Oswald’s death had aged her, so her once raven-black hair was now streaked with grey, although little of it could be seen under the matronly wimple she had favoured since she had become a widow. She wore a dress of pale blue, and looked cool, fresh and relaxed, which made Bartholomew even more aware of his own uncomfortable sweatiness.
She greeted him with a smile. ‘Matilde and Lucy are currently agonising over wedding flowers. Well, Lucy is agonising – Matilde would rather think about her school for girls, but humours Lucy because she knows it will help her deal with the shame of what that scoundrel Narboro did to her. You have caught yourself a good woman, Matt.’
‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘Although I have just learned that Donwich is courting Lucy, so perhaps she will follow us up the aisle yet.’
‘I hope not,’ said Edith with distaste, ‘for her sake. Philip is friends with Donwich, but I do not approve. Donwich is not very nice.’
‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew, and tried to make his next remark sound casual, although his heart was in his mouth as he spoke. ‘Beadle Meadowman, Clippesby and Brampton mentioned a recent quarrel between Philip and Aynton – about the dye-pits.’
Edith raised her eyebrows. ‘Philip did not mention it to me, although I know Chancellor Aynton disapproved of him leaving them open. Aynton disapproved of the possibility of a stone bridge, too, and I overheard an angry spat between him and Mayor Morys about it yesterday afternoon. Matilde was with me – she will tell you that tempers ran high.’
‘I suppose I had better speak to Morys then,’ said Bartholomew without enthusiasm, and hastened to explain. ‘Michael wants me to help him find Aynton’s killer, so we are talking to everyone who knew him.’
Edith shot him a cool glare. ‘Well, you can leave Philip out of it. He is no killer. You cannot speak to Morys either – at least, not today. He is visiting kin in the Fens – the ones he uses to bully political opponents. He will be back for tomorrow, though, obviously.’
‘Why “obviously”?’
‘Because it is when the council will decide about the bridge – whether to fund a new one in stone, or patch up the old wooden one. Morys will want to make sure they vote for stone. Of course, he is right – stone is the only sensible option. However, I hope it will not entail closing the whole thing while the work is carried out – that would be very inconvenient.’
Edith’s cloth business relied on trade from the north, so shutting the bridge would have a direct impact on her. It would affect Bartholomew as well, as he used it to reach some of his patients.
‘The King sent some money,’ she went on, ‘and the University has offered to contribute a little, but the bulk of the outlay will come from merchants like me. Thank God for Philip! I would be in dire financial straits without him.’
Bartholomew was bemused. ‘I thought you were doing well.’
Edith winced. ‘I did not want to worry you, Matt, but Richard got himself very badly into debt again recently. Once all his creditors were paid, everything was gone – the business, my home, our warehouses …’
Richard was her son, a debauched young man who was considerably less charming as an adult than he had been as a boy.
‘You paid his debts?’ demanded Bartholomew, stunned and angry. ‘But why would–’
‘He found a loophole in Oswald’s will that left me no choice,’ explained Edith. ‘I was in despair, but then Philip came along. He has been in London these past thirty years, making his fortune in dye. He is an old friend, and when I confided my plight, he suggested an arrangement.’
‘What arrangement?’ Bartholomew grew more horrified with every word that fell from her lips. Why had she not told him? Because he never had two pennies to rub together, and so was useless to her? Or because she was afraid he would storm to London and make sure Richard would never hurt her again?
‘He bought my house and the business. My workers’ jobs are safe, and he lets me run things as I like, while he concentrates on his dyeing. The only difference is that Richard no longer has a claim on any of it.’
‘In return for what?’ asked Bartholomew, feeling sick.
‘Companionship,’ replied Edith. ‘I was apprehensive at first, but now I like him in my parlour of an evening, to tell him about my day and listen to him talk about his own. We play board games, he reads to me, and we laugh. He makes no other demands.’
Well, that was something, thought Bartholomew, as he struggled to come to terms with the enormity of what she had done. No wonder she had told him of her decision one day and married Chaumbre the next – he would have tried to talk her out of it if he had known the whole story, but she had been thinking about the two dozen people who relied on her for their livelihoods.
‘What would Oswald have thought?’ he breathed, then wished he could bite out his tongue. It was a question that should have remained unspoken.
‘He would have approved,’ replied Edith quietly. ‘He liked Philip when we were all youngsters together, and he would not have wanted his home and warehouses in the hands of men to whom Richard owed money.’
‘No,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘But even so …’
‘Philip has not only been generous, but accommodating, too,’ Edith went on. ‘He could have insisted that we move to his house in Girton, but he offered to live in Milne Street instead. His own home lies empty, and we shall rent it out as a hostel next term.’
‘Meadowman said it was burgled last night, and that a lot of money was taken.’
Edith was dismissive. ‘Philip says it was nothing. But here he comes now. Watch how his face lights up when he sees me.’
She was right: Chaumbre gave a grin of such unbridled delight when he spotted his wife that it was clear she meant a great deal to him. He was not an attractive man: his nose was too big, his chin was too small, and he had more hair sprouting from his ears than from his head. Bartholomew regarded him unhappily, sincerely hoping for Edith’s sake that the dyer’s quarrel with Aynton had not resulted in murder.
‘Matthew!’ Chaumbre cried merrily. ‘Is it not a beautiful day? I have been for a lovely walk along the river.’
‘Have you?’ asked Bartholomew warily, unable to see that a stroll along a festering sewer would be pleasant at any time, but especially in the heat.
‘I took the scenic route home after examining my dye-pits. People clamour at me to fill them in, but why should I? They are doing no harm.’
‘Isnard nearly fell down one,’ Bartholomew pointed out.
‘Then he should not stagger around dark cemeteries after spending all evening in a tavern,’ chuckled Chaumbre.
‘I am sorry to hear you were burgled. Your Girton home–’
‘My home is with your sister,’ interrupted Chaumbre, casting Edith such an adoring look that Bartholomew cringed. ‘And what is losing money when you have found love?’
Bartholomew changed the subject hastily, embarrassed by the saccharine display of affection, although Edith did not seem to mind it. ‘I understand you argued about the dye-pits with Aynton,’ he began.
Chaumbre sighed. ‘He ordered me to fill them in at once. I pointed out that he had no authority to boss me around, and, to my eternal shame, I called him a meddlesome arse. We argued about the bridge as well, because he wanted wood rather than stone. I regret it all now, of course, and wish our last exchange had been more congenial.’