‘I never saw more ’n the godly soul’s soft, white fingers. She came years afore, and the abbot of the time let ’er live in the abbey enclave, but ’twere too noisy and busy, so then the abbot gave ’er a spot away from the brethren and bustle, down beyond the orchards, just above the flood point of the riverbanks. Aid were given, since she could not know the way of makin’ somewhere to live, but she directed the way of it, like a little tower in daub and wattle, with a thatched roof. And only one window to let in light, up so she could not look at anythin’ but Heaven. She lived there for nigh on a score years and ten and were old when I first came. When she died, and they opened the door, they found ’er scarce more ’n skin and bone, arms crossed over ’er bosom and ’er wooden cross, like she laid ’erself out ready.’

  Walkelin, half attending, asked if she had lived beyond Wulfram Meduwyrhta.

  ‘Aye, most ’ave forgotten the good soul, but not me. I puts ’er in my prayers as she put me in ’ers, though mine are poor offerin’s.’

  They had reached the main gate of the abbey by this point, and an abbey servant, crossing the courtyard, hailed Alnoth and began to ask if he had heard the ‘good news’, then realised he was with the underserjeant and coloured. Walkelin shook his head and smiled, then left the handless man and went to the lord Undersheriff’s chamber in the guest hall.

  His superiors had discovered nothing new from the others named as present in the alehouse, only corroboration about the stranger ranting about how the lord Abbot wanted to forget the folk of Evesham who looked to the abbey as overlord, and the fact that Old Cuthbert had said he knew only one man was involved in the killing of Walter the Steward. The younger Potter brother, who looked ale-sick, could not remember anything at all, and his brother Cuthwin admitted he had not paid any attention to much more than the inside of his ale beaker. At this, his mother had heaved a big sigh and threw him a reproachful look.

  Walkelin found undersheriff and serjeant with a jug of small beer and some fresh bread, which they offered to share with him.

  ‘Thank you, but first I must tell you what I discovered at the ferry.’ Walkelin sounded eager, so he was not about to say there had been nothing useful.

  ‘Go on, then. Spit it out afore you chokes on it.’ Catchpoll was not going to appear all ears, on principle.

  Walkelin told them all that Kenelm knew and then revealed the discovery of the fingernail.

  ‘So when we finds a man with big ’ands and a very sore finger end, we knows who stole the ferry and most like killed Old Cuthbert.’ Walkelin could not prevent a touch of pride entering his voice.

  ‘Very true, though we cannot just demand to see the hands of every man in Evesham.’ Bradecote’s commendation was muted.

  ‘And even if we could, no proof would it be, of itself, since a man might give a reason for a damaged finger, and no way could we show a particular nail belonged to one man, even if you had been fool enough to bring it back with you.’ Catchpoll sounded even less cheered.

  Bradecote nodded in agreement. A scrap of coloured cloth that might match a tear had some value, but even finding hair of a certain colour only pointed to all those who shared it. He gave himself a mental shake, since being pessimistic would not advance their chances. He strove to feel as positive as Walkelin, who continued his report.

  ‘Alnoth said somethin’ else, my lord. He said that Old Cuthbert once told ’im Siward Mealtere killed ’is wife, but none believed ’im.’

  ‘Well, one old man did not kill the other, and it did not seem that Oswald knew why the two were at odds, nor did I notice any damaged finger this morning, so I am not sure it aids us, other than knowing why Siward spoke as he did about the past being in the past.’ Bradecote felt the information was merely an explanation of what they had encountered.

  ‘However, we also learnt information about “the stranger”, and that is that he is not as tall as me, young enough to lack any grey to his chin, and is missing a tooth.’ He indicated which one.

  ‘Then, my lord, what if “the stranger” with the missing tooth is also lackin’ a fingernail? Small chance could there be several men that lacked both in Evesham, right now.’ Walkelin, having been a little downcast at his superiors’ initial reaction, was now his normal self again.

  ‘Seems we is seekin’ a man lackin’ too many parts,’ murmured Catchpoll. ‘Let us pray the man lacks a little brain too, and makes hisself clear to us.’

