A Wicked Deed Page 7

  ‘The criminal who was hanged at the crossroads today,’ pressed Alcote. ‘On the gibbet.’

  ‘The gibbet at Bond’s Corner?’ asked Wauncy, looking from Alcote to Michael in confusion. ‘But no one has been hanged there for weeks.’

  A wave of rough laughter from a group of men sitting under a willow tree gusted towards them, as a pig made off with a loaf of bread belonging to a man who was determined to have it back. A fierce tussle ensued, after which the pig emerged victorious with the larger piece. Bartholomew, Michael and Alcote stared at Wauncy, who gazed back in confusion.

  ‘I can assure you, gentlemen,’ said the parish priest, ‘no one has been hanged on the gibbet at Bond’s Corner since Easter. Are you sure about what you saw?’

  ‘It was a man wearing a blue doublet embroidered with silver thread,’ said Alcote impatiently. ‘And a fine white shirt, and shoes that looked new. He had not been there for long. Matthew thought he might even still be alive. He was not, of course, and we made no attempt to interfere with the King’s justice by cutting him down.’

  Michael closed his eyes. ‘That man is beyond belief,’ he muttered to Bartholomew. ‘Talk about incriminating himself.’

  ‘Or worse still, incriminating us,’ Bartholomew whispered back.

  ‘But no one was hanged there today,’ insisted Wauncy. ‘We do not hang people during the Pentecost Fair. It would spoil the festivities.’

  ‘It looks as though you were right after all,’ said Michael in a low voice to Bartholomew. ‘The man was not executed legally, or people would have known about it. What a curious turn of events!’

  Seeing Alcote did not believe him, Wauncy beckoned Tuddenham over. The knight had been cornered by Father William, who was regaling him with one of his rabid diatribes on heresy. Clearly relieved by his timely rescue, Tuddenham came toward them, hauling his wife away from the handsome Horsey as he passed. Bartholomew did not blame him. Horsey might well be a friar in major orders, and forbidden physical relations with women, but so was Michael, and Bartholomew was certain the fat monk was no more celibate than was Matilde the Prostitute.

  ‘Our guests claim there was a man hanging on the gibbet at Bond’s Corner today,’ said Wauncy to Tuddenham. ‘I have just informed them that is not possible.’

  ‘Wauncy is right,’ said Tuddenham, surprised. ‘No one has been sentenced to the gibbet for at least six weeks.’

  ‘Well, someone was hanging there,’ said Michael.

  Tuddenham shrugged, bemused. ‘I cannot imagine what has happened. I will send my steward to find out as soon as the festivities are over.’

  ‘Do you not think he should go now?’ suggested Michael. ‘If you say no one has been lawfully hanged on your gibbet, then the man we saw was unlawfully executed, and a murder surely merits immediate investigation?’

  Tuddenham was clearly torn: the feast was about to begin, and it was already late in the day, with the sun casting long shadows across the green. Yet he did not want the scholars to consider him a lax landlord, who turned a blind eye to violent crimes committed on his land. After a moment, he sighed and agreed to look into the matter in person. He yelled to a servant, who was trying to prevent a group of children from stealing boiled eggs from one of the tables. ‘Siric! Saddle up a couple of horses. I have business at Bond’s Corner.’

  Siric hurried away to do his master’s bidding, reluctantly leaving the eggs unsupervised. The children, however, hesitated to take advantage of the situation: Dame Eva was watching them with her bright, intelligent eyes. But, within moments, one leathery eyelid had dropped in a conspiratorial wink, and the children’s dirty faces broke into gap-toothed grins. Clutching their booty, they scampered away while Dame Eva turned her attention to making polite conversation with Father William.

  ‘This corpse you found was probably that of an outlaw,’ said Tuddenham. ‘It has not been unknown for travellers to catch would-be thieves on the road, and then dispense their own justice rather than wait for the Sheriff. I am sure the body belongs to none of my villagers – they are all here, enjoying the fair.’

  ‘The dead man wore a fine dagger,’ said Alcote, who invariably noticed such things. ‘It was gold with an emerald in the hilt, and there was also a belt decorated with silver studs.’

  The colour drained from Tuddenham’s face, and his jaw dropped. Isilia rushed to his side, and helped him to sit on the wall, while Dame Eva abandoned William and came to stand next to him, laying a motherly hand on his shoulder and peering into his face in flustered concern.

