The Chancellor’s Secret

Chapter 14

‘Perhaps you and Dick are right,’ said Michael unhappily at breakfast the following day, ‘and Donwich is the culprit.’

‘Did you speak to him yesterday?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘You said you would.’

‘I tried twice, but he was out, and I did not have time to hunt him down. However, even if he is the killer, neither of us can accuse him without proof. He will say we are only doing it to damage his claim on the chancellorship.’

‘So what?’ asked Bartholomew, thick-headed from lack of sleep. ‘If he is guilty, it does not matter what he brays from the proctors’ cells. Besides, I am tired of this case. I want it resolved so I can concentrate on the flux.’

‘Not teaching?’

Bartholomew eyed him balefully. ‘I think we both know that is now a lost cause. My students have tasted freedom, and I will never get them back now. But how do you want us to deal with Donwich today? Perhaps he will confess when he sees Dick at my side.’

‘Very possibly, but our colleagues would riot if we used the Sheriff to intimidate members of the University. The vicars-general will not be very impressed either.’

‘I doubt many scholars will take umbrage on Donwich’s behalf – he is not very popular. And the vicars-general do not need to know.’

‘They would find out,’ predicted Michael, and sighed. ‘My business with them is nowhere near finished, so they will be here for days yet.’

Bartholomew glanced at him. He looked exhausted, but at the same time, there was a gleam in his eye that suggested he was enjoying whatever challenge the Archbishop’s emissaries were posing for him.

‘I will concentrate on Brampton instead then,’ Bartholomew said. ‘He is supposed to finish collecting the bridge money today. Ergo, he is no longer off limits to me.’

‘He told me last night that he has “only” gathered ninety-five per cent of it. He will take it to Morys this morning, with a promise that the rest will be delivered tomorrow. I am impressed, as scholars do not readily part with money. I doubt there is another man in the University who could have done what he has, and that includes me.’

‘So he is good for something then. He cannot quell brawls, run elections, or keep the peace, but he can squeeze money out of his colleagues.’

‘It is a useful talent,’ averred Michael. ‘And he has others, too, despite what you think of him. But to return to the murders, I think the best way to proceed is to ask more questions in Clare Hall about Aynton, Elsham and Gille.’

‘What good would that do?’ Bartholomew was sick of the place.

‘If Donwich is the culprit, it will make him uneasy, and uneasy men make mistakes. Perhaps taking Dick is a good idea after all, as his presence will certainly unsettle anyone with a guilty conscience.’

‘Very well. I will try to speak to Morys again, too. He is not far below Donwich on the list of suspects.’

‘I appreciate all you are doing, Matt,’ said Michael quietly. ‘However, we must have answers by Saturday.’

‘I do not see why,’ grumbled Bartholomew. ‘Our suspects list comprises Donwich, Morys, Brampton, Gille, Stasy, Hawick and Shardelowe. None of the first six will leave, because they live here, while Shardelowe will go nowhere until he has been paid in full, and I am sure we can persuade the burgesses to withhold the last instalment for a few days.’

‘I want everyone – scholars and vicars-general – to go home knowing the killer is caught. The reputation of our University is at stake. We cannot have them spreading the tale that our Chancellor was murdered and we let the culprit get away with it.’

‘I will do my best,’ said Bartholomew unhappily.

‘I know.’ Michael smiled to lighten the mood. ‘Incidentally, Lucy went to Edith’s warehouse yesterday, and chose some cloth for your wedding clothes. I should warn you that she picked two very startling shades of red. You might want to exchange them for something a bit more discreet, or Matilde will think she is marrying a cardinal.’

Bartholomew hurried to Matilde’s house at once, feeling that Tulyet would not mind him being a few moments late at the Brazen George when his dignity was at stake. Again, he wished he and Matilde could be married quietly, perhaps with Clippesby presiding, and no one but Edith and Michael to witness the ceremony. Lucy was turning what should be the happiest day of his life into an ordeal.

He arrived to find Matilde had gone to church, but Edith was there with Chaumbre. They were making march-pane fancies for the wedding, laughing at some joke one of them had cracked. It was a cosy scene, and he saw yet again that Edith was growing increasingly fond of her new husband.

‘Matthew!’ exclaimed Chaumbre warmly. ‘What a pleasant surprise. Do come in.’

‘Thank you,’ said Bartholomew, although he resented the dyer inviting him into the house that would soon be his home. Loath to dawdle after Michael’s plea for haste, he came straight to the point. ‘I hear some cloth has been put aside for me. Some very red cloth.’

‘Lucy picked it,’ said Edith. ‘I argued for a nice mid-blue. However, she says red will hide the blood you spill while dabbling with surgery, which is a good point.’

‘I do not intend to get married covered in gore,’ said Bartholomew stiffly. ‘So blue will be perfectly acceptable. But speaking of colours, I understand Stasy and Hawick bought some dye from you, Philip.’

‘For their walls,’ replied Chaumbre amiably. ‘Apparently, sick people find green soothing. I informed them that there are much cheaper ways of colouring paint, but they declared themselves flush with money, so who was I to argue?’

