The Hand of Justice

CHAPTER 3

Bartholomew and Michael hurried along streets that were dark grey with dusk. It was a cold evening, and the physician could see his breath pluming in front of him as he walked. He wondered whether there would be a frost that night. The previous winter had been one of the coldest anyone could recall, when snows had choked the roads and sealed the town from the outside world for days. The river had frozen, too, and the town’s watermills had been unable to operate, because the millers were afraid the ice would damage their machinery. This had driven up the price of flour, and people had died of starvation before winter had finally loosened its frigid grip.

There was a stiff breeze that Sunday evening, which meant the smoke that rose from hundreds of fires was blown away, rather than hanging over the town in a choking pall. Bartholomew could see the first stars appearing in the dark-blue sky and, when he breathed deeply, he detected not only the sulphurous stink of the marshes that lay to the north, but the more pleasant scent of early spring. He had seen primroses near Isnard’s house earlier that day, little lemon spots on a scrubby bank.

Sergeant Orwelle led the way. He was a grizzled veteran of the French wars, who usually worked at the Trumpington Gate, where he screened any strangers who wanted access to his town. The gate was not far from the King’s Mill, so Bartholomew supposed someone had run to him for help when the ‘incident’ – whatever that was – had unfolded.

‘What happened?’ he asked as they went, with Orwelle setting a cracking pace that had the overweight Michael gasping for breath. Bartholomew wondered whether Orwelle’s haste was because casualties needed urgent medical assistance, or whether he simply wanted to be back at his familiar post and out of the cold. ‘An accident?’

‘I would not say that,’ replied Orwelle, rather obtusely. ‘But then I know little of these things.’

‘What things?’ panted Michael.

‘The dead. You know,’ said Orwelle mysteriously.

Bartholomew began to have misgivings about the whole venture. There was a good deal of heavy machinery in a mill, and he had been called to some very unpleasant crushing accidents in the past. He skidded to a standstill.

‘Are you sure I am needed? I deal with the living, not the dead. If I have a sinister reputation for performing the odd surgical operation, then that is not going to be made better by my exploring mangled bodies at this hour of the night.’

‘You are the University’s Corpse Examiner,’ pronounced Orwelle uncompromisingly. ‘Everyone knows that. You are supposed to look at their deceased. It is your job.’

‘It is not!’ exclaimed Bartholomew indignantly, appalled that the occasional helping hand he gave to Michael should be seen as an official position. ‘I am a physician!’

‘You are both,’ said Orwelle, unmoved. They had reached the Trumpington Gate. ‘This is where we part company, gentlemen. I have no desire to see that again.’

‘You are looking into the murder of Bosel the beggar,’ said Michael, dabbing his sweaty brow with a piece of white linen, as he embarked on another subject. Bartholomew was not the only one who was unwilling to see what awaited him at the King’s Mill. ‘What have you learned so far?’

‘Nothing, despite the fact that I have questioned virtually everyone in the town over the last two days.’ Orwelle sounded dispirited. ‘Sheriff Tulyet says I should investigate Thorpe and Edward Mortimer, because they are known killers.’

Bartholomew rubbed his chin. ‘It would be stupid to start murdering people as soon as they arrive, and they are not fools. Perhaps someone killed Bosel in the hope that they would be blamed.’

Orwelle was appalled. ‘But there are hundreds of folk who want that pair gone from our streets! I will never narrow it down to one suspect.’ He sighed, and became even more gloomy. ‘The Sheriff says I should look at Thomas Mortimer, too, because Bosel threatened to be a witness against him. He also suggested I probe the affairs of the madwoman – Bess – who arrived here a few weeks ago.’

‘Who is she?’ asked Michael. ‘And why did you let her into our town, if you thought she might be dangerous?’

‘She is not dangerous,’ said Orwelle with great certainty. ‘And she did not kill Bosel, either. She came mumbling something about finding a lost lover. She is clearly out of her wits, and I thought she might be able to beg a few pennies here before she moves on, poor lass. She is too addled to know about poisons. But it is cold out here, and there is a fire in the gatehouse.’ Without another word, he turned and strode away, leaving the two scholars to complete the short journey alone.

‘Orwelle is right about your duties as Corpse Examiner,’ said Michael, as they passed Peterhouse and began to walk towards the mill, which was a black mass against the darkening sky. ‘In fact, I discussed the matter with Tynkell only last week, and we have decided to make the post a permanent one, with a proper stipend.’

‘Good,’ said Bartholomew with feeling. ‘You can offer it to Rougham. He can chase after you in the dead of night looking at sights no physician ever ought to be asked to see. He may even enjoy it.’

‘I do not want Rougham,’ said Michael. ‘I want you. Rougham’s mind is too closed to allow him to be of use to me – and do not suggest Paxtone, either. He is a pleasant fellow, but he is unimaginative, and would probably faint if I showed him a corpse.’

‘I will not do it,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘It would mean I am never free to refuse you.’

‘You never refuse me anyway,’ Michael pointed out. ‘So you may as well be paid for your trouble. The Chancellor is willing to provide fourpence for every corpse examined. At that rate, it will not take you long to earn enough to buy Roger Bacon’s De erroribus medicorum. You have wanted a copy of that ever since Paxtone lent you his, and I hear Gonville intends to sell theirs.’

‘Buy me the Bacon now, and I will inspect all the corpses you like for the next year,’ said Bartholomew, after a moment’s thought. ‘Rougham disapproves of De erroribus, because Bacon uses Arabic sources. He may destroy it, just to prevent student physicians from becoming tainted with ideas that did not originate with Christians.’

‘Have you pointed out that Aristotle, Plato and Socrates were not Christians either?’ asked Michael archly. ‘And that their philosophy forms the basis of nearly all our teaching?’

‘He says they are different, although he will not explain why. You know what zealots are like, Brother. They are so convinced that they are right they cannot – or will not – accept the validity of any arguments that contradict their beliefs.’

‘The word for them is “bigots”,’ said Michael. ‘And there are far too many of them in this University, especially among the religious Orders. It is astonishing how friaries attract those kind of men. There are fewer in monasteries, like those of my own Order, of course. But you say you will examine bodies for a year if I buy the Bacon for you?’

‘From now until next Easter.’

‘Done,’ said Michael, thinking that he had secured quite a bargain. ‘But we are at the King’s Mill, and it seems there is a sizeable deputation waiting to greet us.’

‘Listen,’ said Bartholomew as they made their way along the narrow path that led from the lane to the mill. ‘What can you hear?’

‘Nothing,’ said Michael, cocking his head on one side.

‘Quite,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The wheel is not turning. They must have hauled it clear of the river.’

Considering it was late – well past eight o’clock – and a time when most folk were retiring to their beds, a large number of people were silhouetted against the torch-lit interior of the King’s Mill. Bartholomew saw that most of the men who invested in the venture – the Millers’ Society – were there, all apparently determined to know what effect the unwelcome presence of a corpse in the premises they rented might have on their finances.

One figure stepped forward, evidently considering himself their spokesman. It was Stephen Morice, a sly, disingenuous man, who had enjoyed a recent short but disastrous reign as Sheriff. He was brazenly corrupt, and everyone had been stunned when he had been elected Mayor that spring. Bartholomew suspected that buying the requisite number of votes had cost him a good deal of money. Morice was a swarthy man, with bright blue eyes, and a black moustache and beard that concealed thin lips. He was slightly hunched, as though he spent a lot of time writing, but Bartholomew knew he would never bother with anything so unproductive when there were folk to be blackmailed and justice to be sold.

‘You took your time,’ Morice remarked unpleasantly, as they approached. ‘Why are you so late?’

‘Who else is here?’ asked Michael, peering into the gloom. ‘Why are they not by their firesides or in bed, like all honest folk at such an hour? Have guilty consciences lured them out?’

‘The Millers’ Society has a lot of money tied up in the King’s Mill,’ replied Morice testily. ‘How could we sleep without knowing what was going on? Would you retire to your feather mattress without first ensuring that your hard-earned gold was safe?’

‘Safe from what?’ asked Michael.

‘Safe from wicked men trying to prevent our mill from operating,’ snapped Morice impatiently, as though the answer should have been obvious. ‘The most serious crime committed here is not murder, Brother. It is sabotage.’

