‘Oh, I do not think that matters. He would have called himself something like “Geoffrey fitzWalter”, and pretended he was a rich man, perhaps a merchant rather than a lord, since he would have no men-at-arms, one thinking of taking property in Gloucester. He might even think that he was so clever at getting what he wanted he could be a merchant. Once he had proved to himself, and some clerk in Gloucester, that he could be this new man, he returned to increase his wealth, and plan for the day when he simply disappeared from Evesham. I doubt he would have taken his wife, if she still lived, since with a new life he might aim for a wealthy widow and get richer that way.’

  ‘I sort of hopes that proves true, my lord, since Walter ended in a well pit without ever gettin’ to carry out the plan.’ Walkelin smiled at the thought. It felt just.

  ‘It makes it less likely he hid the silver here, but let us be thorough.’ Bradecote found nothing behind the tapestry other than the wall, and they carried on the search.

  Whilst it proved fruitless, they were happy that it excluded the house from their possible list of hideaways and went directly to the house of William the Steward, though they knew he might be at the abbey or collecting the dues, since it was Midsummer Day and thus a Quarter Day. His wife in fact directed them to the new well site, where they found him in agitated conversation with Adam Welldelver, whose arms were folded firmly across his chest, and who had a calm, obstinate look that was clearly infuriating the new steward. Hubert the Mason had straightened his back and was watching with interest.

  ‘But it needs to be four paces eastward,’ cried William, almost spitting with ire.

  ‘You can say that all you likes, Master Steward, but what is just below the ground four paces eastward is solid rock, and I cannot dig through that. This ’ere be the nearest place where a spade can cleave the earth, and that is where I be diggin’.’

  ‘But I want the street to be straight, so that when the town grows it will be a crossroads with the well in the middle.’ It was almost a wail.

  ‘You can want whatever you please, but what you will get will be a well right in this place or no well at all.’ The well delver did not raise his voice in the slightest.

  ‘You do not underst—’

  ‘No, ’tis you as does not understand. You can draw pretty lines on that there vellum, but them is just lines, not a real place. Earth be real, rock be real, and a well you needs, so I digs where I can to give water.’

  ‘I—’

  ‘Ah, Master Steward. We was lookin’ for you.’ Catchpoll sounded so cheery the steward might have almost thought they wanted to invite him to sup ale with them. Then, as the steward turned round, he saw Catchpoll’s death’s-head smile, and he knew there was nothing convivial intended.

  ‘I must finish—’ the steward began.

  ‘No, no, we ’as finished right enough, Serjeant. If you wants to speak with Master Steward, you get right along with it, and let me get back to my spadework.’ The well digger’s smile was at least genuine, for it meant the problem he had with the steward would be taken away.

  ‘You “must” nothin’, not when the lord Undersheriff needs to speak with you.’ Walkelin took the steward’s elbow, not in an arresting grip, but firmly enough that the man knew that complaint was useless. Catchpoll, who had been ready to say much the same thing, was both pleased and a little put out that Walkelin had beaten him to it. It did at least show the underserjeant was being suitably defensive of the position of lord Undersheriff. Walkelin had come a long way.

  With Walkelin’s pressure at his elbow, William the Steward stepped a little away from the well digging and Hubert the Mason, who had been watching the ‘argument’ between steward and well digger with silent amusement.

  ‘We want to know what the roll of vellum contained that you felt the need to take it from the steward’s house today.’ Bradecote did not beat about the bush.

  ‘Roll of vellum? Why, that was the map, the plan, that my brother put forward for the new building in the town, and that I persuaded the lord Abbot to change. Walter kept it, and I think he was still hoping to get my changes removed. I found marks on the plan, the streets I planned crossed and scratched over. Walter never could see what Evesham should be.’

  ‘And you took nothing else from the house?’ Bradecote almost glared at the man.

  ‘What would I take? My family is moving in at the week’s end and what is there is now ours, not that I think it a great inheritance.’

  ‘Especially since your brother was keeping so much back from the abbey dues.’ This was said smoothly, and William looked not angry but peeved. ‘Do you know where he kept it?’

