‘I pay all, every time – my lord.’ The man looked affronted. ‘There ’as been better Quarters and worse ’uns, but I can always pay, and never a day late. Whoever tells otherwise spreads a falsehood, and I would confront the man, face to face.’ He looked belligerent.

  ‘It is the abbey’s own Quarter Rolls that say so, and they do not lie.’ Bradecote wondered if the maltster was on bad terms with not just Wulfram Meduwyrhta, and was by nature confrontational.

  ‘I do not see how that could be, my lord. The monks is honest and godly, but must ’ave got muddled with all that scribblin’. I reckon as it is bad for the eyes.’

  ‘Their records show you have paid less than you owe for over a year. A chance error could not be repeated four times.’ Bradecote wondered how long it would take the maltster to reach the correct conclusion.

  ‘Well, there is Osmund Rushman who makes baskets and sells floor rushes and loses much of ’is takin’s at dice. It will be the two names next to each other and the numbers the wrong way around. Yes, that must be it.’

  ‘Except we now know that Walter the Steward kept back money from quite a few of the abbey tenants in Evesham.’ Bradecote, with the beginnings of a headache, decided he could not wait for the maltster to hit upon the answer.

  ‘He what? But that would be stealin’ from the lord Abbot as much as me. And from others too, you say?’ Oswald shook his head, as if the thought needed to be cast from it.

  ‘It was, and he did. You had no idea?’

  ‘No, my lord, I did not. The grasp-fingered ba—! Of all the—!’ Oswald’s words were choked in his anger and his fists clenched. ‘If I had I would …’ – he now paused for a moment before completing the sentence, but it was not that he was lost for words – ‘I would ’ave gone to Father Richard at the abbey and made complaint, good and loud.’

  ‘Rather than strike ’im with a stone and cast the body in a well pit?’ Catchpoll offered up the alternative.

  ‘Cannot say as I feels sorry the bastard ended that way, but do not look at me for the man as did it. Peaceful in my bed I lay, and if others was cheated then there will be plenty for you to ask, my lord.’ Oswald, very obviously ignoring Catchpoll, almost made it a challenge.

  ‘We have asked.’ Bradecote gave a small smile, which he hoped might dent the man’s self-confidence. Only a momentary flicker in the maltster’s eyes showed it had been effective.

  ‘Then all I can say, my lord, is sometimes a question needs askin’ more ’n once.’

  ‘Oh, I quite agree, Master Maltster, I quite agree.’ Bradecote tried to be reasonable. That this man was annoying him more was in part down to the headache, for sure. ‘We will keep asking the questions until honest answers lead us to the truth.’

  ‘I would swear a good oath I knew not about Walter the Steward and ’is cheatin’ so many of the abbey’s tenants in Evesham, not until you told me, my lord.’

  ‘And would you swear as good an oath that you saw Wulfram Meduwyrhta coming down this track as dark fell the night Walter the Steward was killed?’

  There was a heartbeat’s pause before the maltster nodded, slowly, and only then did he confirm by speech. He looked the undersheriff in the eye as he did so, but it was a struggle. Bradecote dismissed him, and the trio stood and watched as he continued along the track to his home, well aware of their gaze upon his back.

  ‘So, while it does not mean the mead maker is necessarily innocent, we can dismiss his definitely being up near Merstow green when Walter the Steward was killed.’ Bradecote sighed.

  ‘At least you got Oswald to show that he lied to us on that, my lord.’ Walkelin was impressed at the way his superior had pounced with the question.

  ‘Yes, but we are back to having many suspects with equal motive for murder.’

  ‘Until we works out which of ’em is lyin’ about not knowin’ what Walter was up to, my lord.’ Catchpoll was rather more patient than the undersheriff.

  ‘And do you believe Oswald the Maltster, Catchpoll?’

  ‘Hmm. Thing is, my lord, I just does not “feel” his honesty, though no reason could I give other than the man will end as bitter and miserable as ’is bent and bitter father.’

  ‘My lord, the motive is not equal for all.’ Walkelin did not quite say the lord Undersheriff was wrong.

  ‘Because?’ Bradecote did not treat the comment as presumptuous.

