‘Again, my lord, you may say true, but we cannot be sure.’ Catchpoll sucked his teeth. ‘I would like to say it makes things clear, and if Oswald Mealtere killed Walter the Steward it follows very well, but it could be that half Evesham knows it as a place where ’tis left often enough, and more often when Oswald is sociable over ale.’

  ‘But it does put the maltster to the top of our list.’

  ‘That it does, my lord, and leavin’ the body a good way from ’is own premises might give us a reason for it bein’ moved so far. Let us see what news Walkelin can bring us, and what Adam Welldelver and Hubert the Mason gives up to us, then we can speak with Oswald again, and the wife too, though small chance is there she would say other than he slept soundly all night and came home early enough.

  Chapter Ten

  Walkelin did not dawdle, for he was eager to return and hear all that his superiors learnt without it being at second hand, but he felt a little guilty leaving the little boy with no chance to keep up, so ameliorated his pace a little. It did give him time to think upon the information they had gleaned that morning, and his conclusions were very similar to both his superiors. Oswald Mealtere looked most likely to be the killer, but to drag him off to await the Justices in Eyre would be to ignore other possibilities. There was also something he thought might solve the issue of the strap end, and a question niggling him which he wished to voice.

  When he arrived at the ferry it was, as bad luck would have it, upon the other bank, and Kenelm was handing a woman into it, and a man in a wide-brimmed hat was already seated. Walkelin waited with every appearance of merely casual interest, though he was willing the ferryman’s hand over hand progress to go the faster and he himself stepped forward to aid the woman to climb out. It was then that he saw the man stand up, and his mouth opened.

  ‘Why, ’tis you, Master Sheriff’s Man.’ The speaker, who smiled, had one arm with the vestige of a hand bearing but two misshapen fingers, and the other arm tapering to nothing below the elbow.

  ‘It is, and underserjeant I am now.’ Walkelin smiled back and there was pride in his voice. ‘How fare you, Alnoth?’

  Alnoth the Handless was impressed that the lord Sheriff’s officer could recall his name, though less surprised that his person stuck in the memory.

  ‘Well, Underserjeant, very well. See, I still wears the boots I bought.’ He indicated his feet with a stumpy arm. ‘And prayers do I still offer for the lord as wore ’em afore me.’

  The woman, who had been pleased that this young man had offered her a hand from the ferry, felt rather ignored, and her thanks were brief. Walkelin barely heard them, for Alnoth was speaking.

  ‘And you is come to Evesham again and all for Master Walter the Steward as I hears.’ Alnoth shook his head. ‘In charity I ought to pray for ’is soul also, but it sticks in the throat to do so.’

  Walkelin was torn. He needed to speak with the ferryman, and privately, but Alnoth was a man like himself, one who observed, and took in information. There might yet be something to be gleaned from his knowledge of how Walter the Steward had acted in Evesham these last few years.

  ‘Would you await me under the tree yonder, and then we might walk up to the abbey, since I take it you seek lodgings there? I needs to speak with the ferryman first.’

  ‘Gladly.’ The crippled man went to sit beneath a youthful oak that had been an acorn when The Confessor died.

  Walkelin turned to Kenelm the Ferryman.

  ‘The lord Undersheriff thanks you for sendin’ so quick to tell us what went on in the night. You saw nothin’ until the dawn?’

  ‘Saw, no, and I blames myself for thinkin’ the sounds was my own dream. I could not tell the hour, though as I opened one eye the darkness were still full, and I felt the night not jaded, but I thought I dreamt the creak of the ferry in distress, callin’ me, so to speak, and a gruntin’ noise, a man not used to the work. All a dream I thought it, since we oft dream of what we does day in and day out, but now …’

  ‘Just a grunt?’

  ‘Well, I thought it sounded like ’e cried out, sort of in pain. Added to me bein’ sure t’were a dream, makin’ no sense.’

  ‘And yet the ferry went over and a man took it.’

  ‘Aye. Glad I am that Frawin, my mother’s kinsman, came to cross early, and knows ’er.’

  ‘Your mother?’ Walkelin looked confused.

  ‘No, the ferry.’ Kenelm rolled his eyes as though his statement had been obvious.

