Bartholomew arrived at the Great Bridge to find it frantic with activity, with workmen swarming all over it. Many were skilled strangers, who had been waiting to offer their services the moment the call went out for specific types of craftsman, and the rest were casual labourers from the town. The wooden balustrade had already been dismantled, and the rest of the structure was swathed in scaffolding and rope.
Several boats were moored at the pier below. This was a ramshackle affair that was rarely used, as most bargemen preferred the sturdy structure owned by Michaelhouse, with its easy access to the market. All were laden with ready-hewn lumps of limestone. The cumbersome wagon that Morys had allowed to pass through the Trumpington Gate the previous day was there, too, and masons had already started to carve decorative corbels from the fine stone it had carried.
The first person Bartholomew saw as he joined the back of the ferry queue was Chaumbre, who looked uncomfortably hot in his fine clothes. He was smiling, though, and hummed happily under his breath.
‘Shardelowe has made impressive progress,’ remarked Bartholomew, watching the whirlwind of organised chaos with the builder at its centre. ‘Moreover, it usually takes weeks for supplies to arrive, but his are here already.’
Chaumbre pulled a wry face. ‘Morys is Mayor and Shardelowe can afford bribes, so the council’s decision was never in doubt. But building in stone is the right thing to do. Aynton disagreed, of course – he liked to say “wood is good” and was passionate about it.’
‘You mentioned discussing it the day he died,’ said Bartholomew, also recalling that Chaumbre had called Aynton a ‘meddlesome arse’, which he now professed to regret.
‘I did,’ said Chaumbre. ‘You referred to it as a quarrel, and wondered if it had given me cause to kill him.’
Bartholomew was alarmed – not that Chaumbre knew he was a suspect, but that he might tell Edith. ‘You mistook me,’ he blustered. ‘Of course I do not think you are a killer.’
Chaumbre laughed at his discomfiture. ‘Do not worry, Matt. I understand why you had to ask those questions, and I am not offended in the slightest. But I gave you my answers and you were satisfied with them, so let that be the end of the matter. Agreed?’
Bartholomew nodded, although Chaumbre’s answers had not satisfied him, given that his ‘alibi’ was inspecting a batch of dye on his own. He began to quiz him anew, hoping to learn something that really would knock him off the list – or allow him to be arrested and thus safely removed from Edith.
‘What else did you discuss with Aynton, besides dye-pits and the bridge?’
Chaumbre continued to chortle, and Bartholomew wondered if he was in his right wits, as this was hardly a subject for humour. ‘Nothing on that particular occasion. He just stalked up and ordered me to fill my pits, then called me a fool for wanting a stone bridge.’
‘How did he know what you thought?’
‘Well, I made no secret of it. But he was determined to have wood, because he had promised that the University would pay one tenth of the cost – a negligible amount with wood, but a considerable outlay for stone.’
Bartholomew considered the information. Morys would not have wanted Aynton making a case for wood, so perhaps he had decided to silence him. Moreover, the timely arrival of craftsmen and materials was indicative that Shardelowe had invested a lot of his own money in advance of the council’s decision. It was a strong motive for murder, so the builder became a suspect, too.
He looked to where Shardelowe stood, busily barking orders at his workforce. He had two lieutenants to see his instructions carried out, and Chaumbre told him they were named Gilbert Bernarde and John de Lyonnes. Bernarde was short, fat and English, while Lyonnes was tall, thin and French. The three of them looked tense and serious, their eyes everywhere, and their voices urgent, revealing that they were under considerable pressure to achieve what Shardelowe had promised.
‘Bernarde is a pleasant fellow,’ Chaumbre went on. ‘Always laughing. Lyonnes is more sombre, but both are good men. If anyone can see this finished in a week, it is them.’
‘It is too fast,’ said Bartholomew worriedly. ‘Safety will be compromised, and someone will be hurt or killed. Shardelowe is overly ambitious.’
Even as he spoke, one man slipped and almost fell. His workmates jeered at his clumsiness, although a sharp word from Lyonnes saw them turn their attention back to their duties. Bartholomew cringed when Bernarde ordered several huge pieces of stone set on the edge of one section of scaffolding, ready to be used for strengthening the existing spandrels below.
