They went first to find the prior, who could direct them to William, brother of Walter. It seemed odd to call him ‘the Steward’ before his brother had even been laid in the earth or he had taken up his duties. Bradecote also wanted to see if the prior, with perhaps more frequent contact with both men, had a differing view of them to that of his abbot. Prior Richard was happy to tell them where William might most likely be found, though less eager to speak about his character, or that of his dead brother.
‘Walter the Steward succeeded his father when he was about two and twenty, a good many years before I became prior. He was always very aware that his bloodline went back to Abbot Walter, or more precisely, his kindred, and I think he felt a little superior to those of purely English blood, though to me it was foolishness. God cares not about lineage, but about the quality of a soul.’ Prior Richard sounded mildly disappointed in his fellow man. ‘He worked hard, and was never late, nor absent without a very good cause. He was respectful to me and to Father Abbot, and he was devoted to the improvement of this House, in wealth and size.’
‘Forgive me, Father, but that does not really tell us much about what you thought of him.’
‘I am not sure it is relevant, my lord Bradecote.’ The 74mildest of reproofs could be detected in his voice.
‘Father Prior, I can only be open with you. Father Abbot spoke highly of the steward, indeed commended his charity towards those who were remiss in paying their rents, but this is entirely at odds with what we have heard of him in the town.’ Bradecote was not put off.
‘As steward he would not always be popular. Those who collect the dues rarely are.’
‘But nothing has been said in his favour, no “despite that, he was …” From a variety of people we have heard he was bullying, controlling, proud, and might even have been extorting more than just the due rents from some townsfolk.’
‘Surely not.’ The prior looked genuinely shocked.
‘We have yet to discover the truth of it, or its extent, but yes, it has been suggested. It is almost beyond doubt that his wife, and the one who preceded her, have been kept, cowed and almost prisoners, in his house.’
‘I was aware he had married again after his wife died, but we, within these walls, do not think about women. I would never have thought to ask about Walter’s wife.’
‘I am not suggesting blame, Father, merely that your steward was not the man he made himself out to be, and that means there may be more men who might have a reason, in their own mind, to end his life.’
‘But such a mortal sin!’ Prior Richard looked genuinely distressed.
‘Father Abbot said that prayers would be said for our success in finding who killed Walter, not least so that their soul might be prayed for. Anything you can tell us, helps that being achieved.’ Bradecote did not want the prior to 75withdraw into the shell of the tonsured who shut out the evils perpetrated beyond their enclosed world.
‘Yes, I understand.’ The prior clasped his hands together, and looked as if he was forcing himself to face the unpleasant realities of the world. He sighed, heavily. ‘I suppose I chose to think the best, and ignore any signs of failings. Our House has thrived under his stewardship, so perhaps I am guilty of looking at the end and not at the means, but it is true, what Father Abbot told you. Steward Walter advocated that further time be given to those who were late, or fell short, in their rents come Quarter Day. He did seem most charitable in that, and yet,’ the sigh was repeated, ‘there were times when I felt the abbey servants looked … browbeaten, though I never heard him actually berating one. None of us go out into the town, into the world, unless for a very important reason, other than our lay brothers who return from a grange for a time, and then are sent out again. We would not hear what is said there, but it grieves me if Walter’s actions brought this House into disrepute, and raised sinful thoughts and deeds among those who look to us as a beacon of godliness.’
Catchpoll kept to himself the thought that the prior was under an illusion if he thought that was how all the tonsured were regarded by the wider population.
‘Now tell us what you think of the new steward, William.’ Bradecote did not think he would get much more detail on Walter. ‘Not the words that come easily, but, knowing how Walter was not all he seemed, look at how he truly appears to you, Father.’
‘He is not tolerant as Walter wa—seemed to be, and seems very … driven. He is, I think, guilty of believing only he is right.’ 76
‘And was that the cause of disagreement with his brother over the expansion of the town, and the building of more houses?’
‘Yes.’ The word was drawn out a little. ‘Though when one looks at it honestly, there was no fraternal love between them that shone. They kept mostly out of each other’s way, and if they heard the other one had advocated something, they would say it was wrong, or should be done differently. But,’ the prior cheered up a little, ‘William was definitely much affected when he saw his brother’s body. He wept, for all to see, which shows that deep down, there was brotherly love.’
