‘The word for them is “bigots”,’ said Michael. ‘And there are far too many of them in this University, especially among the religious Orders. It is astonishing how friaries attract those kind of men. There are fewer in monasteries, like those of my own Order, of course. But you say you will examine bodies for a year if I buy the Bacon for you?’
‘From now until next Easter.’
‘Done,’ said Michael, thinking that he had secured quite a bargain. ‘But we are at the King’s Mill, and it seems there is a sizeable deputation waiting to greet us.’
‘Listen,’ said Bartholomew as they made their way along the narrow path that led from the lane to the mill. ‘What can you hear?’
‘Nothing,’ said Michael, cocking his head on one side.
‘Quite,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The wheel is not turning. They must have hauled it clear of the river.’
Considering it was late – well past eight o’clock – and a time when most folk were retiring to their beds, a large number of people were silhouetted against the torch-lit interior of the King’s Mill. Bartholomew saw that most of the men who invested in the venture – the Millers’ Society – were there, all apparently determined to know what effect the unwelcome presence of a corpse in the premises they rented might have on their finances.
One figure stepped forward, evidently considering himself their spokesman. It was Stephen Morice, a sly, disingenuous man, who had enjoyed a recent short but disastrous reign as Sheriff. He was brazenly corrupt, and everyone had been stunned when he had been elected Mayor that spring. Bartholomew suspected that buying the requisite number of votes had cost him a good deal of money. Morice was a swarthy man, with bright blue eyes, and a black moustache and beard that concealed thin lips. He was slightly hunched, as though he spent a lot of time writing, but Bartholomew knew he would never bother with anything so unproductive when there were folk to be blackmailed and justice to be sold.
‘You took your time,’ Morice remarked unpleasantly, as they approached. ‘Why are you so late?’
‘Who else is here?’ asked Michael, peering into the gloom. ‘Why are they not by their firesides or in bed, like all honest folk at such an hour? Have guilty consciences lured them out?’
‘The Millers’ Society has a lot of money tied up in the King’s Mill,’ replied Morice testily. ‘How could we sleep without knowing what was going on? Would you retire to your feather mattress without first ensuring that your hard-earned gold was safe?’
‘Safe from what?’ asked Michael.
‘Safe from wicked men trying to prevent our mill from operating,’ snapped Morice impatiently, as though the answer should have been obvious. ‘The most serious crime committed here is not murder, Brother. It is sabotage.’
‘And we know exactly who is responsible,’ added Gilbert Bernarde the miller, coming to join them. Of all the Society, Bernarde had the most to lose, since his entire livelihood was based on the efficient running of the mill; for the others, it was simply a way of seeing a good return on money already made. Bernarde was of stocky build, and possessed far too many teeth for his mouth: they clustered against each other like drunken soldiers. The ball of his right thumb was flattened from years of testing the dressing of his millstones, and he had a persistent dry cough from the dust he inhaled on a daily basis. He always carried a large bunch of keys on his belt, as if he imagined flaunting such an impressive collection made him an important person.
‘Who do you think is responsible?’ asked Michael, always ready to listen to accusations that might lead to a speedy solution – although he would, of course, make up his own mind about their validity.
‘The Mortimers, of course,’ replied Bernarde, as if he considered Michael a simpleton for asking. ‘They want to put me and my mill out of business. Did you hear that Thomas tried to kill me with his cart last month? He knocked me right on top of that massive snow bank outside Bene’t College – before it melted, of course.’
‘There was a corpse inside that, you know,’ said Morice conversationally. ‘Sheriff Tulyet told me. A man died there around Christmas, and remained covered by drifts until Master Kenyngham of Michaelhouse happened to notice a hand sticking out. No one knows who he was.’ He shuddered. ‘A corpse on the High Street all those weeks!’
Bernarde nodded. ‘They say his indignant soul cries out on windy nights, angry that it took us so long to find him. However, I heard no wailing when Mortimer knocked me clean off my feet and on to his frozen tomb. All I heard was my ears ringing from the impact of my head on the ice.’ He addressed Michael. ‘Did you know about this? It was attempted murder!’
‘It is a pity you did not tell the Sheriff, then,’ said Michael coolly. ‘It might have helped Lenne and Isnard. There was no icy bank to save them from Mortimer’s thundering wheels.’
‘A lone man does not take a stand against the Mortimers,’ said Bernarde. ‘Look what happened to Bosel the beggar, when he tried to speak out. But tonight’s business is different: I have the Millers’ Society on my side this time, and even Mortimer cannot silence us all. Besides me and Morice, there is Deschalers the grocer and Cheney the spicer. Cheney is over there.’ He indicated a portly man with a red hat and matching face, who was staring uneasily at the stationary waterwheel.
‘Do not forget Lavenham and his wife Isobel,’ added Morice, indicating the couple who stood next to the spicer. ‘Lavenham may be a newcomer to our town, but he is a wealthy fellow.’
Lavenham the apothecary was a tall, angular man with a weather-beaten face, keen grey eyes and silver hair. He was not, however, from the Suffolk wool village, but from Norway, and his name – selected randomly, as far as Bartholomew could tell – was intended to make people believe he was local, on the grounds that some folk declined to take their business to foreigners. Unfortunately for Lavenham, the ploy would never work as long as he continued to speak eccentric English with an almost unintelligible accent.
His English wife Isobel was soft and voluptuous, with moist red lips and a predatory manner. Bartholomew’s students always argued about who should collect his medicines from Lavenham’s shop, and he knew it was not because they wanted to converse with the Norwegian. His own feelings towards her were ambiguous: he admired her spirit, but distrusted her sincerity. However, since she sold the ingredients he needed for his remedies, he was obliged to develop a working relationship with her, although it was sometimes difficult to repel some of her more determined advances.
‘So, what happened inside the mill?’ he asked. ‘Who is dead? Orwelle said it might be a scholar.’
‘We are not sure,’ replied Morice mysteriously. ‘Look for yourself.’
He gestured that they should enter the mill, a sturdy affair with a reed-thatched roof and wattle-and-daub walls. About a third of the building held the machinery that drove the millstones against each other, and the rest was used for stacking waiting grain, or was given over to the bins and equipment employed for weighing and sifting the finished product. Bartholomew had once been inside when the wheel was running and had been almost deafened by the clanking of wooden gears and the gush of water, but now it stood eerily still. Only the hiss of the river through its centre broke the silence.
He pushed open the door and stepped across the threshold. The instant he did so, dust caught at the back of his throat and made his eyes feel gritty. Next to him Michael sneezed. The mill was well lit, with several torches burning in sconces along the walls, ready for those occasions when the miller was obliged to operate in the dark in order to meet the demand for flour.