‘You believed them?’ asked Bartholomew warily.

‘Why not? They paid in cash, so there was never any question of credit.’

‘Not about the money,’ said Bartholomew, although it occurred to him that it was odd the pair could afford to be extravagant quite so soon after establishing their practice. ‘About what they planned to do with the dye.’

Chaumbre shrugged. ‘What else would they use it for?’

‘To put in medicine,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps in an effort to disguise the fact that most of their wares come from Margery Starre.’

‘Impossible! Even a tiny dab in a pot would be too much, because my dyes are highly concentrated. Not to mention unfit for human consumption. If they had wanted something to colour their remedies, they would have gone to the apothecary.’

Bartholomew supposed that was true. He was about to leave when he recalled that Donwich considered Chaumbre enough of a friend to have invited him to his premature victory feast. Perhaps the dyer had noticed something that night that would either prove Donwich’s guilt or allow him to be eliminated.

‘You were at Clare Hall the evening Aynton was killed,’ he began. ‘Did you–’

‘I was checking dye when the poor man was struck down,’ interrupted Chaumbre patiently. ‘We have been through this already, Matthew. Why bring it up again?’

‘It is about Donwich, not you,’ explained Bartholomew, aware that Edith was eyeing him rather beadily. ‘Aynton was killed after spying on him, and the two of them fell out when Aynton declined to support his bid for the chancellorship. I want to know if you consider Donwich capable of murder.’

‘You have asked me this before, too, and my answer is the same now as it was then: Donwich is opinionated and arrogant, but not violent. However, as you remain unconvinced, I shall accompany you to Clare Hall and we shall speak to him together. It is the best way to resolve this matter once and for all.’

‘There is no need for that,’ said Bartholomew hastily.

‘Nonsense,’ declared Chaumbre, standing up. ‘I have nothing more pressing to do, and I should like to spend a morning with my wife’s brother. We do not know each other very well, and that must be rectified.’

‘How did you become friends with Donwich?’ asked Bartholomew, aiming to keep him talking until he had devised a way to dispense with his company. ‘You had left Cambridge long before he joined the University, so you cannot have known him for very long.’

‘A few weeks,’ replied Chaumbre, irritatingly jovial. ‘But I have made many new friends since arriving back, not to mention winning a wife. I cannot recall exactly what threw him and me together now. Perhaps he bought some dye.’

‘It was at the guildhall,’ supplied Edith. ‘Mayor Morys introduced you as the richest man in Cambridge, so naturally, Donwich was keen to ingratiate himself with you.’

‘Are you a Clare Hall benefactor then?’ asked Bartholomew. Donwich tended to treat merchants with contempt, but he was willing to conceal his distaste if it meant donations.

‘Not yet, but I have promised to think about it.’ Chaumbre beamed merrily. ‘Shall we go? There is no time like the present.’

‘It is kind of you to offer, but I have already invited the Sheriff,’ said Bartholomew, smiling in an effort to soften the refusal. ‘Three will be too many.’

‘Oh, I do not think that matters in the least,’ countered Chaumbre, and picked up his cloak. ‘Besides, Dick Tulyet is another man I should like to know better. Lead on!’

‘Dickon may be with him,’ said Bartholomew, desperately trying to put him off.

‘Good! It is common knowledge that Tulyet is grooming him to take over when he hangs up his spurs, so there is no harm in making his acquaintance, too.’ Chaumbre opened the door. ‘Goodness! Look at the rain. If we have forty days of this, we shall all float away.’

With weary resignation, Bartholomew fell into step at his side.

Bartholomew and Chaumbre entered the Brazen George, shaking the wet from their hats and cloaks, to find Tulyet eating a modest breakfast of bread and apples. Dickon was working his way through a platter of beef that looked unusually bloody.

‘He asked for it,’ whispered Landlord Lister to Bartholomew, and gave a malicious chuckle. ‘Or rather, he ordered me not to burn it, so I made sure it was rare. He is not enjoying it, but he is too proud to say so.’

The other patrons were watching the boy warily, and Bartholomew knew that by the end of the day, the whole town would know that Dickon’s breakfast of choice was raw meat. He and Chaumbre sat, and the dyer ordered ale. Bartholomew smothered a sigh. He could not afford to sit around drinking while he had a killer to catch!

‘I have been busy since we last met,’ reported Tulyet. ‘But to no avail. I spoke to every sentry who was on duty when Aynton was killed, but no one saw or heard anything of use.’

‘And I spoke to everyone who was near the bridge when Elsham died,’ put in Dickon importantly. ‘They are all blind and stupid, because none of them noticed a thing.’

‘Those silly youngsters!’ sighed Chaumbre. ‘If they had not been larking about, someone would have been able to identify the rogue who almost drowned me.’

‘It is a pity I was not there,’ said Dickon, shoving his empty platter away with a victorious flourish. ‘I would not have let children distract me. But shall we go to Clare Hall now and terrify Master Donwich into a confession? I am looking forward to that!’