  ‘No, not that I would say if I did, you will think.’ The peeved look became more pronounced. ‘Come back in half a year, and if my wife is fur-wrapped and with servants, then you can accuse me of finding and keeping what Walter hid like a squirrel burying nuts for the winter. What he did has put doubt in heads, and I will have every burgess in Evesham demanding to see proof that their rent has been put into the abbey coffers.’ His annoyance looked genuine, but, thought Bradecote, that might equally stem from frustration at having looked and found nothing in the house, and having no idea where to look next.

  ‘Well, if you does come across all that silver as belongs to others, be sure to let us know.’ Catchpoll’s cheerful tone remained, in part to irk the man.

  ‘Of course,’ snapped the new steward. ‘Now, if there is nothing more, my lord, I have work to do.’

  ‘Nothing at present. Carry on.’ Bradecote made sure that the dismissal came from him.

  William the Steward, clearly fuming, gave a nod so curt that Walkelin wondered if his neck might snap, and turned around again to remonstrate with the well digger, but Adam Welldelver had climbed into the beginnings of his well pit, which meant he was only visible from mid-thigh upwards, and he was bent forwards as he thrust spade into earth. Looking down and arguing with someone in a hole would look foolish, thought William the Steward, so he stalked off.

  ‘Glad I am I does not live in Evesham,’ came the well digger’s voice, and a chuckle accompanied it.

  ‘We will leave you to work in peace,’ Bradecote responded, and looked also at Hubert the Mason, who nodded and resumed his work. His son, whose absence had been noted, was seen approaching, leading the donkey and cart with more stone.

  The sheriff’s men headed southward, across the Merstow green and then from the lane towards Wulfram Meduwyrhta’s holding. They saw two women taking up the day’s dried washing from some bushes beyond the house and nearer the tumbled-down dwelling and went directly towards them. Whilst Wulfram’s wife was one of them, they were surprised to see that the other was Oswald Mealtere’s put-upon-looking spouse. Since the husbands would not so much as exchange the time of day, it seemed odd that the women were close enough to be able to speak with each other.

  As they drew close, Mistress Mealtere seemed to shrink. Both women set down their baskets and dipped in an obeisance to Bradecote, and authority in general. He looked from one to the other. Both blushed.

  ‘So the feud does not extend to the womenfolk.’ He smiled, but the seemingly innocuous comment caused panic in the maltster’s wife.

  ‘Do not say anything to my Oswald, my lord, I beg you. If ’e knew…’ She shuddered.

  ‘What lies between the menfolk be between the menfolk,’ declared Mistress Meduwyrhta, determinedly. ‘We knew each other afore we was wed, and just sometimes we gets to speak, quiet, when they cannot see. We tells ’em we argue over the best bushes, but we do not. ’Tis best they do not know, my lord.’

  ‘That I understand, and no word of it will come from us. I am here to speak with your daughter, mistress, and thought it would be she who was with you.’

  ‘Mærwynn ’as taken ’er sister to watch Brother Petrus with the bees. Little Win likes to watch, but far enough away not to be stung. They is all in the orchard yonder.’ Mistress Meduwyrhta pointed across the narrow channel, now a drying ditch, and up the gradual slope to the east. ‘You can cross on the plank. ’Tis strong enough for a man,’ she added, helpfully.

  ‘Thank you.’

  They left the two women staring after them, both as still as Lot’s salt-pillar wife.

  Mærwynn, who had a little more colour than when Bradecote had seen her last, had her arm about her little sister, and was crouching down to be at her level as the child told her about the bees, while Brother Petrus tended his skeps. Bradecote was surprised, because the Benedictine was not garbed in the usual dark habit but wore a pale linen ‘shift’ and a broad-brimmed hat draped over with a thin veiling that was tucked into the cord about his waist. He was swinging what looked like a battered censer, as though involved in a service before the high altar, but then set it down and took up a pair of small bellows to direct the curls of smoke over and into the hives. The little girl, seeing Bradecote fascinated by what he saw, raised her voice and told him that ‘Brother Bee’ sang lullabies to the bees and sent in the warm smoke so they would be sleepy, and wore a ‘pale gown’ because the bees did not ‘see’ it as they did something dark.

  ‘And they loves him as he loves them, but sometimes a bee forgets and stings, and then the bee dies. Brother Bee wears his funny hat so they do not sting and do not die. A very kind man.’