‘And we know exactly who is responsible,’ added Gilbert Bernarde the miller, coming to join them. Of all the Society, Bernarde had the most to lose, since his entire livelihood was based on the efficient running of the mill; for the others, it was simply a way of seeing a good return on money already made. Bernarde was of stocky build, and possessed far too many teeth for his mouth: they clustered against each other like drunken soldiers. The ball of his right thumb was flattened from years of testing the dressing of his millstones, and he had a persistent dry cough from the dust he inhaled on a daily basis. He always carried a large bunch of keys on his belt, as if he imagined flaunting such an impressive collection made him an important person.

‘Who do you think is responsible?’ asked Michael, always ready to listen to accusations that might lead to a speedy solution – although he would, of course, make up his own mind about their validity.

‘The Mortimers, of course,’ replied Bernarde, as if he considered Michael a simpleton for asking. ‘They want to put me and my mill out of business. Did you hear that Thomas tried to kill me with his cart last month? He knocked me right on top of that massive snow bank outside Bene’t College – before it melted, of course.’

‘There was a corpse inside that, you know,’ said Morice conversationally. ‘Sheriff Tulyet told me. A man died there around Christmas, and remained covered by drifts until Master Kenyngham of Michaelhouse happened to notice a hand sticking out. No one knows who he was.’ He shuddered. ‘A corpse on the High Street all those weeks!’

Bernarde nodded. ‘They say his indignant soul cries out on windy nights, angry that it took us so long to find him. However, I heard no wailing when Mortimer knocked me clean off my feet and on to his frozen tomb. All I heard was my ears ringing from the impact of my head on the ice.’ He addressed Michael. ‘Did you know about this? It was attempted murder!’

‘It is a pity you did not tell the Sheriff, then,’ said Michael coolly. ‘It might have helped Lenne and Isnard. There was no icy bank to save them from Mortimer’s thundering wheels.’

‘A lone man does not take a stand against the Mortimers,’ said Bernarde. ‘Look what happened to Bosel the beggar, when he tried to speak out. But tonight’s business is different: I have the Millers’ Society on my side this time, and even Mortimer cannot silence us all. Besides me and Morice, there is Deschalers the grocer and Cheney the spicer. Cheney is over there.’ He indicated a portly man with a red hat and matching face, who was staring uneasily at the stationary waterwheel.

‘Do not forget Lavenham and his wife Isobel,’ added Morice, indicating the couple who stood next to the spicer. ‘Lavenham may be a newcomer to our town, but he is a wealthy fellow.’

Lavenham the apothecary was a tall, angular man with a weather-beaten face, keen grey eyes and silver hair. He was not, however, from the Suffolk wool village, but from Norway, and his name – selected randomly, as far as Bartholomew could tell – was intended to make people believe he was local, on the grounds that some folk declined to take their business to foreigners. Unfortunately for Lavenham, the ploy would never work as long as he continued to speak eccentric English with an almost unintelligible accent.

His English wife Isobel was soft and voluptuous, with moist red lips and a predatory manner. Bartholomew’s students always argued about who should collect his medicines from Lavenham’s shop, and he knew it was not because they wanted to converse with the Norwegian. His own feelings towards her were ambiguous: he admired her spirit, but distrusted her sincerity. However, since she sold the ingredients he needed for his remedies, he was obliged to develop a working relationship with her, although it was sometimes difficult to repel some of her more determined advances.

‘So, what happened inside the mill?’ he asked. ‘Who is dead? Orwelle said it might be a scholar.’

‘We are not sure,’ replied Morice mysteriously. ‘Look for yourself.’

He gestured that they should enter the mill, a sturdy affair with a reed-thatched roof and wattle-and-daub walls. About a third of the building held the machinery that drove the millstones against each other, and the rest was used for stacking waiting grain, or was given over to the bins and equipment employed for weighing and sifting the finished product. Bartholomew had once been inside when the wheel was running and had been almost deafened by the clanking of wooden gears and the gush of water, but now it stood eerily still. Only the hiss of the river through its centre broke the silence.

He pushed open the door and stepped across the threshold. The instant he did so, dust caught at the back of his throat and made his eyes feel gritty. Next to him Michael sneezed. The mill was well lit, with several torches burning in sconces along the walls, ready for those occasions when the miller was obliged to operate in the dark in order to meet the demand for flour.

‘Will you show us the way?’ Bartholomew called to Bernarde, wanting someone to take them directly to the scene of the crime. He did not want to waste time blundering around a building he did not know in search of some undefined ‘incident’.

‘Look near the wheel,’ recommended Morice, making no move to comply. ‘We will stay here and wait for the Sheriff.’

‘I will lead you,’ said Bernarde unhappily, pushing past the Mayor to enter his domain. ‘Seeing them will serve to remind me to take care when I work among the wheels and cogs.’

With considerable misgivings, Bartholomew and Michael followed him to the room that housed the machinery. Then the physician understood exactly why the others had been reluctant to accompany him. Two men lay tangled among the gears, both dead. It was not a pleasant sight, with skin split like overripe fruit and bones protruding from where they should not have been. Bartholomew heard Michael’s sharp intake of breath as he backed away.

‘That one is stuck between the pit wheel and the wallower,’ said Bernarde, pointing to the man caught near the shaft that connected the waterwheel to the mill’s internal workings. He indicated the other, who was trapped next to one of the two pairs of millstones. ‘And he is between that timber pinion and the bed-stone. God knows how it happened. I always disengage the machinery at night – I disconnect the wheel from the wallower. That means the wheel continues to turn, but the machinery itself does not operate. I never forget to do it, so someone must have re-engaged it later. It is not difficult to do, and requires no special skills – although inexperience cost these poor fellows their lives. However, while I can understand one man’s clothes becoming snagged and it dragging him in, two at the same time is almost impossible. I disengaged the machinery and stopped the wheel as soon as I heard it.’

‘Heard what?’ asked Michael. He moved back and sat on a pile of grain sacks, his face pale in the torchlight. ‘One killing the other?’

‘The difference in sounds,’ explained Bernarde. ‘There was a change in pitch as the wheel turned, which made me sure someone had engaged the machinery. And there were two odd thuds. I hurried from my house to investigate and I found them here, like this.’

‘Who are they?’ asked Michael.

‘I have not looked,’ replied Bernarde with a shudder. ‘No one should have been in here without my permission. Mills are delicate, and are not for anyone to wander around as they please.’

‘It does not look very delicate to me,’ said Michael, looking at the heavy stones and robust timbers.

‘It is very delicate,’ countered Bernarde firmly. ‘That is why it takes a miller with experience and skill to keep one functional. Not everyone can do it – you only need to see the inferior flour many others produce to know that!’ He shook his head and gave the corpses an angry stare. ‘Who knows what damage they have done to my wallower and pinions with their blood and guts!’

‘So, what happened?’ asked Michael hurriedly, declining to hear more on that particular topic. ‘There are two victims, so I suppose one killed the other, and then was dragged into the machinery as he gloated over his crime?’

‘That seems likely,’ agreed Bernarde. ‘Mills can be dangerous places for those who do not understand them. It is not unknown for a piece of clothing to be caught, and its owner pulled–’

‘I suppose the cause of death is obvious, at least,’ interrupted Michael hastily, taking a piece of linen from his scrip and wiping his face. ‘I do not need a Corpse Examiner to tell me that mill machinery and the human body do not make good bedfellows.’

‘Actually,’ said Bartholomew, leaning over the first body and trying to keep his tabard from trailing in the gore, ‘the cause of death is not obvious at all.’

Michael sighed. ‘I know you have a penchant for grisly details, Matt, but I really do not need to know which part was crushed first. It will be irrelevant to my enquiries, and will provide me with information I would rather not have. I shall be haunted by this sight for nights to come as it is.’

‘I am not sure either died from crushing,’ said Bartholomew, clambering over a pile of empty sacks to reach the second body. ‘They may have been killed by this.’

He held the head of the second corpse so that Michael could see what he had found. Protruding from the roof of the mouth was a long, thin nail, which had penetrated the palate and been driven deep into the brain above.

Michael stared at Bartholomew, his eyes huge in the gloom of the mill. Bernarde pushed forward to see, too, then stood back, scratching his head in puzzlement.

