Her ears pricked at this. Evesham town was full of Walter the Steward’s death, but all were convinced that what was known within the enclave far exceeded what was known outside.

  ‘You are stayin’ in the abbey? What is said there about,’ she dropped her voice conspiratorially, ‘Walter the Steward, as is done to death, and lived next door?’ She jerked her head to her left. This, thought Walkelin, was just the woman he needed. He decided to be bold.

  ‘My lord, the lord Undersheriff, knows now that Walter the Steward was not liked in Evesham and …’ he paused a moment, ‘I ought not to speak of this openly.’

  ‘Come inside, you poor soul, and I will find a pad for that foot of yours,’ announced the woman, rather more loudly than needed. She almost grabbed his hand and he hopped into the darkness of her home. She dragged a stool for him to sit upon, shooed three small children out into the backyard, and came to sit opposite him. The pad seemed forgotten.

  ‘I said as Walter would end bad. Told his wife as much, years ago.’

  ‘Years ago? From what I heard, the man was recent married.’ Walkelin continued to rub his foot and grimace, to a least keep up the illusion of injury.

  ‘Oh, that is the second wife. No, I told the first, after the babe came too soon, see. Only time I ever stepped over the threshold, mind. Would never let anyone in, Steward Walter, never speak neighbour to neighbour, nor even laugh with the other men over a beaker of ale. Only let me in since she needed a woman there. When I told her she must rest in bed for a few days after she lost the child, she said she dare not, for he would not like it and would make her sleep on the floor again. What man makes a wife sleep on the floor? And if he did so when she was carrying his child, well no wonder she lost it. That is when I said ’e would come to a bad end if there was justice in the world. She whispered there was no justice, ’cept in Heaven.’ The neighbour crossed herself. ‘Mind you, this new one would have gone the same way as the first if the steward had lived. She looks the same, see.’

  ‘Men often choose a wife who reminds them of the first.’ Walkelin thought this unlikely, but it might get a response.

  ‘Bless you, no. She looks the same way, not has the same face. Rarely gets beyond the front door, just the same. Nearest she gets to fresh air is feeding the chickens in the yard. She whispers, even to them. Last one whispered too. I hears, or heard, him often enough, orderin’ this, demandin’ that. They went to church together, but the way ’e took her arm was not husbandly …’ she paused to think of the right word, ‘more like a carpenter’s vice.’

  ‘What happened to the first wife?’

  ‘Died, she did, winter afore last, coughing so loud I could hear it through the thick walls. But she did not want to live, mark you. Wore the woman down, he did, with misery and nothing being right. And another thing – dressed in fine clothes is the new one when they go to church, but I looks through a crack in the yard wall sometimes and see her in a thin gown even in winter. Something very odd and wrong there.’ She sighed. ‘Mind you, she is free of him now. If she possessed any spirit still, I would say she went after him the other night, quiet as the mouse she is, and pushed him into that well pit and cast the stone after, and small blame to the woman. But she would not have dared.’ The woman smiled. ‘Now, what is it you could not say outside?’

  Walkelin had been thinking even as he had listened.

  ‘Keep it close mistress, but it looks like whoever killed Walter the Steward was bein’ threatened by him.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘W—The lord Undersheriff is not yet sure, but this is only the first day he is huntin’ the man who did it.’

  ‘Definitely a man?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ He rubbed his foot and pushed it back into his boot. ‘The foot feels much better now, mistress. One thing, though.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘What is the name of Walter’s wife – widow?’

  ‘Mærwynn. Pretty name. The daughter of Wulfram Meduwyrhta, she is, and I would have thought better of the man, giving his daughter to the steward none would speak a good word about, when there was an honest soul all ready and eager to take her to wife.’

  ‘There was?’ Walkelin sounded suitably surprised.

  ‘Ooh yes. A well set-up llencyn, as you would expect in one who uses mallet and chisel each day. Must have been much more to the girl’s taste.’ The woman paused and frowned. ‘Saw him this last week, I did, come to knock upon the door. Must have been some message from his tad, Hubert the Mason, who is working on the well, not that Steward Walter was at home. Knocked three times he did, and only then did the door open and that poor mouse just squeaked at him to go away or else she would pay for it, afore he spoke a single word. Sad, very sad.’ She sighed.

