The argument swayed back and forth, and Tulyet let it run in the hope that temper would lead to incriminatory slips. Bartholomew crouched down to examine Peres more closely. Like Lucas, it had not been a clean kill, and several vicious jabs had been inflicted before the fatal blow. He was about to cover him up when he noticed something caught in one of the boy’s fingernails. It was a thread of an unusual shade of aqua.
‘From his attacker?’ asked Tulyet, peering at it.
Bartholomew nodded. ‘I think so – his nail is torn, which suggests he snatched at his assailant in an effort to ward him off.’
‘I have never seen anyone wearing an item of clothing this colour. However, it is distinctive, and I shall start my search for it in the tomb-makers’ homes. When we have the garment, we shall have our killer.’
‘You will have Peres’ killer,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘And perhaps Lucas’s and Reames’. But not Moleyns’, Tynkell’s and Lyng’s. That culprit is altogether more efficient.’
As Edith sold cloth, Bartholomew decided to ask her if she recognised the thread. He arrived at her house to find her sitting at a table surrounded by documents, which she was struggling to read by lamplight. She was delighted by the interruption, as she had never liked record-keeping. He sat by the fire and accepted a large piece of almond cake. Then he showed her the aqua fibre, and was disappointed when she shook her head.
‘It did not come from here,’ she said. ‘And I do not mean just our warehouses – I mean Cambridge. It was dyed somewhere else.’
‘You mean our killer is a visitor?’ asked Bartholomew keenly.
‘Or someone who lives here, but who bought it on a journey. Or had it sent.’
Bartholomew’s brief surge of hope for an easy solution faded. ‘Damn!’
They sat in silence for a while, enjoying the comfortable crackle of the fire and the scent of burning pine cones. Then Edith stood and fetched something from the table. It was an exemplar of a funerary brass.
‘Lakenham made it for me. He says I should dismiss the masons, and put this on top of Oswald’s tomb-chest instead of the carving that Petit is supposed to make. What do you think?’
He took it from her. It had been crafted with loving care, and the engraving caught perfectly the clothier’s flowing robes and practical hat. Bartholomew was impressed.
‘I think it is more tasteful than an effigy, and will be finished a lot sooner.’
‘Then I shall inform Petit that his services are no longer required. He only has himself to blame – I have berated him countless times for not turning up when he promised, and so have you. I suspect others will follow my example, because everyone is fed up with his unreliability.’
‘Then let us hope they do not all hire Lakenham, or we shall be back where we started.’
Edith smiled, then began to chat about her day. Bartholomew let the flow of words wash over him, his thoughts returning to Peres. Was the apprentice’s murder connected to the serpent he had carved on Stanmore’s tomb? Or was it just part of the rivalry between latteners and masons? Then something Edith was saying brought his attention back to her with a snap.
‘What?’
‘I said I was cross when I saw that Marjory Starre and her cronies had arranged for that nasty little snake to be etched into Oswald’s grave. I know his faith wavered on occasion, but he was not one of them. I told her to get it removed immediately.’
Bartholomew stared at her. ‘Do you think she asked Peres to do it? Is that why he went to St John Zachary instead of the market?’
‘Well, he was a regular visitor to her house – for potions to remove his freckles, according to her, although they clearly did not work, so you have to wonder why he kept going back.’
‘So he was a Satan-lover?’
‘Or just deeply superstitious. It is not unusual, Matt – a blend of the Church and witchery is more common than you might think. After all, just look at Cynric. Would you call him a Satan-lover?’
‘No, but he does not go around carving horned snakes on other people’s tombs.’
‘As far as you know,’ said Edith drily.
‘Who else adheres to these beliefs? Did Lyng, Tynkell or Moleyns?’
Edith shrugged. ‘Well, if they did, it would explain why they all chatted so disrespectfully during Mass, and why Moleyns sometimes used it as an opportunity to steal his friends’ purses. I told you about Widow Knyt, did I not? She found herself minus three shillings when Moleyns “accidentally” bumped into her in St Clement’s Church.’
‘What else can you tell me about witchery?’
‘Nothing, Matt, but ask Cynric. He knows far more about these matters than I do.’
Bartholomew had the opportunity to speak to his book-bearer when he left Edith’s house, because Cynric had been looking for him, and was waiting with a summons from a patient.
‘Lots of folk visit Marjory for charms,’ said Cynric, falling into step at his side. He kept one hand on the hilt of his long Welsh dagger, because the streets were never very safe after dark. ‘It is common sense to hedge your bets, especially as Master Suttone says the plague will be back this summer. Only fools do not bother with precautions.’
‘Did Tynkell and Lyng visit Marjory?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Not that I saw, but she has a back door for customers who do not want to be seen. She is very discreet.’
‘What about Moleyns?’
‘I spotted him there several times, usually in the small hours of the morning. I assumed he was out with the Sheriff’s blessing – he strutted about so confidently that it did not occur to me that he had escaped. Which is why no one ever reported him, of course.’
‘Who else frequented her house? Barber Cook?’
‘Yes – Cook buys her amulets to protect him from nasty diseases, which is wise for a man in his profession. You have some, too. I put them in your bag.’
‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew, not liking to imagine what his colleagues would say if they found them. He made a mental note to empty it out later, and burn them.
Cynric began to list all the people he had seen purchasing Marjory’s wares, a roll that went on and on, but that comprised mostly townsfolk. Scholars, it seemed, were either more careful about being noticed, or were happy with the Church. Except one.
‘Godrich?’ echoed Bartholomew. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course. I cannot bear that man – he is too arrogant by half, and is deeply unpopular with his servants. He bought a spell to make sure he won the election, but I told Marjory to sell him one that does not work.’
Bartholomew rubbed his eyes, and wondered if she and Satan would take credit for selecting the next successful candidate, as well as the last one.
He and Cynric continued along Milne Street, aiming for the house at the end, where his patients – Robert and Yolande de Blaston and their sixteen children – lived. Unfortunately, there was a problem en route.
‘Thieves,’ said Master Braunch of Trinity Hall angrily, when Bartholomew demanded to know why the road was completely blocked by rubble that stood more than the height of two men. ‘They stole the scaffolding from our new dormitory, which caused one entire end to collapse. Surely you heard it tumble? It made a tremendous din.’
‘I did,’ put in Cynric. ‘But I assumed it was Chancellor Tynkell, trying to escape from his grave in St Mary the Great’s churchyard.’
‘Was anyone hurt?’ asked Bartholomew, before the book-bearer could pursue that particular line of conversation any further.
Braunch crossed himself. ‘No, thank God. But the wind has picked up, as you can no doubt feel, which helped to bring it down.’