‘You did not do as well yesterday as you did the day before, Matt,’ said Michael as he led his scholars home from church the following day. ‘You spent too much time with patients, and too little time chasing the killer.’
‘The flux is important, too,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘Look at Meadowman – there was a point when I thought he might die.’
‘But he did not, and now he assures me that he will soon be fit enough to return to work, for which I am inordinately grateful, as we are seriously short of beadles. But we should discuss your investigation, as neither of us has time to waste today.’
‘There are rumours about why the vicars-general are taking so much time with you,’ warned Bartholomew, who had been regaled with them when he had visited the sick. ‘As opposed to Donwich, whose audience with them was over in a few moments.’
Michael’s smile was strained. ‘There is nothing I can do about that. I wish I could tell you more, but as I have said before, I am sworn to secrecy. Now, the murders. I assume we have a single culprit, who dispatched Aynton and Elsham, and convinced Elsham to stab Huntyngdon. So, who remains on our list?’
‘Well, not Chaumbre and Gille,’ said Bartholomew, ‘given that they were on the ferry with Elsham at the time. Although Gille disappeared with suspicious haste and there is something about Chaumbre that continues to bother me …’
‘But those concerns may have nothing to do with our investigation: Gille likely fled because he is a thief, and Chaumbre might well be hiding something, but if he is, it will probably relate to some dubious business dealings.’
Bartholomew raised his eyebrows. ‘Is that supposed to make me feel better?’
‘Yes, it is. All merchants dabble on the wrong side of the law – they cannot help themselves – but dishonesty is not murder, so put Chaumbre from your mind for now. So who else can we cross off the list? Narboro?’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘He was not in Cambridge when Huntyngdon was stabbed. Ergo, the remaining suspects are Donwich, Stasy, Hawick, Brampton, Shardelowe, Morys and Martyn, if he is alive. Five who can lay claim to being a litteratus, and two who cannot.’
Michael sighed. ‘If only Aynton had spoken a little more clearly with his dying breath. We might have solved this by now.’
‘Of course, there may be others we have not yet considered,’ Bartholomew went on. ‘You said you would ask the beadles to look for witnesses to Elsham’s death. Did you?’
‘Yes, but it transpires that everyone was watching the children run amok.’
‘Chaumbre thinks that was a diversion,’ recalled Bartholomew. ‘Ulf is their leader, and he will do anything for money, so it is possible. I will speak to him today.’
‘Will he cooperate? The Godenaves have a bad reputation, and Ulf is the worst of them all. He knifed a beadle last year. It was a glancing wound, but the intention to kill was there.’
‘Then why is he still free?’ asked Bartholomew, shocked. Ulf could not be more than eight, which was young for so serious a crime.
‘Because Morys paid a clever lawyer to defend him – claimed he was protecting an innocent child against the unequal might of the University. However, I suspect they share some felonious past, which the Godenaves threatened to reveal unless he intervened.’
‘Morys and a family of felons,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘Interesting.’
‘Very, so bear it in mind when you corner Ulf. Now, you did not visit the Brazen George yesterday to confirm Gille’s alibi for Huntyngdon’s murder, so do that first, then speak to Ulf. After that, interview Morys again – he claims he was on town business when Aynton died, but they quarrelled that afternoon so we should press him for more details.’
‘Very well.’
‘And bear in mind that Elsham was making a cuckold of him.’
‘Stasy and Hawick suggested questioning Donwich more forcefully,’ Bartholomew told him. ‘He has never been likeable, but he has grown greedier, nastier and more ambitious since he was elected Master of Clare Hall. He is still at the top of my list. Him and Brampton, who transpire to be better friends than we realised.’
‘Brampton is wooing him because he hopes Clare Hall will relent and pay its share of the bridge money,’ said Michael. ‘But, I accept your reservations, and I will speak to him this morning. I shall see if I can escape the vicars-general for an hour to tackle Donwich, too.’
‘Then let us hope that one of us solves the mystery today, Brother, because there are only five days left before term ends. I would rather spend them teaching.’
You and me both,’ muttered Michael.
