‘There is nothing wrong with him,’ said Michael dismissively. ‘He is relishing the opportunity to present himself as indispensable and important. You see how he has convinced Tuddenham that he is the only man competent to write this advowson.’
‘That is fine with me,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I have no interest in spending days on end working on the thing. But that does not mean to say that I feel comfortable leaving Alcote to do all our work.’
They had not travelled far when they met Dame Eva and Isilia, who had been for a stroll in the sunshine. Dame Eva leaned heavily on Isilia’s arm, and inched along at a stately pace that must have been frustrating to a young, healthy woman like Isilia. But Isilia was gently patient, and gave no indication that she would rather be doing something more invigorating. When she saw Bartholomew and Michael, her face broke into a beam of pleasure and the physician felt his heart melt.
‘Any news?’ asked Dame Eva, her faded blue eyes anxious. ‘Has my son found the killer of that poor young friar yet?’
Isilia’s smile dimmed when Barthlomew shook his head. ‘Thomas has been up since before dawn, talking with Siric about how best to catch the murderer. Do not worry: the vile fiend will not escape him.’
‘I am shocked that such wickedness should be perpetrated in the church, so near to where my husband lies buried,’ said Dame Eva. ‘But you two look tired. You doubtless slept badly last night after the shock of finding your friend dead. I know there is nothing I can say to lessen your distress, but if there is anything we can do to help, you must not hesitate to ask.’
‘Thank you,’ said Bartholomew, touched by her concern.
‘How do you like the Half Moon?’ asked Isilia. ‘It was my idea you should move. I thought you would be more comfortable in a tavern, than fighting with the servants for places near the fire at Wergen Hall. I told Eltisley to spare no expense to make your stay a pleasant one. Poor Eltisley is rather eccentric, but he means well, and will take his obligations seriously.’ She smiled again, and Bartholomew found he liked the way glints of laughter showed in the depths of her green eyes.
‘And he has,’ said Michael. ‘He has been a most generous host.’
‘Mother Goodman mentioned that you said Unwin saw a white dog near Barchester,’ said Dame Eva, changing the subject. ‘Is that true?’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘No one else did, but Unwin spotted it moving in the trees.’
Dame Eva and Isilia exchanged a look. ‘There,’ said the old lady. ‘What did I tell you? The poor boy saw Padfoot, and now he lies in his coffin. It was the same with James Freeman and Alice Quy – both saw Padfoot and both were dead within days.’
‘But you also said that Deblunville spotted this ghostly hound, yet he is still hale and hearty,’ Michael pointed out, determined not to let an inconsistency in their superstitions go unremarked.
‘You wait and see,’ said Isilia. ‘It will not be long before Padfoot comes to claim what is his.’
Seeing he would not prevail against such firmly entrenched ideas, Michael nodded noncommittally, and took Bartholomew’s arm to lead him away. He was obliged to tug fairly insistently when the physician indicated that he wanted to linger and speak a little longer to the lovely wife of their benefactor. Isilia declined Bartholomew’s offer to escort her back to Wergen Hall, although she did so with some reluctance, clearly considering the prospect of spending some time in the company of intriguing strangers more appealing than walking with her mother-in-law. Eventually, they parted, the ladies to Wergen Hall, and the scholars to the Half Moon, so that Michael could exchange his heavy habit for a lighter one. At the same time, the monk took the opportunity to order some bread and cheese to fortify him for the questioning that lay ahead.
It was pleasantly cool in the Half Moon’s upper chamber. The sky was an almost flawless blue, with only a line of pearl-grey clouds low on the horizon marring its perfection, and sunlight streamed into every corner of the room. Bartholomew flung the window – still latchless from the landlord’s efforts of the previous night – open as far as it would go, and leaned out to inhale deeply a breeze rich with the scent of flowers and cut grass. Blackbirds sang loudly, one perched on the very highest twig of one of the mighty elms that stood in the churchyard. In the distance, cuckoos called, while on the hills the bleat of lambs was answered by the deeper grumble of ewes. It did not seem like the kind of day that should be spent investigating a murder.
‘You believe the stories about these ghosts, don’t you?’ asked Michael, stuffing bread into his mouth as he waited for Bartholomew to finish mending his spare shirt – torn when the robbers on the Old Road had chased him through the undergrowth – so that he could look reasonably respectable when they went to question the villagers. ‘You, a man of science and reason, accept that there is a spectral canine trotting around Suffolk driving people to their deaths?’
‘It just seems a coincidence that Unwin saw a white dog that no one else did, and that the hanged man whispered the name “Padfoot” with his dying breath.’
‘You have not mentioned this dying word before,’ said Michael dubiously. ‘Are you sure you heard it correctly?’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘It was an odd word, and it stuck in my mind. I did not mention it before, simply because I did not understand its significance.’
‘And what is its significance?’
Bartholomew shrugged. ‘That Unwin saw this dog, and that now he is dead.’
‘You should not have eaten those vegetables last night, Matt – they are interfering with your powers of reason!’
Bartholomew sighed. ‘Perhaps Tuddenham is right, and Unwin was killed just because a drunken reveller wanted to steal his purse. But what if theft were not the motive? What if it were something to do with this dog? We should keep an open mind about these folktales – there may be some grain of truth in them. And, therefore, I think we should talk to the families of the other two people who died after seeing this dog – the butcher and the woman who died of childbirth fever.’
‘As you pointed out to me only yesterday, Matt, we have no authority to pry into village affairs. Unwin’s death is a different matter – he was a friar, and as such his murder should be investigated by an agent of the Church. But these other deaths are none of our business.’
‘But what if Tuddenham is involved in them?’
Michael gave a laugh of disbelief. ‘Now you are allowing your imagination to gain the better of your common sense.’
‘Then why is he so keen to give Michaelhouse the living of the church? You said yourself that such gifts are usually to atone for a sin. We should discover what this sin is before we accept it.’
‘But there is nothing to suggest that this sin – if there is a sin – has anything to do with happenings in the village. Anyway, you heard Tuddenham suggest that the gift was to ensure the health of his unborn child.’
‘How do we know he is not lying?’
Michael sighed. ‘We do not. But even if he is, it is not for us to deny him an opportunity to make his peace with God by refusing his advowson. Besides, if we do not take it, he will only give it to someone else – he might even approach the Hall of Valence Marie or Corpus Christi, and then where would we be?’
‘But it is one thing to accept a gift from a contrite sinner, and wholly different to accept one from a man who offers it while he continues his crimes.’