‘Someone only needs to stumble against one of those things and it will fall,’ he objected disapprovingly. ‘It is bad practice – a needless risk.’
‘I am sure they know what they are doing,’ said Chaumbre, and as the queue shuffled forward a few feet, he changed the subject. ‘I am glad Isnard had the foresight to hire some friends to help him with his ferrying. He could not have managed all this on his own.’
‘Especially as he has a cold.’
‘He woke up this morning feeling much better. Your old students claim they cured him, but he is adamant that he never swallowed their remedy. Unfortunately, people believe Stasy and Hawick, as everyone knows that Isnard will drink anything that comes in a bottle.’
‘They are right,’ said Bartholomew with a sigh. ‘He will.’
It was tiresome having to wait to cross the river, and Bartholomew was not the only one who realised he had taken the bridge and the ponticulus for granted. The line inched forward slowly, until he was able to see the ferry operation below.
Responding to the greater demand, Isnard had expanded his operation from one ferry to two, the second being big enough to take a horse, if required. He had strung a pair of ropes across the river, which were then used to haul the boats from bank to bank. As it was exhausting labour, his crews worked in relays. Given that the only alternatives involved a lengthy detour or a swim, he and his men were making money hand over fist.
The waiting passengers were hot and irritable from being forced to stand in the sun. Moreover, some had animals with them, so agitated lows, bleats, clucks and barks mingled with the cacophony of irascible human voices.
Bartholomew turned his attention back to the workmen, sure his services would be needed before the day was out. Bernarde encouraged his team with merry winks and good humour, whereas Lyonnes preferred to snarl and belittle. Needless to say, Bernarde’s people were making better progress. Lyonnes happened to glance up and spot Chaumbre.
‘Have you filled your dye-pits yet?’ he called in a thick Auvergne accent. ‘Because if not, we have plenty of rotten wood you can use. It will save us dumping it all in the river.’
‘You craftsmen!’ laughed Chaumbre. ‘Always jesting.’
‘It was not a jest,’ retorted Lyonnes, who looked as though he had never cracked a joke in his life. ‘I am serious. You can have it for free.’
‘It is a generous offer,’ said Chaumbre, struggling for a straight face. ‘But one cannot fill large pits with rotting wood. We shall use hard-core rubble, which will be carefully laid down and compacted.’
‘Why?’ demanded Lyonnes crossly. ‘They are just holes, for God’s sake. It does not matter what goes in them, just as long as they are filled.’
‘Someone will build over them one day,’ explained Chaumbre patiently. ‘And if we use wood, there will be subsidence. Ergo, no rubbish will go in them.’
Lyonnes spat his disbelief and returned to work. His interjection caused the pits to become a topic of conversation among the waiting passengers, with most folk of the opinion that Chaumbre was taking far too long over what was a very simple task.
‘I have filled two,’ the dyer whispered to Bartholomew, stung by the censure. ‘And I shall deal with the others in my own time. I will not be rushed. But all is in hand. Indeed, I am going to my house now, to collect more money to pay for it.’
It was a moment before Bartholomew remembered that Chaumbre owned a place in Girton, although he lived with Edith on Milne Street. ‘Oh, yes – the one that was burgled.’
Chaumbre’s smile slipped a little. ‘Fortunately, the culprit did not get very much, and I have another cache buried in the garden. Do not worry – I still have plenty to keep your sister in the style to which she is accustomed.’
‘I hope you have more than that,’ said Bartholomew. ‘She intends to help fund Matilde’s school for women, which will be a very costly venture.’
The smile faded a bit more. ‘I am sure Matilde has plenty of others to call upon. You, for example. I imagine her new husband will be eager to make the biggest donation of all.’
Bartholomew might be eager, but he would never be able. He would have his paupers’ medicine to provide, not to mention his share of household bills that had hitherto been paid by Michaelhouse – rent, food, clothes, fuel, candles and all the rest. He made no reply, and instead listened to two women behind them, who were discussing the mysterious benefactor who gave money to the parish priests for the poor, sick and needy.
