‘Not really,’ replied March. ‘Donwich considered Aynton weak and foolish, while Aynton found Donwich arrogant, selfish and rash.’
Bartholomew regarded each Fellow in turn. ‘So, to summarise: Donwich despised Aynton’s timidity, went out alone just before the murder, and returned home hot and agitated after it. Moreover, Aynton had offended him by refusing to support his bid for the chancellorship and condemning his relationship with Lucy.’
‘You twist what we have told you,’ objected March, alarmed. ‘Donwich would never resort to violence. I repeat yet again: Donwich is no killer.’
‘What about Gille and Elsham?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Are they?’
‘No,’ replied Pulham, but his voice lacked conviction, and none of the others would look him in the eye. It told Bartholomew all he needed to know about the unsavoury pair.
The physician barely noticed the wall of heat that hit him as he left Clare Hall, and he walked slowly, head bowed in thought. Had Donwich spotted Aynton shadowing him and killed him for it? After all, no College Master would take kindly to a colleague trying to expose him as a philanderer. All Bartholomew hoped was that Michael would find time to interrogate Donwich, because he did not fancy doing it again.
His reverie was broken by Ulf Godenave, who scampered up, begging him to visit the hovels near All Saints-next-the-castle, where his grandmother was ill with the flux.
‘The sickness is up there now?’ groaned Bartholomew, one hand on his purse lest the boy should try to steal it again, although he would win scant pickings if he did. ‘All the other cases have been in the south of the town.’
‘Deadly miasmas drift where they please,’ said Ulf sagely. ‘Now, the Carmelites gave me a nice pair of shoes today, and you can have them if you make my granddam better.’
‘That will not be necessary,’ said Bartholomew, sure they would be stolen.
‘Money, then,’ said Ulf, flashing a halfpenny. ‘A rich saint told the priest to give it to us for food. I was going to buy bread, but she needs your services more …’
‘Buy the bread,’ ordered Bartholomew. ‘She will want it when the flux leaves her.’
He followed Ulf over the Great Bridge, noting that the railings and the ponticulus had been so skilfully mended that there was nothing to show they had been the scene of a painful death. He stopped and looked over the parapet to see Shardelowe on the riverbank below. The builder was dictating notes to a clerk, ready for his report to the council at the guildhall the next day. He also saw Isnard, who had indeed established a ferry service, and was doing a roaring trade from those who did not want to take their chances on the bridge.
It was early evening when he finished tending Ulf’s grandmother, by which time Aynton’s death had slipped to the back of his mind. His tentative theory that the Mill Pond was responsible for the flux had been well and truly quashed, because the Godenaves never went anywhere near it.
The flux was distressingly familiar in summer, but that year’s outbreak was unusual for three reasons. First, it was concentrated in specific areas, although no one source seemed to be to blame. Second, there were more cases than normal. And third, the symptoms were different – generally milder, but taking longer to shake off. He feared that it might be some new form of the disease, one that was more resistant to the few remedies in his arsenal.
He began to walk home, and was halfway along Bridge Street when he heard his name called. He turned to see Tulyet and Dickon. The Sheriff was eager for news about Aynton’s murder, lest it affected the town. Bartholomew summarised the little he had learned.
‘So Donwich is the most likely suspect,’ he concluded. ‘Although I should speak to Morys before drawing premature conclusions. Apparently, his quarrel with Aynton was quite heated.’
‘Be careful, ‘warned Tulyet. ‘He will not appreciate being interrogated by a scholar.’
‘And he has rough kin to set on you, if you offend him,’ put in Dickon with inappropriate relish. ‘Most are useless louts, but his cousin John is nice. He is showing me how to kill people with my bare hands.’
‘How to wrestle,’ corrected Tulyet, and hastened to elaborate. ‘Hand-to-hand combat is a necessary skill for any warrior, one I have often had occasion to use myself. John Morys is a knight at the castle, so I hired him to train Dickon.’
‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, thinking that the boy was dangerous enough as it was, without teaching him more ways to menace the general populace. ‘How do you feel about helping me with Morys tomorrow, Dick? He may cooperate with you there.’
‘I will come,’ offered Dickon eagerly, fingering the sword that he liked to carry at his side; Bartholomew noted with alarm that it was larger than his father’s. ‘I will threaten to spill his innards if he refuses to talk.’
‘It is a kind offer, but no,’ said Bartholomew firmly.
Dickon looked crestfallen. ‘That is a pity. He deserves it, because he is corrupt. His wife Rohese is lovely, though.’ He smiled rather dreamily. ‘I met her today. She called me a fine, strapping lad, so I told her she is a fine, strapping woman.’
‘That must have swept her off her feet,’ drawled Bartholomew, unsettled that Dickon was now old enough to show an interest in the opposite sex. It did not seem that long ago that he was a babe in arms. Where had the time gone?
It was nearing dusk when Bartholomew parted from Tulyet and Dickon. He felt hot, tired and soiled, not just from visiting the hovels near the castle, but also from the sordid business of murder. He wanted to wash in cool, clean water, don fresh clothes, eat a light meal – not one of Michael’s meat-loaded repasts – and go to sleep. Thoughts of the monk seemed to conjure him up, because, at that very moment, he emerged from the Hospital of St John. Bartholomew told him about the visit to Clare Hall.
‘So things are not looking good for Donwich,’ mused Michael. ‘However, he is a lawyer, so we shall need solid evidence before challenging him.’
‘What have you been doing since we parted company?’ asked Bartholomew, hoping the ‘we’ meant Michael would do it himself.
‘Arranging accommodation for the vicars-general and their retinue. King’s Hall has offered to house the most important ones, while the rest will lodge here in St John’s. I would have delegated the matter to Brampton, but I could not find him.’
‘Perhaps he went to destroy any evidence that points to him as the killer,’ said Bartholomew sourly. ‘He is on the suspects list, after all.’
‘On yours,’ countered Michael. ‘Not on mine.’
‘I still do not understand why you chose him to replace you. He does not have an ounce of authority, and will … what is he doing?’
He peered through the gathering gloom towards the hospital cemetery. Lamps had been lit near the dye-pits, where Narboro was holding forth to a group of influential burgesses, although Chaumbre was notable by his absence.
Michael chuckled. ‘He fell down one of the holes earlier, and had to pay for a donkey to pull him out. He is of the opinion that Chaumbre has left them open deliberately, so that anyone injured will need a physician – namely his brother-in-law.’
Bartholomew was horrified. ‘Does anyone believe him?’
‘I doubt it, but the burgesses are obliged to hear his complaint anyway. They all like Chaumbre, but Narboro is a scholar – and an unpopular one at that – so nothing will come of his grumbles. Come away, before he sees you. You do not want to be dragged into something that will waste your time.’
As they turned into the High Street, they met Matilde and Lucy, who had been visiting Weasenham the University stationer regarding some exemplars that Matilde had ordered for her school. Judging by the women’s dark expressions, the texts were still not ready.