‘No fool, that girl, and what the lord Bradecote said about the mother be as true for the daughter. She would tell us.’ Catchpoll was confident of his answer.

  ‘So none was told, but one saw. Either that was when the treasure came up out of the earth, or when Thorgar took it to the priests.’ Walkelin was persistent, as eager as a hound upon a scent.

  ‘And that man kept the knowledge to hisself and bided his time. We can at least discount the miller and the shepherd, whose lives are not spent close with the other folk of Ripple, nor an outsider from elsewhere in the parish.’ Catchpoll sucked his teeth. ‘Someone will be wary now, and watchin’ us, my lord, so we has to be as watchful back.’

  They walked on in silence, each thinking of all the interactions they had had with the men of Ripple in the last few days. They were almost passing the church when they heard yelling. It was not cries of anger but distress, and all three began to run towards the sound, Catchpoll soon a little to the rear. He was swearing, though in his head as he needed all his breath for the running.

  There was a gathering of people before the house next door to that of Thorgar’s family, the home not of Wilf the Worrier but of Oldmother Agatha. A lad, whom Walkelin instantly recognised as his ferryman, was being comforted by a woman. Another youth was sat upon the doorstep, head in hands. Bradecote barged unceremoniously through the crowd.

  ‘What has happened?’ He already guessed at a death, but it might simply be a natural one.

  The youth on the step looked up.

  ‘We found ’er on the floor. Must ’ave tripped over the cat and …’ He shook his head.

  With Walkelin and Catchpoll at his back, Bradecote stepped into the gloomy chamber. A man was about to turn over what looked like a crumpled bundle of clothes.

  ‘Wait!’ It was a command, and the man stopped, and looked up.

  ‘She was my mother. I cannot leave ’er on the floor,’ Ulf Shortfinger’s voice shook a little.

  ‘Let us see first. Catchpoll.’

  ‘Aye, my lord. Stand back, friend, and let me see. Someone bring a light over.’

  Walkelin, not shocked into immobility like so many of the villagers, found a rushlight and lit it, bringing it close to the body.

  ‘It was your sons who found her?’ Bradecote asked Ulf, in part to distract him.

  ‘They did, my lord, and came runnin’ for me. I suppose her bad leg gave way, or else she just dropped dead, bein’ old and frail.’

  The youth from the step now came back into the room, his face a ghostly pale in the light. He avoided looking at the body.

  ‘Or she tripped over the cat,’ he offered again, stifling what he considered an unmanly sniff.

  ‘And was the cat ’ere? Did it run out past you when you came in?’ Catchpoll, moving the grey hair from the nape of the neck with the delicacy of a lover’s touch, asked the obvious question.

  ‘Er, no.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘The cat weren’t inside, but—’ The lad now sounded confused.

  ‘Them as cannot see knows their own place without need for eyes, unless something is out of place, like the cat, I agree.’ Catchpoll was speaking to the youth, but he was focused upon the old woman’s body. ‘So you thinks a near-blind old woman, in a dark chamber, fell over a black cat, which makes sense – but it was not there.’ He grunted. ‘She ended on the floor, but it weren’t no accidental fall. There’s marks at the throat. So even if the cat had been in the chamber, it did not cause your oldmother’s death. Some bastard did for ’er, and …’ Catchpoll grimaced, and Walkelin wondered if it was his knees playing up.

  There was a gasp from those gathering at the doorway.

  ‘Who would kill Oldmother Agatha? She ’ad nothin’ to steal and was a good old soul.’ This came from a voice in the doorway, and was met with mutterings of agreement.

  ‘She might have banged ’er neck when she fell, though,’ came a voice from the back, hopeful rather than confident.

  Catchpoll ignored this. The old woman had not so much tumbled forward as crumpled at the knees, and the marks, with a long bruise, showed an applied force, and he remembered what Selewine’s small son had reported seeing.

  ‘Who saw her alive last?’ Bradecote wanted information and then for the crowd to disperse and leave the Law to its task.

  ‘We left this morn, early, and worked Oldmother’s garden for a while, then went to our own.’ The younger grandson who had been comforted, spoke up.

