Mel Starr - A Corpse at St Andrew's Chapel

“The bishop of Exeter has no bailiff for his lands in Bampton…as you know.”

I did.

“Edwin Crank serves as reeve, and serves well, but the bishop expects us, the vicars, to do the work of bailiff. As there be three attached to one church [An unusual practice. I was much surprised to learn of it when I first came to serve Lord Gilbert.], he assumes we will find time among us to deal with manor business.”

I made no reply. The vicar had asked no question of me yet, and I was not eager to discover what was desired of me. Rather, I knew what was wanted, but had no wish to hear my suspicion confirmed or ease the vicar’s task.

Father Thomas was silent, sipping his wine and watching me over the rim of his cup. He hoped, I think, for my sympathy for his overworked state. I savored the wine and held my tongue. I did not intend to make this easy for him. I regretted this attitude later. It is not seemly for a Christian man to interpose impediments to those who seek his aid.

“There is some business,” he continued, “for which we three are unsuited.” Bowlegh peered at me over his cup, searching for agreement. I sipped my wine and offered none.

“The murder of Henry atte Bridge…one or more of us must forsake his duties to God and the Church of St Beornwald to seek a killer. This will put great burdens on the other and the clerks to maintain church offices, do you not agree?”

“I think seeking a murderer might be considered by God as duty to him,” I replied.

“Ah…yes…surely. But all men have duties to God, and those obligations differ according to our station and competence.”

Father Thomas had laid his snare well. I could not disagree.

“You have displayed much competence,” he continued, “in discovering miscreants. The matter of the bones found in Lord Gilbert’s cesspit, and the disappearance of Sir Robert Mallory and his squire. You found the truth of that business.”

“After I nearly caused an innocent man to hang from the gibbet at Oxford Castle,” I reminded him.

“But you corrected the error and discovered the truth. We — Father Simon and Father Ralph and I — wish your aid in this matter of Henry atte Bridge.”

The vicar continued quickly, before I had time to object. “We thought to send a clerk to Lord Gilbert at Pembroke, seeking his permission for you to employ your time in this matter, but wished to sound you out first.”

So the vicars were prepared to go over my head, and Father Thomas was tactfully advising me so.

“It may be that the killer is one of Lord Gilbert’s men,” Father Thomas continued, “in which case the investigation would be your bailiwick. As Lord Gilbert’s lands hereabouts are more extensive than the bishop’s properties, and his villeins and tenants more numerous, it seems likely to us that this may be so. Do you not agree?”

I did agree. His logic was good, and he knew Lord Gilbert would see the matter as he did. And the malmsey was very good; dark and red and not near to being vinegar. But I did try to press a hard bargain.

“You must permit me to seek answers where I will,” I demanded. “The bishop’s men must know they are to cooperate.”

“They will be so instructed,” he nodded.

“And if this inquiry takes too much time from my duties for Lord Gilbert you must permit me to relinquish it.”

But Father Thomas can drive a hard bargain, as well. “I would be sorry if you gave up the charge. Should it become known that you struggled with Henry atte Bridge on the road, and, but for his killer, of course, was the last man to see him alive…”

I saw his point, which foolishly I had not before. Circumstances made me suspect in the death — to those who might learn of my fight along the Witney road. I had told only Thomas de Bowlegh of this incident. Perhaps he told the other vicars. Regardless, his point was well made and I took it readily.

“So to exonerate myself I must find him who did that for which otherwise I might be blamed?”

The vicar nodded. “I know you, Master Hugh, and your skills. You have saved men’s lives and freed them from pain in the months since Lord Gilbert brought you here. I do not believe you capable of chasing a man down and plunging a dagger into his back.”

“Not even a man who attacked me?”

“Not even such a man. But others may not think so…so rationally, should your brawl with Henry atte Bridge become known.”

“No one knows of it but you…and Henry’s killer.”

“There are others…a few.”

In answer to my scowl he continued quickly, “I spoke of the attack to Father Ralph and Father Simon when we discussed what must be done.”

“Will they hold their tongues?

“Father Simon will, I think. I am not so sure of Father Ralph.”

“Then you must speak to him, and soon. If knowledge is abroad that I fought with Henry atte Bridge, then even if I discover his murderer there will be men who believe I have accused another to free myself of guilt. Justice would be charged as injustice.”

The vicar’s face fell. He had not thought of this. He looked to the fire and rearranged coals with a poker before he spoke again.

“I should have kept silent,” he agreed finally. “But I thought you might resist my request.”

“And wished to apply some gentle pressure to see that I would not?” I completed his thought.

“Aye. I wished confirmation from Father Simon and Father Ralph that my path was a wise one.”

“Did they agree?”

“They did.”

“You must speak to them this day, without delay, and warn them to be silent. Else I am undone. Bampton may lose a bailiff and a surgeon and I may lose my life.”

“Surely not,” the vicar objected. “You are known and respected in the town.”

“I am an outsider, newly come to this place. When the commons are heated and a hanging is offered they will cheer the death of any man and consider him guilty, be he so or not. Remember Thomas Shilton? He was of this place, or near so. But when I found against him, wrongly, none rose to defend him. They were ready to jeer as he swung from the beam with purple face and swollen tongue.”

Father Thomas looked from the fire to the window to me. “It is near time for canonical hours. I will urge Simon and Ralph to silence.”

I left the vicarage with cluttered mind and burdened heart. By the time I reached the castle the mist had ceased, and when dinner was served in the hall I saw broken sunlight begin to penetrate the south windows. I cannot recall what was served that day. Other thoughts occupied my mind. When the meal was done I set out from the castle to seek a murderer, but found two. Eventually.

The afternoon sky above Oxfordshire cleared, and inhabitants of the town ventured out upon muddy streets. The cooper had opened his shutters and from his shop issued the smell of fresh-shaved wood and the regular cadence of his draw knife as he plied it against new staves. The sun appeared occasionally between banks of clouds, but not enough to dry the streets. My shoes were caked with mud before I passed the bishop’s new barn and found the place where Henry atte Bridge and I had rolled on the verge in our struggle.

I thought to retrace the path the searchers had followed into the wood, to see if any object or clue might have gone unnoticed. The seekers that day were watching for a man. Any other thing foreign to a forest might have gone unremarked. So I plunged into the undergrowth and was soon wet to the skin. The new foliage was dewy from the morning rain.

I found the place where Henry atte Bridge lay in death. ’Twas easy to do, for the searchers and then the coroner’s jury had beaten down the shrubs of the forest floor for many paces in a circle about the place where the corpse lay. I found a fallen branch and went round the spot, overturning the trampled leaves with the stick. I found nothing but what is common to a wet wood in April.