Litany of Lies E-Book

Sarah Hawkswood

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Bradecote & Catchpoll
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 410

Beschreibung

Midsummer, 1145. Walter, the steward of Evesham Abbey, is found dead at the bottom of a well pit. The Abbot, whose relationship with the lord Sheriff of Worcestershire is strained at best, dislikes needing to call in help. However, as the death appears to have not been an accident, he grudgingly receives Undersheriff Hugh Bradecote, Serjeant Catchpoll and Underserjeant Walkelin. The trio know to step carefully with the contentious undercurrents at play. As the sheriff's men investigate the steward's death, they discover that truth is in short supply. With the tensions between the Abbey and the local castle guard reaching boiling point, another killing will force the investigation down a dangerous path.

Leseprobe

3

Litany of Lies

A Bradecote and Catchpoll Mystery

SARAH HAWKSWOOD

45

For H. J. B.

6

Contents

Title PageDedicationMapChapter OneChapter TwoChapter ThreeChapter FourChapter FiveChapter SixChapter SevenChapter EightChapter NineChapter TenChapter ElevenChapter TwelveChapter ThirteenChapter FourteenChapter FifteenChapter SixteenAuthor’s NoteAbout the AuthorBy Sarah Hawkswood Copyright

7

Chapter One

Three days before Midsummer 1145

A baking hot day, one that had mellowed into an evening still too warm and airless for comfort, was drifting into an uncomfortable, sticky night. June had been a month of blazing sun that had seen the Avon’s level drop, revealing her banks like a wanton flaunting her ankles, and flow lazily, as though it also found the heat exhausting. Only the visiting swallows and house martins seemed to be as energetic as always, busily raising their broods beneath the thatched eaves of the houses. Now, as the soft dark of a short, summer night descended, their screams and chirrups had been replaced by the faint flutterings of bats flitting about for moths, weaving between the houses and swooping over the parched grass of the Merstow green. At the north-west corner of the open ground a pair of posts and a crossbeam stood guard over a hole in the earth, where a well was part dug. The spoil bucket stood beside it, the rope coiled tidily within it like a sleeping adder, and off to one side was a neat pile of stone for the well lining, and the blocks from which the local mason was hewing them. Two men stood close by, barely a pace apart, glaring at each other, arguing in low voices.

‘What sense is there to this?’ the shorter man growled, 8his features growing indistinct in the rapidly fading light. ‘It would not be thought odd for us to be speaking together in passing. Think yourself fortunate I came, for I does not need to obey a summons from the likes of you at a foolish hour.’

‘What I have to say will not be to your liking, though I care not, and you were never one to hide your thoughts. This is safer, and by neither’s hearth, which seems fair.’

‘Fair! Ha! When did you ever do “fair”. So go on, say what you need and let me get to my wife and my bed.’ The shorter man hunched his shoulders grumpily.

‘I need more.’

‘Need? What for? Is your position not high and mighty enough for you? Does you want the trappings of a lord?’

‘Why I want it is not your concern. All you need to know is that when the rent falls due Midsummer Day, there is six shillings to pay on top of the rest.’ The taller man folded his arms and looked obdurate.

‘Six shillings?’ The shorter man was taken aback and repeated the sum.

‘Yes. Your business thrives. You can afford it.’

‘No.’ The refusal was blunt.

‘You can afford it, I say.’ The taller man persisted.

‘No. I will not give you another six shillings. In fact, I will give you nothing at all.’

‘What do you mean?’ It was the taller man’s turn to be surprised.

‘’Tis simple enough. You have had all you will get from me, even if you spouts your lies to turn folk against me. It don’t scare me no more. You can accept that, or I will go to the lord Abbot with the truth of what has been going on.’

‘He would not believe you.’ The taller man snorted 9derisively. ‘Your word against mine? No contest. What is more, if you thought he would do so, you would have gone to him at the first.’

‘Oh, do not be so sure. I now knows more than you think.’ It was more guessing, but the man was not going to say so.

‘But the lord Abbot would not believe a man who is ever late to pay his rent.’ The taller man wished he could see the other man’s reaction to that.

‘I pays on time. You know that.’ Outrage made the man’s voice rise, and the taller man hissed at him to lower it.

‘You pay me, but the abbey rent rolls show you have been short these last three quarters and only my good word has kept you from eviction.’ The tone was triumphant, gloating, and he unfolded his arms to poke the shorter man in the chest with a long forefinger.