It was another swelteringly hot day, and Henry the peacock coped by remaining inside the porter’s lodge, where there was a cool stone floor to sit on. The bird stirred himself when a delivery arrived for Cynric, though, and the yard rang with his shrill cries.
‘It is a spell from Margery Starre,’ Cynric told Zoone and Bartholomew, both of whom had come running to see if Michaelhouse was about to be invaded by Stasy and Hawick. ‘To change the weather.’
‘You should have saved your money, Cynric,’ said Zoone. ‘Because it will rain tomorrow anyway. And as it is St Swithun’s Day, the downpour will continue for forty days.’
‘Exactly!’ said Cynric. ‘We do not want floods on the heels of a drought, so this spell will make sure we get a nice gentle drizzle, not a ferocious deluge.’
‘Regardless, rain of any description will hinder progress on the bridge,’ said Zoone. ‘Such work is always more difficult in inclement weather. When I was building a drain in Linton … well, you do not want to hear about slippery planks and watery cement.’
‘Linton?’ pounced Bartholomew. ‘Did you meet a glazier there, who makes mirrors?’
‘I did,’ said Zoone. ‘He is reputed to be the best in the country. Why? Do you want one for Matilde as a wedding gift? If so, you have left it too late – they take a while to craft.’
Bartholomew told him about Narboro’s alibi for Huntyngdon’s murder, and was pleased when Zoone offered to write to the glazier for confirmation of the tale. Then Michael bustled up, all angry indignation.
‘I shall have to accompany you to the Brazen George, Matt,’ he said crossly. ‘Agatha has just confessed to polluting my morning pottage with vegetables.’ He shuddered. ‘I cannot manipulate the vicars-general with that rubbish inside me. I need meat.’
‘What is wrong with vegetables?’ asked Zoone, bemused.
‘They are dangerous,’ stated Michael in a tone that brooked no argument. ‘They fester in the heat and have a tendency to explode.’
Bartholomew laughed. ‘Where do you get these “facts”, Brother?’
Michael elected not to reply, and shouted for William instead. The friar was informing the undergraduates that he could have won the debate on gluttony the previous day, if he had not been tricked into admitting that he committed each different kind on a regular basis.
‘What?’ barked William, irked to be summoned while correcting the misunderstanding that caused students to smirk and pat their stomachs whenever they saw him.
‘Something urgent has come up,’ lied Michael. ‘So you must preside at breakfast.’
‘Good,’ said William grimly. ‘Then we shall see who is a glutton.’
The Brazen George was a cut above most Cambridge taverns, because its food and ale were of high quality, and Landlord Lister only served patrons he deemed to be respectable. It was Michael’s favourite establishment, and because he was such a regular customer, a chamber was set aside for his exclusive use. It was a convenient perk, as it was difficult for the monk to fine other scholars for frequenting taverns if he was seen doing it himself.
Grumbling that the ground was so hot that it was burning through his sandals, Michael hurried to the High Street, Bartholomew at his side. He glanced around to make sure no one was looking, then slipped down the lane that led to the tavern’s back door. Once inside, he opened the door to his private room – and stopped dead in his tracks.
‘I thought you would be unable to resist the lure of this place for long,’ drawled Donwich, who had made himself comfortable in Michael’s favourite chair.
Lister stood behind him, wringing his hands in distress. ‘I am sorry, Brother. I tried to stop him, but he shoved past me.’
Donwich smirked nastily. ‘I wanted to see your nasty little den for myself, so I can report every detail to the vicars-general. Teofle, Ely and Tinmouth will have plenty to say about your hypocrisy, I am sure.’
Michael smiled sweetly. ‘Perhaps, although you should be aware that it was Teofle’s idea. He has an identical arrangement in Canterbury – a tavern that is always available for confidential meetings or solitary contemplation. He recommended years ago that I should do the same here, and maintains it is the only way busy men can keep their sanity.’
Donwich’s face underwent a gamut of emotions within a very short space of time: astonishment, shock, anger and disbelief. ‘You lie,’ he said eventually.
‘Then ask him,’ shrugged Michael. ‘But be careful how you do it, because he will not take kindly to sanctimonious criticism. Well? What are you waiting for? If you leave now, you will catch him breaking his fast in King’s Hall.’