‘You must contain yourself until I have finished my ale,’ chided Chaumbre, making himself comfortable. ‘And while I drink, we can talk about the bridge.’

‘What about it?’ demanded Bartholomew curtly, chafing anew at the delay.

‘We were right to choose stone,’ the dyer began. ‘But I am not sure we should have picked Shardelowe for the task. For a start, I suspect he has never worked on a bridge before.’

Tulyet blinked. ‘But he told me this would be his fifth.’

‘A barefaced lie,’ said Chaumbre. ‘He claimed to have designed two over the Fleet and two over the Tyburn, so I wrote to a friend in London, asking what he thought of Shardelowe’s work. The reply arrived an hour ago: Shardelowe played no role in constructing any of them.’

Bartholomew was horrified. ‘So he is repairing our bridge with frantic haste, but he is doing it with no prior experience? What if it collapses because of his shortcomings? People might be killed!’

‘We shall discover its failings very soon, if it rains for the next forty days and the river floods,’ put in Tulyet, equally alarmed. ‘We must confront him about this deception at once.’

‘If we dismiss him, we shall be without a bridge until a new engineer can be hired,’ Chaumbre pointed out. ‘That could take months, so I suggest we let him finish, but withhold some of the money until we are sure that the thing is up to scratch.’

‘Yes,’ conceded Tulyet. ‘That seems reasonable.’

‘And perhaps I have worried you unnecessarily,’ Chaumbre went on. ‘I took Zoone to inspect the work last night, and he declared it to be satisfactory. So far, at least. Oh, look who has just walked in – Shardelowe himself. Shardelowe! Come over here.’

‘I am coming,’ snapped Shardelowe testily. ‘Because I need to report that Lyonnes is missing. He did not appear for work yesterday, so I assumed he had gone to buy extra chisels. However, it transpires that no one has seen him since Monday night, and I am concerned.’

‘Perhaps he is enjoying the respite from the frantic pace you are–’ began Chaumbre.

‘He would not have tarried,’ interrupted Shardelowe. ‘Not when he knows how tight our schedule is. Ergo, something bad has happened to him.’

‘Perhaps he fled when he realised your deceit was about to be exposed,’ said Tulyet coolly. ‘Namely that ours is the very first bridge that you have ever put together.’

Shardelowe tried for a careless shrug, although his eyes betrayed his alarm. ‘I cannot help what you choose to believe. I never actually said I built the four others I described. You just assumed I had.’

‘Because that is what you intended,’ snapped Tulyet. ‘You deliberately misled me.’

‘Where lies the problem?’ demanded Shardelowe, going on the offensive. ‘Examine my work – you will find it perfectly sound. And in three days, you will have a splendid structure that will last hundreds of years.’

‘We had better,’ said Tulyet warningly. ‘Although I would rather you took a little more time and did it properly.’

‘If I did, Morys would refuse to pay our bonus.’ Shardelowe dropped his hectoring tone to become conciliatory. ‘However, I do have some money that may encourage you to–’

‘Do not finish that sentence,’ interrupted Tulyet sharply. ‘Or I shall arrest you for attempting to bribe a royally appointed official.’

Shardelowe looked confused. ‘But that is the way things work in Cambridge.’

‘Not in my part of it. I suppose Morys knows about your deficiencies, so you paid him to make sure you won the commission anyway.’

Shardelowe looked pained. ‘Only because he said that is how business is conducted here. I gave him money, which he used to pay witnesses to speak in my favour. For example, Master Donwich’s remit was to manipulate the new Chancellor into paying a bigger contribution. It all went exactly as Morys promised it would.’

Bartholomew knew that was true, because Narboro had overheard the pair of them discussing it.

‘You may continue the work,’ said Tulyet coldly, ‘but Zoone will monitor your progress, and I shall dismiss you if there is even the slightest suggestion of a defect.’

‘Very well,’ said Shardelowe, and held out a callused hand to seal the agreement.

Tulyet refused to take it. ‘Is this why Aynton was murdered? He wanted a wooden bridge, so Morys arranged for him to die, lest his dissenting voice threatened his pact with you? Or did you kill him yourself?’

Shardelowe was obviously shocked. ‘No! That had nothing to do with me.’

‘Prove it,’ ordered Tulyet, while Bartholomew held his breath, wondering if the case was about to be solved before his eyes.

‘I was in the Angel Inn when Aynton died,’ said Shardelowe, ‘with Bernarde and Lyonnes. We were working on the report I presented in the guildhall last week. None of us left all evening, as the landlord and two dozen of his regulars will attest.’

Tulyet went to the door and hailed a passing soldier, who was ordered to go to the Angel and confirm the tale. When Shardelowe looked relieved, Bartholomew knew he was telling the truth. The builder and his two lieutenants could be eliminated from the enquiry.

‘We were in the tavern until someone came with news of the Chancellor’s plight,’ Shardelowe went on, eager to be helpful now. ‘Naturally, we went to see if we could help, and you know the rest – how we rigged a winch to lift him up. But I have answered your questions, so now you can answer mine: what are you going to do about Lyonnes?’

