Susanna Gregory - A Wicked Deed

Bartholomew closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall, almost oblivious to the rats that swirled around his legs and gnawed inquisitively at his boots. All he could think of was that he had failed. He opened his eyes, and saw a rat clamber over the top of the pile of masonry, and make its way into the vault. He frowned and scrambled up it, to try to peer through the gap between rubble and roof. Gingerly, he thrust the candle through it, and saw that the fall was not a large one, and that there was a flight of stairs beyond. Scarcely daring to hope, he began to claw away the rubble, until there was a space large enough for him to squeeze through.

Ignoring the way his clothes snagged on the sharp edges of stones, he squirmed over until he was on the far side, heart thumping in panic when he thought at one point that he might have misjudged, and trapped himself between the rubble and the roof. Then he was through, and skidding down the other side. His candle fizzled and went out.

There was nothing he could do but grope his way forward in the darkness, tripping and stumbling up the uneven steps, and flinching when his hands encountered something furry and warm rather than damp and smooth. Eventually, he reached another door. He felt it blindly, trying to locate the handle. Rats clawed at his boots as he grasped the metal and turned. Nothing happened. It was locked from the outside.

He forced himself to run his hands over the wood methodically to see if he could find the lock. What he found was a latch. Lifting it he pulled again, but the door remained firmly closed. About to give up in despair, it occurred to him to lift the latch and turn the handle at the same time. With a sudden creak, the door began to open. With profound relief, he stepped out into the church.

He was in the chancel, having emerged through a small door that stood to one side of the altar. He could hear the voices of Eltisley and his henchmen further down the building, and hoped that did not mean that Michael and Cynric had swallowed whatever potion Eltisley had given them, and were already dead. Clutching the crossbow quarrel, he inched toward the screen that divided the nave from the chancel, and peered round it.

Eltisley was standing at one of his benches with Isilia by his side, while Michael and Cynric, white faced and nervous, were sitting together on stools. Eltisley’s friends — five of them — were ranged behind them, three with their swords drawn, lest Cynric should try to escape.

‘And who is the father of your brat, madam?’ Michael was saying. ‘Some village lad? Or do your tastes run to lords of the manor? Grosnold, perhaps, or Deblunville?’

‘That is none of your affair,’ said Isilia, shocked. ‘Hurry up, Eltisley. Sir Thomas will wonder where I am if I am here much longer, and I wish to ensure that these meddlesome scholars are dispatched once and for all. I do not want them writing the deed that will give Hamon the estates that rightly belong to my children — I have not lived three years with that old man to end up with nothing.’

‘Science takes time, my lady,’ said Eltisley, busily mixing something that smoked with something green. ‘I am working as quickly as I can, but this will not be rushed.’

The potion was green! And Norys’s lips had been green! Had Eltisley tried his brew on the pardoner, too? Bartholomew tried to think rationally. Stoate had found Norys and Mistress Freeman dead from eating bad mussels, and had dumped Norys in some trees near Barchester. Someone had later moved him. Since few people, other than Eltisley, frequented Barchester, it stood to reason that the landlord had found the body, and stained its lips green in an attempt to test his elixir. Having experienced problems with burning and chopping up Freeman’s body, Eltisley had decided to bury Norys in the churchyard — and what more secure place than in the grave of the man Norys was accused of killing?

Eltisley was almost ready, and, judging from the thick gloves the landlord wore to protect his hands, once they had swallowed his concoction there would be very little Bartholomew could do for Cynric or Michael. He had to think quickly. He glanced around him. He was evidently in that part of the church where Eltisley kept his more volatile compounds. Large pots, crudely labelled, stood well apart from each other.

‘Do not pester him, Isilia,’ came another voice from the shadows of the nave. ‘Let him work in peace.’

Bartholomew froze as he recognised it. He heard Michael’s gasp of shock. ‘Dame Eva?’

The church was silent as Michael and Cynric gazed at the old lady in horror. In the chancel, Bartholomew’s mind whirled with unanswered questions and disconnected fragments of information. Eventually, Dame Eva spoke, amused by the monk’s shock at seeing her.

‘Of course it is me. Do you think Isilia could have managed this alone?’

‘But Eltisley …’

‘Eltisley does as I tell him. How do you think he finances his experiments? By selling ale to the local peasantry?’

‘I see,’ said Michael slowly. ‘That is why you ordered his release so quickly after Tuddenham arrested him for Unwin’s murder. You let him out so that he could continue to work for you.’

And that, thought Bartholomew, was why Dame Eva had been so solicitous toward the landlord’s wife after the tavern had ignited. It had not been simple compassion that had prompted the old lady to give Mistress Eltisley her cloak and cross; it had been remuneration for damage done in her service.

Bartholomew crouched near the screen, and saw the old lady standing in front of Michael. A steely flint in her eye suggested that Eltisley would not be allowed to fail her by letting the Michaelhouse scholars escape a second time. Bartholomew needed to act fast if he wanted his friends to live. He moved back, and began reading the labels on Eltisley’s powders and potions.

‘So, it was you,’ said Michael to Dame Eva. ‘You stole the draft of the advowson from me in the churchyard; you ordered Alcote murdered; you told Eltisley to tamper with Cynric’s bow; you arranged for Mad Megin and her dog to live here, and frighten the living daylights out of any passers-by; you told Eltisley to kill Alice Quy with one of his potions, and stage Freeman’s death to strengthen the villagers’ fear of the Padfoot legend; and you killed Deblunville.’

‘I did not touch Deblunville. That was Eltisley acting on his own initiative.’

Eltisley gave his peculiar beaming smile. ‘I took a stone and replaced it carefully after I had brained him, so that it would appear that he had fallen and hit his head. You see, setting eyes on Padfoot does not mean people are murdered, it means they die in mysterious accidents.’

‘Deblunville did not think he saw Padfoot,’ said Michael. ‘He thought he saw a wolf.’

‘It did not matter what he thought he saw,’ said Dame Eva. ‘It mattered what other people thought he saw, and that he was seen to die because of it.’

‘Then it was you who attacked Alcote the night before the tavern exploded?’ asked Michael. ‘It could not have been Eltisley, because he was out killing Deblunville.’

‘Isilia and I tried to rid the world of the vile little man together. But one elderly woman and one pregnant one are not ideally suited for ambushing, and Alcote was stronger than he looked. We had intended to stab him, but Isilia dropped her knife, and I could not get a clear hit. In short, we made a mess of the whole business. My husband always said it was better to employ someone to do that sort of thing for you, and now I understand what he meant.’

Expecting to be discovered at any moment, Bartholomew found an empty barrel and dumped all the yellow powder into it that was in a smallish pot labelled salfar, hoping it really was sulphur, and not just something Eltisley had created. He looked around for charcoal, his mind refusing to face the possibility that anything he might do to harm Dame Eva and her cabal might also harm Michael and Cynric.