‘Did you ever see your uncle with Bottisham?’ asked Bartholomew, declining to mention that one such thief and killer was her new husband. ‘Did Bottisham visit him or send him messages? Do you know anything about the funds promised for Gonville’s chapel, which were later withdrawn?’
‘Uncle never donated anything to Gonville,’ declared Julianna, pronouncing the name with considerable disdain. ‘He occasionally gave money to Bene’t College, which he helped to build. But he was not interested in helping other halls and hostels.’
‘So Bottisham never visited your uncle here?’ clarified Michael.
‘I did not say that,’ replied Julianna. ‘I said Uncle did not donate money to Gonville. Bottisham did come here occasionally, because Uncle was the town’s best grocer. Many scholars do business with him, and Bottisham was no different.’
‘Did he come alone?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Or were there other Gonville men with him?’
‘I do not know,’ replied Julianna with a bored sigh. ‘I have not been living here with him, have I? I have a house in Chesterton, where I reside with my husband and my daughter. And Rob Thorpe on occasion, although I do not like him.’ Her face took on a sulky expression. ‘When he is present, Edward ignores me, and all they do is sit together and scheme.’
‘What do they talk about?’ asked Michael, exchanging a glance with Bartholomew. Perhaps she would tell them what the pair intended to do in Cambridge.
‘Plotting,’ replied Julianna guilelessly. ‘Planning. You know the kind of thing.’
‘Enlighten me,’ invited Michael.
‘They have been deciding what they will do,’ said Julianna slowly, as though speaking to her infant daughter. ‘They agreed that Edward will work for his uncle – Thomas the miller – and Rob was going to study with his father. But his father will not have him, so he went to Gonville instead.’
‘But why?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. ‘Do they envisage staging some sort of revenge?’
‘I expect so,’ said Julianna, with a shrug to indicate she did not care. ‘They do not tell me the details, and I am not interested in their dull discussions anyway. But I thought you came here to talk about my uncle. You should try catching whoever broke into his house the night he died. That might help you with your investigation into his sad death.’ She was unable to suppress a grin, knowing what that ‘sad death’ meant for her future.
‘He was burgled?’ asked Bartholomew, although he knew the answer to that: he had seen the fellow himself. ‘What was taken?’
‘Nothing, as far as I know, but documents were tampered with. They did not steal the will though, thank the Lord!’
‘Who would be interested in his documents?’ asked Michael.
‘I have no idea, but you should find out. I do not like the rumours circulating that say poor Uncle murdered this scholar. I am sure it was the other way around.’
CHAPTER 6
Bartholomew remained haunted by Mistress Lenne’s haggard, distraught face, so went with Redmeadow and Quenhyth to see her the following morning after prime. Redmeadow pulled his writing tablet from his bag and provided the physician with a detailed résumé of what had been said when he had visited her the previous evening. There was nothing of import, and Bartholomew had the impression that the old lady had become impatient with the student’s ponderous enquiries, and had wanted him to leave. It was not a bad sign: irritation was better than bleak hopelessness.
He and the students left the Lenne house, and turned towards the High Street. When they drew near St Mary the Great – with Redmeadow regaling Quenhyth with a rather fanciful theory about how Bishop Bateman came to be poisoned in Avignon – Bartholomew spotted two familiar faces among the throng that had gathered to pay homage to the Hand. Paxtone and Wynewyk stood close together, holding what seemed to be an intense discussion.
Bartholomew was surprised, since he had never seen the Michaelhouse lawyer and the King’s Hall physician together before. He started to walk towards them, intending to pass the time of day, but Paxtone happened to glance up and see him. He grabbed Wynewyk’s arm and hauled him towards the Trumpington Gate. Wynewyk stole a quick look behind him as they went, and walked even faster when he saw Bartholomew was watching. The physician stared in total mystification, wondering what had induced such odd behaviour in two people he regarded as friends.
‘There is Master Warde from the Hall of Valence Marie,’ said Redmeadow, pointing in the opposite direction. ‘He was the fellow who robbed us of victory in the Disputatio de quodlibet. It was a bad decision. Michaelhouse was much better than Gonville.’
‘We were not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Bottisham argued very elegantly, and so did Pulham.’
‘Rougham was rubbish, though,’ said Quenhyth, gnawing at a fingernail. ‘I do not like him. He shouted at Redmeadow, just because he fetched calamint from the apothecary the other day, not catmint.’ His voice was smug, as though he would not have made such a basic mistake.
‘He can be brusque,’ said Bartholomew. He watched as Warde hacked helplessly, struggling to catch his breath. ‘Warde has had that cough for a long time now.’
‘He is being treated by Rougham, and we all know how ineffective he is as a healer,’ said Quenhyth. ‘You are much better.’ He flashed an ingratiating smile, and Bartholomew winced.
‘Lord!’ exclaimed Warde hoarsely, as their paths converged. ‘This tickling throat will be the death of me. I have had it a full ten days, and it still shows no sign of abating. I have tried everything – even a potion from Egypt that Deschalers the grocer sold me before he died.’
‘What kind of potion?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘And how do you know it came from Egypt?’
‘Deschalers told me Arabs use it when desert sand clogs their lungs, although it tasted like a simple syrup of honey and acid fruits to me.’ Warde shook his head sadly. ‘It is a terrible business with him and Bottisham. I was fond of them both. I cannot imagine what happened to them, or why they should have been together in the King’s Mill.’
‘Nor can we,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘But they had an ancient disagreement over a field, then Deschalers pretended he was going to give Gonville money for their chapel but withdrew it at the last moment – to embarrass Bottisham, apparently. We also know that Bottisham planned to represent the Mortimers in the mill dispute – against Deschalers and the Millers’ Society.’
‘The situation was more one-sided than that,’ said Warde, coughing again. ‘Bottisham held no ill feelings for Deschalers; he told me so himself. But Deschalers harboured them for Bottisham. Deschalers was protective of his possessions, and did not like losing a field that was his by rights.’
‘Was it his by rights?’
Warde nodded. ‘Oh, yes. I reviewed the evidence when Bottisham accepted the case, some twenty years ago now. But the other claimant bribed witnesses. Deschalers wanted to do the same, but Bottisham refused. Deschalers was bitter about Bottisham’s incorruptibility, and said a lawyer’s principles should not come between a man and his property. I can see his point: he lost a valuable piece of land because Bottisham refused to employ tactics used openly by other clerks.’
‘Do you think this festered, and Deschalers decided to have his revenge while he still could?’ Bartholomew was sceptical. He did not really believe Rougham’s assurances that the dying man had mustered the physical strength for a final act of vengeance.
Warde shrugged. ‘I do not know. However, I must point out that most men who are mortally ill avoid committing sins close to the time when their souls will be weighed. Perhaps it was not Deschalers who killed Bottisham, but a member of the Mortimer clan.’