‘You say he was last seen on Monday night?’ asked Tulyet. ‘Where?’

‘The Griffin. He left a little the worse for wear, apparently.’

‘Do you want me to organise a search?’ asked Dickon eagerly, the potential confrontation with Donwich forgotten in the face of something much more interesting.

Tulyet patted his shoulder. ‘Good lad. Collect John and half a dozen men to help. Visit the Griffin first, though, to confirm what you have been told.’

Delighted, Dickon swaggered away, although Shardelowe was horrified.

‘You send a boy to hunt for my assistant?’

‘My son,’ said Tulyet proudly. ‘He is perfectly capable, especially with John at his side.’ He glanced at Bartholomew. ‘Donwich must wait, because I want a word with Morys first. I cannot overlook his corruption any longer.’

‘He is away today, visiting his kin in the Fens,’ said Chaumbre. ‘He told me so when I met him on my way to Matilde’s house earlier.’

‘He has left the town again?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘He is never here.’

‘He is not,’ said Tulyet grimly. ‘Which makes me wonder what other nefarious schemes he has in progress. But I shall find out, and woe betide him then.’ He glanced at Bartholomew. ‘We had better go to Clare Hall before any more of the day is lost.’

Bartholomew’s thoughts were in turmoil as he trailed along the High Street after Tulyet and Chaumbre. Was he wrong to be so certain that Donwich had killed Aynton? What if Morys – through his rough kin – had done it, to fulfil his agreement with Shardelowe? And Aynton had made it easy for them by wandering about after dark on his own.

‘Michael told me not to challenge Donwich without evidence,’ he said unhappily. ‘All we are supposed to do in Clare Hall today is ask questions about Aynton, Elsham and Gille.’

‘To unsettle Donwich in the hope that he says or does something incriminating,’ surmised Tulyet. ‘Unfortunately, it will not work, because he is too clever.’

‘True,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘We have tried it before to no avail.’

However,’ Tulyet went on, ‘a witness has just informed me that Donwich accepted a bribe to manipulate the town council. The University meddling in town affairs is something I cannot overlook, and it is my duty as Sheriff to confront him about it.’

Bartholomew was not sure what to think, and only hoped the charge of corruption would not interfere with the more serious matter of Aynton’s murder. Unhappily, he knocked on Clare Hall’s gate, where a porter took one look at their grim faces and conducted them to the conclave without a word.

The only Fellow at home was Pulham, who was unsettled to receive such a deputation, but hastened to conceal his unease by inviting them to share his breakfast ale. Chaumbre accepted with a gracious smile, but Tulyet refused, while Bartholomew was far too tense to think about drinking. Then the door was thrown open, and Donwich marched in with Lucy on his arm. Pulham gave a strangled gasp of shock.

‘You cannot bring her in here, Donwich. She is a woman!’

‘She is,’ agreed Donwich. ‘But why should I not entertain a friend in my home? Because of some silly rule written a hundred and fifty years ago by blinkered men? Pah!’

‘Because of our benefactors,’ argued Pulham in a hoarse whisper, as if he feared they might suddenly materialise and see what was going on. ‘They will leave us in droves if they ever find out that we entertain our mistresses on College premises.’

‘She is not my mistress,’ objected Donwich angrily, while Lucy looked acutely uncomfortable and glanced at the door, clearly considering making a dash for it. ‘She is a decent lady, and a far more respectable guest than an impoverished physician, a tradesman and a royal lackey. You certainly should not have invited them in here.’

‘Allow me to escort you outside,’ said Chaumbre kindly to Lucy, who was struggling to pull her arm away from Donwich, so she could escape. ‘I do not think you–’

‘Yes, you can get out,’ snarled Donwich, rounding on him. ‘You promised us a donation, but now you say we cannot have anything until next year. I do not believe you ever intended to oblige. You just wanted access to my College, so you could spy for your new brother-in-law – the man who is Michael’s henchman.’

While Chaumbre gaped his dismay at the unprovoked attack, Lucy succeeded in freeing herself from Donwich. She took the dyer’s hand, and murmured that they should leave the scholars and Sheriff to their business. He went with her in a bewildered daze.

Pulham glared at Donwich. ‘Now look what your reckless disregard for tradition has done! You exposed a nice lady to embarrassment and offended a potential donor.’

‘Enough!’ barked Tulyet when Donwich opened his mouth to respond in kind. ‘I am not here to listen to a spat. I want to know why you took a bribe from Morys in exchange for speaking at the guildhall. Do not deny it, Donwich. We have witnesses.’

Donwich swallowed uncomfortably. ‘How do they … I hardly think …’

‘What you have done is illegal,’ Tulyet forged on, taking the stammering reply for an admission of guilt. ‘And you will answer for it in a court of law.’

Pulham was shocked anew. ‘Is it true?’ he cried, aghast. ‘You were paid to say what you did? God’s blood, Donwich! It was bad enough to think you spoke out of a spiteful desire to hurt Michael, but to learn you did it for money … Worse, your meddling has forced our University to pay far more than what was originally agreed.’