  ‘Them as Walter only cheated by keepin’ back some of their rents would not ’ave so great a reason to want ’im dead as them with more than one reason. Some was cheated and he also made them pay for a good word put in, or a bad one left out. And since Simon the mason’s son saw how Mærwynn shrivelled to a shadow of the girl she were afore bein’ wed, you would think the father would ’ave seen the same thing and been even more outraged. Add that to bein’ forced to give ’er to Walter, and ’tis two reasons. If Wulfram discovered the rent thefts, then, of all in Evesham, he would be the man with three reasons to kill Walter the Steward.’ Walkelin put the theory forward confidently, though there was a reluctance in his voice, which Bradecote noted.

  ‘So why do you sound less than convinced by your own sound argument, Walkelin?’

  ‘My lord, I-I think ’tis foolishness only, and a bit like Serjeant Catchpoll’s not quite believin’ Oswald.’ Walkelin realised this might sound as if Catchpoll’s gut feeling was foolish, and coloured, rushing his explanation. ‘Not that Serjeant Catchpoll thinks foolish, but with me it comes down to the mead maker’s home felt contented, and the man also, until we mentioned Mærwynn, and the reason for the marriage ’ad to be revealed before his wife.’

  ‘So you are developing “serjeant’s instincts” too, Walkelin.’ Bradecote managed a thin smile.

  ‘Proves I picked the right apprentice, since there’s some as never gets ’em, and no use would such be as serjeants.’ Catchpoll was approving. ‘Mind you, the problem with the “one, two or three reasons” lies in some men losin’ their temper to killin’ rage over the one, and long-sufferin’ folk not liftin’ a finger at three. ’Tis less likely, but possible, and we has to keep it in mind.’

  ‘And we learn nothing while standing here. Come on, let us find out if Wulfram Meduwyrhta has two reasons or three.’ Bradecote could feel the pounding behind his eyeballs getting worse, but they needed to have spoken with all the cheated rent payers by the end of the day.

  The mead maker was not in home or workplace, but his wife directed them some way beyond the buildings, saying he was in the little channel that provided his fresh water for the mead making. The shrieval trio only saw him from behind as he rose to stand knee deep in it. They wondered what he was doing, until he turned at the sound of their approach, and they also saw his small daughter, wearing only her shift, waist deep, in front of him. He coloured, embarrassed at being found soaking wet and ‘idle’. He pushed his hands through his wet hair to draw it from his brow, and then wiped the remaining droplets from his face.

  ‘The wife wanted Win out from under ’er skirts, and ’tis terrible hot, so I opened the sluice and brought ’er to cool in the water.’

  ‘And it cools you also.’ Walkelin looked slightly envious, but the idea that the lord Sheriff’s Underserjeant would ask official questions while paddling was unthinkable.

  ‘That it does, indeed. Now, what need ’ave you of me, my lord Undersheriff?’ The question was asked respectfully, and Wulfram appeared curious rather than concerned.

  ‘We wish to know why you have not paid all your due rent to Evesham Abbey for over a year.’

  ‘But I pays each Quarter, on the day and the full sum, my lord.’ A frown drew his brows together.

  ‘And you paid it into the hand of Walter the Steward?’

  ‘Yes, my lord, as has always been the way.’

  ‘Then it seems you join others in Evesham, Master Meduwyrhta, who paid the full sum, but whose dues were only part paid into the abbey coffers.’

  ‘You mean Walter kept back silver for hisself?’ Wulfram was clearly quicker of thought than his neighbour. ‘What reason could the man ’ave for that? If not the richest, quite, then for sure ’e were the most important man in Evesham, and knew it. Not countin’ the lord Abbot, that is.’ He shook his head. ‘To cheat your wife’s own father, even though we scarce spoke, seems to make it worse, and—’ another thought hit him, ‘he cheated the lord Abbot and all the godly brethren. Now that must surely mean his chance of Heaven be gone.’

  ‘You had no idea of this before?’ Bradecote thought it unlikely, unless the man was an extremely accomplished liar.

  ‘Me? No, my lord. But then, I suppose all of us he cheated are now calling down curses upon Walter’s soul, if you can curse a soul.’

  ‘And you would call ’em the most, by rights.’ Catchpoll had been watching Wulfram closely. The mead maker looked questioningly at him. ‘Bein’ as Walter forced you to give your daughter in marriage, with threats.’

