A Wicked Deed Read online

  ‘I hope Unwin’s death was not a deliberate attack on Michaelhouse,’ said Alcote darkly. ‘It might mean that we are not safe here, and that we will be picked off one by one until we are all dead.’

  ‘Foolish monk!’ snapped William. ‘Why should anyone want to do that?’

  ‘Unwin probably caught someone doing something he –or she – was not supposed to be doing,’ said Bartholomew reasonably. ‘The people are wild tonight, because it is the end of the Fair. Perhaps there were lovers here, enjoying the solitude, and he caught them.’

  ‘In God’s holy house?’ bellowed William in horror. ‘That is a disgusting suggestion, Matthew!’

  ‘No more disgusting than murder in a church,’ Bartholomew pointed out.

  ‘Just like Thomas à Becket,’ mused Alcote solemnly. ‘He was slain by four swordsmen at his own altar. And he is a saint now.’

  ‘Becket was a little more than a student-friar, and his murder was on the order of a king,’ said Michael irritably. ‘I do not think his death and Unwin’s are in quite the same class. But we should tell Tuddenham about this, and ask him to send for the local Sheriff. The murder of a priest is a serious crime, and should be looked into immediately.’

  ‘Whoever did this will burn in hell for eternity,’ growled William. ‘He will be consumed by fire and tormented by screaming demons—’

  ‘Since Unwin was a member of Michaelhouse, I will conduct my own investigation,’ said Michael, before William could start one of his colourful tirades about the terrors of hell. For a friar, William knew a great deal about hell. ‘Meanwhile, I will also send word to the Bishop of Norwich, whose see we are in – because Unwin was a priest, this will come under the jurisdiction of canon, not secular law.’

  ‘You might find Tuddenham does not agree,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘It might be prudent to make your enquiries discreetly, since there are no beadles to help you if the villagers resent your questions and become uncooperative or aggressive.’

  ‘Do not fear, Matthew. I will be there to assist Michael,’ announced William firmly. Michael looked uneasy. ‘I will act as your Junior Proctor in this matter, Brother. It will be good practice for the future.’

  ‘Oh, Lord!’ breathed Michael to Bartholomew, as the Franciscan preened himself. ‘What is about to be inflicted on me?’

  While Bartholomew and Michael moved Unwin’s body to one side of the chancel, Alcote went with Horsey to tell Tuddenham what had happened. Deynman was dispatched to borrow the parish coffin, and William offered to locate Cynric: one of the scholars would need to keep vigil over the body during the night, and whoever it was would be safer with Cynric and his long Welsh dagger nearby.

  ‘It is extremely difficult to think clearly with William bawling his opinions at me all the time,’ said Michael watching Bartholomew straighten Unwin’s limbs and smooth down his clothes. ‘I hope he is not going to dog my every move during these enquiries.’

  ‘I think he will try,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Unless you want your tactful questions to become blatant interrogations, you will have to give him the slip. Discretion is an alien concept to William.’

  Michael gave a laugh that was almost a sigh. ‘He was a member of the Inquisition, Matt! He is not an easy man to escape from – as I am sure many of those poor so-called heretics in southern France will attest.’

  ‘Then you will have to work with him. I suppose you could ask him to speak to some of the more hostile or uncommunicative villagers on your behalf.’

  ‘Not a good idea, Matt. I do not think the Inquisition ever obtained confessions by the cleverness of their cross-examinations. I heard they used techniques during which even the most sainted of people would have admitted to any crimes the twisted minds of the inquisitors cared to dream up. And if William tries using those on the good people of Grundisburgh, we will lose the advowson for certain.’

  ‘And we cannot risk losing the advowson, can we?’ said Bartholomew, suddenly bitter. ‘A Michaelhouse scholar lies murdered, but that is fine so long as we still have the advowson!’

  ‘Matt,’ admonished Michael gently. ‘I am only being practical. There is no need to vent your distress over Unwin on me. We must ensure that William practises restraint, or we may never find the culprit of this terrible deed. So I shall need your help over the next few days.’

  ‘How could we have been so foolish as to imagine that we had left murder and intrigue back in Cambridge,’ groaned Bartholomew.