‘Rubbish!’ blustered Donwich. ‘Our colleagues will pay nothing.’

‘But they have paid,’ shouted Pulham angrily. ‘Brampton delivered most of the funds yesterday, and the rest will follow today or tomorrow.’

‘Then they are fools,’ flashed Donwich. ‘I told them to wait until I am Chancellor before parting with any cash. Clare Hall will never give the town a penny.’

Pulham closed his eyes in despair. ‘Then we will be forever known as the niggardly foundation that failed to pay its share. All our colleagues will despise us, especially those in the poorest hostels, where finding the necessary contribution was a challenge.’

‘I do not care about them,’ spat Donwich contemptuously. ‘I agreed to help Morys because it was best for Clare Hall and best for myself.’

‘You did not need to become Morys’s lickspittle in order to earn money,’ breathed Pulham, shaking his head in incomprehension. ‘I would have lent you some.’

Donwich regarded him archly. ‘Would you, when I wanted it to buy gifts for Lucy? She is the best friend I have ever had, and I intend to make sure she knows it.’

‘No,’ acknowledged Pulham. ‘I would not have financed your infatuation. I still hope you will come to your senses, and revert to the man you were before we elected you Master.’ He turned to Tulyet. ‘Clare Hall will pay its contribution to the bridge, Sheriff. I shall deliver it to Brampton myself. He will have it within the hour.’

‘You cannot–’ began Donwich in spluttering indignation, but Bartholomew cut across him, hoping the Master was sufficiently unsettled by the confrontation to come clean about the murders.

‘Aynton followed you the night he was killed. A witness saw you catch him outside Lucy’s house, after which you quarrelled – a fact that you have kept suspiciously quiet.’

Donwich barely looked at him. ‘Of course I kept it quiet. You would have accused me of killing him if I had told you about it.’

‘Did you kill him?’ asked Tulyet baldly.

‘Of course not! I was angry – hence my lack of composure when I returned to the feast – but I would never have shoved him off the bridge.’

At that point, Tulyet launched into an interrogation that had his victim blanching in fright. Even so, Donwich continued to claim that he had left Aynton alive, and doggedly refused to be shaken from his story.

‘Where is Gille?’ demanded Tulyet eventually. ‘Because I do not believe that no one here knows where he is hiding. Perhaps he can throw light on these murders.’

‘If we knew, we would tell you,’ said Pulham, desperate to be conciliatory in the hope that the Sheriff would not think the entire College was full of lechers and criminals. ‘Would you like to search his room? Bartholomew has already done it, but–’

‘No!’ objected Donwich. ‘A secular has no right to invade our–’

‘Follow me, Sheriff,’ interrupted Pulham briskly. ‘Clare Hall has nothing to hide – and nothing to gain by shielding those who have done us a world of harm either.’

Bartholomew thought they were wasting their time, but Tulyet was rather more thorough than he had been, and even stood on a table to peer on top of the ceiling joists. It was there that he discovered a blade encrusted with dried blood. Pulham immediately identified it as Gille’s knife, while Donwich gaped his horror.

‘Perhaps it was Gille who stabbed Huntyngdon,’ said Tulyet to Bartholomew, ‘which would make Elsham’s deathbed confession a lie.’

‘No one killed Huntyngdon with that weapon,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is too wide.’

‘He probably used it to cut his meat,’ blustered Donwich. ‘And as it is clearly valuable, he put it up there for safekeeping.’

‘Of course he did,’ said Tulyet flatly.

Bartholomew was glad to leave Clare Hall. He and Tulyet hurried outside, where Chaumbre was waiting for them, although there was no sign of Lucy. The dyer looked pale and forlorn.

‘She went to the Mill Pond,’ he explained, although neither Bartholomew nor Tulyet had asked. ‘She was mortified by what happened in there. So was I.’

‘So she has gone to recover her composure,’ surmised Tulyet. ‘Although I can think of better places to do it. The Mill Pond reeks and is always busy.’

‘Actually, she went to see if the rain has filled it yet,’ explained Chaumbre. ‘If so, she intends to petition Morys to open the sluices, so that clean water can wash away all that is stinking and unclean.’

‘Like Clare Hall,’ muttered Tulyet venomously. ‘Donwich has not heard the last of this. He will answer for his corrupt dealings in the guildhall, and so will Morys.’

‘Today, Donwich revealed a side of himself that I did not know existed,’ said Chaumbre in a small, subdued voice. ‘It hurt me to learn that his friendship went only as deep as my purse.’

‘Then perhaps you can use the money you would have given him for filling in your dye-pits,’ said Tulyet tartly.

Chaumbre attempted a smile. ‘Verious is working on the third hole as we speak. Then there will only be one left.’

