A Wicked Deed (48 page)

‘Come on,’ he whispered to Cynric. ‘We have seen enough.’

He turned to leave, but as he did so his bag caught on a twig that snapped sharply. Hamon moved faster than Bartholomew would have thought possible, and had the tip of his sword at the physician’s throat before Bartholomew was able to take more than a few steps. Cynric had melted into the shadows, but Bartholomew knew one of the Welshman’s daggers would be embedded in Hamon’s body the instant Cynric considered his friend to be seriously at risk. Nevertheless, he did not much like the sensation of cold steel so near his neck, and hoped Cynric knew what he was doing. Hamon, however, seemed more dismayed than threatening when he recognised his uncle’s guest.

‘So, now you know,’ he said, lowering his sword slightly.

‘Know what?’ asked Bartholomew in confusion, feeling he knew nothing at all.

‘He saw only a brotherly kiss,’ said Janelle quickly. ‘What harm is there in that?’

‘It was not brotherly!’ proclaimed Hamon hotly. ‘You know it was not.’

Janelle sighed in exasperation. ‘Where are your wits, Hamon? We might have convinced him you were simply here to offer me your condolences for the tragic demise of my husband. Now, after your outburst, he would have to be an imbecile not to see that there is more to our relationship.’

‘I have never hidden the fact that I adore you,’ claimed Hamon vehemently. ‘It would be like…like denying that the Earth rotates!’

Janelle’s irritation gave way to wry humour. ‘I was always taught that it did not. Walter Wauncy argues most convincingly against such a mad notion.’

Janelle looked from Hamon to Bartholomew in amused disbelief. ‘Is that so? But academic disputes, however fascinating, will not help us decide what to do about Doctor Bartholomew, who, thanks to your indiscretion, now knows that we are… close.’

‘I
will
marry you,’ declared Hamon, his attention fully on Janelle, as he let the sword drop to his side. ‘No man will steal you from me a second time.’

‘No man stole me the first time,’ said Janelle practically. ‘It was my decision to marry Roland Deblunville, and mine alone. I know now that I made a terrible mistake – one that might have proved fatal for me – but up until our wedding day I thought he was the innocent victim of a hateful plan initiated by Tuddenham to spread lies about him. Foolishly, I believed that monster when he said there was nothing sinister about Pernel’s death, but he was lying. He had smashed her head against the stone windowsill, and killed her.’

‘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.’

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.

‘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.’

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.

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.’

‘Then any one of them might have dropped the relic, or left it there for us to find,’ said Michael, closing his eyes tiredly. ‘Tuddenham, Hamon, Dame Eva, Isilia, Wauncy, Siric. Damn!’ He slammed his clenched fist on the windowsill in frustration. ‘If only we had been more observant!’

‘I suppose this killer wanted us to think exactly what we did,’ said Michael, disappointed to learn, yet again, that absolute evidence of Norys’s guilt was lacking. ‘That the relic fell from Norys’s clothing, and is therefore confirmation of his guilt.’

‘No!’ exclaimed Bartholomew suddenly, his voice loud in the silent church. ‘That is not what happened. It is not even what we are supposed to think, because it is not meant to be there at all. Stoate dropped it!’

‘What?’ asked Michael dubiously. ‘How have you arrived at that conclusion?’

Bartholomew straightened from where he been leaning against the wall, and began to pace as he reasoned it out. ‘Stoate was in such a hurry to reach the side of his most affluent patient that he tripped up the chancel steps in his haste. His bag came open and some of its contents spilled out. The relic must have fallen with them.’

‘Stoate killed Unwin?’ asked Michael in disbelief. ‘But why? This makes no sense, Matt!’

‘Oh, no!’ groaned Bartholomew, putting his hands to his head as the whole affair became crystal clear in his mind. All the disjointed scraps of evidence suddenly snapped together to form a picture that was so obvious, he was appalled he had not seen it before. ‘I see what happened. How could I have been so stupid?’

‘You tell me,’ said Michael.

‘The night Unwin died, Stoate introduced himself in the tavern. We had a lengthy conversation about various aspects of medicine.’

‘Yes,’ said Michael, remembering. ‘All of them highly unpleasant.’

‘I am sure Stoate told me he practised surgery – mainly bleeding, from the sound of it.’

‘Yes, he did,’ said Michael. ‘You were inappropriately delighted about the whole business.’

‘He denied yesterday that he ever said so,’ said Bartholomew. He flopped on to the bench next to Michael, and closed his eyes. ‘He said that Mother Goodman does it if it is needed, but Mother Goodman has told me that
he
did it on at least two occasions, including once when she was present. She interrupted our conversation in the Half Moon the first night we stayed there, to tell us the prices Stoate charged for opening vessels in different parts of the body, and he did not contradict her.’

Michael nodded. ‘I remember that. So, Stoate is a liar. However, that does not also make him a murderer or a thief. I do not see where all this is leading, Matt.’

‘Unwin’s body had an injury on the arm, near the elbow, and one sleeve was drenched in blood. I see exactly what happened. Unwin went to Stoate to be bled, and Stoate bled him to death!’

Michael gazed at him for a moment, and then gave a short laugh of disbelief. ‘The fatal wound was the cut to the elbow and not the stab in the stomach?’

‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is more easily done than you might think. If the incision made for phlebotomy is too deep, or the wrong vein is cut, a person can bleed to death very quickly if the surgeon does not know how to stop it. Stoate is not a surgeon, and has not been trained to practise phlebotomy. He killed Unwin with his ignorance and arrogance!’

‘So you are not exaggerating when you say bleeding is bad for the health?’ said Michael. ‘You had me convinced long before all this happened, but now I can promise you that no barber with his bloody knives will ever come near my veins.’