The Deadliest Sin (30 page)

Once the pilgrims, tired but satisfied, were ushered by lantern-light to their bedchambers in the Angel tavern, and once Laurence and his wife had attended to the inevitable little niggles,
gripes and requests from such a diverse group, the innkeeper rubbed his hands. Excellent, he thought. He reckoned that this Walsingham band was good for another night at the Angel. The weather
promised (and he meant, promised) to be just as bad tomorrow. There were three stories yet to be told. The inn was comfortable. There was every incentive for the travellers to stay one more day and
night. And Laurence’s reasons weren’t entirely commercial. He had a story of his own to tell and he planned to be the first of the speakers in the second half . . .

Laurence, the innkeeper of the Angel, gazed around with satisfaction. To a man and woman, the Walsingham pilgrims were wearing the well-fed and contented looks he liked to
see on the faces of his guests. They had attended the local church, St Mary’s. They had exhausted the (not very many) possibilities provided by the little town of Mundham. They had returned
to the Angel to eat and drink, and to enjoy a further session of storytelling. Every single one of them, even the hatchet-faced Prior. They were his for another night, especially while the rain
continued to pour down drearily outside and the draughts rattled at the shutters. Again the fire in the main hall of the Angel was lit.

Despite the dark, sometimes violent, nature of the stories that they’d listened to on the previous evening, their expressions suggested they were ready for more. More darkness and more
sin. Human beings were strange creatures, he reflected. Even when threatened by a pestilence that might wipe them from the face of the earth, they occupied the little time remaining not in prayer
but in listening to tales of evil, sin and death.

And, of course, who had suggested this diversion but Laurence himself ?

Now it was his turn. He was conscious of the ring of faces looking expectantly at him. He took a slow, appreciative sip from his bowl of wine and cleared his throat.

‘Anger is my theme now,’ he said, ‘and it is right that anger should follow sloth, for sometimes the only way to get a lazy person, a slothful individual, off his fat arse
and going about his duty is to grow angry with him – or her. If I find a stable boy asleep when he should be taking charge of a traveller’s horse, or if my wife notices that the girl
has not replaced the stale rushes on the floor here with fresh ones, then we may grow angry with the offender, for all our mild tempers. I tell you I’d rather be on the receiving end of my
own anger than my wife’s. You should see her when she’s worked up! Yet who is to say that my wife and I are wrong to feel such anger, and to give voice to it?’

A few of the listeners nodded. Perhaps they were remembering occasions when they had chastised their servants or husbands or wives. The landlord of the Angel pressed on.

‘What we feel in such cases is surely a righteous anger. And, if I may say it without impiety, this is the faintest shadow of what God Himself feels as He surveys the bogs and fens of
human wickedness. Indeed, we must believe that behind the pestilence itself lies God’s justified and righteous wrath.

‘But I am going to tell you a story of an anger that is quite different from this. There may have been some justification to it in the beginning, but it was bred in the shadows and fed
daily with thoughts of vengeance until it grew to a full-sized monster that devoured all around it before turning on its creator. The story I am about to tell you, ladies and gentlemen, is true and
it took place not so very far from this little town and not so very many years ago either. It was during that time of shortages and suffering when the father of our Edward III was on the throne.
When it seemed as though Noah’s flood had come again, and without a rainbow for deliverance. Looking round I can see that scarcely any of you are old enough to remember those days . .
.’

In saying this, the landlord was merely flattering his audience. Several murmured at the unhappy memories. Yes, they did recall those days, thirty years ago and more, when the sun never shone
and the rain never stopped. With crops failing, bellies went unfilled, and no dog or cat was safe from the quick hands and hungry teeth of the poor. There had even been tales of parents driven mad
by the pangs of hunger who killed and devoured their own children. Such terrible things had never happened in the teller’s own village, mind you, but they were reported on good authority by a
cousin of a cousin or heard from the mouth of a travelling pedlar.

‘We must pray to Almighty God,’ said the landlord, ‘that he delivers us from our present troubles as he delivered us from our woes these many years past.’ He waited
for the heartfelt ‘Amens’ to die down, before resuming his tale of . . .