  Mærwynn squeezed her sister’s shoulder, and apologised to the lord Undersheriff, but Bradecote shook his head and addressed the little girl.

  ‘Thank you for telling me. I do not know about bees, but you do.’

  ‘Brother Bee tells me things when I asks questions. Never says I am in the way, neither.’ There was a swift and slightly reproachful glance at her sister before she looked at the undersheriff. ‘I likes honey. Does you?’

  ‘I do. Will you watch Brother Bee while I speak with your sister?’

  The child nodded and smiled, and wriggled from her sister’s hold and would have skipped forward had not Brother Petrus turned at the voices and waved, but motioned her to sit, and with a finger placed in front of where his mouth would be, under his veil, to be quiet. Bradecote and the other sheriff’s men moved a little further from the beekeeper and child, and Mærwynn, who was now looking worried, went with them.

  ‘Do not be frightened. We only wish to know if’ – there was a moment’s pause as Bradecote thought better of saying ‘husband’ – ‘Walter had any place within the house that was secret, perhaps where he told you not to look?’

  ‘Told me not to do many things, my lord, every day, but no place did ’e keep privy for ’imself alone.’ She looked away for a moment, but it was to smile at her sister.

  ‘You have heard he took silver from townsfolk and did not hand over all their rents?’

  It was her turn to nod, a bigger version of the little sister.

  ‘And you have no idea where he might have hidden his hoard?’

  ‘No, my lord. If I did, I would tell Brother Petrus, and then ’e could tell the lord Abbot. ’Tis silver as belongs to the Church, and to take it would be such a sin as I could not atone for.’

  Mærwynn had clearly not thought of the sums that were owed to those from whom they had been extorted.

  ‘If any place occurs to you, tell us, for we will see it returned.’

  ‘As you wish, my lord.’ She would clearly have preferred to go to the beekeeping Benedictine but would not disobey so mighty a personage as the lord Undersheriff.

  ‘Can you tell us whether Walter went to Gloucester on abbey business last Michaelmas?’

  ‘I cannot, my lord, for we was wed just after the holy day. All I knows he were away upon abbey business until the day afore, but then Walter often went to the abbey manors, up to Maugersbury and Stow as well as those in this shire, but ’e never told me other than ’e would be away for two days, three days, and not to put any meat or fish in the pottage until ’e returned.’ Mærwynn could give them no more.

  ‘Then we will leave you to your bee watching.’ Bradecote gave a nod of dismissal and thanks, and Mærwynn went to sit upon the ground with her sister. The beekeeper raised a hand in benediction, and the three men skirted through the orchard, avoiding the beehives, to take the ‘garden door’ into the abbey enclave.

  When they entered the abbey courtyard, it had a sleepy air and lacked the bustle of earlier in the day. A groom was leading a chestnut cob to the stables, and a youth, clearly on ‘extra duties’ for some misdemeanour, was sweeping horse droppings onto a shovel as slowly as possible. Alnoth the Handless was waiting to speak with Walkelin, though he hung back a little so that he need not present himself to the lord Undersheriff. There was only so much power with which he felt comfortable, and Walkelin was a friendly soul who did not exude cold, hard authority. Alnoth would have been surprised to know it was an appearance he was trying to learn for certain situations, though so far Serjeant Catchpoll usually said he just looked like the carved statue of a martyred saint.

  ‘Underserjeant.’ Alnoth’s call was barely more than an urgent undertone, but Walkelin heard, glanced round, and then made his excuses to his superiors, promising to join them very shortly. He went to where Alnoth was leaning back against the western wall of the gateway, a place now in shade as the day advanced and the gateway blocked the sun’s burning rays.

  ‘The afternoon went well for you, Alnoth?’

  ‘Indeed, Underserjeant. A kindly woman gave me a little bowl full of cherries, and I earned two silver ha’pennies for watchin’ stalls. But, you did not tell me that Master Walter the Steward kept silver that belongs to this abbey.’ He sounded disappointed in Walkelin. ‘Must ’ave been that made the man look so fine in Gloucester last year.’

  ‘I am sorry. I would have told you afore, but I was not sure what Serjeant Catchpoll and the lord Undersheriff would want known.’ Walkelin sounded genuinely apologetic.

