‘We will speak with the garrison.’ Bradecote did not want to say more.

  As the trio walked to the church, Catchpoll passed on the lord Sheriff’s instructions in an undervoice.

  ‘The lord Sheriff has sent us to look into the killin’ alone, my lord, and was clear we do not involve ourselves with any strife between abbey and castle. It is, after all, his castle and his garrison.’

  ‘Yes, but if we ignore the fact that there could be a connection with the death, we are being remiss in our duty. There is a difference between getting “involved” in what sound to be aggravations rather than great crimes, and the possibility that those acts led to the killing of Walter the Steward. Only once any connection is dismissed can we ignore Bengeworth.’

  ‘We should leave well alone, my lord, for all that. The lord Sheriff will not take it well if we disobeys his command.’

  Bradecote halted and turned to look at the serjeant.

  ‘And if it turned out later that someone from the castle killed a man of Evesham, and we did not discover them, what will the folk of Evesham think of the Law? Is it the King’s Law, or the lord Sheriff of Worcestershire’s Law?’

  ‘The King’s Law, my lord, but we has to live with the lord Sheriff as our lord, and we will never see the lord King.’ Catchpoll was ever the pragmatist. ‘I does not like it any more than you, but the warnin’ has to be given.’

  ‘You have given it and I have heard it. If the lord Sheriff is angered then let it be with me, not you or Walkelin.’ Bradecote looked grim.

  ‘Well, we has to live with you also, my lord, so mayhap ’tis best we just gets on with the task.’ Walkelin felt both his superiors were right in their reasoning, and feared the lord Sheriff’s displeasure greatly, but a killing was a killing.

  ‘Good. So, before we see the body, we are agreed that the grieving brother, William, is not beyond suspicion?’ The undersheriff reverted to investigating mode.

  ‘A “Cain and Abel” killin’ is none so rare, my lord, and the younger brother certainly had somethin’ to gain.’ Catchpoll looked thoughtful. ‘I wonders whether Walter has young sons or none, and whether William be wed and a father. In the first case William’s chance exists only while Walter’s boys is too young to take up the position, too young even to be set aside now but trained to follow their uncle rather than father.’

  ‘Yes, it might make a difference, but we must also discover how deep ran this argument about building in Evesham, and whether that was the extent of their antagonism.’

  ‘That ought to be easy enough to discover, my lord.’ Walkelin was hopeful. ‘A rift in a family rarely lies hidden, and all Evesham would most-like know of it.’

  ‘But Abbot Reginald does not,’ Bradecote pointed out.

  ‘My lord, he is the abbot. I doubts he hears the gossip of Evesham, and both brothers would not want to seem too uncharitable before ’im.’ Walkelin had thought it through. ‘And that might also mean that his view of the steward is not shared in the town, or even by those within the abbey who would not dare speak out. The lord Abbot spoke truthful, but ’tis but one view.’

  ‘Very true, Walkelin.’ They had now entered the church, whence they had been directed, and crossed to the north transept where a chapel was designated as the abbey mortuary chapel. From beyond the wooden ‘wall’ that divided chancel, crossing and transepts from the nave that was still under construction, came the muffled sounds of masons and carpenters about their toil, a different world beyond the consecrated. ‘Let us first see if we read the death exactly as did Abbot Reginald and Brother Augustine.’

  Whilst no longer in the attitude of death, and duly washed and made decent, Walter the Steward did not look peaceful when they uncovered his body. The bruising, combined with the settling of the blood to those parts that had contact with the earth, gave him a florid, blotchy purple-blueness that was almost inhuman. The left side of his face had but one small bruise by the lips and stood out like a pale half-mask, and at the temple the white bone, now cleaned of all blood, showed stark and cracked like the shards of a broken pot.

  ‘That looks a blow that killed,’ remarked Catchpoll, and gently lifted the head. Rigor mortis had waned enough for some movement. He felt the neck. ‘Not broke. Mind you, some of them ribs shows damage and …’ he paused and moved to handle the lower limbs, ‘the right leg is broke mid-shin. If the ribs pierced heart or lungs then the fall would ’ave killed ’im, just taken a mite longer to do it. Either way, the wound makes intent likely.’

