‘They did not even have the courtesy to offer us a drink to slake our thirst,’ said Michael, aggrieved. His face was black with soot, and his normally immaculate gown was filthy with burned thatching. His hair was lank and oily, and sweat had given him a streaked appearance, like tigers and other mythical beasts Bartholomew had read about in the writings from the East. He suspected he did not look much different himself.
‘You must forgive our manners,’ said Pulham, emerging on cue with two goblets of claret. ‘In all the confusion, we did not thank you.’
‘Rougham never will,’ said Bartholomew, drinking some, then pointedly passing the cup to Beadle Meadowman, who had worked as hard as anyone.
Pulham pulled a disagreeable face as he watched his best silver goblets pass between the rough hands of the University’s beadles. ‘Rougham means no harm. It is just his way.’
‘He does mean harm,’ said Michael, trying not to laugh as his beadles amused themselves by aping manners they thought might be employed by scholars at the high table – cocked fingers and grotesquely puckered lips – as they sipped from vessels that would cost them a year’s pay. ‘He has accused Matt of killing Warde, when it was the medicine he prescribed that did the harm.’
‘I am sorry he has been abusive. But you know what medical men are like. They are obliged to be arrogant and overbearing, because that is the only way to make their patients take the unpleasant potions they prescribe. They are all the same.’
‘Are we?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking that Pulham was probably right, generally speaking. A patient was far more likely to swallow something horrible if his physician bullied him into doing it.
‘I did not come to argue,’ said Pulham wearily. ‘I came to thank you. I shall write to Colton, and he can decide whether we accept the Hand of Justice. It is too momentous an issue for me. Meanwhile, we are lucky the Mortimers have hired our legal skills, or we would be destitute. I do not suppose you know the Commissioners’ verdict – about whether there will be a formal hearing?’
‘The meeting was still in progress when the fire broke out,’ said Michael. ‘We do not know if everyone escaped, and the Commissioners’ decision – if they reached one – seems unimportant now.’
‘It will certainly be unimportant to Lavenham,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He has lost his house, his property and his livelihood.’
‘Only if he is lucky,’ said Michael. ‘Let us hope he has not lost his life, too. But we should see what is happening elsewhere, and leave these scholars to quarrel about where to put their furniture.’
Pulham was dazed and unhappy as he escorted Bartholomew and Michael to the gate. His hands were unsteady, and the physician wondered whether he was up to the task of running a College in his Master’s absence. Rougham was dismissive of him, and might well stage some sort of coup.
‘Thank you, again,’ he said, opening the door to let them out. ‘If I can reciprocate in any way, then you must let me know. I am in your debt, and, if you make a request of me that is within my power to grant, I shall try my best to oblige you.’
‘Then abandon the business with the Hand,’ said Michael immediately, turning to face him. ‘You must see it is more trouble than it is worth.’
‘I know,’ said Pulham wearily. ‘But Rougham’s voice is a powerful one, and he will also write to Colton and put his views. You may have asked for something beyond my capabilities to give.’
‘Then tell me something about Bottisham that may help me solve his murder,’ suggested Michael. ‘I know there are things I have not been told because you want to preserve Gonville’s integrity.’
‘There are not–’ began Pulham, glancing uneasily behind him.
Michael overrode him. ‘There are. One small detail you neglected to pass on concerns the Mortimers – that they promised a handsome donation for your chapel if you took their case against the King’s Mill. Master Thorpe mentioned it to me. Since Bottisham was to be one of the lawyers for this event, the offer of a large amount of money is surely pertinent information for a Senior Proctor investigating his murder? But I asked you about it twice, and you denied it.’
Pulham sighed in resignation. ‘The donation was supposed to have been kept quiet until the dispute had been resolved, so we would not be accused of improper practices. Besides, there is always the possibility that we will lose, in which case the Mortimers will give us nothing.’
‘Nothing stays secret for long in a place like Cambridge,’ said Michael. ‘But the time for games is over, Pulham. I want to know anything that might have a bearing on Bottisham’s murder.’
Pulham rubbed his hands over his face, smearing it with soot. ‘Very well. Deschalers sent messages offering Bottisham a truce, but Bottisham had fallen foul of that trick once, and was not about to let it happen again. You see, Deschalers had once offered to help pay for our chapel, claiming it would mark an end to the enmity between them, but then he withdrew with devastating effect.’
‘We know that,’ said Michael. ‘It is common gossip in the town.’
Pulham nodded. ‘Deschalers made no secret of the fact that he had made a fool of Bottisham. But about a month ago, he tried it again – he kept sending messages, begging Bottisham to parley with him. He even followed him to matins and lauds one night, and encouraged him to slip away from his devotions and speak to him in St Michael’s graveyard! Bottisham refused his “hand of friendship”, but Deschalers was persistent. In fact, Bottisham received a letter from him the morning before they died. He wanted to meet that very day, to discuss the terms of a truce.’
‘We know this, too,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But why would Bottisham entertain meeting such a bitter enemy in a place like the King’s Mill – and in the dark?’
Pulham frowned. ‘But that is the odd thing. The letter did not suggest the King’s Mill at night. It recommended the Brazen George at noon – in one of those private chambers at the back that the landlord keeps for sinister assignations.’
‘Did Bottisham go?’ asked Michael, not mentioning the fact that he used one of those chambers himself on a regular basis.
‘I advised against it. But when he showed me Deschalers’s letters, I felt they had a note of genuine contrition, and we knew he was mortally ill. It seemed churlish not to see what he wanted, so I offered to go in Bottisham’s place.’
‘So you went to the Brazen George at noon on the day they died,’ surmised Michael, trying to keep his temper under control about the fact that Pulham had not been more honest earlier. ‘Then what? Was Deschalers peeved that you arrived instead of Bottisham? Did he refuse to speak to you?’
‘He understood why Bottisham declined to meet him. He was disappointed, but not surprised. Then he said he was thinking of changing his will in a way that would see a princely sum come Bottisham’s way – for our chapel.’
‘I see,’ said Michael flatly. ‘And did you believe him?’
‘Yes. I think he was sincere this time.’
Michael could contain himself no longer. ‘Then why did you not tell me all this sooner?’ he exploded. ‘Surely you must see it has a bearing on the case?’
Pulham was defensive. ‘But I really do not believe Deschalers’s will had anything to do with Bottisham’s death – and that is why I did not mention my meeting to you. I did not want to lead you astray with information that was irrelevant and confusing.’
Michael was angry. ‘That is for me to decide. Do you think me a fool, unable to distinguish between what is important and what is not?’
Bartholomew could see Pulham regretted having spoken to Michael, and that the monk’s ire was likely to make him wary of confiding anything else. He laid a warning hand on Michael’s shoulder. ‘What else can you tell us, Master Pulham?’ he asked gently.