  ‘Cambridge is not the only place where foul crimes are committed, you know,’ said Michael. ‘There is murder and intrigue wherever there are people. And the more people there are, the more crime there will be. Look at London and Paris and Rome! Murder is so commonplace in those places, that no one gives it a second thought.’

  ‘But this is a village with two hundred inhabitants,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is not a city with thousands. And we have had two peculiar deaths since Saturday. People may begin to think we have something to do with them, since that is when we arrived.’

  ‘I think not,’ said Michael confidently. ‘First, no one believes there was a hanged man at the gibbet anyway; and second, why should we kill one of our own scholars – especially one who was about to leave us and take up a lucrative post?’

  ‘They might suggest one of us wanted the position,’ said Bartholomew, with a sigh. ‘And with Unwin gone, one of us will have to take his place.’

  ‘Not me,’ said Michael firmly. ‘I do not want to spend my days granting absolutions to sheep molesters and men who covet their neighbour’s pigs.’ He shuddered. ‘Rural Suffolk is a place that seethes with unnatural vices, Matt, and I want nothing to do with it.’

  ‘It cannot be me either – I am not a priest.’

  ‘Then this might be an excellent opportunity to rid ourselves of Alcote or William,’ said Michael, eyes gleaming thoughtfully. ‘This is a benefit to the College I never looked for! Which would you rather lose – the bigoted William and his obsession with heresy, or the duplicitous Alcote with his secret wealth and unsavoury business connections?’

  ‘Perhaps we could leave one here and persuade Deblunville to take the other at Burgh,’ said Bartholomew, smiling. ‘But we should not be talking like this – it is exactly what I meant when I said people might begin to look at who will benefit from Unwin’s death.’

  The latch to the door clattered, and agitated voices echoed in the dark church. Tuddenham strode up the nave and into the chancel, his metal spurs clanging on the tiles. Hamon was behind him, still wearing his best clothes and with a sword strapped incongruously to the decorative belt at his waist. In their wake scurried Alcote and the lovely Isilia, while Dame Eva followed more sedately, clinging to Horsey’s arm for support. Tuddenham’s steward kept curious villagers out, struggling against the press of bodies as they strained to see past him.

  ‘What evil has been perpetrated here?’ demanded Tuddenham, gazing down at the corpse. ‘What has happened?’

  ‘Unwin is dead,’ said Michael.

  Isilia’s hands flew to her mouth and her eyes became round with horror. Dame Eva appeared to be more offended than shocked, while Hamon studied the body with the same dispassionate expression he had worn since he had discovered Janelle had married his arch-enemy Deblunville.

  ‘How?’ asked Tuddenham, when he had recovered from his surprise. ‘There is blood on him. Did he have some kind of fatal seizure brought on by excessive choler?’

  ‘He was stabbed,’ said Bartholomew bluntly. ‘In the stomach.’

  ‘You mean he was killed by someone else?’ asked Isilia in an appalled whisper. ‘Murdered?’

  ‘We believe so, madam,’ said Michael. ‘Doctor Bartholomew has some experience in these matters, and has helped me to investigate crimes of this nature in the past.’

  ‘You mean you have been involved in murders before?’ asked Tuddenham distastefully. ‘I thought Michaelhouse men were scholars, devoted to matters of the intellect, not the kind of people to probe into the
unsavoury affairs of killers.’

  ‘Perhaps murder has followed you here, then,’ said Hamon, looking at each of the Fellows in turn. ‘I can assure you that unlawful slayings do not commonly occur in Grundisburgh.’

  ‘I told you that is what they would say,’ muttered Bartholomew to Michael.

  ‘What about Alice Quy?’ asked Isilia, startled. ‘She was murdered last month.’

  ‘She died of childbirth fever,’ said Tuddenham dismissively. ‘If you heard there was any foul play involved, then you have been listening to gossip that has no foundation in fact.’

  ‘Well, what about James Freeman, then?’ demanded Isilia. ‘He was found with his throat cut only last week.’

  ‘Suicide,’ said Tuddenham brusquely. ‘That is why he was buried in unconsecrated ground, if you recall.’

  ‘None of this would have happened in my husband’s time,’ said Dame Eva sadly. ‘Things were different when he was lord of the manor.’