‘Your good word! You bastard!’ The shorter man launched himself towards the other and the pair tumbled to the dry earth, both half-winded by the fall. They rolled, like puppies at play, except this was in deadly earnest, each trying to inflict as much pain as possible upon the other. It was chance that they rolled towards the stone pile, but the hand that grabbed a worked piece of it moved with intent. There was a sharp crack, and one of the men slackened his hold and went limp. His opponent dragged the inert body to the well hole and cast it over the edge to drop the fifteen feet or so to the bottom of the workings. For good measure, he cast the lump of stone in after him. Breathing heavily, and with hands that shook a little, the victor went home to his bed, and disturbed slumbers. 10

Reginald Foliot, Abbot of Evesham, sighed, and rubbed his temples with the tips of his long, pale fingers. His relations with William de Beauchamp, lord Sheriff of Worcestershire, were not without complications, and de Beauchamp was a tetchy man who did not trust clerics, especially clerics with noble connections. Before Chapter he really must formulate how he was going to complain, yet again, about the theft of abbey property by the Bengeworth garrison, who had clearly crossed the bridge in the dark hours, scaled the wall, ‘his’ newly completed wall, built to protect the abbey in dangerous times, and stolen two casks of wine, quite good wine at that. The townsfolk of Evesham would not be so bold, and the garrison were a drunken lot, for the most part. The lord Sheriff would deny that it was his men, and say no proof could be brought, but it was always his men. The fact that the garrison changed regularly did not seem to make a difference. The abbot wondered if he ought to have stipulated the wall should be even higher, and sighed again, resolving to lead the brethren in a prayer after Chapter that God would put charity in the hearts of the sinful.

There came a knock upon the door, and at his bidding to enter, a youthful brother almost fell over the threshold in his haste to come in. Abbot Reginald frowned.

‘Those things which we do in a rush, Brother Dominic, are not done with godliness of thought. Impetuosity should be constrained and—’

‘Forgive me, Father, but …’ The young man interrupted, his voice rather higher than usual in his excitement. ‘Walter the Steward is dead.’

‘That is assuredly unfortunate news, but death comes to us all, Brother, and is no cause for—’ 11

‘Dead by,’ and the monk’s voice now dropped, ‘a terrible accident, Father. Prior Richard sent me to tell you immediately.’

‘I see. Well, you have told me, and now you will compose yourself.’ Abbot Reginald’s voice was as calm as if he had been told that the weather was set fair for the day. It would not do, he thought, to show a poor example. ‘We shall walk together to Prior Richard and hear exactly what has occurred.’

‘Yes, Father.’ Brother Dominic, gently chastised, coloured, and then folded his hands beneath his scapular, emulating his superior.

Prior Richard was in the courtyard by the western and primary gate of the abbey enclave, and with him were several men and a handcart bearing a covered body. The men were all trying to speak at once, and there was much gesticulating. The noise only ceased when Abbot Reginald himself was close enough to ask for calm.

‘I am told our steward is dead. Who found him, and where?’

‘I – we did, my lord Abbot, when we went to begin our labours for the day.’ A short, broad-shouldered man, stepped forward and bowed.

‘And you are?’

‘Adam the Welldelver, my lord. And this is—’

‘Hubert the Mason. Your face I know. So you found Walter the Steward on the green, where the well is being dug?’

‘Not just on the green, but in my workings, though blind drunk ’e must have been to fall in when the soil hoist is all set up above it.’ 12

‘How deep have you dug thus far?’

‘A good fifteen or sixteen feet, and a fall that far could kill a man.’

‘Yes.’ Abbot Reginald seemed to be only half attending, and a small frown gathered between his fine brows. ‘Uncover the body.’

Hubert the Mason leant over the side of the cart, pulled back the cloth, and then crossed himself. Walter the Steward lay slightly contorted, facing to his left side, since nobody had wanted to move his death-stiff limbs, nor force the eyelids closed. The sightless stare unnerved Brother Dominic, who took an audible breath, and Abbot Reginald’s frown deepened. Something jarred. One arm was clearly beneath the body and the other lay, almost casually, to the side. It would be odd for a man, even a drunken man, not to put his arms out if he tripped and fell. The side of the face that was visible bore little sign of injury, but there was a very distinct wound to the left temple, with congealed blood about it. The thin bone of the skull could be seen, like the broken shell of a goose egg.

‘He was found just like this?’ Abbot Reginald looked towards the well digger for confirmation.

‘Aye, my lord Abbot.’

‘I see. And there was nothing else in the well, no flagon or pot for ale?’

‘Nothin’ but a stone, one o’mine ready for the buildin’ part.’ This was Hubert the Mason. ‘Odd, that.’

The mason might ponder, but the abbot had already reached an unwelcome conclusion.

‘The death is not fully explained and may yet be the result not of an accident but foul design. I shall send to 13the lord Sheriff. In the meantime, do not continue to dig, Master Welldelver.’

‘Dig? Oh, I was not a-goin’ to dig any deeper there. Tainted is that hole. A well that claims a life is never sweet, and this’n claimed it afore the water were even reached. No, we will start again elsewhere, and fill in the pit as soon as allowed.’ The well digger was respectful but firm. Abbot Reginald might think it a little fanciful, bordering on superstitious, but he realised that if the man who dug wells thought it, then the folk of Evesham would think it also.

‘So be it. The stone, other than the one that was in the well, can be used at the new location.’ He sighed. ‘Has anyone gone to inform the poor man’s wife?’

