‘That is an uncharitable position to take, Matt. You will feel terrible about saying that if he hangs for Norys’s crime.’
‘Then you can grant me absolution,’ said Bartholomew. He was not seriously concerned about Eltisley, certain that even Tuddenham would not execute a man solely on the discovery of a bloody knife in his garden. ‘We can let William prove Eltisley’s innocence, since he so desperately wants to practise his investigative skills.’
Michael sighed. ‘He is already doing that, quite independently of me. He questioned everyone who lives on The Street yesterday, in a manner that can only be described as single-minded. I only hope we catch Norys before William decides to use more physical techniques.’
‘We should go to Mistress Freeman’s house,’ said Bartholomew, standing and stretching. ‘There might be some clue there regarding the identity of her killer.’
‘I have already checked,’ objected Michael. ‘We would do better to go to Norys’s cottage, and look for blood-drenched garments and something really incriminating – like Unwin’s relic.’
He stood and walked purposely towards the ford. Ducklings scattered in his path as he splashed across the stream and made his way to the pardoner’s home. Norys’s uncle was in his garden, hammering on a piece of leather. He glanced up as Michael loomed imperiously over the gate.
‘Have you found him?’ the tanner asked anxiously. ‘He has never left me for more than two nights in a row before.’
Michael pushed open the gate, and walked in. ‘We will find him soon. Meanwhile, perhaps I might look in your house, to see if I can find any evidence of where he might be.’
‘Such as what?’ asked the tanner, alarmed, and standing to block his way. ‘I cannot read, so he would not have left me a note, if that is what you mean.’
‘I have traced many missing people in Cambridge,’ said Michael, insinuating himself past the tanner and into the house. ‘I will just ensure there is not some vital clue you might have overlooked.’
‘But I am too busy to help you,’ squeaked the tanner desperately. ‘I must have this leather ready for Walter Wauncy’s new shoes by mid-morning, or there will be hell to pay.’
Michael looked backward and gave him a cunning smile. ‘No matter, Master Tanner. I will find what I am looking for much faster if you are not with me.’
Bartholomew felt sorry for the tanner, who was bewildered by Michael’s blustering presence. He gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile, and followed the monk into the cottage.
‘There is no need to terrify the poor man,’ he said in a low voice, so that the tanner would not hear. ‘He is clearly worried about his nephew, and you have no right to intimidate him like that.’
‘Do I not?’ demanded Michael, trying to disentangle himself from an over-friendly cat. ‘Eltisley’s life is at risk, and you are concerned about the feelings of a pardoner’s uncle? Damn these wretched animals! They are everywhere. God’s blood, Matt – that one bit me!’
A large tabby cat shot from under Michael’s foot and scampered out of the door. Another hissed, arching its back and revealing sharp, white teeth. Michael backed away and sneezed.
‘You look around,’ he said to Bartholomew. ‘These beasts do not seem to like me.’
‘I wonder why,’ muttered Bartholomew, picking his way into the room. It was difficult to search for anything under the furry bodies. Two cats wound their way round his legs while he shook the blankets on the bed and rifled through the room’s only chest.
‘Look at this,’ whispered Michael in sudden revulsion, looking into a strongbox that stood on one of the wall shelves. He pulled his new piece of linen from his scrip, and dabbed his nose on it while he rummaged through the box with his other hand. ‘These are his pardons!’
‘Leave them, Brother,’ warned Bartholomew, peering into the cooking pans one by one.
‘I would not soil my hands,’ said Michael loftily, lifting one out, and reading it with distaste. ‘Here is a pardon for having lusty thoughts over another man’s wife. You should ask him if you can buy it, given the way you have been ogling Isilia. And here is one for the sin of greed.’
‘One for you, then,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is nothing here, Brother. We should leave that poor tanner in peace.’
Michael made as if to demur, but there were few places in the single-roomed cottage where anything could be hidden, and even he had to admit they had searched it as well as they could. He sneezed once more, took a final look round and stalked out, closely followed by three yellow cats.
‘Have you finished?’ asked the tanner, hammering furiously and looking up as they passed. ‘Did you find anything that might help him? I wish he would come back; he knows I worry about him when he stays away more than a night or two, and this time he has been gone since Wednesday.’
‘Where does he sleep when he is in Ipswich?’ asked Michael. ‘A tavern?’ He managed to give the word an insalubrious feel, as though it were somehow sinful to be staying in such a place, regardless of the fact that he was thoroughly enjoying his own sojourn at the Half Moon.
‘He always stays at the Saracen’s Head,’ said the tanner nervously. ‘Are you thinking you might go there to see if he is all right? You must be concerned if you are considering that – you must think something dreadful has happened to him.’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew, to soothe him. ‘We have no intention of going to Ipswich. I am sure your nephew will arrive home safely soon.’
‘What is that?’ asked Michael suddenly, pointing at something. The tanner’s cottage was untidily thatched with reeds, and had a chimney in the middle to allow smoke from the cooking fire to seep out. Near the chimney was a bundle, almost hidden by the nettles that had sprouted all over the roof. The tanner peered at it, too, surprised by its presence.
‘I do not know what that is,’ he said, squinting at it with the narrowed eyes of a man whose long-distance vision is poor. ‘Perhaps my nephew put it there.’
‘Did he now?’ said Michael, snatching up a stick and trying to hook the bundle down. ‘Damn! I cannot reach. Matt, you will have to climb up and grab it.’
‘I will not,’ said Bartholomew, laughing at Michael’s audacity. ‘You do it.’
‘Would you have this poor tanner homeless because my weight has collapsed his roof?’ asked Michael with arched eyebrows. ‘You are lighter than me, and I will help you. Here.’
Michael formed a stirrup of his hands and, reluctantly, Bartholomew placed one foot in it, scrabbling at the roof as he was propelled upward faster than he had anticipated. He gained a handhold on one of the bands that held the thatch in place, and hauled himself up. The object of the precarious exercise was just out of his reach, and he began to ease himself toward it, almost losing his grip as a cat leapt on to the roof next to him. Eventually, the very tips of his fingers touched the bundle, and he leaned to the side as far as he could to try to dislodge it. It came loose at about the same time that the thatch band broke, precipitating Bartholomew, bundle and cat downward in a tangle of hands, legs, claws, dirty cloth and tail. The cat gave a tremendous yowl and shot back into the house. Bartholomew sat up, rubbing his elbow.
Michael’s attention was on the bundle, which had burst open when it hit the ground. Scattered under his triumphant gaze were a bloodstained shirt and hose, and Unwin’s purse, all wrapped in a long, dark cloak.
‘But my nephew does not own hose that colour,’ protested the tanner, as he sat on a low stool in the middle of the main chamber at Wergen Hall. He was watched by Tuddenham’s household, who sat in chairs near the health, or leaned against the walls with folded arms. If Tuddenham had meant the circumstances to be intimidating, he had been successful. He and Hamon were cold and menacing; Wauncy fixed the tanner with a sepulchral gaze, as if reminding him of the terrors of hell to come; Dame Eva was angry, and Isilia was simply repelled.