Like any storyteller, I have to name names and places, too, and because the people are real and, in some cases, still alive, I must sometimes rein in my tongue. Yet believe what
I say. In a village called Wenham a few miles distant from here, there once lived a family called the Carters. The land they held as tenants adjoined fields that were farmed by another family, the
Raths. The heads of these families were William Carter and Alfred Rath. These families were the two most important ones in the village, leaving aside the people who lived at the manor. And they
were absent most of the time attending to their other properties. The Carters and the Raths had once been friends, not good friends, perhaps, but good enough for the working day. Even if it was
only self-interest, they helped each other when times were bad and they were glad together in moments of prosperity. Then something happened that turned all this goodwill into sourness.

No one is quite sure what started it. By the time I was aware of the bad feeling, it had already begun. Perhaps some cows belonging to William blundered across Alfred’s cornfield and
caused a few pennies’ worth of damage, or maybe some of Alfred’s sheep trespassed on William’s pasture. I’ve also heard that it began with a dispute over a wagon that Alfred
Rath had lent to William Carter when they were on better terms. When the wagon was returned in a damaged state, the borrower refused to admit his responsibility but claimed he’d received it
in that dilapidated condition.

These cases went to the manor court where both men were fined. Yet honour was far from satisfied, because one man’s fine was larger than the other’s, so of course the one who’d
got off more lightly went round proclaiming victory while his neighbour complained about unfair treatment.

Now, ladies and gentlemen, in such cases it must go one of two ways. Either the disputation and bad feeling gradually die down until things have returned, perhaps not to the old easy and
friendly relations, but at least to mutual tolerance. Or things go from bad to worse, with every word or action seen in the most unfriendly light. A reported remark or a casual gesture causes fists
to clench and curses to be uttered. Plain accidents or misfortunes, like the sickness of livestock or a chance fire in a barn, are blamed on the old friends even if the evidence runs right against
it. So it was with the Carters and the Raths. They lived and worked alongside each other but one family might as well have been on the moon for all they wanted to have anything to do with the
other. Then something happened that forced both families together . . . a crime that couldn’t help but drag in the two sides . . .

But first, I’d better say a little about the people in this tale. I can remember them clearly, you see, although I was a boy. William Carter was a lanky fellow, who kept himself to
himself. He was a touchy man, a choleric one. Everyone knew him for a miser and hoarder. Nothing unusual in that, maybe, but William was the kind of person who’d keep his nail parings, not to
prevent a witch getting hold of them, but in case there was a sudden market in nail parings. William Carter’s wife, Alice, was almost as tall as he and she had a beaky nose and close-set
eyes, which made her look like a handsome bird. It pains me to say this about her, God rest her soul, but she was something of a snob. Her uncle was a priest, you see, and it was whispered that she
was actually his daughter rather than his niece. If her husband was silent and watchful, she was a great talker and a gossip.

As for the Raths . . . they were not aloof and they didn’t put on airs like the Carters. On the surface, they seemed friendly enough. Alfred Rath was a small man with a round face and
cheery manner, though there was a streak of malice in him and he had a wandering eye. His wife, Joan, was a plain woman and strong in her own fashion. She knew her own mind. While her neighbour
Alice Carter gossiped in a way that some might say was mean-spirited, Joan looked out for the goodness in people, even when there was very little goodness to be found. Joan Rath had a cousin who
was a doctor of physic, Thomas Flytte, and you could say that he is central to the story, because of what happened.

But before I say anything about Flytte, I need to tell you of the incident that turned the hostility between the Carters and the Raths into hatred. It happened towards the end of a wet, gusty
market day in the village. Business had finished early on account of the rain – it was always raining then, remember – and the stall-holders were in the alehouse drinking away their
meagre takings. There were quite a few of the villagers there as well, including William Carter and Alfred Rath. They were on opposite sides of the room, of course. Didn’t even acknowledge
each other’s existence.

