Paxtone pursed his lips, to indicate with silence what he thought of Rougham’s diagnosis. ‘Then perhaps one of them was fed some potion that made him different in character. I have read that the Italians know how to make such compounds. You should ask whether Thorpe and Mortimer went anywhere near Italy during their exile.’
Bartholomew stared at him, wondering whether the answer could be that simple. It would certainly fit the physical evidence – that only Deschalers and Bottisham were present when they died and that one had killed the other. But would Thorpe and Mortimer have orchestrated such a thing? He concluded that they might, because it would set University against town and lead to chaos and disorder. What better way to avenge themselves on a place they felt had wronged them?
‘Or perhaps Thorpe and Mortimer had nothing to do with it,’ Paxtone went on. ‘Perhaps someone wants them blamed, so they can be re-exiled.’
‘It is possible, I suppose,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘The whole town would be delighted to see the back of them. But Bottisham’s life is a huge price to pay.’
Paxtone patted his arm. ‘I do not envy you your investigation, Brother. I shall go to the Hand of Valence Marie and ask it to help you.’
‘You believe in its power, too?’ asked Michael with a groan. He began to walk away. ‘I feel I am one in a slowly dwindling minority who does not feel compelled to revere the damned thing.’
With an apologetic smile for the monk’s brusqueness, Bartholomew left Paxtone and followed Michael along Milne Street to Deschalers’s luxurious home. Michael knocked at the door. It was opened by the old servant, who showed them into the tastefully decorated chamber on the ground floor that they had visited before. Michael’s attempts to question him were met with puzzled looks or odd statements about exotic foods, and it was not long before the monk abandoned the interrogation. The man either did not know anything, or was not prepared to be helpful; Bartholomew suspected the former, because nothing much seemed to catch his attention unless it involved eating. As soon as he had gone to fetch someone else to see to them, Michael – another man obsessed with his diet – homed in on the dishes of dried fruits that had been left for visitors, determined to scoff as many as possible as a small act of revenge against a household that yielded so little in the way of clues.
‘Oh,’ came a voice as the door opened and a woman swept in. ‘It is you two.’
Michael almost choked on his apple ring, although he should have anticipated that the grocer’s untimely death would result in the appearance of the woman generally acknowledged to be his heir. Julianna Deschalers, his niece, had become his sole surviving kin after the plague had claimed all the others. She was tall, with a mass of fair hair that was coiled into plaits at the sides of her face. Her clothes were expensive and decorated with silver thread, and she held herself with the confident poise of someone used to having her orders obeyed. Bartholomew had met her before, and considered her headstrong and boorish.
‘Madam,’ said Michael, recovering from his surprise and bowing. Bartholomew did likewise, although he did not think she warranted such courtesy.
‘I am well, thank you,’ Julianna replied, in answer to the question she obviously felt they should have asked. ‘And so is my child.’
‘Child?’ echoed Bartholomew, startled. ‘Who is the father?’
‘That is not a question you should ask a respectably married woman,’ she replied indignantly. ‘But you know the answer anyway. My daughter’s father is Ralph de Langelee. He is Master of your College and he was my husband – until we agreed that our marriage should be annulled. You know I was pregnant when I married him, because you were both at our wedding. But I have remarried now – thankfully. It was not many weeks before Langelee decided he would rather frolic with men in a College than enjoy normal sexual relations with his wife.’
‘I hardly think–’ began Bartholomew, although the Master’s manly reputation needed no protection from him. There did not exist a more vigorous and practised lover, according to the many prostitutes who seemed intimately acquainted with his performances.
‘Never mind that,’ she interrupted impatiently. ‘I am now married to Edward Mortimer.’
‘Edward Mortimer?’ asked Bartholomew, shocked. ‘The exile?’
She glared at him, angry at his reaction of horror when she obviously felt congratulations were in order. ‘How many other Edward Mortimers do you know?’
‘None, thank God,’ said Bartholomew, before he could stop himself.
She glared again. ‘I was looking for a husband, and my uncle mentioned that Edward had recently acquired a King’s Pardon. Edward is heir to a great fortune, and so am I. So it was a good match. My name is Julianna Mortimer, now.’
‘Lord!’ breathed Michael, sitting down heavily in a delicate chair. Something cracked, and she scowled at him. ‘But you were betrothed to Edward once before, were you not? Before he was banished?’
She bent to inspect the chair, and did not seem very interested in answering him. ‘Yes, I was. But I thought him a weakling then, and not worthy of me. However, he is a real man now. He learned at Albi, in the south of France, during his exile. I like him a lot better now he is no longer a silly boy.’
‘I am sure you do,’ said Bartholomew, thinking that a self-confessed killer would be very attractive to a woman like Julianna, who seemed to like rough, unmannerly men.
She grabbed one of the chair’s legs and gave it a vigorous tug. She was a strong woman, and Michael was obliged to grab a windowsill to stop himself from being jerked off it. There was another snap, and she straightened with a satisfied expression. ‘There; that should do it. Edward plans to demand compensation from the town for the agonies it caused him with this nasty banishment. Did he tell you that?’
There was an ominous groan from the chair, and Michael leapt to his feet. ‘But he cannot win such a case. He has been pardoned, which is not the same as being deemed innocent. He cannot claim compensation in those circumstances.’
‘Well, you are wrong,’ said Julianna firmly. ‘He will be paid lots of money, and we will both have a wonderful time spending it.’ She clapped her hands in delight at the prospect.
‘Sweet Christ!’ grumbled Michael under his breath. ‘What have we done to deserve her?’
‘What are you mumbling about?’ demanded Julianna immediately. ‘I had forgotten how you academics mumble. It is an unattractive habit. Why can you not speak at a normal volume?’
‘Tell me about your uncle’s death,’ said Michael, wanting to ask his questions and leave.
‘I will inherit everything,’ sang Julianna happily, twirling on her heels like a child. ‘Edward was so pleased when I told him. He must have forgotten I was Uncle’s sole heir.’
‘I imagine that is unlikely,’ muttered Michael acidly. He saw Julianna scowl because she could not hear him, and raised his voice again. ‘I was not referring to the disposal of your uncle’s worldly goods. I want to know why he went to the mill with Nicholas Bottisham.’
‘I do not know anything about that,’ said Julianna carelessly. ‘It is very sad, of course.’ She arranged her features into something that approximated grief, which Bartholomew could see was far from genuine. ‘Of course, he had been ill for some time.’
‘With a canker of the bowels,’ said Bartholomew.
‘With a wasting sickness,’ corrected Julianna primly. ‘We do not mention bowels in this gentle household. It is not polite.’
‘How long was he ill?’ asked Michael. ‘Weeks? Months? A year?’
‘A few months,’ she replied. ‘That was why I came to live in Chesterton – that pretty little village just to the north of here – after Christmas. I wanted to claim my inheritance as soon as he died, you see. You cannot be too careful these days, what with thieves and killers at large.’