‘Are you sure this is what killed them?’ asked Michael, eyeing the nail protruding from the first corpse’s mouth and then going to inspect the similar injury on the second.

‘The crushing wounds you see are mostly to limbs and, despite how they look, would not have been quickly fatal. You say you came as soon as you heard the change in the noise the wheel made, Bernarde, which suggests you were very quickly on the scene. If they had suffered these injuries alone – without the nail – you would have seen at least one of them alive.’

‘They were both dead,’ said Bernarde firmly.

‘So, what happened?’ asked Michael of Bartholomew. ‘Are you saying they died from stabbing, and fell into the machinery after?’

‘That would be my guess,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It could not have been the other way around, because the moving parts would have made it difficult for the killer to put the nail in the right place.’ He knelt next to the nearest corpse to assess how deep the metal pin had gone. It was embedded very firmly, and he supposed it had been applied with considerable force. ‘I have never seen anything like this before.’

‘Nasty,’ said Michael, looking away as Bartholomew tugged the nail clear. It was long and sharp, and there were several others just like it on a shelf near the door, so it was clear the killer had used whatever weapon was easily to hand. The monk indicated one of the bodies with the toe of his boot. ‘He is wearing the habit of a Carmelite. Do you recognise him?’

Bartholomew took a torch from the wall and held it closely to the man’s face, to be certain before he spoke. There was a good deal of blood, and it was difficult to make out the features of either victim. ‘I thought so,’ he said sadly. There was only one man he knew who had taken holy orders so recently that his habit was new and unstained. ‘It is Nicholas Bottisham of Gonville Hall.’

‘No!’ exclaimed Michael, white-faced. ‘Bottisham? Are you sure? There must be some mistake!’

‘There is not, Brother,’ said Bartholomew quietly.

Michael swallowed hard. ‘I liked him, despite the fact that his arguments were largely responsible for our defeat in yesterday’s Disputatio. I hope Gonville does not assume we killed him because we lost. I do not want a riot and more blood spilled. Who is the other?’

‘Deschalers,’ said Bartholomew, after a few moments with water and a cloth. ‘The grocer.’

‘Thomas Deschalers is a member of the Millers’ Society,’ said Bernarde, shocked. ‘But neither he nor the others ever come here. All our meetings are held in the Brazen George, because they dislike flour on their fine clothes – as you will find out tomorrow when you look at your own garments. I cannot imagine why Deschalers should be here.’ He rubbed his hand across his mouth, unsettled and distressed. ‘He has not been well recently. Perhaps sickness addled his mind.’

Bartholomew recalled how ill the grocer had looked the previous day. ‘Rougham was his physician,’ he said, thinking about what Deschalers himself had told him. ‘I can ask whether the sickness was one that might lead a man to do odd things, but I doubt it was. It sounded more like a canker – agonising and debilitating, but unlikely to cause a loss of wits.’

‘The Mortimer clan are rough men, especially now Edward is back,’ said Bernarde uneasily. ‘You know we have written to the King, to complain about them diverting our water? Perhaps they have decided to use force to take what they want, instead of relying on the King to make a decision. Perhaps they killed Deschalers.’

‘The Mortimers seem to have done rather well out of the King so far,’ remarked Bartholomew. ‘He sold Edward a pardon.’

‘Not the King,’ said Bernarde sharply. ‘His clerks. They are the corrupt ones, not His Majesty. We rent this mill from the King, and I do not want treasonous comments muttered in it, thank you very much. I do not want him to take it away from me – or to find against us in favour of the Mortimers in this dispute about water.’

‘Never mind that now,’ said Michael. He heaved himself up from his sacks and walked unsteadily to Bottisham’s body, where he knelt and began to fumble for the holy oil he kept in his scrip. Bartholomew and Bernarde were silent as he said his prayers, accompanied only by the whisper of water under the wheel and the distant hoot of an owl. When the monk had finished with Bottisham, he went to do the same for Deschalers.

‘I am sorry, Brother,’ said Bernarde softly when the monk eventually completed his sorry task. ‘I did not know Bottisham well, but he was a kind man. He visited Isnard the bargeman several times after his accident, and took him spare food from Gonville Hall’s kitchen.’

Michael looked away, and when he spoke, there was a catch in his voice. ‘This has not been a good week. First, there was Master Lenne and Isnard, and now there is Bottisham.’

‘And Deschalers,’ added Bartholomew. While he had not much liked the haughty grocer, he was still saddened that he had died in such a manner, especially given that he had been so ill. But then he thought about Bottisham, and was sorrier still. The lawyer had been courteous and compassionate, and Cambridge would be a poorer place without his gentle, kindly humanity.

Michael took a deep breath to pull himself together. He coughed as dust caught in his throat, and gratefully accepted a gulp of the strong wine Bartholomew kept in his bag for medicinal purposes. He tried to speak, coughed again, and drained what was left in the flask. He handed the empty container back to his startled companion, cleared his throat, and began to speak, becoming businesslike in an attempt to disguise his distress.

‘The question we must answer is why a wealthy and fastidious town merchant should be found dead in a mill with a lawyer from Gonville. If Deschalers’s was the only body here, I would say you could be right, Bernarde: the Mortimers did away with him. But his death makes no sense when combined with the murder of poor Bottisham. He is not a member of your Society, is he?’

Bernarde shook his head. ‘Gonville scholars patronise other mills.’

Michael wiped his forehead with his linen and went to sit on the sacks again. ‘Since both these men died in an identical manner, we must assume their deaths are related. It cannot be coincidence. But what is their connection?’

‘They have known each other for a long time,’ said Bartholomew. He had spent some of his childhood in Cambridge, whereas Michael hailed from Causton in Norfolk and had only lived in the town for a decade or so. ‘I vaguely recall a legal matter many years ago, which threw them together.’

Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘Can you be more precise? What kind of legal matter? What was it about? And when?’

‘A long time ago,’ repeated Bartholomew helplessly. ‘I recall my sister talking about it, but I do not remember the details. You must ask someone else.’

‘It was something about a contested field,’ said Bernarde, scratching his head as he, too, searched distant memories. ‘Deschalers hired Bottisham to prove that he owned some piece of land, but they lost the case. Is that the incident you mean, Bartholomew? It was years ago. I imagine they would have forgotten about it by now.’

‘You are probably right,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘An ancient lawsuit will have no bearing on what happened today. You will need to look elsewhere for your answers, Brother.’

‘So, what else can you tell me, then?’ asked Michael. ‘Other than that they were both murdered by some deranged killer, who then hurled their corpses into the machinery?’ He sounded angry.

But Bartholomew could add little more. He was deeply repelled by the grisly nature of the crime, although he had been careful to maintain an outwardly professional indifference; revealing his own shock would not have helped Michael. He was also disturbed by the disrespectful way the bodies had been treated, and was aware of a burning desire to see the perpetrator brought to justice. However, none of this meant he could tell the monk anything useful to catch the killer – or killers – and all he could do was speculate.

‘Perhaps Deschalers and Bottisham were pushed into the machinery to hide the fact that they had been murdered?’ he suggested tentatively. ‘Master Bernarde said it had been disengaged for the night, which suggests someone restarted it for a reason.’

‘But it did not work,’ countered Michael. ‘You saw almost immediately what had happened with the nails.’

‘But it might have done, had Bernarde not rushed here so quickly and stopped the wheel to prevent further damage to the bodies.’

‘Did you see anyone leaving?’ asked Michael of Bernarde. ‘Or hear anything else?’

‘I heard another change in pitch as I was running towards the mill,’ replied Bernarde, still scratching his pate as he struggled to remember. ‘That must have been the second body hitting the cogs. When I reached the outside door, it was open, so I locked it behind me as I came in …’

‘You locked yourself inside?’ interrupted Michael. ‘Why did you do that?’

Bernarde shrugged. ‘Habit, I suppose. This is a large building, and my apprentices and I always lock the door when we are in it alone. There is a lot of valuable grain in here – and it is especially valuable now, at the end of winter, when supplies are low and demand is high.’ He jangled the large bunch of keys that always hung at his belt.

‘So, once the door was locked, the killer could not have escaped from inside?’ asked Michael.

‘No,’ said Bernarde. ‘But that assumes he was in here when I arrived, and he was not. No one was – other than Deschalers and Bottisham – and I saw no one leave.’