‘That is one too many,’ began Tulyet, ‘and it is not–’

But the dyer spotted Burgess FitzAbsolon at that moment, and hared off to greet him, leaving the Sheriff talking to himself. Meanwhile, Bartholomew was frustrated by the encounter in Clare Hall. He remained sure that Donwich was the killer, but how was he ever going to prove it? Then he saw Lucy, who had finished her inspection of the Mill Pond, and was heading for the guildhall.

‘I am sorry for what happened in there,’ he told her as she passed. ‘Pulham had no right to speak about you so disrespectfully, and I should have defended you.’

Lucy grimaced. ‘Everyone thinks I am Donwich’s paramour, even though nothing could be further from the truth.’

‘Perhaps you should break off your friendship with him then,’ suggested Tulyet curtly. ‘It is difficult to believe it is chaste, when he is so obviously enamoured of you.’

‘He is,’ acknowledged Lucy ruefully, ‘although not enough to exchange University life for marriage, which is why he will only ever be a friend. Even so, being with him is a lot more fun than sitting around at home, knowing that everyone is gossiping about my inability to attract a replacement for Narboro.’

‘Why not leave Cambridge and start afresh somewhere else?’ asked Bartholomew kindly. ‘Do you have kin in another town?’

‘If I had, I would have gone already. But perhaps a suitable gentleman will come here eventually. Until then, I am content to arrange my friends’ weddings.’ She smiled at him. ‘But before I forget, Matthew, my brother asked me to give you a message about the flux.’

‘New cases?’ asked Bartholomew worriedly.

She nodded. ‘More beadles. He thinks they caught it from a miasma that escaped from the barrel of ale they shared last night.’

Bartholomew felt a surge of hope. If the sickness could be traced to a brewery, he might finally be able to stamp it out. He began to subject her to a barrage of questions, but she pushed him away, laughing.

‘I cannot tell you about the drinking habits of beadles! You must ask my brother. And you are in luck, because here he comes now.’

Brampton was hurrying along, head down. He ignored the calls of passing scholars for news about the ruminations of the vicars-general, and when there was a spat between two rival hostels, he made no attempt to break it up. He pretended not to hear Bartholomew’s hail either, obliging the physician to run after him and grab his arm.

‘Yes, a few beadles are ill from miasma-tainted ale,’ he said, freeing himself impatiently. ‘But I cannot natter to you about it now. I am on pressing University business.’

If Bartholomew had not been so tired and frustrated, he would never have allowed Brampton’s remark to aggravate him. However, the inference that collecting money was more important than the beadles’ health was too galling to ignore. Forgetting Michael’s instruction to leave Brampton alone, he launched into a curt interrogation about the ale, and when Brampton professed to know no more about it, he turned to Aynton’s murder instead.

‘You are a suspect for killing him,’ Bartholomew said baldly. ‘So is your friend Donwich. You also overheard an argument between Aynton and Chaumbre that you failed to mention.’

Brampton was outraged by the allegations. ‘You should thank me for not exposing that quarrel! It might have seen your brother-in-law charged with the Chancellor’s death. Indeed, it still might. He–’

‘You spied on Aynton.’ Bartholomew cut across him. ‘But you said nothing about it when we were desperate for information about his last hours – information that might hold clues about his killer.’

‘I monitored him on Michael’s orders,’ Brampton flashed back. ‘It is common practice for junior proctors to watch certain scholars, as you would know if you were not so engrossed in medicine. You were watched in the past, when complaints were made about you.’

Bartholomew regarded him in mystification. ‘What complaints?’

‘Extolling the delights of anatomy, claiming that horoscopes are a waste of time, practising surgery when it should be left to barbers, washing your hands with disconcerting frequency. Shall I go on?’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew wearily.

‘Many scholars thought your ideas were dangerous, so you were very closely observed for years. Of course, nothing has been done about you since Michael made himself such a force in the University. No one would dare.’

It was discomfiting news, but Bartholomew was not about to let it sidetrack him even so. ‘Where were you when Elsham was killed?’ he demanded. ‘I know you were near the bridge shortly afterwards, because I saw you.’

‘Yes, but I did not kill him,’ replied Brampton coldly. ‘And I can prove it, because I was with that ass Narboro. A workman had jostled him, causing him to drop his mirror, which then broke. I was persuading him not to make a formal complaint, because it would have turned our University into a laughing stock.’

‘That is untrue. I saw you with Donwich, not Narboro.’

Brampton smiled thinly. ‘You asked where I was when Elsham was killed, and the answer is that I was with Narboro. However, I brought that conversation to an end when I heard the commotion following the stone dropping off the bridge. I hurried to the river, where Donwich came to stand next to me.’

‘I will visit Narboro today, and ask him to confirm what you have told me,’ said Bartholomew, somewhat threateningly.

‘Please do. And when you have done that, speak to Father Aiden, Mistress FitzAbsolon, Widow Deschalers and Prior Pechem. All were close enough to have heard my exchange with Narboro, and will also corroborate my story.’