‘He is a saint,’ declared one warmly. ‘But only the vicars know his name, and they refuse to tell anyone.’
Well, the saint was not Chaumbre, thought Bartholomew, glancing at his brother-in-law out of the corner of his eye, not if he dragged his heels over filling in holes and was looking for ways to duck his wife’s contribution to Matilde’s school. Then Chaumbre began to hum again, a sound so irritating that Bartholomew told him he was going to the castle to speak to Dickon, just to make it stop.
‘I hope Tulyet lives a very long life,’ Chaumbre said fervently. ‘Because I shall not remain in Cambridge if Dickon becomes Sheriff.’
‘Nor will I,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘But fortunately, he is too young.’
‘He will not stay young forever. The post is not hereditary, but he will certainly apply for it if his father dies or retires, and the King will be too frightened to refuse.’
Bartholomew laughed. ‘The King will not let Dickon intimidate him.’
‘The redoubtable Lady Joan de Hereford thought she could control the little hellion,’ said Chaumbre, ‘and the whole town heaved a sigh of relief when she took him away. But he was too much, even for her. Sometimes, I believe the tales that the Devil sired him, because he is not a normal child.’
‘Mistress Tulyet would not have countenanced Satan in her bed,’ said Bartholomew stoutly, although there had been times when he had wondered the same.
‘The Devil is cunning,’ averred Chaumbre. ‘She would not have noticed.’
Bartholomew changed the subject to something less controversial. ‘I am sure it is hotter today than it was yesterday.’
‘It is,’ agreed Chaumbre. ‘And as soon as I have retrieved my hoard, I shall go to the Cardinal’s Cap for a jug of cool ale.’
‘Aynton liked the Cardinal’s Cap.’
‘He did,’ agreed Chaumbre. ‘Especially when Huntyngdon and Martyn were there.’
‘They visited the place together?’ asked Bartholomew, although it was galling to hear this from a non-scholar. Why had no one else mentioned it? Or was it untrue, and Chaumbre aimed to mislead the investigation for reasons of his own?
‘Not always, but often. He once told me that he hoped they would follow him into University politics. If they had, they would have been better at it than Donwich, who lacks the necessary tact.’
Bartholomew regarded him through narrowed eyes. ‘I thought Donwich was your friend. He likes you well enough to invite you to his College for celebratory feasts.’
Chaumbre chuckled. ‘He does, and I am very fond of him, too. However, that does not mean I am blind to his flaws, and he was more likeable when he spent less time with Gille and Elsham.’
As far as Bartholomew was concerned, Donwich had never been likeable.
It was not a pleasant journey across the Cam, as the ferry – the larger of the two – was overloaded and very low in the water. Bartholomew was crammed between two tanners and a goat, the latter of which breathed hot, moist air down the back of his neck for the duration of the journey. Fortunately, it was not a very long one, and they were soon clambering out the other side.
‘Thank you, Isnard,’ said Chaumbre graciously, pressing an extra coin into the bargeman’s eager palm. ‘Buy yourself an ale when you finish work.’
‘But no more than one,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘Boiled barley water is much better after a day of labouring in the sun.’
‘So you say,’ muttered Isnard, telling Bartholomew that the advice would go unheeded.
Although Chaumbre offered to keep company with Bartholomew as far as the castle, he kept stopping to exchange cheery greetings with friends and acquaintances, and Bartholomew did not want his mission to take all day. He excused himself and hurried on alone.
The castle had started life as a simple motte and bailey, some three hundred years before, but was now a formidable fortress. It rarely saw military activity, and was mostly administrative. It comprised a circular keep on a mound, and curtain walls studded with towers. Inside the walls was a bailey that boasted barracks, stables, storerooms, a chapel and a large open space for the men to practise their fighting skills.
Tulyet’s office was in the keep, and Bartholomew was conducted to it by Sergeant Robin, one of Agatha’s many relations. The Sheriff grimaced in annoyance when he learned that Dickon had given his tutor the slip.
‘He will be exercising with the men,’ predicted Robin. ‘It is sword-work today, and you know how much he loves that.’
