‘Not yet,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He has plenty of retainers. He may have had this odd conversation with Unwin that Eltisley saw in the churchyard, then dispatched someone else to kill him in the church later.’
‘He would have to act quickly, though,’ said Michael, frowning. ‘Think about the chain of events: just before the feast, Grosnold thunders out of the village, trampling half the residents, and then doubles back to waylay Unwin in the churchyard. Immediately after the feast – and we saw how little time that took – Norys takes Mistress Freeman for a stroll around her late husband’s grave (or Mistress Freeman stands talking with Master Stoate by the ford, depending on who you believe), and out comes this mysterious figure in the cloak.’
Bartholomew took up the tale. ‘Within moments, Horsey goes in search of his friend, and finds his body. We know Unwin had not been dead long, because he was still warm and I thought I might be able to bring him back to life.’
‘So, three people saw this figure running from the church: Norys, Stoate and Mistress Freeman. Siric, Tuddenham’s steward, said he spoke to Mistress Freeman, and she confirmed she saw someone run from the church just after the feast, but she was unable to provide a description of him.’
‘Did Siric ask whether she was with Norys or Stoate when this took place?’
Michael shook his head. ‘He had only been instructed to ask her what she had seen, not who she was with. But we can ask her ourselves tomorrow. And I will catch her out if she lies to me.’
‘Why should she lie to you?’
‘It seems to the Norys is more fond of this widow-of-a-few-days than is entirely appropriate. She may have claimed to have seen this person running from the church because Norys told her to.’
Bartholomew sighed, and thought about Norys’s story. ‘What about the shoes and silver-studded belt that Norys described? They sound remarkably similar to the garments worn by the man we found hanging at Bond’s Corner. I do not see how Norys could have known about that, and so I am inclined to believe him.’
‘He would have known about them if he were also the man who did the hanging in the first place,’ pounced Michael. ‘It is simple. Norys kills some poor peasant, who happened to have stolen Deblunville’s clothes, and hid the body after we almost caught him at it. He then pretends to have seen someone wearing these same clothes running from the scene of Unwin’s murder – or perhaps he even wore them himself. In order to confuse us further, he suggests Deblunville, or another of Suffolk’s quarrelling knights, is responsible, and not one of the villagers. He is muddying the waters, but he cannot stir up the filth enough to fool me.’
‘Then why, when I showed him the stud I recovered, did he not use it to his own advantage?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘He could have assured us that it definitely belonged to the belt worn by the hanged man. Instead, he said he was uncertain.’
‘He might have been uncertain. For all he knew, you might have just pulled it off your own belt, and then he would have been caught out in an untruth.’
‘For someone you consider dull-witted, you are accrediting Norys with a good deal of intelligence,’ said Bartholomew doubtfully.
‘Not intelligence, Matt. Raw cunning. Like one of those damned cats he has creeping about the house. Did you notice how much he looked like one?’
‘Of course,’ said Bartholomew, standing and stretching. ‘But we cannot do anything more tonight because of this debate. After we bury Unwin tomorrow morning, you and I will visit Mistress Freeman, and then we will know who is lying and who is telling the truth.’
‘Where is William?’ hissed Michael anxiously to Bartholomew as the light faded from the sky behind Wergen Hall.
Bartholomew shrugged, wondering whether he should go to look for the absent friar. The debate was due to start at any moment, and it would be a very short one if only one side of the argument were presented. Michael fretted, pacing up and down in the dusty courtyard outside Tuddenham’s manorial home, as the villagers filed past him to take their seats in the main chamber. Bartholomew felt almost guilty when he saw the keen anticipation on their weary faces, certain that they were in for a tedious evening.
He was on the verge of leaving to hunt William down, when the friar appeared, hurrying along the path from the village. His grey robe flapped round his ankles, and his face was red with effort and agitation.
‘Where have you been?’ demanded Michael. ‘We are almost ready to begin, and I wanted to go through a couple of your arguments with you beforehand, to…’ He hesitated.
‘To make sure Matthew does not savage the too brutally in the debating chamber?’ finished William. Unaccustomed to such self-effacement from the friar, Michael was, for once, at a loss for words. ‘Well, you need not concern yourself, Brother. I have had more than enough time since you left me to hone and refine my own contentions.’ He scowled unpleasantly.
‘Why, what have you been doing?’ asked Bartholomew, puzzled.
‘I have been locked inside that damned latrine for the best part of the afternoon,’ snapped William angrily. ‘Some lunatic put a device on the door that can only be operated from the outside. Once you are in and the door is closed, the only way to get out is if someone opens it for you.’
‘Eltisley!’ said Bartholomew, trying not to laugh. ‘He was meddling with the doors yesterday, trying to fit some mechanism that would prevent desperate people from rattling the handles of occupied stalls. It was probably that which caused you problems.’
‘It was a red metal thing,’ said William. ‘In the end, I had to unscrew the hinge and remove the whole door, or I would still be there now, since no one answered my calls for help. Eltisley intended that lock to mean business!’
‘Come on,’ said Michael, taking his arm and leading him inside the manor house. ‘Or the people of Grundisburgh will be thinking we are afraid to show them our talents.’
‘Or perhaps they do not want to see them – hence William’s imprisonment,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I cannot imagine that no one walked past the latrines all afternoon. Perhaps it is their way of telling us they would rather be elsewhere.’
‘Nonsense,’ said William grimly. ‘These peasants will have an excellent time this evening.’
‘Will you tell them that, or shall I?’ asked Michael, grinning behind the friar’s back.
He walked up the stairs, entered the main hall and sat in a large wooden chair that had been placed in the middle of the room, while Bartholomew and William stood on either side of him. The hall was full and overly warm, with some people leaning up against the walls at the back and others sitting on the floor near the front, as well as those perched on benches in the middle. Somewhere a goat bleated, and there was an atmosphere of tense expectation. The window shutters stood open, but the air was too still to admit a breeze, and the room smelled of sweat, stale rushes and cut grass. Michael cleared his throat and an instant silence fell over the crowd.
‘We are here to discuss a question,’ the monk began grandly. ‘And the answer to that question lies at the very heart of our understanding of the universe. The ideas and theories you will hear expounded today come from some of the greatest minds the world has ever known – ancient philosophers, such as Aristotle and Ptolemy, and respected authorities from our own time, such as John Buridan.’
He paused for dramatic effect, and Bartholomew saw that one or two people were already beginning to shift restlessly, while a group of small children at his feet was far more interested in racing some insects through the rushes than in anything Michael had to say.
‘The only way to learn and to understand complex philosophical, theological and scientific issues is through disputation,’ continued Michael pompously. ‘If any one of you wishes to state a theory or to ask a question, you are welcome to do so at any time.’