  ‘And did he go away without passing on the message?’

  ‘He said something, but quickly, and I was not listening, mark you, so what he had been sent to say I know not, and she was so upset she would have forgotten all of it by the time the door was shut.’

  ‘And if her words was true, passin’ it on would mean only trouble, so mayhap ’twas for the best.’ Walkelin gave no hint that anything other than a message for Walter the Steward could have been the reason for the visit. ‘Well, I had best get back to the abbey afore my lord returns from his askin’ questions. Thank you, mistress.’

  Walkelin left, hobbling slightly, and only then did the woman realise she had told him far more than he had told her.

  Walkelin was back within the enclave some time before his superiors and decided that he might use the time to good purpose. Buoyed by his success with ‘the woman next door’, he thought he might see what could be learnt from those within the walls. He was also trying to work out in his head whether there was any significance in the fact that Walter the Steward had been dismissive and antagonistic to his wife’s father, the mead maker, when the man had gone to look at the well pit and been reassured over his own source of water. If the steward was already a man disliked in Evesham, and he did not sound as if he had had some sudden change of character, why did the mead maker agree to the match, and why were relations between the two men poor afterwards?

  In the newly built guest hall, he found a man sweeping the passage outside the few chambers reserved for the most high-status guests. The lord Bradecote had been allocated one and had said the three of them should use it to discuss things without other ears overhearing. Walkelin knocked upon the door, though he could hear no voices from within, and then addressed the sweeper.

  ‘Never ends, sweepin’. My wife says ’tis the thing she hates most, and the dust gets in your nose too often.’

  ‘That it does.’

  ‘And no thanks does it earn.’ Walkelin sounded sympathetic.

  ‘Agreed. All we gets is complaints when things is not perfect, not praise when there is no fault.’

  ‘And you will be hopin’ the new steward is like the last, eh?’

  ‘You never met the last one, then, and have not yet met the new one. Not peas in a pod, I grant, and barely spoke a word to each other, let alone a good ’un, but cut from the same cloth. Their father – ah, a hard man, and they took that from ’im. Our lives will be no better, just a mite different.’

  ‘In what ways?’ It just needed a nudge.

  ‘The last one wanted to watch every little thing you did, and tell you to do it better. Then the silver pennies you earned was docked for the “mistakes”. The new one will want you to do more, even if you work ’til you drop, and soon enough will dock them for “laziness”. The stewardship be inherited, and it makes them proud and nasty.’

  ‘Or they were proud and nasty from the start.’

  ‘Ha, and gave pain to everyone as they gave pain to their mother as they came into the world.’ The servant, seeing the guest master approaching, brushed more assiduously, and stopped talking. Walkelin, who felt that entering the lord Bradecote’s chamber and waiting there felt wrong, went to find the shadiest spot from which he might still see the western gate and all who entered.

  It was late morning, and the hint of a breeze, that had provided relief when he had gone to see the well pit, was barely a memory. Instead, the heat seemed to sear the skin and then entered the body with each breath. Fortunately for Walkelin, there was an aged walnut tree between the guest hall and the more lowly almonry, which was still a thatched, daub and wattle building. The tree looked very much as though it had been there as long as there had been monks in Evesham, and Walkelin wondered if it had been planted by a long dead herbalist for its nuts and medicinal properties. Certainly, nobody had sought to fell it to ‘tidy’ the enclave, and it now stood, the trunk etched with deep-gouged, vertical furrows like a wrinkled and venerable oldmother sat quietly in the corner, saying nothing, and observing through rheumy eyes. The shade was very welcome, and he sat down between the roots and leant back against its girth, brushing away a beetle that had seen his neck as a continuation of its path. The tree exuded a restfulness that was beguiling, soporific, and its message was that man was fleeting, like the beetle, and many had come to a violent end during its life, yet here it still stood. He should strive but not worry. Succumbing to the walnut’s benevolent shade, Walkelin’s breathing eased and his eyelids drooped.