Sure enough, Dickon was with the soldiers. Although younger than all of them, and smaller than most, he was putting up an impressive show of sparring, his thick features a mask of concentration as he went through his paces with a bulky bald-headed knight.
‘That is John Morys, the Mayor’s cousin,’ said Tulyet, although Bartholomew remembered him from the guildhall. ‘He is the only man Dickon has ever admired.’
‘No surprise there,’ muttered Bartholomew, thinking if the brat was going to hero-worship anyone, it would be a rough, battle-honed bruiser with scars. ‘Are you sure you should encourage their association? John seems rather … pugilistic.’
Tulyet shrugged. ‘He has already taught Dickon far more about combat than he learned from Lady Hereford’s people. It is a pity he is illiterate, or I would ask him to teach Dickon how to read as well. Dickon would listen to him.’
‘Will it be John who takes him to France?’ asked Bartholomew, hoping it would be soon, because Dickon, fully trained as a warrior, loitering idly around Cambridge, was not an attractive proposition.
‘I wish he would – Dickon would be safe with him – but John says he has had enough of war, and would rather stay home.’
Dickon was furious to be dragged away from something he was enjoying, and his face was as black as thunder. Only John’s cautionary hand on his shoulder prevented him from snarling something that would see him in trouble.
‘I want the pouch you took from Huntyngdon’s body,’ said Bartholomew, not bothering to mince his words.
‘Why?’ demanded Dickon, although he moderated his tone when Tulyet eyed him warningly. He forced a smile. ‘I mean, why is it important? There was nothing in it. Some thief must have found the body first, and stripped it of valuables.’
‘Almost certainly,’ agreed Tulyet. ‘Indeed, I am surprised it was not relieved of its fine clothes as well.’
‘The maggots,’ explained Dickon ghoulishly. ‘It probably put the thief off. It did not bother me, though. I did not mind reclaiming the purse for Brother Michael.’
‘And now Huntyngdon’s father wants it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘So where is it?’
With obvious reluctance, Dickon rummaged inside his own scrip and handed the thing over. Some effort had been made to clean it, although it was still not something Bartholomew would have chosen to keep on his person.
‘I tried to give it to Brother Michael yesterday,’ said Dickon defensively, ‘but he refused to take it. As it was going begging, I decided to sell it to Margery Starre. She always buys things belonging to corpses, because they have special powers.’
‘You had no right,’ scolded Tulyet. ‘You should have replaced it on the body.’
‘But the body was dead,’ objected Dickon, bemused. ‘And thus past caring.’
‘His kin will care,’ explained Tulyet, although Bartholomew felt the boy was old enough to have worked this out for himself. ‘And you cannot do business with Mistress Starre anyway. She is a witch. You must distance yourself from such people.’
‘Your father is right, lad,’ murmured John. ‘Listen to him.’
While they talked, Bartholomew examined the purse, daring to hope that Aynton’s letter would be in it – that Dickon had overlooked it because he was uninterested in documents himself. But the purse was empty, and he could only assume that the boy was right: an opportunistic thief – or the killer – had taken whatever had been inside.
‘It was like this when you found it, Dickon?’ he asked, to be sure. ‘There was nothing you threw away because it was wet or dirty?’
Dickon shook his head. ‘I was very careful, and if anything had been in it, I would have passed it to Brother Michael at once. Why? Are you looking into Huntyngdon’s death as well as the Chancellor’s? Can I help? Awkward witnesses always cooperate when I draw my sword.’
Bartholomew was sure they did. ‘It is a kind offer, but I can manage, thank you.’
The discussion over, Dickon scampered away before he could be ordered back to his books. Grinning indulgently, John followed.
‘So how are your enquiries?’ asked Tulyet, walking Bartholomew back to the gate.
‘I eliminated Gille and Elsham this morning, but the list is still quite lengthy. It is a pity I could not make out what Aynton said as he lay dying – litteratus or non litteratus. If I had, I could narrow it down to either scholars or seculars.’
‘So who is still on it?’
‘Donwich, Narboro, Stasy, Hawick, Morys, Brampton, Shardelowe and Martyn,’ recited Bartholomew. ‘My brother-in-law, too, but he assures me that he is innocent.’