Suddenly, a woman burst in and announced to the world that she had lost her purse on the outskirts of Wenham. She said it was missing from her belt. Missing, not stolen, because she’d been
walking alone and no one had been near her. The spot where it probably happened was at the junction of Nether Way and Church Lane, where she’d had to jump aside to avoid a great pool of
water. She’d gone back to look for it but without success. There wasn’t much money in the purse, but it had value for her because it had been her mother’s. All this news came out
in a single gushing flow, like the rainwater pouring off the eaves of the alehouse. She was obviously in distress, but nobody cared much. I don’t know whether she expected the alehouse to
empty out while its occupants went into the rain to help search the place where the two lanes met but, if so, she was to be disappointed. Nobody moved and there were more shrugged shoulders than
expressions of sympathy.

After a moment, Alfred Rath remarked in a casual voice but one still loud enough to be heard by everyone in the room that he was sure he’d seen his neighbour William Carter earlier that
morning standing at the corner of Nether Way and Church Lane. Perhaps William could help in this matter? William Carter looked startled but didn’t deny he’d been there. As I’ve
said, there was a streak of malice in Alfred Rath and, realising he had the advantage, he started to add colour to his story. Yes, he said, scratching his head as if to aid his memory, he had
definitely seen his neighbour stooping and peering as if in search of some item that he’d dropped. Furthermore, he’d witnessed him pick something up and put it in his pocket.

The woman made for Master William, relief on her face. ‘Oh, do you have it, sir? I shall be eternally grateful if you do,’ she said. ‘It was my mother’s purse, hinged it
is, and made of wool and silk. You can have the coins inside as reward but I would dearly miss that purse.’

William Carter looked uneasy, as though he was indeed guilty of picking up the woman’s purse. He hadn’t denied any part of Rath’s account, not searching the muddy ground nor
slipping something into his pocket. Spots of red glowed in his cheeks. He glanced round at the ring of faces, all waiting for an explanation. It was obvious that he had to say something. He cast a
glance of pure hatred in the direction of Alfred Rath. Eventually, he fumbled under his cloak and brought out from beneath it . . . a short length of rope.

‘Here you are,’ he said, and there was a mixture of anger and embarrassment in his tone. ‘This is what I picked up at the corner of Nether Way and Church Lane.’

He held up the pitiful fragment of rope so that everyone in the alehouse might see it. There were titters and sly comments. Someone said the rope was too short even for a noose. Indeed, it was
too short for any practical purpose. The whole piece would have been used up by the act of tying a knot in it. It must have been cut from a longer length for tying a bale or leading a packhorse,
and discarded in the road as worthless. But most people were aware of William Carter’s hoarding habits. He couldn’t help himself. He’d bent down for the rope and tucked it under
his cloak out of instinct. And now that instinct was making him look miserly and petty in the eyes of the villagers. With another furious glance at Alfred Rath, he strode out of the alehouse,
flinging the length of rope to the floor as he went.

A few of the more thoughtful customers might have felt a little sorry for Carter. Even I felt sorry for him, a boy, not daring to show my face but tucked away out of sight in a corner of the
alehouse. He wasn’t a thief – unless picking up a useless bit of rope makes you a thief – but he was something that is almost as bad: a laughing stock. And a proud man like
William Carter feels such an insult, feels it strongly, especially when he’s brought it on himself. Even Alfred Rath looked less eager now and he did not join in the general amusement that
he’d caused. Perhaps he knew he’d gone too far. Too late for that, though.

From that day on, there was bitterness between the Raths and the Carters, and especially between the men of the households. Oh, and what about the woman’s purse, you ask, the keepsake from
her mother? When she returned home she discovered that she’d never taken it with her in the first place.

Where was I? Yes, the physician. As I said before I started on the story of the rope and the purse, Thomas Flytte was a cousin of Joan Rath’s. He came from a village a few miles away,
Woolney, but he’d soon shaken the dust of that place off his feet and gone in search of a better, wider life. He was a learned man, Thomas Flytte. He talked about his studies in Oxford and
Cambridge and famous cities across the seas. He’d travelled and lived for long periods away from England, even going as far as the East. He said some of the greatest physicians and writers
had come from there. He casually referred to the noble men and women who had applied to him for help – never by name but as the prince of this or the duchess of that – and no one would
have thought to ask at the time whether he was inventing these people or whether they really existed.