‘What had happened?’

  ‘It were long ago, afore I was born. Cuthbert was a coppersmith accused of stranglin’ his wife, and it went to trial by hot iron before the Justices, and ’e were proved innocent, but his hand was made useless for holdin’ tools, or any other usual work, and my father took him on as a walker, since his feet were as good as any man’s and the work does not appeal to most. Cuthbert worked, kept to himself, and once in a while would sit in the corner of the alehouse and listen to the world of happier men. Sad, when you think on it.’

  ‘And you said as ’e lived with a cat for company?’ Walkelin was linking information in his head.

  ‘Yes. Talked to it, but said it never answered back, which was a good thing.’

  ‘And where did ’e live?’

  ‘Up by the green, this end.’

  Walkelin did not add ‘with a view of the well workings’, but it was in his mind. It made a link between the two deaths far more likely.

  ‘So let us look at the body.’ Catchpoll knelt down with a low grunt as his knees complained, and lifted the oilcloth. The smell of urine was almost eye-watering, but although Catchpoll blinked the once, he gave no sign of his nose being offended by it. Old Cuthbert’s eyes were open, staring unseeing and giving him a surprised look. It was one the serjeant knew well. Those who knew their life was coming to a close never looked startled, and most closed their eyes as for sleep. Those whose life was snuffed out unexpectedly, by natural cause or ill deed, did not have that calm acceptance. The skull felt intact and there were no signs of violence upon the face, though its overall bruised colour showed the man had lain face down in death for some hours. Catchpoll rolled the body over, took his knife and slit the back of the cotte open, since trying to remove it from a stiff body would be awkward. Martin Fuller turned away, feeling it unseemly to watch, and heard the serjeant ’s grunt of satisfaction. The back of the corpse was not discoloured by the settling of the blood after death, and what Catchpoll saw very clearly was bruising about the neck, with two bruises, almost an imprint of thumbs, overlapping over the spine. Someone had strangled Old Cuthbert with their bare hands.

  ‘Well, that shows how ’e died, sure enough. I will look for a wound, but them bruises is dark, and I reckons they are much the same round at the front, just hidden by the blood gettin’ back towards the earth. Whoever strangled him did it thorough, and trusted to a strong grip. Big ’ands they possess, not that we was thinkin’ of a woman for this, and big for a man too, lookin’ at the overlap.’ Catchpoll laid his own hands with the thumbs over the two bruises, and his fingers did not meet at the front of the neck by the length of a little finger. Catchpoll was a wiry man, but of average height and size of hand.

  ‘Since he has been dead some hours, it seems unlikely someone persuaded him to meet here, or come here, and then killed him. However, if he was strangled nearer to his home, then it is equally unlikely that his killer set him over his shoulder and carried him here.’ Bradecote was thinking things through. ‘So, something was used. Is there a handcart here that should not be?’ He looked at the fuller.

  ‘Not that I have seen, my lord, but I will look now. Once I saw the body I was not lookin’ at anything else.’ Martin Fuller took it as an instruction and turned away, calling out to his workers to search for anything a body might be carried on.

  ‘My lord,’ Walkelin now felt free to speak, as Catchpoll, rather less gently than before, moved the body about and looked it over for any other sign that would aid them, ‘when I spoke with those who lives by the well pit, there was a man described to me, a walker here, and with a cat, so it must be this man. It might be that someone hated ’is guts all of a sudden, but much more likely that ’e were killed because ’e saw somethin’, or the killer came to think as ’e did.’

  ‘It is the clear link, and, as you say, the chances of it being a random killing within days of Walter the Steward’s death must be very small. We—’ Bradecote stopped, as Martin Fuller hailed him.

  ‘My lord – we found it!’ The fuller drew close, solemnity replaced by excitement at having succeeded in his task. Coming behind him was a man pushing a small handcart. ‘This does not belong to me and it turned up behind the giggin’ and shearin’ shed, where we naps the cloth or shears it fine. Tossed into the nettles is where we found it.’