There was silence. The brethren did not leave the enclave very often, but Father Prior was the man who had almost daily dealings with the abbey steward and knew his duty.

‘I will go, Father.’

‘Good. The body can lie in our own mortuary chapel until burial.’ Abbot Reginald thought that showed respect for the man’s service. He nodded to his subordinate, folded his hands, and retraced his steps to his lodging, already formulating a new letter to William de Beauchamp, and aware that adding his complaint about the theft of the wine at the end of it would sound almost petty. At least, he thought, the lord Undersheriff was easier to deal with, and not at all like the men in Bengeworth Castle.

William de Beauchamp made a sound that could best be described as a resigned snarl. He did not look happy, which made the lay brother from Evesham quake in his sandals.

‘A violent death should be looked into, but the rest of 14this,’ he waved a hand towards the document held by the clerk who, long inured to both his lord’s ill-temper and him not looking happy, had read it out in a monotone, ‘is simply casting blame where it suits. All that Abbot Reginald’s building of his much-vaunted wall about the enclave has done is cut him off even more from the townsfolk that put silver into his coffers. It is more than likely this theft of wine was by townsmen who had taken a little too much ale and saw the wall as a challenge and the wine as a prize. He thinks building that wall will protect Evesham from the fate of Ramsey, but it would not keep out an assault by troops, which it has proved by being scaled by ordinary men, and the tonsured within it would hide in their church and pray, not defend it.’ That, thought de Beauchamp, would be reported back.

The taking of Ramsey Abbey and expulsion of its fraternity by the rebel Geoffrey de Mandeville, only two years earlier, had sent shock waves through the cloisters of England. Abbot Reginald had prided himself on his forethought, for he had already diverted masons from the construction of the nave of his abbey church to create a wall that was not merely a demarcation of the secular and claustral. De Beauchamp put this down to his ancestry, but then William de Beauchamp, who disliked clerics, disliked Reginald even more than most. The Foliots descended from one who had been at The Battle when Duke William had defeated Harold Godwinson and won England. De Beauchamp’s maternal grandsire, Urse d’Abitôt, from whom the shrievalty, and William de Beauchamp’s short temper, were inherited, had not been there, and came over from Normandy later. It ought not 15to matter, and yet it did, deep down. There was always that slight sense of superiority among those who could say their forebear hurled themselves at the shield wall on Senlac Ridge, and it showed, even when unspoken. William de Beauchamp had seen that in the face of Reginald Foliot. Monks were supposed to be humble, no longer interested in worldly things. Abbots and bishops, in his opinion, forgot that the moment they were offered power, and thereafter added the weight of the support of God to lord it over any secular authority who might challenge them. The Abbot of Evesham was nearly as powerful as a bishop, and this particular abbot had far too good aristocratic connections. Miles of Gloucester, the late Earl of Hereford, had been close kin, and a nephew, Gilbert, was the ambitious Abbot of Gloucester. He, like William de Beauchamp himself, had given his support to the Empress Maud after the Battle of Lincoln, and was still in communication with her.

What was more, Evesham, a wealthy house that flourished on the rents from the town about it as well as land well beyond, had been at odds with the Sheriffs of Worcester since Urse d’Abitôt had gained, or, as Evesham termed it, stolen, land that had previously been theirs. There had been no settling of that dispute in well over half a century, and William de Beauchamp had used the uncertainty of the times as a good reason to build the wooden palisades and barracks that constituted Bengeworth Castle, just across the bridge from Evesham Abbey and on land that the abbey still claimed. He had enjoyed that, and enjoyed even more the private knowledge that he had more recently given the garrison free rein to make depredations upon the abbey’s 16lands, which he would obviously publicly deny. There had been a very lucrative theft of grain from one of the abbey granges on the shire border with Warwickshire, which he had put down to a band of outlaws known to be plaguing the sheriff of that shire. Climbing over Abbot Reginald’s wall to steal a few wine barrels might be a smaller loss to the abbey, but it showed initiative and would most certainly mightily irritate Abbot Reginald, who would correctly deduce the culprits. It was a great pity that with news of this ‘success’ came also a plea for shrieval assistance over a killing. It tarnished the pleasure, but then again, Abbot Reginald was unlikely to have enjoyed making the request. This made William de Beauchamp feel better. He turned to a servant, who stood waiting upon his command.

‘Find Serjeant Catchpoll.’

The man bowed and scurried away. It was some time before he returned, at least long enough for the lord Sheriff to be drumming his fingers upon the arm of his throne-like chair, and for the lay brother to wonder if he might just displace his own kneecap from his knees knocking in fear. He told himself that as he was his abbot’s messenger, the lord Sheriff could not do anything terrible to him, but William de Beauchamp looking as if about to explode with frustrated anger gave him doubts. When the serjeant arrived, the lay brother just stared at him in disbelief, since he evinced no sign of concern at his superior’s wrath.

‘What took you so long?’ De Beauchamp sounded as though Catchpoll had wilfully avoided coming on command.

