Bartholomew had no more luck with finding Ulf, as the boy’s entire gang had gone to Girton’s summer fair. He considered following them there, but the event would be crowded, and it would be almost impossible to identify the right brats. Stumped, he decided to visit the Great Bridge, in the hope that one of the workmen might have remembered something useful since he had last spoken to them.
He arrived to see that corners galore had been cut in an effort to speed the work along: scaffolding was not secured properly, stones were stacked in unstable piles, and there were dangerous practices involving heavy equipment. Then there was the ponticulus, which the workmen had pressed into service as a makeshift platform – it was in the wrong position for such a function, resulting in a lot of precarious reaching and leaning. It was only a matter of time before someone fell off it.
‘We have no time for that,’ barked Shardelowe, when Bartholomew suggested he implement some basic safety measures; he was with his two lieutenants, and they had been discussing cement. ‘Not if we are to win our bonus.’
‘It is better to lose money than a life,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘Your men–’
‘They are paid extra for the danger, and they know the risks,’ interrupted Shardelowe shortly. ‘Now, leave us alone. We are busy.’
‘But thank you for your concern,’ put in Bernarde, the polite face of the operation.
Lyonnes spat. ‘He can stick his concern up his–’
‘Did you see what happened when Elsham was killed?’ interrupted Bartholomew. ‘You have a good view of the ferry from up here and–’
‘We have already told you: none of us pushed the stone,’ snarled Lyonnes, evidently a man to see accusations and insults everywhere. ‘Why would we? We never met Elsham.’
‘It is possible that it was not intended for him,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It might just have been aimed at the boat.’
‘We have no reason to damage the ferries,’ said Bernarde, more consiliatory than his colleagues. ‘They are useful to us – if they did not carry folk across the river, we would have to keep the ponticulus open, which would slow us down.’
Bartholomew was becoming exasperated. ‘A man was murdered in a place that teemed with people – you three, your entire workforce, ferry passengers and onlookers – but not one of you saw who shoved the rock on Elsham. It beggars belief!’
‘Does it?’ demanded Lyonnes. ‘Then why did you notice nothing? You were there – I saw you myself. You did not see who tampered with the stone, so why do you expect us to?’
It was a reasonable point.
‘It was the brats’ fault,’ said Shardelowe bitterly. ‘They were lobbing missiles and larking about on the ponticulus. All our attention was on them, and the first thing I knew about the falling stone was when I heard it land.’
‘But the children did not push it,’ put in Bernarde. ‘None of them are strong enough. Besides, while some were on the ponticulus, I saw none on the bridge itself.’
‘Yet the stone did come from the bridge,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘And as no one other than your people should have been there, the guilty party must have stood out like a sore thumb.’
Shardelowe glared at him. ‘You go up there and see if you can spot an intruder through that forest of planks and ropes. It would have been easy for a killer to hide. But do not blame us for it – we cannot be expected to know that our scaffolding would attract murderers.’
‘Morys,’ spat Lyonnes. ‘He hired those brats to make a nuisance of themselves. He wanted to slow us down, so the town will not have to pay our bonus.’
Bartholomew would not put it past him. ‘Do you think he arranged for the stone to fall as well? I imagine Elsham’s death has cost you time.’
‘We made sure it did not,’ said Shardelowe. ‘But it is certainly possible that your Mayor thinks that a life is a small price to pay for cheating us of our due.’
‘Those children,’ said Bernarde thoughtfully. ‘Their play did not seem natural to me. They appeared uneasy, frightened even. Not Ulf, perhaps, but the others. If you speak to them, go gently. They may not have been acting of their own free will.’
‘What nonsense!’ exclaimed Lyonnes contemptuously. ‘But have you finished interrogating us now, physician? We have work to do.’
Bartholomew spoke to as many labourers as would answer his questions, but learned nothing new. None could shed light on Elsham’s murder, they had not noticed Huntyngdon washed up on the riverbank until Bartholomew himself had raised the alarm, and no one had anything to say about Aynton. The process took far longer than it should have done, because most took the opportunity to present him with their aches, pains, cuts and bruises while he was there. Thus daylight was fading into night when he eventually finished.
As he turned to leave, he bumped into Shardelowe again, and as he had forgotten to do it earlier, asked what he had discussed with Chaumbre shortly after his row with Morys.
‘I did not speak to Chaumbre,’ replied Shardelowe shiftily. ‘You are mistaken.’
Bartholomew blinked. ‘But I saw you!’
The builder sighed irritably. ‘Perhaps we exchanged greetings – I do not recall. My mind was on more important matters – like getting paid.’
‘You did not admire the craftsmanship in his dye-pits?’
It was Shardelowe’s turn to look startled. ‘You mean the holes in the cemetery? Why would I do that?’
He stalked away, leaving Bartholomew confused and uneasy. Both the builder and Chaumbre had lied about the encounter, but why? He found himself fearful for Edith, and wondered if she would agree to move in with Matilde for a few days. He could always use being on hand for wedding arrangements as a pretext to convince her.
In the hope that Ulf and his cronies had returned from the fair, Bartholomew took Isnard’s ferry across the river and walked to the hovels that stood around derelict All Saints’ Church. When he heard the sound of smashing, he went to look over the graveyard wall. Sure enough, the children were there, hurling stones at the few remaining panes of glass in the nave windows.
There were perhaps a dozen of them, all barefoot and dressed in rags. They regarded him with wary suspicion, although Ulf swaggered forward, brimming with audacity and confidence. He sported the new hat that Bartholomew had noticed the day before, which was so large that he had stuffed leaves in it to prevent it from falling over his eyes.
‘It was a gift,’ said Ulf defiantly, seeing Bartholomew look at it.
‘From the Carmelite Friary, like the shoes you offered to give me the other day?’ asked Bartholomew archly, and when Ulf looked blank, added, ‘As payment for helping your grandmother. Did no one ever teach you that liars need a good memory?’
Ulf glared at him. ‘No, the hat came from someone else. I do not have to tell you who. My father says the University has no power over us, and that if all the scholars were to leave, the rest of us would live like kings in your Colleges and hostels.’
‘Is that so?’ said Bartholomew flatly, and turned to his enquiries. ‘You were by the bridge when Elsham was killed. Did you see who pushed the stone on him?’
‘No, because we were playing,’ replied Ulf insolently. ‘A game – we run across the ponticulus, and the workmen see if they can catch us. They never do, because we are too quick.’
‘They do not see it as a game,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘And it is dangerous. One of you might be hurt. Do not do it again.’