‘Oh aye, and I gets the grumbles in Worcester, collectin’ for the lord Sheriff.’ Catchpoll nodded, and the young woman relaxed a little.

  ‘You understands, then. Besides, who would complain to me, the man’s wife? I kept the home and I were a dutiful wife in all things.’ She made no pretence of having loved her husband, but that was not part of ‘duty’.

  ‘Then we have but one last question for you. Do you recognise this?’ Bradecote took from his small scrip the strap end that Walkelin had found near the well pit. The design upon the copper-coloured metal was a stylised leaf.

  ‘No, my lord. They sent Walter’s clothes back to me, and I can prove ’is belt still has its strap end.’

  ‘There is no need for proof. His clothes, are they as they came to you?’

  ‘Yes, my lord. It seemed fittin’ I still keep to the house, not be out washin’ with Walter not yet buried.’

  ‘We would look at them, in case we can learn anything from them.’ Bradecote sounded less the voice of authority now she was being helpful. He also noticed the ‘still’.

  ‘I will fetch them, but what you might see I knows not, otherwise than they was dusty and dirty.’ She went away, slightly puzzled.

  ‘You never know, Catchpoll, there might just be something that advances us, and if we waited then the chance would be lost,’ he murmured to Catchpoll.

  ‘As you says, my lord.’ The serjeant ’s lips barely moved, ‘and we can make a step already.’

  Walter’s widow had disappeared behind a wooden screen that divided the single chamber, giving it a hint of ‘hall and solar’, no doubt to show Walter the Steward’s elevated position in the town. She returned in short order with an armful of garments and a pair of shoes in her left hand and gave them to Catchpoll.

  ‘Dusty and dirty, no more, and as they came back to me.’

  They took Walter’s clothing into the courtyard behind the house, where the north-facing length of the abbey’s defensive wall stood at the end, looming almost menacingly. Time might mellow it, but its new stonework, as yet without the softening of fern or flower finding a home in its crevices, made it uncompromising. The cotte, belt and braies were laid upon the earth, and undersheriff and serjeant squatted on their haunches and peered closely at the front that would have been lain upon the earth, but might also show evidence of the fight that preceded the tumble into the pit.

  ‘There’s blood, but not much of it. If the blow came when Walter was upright, and ’e staggered, say, you would think there would be more blood around the neck edge and shoulder.’ Catchpoll was talking to himself more than his superior, seeing what had happened in his mind, and progressing logically. ‘If they was wrestlin’ on the ground, that is where most blood would be. I think. My lord, this tells us they did not face each other with fists and batter each other, but struggled and rolled about, and ’twere a moonless night, so I doubts it were deep dark when they met. They end up near the worked stones, and the killer grabs one and hits Walter a good, ’ard blow. I doubts whether the man knew it were fatal or not at that moment, just that the fight went out of ’im. The man touches the wound and guesses Walter be either dead or dyin’, gets up, drags the body to the well pit, thinkin’ that the fall will make sure of it, and rolls ’im in. A real strong man might carry ’im, but Walter were a good height, and his opponent would likely be tired by the struggle. And’, the serjeant took up the shoes that had been placed to one side, ‘there’s a lot of dust and scuff marks on the heel and back of the shoes, which fits with dragged not carried.’

  ‘And casting the stone into the pit is an act of the moment, a marking, perhaps, that whatever brought them to this point is over and done with.’ Bradecote was also imagining. ‘Yes, Catchpoll, I think we see all the “how”, though it helps us not at all with the “who”.’

  ‘It would scarce be a woman, and with the blow to the left side, most like the killer favours ’is right.’

  ‘But that does not narrow it much, Catchpoll.’

  ‘No, my lord, but every little narrowin’ brings us closer to the answer.’

  ‘And the answer may already be known, or guessed, by others who will not want to speak up. Unless the man lives alone, he would have had to return to family, and someone would waken.’ Bradecote tried to move forward.

  ‘And their clothes would be like these, dirty and even with blood on ’em. I knows my wife would word-beat me, come the morn, for the work it would give ’er, and ask questions.’ Catchpoll smiled, wryly. ‘The woman of the home knows, or fears she knows.’