Such disparate witnesses, all respected members of the community, were unlikely to lie, so Bartholomew reluctantly conceded that the Senior Proctor was telling the truth. He struggled to hide his disappointment. He would not have minded at all if Brampton was the killer. Reluctantly, he crossed him off the list of suspects, because if Brampton had not killed Elsham, then the chances were that he had not pushed Aynton to his death either.

‘So did you see who dislodged the stone?’ he asked shortly.

‘Of course not,’ snapped Brampton. ‘I was too far away. Besides, I was concentrating on Narboro. I had to choose my words carefully, lest the wrong phrase should impact negatively on the case I am bringing against him for dishonouring my sister.’

‘Your lawsuit is doing her a lot more harm than Narboro’s breach of promise,’ said Bartholomew, nettled enough to speak out of turn.

Brampton sneered. ‘She thinks she can still win herself a husband, but she is too old, and no suitor wants another man’s leavings. My lawsuit will not affect that one way or the other. Now, may I go? If I do not collect the last of the money, Morys will bray that we have broken our word, and the town louts will use it as an excuse to do battle with us.’

Bartholomew watched him scurry away with a sense of rising frustration. Every lead he had seemed to be turning into a dead end.

Hopeful that the beadles’ sickness might provide him with answers about the flux at last, Bartholomew hurried to visit one of them. He found out where the ale had been bought, and strode briskly to the brewery.

‘Yes, we sold a barrel to Beadle Brown yesterday,’ said the brewer. ‘But it came from the same vat as nine others, all of which were returned empty this morning. The beadles are the only ones to report any ill effects, so the problem lies with them, not my ale.’

Perplexed, Bartholomew went to Beadle Brown’s house in Shoemaker Row, and learned that the barrel had stood in his yard for several hours before it had been broached. Had it soured because it was left in the sun? Or did the problem lie with the bucket of filthy water that Brown and his cronies had used to wash their hands and faces after finishing work?

‘I fetched that water from the Market Square well,’ groaned Brown, clutching his stomach. ‘But Mistress Starre got one at the same time, and she is not ill.’

Bartholomew sagged, feeling answers slip through his fingers yet again. Then he saw a familiar figure slinking past. Narboro. He hailed him, and the Peterhouse man stopped so abruptly that the baker wheeling his barrow behind slammed into the back of him. Narboro staggered, and the baker released a stream of pithy obscenities.

‘That hurt!’ whimpered Narboro. ‘I am going to sue him.’

‘You have done a remarkable job of disguising your black eyes,’ said Bartholomew, peering admiringly at his handiwork. ‘The bruises are almost invisible.’

Narboro flashed a pleased grin. ‘Your fiancée said the same, and asked me to show her how I did it. That woman is a gem – you should treasure her.’

‘I do,’ said Bartholomew, and turned to business. ‘I understand you had a mishap with your mirror shortly before Elsham was killed.’

Narboro nodded. ‘A workman jostled me, and made me drop it, so I stopped Brampton to make a formal complaint. Look at it! Ruined!’

Bartholomew was startled when Narboro fished in his scrip and produced a handful of large, jagged shards. Anyone else would have thrown them away. He said so.

‘A couple of pieces are still big enough to use, and they are better than nothing.’ Narboro replaced them carefully. ‘Thank God I have ordered a replacement from Linton, or I should be in a pretty pickle!’

‘Was this before or after you saw Morys pay Donwich for his help at the guildhall?’

‘Before,’ replied Narboro. ‘And after that, Elsham was toted past me and the sight made me sick. So – Brampton, Morys and Donwich, and Elsham – in that order.’

‘I wish you had seen who pushed the stone,’ said Bartholomew wearily.

‘So do I, because I dislike the notion of a vicious killer walking free, poised to strike again. I shall not breathe easy until the rogue is safely behind bars.’

For the rest of the day and well into the evening, Bartholomew was inundated with people who wanted him to visit flux-afflicted loved ones. He was tempted to make a public announcement about how to care for the victims, but realised this would be a bad idea when one patient transpired to have something else entirely – something that would have become a far more serious problem without timely medical intervention.

The only light on the horizon was that everyone between Milne Street and the High Street was recovering, and there had been no new cases there for two days. He did not care that Stasy and Hawick claimed their remedy was responsible. He was just glad that the sufferers were getting better.

It was nearly dark by the time he had seen everyone who had summoned him. His feet were sore from traipsing around in wet shoes, his back ached from leaning over beds, and he had eaten nothing since breakfast. He stopped to buy a pastry from a baker, touched when the man waved away payment on the grounds that Bartholomew had once mended his daughter’s broken arm for free. He was just finishing it when Tulyet and Dickon hurried past.

‘Good,’ said Tulyet, skidding to a standstill. ‘Now I do not need to send a messenger to Michaelhouse. Come with us to the Chesterton lane – we have a report of a body.’

‘Lyonnes?’ asked Bartholomew, recalling that Shardelowe had reported him missing.

‘No,’ replied Dickon, all ghoulish delight for the task they were about to perform. ‘His men think he has gone to London, because there was a big row between him and everyone else on Monday, and they all called him a bad-tempered bully.’

