‘It is not right, mistress, and I will go to the castle and speak with the commander of the garrison.’ Bradecote looked severe.

  ‘Thieves, the lot of ’em,’ grumbled the woman. ‘And what chance be there of me seein’ a single silver penny for the loss? None, and me with four fatherless children to feed.’

  ‘Oh, I think in this very particular case, mistress, Father Prior might consider it charitable to at least provide you with some recompense for your loss, especially as it is the abbey who has the right of the market, and takes dues from it.’ Bradecote was all reason, and smiled at Father Prior.

  ‘Er … well, I can see you are in distress not of your own making and it would be … I will see to it that Brother Almoner gives you six pennies.’

  ‘I always gets at least ten when I comes to Evesham.’ It was the nearest the woman could come to haggling with the monk.

  ‘I see, then eight, yes, eight pennies, for the abbey has to show charity to many souls.’

  ‘Thank you, Father. And will you say a prayer for my poor ’usband, Brictric, as died last Ascensiontide?’

  ‘I will.’

  Tears forgotten, the woman beamed at the prior, then bobbed a curtsey to them both, and went out, followed closely by Serjeant Catchpoll. His words to her were softly spoken, but firm. Others, he said, would not be honest victims like her, but folk trying to get something for nothing, and would be claiming so much cast into the Avon that the river would divert into Bengeworth to go round the islet of goods. It would mean that the abbey came to see all requests as false, and good women, like her, would not be aided again.

  ‘So what you does now, mistress, is go back to Badsey with your eight pennies and damp baskets, and just say trade was not so good today, it bein’ so very hot. Understand?’

  ‘I understands.’ She did not know who he was, or what, but she understood the reasoning.

  ‘Many folk stayed indoors if they could, and trade were a bit less than usual.’ She showed she had the words ready.

  ‘Good. Now, best you get them pennies, and if any tries to get toll off you goin’ back across that bridge, tell ’em Serjeant Catchpoll, the lord Sheriff’s Serjeant, knows what they is up to, and that it makes ’im unhappy.’

  Catchpoll knew that there would be some men-at-arms within the garrison who had spent watches upon the walls of Worcester Castle, and everyone in the castle knew Serjeant Catchpoll. He had a strong feeling the lord Sheriff would not be ‘unhappy’ at all, but he could be as pleased as he liked with the commander of the garrison. The men-at-arms knew who was closest to making their lives a misery when next they came to Worcester, and it was not William de Beauchamp. He stepped back into Father Prior’s chamber with the hint of a smile on his face.

  ‘… and I will attend the service, of course.’ Father Prior was giving details of Walter the Steward’s funeral. The body had already been moved from the abbey church into the parish church of the Holy Trinity, which lay, unusually, within the enclave. It was a building of some age, the gift of Earl Leofric of Mercia, and his equally devout wife, the Lady Godgifu, in the time of the sainted King Edward, and if its exterior was not in the modern style, it was wonderfully endowed within. The abbey habitually provided the priest from among those who took their vows but felt the calling of a parish, and the current incumbent, Father Paulus, had been within the enclave, monk and priest, for thirty years.

  ‘We will be there also, Father.’ Bradecote made it sound for religious rather than investigative reasons and thanked the clerk once again before turning to leave.

  Outside, he ran a hand through his hair.

  ‘Holy Virgin, I hope I can remember all those trades again.’

  ‘I listened close, my lord, and I reckon as I could put name and trade together for most. Odd to ’ear the name of Walter Horsweard again.’ Walkelin had a good memory.

  ‘It was, and it seems odd that his brother has fallen short on the last two Quarter Days.’

  Bradecote was puzzled, and there was something niggling in his brain. Something did not fit. ‘At some point, when the steward is buried, we will have to go to Bengeworth Castle, but what is likely to be important is this list. I get the feeling that these people will give us a clearer idea what Walter the Steward was doing, and thus the best chance of discovering who wanted to stop it, at any cost.’