  ‘And I came and put a fresh dressin’ on that leg.’ Agnes the Healer, for whom the crowd had parted, stepped into the chamber and crossed herself. ‘Poor old soul. Been dead long?’ It was a question posed in professional curiosity, and very calmly. Catchpoll marvelled at the woman’s ability to enfold herself in her craft when only a short time earlier she had offered her life to judicial death.

  ‘When did you come, and did anyone see you?’ Bradecote, thinking fast, realised that the healer could not simply be excluded from among the suspects.

  ‘We was in this garden and waved at Mother Agnes as she left, my lord,’ offered the younger lad.

  ‘But the door is at the front and the garden at the back, so how did you see her?’ Bradecote asked.

  ‘I called out thanks as I saw Mother Agnes pass between this ’ouse and the next, and she waved back.’

  ‘I did, my lord, and went to visit little Baldred next door, who ’as been sickly these last few days, and a worry to his poor, grievin’ mother.’

  ‘Thorgar’s mother?’ Everything had to be exact.

  ‘Aye, my lord.’

  ‘And I can tell you that is true, my lord.’ It was the voice of Osgyth, who came to the doorway, pushing aside other curious folk. Father Ambrosius was beside her, and whilst the young woman remained outside, he came in, knelt beside the body and began to pray.

  ‘What do you think, Catchpoll? Has she been dead many hours?’

  ‘No, my lord. She be not yet full death-cold, and if she died in the forenoon I would expect that and first signs of stiffenin’.’

  ‘Did anyone else come here, or was seen at the door?’ Bradecote had to almost shout now that the villagers were talking amongst themselves, divided between those who wanted it to be an accident after all, and those now fearing some unknown murderer in their midst.

  ‘I passed the door after noontide, my lord,’ volunteered Selewine the Reeve, looking a little flustered, having been fetched from a favoured fishing spot, and bearing three small bream in the shallow basket under his arm as if some bizarre offering to the dead. ‘I had been next door, discussin’ the future with Winflæd – Thorgar’s mother.’ He added the last part because Bradecote had clearly not recognised the name. ‘Osgyth ’ere will tell you it was so.’

  ‘The reeve came, and spoke with Mother,’ the girl confirmed, ‘and it must ’ave been just after noontide. Been busy, we has, with all the visitors today, what with Mother Agnes tendin’ to Baldred, then ’im,’ – she jerked her head in a less than courteous way towards the reeve – ‘and then the man who is offerin’ to guide the plough for the rest of the spring, and to give us the aid of good strong muscle in field and garden.’ This was said in a triumphant manner, and she smiled, knowing it would both perplex and annoy the reeve. ‘Very welcome, that offer is.’

  ‘Who made it? There is no ploughman not needed elsewhere, and I will not—’ Selewine blustered.

  ‘Did you see anyone, Master Reeve, when you arrived or when you left?’ Bradecote interrupted, not having any interest in who guided the Ripple plough, but a lot in what Selewine might say.

  ‘No.’ The reeve replied immediately, but then paused and frowned, his dark brows forming a single, heavy line as he thought. ‘Though wait, there was a man going up out of the village toward the Old Road.’

  ‘Did you recognise him?’

  ‘I—’ Selewine stopped, and frowned, ‘I thought he reminded me of someone, from years back, but no, I did not recognise him. I cannot believe anyone in Ripple did this, my lord. I cannot.’

  This clearly sat well with those still listening. A murderous stranger, passing through and then gone far away, was less worrying than a neighbour they had known all their lives turning upon their own community.

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘Ordinary enough, and I only saw the man for a moment. He wore a grey woollen cap and stooped a little.’

  This immediately had those within earshot mentally surveying all the men they recognised from neighbouring settlements.

  ‘What about Siward the Chapman? Used to come through regular enough and stooped a bit,’ a gruff voice suggested.

  ‘Died three springs back, as I was told, in Tewkesbury,’ came a wheezy response.

  ‘No, more like ’twere that wanderer as comes for alms from the church once or twice a season.’

  ‘It is unlikely that this killing was committed by a stranger.’ Bradecote’s voice cut through the mumblings and chatter. ‘No stranger would have knowledge of what was found by Thorgar, and left by him with Father Edmund. He turned up with the ploughshare a silver chalice and other things that were buried long ago.’