  ‘I wonder who is lacking a handcart this morning,’ murmured Bradecote. ‘I am sure we will find out, since the owner will be eager to cry “theft” to us. Thank you, Master Fuller. The body can go to the priest, and I suggest the handcart should be used again, and leave it with the priest. We will send its owner there when they make complaint to us.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’ There was relief in the fuller’s voice, for once the corpse had been taken away, normality would soon return. Old Cuthbert did not deserve to die as he did, and a death was owed, but at least, thought the fuller, there were none to grieve, and God would look charitably upon his grumpiness, after all the trials he had endured in life.

  The sheriff’s men began to make their way back into the town, aware that this second death might bring to light just the piece of information that would lead them to the killer of both Evesham men.

  They were nearly at the Merstow green when a very irate man came towards them.

  ‘This will be the handcart owner,’ murmured Catchpoll, suppressing a smile.

  Oswald Mealtere had never shown them a smiling face, but at this moment he looked livid.

  ‘There you are, my lord. I asked after you at the abbey and they said you had gone out the gate towards the ferry. ’Tis not in Hampton you needs to be, but right ’ere in Evesham, for someone stole my second cart last night. Will take more ’n twice the time to deliver my readied sacks of malt. I want the bastard caught, my lord, and justice meted out.’ Outrage filled his voice.

  ‘And in your mind that is more important than discovering the killer of Walter the Steward?’ Bradecote spoke softly, and an interrogative eyebrow was raised.

  ‘Well, no … but Walter cannot be brought back from the dead, and my cart can be found, if the bastard ’as not taken it out of Evesham to sell.’

  ‘Now that is where we ’as gone wrong all this time, my lord, lookin’ into foul killin’ when we ought to be seekin’ lost goods.’ Catchpoll shook his head, and tutted, regretfully, then paused, and began again in a very different tone. ‘You would not set such store by a lost cart if it were your kin with their throat cut in a ditch, or thrown down a well pit. You does not deserve your cart back, so sorry I am that we knows where it lies.’

  ‘You do?’ Oswald’s face of wrath melted into surprised relief. ‘Where?’

  ‘At Martin Fuller’s, where it was found among nettles.’ Bradecote did not reveal everything about the handcart at once.

  ‘So some drunken prank? Does not make it better, not by much.’

  ‘What makes it far worse, Master Maltster is that it was not a drunken prank, but used to take the body of the man known as Old Cuthbert to be dumped into the fulling stocks.’

  ‘No, surely not?’ The maltster crossed himself. ‘Miserable ’e were, but no wickedness did the man do.’

  ‘Now, we want to know exactly where your handcart was taken from, last night, and when did you last see it? Was it at your malthouse?’

  ‘No, my lord. I took a load up to Gyrth the Brewer and left the cart just over the bridge on my track.’

  ‘Why leave it there and not take it home?’

  ‘’Acos I did not go straight ’ome to the wife, but went back to the alehouse to sup a beaker of ale or so and talk.’ The maltster looked at the ground.

  ‘Hmm, so you were in the alehouse, drinking the result of your own malt. I wonder why, since it costs you silver, and you must brew some for free at home.’ Bradecote sounded suitably suspicious.

  ‘Talk with the wife ain’t like talk with other men. A man needs men’s company sometimes.’ The maltster looked a little sulky, and Walkelin thought Oswald’s wife had not seen his absence the previous evening in the same light. ‘Odd to think I saw Old Cuthbert, full of life there, and ’e left safe enough, not weavin’ drunk.’

  ‘You saw him?’ This was an unexpected advance and it showed in Bradecote’s voice.

  ‘Aye, my lord. Sat in the alehouse. I goes there once in a while, since it looks bad if a maltster does not sup ale from ’is own malt.’

  ‘So tell us about the evenin’, first to last.’ Catchpoll kept any excitement from his voice.

  ‘Not much to say. Nothin’ out of the ordinary took place, no arguments.’

  ‘And the gossip?’ Catchpoll had already made a good guess about the prime topic of conversation.

  ‘All about Walter the Steward, but then that were natural. Been a long time since a death like that ’appened in Evesham, and none would say the loss of the steward gave rise to regret and sadness, neither.’

  ‘So I says again, from first to last.’ Catchpoll was dogged.

  ‘If you must learn it all,’ Oswald sounded as if this was wasting his time. ‘When I arrived the place were not full, but busy enough. Old Cuthbert came in and sat in the corner, out the way, since none would choose to sit close, not with the smell that always clung to ’im. Drank a beaker of ale and listened, mostly.’