  ‘But Walkelin is right that if both things apply to one man it is very likely he is the killer.’ Bradecote nodded approvingly. ‘And the likeliest place to find him is Bengeworth Castle, which we have put off visiting for too long.’ He pushed a beaker towards Walkelin. ‘Since this “stranger” was clearly trying to stir up the drinkers against Abbot Reginald and the abbey in general, I am much inclined to think he was sent by de Cormolain as part of the campaign to make life difficult for the Benedictines.’

  ‘But that the man should then kill an old man he did not know still sounds too great a step, my lord.’ Walkelin frowned.

  ‘I know, Walkelin, but since there have already been goods cast into the river, and thefts from the enclave, the risk is that eventually some eager subordinate casts an innocent traveller into the river and there is another death. Better we stamp on this now.’

  ‘And the lord de Cormolain will not like that.’ Catchpoll murmured, already anticipating his superior’s answer.

  ‘No, he will not, which is why I like the idea even more.’ Bradecote’s mouth lengthened into a grim smile. ‘I never thought the day would come when I would enjoy entering Bengeworth Castle.’

  If Catchpoll secretly thought life would be the easier if the lord Undersheriff never got round to prodding the hornets’ nest that was Bengeworth Castle, he did not show it. That there would be any connection found between the men there and the death of Walter the Steward had seemed highly unlikely, not when so many within the town had very valid reasons for hating the man’s guts, but Bradecote had wanted to eliminate any possibility, even before the description of ‘the stranger’, and especially when he found that the current vassal lord on duty was Rahere de Cormolain. Catchpoll did not like the man either, but could effectively forget his existence, since they encountered each other so rarely.

  Hugh Bradecote strode through the castle gate with an air of authority that meant the gate guard straightened without knowing who the tall, lordly man was. The man did not recognise Catchpoll and Walkelin as individuals, but they exuded such an air of ‘serjeant’ it did not matter. Heads turned, and one man, a little brighter than the others, disappeared to find the guard commander, Baldric. Walkelin, having exchanged a whispered word with Catchpoll, hung back, hoping to survey as many men in the bailey as possible for a combination of missing tooth and missing fingernail. Bradecote, however, made straight for the constable’s chamber, the lone stone building, which had once been an abbey tithe barn and been roughly adapted to become the commander’s lodging and squat keep, and entered without knocking, with Catchpoll in his wake.

  Rahere de Cormolain was lounging in the one high-backed seat, his feet upon the trestled table before him, and a cup of wine in his hand.

  ‘That is all I need, you sniffing about and playing “lord Sheriff’s right-hand man”. You are meant to be looking for a steward-killer, so why come here?’ De Cormolain sounded as bored as he looked, and his voice had the slow precision of a man struggling to avoid slurring his words. He liked to mock Hugh Bradecote and felt aggrieved that he had come when he was not clear of thought and barbs would be hard to find.

  ‘For two reasons. The first is that there has been another killing in Evesham, of a man who left the alehouse last night, and one man present was a stranger to all the others and made much of abbot and abbey having no interest in the lives of the townsfolk, just taking their silver and leaving them to be attacked and killed. There are not many strangers about, leastways none as would have a view on abbey and town, and it sounds just the sort of trouble-stirring that might give “amusement” here, since there have already been thefts of abbey property and illegal taking of toll from those bringing goods to sell at market. Requiring you to desist from those illegal acts is the second reason.’

  ‘“Requiring”?’ De Cormolain looked daggers at Bradecote. ‘Ha! You have no authority to “require” me to do anything. Besides, I have no knowledge of any toll taking or thefts and have given no orders for such things. My men would not disobey me, for they know I am not one to displease if they value the skin on their backs. and nor are they given leave to drink in the town.’ He focused, thrusting the fogginess of drink from his brain.

  ‘If you spend your day with wine as your companion I would be surprised if you knew anything of what is happening, but you are still responsible as constable.’ Bradecote made no attempt to conceal his disdain. De Cormolain’s fingers gripped the cup more tightly, but he did not rise to the insult, which prompted Bradecote to go further.