  Walkelin realised that Kenelm treated his ferry like a horse that needed to trust its rider.

  ‘Have many crossed today?’

  ‘Not so many as yestermorn, but some days ’tis quiet and some busy.’ Kenelm was a man who took the blessings of each day one at a time.

  ‘And may I look in the bottom in case anything remains that tells something of your ferry thief?’

  ‘I saw nothin’, but then I did not look. Your eyes is serjeantin’ eyes and sees what plain folk does not see.’ Kenelm was quite serious, and Walkelin knew it to be true.

  Walkelin got upon his hands and knees, without any self-consciousness, and scrutinised the flat bottom of the ferry. He could not imagine what a man might have dropped that would aid in identifying him, but his job was to look, to see, and to report, even if there was nothing.

  ‘How strong do you need to be to take her across?’ Walkelin decided treating the ferry as ‘she’ would be a good idea. He had heard the Severn sailors call their boats ‘she’, so Kenelm was not alone.

  ‘Just the once? Well, no insult meant, but with more in the arms than you possess, Underserjeant. Needs strength of forearm and of shoulder.’

  ‘So it would need a man as works with the upper part of the body.’ Walkelin was looking at Kenelm, who was quite skinny-legged, but whose arm muscles were visible through the linen of his cotte.

  ‘Aye, and it takes time to learn the way of it, castin’ the loop forward to catch on the crossin’ rope and makin’ it bite.’

  Walkelin, who could see nothing beyond a snail in the boat bottom, stood, with a very slight wobble, and stared at the loop of twisted hemp, though not with any real hope. He caught his breath, feeling that Heaven had sent him a sign, for caught in the twist was something small and bloodied. He peered closer. It was a torn fingernail, and just seeing it made him wince, for it had been ripped from a finger with force. It would certainly have made a man cry out.

  ‘Not yours, I take it?’ He pointed at the scrap of another man’s body, and then grimaced as he delicately drew it from between the twisted fibres. He no longer felt his stomach churn with the dead, but this was part of a man that still breathed, and it felt slightly wrong to hold it in his hand.

  ‘How did you see that? No man as knew the ferry would catch a finger and a nail like that.’ Kenelm drew his hand down the loop of rope in a half caress as though commending it for wreaking vengeance upon the thief. ‘She bit ’im for layin’ ’and on ’er.’

  The portion of fingernail lay in Walkelin’s palm, and he screwed up his nose in distaste. However, it was a possibly important find, for there could be few men in Evesham with a finger showing a damaged nail. He tried to assess which finger it might have come from, but only decided it was neither from a thumb or ear-cleaning finger, being too narrow for the former and too large for the latter. He then cast it into the river, since no further aid could it be. The lord Undersheriff and Serjeant Catchpoll would be content that any man who had been in the alehouse and lacked a fingernail would need oathswearers and appear before the Justices for the murder of Old Cuthbert, even if no confession could be gained for the death of Walter the Steward. It was only unfortunate that so small an injury would not stand out without looking carefully at hands.

  Adam Welldelver was not a man who worried about things he could do nothing about. That he had spent two days shovelling earth back into the hole that had taken days to dig was just wyrd and now, as he levelled off the ground and prepared to move to the newly selected well site, he simply crossed himself and said a silent prayer for Walter the Steward to ward off bad luck attending his future diggings. The men who dug wells were not just men with spade and shovel but made it clear to ‘ordinary folk’ that it was also a slightly mystic art, and as it passed from father to son, it became something they began to believe themselves. It would be unwise to leave this ‘well that was never a well’ without a good, Christian prayer. Focused on the words in his head, the well digger had to be hailed a second time before he turned and saw the lord Undersheriff and lord Sheriff’s Serjeant.

  ‘If’n you wants me to take out the earth again, my lord—’ He was all set to remonstrate, but Bradecote shook his head.

  ‘No, Master Welldelver. There is nothing more to be known from that earth. However, we would ask what you could tell us about last night in the alehouse.’

  ‘But that be days after the death.’ The well digger looked confused. ‘Words were said about ’im as died, and not sorrowful words, but nothin’ as made a man the one as killed ’im.’

  ‘That we understand, but a man who sat alone, one Old Cuthbert, was found dead this morning, and the death was intended.’