  The funeral of Walter the Steward was well attended, and although nobody shed a tear, or looked grief-stricken, faces were schooled into solemnity as they entered the cool of the church. As Catchpoll whispered to Walkelin, having heard about the man’s character, it was a surprise that nobody cheered. Not for the first time, Catchpoll wished that for a few minutes he could be the priest, not for any religious reason, but because it would give such a good view of the faces of the congregation. Standing at the back, the sheriff’s men could see the expressions as people entered and left, but otherwise they saw only backs of heads. The only faces looking towards them were those of the priest and the serene and shining faces of the Holy Virgin and St John the Evangelist, whose images, adorned in gold and silver, were set in niches either side of the chancel arch. Prior Richard, flanked by two accompanying minor obedientaries, might have been expected to intone a prayer for one who had served the abbey for many years, but he simply stood in the chancel, apart from the townsfolk, facing the body and looking grave as the priest stood before them in blissful ignorance of what had come to light, and extolled the virtues of a man who had ‘been devoted to the abbey and to this town’. A few feet did shuffle at that. Bradecote thought the prior had made a wise decision, since anything that showed the abbey’s appreciation of what the man had done, would do nothing for relations between spiritual and secular in Evesham.

  Bradecote wished that he could put the names on his list to more of the faces among the assembly, but other than the widow’s family, Oswald Mealtere, with a placid, if not downtrodden, looking woman beside him, Adam the Welldelver, Hubert the Mason and Will Horsweard, memorable because of his hunched shoulders and limping gait, they were all simply townsfolk. He tried to imprint upon his memory any who looked different in demeanour to their fellows. To be sure, lack of grief was no sign of guilt in this case, but there might be an added tension if one had been the man to send Walter the Steward from the world in hot anger and was now seeing the stark reality of the consequences.

  The widow looked pale, and even younger than her years, and had her mother at her side, though her father remained in the row behind. Was that to catch the girl if she fainted and fell back, as a physical as well as moral support, or keeping a lower profile? Walter’s brother, William, was also at the front, but stood away from her and never as much as glanced towards her. He looked as if this was not a funeral but an investiture of his new position, and he stood the taller for it. There was no sign of the ‘distress’ he had shown before the monks the day before.

  As Mærwynn followed the body out of the church for the burial, her mother took her alabaster-white hand and gripped it, possessively, as if reclaiming something that had been lost – or stolen. The graveside was in the full glare of the sun, and it beat upon the mourners, whose numbers had thinned, with some returning to their work. Walkelin saw a man with angel-blonde, wavy hair, wipe his forehead and murmur it was not half as hot as Walter the Steward would find Hell.

  The soft monotone of the priest came to an end, a handful of earth was dropped into the grave by widow and brother, reduced by the summer’s baking to a dust that landed with a patter rather than a thud, and the mourners dispersed, some to celebrate in private. Bradecote sent Walkelin in search of cool refreshment for parched throats, and he returned not only with a pitcher and three beakers, but a loaf of bread tucked under his arm.

  ‘We needs to wait until everyone is back at their trades, so I asked for some bread as well. Also, I found out from a servant in the kitchens where the fuller, the dyer, the thatcher and the Widow Potter lives, so we has a start.’ Walkelin had no doubt this would all be greeted with approbation, though Catchpoll’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘You did not ask outright, now, did you?’

  ‘No, Serjeant.’ Walkelin looked offended. ‘’Course not. I did it the “serjeantin’ way” and they was none the wiser afterwards.’

  ‘Just checkin’ to be sure, but I did not think you would act green.’ Catchpoll was placatory, which was unusual.

  ‘Not now I am an underserjeant.’ Walkelin was proud of his elevation, not so much because it gave him seniority over mere men-at-arms, though that was good, but because Serjeant Catchpoll had thought him worthy. He handed round the beakers.

  Chapter Seven

  The trio were leaving through the new northern gateway by the monk’s graveyard when they were hailed, and turned to see a lanky novice hurrying towards them.

  ‘My lord, Father Abbot asks if you would come to him. Something strange has occurred, and it is connected with Steward Walter.’ The novice crossed himself.

  ‘Of course.’ Bradecote wondered what ‘something strange’ might be.

