But Bartholomew knew a human hand when he saw one. He began to slither across the mud towards it. Ulf and his friends stopped playing to watch him, while townsfolk and scholars clustered at the edge of the bridge. Some squashed Donwich into the rickety balustrade, and there was an ominous creak.
‘Back, back!’ he cried in alarm. ‘It is not strong enough to withstand you shoving at me, and I do not want to end up like poor Aynton.’
‘No,’ agreed Tulyet drily. ‘So perhaps you should reconsider your objections to helping us pay for repairs. Careful there, Matt. That mud is very slippery.’
‘I know,’ snapped Bartholomew, aware that it was ruining his only good shoes – the ones he would wear to his wedding, given that he had no money to buy more. ‘So will someone come down here and help?’
‘Not me,’ averred Donwich in distaste. ‘Grubbing about in the filth comes under the Senior Proctor’s remit. Where is Brampton?’
‘In St Mary the Great,’ replied Michael, evidently deciding that the task was below the dignity of the Chancellor, too, as he made no effort to join Bartholomew in the slime. He shot Donwich a cool glance. ‘He is calculating how much each College and hostel will have to pay towards Shardelowe’s improvements.’
Donwich retorted that he was not the one who had agreed to throw away the University’s money, and a spat immediately blossomed between his coterie and those who felt Michael had done the right thing. With an irritable sigh, Bartholomew resigned himself to ploughing through the muck alone. Then someone joined him.
‘It is me,’ announced Dickon grandly. ‘My father says not to let you fall over in front of everyone, because they will laugh at you. Take my hand for balance.’
Reluctantly, Bartholomew did. He was surprised by the strength of the boy’s grip, and was reminded yet again that Dickon was going to be a veritable titan when he was fully grown. Together they picked their way across the slick surface, each holding the other up when he slipped or skidded. It felt like an age before they reached the boat.
‘It is a body!’ cried Dickon with unseemly glee, and before Bartholomew could stop him, he poked it with his sword. ‘And it is very dead!’
The corpse was not fresh, and maggots abounded, although Dickon was unfazed, and watched with unflinching interest as Bartholomew examined the victim.
‘It is Huntyngdon,’ the physician announced. ‘There is still a purse on his belt …’
‘Does it contain Aynton’s letter?’ called Michael urgently.
It was Dickon who whipped out a dagger and sliced through the cords to retrieve it. He opened the filthy, muck-impregnated object carefully.
‘No documents,’ he announced, relishing the fact that all eyes were on him. ‘No money either. Wait there, Brother. I shall bring it to you, so you can see for yourself.’
He slithered up the bank and vanished around the end of the bridge, before padding up to present the filthy item to Michael with a courtly flourish. The monk peered at it, but fastidiously refused to touch it himself.
‘Is Martyn down there, too?’ called Tulyet.
‘No, but you should send Dickon upriver to look for him,’ replied Bartholomew, ‘given that he is the only one willing to do anything useful.’
The remark was intended as a rebuke to the Sheriff and Michael, both of whom he felt should be helping him, so he was disconcerted when Tulyet began issuing his son with instructions. Dickon stood a little taller, thrilled to be entrusted with such a task – and one that suited his sense of the grisly into the bargain. He strutted away importantly.
Meanwhile, Bartholomew accepted Isnard’s offer to lift the body into his boat and take it to the pier at the foot of the bridge, then went to report to Michael. Tulyet came to join them, glaring at would-be eavesdroppers until they moved out of earshot.
‘Huntyngdon was stabbed,’ began Bartholomew, struggling to wipe the filth from his shoes on a patch of grass. ‘A single wound to the back.’
‘How long has he been dead?’ asked Michael.
‘It is impossible to say, but the landlord of the Cardinal’s Cap told me that he tied a red sash around his waist on the night he disappeared, and there is a sash on the body. I suspect he died not long after he left there, which accounts for the level of decomposition. And we know why he went out that night: to give Aynton’s letter to Narboro.’
Michael stared at him. ‘You think he was murdered to prevent him from delivering it?’
‘Well, we know he went to the Cap to undertake a “mission of some delicacy”, and that Aynton spoke to him and Martyn, after which they took their leave. We also know that Narboro never received the letter, but nor is it in Huntyngdon’s purse.’
Michael scrubbed at his face. ‘All this does not bode well for Martyn being alive. Are you sure it is murder?’
‘Yes, although it did not happen here. He was killed elsewhere and the river carried him downstream, probably last night, which explains why no one saw him sooner.’
‘How can you tell he was not killed here?’ asked Tulyet curiously.
‘Because of the leaves caught in his hair. No plants are growing around the bridge, so they must have come from upstream – between here and the Mill Pond.’
‘Morys’s mill was operating yesterday evening,’ mused Tulyet, ‘which means water was released through the West Dam sluice to drive it. It must have been enough to dislodge him. Dickon will find the place. Perhaps he will find Martyn’s corpse there, too.’
‘I hope not,’ said Bartholomew unhappily.
It was a short but sad journey from the bridge to King’s Hall, carrying Huntyngdon on a bier borrowed from St Clement’s Church. When they arrived, Bartholomew quickly searched the dead man’s clothes, to make sure the letter had not been secreted elsewhere, but there was no sign of it. He had just finished when Huntyngdon’s father burst in, his face white with grief.
‘Stabbed, you say?’ the Earl whispered hoarsely, after Michael had told him what they knew. ‘By whom?’
‘We will find out,’ promised Michael. ‘Senior Proctor Brampton, Matt and I will do our utmost to see your son has justice.’
‘You see this sash?’ the Earl asked in a strangled voice. ‘He wore it whenever he did something important. I brought it from Avignon, where it was blessed by the Pope himself.’
‘So Huntyngdon believed that giving Aynton’s message to Narboro was important,’ whispered Michael to Bartholomew, once they had stepped back to give the Earl some privacy. ‘Or do you think he was charged with another mission that fateful night? It makes more sense, as I cannot imagine anything involving Narboro as being of great significance.’
‘If so, there is nothing on his body to suggest what it might have been.’
‘His purse is empty. Perhaps this is just a simple case of robbery – he was obviously wealthy, and that sash is ostentatious.’
‘Where is the purse?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Do you have it?’
Michael grimaced when he realised it was nowhere to be seen. ‘That wretched Dickon must have kept it as a memento. What a vile little ghoul he is!’
‘We will get it back when he has finished scouring the riverbanks for bodies,’ promised Bartholomew. ‘Which he is not qualified to do, by the way, no matter how highly Dick rates his talents. Will you ask a beadle to do it as well? It would be terrible to miss Martyn, and leave him rotting until he washes down the river in pieces.’
‘Unless Martyn killed Huntyngdon, then fled the town,’ said Michael soberly. ‘But we should not speculate without all the facts. We shall wait and see what the searches turn up.’
At the Earl’s request, Bartholomew examined Huntyngdon’s body again, doing so with all the respect he could muster. But there was nothing to tell them who had killed the young man or why, and all he could say when he had finished was that Huntyngdon had probably had no idea he was in danger until it was too late.