Catchpoll had to cough to hide the growl that indicated it meant no such thing, and that it could as well be a way to deflect any suspicion.
‘Was William jealous of his brother being steward?’ Bradecote did not expect a definite answer and was surprised, though it came after a pause.
‘I had not considered it, really, but yes. Or rather he resented his brother holding the office that he felt he would fill better, which is not quite the same thing, but similar.’
‘Who “won” the argument over the town?’
‘William. He made a very good case, not only before Father Abbot, but all at Chapter, since Father Abbot thought it was a decision which all the brethren should decide upon together. The works began in April and the digging of the well was part of that.’
‘Thank you, Father Prior.’ Bradecote acknowledged that the Benedictine had been forced to confront things he would have chosen to ignore.
‘No, thank you, my lord Bradecote. You have made me consider what I would have avoided doing. It behoves me 77to make sure that William does not fall into the sins of his brother, nor become tyrannical now he has the name of “Steward”. I shall be watchful. God has used you, and this terrible event, to some good purpose. I give thanks for it.’ Prior Robert held up his hands and gazed upwards.
The sheriff’s men left him to his prayers.
William the Steward, as he was practising calling himself, lived on the westward side of the market square, fewer than a hundred paces from his brother’s house. It was a little smaller, and held more life within it, not least because William was the father of three sons below tithing age, who could be heard in the yard behind the burgage plot. There was also a daughter, a little older, assisting her mother in the house. William himself looked enough like his brother to be recognised as kin, even though the shrieval trio had only seen Walter in death. There was the same dark hair with a hint of a wave to it, heavy brows and a square chin, though the mouth was surprisingly delicate. He wore a longer cotte than most, and his belt boasted a large, ornate buckle, and an equally decorated end. He looked squarely at Bradecote when Catchpoll had introduced him, and, when the undersheriff said he wished to speak about his brother, he sent wife and daughter out ‘to quiet the boys’ but under instruction to remain outside.
‘I do not want them upset.’
‘Very thoughtful of you …’ Bradecote felt the absence of a name beyond the Christian name, and his voice trailed off quite obviously.
‘Since the duty falls upon me, I am not ashamed to answer 78to William the Steward.’ The man spoke ponderously, but with no sign that he disliked the ‘duty’. He also spoke more like the clerics for whom he worked. No doubt it was part and parcel of being ‘stewards by descent’.
‘Though the lord Abbot ’as given you leave until your brother lies buried.’ Catchpoll’s tone hinted it might seem a little precipitate.
‘He has, but it makes no difference. There is always a steward. When my father died, my brother took up the duty the moment the priest stopped intoning prayers at the bedside.’
‘You seem very composed … Master Steward,’ observed Bradecote, giving the title.
‘No good would wailing do, and I cannot change what has happened.’
‘Though you “wailed” when you first saw your brother’s corpse brought into the abbey yard.’ Bradecote was swift.
‘And no good did it do, my lord. Shocked I was, I admit that, it being a sudden dying, and what came into my head was how my mother, on her deathbed, said as it gladdened her failing heart that after she was gone, we would have each other to lean upon. Not that I think it true, but I was thinking of her, and that made the tears fall. However, our fate is in God’s hands,’ he crossed himself piously, ‘and we must accept it and move on.’
‘And in the end of it, it favours you and yours.’ Catchpoll made sure there was not time to prepare answers. He wanted the man a little rattled.
‘The abbey will do better with me as steward, but even if it did not come to me, a son of mine would follow, and my line continue, not Walter and his feeble loins.’ This was 79said with some disdain, and a hint of gloating.
‘He got ’is first wife with child, so there would be no cause to think he could not do so with this new wife,’ commented Walkelin, not quite sure whether he was meant to join in the barrage of questioning, and eyeing his superiors as much as William.
‘Just the once, and the little I saw of the second in church, she was as pale as her coif and weak-looking too. If he picked her to give sons, he made another misjudgement.’
‘Another?’ Bradecote raised an eyebrow. ‘Had he made others?’
‘Others? Oh, most of his decisions were the wrong ones.’ The brother sneered.
‘Give me examples.’
‘Well, my lord, he said the abbey should build up to the north only on the eastern side, toward Green Hill, but that is limited more by the steeper descent towards the river. On this side, the western one, the ground is flatter for much further and there is greater scope for better and larger burgage plots that will attract wealthy tradesmen and make Evesham more prosperous.’