  When they were admitted to the abbot’s chamber, Prior Richard was also present, and a slight, nervous-looking man with angelic blonde, wavy hair. Walkelin would now be able to put a name to a face.

  ‘My lord Bradecote, this is Aelred the Tailor, a man of good repute, who has come to us about the late Walter.’ Abbot Reginald turned to the tailor. ‘Tell the lord Undersheriff why you are here.’

  ‘My lord,’ Aelred bowed low, in a strangely precise way. Everything about him was neat, and his speech matched his demeanour. ‘Walter the Steward had me make three fine tunics, with braiding upon the front and sleeves, a gown of the best wool, to be trimmed about the neck with fox fur, and a cloak with a squirrel-lined hood. These garments are almost finished, and all the cost, which is high, lands upon me. I came to ask if the debt passed to the abbey, if they had encouraged him to dress more finely to impress at manorial courts, or mayhap to William, the new steward, though I doubt he would be willing to pay unless the clothes can be adjusted to fit.’

  ‘And we most certainly would not suggest an excess of adornment, not on anybody. It encourages the sin of pride.’ Prior Richard was swift to divorce the abbey from any involvement, and also ignored the fact that both he and the abbot, whilst garbed as any other Benedictine, had habits made of the finest woollen cloth, whether the light one in summer or the thicker in winter, and the softest linen for undershirt and drawers. ‘Our steward would not need to flaunt power or wealth hereabouts.’

  ‘I see. You say he “had you” make these clothes, Master Tailor. Do you just mean he commissioned them from you, or did he exert some power or force upon you? Did he expect the price to be cheaper than their true value, for example?’ Bradecote had detected a slight stress upon the words.

  The tailor’s eyes widened as if the undersheriff could read minds.

  ‘It was made clear I must set aside other work to make them before everything else, my lord, and that the cost would be reduced by the amount already owed.’

  ‘Owed? To the abbey?’ Abbot Reginald was so surprised he let it show in his normally very even voice.

  ‘No, no, my lord. I owe nothing to the abbey – always pay up on time I do, and to the full. No, no it – well you see—’ The little man flushed and glanced at abbot and prior with a look of reproach. ‘The abbey must have its reasons, I am sure, but—’ He took a deep breath and then the words came out in a rush, ‘I have been paying Walter, as best I could, to speak up against the wish to pull down my little house and build bigger, now that Evesham is growing so fast, and the rent would be more than I could afford, and besides, the place too big. He said all the rents would be rising for new occupiers. So you see, there was no choice.’

  He was now looking at Bradecote, and so did not see the stunned look upon the faces of the Benedictines. Prior Richard blinked, then frowned.

  ‘It is wrong to speak falsehoods, and how could you, when Father Abbot has spoken of your good repute? I do not know why you—’

  ‘But all I say is true, Father Prior. I will swear it upon the bones of the blessed Saint Ecgwin, and may my hands lose their skill if I lie.’ Aelred sounded desperate to be believed.

  ‘How long had you been paying the steward to “protect” you from losing your home?’ Bradecote did not doubt the man.

  ‘Since Lady Day last year, my lord.’ The tailor’s shoulders sagged a little, as though the burden had been physical.

  ‘And you never thought to come and ask here, yourself?’ Abbot Reginald looked disappointed.

  ‘No, my lord Abbot, for who would believe my word against that of your own trusted steward? That is what Walter said, and true it was.’ Aelred responded swiftly, and with confidence that he spoke the truth.

  Abbot Reginald put a long-fingered hand to his forehead and sighed.

  ‘If the people of Evesham cannot bring petitions to us for fear of favour upon our appointees, we are in error. My son, what cost has there been to you for making these garments, and the true cost, not what Walter offered?’

  ‘In cloth, fur, braid and hours with my needle, a whole seven shillings and fourpence, my lord Abbot.’ The tailor spoke the sum hesitantly, for it was more than two months’ wages for most artisans.

  ‘And Walter offered …?’ Catchpoll wanted to know just how much the steward had wanted to pay.’

