‘And she told no other woman she was off?’ Catchpoll, aware that Wilf was clearly not going to be the outraged father of daughters, still felt his suspicious mind stirring, not least because the only Leofcwen he knew of in Worcester who was not born and bred there had been a whore that worked the Foregate and had been found huddled in an alley and frozen to death three years past. If Eadild had come to Worcester and been asking after Leofcwen he felt he was likely to have heard of it in the whispers of the streets.

  ‘No. Here one day, pullin’ up onions from the garden for the pottage and gone the next, though I thinks Wilf did not admit it for a good week. Told me three times she was laid up in bed with a chill afore ’e admitted she was gone. Fends for hisself now, does Wilf, though a bad pottage he would make, I doubts not. I offered to get Osgyth to take up the vegetables from the garden and set a pottage at least every other day, but the offer was refused, and quite grumpily too. No aid will I get from Wilf.’

  ‘Perhaps it is not your near neighbours who will be of assistance.’ Bradecote, without Catchpoll’s knowledge of the inhabitants of Worcester, or his degree of natural suspicion, fleetingly considered the small possibility that Wilf the Worrier might have killed his wife, but dismissed it as a distraction from the matter in hand. ‘It is not so large a community that families are not connected, by blood or indeed just friendship. Have you kindred, or is there kindred of your husband?’

  ‘My kinfolk lives in Naunton and Twyning, my lord, and a niece comes often on Holy Days with news and a goose egg or two, for my sister has fine geese, but they cannot be of practical help. Alvar was an only son. His mother could not keep a child in ’er, poor woman, and Alvar was treated almost as a miracle when he were born. There are wider kin, o’ course, but their own families comes first, and what time could they spare to work our strips when they are out from dawn to dusk?’ One shoulder was permanently drooping, but the good one now matched it. She looked utterly defeated, and neither undersheriff nor serjeant could find anything to say that did not sound merely a general hope. The only consolation they could offer was the offer from Abbot Roger of a place for her dead son in consecrated ground among the Benedictines in Tewkesbury.

  ‘But Thorgar is already buried.’ His mother looked confused.

  ‘For so short a time it would be easy to fetch ’im up again and send the body to the monks.’ Catchpoll phrased it as generally as possible, since imagining the disinterment would not be pleasant for a mother.

  ‘But we need there to be no doubt in any mind, and that means we need to take whoever killed Father Edmund.’ Bradecote made a decision. ‘We came wondering why a priest might be killed, but things have come to light which mean that in this case we do have at least one probable reason. Does all Ripple know of his … preferences?’

  Thorgar’s mother looked blankly at them, then pursed her lips.

  ‘He was less strict with those who fawned and treated ’im as if he was “Bishop Edmund”. The Widow Reed, now she was always makin’ food and takin’ it to their door when she knew Father Edmund was within. Father Ambrosius said as she was too generous, and they were humble clergy who ought not eat so well. Said it gentle, but meant it, not that it made a mite of difference. Mind you, I cannot think any would kill Father Edmund for not bein’ fair.’

  It was obvious that Father Edmund’s proclivities had not reached her ears, and Bradecote assumed that was because she did not mix as those who were still out in the field this afternoon would do. If Osgyth knew, she may have decided not to tell her mother about it.

  They left with a sense that the murdered Father Edmund, whose killer they sought, was less worthy of their endeavours than Thorgar, whose death seemed increasingly to be a mixture of misfortune and the inability of his neighbours to think.

  ‘It is clear that Thorgar did not tell of the treasure find, other than to Father Edmund, since he did not even tell ’is mother of it, which makes it less likely someone killed Father Edmund to find it, even more so when you thinks the killer would also ’ave needed to know that Thorgar had given it to the priest for safekeepin’.’ Catchpoll made a low, growling noise in his throat. ‘My lord, if we takes the real killer, I wants to get them as buried Thorgar up by the Old Road to dig ’im back up again and shrouded proper. They can take it in turns with the handcart to get ’im to Tewkesbury Abbey, unless they uses a boat. They was so swift to condemn a man they knew to be good, and for a-killin’ a man many knew to be bad.’ Catchpoll shook his head at the ways of the majority.