‘Is there another door?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Or a window?’

Bernarde shook his head. ‘All the windows are shuttered for the night. You can see for yourselves that they are all barred from the inside. That front door is the only way in or out.’

‘But you said you heard the second body fall when you were running towards the mill,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘That means the killer was still inside when you arrived, or you would have seen him come through the door. He must have been here – there are a lot of places to hide.’

‘No one was here,’ said Bernarde firmly. ‘And there are not as many hiding places as you might think, because everywhere is full of grain right now. Also, we would be able to see footprints in the dust if someone had dashed away to hide, and you can see there are none – other than our own. The only place a third party could have been is here, in this chamber, and then I would have seen him.’

‘So,’ concluded Michael. ‘The killer was here when you raced towards the mill, because you heard him performing his gruesome work, but he was not here when you arrived? He did not leave through the door, or you would have seen him, and there is no other way out?’

‘That is correct,’ said Bernarde firmly. He had the grace to look bemused. ‘It is odd, is it not?’

‘Very,’ agreed Michael, eyeing him in an unfriendly manner. ‘If not impossible.’

‘Then perhaps there was no killer,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps we were right with our first theory: that Bottisham and Deschalers killed each other.’

Michael and Bernarde started to argue. The monk was certain Bottisham was too gentle to turn killer, while Bernarde maintained that Deschalers would have hired someone else to commit murder and would not have done it himself. Bartholomew listened to them and became increasingly troubled. No matter how the situation was presented, there was no mistaking the fact that a scholar and a townsman had been murdered. He hoped their deaths would not pre-empt a bloody battle between town and University. He turned his attention to the bodies again. He did not like the notion of them remaining in the machinery overnight, so he began the unpleasant process of extricating them.

Bernarde watched, presumably only to ensure no harm came to his ‘delicate’ equipment, because he did not offer to help. Nor did Michael, who immediately embarked on a search of the premises so that he would not have to see what was being done. Fortunately, neither victim was heavy – Bottisham because he was small and Deschalers because he had been ill – and Bartholomew found he could manage alone. It was an awkward struggle, though, and involved the use of knives and a saw at one point, but eventually he had them laid side by side on the dusty floor, covered with sacking.

‘This is puzzling,’ he said, when he had finished. ‘I wonder how it could have happened.’

‘What do you mean?’ snapped Michael, concealing his grief with irritability. ‘You have already told us about the nails.’

‘Yes, but how? I cannot see Deschalers meekly standing still while Bottisham fiddled around in his mouth, looking for the right spot, no matter how ill he was feeling.’

‘Are you saying Bottisham killed Deschalers?’ asked Michael uneasily, glancing at Bernarde, who was nodding in satisfaction. ‘Not the other way around?’

‘It would have taken considerable force to do this – not just to ram the nail into position, but to hold the victim still in the first place. I am not sure whether Deschalers had that kind of strength left. But Bottisham was a gentle man, and I do not see him committing such a vile crime, either.’

Michael was pensive. ‘But Bernarde’s testimony has ruled out the possibility of a third party killing them both, so logic dictates that one must have committed a double crime: murder, then suicide. We must determine who is the victim and who is the killer.’

‘There is no way to know, Brother.’ Bartholomew gave a helpless shrug. ‘I have no idea how to find out what really went on here.’

Bartholomew wanted to go home after the gruesome discoveries in the mill; he was shocked by what had happened and needed some time alone with his thoughts. But Michael had other ideas. His distress was turning to an ice-cold anger, which was galvanising him into action, and Bartholomew could see him become more determined to solve the crime with every step that led them away from the crushed corpses. The monk declined to answer the questions rattled at him by the waiting members of the Millers’ Society, and stalked along the dark lanes towards the Trumpington Gate. He hammered on it until Orwelle allowed him through, then strode to Gonville Hall. He wanted to inform its scholars that Bottisham had died in mysterious circumstances before they heard it from other sources: he wanted to gauge their reactions.

He was to be disappointed. Word of the incident had already reached Gonville, and nearly all its Fellows had gone to take the shocking news to the Carmelite Friary. Only one, John of Ufford, was home, and his response on learning about the untimely loss of a much-loved colleague was to set off for St Mary the Great, where he said he would pray to the Hand of Valence Marie for Bottisham’s soul. Michael watched him go with narrowed eyes.

‘That Hand is enjoying far more popularity than is right. I must have words with William.’

‘It was stupid to make him Keeper of the University Chest,’ said Bartholomew, fully agreeing with him. ‘He is honest – there is no question of that – but he is not to be trusted with anything religious. He is a fanatic, and that sort of zeal can be contagious, like a virulent fever that strikes all in its path.’

‘That is a good analogy,’ said Michael. ‘This devotion to the Hand is indeed like an ague that rages out of control and against all reason.’

They fared no better at Deschalers’s house on Milne Street. Deschalers had been widowed during the plague, and he lived alone, although there had been rumours of lovers in his past. However, with the exception of Bess the madwoman, whom Bartholomew had seen trailing after him the day before, it seemed Deschalers had forsaken women. Even Michael, who listened to more town gossip than he probably should have done, had heard no tales of current sweethearts.

‘There is no one here, either,’ said the monk irritably, thumping on Deschalers’s handsome front door for the third time.

‘Who were you expecting?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘He had no family. Well, there is his niece Julianna, but she does not live with him.’

‘Servants,’ replied Michael. ‘I want to question them about his state of mind this evening. Was he anxious or agitated, as a man planning a murder and suicide might be? Did he mention a secret meeting in the unlikely venue of the King’s Mill? Did he contact Bottisham, or did Bottisham call him? And I want to know more about their ancient dispute – the one you recall only vaguely.’

‘Someone is in,’ said Bartholomew, watching a shadow pass across one of the upstairs windows with a candle. ‘Knock again.’

Michael hammered a fourth time, hard enough to make the sound reverberate along the street, so that lights began to appear in the houses of Deschalers’s neighbours. Immediately to the left was Cheney the spicer’s home, and Bartholomew saw him open a window to see what the noise was about. He was shirtless, but still sported the red hat he had worn when he had been with the other members of the Millers’ Society earlier. Someone called for him to return to bed, and Bartholomew recognised the stridently insistent tones of Una the prostitute. The house on Deschalers’s right was owned by Constantine Mortimer – Edward’s father – but, although lights flickered briefly in one chamber, no one was curious enough about furious bangs to come and investigate.

Eventually, Michael’s pounding was answered by an elderly, stooped man who carried a candle. He wore the same livery as Deschalers’s apprentices, a red tunic emblazoned with the grocer’s distinctive motif of a pot with the letter D inside it. He cupped his ear when Michael asked to be allowed in, then informed the monk that he had no wish to become a student, thank you, because Michaelhouse had a reputation for serving small portions at mealtimes.

‘What?’ asked Michael, bemused. ‘I have not come here to recruit you, man! I am here to ask you about your master, Thomas Deschalers.’

‘I am fond of pigeon,’ said the servant. ‘But you have to watch the bones at my age.’

‘I see,’ said Michael, pushing past him to reach the shadowy interior of the merchant’s house. ‘Hand me the candle.’

‘I do not eat dog,’ said the servant indignantly. ‘The hair might get trapped in my throat.’

‘Lord!’ muttered Michael, snatching the lamp and climbing the stairs to the large room on the upper floor that Deschalers used as an office. ‘Please shoot me, Matt, when I reach the point where I make rambling statements about food all the time.’

‘I shall hire a crossbow for tomorrow, then,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘What are we doing here, Brother? We cannot search Deschalers’s house in the middle of the night – especially with no credible witnesses. People will say we came here to see what is worth stealing.’

Michael sighed, looking at the shelves with their neatly stacked piles of documents, and at the table, where more parchments had been filed by pressing them on to spiked pieces of wood. ‘I do not know what I hoped to find. A suicide letter, perhaps, or something telling us why he murdered Bottisham, then killed himself.’

‘Cat is something I have never enjoyed,’ burbled the servant. ‘It tastes too much like ferret.’

‘We do not know that is what happened,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘I know you would rather have Deschalers than Bottisham as the killer, but we cannot draw that conclusion with the evidence we have. But there is no note here, Brother, and we should leave. I do not know why you expected one, when you know Deschalers could not write.’

