‘He hired a clerk,’ said Michael. ‘All the merchants do.’
‘You do not dictate a suicide letter to a clerk,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘He would have to report it to someone, or run the risk of being charged as an accessory to a crime.’
‘Of course, the finest flavour of all comes from grass-snake,’ continued the old man, following them down the stairs again. ‘But Master Deschalers did not like me bringing them into the house. One escaped once, you see, and frightened his lover. Then he was hard-pressed to explain to her husband why she had fainted in his bedchamber.’
‘I can well imagine,’ said Michael wryly. ‘I would find it a challenge myself.’
‘It was Katherine Mortimer,’ said the servant, his wrinkled face creasing into a fond, toothless smile. ‘She was the best of them all, and he loved her the most. She was fond of stewed horse, in–’
‘Katherine Mortimer?’ interrupted Bartholomew, startled. ‘Constantine the baker’s wife, who died two years ago?’
The old man nodded. ‘She was the mother of that murderous Edward, who struts around the town so proud of his evil deeds. The King should never have pardoned him. It is not right.’
‘It is not,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘But when did Deschalers have this affair with Katherine?’
‘More than a year before her death,’ replied the servant. ‘He was heartbroken when she decided their liaison was too risky and told him it was over. I could see her point: her husband lives next door and, while it was convenient to have her close by, there was always the risk that they would be caught.’
‘I caught them,’ said Bartholomew, frowning as a memory surfaced all of a sudden. ‘I saw him entering her house in the middle of the night sometimes, when I was called out to tend patients. It was always when Constantine was away. I assumed Deschalers was being neighbourly – making sure she was all right on her own.’
Michael gazed at him. ‘Did you? That was naïve, even by your standards!’
The servant cut across Bartholomew’s defensive reply. ‘My poor master was never the same after she threw him over. When she died, he grieved far more deeply than her husband did. He–’
‘What was that?’ asked Bartholomew, as an odd rattle sounded in the chamber above, followed by a heavy thump. ‘There is someone else in here!’
He darted back up the stairs and looked into the office, but it was empty. Then he saw that the window in the adjoining bedchamber was wide open. He ran across to it and leaned out, just in time to see a figure drop to the ground and make his escape down the narrow alley that led to the river. Without thinking, Bartholomew started to follow, but his cloak caught on a jagged part of the shutter and he lost his balance trying to free it. His stomach lurched when he saw he was about to fall – and it was a long way to the ground. He flailed frantically, but there was nothing to grab. With infinite slowness, he felt himself begin to drop.
He did not go far. With almost violent abruptness, a hand shot out of the window above his head and hauled him roughly towards the sill, which he seized with relief. For a moment, he did nothing more than cling there, aware of a slight dizziness washing over him at his narrow escape. While the fall would probably not have killed him, it certainly would have resulted in broken bones.
‘Thank you, Brother,’ he said unsteadily. ‘There is no point giving chase now. Whoever it was will have reached the river, and there are too many places for him to hide. Give me your hand.’
‘Crow pie is one of my favourites,’ said the servant, reaching out to help the physician clamber through the window again. The monk was not there, and Bartholomew was surprised that the elderly man had possessed the strength to save him; he was obviously less frail than he looked. ‘Is that what you were doing out there? Looking for crows? You should be careful. You might have fallen.’
Bartholomew tumbled over the sill and climbed to his feet, leaning against the wall while he caught his breath and tried to regain his composure. He smiled wan thanks at the retainer, then followed him down the stairs to where Michael was talking to an old woman in the room where Deschalers received his guests – a pleasantly large chamber with comfortable chairs and dishes of dried fruits set out for those who were hungry.
‘Did you see anyone?’ the monk asked of his friend.
Bartholomew nodded. ‘But he escaped through the window. I tried to follow, but it was not a good idea.’ He smiled his thanks at the old man a second time.
‘Crows,’ said the servant to the old woman. ‘He was after the crows that roost on the chimney.’
‘Did you get one?’ she asked keenly. ‘Crow pie is delicious, especially if you add cabbage.’
‘I do not eat cabbage,’ said Michael superiorly. ‘How can any right-thinking man enjoy something that is popular with snails?’
‘I wonder who it was,’ said Bartholomew, still thinking about the intruder. ‘It was not someone with a legitimate purpose, or he would not have been skulking around in the dark. It was probably the same shadow I saw when you first started knocking, too.’
‘It is suspicious,’ agreed Michael. ‘Particularly given what happened to Deschalers tonight. I would be inclined to say it might have been his killer, but Bernarde’s evidence tells us that is not possible. Deschalers’s murderer was either Deschalers himself or Bottisham.’
‘Deschalers was a merchant,’ Bartholomew pointed out soberly. ‘Who knows what secrets he harboured or marginal business he conducted? The burglar may have nothing to do with his death.’
‘Minced fox has an unusual flavour,’ declared the old man with considerable authority. ‘But it leaves an unpleasant aftertaste in the mouth.’
‘So does your master’s untimely death,’ murmured Michael softly.
The tinny little bell in the Carmelite Friary was chiming for the night office of nocturn by the time Bartholomew and Michael returned to Michaelhouse. The College was silent, and most scholars had been asleep in bed for at least four hours. Two lights still burned. One gleamed in the chamber Deynman shared with two Franciscan novices called Ulfrid and Zebedee, who were notorious for enjoying the night hours and emerging heavy-eyed for the obligatory masses at dawn. The second was in the conclave, where Bartholomew imagined Langelee and Wynewyk would be going over College accounts, or perhaps Suttone or Clippesby was preparing lectures for the following day. The physician was exhausted, but since he knew his teeming thoughts would not allow him to sleep, he accepted Michael’s offer of a cup of wine while they discussed the events of the night.
Michael’s room-mates were a pair of sober Benedictine theologians, but they were keeping a vigil in St Michael’s Church for Lenne, so Michael had the chamber to himself that night. The monk had done no more than present his guest with the smaller of his two goblets, when Walter poked his head around the door.
‘The Sheriff is here to see you,’ said the porter, trying to keep his cockerel from entering by blocking its path with his foot. ‘Should I let him in?’
‘Of course you should let him in!’ exclaimed Michael, horrified at the notion of influential townsmen being kept waiting on the doorstep. ‘We can hardly discuss our work in the street.’
Walter was unmoved. ‘Father William says we should not allow seculars in, so I am only doing what he says. But as long as you are certain the Sheriff is welcome here, then I shall admit him.’
He closed the door and they heard his footsteps echo in the yard as he walked to the gate. The hinges squeaked, then came the sound of voices kept low out of consideration for those sleeping. A dog barked far in the distance. Suddenly, Walter’s cockerel gave a brassy and prolonged trill. There was a chorus of weary groans as scholars awoke. Bartholomew heard Deynman shouting at it, and Walter howling something threatening in reply.