It had to be said that this sounded logical.
‘And will you be movin’ into one of them, or takin’ Walter’s house?’ enquired Walkelin, innocently, ‘a bigger one befitting “the Steward of Evesham Abbey”.’
‘It would be sensible, and give more room for my family.’
‘And rent free, no doubt?’
‘The Abbey Steward has always been given his house without rent. There is nothing to that.’
‘Other than your new one would otherwise be bringin’ 80in a good sum of silver each Quarter,’ murmured Catchpoll, and got an angry look.
‘What else did Walter do wrong?’ Bradecote wanted more.
‘Kept letting the laggards and the underpayers sit tight, for one thing. “They may do better” he would say, and did they? No. It was not even as though they were the widows and poke-hole plot holders. He always got the dues from them. It was the men whose trades prospered. They could pay, but they chose to hold back, and he let them.’ William’s lip curled. ‘They will not do it next Quarter Day, or if they try, they will find themselves out of Evesham.’
‘Where were you the night before last, at nightfall?’ Bradecote took the questions on another tack.
‘Here, in bed with my wife.’
It was the easy answer, and one that could not be disproved, unless a witness had seen him abroad and not spoken. William permitted himself the smallest of smiles, for he knew it as well as did the sheriff’s men. It was also the smile of a man confident he was always right, always the winner. It annoyed Bradecote as it annoyed his subordinates, but there was not much more that could be asked at this point.
‘But since any wife will support her husband, that assurance does not mean very much, Master Steward. We still know that of all Evesham, you had the most to gain from your brother’s death. That means far more.’ With which Bradecote turned on his heel and walked out, followed by serjeant and underserjeant.
‘Not sayin’ it wiped the smile from ’is face, but it soured it.’ Catchpoll approved. 81
‘And it is true.’
‘Yes, my lord, it is.’
‘What I wants to know is why the wealthiest was the worst rent payers. That makes no sense to me.’ Walkelin was clearly niggled by the thought.
‘Sometimes it is payin’ late, or not at all, that keeps men wealthy. Look at Robert Mercet.’
Mercet was the man Catchpoll liked least in all Worcester, and the feeling was mutual.
‘It might be that, but you are right to question it, Walkelin. We will go and see the mead maker, but then we will ask Father Prior to give us the list of those in Evesham who are behind with their dues to the monks.’
They had been given directions to the mead maker by the porter at the abbey gate, and so Bradecote and Catchpoll now knew at least one person who lived down the track onto the abbey demesne land. They went back along the well-worn trackway to the Hampton ferry, but then turned left onto the track that ran southwards from it, crossing the little bridge that spanned a deep ditch or conduit, which still had some water in it, even during this dry spell. The bridge looked both new and well-constructed. Two smaller ditches, with sluice gates set before them, ran from the water course, each supplying a cluster of buildings. A few yards after the bridge the track bifurcated, and from that point a line of posts stood in the ground between the run-offs, about a chain apart, not a fence but a very clear demarcation of who held which patch of earth.
‘We were not told there were two paths,’ complained Bradecote. ‘And both has a run-off of water from the brook 82or conduit, so that helps us not at all.’
‘Well, my lord, if we is wrong, then we can ask whoever lives next to the mead maker what sort of neighbour he is.’ Walkelin was positive again.
Catchpoll shook his head at the optimism of youth.
They picked the more western path, which was a little rutted from cartwheels, and knocked upon the sturdy door of a house which had a stone-built building at right angles to it, with a taller portion at one end. Catchpoll knocked upon the door, but the smell already told them that this was not the mead maker’s. They thought there was nobody within, and turned away, but then it creaked open and an old man challenged them.
‘What do you want?’ He was not welcoming.
‘We seek the mead maker.’ Catchpoll was blunt.
‘Should ’ave taken the other path, then.’ The response was equally terse. The old man’s back was bent, and his head jutted forward. He was white-haired and with eyes milky white and near sightless. He looked angry, not so much at them as at the world as a whole, the sort who railed against his life as it had become, but resolutely held the door shut to death. He made to shut them out also, but Catchpoll stuck his foot in the way.
‘Who else lives ’ere?’ He guessed the old man was unlikely to live alone.
‘What need ’as you to know?’