Donwich stood reluctantly. ‘I …’
‘Is there anything else or may Matt and I discuss how to proceed with these nasty murders? Aynton and Elsham were members of your College, so you must want answers.’
‘You will not talk about that,’ sneered Donwich, struggling to regain his composure. ‘You are just here to gorge. And while we are on the subject of Elsham, let me tell you now that he had nothing to do with Huntyngdon’s unfortunate demise. Bartholomew fabricated this so-called confession to embarrass Clare Hall.’
Manfully, Bartholomew fought down his indignation at the insult. ‘He knew details about the crime that only the killer could have had.’
‘Now we must identify the “friend” who urged him to do it,’ said Michael, and eyed Donwich meaningfully.
‘Well, it was not me,’ said Donwich firmly. ‘I barely knew Huntyngdon.’
‘Then tell us about the night that Aynton died. You cannot prove your whereabouts, although we understand that you returned to your College in a state of high agitation.’
‘I did not kill Aynton,’ declared Donwich, growing angry. ‘I liked him.’
Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘But he offended you by refusing to support your candidacy for the chancellorship, and he went out the night he died to catch you in a compromising position with Lucy.’
‘My relationship with her is chaste,’ snapped Donwich, although he blushed like a schoolboy at the mention of her name. ‘And my personal life is none of your business, so keep your vile insinuations to yourself. Brampton will be livid when I tell him you besmirch his sister’s good name.’
‘I do nothing of the kind,’ said Michael irritably. ‘I merely remind you that Aynton knew about your friendship with her, and he was killed when he went out to expose it.’
‘Have you had any thoughts about where Gille might have gone, now you have had time to reflect?’ asked Bartholomew, when Donwich had no reply.
Donwich regarded him with dislike. ‘If I had, I would not tell you. You will concoct lies to see him accused of crimes he did not commit, too.’
‘We have no need to concoct lies,’ said Michael sharply. ‘Not with the evidence he left behind in his room. And do not accuse Matt of planting it there – most of it was found by your own Fellows. Or are you saying that they are dishonest, too?’
Donwich scowled. ‘I shall dismiss the lot of them when I am Chancellor. And the vicars-general will uphold my challenge – I have never been more sure of anything in my life. If you have any sense, Brother, you will resign before they oust you in disgrace.’
Amusement sparked briefly in Michael’s eyes. ‘We shall see.’
Donwich regarded him suspiciously. ‘Yet you do not respond by suggesting that I withdraw instead. Why not? What are you plotting in that sly mind of yours?’
‘Just go, Donwich,’ said Michael, suddenly tired of sparring with him. ‘I have neither the time nor the inclination to bandy words with you. Lister? See him to the front door.’
As being ejected directly on to the High Street would attract unwanted attention, Donwich turned abruptly and scuttled through the back entrance before Lister could oblige.
‘Perhaps you should have told him to withdraw,’ said Bartholomew when Donwich had gone. ‘Then the vicars-general can go home, leaving you to investigate the murders yourself.’
‘He has a right for his claim to be heard,’ shrugged Michael, and turned his attention to ordering one of his gargantuan feasts.
‘Are you satisfied with the answers Donwich gave?’ asked Bartholomew, once they were alone. ‘Because I am not. A flat denial is hardly evidence of innocence.’
‘No,’ agreed Michael, ‘and I shall tackle him again later. But he disconcerted me by invading my sanctuary, and I was not really ready for him. I will be next time.’
Lister was used to Michael being in a hurry, and the table was soon loaded with bread and meat, which the monk began to devour more quickly than was healthy. When the landlord lingered, gabbling more apologies for allowing such an unpalatable guest to bully his way inside, Bartholomew took the opportunity to question him about Gille’s alibi.
‘He most certainly was not here the night that Huntyngdon went missing,’ declared Lister indignantly. ‘I do not want his sort as a customer, thank you very much! He and Elsham are thieves.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Bartholomew, taken aback by his vehemence.
‘Because I saw them steal exemplars from Stationer Weasenham with my own eyes.’
