‘Never mind that for now,’ said Michael, raising one hand to prevent Boltone from accepting the challenge. ‘We have come to ask about this unpleasant business at Merton Hall.’
‘We did not kill anyone,’ said Boltone firmly. ‘Duraunt claims I falsified the accounts – which is untrue, as I shall demonstrate when I have devised a way of doing so – but we had nothing to do with Chesterfelde’s demise.’
‘No?’ asked Michael, throwing down the gauntlet in the frail hope of learning something by unnerving them. ‘Prove it.’
Eudo gave an insolent shrug. ‘We do not need to prove it: we are innocent, and that is that. We are not obliged to explain ourselves to you or to any other man.’
Boltone adopted a less confrontational attitude. ‘Neither Eudo nor I has a reason to hurt anyone at Merton Hall – least of all a pleasant man like Chesterfelde.’
‘What about that scratch on your arm?’ asked Bartholomew, pointing to Eudo’s cut. ‘Chesterfelde had one rather like it – and it killed him.’
Eudo did not seem to find the association a worrying one. He shrugged again. ‘Perhaps the killer tried to murder me, but, finding me too manly, decided to slaughter the cackling Chesterfelde instead.’
Michael was unconvinced. He doubted that someone had been so determined to kill by exsanguination that he had moved to a second victim when his first attempt was unsuccessful. ‘Where were you when Chesterfelde died?’
‘In the King’s Head, as I told you the last time you asked,’ replied Eudo with a bored sigh. ‘However, since you do not know exactly when Chesterfelde died, I cannot know exactly where I was.’ He sneered. ‘Is that clear enough logic for you, Proctor?’
‘It is very clear,’ said Bartholomew, leaning forward to peer into the cistern. Its contents were dark and muddy, and the sides slick with slime. ‘So here is some logic for you: Chesterfelde did not die in the hall – he was killed when someone sliced his wrist and allowed him to bleed to death. His corpse was stabbed and dumped later. Do you have any logic to explain how that happened?’
Eudo regarded him coldly, and removed the hammer from his belt. It was a large one with a thick oak handle and a mass of metal for a head. ‘That is rubbish,’ he said, swinging it like a weapon. ‘I saw the knife embedded in his spine myself.’
‘I am sure you did,’ said Bartholomew, ignoring the threat. ‘However, we cannot always believe what we see, particularly when it is intended to mislead us.’
‘We shall talk about this another time,’ said Michael, taking a step away. He had seen the kind of damage expertly wielded tools could do, and decided he would rather discuss Chesterfelde’s murder when he had a posse of beadles at his heels, all armed with knives and swords.
Eudo regarded him with rank disdain. ‘And do not come here again with nasty accusations and no way to prove them.’
‘Very well,’ said Michael, edging further away. ‘Matt, come with me.’
Boltone shot his companion an uneasy glance. ‘Put the hammer down, Eudo, and let us see to this pulley. We have done nothing wrong and have nothing to fear from the Proctor and his lackey.’
‘Not so,’ said Bartholomew, leaning down to inspect the ground. He poked the turf with his finger, and it came away stained reddish-brown. He held it up for the others to see. ‘Chesterfelde was killed here – and his blood in the grass proves it.’
Even before he had finished speaking, Eudo moved. He swung the hammer at Bartholomew’s head in a savage, deadly arc. Startled by the speed of the attack, the physician jerked away and lost his footing. Without breaking stride, Eudo lunged at Michael.
‘No,’ screamed Boltone in horror. ‘Eudo! There is no need for violence!’
Michael moved with surprising speed for a man of his girth, and managed to twist out of the way. He staggered backwards, where the low wall of the cistern bumped against his calves, and windmilled his arms furiously in an attempt to regain his balance. Boltone darted forward. Bartholomew could not tell whether the bailiff intended to push or help the monk, but before he could do either Michael disappeared over the edge with a piercing shriek. A splash indicated that he had landed.
‘Now you have done it,’ growled Eudo to Boltone. ‘There is no turning back now.’
Bartholomew rolled in an effort to put as much distance between him and Eudo as possible, then tried to scramble to his feet. Eudo was quicker, and the hammer plunged downward again. Bartholomew squirmed out of the way and heard it connect hard with the pulley, so the whole structure shuddered. While the physician’s attention was taken with Eudo, Boltone approached from the other side, evidently deciding attack was the only way to extricate himself from the situation his friend had created. He was unexpectedly strong for so small a man, and when he grabbed one of Bartholomew’s wrists and shoved him roughly towards the cistern, he was difficult to fend off. From inside the well, Bartholomew could hear the panicky gurgling of a man who could not swim.
He struggled hard, seeing that the bailiff intended to hold him while Eudo battered him to death. Seizing the medical bag he always carried, he hurled it with all his might at the approaching Eudo, skidding and dropping to one knee as he did so. Boltone fell with him, his small hands still fixed firmly around the physician’s left arm. Eudo faltered when the bag struck him, but then advanced again, while Bartholomew raised his free arm to protect his head. Eudo’s first blow went wide, and the hammer struck sparks as it smashed into the wall with devastating force. Bartholomew saw he did not have much time, and was acutely aware of the terrified choking sounds emanating from the cistern. He attempted to bring Boltone in front of him, to use as a shield, but the bailiff saw what he was trying to do and resisted. With a grin that verged on the manic, Eudo approached.
CHAPTER 5
Just when Bartholomew thought his life was about to end and that Eudo was going to dash out his brains and kick his body into the cistern, where no one would find it until Merton Hall’s residents started to sicken from drinking bad water, Eudo’s smile became forced. Then it faded altogether. The tenant put his hand to his chest, and when he pulled it away, there was blood on his fingers.
‘Someone is shooting at us,’ cried Boltone in alarm. He released Bartholomew, who dropped to the ground, certain that if someone was loosing arrows, then it would be no friend of his. The bailiff darted forward and tugged the quarrel from Eudo’s chest, making his friend shriek in pain. ‘I told you to go back to work and not answer questions, and now look what has happened. You should have known the Proctor would not come here alone. We are doomed!’
‘Not yet,’ said Eudo, grimacing at the redness staining his palm. ‘We will finish the physician, hunt out this archer, and-’ Another arrow hissed into the ground at his feet, making him jump like the dancing bear Bartholomew had watched in the Market Square. ‘But then again, perhaps not.’
Without further ado, he raced away. Startled by his abrupt flight, Boltone tore after him, howling for him to stop, but Eudo had no intention of waiting to be shot, and within moments both men were lost from sight. Bartholomew crawled towards the spent missile, his thoughts whirling in confusion. It was tiny, although still large enough to have pierced Eudo’s skin. He scanned the trees that lay across the Bin Brook, and sure enough, there was Dickon’s tawny head poking over the wall. The boy was wearing a grin that almost split his face in half.
‘Splat!’ shouted Dickon in delight. ‘I kill him.’
Bartholomew climbed unsteadily to his feet, edging towards the cistern, half his mind on the fact that Michael had gone ominously quiet, and half on the fact that Dickon might have enjoyed his live target practice so much he would try it again.
‘Put the bow down,’ he ordered sternly. ‘Your father forbade you to shoot at people. He will be angry when he learns what you have done.’