Isilia smiled mischievously. ‘I will tell you the back way to the village so that you can avoid him. Eltisley’s cures for warts are infamous, and many villagers use them as weed-killers and to clear blocked drains. They also cure warts, but I would not recommend that you taste them.’
Bartholomew and Michael left immediately. Following her directions they walked along a pathway that led through pleasant groves of birch and elder, where birds sang sweetly and bees buzzed loudly in the still, warm air.
Michael chuckled. ‘By going this way we have managed to lose William, too. I do not like him breathing down my neck while I am asking people questions. So, when we reach Grundisburgh, I shall visit the Dog – named, would you believe, after your spectral hound – and conduct my enquiries from there. That wretched Franciscan is unlikely to look for me in a tavern.’
‘Never underestimate the Inquisition, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And anyway, you might be better off having him where you can see him.’
Later, when the fields were bathed in bright gold light, Warin de Stoate came to invite Bartholomew to ride with him to a nearby leper hospital. Bartholomew accepted readily, and spent a happy afternoon discussing medicine with a man who, even if he did not understand or agree with all that was said, was at least interested. Rashly believing that such an opportunity might be beneficial to Deynman’s medical studies, Stoate extended the invitation to the student, dismissing Bartholomew’s words of caution with a magnanimity he was later to regret.
While Stoate and Bartholomew reviewed the lepers’ symptoms with the friar who ran the hospital, Deynman slipped away and decided to experiment with a theory of his own: namely that leprosy could be cured with a poultice made from garlic, nettles and the hair of a stallion. By the time the unpleasant aroma had drifted to where Stoate and Bartholomew sat talking with Father Peter, Stoate’s horse had been relieved of its tail (Bartholomew’s and Deynman’s mounts were exempted on the grounds that they were mares). Fortunately, none of the lepers had been foolish enough to allow Deynman to try his stew on their skin, and Father Peter managed to knot a bunch of grass around what remained of the stallion’s tail, thus enabling the bereft animal to flick away the flies that plagued it. Stoate, however, was not amused, and did not appreciate his horse being the object of mirth from the people they passed on the road.
By the time Bartholomew had placated Stoate by listening with rapt attention to his odd theories on the bloody flux, he was hot, tired and irritable, and certainly not in the mood to participate in a debate that evening. Sensing that a quick disappearance might be prudent, Deynman slunk off to seek out Horsey as soon as they arrived in Grundisburgh, while Stoate went to visit Eltisley, to see if a replacement tail for the stallion could be devised that would look less like the handful of grass that had been fastened to it. Bartholomew went to find Michael.
The monk was still in the Dog. Feeling magnanimous after several cups of strong claret, he had invited William to accompany him to speak again to the people who lived opposite the church about Unwin’s death, hoping that one of them might have remembered something new. It was not long before Michael appreciated more than ever Bartholomew’s easy and intelligent companionship, and he had almost came to blows with William regarding the degree of coercion that could and could not be applied when questioning innocent bystanders. After half a dozen such encounters, he threw up his hands in despair and left William to his own devices. The rest of his day was spent in the peaceful garden of the Dog enjoying the far more congenial company of the landlord, who had won the monk’s heart by requesting his expert opinion on various pastries.
‘The apple is superior to the raisin,’ he announced authoritatively, wiping greasy fingers on his small piece of linen. The linen had evidently seen a good deal of use that day, and was looking grubby and rumpled. Almost as if he sensed Bartholomew’s observation, the landlord presented Michael with a new piece, embroidered around the edges and made of finest quality white cloth. It was also much larger than the old one, and therefore a more suitable size for a glutton like Michael.
‘A gift to show my gratitude for your advice on my recipes,’ said the landlord solemnly.
Michael inclined his head graciously, and accepted it, dabbing delicately at his sticky lips.
‘Norys predicted that someone would give you a present,’ said Bartholomew, sitting next to him and taking a slice of something containing dates, which Michael had somehow missed.
Michael’s face creased in annoyance. ‘I was perfectly happy until you mentioned that vile name. Can we not talk of more pleasant things? Like boiled cream custard – a delicious combination of thick cream, egg yolks and butter, flavoured with sugar and saffron, presented to me by my good friend the innkeeper here. Try some. Oh! There seems to be none left’
‘We have not really discussed the man Norys saw running from the church the afternoon Unwin died,’ said Bartholomew, taking a long draught from Michael’s pot of ale. He was grateful to sit in the shade for a while, before the debate started. Obligingly, the landlord brought more food – chicken in almonds, and some buttered cabbage that Michael regarded as though it were poisonous.
‘I have been thinking about nothing else,’ said Michael untruthfully, regarding the number of empty platters that surrounded him. ‘Norys did it. That weaselly pardoner killed poor Unwin just as surely as you are sitting there.’
‘I do not think so, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, leaning back against the wall and closing his eyes. ‘What evidence do you have, other than the fact that you do not like pardoners?’
‘He has gone to Ipswich and will not be returning,’ said Michael. ‘That is a sign of his guilt.’
Bartholomew opened his eyes quickly. ‘Really? How do you know he will not come back?’
Michael sniffed. ‘No one can find him. He is not in the village.’
Bartholomew sighed and closed his eyes again. ‘That does not mean he has gone permanently. His uncle said he often stays in Ipswich for several days at a time.’
‘But I told him not to go. I believe his sudden absence is too coincidental, given that I hinted I thought he might be involved in Unwin’s murder. The man has fled, I tell you.’
‘He would have fled a lot earlier if he had been guilty. You are on thin ice with this, Brother.’
‘He knew I suspected him of the murder, and so what did he do but invent a fictitious figure running out of the church in great haste. No one else saw this person – I have been tramping all over the village with William this afternoon, and no one saw a thing.’
‘But Stoate also saw someone leaving the church.’
Michael glared at him for interrupting. ‘And Norys expects me to believe that he noticed this person’s belt and shoes, but not his face, or even whether it was a man or a woman!’
‘But that happens,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘And to prove it, I did a similar thing with the lepers I visited this afternoon.’ Michael edged away from him. ‘I could tell you in great detail what stages the disease was at, and what symptoms the leper was suffering, but I am not sure I could tell you how many men and how many women I saw.’
‘But that is completely different,’ said Michael. ‘It is not easy to tell a man from a woman when the face is swathed in bandages.’
‘But women wear dresses and men wear hose, just as they do anywhere else,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I did not pay attention to that while there were more interesting things to see.’
‘You enjoyed yourself, then?’ asked Michael dryly. ‘Did Deynman?’