  ‘The Priest’s Treasure!’

  Bradecote could almost feel the change in the crowd, with fear replaced by a tingle of excitement. An old woman they all knew well had been killed, and they might be at risk, but the idea of unspecified riches coursed through them like a flash flood after a drought. He understood what Father Ambrosius had said about it being a dangerous thing.

  ‘But what would that ’ave to do with Oldmother?’ The older youth looked confused, and both undersheriff and underserjeant thought the question valid.

  ‘Father Edmund were seen at this door, the mornin’ of ’is killin’, and with the cat under an arm and a small sack. No doubt the killer, knowin’ of the findin’, thought that it contained the silver.’ Catchpoll gave the explanation.

  ‘That would be a fool thing to think,’ snorted Agnes the Healer. ‘No reason could there be for ’im to want to give it to an old woman whose needs were for no more ’n company and lovin’ kin, which she possessed.’ She nodded at Ulf and his sons, acknowledging they had done all they could for her.

  ‘The chalice has been returned to the lord Bishop, as the “descendent” of the bishop who gave it to Ripple and also replaced its loss. What else there was is not of great value. None of it was worth a death, and now it appears there have been three deaths because of it. There will be a fourth, when we take up whoever killed Father Edmund and Ulf Shortfinger’s mother.’ Bradecote was speculating on what had been found, but sense said that the village would not have had much to hide beyond a little coin, not much used in the rural community even now, and some pieces of simple jewellery, passed down the generations to be kin-treasured.

  ‘And they belong to the lord King, unless it is proven that kin can identify them,’ Walkelin added, which made both his superiors glance swiftly at him. ‘Any gold or silver that was hidden with the intent to later take up, but never was, is his.’

  The muttering now sounded disgruntled. Bradecote overheard a male voice complain that King Stephen had lots of gold and silver and a little more would be meaningless to him.

  ‘Ask yourselves if this treasure is worth what it has cost Ripple, and ask who might put it above friend, neighbour, even kinfolk. Such a man is not worth protecting, deserves no oath swearers, and if any have information, they must bring it to us, and us alone. Gossip now puts lives at risk.’ Bradecote thought he might as well exploit any distrust or fear that would bubble up when the first amazement over the treasure passed. ‘Now go to your homes and, this evening, drop the bar to the door.’

  A woman gasped and crossed herself. The crowd did not just drift away but parted into little family groups like water droplets on a waxed cloth.

  ‘My lord, what about us?’ It was Ulf Shortfinger.

  ‘We would speak a little with your sons, and then you may take your mother’s body to your home or to the church, as you and Father Ambrosius decide.’

  ‘Will you take who did it, my lord?’ It was a plea rather than an angry demand. The immediacy of grief had fallen like a great, toppling boulder upon Ulf Shortfinger and crushed him. Anger was for later.

  ‘I am confident that we will, but I cannot promise it. We will strive our best, that I can promise.’

  ‘No more could I ask, my lord. Now, you asks all you need of my boys, and then let ’em go home to their mother.’ His face crumpled a little, and his voice thickened. ‘A mother is always a comfort.’

  Chapter Eleven

  The two youths were soon dismissed home. They could give little information beyond the fact that when they had left their oldmother that morning she had been in good spirits, but since it was already known that she was still alive when visited by Agnes the Healer, that was no advance. When they returned in the afternoon to light the fire and be company to the old, nigh-on bedridden woman, she was as she was found, dead in a crumpled heap upon the floor. The cat had been present in the chamber when they left it in the morning, and had caught a mouse, but was not there on their return. This meant that the healer was the last person known to have seen Oldmother Agatha alive. The thought that worried Bradecote was that she thus had opportunity to have killed her, and whilst they had ‘proved’ she had not killed Father Edmund, what if she had given the falsehood about putting back the awl just so that it showed her innocence? It was a dangerous game to confess to a murder and hope that the confession would be dismissed, but Agnes the Healer was a woman who clearly did not suffer fools nor was a fool herself. He did not want to suspect her again but … It was only then that he realised she was still in the room and tidying it. She was tidying it.

  ‘Stop.’ Bradecote’s command was urgent, and everyone instinctively stopped what they were doing. He looked directly at the healing woman. ‘What have you done? I mean here and now.’