  ‘Tempted, I would be, though no doubt our priest would tell me to do so would harm my own soul for lack of charity. Not sure anyone was ever in charity with Walter the Steward, ’cept the mother as bore ’im. Other than the monks, of course, but they is not like ordinary folk. Brother Petrus, the bee brother, says “Bless you” to every bee sting, and says as he prays for the hives every night. Now, I likes honey, but I would not bless the bee that stung me. Would you?’

  Whether by design or just the way his thinking worked, Wulfram had drawn the conversation very much away from Walter and murder.

  ‘You must not make bees angry,’ announced little Win, whom everyone had forgotten, and who had found the grown-up talk boring until she heard about the bees. She knew Brother Petrus, and would sometimes watch him, from a safe distance, as he tended his bees.

  ‘That’s it, sweetin’.’ Wulfram ruffled her damp hair. She shivered, for although the water had cooled wonderfully, simply standing in it had chilled her feet and legs. ‘Now, we had best dry off in the sun afore you catches chill and Mother shouts at me, yes?’ He smiled at the girl, who nodded vigorously. He put his hands about her waist and lifted her out, and told her to lie in the sun to dry. It was as if he had forgotten the law officers’ presence, but as he made to step out, Walkelin offered a hand and smile, and he blinked, surprised, but took the hand in a strong grasp. As he stood on the grass, aware that he looked slightly ridiculous bare below the knee, and damp about the hem of his cotte, he went to tighten his belt under his belly, since he had loosened it when bending to play with the little girl in the water. The metal strap end, which Walkelin had noticed the day before, fell from the leather and dropped into the grass.

  ‘Blessed thing ’as done that twice.’ Wulfram shook his head, and a few more droplets were flung from his hair. He bent and rummaged among the grass stalks to retrieve it.

  ‘Not a good fit,’ commented Walkelin.

  ‘No, but then I fixed it on myself after I lost the one as were made for it.’ The mead maker was not reluctant to reveal the loss.

  ‘Well, if it fell off, the original could not ’ave been much good either.’ Walkelin grinned.

  ‘Ha! True enough, and I cannot think how it came to come away. I lost it early last week, and though I looked long and ’ard, it cannot be found. I ought to go and get a new one put on proper, but I ’as been that busy.’

  ‘You may be in luck, Master Meduwyrhta, for I found a strap end just yesterday. I left it in the lord Undersheriff’s chamber. A copper one, with the pattern of a leaf on it.’ Walkelin was still sounding the helpful bystander, not the eagle-eyed underserjeant, but was actually watching the mead maker intently, There was a fraction of a moment when suspicion and then fear showed on the man’s face.

  ‘Alas, not mine, then. Mine bears three crosses.’

  ‘But—’ The little girl frowned, and would have said more, but her father pointed a forefinger at her, twirling it about and making a buzzing sound, then leant down to ‘threaten’ with the ‘bee’. Distracted, she laughed. He looked up at Bradecote.

  ‘’Er … is there anythin’ else you needs to know, my lord?’

  ‘No, I think not. Thank you.’ Bradecote was aware of disappointment that the man had lied to them, and was now much more of interest in the death of Walter the Steward, and at the same time was conscious that they intruded upon innocent domesticity. Catchpoll would say they could intrude on anything at need, but since there was, alas, no absolute proof that the strap end had been lost during the scuffle that ended in the steward’s death, Bradecote, his head aching even more in the boring sunlight, felt that there was no point in probing deeper to get the same lie over and over.

  They left father and daughter, crossed the narrow channel by a plank, which was obviously left to enable Wulfram to meet the beekeeper in the orchards, and walked back to the abbey with the slight shade afforded by the fruit trees until they reached the wicket gate set into the abbey wall, and passed into the enclave.

  ‘So what does we do now, my lord?’ Walkelin was eager to take the next step, but then remembered it might well be going down into Bengeworth and visiting the castle.

  ‘I know what I wish to do,’ Bradecote rubbed the bridge of his nose, grimacing, ‘and that is seek out the abbey infirmarer and take whatever brew he thinks best to take the hammers from behind my eyeballs. I would go to Bengeworth fresh, rested and alert, and at present I am none of those things, so that is for the morrow. We seem to have made no clear progress, but it must be unlikely, short of an improbable Bengeworth connection, that the killer of Walter the Steward is not someone we have now met. I just wish one stood out.’