  ‘And so far, we have two homes to visit – that of his brother, William, and Simon, son of Hubert the Mason, since he and Walter’s wife had been close. Could they have been lovers still and Walter found out? No, wait. If that were the case, Simon would not agree to meet at nightfall by the well pit and Walter would have been seeking him out direct.’

  ‘I doubts Walter the Steward did the agreein’, not unless the other man knew somethin’ that would ruin Walter if spread. Most-like Walter told the other man where and when.’ Catchpoll remembered Abbot Reginald saying Walter was proud of his position.

  ‘I think we delay our visit to Bengeworth, Catchpoll, and go to the well pit, where we can find out what Walkelin has discovered, and speak with Hubert the Mason about his son. Let us give these things back to Walter’s widow.’ Bradecote took up the shoes, and Catchpoll bundled up the clothes. Bradecote did not offer condolences as they departed, for none seemed needed. The young woman might regret the loss of status as ‘the abbey steward’s wife’, but the chances were another man would take her to wife and be a better husband. A thought occurred to him, and he voiced it as they walked across the green.

  ‘Walter’s widow said nothing about him being a caring man or thoughtful husband, yet Abbot Reginald stressed how he spoke up for those who were late or deficient in their dues to the abbey. Does that strike you as odd?’

  ‘Now you mentions it, my lord, yes, though it might be that Walter wanted to be seen as charitable to all but acted the tyrant within ’is own four walls. Not common, but I remembers one such in Worcester, a good dozen years back, where a woman were strangled, and though it seemed none other than the ’usband might be the killer, all Worcester wanted to swear oaths for ’im, not just his own tithing. Only one soul spoke a bad word, an old woman next door. She said the wife never spoke to ’er or were seen gossipin’ with others, only left the house with ’er ’usband for church or to do washin’ or buyin’ food, and looked like the mouse cornered by the cat. The rest called the old crone a mischief-maker and the wife just the quiet sort. The man came before the Justices, denyin’ all, and the outcry was such you would think it were me as committed a crime, not ’im. Found innocent without even a trial, and I still thinks ’e did it, not some “stranger off the street” as was put out.’ Catchpoll shook his head. ‘Most men likes to make the big decisions. They wants a wife as is faithful, puts food on the table and keeps the home not like the hog pen it would be if the man alone ’ad the cleanin’ of it, but ’tis not the same as a man keepin’ ’is wife like a dog on a chain.’

  ‘No, Catchpoll, it is not.’ Bradecote looked grim. What Catchpoll said made sense. ‘And I think that Walter kept his young wife on just such a “chain”. When she said “still” stay at home, I got the impression that was how she had lived for some time. We might do well to send Walkelin to find out, quietly, if she lived as the murdered woman in Worcester had done. It would give an added reason for young Simon to want Walter dead, but we come back to there being no reason why he and Walter would meet on the green, and there would surely have to be some particular incident that sparked him acting now.’ He halted, for Walkelin had seen them and was walking towards them. It would mean they could exchange information without others hearing.

  Walkelin had been doing what he was best at, which was appearing as unthreatening and friendly, which skill was now honed and improved by learning the craft of asking questions without seeming to be interested at all. He had begun by knocking upon doors, though he had learnt but little of use. The householders were civil enough, but most shook their heads and denied having heard or seen anything two nights past. One woman admitted the shutters were open, but said her husband snored so loud she had been more worried the lord Abbot might send a brother to say it was disturbing the monks during the Night Offices.

  ‘I suppose we will have William the Steward now.’ She sighed. ‘Closed ears will ’e also possess, no doubt.’

  Walkelin thought it best not to respond to this. The woman also offered the advice that knocking next door would be a waste of time, because the man who lived there was a grumpy old misery, who kept to himself and barely more than grunted at folk when he went to buy food. If he was in, he would not answer his door. Walkelin wondered how he earned his pennies.

  ‘Oh, Cuthbert works, right enough, as a walker at Martin Fuller’s. Starts early, finishes late, and smells of stale piss. Not surprisin’ ’e is miserable and solitary, when you thinks on it.’

  The process of fulling cloth included treading it in troughs of urine, and fullers tended to keep to the company of those whose trades needed a nose inured to the stinks.