‘Well, my lord, I came as fast as these ’ere legs would carry me, but I was at the Sutheberi Gate explainin’ to a man as how if he beat the poor, overloaded ass he were 17lashin’ so as it gave up and died right there, there would be a charge for blockin’ the lord King’s road, and I might just make him drag the carcass to St Wulfstan’s hospital and give it to the brothers to feed the sick and lame.’

‘I doubt they would thank you for a scrawny donkey.’

‘Indeed not, my lord, but the ass-beater only got as far as thinkin’ of the weight of the beast, even when scrawny, and then cast away the stick.’

‘Well, you can leave keeping the thoroughfares clear and get yourself to Evesham. The abbey steward is dead, and the abbot thinks it was not a natural death. He—’ de Beauchamp stopped suddenly and looked at the lay brother, who was trying to be as near invisible as possible. ‘You. Get out. Serjeant Catchpoll will come and find you when I have finished.’

The lay brother exited, giving thanks in prayer that he had been spared.

‘The Abbot of Evesham thinks that the man did not fall, drunk, into a part-dug well, for the widow says he was sober when he left her late yesterday evening, and he said he would not be gone long. Also, there was a wound to the head and one large stone in the well, a stone from the pile made ready to build up the walls.’

‘Looks like the Abbot of Evesham thinks like a serjeant, my lord.’ Catchpoll grinned.

‘He thinks like a grasping, “God is on my side” cleric, pox on him,’ grumbled de Beauchamp.

‘I doubts there is much chance of that visitin’ upon ’im. Not the sort for the sins of the flesh, from what I judged.’ Catchpoll took the lord Sheriff literally.

‘Hmm, I forgot you have come in contact with him 18before. Do not let him lord it over the Law, that is what I say, and you must pass that on to the lord Bradecote.’ De Beauchamp thought highly of his undersheriff’s abilities, but felt he was at times far too polite. In reality, it was just that Hugh Bradecote was not a man who kept a bad temper barely under control, nor was he one to take action first and think thereafter. He saw shades of grey where de Beauchamp saw but stark black and white.

‘I thought as we would be takin’ the lord Bradecote up on our way.’ Catchpoll did not even ask whether Underserjeant Walkelin would complete the trio.

‘It is barely off the Evesham road, so will not delay you. Tell him also to ignore any bleatings from the abbot about Bengeworth. You are not there to look into any complaint he might raise about my garrison there. Understood?’

‘Aye, my lord.’

‘Then be off, and find out what happened to this steward as quick as you can. I need you collecting the rents right after Quarter Day.’

Catchpoll correctly took this as his dismissal and went to tell his wife he would be away for some days. Within the hour he and Walkelin, with the lay brother upon his mule bringing up the rear, were heading out on the Evesham road, deviating only very slightly to the manor at Bradecote, though they found lady but not lord.

‘I am sorry, Serjeant Catchpoll, but my lord is gone today to Himbleton. He holds a virgate of land there and likes to see how the crops are growing for himself.’ Christina Bradecote smiled at Catchpoll.

‘Then it looks as if Walkelin will be ridin’ further today, my lady.’ 19

‘I take it you do not know how long he will be absent?’ As the wife of the undersheriff she was used to her husband’s sudden disappearances on duty.

‘These things takes as long as they takes, my lady, but we is for Evesham Abbey, which is not so far.’

‘Well, I will put together such things as I think my lord will need, and send them with Walkelin.’ She looked directly at the young underserjeant. ‘You are to tell him, Walkelin, that my usual commands apply. He is not to put himself at needless risk and he is to return to me with a whole skin.’ The instruction was given with a smile, but her eyes did not echo it.

‘You can be sure I will do so, my lady.’ It was boldly said, but even as the words left his lips, Walkelin wondered how he would actually convey the message to his superior.

‘Thank you.’ She nodded and went to a chest, bringing out items of linen and putting them in the bedroll that her husband kept for his sudden calls away. ‘There. I pray you have success.’

‘We does, most of the time, but prayers are always welcome.’ Catchpoll looked calm and confident. ‘Now, I will ride steady, with the good brother of Evesham, and Walkelin can kick his heels into that horse of his and ride to Himbleton.’ He turned to Walkelin. ‘We meet on the Evesham road, and I reckon as you will catch us up before Pinvin.’

‘I will be as swift as I can, Serjeant.’ Walkelin bowed to Christina, then turned and hurried from the hall.

‘Still eager.’ Catchpoll grinned. ‘Wait ’til his knees is as stiff as mine and then the pace will slow.’

‘That may be true, Serjeant Catchpoll, but I refuse to 20believe you are any less “eager”. Admit it, being the lord Sheriff’s Serjeant is what gets you from your bed in the morning.’ This time Christina’s eyes did light up with amusement.

‘Now there you is wrong, my lady, for what gets me up of a mornin’ is the need to—’ He halted, aware he had fallen into an ease of speech that he had with lord, not lady, but Christina Bradecote, who knew Catchpoll well by now, blushed a little but laughed openly. Catchpoll still had the vestige of a smile on his face when he mounted his horse, and the lay brother wondered at a man who could smile when about to investigate a violent death.