‘I imagine he is, Matt. Chaumbre is a nice man, and Edith is lucky to have found him. Have you tackled Morys yet or do you still want my help? If so, I cannot do it today, because I have reopened my investigation into Baldok’s murder – he also died on the bridge, if you recall, and Aynton’s fate has prompted me to look into it again.’
Bartholomew frowned. ‘You think the two are connected? I do not see how, other than both happening on the Great Bridge.’
‘You are probably right, but there is no harm in being sure.’
Bartholomew returned to the ferry, and found another long line of people waiting, this time to cross into the town. Tempers flared as the sun beat down, and there was a lot of irritable pushing and shoving. He decided to sit in St Giles’ Church for a while, in the hope that the queue would be shorter when he emerged, but had second thoughts when he saw Ulf Godenave and his ragged friends there, trying to fry eggs on the hot stones in the porch.
He glanced along the Chesterton road, where tall elms offered shade and a place to lie, but the river stank so badly that it would not be a pleasant thing to do. Then he looked at the Griffin tavern, the thick stone walls of which would offer a cool refuge. But others had had the same idea, and the place was packed and noisy.
He was still debating what to do when something landed at his feet. It was a half-cooked egg, and he knew Ulf had lobbed it when the brat raced away sniggering. His playmates scampered after him, unwilling to linger and take the blame for something he had done. The incident made Bartholomew remember the boy’s ailing grandmother, so he walked to the nearby hovels to see how she was.
The Godenave family regarded him suspiciously when he arrived, and only when he assured them that he was not there to collect a fee was he allowed inside. The old woman was recovering well, thanks to the parish priest, who had brought her food and extra barley water, all paid for by the anonymous ‘saint’.
As Bartholomew left, he saw Gille and Elsham lurking, evidently not trusting him to tell the truth about his movements that day. They made no attempt to conceal themselves, and only regarded him with unfriendly eyes – until Ulf lobbed eggs at them, too, after which they kept their distance.
‘He should be wary of antagonising that pair,’ Bartholomew warned the boy’s granddam. ‘They are not gentle, and one thinks Ulf stole his purse.’
‘Our Ulf would never have done that,’ objected the crone indignantly. ‘Besides, that pair are thieves themselves. I saw Gille stick his hand in the poor box with my own eyes, while his friend Elsham stole the Mayor’s wife.’
Bartholomew raised his eyebrows. ‘You mean Rohese?’
‘She has been looking for a new lover ever since John Baldok died, and she found one in Elsham. But he should watch himself – Morys will not appreciate being made a cuckold again, and he has violent kin in the fens …’
Although Bartholomew had been told before that Rohese liked male company, he was sure she would never stoop to Elsham. The Clare Hall Fellow was reasonably good-looking and his stipend was generous, but he was sullen, brutish and unlikely to be much fun. Bartholomew dismissed the claim as groundless gossip.
When the paupers in the little community around All Saints next-the-castle heard that a physician had given a free consultation, they flocked to him in droves. There were several cases of flux, but also some interesting diseases of the lungs and skin. Bartholomew lost himself in his work, so it was late afternoon before he finished. Then he realised with a guilty start that he had done virtually nothing to find Aynton’s killer that day.
He hurried to the river, where the queue was now much shorter – on his side, at least. There was a long line on the other bank, as folk who had completed their business in town were making for their homes in the outlying villages. Isnard and his men were tired and hot, but very cheerful, suggesting their labours had bagged them a fortune. Bartholomew joined the back of the line, and was surprised to see Chaumbre there.
‘My business in Girton took much longer than I anticipated,’ sighed the dyer. ‘Poor Edith will wonder what has happened to me, as I promised to be back by noon, to run a few errands for her friend Lucy.’
Bartholomew listened in mounting horror as Chaumbre explained that his tasks for Lucy included visiting milliners, glovers, cobblers and grocers, all to collect items ordered for the wedding. Why were so many things needed for a ceremony that would be over in the blink of an eye? Seeing his dismay, Chaumbre changed the subject, and began to talk about the difficulties he had experienced while mending the window that had been broken by burglars two days before.