  ‘Do you think he was surprised, or was there a struggle?’ Bradecote was better at ‘reading’ the dead after nearly two years working with Catchpoll, but divorcing bruises from the blood-settling was not easy.

  ‘Hard to say, my lord, and it might be the easier when we sees the place and the well pit. If they fought, then most bruises would be to the front anyways, but that little’n by the mouth could be a clashin’ of heads, so I would say the blow to the temple did not come sudden, and besides, a man holdin’ a stone that size would look threatenin’ and you would keep back. My guess would be there was some struggle and the other man found the stone to hand and used it in the act of a moment, out of rage, or even fear. Walter the Steward was a tall man and not built like a willow-wand. The opponent might ’ave been losin’ the fight.’

  ‘There’s no earth beneath the nails, which also says ’e lay still, dead or senseless, on the earth. A man alive, in pain, would claw with ’is fingers, mayhap?’ Walkelin, once so squeamish in the face of cold death, had taken up a hand and peered close at it. ‘Also, the knuckles of the right ’and is scuffed more than just from hittin’ the ground. If Walter favoured that ’and, it could be a sign of a thrown punch that landed.’

  ‘Very true, Young Walkelin, very true.’ Catchpoll nodded approvingly. ‘My lord, I think Walter ’as told us all ’e can.’

  ‘So we will get directions to the well digging, and view the scene of the death. That will suffice for tonight, and we can plan who we speak with first on the morrow.’ Bradecote was brisk.

  Shortly afterwards they stood before the well pit, though not yet close enough to peer to the bottom. They stared at the rim of the pit.

  ‘Trouble is, my lord, them as went down to bring up the body would disturb the ground so as to make it nigh on impossible to see if it were dragged to the edge and pushed over.’ Catchpoll sounded regretful.

  ‘If you met with a man, “by the well diggin’”, you would not be right up to it, and since they would be the only ones in view, they might ’ave argued anywheres on this patch of green. Which means Walter the Steward might ’ave been dragged ten yards even, to get to it. That gives us a chance further from the pit.’ Walkelin was the optimist, and leant forward, casting his eyes over the ground as a hound would seek a scent.

  ‘Possible, but folk would come to stare once the news spread, and you can see as there is a fair amount of tramplin’.’

  ‘I think we take it that any fight took place near, but not right next to, the pit, unless the killer always intended to end the steward and cast his body into the well digging. You would wonder at that, though, since it would be far better to kill a man down by the river and push the corpse into the water. If it got far enough into the current it would be a good way away by morning. This is far more likely to be seen.’ Bradecote looked along the line of dwellings that marked the westward extent of the greensward, and the few upon the north side, clearly newer from the colour of daubed wall and more golden thatch. Part way along, a gap marked the beginning of a street, though it extended for only a couple of houses on either side.

  ‘The brother, William, argued with Walter over the growth of Evesham town. The buildings on the north side are clearly of recent date, so perhaps this spot was chosen because of that significance?’ Bradecote did not sound quite convinced, because he felt it worked if there was always the plan to kill, but it was still a very risky place to carry it out.

  ‘In my bones, my lord, I feels this was an argument as got out of ’and, and a fight that got desperate.’ Catchpoll was also clearly doubtful.

  ‘I wonder if the metal strap end is missin’ from Walter’s belt?’ wondered Walkelin. The question was random enough for his superiors to look at him in surprise, but he straightened up with something held between finger and thumb. ‘It might ’ave got lost from anyone, and anytime, but if it is Walter’s, we knows the fight was on this spot, at least for a part of it.’

  ‘Or it ’as lain there lost some time and means nothin’.’ Catchpoll was not instantly delighted by the discovery.

  ‘If that were so, Serjeant, it would be dulled and with earth trampled in the decoration of it, but it looks fresh. Mayhap another man lost it in the last few days, but surely ’tis more likely to ’ave come away in a struggle.’ Walkelin stood his ground, and Catchpoll nodded slowly, accepting the argument.