  ‘All Evesham wants to know where that silver lies now, but that be mostly ’acos ’tis the latest gossip, and in truth, they should be talkin’ more of poor Old Cuthbert, and seekin’ to aid you to find who killed ’im. Silver cannot be more important than a soul.’ Alnoth sighed, and Walkelin felt that Alnoth would have made a good monk.

  ‘You speaks true enough, but findin’ the silver will end the gossip, and them as ought to possess it will get it back. Then we might find folk quicker to aid us over Old Cuthbert.’ It was a subtle way of saying that if any word came to Alnoth’s ear of the hoard, he should let Walkelin know of it.

  ‘Mmm.’ Alnoth frowned, chasing a thought that jinked like a chased hare and eluded him for the moment, and Walkelin was not sure whether he should have made himself clearer.

  When Catchpoll asked later whether anything new had been learnt, Walkelin could only say that Alnoth would do what he could to help them in finding Old Cuthbert’s killer.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Bradecote looked up as Walkelin entered the small chamber.

  ‘We have been trying to work out where Walter the Steward might have hidden his ill-gotten silver, Walkelin, as well as working back through all we have been told to try and find the lies, or those things mistakenly given as truth. That a killer will lie is what we expect, but we are being muddled by innocent folk misleading us.’ Bradecote looked to Walkelin as the repository of information, for his head seemed to file it away most accurately, and he was good at retrieving it. ‘Sense says the hiding place must not be where all could get to it, and if not his house, then we are looking at abbey land. The trouble is that he might even have hidden it on one of the abbey holdings outside Evesham.’

  ‘Not to my mind, my lord.’ Catchpoll wore a ‘thinking face’, but not the one where his eyes were also closed. ‘A man like Walter would always worry that someone might come across it by chance if it lay somewhere else where ’e could not check upon it when the fear touched ’im.’

  ‘Yes, you are right, Catchpoll. I ought to have considered that.’

  ‘Which means that it would be most like somewheres down this bit ’o the ground as lies close to the loop of the river, and not where folk pokes about day to day in their work. So it will not be inside the walls as they stands.’

  ‘And not where the masons is at work either, my lord,’ Walkelin offered.

  ‘But there are those two ruins before the orchard, that Prior Richard told me had once been for knights who owed service to the abbey but had been told they need only pay in coin. Not much stands, but we have seen before how a hearthstone can prove a good hiding place with a hiding hole dug beneath. We should go and look there after the evening meal. There is also—’

  What Bradecote was about to say remained unspoken, for an urgent knocking on the door interrupted him, and what was reported drove all thought of stolen silver from their minds.

  The man who stood before them had come from the Hampton ferry, if not at the run, then at a fast walking pace, which meant sweat stood upon his brow and he needed to catch a breath between sentences.

  ‘My lord, Kenelm the Ferryman lies near senseless and beaten bad on the far bank. They got the priest to ’im, but the good Father thinks Kenelm needs care and prayers but not the Last Rites.’ The man took a deep breath and then continued. ‘And the ferry be cut loose and gone downstream, though two men ’as gone and rowed downstream in a boat to catch it. I came across in a coracle.’

  ‘Did someone steal his takings of the day?’ Bradecote wondered if it would be a sum that would inspire a violent robbery.

  ‘That I does not know, my lord. Kenelm were not yet clear of mind when I left.’

  ‘We will come immediately.’ Bradecote sent Walkelin to see to the horses being saddled. The tired messenger could be carried up behind Walkelin, rather than run himself into a red-mist exhaustion trying to keep up with the fresher sheriff’s men. If there was nothing bigger than a coracle to convey them across, they would leave the horses and cross one at a time, if there was no alternative.

  Within a few minutes they were trotting out under the abbey gateway, their faces so serious that a woman who saw them crossed herself and told her neighbour she thought there had been another killing in the town. When they reached the ferry, a rowing boat awaited them. The priest, certain that at least the lord Sheriff’s Serjeant would come to see what had happened, had found another man with a small fishing craft which was more stable, and larger than a coracle, and might take two in safety, and three if the passengers sat still, and sent him over to await whoever came down from the town.