  ‘Nought but set the stool upright, and back where it should be, and arrange the bedclothes. Liked everything just so, she did, and I respects that.’ Agnes the Healer sounded affronted.

  ‘You came in often. You can tell us even better ’n the lads what is out of place.’ Catchpoll did not sound challenging at all, in fact emollient, and Bradecote wondered if only he was thinking twice about the woman’s innocence.

  Agnes straightened her back and stood very still, except for the movement of her head as she surveyed the chamber. It was as though she was measuring every distance between objects, noting every cobweb in the rafters, every ash mark on the hearthstone. When she spoke again it was a pronouncement, as clear and definitive as Holy Writ.

  ‘I changed the bandage on ’er leg most days, and kept some in a basket, covered so as that cat did not sit upon ’em as a soft bed. And when I came this forenoon, the cat lay curled next to ’er where she might sometimes reach out and stroke it. I pushed it off when I needed to turn back the blanket and it hissed at me. I hissed back. When I left, it came back to its chosen spot on the bed. What happened later would scare it away, for sure. Agatha kept a stick on the bed, by ’er right side, in case she ’ad need to get up. It was across the end of the bed when you came in.’

  ‘Which fits with the marks, my lord, across the front o’ the throat, not a squeezin’ by fingers. Broke the windpipe, by my judgement,’ Catchpoll concurred.

  ‘I agrees, my lord.’ Agnes nodded, becoming in a moment part of the investigating team rather than one who might be investigated. ‘Agatha were best part blind and a bit deaf, but she knew the folk as came in regular just by their footfall, mayhap even their smell. She would speak to me afore I spoke to ’er, most days. Whoever came in and killed ’er, she was surprised enough to ask who was there, or at least why they was there. I reckon half the village thinks she just lay there all day and was aware of nothin’. It would come as a shock to one such to be called out to, if they thought to look about the place without ’er knowin’. You’ll be thinkin’ the killer believed the treasure to be left here, but I swears nothin’ was in this chamber when I left it that was not here a month back, other than a few new cobwebs.’

  ‘I see. Is anything else out of place?’ Bradecote still wanted to know whether Catchpoll regarded the healer as a suspect.

  ‘Oh yes, my lord.’ The woman ticked off things on her long, thin fingers. ‘The pissin’ pot under the bed is now almost at the bottom end, not near the top. The cookin’ pot, which ain’t seen pottage in nigh on six months, has the lip pointin’ the wrong way to what it was, the besom has been moved and no doubt used to sweep under the bed. Someone looked and looked again, and no doubt found as they had killed Oldmother Agatha, whose time were near but ought not to ’ave been now, for nothin’ at all.’

  ‘I might as well retire,’ murmured Catchpoll, appreciatively.

  ‘Thank you.’ Bradecote turned to Ulf Shortfinger, who was knelt praying with Father Ambrosius. ‘We will all leave you now.’ There was just a small stress on ‘all’, and the healer pursed her lips, nodded, and left before the shrieval trio, who went straight to the priests’ house. Father Ambrosius, who rightly excluded himself, would be some time with Ulf and the body. Bradecote did not speak until they reached the priests’ house.

  ‘Why did someone think Oldmother Agatha had the treasure anyway?’ Walkelin had been puzzling at this. ‘It would be an odd place for the priest to take it if he possessed it. If there had been somethin’ new and unusual the grandsons would be likely to have noticed, and for sure Mother Agnes would with ’er windhover eyes. It would be puttin’ it where it would be sure to be found.’

  ‘That means thinking it through as we would, Walkelin, and we do not know that the killer did that. You heard what Agnes said about the killer not expecting to be challenged when they entered. That fits with not considering how difficult it would be to conceal something, and just imagining that an old woman confined to her bed would not know if a neighbour came calling and hid the treasure while they gossiped.’ Bradecote frowned in concentration. ‘The folk of Ripple will be barring their doors now, so we begin once more in the morning. We asked before if any had seen the priest on the morning of his death and had no answer bar the child’s offering, but if even those who did not know the worst of him did not like him, it might be that they would not want to point a finger of potential guilt at a neighbour. They will not feel the same now that an aged and defenceless member of their community has been killed.’