‘I could not saw the wood to the correct size, and it took four attempts before I got it right. I should have hired a carpenter to do it, rather than struggling myself.’
‘What stopped you?’ asked Bartholomew absently, most of his thoughts still on Lucy’s wild extravagance.
‘The expense,’ replied Chaumbre, then smiled. ‘I know I am wealthy, but why waste good money? However, I shall know next time to leave it to the professionals.’
He burbled on, and Bartholomew tuned him out as he looked at the bridge. Astonishing progress had been made in just a few hours – most of the wooden superstructure had been dismantled and replaced by scaffolding, so that the workmen could identify any crumbling or broken stone on the piers and spandrels, and replace it with new. Work was as frantic as ever, and Shardelowe was there to make sure no one slacked.
Unfortunately, the labourers were hampered by Ulf and his friends, who had slipped under the barriers erected to keep people out, and were larking about on the ponticulus. Ulf had ‘acquired’ a new hat since Bartholomew had last seen him, and he wore it at a jaunty angle. He and his playmates were too quick for the workmen to catch, and Bartholomew could see Shardelowe growing exasperated by their antics.
‘There will be an accident in a moment,’ the physician remarked, as Ulf leapt from the ponticulus to the scaffolding, where he bumped into one of the stones that Bernarde had balanced there earlier.
‘That boy is a nuisance,’ agreed Chaumbre. ‘And I am sure I have seen that hat somewhere before …’
It felt like an age before Bartholomew reached the front of the queue. After an earlier mishap, during which an overloaded boat had capsized and wet passengers had demanded a refund, Isnard set limits on the number of people in each craft. Bartholomew, Chaumbre and three others were allowed on the smaller of the two ferries, after which Isnard and his assistants prepared to push off. As always, Bartholomew was impressed by the bargeman’s agility on boats, aware that he was more sure-footed than many folk with two good legs.
‘Wait!’ came an urgent voice. It was Gille, forcing his way to the front of the throng and brandishing a groat – a princely sum, far in excess of the set charge. ‘Two more.’
Isnard eyed the coin greedily, which was enough to see the Clare Hall men hop aboard, much to the outrage of those who had been patiently waiting their turn. Gille elected to stand in the prow, while Elsham sat on the gunwale.
‘They have a family emergency,’ Isnard informed those who immediately began to bellow their objections.
‘Liar!’ cried Burgess FitzAbsolon furiously. ‘I shall raise the issue of bribery and corruption at the next guildhall meeting.’
Elsham gave a sharp bark of amusement. ‘You think Mayor Morys will uphold an objection to something he has refined to such an exquisite art?’
There was no answer to this, and FitzAbsolon was wise enough not to attempt one. He watched with sullen resentment as the ferry pushed off, Isnard and his crew grunting with the effort of the additional weight.
The boat was halfway across when trouble erupted. Some of Ulf’s friends began to pelt the builders with bits of broken wood, while a couple of their cronies were back on the ponticulus, where they raced to and fro with whoops of glee, causing it to sway violently. Ulf himself was on the riverbank, snatching up handfuls of mud, which he lobbed at the ferry, eliciting yells of anger from those he hit.
Bartholomew saw something fast-moving out of the corner of his eye, but before he could shout a warning, there was a tremendous crash followed by a fountain of water and flying splinters. A huge piece of stone had toppled off the scaffolding and crashed through the ponticulus to land on the ferry below. Chaumbre and Elsham went cartwheeling into the water, while everyone else struggled to cling on as the crippled craft tipped precariously. Chaumbre surfaced a few feet away, and began to screech that he could not swim.
Bartholomew considered jumping in to rescue him, but drowning was not the worst thing that could happen to someone who immersed himself in the Cam. Instead, he grabbed one of Isnard’s crutches, and stretched it towards the flailing dyer. When Chaumbre seized it, Bartholomew was able to pull him aboard.
When they reached the opposite bank moments later, willing hands were waiting to assist the sodden passengers ashore. Chaumbre was soon sitting on an upturned crate, being fussed over by well-wishers. There were a lot of them, all genuinely concerned, and Bartholomew saw that his brother-in-law was a popular man. There was only one dissenting voice.