  ‘You know, I was wrong. Actually, there are three reasons I came.’

  ‘So the third is?’ De Cormolain knew, as he asked the question, that it was to step into the trap.

  ‘I knew it would annoy you.’ Bradecote smiled, and could almost hear de Cormolain’s teeth grind, which made the smile even broader. De Cormolain threw the wine cup at him, though he ducked and laughed, then his face grew serious again. ‘If you know nothing then you are not fit to sit in that chair, and if you did, then you are responsible for what is done by your subordinates.’

  ‘You sound so righteous, must be all the Law you swallow to spout to make you sound important. But you are a fool, Bradecote. Do you think I care about Evesham, its abbot or the people who scrape a living there? Would I put myself out just to annoy them? No. I am here, as I am sure you have been in the past, in vassal service to William de Beauchamp, your overlord as he is mine. This is his castle, built at his command, manned at his command. Do you not know that he and the abbot are at odds as sheriff and abbot have been since our fathers’ times? Are you that blind? No? Then have you not considered that whatever little nibbles at the abbot’s authority begin here, they stem from our overlord’s wishes.’ De Cormolain saw that this hit home, even though it was only a flicker in Bradecote’s eyes. It was his turn to smile. ‘Are you going to make this complaint to him, and do you not already know how he will respond?’

  Bradecote had a very good idea how William de Beauchamp would respond. Catchpoll had already warned him not to interfere at Bengeworth. It was not that he had ignored the command, but that he had set it aside, because he, Hugh Bradecote, was a vassal not just of William de Beauchamp, but now of the Law. The trouble was that the Law was unbending but not irascible and vindictive, and William de Beauchamp was both. Had it been worth it? His heart told him yes, because the Law had to be upheld by all, but his head anticipated trouble.

  ‘When it comes to murder, the lord Sheriff will not stand idly by.’ He thought that at least probably true.

  ‘But all you come bleating to me about is that you connect a man who is a “stranger” in Evesham with this castle upon a guess, a possibility at best. You have no proof of any such connection and all the other matters are not yours to interfere with. You are just an undersheriff, and the main part of that is “under”. You cannot countermand the lord Sheriff and woe betide you if you try.’

  ‘And you cannot breach the King’s Laws with impunity.’

  ‘I have not done so,’ de Cormolain stuck his chin in the air, ‘and you cannot prove otherwise, Bradecote.’

  ‘Not yet, de Cormolain.’ Bradecote turned on his heel, his expression stony, and Catchpoll followed him out. They collected Walkelin by the gate and the trio left the castle and went over the bridge up into Evesham without another word being spoken. Walkelin, having drawn a blank by nonchalant observation, was trying to think if there was a way to discover if any of the castle men were lacking a particular tooth and a fingernail without some sort of parade, to which the constable was not going to give permission, and Bradecote and Catchpoll were both wondering just how upset William de Beauchamp would be with each of them when he found out what had been going on, despite his instructions.

  Ansculf decided it was better he and the men he took with him walked to Hampton rather than rode, since it was not far and leaving a man to hold the horses, or tying them up, looked somehow a less threatening precursor to his ‘little talk’ with the ferryman. He had picked three men, not that he needed three to intimidate, and they were big but not bright, and not likely to have such a thing as a moral qualm. As he led them, tracing the loop of the Avon, he was thinking of all the different ways he could be ‘persuasive’, which put him in a very good mood. As they came to stand on the Hampton side of the ferry he was smiling, and Kenelm, mid-river and coming towards them with two old women deep in gossip in the boat, was thinking no more than the four of them would be a full load to his craft. The old women climbed out, thanked Kenelm and wished him a fair day, and passed the men with one cautious, sideways glance.

  ‘Good morrow. Good job there are no more o’ you, or else you would need pick straws to decide who waits to come over second.’ Kenelm smiled. ‘A penny covers all.’

  ‘Ah, you mistake, Master Ferryman.’ Ansculf had decided to commence by being smooth, to accentuate the later threat. ‘We are not wishful to cross.’

  ‘You are not? Then why stand upon the bank there?’