  ‘He did not have the after-effects of the Death to contend with,’ snapped Tuddenham, rattled. ‘He did not have vast tracts of land with no one to work them, or the constant clamouring of peasants for higher wages.’

  ‘If he had, he would have known how to deal with them,’ said Dame Eva defiantly. ‘This was a prosperous manor in his time, and now it has murderers strutting unchallenged along its paths.’ She regarded her son soberly. ‘And Isilia is right about Alice Quy and James Freeman. Their deaths were not natural. We all know what they saw. And Deblunville saw it, too.’

  ‘Saw what?’ asked Alcote curiously. ‘You mentioned Deblunville seeing “something” before.’

  ‘Superstitious rubbish!’ said Tuddenham in exasperation, ignoring Alcote’s question. ‘You will refrain from discussing such pagan matters in a church, madam, especially in front of our guests from Michaelhouse.’

  ‘Deblunville may have seen it, but he is still alive, more is the pity,’ said Hamon bitterly.

  ‘Hamon!’ barked Tuddenham angrily. ‘I said that is enough. Now, we must arrange for a vigil to be kept over this poor friar. Master Wauncy, please see to it.’

  ‘I will do it,’ bellowed Father William, as he strode up the nave with Cynric gliding like a ghost through the shadows behind him. ‘And Horsey will assist me.’

  ‘No,’ said Bartholomew, seeing that Horsey’s face was still grey with shock. ‘He needs to rest. Cynric will stay with you, and I will relieve you at midnight.’

  There was a loud crash followed by muffled cursing, as Deynman, Michaelhouse’s least able student, struggled into the church carrying the parish coffin. Whoever had built it had intended it to last, for it was made of solid oak, and was apparently very heavy. It comprised a rectangular box with a hinged lid, and a slat of wood inside on which to rest the head.

  ‘I will have the midwife prepare the body,’ said Tuddenham. ‘She always performs that service for the village dead. It is too late to do much else tonight, but at first light tomorrow Hamon can go to Ipswich with a message for the Sheriff, and I will begin to make some enquiries of my own. I do not anticipate it will take long to uncover the monster who did this vile thing.’

  ‘Do you have any idea why someone might want to kill Unwin?’ asked Michael.

  Tuddenham shook his head. ‘Times are hard, Brother, and although we appear to be a wealthy village there are those among the bonded villeins who are resentful that some people are richer than they. I would imagine this to be a simple case of theft.’

  ‘Theft of what?’ asked Michael, unconvinced, ‘Unwin had nothing to steal. His few possessions are in the saddle bags outside; and the cross he wears is fashioned of nothing more variable than baked wood.’

  ‘But he had a purse round his waist,’ said Tuddenham. ‘I saw it earlier, and it is not there now.’

  Bartholomew looked down at Unwin’s habit and saw that Tuddenham was right. He was angry at himself for not noticing it sooner. The leather thongs that had tied the purse to Unwin’s belt had been severed – perhaps with the same knife that had been used to kill him.

  ‘But Unwin’s purse contained only a phial of chrism and a tiny relic – some hairs from St Botolph’s beard in a twist of parchment,’ said William. ‘We friars do not permit ourselves to accumulate worldly goods.’

  ‘A thief was not to know that the purse contained nothing of value,’ Tuddenham pointed out. ‘Especially in a dark, shadowy place, like this church.’

  ‘So, you believe we should be on our guard?’ asked Alcote, by far the wealthiest of the scholars. ‘Anyone carrying a purse in Grundisburgh is asking to be murdered by jealous villeins? Should Matthew rid himself of his medicine bag, lest someone believes it to be stuffed full of treasures? Should I hire a bodyguard?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Tuddenham testily. ‘This is an isolated incident, not something that happens regularly – as Hamon said, murders do not occur in Grundisburgh. However, I imagine that the copious amounts of ale I supplied today had more than a little to do with it: a villager became drunk, saw Unwin enter the church with a purse swinging at his side, and killed him for it. I will begin a search for it at first light tomorrow, while you work on my advowson.’

  He nodded curtly to the scholars and left the church, his family at his heels.