Michael looked up from his repast. ‘Then why did you not report them to me?’
‘They threatened to burn down my tavern if I did. But now one is dead and the other has vanished, I am free to speak the truth.’
‘So why did Elsham say Gille was here?’ wondered Bartholomew, bemused.
‘I was busy that night, so I imagine he did not expect me to recall whom I served,’ replied Lister. ‘But he underestimated me, because I always remember when un-desirables invade my domain. I repeat: neither Gille nor Elsham was here.’
‘Your busy night explains why Elsham chose the Brazen George for his lie,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But not why he gave Gille a false alibi in the first place.’
‘As a last act of friendship,’ surmised Michael. ‘He knew his confession meant we would question Gille – the man who was “more brother than friend” to him. However, now we know he lied, it is even more important that we find Gille and discover what role he played in Huntyngdon’s demise.’
While he finished eating, Michael was distracted and uncommunicative, his mind on the looming encounter with the vicars-general. The moment the last platter was empty, he hurried away to St Mary the Great, while Bartholomew went in search of Ulf.
As he was passing, he stopped to spend a moment with Matilde. He opened her door, and his stomach gave a little flip when he saw her brushing her hair in front of a mirror. She really was beautiful, he thought, and wondered again why she had agreed to marry him when she could have had so many others.
‘You look hot and out of sorts,’ she said, turning to smile at him. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘Just the murders,’ he sighed. ‘And the pressure of solving them while Michael is busy with the vicars-general.’
‘I have every confidence in you,’ said Matilde, taking his hands in hers. They were cool and soft. ‘No sly killer will best you, so do not worry. And everything will be better tomorrow, when this wretched heatwave will end.’
‘How do you know that?’ he asked, startled. ‘Did Margery Starre tell you? Or Zoone?’
Matilde laughed, and the sheer bubbling joy of it made Bartholomew’s stomach lurch again. ‘They have many talents, but predicting the weather is not among them. No, I know because I saw clouds in the south-west this morning. That always heralds a change, and—’
She was interrupted by a sudden clamour in the street outside, and opened the door to see Morys involved in a fierce altercation with Shardelowe. Unsurprisingly, it concerned money. The quarrel had already attracted onlookers, including some of Bartholomew’s suspects, so he supposed it was as good a time as any to observe them unseen.
First, there was Donwich, oddly solitary without his henchmen. His eyes were fixed on Lucy who stood with her brother, his expression one of almost frantic passion. He was arrogant, ambitious and ruthless, and Bartholomew suspected that he had known about his Fellows’ felonious antics, but had chosen to overlook them, despite his denials to the contrary. Did that mean he had ordered Elsham to kill, too? But why would he do such a thing? Because Aynton had written something unflattering about him in the letter Huntyngdon was to deliver to Narboro?
Next to Lucy, Brampton was trying to order scholars home, lest the spat degenerated into a brawl. None took any notice, and Bartholomew wondered again why Michael had promoted him to Senior Proctor. He might be a talented administrator and good at collecting money, but it needed more than that to keep order in the University.
Not far away, Stasy and Hawick were using the opportunity to tout for business. They had written a résumé of their skills on small squares of parchment, which they handed to anyone who they thought might be literate. Although Bartholomew had taught them for years, the last few days proved that he had not known them at all. A week ago, he would have said they could not be killers. Now he was far from sure.
‘Look at Narcissus Narboro,’ whispered Matilde. ‘He has disguised his bruises so well with face-paints that they are barely visible. I must ask him how he did it. If he can hide injuries so consummately, imagine what he could do for wrinkles and sagging skin.’
But Bartholomew’s attention was taken by the burgeoning spat.
‘You promised to pay for materials as they arrive,’ yelled Shardelowe, waving the document that proved it – the one that Gille had drawn up using ink stolen from Michael’s office. ‘Now you renege. We have four barges of cobbles waiting, but none will be unloaded until you give us the money.’
‘The delay will hurt you more than me,’ shrugged Morys. ‘You will lose your bonus if you fail to complete the work by the time agreed. And I cannot pay the bargemen today, because the money is still being counted. Is that not so, John?’