  ‘The well delver keeps diggin’ ’til ’e strikes water, my lord, and we keeps diggin’ ’til the truth appears, much the same way.’ Catchpoll was unperturbed. ‘I would say we is but part way down as yet, so no need to fret about it. Better you gets a draught from the infirmarer, as you says, and lies quiet until the dinner hour.’

  ‘And what will you do. Catchpoll?’

  ‘Why, think with my eyes shut, my lord. A good way to think, is that.’ Catchpoll’s response was instant.

  ‘And since I does not want to disturb your thinkin’, Serjeant, I will see what I can find out from the masons workin’ on the church and cloister. You would think they would know a bit about Hubert, and have a view on Walter the Steward, which should tally with everyone else’s.’ Walkelin was hot and sweaty, but not tired, and he craved snippets of information to file away. The more they knew, the quicker they would find answers. Thus, the trio parted, with one still actively hunting.

  The masons were a brotherhood unto themselves and did not tend to mix with the abbey servants or the Benedictine brothers. They had workshops in what would eventually be the calm space of the cloister garth and living quarters that were against the new enclave wall. Their work was far from silent, as mallet met chisel and chisel met stone with a sharp bite, but they were not given to chatter, not least because of the stone dust that resulted from their labours. When it came to hoisting the worked stone up the scaffolding to where it would be laid, there was the occasional warning shout or whistle to attract attention, but much ‘conversation’ was by means of clear signal by hand. The monks could not but be very aware of them, but could not claim they caused undue disruption.

  A fair few were at height, even in the searing heat, and with the sun beating upon their backs and reflecting off the pale stone, back into their faces. Walkelin had no intention of climbing, and rightly assumed that the senior master mason would be directing from where it was marginally cooler, and where he would be easily found if any had questions. There was a small area shaded by an oilcloth awning, and with a table set squarely beneath it, over which two men were talking and pointing at positions upon a vellum plan. It was the shorter man who seemed in command of the conversation, while the taller, though of similar age, mostly nodded, and perhaps sought clarification. Walkelin knew that, as the lord Sheriff’s Underserjeant, he had the right to interrupt the meeting, but in doing so he would make himself like a bothersome fly, something to be swatted away. He chose instead to be patient and stood back in the entrance of the Chapter House, shaded from the glare and the worst of the heat, and observed, so still that an apprentice, coming past with a flagon to ease parched throats among his superiors, jumped as Walkelin swatted a wasp from buzzing about his head. The lad, spilling a little of the liquid, gave him a slightly reproachful look, and Walkelin raised a hand in apology.

  ‘What is the name of the mason in charge?’ Walkelin nodded towards the men beneath the awning.

  ‘Master Bernard of Keynsham, master.’ The apprentice, who looked no more than about fourteen, and was yet to fill out into youthful manhood, sensed rather than saw authority.

  ‘Thank you.’

  The lad stood for a moment, until Walkelin realised he was actually waiting for permission to move on and nodded dismissal. Walkelin was suddenly reminded of the first time he had been called ‘master’, also in Evesham, nearly a year before. It still felt odd, but at least he no longer showed surprise at it. Not showing surprise at things had been one of Serjeant Catchpoll’s important ‘serjeanting’ lessons, though he did admit there were rare occasions when he was genuinely taken aback, and more where feigning surprise was part of the act to encourage a flow of information.

  ‘One of the most important parts of bein’ a serjeant is “bein’ a serjeant”.’ It had been a statement that had needed explanation. ‘Folk needs to look at you and see you fits what they expects a serjeant to be, and a bit more. So a serjeant never looks panicked, always looks as though they already know much of what will be revealed to ’em, unless playing the game of bein’ “just a curious soul”, and, though it takes time and practice, a serjeant needs to make folk see that crossin’ him would be only just less terrible than Judgement Day.’ It was the last part that Walkelin was still finding difficult, though he was getting better as his self-confidence as the lord Sheriff’s Underserjeant grew.

  The masons’ meeting was ending, since the vellum was being rolled up. Walkelin emerged from his ‘invisible’ mode, and went, with unhurried tread, to the awning. The taller man had moved away and the other was tying a leather thong about the vellum roll. He had a lightly freckled complexion and fine hair that might have originally been somewhere between reddish and buttery gold but was now sun and time-bleached to a soft buttermilk colour. It had a wave which made it curl around his ears but had already receded from his brow and would be very like a monk’s tonsure within a year or so. Walkelin thought him perhaps a few years shy of two score years and ten.