‘Why are you here?’ Bartholomew demanded of his brother-in-law when they drew level. ‘You should be in Huntingdon. Where is my sister?’
‘There is an affectionate greeting,’ said Stanmore to Matilde, his tone wry. ‘I have not seen Matt for nigh on six weeks, and this is how he hails me.’
‘Edith is still in Huntingdon,’ replied Matilde, understanding the reason for Bartholomew’s sharpness. ‘She will not return for some weeks, so do not worry about her.’
‘Good,’ said Bartholomew fervently. ‘But you should not be here either, Oswald, not with Thorpe stalking around. You should return to Huntingdon and stay there until he leaves.’
‘I certainly shall not,’ retorted Stanmore indignantly. ‘This is my home, and no ex-apprentice will drive me from it. Besides, it is not my fault he committed murder and was caught. I do not see how he can hold me responsible for his downfall, just because he was living in my house when it happened.’
Bartholomew saw there was no point in arguing, although he was certain that was not how Thorpe viewed the situation. He looked at Matilde. ‘How is Bess? Is she still with you, or have you found her somewhere else to sleep?’
Matilde frowned worriedly. ‘She owns a huge hoard of coins. I cannot imagine where it came from. Not from a grateful customer – it is far more than the usual going rate for Frail Sisters in Cambridge – even the very good ones.’
Michael chuckled, his cheeks flecked with pastry as he investigated another of her parcels. ‘Perhaps it came from Deschalers. I saw him towing her home at one point.’
‘So did I,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It was last Saturday, the day before he died.’ He saw Stanmore’s thoughtful expression. ‘But I do not think she is Deschalers’s killer.’
Michael agreed. ‘Especially if Bernarde is telling the truth about no one else being inside the mill.’
‘I would be surprised if Bess is your culprit, too,’ said Matilde. ‘She is too addled, poor thing. I sewed a secret compartment in her cloak for her coins, but I doubt she will keep them long, because she does not understand their value. She is staying with Una tonight.’
‘What about Dame Pelagia?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Has she gone, too?’
‘She has. It is just me, Yolande, Robert and their ten children now,’ said Matilde with a smile. ‘My house feels almost empty!’
‘Have you heard about the King’s Commission?’ asked Stanmore, who found town politics far more interesting than sleeping arrangements for madwomen.
Bartholomew nodded. ‘Master Thorpe and Warde are good choices, but I do not think it was wise to have Bernarde and Lavenham on the committee, too.’
‘Why not?’ asked Stanmore. ‘They will ensure the Millers’ Society is properly represented.’
‘But there is no one to put the Mortimers’ side of the argument,’ Bartholomew pointed out.
Stanmore waved a dismissive hand. ‘That is unnecessary. They have no side worth presenting.’
Bartholomew was startled. ‘Why are you against them?’
‘The Mortimers full cloth at that mill, and it interferes with my business,’ replied Stanmore grimly.
‘But the next nearest fulling mill is in Ely,’ said Bartholomew, puzzled. ‘Surely Thomas Mortimer provides you a valuable service?’
‘Not at the prices he charges,’ said Stanmore stiffly. ‘His brazen extortion is exactly the kind of sinful behaviour that will bring the pestilence back again.’
‘I have never understood fulling,’ said Michael, interrupting Bartholomew, who was about to argue that the price of cloth had nothing to do with whether the plague returned. ‘What is it, exactly?’
‘Only light cloths, like worsteds, are good without fulling,’ said Stanmore, sounding pompous as he lectured on something he knew a lot about. ‘But most materials these days are heavy broadcloths, and need to be felted. We do this by soaking them in an alkaline solution and pounding them. In the old days, this was done by men and women trampling the cloth with their feet, but we have moved on from primitive technology and use fulling mills now. These batter the cloth with wooden hammers that are driven by water. It is all very sophisticated. That is what happens at Mortimer’s Mill.’
Michael rummaged in another of Matilde’s baskets. ‘Is that it? Cloth is soaked, then thumped with hammers?’
‘Not at all,’ said Stanmore crisply. ‘That is only the beginning. After the pounding, the cloth is dried, then stretched on a device we call a “tenter”. The nap is raised by rubbing with teasels, and then evened with shears. It is difficult and exacting work, and one wrong move can destroy hours of labour. Then it is dyed. That is where I come in.’
‘That is a skilled process, too, I imagine,’ said Matilde politely.
The clothier puffed himself up. ‘It certainly is! I need to decide exactly how much of each dye will achieve the colour my customer wants, and I need to assess how long to leave a material soaking – too long may rot the cloth, too short will see it wash out. But it will not be long before Mortimer turns his hand to dyeing, too, and then where will I be? I have prayed to the Hand that he will lose his case, and that the King will order him to dismantle his mill before he does me harm.’
‘But the Commission comprises two men who have a vested interest in finding against him,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Mortimer may decide to ignore its decision.’
‘No one would dare go against the King,’ said Stanmore. ‘His word is law.’
‘Until he changes his mind,’ said Bartholomew bitterly. ‘Look what happened with Thorpe and Edward and their royal pardons.’
Stanmore glanced around uneasily. ‘You should watch what you say, Matt. It is not wise to criticise our monarch so openly. You do not know who might be listening. I admire Dame Pelagia, as you know, but she is the King’s agent, and she may report you, if you are not careful.’
‘She would not,’ said Michael confidently, thrusting cake into his mouth. Matilde became aware that he was seriously depleting her supplies, and gestured for the children to move away. Michael sighed his annoyance, but still managed to secure some bread before they left.
‘You would not know she was listening,’ persisted Stanmore. ‘She is like a shadow: here one moment and vanished the next. Still, I feel better knowing she has come here to help us.’
‘She went to see Tynkell and Dick Tulyet today,’ said Michael. ‘Dick promised to lend her soldiers whenever she needed them. She says she plans to need them very soon.’
‘God help us,’ muttered Bartholomew. It was a bizarre situation indeed when men of power like the Chancellor and the Sheriff relied on an old lady to solve their problems.
‘Constantine admits he made a mistake in buying a pardon for his son,’ said Matilde. ‘He all but killed the fatted calf when Edward returned, but Edward declines to have anything to do with him.’
‘It is a pity Deschalers is dead,’ said Stanmore. ‘He could control Edward, because the lad is his kin by marriage to Julianna – and obeyed him to be sure of inheriting his wealth. There are rumours that Edward had him killed, and that he hired Bottisham to do it.’
Bartholomew was horrified, thinking that while Edward might well have had a hand in Deschalers’s death, Bottisham was unlikely to have been his willing tool. ‘Surely you do not believe that?’
Stanmore shook his head. ‘No, I do not. Edward and Thorpe are far too clever to start killing as soon as they arrive back in the town. But …’ He hesitated, and regarded Bartholomew uneasily.
‘But what?’ asked Bartholomew, with the sense that he was about to hear something he would not like.
‘But Bottisham is a different matter,’ said Stanmore. He held up a hand to quell the physician’s objections. ‘I know you liked him, Matt, but he and Deschalers had a history.’