He turned to his cousin, who was fingering a sword. Shardelowe started forward angrily, but his assistants Bernarde and Lyonnes grabbed his arms to stop him, aware that attacking an armed knight was rash, even if the builder was too blinded by rage to see it.
‘Then give us what has been counted,’ said Lyonnes, struggling to hold the furious Shardelowe. ‘Because you cannot break a legally binding contract.’
‘I will do what is best for the town,’ declared Morys loftily. ‘Now get back to work, or I shall shave ten per cent off what we pay you when you finish.’
‘No!’ spluttered Shardelowe, outraged anew. ‘This is not how business is done.’
‘He is right, Morys,’ said Bernarde, his voice quiet and eminently reasonable. ‘You cannot change an agreement once it is in writing.’
‘And if you do, we will walk away and leave you without a bridge at all,’ blustered Shardelowe. ‘It will not be long before you beg us to come back.’
‘Cambridge men do not beg,’ averred Morys loftily. ‘Besides, you will not leave. Not only have you invested a lot of your own money in this scheme, but abandoning a job halfway through will ensure that you are never hired again.’
‘You are not the only one who can destroy reputations,’ yelled Shardelowe, beside himself with rage. ‘No builder will ever finish your bridge, because I shall put it about that you are all cheats and liars, not to be trusted.’
‘Gentlemen, please,’ said Bernarde, raising one hand in a gesture of peace. ‘There is no need for harsh words. We can resolve—’
‘I will cut out your tongue for slandering my town, Shardelowe,’ hissed Morys viciously, and turned to his cousin. ‘Well? Go on, John. Do it!’
No one found out whether John would have obliged, because there was a flurry of movement, and Tulyet and Dickon arrived to separate the two factions. Dickon held a dagger, but Tulyet did not need steel to impose his will on anyone. John backed off at once, and so did Bernarde, pulling Shardelowe with him. Unfortunately, Morys’s last threat had been one too many for Lyonnes. He released Shardelowe’s arm and drew a knife.
‘Out of my way, boy,’ he snarled at Dickon. ‘I am going to teach this bastard a lesson.’
‘You?’ sneered Morys, although he ducked smartly behind John for safety. ‘You are a worm, beneath my contempt.’
‘Worm, am I?’ screeched Lyonnes furiously, and waved the knife in a way that made it obvious he did not know what to do with it now it was out.
‘Slice out his tongue, Lyonnes,’ yelled Shardelowe, fighting to free himself from Bernarde. ‘He is a liar. Hearing his voice is an affront to honest ears.’
Morys addressed the watching crowd. ‘Everything I do is for you, to ensure your taxes are used wisely. Or should I let these rogues fleece us?’
Lyonnes was red with rage. He darted forward, but to reach Morys, he had to get past first Dickon and then John. The boy blanched in fright at the sight of an armed man bearing down on him. He dropped his dagger and struggled to draw his sword. It hissed from its scabbard, and more by luck than skill, managed to knock the blade from Lyonnes’ hand. Seeing him defenceless, Dickon went after him with more confidence, driving him back with a series of increasingly fancy swipes.
‘Enough, Dickon,’ said Tulyet hastily, before there was a mishap. ‘Sheathe your weapon. You have made your point.’
‘Yes, sheathe your weapon, Devil’s spawn,’ snarled Lyonnes, determined to have the last word. ‘And if you come near me again, I will plant a blade in your nasty little gizzard.’
‘If you try, I shall chop off your stupid head,’ countered Dickon, his face dark with indignation. ‘My sword is sharp enough. I hone it for hours every night.’
Lyonnes’ response was to spit on the ground at Dickon’s feet, and stalk away. Livid, Dickon made as if to follow, but Tulyet forbade it with a few sharp words. Dickon wavered, and for one horrifying moment, Bartholomew thought the time had finally come when the boy defied his father and did what he pleased. But Tulyet fixed him with a steely glare, and Dickon slid his sword back in its sheath, albeit with very ill grace.
‘Show me the contract, Shardelowe,’ ordered Tulyet, turning to the builder. ‘If Morys did agree to pay for supplies as they arrive, then that is what will happen.’