  ‘“Mostly”. So what did he say?’ Bradecote pounced on the detail.

  ‘Well …’ Oswald looked less comfortable. ‘Some talked of whether we was all at risk, with killers about in Evesham, and Old Cuthbert said that were foolish ’acos nobody liked Walter and one man killed ’im. Someone asked ’ow Cuthbert could know that, and ’e said as ’e saw ’twere but one, when lettin’ in the cat as lives with ’im.’ Seeing the very grave look on the lord Undersheriff’s face, Oswald was quick to play down this incident. ‘The old man did not possess friends, but sayin’ such a thing would make all listen and pay attention to ’im. I doubt not that all ’e saw were the uprights of the well hoist and dreamt the rest.’

  ‘Can you give a name to any others in the alehouse, them as heard Old Cuthbert speak?’ Walkelin was ready to file the names in his head.

  ‘I will not thrust any man’s ’ead into a noose just for bein’ in the wrong place.’ Oswald looked mulish.

  ‘And nor do you by giving the names. What we want to learn is what each saw and heard, and among all there might be something to lead us to the right conclusion.’ Bradecote did not sound threatening, but there was firmness in his tone. He expected a full answer.

  ‘If you says so, my lord.’ Oswald was still reluctant. ‘The well delver were there, and Hubert the Mason with ’im, and Aelred the Tailor and Wilfred Fisher, and a stranger to Evesham, leastways new to me, the sort that likes to talk more ’n listen. Them is the ones I recall, but there was others too. Ask ’em and see what they say. None will say as I lies, my lord. None.’

  ‘And we do not suggest they would, Master Mealtere. I suggest you go to the church and await your handcart, since the body is being brought to the priest upon it.’

  ‘But it is m—’ The maltster was on the point of refusing, but changed his mind. ‘Aye, my lord. That would be charitable and Christian.’

  ‘Then we will keep you no longer.’ It was a curt dismissal, for the undersheriff was already thinking of where they must go next, which was the alehouse.

  Since news of the death was still contained at the fuller’s, Gyrth the brewer and alehouse keeper’s shock was not surprising, and it took him some time to get past head shaking, tutting, and decrying the act as wicked and without cause. However, Bradecote curtailed his outpouring with a raised hand and a straight question.

  ‘Was anyone at odds with the man, last night or previously?’

  ‘No, my lord, not as such.’ Gyrth looked a little guilty.

  ‘Tell me about this “not as such”.’

  ‘It cannot be ’im, my lord, for the man is old and frail and could not kill a man.’

  ‘Who, in Our Lady’s name?’ Catchpoll joined in.

  ‘Siward Mealtere. The pair never liked each other, from afore I served a beaker of ale as a lad, in my father’s time. Never knew the cause of it, but neither had a good word for t’other and would not speak to each other. Now nobody would sit next to Old Cuthbert from choice, ’im stinkin’ somethin’ ripe from ’is labours, but if the place were full, most would do so, reluctant like. Saw Siward Mealtere walk straight out again, more ’n once, and t’other way round too. But Siward ain’t been within these walls for best part of a year, ’im findin’ it difficult to see and creaky of bone, and Oswald, the son, says as ’e is gettin’ real tired of life and talks of the grave.’

  ‘And Oswald Mealtere was here last night.’ Bradecote made it a statement that could not be denied without a straight lie.

  ‘Aye, but I does not think the son bore the grudge like the father.’

  ‘And who else supped your ale last night, and was within when Old Cuthbert sat in the corner, for we knows that is what ’e did?’ Walkelin still wanted names to file.