  ‘Never!’ The well digger crossed himself. ‘I tells you, my lord, I will not choose to come to Evesham again. Not peaceable, not at all.’

  ‘And they will not need many more wells once this next gives up water,’ commented Catchpoll.

  ‘True enough.’

  ‘So what can you tell us of who was there and what was said, other than a lack of sadness at Walter the Steward’s death?’ Bradecote pressed the man.

  ‘I could not name many, not bein’ an Evesham man, though I sat with Hubert the Mason and we talked over a beaker or two. He—’ The well digger stopped suddenly, and looked worried.

  ‘Go on. Better we know and can set it aside, rather than you conceal and we have to think it something suspicious.’

  ‘Worried about ’is son, was Hubert.’

  ‘Well, we know the lad did not kill Walter the Steward, so do not be afraid to say more.’

  This, thought Bradecote, was taking too long.

  ‘Seems the lad used to be lovelorn over the girl as be now the steward’s widow, and Hubert thinks if none stands trial for the death, then when the lad weds the widow, and ’e says ’e seems determined upon it, there will always be the rumour that young Simon committed murder.’

  Catchpoll snorted at this foolishness, and commented that if the lord Sheriff’s officers declared that Simon, son of Hubert, was not involved, that should be good enough for Evesham.

  ‘I only says what Hubert said and you asked to learn.’ The well digger looked a little affronted.

  ‘So continue.’ Bradecote’s glance at Catchpoll indicated he should keep quiet.

  ‘Not much more I can say, my lord. There was others there, o’course, but I could name none.’ He frowned. ‘One man did not fit in, not like one long known. Loud ’e were, like the cock on a dunghill if you asks me, though not crowin’ proud about hisself, more determined to tell everyone what they should think. Sort of man as is used to tellin’ folk what to do.’

  ‘Can you describe him?’

  ‘Not so as you would be sure to recognise the man at fifty paces, my lord. Not as tall as you, by my ’and’s breadth,’ he held up his hand, horizontally, to show them, ‘though, come to think on it, ’is ’ands were much bigger ’n mine, and I saw no grey to what sprouted on the chin after a day. Oh, when ’e laughed, or rather pretended to laugh, mockin’ the lord Abbot, which be a disrespectful thing to do, a tooth were gone, left side.’ He opened his mouth and pointed to the tooth one back from the dogtooth. ‘Not uncommon, but it might aid you.’

  ‘Indeed. Thank you. Are you set to begin digging the new hole?’ Bradecote ensured he did not sound as though the information was too useful.

  ‘Aye, my lord. This forenoon will see first sod lifted, once the spare soil be spread around ’ere, so I wished it were cooler, but there.’ The well digger shrugged, touched his forelock to Bradecote, and began stamping firmly over the freshly replaced earth. Undersheriff and serjeant left him to his labours and went to speak yet again with Hubert the Mason. It felt as if they were going round in ever-decreasing circles, being told half-truths and lies.

  Hubert the Mason had put up a rough awning to keep the worst of the day’s sun from his back and was dressing a stone from a pile which was all hewn to roughly the same size. He was not alone, for a young man they recognised was splitting larger lumps of stone to create them. Bradecote was surprised, since he had advised Simon to remain in Hampton.

  ‘So you have returned, after all.’ Bradecote raised an eyebrow and gazed at the youth, who blinked, wiped a dusty hand across his forehead to brush away a lock of curling hair, and nodded, blushing.

  ‘I went over and fetched ’im, my lord. There’s work to do.’

  ‘Yet the stones that were going into the original well hole lie ready for use and the well delver has yet to set his spade to the earth here. It does not look an urgent need.’ Bradecote sounded sceptical and the mason did not meet his eye.

  ‘I reckons as this’n will be deeper and ’tis best to be prepared.’ Hubert the Mason knew the excuse was lame.

  ‘So you have fetched back your son even though only last evening you were bemoaning that if none is taken for the death of Walter the Steward, then suspicion will remain in Evesham that your son killed him. That seems strange.’

  ‘’Tis not true, not all of it.’ Simon spoke up. ‘Father did not come for me. I came back ’acos I-I wanted to see Mærwynn.’ It came out in a rush, and the lad glanced at his father’s angry expression.