  ‘Three shillings and sixpence.’ Aelred hung his head. ‘I paid three shillings a quarter to Walter, for his “help”, but since Michaelmas trade has not been as good, and so I could not fulfil the sum.’

  ‘The abbey will recompense you—’ began Prior Richard, slowly.

  ‘In full.’ Abbot Reginald spared but a half glance at his deputy. ‘You have been deceived, cheated and left wanting and in worry by one given power and credibility by this House. You should know, from me, that no plans have there been, at any time, for the taking down of existing properties, or casting out those who rent or lease from us. The new properties are on land owned by us but as yet unoccupied. If rumour has spread otherwise, then counter it with this truth, my son.’

  ‘Thank you, oh thank you, my lord Abbot.’ The tailor bowed several times, almost weeping with relief, and, after a brief, whispered conversation between abbot and prior, Prior Richard led him out to see to the provision of the silver pennies.

  ‘I do not understand,’ sighed Abbot Reginald. ‘Our steward could have neither reason nor occasion to wear such opulent finery.’

  Neither Catchpoll nor Walkelin knew what ‘opulent finery’ meant, but made a guess at ‘rich man’s clothes’.

  ‘And if the steward demanded twelve shillings a year from Aelred the Tailor, and was also keepin’ back some of the rent that were due as well, what did ’e plan to do with all that silver?’ Catchpoll was trying to think of something and failing.

  ‘And where was ’e keepin’ it?’ Walkelin did not think that in his own home would be wise, for wives tidied so much, especially a new wife, that Mærwynn would have been very likely to find it. He said as much.

  ‘Yes, but we know that he controlled Mærwynn to such a degree she would not dare speak of it.’ Bradecote had been wondering the same thing.

  ‘Aye, but she would say now, now she is free of the man, so we should ask ’er.’ Catchpoll was pragmatic.

  ‘Unless she lies to keep it for ’erself. Might think as she deserves it, after what she put up with.’ Walkelin saw a possible problem.

  ‘And it still does not answer why.’ Abbot Reginald, who felt slightly left behind following the way the shrieval trio’s thought processes worked, sounded almost petulant.

  ‘I think that, Father, is something we will discover only late in all this, but it will be found out. And best we set about asking a lot more questions, so we will leave you.’ Bradecote nodded respectfully, and was followed by serjeant and underserjeant. Outside, he shut his eyes for a moment and sighed.

  ‘This becomes more of a tangle, not less.’

  ‘Sometimes that is the way of it, my lord, but we gets there in the end – usually.’

  ‘And the greater the tangle, the more to work with,’ volunteered Walkelin, who liked a lot of information.

  ‘So we will begin with the one person on our list who at least is most unlikely to be our killer, the Widow Potter. Lead the way, Walkelin.’

  The Widow Potter was a motherly-looking woman, with laughter lines about her eyes, and a face that exuded kindness and good humour. A strand of hair had escaped from under her coif, and was plastered to her forehead with clay slip, where she had tried to wipe it away from her eyes, and her apron was also adorned with smears and splashes. Two young men, whom she proudly named as her sons, were throwing pots upon wheels, and a younger lad was taking each completed beaker and putting it upon a tray, which would later go to the kiln.

  The woman was respectful in her greeting but not overawed, and took the sheriff’s men into the back of the premises, where the family lived in cramped conditions. However, it was clean and the widow said it was better they talk there, not least so that no clay could adhere to the lord Undersheriff’s fine clothes.

  ‘You went to the funeral this afternoon, mistress. Were you a friend of Walter the Steward?’ Bradecote knew the question would not receive a positive answer, but was slightly taken aback when the woman laughed out loud and wreaked more havoc upon the cleanliness of her face by wiping her eyes as the tears flowed.

  ‘Bless me, no, my lord, but then none there would say they was friends with the man, not if they is ’onest, and not even ’is brother, who will be a difficult man to deal with, now the stewardship lies with ’im. Pity ’tis that the position be inherited, since from what was said when I were young, their father was another such, and their oldfather also. Picked bad ’uns, did the abbot who chose the family, but there, nothing to be done about it now.’