‘Why should cats prevent him from making a lonely widow happy?’ asked Michael, puzzled.
‘Mistress Freeman did not like cats,’ said Mother Goodman. ‘Some people do not, although they provide good protection against Padfoot. He will not come where there are cats, because they hiss at him, and Padfoot does not like to be hissed at.’
‘Who does?’ said Michael.
‘Norys loves animals, especially cats. He gives me their urine for treating warts.’
‘Most generous of him,’ said Michael, taking Bartholomew’s arm and leading him outside so that he could expound his theories without the midwife offering her opinions. ‘You must excuse us, madam. We have business to attend.’
A low wall surrounded the churchyard, mainly to act as a barrier to keep out the pigs, cows and sheep that wandered freely through the village. Bartholomew sat on it, and looked out across the green. The scene was peaceful, with a robin singing sweetly from the top of one of the willow trees and a duck waddling toward the ford with a clutch of fluffy yellow chicks strewn out behind her. The gentle bubble of the stream, slightly swollen from the rains of the previous day, was almost drowned out by the raucous caw of rooks from the elms behind the church.
Michael sat next to him, stretching his fat legs to display a pair of pallid ankles. Bartholomew rubbed a hand through his hair, still wet from where he had washed the mud from it. He had donned his spare tabard and Cynric was supposed to be cleaning the one he usually wore, although the physician was not sure that his book-bearer would do a particularly good job given his preoccupation with his impending death. He dragged his thoughts away from Cynric’s predicament, and considered Michael’s unseemly determination to have the pardoner convicted of murder.
‘Maybe Stoate did it,’ he said, trying to consider all possibilities, and not just the one Michael had adopted with unnatural passion. ‘He might have killed Unwin, run from the church, and then stopped to talk to Mistress Freeman at the ford.’
‘Oh, that sounds very likely,’ said Michael caustically. ‘He would have been drenched in blood, and you are suggesting that he paused in his bid for escape to exchange pleasantries with the butcher’s widow? “Good evening, Mistress Freeman. And how are you today? Do not mind the fact that I am covered in blood; it has nothing to do with the dead priest in the church, you understand, and you will be used to a little gore, being the wife of a butcher.” I do not think so, Matt!’
Bartholomew tipped his head back and looked up at the leaves of the elms shivering in the morning breeze. ‘You are too fixed on Norys’s guilt.’
‘Because he is the most obvious suspect?’ asked Michael. ‘Well, your suggestion is ludicrous! Stoate is a wealthy man, and does not need to kill impoverished friars for their purses. Anyway, Stoate is not under suspicion: he told us what he saw because he was trying to be helpful.’
‘He is a dismal physician,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He should have made certain that Janelle knew not to drink the potion he prescribed; he gives purges that people do not need; and he treated inflamed eyes with sugar water!’
‘How disgraceful,’ said Michael dryly. ‘But it does not matter whether Stoate is a charlatan or the best physician in Suffolk: he could not have killed Unwin, because whoever did it would have been covered in blood – we know that because we saw it splattered outside the church.’
‘True,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And Stoate wore the same clothes when we met him at the tavern the evening Unwin died that he had worn all day – dark amber cotte and hose. I remember, because at the feast I saw him tossing a baby in the air and catching it again – well, actually he dropped it, which is why the incident stuck in my mind. I recall him in his yellow clothes quite clearly.’
‘And Norys had changed by the time we went to see him!’ Michael pounced triumphantly.
‘Yes, but we saw him two days later,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He was probably wearing his best clothes for the Fair, and is hardly likely to wear them to Ipswich market, too. And there is still the issue of Grosnold. Did Eltisley see him talking to Unwin in the churchyard or not?’
‘Grosnold’s reaction when you questioned him about it seemed odd,’ said Michael, scratching one of his chins. ‘Thus, I am inclined to believe it was he – or his men – who attacked you at Barchester to ensure you kept quiet about it. I cannot believe you were so rash as to tell Grosnold what Eltisley said he saw – especially given that we are talking about a murder here.’
‘I was running low on ideas,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘To be honest, I expected there to be an innocent explanation of what Eltisley saw, and did not anticipate Grosnold denying it.’
‘Perhaps it was Grosnold who hired Norys to kill Unwin,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘So, our black knight slips back to Grundisburgh after his dramatic exit, for a secret meeting with Unwin. He found Unwin would not do what he wanted – whether it was working for peace as Bardolf believes, or becoming involved in the hunt for the golden calf – and paid Norys to dispatch him.’
‘Was there enough time for all this to have happened?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Eltisley said he saw Grosnold with Unwin moments after the end of the feast, and it was not too long after that when Horsey went in search of him. I would have thought it would take longer than that to hire a killer.’
‘We will go to Norys’s house and have a good look for bloodstained attire this morning,’ said Michael, ignoring the inconvenient question. ‘If Norys wore his best clothes to the Fair, he would not throw them away because they are spoiled – he would keep them and try to wash the stuff out. Pardoners are a mean breed, and do not waste fine garments just because they are bloodstained.’
‘There was probably a lot of blood when Mistress Freeman was killed, too,’ said Bartholomew, too tired to contest Michael’s gross generalisations. ‘Slit throats are invariably messy.’
‘This was,’ said Michael with a shudder. ‘I have seldom seen such a grisly sight. Blood was splashed up the walls, and there was not a piece of furniture that was not covered in it.’
‘It was not windy last night,’ said Bartholomew, gazing out across the green. ‘Sounds carry on quiet nights, and even though Mistress Freeman’s house is a fair distance from the nearest neighbour, I am surprised nothing was heard.’
‘But her nearest neighbour is Norys, and Norys killed her,’ said Michael. ‘And he killed her because she would not give him the alibi he needs to cover his murder of Unwin.’
‘But Mother Goodman saw Norys talking to Mistress Freeman outside the church, just as he claimed,’ Bartholomew pointed out.
‘True. But not many moments after, she saw Stoate chatting to her by the ford, and no Norys in sight. I told you Norys was our killer, and I was right. A little solid evidence might prove useful, though, because Tuddenham is convinced Tobias Eltisley killed Unwin.’
‘On what grounds?’ asked Bartholomew. He had quite forgotten the landlord’s predicament. ‘That Eltisley is a dangerous lunatic?’
‘Because Tuddenham’s man, Siric, found a bloody knife in Eltisley’s garden. Eltisley, not surprisingly, says it is not his, and that anyone might have thrown it there.’
‘And this is all the evidence Tuddenham has against Eltisley?’
Michael nodded. ‘You said you thought Tuddenham might start casting about for a scapegoat, if he could not deliver his promise and produce Unwin’s killer quickly: Eltisley is it. So, now we need to prove that Norys is our murderer, or Eltisley will pay for it, and I am certain he is innocent.’
‘At least Eltisley cannot endanger people’s lives with his inventions, if he is safely behind bars,’ said Bartholomew unsympathetically. ‘Tuddenham’s cellar is the best place for him.’