‘Now just a moment,’ objected Morys. ‘It has nothing to do with you, Sheriff. You cannot come here and start dictating—’
‘Some of the bridge money came from the King,’ interrupted Tulyet sharply. ‘And I am his representative. So, unless you want to challenge his authority, I suggest you shut up.’
Ignoring Morys’s furious glower, he took the document and held it so that Dickon could read it, too. The boy’s lips moved as he struggled to decipher the first few words, but he soon gave up and went to brag to John about his ‘defeat of the murderous Frenchman’. Everyone else watched Tulyet, and Bartholomew was not the only one holding his breath for the verdict. Eventually, the Sheriff handed the contract back.
‘Shardelowe is right,’ he said. ‘So Morys will provide payment for these cobbles by the end of the day. Any money-counting should be finished by then, so there can be no reason to defer it any longer. Agreed?’
Shardelowe opened his mouth to say he wanted it there and then, but Bernarde pulled him away before he could prolong the confrontation. Morys scowled at Tulyet, then stalked off in the opposite direction.
‘Dickon really is horrible,’ murmured Matilde to Bartholomew, watching the boy draw his sword again and strut about importantly in the hope of being noticed by Rohese Morys. ‘Obviously, I do not believe he is the Devil’s son, but, even so, I shall be glad when he goes a-killing in France.’
‘So will he,’ said Bartholomew.
The physician lingered outside Matilde’s house for some time after the spat was over, because it had happened on her doorstep, and he wanted to make sure it did not reignite. Tulyet and Dickon also stayed, and so did Brampton. The Senior Proctor should have ordered the remaining scholars home, but he chose instead to corner Father Aiden and demand Maud’s Hostel’s share of the University’s contribution to the bridge.
‘Michael’s replacement is useless,’ declared Dickon, watching in disdain. ‘I bet you anything that he will not have the bridge money by Wednesday. Some scholars will refuse to pay it, and he does not know how to make them. Perhaps I should show him.’
He drew his sword yet again, and began to practise more of the moves he had learned from John. Tulyet did not order him to desist, because the sight of Dickon with a naked blade was driving the last of the spectators away rather nicely.
‘I cannot imagine what Morys thought he was doing,’ Tulyet said to Bartholomew. ‘He was in the wrong and he knew it. All I hope is that his needless aggravation of the builders does not leave us with a sub-standard bridge.’
‘I think we might get one of those anyway,’ said Bartholomew. ‘How can it be otherwise when the work proceeds at such a breakneck speed?’
‘Perhaps that is why Lyonnes is so bad tempered,’ put in Dickon, still waving his sword around. ‘He is tired and needs to rest.’
‘I wonder what they are talking about,’ said Tulyet, nodding to where Chaumbre and Shardelowe were deep in conversation.
He started to stride towards them, but the builder saw him coming and hurried away.
‘We were discussing my dye-pits,’ said Chaumbre with a pleasant smile when the Sheriff put the question. ‘He thinks it is a pity such handsome structures must be filled in.’
‘Is that why you procrastinate?’ asked Tulyet, startled. ‘You like the workmanship in the things? Well, I am afraid you will have to grit your teeth and bear it, Chaumbre, because they are an eyesore and a danger.’
‘I disagree,’ objected Chaumbre. ‘However, a consignment of alum arrived this morning, and I must see to it at once, as it is worth a lot of money. I shall deal with the pits as soon as I have a spare moment.’
He bowed and took his leave. Tulyet watched him go.
‘I know he is your kin, Matt, but there is something odd about that man. For a start, I do not understand why he smiles all the time. It is hardly normal. And I do not believe that Shardelowe was admiring his holes in the ground.’
Unhappily, Bartholomew was inclined to agree.
It was unfortunate that Bartholomew did not corner Morys immediately after the spat on the High Street, because he reached the Mayor’s fine mansion only to learn that the man had already left town on business. Rohese told him that her husband planned to spend the night away, but would return in the morning.
‘Perhaps you should take the opportunity to leave yourself,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Your child will begin to show soon.’