  ‘Are you unwell, Thomas?’ she asked, alarmed. ‘Shall I summon Master Stoate? Perhaps Doctor Bartholomew can bleed you, or give you a potion?’

  ‘A gold dagger with an emerald?’ whispered the knight, clutching at Isilia’s hand. ‘And a belt with silver studs?’

  Alcote nodded triumphantly. ‘You do know that a man was hanged there!’

  Tuddenham seemed appalled at that notion. ‘I know no such thing, Master Alcote! Are you certain this man was dead?’

  ‘Who was dead?’ cried Dame Eva, bewildered. ‘What has happened, Thomas?’

  ‘The man was dead according to our physician,’ Alcote replied, ignoring her and gesturing to Bartholomew. ‘Although he has some peculiar theories about health – for example, he believes people should wash their hands before they eat.’

  ‘How very odd,’ mused Walter Wauncy. ‘But what of this hanged man? Are you sure he was not some lad playing a joke on you by pretending to be dead?’

  ‘He was dead,’ said Bartholomew, wishing Alcote would keep his nasty opinions to himself. ‘But it seems you know him from his dagger. Who was he?’

  Tuddenham exchanged a glance with Wauncy, and hesitated. It was Wauncy who spoke.

  ‘You must understand that we cannot be certain until we see the body, but there is only one man near here who owns anything as frivolous as a gold dagger and a silver-studded belt. But he has not been sentenced to hang. All this is most distressing!’

  ‘Especially for the man on the gibbet,’ Michael pointed out. ‘But who is it who owns this distinctive gold dagger?’

  Tuddenham swallowed hard. ‘My neighbour from the manor of Burgh – Roland Deblunville. I saw him wearing it at the Lord Mayor’s Feast at Ipswich last year. None of my other neighbours have the funds to waste on such frippery.’

  ‘Does this mean that someone has hanged Deblunville?’ asked Dame Eva, bewildered.

  Tuddenham leaned forward and rubbed his hands across his face, while she patted his shoulder in a distracted sort of sympathy. Isilia’s face was unreadable as she stood behind her husband. After a moment, the knight looked up at his priest.

  ‘Wauncy, you know what will be said if Deblunville really is hanging at Bond’s Corner?’

  Wauncy nodded. ‘But we should ascertain the facts before we leap to conclusions, Sir Thomas. We will ride to Bond’s Corner immediately, and try to find out what has happened.’

  ‘What will be said?’ asked Michael, interested.

  Wauncy gnawed on his lip uncertainly, while Tuddenham stared at his boots and did not reply.

  ‘They will find out sooner or later, Thomas, regardless of whether Deblunville is dead or alive,’ said Dame Eva practically. ‘Your feud with the wretch is not exactly a secret.’

  Tuddenham sighed. ‘You are right. I just did not want our guests to be burdened with what is just a silly border dispute.’

  ‘It is a good deal more than that,’ said Dame Eva. She looked at the Michaelhouse men. ‘This villain – Roland Deblunville – has been invading almost every aspect of our lives recently. When we go to Ipswich, he is there selling his goods at absurdly cheap prices, so that it is difficult for us to trade ours; when sheep go missing from our meadows, they are always last seen near his fields; and he even purchased that lovely length of peach-coloured satin I had been saving to buy for Isilia since Christmas.’

  ‘I will find her something else,’ said Tuddenham tiredly.

  ‘W
hat does he want peach satin for anyway?’ said Dame Eva, shaking her head. ‘He must have seen me admiring it, and bought it out of sheer spite.’

  Tuddenham’s eyebrows drew together angrily at that notion. ‘Then I shall ensure his satin will pale beside the piece Isilia shall have. He will not win that battle!’

  It seemed a petty state of affairs, but Bartholomew knew only too well how quickly little aggravations could escalate into serious quarrels in isolated communities. He had seen men kill and be killed for far less than a length of peach-coloured satin.

  ‘You must wonder what you have wandered into,’ said Tuddenham, with a strained smile. ‘Please allow me to explain. As I have mentioned, there are two manors in Grundisburgh parish, both of them mine. Deblunville’s manor borders my estates, and he claims that Peche Hall – where my nephew Hamon lives – is on his land.’