  Walkelin thanked her, and found her words were true. Either Cuthbert had already gone to his work or was not answering his door. After two more without a response, Walkelin abandoned a fruitless task to speak with the well digger, a bandy-legged man who was now in the noisy process of dismantling his soil hoist from above the well pit. Walkelin bade him a cheery good morning.

  ‘Pity all that diggin’ will go to waste, and in this summer sun too.’

  ‘Better that than a sour well, I says. Does no good to a well delver’s reputation, if one starts sour. ’Tis as bad as one that runs dry in May. One good thing – the abbey pays whether I takes the soil out or puts it back in this case.’ The cross-beam was knocked up from its slot, and Walkelin stepped forward to help support the end as the well digger went to the other and repeated his actions with the mallet.

  ‘Will it be hard to find another spot?’ Walkelin’s voice showed the strain as they lifted the beam and set in on the ground, but his eyes were alert, and noted the well delver’s belt had a simple copper strap end.

  ‘Thank you, for the help. I will not dig on the green again. I intends to try up aways.’ Adam the Welldelver pointed to where the gap lay between the houses along the north side of the green. ‘The abbey plans to build more houses and make a street there, and a turn where another road runs back to the street that descends in from the north and Worcester. I reckon as it might even be better. Leastways I ’as less than the stonemason, Master Hubert, to move.’

  ‘Had the steward come and inspected your works? I cannot think as ’e would know much about the craft.’ Walkelin thought using ‘craft’ showed he respected the well digger’s skill, though it looked to him like digging a deep hole until it was wet and then making a tower of stone and backfilling round it.

  ‘Ha, you is right there. No idea, but it did not stop ’im tellin’ me what to do. I think ’e liked tellin’ folk what to do. Not sure ’e was a man who could do much for hisself, mind. You know the sort.’

  ‘Aye, that I does. Was ’e pokin’ his nose in every day?’

  ‘Pretty much. Said as a report must be made each day to the lord Abbot, but I asks you, would the Abbot of Evesham be interested in whether I ’ad gone down another three feet or four?’

  ‘Mayhap the first thing the lord Abbot did every mornin’ after Chapter, havin’ dreamed all night of a fine, deep well, was send the steward to check progress.’ Walkelin grinned, and Adam Welldelver laughed out loud until his eyes watered.

  ‘Bless me, that be a picture in my mind as will linger.’

  ‘Anyone else who liked to watch another man labour in the sun?’ Walkelin made sure this sounded very casual.

  ‘Plenty of the women. Mind you, ’tis mostly them as gets to fetch water so they will be keen for it to be in use. Also, this looks a good place to come and gossip, I reckons. Oh, and the maltster would come and complain that it would take the water from the channel as runs through the monks’ orchards and has a run-off down to ’is maltin’ house. Just shows that most folk does not understand water at all. Master Meduwyrhta only asked the once, and accepted what I said, as a fellow craftsman ought.’ The well digger paused and a small frown appeared on his brow. ‘Yes, I am sure he accepted my word and it were not that the steward shouted at ’im and fair ordered ’im to go away and stay away. Said it were none of ’is business, but if you needs good water for your livelihood, well ’tis fair enough to ask the once, surely?’

  ‘I would say so. Mayhap there lay some old grievance betwixt the two and Walter the Steward liked to play high and mighty over the man.’

  ‘That fits, fits well. Always sayin’ how the stewardship ran in ’is family from a kinsman of Abbot Walter, way back, and that was why he ’ad been named Walter. Not sure why a man would brag about old kin as were Foreign, but there, and this Abbot Walter might ’ave been a simple monk afore ’e were raised up. If we goes back far enough we is all the children of Adam. I did say that I bear the name for that reason, just to annoy ’im, though in truth it came from my mother’s brother as went off on the Crusade to Jerusalem and never returned.’ The well digger chortled, and Walkelin grinned.

  ‘Don’t see as there is much to laugh about.’

  They turned, and saw a man, whom Walkelin deduced must be Hubert the Mason, leading a donkey that pulled a small, low-sided cart.

  ‘How far up aways does you want me to move the stone, Master Welldelver?’ The mason spoke with the respect of one artisan to another, though Walkelin suspected it was so that he received as much respect in return.