Rohese rested a hand on her belly and smiled. ‘I will go in a day or two. I have decided to settle in Oxford, because I have always enjoyed the company of scholars.’
Bartholomew had no more luck with finding Ulf, as the boy’s entire gang had gone to Girton’s summer fair. He considered following them there, but the event would be crowded, and it would be almost impossible to identify the right brats. Stumped, he decided to visit the Great Bridge, in the hope that one of the workmen might have remembered something useful since he had last spoken to them.
He arrived to see that corners galore had been cut in an effort to speed the work along: scaffolding was not secured properly, stones were stacked in unstable piles, and there were dangerous practices involving heavy equipment. Then there was the ponticulus, which the workmen had pressed into service as a makeshift platform – it was in the wrong position for such a function, resulting in a lot of precarious reaching and leaning. It was only a matter of time before someone fell off it.
‘We have no time for that,’ barked Shardelowe, when Bartholomew suggested he implement some basic safety measures; he was with his two lieutenants, and they had been discussing cement. ‘Not if we are to win our bonus.’
‘It is better to lose money than a life,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘Your men—’
‘They are paid extra for the danger, and they know the risks,’ interrupted Shardelowe shortly. ‘Now, leave us alone. We are busy.’
‘But thank you for your concern,’ put in Bernarde, the polite face of the operation.
Lyonnes spat. ‘He can stick his concern up his—’
‘Did you see what happened when Elsham was killed?’ interrupted Bartholomew. ‘You have a good view of the ferry from up here and—’
‘We have already told you: none of us pushed the stone,’ snarled Lyonnes, evidently a man to see accusations and insults everywhere. ‘Why would we? We never met Elsham.’
‘It is possible that it was not intended for him,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It might just have been aimed at the boat.’
‘We have no reason to damage the ferries,’ said Bernarde, more consiliatory than his colleagues. ‘They are useful to us – if they did not carry folk across the river, we would have to keep the ponticulus open, which would slow us down.’
Bartholomew was becoming exasperated. ‘A man was murdered in a place that teemed with people – you three, your entire workforce, ferry passengers and onlookers – but not one of you saw who shoved the rock on Elsham. It beggars belief!’
‘Does it?’ demanded Lyonnes. ‘Then why did you notice nothing? You were there – I saw you myself. You did not see who tampered with the stone, so why do you expect us to?’
It was a reasonable point.
‘It was the brats’ fault,’ said Shardelowe bitterly. ‘They were lobbing missiles and larking about on the ponticulus. All our attention was on them, and the first thing I knew about the falling stone was when I heard it land.’
‘But the children did not push it,’ put in Bernarde. ‘None of them are strong enough. Besides, while some were on the ponticulus, I saw none on the bridge itself.’
‘Yet the stone did come from the bridge,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘And as no one other than your people should have been there, the guilty party must have stood out like a sore thumb.’
Shardelowe glared at him. ‘You go up there and see if you can spot an intruder through that forest of planks and ropes. It would have been easy for a killer to hide. But do not blame us for it – we cannot be expected to know that our scaffolding would attract murderers.’
‘Morys,’ spat Lyonnes. ‘He hired those brats to make a nuisance of themselves. He wanted to slow us down, so the town will not have to pay our bonus.’
Bartholomew would not put it past him. ‘Do you think he arranged for the stone to fall as well? I imagine Elsham’s death has cost you time.’
‘We made sure it did not,’ said Shardelowe. ‘But it is certainly possible that your Mayor thinks that a life is a small price to pay for cheating us of our due.’
‘Those children,’ said Bernarde thoughtfully. ‘Their play did not seem natural to me. They appeared uneasy, frightened even. Not Ulf, perhaps, but the others. If you speak to them, go gently. They may not have been acting of their own free will.’
‘What nonsense!’ exclaimed Lyonnes contemptuously. ‘But have you finished interrogating us now, physician? We have work to do.’
Bartholomew spoke to as many labourers as would answer his questions, but learned nothing new. None could shed light on Elsham’s murder, they had not noticed Huntyngdon washed up on the riverbank until Bartholomew himself had raised the alarm, and no one had anything to say about Aynton. The process took far longer than it should have done, because most took the opportunity to present him with their aches, pains, cuts and bruises while he was there. Thus daylight was fading into night when he eventually finished.