  ‘Yes, I agree, Catchpoll. We have another situation where Justice and the Law are not the same thing. At least we have but one good reason for the killing. Agnes the Healer was absolutely convinced of the priest’s wrongdoings, and would be the one most likely to know, if families kept quiet through shame, but if this was happening in Ripple, why did Father Edmund live so long? I mean, it would only take someone to push him out of the ferrying boat into the Severn and say it was a terrible accident, or even just hit him on the head and cast the body into the river with a bag of stones tied to him, and then “bemoan” he had disappeared.’

  Catchpoll laughed, and Bradecote frowned at him.

  ‘I do not jest, Catchpoll.’

  ‘No, my lord, I knows that, but since you took up undersheriffin’ you has learnt to think like those we take. You would not have thought of ways to conceal a killin’ afore. Most folk do not, for which I give thanks to Heaven, or else I would never get a peaceful night in my own bed.’ The laugh died and Catchpoll became more serious. ‘My guess is that it would be mothers as would find out what the priest did, and make a sensible guess that if they told their ’usbands then the result would be a rope-danglin’ and their children left fatherless. They would keep quiet, except to the healin’ woman if she was needed.’

  Bradecote stopped in his tracks.

  ‘Catchpoll, does that not mean we need to consider Agnes as the one who used the awl? She was in Naunton, so she says. But even if that was true, and it would be easy to confirm, for the woman she aided, or her family, could tell us when she left, it is not much over a mile to Naunton, and we would only get a vague “mid-afternoon” or “before noontide”.’

  ‘True, my lord,’ conceded Catchpoll, grudgingly, ‘but we comes back to the question Young Walkelin would put – “Why now?” I grants you she could, and she would know as the priest would be in the church to say None, but why was she there at all?’

  ‘We can but guess, Catchpoll, but think on this. The death of Thorgar came about by him being in the wrong place at the wrong time, not some plot and plan. It could not be otherwise. If we apply the same thinking to the death of Father Edmund, what if Agnes comes to the church, thinking to give thanks for the safe delivery of a child that has been difficult, and she finds him senseless upon the floor. She knows just what sort of man he is, and the horrors he wreaks. She sees her chance to protect the innocents of Ripple. None has seen her arrive and the temporary workshop is empty. She goes back out, takes an awl, does the deed and then takes a way back that avoids anyone being likely to see her, and “arrives” back in Ripple some hours later. Who would think to go and ask how long the travail was in Naunton?’

  ‘’Ceptin’ us, my lord.’ Catchpoll’s face worked ruminatively. ‘Would she be capable of it? I would say yes, for she is a tough and practical woman. Has to be in her craft. Not afraid of blood, neither. Nor is she one of the “sheep” who does not think for themselves. Plenty of wits in that ’ead.’ His expression became a grimace. ‘Remember what she said too, about justice bein’ done and if the Law demanded a penalty of ’er she must bear it. Thing is, my lord, and I ’ate to say it, I really would not want it to be true, what you says, for if it is, then I tends to agree with the woman’s thinkin’. Mind you, I doubts many would think things through as you has just done, even Agnes the Healer. You thinks like a serjeant now, and that is different to other folk.’ He brightened.

  ‘But we still need to speak with her more, and get exactly what she did and when that day, and check it as much as we can.’ There was a pause as they both considered the situation. ‘Catchpoll, there is another option, and I like it perhaps even less.’

  ‘And that is, my lord?’

  ‘If a father came intent upon retribution for a daughter foully mistreated, could he have brought her to see that done? Not seeing it as murder but justice. The priest lies senseless but not dead. It takes no great strength to thrust an awl into a man, and in the right frame of mind a girl could do it. You get a woman beyond scared, beyond angry and they grow ice cold, fiercer than any man.’ Bradecote was thinking of his Christina, and how she had confronted Baldwin de Malfleur. ‘It might be true for a girl.’ He did not sound quite as certain on this point.

  ‘And again I hopes you is wrong, my lord.’ Catchpoll looked at the sky, not seeking some sign from God, but judging the time of day. ‘I reckon there is but an hour afore folk returns from the field. The women might come back earlier to get the pottage cookin’ and you does not want to be chasin’ hens about in the dark to get them all safely in the hen house.’

