A Corpse at St Andrew's Chapel (28 page)

“Ain’t breathin’. ’E’s dead. Whacked ’im ’cross the head hard enough. Shouldda hit ’im second time at Alvescot, when I had the chance.”

“Live an’ learn,” Kellet chuckled.

“’Ere…grab ’is feet an’ ’elp me get ’im over the wall.”

I was taken up, dragged across the wet grass of the chapel yard to the west wall, hoisted to the top, and dumped over into a pile of nettles. ’Twas my life depended on my silence, so I did not cry out. Had I done so the nettles would not have stung the less.

“I’m off then, for me spade,” a muted voice came from across the wall. “See you be here t’help when I return.”

I heard the chapel door creak open, then close. I must not be here when the man returned. At least, not alone.

I had walked this grove so often in the dark, I felt at home in it. I rose, head throbbing, to my knees and listened, should the fellow think better of his plan and return. The night was silent. So was I as I wobbled to my feet and staggered through the wood to the barley fields beyond.

A plan formed in my scrambled mind as I stumbled from the shadows of the trees into the moonlit field. I hastened straight west across the wet field. Was a man to study the field he would see my dark form against the barley. But I did not seek to travel the path for fear my attacker might also be on the track, returning with his shovel. And the barley field was the most direct route to Rosemary Lane and John Prudhomme.

I did not wish to rouse John’s neighbors from their beds, so rapped but gently on the beadle’s door. My effort was like much else in life: too little will not serve, and too much may cause unwanted consequence. I knocked several times upon the door, each time more firmly than the last, before I heard from beyond the planks a muttered oath, then a question: “Who disturbs the night?”

“’Tis Hugh…open your door. There is mischief about.”

John swung open the door in response and squinted at me.

“Clothe and arm yourself. Hurry. I will explain when we are off. And bring a length of rope, if you have it.”

The beadle did not question my charge, but disappeared into the blackness of his house. I heard him speak to his wife and stumble about in the dark. Then he reappeared, shod, cudgel in one hand and a coil of rope in the other.

I explained our mission as I led him across the barley strips. “’Tis Thomas atte Bridge,” John concluded when I had finished my tale.

“I could not see a face, nor identify the voice, but I think you speak true.”

“And he spoke of poaching?”

“Nay. But ’twas a rabbit filled his sack, I think.”

“But why give it to John Kellet?” the beadle puzzled.

“There is payment, or obligation, in this or I am mistaken. But what is owed and why I cannot guess.”

John walked on my right hand as we hastened across the field. This was fortunate, for when we were nearly to the grove at its eastern edge the moon, which had been briefly obscured, reappeared from behind a scudding cloud. In its light a movement caught my eye. I grasped the beadle’s arm, pulled him to the ground, and whispered, “Shhh.”

I pointed to the south, toward the path from town to chapel, and together we cautiously raised our heads above the barley stalks. Another cloud chose that moment to obscure the moon, but before it did we saw a figure hastening along the lane toward the chapel. The moonlight was not bright enough to see, but I was sure there was an implement thrown over the fellow’s shoulder. Such a tool might be a formidable weapon. I whispered a warning to John and bade him rise and follow me into the wood.

The clearing sky which followed the rain now began to thicken. Clouds hid the moon. It was well I had penetrated this grove in darkness many times, else I might have got turned round. But I found the west wall of the churchyard with no difficulty and drew John to his knees beside me behind the smooth skin of a beech.

“’Twas just there,” I pointed, “aside the wall, where they left me for dead.”

“Shall we await them here,” the beadle whispered, “or have them in the churchyard?”

“Here, I think. We will have the black wood behind us, and I should like to hear what they say when they find me gone. Perhaps we will learn more.”

We did.

We heard voices approach beyond the wall and shortly two shadowed forms appeared. I heard one warn the other of nettles, and after some indecision and prodding at the overgrown wall they found a place to their liking and clambered over. But not without a curse from a sting or two. It served John Kellet right. He should have taken better care of his chapel.

The two figures stood silent for a moment. I thought I could see their heads twisting as they examined the forest floor for the body they had left there. I could see this because the northeast sky was beginning to lighten with an early summer dawn.

“Where away was it you dropped him?” I heard Kellet ask.

“Here,” came the puzzled reply, “or nearabouts.”

