‘They have a family emergency,’ Isnard informed those who immediately began to bellow their objections.
‘Liar!’ cried Burgess FitzAbsolon furiously. ‘I shall raise the issue of bribery and corruption at the next guildhall meeting.’
Elsham gave a sharp bark of amusement. ‘You think Mayor Morys will uphold an objection to something he has refined to such an exquisite art?’
There was no answer to this, and FitzAbsolon was wise enough not to attempt one. He watched with sullen resentment as the ferry pushed off, Isnard and his crew grunting with the effort of the additional weight.
The boat was halfway across when trouble erupted. Some of Ulf’s friends began to pelt the builders with bits of broken wood, while a couple of their cronies were back on the ponticulus, where they raced to and fro with whoops of glee, causing it to sway violently. Ulf himself was on the riverbank, snatching up handfuls of mud, which he lobbed at the ferry, eliciting yells of anger from those he hit.
Bartholomew saw something fast-moving out of the corner of his eye, but before he could shout a warning, there was a tremendous crash followed by a fountain of water and flying splinters. A huge piece of stone had toppled off the scaffolding and crashed through the ponticulus to land on the ferry below. Chaumbre and Elsham went cartwheeling into the water, while everyone else struggled to cling on as the crippled craft tipped precariously. Chaumbre surfaced a few feet away, and began to screech that he could not swim.
Bartholomew considered jumping in to rescue him, but drowning was not the worst thing that could happen to someone who immersed himself in the Cam. Instead, he grabbed one of Isnard’s crutches, and stretched it towards the flailing dyer. When Chaumbre seized it, Bartholomew was able to pull him aboard.
When they reached the opposite bank moments later, willing hands were waiting to assist the sodden passengers ashore. Chaumbre was soon sitting on an upturned crate, being fussed over by well-wishers. There were a lot of them, all genuinely concerned, and Bartholomew saw that his brother-in-law was a popular man. There was only one dissenting voice.
‘Perhaps God gave you a soaking for failing to fill in your dye-pits,’ called Narboro nastily. ‘Now you know what it is like to fall into a place where you do not want to be.’
He stalked away, head in the air, although he was obliged to break into a run when Chaumbre’s friends took exception to the remark and one or two started after him.
While he waited for Chaumbre to recover, Bartholomew looked at the crowd that had gathered to watch the aftermath of the incident. Shardelowe and his crew stared down from the scaffolding that swathed the bridge, while several dozen people were ranged along the top of both riverbanks. Among them were Mayor Morys, Brampton, Donwich, Stasy and Hawick. Cynric was nowhere to be seen, and he wondered if his erstwhile students had given the book-bearer the slip.
Isnard glared up at the workmen. ‘One of you pushed that stone on purpose! You have been moaning about us all day, claiming that we are in the way of your delivery barges.’
‘We did no such thing,’ objected Shardelowe. ‘What happened was an accident.’
‘Then one of those brats was responsible,’ put in Stasy. ‘I notice they are now nowhere to be seen.’
‘They are not strong enough,’ countered Bernarde. ‘Blame the sun instead. It must have heated the stone, causing it to tip.’
That sounded unlikely to Bartholomew. ‘Where is Elsham?’ he asked, recalling that Chaumbre was not the only one who had been knocked off the ferry.
‘There, on the bank,’ replied Isnard, hobbling towards a prostrate figure. ‘He must have swum to safety. Come on, lad, up you get. You are not … help!’
Bartholomew could see at once that something was badly wrong. An examination revealed that the stone had landed square on Elsham’s back, crushing his spine. His limbs were floppy, and he shook his head when Bartholomew asked if he could feel his hands or feet. His face was white, and Bartholomew knew he was dying. So did Elsham.
‘I need absolution,’ he whispered. ‘I have done things …’
‘Brampton! Fetch a priest,’ shouted Bartholomew urgently. ‘And where is Gille?’
‘He was here a moment ago,’ replied Isnard, scanning the silently watching faces. ‘Perhaps he went home for dry clothes. Do you want me to fetch him back?’
‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew tersely, sure Elsham would want his friend with him in his final moments. ‘Hurry.’
‘The priest,’ gasped Elsham. ‘Please! I must unburden my soul.’
‘He is coming,’ said Bartholomew gently. ‘It will not be–’
But Elsham could not wait. ‘I killed Huntyngdon,’ he rasped, his eyes huge in his frightened face. ‘I stabbed him as he walked along the towpath. He was going to deliver a letter from the Chancellor, but I got to him first. I hid the body, but it must have rolled into the river and floated downstream …’
Bartholomew stared at him. ‘Why would you do such a thing?’
Elsham would not meet his eyes. ‘As a favour for … a friend.’
‘Who?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering what manner of friend would demand that sort of boon. ‘Donwich?’
‘I cannot say, lest he disturbs my afterlife,’ breathed Elsham, each word now an agony of effort. ‘Besides, I can only confess my sins, not someone else’s.’
‘And Martyn? Did you kill him, too?’
‘I know nothing about him.’
‘I do not understand,’ said Bartholomew helplessly. ‘Why did your “friend” want Huntyngdon dead? What was in Aynton’s letter that was so important?’
‘He never told me. I just did what he asked.’
‘Did you take the letter after you … after Huntyngdon died?’
‘I was meant to, but I … forgot. I suppose some beggar stole it when his body was washed down here, along with the money in his purse. Not that there was much of that – just a few farthings.’
Bartholomew had so many questions that he did not know which ones to ask first. ‘Was Gille with you when you killed Huntyngdon?’
‘No, he was in the Brazen George.’
‘Then is he the friend who compelled you to kill on his behalf?’
‘Of course not!’ breathed Elsham. ‘He is more brother than friend. You must absolve me, now. Please! I will …’
His eyes slid closed, and he did not open them again. A priest arrived, and by the time he had finished murmuring prayers of absolution, Elsham was dead.
Chapter 10
‘So, you have solved a murder,’ said Michael the following day. It was Sunday, with breakfast later than usual because of the extended service in the church. ‘All on your own and within hours of me asking for your help. Perhaps I should make you a proctor.’
‘I solved nothing,’ said Bartholomew unhappily, looking at his food and thinking he would be inundated with demands for laxatives if Michael continued to provide his colleagues with nothing but bread and meat. ‘Elsham confessed. And if you did make me a proctor, it would be a very short appointment. I leave the University in six days.’
‘Next Saturday,’ sighed Michael. ‘By which time I hope to have some good news to announce to our scholars, after which I shall declare the University in summer recess.’
‘Good news about you being recognised as Chancellor?’
Michael nodded, but Bartholomew was seized with the sudden conviction that it was not what the monk had meant at all. He started to quiz him about it, but Michael raised a hand to stop him.
‘I cannot say more, Matt – I am sworn to secrecy. Suffice to say that I shall be busy for the next few days, so you will have to continue the investigation on your own.’