tuddenham told you, was it? Well, physician, how many women have you known to die of childbirth fever when the infant is six months old?’
‘She was not bled, was she?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘That is not always good for people, and can cause them to die unexpectedly.’
‘Stoate came nowhere near her, and I do not bleed people. All she took was a potion Master Eltisley made to ease her pain. She could not afford any of Stoate’s remedies.’
‘A potion of what?’ asked Bartholomew suspiciously. ‘Eltisley is not a physician or an apothecary. You should not dispense his cures to people, just because they cannot afford to buy real ones. They might do more harm than good.’
‘They always work better than anything Stoate prescribes,’ said Mother Goodman defensively. ‘I take Eltisley’s potions myself daily. He is very good – and his tonic made of she-goat urine for the stomach is marvellous. Most of the villagers take it. You must have noticed how healthy we are, compared to others around here.’
Bartholomew had indeed noticed that most people seemed fit and well.
‘But we are digressing,’ said Mother Goodman. ‘Alice Quy died with Padfoot’s name on her lips. She said he was in the doorway, waiting to drag her down to hell in his gaping jaws.’
‘She must have been delirious,’ said Bartholomew. ‘People do ramble when they are in the grip of fatal fevers.’
‘She died because she saw the white dog,’ said Mother Goodman firmly. ‘And any man, woman or child in the village will tell you the same.’ She peered into his face as he took a sudden sharp breath. ‘What is the matter? You have not seen a big white dog, have you?’
‘Not me,’ said Bartholomew, slightly unsteadily as he recalled with sudden clarity something else that had happened. ‘But Unwin did. He said he saw it moving in the woods at the deserted village of Barchester, just before we arrived here.’
A handful of parishioners came to celebrate prime with the cadaverous Walter Wauncy, many of them shooting curious glances at the sheeted figure of Unwin, and at Bartholomew kneeling next to it. Not long after the last of them had left, the latch clanked again and Deynman arrived, bringing with him the white-faced Horsey. Bartholomew was reluctant to leave the grieving student with the body of his friend, but Horsey insisted that he be allowed to perform this final service for Unwin, and Deynman, unusually subdued and attentive to his fellow student, promised not to leave him alone.
Grateful to be away from the hushed atmosphere of death and bereavement, Bartholomew strode across the village green to the Half Moon, intending to join the rest of his colleagues for breakfast. The tavern was occupied only by the surly men, who ate a silent meal of thick oatmeal and watered ale while Eltisley bustled around his domain importantly. The landlord informed Bartholomew that Tuddenham had summoned the other scholars at daybreak to begin work on the advowson. When one of the men favoured Bartholomew with a hostile glower as he accidentally knocked a wooden plate from a table as he passed, causing it to clatter noisily to the floor, he decided to forgo breakfast in the unfriendly atmosphere of the Half Moon, and walk to Wergen Hall instead.
It was a glorious morning, and he enjoyed the stroll through the woods to Tuddenham’s manor house, although the day was already warm and the exercise made him hot and sticky. When he arrived he found Alcote sitting at the table in the window, surrounded with deeds and writs, while Michael and William reclined near the hearth, devouring what was probably their second breakfast of the day. Alcote still seemed pale to Bartholomew, although breadcrumbs on his habit suggested that his stomach pains of the night before had not prevented him from enjoying someone’s hospitality.
‘I should begin an investigation into the murder of Unwin today,’ said Michael, wiping his lips on his sleeve and reaching for another piece of bread.
‘No,’ said Tuddenham sharply. ‘I will deal with that. You work on my advowson.’
‘Let him investigate, Sir Thomas,’ said Alcote. ‘I am more than capable of drafting an advowson by myself, and I would feel safer knowing that he and Bartholomew are hunting down this ruthless killer of poor Unwin.’
‘And me,’ said William eagerly. ‘I will solve this case, too.’
‘Lord help us!’ muttered Michael. ‘With Master Diplomacy dogging our every move, we will never catch the murderer.’
Alcote cleared his throat nervously. ‘I would like you to remain with me, William – there are documents that need to be transcribed.’ Michael and Bartholomew gazed at him in astonishment – no one willingly spent time in William’s company, and his scribing skills were mediocre at best – and the Senior Fellow hastened to explain. ‘The truth is that I would feel happier knowing that Michael is putting his skills and experience to good use without hindrance from William. I do not feel safe with a killer roaming, unchecked in the village, and I want him caught.’
‘Are you suggesting I am not up to the task?’ demanded William huffily.
Alcote shook his head. ‘Not at all, but you have the physique of a wrestler, and your robes are thick with the filth of poverty; I am more delicate, and my garments indicate that I am a man of some standing. The killer will be more likely to strike at me than you, so it is in my interests to have you here to protect me, while Michael and Matthew look into Unwin’s death.’
‘But there is no suggestion that Unwin’s death was anything other than an isolated incident,’ said Tuddenham, peeved. ‘You make it sound as though someone plans to dispense with the whole lot of you.’
‘I am not interested in the whole lot of us, only in me,’ snapped Alcote, brutally honest. ‘I am the wealthiest person here, and the one who will be doing most of the work on the advowson. Therefore, I am also the most vulnerable.’
‘No one else will die,’ said Tuddenham firmly. ‘I plan to begin my own investigation this morning with my steward, Siric. In fact, Siric is already in the village, asking questions and ferreting out information. He will send any promising witnesses to me here, at Wergen Hall, so that I can question them myself.’
‘Good,’ said Michael. ‘But Unwin was a friar, and his death must also be explored by an agent of the Church, like me. You have no problem with me initiating my own enquiries?’
Tuddenham clicked his tongue in annoyance. ‘I can assure you, Brother, that is wholly unnecessary. I will have whoever did this dreadful thing behind bars within a couple of days. That I can promise you.’
‘I am sure you will,’ said Michael in a placatory tone. ‘But the chances of success will be greatly improved with two of us working on it.’
‘Perhaps,’ conceded Tuddenham reluctantly. ‘But what about my advowson, not to mention the fact that there is also my will to be written.’
‘All that is under control, Sir Thomas,’ said Alcote. ‘I will be able to work far more quickly on my own anyway, than with the others distracting me with their silly questions and careless mistakes.’
‘I do not make mistakes,’ said Michael indignantly.
‘You do,’ said Alcote. ‘Writing an advowson is a complex business, and it cannot be rushed. Since this one will give Michaelhouse the living of Grundisburgh church “for ever”, it needs to be drafted with care, and with considerable attention to detail. You are too impatient, Brother. Sir Thomas would do better to place me in charge of it, while you go away and do what you are best fitted for – chasing criminals.’
Tuddenham raised his hand to prevent Michael’s outraged retort. ‘Very well, then. But you will be wasting your time investigating this crime, Brother. I will have the culprit before you know it.’
Leaving Alcote and a resentful William to their deeds and documents, Bartholomew and Michael walked back through the woods toward the village. Bartholomew was concerned that Alcote was prepared to take all the responsibility for the advowson, afraid that he might not be fully recovered from his sickness of the night before.