It was in fact a mile beyond Pinvin that Hugh Bradecote and Walkelin caught up with Catchpoll and the mule-mounted lay brother, since Walkelin had needed directions in Himbleton to find the parcel of land that the lord Undersheriff held, and it was on the northern boundary of the manor. If Bradecote was not delighted to think he would not return to his own bed that night, he smiled at his love’s wifely forethought, and at the message which Walkelin dutifully passed on, even if the youthful underserjeant looked uncomfortable, relaying the message in a very stilted manner.

‘Afternoon, Catchpoll. So what exactly has us riding in the heat to Evesham Abbey?’ Bradecote dropped his horse’s pace to a trot. Walkelin, who had been given but the gist of the matter so that Catchpoll only had to tell the full tale once, had not been able to provide more than a suspicious death and a victim of importance to Evesham Abbey.

‘The abbey’s steward has been found dead, and the lord Abbot fears it was no accident.’ 21

‘And is this just a doubt in Abbot Reginald’s mind or has he sound reasons? I hope the latter.’

‘From what Brother Edwin here has told me, and before me the lord Sheriff, very sound reasons indeed, my lord. In fact, just the suspicions any of us three would have in the same place.’

‘I cannot imagine myself as an abbot,’ murmured Walkelin.

‘Nor can your wife, I would vouch.’ Catchpoll laughed lasciviously, and the lay brother blushed, remembering his own far from celibate past. ‘The steward, Walter, was found early this morning in a hole, the diggings for a well, and there was a wound on the head that did not seem to be from the fall, and a single large stone also in the hole.’

‘Could he not have fallen onto this stone?’ Bradecote frowned.

‘No, my lord, for the stone was a worked one from the pile the mason were makin’ ready for the well linin’, and that pile did not lie next to the pit.’

‘So, someone hit the steward, pushed his body, dead or not, into the well working, and then threw in the stone for good measure. Abbot Reginald was right to be suspicious. Let us hope he can also provide us with a shortlist of those who might be responsible.’

22

Chapter Two

They entered Evesham on the road from the north, descending gently into the town, which lay bounded on three sides by the loop of the Avon in which it lay, and with the abbey, even though still incomplete, dominating it on a plateau before the ground dropped more steeply down to the eastern side and the bridge across to Bengeworth. The wooden palisades of the castle just beyond the bridge were visible, but looked inferior, subservient, beneath the clean stonework of the claustral buildings that shone in the sunlight with a creamy, golden glow. Men and animals alike were hot, and Walkelin wondered how Brother Edwin had managed in his woollen habit. The man had drawn up his cowl to protect his shaven tonsure from the sun’s burning, but it must be hot beneath the folds of fabric, and he gave a sigh of relief as they walked on a loose rein in through the main gate of the abbey.

Hugh Bradecote felt not just the heat of the sun, but more importantly the tension in the atmosphere within the enclave wall when they entered. Everyone in the courtyard had stopped and turned at the sound of the horses’ hooves as they passed under the arch of the abbey gate. This was an abbey not just of a large number of choir monks and lay brothers, but many folk who laboured within but lived 23outside, in the town that had grown about the monastic site. It was currently also the home to a team of masons working upon the nave of the abbey church and the claustral buildings, and it felt busy. The steward would have been the man to whom they all looked, regardless of whether they worked in kitchen, stable or orchard. Were they leaderless and lost, or were they glad he was gone, and had one of them seen to it being so? The thoughts buzzed inside his head as thickly as the flies about the ears of his steel grey horse. He dismounted and took the reins over its head as a youth came from the stables and took the animal to rub down and water. A thin, long-faced man that Bradecote recognised as the prior, came forward to greet him.

‘My lord Bradecote, you are welcome, though the reason for your coming weighs heavily upon this House. Father Abbot would have you and your men attend him in his lodging, as soon as you have had the chance to take a little refreshment after your hot ride from Worcester.’ He beckoned a novice and indicated that they should follow him to the guest hall. Then he turned to Brother Edwin, whose knees had nearly buckled when he dismounted, and who looked a little dazed and certainly spent. ‘Good Brother, your efforts today are worthy of commendation. Let Brother Infirmarer ensure you have not taken harm from your exertions, and consider yourself excused all duties for the rest of today and tomorrow.’

Brother Edwin barely moved, aware of the praise in a slightly fuzzy way, but then roused at a thought.

‘I must report first to Father Abbot.’

Prior Richard, smiled. ‘If you think it important, I am 24sure that he will come to the Infirmary and speak with you there.’ The prior knew his superior well enough to feel confident that this would be the case.

Kind hands supported Brother Edwin’s arm, and he was led away, unresisting.

After washing the sweat from their faces and taking a welcome draught of small beer, the shrieval trio were taken to the abbot’s lodgings, and Abbot Reginald’s parlour. The abbot was seated at a table, his elbows resting upon it and his hands clasped together. His face was solemn, and Bradecote thought the man looked more burdened than he had the year before. Of course, it might just be the reaction to losing his steward to violence.