‘I am the lord Sheriff’s Serjeant, and this,’ Catchpoll pointed to Hugh Bradecote, ‘is the lord Undersheriff.’ Walkelin, as often happened, was not introduced.
‘Where be ’is horse, then?’
It was an unexpected question, and for a moment it 83remained unanswered. Then Walkelin spoke up.
‘The lord Bradecote’s horse is stabled at the abbey.’
‘Lords does not walk places.’
‘I do, but then, I have long legs.’ Bradecote decided this old man would neither be impressed by rank, nor scared by it. The old man looked him up and down and clearly decided this was a proper introduction.
‘Aye, a real longshanks, but lords speak Foreign.’
‘The most powerful ones like the King do, all the time, but English is as good for me, since it means I do not need another man to pass on my words.’
‘And what words would you say to me – my lord?’ The old man thawed just a little.
‘I would ask you what Serjeant Catchpoll just asked you, and also what you can tell me about Wulfram Meduwyrhta?’
‘Well then, my son lives with me, and ’is wife and my grandson, but she is gone to buy cherries in the town, and Oswald and the lad is in the mealthus next door.’
‘So, you are a maltster.’ It was logical that the craft was being passed from father to son.
‘Was until the eyes and the bones failed me.’ He sounded bitter. ‘Now I just sits – and eats cherries if they comes to me. Little more use than a babe in arms.’ He then shook off the melancholy and glowered. ‘Wulfram Meduwyhtra is a thief, a thief I tell you.’
‘He is?’ Bradecote was so taken aback he let it show.
‘Aye. Steals the water, ’e does, just when we needs it most. Keeps the sluice open on ’is channel so it all goes to ’im, longer than needful, and says as it is mischance that it is always flowin’ ’is way when we needs it.’ 84
Bradecote relaxed. This was a private dispute over water rights, not a matter for the Justices.
‘So you think he does it to spite you?’
‘I does not think it, I knows it. ’Is father were just as bad, and Wulfram makes more mead now the abbey ’as more bees. We both pays rent in kind, and then some silver. Wulfram thrives, since the honey be sold cheap to ’im by the monks, and saves ’im spendin’ so much time seekin’ the wild stuff. Then the sweetest mead, the best, goes in vessels to the abbey as part of ’is dues, and the other makes bee-piss for the rest of Evesham.’ He spat into the rushes on the floor. ‘’Tis a foul drink.’
‘Thank you. We will go and speak with your son, and trouble you no further.’ Bradecote saw no need to linger, since the old man could not possibly have walked to the well pit without assistance and could not have survived any physical encounter with Walter the Steward.
Outside, the malt smell was now even stronger. A voice was raised within the stone building, and another answered it. They entered by one of a pair of doors, which would be wide enough for a cart to pass through. In front of them were three large tubs in which barley was soaking. Beyond the third one a lad of about seventeen, still gangly of limb, was scooping out grain with a slotted shovel, and piling it into a heap on the floor to allow it to sprout. The air was heavy with the smell of the damp barley, and the richer smell of the dried malt. At the far end of the chamber was a door, some three feet from the ground, and a man was raking out the dried grains from the malt kiln, ready to be winnowed and ground. The warm air from a small oven was drawn into the bowl of the kiln and rose through a mat 85of close-woven lathes and rods upon which the sprouting grains were laid out to dry.
‘Oswald Mealtere.’ Catchpoll raised his voice without thinking, and both men turned suddenly.
‘Yes.’ The man by the kiln door sounded suspicious, but not antagonistic.
‘We wants to speak with you about Walter the Steward.’
The maltster set aside his rake, shut the door and came towards them without haste. He looked at the lad. ‘You carry on ’til that be empty, and then finish the rake out.’ He returned his gaze to Catchpoll. ‘Now, we can speak outside.’ He seemed calm and assured, and not at all on edge.
When he had shut the mealthus door he bowed, or rather bent, a little grudgingly, to Bradecote, being well dressed and so most likely important, but spoke to Catchpoll.
‘I doesn’t know how I can help you, if ’tis about ’is death, which it surely must be.’
‘It is. And this is the lord Undersheriff.’ Catchpoll always liked to make much of Bradecote’s rank.
‘You was worried about the new well that was being dug on the green.’ Walkelin thought that a good thing to start the conversation, since it showed they already knew quite a lot.
