‘I agree,’ said Thomas, patting her shoulder in a fatherly way. Bartholomew saw which side the miller favoured: Deschalers’s fortune had made Edward and Julianna far richer than Constantine, and he intended to stick with them. He clenched his fists and experienced an uncharacteristic urge for violence. While Isnard lay at the mercy of benevolent donations, Mortimer’s eyes were fixed on Julianna’s massive fortune. He thought about the cruel plot to convince the bargeman that his leg had miraculously re-attached itself, and was hard pressed to control himself. Michael noticed, and rested a calming hand on his shoulder.
‘You should have supported me, Thomas,’ said Constantine resentfully. ‘You know I am right. Edward will ruin us if he makes the town fund his taxes.’
‘It is your own fault,’ said Thomas nastily. ‘I told you not to spend good money on a pardon, but you ignored me. Well, you have what you wanted, and now you must live with the consequences.’
‘I wish to God I had let matter lie,’ said Constantine bitterly. ‘I have made a terrible mistake.’
‘You certainly have,’ agreed Michael.
Bartholomew and Michael left Deschalers’s house with some relief, despite the fact that they still did not know whether the grocer had intended to change his will from the one that made Julianna virtually the sole beneficiary. In the yard, the apprentices were leaving. Packs of personal belongings lay in a pile, and a pony was being harnessed to a cart. Men stood in a huddle, talking among themselves, and Bartholomew became aware that he and Michael were on the receiving end of some very hostile looks. It occurred to him that if there were rumours that a scholar had killed Deschalers, then the apprentices might well hold the University responsible for the loss of their livelihoods.
‘That was revealing,’ said Michael, as they walked briskly away from the festering resentment. ‘Relations are not all they were in the Mortimer clan, and it seems more obvious than ever that Edward has some unpleasant plan in mind – other than giving the Hand to Gonville. If he is prepared to burn his bridges with the other merchants – Constantine was right about them not wanting to pay those taxes – then I would predict he does not intend to stay here long.’
Bartholomew agreed. ‘And since he has benefited so handsomely from Deschalers’s death, perhaps we should look no further than him for our killer. One possibility is this: Deschalers lured Bottisham to the mill with talk of a reconciliation. Edward followed Deschalers and killed him, then was obliged to kill Bottisham, too.’
‘And engaged the engines and hurled the bodies into them to confuse us,’ mused Michael. ‘I suppose that makes sense – especially now we have learned that we should discount Bernarde’s tale about no one being in the building but Bottisham and Deschalers. But this means that Bernarde lied to protect Edward. Why would he do that? The Mortimers are Bernarde’s enemy.’
‘Fear?’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘People are afraid of Edward.’
Michael considered. ‘Bernarde did not seem afraid to me. Frightened people betray themselves by being brittle, hostile or overly willing to please. Bernarde was none of these. If he was lying, then it was not from fear.’
‘But he was angry about bodies damaging his pinions. And you said you believed Bernarde’s son when he told you his father dashed out the moment he heard the wheel’s change in tempo. Are you sure we should dismiss Bernarde’s testimony as untruthful?’
‘No,’ admitted Michael. ‘But I am not sure about anything. I do not think I have ever been so confounded when trying to solve a case.’
They walked slowly, taking the long way back along the river bank, since it was still too early for the evening meal, and neither wanted to sit in the conclave while William boasted about the revenues he was amassing from the ‘Hand of Justice’. Bartholomew heard several folk discussing the relic as they went, and was unsettled to hear its new name already in common usage. Edward was right: the epithet was one that people would readily adopt.
Early evening was a pleasant time in Cambridge, particularly when a blossom-scented breeze blew away the stench from the river and the manure-carpeted streets. The sun shone, giving an illusion of warmth, and seemed to cheer people as they wended their way home. Someone sang a popular song in a loud, toneless voice, and a small group of children, who had spent an exhausting day selling spring flowers, sprawled at the water’s edge to chatter and laugh.
A barge had arrived from the Low Countries, bringing fine cloth for Stanmore, and his apprentices hurried to transfer the valuable cargo to his warehouses before daylight faded and the wharves became dangerous. Bartholomew was delighted to see that he and Michael were not the only ones taking an evening stroll. Matilde was also out, holding the hand of a reluctant Bess. As they closed the gap between them, he admired Matilde’s slender body and the natural grace with which she moved. He hoped Yolande’s husband would finish his house soon; he longed for the family to move out, so he could have her alone again. It had already been far too long.
‘Your shadows are not with you tonight?’ Matilde asked, looking around as they met. ‘Quenhyth, Redmeadow and Deynman?’
‘Redmeadow and Deynman are at St Mary the Great,’ replied Michael. ‘Asking the Hand to tell them ways to discover whether Tynkell is afflicted with a certain rare physiology.’
‘Redmeadow is a curious young man,’ said Matilde. ‘I saw him early last Monday morning covered in pale dust, so he looked like a ghost. He was brushing at it furiously, but the stuff was difficult to get off. He told me it was the result of a practical joke Deynman had played on him, but I am sure he was lying. I suspect he had been with a woman.’
Bartholomew recalled seeing a whitish powder ingrained on the student’s sleeve, too, and supposed Redmeadow had used his teacher’s convenient absence on Sunday night – while he investigated the bodies at the mill – to secure himself a lover. Some of the town’s Frail Sisters used chalky substances on their faces, and Bartholomew knew such stains could be very difficult to remove.
‘Quenhyth is studying,’ said Michael, making it sound like the most dreadful of vices. ‘He does nothing else, and is as tedious a young fellow as I have ever encountered. He will make an extremely dull physician one day, who will kill his patients by boring them to death.’
‘He needs something to take his mind away from himself,’ said Matilde. ‘Also, he has the look of a young man who has been crossed in love.’
‘Quenhyth?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking of the student’s prim manners. ‘I do not think so!’
‘You mark my words,’ said Matilde. ‘I am not saying he was involved in a physical affair, only that he loved someone who perhaps did not return his adoration. He is a passionate young man.’
Bartholomew supposed that was true. ‘But all his passion is aimed at his studies.’
‘For now,’ said Matilde. ‘But I would not like to be the woman – or the man – who attracts his devotion. He is very single-minded.’
‘She does not look as if she wants to go with you,’ said Michael, indicating Bess with a nod of his tonsured head. ‘Where are you taking her?’
‘To Una again,’ said Matilde. ‘I do not know what else to do with her. Nothing she says makes any sense. I wonder how long she has been looking for her man.’
‘My man,’ murmured Bess, looking as if she expected him to appear. ‘Have you seen him?’
‘What does he look like?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking that if he asked often enough he might have an answer.
Bess smiled for the first time since he had met her. ‘Beautiful and strong. Like a tree, with long limbs and smooth bark.’
‘I have seen no one answering that description,’ said Michael. ‘Have you tried the forest?’
‘My man does not visit woods,’ replied Bess, unusually communicative. ‘He prefers taverns.’
‘Do you remember his name?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘And what makes you think he is here?’