‘He hired a clerk,’ said Michael. ‘All the merchants do.’

‘You do not dictate a suicide letter to a clerk,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘He would have to report it to someone, or run the risk of being charged as an accessory to a crime.’

‘Of course, the finest flavour of all comes from grass-snake,’ continued the old man, following them down the stairs again. ‘But Master Deschalers did not like me bringing them into the house. One escaped once, you see, and frightened his lover. Then he was hard-pressed to explain to her husband why she had fainted in his bedchamber.’

‘I can well imagine,’ said Michael wryly. ‘I would find it a challenge myself.’

‘It was Katherine Mortimer,’ said the servant, his wrinkled face creasing into a fond, toothless smile. ‘She was the best of them all, and he loved her the most. She was fond of stewed horse, in–’

‘Katherine Mortimer?’ interrupted Bartholomew, startled. ‘Constantine the baker’s wife, who died two years ago?’

The old man nodded. ‘She was the mother of that murderous Edward, who struts around the town so proud of his evil deeds. The King should never have pardoned him. It is not right.’

‘It is not,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘But when did Deschalers have this affair with Katherine?’

‘More than a year before her death,’ replied the servant. ‘He was heartbroken when she decided their liaison was too risky and told him it was over. I could see her point: her husband lives next door and, while it was convenient to have her close by, there was always the risk that they would be caught.’

‘I caught them,’ said Bartholomew, frowning as a memory surfaced all of a sudden. ‘I saw him entering her house in the middle of the night sometimes, when I was called out to tend patients. It was always when Constantine was away. I assumed Deschalers was being neighbourly – making sure she was all right on her own.’

Michael gazed at him. ‘Did you? That was naïve, even by your standards!’

The servant cut across Bartholomew’s defensive reply. ‘My poor master was never the same after she threw him over. When she died, he grieved far more deeply than her husband did. He–’

‘What was that?’ asked Bartholomew, as an odd rattle sounded in the chamber above, followed by a heavy thump. ‘There is someone else in here!’

He darted back up the stairs and looked into the office, but it was empty. Then he saw that the window in the adjoining bedchamber was wide open. He ran across to it and leaned out, just in time to see a figure drop to the ground and make his escape down the narrow alley that led to the river. Without thinking, Bartholomew started to follow, but his cloak caught on a jagged part of the shutter and he lost his balance trying to free it. His stomach lurched when he saw he was about to fall – and it was a long way to the ground. He flailed frantically, but there was nothing to grab. With infinite slowness, he felt himself begin to drop.

He did not go far. With almost violent abruptness, a hand shot out of the window above his head and hauled him roughly towards the sill, which he seized with relief. For a moment, he did nothing more than cling there, aware of a slight dizziness washing over him at his narrow escape. While the fall would probably not have killed him, it certainly would have resulted in broken bones.

‘Thank you, Brother,’ he said unsteadily. ‘There is no point giving chase now. Whoever it was will have reached the river, and there are too many places for him to hide. Give me your hand.’

‘Crow pie is one of my favourites,’ said the servant, reaching out to help the physician clamber through the window again. The monk was not there, and Bartholomew was surprised that the elderly man had possessed the strength to save him; he was obviously less frail than he looked. ‘Is that what you were doing out there? Looking for crows? You should be careful. You might have fallen.’

Bartholomew tumbled over the sill and climbed to his feet, leaning against the wall while he caught his breath and tried to regain his composure. He smiled wan thanks at the retainer, then followed him down the stairs to where Michael was talking to an old woman in the room where Deschalers received his guests – a pleasantly large chamber with comfortable chairs and dishes of dried fruits set out for those who were hungry.

‘Did you see anyone?’ the monk asked of his friend.

Bartholomew nodded. ‘But he escaped through the window. I tried to follow, but it was not a good idea.’ He smiled his thanks at the old man a second time.

‘Crows,’ said the servant to the old woman. ‘He was after the crows that roost on the chimney.’

‘Did you get one?’ she asked keenly. ‘Crow pie is delicious, especially if you add cabbage.’

‘I do not eat cabbage,’ said Michael superiorly. ‘How can any right-thinking man enjoy something that is popular with snails?’

‘I wonder who it was,’ said Bartholomew, still thinking about the intruder. ‘It was not someone with a legitimate purpose, or he would not have been skulking around in the dark. It was probably the same shadow I saw when you first started knocking, too.’

‘It is suspicious,’ agreed Michael. ‘Particularly given what happened to Deschalers tonight. I would be inclined to say it might have been his killer, but Bernarde’s evidence tells us that is not possible. Deschalers’s murderer was either Deschalers himself or Bottisham.’

‘Deschalers was a merchant,’ Bartholomew pointed out soberly. ‘Who knows what secrets he harboured or marginal business he conducted? The burglar may have nothing to do with his death.’

‘Minced fox has an unusual flavour,’ declared the old man with considerable authority. ‘But it leaves an unpleasant aftertaste in the mouth.’

‘So does your master’s untimely death,’ murmured Michael softly.

The tinny little bell in the Carmelite Friary was chiming for the night office of nocturn by the time Bartholomew and Michael returned to Michaelhouse. The College was silent, and most scholars had been asleep in bed for at least four hours. Two lights still burned. One gleamed in the chamber Deynman shared with two Franciscan novices called Ulfrid and Zebedee, who were notorious for enjoying the night hours and emerging heavy-eyed for the obligatory masses at dawn. The second was in the conclave, where Bartholomew imagined Langelee and Wynewyk would be going over College accounts, or perhaps Suttone or Clippesby was preparing lectures for the following day. The physician was exhausted, but since he knew his teeming thoughts would not allow him to sleep, he accepted Michael’s offer of a cup of wine while they discussed the events of the night.

Michael’s room-mates were a pair of sober Benedictine theologians, but they were keeping a vigil in St Michael’s Church for Lenne, so Michael had the chamber to himself that night. The monk had done no more than present his guest with the smaller of his two goblets, when Walter poked his head around the door.

‘The Sheriff is here to see you,’ said the porter, trying to keep his cockerel from entering by blocking its path with his foot. ‘Should I let him in?’

‘Of course you should let him in!’ exclaimed Michael, horrified at the notion of influential townsmen being kept waiting on the doorstep. ‘We can hardly discuss our work in the street.’

Walter was unmoved. ‘Father William says we should not allow seculars in, so I am only doing what he says. But as long as you are certain the Sheriff is welcome here, then I shall admit him.’

He closed the door and they heard his footsteps echo in the yard as he walked to the gate. The hinges squeaked, then came the sound of voices kept low out of consideration for those sleeping. A dog barked far in the distance. Suddenly, Walter’s cockerel gave a brassy and prolonged trill. There was a chorus of weary groans as scholars awoke. Bartholomew heard Deynman shouting at it, and Walter howling something threatening in reply.

There was a tap on Michael’s door, and Tulyet was ushered inside. He looked tired: keeping peace in the violent Fen-edge town was not easy. The town hated the University for its arrogance and superiority, and scholars despised merchants and landlords for trying to cheat them at every turn. It was an uneasy and volatile mix, and Michael and Tulyet worked hard to keep it under control. Both men knew the deaths of Bottisham and Deschalers might well tip the balance, and lead to fighting and riots as both sides accused each other of the crime. Tulyet listened in grim silence as Bartholomew summarised his findings.

‘So, what do you think happened?’ he asked, flopping on to the stool near the hearth and helping himself to Michael’s wine. He raised his eyebrows in surprise at its quality. Michael was a man of impeccable and expensive tastes when it came to selecting clarets for his own consumption.

‘Deschalers and Bottisham were killed by nails through the palate,’ replied the monk bluntly.

‘I am impressed you spotted that; I had eyes only for their mangled limbs,’ said Tulyet. ‘I have just come from the King’s Mill, and Bernarde is having great difficulty cleaning his millstones. I shall have to tell my wife to buy flour elsewhere for the next few days. I do not want bits of Bottisham and Deschalers in my daily bread.’

Michael shuddered involuntarily. ‘Those poor men! God only knows what happened tonight. At first, we thought a third party had killed them both, but that seems impossible in the light of Bernarde’s testimony. The only logical conclusion is Matt’s: that one killed the other and then himself – although it is an odd means of suicide, to say the least.’

