‘It is a terrible business,’ said Tuddenham worriedly. ‘Alcote told me yesterday that the advowson was almost complete, and that he would have a working draft today. I had hoped to have the thing all signed and sealed by tomorrow, but I can see that this attack will delay matters.’
‘Was anything stolen from him?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Documents or writs?’
‘Alcote says not,’ said Tuddenham. He frowned anxiously. ‘I told him to ask Hamon to accompany him to the Half Moon, if he planned to work after dark – especially given what happened to Unwin – but he slipped out while Hamon was asleep.’
‘I awoke to find him gone,’ said Hamon. ‘There was no need for him to return to the tavern anyway, when he could have had a blanket next to the fire in Wergen Hall.’
Recalling that a good many servants vied for the coveted position near the hearth in Wergen Hall’s main chamber, Bartholomew understood exactly why that proposition was not an appealing one to the fastidious Alcote.
Dame Eva eyed Hamon critically. ‘You knew it was not safe for the poor man to leave the hall with Norys at large, and yet you selfishly slept while he did battle with ruthless killers. You are a self-centred lout, Hamon!’
‘Deblunville died last night,’ said Bartholomew, before a full-blown row could begin. ‘He hit his head on a rock.’
There was a startled silence. Dame Eva and Isilia exchanged a glance of stupefaction, while Tuddenham and Hamon regarded each other rather uncertainly, as though each were wondering whether the other had anything to do with it.
Tuddenham swallowed hard. ‘Are you saying my neighbour was murdered? Again? Or is this another mistake – like the fellow you claim was hanged at Bond’s Corner?’
Bartholomew bit back a flash of irritation. ‘I saw Deblunville’s body. His men do not think he was murdered – they believe he slipped on wet grass and brained himself.’
‘Just like his first wife, Pernel,’ said Hamon in awe. ‘She died of a cracked head.’
‘We all know Deblunville killed his first wife,’ said Dame Eva to Bartholomew. ‘No one ever believed that was an accident – even his own people. But I heard rumours that Janelle’s marriage was not as happy as a union of a few days should have been. She has had a lucky escape from that monster.’
‘Poor Janelle,’ said Isilia softly. ‘I think she was genuinely fond of Deblunville when she beguiled him into taking her to the altar.’
‘But this is good news,’ said Hamon, pleased. ‘It means Janelle is a widow.’
Dame Eva regarded him coldly. ‘Foolish boy! Do you think she will fall into your arms now Deblunville is dead? Had she wanted you, she would have accepted you when you offered yourself at Yuletide. And you should curb your unseemly delight at Deblunville’s death, or there will be rumours that you did it.’
‘But I did not!’ cried Hamon, alarmed. ‘I did not even see him last night.’
‘That is a curious thing to say,’ pounced Dame Eva, fixing him with a wary look. ‘Why should you see him last night? What were you doing while Christian folk slept?’
‘Nothing,’ said Hamon guiltily, realising too late the implication of his words.
Tuddenham stepped between his mother and his nephew. ‘We will not discuss this matter here. However Deblunville met his death, there will be no celebration in Grundisburgh. I will not have the Sheriff told that there are people here who delight in my neighbour’s demise.’
‘So, Padfoot had Deblunville after all,’ said Dame Eva, more in awe than malice. ‘I told you no one escapes a vile fate after setting eyes on Padfoot, and I was right. Deblunville may not have been the corpse on the gibbet, but Padfoot had him in the end, regardless.’
‘We found that corpse, too,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is in the shepherd’s hut near Barchester, where someone has been trying to incinerate it.’
‘How do you know all this?’ asked Tuddenham, suddenly suspicious. ‘You say you saw Deblunville dead, and now you announce that you have found the body of the hanged man. Brother Michael told me you were praying for Mistress Freeman last night, but now I discover you were roaming half the county under cover of darkness. What were you doing?’
It was a question Bartholomew had hoped would not be asked, and it was one he did not know how to answer. He hesitated.
‘He was looking for sea urchins,’ said Deynman defensively, fiercely protective of his tutor. He fingered the small dagger in his belt, and Bartholomew saw that Cynric was doing the same.
‘Sea urchins?’ echoed Tuddenham, bewildered. ‘Just how far did you roam last night?’
‘Sea wormwood,’ corrected Bartholomew, relieved that at least someone had his wits about him. He opened his bag, and showed Tuddenham the bunch he had picked. ‘It is good for worms and diseases of the liver.’
‘There is no truth in these tales about the golden calf, you know,’ said Tuddenham abruptly. ‘So there is no point in you digging up my fields to look for it, while pretending to pick flowers.’
For a man who had been keen to know whether Cynric had discovered anything when he had dug Unwin’s grave, Tuddenham’s denial of the possibility that the golden calf existed was revealing. Was it he who had killed Deblunville, Bartholomew wondered, as, like Hamon, he supervised his villagers in their nightly searches of his neighbours’ lands? Was a sleepless night the real reason why he looked so weary that morning and not his encroaching illness at all?
‘I can assure you that the golden calf could not have been further from my mind,’ said Bartholomew, resenting the implication that he was a thief. ‘These leaves are far more valuable to me than some idolatrous ornament!’
‘It is not wise to wander from the safety of our parish in the dead of night,’ said Isilia reprovingly. ‘And you promised us at Unwin’s funeral that you would stay away from Barchester. It is no place for honest folk.’
Dame Eva agreed. ‘Not as long as Padfoot sees fit to haunt our paths and woodlands.’
‘But why not collect your herb during the day, anyway?’ pressed Hamon suspiciously. ‘Why steal about during the night looking for it, like a criminal?’
‘Collecting it on a moonless night increases its efficacy,’ said Bartholomew, feeling the colour mount in his cheeks as it always did when he told brazen lies.
‘Hamon,’ admonished Tuddenham mildly, assuming Bartholomew’s sudden redness was because he had been insulted. ‘You are not my heir yet, and you have no right to assail my guests with unpleasant accusations.’
‘He will never be your heir,’ said Isilia, clutching at Dame Eva’s arm for moral support. Her chin jutted defiantly. ‘My child will inherit before him.’
‘Yes, I know,’ said Tuddenham wearily. ‘But not until I am dead and gone. So, Bartholomew, you say you have your hanged man back at last. Who is he, do you know?’
Bartholomew shook his head. ‘But the fact that someone is so intent on disposing of his remains suggests that he was murdered.’
‘Deblunville said the clothes worn by the hanged man were stolen from him,’ said Tuddenham thoughtfully, ‘and so it seems to me that Deblunville took the law into his own hands, and had the man executed for theft. Now Deblunville is dead, there is nothing more to be done. Later today I will send Siric to bring the remains here, to be buried decently in the churchyard.’
‘Is that it?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘The affair is closed without any further questions?’
‘Yes,’ said Tuddenham. ‘Deblunville killed your hanged man, and Deblunville is dead. There is an end to the matter.’
His determined look suggested that Bartholomew would be wise to drop the subject. Confused and angered by Tuddenham’s callous dismissal of the hanged man’s fate, Bartholomew trailed along The Street in search of Michael.