  ‘And there is also the chance it came from his opponent, though it could be denied easily enough. A good find, Walkelin, and we will show it to the widow tomorrow.’ Bradecote paused. ‘The position of the mason’s neat pile of worked stone fits with the fight coming close enough for one man to make a grab and strike a single blow. Do you think it likely that the body was thrown in, and Walter was already dead or at least out of his senses, and the stone aimed at his head where he lay? I think the chances of success small, and it was more an afterthought.’

  ‘Makes no real sense unless it were that, a sort of “it might make sure the man’s dead” idea.’ Catchpoll sucked his teeth. ‘Or a real end to it all. Very final.’

  ‘Which means there was a fight, not a single blow, and at some point the other man grabbed the stone and hit Walter on the side of the head, knocking him at least senseless.’ Bradecote was getting a clearer picture in his head. ‘He drags the limp body to the pit and rolls it in, or drops it if he had Walter thrown over his shoulder. He sees him lying at the bottom and … wait a minute. On a summer’s evening there are people still out in the streets, talking with neighbours, returning from the alehouse. The meeting and the fight must have happened when it was dark or near dark, so the killer could not have seen into the pit and been able to aim his throw. It must have been the thought of a moment, just tossing it in. It all makes sense other than why it took place here.’

  ‘My lord, need it be important, to the pair of ’em, that is?’ Walkelin saw no problem. ‘If there was a tree on the green, they might ’ave said “We meet at the tree”. The well pit is just a clear place to meet.’

  ‘You may be right, and I am thinking too deeply about it, Walkelin. Let us sleep on it all and begin after the monks go to Prime in the morning. We will speak with those close to Walter, then the well digger, and I think you will be knocking on the doors that face this green, Walkelin, in case anything was heard or even seen. On a hot night, shutters might be left open, or at least ajar.’ Bradecote yawned, and the trio returned to the abbey and their quarters in the guest hall.

  Chapter Three

  Bradecote rose with the bell for Prime and went out into a morning that, whilst the air smelt fresh, held warmth even at the early hour. It would be another oppressively hot day, and he wished there might be a little break in the weather to give some rain and swell the grain in his manor’s fields. He looked up. Men were all at the mercy of Heaven, but also the visible heavens and weather. He eased his shoulders, sighed, and went to shake Catchpoll and Walkelin, if they were not already awake.

  In fact, he found them talking quietly about Bengeworth. Walkelin had not visited the castle before, and Catchpoll was describing it, not that it made Walkelin eager to go there.

  ‘… and there is this damp smell, like cabbage four days old, and all who garrison it want nothing more than to end their time of duty and leave. It breeds discontent and misery, and the lord Sheriff makes sure ’e never actually stays there. He would rather ride home to his castle at Elmley in the moonless dark.’

  ‘It is that bad?’

  ‘It is, Walkelin, and what Serjeant Catchpoll says is true. I did service there once, and it was one of the worst months of my life. It would turn even a cheery fellow like you into a sag-shouldered gloom-sayer.’ Bradecote, entering, joined the conversation, and he was clearly not speaking in jest. ‘It is one of the benefits of being Undersheriff. I am spared Bengeworth.’

  ‘That and the fact that you have the joy of our company, my lord.’ Catchpoll’s face remained impassive, but his eyes twinkled.

  ‘And that, of course. Now, I think we divide. You and I, Catchpoll, will visit the grieving widow, and Walkelin, I want you to learn all about well digging. A man who feels confident and superior, because he has knowledge and another has not, will talk the more. Find out if anyone had been nosing around as it was being dug and shown more interest than most, and speak with the mason as well. Then knock upon the doors that face the green and ask if anything was heard or seen the night before last.’

  ‘Would they not ’ave come forward by now, my lord? This must be the biggest news in Evesham in months, and we knows how folk like to touch upon the edges of a killin’, whilst bein’ safe themselves, to make tales for the hearthside come winter.’ Walkelin had learnt a lot about his fellow man, the ones who did not think as he did.

  ‘Probably, but then they may have dismissed what they heard as nothing, or have some fear that whoever did it might mete out the same fate to them. Fear shuts mouths as money opens them.’

  ‘The both of you is soundin’ more ’n more like me,’ mused Catchpoll, with a small smile ‘and all to the good, says I.’

