‘So, are you saying Norys used these same clothes to kill Unwin, too?’ demanded Bartholomew, becoming angry in his turn. ‘Do you think he keeps them on his roof so that he can use them again and again, and not spoil more than one set with bloodstains?’
‘He might,’ said Michael harshly. ‘Perhaps that is why Mistress Freeman put up such a fight – she opened the door, anticipating a neighbourly visit, and saw Norys standing there in his murdering gear.’
‘That would mean he knew in advance she would not lie for him about the alibi,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Or your theory would have him arriving at her house dressed in blood-drenched clothes, holding a sharp knife at the ready, and calmly asking her if she would mind telling everyone she had enjoyed a pleasant stroll with him around the church while he was killing Unwin.’
‘So what is your explanation?’ demanded Michael irritably.
Bartholomew considered. ‘I think Norys may have been with Mistress Freeman when she died. Since, as you pointed out, Mistress Freeman is unlikely to have shared her dinner with a cat, Norys probably did so. He loved cats, and I do not think he would have poisoned one with bad shellfish deliberately. So, I think he is probably dead, too.’
Michael made an exasperated noise at the back of his throat. ‘This nonsense is getting us nowhere. Put the poor woman back as you found her, and leave her in peace. This is a case of simple murder: Norys killed Unwin for his purse, killed Mistress Freeman for not lying for him, and threw the bloody clothes on to his roof where he hoped they would never be found.’
‘But Norys is not a foolish man,’ persisted Bartholomew. ‘Why did he choose to hide them on his own roof when their discovery would be so incriminating?’
‘Perhaps because he intends to use them again,’ said Michael. ‘And he put them somewhere where he would be able to get at them.’
‘And what about all the other things that have happened?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘What about the attack on Cynric and me in Barchester? What about Grosnold being seen talking to Unwin shortly before his death? What about the fact that Unwin, Mistress Freeman’s husband and Alice Quy saw this white dog, and all three are now dead? What about Deblunville’s suspicion that Tuddenham has his villagers out looking for this lost golden calf in the depths of the night? Finding a thing of such value might well make people resort to evil deeds. And what about this poor man we found hanged wearing Deblunville’s clothes that no one has bothered about?’
‘Irrelevant,’ said Michael promptly. ‘Our only interest in – and our only jurisdiction over – this affair is to find Unwin’s killer. That is Norys, and Tuddenham will soon have him under lock and key. The rest is not our concern.’
‘It is our concern if something sinister is going on that might affect the advowson.’
‘Wrong. The relevance to the advowson is not that there is something untoward going on, but that someone at the University might discover what it is. Alcote has been very meticulous on that score: he has uncovered nothing.’
‘So, you are saying that it is perfectly all right for the advowson to be steeped in filth and treachery as long as none of the other Colleges find out?’
Michael smiled. ‘Basically. And it will be well worth the trouble: there will be a post for a Michaelhouse man at Grundisburgh in perpetuity, and most of the tithes will come the way of the College. You might even be offered the post yourself one day, when you are too old and drooling to teach medicine, or if you continue to disgrace yourself by lusting after prostitutes.’
‘So, Michaelhouse is to provide Grundisburgh men who are either too old to be of any use, or who have embarrassed the College in some way? That is a fine way to treat Tuddenham’s generosity!’
‘I have already told you that this has nothing to do with generosity, Matt. Tuddenham will have a reason for relinquishing some of his personal fortune to a distant College to which he has no affiliation. Alcote has been bribing the servants to gossip about their master, and I have been developing friendships with his cooks. However, neither of us has discovered his motive yet.’
Bartholomew shook his head in disgust. ‘That is horrible, Brother. What will Tuddenham say if he finds out you are encouraging his people to betray him?’
‘Probably the same thing I said when Horsey told me he had been offered a new pair of sandals for information about us, or when I discovered Deynman’s handsome ivory dice were a gift from Hamon in exchange for a cosy chat.’
Bartholomew was aghast. ‘You mean Deynman was bribed to tell tales about us?’
‘Of course,’ said Michael, smiling at the physician’s shock. ‘There was no harm done – that lad thinks very highly of you for some reason, and seems to have informed Hamon that you are only a little short of sainthood. But we should let William say mass for this poor woman’s soul. Hopefully, Alcote will complete the advowson in the next couple of days, and we can be on our way. Then you can go back to your diseases and wounds and contagions, and be happy again.’
Bartholomew was disappointed at Michael’s reaction to his discoveries and suppositions, but not entirely surprised. The monk had taken a hostile dislike to the vanished pardoner purely because he hated the profession with all his heart. Hearing that pardoners were selling their wares in Cambridge was one of the few things that could disturb the usually self-composed monk’s equanimity and reduce him to a state of quivering rage. There was little that would please him more than being able to indict one for the crime of murder.
Bartholomew wandered outside the church feeling exhausted. Cynric had slept badly the previous night, crying out in his dreams several times, and waking everyone, including Eltisley and his wife. After the third time, Bartholomew had caught Eltisley trying to persuade Cynric to drink some potion that he insisted would bring dreamless sleep. Bartholomew had snatched it away even as Cynric was lifting it to his lips, horrified to detect the odour of dog mercury in it, a powerful and wholly inappropriate herb for sleeplessness. He had given Cynric a sleeping draught of his own, and placed a mattress against the door to prevent Eltisley entering uninvited again.
While Michael returned to the tavern, Bartholomew sat on the village green under a willow that shaded him from the fading evening sun. Its graceful branches swept down to trail in the stream, and the duck, her cluster of young in tow, approached him, nervous, but hopeful for scraps. The sandy bottom of the stream showed crystal clear through the swiftly running water, occasionally marred by swirls of silt as a cart or an animal plodded across one of the fords upstream. It was peaceful, with little to disturb him but the squabbling rooks in the churchyard elms, and the gentle tapping at his leg by the hungry duck. Her young chirruped and pipped, falling over each other as they poked about in the grass for seeds.
If he listened very hard, he could hear Father William’s stentorian voice booming from the church as he rattled through the requiem mass for Mistress Freeman, making up in volume and speed what he lacked in concentration.
As he gazed across the green to the haphazard line of houses opposite the church, Bartholomew saw that he had two choices. He could ignore the whole business and let Norys hang for the murders of Unwin and Mistress Freeman, and return to Cambridge never to think about the miserable affair again. Or he could make some enquiries of his own.
There were too many unanswered questions for him to accept that Norys was guilty: for example, why had Mistress Freeman’s throat been cut after she had died, and the pig’s blood scattered over her house to make her death appear a murder? Had Norys really been stupid enough to hide his bloody bundle in such an obvious place? Where was Unwin’s relic? What had Grosnold been talking about to Unwin before the friar died? Why had Bartholomew been attacked in Barchester as he had ridden back from Otley with Cynric? There had been a slathering white dog, but there had been people, too, and earthly, not ghostly, hands had toppled him from his horse. Were they thieves after the gold coin Grosnold had given him, or did Grosnold want him silenced for some reason? Had Tuddenham resurrected the legend of Padfoot so that his villagers would have a valid excuse when they were found on Deblunville’s land looking for the golden calf? And finally, who was the man who had been hanged in Deblunville’s stolen clothes, and what had happened to his body?