‘My lord Bradecote, I hope you and your men have been shown suitable hospitality. I am sorry to have had need of you, but …’ He opened his hands in a gesture that mixed apology with what, welcome or defeat?

‘Father Abbot, when you have need of us, the lord Sheriff sends us, gladly, to resolve the problem and establish the rule of law, which has been violated.’ The words were diplomatic, but Bradecote was a little surprised to see a wry smile appear on the abbot’s visage, and to hear Catchpoll cough to hide a guffaw. Abbot Reginald glanced at the serjeant.

‘Yes, Serjeant, I too understand that the lord Bradecote’s words are not ones put into his mouth by the lord Sheriff. I have already spoken briefly with Brother Edwin. However, I know that they reflect your own view, my lord, and I am grateful for it. I have great faith that through your efforts and the prayers of this community, the man who killed 25Walter the Steward will be taken for justice, and we will have a name for he who must be prayed for when his soul is in great jeopardy.’ Not only Bradecote could use gracious words.

Whilst aware of tensions between Evesham and William de Beauchamp, Hugh Bradecote had not been told of the lord Sheriff’s reactions or instructions by Catchpoll, since that worthy had decided such things should not be spoken in front of one of the Benedictines.

‘If you will tell us all you know, Father, and then if we could see the body and the place where it was discovered, we will be able to begin our active seeking of the truth in the morning.’ Bradecote’s tone and pace were as calm as the monk’s.

‘Of course, and please, do be seated – all three of you.’ Abbot Reginald indicated a chair for the lord Undersheriff, and a bench against one wall for his companions. Walkelin had never sat in the presence of one so powerful, and was inclined to perch upon the edge, until the elm plank dug into the back of his legs and he had, perforce, to ease his position.

‘The facts that I know are small in number, but I think them important. Our steward left his home yesterday evening, according to his wife, now widow, telling her he would return shortly. He told her to go to bed, which she did, and she slept heavily and did not waken until Father Richard came to her door and brought the awful news of her husband’s death. He was not a man who drank to a point where his mind was befuddled, and there is no reason to assume that anything was different last night, although the first thought of the well digger was that a man must 26have been drunk to have fallen into the pit.’

‘How deep is the pit, Father?’ Bradecote knew they would see it soon enough, but it helped to get a mental picture in advance.

‘Some fifteen or sixteen feet, I believe.’

‘Enough of a fall to kill a man if he is unfortunate.’ This was from Catchpoll.

‘Yes. I am no physician, but our infirmarer, Brother Augustine, said that he thought the wound to the head would have killed him, even if other broken bones did not. I admit I saw the body only when it was brought into the abbey, but it had stiffened and was in much the same position as it had lain overnight. The head was turned to one side and the wound was clear upon the temple. It did not look as if it had come from hitting the earth and if it had, then Walter must have been conscious enough to lift and turn his head before he died. There was also a single large stone, one ready-worked for the building of the wall of the well, in the bottom of the pit.’ Abbot Reginald closed his eyes for a moment, and then continued. ‘To me it looked as if our steward had been pushed in, or rolled in. It did not look as if he had tried to save himself when falling, but just landed in a heap. One arm was beneath him and the other loosely flung to the side. I feared he was already dead, or out of his senses, when he landed, and that meant someone else was involved.’

‘Thank you, Father. We would view the body ourselves, but we cannot learn as much when it is washed and shrouded as seeing it where the death happened. Your testimony adds much to our knowledge from the beginning.’ Bradecote glanced at Catchpoll and saw him nod in agreement. 27

‘You do not think I was mistaken.’ It was not a question.

Bradecote shook his head, and the abbot sighed.

‘So what manner of man was Walter the Steward, Father? Would there be reason for any to have taken against him?’

‘I would say he was a hard worker, thorough and conscientious. I never heard of him given up to drink, and he was always respectful, though perhaps a little proud of his position. I have not heard anyone speak against him, except his brother, and that was just a difference of opinion over how the town could grow. I think brothers argue out of the habit established in infancy, and William is most distressed at Walter’s death. I have given him leave until after the burial before he takes up his new role.’

‘Was he about to do so?’

‘Oh, I am sorry. I should have said that the position of steward is inherited at Evesham, and has been since the time of Abbot Walter in the last century. He set aside the steward at the time, an Englishman of course, and replaced him with one of his own relatives from Normandy. I cannot say I am happy with the practice, but perhaps he felt that the stewardship was so important he had to have complete trust in the holder of the office. He was rebuilding and invigorating the abbey, building on the work, and legacy in silver, of Abbot Aethelwig. I am, in many ways, merely continuing those works. Several other posts became inherited, but gradually they are reverting to being filled by selection. In this instance there are no sons to follow on, and I am actually quite glad that William can step into his brother’s shoes, for he knows the ways of the abbey very well, and has been working for us, marking out plans for the building of the new areas of the town, now so many 28wish to live and work here. He is very able.’ This was said as though his ability did not quite compensate for a lack elsewhere in his character.