  ‘As long as I do not inherit your bad knees, Serjeant, I agrees.’ It was Walkelin’s turn to smile. ‘I will be off, my lord, and if the well delver and mason are not yet at work, I will knock on a door or two first.’ With which Walkelin departed, privately hoping that if his superiors were swift in their interview with Walter the Steward’s widow, they might visit Bengeworth Castle without him having to feel its depressing influence for himself.

  Walter the Steward’s house backed onto the newly erected perimeter wall of the abbey, and its good-sized plot faced onto the street that rose up the hill from the bridge, beyond which Bengeworth Castle squatted defiantly. Bradecote had guessed the steward’s age to be about two score years, and when a woman who looked scarcely half that opened the door to them, he wondered if he might even be looking at a daughter. Abbot Reginald had said there were no sons, not no children. Catchpoll introduced them both, and the young woman stepped back and opened the door, dipping as she did so. When she looked up again her expression was worried, bordering on fearful.

  ‘Does the lord Abbot want me out of ’ere afore the burial?’ Her voice was very nervous, and breathy, and showed her to be the widow. She was comely, slim of figure, with a slightly upturned nose, a generous mouth, and hazel eyes in which Bradecote could not detect any hint of grief, but definitely ingrained fear.

  ‘We is not ’ere to pass on commands from the lord Abbot. The death of your husband is the lord Sheriff’s business, the lord King’s business, and we are seekin’ whoever caused it.’ Catchpoll spoke calmly as they entered, but her cheeks, already a little pale, whitened.

  ‘But ’twas not me. I slept from the time Walter left me, right until morn.’

  ‘We are not suggesting that you did, Mistress Steward.’ Bradecote sought to calm her. ‘We want to know if anything unusual happened in the days before he was killed, whether he mentioned any argument, and whether you knew of anyone who bore some grudge against him.’

  She shook her head vehemently, too vehemently for Catchpoll.

  ‘What, or who, is you afraid of?’

  ‘Nothin’, nobody,’ she averred, and though it was boldly said, there was a lie within the truth.

  ‘Then who are you afraid for?’ Bradecote altered the question, and her eyes opened wider for a moment. Her mouth, by contrast, closed so tightly her lips almost disappeared.

  ‘We can wait.’ Catchpoll sounded bored, and folded his arms. ‘Not,’ he then added, ‘that it means you should leave the lord Undersheriff standin’ before your hearth.’

  ‘Would you care to sit, my lord?’ she offered, instantly.

  ‘How old are you?’ Bradecote asked, ignoring her offer.

  ‘Seventeen’ – there was a short pause – ‘September comin’.’ It was half apology, half defiance.

  ‘And how long have you been married?’

  ‘Since Michaelmas last, my lord.’ The colour now returned, in two patches on her cheeks. ‘A good match. Everyone said so.’

  ‘And did you think so?’

  ‘I-I did, my lord.’ The lie showed in voice as well as face. ‘A girl may ’ave dreams but a woman must show sense.’ It sounded something she had learnt by rote, and never come to believe.

  ‘So who shared the dream with you?’ Bradecote was guessing.

  ‘We was not promised, not even secret-like, one to the other, and ’e would not do this, could not.’ Her face crumpled, and she covered it with her hands and sobbed.

  ‘Then there be no need to fear.’ Catchpoll, unmoved by the tears, was practical. ‘Give us the lad’s name and we will speak with ’im. That will be the end of it, if’n he be innocent.’

  Bradecote, who thought her assertion was as much to convince herself as them, doubted she would give the name.

  ‘We will discover who it is, but it uses time we do not wish to spend. If you and a youth were often together, others will have noticed. We only have to ask about the town. You merely delay matters.’ Bradecote sounded suitably lordly and displeased.

  ‘Simon, son of Hubert the Mason.’ The name was whispered.

  ‘Thank you. Now other than possibly the mason’s son, did anyone else dislike your husband?’

  ‘Bein’ the steward did not mean Walter were always popular, but that were the office. Nobody likes to pay their due rent, and many grumbles, but they would grumble at any who knocked upon their door for it.’