Bartholomew nodded unsteadily. He looked from Cynric, to the corpse, and then back again. ‘I thought that was you. Did you not hear me coming?’
Cynric nodded. ‘Of course. Do you think I have lost my touch?’
‘Then you might have warned me. You must have known I would see that thing and think it was you. I thought my Latin was too late!’
‘But this body has been here for days,’ said Cynric, puzzled by his reaction. ‘Come on, boy, what is the matter with you? You are supposed to be the one skilled in this kind of thing, not me.’
Bartholomew looked closer, and saw that Cynric was right. The body had been smouldering for some time, and molten fat had seeped across the floor in a sticky mass. An animal, probably a fox, had attacked it, so that parts of the intestines had been eaten away. The smell was sickening, and Bartholomew pushed past Cynric to sit on the grass outside. Resting his head on his arms, he tried to control the churning in his stomach. Cynric knelt next to him, and put a hand on his shoulder.
‘What happened?’ Deynman’s voice was fearful. ‘Did you see Padfoot, too? Will we need to do all this again tonight for you?’
Bartholomew shook his head, not looking up. ‘I saw a white blur before it chased me out of the village. But I met its owner.’
Cynric drew in his breath sharply. ‘The Devil?’
‘An old hag with no teeth and filthy clothes. She attacked me and the dog came to help.’
‘Oh, Lord, boy!’ groaned Cynric. ‘Why did I let you go? That vile place is the Devil’s home!’
‘It is the home of some crone and her dog,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘Do you think I could best the Devil in a hand-to-hand tussle? I know some people believe my medicine borders on the heretical, but I am not Satan’s equal!’
Cynric smiled, and held out his hand to Bartholomew to help him to his feet. ‘Rob and I have not been totally useless while we waited. We found these.’
He led Bartholomew round to the back of the hut, and pointed at something on the ground. There were two legs, presumably belonging to the person in the hut. They, too, were charred, and someone had been trying very hard to chop them into small pieces, bits of which had probably been spirited away by animals.
Bartholomew went to look at the torso again, taking a deep breath so he would not have to inhale the heavy, sweet odour of burned flesh. Against the wall leaned a long knife with a curved, stained handle, and a hefty mallet lay next to it. The body was warm to the touch where it still smouldered.
‘Why not burn it completely?’ asked Deynman in revulsion. ‘It would be much less repellent than all this chopping.’
‘Bodies do not burn very easily,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is too much liquid and grease in them. It seems to me that whoever did this thought he could rid himself of the body by burning it, and then found himself with a half-charred corpse to dismember instead.’
‘Then why not bury it?’ persisted Deynman. ‘No one would find a shallow grave out here.’
Bartholomew shrugged. ‘I have no idea. All I can say is that whoever did this must be desperate. Chopping up a body must be a vile task to undertake.’
Distastefully, he turned it over to look at its face, but it was too charred to be recognisable. The head flopped limply at an awkward angle, but the body seemed to have undergone such rough treatment since its demise that Bartholomew had no way of telling how it died. He laid it back and looked at the clothes, trying to see if there was anything he could take to effect some kind of identification. They were either burned away or fused to the body, and there was nothing that would help any bereaved next of kin to recognise it.
He was about to give up and suggest that they leave the grisly business to Tuddenham, when he saw he had missed something. Glittering dully under one shoulder was a dagger. Bartholomew tugged it out. It had once been covered with gilt, but most of that had come off, and all that remained was a rather shoddy-looking iron knife with a hilt decorated with coloured glass. The dagger Janelle had stolen from Deblunville to give to her father had been gilt, not gold, and Bartholomew recognised its shape and size immediately. So did Cynric.
‘Well, boy,’ said the Welshman, taking it from him and carrying it out into the light. ‘It looks as though we have found our hanged man at last.’
Chapter 10
There was nothing more to be done with the dead man in the shepherd’s hut, so Bartholomew walked with Cynric and Deynman back to Grundisburgh. It was a cold, wet morning that seemed more like March than May, and heaped grey clouds threatened another storm. Bartholomew wanted to find Michael, and tell him about Deblunville’s death and the body in the hut, so that they could reason some sort of sense into the jumble of facts and circumstances that had accumulated, before passing the information to anyone else. But as he headed up The Street he was hailed by Tuddenham, who was just leaving the church.
The knight looked tired and ill, and leaned heavily on Hamon’s shoulder. Bartholomew saw it would not be long before his family would realise that there was more to his pale face and unsteady gait than just a case of too much wine the night before. By contrast, Hamon looked fit and vital, and had about him the air of a man for whom things were going well. Did he already know about Deblunville, because he had had a hand in his death? Or was he always cheerful and hearty after funerals – the Tuddenhams, apparently, had just attended the mass for Mistress Freeman.
Dame Eva and Isilia walked behind, looking suitably solemn. Isilia wore a dark blue dress under a matching cloak, a colour that suited her black hair and turned her green eyes to turquoise. As she turned to help the old lady down the step, Bartholomew was struck yet again by her grace and elegance. Dame Eva gave her a grateful smile that faded when she saw Bartholomew.
‘You have the look of a man who is about to impart bad news,’ she said astutely, regarding him with her sharp, bright eyes. ‘Has the shock Master Alcote had last night made him sick?’
‘What shock?’ asked Bartholomew, suddenly nervous. ‘Has something happened to Roger?’
‘Alcote was attacked by two men last night,’ said Tuddenham. ‘He worked on my advowson until well after midnight at Wergen Hall, and someone tried to ambush him as he returned to his bed in the Half Moon. How is it you do not know of this? Where have you been?’
‘Attacked?’ asked Bartholomew in horror. ‘Is he hurt?’
‘No,’ said Hamon, with an inappropriate grin. ‘He is made of sterner stuff than he admits, and suffered no ill effects from the experience, except the indignity of falling in some cow dung.’
‘This is no laughing matter,’ admonished Tuddenham sternly. ‘What will these Michaelhouse men think if they cannot walk from my house to the village in safety?’
‘But who would attack Alcote?’ asked Bartholomew, aghast.
‘It was Will Norys,’ said Hamon confidently.
‘Unfortunately, last night was dark because it was cloudy, and Master Alcote did not see who attacked him,’ corrected Tuddenham. ‘But he said that there were two of them, and that one might have been Norys.’
‘Of course it was Norys,’ said Dame Eva. ‘Who else could it have been? He escaped justice for the murder of Unwin, and decided to chance his luck again. After all, everyone here knows that Alcote is the most wealthy Michaelhouse scholar, and would be the best one to rob.’
‘You think the motive was theft?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Why else would a scholar be ambushed in the middle of the night?’ asked the old lady. ‘Norys must have lain in wait on the path that leads between Wergen Hall and the village, knowing that no one would hear Alcote’s cries for help there.’