He was surprised to find the Half Moon in chaos. Eltisley’s sullen customers ran this way and that, while Eltisley himself stood in the middle of his courtyard looking like a lost child. There were dark patches on his clothes and his hair appeared to be singed. Bartholomew supposed that his appearance had something to do with the flames that had spurted from his workshop the previous evening.
‘There you are,’ said Michael, emerging from the tavern and wiping the remains of breakfast from his mouth. He looked Bartholomew up and down, taking in his sodden, mud-splattered clothes. ‘What have you been doing?’
‘Collecting sea wormwood,’ said Bartholomew, brandishing his bunch at Michael. ‘Tuddenham told me Alcote was attacked last night. Is that what all this fuss is about?’
Michael dabbed at his lips with his sleeve. ‘Have you seen that fine piece of linen, which that nice landlord of the Dog gave me? It seems to have disappeared – along with a sizeable piece of beef from Master Eltisley’s kitchen. That is what all this commotion is for – Eltisley is looking for it.’
‘I see,’ said Bartholomew.
‘I am sure you do,’ said Michael, regarding him expressionlessly. ‘This could not be anything to do with Mother Goodman’s charm against Padfoot, could it? Stealing a piece of beef and wrapping it in a white cloth at midnight?’ Bartholomew shot him a guilty look and Michael sighed. ‘If you had told me, Matt, I might have been able to help.’
‘Would you?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I assumed you would dismiss it as witchcraft.’
‘Well, so it is, but that is not to say that I would not have gone along with it to see Cynric restored to his usual self. You could have trusted me!’
‘I am sorry. But how did you guess what we were doing?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.
‘Deynman interrogated Mother Goodman about it mercilessly last night, and it did not take a genius to guess what had transformed Cynric from a man doomed to a man with a purpose. I assume it worked, then? My piece of linen was sacrificed for a good cause.’
‘Cynric believes he is free of the curse, and that is what matters. But aside from stealing from my friends and dabbling in pagan rituals, I have had a busy night.’
He took Michael’s arm and led him to stand under the eaves of the tavern, out of the drizzle, while he told the monk about Deblunville and the hanged man, and of the reaction of Tuddenham’s family to the news. Michael listened carefully, without interruption, until he had finished.
‘Perhaps Tuddenham is right,’ he said. ‘If Janelle stole Deblunville’s clothes as a gift for her father, and someone else found them by chance, it is entirely possible that Deblunville hanged the poor fellow for theft. Then, realising perhaps that the man was innocent, he suddenly found himself with a corpse to dispose of, if he wanted his mistake to remain hidden.’
‘Deblunville’s dagger was with the corpse in the shepherd’s hut,’ said Bartholomew. ‘So, it seems as though the charred remains and the hanged man are one and the same. But there was no sign of Deblunville’s other clothes. Since Norys saw someone running from the church after we found the hanged man wearing what sounded to be the same belt and shoes, we are still left with a mystery.’
‘Not if we accept that Norys is lying because he killed Unwin,’ said Michael. ‘We can even take this further – Norys might have been the one who found the bundle of clothes, and sold them to some poor unfortunate, who then was hanged for theft while he was wearing them.’
‘Poor Norys,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It seems he is to blame for everything. It is probably his fault that it is raining this morning, too.’
‘There is no need for heretical thoughts, Matthew,’ said Michael primly. ‘But what of Deblunville? You say you could not tell whether his death was accident or murder?’
‘There are so many people who want him dead that an accident seems rather opportune. I cannot help wondering whether Deblunville caught some of Tuddenham’s villagers digging for the golden calf, and one of them killed him.’
‘You mean you think they might have found the calf, and murdered Deblunville to keep the discovery a secret?’ asked Michael, green eyes glittering at the thought.
‘Of course not, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Deblunville was probably killed – if he was killed deliberately – because he caught some of the Grundisburgh villagers trespassing on what he thinks is his land. God knows, there were enough of them out there last night.’
He looked up as Alcote, leaning heavily on Father William’s arm, walked slowly from the direction of the church. He was limping, and he held one hand to his chest as though in pain.
‘He has been saying a mass to thank God for his safety,’ said Michael contemptuously. ‘While Mistress Freeman was committed to the ground, Alcote knelt at the altar and prayed for himself.’
Alcote was almost at the Half Moon when he saw Eltisley’s wife walking toward him. Immediately, the limp disappeared, and he scurried on what seemed to Bartholomew to be two healthy legs into the tavern, slamming the door behind him. William exchanged a grin with Michael, and came to join them.
‘What was that about?’ asked Bartholomew, bewildered, as Mistress Eltisley tried to open the door, only to find it had been locked from the inside. She rattled the door impatiently, but the sole response was the sound of a heavy bar falling into place.
‘She brought some water to wash the mud from Alcote’s face after he was attacked last night,’ Michael explained. ‘Rather rashly, but only to be kind, she attempted to perform the service herself. Feeling a woman’s hand on his person terrified him a good deal more than the ambush, I think!’
‘That is not surprising,’ said Father William mysteriously. ‘Given his history.’
‘You mean the reason he is hostile to women?’ asked Michael with interest. ‘You know it?’
‘Of course,’ said William haughtily. ‘There is nothing a man like me cannot discover, if he puts his mind to it. That is why I would make such an outstanding Junior Proctor.’
‘Quite so,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘But what do you know about Alcote?’
William paused for effect, looking around him to ensure he could not be overheard. ‘I asked a few questions when he first arrived in Cambridge. He comes from Winchester, where I have several very good friends from my days in the Inquisition. I primed them to make enquiries on my behalf.’
‘And?’ prompted Michael, when the friar paused again. He snapped his fingers in sudden enlightenment. ‘Ha! Do not tell me, I can guess. Alcote had a wife – he escaped from a marriage that had turned sour.’
‘He escaped from two,’ said William, smiling in satisfaction when he saw the expressions on his colleagues’ faces. ‘Roger Alcote is a bigamist.’
Bartholomew and Michael stood outside the Half Moon and gazed at William in astonishment. Then Bartholomew started to laugh.
‘I do not believe you, Father! Alcote hates women, and would never allow himself to be put into that sort of position. Your friends were playing a joke on you.’
‘They were not,’ said William firmly. ‘It so happened that I had business in Winchester myself a year or so later. I met both his wives – and I am sure it will not surprise you to learn that they were women of some wealth. They told me they had been wed to Alcote for several months before one discovered the presence of the other. They joined forces, and I had the impression they planned some dire revenge on his manhood, but were thwarted when he escaped.’
‘Then why did he become a scholar?’ asked Bartholomew, far from certain that William’s story was not a product of his vivid imagination. ‘Bigamists, who by definition like their women, do not suddenly become misogynists like Alcote.’