Michael chuckled. ‘It made Alcote as sick as a dog, but it was his vegetables that made me ill.’
‘Eltisley’s wife is an excellent cook and the fare is rich and plentiful,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Not all of us know when to stop.’
‘Typical of a monk,’ muttered William, reaching for a large helping of pheasant. ‘Greedy!’
Stoate regarded Michael thoughtfully. ‘A cup of water before a meal helps to fill the innards and reduces unnecessary overloading. Have you tried that?’
‘I most certainly have not,’ said Michael frostily. ‘I only take water as a last resort – and never before food.’
‘Does water help?’ asked Bartholomew of Stoate, interested.
‘No medicine while we are eating, if you please,’ said William firmly. ‘You can do that when you are alone together.’
‘Did you tend Alice Quy?’ asked Bartholomew, ignoring him.
Stoate shook his head. ‘Of course not. Physicians do not deal with women’s problems, particularly when there is a midwife like Mother Goodman to call on. I was summoned eventually, but she was dead before I arrived. Had I been contacted earlier, I might have been able to counteract the infection, although I do not really think so.’
‘Mother Goodman said this fever came six months after the birth of her last child,’ said Bartholomew. ‘That seems unusual.’
Stoate sighed. ‘It was six months after the birth of one child, but it is my belief that she became pregnant again almost immediately, and it was the loss of that baby which killed her. She claimed she saw a ghostly white dog, and came tearing home in such a panic that I am not surprised the unborn child was lost.’
‘Do you think she convinced herself that she was going to die because she saw the white dog?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘You said only the other night that people often give up all hope of recovery if they believe themselves to be seriously ill.’
‘Yes,’ said Stoate nodding keenly. ‘I have seen that many times. It is very possible that Alice Quy simply gave up. It explains why she died so quickly, too, when other women with that fever tend to linger.’
‘Then do you think that James Freeman slit his throat because he believed he was going to die?’
‘Possibly,’ said Stoate. ‘The poor man was beside himself with terror. You need to make sure the same thing does not happen to your servant. There is a rumour that he saw Padfoot, too.’
‘I cannot imagine why Cynric is so disturbed by it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It was not a pleasant experience, but it did us no real harm.’ For Stoate’s benefit, he described the attack.
‘But you did not see the thing,’ Stoate pointed out. ‘It sat on you and breathed on you, but you did not actually set eyes on it. Cynric did, and that is why he is so afraid. Padfoot is supposed to herald the death of anyone who sees it, not anyone it sits on.’
‘But it was a real dog, not some spectre,’ protested Bartholomew. ‘It was flesh and blood.’
‘That is not the point,’ said Stoate. ‘The legend says nothing about how it feels, sounds or smells, or even tastes. It says that anyone who sets eyes on it will die within a few days.’
‘You speak almost as if you believe it,’ said Bartholomew.
Stoate finished his wine and stood. ‘I do. I learned years ago not to mock local customs and stories. There is nearly always some grain of sense behind them that should not be dismissed too lightly.’ He tapped Bartholomew on the shoulder as he left. ‘Do not close your mind without fully investigating the issue, my friend.’
Having devoured another monumental meal at Tuddenham’s expense, Michael was in no state to accompany Bartholomew to the Freemans’ house, and was forced to retire to the bedchamber to lie down. Bartholomew took William with him instead. He left the friar at the tanner’s home – against Bartholomew’s pleas for clemency, the petrified tanner had replaced Eltisley in Tuddehham’s cellar – while he walked along the river until he reached the butcher’s property. It was deserted and silent, almost like the wooden hovels at Barchester. He pushed open the door and stepped inside.
Seldom had he seen so much blood in one place. It had splattered the walls, splashed on to the ceiling, and pooled on the floor. In fact, there was enough of it to make Bartholomew wonder whether Alice Freeman was the only person to have had her throat cut there. The blotches of dark red, now turning to black, were obscene in the little house. The Freemans had not been wealthy but they had evidently taken some pride in their home. The wooden stools and table were lovingly crafted, while the coarse woollen blankets, now strewn carelessly about the room, were edged with yellow ribbons in a spirited attempt to make them more attractive.
On the windowsill was a small vase containing flowers, now drooping and brown, while the shelves held pewter dishes and two clay goblets. The table had been overturned, and smashed pottery crunched under Bartholomew’s feet as he walked. Something else cracked, too, and Bartholomew saw that one of the bowls that lay upended on the ground had contained shellfish. Poor Alice Freeman had apparently dined on mussels before she had died, and the empty shells were now scattered all over the room.
To test Michael’s claim that Alice Freeman’s screams for help could not be heard from the tanner’s cottage, he took a deep breath and called William’s name. After several moments, when William did not appear, he shouted again, a little louder. Finally, he yelled at the top of his lungs. When William still did not come, he went outside and waved to him.
‘I heard nothing,’ said William, walking down the lane. ‘If she screamed, then it could not have been heard from the tanner’s cottage. How many times did you shout?’
‘Three,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Is Norys’s the only house near here?’
William nodded, and peered through the Freemans’ door to the room beyond. ‘Good God! It is like a slaughterhouse in there.’
Bartholomew frowned thoughtfully. ‘A slaughterhouse. Freeman was a butcher.’
‘Norys will swing for this, and that is certain,’ said William. ‘Look, there is even blood on the doorstep and along the path. The poor woman must have dragged herself out, looking for help as she died.’
Bartholomew looked to where William pointed. The stains were not mere drips, but huge splatters that coloured the grass a reddish brown. Something else caught his eye. To one side of the path, partly concealed under a rosemary bush, was the body of a cat. Bartholomew touched it, but it was cold and motionless.
He walked back into the house, and crouched to inspect the dry pools of blood that were scattered around the room, noting thick, black clots in most of them. Finally, he went to the butcher’s workshop further down the garden. The door was ajar, so he pushed it open.
The stinking body of a pig lay on a bench, waiting in vain to be dismembered and returned to its owner in manageable portions. It had the veins in its neck slit, and its intestines removed. The buzz of flies and the stench of decay made Bartholomew feel sick, but he forced himself to complete his inspection. To one side of the pig there was a large vat in which blood was collected, before being made into puddings or used to thicken soups. The vat was almost empty, and a dark dribble on the floor showed that some of its contents had been spilled.
‘We cannot blame this on Norys,’ said William, sounding almost resentful as he watched Bartholomew stare at a bowl that was stained almost black with blood. ‘I know from my questioning of the villagers that Hamon ordered a pig killed two Saturdays ago – apparently he wanted to make blood pudding as a gift for the harlot Janelle, now Deblunville’s wife.’
‘But he did not know she was Deblunville’s wife until last Sunday.’