‘We know,’ said Michael, throwing the bread to a hopeful dog. The discussion of the mill deaths had deprived him of his appetite. ‘About the field and the funds for the chapel.’
Stanmore nodded. ‘Deschalers’s abrupt withdrawal made other benefactors rethink, too, and Gonville was left in a terrible mess. He once told me that he had managed the whole thing out of spite, to humiliate Bottisham. It would not surprise me to learn Bottisham was so angry that he lured Deschalers to the King’s Mill and slew him. Then he killed himself when he realised he would hang.’
‘People do not hang for murder these days,’ said Matilde acidly. ‘They spend a couple of years in France, then return to claim compensation for false conviction.’
‘But Bottisham did not kill Deschalers, anyway,’ said Bartholomew, finding the discussion distasteful. ‘He would be more likely to use the law for vengeance.’
‘Deschalers was very rich,’ said Matilde thoughtfully. ‘I should inspect his will, if I were you, to ascertain whether he intended to change or amend it. It would not be the first time a man expressed a desire to leave his wealth to someone different, and those about to be disinherited took matters into their own hands. You should not strike anyone from your list of suspects yet, and …’
She trailed off as she became aware of a commotion near St Mary the Great, where a large number of people had gathered, as usual. As they moved towards the massing crowd, one word could be heard spoken over and over again. Bartholomew’s heart sank when he realised it was ‘miracle’.
‘Master Thorpe warned me about this,’ he said to Matilde. ‘He said there would be “miracles” if we continue to keep the Hand in a sealed room, and restrict access to it.’
‘He is right,’ replied Matilde. ‘Folk are far more interested in things that are forbidden. Bring the Hand out and display it, and it will be forgotten in a few months.’ She caught the arm of Una, who was hurrying away with her face set in a broad grin. ‘What is it? What is going on?’
‘A miracle,’ declared Una. ‘We knew it would only be a matter of time before one occurred, and we were right. This will be the first of many.’
‘What kind of miracle?’ asked Bartholomew warily.
‘Isnard the bargeman,’ said Una joyfully. ‘His severed leg has just regrown!’
CHAPTER 7
‘You are a heartless man,’ said Michael approvingly, as he and Bartholomew walked home from Isnard the bargeman’s house later that day. ‘You dismayed half the town’s population, embarrassed Isnard, and exposed Thomas Mortimer as a fraud, all within a few moments.’
‘Mortimer is a selfish liar,’ declared Bartholomew uncompromisingly. ‘He informed everyone that Isnard’s leg had grown back because he had petitioned the Hand of Valence Marie on Isnard’s behalf. However, he knew it would not be long before someone noticed Isnard was still sans leg. When that happened, he planned to tell people that Isnard was so sinful, the cure had been withdrawn.’
‘It was a daring plan. Had it worked, it would have seen him free of all the venomous mutterings over the cart incident.’
‘He would have benefited enormously – at Isnard’s expense. However, when Isnard eventually wakes up from his drunken slumbers, he will find himself in great pain. His wound has reopened, because he allowed Mortimer to affix the wooden leg and take him out on it too soon. He might even die, if it does not heal.’
‘Isnard will do anything for a drink,’ said Michael unhappily. ‘Even sit in the company of the man who injured him. He allowed himself to be plied with ale, carried to St Mary the Great with his new leg, and paraded as though he was fully recovered.’
‘And the astonishing thing is that people were prepared to believe it, even though Isnard could not stand and there was blood seeping from the injury.’ Bartholomew was disgusted. ‘That was partly Rougham’s fault, for supporting Mortimer when he said Isnard’s leg had reappeared. Was he drunk, do you think, to make such a stupid assertion?’
‘He was sober,’ replied Michael sombrely. ‘And you have made yourself a greater enemy of him than ever, by pointing out his folly to the crowd. You should have seen his face when you removed the bandages to reveal a bloody stump and a wooden calf. If he had been a man for surgery, one of his knives would be embedded in you this very moment.’
‘And he accuses my students of being dull-witted!’ said Bartholomew angrily. ‘He did not even bother to inspect Isnard before making his proclamations about complete cures.’
‘How is Mistress Lenne?’ asked Michael, interrupting what was about to become a diatribe against the man his friend seemed to detest more at every encounter. He hoped it would not continue to escalate, because Cambridge was too small a town for bitter disputes between men whose paths crossed with some frequency. It was the sort of situation that might end in a brawl between Gonville and Michaelhouse, as students demonstrated solidarity with their masters.
‘She is dying,’ replied Bartholomew shortly. ‘The shock of losing her husband has made her listless and dull, and it will not be long before she joins him in his grave. I only hope her son will arrive from Thetford in time to say his farewells.’
‘That is curious,’ said Michael. Bartholomew followed his gaze and saw Wynewyk ducking into the small, dirty alley that ran down the side of St Botolph’s Church. As the Michaelhouse lawyer disappeared from sight he glanced in his colleagues’ direction, and grimaced when he realised he had been spotted. Bartholomew exchanged a puzzled look with Michael, then went to wait at the lane’s entrance until he came out. Wynewyk was a relative newcomer to the town, and did not know many of Cambridge’s seedier footpaths. But Bartholomew and Michael knew them well – and the one Wynewyk had chosen to dive down was a dead end.
‘What is he doing?’ asked Michael, bemused. ‘His shoes will be filthy when he emerges.’
‘He did not want us to see him,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Just as he does not want us to know he holds secret meetings with Paxtone.’
It was some time before Wynewyk’s large nose eased through the lane’s entrance, followed by his head and the rest of his body, like a rodent leaving its nest after a long winter. He almost leapt out of his skin when Michael spoke to him.
‘You should not go down there alone. It is notorious as a daytime sleeping hole for those who prowl the streets at night for sinister purposes.’
‘In that case, the Senior Proctor should ensure they are ousted,’ said Wynewyk stiffly, trying to shake the muck from his shoes. ‘But I saw no sleeping villains. The only person there now is that madwoman, who is playing with her gold coins and singing some dirge to herself.’
‘Is she?’ asked Bartholomew, peering into the gloom and wondering whether he should go to see her. But the lane was odorously sticky, rank with rubbish dumped there by those who could not be bothered to walk to the river, and it had been used as a latrine for months. He glanced down at what was a fairly new pair of boots and decided to leave Bess in peace.
‘God alone knows where she got them from,’ gabbled Wynewyk, transparently relieved to be discussing something other than his own reasons for frequenting such a place. ‘Perhaps she has been plying her trade among the rich merchants. I heard she serviced Deschalers the day before he died.’
‘I do not see a fastidious man like Deschalers employing a creature like Bess,’ said Michael, echoing what others had said. ‘He preferred women of his own class, like Katherine Mortimer.’
‘I doubt he had his money’s worth on Saturday,’ said Bartholomew, rather crudely. ‘He was too ill, and Bess looked seriously uninterested. It would not have made for an energetic coupling.’
‘I find such images nasty,’ said Wynewyk primly. ‘But I must be on my way. I have a lot to do.’