As he turned to leave, he bumped into Shardelowe again, and as he had forgotten to do it earlier, asked what he had discussed with Chaumbre shortly after his row with Morys.
‘I did not speak to Chaumbre,’ replied Shardelowe shiftily. ‘You are mistaken.’
Bartholomew blinked. ‘But I saw you!’
The builder sighed irritably. ‘Perhaps we exchanged greetings – I do not recall. My mind was on more important matters – like getting paid.’
‘You did not admire the craftsmanship in his dye-pits?’
It was Shardelowe’s turn to look startled. ‘You mean the holes in the cemetery? Why would I do that?’
He stalked away, leaving Bartholomew confused and uneasy. Both the builder and Chaumbre had lied about the encounter, but why? He found himself fearful for Edith, and wondered if she would agree to move in with Matilde for a few days. He could always use being on hand for wedding arrangements as a pretext to convince her.
In the hope that Ulf and his cronies had returned from the fair, Bartholomew took Isnard’s ferry across the river and walked to the hovels that stood around derelict All Saints’ Church. When he heard the sound of smashing, he went to look over the graveyard wall. Sure enough, the children were there, hurling stones at the few remaining panes of glass in the nave windows.
There were perhaps a dozen of them, all barefoot and dressed in rags. They regarded him with wary suspicion, although Ulf swaggered forward, brimming with audacity and confidence. He sported the new hat that Bartholomew had noticed the day before, which was so large that he had stuffed leaves in it to prevent it from falling over his eyes.
‘It was a gift,’ said Ulf defiantly, seeing Bartholomew look at it.
‘From the Carmelite Friary, like the shoes you offered to give me the other day?’ asked Bartholomew archly, and when Ulf looked blank, added, ‘As payment for helping your grandmother. Did no one ever teach you that liars need a good memory?’
Ulf glared at him. ‘No, the hat came from someone else. I do not have to tell you who. My father says the University has no power over us, and that if all the scholars were to leave, the rest of us would live like kings in your Colleges and hostels.’
‘Is that so?’ said Bartholomew flatly, and turned to his enquiries. ‘You were by the bridge when Elsham was killed. Did you see who pushed the stone on him?’
‘No, because we were playing,’ replied Ulf insolently. ‘A game – we run across the ponticulus, and the workmen see if they can catch us. They never do, because we are too quick.’
‘They do not see it as a game,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘And it is dangerous. One of you might be hurt. Do not do it again.’
‘We will if we want to,’ flashed Ulf, although his cronies were silent, and Bartholomew was under the impression that they would happily take the advice if their leader had been anyone other than Ulf. ‘You cannot stop us.’
‘You were not on the ponticulus though,’ said Bartholomew, declining to argue. ‘You were on the riverbank, throwing mud. It was—’
‘I got Isnard,’ crowed Ulf. ‘Right on the arse! It was a perfect shot.’
He did a little dance, drumming his feet on the ground and waving his arms in the air, while the other children watched with closed, expressionless faces.
‘Did someone pay you to do it?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘And perhaps give you a signal, so you would know when to start?’
‘Pay?’ asked one of the others sharply. Bartholomew recognised him as Isaac de Blaston, one of Yolande’s brood. She would not be pleased to learn he was keeping company with the likes of Ulf Godenave. ‘You mean someone gave you money?’
‘Or a hat,’ replied Bartholomew pointedly.
‘Well, no one gave us anything,’ said Isaac, and shot Ulf a reproachful glare.
‘Were you forced to play at the bridge?’ asked Bartholomew, carefully excluding Ulf from the question. ‘Bullied or frightened into doing it?’
‘I am not frightened of nothing,’ declared Ulf before the others could reply. ‘And no one tells me what to do neither. I do what I please, when I please, how I please. Ask anyone. Now, sod off. And if you come here again, I will stab you with a knife. I know where I can get one.’
Bartholomew was reluctant to press the matter when it was clear that none of the children were going to talk as long as Ulf was there. He went home.