  ‘One hundred paces, by my guess, Master Mason,’ responded the well digger.

  Walkelin smiled to himself, since he was right.

  ‘Leastways none of your labour is wasted, Master Mason.’ He decided he would keep up the polite tone.

  ‘Not as such, but I has to put it on the cart and lug it all to the spot for the new pit, and set it all down again too, on my own.’ The mason wiped his brow with the back of an already dust-pale hand.

  ‘And with the aid of that donkey.’ Walkelin, seeing the donkey’s sorrowful expression, felt it was unfair to ignore the fact that most of the lugging would be done by the beast. Its ears moved as if to listen to the praise, but turned back at its master’s grumble.

  ‘It just pulls. What makes the muscles ache is the liftin’.’

  ‘Then get that lad o’yours. Big strong arms on ’im,’ the well digger suggested, but Hubert the Mason just scowled and shook his head.

  ‘Have you no journeyman, Master Welldelver?’ Walkelin wondered at the man, for he was past looking ‘young’.

  ‘I do, but ’e twisted ’is knee the week afore last and can barely put weight upon it. So I left ’im back in Stratford, where I comes from, in the care of ’is mother and a good healer. I can still get by alone, though it takes a while longer.’

  ‘And did Walter the Steward tell you your craft also, Master Mason? Master Welldelver told me ’e did with him.’ Walkelin wanted to know how another regarded the man.

  ‘I ignored ’im as I always does – did. Been tellin’ folk what to do and where since the stewardship first fell to ’im, when Walter could ’ave owned to no more ’n a score and five years. Never saw ’im do anythin’ for hisself, mind. All mouth and pride, that one.’

  ‘Does not sound as though you liked the man much,’ observed Walkelin, but without any sense of accusation.

  ‘Not much, but then ask any in Evesham and you will get the same answer.’ The mason swatted away a wasp, and he did not look the underserjeant in the eye.

  Walkelin hid his surprise. How could this be the man whom Abbot Reginald had spoken of in almost glowing terms?

  ‘The lord Abbot seems to ’ave valued the man.’

  ‘The lord Abbot is a godly man, but also a powerful one, and Walter the Steward answered to ’im. He would not act “I am much more important than you” before Abbot Reginald. Oh no, it would be all meekness and mildness, though not the face that were shown to us outside, or to the abbey servants, in private.’

  ‘So Evesham disliked the abbey steward.’ Walkelin made it general.

  ‘You could say that. What folk said in the alehouse and beside the hearth … Let us say “disliked” would do for some.’

  ‘But not all?’ Walkelin looked mildly curious, no more, but Hubert the Mason tensed, his eyes narrowing and making the crows’ feet at their outer aspect more prominent. His lips compressed. Walkelin raised a hand as though admitting defeat. ‘No matter. It is enough to know that Walter the Steward was a man as might give cause for a fight, might even ’ave been the one as started it, and the other man defended hisself with what came to ’and, which was your stone.’

  ‘Which passes no guilt to me. I could not know …’ The mason was swift to respond, fearing some blame attaching to him.

  ‘No, no, you could not know, not unless you was stood close by, watchin’, and offered the stone.’ Walkelin smiled, and unlike Catchpoll’s smile, it relieved tension. ‘And by the sounds of it, in that case you would be in queue to do so.’

  ‘Pity it is that they picked my well pit to meet by. That is what I says.’ Adam Welldelver spat on his palms, took up his spade, and cast the first dusty earth into the pit. The sound as it landed was like that of filling in a grave.

  ‘But each day is a day paid, and Evesham will still get another well in the end.’ Walkelin nodded to the pair and turned away. He saw his superiors approaching, and went to make his report. He made sure he did not look too urgent.

  Walkelin’s casual manner earned commendation from Catchpoll.

  ‘We hope you has interesting information, but glad I am you did not come hastily and show the fact.’

  ‘No, Serjeant, I thought of that. What I learnt will be useful, but does not give us a single man to seek. ’Tis clear Walter the Steward showed one face to the lord Abbot and another to his fellow townsmen. From what the mason said, “disliked” was the milder end of feelin’ against the man.’