By contrast, Morys was not popular at all, and his mansion near the Round Church showed signs of having been bombarded with muck at various points during his residency. It was a pity, as it was a lovely house – its plasterwork was picked out with gilt and every window had real glass. Bartholomew was conducted to a room that was full of natural light, and after Morys had welcomed him, a maid brought them rose-water sherbets.
‘Is this ice?’ asked Bartholomew, regarding his goblet in astonishment.
‘I have it imported,’ replied Morys smugly. ‘It is costly, of course, but I deserve it.’
The fragment had melted by the time Bartholomew looked back at his cup again, but the drink was still beautifully cold. He swallowed it quickly, before it took on the ambient temperature of the room, thinking that if Morys could afford such a wild luxury, then he was richer than anyone knew, because not even kings and princes spent money on something that had invariably turned to water by the time it arrived.
‘My condolences for Elsham,’ said Morys, while they waited for the maid to come back and tell them that Rohese was ready to receive the physician. ‘His death is very sad.’
He did not look sad, and Bartholomew remembered what Ulf’s grandmother had said: that Rohese had taken Elsham as a lover. He had been sceptical at the time, but perhaps it was true. If so, it was a strong motive for murder, and Bartholomew had seen Morys near the bridge shortly after the stone had been pushed.
‘Did you know Elsham?’ he fished.
‘Not really, although Donwich said that Elsham and Gille are the only Clare Hall Fellows to remain loyal to him – the others are all treacherous dogs.’ Morys smiled. ‘He will make a fine Chancellor, much better than Michael, who is overly honest and friends with the Sheriff into the bargain. I cannot do business with a person like that.’
‘An incorruptible one, you mean,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Although it will not matter by the end of the month, because you will no longer be Mayor.’
Morys smiled enigmatically. ‘No, I suppose not.’
‘Did you see what happened on the bridge yesterday when Elsham died?’
‘I am afraid all my attention was on the brats who were throwing mud and bits of wood. Little ruffians! The Sheriff should hang the lot of them. They are no good to man nor beast.’
‘Can you think of anyone who might want to kill Elsham?’
‘Oh, dozens!’ replied Morys, eyes glittering slyly. ‘Most of the University thinks Michael should be Chancellor, and Elsham supported his rival. All of them should be on your list of suspects. As should the monk himself.’
Bartholomew saw he had been overly optimistic to think he could learn anything useful from Morys, who was far too clever to be trapped into saying something he would rather keep to himself.
At that point, the maid appeared to say Rohese was ready, so Morys led the way to the back of the house, where the lady in question lay on a bed that was loaded with silken covers. She was pale, and even as they entered the room, she lurched towards a bucket. Repelled, Morys beat a hasty retreat, leaving Bartholomew to tend to her on his own.
‘It is not the flux,’ said Bartholomew, when he had finished examining her. ‘But I imagine you already know that. You are with child.’
Rohese wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. ‘Yes, but you cannot tell my husband, because we have not … well, he will know he is not the father.’
Bartholomew could not bring himself to ask if that honour belonged to Elsham, when she lay so helpless and miserable. ‘The sickness will pass soon,’ was all he said. ‘Until then, the best remedy is rest, and perhaps a mild infusion of peppermint or raspberry leaf.’
Rohese shot him a rueful glance. ‘My predicament will do you no favours. If I keep vomiting like this, my husband will tell everyone that you have failed to cure me of the flux.’
‘He will guess the truth sooner or later, so you should consider how to deal with the situation before it arises. He is not a gentle man.’
She winced. ‘Unfortunately, I am not sure who is responsible for my … predicament. Perhaps I should say it is Dickon, as even my husband will be wary of challenging him.’
Bartholomew eyed her askance. ‘Is Dickon really a possibility?’
She sniffed. ‘I do not couple with children, not even strong and handsome ones like him. The two most likely candidates are Baldok and Elsham. Unfortunately, both are dead.’
‘Does your husband know about Elsham?’
‘I thought not.’ Rohese looked away. ‘But perhaps I was wrong.’
‘Is he the kind of man to kill your lovers?’
‘Whose husband is not?’ shrugged Rohese. ‘He would not do the deed himself, of course, but he has family in the Fens who are willing to exchange violence for money. You will never prove it, though, so do not waste your time trying.’
‘Do you feel safe here? If not, Matilde will find you somewhere to hide.’
Rohese gave him a lopsided smile. ‘I am safe for now, although I shall have to run eventually. However, it will be at a time of my choosing, and I refuse to be rushed.’
Bartholomew took his leave, feeling soiled by the encounter – and burdened, too, with a secret he wished he did not have. He hurried down the stairs and was just walking along the corridor when Morys emerged from a door to one side. The Mayor pulled it shut behind him, but it swung open again to reveal a flight of steps leading down to a cellar. At the bottom was his cousin John, the knight, who knelt by a chest of coins. It was the box containing the money raised for the bridge, which Morys had displayed at the guildhall meeting.
‘Well?’ demanded Morys, closing the door again to prevent the physician from seeing more. ‘Have you cured her?’
‘She needs to rest,’ replied Bartholomew ambiguously.
‘Will you prescribe some of your magical barley water?’ asked Morys. ‘Because I do not like the thought of her being sick on the coverlets. Vomit stains, you know.’
Outside, the heat hit Bartholomew like a furnace, and he wondered how much longer the sun would bake the town. Then he remembered Zoone’s prediction for two days hence, and hoped he was right about rain in the offing. Of course, then the superstitious would say it ‘proved’ their claims that a downpour on the Feast of St Swithun’s Day would presage forty more wet days. The likes of Cynric, Margery and Zoone would milk it for all it was worth.
He had not taken many steps along the High Street when he was hailed by a familiar voice. It was Meadowman. The beadle was pale and walked with a stick, but it was a huge improvement on their last meeting, when Bartholomew had been desperate enough to add pepper to his barley water and lie about it. He was delighted that the ruse had worked.
‘I shall be able to return to work soon,’ the beadle said happily. ‘I wish you had given me that powerful powder sooner.’
As he seemed unsteady on his feet, Bartholomew helped him home. He emerged from the beadle’s cottage only to be intercepted by a Peterhouse student, who said that Narboro needed to see him in Hoo Hall at once.
Bartholomew walked there quickly, noting that the Mill Pond was emptier than ever as the drought continued. Morys had doubled the guards around it, to make sure people paid for the water they took. It reeked horribly, which was not surprising, with virtually no through-flow to prevent it from turning stagnant.
Hoo Hall was dark after the glare of the sun, so Bartholomew waited for his eyes to grow accustomed to it, then descended the steps to the cellar-like hall. Since his last visit, it had come into service as a store for perishable food, which was sensible, as it was deliciously cool. He walked across the hall, and climbed the stairs on the opposite wall to the dormitory, where Narboro lay on his bed.