  ‘So?’ asked Michael. ‘Boundary disputes are common all over the country. Take your case to the county assizes at Ipswich, and let the lawyers decide the outcome.’

  Tuddenham fixed him with a determined look. ‘The case is clear-cut, Brother: I do not need to pay lawyers to tell me I am right. The land near Peche Hall is mine. It came to me from my ancestor Hervey Bourges, who was granted it by the Conqueror himself. Hervey’s daughter founded our fine church, and her sons built Peche and Wergen halls. My family’s roots are as deeply entrenched in this village and its land as are these ancient buildings themselves.’

  ‘If the case is so clear-cut, then why does Deblunville press his claim?’ asked Michael. It was a reasonable question, but not one that Tuddenham seemed inclined to answer directly.

  ‘The man is an opportunist. He came into possession of Burgh by marrying a woman twice his age – and she died within a week of the happy event in very suspicious circumstances. So, Deblunville is a young man with a tidy fortune, and a burning ambition to make himself one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in the county.’

  ‘I see,’ said Michael noncommittally. ‘But you have not yet told us what it is that people will say when they hear Deblunville has been hanged.’

  ‘The gibbet is on my land,’ said Tuddenham flatly. ‘People will say I had him killed.’

  ‘No!’ cried Isilia, appalled. ‘No one would say such a vile thing.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Michael. ‘You would hardly string him up on your own gibbet if you intended to dispense with him. Any rational man wanting to commit murder would be a little more circumspect.’

  ‘But we do not know that murder has been committed,’ Wauncy pointed out. ‘Or even that it is Deblunville who is dead. We know only that the scholars saw a body on the gibbet with a dagger that might or might not belong to him. We should not speculate further until we have the facts.’

  ‘And we are not the only ones to have trouble with Deblunville,’ Tuddenham continued, apparently unwilling to end the conversation before he had completed his list of gripes. ‘Robert Grosnold of Otley has had cattle stolen by him, while John Bardolf of Clopton lost his daughter.’

  Michael frowned. ‘What do you mean by “lost” exactly?’

  Tuddenham glanced prudishly at his wife and pursed his lips. ‘Suffice to say that Janelle’s marriage prospects are not what they were.’

  ‘You mean she is with child?’ asked Michael. ‘And you believe Deblunville to be the father?’

  ‘I would not have put it so bluntly myself,’ said Tuddenham primly, regarding his wife with such concern that Bartholomew wondered if he might clap his hands over her ears to prevent her from overhearing such ribaldry. ‘Deblunville offered to marry her, but that would make him Bardolf s heir. Bardolf was agreeable to the match at first – he said the damage had already been done, and he needed to make the best of the situation – but Grosnold, Hamon and I reminded him how Deblunville’s first wife had come to a sudden and unexpected end once he had no more use for her, and Bardolf prudently changed his mind.’

  ‘The sooner we satisfy ourselves that our guests have been mistaken, and that Deblunville is safe in his fortress like a spider in its web, the sooner we can return to enjoy this feast the villagers have provided,’ said Wauncy practically. ‘Come, Sir Thomas. We should leave now.’

  ‘And if they are not mistaken?’ asked Tuddenham uncertainly. ‘What then?’

  ‘Then you have two hundred people who will attest that you were at the Fair all day, and not hanging a man at Bond’s Corner,’ said Wauncy soothingly. ‘Including your priest’

  Isilia looked uneasy, and Dame Eva took her hand reassuringly. ‘I told you itwas only a matter of days before Deblunville would die after he saw – well, you know what he saw,’ she said, looking at Tuddenham and Wauncy accusingly. ‘You did not believe me, but now who is right?’

  ‘Not that superstitious nonsense again!’ sighed Tuddenham. ‘You cannot simply ignore these things and hope they will go away,’ said Dame Eva firmly. ‘Deblunville saw … that thing, and now he is dead. Just as I told you he would be.’

  ‘It is wrong to place your faith in superstitions,’ said Wauncy sternly. ‘I have told you that before.’

  ‘Maybe he saw the evil of his ways at the Pentecost celebrations, and was so overcome with remorse that he hanged himself,’ suggested Isilia hopefully.

  ‘That does not sound like Deblunville,’ said the old lady. ‘He is too convinced of his personal worth to take his own life. He is more likely to hang every lord of the manor he can lay his vile hands on, and steal their lands and titles for himself.’