‘“But”, Father?’ Bradecote raised an eyebrow, sensing there was perhaps more.

‘He is not … flexible. Walter tried hard with those who were in arrears with their rents. He said that many things could affect an ability to pay at the due time, and this is true. Even with those who seem to be persistent underpaying tenants, he advocated waiting to see how they did in the future. I think that William will not be so generous, and will press for action. Walter’s attitude sat well with our Christian duty, but every silver penny is needed in these days. Whilst this is a House of Benedictines who have left the secular world, it is also, in reality, an estate, with calls upon it for upkeep and for the works ongoing in the enclave. As you have seen, the wall to secure our perimeter has taken precedence even over the completion of the nave of our church, which is a matter for regret. Ensuring our income, increasing it, is not a matter of avarice, but enabling the growth of this community and its work and prayer. It is not an easy path to tread without a misstep.’

Bradecote wondered whether Abbot Reginald had made peace with his conscience by this justification. What he said was true enough, for the religious houses, those well-endowed by benefactors, held lands that matched the most puissant of lords, men like William de Beauchamp and Earl Waleran. They were rich, but needed much of those riches to sustain that power. He felt quite glad that his own holdings were on a far more modest scale and that his ambition was simply to leave all in order for his son 29Gilbert when the time came, and for his manors to be well run. Then he realised that the abbot was looking at him, and that there was silence. He looked a little self-conscious.

‘I, er, understand, Father. We should speak with William, Walter’s widow and the well digger. We will intrude upon the daily life of the abbey as little as we can, but our presence will make a difference.’

‘It is the death that makes the difference, my lord, and you being here keeps it in the forefront of thoughts, not just our prayers. You must do whatever is needful, and let us hope and pray you discover the truth of what happened.’

‘Then we will leave you and go first to see the body and then where it was discovered.’

Bradecote rose, bowed his head, and, as Catchpoll and Walkelin followed suit, went to the door.

‘My lord Bradecote, there is one more thing I should say.’ Abbot Reginald spoke a little more hurriedly. ‘Whilst there is no particular reason to link the occurrences, the day before yesterday the abbey cellarer reported the theft of two casks of wine, and there were marks in the earth on the inside of the wall of our graveyard that show someone came over the wall with a ladder. Tall ladders are rare, but would be found inside a castle. The garrison at Bengeworth make all manner of depredations upon us, from demanding a “toll” from those crossing the bridge to come to market, to stealing fruit from our orchards and now wine from our cellarage. Absolute proof has not been possible, but if Walter discovered something …’ The abbot left the sentence hanging.

‘We will speak with the garrison.’ Bradecote did not want to say more. 30

As the trio walked to the church, Catchpoll passed on the lord Sheriff’s instructions in an undervoice.

‘The lord Sheriff has sent us to look into the killin’ alone, my lord, and was clear we do not involve ourselves with any strife between abbey and castle. It is, after all, his castle and his garrison.’

‘Yes, but if we ignore the fact that there could be a connection with the death, we are being remiss in our duty. There is a difference between getting “involved” in what sound to be aggravations rather than great crimes, and the possibility that those acts led to the killing of Walter the Steward. Only once any connection is dismissed can we ignore Bengeworth.’

‘We should leave well alone, my lord, for all that. The lord Sheriff will not take it well if we disobeys his command.’

Bradecote halted and turned to look at the serjeant.

‘And if it turned out later that someone from the castle killed a man of Evesham, and we did not discover them, what will the folk of Evesham think of the Law? Is it the King’s Law, or the lord Sheriff of Worcestershire’s Law?’

‘The King’s Law, my lord, but we has to live with the lord Sheriff as our lord, and we will never see the lord King.’ Catchpoll was ever the pragmatist. ‘I does not like it any more than you, but the warnin’ has to be given.’

‘You have given it and I have heard it. If the lord Sheriff is angered then let it be with me, not you or Walkelin.’ Bradecote looked grim.

‘Well, we has to live with you also, my lord, so mayhap ’tis best we just gets on with the task.’ Walkelin felt both his superiors were right in their reasoning, and feared the lord Sheriff’s displeasure greatly, but a killing was a killing. 31

‘Good. So, before we see the body, we are agreed that the grieving brother, William, is not beyond suspicion?’ The undersheriff reverted to investigating mode.

‘A “Cain and Abel” killin’ is none so rare, my lord, and the younger brother certainly had somethin’ to gain.’ Catchpoll looked thoughtful. ‘I wonders whether Walter has young sons or none, and whether William be wed and a father. In the first case William’s chance exists only while Walter’s boys is too young to take up the position, too young even to be set aside now but trained to follow their uncle rather than father.’

‘Yes, it might make a difference, but we must also discover how deep ran this argument about building in Evesham, and whether that was the extent of their antagonism.’