‘That is why he was in the Griffin,’ elaborated Tulyet. ‘Soothing his ruffled feathers with ale. None of the others would jaunt off for an evening in a tavern, not when it might mean the difference between everyone getting his bonus or losing it.’

‘Who found this body?’ asked Bartholomew, more interested in that than the antics of the surly builder. He allowed Dickon to grab his arm and pull him along with them.

‘They did.’ Tulyet nodded to where Isaac de Blaston and his friends trailed along behind. All were drenched, but chattered excitedly among themselves. Then Ulf joined them, resplendent in his new hat, and they immediately fell silent.

Feeling he should tell Michael what was happening, lest the victim transpired to be a scholar, Bartholomew hailed a passing beadle, but the man pretended not to hear and scuttled down a nearby alley.

‘He is the one Ulf knifed,’ explained Tulyet, casting a glance behind him to where the boy skipped along with his friends. ‘And as we failed to see justice delivered, he doubtless prefers to keep his distance from the brat. What did you want him for? To tell Michael about the body? Dickon will do it.’

‘I would rather see the corpse,’ objected Dickon, his face falling.

‘Then you had better hurry,’ said Tulyet, unmoved. ‘Off you go.’

Neither he nor Bartholomew spoke as they trotted along. Their determined pace and grim expressions attracted attention, and soon it was not just children who fell in behind them. They acquired more followers as they crossed the ponticulus, and by the time they reached the barren track that led to the village of Chesterton, they had collected quite an entourage. Morys was among them, and Bartholomew was tempted to interrogate him there and then, but it was hardly the time or the place; absently, he noted that the Mayor appeared to have been in a fight, because there were three long, deep scratches down his left cheek. Isnard was there, too, braying his opinions as a man who knew the river and its ways.

‘There is a pool by the elms,’ the bargeman announced to anyone who would listen. ‘The body will have washed up there. They usually do.’

He was right. Unfortunately, the victim was floating in the middle of it, so Tulyet sent a soldier to the castle to fetch ropes and a hook – and lamps, too, as it was now completely dark. When they arrived, it was Isnard who stepped forward to do what was necessary.

‘It is Martyn,’ said Bartholomew, once the victim had been retrieved and was lying on the bank. ‘Stabbed – some days ago, judging by the state of decomposition.’

‘He has been somewhere else since he died, but the river runs faster now we have had some rain, and it dislodged him,’ said Isnard with confident authority. ‘The Cam always yields its treasures in the end. It gave up Huntyngdon and now here is his friend.’

‘Were they killed at the same time, Matt?’ asked Tulyet.

‘I cannot be sure, but there is no reason to suppose otherwise.’

‘I suspect this one was buried in a shallow grave on the bank opposite Michaelhouse,’ Isnard went on. ‘And his killer did not realise he would be flushed out when the river returned to its normal levels.’

Bartholomew looked around for Dickon, who had gabbled his message at Michael, then raced to rejoin his father. Now he was at Tulyet’s side, agog with interest.

‘You cannot have conducted a very thorough search,’ he said, feeling that Tulyet should not have entrusted the task to him in the first place. He was still a child, after all.

Dickon was stung. ‘Yes, I did! Besides, Michael’s beadle did not find him either, so the killer must have hidden him really well.’

‘You should have asked me to do it,’ said Isnard grandly. ‘I would have known where to look. Beadles and children are no substitute for men who know what they are doing.’

‘Both were stabbed in the back,’ noted Tulyet, bringing an abrupt end to the discussion, and Bartholomew saw he did not appreciate his son’s shortcomings aired in public. ‘Does this mean that Elsham claimed two victims, rather than the one he was ready to confess?’

‘He wanted to unburden his conscience,’ replied Bartholomew, ‘so I think that if he had killed Martyn, he would have confessed it. Besides, the wounds are different, so the same weapon was not used to dispatch them both. Martyn’s is much wider.’

‘Caused by the bloodstained blade we found in Gille’s room?’ asked Tulyet, and pulled it from his scrip.

Bartholomew measured it against the hole in the victim. ‘A perfect match, which means that Gille dealt with him, while Elsham stabbed Huntyngdon. It seems likely that Martyn was carrying a letter from Aynton as well.’

He began to search the body for it, aware that he was being watched by dozens of eyes, as people pressed forward for a better view. It was not a pleasant task, and all to no avail, as there was nothing to find – Martyn’s purse had been torn from his belt, and there was nowhere else for a missive to be.

‘Sheriff!’ came Morys’s voice suddenly, unnaturally shrill with alarm. ‘Quickly! There is another one – another body. And it has no head!’

Tulyet grabbed a lamp and ran towards him, although it did not require much light to see that Morys was right. There was indeed a headless corpse in the reeds. Isnard retrieved it, then flailed around with a crutch in an effort to locate the missing part.

‘Who is it?’ demanded Tulyet, watching Bartholomew inspect the body. ‘Gille?’

‘His tool-belt and callused hands suggest a builder,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I suspect this is Lyonnes. The rumours about him going to London in a sulk are wrong.’