‘Alcote will look into that while he is trawling Tuddenham’s personal documents – and you know how meticulous he can be. If there is anything untoward written down, he will find it.’
‘But things like this are never written down,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Alcote will find nothing.’
‘Then there is no problem,’ said Michael. ‘But I am sure Unwin’s death has nothing to do with Tuddenham’s deed. You are trying to complicate a simple situation: Tuddenham is giving us the church because he lost three sons to the Death, and he wants to curry favour with the saints to protect his unborn child; meanwhile, Unwin was the victim of an opportunistic thief. The other two deaths, plus our hanged man, have nothing to do with any of it, and this ghostly dog of yours is rank superstition.’
Bartholomew leaned on the windowsill and rubbed a hand through his hair. Michael was almost certainly right, and he was giving the motive for Unwin’s death a significance it did not have. Tuddenham’s eagerness to have his advowson completed quickly was probably nothing more sinister than an attempt to secure allies in Michaelhouse before Deblunville took him to the courts over the disputed land near Peche Hall.
He broke the thread on the patch he had just sewn, and began to pull the shirt over his head. ‘So, what do we have left? There is the black knight – Grosnold – seen talking “surreptitiously” to Unwin after Grosnold is supposed to have gone home; and we have the cloaked figure seen by Stoate leaving the church just before Horsey found Unwin dead. Either one of those two might have killed him.’
‘I cannot see why Grosnold would want to kill his neighbour’s new priest,’ said Michael doubtfully. ‘He seems to be one of the few people Tuddenham likes.’
‘Nevertheless, our landlord saw him with Unwin shortly before Unwin died,’ said Bartholomew. ‘If we can believe a word Eltisley says, that is.’
Michael agreed. ‘We might be allowing Eltisley to mislead us with his story. Whilst I do not think he is lying, I also do not know that he is telling the truth. If you spend too much time in a different reality from everyone else, the distinction between truth and falsehood eventually blurs.’
‘I suppose we should bear his story in mind, though,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Along with the fact that Unwin and Grosnold met in Otley, and Unwin refused to tell me what they had discussed together. We should also talk to Will Norys, the pardoner. Mother Goodman tells me that he deals with relics, and he may have heard something about the one that was stolen from Unwin.’
‘A pardoner?’ asked Michael, sitting upright, good humour gone. ‘Pardoners are a loathsome breed of vipers who prey on the vulnerability and fears of the poor and foolish; rancid excuses for men who should not be allowed to taint the lives of honest folk. Evil, sinful agents of the Devil…’
‘You do not like them, then?’ remarked Bartholomew, who knew very well Michael did not.
The monk glared at him. ‘They are carrion who ply their repulsive trade–’
‘I take your point,’ said Bartholomew, raising his hand to stem the flow of invective. ‘Perhaps I should visit Norys alone, in view of your feelings. I would not like there to be another murder.’
‘Do not worry,’ said Michael disdainfully. ‘I would not sully my innocent hands with the black blood of a pardoner.’ He mused. ‘So, we have the pardoner to question, and we need to find out whether Grosnold returned to the village after we all saw him leave.’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘And then, in the interests of thoroughness, we will talk to the families of the two dead villagers, just to prove your contention that they are unrelated to Unwin’s murder.’
Michael sighed gustily. ‘You are in one of your stubborn moods, I see. Well, whoever killed Unwin – which was done with the sole intention of stealing the purse – is probably stupid enough to try to sell the relic it contained. We will catch him easily. And that will be the end of the matter.’
Bartholomew remained unconvinced. ‘Why risk eternal damnation by killing a friar in a church, when anyone looking at Unwin would see he is not wealthy: his robe is threadbare, one of his sandals is broken, and he is a mendicant. Why not aim for Alcote, wearing that big golden cross? Or why not me, carrying a bag that could contain all sorts of valuables?’
‘Probably because neither of you were alone yesterday. Or, as you have already suggested, perhaps Unwin caught the culprit doing something he should not have been doing, and was killed to ensure his silence. His purse was then stolen because it was there.’ He stood and opened the door. ‘Did I mention that Tuddenham has asked us to organise a debate for the entertainment and edification of the Grundisburgh villagers?’
‘I am sure they will be thrilled by that prospect,’ said Bartholomew dryly.
‘Father William thinks it an excellent idea – far better than fairs and feasts.’
‘He would,’ muttered Bartholomew.
‘I managed to persuade Tuddenham that Alcote taking part in the debate would interfere with the writing of the advowson,’ said Michael, sounding pleased with himself. ‘You know what a bore he can be at debates with his flawed logic, and his “anyone-who-does-not-agree-with-me-is-stupid” reasoning. The villagers will enjoy the occasion far more if Alcote does not take part. But we should not be standing here chatting: we have a murderer to catch.’
But it was not as easy to catch a murderer as Michael had predicted. While he asked the villagers they met about the person Stoate had seen leaving the church, Bartholomew enquired whether anyone had seen Grosnold after he had made his dramatic exit across the green on his destrier. Neither line of enquiry met with much positive response. Most of the villagers tried to be helpful, but none had anything to say that was of any import. A few seemed nervous or sullen, but Bartholomew could not blame them for being wary of any involvement in an enquiry regarding the death of a priest.
The investigation took another downward turn when William tracked them down and proudly placed his powers of detection at their disposal. It did not take a genius to deduce that Alcote had regretted keeping William near him for protection – even a murderer at large, apparently, was preferable to the friar’s dour company.
Their spirits sank further still when William told them that Alcote had found some of Tuddenham’s documents to be so old and faded that it was not possible to decipher them properly. Since the advowson needed to be based on accurate information if it were to last, Tuddenham had dispatched his priest, Wauncy, to Ipswich to acquire copies. Bartholomew groaned, anticipating that Alcote’s exactitude would cost them days, and they would be later than ever in returning to Cambridge. William, however, assured them that any delay caused by Wauncy’s trip was unlikely to be serious: Wauncy would not linger while there were pennies to be earned from saying masses for Grundisburgh’s dead, and the facts to be checked against the newer texts were relatively minor.
‘I suppose you can come with us when we question this pardoner,’ said Michael to William reluctantly. ‘I do not mind you exercising your nasty inquisitional skills on him.’
‘Will Norys?’ asked the villager whom Michael had just finished questioning. ‘He works in Ipswich on Tuesdays. You will have to catch him tomorrow.’
‘Damn!’ muttered Michael, who had evidently been looking forward to venting some of his frustration and spleen on a man whose trade he loathed.
And so, with William at their heels, they continued with their questions, each time gaining the same response: no one had seen anything amiss, and everyone was appalled by the brutal death of the man who was to have been their parish priest. Everyone, however, had heard that Unwin had set eyes on the spectre of Padfoot, and so few professed themselves surprised by the young friar’s demise, horrified though they were by the manner of it.