  ‘I think any woman in Ripple would be wary of revealing to us how much they knew of Father Edmund’s vices with us seeking his killer, so it would be best to have all a household together, then we can see for ourselves which were at risk from Father Edmund without asking the obvious question. It will be very interesting to hear what Father Ambrosius knew, or suspected. Would loyalty to his parishioners outweigh loyalty to his Order, and avoiding a public scandal?’

  ‘We must hope as Walkelin returns with ’im on the morrow, my lord. Very useful it will be, to be sure, but I am not sure how much further it will get us. Now, I am goin’ to knock again at Widow Ploughman’s door and ask directions for Agnes the Healer, reason bein’, let me see, ah yes, you, my lord, is goin’ down with a nasty ache of the head, very nasty.’

  ‘A very good reason to ask for her direction, Catchpoll. And I am so very happy that my well-being is so important to you.’ Bradecote grinned.

  Catchpoll said nothing, but had to suppress a laugh.

  Agnes the Healer was not to be found at her humble dwelling, and Serjeant Catchpoll did not want to loiter outside with a very obvious rain cloud scudding up the Severn valley towards them, so he and his superior went back to the priests’ house, which felt, now they knew so much about Father Edmund, as if it contained the vestige of a malign presence.

  ‘I imagine Bishop Simon will be both shocked and grieved when he hears of the actions of the man he appointed, though if Father Edmund came from the cloister there would have been no temptation for him and no sign of what his true nature might be.’

  ‘Aye, and most like he will give a prayer of thanks that the bastard did not end with all knowin’ what was done. Tidier this way, and done without makin’ too much of the priest as a victim, which will be what Bishop Simon and all the clerics will want remembered. ’Tis never about the victims of a man under a vow of chastity and in a position of power in a small community.’

  ‘Have you ever come across crimes like this before, Catchpoll? Involving a priest, I mean.’

  ‘Once or twice, but under Benefit of Clergy they was put before a Church Court, not the Justices in Eyre, and though in cases of murder they always used to be cast out and handed over to us for punishment like any ordinary man, they never did so for this. No doubt their Court set them a great penance, and would say that puttin’ them back in a monastery kept them from further sin, but that was not justice, not in my eyes,’ growled Catchpoll, and spat onto the hearthstone in disgust. Bradecote, now the father of a daughter, agreed with him. It was a very grim-faced pair who a while later went out into the lessening daylight to begin knocking on the doors of the inhabitants of Ripple. They divided and took what looked to be half the houses each, agreeing to meet back at the priests’ house before trying the door of Agnes the Healer once more.

  It could not be said that they were greeted with welcoming faces. Some, especially the women now taking up the other half of their daily toil in feeding the family, glanced up resentfully from chopping onions and wondering if they had used too little barley and would receive complaint that bellies were not yet filled at the end of the meal, and there was, among the men, a hangdog look that implied they felt a certain communal guilt about Thorgar that they would rather forget. Being reminded of it by the Law was not welcome at all. Almost nobody had anything to divulge about the day of the killing, since it had been a day when the rain had kept each to their own holding, venturing no further than the gardens of their small plots to hoe the first signs of weeds from among their remaining cabbages and sow their turnips, or remaining indoors to mend, spin or weave. There was one exception, and that was a child. The boy, who stared at Bradecote with the indifference to rank that only a small child could possess, made his announcement in a piping treble.

  ‘I see’d Father Edmund hit upon the door of Guthlac’s house and when the door was opened the Father shouted inside.’

  ‘Don’t you be oath-trustin’ of the lad, my lord. What ’e says might well be true in part, but it could be it was three days or six days past. You cannot trust a lad of six summers, not with time.’ The boy’s father looked reprovingly at the child, whose lip trembled.

  ‘No,’ Bradecote held up a hand, in case the father forbade further speech, and looked at the child in a fatherly way, as he would at his own son, even if Gilbert was far younger. ‘Tell me, are you sure it was the day when Father Edmund died?’

  The child glanced at his father and then nodded. ‘I went to the door and opened it ’cos I wanted to go and play with Guthlac, but Mother said we would get muddy and I must stay ’ere and play with my sister instead.’ He did not look very impressed by this, but then the sister in question was a toddler.