  ‘What exactly did he see?’ asked Michael, intrigued by the turn the discussion was taking.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Tuddenham before Isilia or Dame Eva could answer. ‘My mother merely refers to an old country yarn from these parts. There is nothing to it but superstition.’ He looked reprovingly at the women, daring them to contradict him.

  ‘Oh,’ said Michael, immediately losing interest. He was never particularly keen to hear about local customs and folktales, preferring current intrigues and scandals to ancient ones. ‘Some evil spirit haunts the roads near here, I suppose?’ he added politely, when he saw Dame Eva look disappointed by his response. She seemed kindly enough, and Michael, who approved of old ladies who turned a blind eye to hungry children stealing eggs, did not want to hurt her feelings.

  ‘If you like fairy tales, I will tell you some this evening,’ said Tuddenham, not altogether pleasantly. ‘But we should not be here chatting while Deblunville might lie dead. Siric! My horse!’

  He strode away, his priest scurrying at his heels. Dame Eva and Isilia went to sit in the shade again, where the old lady was solemnly presented with a daisy chain by a small child with egg yolk around her mouth.

  ‘This Deblunville sounds quite a character,’ remarked Michael in an undertone to Bartholomew. ‘It is a pity he is dead – I would have liked to meet him.’

  ‘Whenever someone is described to me as “quite a character”, it usually means that he has some offensive or unappealing quality about him that is being passed off as entertaining,’ replied Bartholomew, watching Siric bridle Tuddenham’s horse. ‘Experience has taught me that I nearly always do not like him. Will you go with Tuddenham to the gibbet?’

  ‘We both will,’ said Michael. ‘And it will be as much to ensure that we have not unwittingly left some clue regarding our role in all this, as to see justice done.’

  Once Tuddenham had made the decision to ride to Bond’s Corner, there was a flurry of activity. Cynric saddled Bartholomew’s horse, and then started to prepare his own mount, which was munching the buttercups that grew among the grass by the churchyard. Bartholomew stopped him.

  ‘There is no need for you to come, Cynric. Stay here and keep an eye on William. He has been drinking wine too fast for his own good, and you know what he can be like if he becomes intoxicated. We do not want him regaling Lady Isilia with tales of the Inquisition.’

  ‘She would probably prefer them to tales of childbirth, boy,’ said Cynric, smiling. He looped the
reins of his pony over the church gate. ‘Are you sure you do not need me? These are dangerous roads to travel, and it will be dark soon.’

  ‘I will be safe enough with Tuddenham,’ said Bartholomew. They looked to where the knight was donning a metal helmet and a boiled leather jerkin, and buckling a sword belt around his waist. ‘Although it looks to me as though he thinks he is heading for the battlefields of France, not some part of his own manor.’

  ‘That is probably because he knows a lot more about this place than you do,’ said Cynric. ‘And all the more reason for me to come.’

  ‘It is probably just for show,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Anyway, I am perfectly capable of looking after myself.’

  Cynric’s snort of derision was drowned by Michael’s exclamation of disgust as he watched Bartholomew climb on the low wall that surrounded the churchyard, and leap on to his horse’s back in a way that made the animal rear and kick in shock. The monk himself swung into his saddle with the ease of a born horseman.

  ‘This affair has an unsavoury feel to it,’ said Bartholomew, following him as he rode across the green. ‘It seems village life is not so different from the University – all petty feuds and enmity.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Michael gleefully. ‘I thought I was going to be bored in this rural desert, but matters are definitely looking up: we have three lords of the manor united against the fourth, who is an opportunist and who did away with his elderly wife; we have some curious folktale that the ladies believe has some relevance to this Deblunville’s demise –assuming it was Deblunville we found; and we have suspects galore as to who wants him dead.’

  ‘Just a moment, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, alarmed. ‘This is not Cambridge, and you have no legal authority to start probing around in all this. If one of these lords really has dispensed with a hated rival, you would be well advised to stay clear of the whole business.’

  ‘Where is your spirit of enquiry and thirst for the truth?’ asked Michael playfully. ‘Come on, Matt! This might prove interesting.’

  ‘That is not what the Master will think if you interfere with these people and return to Michaelhouse without the advowson,’ warned Bartholomew.