‘Very odd,’ agreed Tulyet. ‘Is it even possible?’

‘Just,’ said Bartholomew. ‘By a desperate man. I can only assume he put the nail into position and then hurled himself into the moving engines to ensure it was driven home.’

Michael shuddered at the image. ‘However, you say there is no way to determine who was the murderer and who was the victim?’

‘They were both victims, Brother,’ said Bartholomew softly. ‘No matter what we discover.’

Michael sighed and took a gulp of wine from the physician’s cup. ‘I do not suppose you recall details of some ancient dispute that threw Bottisham and Deschalers together, do you, Dick?’

Tulyet frowned. ‘There was something about a field, now you mention it. But it happened too long ago for me to remember the outcome. Why do you ask? Do you believe a long-forgotten argument may have led one to kill the other?’

Michael shrugged helplessly. ‘I do not know what to think. Poor Bottisham.’

‘Poor Deschalers,’ said Tulyet immediately, seeing where the monk’s sympathies lay. ‘He was arrogant, but he did not deserve to die like that. But what makes you think Bernarde is not the killer? Has it occurred to you that he might be lying about what he saw and heard, as he rushed to see what was making the odd noises in his property?’

‘Bernarde is not the killer,’ said Michael with great conviction. ‘For one very good reason: he would never make such a mess in his beloved mill. I do not see him lying to protect the culprit, either. I think he would have told me if he had seen someone running away after the second thump.’

Bartholomew agreed. ‘He did seem affronted by the damage.’

Tulyet swirled the wine around in his cup. ‘But Bottisham and Deschalers could not have killed each other with nails during a fight. It would be improbable to the point of impossible. And I do not accept the notion of a suicide pact, either: it is too neat. Therefore, I think you are right: the only plausible option is that one killed the other, then dispatched himself in a fit of sorrow.’

‘Then who was the killer and who was the victim?’ asked Michael.

Tulyet turned to Bartholomew. ‘There was nothing on the bodies to help you determine that?’

‘Not a thing,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I think they died at more or less the same time – both were warm when we arrived. Also, remember that Bernarde heard two thumps – bodies dropping into the workings – within a short period of each other once the machinery had been engaged.’

‘Is it possible to drive a nail into your own palate, then throw yourself into the gears and cogs?’ asked Tulyet.

‘You could stand near the machinery when applying the nail, so you would fall into it,’ replied Bartholomew, trying not to show his distaste for the discussion. He knew the various possibilities had to be investigated, but he did not like doing it when Bottisham was one of the victims. He forced himself to continue. ‘It would be a good way to make sure you die – insurance against the nail missing its mark or you not having the strength to drive it home.’

Tulyet winced, and looked back at his wine. ‘Deschalers has been ill recently – weary and listless. I doubt he had the strength for murder, so I am inclined to think Bottisham is the culprit.’

‘No,’ said Michael, still unwilling to believe the kindly Bottisham would kill. ‘Deschalers is a more convincing suspect. He was clearly up to something sinister, because someone invaded his house the moment he died.’

‘He was a wealthy man,’ Tulyet pointed out. ‘And he lived alone. His house will be the target of every thief in the town until his heirs come to organise his affairs – including the forty felons who have been detailed to repair the Great Bridge. You cannot read anything significant into your encounter with that intruder.’

They were silent for a while, thinking about the deaths and the seemingly impossible task of discovering what had happened. They knew they stood on the edge of a chasm: Tulyet had already made the assumption that the scholar was the killer, while Michael was inclined to view the townsman as the villain. Others would do the same, and the situation needed to be handled very carefully if they did not want more deaths and violence.

‘What happens now?’ asked Bartholomew eventually. ‘A townsman’s death must be investigated by the Sheriff, and a scholar’s by the Senior Proctor. But they are the same case. What happens if your conclusions contradict each other?’

‘We must ensure they do not,’ said Tulyet soberly. ‘At all costs. Neither of us wants a riot over this. Therefore, I suggest you conduct this investigation, Brother – Deschalers’s death as well as Bottisham’s. I trust you to be impartial, and I promise to bide by whatever conclusion you draw. That will eliminate some potential for dispute, at least.’

‘Very well,’ agreed Michael, although he did not look happy. ‘As long as you are willing to explain to Deschalers’s fellow merchants why you have delegated the business to me.’

‘That is easy,’ said Tulyet bitterly. ‘I am obliged to spend most of my time watching the criminals working on the Great Bridge. And I must keep an eye on Rob Thorpe and Edward Mortimer. I barely have time to breathe, let alone look into what may be a complex murder.’

‘Can you not use your soldiers for that?’ asked Michael, who would have set his beadles on tasks that sounded so time-consuming and dull.

‘I dare not abandon the villains. Two slipped past my sergeants only this morning, and would have escaped if I had not been there to catch them. And nor will I abandon my surveillance of Thorpe and Mortimer until I know what they plan to do. It would not surprise me to learn that they had arranged the deaths of Bottisham and Deschalers.’

‘Really?’ asked Michael eagerly, ignoring the fact that they had just reasoned a third party involvement was impossible. ‘That would be a neat conclusion. Why? Would it be because Deschalers once had an affair with Edward’s mother, and Edward wants revenge on the man who sullied her virtue?’

Tulyet was startled. ‘I doubt it! Edward encouraged Katherine’s various liaisons, because they made her happy – and he liked to see his mother happy.’

‘You are not surprised to hear that Deschalers and Katherine were close?’ asked Bartholomew.

Tulyet shrugged. ‘Katherine and my wife were friends, and I have known about her relationship with Deschalers for years. He was deeply hurt when Katherine decided it was too risky to have a lover in the house next door – the affair meant far more to him than it did to her. She soon found herself a replacement, but he never did. Apparently, you kept running into them, Matt, and Katherine was afraid you might say something to her husband.’

‘But she was not afraid her son might tell?’ asked Michael curiously.

Tulyet shrugged a second time. ‘Edward detested his father, so was only too pleased to see him made a cuckold. So, if he did arrange for Deschalers to die, it would not have been over Katherine.’

‘What, then?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Is there another motive?’

‘None that I know – other than to make trouble between town and University by having a scholar and a merchant murdered in the same place. He hates us, because we were instrumental in his capture. What better way to avenge himself on Sheriff and Senior Proctor than to present us with an unsolvable crime? We will look incompetent, and it will bring about riots at the same time.’

Michael was thoughtful. ‘I thought they would be here for a week or so, try to dispatch one or two “enemies”, and then disappear when they see everyone is watching them. But they seem intent on staying and making careers for themselves.’

Tulyet agreed. ‘They are settling in more comfortably than I would like – even attending meetings of the burgesses. Edward refused to work in his father’s bakery, and is helping at Mortimer’s Mill instead. Meanwhile, Thorpe has been accepted into Gonville Hall to study. He tried his luck at Valence Marie first, but his father declines to have anything to do with him.’

‘He had the gall to apply to Michaelhouse, too,’ added Michael. ‘Damned cheek! Pulham told me that Gonville had accepted Thorpe because he offered to sew altar cloths and chasubles for their new chapel. He learned how to make them during his apprenticeship with your brother-in-law, Matt.’

Bartholomew was troubled. ‘Why not ask them to leave Cambridge, Dick? No one wants them here – with the exception of the Mortimer clan, of course. And perhaps now Gonville.’

Tulyet looked pained. ‘How can I? They have the King’s Pardon. If I were to banish them, then I am effectively saying that the King was wrong to invite them back to England. And that is treason. So, there is nothing I can do unless we actually catch them committing a crime.’

‘Damn Constantine Mortimer!’ said Michael. ‘He was the one who purchased these pardons.’

Tulyet shook his head in despair. ‘The Mortimers are already quarrelling with the Millers’ Society over the issue of water, and I am sure Edward has turned the dispute more bitter. The Millers’ Society thinks Bottisham and Deschalers were murdered in connection with the dispute, although I do not see why.’ He scrubbed at his eyes, frustrated by so many questions and so few answers.

