‘Ingenious,’ said Michael, bemused. ‘But what is it for? If you are inside operating the lock, you will not be able to see whether the metal outside is red or not.’
‘It is to warn people outside that the stall is temporarily unavailable,’ said Eltisley primly. ‘Then no one will be in the terrible position of being inside, while someone on the outside is frantically pulling on the handle to get in.’
‘Well, that is a relief,’ said Michael, struggling to keep a straight face. ‘I shall rest easier in my bed knowing that.’
‘The only problem is that I cannot get the device to stay in the doors without falling out,’ said Eltisley, scratching his head. ‘So, I suppose I will have to rethink the design.’
He began to walk away, taking his mechanism with him.
‘All is not lost,’ Bartholomew called to his retreating back. ‘No one will need to rattle the handles now that you have placed these convenient holes in the doors – we can just look through them and immediately see whether someone is inside or not. No one will ever be embarrassed by unwanted rattling again.’
Michael roared with laughter, leaving Eltisley looking from his device to the doors in some confusion. Bartholomew shook his head in disgust.
‘See what I mean? He has damaged three perfectly good doors in order to try out some unworkable mechanism, thus leaving everything in a worse state than it was in before. I am surprised that latrine is still standing, given that he built it.’
‘Ah, but he did not,’ said Michael. ‘I admit I was impressed when I first saw it, and I mentioned it to Tuddenham. Apparently, Wauncy designed it, Hamon supervised the building of it, and all Eltisley did was to select the site.’
‘So that explains why it drains into the river just where the people collect their drinking water,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The man is a liability.’
‘It is unlike you to take such an irrational dislike to someone,’ said Michael, laughing at the physician’s vehemence. ‘Poor Eltisley! He is not that bad.’
‘Here he comes again!’ hissed Bartholomew in alarm, gripping Michael’s arm as the landlord stopped, turned and began to walk back towards them. ‘Quick, Michael, run!’
He took the monk’s arm and hauled him away before the eccentric landlord could catch them, Michael gasping and puffing as laughter made it difficult for him to move at the pace Bartholomew was forcing. Fortunately, it was not far to the small wattle-and-daub house with the reed roof that belonged to the tanner. He sat in his garden with a workbench between his knees, scraping at a hide with a piece of pumice stone.
The smell from his workshop was overpowering, just as Mother Goodman had warned – a combination of the urine and polish used to tan the leather, and a thick stench of rotting as newly prepared pelts were stretched to dry in the sun. He looked up as they approached, and gave a grin. Bartholomew was startled to see the Tuddenham teeth – long, yellow and not very functional. Some lord of the manor, perhaps even Sir Thomas himself, although he would have been very young, had evidently been active among the village maidens.
‘New soles?’ asked the tanner hopefully. ‘Broken straps? Uncomfortable saddle that needs softening?’
‘All saddles are uncomfortable,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But we came to speak to your nephew, Will Norys. Is he in?’
The tanner looked disappointed. ‘He is preparing himself for Ipswich market. Walter Wauncy has forbidden him to sell his pardons here, so he travels to the city to work most days.’
‘He is leaving rather late, is he not?’ asked Michael. ‘The market will be almost over by the time he arrives.’
The tanner grinned. ‘He came home very late last night.’
He tapped the side of his nose and winked conspiratorially.
‘He was enjoying the company of young Mistress Freeman.’
‘Can we go in?’ asked Michael, pushing open the garden gate and making his way to the door of the house. He was inside before the startled tanner had nodded his assent. Bartholomew followed quickly, afraid that Michael might lose his temper at the mere sight of a man who dealt in the trade that Michael despised with all his heart.
The tanner’s cottage was dark, and smelled strongly of cats. The window shutters appeared to have been painted closed, so it was difficult to see. After a moment, Bartholomew’s eyes grew used to the gloom and he made out a sturdy table standing on one side of the room, and two straw mattresses on the other. The beds were heaped with blankets, and both were alive with cats. There were also cats on the table and up in the rafters, while more rubbed themselves round his legs and tripped him as he followed Michael inside.
‘Perhaps this is what your white dog wants,’ the monk muttered. ‘It is a hound’s paradise in here.’ He sneezed three times in quick succession.
‘A sign of good luck, Brother,’ came a sibilant voice from a dark corner.
‘I beg your pardon?’ demanded Michael nasally.
‘To sneeze three times is a sign of good luck,’ said the voice. ‘It means someone will give you a present. Of course, a cat sneezing three times means that its owner will soon have an ague.’
‘There is a new theory for your treatise on fevers, Matt,’ said Michael, dabbing at his nose with a small piece of linen. He peered into the room. ‘Will Norys? Come out, where I can see you.’
‘Have you come for a pardon?’ A small figure emerged from what Bartholomew had assumed was just another pile of cats.
‘We most certainly have not,’ said Michael indignantly. ‘I can do all the pardoning I need myself, thank you very much.’
‘Of course, Brother,’ hissed the pardoner. ‘If it is new leather you want, my uncle is outside.’
Michael sneezed twice, but Norys said nothing – perhaps two sneezes was not a good omen.
‘Perhaps we should stand outside,’ said Bartholomew after Michael’s sixth sneeze. Norys shrugged, and followed them into the garden. He had a round face and vivid green eyes. Unlike his uncle, he had tiny, rather pointed teeth, which he had a habit of running his tongue over in a furtive flicking movement. Bartholomew was sure he was not the first person to note the similarity between Norys and his feline friends.
‘Do you sell relics, by any chance?’ asked Michael, dabbing his nose fastidiously with his linen. ‘Only we would like to purchase a souvenir from our visit to Suffolk for the Master of our College, and I thought something of St Botolph’s might be suitable.’
‘I do have some relics,’ said Norys, moving towards the monk as he sensed a sale, ‘but nothing from St Botolph. He is popular around here, given his history. I can do you a fingernail of St Cuthbert, and I have a piece of the bowl in which Pontius Pilate washed his hands.’
‘Really?’ asked Bartholomew, puzzled. ‘Why would anyone want to buy something belonging to Pontius Pilate? He was scarcely on the side of the good and the just.’
‘People will buy just about anything these days,’ said Norys confidentially. ‘I heard of a man in Norwich who paid ten marks for a rib-bone of the whale that ate Elijah.’
‘But it was Job who was swallowed by a whale,’ said Bartholomew.
‘Precisely,’ said Norys. ‘But, to go back to your original question, it is not easy to come by relics of St Botolph. I have heard of none in these parts for many years. You might do better asking the monks at St Edmundsbury. The Benedictines there are not averse to raiding his hair and teeth on occasion. No offence, Brother.’
‘You have not heard of a few hairs of his beard being available in Grundisburgh recently, then?’ asked Michael casually.