‘But you did not kill Bess until two days ago,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Why wait so long, when she had already told Bosel and Deschalers her story, and might have confided in others?’
‘I did not want to hurt her. I am not a bad man, and she became less inclined to gabble after her first couple of days here. I hoped she would just move on, but then Sheriff Tulyet showed her Josse’s hat, and she came after me again. I had to kill her then.’
‘Tell me about Deschalers,’ said Michael. ‘You followed him to the King’s Mill and found him in agony, waiting for Bottisham to arrive. Then what?’
Quenhyth closed his eyes. ‘I had given him pain-dulling potions before – because that bastard Rougham would not. I stole some from Isobel.’
‘I thought someone had taken pity on him,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He could not have ridden his horse that Saturday if someone had not stepped in to do what Rougham should have done.’
‘He was so grateful for my sudden appearance in the mill that night that he did not even ask why I happened to be there. He died within moments.’
‘And Bottisham caught you with the body, I suppose?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘He came early and started to screech. I did not know what to do, so I grabbed a nail from the floor and jerked it upwards as I came to my feet. He was leaning over me, and I ended up stabbing him in the mouth. I did not mean to hit him there, but it was effective.’
‘Then you stabbed Deschalers, to make the deaths appear identical. You did not want us to know he had been poisoned, lest we connect you with what had been stolen from Isobel. You dropped both bodies into the machinery, in the hope that the resulting mess would confound us. But there is one thing I do not understand: how did you escape from the mill without Bernarde seeing?’
Quenhyth looked at Michael. ‘I need absolution. Will you hear my confession?’
Michael nodded, and indicated that Bartholomew should leave. The monk was busy for a long time, and the physician began to wonder what other crimes Quenhyth had on his conscience. He went to the fallen tree in the orchard and sat, waiting for Michael to come and tell him it was all over.
He thought about the people who had died, and why. Bottisham had perished because he was willing to extend the hand of peace to a dying enemy. Bess had died because she guessed her man had been left to freeze in the winter snows, and Bosel because he had attempted to blackmail a killer. Deschalers had been murdered because he had rescinded on a promise to give Quenhyth a chest and because Bess had confided her secret to him – and because a madwoman had borne such a close resemblance to the lady he had loved that he had been prepared to listen to her. Warde had been dispatched because Quenhyth intended to teach Rougham a lesson. And Bernarde had been incinerated because Quenhyth wanted Lavenham and his workshop destroyed.
None of the deaths were connected to the King’s Commission or the mill dispute, and Rougham, the Mortimers and Thorpe were innocent of everything except offensive behaviour. Thomas was gone, too, killed because he was too drunk to understand the dangers of looting burning houses. And Paxtone and Wynewyk were guilty only of curious meetings and perhaps the theft of a book or two – although Bartholomew was careful not to think about Paxtone’s confession to Wynewyk that Rougham ‘foiled’ him at every turn. He did not want to know what the two men were plotting against the unpleasant Gonville physician.
‘He is dead,’ said Michael, coming to sit next to his friend at last. He sighed wearily as he leaned forward and rested his head on his hands. ‘His confession chilled me, Matt. His selfish righteousness will haunt my dreams for a long time.’
‘But it is over,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He cannot harm anyone else now.’
Bartholomew woke the next morning with an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach, but it was a moment before he understood why. Then the events of the last two weeks came flooding back to him, and he felt like turning over and going back to sleep, so he could blot it from his mind for a little longer. It hurt to think that someone so close to him had committed such wicked crimes, and for such paltry reasons.
‘It was not your fault,’ came Redmeadow’s voice from the other side of the room. He had heard his teacher moving, and knew he was awake. Bartholomew assumed that he had also spent a restless night, reflecting on what Quenhyth had done. ‘Or mine. We had no idea what kind of man he was.’
‘I should have been alerted by the fact that he was so ready to kill the cat and Bird.’
Redmeadow nodded slowly. ‘Perhaps. Shall we return his chest to Julianna this morning? I do not want it in here.’
‘I do not think so!’ said Bartholomew, heaving himself out of his bed and rubbing his eyes. ‘Edward might claim we are trying to kill his wife by giving her a poisoned box. We will burn it.’
Just then, a piercing scream rent the air. They regarded each other in alarm, before dashing into the yard to see what had happened. Deynman was standing near the porter’s lodge with something under his arm. Walter was with him, and the surly porter’s face was split with a grin of savage delight. Bartholomew saw bright blue-green feathers trailing from the bundle Deynman held.
‘Deynman felt sorry for Walter when Quenhyth killed Bird,’ whispered Redmeadow. ‘And he promised to buy him a replacement. It is not a cockerel, though. I do not know what it is. I have never seen its like before.’
‘It is a peacock,’ said Bartholomew heavily. ‘They are rare in England, although common in the East. They are very expensive.’ Another shrill shriek rent the air as the peacock made its presence known. Scholars were beginning to emerge from their rooms in a panic, wondering what was making such an unholy racket. ‘And noisy,’ he added.
‘Walter will like it, then,’ said Redmeadow. ‘He only loved Bird because the thing caused so much aggravation. Let me help you carry the chest outside, so we can burn it before we go to church.’
A number of scholars followed Bartholomew and Redmeadow as they hauled the unwieldy object into the orchard. Bartholomew insisted the fire should be at the very end of the garden, where no stray sparks could fly into the air and cause trouble in the town. He wrapped the chest with straw from the stables, and set about making a fire. Several students exchanged amused glances when Walter’s peacock screeched again, although Bartholomew suspected they would not find it funny for very long.
No one spoke as the kindling caught and flames began to lick up the sides of the chest, hissing and spitting when they reached the deadly grease on the lock. Bartholomew had refused Redmeadow’s request to open the box and retrieve what was inside it first. It crossed his mind that Deschalers might have poisoned other parts, too, and he did not want to find out by losing another student.
When the blaze died down most of the scholars wandered away to ready themselves for their devotions, but Bartholomew lingered, waiting for the last flames to die out. He wanted to make sure the chest was totally consumed and the embers raked away, so no trace of Deschalers’s inheritance would remain. He felt that the little tongues of gold were purifying something unclean, and the cremation left him in better spirits than when he had awoken. William hovered at his elbow, watching him prod the glowing embers with a stick.
‘The Lavenhams have gone,’ the friar said quietly. ‘But they left you this.’
‘No, thank you,’ said Bartholomew, eyeing the proffered package suspiciously. He could not imagine why the apothecary should give him a gift, and was certain it would not be anything he would want to own.
‘I know what it is inside,’ said William. ‘And you will like it, I promise.’
Donning a pair of heavy gloves, and ignoring William’s indignation that the physician should question his assurances, Bartholomew opened the parcel, making clumsy work of untying the twine that bound it. Inside was a small book. He gazed at it in astonishment.