They were silent again, as each tried to envisage a solution that would fit the evidence. How did one man come to drive a nail into the palate of another? Did he choose that method because he hoped it would be undetectable once the machinery had done its work? Was he hoping both deaths would be seen as accidents? But whatever solution Bartholomew devised merely left him with more questions, and he saw he would not solve the riddle until he had more information.

Tulyet reached for his cloak. ‘Thorpe and Mortimer are still drinking in the King’s Head, so I cannot stay here too long, lest they make trouble. You know what a volatile place that is.’

‘They are there now?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘But it is the middle of the night!’

‘If Thorpe is now a scholar, then I can fine him for being in a tavern,’ said Michael, downing the last of the wine and preparing to carry out his duty immediately.

‘No,’ said Tulyet, putting out a hand to stop him. ‘He is trying to antagonise us, to see how far he can go. The best thing you can do is have a word with Gonville, and see if they will dismiss him. If all the Colleges refuse to house him, he may move on – perhaps to Oxford.’

‘You assume he wants to study,’ said Michael. ‘But he is no more eager to learn his Aristotle than Edward is to become a miller. They have other reasons for inflicting their presence on us.’

‘True,’ said Tulyet. ‘They were found guilty of all manner of crimes – most of which they freely admitted. But their guilt will not prevent them from wanting revenge on us all.’

‘I do not understand,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘How can they want revenge when they know they are in the wrong?’

‘Because they were caught,’ said Tulyet. ‘And that rankles.’

Michael and Bartholomew returned to the King’s Mill early the following morning to inspect the building in daylight. It was William’s turn to recite the daily mass again, and he shot through the office at such a speed that there was ample time to visit the mill and search for clues among its dusty corners before teaching began at eight o’clock. They explored every crack and crevice in the rambling building, but to no avail: there was nothing to help them ascertain what had caused Bottisham and Deschalers to die in such bizarre circumstances. Bartholomew rubbed a hand through his hair in frustration, wanting desperately to find something that would tell him what had happened, but not knowing where else to look or what else to do.

‘You see this dust?’ asked Bernarde, pointing to a thick, even layer of grainy-grey powder that lay across the floor. ‘It has not been disturbed since my boy swept it last night. Watch.’

He took a few steps across it, keys bouncing importantly at his waist, and Bartholomew saw his footprints quite clearly as they left a distinctive trail behind him.

‘We always sweep the floor before retiring for the evening,’ Bernarde went on. ‘Then we bag up the dust and sell it at a reduced rate to the lepers at Stourbridge. The only footprints when I arrived last night were the ones made by Bottisham and Deschalers, as they came in through the door and made for this end of the building. These have now been overlain by our own. But you can see for yourselves that no one went anywhere else to hide – as you suggested yesterday. There would be marks leading to his hiding place, and there are none.’

‘So, this really does discount the possibility of a third party,’ said Bartholomew, disheartened when he saw the miller was right. There were no trails leading to dark corners, and the killer would have been seen had he remained in the chamber with his victims. ‘Unless he escaped before the second body fell …’

‘Not possible,’ countered Bernarde immediately. ‘I left my house very quickly after I heard the machinery engage, and I would have seen anyone leaving. I am sorry, Doctor, but there were only two men here last night: Bottisham and Deschalers.’

Bartholomew wandered outside, to see whether there were windows or cracks that might be used to effect an escape, but mills suffered from interested rats and tended to be fairly well sealed. There was no other exit, except a gate high on the upper floor that was used to hoist sacks of grain to the storage bins. But Bartholomew knew this had been barred from the inside the previous night, because he had seen it himself. He sat on the river bank and looked across the Mill Pool to Isnard’s cottage. Bottisham’s pleasant face kept swimming into his thoughts.

‘Bernarde could have killed one or both of them,’ he said, when Michael joined him.

The monk glanced behind him, to ensure the miller was not listening. ‘You would not say that if you heard the fuss he was making about bits of bone in his pinions – whatever they are. He is furious about it. Besides, Deschalers was a member of the Millers’ Society, and I do not see why Bernarde would do away with a colleague and an investor.’

Bartholomew rubbed his hands together, noting that they were deeply impregnated with pale dust. ‘Do you think Bottisham killed Deschalers, and then Bernarde stabbed Bottisham in revenge? Bernarde then could have thrown them both in the workings to confuse us.’

‘I have just interrogated Bernarde’s boy, who is slow witted and an uneasy liar, and he corroborates his father’s story very convincingly. Bernarde left his house just as he says – after the change in the wheel’s pitch alerted him to the fact that something was not right. I do not see why Bottisham should kill Deschalers anyway.’ Michael sighed miserably. ‘None of this makes sense. I hate cases where I am obliged to investigate the death of a man I liked. They make me feel guilty when my enquiries do not proceed as quickly as they should.’

‘Then I suspect we will both be feeling guilty about this one, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I cannot imagine where we will begin.’

Michael gave a wan smile. ‘You plan to help me? That is good news. I do not think I will be able to solve this alone.’

They were about to leave the mill and return to Michaelhouse, when they saw they were not the only ones keen to explore the scene of the crime in the cold light of day. Members of the Millers’ Society assembled as the sun began to rise and the day lost the delicate silver shades of early dawn. Mayor Morice was there with the burly Cheney, while the Lavenhams stood arm in arm nearby, listening to Bernarde’s assurances that most of the gore had been removed from those parts of the mill that mattered.

‘I assume you have finished now?’ asked Morice, approaching Michael. ‘We cannot allow the mill to stand idle any longer. We have twenty sacks of grain left from yesterday, and we are expecting a consignment from Valence Marie this morning. Their flour is almost completely exhausted, and we have promised that their corn will be milled by this evening.’

‘Then they will have to buy some from the Market Square instead,’ said Michael coolly, not about to be bullied by Mayor Morice. ‘I am conducting a murder investigation, and that takes precedence over any trading agreements you might have.’

Morice’s expression was disdainful. ‘Although one of the bodies was a scholar’s, this mill is not University property and you have no right to tell us what to do. It will start working in an hour.’

‘We will see what Dick Tulyet says about that,’ argued Michael. ‘He–’

‘Tulyet should be ashamed of himself,’ spat Morice in disgust. ‘He told us this morning that you will be looking into Deschalers’s death on his behalf. Delegating to scholars! That would not have happened when I was Sheriff.’

‘It is because of the Great Bridge,’ said Cheney uneasily. ‘He needs to watch the felons – and Mortimer and Thorpe. I am just as glad to see him doing that, and–’

‘There are a lot of things that would not have happened when you were Sheriff, Morice,’ retorted Michael icily, ignoring the spicer. ‘And a thorough investigation was one of them. However, I have finished here, so the mill’s reopening depends on whether Bernarde feels his equipment is properly cleaned.’

‘I asked the Hand of Valence Marie to bless it,’ Bernarde told his assembled colleagues. ‘That should take care of any lingering evil spirits. And I spent most of the night washing blood and lumps from the cogs, so the wheel should run smoothly now.’

‘Never mind that,’ said Isobel de Lavenham. ‘What about the parts that grind the corn? We do not want complaints that our flour contains meat as well as grain. We might be fined!’

There were dismayed mutterings at that prospect, and Bernarde was enjoined to go back inside and check his millstones. The miller declared that he and his boy had been scrubbing them for hours, and that he was more concerned about expensive damage to his delicate mechanisms than about stray fingers in the flour. The debate raged back and forth until Bernarde told them exactly how much it would cost to repair a damaged spur wheel or a wallower. Then it stopped. Bartholomew was disgusted with them all for thinking more about profits than the death of one of their colleagues – and of Bottisham.

Now seriously worried that the incident might affect him financially, Morice turned on Michael and pointed an accusing finger. ‘It was a waste of time summoning you last night. All we have done is ensure you begin one of your ponderous enquiries, which will interfere with every aspect of our lives. You detest townsfolk, and an opportunity like this will give you the excuse you crave to make a nuisance of yourself.’

‘I do not detest townsfolk,’ replied Michael calmly. ‘It is you I do not like.’

‘We had no choice,’ replied Cheney, his local burr conciliatory as he addressed the Mayor. He was flushed that morning, and Bartholomew could smell wine on his breath. ‘Bernarde was obliged to tell someone in authority that two bodies were in his mill.’

‘What I want to know is what Bottisham was doing here in the first place,’ said Isobel unhappily. ‘Deschalers I can understand: he had a key – and he had every right to inspect the property he invests in, no matter what the time of day or night. But Bottisham did not.’

