Bartholomew stopped raking his fingers through the corpse’s hair and stepped away. ‘Your husband? Then I cannot do this while you are watching.’
She shot him a humourless smile. ‘Your sensitivity does you credit, but it is unnecessary. Nicholas and I wedded for convenience, not affection. When my first husband died, I hoped to find love a second time, but I never did. So, when Nicholas suggested an arrangement, I accepted.’
‘An arrangement?’ echoed Suttone distastefully. ‘Marriage is a sacred union blessed by God, not something you organise in the marketplace.’
‘Oh, really, Father!’ she exclaimed. ‘Whoever told you that? Look at poor Lady Christiana, waiting for the King to find her a match she hopes will not be too abhorrent. And she is just one of many.’
‘Continue your tale, madam,’ said Michael, before Suttone could defend himself. ‘You and Nicholas arranged to marry. Why? Were you short of funds?’
‘Yes. I was a seamstress to Master Dalderby, but he dismissed me when he found out I had friends in the Commonalty – Dalderby is a member of the Guild, you see. I needed a home, and Nicholas wanted a wife prepared to turn a blind eye to his eccentricities, so a liaison between us was the perfect solution. We enjoyed a comfortable, if separate, existence for years.’
‘What kind of eccentricities?’ asked Michael.
She grimaced. ‘It is not right to speak ill of the dead, especially when they lie in front of us. Suffice to say that if Nicholas had been a better silversmith, and if the cathedral artisans had not contrived to take his best customers, then things might have been different. He was a good man, but the city’s dispute turned him resentful and sour. He let it spoil his health.’
‘Has the feud damaged other men, too?’ asked Michael. ‘Or just Nicholas?’
‘Oh, it has damaged others all right,’ said Sabina. ‘Some have died in odd circumstances, some have felt compelled to commit wicked crimes against rivals, some are moved to make false promises to God – offering to be upright souls when it is obvious they will fall at the first hurdle. Like Aylmer.’
‘I do not understand,’ said Michael. ‘Aylmer did what? Died in odd circumstances, committed wicked crimes or made false promises.’
‘All three, Brother. I was fond of him – and might have taken him in preference to Nicholas, had he not been in holy orders and loath to break his vows with marriage – but I was not blind to his faults. He engaged in more than his share of dishonest activities, but claimed he had a change of heart in the last month – when he was offered the post of Vicar Choral – and was going to make amends. However, he had said such things before, and we all knew it was only a matter of time before he reneged. He was a weak man, at heart.’
Bartholomew was becoming impatient, eager to be on his way to meet Spayne. ‘So, Nicholas was found in this lake,’ he said. ‘Was he floating in the middle, or washed up on the banks?’
‘Floating. He had been drinking in the Swan tavern – not somewhere he should have been.’
‘Why not?’ asked Suttone.
‘Because the Swan tends to be frequented by guildsmen, while the Commonalty favours the Angel. He probably went to torture himself by watching the cathedral silversmiths spend their ill-gotten gains. Perhaps someone took against him being there, and decided he should not do it again.’
‘You think he was murdered?’ asked Michael uneasily.
She raised her hands, palms upwards. ‘I do not know. Kelby, who was also in the Swan that evening, told Bishop Gynewell that Nicholas had been maudlin, and talked about tossing himself in the river. And now the priests will not bury him unless they know for certain that he did not commit suicide. So I asked for a few days’ grace to find out, which is why Nicholas is here. I do not want him in unhallowed ground without good reason.’
‘What do you think happened to him?’ asked Michael. ‘What are your suspicions?’
She shook her head. ‘I do not have any: I just want the truth. Was it suicide, because he was low; murder, because he had annoyed someone while in his cups; or accident, because he had swallowed too much ale and staggered off the path? I just want to do the right thing.’
Bartholomew sent them away again before restarting his examination, which met with relief from Suttone and annoyance from Sabina, who wanted to see how her money was being spent. Michael said nothing, and the physician supposed he intended to use the time to assess what they had learned regarding Aylmer. He watched them step outside, then turned his attention to Nicholas.
It was often difficult to determine a cause of death, but he had discovered that drowned men often foamed at the mouth when he pressed on their chests. He pushed now, and watched bubbles emerge from between bluish lips. Nicholas had certainly drowned, although it was not possible to say whether by design or accident. He pushed again, trying to detect the scent of ale. It was not there, but something else was: a pungent, fishy smell. With a start, he suddenly remembered something that had been said at Kelby’s celebration, by the priest John Suttone. John had mentioned how he had detected a rank odour on the body of a man who had died in the Braytheford Pool – a man called Nicholas Herl. Simon had mentioned the death of a man called Herl, too, saying he had expected it to shift the balance of power between Guild and Commonalty, and result in bloodshed.
Bartholomew removed the corpse’s clothes, noting an unnatural swelling of the feet and a hint of rot – Nicholas had endured a severe bout of Holy Fire, and its symptoms were still evident. The condition was a painful one, so it was small wonder the man had been morose and unhappy. As he was replacing the garments a few moments later, Bartholomew spotted a scar on the point of the shoulder. It was not like the drawings on Flaxfleete and Aylmer, although it was in the same place. He bent to inspect it more closely.
‘I doubt his arm will tell you anything useful, Doctor.’ Sabina’s voice was so close behind him that he jumped in alarm and almost dropped the lamp.
‘I am sorry, Matt,’ said Michael. Suttone was with him. ‘I told her to stay outside, but she wants to make sure she is getting her money’s worth. She slipped past me when Hamo distracted us with some Lombard slices.’
‘What made this mark?’ asked Bartholomew, pointing at it.
She frowned. ‘I have never noticed it before, but then we never saw each other naked. It is recent, though, because it is still raw. However, during the last month, Nicholas was busier than he had been over the past five years combined, labouring in his workshop all hours of the day and night. It will be a burn, caused by spitting metal, like the ones on his hands. So? How did he die?’
‘He drowned,’ said Bartholomew, handing Michael the lamp and straightening Nicholas’s limbs.
‘I know,’ said Sabina. ‘What I need you to tell me is whether it was accident, murder or suicide.’
‘I have some questions first. Did he suffer from Summer Madness?’
She regarded him in surprise. ‘How did you know that?’
‘How badly?’
‘He needed to be tied up, to stop him from biting himself, and the only place he became calm was the church. We prayed to St Anthony and he recovered, although he was never fully well after. Why?’
‘Did he have trouble breathing? Dizzy spells? Pains in his chest and arms?’
‘All those.’ She gazed at him. ‘But how do you know? He never told anyone but me and his friend Will Langar. And what does it have to do with his death, anyway? The Madness was months ago.’
‘There is a theory that Holy Fire – Summer Madness – is caused by a toxin, which accumulates in the body and eventually causes a fatal imbalance of the humours. I suspect your husband ingested a large quantity of this substance in August, and it has remained inside him – his swollen feet tell us he was still suffering from its effects. When he swallowed more of the poison, it killed him.’