Bartholomew rubbed his hands together, noting that they were deeply impregnated with pale dust. ‘Do you think Bottisham killed Deschalers, and then Bernarde stabbed Bottisham in revenge? Bernarde then could have thrown them both in the workings to confuse us.’
‘I have just interrogated Bernarde’s boy, who is slow witted and an uneasy liar, and he corroborates his father’s story very convincingly. Bernarde left his house just as he says – after the change in the wheel’s pitch alerted him to the fact that something was not right. I do not see why Bottisham should kill Deschalers anyway.’ Michael sighed miserably. ‘None of this makes sense. I hate cases where I am obliged to investigate the death of a man I liked. They make me feel guilty when my enquiries do not proceed as quickly as they should.’
‘Then I suspect we will both be feeling guilty about this one, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I cannot imagine where we will begin.’
Michael gave a wan smile. ‘You plan to help me? That is good news. I do not think I will be able to solve this alone.’
They were about to leave the mill and return to Michaelhouse, when they saw they were not the only ones keen to explore the scene of the crime in the cold light of day. Members of the Millers’ Society assembled as the sun began to rise and the day lost the delicate silver shades of early dawn. Mayor Morice was there with the burly Cheney, while the Lavenhams stood arm in arm nearby, listening to Bernarde’s assurances that most of the gore had been removed from those parts of the mill that mattered.
‘I assume you have finished now?’ asked Morice, approaching Michael. ‘We cannot allow the mill to stand idle any longer. We have twenty sacks of grain left from yesterday, and we are expecting a consignment from Valence Marie this morning. Their flour is almost completely exhausted, and we have promised that their corn will be milled by this evening.’
‘Then they will have to buy some from the Market Square instead,’ said Michael coolly, not about to be bullied by Mayor Morice. ‘I am conducting a murder investigation, and that takes precedence over any trading agreements you might have.’
Morice’s expression was disdainful. ‘Although one of the bodies was a scholar’s, this mill is not University property and you have no right to tell us what to do. It will start working in an hour.’
‘We will see what Dick Tulyet says about that,’ argued Michael. ‘He–’
‘Tulyet should be ashamed of himself,’ spat Morice in disgust. ‘He told us this morning that you will be looking into Deschalers’s death on his behalf. Delegating to scholars! That would not have happened when I was Sheriff.’
‘It is because of the Great Bridge,’ said Cheney uneasily. ‘He needs to watch the felons – and Mortimer and Thorpe. I am just as glad to see him doing that, and–’
‘There are a lot of things that would not have happened when you were Sheriff, Morice,’ retorted Michael icily, ignoring the spicer. ‘And a thorough investigation was one of them. However, I have finished here, so the mill’s reopening depends on whether Bernarde feels his equipment is properly cleaned.’
‘I asked the Hand of Valence Marie to bless it,’ Bernarde told his assembled colleagues. ‘That should take care of any lingering evil spirits. And I spent most of the night washing blood and lumps from the cogs, so the wheel should run smoothly now.’
‘Never mind that,’ said Isobel de Lavenham. ‘What about the parts that grind the corn? We do not want complaints that our flour contains meat as well as grain. We might be fined!’
There were dismayed mutterings at that prospect, and Bernarde was enjoined to go back inside and check his millstones. The miller declared that he and his boy had been scrubbing them for hours, and that he was more concerned about expensive damage to his delicate mechanisms than about stray fingers in the flour. The debate raged back and forth until Bernarde told them exactly how much it would cost to repair a damaged spur wheel or a wallower. Then it stopped. Bartholomew was disgusted with them all for thinking more about profits than the death of one of their colleagues – and of Bottisham.
Now seriously worried that the incident might affect him financially, Morice turned on Michael and pointed an accusing finger. ‘It was a waste of time summoning you last night. All we have done is ensure you begin one of your ponderous enquiries, which will interfere with every aspect of our lives. You detest townsfolk, and an opportunity like this will give you the excuse you crave to make a nuisance of yourself.’
‘I do not detest townsfolk,’ replied Michael calmly. ‘It is you I do not like.’
‘We had no choice,’ replied Cheney, his local burr conciliatory as he addressed the Mayor. He was flushed that morning, and Bartholomew could smell wine on his breath. ‘Bernarde was obliged to tell someone in authority that two bodies were in his mill.’
‘What I want to know is what Bottisham was doing here in the first place,’ said Isobel unhappily. ‘Deschalers I can understand: he had a key – and he had every right to inspect the property he invests in, no matter what the time of day or night. But Bottisham did not.’
‘Did Deschalers invite him, then?’ suggested Cheney thoughtfully. ‘Were they meeting for some reason? I thought they tended to avoid each other.’
‘What do you know about that?’ pounced Michael. ‘Were they enemies?’
‘I am not certain,’ replied Cheney, glancing around at his companions, who shrugged. ‘I recall something bad happened between them, but it was a long time ago.’
‘Bottisham be the rascal,’ said Lavenham hotly, pushing his apothecary’s hat back on his head. His accent was pronounced that morning, and agitation about the state of the mill seemed to deprive him of the ability to speak good English. ‘He be one with crime. Deschalers he not.’
‘We shall see,’ said Michael. He turned to Bernarde. ‘What time did you close the mill last night?’
‘About seven o’clock,’ replied Bernarde. ‘I locked the door myself, after my boy had finished sweeping. And it was empty,’ he added, anticipating Michael’s next question. ‘And the machinery was disengaged as I told you – the wheel was still turning, but the millstones were not. However, it is simple to start them up again. Even a scholar would be able to work out what to do.’
‘Who has access to your key?’ asked Bartholomew, ignoring the slur.
‘Me and my boy,’ replied Bernarde, jangling the metal on his belt. ‘My wife did, but she died of the Death, as you know, Doctor – you tried to save her. But we are not the only ones with keys: Morice, Cheney and Lavenham all have one, as did Deschalers.’
‘Why is that necessary?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘It is stipulated in the Millers’ Society charter,’ explained Cheney. ‘I have never understood why, but we keep them anyway.’ He rummaged about his plump person and produced a key made from ancient black metal. ‘Here is mine.’
‘There was one like that in Deschalers’s scrip,’ said Bartholomew to Michael. ‘I saw it when I examined him last night. I assumed it was for his house, but it seems I was mistaken.’
‘I carry mine never,’ declared Lavenham. ‘My wife, he cares for these thing.’
‘It is at home, locked in the cupboard where we keep our strongest medicines,’ said Isobel. Her smile became predatory. ‘I can show you, if you like, Brother.’
‘I will take your word for it,’ said Michael primly.
‘Mine is here,’ said Morice, and Bartholomew heard the tinkle of metal as he fumbled on his belt. ‘So, they are all accounted for. What does this tell you, Brother? What have you deduced by asking who has these keys?’ His jeering tone made Bartholomew want to punch him.
‘It has allowed me to conclude that Deschalers probably came here willingly, and that he used his key to let himself in,’ replied Michael, less aggravated by the Mayor’s insulting manners than the physician. ‘And the fact that it was in his scrip – rather than on a belt or a chain around his neck – indicates he was not in the habit of carrying it, but that he took it specifically to come here last night.’