“Well, it must be nearabouts. ’Tis not here…unless some beast,” Kellet chuckled, “has dragged him off already.”

“Ha,” the other replied. “The king should employ you for his jester. You go that way, an’ I’ll go t’other. ’E’s ’ere some’eres. Sing out when you find ’im.”

The two shadows separated, Kellet to the south, the other to the north. John and I waited behind the beech as the dim figures poked through the grove along the wall until both were lost to sight and all that could be known of their search was the sound of it.

Eventually even that evidence faded, but soon enough returned. Each man had reached an end to the wall, found nothing, and retraced his steps. I heard much consternation in Kellet’s voice when he spoke.

“I found no corpse…nor did you, I think. I heard nothing from you.”

“’E’s ’ere…got to be. ’Twas not three paces from this place where I shoved ’im over wall.”

The words spoke surety, but the tone of voice spoke incredulity. A thought occurred to me that if my disappearance was incredible, my reappearance might be also. I touched Prudhomme’s arm by way of warning, then moaned softly.

The effect was sudden and gratifying. From my refuge behind the beech tree I watched two shadows stumble quickly toward the wall.

“You said ’e was dead,” the priest hissed. “He’s crawled off somewhere.”

“’E was dead,” came a shaky reply.

I moaned again, a little more loudly this time.

“An’ corpses cry out like that?” Kellet snorted.

I decided that more than a groan might be called for. I whispered, but loudly enough to be heard: “I will be avenged…who is’t troubles my grave?”

Two shadows plunged, heedless of the nettles, over the wall and back to the openness and safety of the chapel yard. I saw John’s teeth as he grinned at the performance. I motioned him to follow, then left the shadow of the tree and approached the wall in a crouch.

“Stay behind,” I whispered, “so you are not seen. Stand beside me upon my signal.”

Kellet and his visitor had slowed their race to escape the wood and were backing slowly across the chapel yard, eyes fixed on the wall and the dark copse beyond. I wish there had been more light. I should like to have seen their eyes when I stood at the wall and appeared, an apparition, as they thought, from the dead.

I moaned once more. The effect had been salubrious before, so I tried it again. The result was remarkably similar. The two men stood agape, too startled to run.

“I will be avenged,” I said again. “And Alan, too.” I pulled John to his feet beside me.

’Twas too dark for us to be identified. They might assume my identity – or that of my specter – at the wall, but they could not see to be sure. They could surely not see that the apparition beside me was the new beadle, not the old.

“You know we cannot pursue you on to consecrated ground,” I hissed loudly. “But we will be avenged.” John stood beside me, nodding vigorously, so that even in the dark his agreement might be seen.

“’Twasn’t me,” Kellet squealed.

“Shut up,” the other cried.

“Why? They’re spirits. They’ll know who ’twas who did for ’em.”

“Then no need to tell ’em.”

“They won’t know I had naught to do with it. ’Twas Henry killed Alan,” the priest blurted.

“And now he lies in his grave,” I murmured. “As you will soon, Thomas atte Bridge.”

“No,” the man stammered, and I knew the beadle was right. It was Thomas there with the priest. I saw his shape take a step away from me and the wall. “You will not take me…you cannot enter here.”

“True,” I said softly, “I cannot enter. And you, you cannot leave…else I will have you.”

Atte Bridge took another step back. Kellet turned from me to his companion and back again. I spoke next to the priest.

“A priest who profits from poaching. Lord Gilbert will find you out, even so I am gone and may not tell him so.”

It was Kellet’s turn to take a step back from the wall.

“’At’s right,” Thomas quaked. “’Twas ’im gained from all.”

I believe it was about that moment that Kellet realized he might deal not with specters but with flesh and blood. “Be silent, you fool,” the priest demanded.

“Nay…I’ll not bear the wrath o’ spirits alone when ’twas you planned all.”

“The wrath of spirits,” I murmured, “is much to be feared. But best fear this priest. When we come for you we may find you among us already.”

I saw atte Bridge turn to Kellet, and realized that the churchyard was not so dark as had been. Dawn was beginning to lighten the sky to the east of the chapel.

“What…what does ’e mean?” Thomas asked the priest.

My next words were a gamble, but one with small risk. “Tell Thomas,” I whispered loudly, “what happened to his brother.”