‘That ought to be easy enough to discover, my lord.’ Walkelin was hopeful. ‘A rift in a family rarely lies hidden, and all Evesham would most-like know of it.’

‘But Abbot Reginald does not,’ Bradecote pointed out.

‘My lord, he is the abbot. I doubts he hears the gossip of Evesham, and both brothers would not want to seem too uncharitable before ’im.’ Walkelin had thought it through. ‘And that might also mean that his view of the steward is not shared in the town, or even by those within the abbey who would not dare speak out. The lord Abbot spoke truthful, but ’tis but one view.’

‘Very true, Walkelin.’ They had now entered the church, whence they had been directed, and crossed to the north transept where a chapel was designated as the abbey mortuary chapel. From beyond the wooden ‘wall’ that divided chancel, crossing and transepts from the nave that 32was still under construction, came the muffled sounds of masons and carpenters about their toil, a different world beyond the consecrated. ‘Let us first see if we read the death exactly as did Abbot Reginald and Brother Augustine.’

Whilst no longer in the attitude of death, and duly washed and made decent, Walter the Steward did not look peaceful when they uncovered his body. The bruising, combined with the settling of the blood to those parts that had contact with the earth, gave him a florid, blotchy purple-blueness that was almost inhuman. The left side of his face had but one small bruise by the lips and stood out like a pale half-mask, and at the temple the white bone, now cleaned of all blood, showed stark and cracked like the shards of a broken pot.

‘That looks a blow that killed,’ remarked Catchpoll, and gently lifted the head. Rigor mortis had waned enough for some movement. He felt the neck. ‘Not broke. Mind you, some of them ribs shows damage and …’ he paused and moved to handle the lower limbs, ‘the right leg is broke mid-shin. If the ribs pierced heart or lungs then the fall would ’ave killed ’im, just taken a mite longer to do it. Either way, the wound makes intent likely.’

‘Do you think he was surprised, or was there a struggle?’ Bradecote was better at ‘reading’ the dead after nearly two years working with Catchpoll, but divorcing bruises from the blood-settling was not easy.

‘Hard to say, my lord, and it might be the easier when we sees the place and the well pit. If they fought, then most bruises would be to the front anyways, but that little’n by the mouth could be a clashin’ of heads, so I would say the 33blow to the temple did not come sudden, and besides, a man holdin’ a stone that size would look threatenin’ and you would keep back. My guess would be there was some struggle and the other man found the stone to hand and used it in the act of a moment, out of rage, or even fear. Walter the Steward was a tall man and not built like a willow-wand. The opponent might ’ave been losin’ the fight.’

‘There’s no earth beneath the nails, which also says ’e lay still, dead or senseless, on the earth. A man alive, in pain, would claw with ’is fingers, mayhap?’ Walkelin, once so squeamish in the face of cold death, had taken up a hand and peered close at it. ‘Also, the knuckles of the right ’and is scuffed more than just from hittin’ the ground. If Walter favoured that ’and, it could be a sign of a thrown punch that landed.’

‘Very true, Young Walkelin, very true.’ Catchpoll nodded approvingly. ‘My lord, I think Walter ’as told us all ’e can.’

‘So we will get directions to the well digging, and view the scene of the death. That will suffice for tonight, and we can plan who we speak with first on the morrow.’ Bradecote was brisk.

Shortly afterwards they stood before the well pit, though not yet close enough to peer to the bottom. They stared at the rim of the pit.

‘Trouble is, my lord, them as went down to bring up the body would disturb the ground so as to make it nigh on impossible to see if it were dragged to the edge and pushed over.’ Catchpoll sounded regretful.

‘If you met with a man, “by the well diggin’”, you would not be right up to it, and since they would be the only ones 34in view, they might ’ave argued anywheres on this patch of green. Which means Walter the Steward might ’ave been dragged ten yards even, to get to it. That gives us a chance further from the pit.’ Walkelin was the optimist, and leant forward, casting his eyes over the ground as a hound would seek a scent.

‘Possible, but folk would come to stare once the news spread, and you can see as there is a fair amount of tramplin’.’

‘I think we take it that any fight took place near, but not right next to, the pit, unless the killer always intended to end the steward and cast his body into the well digging. You would wonder at that, though, since it would be far better to kill a man down by the river and push the corpse into the water. If it got far enough into the current it would be a good way away by morning. This is far more likely to be seen.’ Bradecote looked along the line of dwellings that marked the westward extent of the greensward, and the few upon the north side, clearly newer from the colour of daubed wall and more golden thatch. Part way along, a gap marked the beginning of a street, though it extended for only a couple of houses on either side.

‘The brother, William, argued with Walter over the growth of Evesham town. The buildings on the north side are clearly of recent date, so perhaps this spot was chosen because of that significance?’ Bradecote did not sound quite convinced, because he felt it worked if there was always the plan to kill, but it was still a very risky place to carry it out.

‘In my bones, my lord, I feels this was an argument as got out of ’and, and a fight that got desperate.’ Catchpoll was also clearly doubtful. 35