  He awoke with a start when a boot kicked him, without malice but enough force to pierce his slumber.

  ‘Been a tirin’ forenoon, has it? Glad you could get a little rest, then.’ Catchpoll was sarcastic, in part from jealousy. A nap under a tree sounded a wonderful idea, and the walk back from the ferry, though barely a half mile, had been undertaken in glaring sun. The sweat had been running down the back of his neck and wiped from his brow, and right now, a cool drink and a shady tree sounded like Heaven upon earth.

  ‘I only sat down a bit ago – I think.’ Walkelin, getting up and dusting off his backside, was honest, and for all he knew he had dozed for an hour. ‘I discovered what you wanted about—’ he stopped as a Benedictine walked past, and dropped his voice a little, ‘the widow, and how she were treated, though much came from the neighbour takin’ a little thing and imaginin’ more, and the widow’s name is Mærwynn. What is more, she is the daughter of the mead maker, and we knows he went to ask about whether the well would change his supply of water, and that Walter the Steward shouted at ’im to go away, which is a bit of a surprise, given the link of daughter and wife.’

  ‘’Tis not uncommon for a man not to get on with ’is wife’s family, but mostly the mother. Odd then, I grant.’ Catchpoll pulled a thinking face.

  ‘And what is more, my lord, the neighbour said the steward’s first wife died, and was like this one, barely ever seen, quiet as a mouse and afraid to do what Walter did not like.’

  ‘Let us discuss this inside.’ Bradecote led the way to his chamber, which was cool enough, and shut the door. He sat upon the edge of the cot, and Catchpoll took the stool. Walkelin stood close to the wall and leant against its cool stone.

  ‘Tell us everything.’ Bradecote leant forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and looked at the underserjeant.

  ‘Slowly,’ added Catchpoll.

  Walkelin gave them all he had learnt, with the addition of the opinion of the sweeper on the dead steward and his successor.

  ‘So we have discounted the mason’s son who was sweet on Mærwynn, have interest in her father, the mead maker, and still need to meet William, the new steward. Oh, and there is a possibility that Walter was taking more than just the Evesham Abbey rents from the tenants.’

  ‘What discounted Simon, my lord?’

  ‘Firstly, his belt did not lack a strap end. Also, he admitted he had made a bold and threatening comment to Mærwynn, not long before the killing, but it was clearly passionate words, not a sign of real intent.’

  ‘And when the lad talked about the deed, imaginin’ the actions as went with it, ’e went to “throw” the imagined stone with ’is left hand and assumed the death-blow came from the stone cast into the well pit.’ Catchpoll gave the rest of the story. ‘Mind you, it did me good to see the lord Bradecote run like a stag after the lad. Them long legs covers the ground well.’

  ‘And that was more than enough running for today. Let us hope neither the mead maker nor Walter’s brother William take to their heels at the sight of us.’ Bradecote sat up and eased his shoulders.

  ‘Who do we speak with first, my lord?’

  ‘I think perhaps the brother, and then, if we are fortunate, he too can be discounted. Not being in charity with close kin is not the same as being prepared to kill them. We need to judge both how much he disliked Walter, and how much he wanted the stewardship.’

  ‘And we needs to consider, my lord, that with Walter now with a new young wife, there was more “risk” of ’im fatherin’ sons to inherit.’ Catchpoll was less confident that William would be easily removed from those under suspicion.

  ‘And the lord Abbot said William showed ’imself upset by his brother’s death, which does not fit if they did not like each other.’ Walkelin added his mite.

  ‘Very true. I get the feeling that Abbot Reginald did not see the true side of either of them. Let us find William.’

  Chapter Five

  They went first to find the prior, who could direct them to William, brother of Walter. It seemed odd to call him ‘the Steward’ before his brother had even been laid in the earth or he had taken up his duties. Bradecote also wanted to see if the prior, with perhaps more frequent contact with both men, had a differing view of them to that of his abbot. Prior Richard was happy to tell them where William might most likely be found, though less eager to speak about his character, or that of his dead brother.