  ‘Well, we ’as a problem, or rather the lord Sheriff ’as a problem, and you look just the man to solve it.’

  Kenelm looked a little worried. The name of the lord Sheriff wanting him, specifically, to do something, was of concern, as Ansculf intended. Not that Kenelm had encountered the lord Sheriff more than to ferry him across the river, without mention of a fee, on a few occasions. He normally went from Elmley to Bengeworth, or approached from the north.

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘There is a toll to pay to the castle by those crossin’ the Bengeworth bridge with goods into Evesham, and pity of it is some is reluctant to do so and would rather walk their load all the way round to this ferry and cross.’

  ‘No toll were there afore, at the bridge.’ Kenelm had heard a few grumblings but had thought perhaps it was just an increase in the toll paid at the market to the abbey. It made sense that it might be so, with all the building work in stone that had already gone on for years.

  ‘Well, toll there be now, and the lord Sheriff dislikes it bein’ avoided. Howsoever, there can be a neat answer to the problem. You will take the toll for ’im, on top of the fourthing for the crossin’, and we comes each week’s end and collects it from you.’ The smoothness now had a vein of threat running through it.

  ‘But that will not work, master.’ Kenelm thought it wise to sound respectful. ‘You cannot know the number that crosses who would ’ave used the bridge and what would be owed, and nor is I goin’ to be given more each journey, even if I says why. More like I will be tossed in the river.’

  ‘That risk will be yours to take, and as for the sum, well it will be far easier to just charge everyone as crosses and pass the toll to us. Only fair that them crossin’ into Evesham the west side pays as does them on the east.’

  Kenelm folded his arms and looked obdurate.

  ‘Been ferryin’ since I were tall enough and strong enough, like my father afore me, and his afore that. Never been no toll, and never an unfair price to bear folk across. Not right to start now, and nor will I.’

  ‘Wrong answer. I asked nice, and so now I tells. You do as I tells you.’

  ‘My overlord is the lord Abbot. I will go to—’ Kenelm got no further, since two of the men, at a small nod of the head from Ansculf, grabbed his arms and held him, while the third hit him in the midriff, winding him. It was an act Ansculf would have enjoyed himself, but his hand was sore.

  ‘Wrong answer again. Disobeyin’ the lord Sheriff’s wishes be a bad thing and leads to bad things.’ Ansculf was warming to the task. ‘You will obey.’

  Kenelm, unable to speak and still doubled over, shook his head, and the man who had hit him, lifted his head by the hair.

  ‘More, Serjeant?’ The man asked the question in a rumbling voice, and, at the nod, punched Kenelm in the face. Ansculf laughed and drew a knife from his belt.

  ‘Then no ferry, and no food on the table.’ He stepped into the flat-bottomed boat and took the loop of rope that connected the ferry to the crossing rope, wincing slightly as he gripped it. He began to cut the fibres, sawing at it and hissing with discomfort as he did so. There was something almost personal in the action. As the last twist frayed and gave up, he stepped back onto the little landing stage, and the ferry, untethered, was stolen gently by the current and began to float downstream. ‘Now everyone must use the bridge and pay toll. I think I prefer this way.’

  Kenelm looked bloodied, bruised, but most of all distraught. He groaned, not at the pain, though pain there was, but at the loss of his ferry. Ansculf laughed, and nodded to the men, who let go of Kenelm so that he fell forwards, hitting his forehead on the timbers of the landing stage and rendering him senseless. They left without another word.

  When Kenelm came back to consciousness he tried to think, even as the blood dripped from his nose and pooled on the planking. He was still short of breath, his head reeled and his thoughts were jumbled. He was overcome with inaction. A chiffchaff, on a bough nearby, seemed to chide him for not moving. For some time his body needed to recover. Before he could stand, a hand was placed upon his shoulder, and for one moment he wondered if his assailants had returned.

  ‘Kenelm, what ’as happened? Where be the ferry?’ It was a confused but friendly voice. The hand moved, and a second joined it to haul Kenelm upright.

  ‘Sweet Virgin, who did this? Who would want to—’ The man was all concern.