‘An accident?’ asked Michael cautiously. ‘But the King’s Commissioners were inside at the time.’
‘So?’ asked Tulyet. He caught the glance exchanged between monk and physician. ‘You think the fire was started deliberately, to interfere with the Commissioners’ business?’
‘Or worse,’ said Michael. ‘Do not forget that Warde has already been murdered.’
‘God help us,’ muttered Tulyet. ‘So, who do you suspect of committing such a heinous act? Whoever it was deserves to hang, because the entire town might have been lost.’
‘I saw the Mortimer clan – including Edward and Thorpe – lurking around just before the alarm was raised,’ said Michael. ‘Not to mention two merchants who have a financial interest in the case – Morice and Cheney.’
‘And Paxtone and Wynewyk,’ said Bartholomew to himself. ‘I hope to God their suspicious behaviour has not extended to arson.’
‘So, you have no idea who might have started this mischief?’ said Tulyet. ‘Your suspects for the fire are essentially the same as your suspects for the murders of Warde, Deschalers and Bottisham?’
Michael nodded. ‘Our culprit is a clever man – or a lucky one – and left little in the way of clues.’
‘Poor Lavenham,’ said Tulyet, gazing at the mess of spars and hot, crumbling plaster that still smoked gently. ‘But I thought we were going to lose Gonville Hall, too, when the wind shifted. It was selfish of Morice to ask the Hand of Justice to do that, just to save his own property.’
He glared at the Mayor, who had sent a servant to fetch his wineskin and was enjoying a little liquid refreshment while he gawked at the destruction around him.
‘I do not think Morice had anything to do with the wind changing direction,’ said Michael, puzzled that Tulyet should think it should. ‘It happens all the time, quite naturally.’
‘But not usually at so opportune a moment,’ argued Tulyet. ‘I shall reserve judgement on the matter, personally. Many folk heard him praying, and his favour with the Hand is the talk of the town. How else do you think he stands unmolested, when so many folk are furious with him for not helping to quench the fire? They are afraid that if they attack him, the Hand will strike them down.’
‘Where are Lavenham and the other Commissioners?’ asked Bartholomew, changing the subject before the Michael and the Sheriff could begin a debate over the matter. He could see the monk was itching to tell Tulyet exactly what he thought of folk who believed the relic was responsible for events that had a perfectly rational explanation. ‘They escaped the inferno, I hope?’
‘I have not seen them,’ replied Tulyet. ‘But then I have not had time to stand around and look for people. I have been busy.’ He cast another venomous glower at Morice.
‘We all have,’ said Michael soothingly. ‘And tonight you must come to Michaelhouse, so we can exchange information about this case. I have a few things to tell you.’
‘I have very little to tell you,’ said Tulyet gloomily.
‘Arrive early,’ Michael went on. ‘We are having blood pudding and pig-brain pottage, followed by fried gooseberries – saved from last year, so they are a little sour and we have no sugar. Ensure you are punctual, because you will not want to miss it.’
‘Come to me instead,’ said Tulyet, trying to hide his revulsion. ‘My wife plans roasted lamb with rosemary and carrots for today. And I can ask her to make Lombard slices,’ he added, a little desperately, when Michael hesitated.
‘Very well,’ said Michael, sounding as though he was doing him a favour by accepting. Relieved by his narrow escape from a Michaelhouse repast, the Sheriff strode away to supervise the dumping of yet more water on the smouldering remains of Lavenham’s house. Fires had a nasty habit of rekindling, and Tulyet had no intention of allowing a second blaze to start.
Bartholomew started to laugh. ‘Agatha is cooking fish soup with cabbage this evening.’
‘I know,’ said Michael comfortably. ‘But I do not like cabbage, and Tulyet’s wife keeps a good table. Her Lombard slices are among the best in Cambridge. She says her secret is that she fries them in butter, rather than lard, and that she soaks her almonds overnight in wine.’
‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, not very interested in recipes that had no known medical application. ‘But I am worried about the Commissioners – especially Master Thorpe. I would not like to think of him roasted in the fire with Lavenham and Bernarde.’
They watched the apothecary’s apprentices pick their way through the steaming, hissing rubble, hopping lightly so they did not burn their feet. One stood on an unstable timber, and it started to tilt. Bartholomew tensed, anticipating that he would bring the whole fragile structure down on top of him, but the fellow leapt away with impressive agility, and no harm was done.
‘Where is Lavenham?’ Bartholomew called to him, after a scan of the onlookers who fringed the ruins told him the apothecary was still not among them. ‘And Isobel?’
‘We have not seen them since that meeting started,’ replied the apprentice. He grimaced. ‘You would think they would be here, would you not? Trying to salvage what they can, and not leaving the dirty work to us.’
‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew softly. ‘You would.’
‘What will happen to us now?’ grumbled another lad, lifting a plank to look underneath. ‘How are we supposed to work with the premises gone? Does Lavenham have enough funds invested to buy another house, so we can start again? Or do we have to seek alternative employment?’
‘Let us hope not,’ said Bartholomew soberly.
Bartholomew wanted to go home to Michaelhouse, to wash the smoke and grime from his clothes and hair, but a nagging concern for Master Thorpe, Bernarde and Lavenham kept him on Milne Street and he became one of a small crowd that simply could not bring themselves to leave. He kept anticipating that sooner or later an apprentice would pick up a piece of ‘wood’ that was harder, denser and oilier than the others, and they would then know exactly what had happened to the Commissioners. Michael lost interest and wandered away. He had not been gone long before he returned.
‘Look who I found in St Mary the Great,’ he said, smiling as he indicated a soot-stained Master Thorpe. ‘Giving thanks for his deliverance.’
‘To God,’ said Thorpe firmly. ‘Not to the so-called Hand of Justice.’
‘I am glad to see you,’ said Bartholomew warmly, taking Thorpe’s hand. ‘I was worried you might have been trapped inside when the fire took hold.’
Thorpe smiled his pleasure that he should care. ‘I escaped by climbing through a window on an upper floor and jumping to safety. I shouted to Bernarde and Lavenham to follow, but the smoke was swirling around so thickly that I could not see whether they did. It is a grim business when a son hates his father so. Perhaps I was wrong to disown him when he returned with his King’s Pardon.’
Bartholomew raised his eyebrows. ‘You think your son set the fire?’
‘I saw him with Edward Mortimer, watching Bernarde and me as we entered Lavenham’s shop. Who else would want to harm us? Lavenham has no enemies, and neither does Bernarde.’
‘They do,’ said Bartholomew vehemently. ‘The Mortimer clan, for a start.’
‘And who leads the Mortimer clan these days?’ asked Thorpe archly. ‘It is not Thomas or Constantine. It is Edward. And Edward is my son’s friend.’
‘So, they thought they would strike two birds with one stone,’ mused Michael. ‘A hated father, and two Commissioners who were sure to argue against Mortimer’s Mill. How did the meeting go, or should I not ask?’
‘We had not reached a decision,’ said Thorpe wearily. ‘I wanted to set a date for a formal hearing, but Lavenham and Bernarde said the evidence was so clear cut that further enquiries were unnecessary. They wanted a verdict against Mortimer issued there and then.’
‘This is what happens when you appoint Commissioners who have a vested interest in the outcome,’ said Michael. ‘Any discussion is limited to repeated statements of “fact”.’