Bartholomew nodded, although Chaumbre’s answers had not satisfied him, given that his ‘alibi’ was inspecting a batch of dye on his own. He began to quiz him anew, hoping to learn something that really would knock him off the list – or allow him to be arrested and thus safely removed from Edith.
‘What else did you discuss with Aynton, besides dye-pits and the bridge?’
Chaumbre continued to chortle, and Bartholomew wondered if he was in his right wits, as this was hardly a subject for humour. ‘Nothing on that particular occasion. He just stalked up and ordered me to fill my pits, then called me a fool for wanting a stone bridge.’
‘How did he know what you thought?’
‘Well, I made no secret of it. But he was determined to have wood, because he had promised that the University would pay one tenth of the cost – a negligible amount with wood, but a considerable outlay for stone.’
Bartholomew considered the information. Morys would not have wanted Aynton making a case for wood, so perhaps he had decided to silence him. Moreover, the timely arrival of craftsmen and materials was indicative that Shardelowe had invested a lot of his own money in advance of the council’s decision. It was a strong motive for murder, so the builder became a suspect, too.
He looked to where Shardelowe stood, busily barking orders at his workforce. He had two lieutenants to see his instructions carried out, and Chaumbre told him they were named Gilbert Bernarde and John de Lyonnes. Bernarde was short, fat and English, while Lyonnes was tall, thin and French. The three of them looked tense and serious, their eyes everywhere, and their voices urgent, revealing that they were under considerable pressure to achieve what Shardelowe had promised.
‘Bernarde is a pleasant fellow,’ Chaumbre went on. ‘Always laughing. Lyonnes is more sombre, but both are good men. If anyone can see this finished in a week, it is them.’
‘It is too fast,’ said Bartholomew worriedly. ‘Safety will be compromised, and someone will be hurt or killed. Shardelowe is overly ambitious.’
Even as he spoke, one man slipped and almost fell. His workmates jeered at his clumsiness, although a sharp word from Lyonnes saw them turn their attention back to their duties. Bartholomew cringed when Bernarde ordered several huge pieces of stone set on the edge of one section of scaffolding, ready to be used for strengthening the existing spandrels below.
‘Someone only needs to stumble against one of those things and it will fall,’ he objected disapprovingly. ‘It is bad practice – a needless risk.’
‘I am sure they know what they are doing,’ said Chaumbre, and as the queue shuffled forward a few feet, he changed the subject. ‘I am glad Isnard had the foresight to hire some friends to help him with his ferrying. He could not have managed all this on his own.’
‘Especially as he has a cold.’
‘He woke up this morning feeling much better. Your old students claim they cured him, but he is adamant that he never swallowed their remedy. Unfortunately, people believe Stasy and Hawick, as everyone knows that Isnard will drink anything that comes in a bottle.’
‘They are right,’ said Bartholomew with a sigh. ‘He will.’
It was tiresome having to wait to cross the river, and Bartholomew was not the only one who realised he had taken the bridge and the ponticulus for granted. The line inched forward slowly, until he was able to see the ferry operation below.
Responding to the greater demand, Isnard had expanded his operation from one ferry to two, the second being big enough to take a horse, if required. He had strung a pair of ropes across the river, which were then used to haul the boats from bank to bank. As it was exhausting labour, his crews worked in relays. Given that the only alternatives involved a lengthy detour or a swim, he and his men were making money hand over fist.
The waiting passengers were hot and irritable from being forced to stand in the sun. Moreover, some had animals with them, so agitated lows, bleats, clucks and barks mingled with the cacophony of irascible human voices.
Bartholomew turned his attention back to the workmen, sure his services would be needed before the day was out. Bernarde encouraged his team with merry winks and good humour, whereas Lyonnes preferred to snarl and belittle. Needless to say, Bernarde’s people were making better progress. Lyonnes happened to glance up and spot Chaumbre.
‘Have you filled your dye-pits yet?’ he called in a thick Auvergne accent. ‘Because if not, we have plenty of rotten wood you can use. It will save us dumping it all in the river.’
‘You craftsmen!’ laughed Chaumbre. ‘Always jesting.’
‘It was not a jest,’ retorted Lyonnes, who looked as though he had never cracked a joke in his life. ‘I am serious. You can have it for free.’
‘It is a generous offer,’ said Chaumbre, struggling for a straight face. ‘But one cannot fill large pits with rotting wood. We shall use hard-core rubble, which will be carefully laid down and compacted.’
‘Why?’ demanded Lyonnes crossly. ‘They are just holes, for God’s sake. It does not matter what goes in them, just as long as they are filled.’
‘Someone will build over them one day,’ explained Chaumbre patiently. ‘And if we use wood, there will be subsidence. Ergo, no rubbish will go in them.’
Lyonnes spat his disbelief and returned to work. His interjection caused the pits to become a topic of conversation among the waiting passengers, with most folk of the opinion that Chaumbre was taking far too long over what was a very simple task.
‘I have filled two,’ the dyer whispered to Bartholomew, stung by the censure. ‘And I shall deal with the others in my own time. I will not be rushed. But all is in hand. Indeed, I am going to my house now, to collect more money to pay for it.’
It was a moment before Bartholomew remembered that Chaumbre owned a place in Girton, although he lived with Edith on Milne Street. ‘Oh, yes – the one that was burgled.’
Chaumbre’s smile slipped a little. ‘Fortunately, the culprit did not get very much, and I have another cache buried in the garden. Do not worry – I still have plenty to keep your sister in the style to which she is accustomed.’
‘I hope you have more than that,’ said Bartholomew. ‘She intends to help fund Matilde’s school for women, which will be a very costly venture.’
The smile faded a bit more. ‘I am sure Matilde has plenty of others to call upon. You, for example. I imagine her new husband will be eager to make the biggest donation of all.’
Bartholomew might be eager, but he would never be able. He would have his paupers’ medicine to provide, not to mention his share of household bills that had hitherto been paid by Michaelhouse – rent, food, clothes, fuel, candles and all the rest. He made no reply, and instead listened to two women behind them, who were discussing the mysterious benefactor who gave money to the parish priests for the poor, sick and needy.
‘He is a saint,’ declared one warmly. ‘But only the vicars know his name, and they refuse to tell anyone.’
Well, the saint was not Chaumbre, thought Bartholomew, glancing at his brother-in-law out of the corner of his eye, not if he dragged his heels over filling in holes and was looking for ways to duck his wife’s contribution to Matilde’s school. Then Chaumbre began to hum again, a sound so irritating that Bartholomew told him he was going to the castle to speak to Dickon, just to make it stop.
‘I hope Tulyet lives a very long life,’ Chaumbre said fervently. ‘Because I shall not remain in Cambridge if Dickon becomes Sheriff.’
‘Nor will I,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘But fortunately, he is too young.’
‘He will not stay young forever. The post is not hereditary, but he will certainly apply for it if his father dies or retires, and the King will be too frightened to refuse.’