The priest made no answer.

“What ’appened to me brother?” Thomas asked.

“Tell him,” I sighed. “You know well.”

“Who killed ’Enry? You know an’ ’aven’t told me?”

“He cannot tell,” I hissed.

“Aye,” Kellet agreed. “I cannot tell, for I know not who killed ’im.”

“A lie,” I charged. “You cannot tell for to do so would be to indict yourself.”

“You…?” Thomas exclaimed.

“Nay…he lies,” the priest cried.

“Spirits do not lie,” atte Bridge declared.

“Be silent,” Kellet shouted. “These are not spirits.”

He said no more, for Thomas delivered a blow from his right fist which knocked the corpulent priest to his well-padded rump. He then set about pummeling Kellet about the head so that John and I were able to leap the wall and approach before Thomas knew we were upon him. The beadle was a step behind me, so I did not see him cock his cudgel. But I heard the club as it passed my ear and landed solidly upon Thomas atte Bridge’s head. He fell across the priest’s prone form, and both lay silent and unmoving at our feet.

“Well done,” I complimented John. He, meanwhile, had drawn the club back for another blow, should it be necessary. ’Twas not.

The rotund priest struggled to draw himself from under the comatose cotter. I thought he intended to run, but then he saw the cocked club in the beadle’s hands and thought of a better escape.

“I am the bishop’s man. You have no bailiwick here,” he cried.

“True enough. But when Lord Gilbert learns of this he will have a word with Thomas de Bowlegh. And Henry atte Bridge died in Lord Gilbert’s forest.” I stepped closer to the quaking priest. “That is my bailiwick.”

“Then you must seek Henry’s killer,” Kellet stammered.

“I have…and found him.”

“Have you proofs?”

The priest had me. I was sure ’twas he who lay in ambush with Henry atte Bridge that evening, awaiting my return from Witney. I knew it was he to whom Henry had cried, “He lives.” And I knew the arrows Kellet had intended for me, should I return while ’twas still light enough for their use, had been turned on his companion. The priest surely feared then that I would know ’twas Henry atte Bridge who attacked me, and when pressed, Henry would confess the truth and tell of Kellet’s role in the blackmail which existed in the town, which none had suspected. I suspected all this, but the priest spoke true. I could not prove it.

It was grown light enough that when Thomas atte Bridge twitched at our feet the movement caught our eyes. The beadle had wrapped the rope about his waist and tied it there. I told him to undo it and tie Thomas’ hands behind his back with it and take the fellow to the castle. The cell there had not been used since I came to the town two years before. It would have an inhabitant now.

I demanded of John Kellet that he accompany me to Thomas de Bowlegh’s vicarage. This he was reluctant to do. The priest turned from me to return to the chapel. His cowl presented the most convenient handle to prevent this. I grasped it and twisted the wool tight about his thick neck.

“The sack,” I demanded. “Where is it?”

“S…s…sack?” he spluttered.

“The one Thomas brought this night. Where is it?” I twisted the cowl tighter.

“The porch,” Kellet gasped.

I shoved him before me toward the porch and he pointed out the corner where it lay. I released my hold on Kellet’s cowl, withdrew the sack from its shadowed corner, and emptied it. In the morning light a haunch of venison – no coney – fell out onto the grass of the churchyard.

“Did Thomas set snares for this, or is he accomplished with a bow and arrows…as you are?”

The priest did not reply. I returned the venison to the sack and motioned Kellet to the gate. Perhaps he feared I might again attempt to strangle him. He set out promptly.

The spire of St Beornwald’s Church glowed golden in the rising sun as we approached Bampton. Most of this journey was accomplished in silence, but for the wheezing of the fat priest. But as we came to Bushey Row a question occurred to me.

“What business had Thomas in Alvescot that he would knock me in the head and wish me dead rather than have me know of it?”

Kellet made no reply. He was unaccustomed, I think, to walking so fast. His only sound was to gasp for breath.

“I thought I trailed a poacher,” I continued, “but it seems odd to me that Thomas went to the town rather than the forest around it. ’Twas near midnight.”

Kellet held his silence. This one-sided conversation was becoming tiresome. “Poachers do business in the forest, not in a village. What business had Thomas at midnight in Alvescot?”