  ‘Which be a fool thing to do, and I told ’im such,’ grumbled the mason. ‘Will lead to talk.’

  ‘No, for I went to ’er father to ask after ’er first, and she be back with the family already. Stayin’ in that place, Walter’s “prison”, would make ’er more ill, so Mistress Meduwyrhta says. But none other than me knows she is ’ome, not yet.’ Simon wanted to show he was not just a rash and lovelorn swain.

  ‘Is she now?’ Catchpoll nodded at the information. ‘Glad will ’er mother be for that.’

  ‘Aye, and Wulfram says as once the time is passed to …’ Simon stopped for a moment, not liking to think of Mærwynn in Walter the Steward’s bed – ‘to show she does not carry the steward’s child, then if I work’s ’ard with father then Wulfram will not refuse me when I asks again to wed Mærwynn.’ He looked almost belligerent, daring both father and sheriff’s officers to tell him he could not do so.

  ‘And you does not fear gossip?’ Catchpoll sounded vaguely curious, no more.

  ‘No, Serjeant, ’acos you and the lord Undersheriff will take them as killed Walter the Steward, even though I would like to shake that man’s ’and afore you lead ’im away.’

  ‘Well, we likes to ’ear that folk feel confident of our success.’ Catchpoll controlled the urge to laugh, but then asked a serious question. ‘When did you return?’

  ‘Came over the ferry first thing. Odd it were, for Kenelm stood upon the Evesham bank and a kinsman took me across. Someone took the ferry over in the night. Very strange.’ Simon shrugged and dismissed further thought on the incident, not knowing that it proved his statement true without further corroboration.

  ‘And when did you hear of the killing of Old Cuthbert?’ Bradecote looked at father and son together.

  ‘The old man as smells of piss and shouts out ’is door that ’e does not want the well near to it?’ Simon looked stunned. ‘Dead?’

  ‘Yes, after leaving the alehouse. You were there, Master Mason. Was anything said that might hint at who killed him.’ Bradecote wanted the mason to know his presence was undeniable.

  ‘Nothin’ my ears caught, my lord.’

  ‘So you did not hear him say he had seen that one man alone killed Walter the Steward?’

  ‘No, my lord.’ The man was a poor liar.

  ‘What do you fear by admitting it, if you had nothing to do with the death? Most of the alehouse would have heard him.’

  ‘You spoke with me afore and I want nothin’ more that links me with any killin’.’ Hubert looked sullen. ‘The only thing I ever raise my ’and to is stone, and with my mallet, though the steward tried me sorely. I killed none, my lord and there’s the end to it.’

  ‘And we accept that, but we need to have the truth spoken to us, not half-truths and lies. It just makes our task the longer and harder.’ Bradecote’s admonishment was softly given, but the mason hung his head nevertheless.

  ‘Who else did you see in the alehouse?’ Catchpoll did not expect any revelation.

  ‘Aelred the Tailor, grumblin’, though ’tis not like the man, to be fair. Then others as Walter the Steward took dues from but did not put into the abbey’s coffers. Seems there was many of us,’ Hubert gave a grim laugh, ‘and fools we all felt. Oh, and Oswald Mealtere, who said little and looked into ’is beaker more ’n most. Mayhap the same trick were played on ’im, but ’e did not like to admit it.’

  ‘That we shall ask him. We need trouble you no more, Master Mason.’ With a nod, Bradecote turned away, and he and Catchpoll went to speak again with the maltster.

  They encountered Oswald Mealtere pushing his purloined handcart over the little stone bridge, for which Bradecote gave silent thanks, since it would enable raising the question of his father’s antagonism towards Old Cuthbert without the irascible old man interrupting. When hailed, Oswald looked visibly annoyed.

  ‘Does I get no peace, my lord? What possible need has you to speak with me again this day?’ The man glowered at them and winced as he stopped and straightened.

  ‘Not keen others know you lost silver to Walter the Steward, we ’as found.’ Catchpoll jumped in first.

  ‘Ha. Why share it? Does it feel better to be one of many? No. Best just forget the lot.’ Oswald shrugged as if dropping a cloak from his shoulders.