He walked down the stairs, and found Eltisley laying out bread and ale for breakfast. The innkeeper smiled at Bartholomew and indicated that he should sit, but Bartholomew was not hungry and did not feel much like eating when he was about to bury Unwin. Alcote was already there, pale faced and heavy eyed from a night rendered restless by too many raisins.
‘That potion you gave me did not work,’ he complained to Bartholomew. ‘I still feel dreadful.’
Bartholomew felt Alcote’s forehead. It was cold and clammy, but Alcote was a cold and clammy person, and Bartholomew was not overly concerned. He imagined that the chief cause of Alcote’s continued ill health was because he was anxious about the advowson, and was working too hard to ingratiate himself with Tuddenham.
‘We have had more than our share of funerals this month,’ said Eltisley conversationally, as they waited for the others to arrive. The physician did not feel the landlord’s jovial tone was appropriate for such a discussion, particularly bearing in mind they were about to attend another.
‘So I understand,’ he said shortly, wishing Eltisley would go away.
‘First there was poor Alice Quy and then there was James Freeman,’ Eltisley continued happily, clattering about with his pewter plates. ‘I had to invent a special box for him, because otherwise all that blood would have damaged the parish coffin, and leaked over the church.’
‘Mother Goodman said yours leaked, too,’ said Bartholomew unkindly.
Eltisley looked crestfallen. ‘Well, I did my best. I was sent inferior wood, and even though I sealed all the joints, the blood simply seeped out. It took me a whole day to make that box – even with some of my customers helping me.’ He nodded at the surly men who were labouring with the barrels in the yard. ‘They are casual labourers, hired by Hamon to help with the crop weeding.’
‘What happened to Alice Quy?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Mother Goodman says you gave her a potion for her childbirth fever. What was in it?’
‘Ah,’ said Eltisley, regarding Bartholomew with a hurt expression. ‘You think my potion hastened her end. I can assure you, Doctor, I gave her nothing that would cause her harm. It was a mild mixture of feverfew mixed with honeyed wine. Surely there can be nothing noxious in that?’
‘I suppose not,’ said Bartholomew.
‘And what was in that one you gave me on Monday night?’ demanded Alcote, holding his stomach for dramatic effect. ‘I am still suffering.’
‘I have already told you,’ said Eltisley, offended. ‘It was not my potion that made you ill – Tuddenham’s cook told me that you ate raisins all day, and too many of those are very bad for you. Anyway, my wife and I take a dose of my black potion nightly, and we are both well.’
Bartholomew could not imagine how.
‘James Freeman’s death was a shock to us all so soon after Alice Quy,’ continued Eltisley, shaking his head. ‘Poor Dame Eva found him when she went to collect Wergen Hall’s pork, and I heard her cries of shock. She is a sensible lady, but even she was shaken by what she saw – the butcher’s neck hacked with one of those great knives he used for chopping up animal carcasses. It was her suggestion that I build a special coffin because of all the blood. Next time, I will line the thing with pitch. Pitch is used to render boats watertight, you know.’
‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I do know, although I hope there will not be a next time.’
Most of the villagers were waiting at the church to pay their last respects to Unwin. Bartholomew wondered whether they were there on Tuddenham’s orders, or whether they were as genuinely shocked by the murder as they claimed. Father William rattled through the requiem mass at a speed that had most of the villagers nodding appreciatively and Walter Wauncy’s eyes hard with envy. William was renowned for his fast masses in Cambridge, although he usually made up for them with excessively long sermons, during which he railed about heresy, making frequent reference to the lurid wall paintings in St Michael’s Church. There were no Judgement Day paintings in Grundisburgh, and William found little inspiration in the restful mural depicting St Margaret, whose timeless gaze watched over the assembly with a curiously sad smile.
As the requiem proceeded, Bartholomew, standing with his Michaelhouse colleagues in a line next to the coffin, looked at the villagers in the body of the church. Warin de Stoate was with some of his young friends at the back, gazing down at the floor and poking the earth with the toe of his boot. Eltisley was regarding the roof speculatively, and Bartholomew saw him raise an arm and measure something by squinting at his thumb with one eye. Wauncy would need to be on his guard if Eltisley had designs on improving what was already a perfectly functional ceiling.
Tuddenham and his family had wooden benches in the chancel. Dame Eva sat with her back against one of the walls, gazing at the painted rood loft, a small gallery that ran across the church between the nave and the choir. Isilia sat next to her, shifting uncomfortably on the hard wood, one hand resting on her stomach, where her unborn child kicked. She caught Bartholomew’s eye and gave him a small smile of sympathy. Next to her was Tuddenham himself, his eyes fixed on the shrouded figure in the coffin, his expression unreadable. Hamon stood behind him, kicking the wall with a spurred heel, hands pushed deep inside his leather jerkin.
Opposite the Tuddenhams were some specially invited guests. Grosnold sat in the best chair, his jet armour exchanged for a black cotte, hose and cloak. Next to him was a small man with a crooked spine and shabby clothes, who fidgeted throughout the mass as though sitting still was painful for him. Wauncy, his robes swinging about his skeletal form and his white face more than usually gaunt, looked like the Angel of Death in the gloom. He joined in the singing of a psalm with a voice so deep and resonant that it sent an unpleasant chill down Bartholomew’s spine. The physician sang louder so that he would not have to hear it, drawing curious glances from Michael and Alcote.
By the time the mass was over, the sky had clouded to a menacing grey. Bartholomew and Cynric lifted Unwin’s shrouded body from the parish coffin and lowered it gently into the gaping rectangular hole under the yew tree that had been prepared the day before. By the time they had finished, rain was beginning to fall in a misty pall. Drops pattered lightly on the now-empty coffin, making a dismal accompaniment to the drone of William’s prayers.
Eventually, it was over and the villagers began to drift away. There was work to be done in the fields and woods, and there were animals to be fed and turned out to graze. Stoate touched Bartholomew lightly on the elbow and offered his condolences again, following up with a shy invitation to visit an infirmary at Ipswich, which had something of a reputation for dealing with diseases of the lungs. Bartholomew thanked him, but even the prospect of learning new medicine could not rouse him from his sadness at the futility of Unwin’s death.
He stood with Michael while Cynric shovelled dirt on top of the white bundle that lay in its sandy grave. Alcote and William accepted the sympathies of the departing parishioners, while Deynman had his arm around Horsey, who was sobbing uncontrollably.
The man with the crooked spine, whom Bartholomew had noticed in the church, was talking to Tuddenham and Grosnold. The rain was now coming down hard, making Grosnold’s pate gleam even more than usual, and people were scurrying for cover.
‘John Bardolf,’ said Tuddenham briskly, introducing the small man to Bartholomew. ‘My neighbour from Clopton, whose daughter disobeyed me and married that scoundrel Deblunville.’