‘He ate that of his own free will. Do not blame me for what he did to himself.’
‘But you provided him with the means to do it. You knew what was likely to happen, and you should accept some responsibility for the tragedy.’
‘The sub-prior was a grown man; he made his own decision.’ Polmorva’s face was dark and dangerous. ‘But there is a question that has been nagging at me for years, and I would like an honest answer: did you steal my fangs after he died? They disappeared, and I was deprived of a valuable source of income. You took them once before – you no doubt recall how I found them on the ground outside your window. Did you make off with them a second time?’
‘Of course he did not,’ said Duraunt firmly. ‘He could not have done.’
‘You seem very sure of that,’ said Polmorva suspiciously.
‘I am – because I took them,’ said Duraunt. Both men gaped at him. ‘Matthew was right: they were a danger to incautious old men. But you were also right: borrowing them conferred great pleasure. So, seeing the conundrum was insoluble, I decided it would be best if they simply ceased to exist. I carried them to the nearest forge, and watched the blacksmith melt them into nothing.’
Polmorva was astounded. ‘Why did you not tell me this at the time? I have believed Bartholomew to be a thief for nigh on two decades.’
‘Because I was afraid of your temper. But all this happened a long time ago, and it is high time it was set right. Clasp each other’s hands, and consign your differences to the past.’
‘No,’ said Polmorva, dragging his arm away. ‘I have endured too many insults, and I am no hypocrite, smiling falsely at men I hate. But tend your fat friend, physician. He is reeling like a drunkard. Perhaps that is the reason he toppled inside the cistern, and this claim about bowmen and hammers is the invention of an intoxicated mind.’
Bartholomew did not dignify him with an answer. He freed his hand from Duraunt, sorry to see the sadness on the old man’s face. Duraunt was right: to continue a youthful argument for twenty years was foolish, but even setting eyes on Polmorva reminded Bartholomew of how much he had despised the fellow and his selfish schemes, and he discovered he was equally unforgiving. The strength of the emotion surprised him; he had not known he was the kind to bear grudges.
‘Eudo?’ muttered Michael, glancing around as if he imagined the tenant might still be lurking. He clutched Eu for support, making the man gasp and sway under the weight. Wormynghalle chuckled as Eu’s legs began to buckle, and it was left to Abergavenny to try to relieve his beleaguered colleague. ‘And that slippery Boltone? Where did they go?’
‘Well away from this town, if they know what is good for them,’ said Tulyet grimly. ‘Your beadles will be after their blood for what they did to you, while my soldiers do not take kindly to men being left to drown in cisterns, either – not even scholars.’
‘That is comforting,’ said Michael. He reached out and seized the sniggering Wormynghalle when he found Eu unequal to the task of supporting him, snagging the ugly sheep’s head pendant as he did so. The amusement disappeared from the tanner’s face as he tried to prise it free.
‘I kill him,’ said Dickon, brandishing his bow in happy satisfaction.
‘You took a long time to do what I asked,’ said Bartholomew, somewhat ungraciously, since the boy had saved his life.
‘That was not his fault,’ said Tulyet defensively. ‘He came long before dusk to tell me what he had seen, but I did not believe him. Only the fact that he refused to sleep until we had visited the cistern together brought me here.’ He raised his hands. ‘You must admit it sounds unlikely – you two playing a game with Eudo, which culminated in a leap down the well.’
‘I kill him,’ repeated Dickon with unseemly relish, leaving Bartholomew in no doubt as to what he considered the highlight of the whole affair.
‘Did he?’ asked Tulyet in a low voice. He had ordered lamps brought from the hall, and had been inspecting the ground while Michael recovered. ‘Only there is a lot of blood here.’
‘That is probably Chesterfelde’s,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And perhaps some of it belongs to whoever else is in the pit.’
‘The man you did not recognise,’ mused Tulyet. ‘How long has the body been down there, do you think? A day? A week? A year?’
‘Not a day and not a year,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Somewhere in between.’
‘Can you not be more specific?’ asked Michael, releasing the merchants and standing unaided at last. They backed away fast, to make sure they were not manhandled a second time. ‘People often go missing, and I do not want to trawl through a year’s reports to identify him. Neither will Dick.’
‘Pull him out, and I will try to narrow it down,’ offered Bartholomew. ‘I only glimpsed him for a moment, but he may yield more information after a proper examination.’
‘I suppose I can arrange for the well to be drained,’ said Tulyet unenthusiastically. ‘Not tomorrow – I am too busy with preparations for the Visitation – but perhaps the day after.’
‘I kill him,’ insisted Dickon, determined to have their attention and stamping his small foot to get it. ‘He kill one man, so I kill him. Like my father.’
Bartholomew frowned, wondering whether from the vantage point of the wall the boy had witnessed other acts of violence. ‘What exactly did you see, Dickon?’
‘I saw him kill,’ replied Dickon impatiently, as though Bartholomew had not been paying proper attention. ‘And I kill him.’
‘When?’ pressed Bartholomew, aware that Tulyet was more anxious than ever. He imagined it would not be pleasant to have an infant son so eager to commit murder with his toys. ‘Today? When you saw those two men fighting with Michael and me?’
‘No,’ said Dickon, as if it were obvious. ‘When I played with my dog.’
‘Before yesterday, then,’ said Tulyet. ‘That was when his dog died.’
‘The dog died ?’ repeated Bartholomew uneasily. ‘Did he shoot it?’
‘He says not,’ said Tulyet. He grasped another solution like a drowning man with a straw. ‘Eudo must have done it, intending to aim at Dickon! Lord! What kind of man shoots at a child?’
‘One whom that child is attacking,’ suggested Bartholomew. He had seen for himself that Dickon was a fair shot, so it was entirely possible he had honed his skills on people.
Tulyet knelt next to his son. ‘This is important, Dickon. What did you see?’
‘The big one has blue eyes and a little knife. He was splashing in the water. Pow!’
‘He means Eudo,’ surmised Michael. ‘Eudo is tall with blue eyes. And Eudo’s victim must be the body in the cistern, not Chesterfelde, because Chesterfelde was never in the water. If he had been, he would have been left there, not fished out and dumped in the hall.’
‘I kill him!’ insisted Dickon, stamping his foot again when the adults insisted on ignoring him.
‘Who?’ asked Tulyet, becoming exasperated. ‘The man with the blue eyes?’
Dickon nodded proudly, and Tulyet looked troubled.
‘He did shoot Eudo,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘He wounded him, but not seriously, although it was enough to make him think he was under attack by beadles.’
‘God save us,’ muttered Tulyet, rubbing his eyes. ‘I have told him never to shoot at people, but the moment he disobeys me, he saves the life of two friends. And he knows it. He thinks he has done the right thing. What shall I do?’
Bartholomew had no answer, and was grateful the child was not his to mould into a sane and law-abiding adult. He considered Paxtone’s contention that Tulyet was not Dickon’s father – that the Devil had had something to do with it – and began to think his colleague might be right.