Meanwhile, Eltisley regarded Bartholomew with loathing, rubbing the red marks on his neck where he had almost been throttled. ‘I merely want to understand more of the nature of the world in which we live,’ he said coldly. ‘I pray for guidance every morning, and I do nothing contrary to God’s will.’
‘Do you think murdering Alcote is God’s will?’ yelled Bartholomew, still trying to free himself from William’s restraining grip.
‘Murdering Alcote?’ asked Tuddenham, horrified. ‘You believe Alcote was murdered?’
‘Matt,’ warned Michael under his breath. ‘That is enough. Eltisley was cooking in the kitchen when the building ignited, and he did not cause this tragedy intentionally.’
Eltisley’s intentions were irrelevant to Bartholomew, and doubtless to Alcote, too. The only fact that mattered to him was that Eltisley had been tampering with a combination of powders and ingredients that he clearly knew caused explosions. Whether he had ignited them deliberately, or whether they had somehow come together by mistake in his workshop was of no consequence. Eltisley’s selfish desire to learn had brought about Alcote’s death.
‘What will happen to my advowson now?’ asked Tuddenham dispiritedly. ‘All Alcote’s efforts will have been for nothing. We will have to start over again.’
‘I do not believe so,’ said Michael soothingly. ‘Alcote is not the only one who can draft legal documents, you know. I, myself, have no small talent in that area, although Alcote was a master at it. I will come to Wergen Hall this evening, and we will see what still needs to be done.’
‘There is no need for you to come quite so soon, Brother,’ said Dame Eva reasonably. ‘We are all tired after our exertions, and my son looks unwell. I would rather he rested, and that you worked on the thing together tomorrow.’
Tuddenham did indeed look ill. Bartholomew exchanged a concerned glance with Stoate, who whispered that he would visit the knight later to prescribe something to make him more comfortable.
‘I would rather know where my advowson stands tonight,’ said Tuddenham stubbornly. ‘I am a little weary, but will be well enough after a short rest.’
‘You are terribly pale,’ said Isilia anxiously. ‘Rest this evening. I will sing, and Master Wauncy can play his drum. You can pore over deeds tomorrow.’
‘Tonight,’ repeated Tuddenham, in a tone that indicated the discussion was over. ‘Meanwhile, offer the villagers free ale, Hamon.’
Hamon raised his voice so that the villagers could hear. ‘My uncle would like to show his appreciation to all of you who helped stop the fire from destroying our village. There will be free ale at the Dog. Spare no expense, landlord. You can present us with the bill tomorrow.’
The immediate, single-minded scramble reminded Bartholomew of the feast after the Pentecost Fair, and he was startled to see that, all of a sudden, none of the villagers seemed to be tired, and all were able to partake in the vicious pushing and shoving. William went with them, relinquishing his grip on Bartholomew’s arm in his desire to slake his thirst with Tuddenham’s ale, and Eltisley took advantage of the diversion to slink away to somewhere he hoped Bartholomew would not find him. Within moments, no one remained by the ruined tavern but Bartholomew, Cynric and Michael.
‘Poor Alcote,’ said Michael softly, watching the last of the villagers race toward the Dog. ‘He was a nasty little man, but he did not deserve this.’
Bartholomew sat on a stool in Wergen Hall, and thrust his hands into the sides of his tabard to stop himself from rubbing eyes that itched from the after-effects of the smoke. His discomfort was not eased by the blaze in the hearth that spat and hissed as flames devoured wet wood, and added its own choking fumes to the already stuffy hall.
Sitting opposite him, Michael had coughed until his throat was sore, necessitating the swallowing of large amounts of soothing wine to remedy the matter. This example was grimly followed by William, who decided his throat hurt, too. The wine made him uncharacteristically amiable, and resulted in Tuddenham’s startled household being entertained with a few colourfully embellished tales from his days with the Inquisition, after which the friar retired to the floor, where he sprawled with his mouth open and snored.
Hamon had been burned, and his hands were smothered with Bartholomew’s ointment of chalk and burdock. Stoate had disagreed with this treatment, and had recommended to his patients a poultice of ground snails and mint mixed with cat grease. There was not a snail, and scarcely a cat, to be seen in Grundisburgh. Later, Bartholomew had been alarmed to learn that Stoate was advising that his poultice could also heal smoke-inflamed eyes, if applied thickly enough. Wrinkling his nose in disgust at the notion of rubbing squashed snails in his face, Tuddenham compelled Bartholomew to sell him all his chalk and burdock to be used for his own household.
Hamon gave his watering eyes a good, vigorous massage, disregarding Bartholomew’s repeated advice that rubbing would make them worse. Dame Eva shook her head in exasperation at him, and turned back to her sewing. Isilia sat next to Tuddenham, humming softly and gently stroking his coarse grey hair. The exertion had not been good for the knight, and he had a slight fever. There was little Bartholomew could do for him, except prescribe something to ease the pain and recommend that he spend the next few days resting. Hamon was blithely intolerant of his uncle’s weakened state, urging him to go hunting the following day. On the other hand, Dame Eva and Isilia fretted and fussed over him, to the point where Bartholomew saw the knight was considering an outing with Hamon simply to escape from their cloying attentions.
‘I understand Master Alcote was paid two shillings to say masses for a man he found dying on the Old Road,’ said Walter Wauncy conversationally, raising his skull-like head from the book he had been perusing.
‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew, startled by the question. ‘When he took the wrong road to Grundisburgh after we found the hanged man at Bond’s Corner, he came across a party of travellers who had been attacked, and one of them had been fatally wounded. How did you know?’
‘He told me,’ said Wauncy. ‘He was to say these masses at St Botolph’s shrine at St Edmundsbury, but obviously he is not in a position to fulfil these obligations. Give me the two shillings, and I will say the masses instead.’
Bartholomew gazed at him in disbelief. ‘You want us to give you Alcote’s money?’
‘Not his money,’ corrected Wauncy reproachfully. ‘Funds to rescue this unfortunate’s soul from Purgatory. It is not fair to keep it for yourselves.’
Bartholomew made a disgusted sound, and declined to discuss the matter further. Not only had all Alcote’s possessions been destroyed in the fire, but he was unimpressed that Wauncy should already be trying to earn a profit from Alcote’s death.
‘Is Horsey keeping vigil over poor Master Alcote?’ whispered Isilia, looking up from her drowsing husband as Wauncy drew breath to argue.
Michael nodded. ‘I will relieve him at midnight. If I live that long.’ He coughed meaningfully until his wine goblet was refilled by Siric.
‘So, what have you decided about my deed,’ asked Tuddenham, roused from his doze by their voices. ‘Is all lost as we feared, or can you salvage something from Master Alcote’s efforts?’
‘I think the stars are against this deed of yours,’ said Isilia. ‘First Unwin is killed for the relic in his purse; then Doctor Bartholomew and his servant are attacked by Padfoot; and now poor Master Alcote lies dead on the very eve that the advowson was to have been completed.’