‘Did Deschalers invite him, then?’ suggested Cheney thoughtfully. ‘Were they meeting for some reason? I thought they tended to avoid each other.’

‘What do you know about that?’ pounced Michael. ‘Were they enemies?’

‘I am not certain,’ replied Cheney, glancing around at his companions, who shrugged. ‘I recall something bad happened between them, but it was a long time ago.’

‘Bottisham be the rascal,’ said Lavenham hotly, pushing his apothecary’s hat back on his head. His accent was pronounced that morning, and agitation about the state of the mill seemed to deprive him of the ability to speak good English. ‘He be one with crime. Deschalers he not.’

‘We shall see,’ said Michael. He turned to Bernarde. ‘What time did you close the mill last night?’

‘About seven o’clock,’ replied Bernarde. ‘I locked the door myself, after my boy had finished sweeping. And it was empty,’ he added, anticipating Michael’s next question. ‘And the machinery was disengaged as I told you – the wheel was still turning, but the millstones were not. However, it is simple to start them up again. Even a scholar would be able to work out what to do.’

‘Who has access to your key?’ asked Bartholomew, ignoring the slur.

‘Me and my boy,’ replied Bernarde, jangling the metal on his belt. ‘My wife did, but she died of the Death, as you know, Doctor – you tried to save her. But we are not the only ones with keys: Morice, Cheney and Lavenham all have one, as did Deschalers.’

‘Why is that necessary?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘It is stipulated in the Millers’ Society charter,’ explained Cheney. ‘I have never understood why, but we keep them anyway.’ He rummaged about his plump person and produced a key made from ancient black metal. ‘Here is mine.’

‘There was one like that in Deschalers’s scrip,’ said Bartholomew to Michael. ‘I saw it when I examined him last night. I assumed it was for his house, but it seems I was mistaken.’

‘I carry mine never,’ declared Lavenham. ‘My wife, he cares for these thing.’

‘It is at home, locked in the cupboard where we keep our strongest medicines,’ said Isobel. Her smile became predatory. ‘I can show you, if you like, Brother.’

‘I will take your word for it,’ said Michael primly.

‘Mine is here,’ said Morice, and Bartholomew heard the tinkle of metal as he fumbled on his belt. ‘So, they are all accounted for. What does this tell you, Brother? What have you deduced by asking who has these keys?’ His jeering tone made Bartholomew want to punch him.

‘It has allowed me to conclude that Deschalers probably came here willingly, and that he used his key to let himself in,’ replied Michael, less aggravated by the Mayor’s insulting manners than the physician. ‘And the fact that it was in his scrip – rather than on a belt or a chain around his neck – indicates he was not in the habit of carrying it, but that he took it specifically to come here last night.’

‘So?’ demanded Morice, irritated that the monk could indeed make inferences from the results of his questioning. ‘What does that mean?’

‘It means he intended to come here,’ said Michael. ‘And that Bottisham is unlikely to have arranged it, because Deschalers was the one with the key.’

‘So, Isobel was right,’ said Cheney thoughtfully. ‘The real question we should ask is what was Bottisham doing here, not Deschalers. Bottisham was a scholar, after all, and not the sort of man with whom Deschalers would normally deign to fraternise.’

‘And he was from Gonville Hall,’ added Morice meaningfully.

‘Why is that significant?’ asked Michael.

Cheney replied. ‘Because Gonville are representing Mortimer’s Mill – our rivals – in the case we intend to bring before the King. We are suing them because they keep stealing our water.’

Morice’s expression was smug. ‘But we will win this case, because some of our profits go to the King – and the King is not a man to let the Mortimers interfere with the contents of his coffers.’

Bartholomew was sure he was right. The King was always in need of money, and would not let the Mortimers deprive him of what seemed to be a fairly regular and easy source of income. He would be almost certain to find in the Millers’ Society’s favour. However, the scholars of Gonville were skilled and clever lawyers, as he had seen for himself in the Disputatio. It was possible that the Mortimers’ case was not so hopeless after all.

‘You are not in a position to make comments about the integrity of others, Morice,’ countered Michael acidly. ‘I understand it was an endorsement from you that allowed King’s Pardons to be issued to Edward Mortimer and Rob Thorpe.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Morice calmly, and if he was concerned that his colleagues were regarding him uneasily, then he did not show it. ‘That had nothing to do with me. It must have been a forgery. These Westminster clerks are good at that sort of thing. They learn such skills in the universities.’

Bartholomew put his hand on the monk’s shoulder, to prevent the caustic retort he was sure was coming. They needed answers, not an argument with a man who could barely speak without uttering some falsehood. ‘But if Gonville’s clerks intend to represent the Mortimers, then it is very odd that Deschalers should be in this mill with Bottisham – a Gonville scholar,’ he said.

‘Very,’ agreed Cheney. ‘It looks as though Deschalers was consorting with the enemy. However, we must remember that he was a clever man, and may have been trying to make some sort of arrangement to our advantage. I do not think his liaison with Bottisham necessarily implies he was doing something that might harm the Society.’

‘I am not so sure,’ said Bernarde worriedly. ‘If he was being honest, then why not meet Bottisham during the day, in a tavern or a church? You are wrong, Cheney. The fact that Deschalers was here alone in the dark with Bottisham indicates that he was up to no good as far as I am concerned.’

‘He was probably buying shares in the Mortimers’ enterprise,’ said Morice angrily, quick to condemn. ‘And that would have weakened our case. Damn the man! What was he thinking of?’

They continued to bicker, so Bartholomew went inside the mill again, thinking he should conduct a final search if it was going into action in an hour. Once the waterwheel started to turn, any remaining evidence would quickly be obliterated. He felt under considerable pressure to find something, but although he exhausted himself by frantically hauling bags of grain this way and that as he hunted for clues, his Herculean efforts went unrewarded.

When he had finished, he stood still, trying to catch his breath. The complex mess of gears and cogs had been scoured and lovingly coated with grease, while the millstones had been scrubbed spotlessly clean. Bernarde’s boy was still working on them, and Bartholomew thought no one need have concerns about finding body parts in their bread. As the great wheel was lowered into the water to commence its work, Bartholomew dropped to his knees and began one last, desperate inspection of the floor, ignoring the splinters that stabbed his hands as he groped under sacks and bins.

Bernarde’s apprentices started to arrive, tripping over him and treading on his fingers, and at last he was forced to concede defeat. He stood again, thinking that Michael’s assumptions must be correct: Deschalers had indeed met Bottisham after dark, when he knew the mill would be locked. It would be an ideal location for an assignation he did not want anyone to know he was having. But why? Was Morice correct: that the grocer had been trying to strike some sort of bargain with a man who was legally representing his adversary? Or was it nothing to do with the mill dispute, and the two men had other things to discuss?

‘There is nothing here, Brother,’ he said, when Michael came to join him. The monk regarded him with amusement, and when he looked down he saw his clothes were covered in dust, giving him a ghostly appearance. He brushed irritably at his tabard, raising a cloud of white. ‘I hope it does not rain today, or I will find myself encased in pastry.’

‘No,’ said Michael, after a moment of serious thought. ‘You need butter and lard to make pastry, so you will be encased in glue. What do you think of them, Matt? The Millers’ Society, I mean?’

‘They are like all merchants – there is good and bad in each. Except Morice, of course. There is no good whatsoever in him. He is unashamedly corrupt, and is motivated purely by self-interest.’

‘What of the others? Cheney? The Lavenhams?’

‘Cheney is pompous, but decent enough. Lavenham is as untrustworthy an individual as I have ever met. He knows I re-weigh the medicines he sells me, so he has stopped cheating me now. Isobel is very popular with my students, because she seduces them each time they visit her shop.’

‘And what do you think about this dispute with the Mortimers over water?’

‘I think they should resolve the issue like rational men. I do not approve of rushing to the King each time there is a squabble. The Mortimers should be careful about how much water they divert, and the Millers’ Society should devise some sort of timetable to avoid clashes. It cannot be that difficult. They worked perfectly well together until recently.’

‘Things are always difficult when there are large amounts of money at stake,’ said Michael soberly. ‘And there is plenty of money in milling.’