  ‘I see. And did you hear what Father Edmund was shouting about?’ Clearly Guthlac was not the householder.

  ‘No, ’cos I could not understand ’is words.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Bradecote turned to the father again. ‘So Guthlac is the son of …?’

  ‘Tofi, my lord. His youngest. Gundred came of tithing age at Candlemas, and there’s Godric in between.’

  ‘Did they name them to be confusing?’ Bradecote was sure he would apply the wrong one.

  ‘You would think so, my lord. Their daughters are Mildred, woman grown now, and little Mald, who is but two years older ’n little Guthlac.’

  ‘We will ask Tofi what was shouted.’ Bradecote wondered why Tofi had not mentioned the priest shouting at his door on the day of the killing.

  It happened that Tofi’s door was one being knocked upon by Catchpoll. It was opened by Tofi himself, who looked to be in a poor temper, and his words proved it.

  ‘What do you want, Serjeant?’ He scowled, which did not improve the look of his heavily pock-scarred face, but Catchpoll looked positively cheery, mostly to show he did not care how Tofi felt.

  ‘We is tryin’ to find out every little thing as was noticed the day Father Edmund was killed. Your girl Mildred told us she saw Thorgar and the priest have words, but did anyone else see him about the village, visitin’ someone sick or even just carryin’ a pail? Little things helps.’

  ‘Nothin’ I can tell you.’

  ‘Then let me step in and ask everyone. Mayhap your wife saw—’

  ‘My wife was busy here. What cause would she ’ave to look out the door?’ Tofi did not move.

  ‘I saw Father Edmund go to say Matins and Sext and return from both.’ The voice from within was young and with a Welsh lilt. Catchpoll made to step into the gloom of the little house, and Tofi did not stop him. Gwydion was whittling a stick in the firelight as the pottage bubbled, and had an audience of three boys and a little girl of about eight, though she watched from a distance, being seated next to her mother on a bench. She looked mouse-quiet and not a happy child, thought Catchpoll. ‘I did not tell you earlier,’ continued Gwydion, ‘since a priest would do that every day, see, at those times.’ He clearly did not think further explanation was needed and turned his focus back to the stick, though the children now stared at their visitor, dimly aware his presence was not welcomed. Pryderi, almost invisible in the darkest corner, groaned, but Catchpoll did not think the lad had tried to conceal anything.

  ‘So nobody saw anythin’, not even your healer about ’er visits.’ Catchpoll sighed, in the manner of one dejected, but his eyes were watchful.

  ‘I doesn’t need to ’ave looked out to know that she would ’ave gone first thing to Oldmother Agatha. There’s an ulcer on her leg, what came after she fell over that cat of hers afore Lady Day, poor soul.’ Tofi’s wife, darning a tear in a cotte by the light of a rush lamp, looked up from her work. Catchpoll could see that Mildred got her looks from her mother, but the woman looked worn and jaded. Mildred herself entered the house at that moment, venting her frustration before she became aware of Catchpoll.

  ‘If’n Uncle Selewine does not take a new wife soon, I may do for ’im with the ladle, that is for sure. Grumble, grumble, that is all I gets. Oh!’ Seeing Catchpoll, she reddened. ‘I did not mean …’ She looked worried.

  ‘No, girl, that I knows.’ He smiled, but she did not find it relieved her at all. ‘Now, Tofi, what were you a-doin’ while your wife was “busy”?’

  ‘I dug a few more turnips out of the clamp, and I worked our garden patch once the rain lessened a bit. Too wet the earth were to plough or to sow grain, but I took a hoe to the weeds and it kept me from a naggin’ tongue.’ His voice was bitter and he gave his wife a resentful look, but she just hunched her shoulders and sniffed. The little girl shuddered, and snuggled in closer to her mother, to the detriment of the darning.

  ‘He did that, Serjeant, but it had little to do with the rain and more to do with a sore head from too much ale.’ There was clearly antagonism between husband and wife over that.

  It corroborated, thought Catchpoll, Gwydion’s claim that Pryderi had not been the only one who had drunk too heavily the evening before the killing day, but it did not provide any gem of information.