‘Perhaps God gave you a soaking for failing to fill in your dye-pits,’ called Narboro nastily. ‘Now you know what it is like to fall into a place where you do not want to be.’
He stalked away, head in the air, although he was obliged to break into a run when Chaumbre’s friends took exception to the remark and one or two started after him.
While he waited for Chaumbre to recover, Bartholomew looked at the crowd that had gathered to watch the aftermath of the incident. Shardelowe and his crew stared down from the scaffolding that swathed the bridge, while several dozen people were ranged along the top of both riverbanks. Among them were Mayor Morys, Brampton, Donwich, Stasy and Hawick. Cynric was nowhere to be seen, and he wondered if his erstwhile students had given the book-bearer the slip.
Isnard glared up at the workmen. ‘One of you pushed that stone on purpose! You have been moaning about us all day, claiming that we are in the way of your delivery barges.’
‘We did no such thing,’ objected Shardelowe. ‘What happened was an accident.’
‘Then one of those brats was responsible,’ put in Stasy. ‘I notice they are now nowhere to be seen.’
‘They are not strong enough,’ countered Bernarde. ‘Blame the sun instead. It must have heated the stone, causing it to tip.’
That sounded unlikely to Bartholomew. ‘Where is Elsham?’ he asked, recalling that Chaumbre was not the only one who had been knocked off the ferry.
‘There, on the bank,’ replied Isnard, hobbling towards a prostrate figure. ‘He must have swum to safety. Come on, lad, up you get. You are not … help!’
Bartholomew could see at once that something was badly wrong. An examination revealed that the stone had landed square on Elsham’s back, crushing his spine. His limbs were floppy, and he shook his head when Bartholomew asked if he could feel his hands or feet. His face was white, and Bartholomew knew he was dying. So did Elsham.
‘I need absolution,’ he whispered. ‘I have done things …’
‘Brampton! Fetch a priest,’ shouted Bartholomew urgently. ‘And where is Gille?’
‘He was here a moment ago,’ replied Isnard, scanning the silently watching faces. ‘Perhaps he went home for dry clothes. Do you want me to fetch him back?’
‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew tersely, sure Elsham would want his friend with him in his final moments. ‘Hurry.’
‘The priest,’ gasped Elsham. ‘Please! I must unburden my soul.’
‘He is coming,’ said Bartholomew gently. ‘It will not be—’
But Elsham could not wait. ‘I killed Huntyngdon,’ he rasped, his eyes huge in his frightened face. ‘I stabbed him as he walked along the towpath. He was going to deliver a letter from the Chancellor, but I got to him first. I hid the body, but it must have rolled into the river and floated downstream …’
Bartholomew stared at him. ‘Why would you do such a thing?’
Elsham would not meet his eyes. ‘As a favour for … a friend.’
‘Who?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering what manner of friend would demand that sort of boon. ‘Donwich?’
‘I cannot say, lest he disturbs my afterlife,’ breathed Elsham, each word now an agony of effort. ‘Besides, I can only confess my sins, not someone else’s.’
‘And Martyn? Did you kill him, too?’
‘I know nothing about him.’
‘I do not understand,’ said Bartholomew helplessly. ‘Why did your “friend” want Huntyngdon dead? What was in Aynton’s letter that was so important?’
‘He never told me. I just did what he asked.’
‘Did you take the letter after you … after Huntyngdon died?’
‘I was meant to, but I … forgot. I suppose some beggar stole it when his body was washed down here, along with the money in his purse. Not that there was much of that – just a few farthings.’
Bartholomew had so many questions that he did not know which ones to ask first. ‘Was Gille with you when you killed Huntyngdon?’
‘No, he was in the Brazen George.’
‘Then is he the friend who compelled you to kill on his behalf?’
‘Of course not!’ breathed Elsham. ‘He is more brother than friend. You must absolve me, now. Please! I will …’
His eyes slid closed, and he did not open them again. A priest arrived, and by the time he had finished murmuring prayers of absolution, Elsham was dead.