‘Since we were unable to agree, I said we should ask the King to appoint new Commissioners. Bernarde and Lavenham opposed that, of course.’
‘And then the fire started?’ asked Bartholomew.
Thorpe nodded. ‘The apprentices and Isobel had been sent away for the afternoon so that they would not disturb us. The blaze was not a result of their carelessness, as Tulyet thinks. There were no workmen around, and there were no potions bubbling in the workshop. Our meeting took place in the solar upstairs, and I am sure the fire started directly below us.’
They all looked around when there was a shriek from one of the apprentices. Expecting that he had picked up timber that was too hot to hold, or had twisted an ankle in the shifting rubble, Bartholomew dashed towards him, hopping from foot to foot as the heat penetrated the soles of his boots. But pain had not caused the young man to scream. He pointed an unsteady finger into the wreckage, and the physician bent to inspect what he had found.
‘Well,’ he muttered, moving a piece of charred wood. ‘Someone did not escape the inferno.’
‘Who?’ asked Michael, leaning forward, but backing away hurriedly when he saw the misshapen figure huddled up with clenched fists and hairless head. ‘Is it Lavenham?’
‘It must be,’ said Thorpe grimly. ‘He must have lingered, to see whether he could save his shop. Now the crime is more serious than arson, Brother. It is murder. Even my slippery son will find himself unable to wriggle free from that charge again, and I shall see he does not – even if I have to ride to Westminster and petition the King myself.’
‘I think we can prove the fire was started deliberately,’ said Bartholomew, clambering over more scaly-black timbers to reach what had been Lavenham’s yard. ‘There was a huge pile of kindling here. I heard Isobel complaining about it when I visited their shop last week. Some of it has gone, and I am willing to wager it was used to light the fire.’
‘Would Thorpe and Edward have known about convenient sources of combustible material in Lavenham’s yard?’ asked Michael doubtfully. ‘Or are we jumping to unfounded conclusions?’
‘Perhaps Isobel and Lavenham argued about it in front of other customers, too,’ said Bartholomew, making his way back to the corpse again. ‘It was not a secret.’
‘Is there any way to prove that is Lavenham, Matt?’ asked Michael, still hanging back. ‘I know there is not much to go on – no clothes, no hair, no face, and not much in the way of anything else – but you have a way with these things, and we cannot ask Isobel to do it.’
‘It is not Lavenham,’ said Bartholomew, pulling the charred corpse to one side with great care, not liking the way bits flaked off and landed on his feet. He pointed at something near the body’s waist. ‘There is a lot of metal here – melted, but metal nonetheless. And who do you know who carries a good deal of metal on his belt?’
‘Keys?’ asked Michael. ‘Your melted metal is a bunch of keys? That means our corpse belongs to Bernarde, who was always jangling the things.’
‘Then where is Lavenham?’ asked Master Thorpe.
‘I do not know,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But not here, I think. We must search elsewhere for him.’
Bartholomew headed for the newly constructed lavatorium as soon as he reached Michaelhouse. Hurling his smoke-spoiled clothes into one corner, he scrubbed his bare skin with icy water. Michael joined him, but washed only those parts that were not covered by clothes. He declined to wet his hair, too, maintaining that it might bring on an ague. Instead he rubbed chalk powder into it, which he claimed would counteract the darkening effects of soot. He donned a fresh habit and handed the dirty one to Agatha, who said it needed no more than a good brushing and a day or two of airing in the latrines. Michael was pleased it did not need laundering, because there was always a danger the wool would shrink, and he claimed tight habits made him look fat.
Bartholomew felt better when he had changed into a tunic and leggings that did not stink of smoke. He scrubbed at his damp hair with a rag, while Michael doused himself liberally with rosewater in an attempt to mask the stench of burning that his careless ablutions had done little to remedy. The lavatorium began to smell like a brothel, and Bartholomew left, complaining that Michael’s perfumes were worse than the odour of cinders and ash.
‘Now what?’ asked Michael, making his way to his room to collect his spare cloak. ‘Shall we search for Lavenham ourselves, or shall we leave it to Dick Tulyet? It is suspicious that he should disappear quite so soon after a devastating fire destroyed his home and killed Bernarde. Should we be concerned for Isobel, do you think? Or will she be the mastermind behind this nasty business?’
‘She might,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘She seems more intelligent than her husband, and might well conceive of a plan to ensure the Commission found in favour of the mill she had invested in. But their house, their livelihood and Bernarde’s life seems a high price to pay for it.’
‘I have always been suspicious of Lavenham,’ said Michael. ‘He acts as though he understands very little of what goes on, but I am sure he knows more than we think. He had good reason to kill Bottisham – he was about to represent his rivals in the mill dispute. Meanwhile, Warde was a Commissioner prepared to listen to the Mortimers’ side of the quarrel. Lavenham might well be our killer.’
‘And Deschalers? Why would Lavenham kill him?’
‘Deschalers’s death was incidental. Lavenham followed Bottisham one night, intending to murder him. Bottisham went to the King’s Mill. When Deschalers, arriving to meet Bottisham, caught Lavenham red-handed, he was obliged to kill him, too.’
‘There is a flaw in your reasoning, Brother. Deschalers had the key to the mill, so he must have arrived at this meeting first, not Bottisham. Deschalers would not have stood by and watched Bottisham murdered without doing something.’
‘He was mortally ill,’ argued Michael. ‘Weak. He might have been too feeble to help Bottisham. But you are quibbling. The point is that this case has taken a new turn, and Lavenham is mysteriously missing. We should at least ask him why. Will you come with me to St Mary the Great?’
‘What for?’ asked Bartholomew, who longed to lie down and rest. He was desperately tired, physically and mentally, and wanted time to allow the weariness to drain from his muscles.
‘For two reasons,’ replied Michael. ‘First, Redmeadow is in your room and is waving at you in a way that suggests he wants some text or other explained. You will have no peace there. And second, I want to ensure the Hand of Justice has not attracted some large and hostile post-fire crowd that might cause mischief when darkness falls.’
Reluctantly, Bartholomew followed the monk up St Michael’s Lane and on to the High Street. The sweet aroma of roses wafted around them as they walked, almost, but not quite, masking the stench of sewage from a blocked drain and the sickly-sweet reek of a dead cat that had been tossed on top of a roof, possibly by the cart that had killed it. Bartholomew started to think about Thomas Mortimer and his reckless driving, and wondered whether Lenne had returned to Thetford now that his mother had been buried.
The town had an atmosphere of unease that was so apparent, it was almost physical. People looked around warily, and the yelling that had accompanied the fire, had dropped to whispers and low voices. The High Street was unusually quiet, with only the rattle of carts and the thump of horses’ hoofs on compressed manure breaking the silence.
‘I do not like this,’ muttered Michael, unnerved. ‘It feels as if something is about to happen.’
‘It is odd,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘But there are no apprentices or students massing on street corners, so it does not seem that folk are spoiling for a fight.’
‘But there is an aura,’ declared Michael, gazing around him.