‘So how are your enquiries?’ asked Tulyet, walking Bartholomew back to the gate.
‘I eliminated Gille and Elsham this morning, but the list is still quite lengthy. It is a pity I could not make out what Aynton said as he lay dying – litteratus or non litteratus. If I had, I could narrow it down to either scholars or seculars.’
‘So who is still on it?’
‘Donwich, Narboro, Stasy, Hawick, Morys, Brampton, Shardelowe and Martyn,’ recited Bartholomew. ‘My brother-in-law, too, but he assures me that he is innocent.’
‘I imagine he is, Matt. Chaumbre is a nice man, and Edith is lucky to have found him. Have you tackled Morys yet or do you still want my help? If so, I cannot do it today, because I have reopened my investigation into Baldok’s murder – he also died on the bridge, if you recall, and Aynton’s fate has prompted me to look into it again.’
Bartholomew frowned. ‘You think the two are connected? I do not see how, other than both happening on the Great Bridge.’
‘You are probably right, but there is no harm in being sure.’
Bartholomew returned to the ferry, and found another long line of people waiting, this time to cross into the town. Tempers flared as the sun beat down, and there was a lot of irritable pushing and shoving. He decided to sit in St Giles’ Church for a while, in the hope that the queue would be shorter when he emerged, but had second thoughts when he saw Ulf Godenave and his ragged friends there, trying to fry eggs on the hot stones in the porch.
He glanced along the Chesterton road, where tall elms offered shade and a place to lie, but the river stank so badly that it would not be a pleasant thing to do. Then he looked at the Griffin tavern, the thick stone walls of which would offer a cool refuge. But others had had the same idea, and the place was packed and noisy.
He was still debating what to do when something landed at his feet. It was a half-cooked egg, and he knew Ulf had lobbed it when the brat raced away sniggering. His playmates scampered after him, unwilling to linger and take the blame for something he had done. The incident made Bartholomew remember the boy’s ailing grandmother, so he walked to the nearby hovels to see how she was.
The Godenave family regarded him suspiciously when he arrived, and only when he assured them that he was not there to collect a fee was he allowed inside. The old woman was recovering well, thanks to the parish priest, who had brought her food and extra barley water, all paid for by the anonymous ‘saint’.
As Bartholomew left, he saw Gille and Elsham lurking, evidently not trusting him to tell the truth about his movements that day. They made no attempt to conceal themselves, and only regarded him with unfriendly eyes – until Ulf lobbed eggs at them, too, after which they kept their distance.
‘He should be wary of antagonising that pair,’ Bartholomew warned the boy’s granddam. ‘They are not gentle, and one thinks Ulf stole his purse.’
‘Our Ulf would never have done that,’ objected the crone indignantly. ‘Besides, that pair are thieves themselves. I saw Gille stick his hand in the poor box with my own eyes, while his friend Elsham stole the Mayor’s wife.’
Bartholomew raised his eyebrows. ‘You mean Rohese?’
‘She has been looking for a new lover ever since John Baldok died, and she found one in Elsham. But he should watch himself – Morys will not appreciate being made a cuckold again, and he has violent kin in the fens …’
Although Bartholomew had been told before that Rohese liked male company, he was sure she would never stoop to Elsham. The Clare Hall Fellow was reasonably good-looking and his stipend was generous, but he was sullen, brutish and unlikely to be much fun. Bartholomew dismissed the claim as groundless gossip.
When the paupers in the little community around All Saints-next-the-castle heard that a physician had given a free consultation, they flocked to him in droves. There were several cases of flux, but also some interesting diseases of the lungs and skin. Bartholomew lost himself in his work, so it was late afternoon before he finished. Then he realised with a guilty start that he had done virtually nothing to find Aynton’s killer that day.
He hurried to the river, where the queue was now much shorter – on his side, at least. There was a long line on the other bank, as folk who had completed their business in town were making for their homes in the outlying villages. Isnard and his men were tired and hot, but very cheerful, suggesting their labours had bagged them a fortune. Bartholomew joined the back of the line, and was surprised to see Chaumbre there.
‘My business in Girton took much longer than I anticipated,’ sighed the dyer. ‘Poor Edith will wonder what has happened to me, as I promised to be back by noon, to run a few errands for her friend Lucy.’
Bartholomew listened in mounting horror as Chaumbre explained that his tasks for Lucy included visiting milliners, glovers, cobblers and grocers, all to collect items ordered for the wedding. Why were so many things needed for a ceremony that would be over in the blink of an eye? Seeing his dismay, Chaumbre changed the subject, and began to talk about the difficulties he had experienced while mending the window that had been broken by burglars two days before.
‘I could not saw the wood to the correct size, and it took four attempts before I got it right. I should have hired a carpenter to do it, rather than struggling myself.’
‘What stopped you?’ asked Bartholomew absently, most of his thoughts still on Lucy’s wild extravagance.
‘The expense,’ replied Chaumbre, then smiled. ‘I know I am wealthy, but why waste good money? However, I shall know next time to leave it to the professionals.’
He burbled on, and Bartholomew tuned him out as he looked at the bridge. Astonishing progress had been made in just a few hours – most of the wooden superstructure had been dismantled and replaced by scaffolding, so that the workmen could identify any crumbling or broken stone on the piers and spandrels, and replace it with new. Work was as frantic as ever, and Shardelowe was there to make sure no one slacked.
Unfortunately, the labourers were hampered by Ulf and his friends, who had slipped under the barriers erected to keep people out, and were larking about on the ponticulus. Ulf had ‘acquired’ a new hat since Bartholomew had last seen him, and he wore it at a jaunty angle. He and his playmates were too quick for the workmen to catch, and Bartholomew could see Shardelowe growing exasperated by their antics.
‘There will be an accident in a moment,’ the physician remarked, as Ulf leapt from the ponticulus to the scaffolding, where he bumped into one of the stones that Bernarde had balanced there earlier.
‘That boy is a nuisance,’ agreed Chaumbre. ‘And I am sure I have seen that hat somewhere before …’
It felt like an age before Bartholomew reached the front of the queue. After an earlier mishap, during which an overloaded boat had capsized and wet passengers had demanded a refund, Isnard set limits on the number of people in each craft. Bartholomew, Chaumbre and three others were allowed on the smaller of the two ferries, after which Isnard and his assistants prepared to push off. As always, Bartholomew was impressed by the bargeman’s agility on boats, aware that he was more sure-footed than many folk with two good legs.
‘Wait!’ came an urgent voice. It was Gille, forcing his way to the front of the throng and brandishing a groat – a princely sum, far in excess of the set charge. ‘Two more.’
Isnard eyed the coin greedily, which was enough to see the Clare Hall men hop aboard, much to the outrage of those who had been patiently waiting their turn. Gille elected to stand in the prow, while Elsham sat on the gunwale.