12 - Nine Men Dancing (23 page)

Nathaniel’s voice carried clearly, even to those on the perimeter of the crowd. There was a momentary faltering, a decrease in sound that died away to almost nothing – only to rise again in frustrated fury as the farmer’s words sank in.

Elder Hemnall lifted a hand, while his companion, Elder Sewter, took a warning step in the direction of the villagers, who showed every tendency to surge forward and storm the house.

‘’E’s lying!’ someone shouted. ‘I’ll wager Tom’s in there somewhere. Friends, don’t let yourselves be hoodwinked!’

There was an angry murmur like a swarm of bees, and a concerted, threatening movement towards the Rawbones, where they stood, cudgels at the ready. But Elder Sewter remained firmly in the path of the ringleaders – Rob Pomphrey and his fellow shepherds – forcing them to halt.

‘Master Hemnall and I will search the farmhouse in an orderly fashion,’ he decreed. ‘The chapman and Landlord Bush, here, will accompany us and bear witness to our efforts. If it proves true that Tom Rawbone is not within, then, and only then, will a posse be formed to go after him.’ He turned to me, lowering his voice and shrugging. ‘Although how we’re to know which direction he’s ridden in, the Virgin alone can tell us. For the Rawbones most certainly won’t.’ He gave me a quirky, but friendly smile.

I warmed to Colin Sewter. On closer acquaintance, he was less austere than he appeared at first sight. He beckoned to William Bush, who was still in some distress after struggling uphill with three stout cudgels, two of which he had handed to the elders. The third he had kept for himself, but he looked uncomfortable and was plainly reluctant to use it. I decided that the landlord was essentially a man of peace, dedicated to rubbing along with all his neighbours. And I was suddenly seized by the conviction that he was not Eris Lilywhite’s killer, however upset he might have been on behalf of his daughter. I felt sure that I could safely eliminate him from my roll of suspects.

The Rawbone women were in the great hall, bunched together in an an angry and frightened little group. They greeted Nathaniel’s reappearance with cries of, ‘What’s happening?’ ‘What’s going on?’

Jacquetta was the first to notice Master Bush, the two elders and myself. ‘What are they doing here?’ she demanded.

‘They’re looking for Tom,’ Ned informed her wearily. ‘We’ve explained that he’s gone, but Elder Hemnall and Elder Sewter insist on searching for themselves. The landlord and the chapman have been brought along to see fair play.’

‘Fair play, my arse!’ Nathaniel roared, causing his daughter-in-law to wince. ‘Tom had nothing to do with this attack on Lambert Miller. He gave me his word.’

‘Then why,’ asked Elder Hemnall reasonably, ‘has he run away?’

‘And how did he know about it?’ Elder Sewter added.

At this last question, I saw Ned glance warningly at his father. He obviously wished to keep Maud Lilywhite’s name out of the matter if he could.

‘Know of it? Know of it? How does anyone know of anything in this benighted place?’ Nathaniel blustered. ‘Gossip travels on the wind … Billy Tyrrell probably brought the news. As for why my son ran away, what do you expect, with the whole village taking the miller’s part and baying for Tom’s blood?’

‘It wasn’t so much Lambert Miller’s beating that incensed them,’ I cut in. ‘It was the attack on the priest.’

‘Sir Anselm?’ Ned looked startled and hushed his father with a wave of his hand. ‘Are you saying that Sir Anselm has also been attacked?’

‘Beaten unconscious,’ Elder Hemnall confirmed grimly. ‘And for all we know at present, likely to die from his injuries.’

There was a horrified silence while the Rawbones, men and women, looked uneasily at one another. Petronelle drew a deep, shuddering breath and slipped a hand into one of her husband’s. Dame Jacquetta sat down suddenly in her chair as though her legs would no longer support her. Elvina Merryman put her fingers to her mouth like a child. Only Nathaniel and the twins seemed unaffected by the information.

‘It still has nothing to do with Tom!’ the old man exclaimed defiantly. ‘Creeping around in the middle of the night, breaking into people’s homes, attacking defenceless men, that’s not Tom’s way of doing things, and you all know it. If he’s a bone to pick with someone, he’ll challenge ’em face to face and fight it out like a man, not behave like some chicken-livered coward.’

From the little I had seen of his younger son, I was inclined to agree with him, but felt it was hardly my place to say so. Nor, I guessed, would Nathaniel appreciate my championing him. I therefore maintained a diplomatic silence.