‘Yes, and what man would not be, as needs water from the southward? ’Tis bad enough that that hnescehand Wulfram Meduwyrhta cuts me off when ’e knows we is busy.’
‘The man as lives over yonder?’ Catchpoll pointed beyond the narrow channel. ‘Why a “softhand”?’
‘All ’e does is pours. Water goes in, they wait, drain off, 86drain off again, mayhap again, and let the mead just mature. You see how we labour. This be proper work. What is more, there lies a grudge betwixt us. Wulfram could make good, but ’e will not. There were a fallin’ out betwixt his father and mine, years ago, and you would think a shakin’ of hands now would see all in the past, as long as I did not tell my father of it. He be too old to forgive.’
‘What caused the breach?’ It was probably not relevant, but all knowledge might become useful.
‘You needs yeast, not just for ales but for mead also, though once you has it, you can keep it goin’ year on year. My father sold some to Wulfram’s father after their yeast was lost through a mistake. But the mead maker said it were a gift and refused to pay.’
‘It cannot ’ave cost much. An odd thing to start a feud.’ Walkelin looked puzzled.
‘If you really needs a thing, it costs more.’ Oswald’s mouth lengthened into a small smile.
Bradecote saw this only as something that would make each man disparaging of the other and returned to the present.
‘So, you were worried about having enough water. Worried enough to keep going back and asking the well delver.’ Bradecote was wondering if those visits had ended in a similar way to the mead maker’s, with Walter the Steward losing his temper. ‘How did Walter the Steward take that, since the well is being dug upon the abbey’s instruction?’
‘I knows not, since I were spared ’is loud voice and proud manner. So full of “Walter the Steward, of the line of stewards” all the time, and that will mean nothing in the place ’e finds ’isself now.’ 87
‘You did not like him.’ Bradecote did not make it a question.
‘If you find a man in Evesham who says they did, then I will show you a liar, and that be fact – my lord.’ Oswald realised he had not sounded very deferential.
‘And where were you the night before last, as it got full dark?’
‘Right ’ere, my lord. I came out to check the fire in the oven, to make sure it would keep goin’ gentle overnight.’ He pointed to a small, round-topped stone oven with an iron door.
‘And nobody saw you?’
‘The wife will vouch for me, and I saw Wulfram come down the track, and ’e staggered a bit so mayhap he abandoned mead for ale, eh?’ He gave a short bark of a laugh. ‘But ’e would not vouch for me. Pity of it is, we is in the same tithing, so we both knows one as would not swear oath for the other.’
‘And this was when dark fell, you are sure?’ Bradecote was not going to believe the maltster without corroboration, but by the same token was not going to dismiss what he said.
‘Aye, since ’tis when you asked about, my lord. No moon shone, but our feet always knows the way home, down across the bridge, right enough. I saw to the fire, checked the hen coop was shut good and proper, since I heard a fox too near to like, then went in to the wife and my bed, and glad I was of both after a long day’s labour.’ He sounded the virtuous worker. ‘First I heard of the steward’s death, ’twere the wife bringin’ the news from the market next forenoon.’ 88
‘Thank you. We will let you get back to your malt.’ Bradecote thus dismissed the maltster, who nodded, and went back to shout more instructions at his son.
‘So was the mead maker drinking with his friends, or was he meeting with Walter?’ Bradecote voiced the obvious question.
‘If he was ale drinkin’ there should be plenty to confirm the story, my lord. I think there is but one alehouse in Evesham, and otherwise ’tis just sold by alewives at their door.’ Walkelin expected to be the one sent to discover that truth.
‘And if ’twas meetin’ with Walter there will be no admission of it.’ Catchpoll sniffed. ‘Pity Oswald Mealtere hates the meduwyrhta’s guts. If they was best friends there would be no cause to try and muddy the waters.’
‘But then again, if that were so they might swear falsely to support the other, so would be equally useless to us.’ Bradecote shrugged.
‘The maltster wears a very new-lookin’ belt, my lord.’ Walkelin was observant.
‘Yes. I wonder if that is chance.’
‘And it might be worth speakin’ with Brother Beekeeper, to find out ’is view of Wulfram, and see if it tallies in any way.’ The underserjeant was thinking beyond the next interview.
‘Indeed, but after we have come to our own view of the man.’
They moved on to the second cluster of buildings.