  ‘If Unwin had no money, how did he come to have this relic?’ asked Bartholomew. He was angry, mostly at whoever had dispatched Unwin so casually, but partly at Tuddenham for reasons he did not yet fully understand. When they had first arrived, the knight had seemed hospitable and charming, but Bartholomew had not liked his careless attitude towards the missing man from the gibbet, nor his pettiness over the border squabbles with Deblunville. He wondered afresh whether it was in Michaelhouse’s best interests to accept gifts from such a man, and worried about what the knight might ask for in return – especially given his curious eagerness to have the advowson completed as soon as possible. Bartholomew knew Alcote would be unscrupulous in agreeing to whatever it took to secure the living of the church for the College, and was unsure whether he could trust Michael not to turn a blind eye to certain irregularities in order to place Michaelhouse third, rather than sixth, in the University’s hierarchy of wealth.

  ‘The relic was a gift from me,’ said Horsey in a strained voice. ‘I bought it for him while we were at St Edmundsbury Abbey. You see, St Botolph’s body lay in Grundisburgh before it was taken to the Abbey, and I thought a relic from that saint would protect Unwin, and keep him safe in his new post….

  Bartholomew stood and rested his hand sympathetically on the student’s shoulder. Horsey choked back a sob.

  ‘And where did you find the money to pay for this relic?’ asked William coolly. ‘I did not know you were a wealthy man.’

  ‘I had a silver cross that my sister gave me,’ said Horsey. ‘The only time I ever wore it, you lectured me about the immorality of worldly possessions, so when one of the monks at the Abbey offered me a few hairs of St Botolph’s beard in exchange for the cross, I did not hesitate.’

  ‘You mean one of the monks is removing parts of the saint’s body and selling them off?’ asked Michael, appalled.

  William made an unpleasant noise at the back of his throat. ‘What did you expect from a House of Benedictines? Every one of them has but a single ambition, and that is to amass fortune and power in this world with no thought for the one that comes after.’

  Leaving William to begin his vigil for Unwin’s soul, Bartholomew followed the others out of the dark church. The sky was a deep blue, and the branches of the trees that had shaded the graves from the sun were silhouetted black against it. Bartholomew took a deep breath, trying to dispel the smell of mustiness and cheap incense that seemed to hang in the air around him.

  ‘I will stay with Father William, boy,’ said Cynric softly. ‘And I will be here when you come to relieve him at midnight. I have my dagger at the ready.’

  ‘Be careful,’ said Bartholomew, not liking the way their visit to rural Suffolk had so sudd
enly degenerated to the state where Cynric felt he needed to have his weapon drawn while William kept vigil over a dead student. ‘But do not forget that someone might enter the church with purely innocent intentions. We do not want another needless death today.’

  Michael was watching Alcote and Horsey pick their way through the long grass of the graveyard toward the village green. ‘When we first arrived here, I thought we had come to paradise, with all those children laughing and dancing around the pole, and those mountains of food waiting to be enjoyed. Now we discover from old Dame Eva that there have been other suspicious deaths in the village over the last month – the woman who died of childbirth fever and the man with the slit throat – not to mention the hanged man at the gibbet whose body has been stolen, and poor Unwin.’

  ‘Women do die of childbirth fever, and people do commit suicide,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is probably nothing in all this but the coincidence of four unexpected deaths occurring in a short period of time.’

  Michael shook his head slowly. ‘I am not so sure. I have the distinct feeling that there is something strange going on in this village.’

  ‘If you start meddling in Tuddenham’s affairs, you will lose your precious advowson for certain,’ said Bartholomew, taking the monk’s arm and leading him out of the churchyard. ‘It would not be polite or prudent to start interfering with the way he runs his estates.’

  ‘It might be very prudent considering that one of us is already dead,’ countered Michael. ‘I do not like the notion of standing idly by while one of my colleagues is slaughtered –although I might be prepared to look the other way if Alcote is the next victim.’

  ‘Michael!’ admonished Bartholomew, more because Alcote might overhear than because he disagreed with the sentiment. ‘But Tuddenham is probably right: someone killed Unwin in order to steal his purse. There is nothing to suggest that the rest of us are in any danger – although I would hide that jewelled cross you are wearing, if I were you.’