‘Let the elders get on and search the house, Father,’ Ned advised. ‘The sooner they satisfy themselves that Tom’s not here, the sooner they’ll leave. And the quicker we’ll be rid of that mob outside.’

I could see that it was on the tip of the old man’s tongue to argue the point, but in the end, common sense prevailed.

‘All right,’ he conceded grudgingly, but shook a warning fist in our direction. ‘Just don’t go poking your noses into anything that ain’t your business. Are you listening? You’re looking for Tom, nothing and no one else. You won’t find him, of course, ’cos he ain’t here. However, if you want to waste your time, that’s your affair and don’t make any difference to me.’

William Bush and I – the former very reluctantly – followed the two elders from the hall and spent the next hour subjecting the farmhouse to a thorough scrutiny. We opened chests, peered into cupboards, searched under beds, went up and down stairs until our legs ached and, finally, provoked Ruth’s fury when we descended in a body on the kitchen and interrupted her pastry-making. But we found no sign of Tom Rawbone. Speaking for myself, I had not expected to. Nor, I think, had the others.

As we left the kitchen, I suddenly realized that we had forgotten the existence of the cellar: the building’s original undercroft that some previous Rawbone had had walled in. I hesitated, wondering if I should mention our oversight, then decided against it. I was tired of this fool’s errand we were on, all to satisfy a parcel of village hotheads who were simply looking for an excuse to indulge their baser instincts and ransack the house. I was convinced Tom wasn’t there.

We re-entered the great hall, a somewhat shamefaced little band, hot, dusty and dishevelled. Elder Hemnall, at his most urbane, admitted that we had failed to discover Tom or, indeed, anything at all to connect him to the crime.

‘So, at the moment, it remains Lambert Miller’s word against your son’s, Nathaniel,’ Elder Sewter added. ‘Mind you, it will also depend on what Sir Anselm has to say when he recovers consciousness. If he does, that is.’

‘Right!’ Ned exclaimed, rubbing his hands, relief, if only temporary, making him expansive. ‘You’ll have a beaker of wine with us then, friends, before you leave? I’ll fetch up another bottle from the cellar.’

He’d done it! He’d said the word! I cursed him silently, but the damage was done.

‘Cellar! Colin, we forgot the cellar!’ Elder Hemnall clapped one hand to his forehead while, with the other, he seized Elder Sewter’s arm. ‘Come along! You, too, William. And you Master Chapman. Let’s get this over with before we have that wine.’

Ned’s expression told me that he wished he’d bitten out his tongue before uttering that unfortunate remark. If only he’d realized that we had forgotten about the cellar …! Nevertheless, he did not appear unduly worried, just angry with himself that he’d given us the opportunity to poke about still further among the family belongings. He knew we wouldn’t find his brother.

‘I’ll come with you,’ he said, ‘and fetch up the wine at the same time. The trapdoor is difficult to lift.’

Ned moved ahead of us, out of the hall and along the corridor, before either of the elders could object to his presence. He lifted the flagstone with practised ease, descended a few steps, paused to strike flint on tinder and lit a candle. Holding its flame high, he directed us where best to place our feet on the worn treads, expressing his concern lest one of the three older men should slip and fall. He evidently considered that I was able to take care of myself.

I could see by the flickering candlelight that my companions were somewhat daunted by the cellar’s clutter, but it was unlikely that anyone was hiding there: there was insufficient cover. The piles of logs, the abandoned household goods and furniture were not stacked high enough, and were too scattered, to conceal a much smaller person than Tom Rawbone.

‘Well, sirs, my brother’s not here, as you can see for yourselves,’ Ned said after a few minutes’ half-hearted poking around on our part. As he selected a bottle of wine from the line standing against the inner wall, he was quietly triumphant. ‘Shall we go?’

But even as we turned to climb the steps again, Elder Hemnall made a sudden pounce on something that had become entangled on the toe of Ned’s boot. When he straightened up, a hand pressed to the small of his back, he displayed his trophy.

It took us all a moment or two to recognize what he had found, but once we had done so, it was unmistakable. It was a grey woollen hood with shoulder-cape and liripipe; a perfectly ordinary hood – except that two slits had been cut in the back of it just about where a person’s eyes would be if, for some perverse reason, it was worn back to front.

Nathaniel resolutely refused to accept the discovery as a token of Tom’s guilt.

‘You brought that hood with you,’ he accused the two elders, ‘and dropped it on Ned’s foot when you were in the cellar.’

Elder Hemnall was affronted by this slur on his probity.