  ‘A goodly number, since there be plenty to talk about, and if men wants to gossip they does it over ale. Hubert the Mason sat with the fellow who dug that well and now has to dig a new ’un. Aelred the Tailor came in quite late, and talked low and sort of angry with any as would listen, bemoanin’ that Walter the Steward ordered fine clothes from ’im, puttin’ back orders from other customers, on top of makin’ ’im pay more than the abbey dues each Quarter. As for other drinkers, let me see, there was Will Fisher, though I ’eard ’im say as ’e were goin’ to visit kin in Offenham today, Cuthwin Potter and ’is brother, never can recall the lad’s name, and a couple of the abbey stable lads. Much of the talk were about Walter the Steward, and none of it bemoanin’ the man’s loss, I can tell you true. Most was wonderin’ what need the man might ’ave for fine clothes. Struttin’ about Evesham, mayhap? All was glad Walter ’as gone. Not that any would ’ave raised a fist to the man, but none would weep into their ale over ’is death, neither. Also, I remembers a loud man with silver to spend, one I could not name, the sort as likes to tell everyone the way to live their lives. Went on and on about the lord Abbot buildin’ that great wall to keep apart from us ordinary folk, and with no thought to us bein’ murdered in our beds. ’Twas that as made Old Cuthbert speak up.’

  ‘And he said?’ Bradecote wanted to know if the recollections tallied.

  ‘My lord, Old Cuthbert said t’were foolish to talk of “murderers”, which the stranger did, for it were but one man as killed, and ’e saw as much when ’e let in the cat as lived with ’im. Old Cuthbert lived on the west side of the green, so it might be true, but as likely ’e imagined it or just wanted folk to listen to ’im for a change.’

  ‘When Old Cuthbert left, who left next?’ Walkelin was focused.

  ‘That I could not say, not for sure, for the hour were advanced and most thinkin’ of their bed and wife, leastways someone’s wife.’ The alehouse keeper gave a wink and a chuckle, though it did not elicit any smiles in return. He then looked at the floor, embarrassed, but raised his eyes to give what he thought would be seen as something helpful.

  ‘The Potter lads left last, with Aelred, for the younger one cannot take the ale so well yet, and needed a friend at either shoulder to aid ’im. A tongue lashin’ will Widow Potter ’ave given the pair this morn, one for drunkenness and t’other for allowin’ it.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Bradecote said no more, and the sheriff’s men left, to be hailed by a boy of about ten summers, his nervous treble coming between gulping air. The child drew close and dropped to one knee and begged to speak with the ‘great lord’. Bradecote had never been addressed in such elevated terms but kept a straight face.

  ‘My lord, I bring a message from my uncle, Master Kenelm the Ferryman as cannot leave the ferry lest folk is stuck t’other side of the river.’ This came out in as much of a rush as his laboured breathing could muster.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Uncle says as you needs to know that last night, when Uncle were abed, someone took the ferry across to Hampton on their own. Now it is known that Cuthbert the Walker is killed, ’e says it might well be the man as took the ferry did the killin’.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Bradecote turned to Walkelin ‘Go to the ferryman and see if there is anything he can tell us, or indeed that the ferry can tell us. We will speak with the well delver and mason and meet you back at the abbey.’

  Walkelin nodded assent and bade the child return with him, not that he needed a guide.

  ‘Two violent deaths within three days, and the second man spouting that he had information on the first. Unlikely the two are not connected. Agreed, Catchpoll?’

  ‘Indeed, my lord. And after a man kills the once, the second time is a mite easier, especially if they feels desperate. Sort of makes them think they can do no worse, and are forced into the next one. If I supped a beaker of ale for the number of times I has been told “I ’ad no choice” I would be senseless on the floor of that alehouse all this day and all the night followin’.’

  ‘And yet, despite some of those we consider suspect for the death of Walter the Steward being present, it is quite possible the killer made their escape over the river, which immediately discounts Oswald Mealtere for a start.’

  ‘Would t’were that simple, my lord, but think on this. A man could walk the other side of the Avon back to Bengeworth and come over the bridge and be in bed long afore the early cock crow of a summer night. Cannot be above a mile and a half at most, and the bank is clear for much of it, so not difficult even on a night with but a new moon.’

  ‘Yes, but why do it at all, Catchpoll? It was near dark when the alehouse emptied, so about that time that Old Cuthbert was killed. What confuses me is why the body was not left, if not on the green, then just along the lane, in the hedge. What message was the killer giving by taking the corpse, at some risk, to the fuller’s?’ He shook his head. ‘However, we then allow a little time for the killer to find the handcart and—Wait! Oswald Mealtere did not see his handcart was missing as he returned home, so either the killer took longer to find it or did not have to look at all, since it was actually Mealtere himself and he knew where he would find it anyway.’