‘It may have been an accident,’ said Bartholomew cautiously.
‘It was not,’ said Janelle, with utter conviction. ‘She was old enough to be his grandmother, and he pushed her, knowing she would fall. He married her for her land, and when Burgh was his, he killed her so he could marry me and have Clopton, too. I have no doubt that in time I would also have had an “accident” – he was already flirting with Lady Ann from Hasketon: he ogled her all through our wedding feast, although I am sure it was her dairy farm that he really wanted.’
‘I told you that Deblunville killed old Pernel,’ said Hamon, sheathing his sword. ‘But you did not listen to me.’
‘Deblunville was more persuasive than you, Hamon,’ said Janelle, rather bitterly. She turned to Bartholomew for support. ‘Who did you believe – the dashing and personable Deblunville, or the oafish, inarticulate man who hates him because his uncle tells him to?’
Bartholomew did not like to answer. He felt he did not know Hamon or Deblunville well enough to tell who was the more truthful of the pair, and was not inclined to come down on the side of Deblunville anyway, with Hamon glowering at having been described as oafish.
‘And Deblunville was obsessed with the search for the golden calf,’ Janelle continued, when no reply was forthcoming. ‘He was out every night, despite my attempts to keep him with me. He believed Hamon was close to discovering it, and wanted to get to it first.’
‘I am close to finding it,’ protested Hamon.
‘How?’ asked Bartholomew curiously. ‘Have you discovered a clue, such as the foundations of the old chapel near which the calf is said to be buried?’
‘Well, no,’ admitted Hamon. ‘Not yet. But I will.’ He looked fondly at Janelle. ‘And then I will be richer than Deblunville. I will have my uncle’s estates, and you will have Clopton and Burgh. Together, we will be a powerful force in the county.’
‘But Isilia’s child will inherit your uncle’s manors,’ said Bartholomew, unable to stop himself.
Hamon regarded him coldly. ‘We will see about that.’ He turned back to Janelle. ‘Marry me! Wait a week or two, until it is seemly, and then marry me. Our alliance will make us rich and powerful, and I think we are a couple who could get along nicely together.’
‘That is true,’ she said, considering. ‘My brains and your strength will make us a formidable force. We could rule the whole of the Lark Valley.’
Hamon’s eyes glittered with excitement, and he took her into his arms. Disconcerted by the display of naked ambition and craving for wealth, Bartholomew backed away.
‘You will not tell my uncle about my betrothal to Janelle,’ ordered Hamon over his shoulder, more interested in his woman than in the retreating physician. ‘I would rather tell him myself. I will kill you if you mention it before I am ready.’
‘To start the rule of your kingdom as you mean to continue?’ asked Bartholomew, who had reached the trees at the edge of the glade, and was sufficiently disgusted to feel like being rash.
Hamon ignored him, his attention wholly on Janelle. Janelle, however, was less sanguine.
‘Can he be trusted?’ she asked, regarding Bartholomew uncertainly. ‘How do we know he will not go straight to your uncle and tell him of our plans?’
‘He has an advowson to write,’ said Hamon. ‘Now Alcote is dead, the Michaelhouse men have to rewrite the whole thing. He will be far too busy to meddle in our affairs.’
‘But he was not too busy to follow you here,’ Janelle pointed out.
Hamon sighed, and turned to face Bartholomew. ‘If you tell my uncle about me and Janelle, I will tell William that you stole Eltisley’s beef and buried it under an oak tree at midnight to effect a charm against Padfoot. He will have you dismissed from your College for practising witchcraft.’
‘How do you know about that?’ asked Bartholomew, aghast that the jaunt he had sought so carefully to conceal was apparently common knowledge.
‘This is the country, Doctor. There are few secrets here. I know that Deblunville’s men encountered you in the woods near Barchester, that a piece of beef was stolen from Eltisley, that Brother Michael’s new linen disappeared, and that your servant is suddenly cured of his malady. I am not stupid, you know. You used Mother Goodman’s charm to break Padfoot’s hold.’
Bartholomew gazed at him. It was certainly true that William would react immediately and uncompromisingly on hearing Bartholomew’s role in effecting Cynric’s recovery. And the fanatical friar might do much worse than having Bartholomew dismissed from Michaelhouse – he would call in his Franciscan inquisitors and have him tried as a warlock. Janelle was unfair when she intimated that she had all the brains: Hamon’s method of ensuring Bartholomew’s silence was a brilliant one, given William’s outspoken views on the subject of heresy.
The lovers’ voices drifted back to Bartholomew as he made his escape.
‘And if Grosnold dies without an heir, we could persuade him to name my child his successor,’ schemed Janelle.
‘You mean the child Deblunville fathered?’ asked Hamon, sounding startled.
As he glanced back, surprised at the suggestion himself, Bartholomew glimpsed Janelle’s unreadable smile.
‘I am not carrying Deblunville’s child,’ she said enigmatically. ‘Despite what you may have heard, and what I may have allowed people to believe.’
‘You see?’ said Michael, looking at Unwin’s relic – the twist of parchment with the cluster of ancient hairs inside it – that Bartholomew had found beneath Norys’s body the night before. ‘I was right all along. Norys did kill Unwin to steal his relic.’
They were sitting in the church together, in the small hours of the following night, and Michael was taking a rest from his labours with the deed to hear Bartholomew’s story about Hamon. The monk had been overly optimistic about what he could achieve that day. Exhaustion had claimed him and he had slept all afternoon and much of the evening, too, and had decided to work through the night: not at Wergen Hall, but in the church where he could claim he was praying for Alcote’s singed remains.
Bartholomew, who also had slept much of the previous day, was keeping him company, while Cynric and William were at Wergen Hall, carefully packing the few belongings that had survived the fire in the Half Moon, so that they would be ready to leave the instant the deed was completed.
As far as Bartholomew was concerned, Hamon’s rash infatuation with Janelle made him a stronger suspect for killing Alcote. Janelle was very interested in material possessions, and Hamon might well see preventing Michaelhouse from owning the living of the church as something that would persuade her of his devotion. Michael was more interested in discussing the murder of Unwin, remaining convinced that Norys somehow lay at the centre of that mystery.
‘We know that whoever killed Unwin probably also stole his purse. The purse – minus the relic – was then found with the bloody clothes on Norys’s roof. Now, just when Norys’s body reappears, the relic falls from his clothing on to the floor beneath his body, to be found by you.’
‘The relic was not in his clothing,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I looked for it there. And it was not under the table before Tuddenham and his retinue arrived.’
‘How can you be sure?’ demanded Michael. ‘It is dark in here. I can barely see you, and you are standing right next to me.’
‘I am sure because I looked very carefully before the Tuddenhams arrived. I wanted to make certain that nothing had dropped from Norys’s clothes, so I checked. I am absolutely positive it was not there before Tuddenham and his household came.’