‘Don’t talk such bloody nonsense, Nat! If that were the case, we’d have “found” it an hour ago, when we first began searching the house, and saved ourselves a deal of trouble. Now! Be sensible and tell us where Tom’s gone. Which direction has he ridden in?’

‘He didn’t tell us, and we didn’t ask,’ Ned answered shortly. ‘If he’s any sense, he’ll have headed for the Welsh border. But that’s not to say he’s done so.’

I decided it was time for me to add my mite to the discussion.

‘Finding the hood,’ I pointed out, ‘doesn’t necessarily mean that Tom was the wearer. It could have been worn by any other member of this household.’ I glanced at Nathaniel and the twins and then at Ned.

‘It’s Uncle Tom’s hood,’ Jocelyn Rawbone declared flatly. ‘I’ve seen it on him many times. Only yesterday, in fact.’

‘Hold your tongue, Josh!’ Ned barked at him. ‘And that goes for you, too, chapman, if you know what’s good for you. I agree with my father. The hood proves nothing. It could be anyone’s.’

Petronelle rounded angrily on her husband and father-in-law.

‘Stop trying to protect Tom, both of you. He’s not worth it. He’s brought this trouble on himself. That’s his hood and you know it. There’s the rip in the cape where he caught it on some brambles when he was rescuing one of the sheep last month.’ Nathaniel would have interrupted her, but she shouted at him, ‘I won’t have Ned or the twins made scapegoats for Tom. I don’t know why you bother. You and he have never liked one another.’

‘That may be so,’ Nathaniel hissed, ‘but we Rawbones stand together in times like these, so be quiet, woman! If you were my wife, I’d give you a damn good thrashing!’

‘You old lecher!’ Petronelle screamed at him, making claws of her hands and looking as though she might gouge out his eyes at any moment. ‘This is all your fault! You’re worse than Tom! Lusting after a girl young enough to be your granddaughter!’

She collapsed on to a stool, sobbing. The housekeeper hurried over, throwing her arms around Petronelle and rocking her gently.

‘Hush, my dear! Hush! No need to upset yourself.’ She added viciously, ‘That nasty little trollop has gone now and she won’t be coming back.’

Elvina spoke with an assurance that made me glance sharply in her direction; but she was too busy glaring at Nathaniel to be aware of my interest. Ned noticed it, however, and lost his temper, bringing his fist down on the table top with a thump that made everybody start and which must have badly bruised his hand.

‘Shut up, the lot of you,’ he roared. ‘Can’t you see that you’re making a spectacle of this family in front of strangers?’

His fury was plainly so uncharacteristic of him that they all, without exception, subsided into silence. Even Nathaniel seemed to think better of exerting his authority, although judging by the expression on his face it needed all his self-control not to do so.

Ned Rawbone drew himself up and addressed the two elders.

‘Will you please leave now? We have nothing more to say to you. We have no idea where Tom might be. As I said before, he didn’t think to tell us where he was heading. Nor did we ask him, naturally.’

‘Naturally,’ Elder Sewter agreed drily.

‘We shall have to search the outbuildings,’ Elder Hemnall said, preparing to retreat in good order.

Ned shrugged. ‘I don’t care what you do,’ he answered wearily, ‘as long as you persuade that mob out there to go away.’

Colin Sewter nodded. ‘You have our word on that. Nor do we hold any of you responsible for Tom’s actions. You will be free to come and go in the village as you please. You may encounter a little hostility, but no one will molest you.’

‘They’d better not try,’ Nathaniel snorted. ‘Rawbone men know how to defend themselves.’

‘Be sensible, Nathaniel,’ his friend urged him. ‘Don’t go looking for trouble.’

Ned said quietly, his anger having apparently burned itself out, ‘You’ll let us know what Sir Anselm has to say when he recovers consciousness?’

‘Of course.’ Elder Sewter laid a warning hand on his arm. ‘But you do realize that if the priest dies, it can no longer remain a village matter? We shall have to send to Gloucester, to the Sheriff.’

Sir Anselm did not die, however.

By the time that the elders had organized a search of the farm outbuildings by Rob Pomphrey and his friends, persuaded the rest of the villagers to disperse and we had all tramped back to Lower Brockhurst together, a visit to the priest’s house established that he was able to sit up and take some nourishment.

Propped up in bed, looking frail and badly shaken, the livid bruises staining his parchment-white skin like blackberry juice on linen, he was being fed bread and milk by Winifred Bush while the village wise woman packed her medicaments back into her basket.