  ‘Walter the Steward succeeded his father when he was about two and twenty, a good many years before I became prior. He was always very aware that his bloodline went back to Abbot Walter, or more precisely, his kindred, and I think he felt a little superior to those of purely English blood, though to me it was foolishness. God cares not about lineage, but about the quality of a soul.’ Prior Richard sounded mildly disappointed in his fellow man. ‘He worked hard, and was never late, nor absent without a very good cause. He was respectful to me and to Father Abbot, and he was devoted to the improvement of this House, in wealth and size.’

  ‘Forgive me, Father, but that does not really tell us much about what you thought of him.’

  ‘I am not sure it is relevant, my lord Bradecote.’ The mildest of reproofs could be detected in his voice.

  ‘Father Prior, I can only be open with you. Father Abbot spoke highly of the steward, indeed commended his charity towards those who were remiss in paying their rents, but this is entirely at odds with what we have heard of him in the town.’ Bradecote was not put off.

  ‘As steward he would not always be popular. Those who collect the dues rarely are.’

  ‘But nothing has been said in his favour, no “despite that, he was …” From a variety of people we have heard he was bullying, controlling, proud, and might even have been extorting more than just the due rents from some townsfolk.’

  ‘Surely not.’ The prior looked genuinely shocked.

  ‘We have yet to discover the truth of it, or its extent, but yes, it has been suggested. It is almost beyond doubt that his wife, and the one who preceded her, have been kept, cowed and almost prisoners, in his house.’

  ‘I was aware he had married again after his wife died, but we, within these walls, do not think about women. I would never have thought to ask about Walter’s wife.’

  ‘I am not suggesting blame, Father, merely that your steward was not the man he made himself out to be, and that means there may be more men who might have a reason, in their own mind, to end his life.’

  ‘But such a mortal sin!’ Prior Richard looked genuinely distressed.

  ‘Father Abbot said that prayers would be said for our success in finding who killed Walter, not least so that their soul might be prayed for. Anything you can tell us, helps that being achieved.’ Bradecote did not want the prior to withdraw into the shell of the tonsured who shut out the evils perpetrated beyond their enclosed world.

  ‘Yes, I understand.’ The prior clasped his hands together, and looked as if he was forcing himself to face the unpleasant realities of the world. He sighed, heavily. ‘I suppose I chose to think the best, and ignore any signs of failings. Our House has thrived under his stewardship, so perhaps I am guilty of looking at the end and not at the means, but it is true, what Father Abbot told you. Steward Walter advocated that further time be given to those who were late, or fell short, in their rents come Quarter Day. He did seem most charitable in that, and yet,’ the sigh was repeated, ‘there were times when I felt the abbey servants looked … browbeaten, though I never heard him actually berating one. None of us go out into the town, into the world, unless for a very important reason, other than our lay brothers who return from a grange for a time, and then are sent out again. We would not hear what is said there, but it grieves me if Walter’s actions brought this House into disrepute, and raised sinful thoughts and deeds among those who look to us as a beacon of godliness.’

  Catchpoll kept to himself the thought that the prior was under an illusion if he thought that was how all the tonsured were regarded by the wider population.

  ‘Now tell us what you think of the new steward, William.’ Bradecote did not think he would get much more detail on Walter. ‘Not the words that come easily, but, knowing how Walter was not all he seemed, look at how he truly appears to you, Father.’

  ‘He is not tolerant as Walter wa—seemed to be, and seems very … driven. He is, I think, guilty of believing only he is right.’

  ‘And was that the cause of disagreement with his brother over the expansion of the town, and the building of more houses?’

  ‘Yes.’ The word was drawn out a little. ‘Though when one looks at it honestly, there was no fraternal love between them that shone. They kept mostly out of each other’s way, and if they heard the other one had advocated something, they would say it was wrong, or should be done differently. But,’ the prior cheered up a little, ‘William was definitely much affected when he saw his brother’s body. He wept, for all to see, which shows that deep down, there was brotherly love.’