‘He might be here,’ she agreed. ‘His name was to have been “husband”.’
‘She had a lot of money two days ago, but there is not a penny left now,’ said Matilde. She turned to the woman. ‘Bess? Where is all that gold you had? Did someone take it?’
‘He promised,’ said Bess, her eyes filling with tears. ‘He said he would tell me.’
‘Someone promised to take you to your man if you gave him coins?’ asked Bartholomew.
Bess nodded. ‘But he did not know. I cannot find him. I have been looking since the snows fell.’
Matilde’s face was a mask of fury. ‘I knew some villain would cheat her. Have people no shame? How could they take advantage of someone who is out of her wits?’
‘Many felons will see her as fair game,’ said Michael. ‘I will ask my beadles to look for men spending gold they cannot explain, but I doubt we shall get it back for her.’
Bess went to stand at the edge of the river, gazing at the eddies created by the mills upstream.
Matilde watched her. ‘I think her man is dead, and his demise damaged her mind. She could spend the rest of her life looking for someone who is already in his grave,’ she said.
‘She looks like Katherine Mortimer,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I see Katherine each time I meet Bess now.’
‘But a very shabby and ill-conditioned Katherine Mortimer,’ said Matilde. ‘I wondered whether they might be related, too, and asked the Mortimers about it, but none admit to owning her as kin.’
‘We have just been to Deschalers’s house,’ said Michael, bored with the subject of the madwoman. ‘The Mortimers are squabbling over his estate like dogs with a carcass. It is not an edifying sight.’
‘That does not surprise me,’ said Matilde. ‘Deschalers was wealthy, and there is a good deal to fight over. I heard they quarrel frequently now Edward is back, whereas before they were rather taciturn. The Frail Sisters do not enjoy visiting members of the Mortimer clan these days, although they enjoyed the rare occasions when Deschalers summoned them.’
‘I did not know Deschalers regularly enjoyed whores,’ said Michael baldly.
‘He did not,’ said Matilde shortly, not liking the crude reference to women she regarded as her friends. ‘He liked an occasional female companion – but only after Katherine had ended their affair. He was also fond of Bernarde the miller’s wife – before she died of the Death, obviously.’
‘Bernarde’s wife?’ asked Bartholomew in surprise. He exchanged a glance with Michael. Here was another reason why the miller might have killed Deschalers. No man liked being a cuckold, and Bernarde’s wife had been a pretty lady.
‘It was a long time ago,’ said Matilde. ‘I do not know whether Bernarde was aware of it or not.’
‘Would Deschalers have hired Bess?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking about the day she had followed the merchant’s horse, clearly bound for his home.
Matilde laughed. ‘Of course not! He would never have gone with an unclean thing like her. He prided himself on his standards.’
‘Then why was she with him on the High Street last Saturday?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘I have no idea,’ said Matilde. ‘Perhaps she was following him in the hope of information about her man.’
‘Could Deschalers have known what happened to him?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘I doubt it,’ replied Matilde. ‘Unless he hired the fellow to guard his goods or some such thing. Unfortunately, with Deschalers dead, there is no one to ask. His apprentices are unlikely to co-operate, given their bitterness over being left nothing in his will and then dismissed by Edward, and Julianna will not know.’
‘I do not suppose you have heard anything about Deschalers or Bottisham through the Frail Sisters?’ asked Michael hopefully. A network of gossip was accumulated by the town’s prostitutes and fed to Matilde, who was very good at making sense of disparate details and putting them into context.
‘Not really,’ said Matilde. ‘I have asked them to listen for anything that may be important, but no one has said anything yet. Certainly no client has boasted of being the killer, or of knowing who the killer is. There is a lot of speculation, of course, but no evidence.’
‘And what does this speculation say?’ asked Michael, somewhat desperately.
‘That Thorpe and Edward are responsible, so that the University will rise up and attack the town.’
‘And what about Bosel the beggar?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘He has been all but forgotten.’
‘Bess is alleged to have made an end of him,’ said Matilde. ‘It is said that Thomas Mortimer hired her, to prevent Bosel from speaking against him over the accident that killed Lenne. But you can see for yourself that she is incapable of carrying out even the most simple of tasks – and murder would be wholly beyond her.’ She turned to Bartholomew. ‘How is Mistress Lenne?’
‘She is waiting for her son to arrive, but I think she will let herself die when he comes.’
‘Should we take her to the Hand of Justice?’ asked Matilde wickedly. ‘It may answer an entreaty from her, since she has been the victim of a particularly dreadful miscarriage of justice.’
‘Have you seen my man?’ came Bess’s pitiful voice from the river bank as she addressed someone who was passing.
Bartholomew turned just in time to see young Thorpe raise his hand to slap her so that she tumbled backwards on to the grass. Matilde gave a strangled cry and rushed to her side, while Bartholomew stepped forward and shoved Thorpe in the chest as hard as he could. He saw the young man’s face run through a gamut of emotions before he lost his balance: satisfaction, followed by alarm, ending with shocked indignation. Then he hit the water with a tremendous splash.
Stanmore’s apprentices released a great cheer when Thorpe disappeared under the sewage-dappled surface of the River Cam. The nearby bargemen started to laugh, and a number of children screeched their delight in high voices. Others flocked to join them, and soon a small but vocal crowd was watching the events that were unfolding on the river bank. It comprised scholars and townsmen, all united in a common purpose: when Thorpe emerged spluttering and spitting, they jeered at him with a single voice.
‘I am not sure that was wise, Matt,’ said Michael, watching with folded arms. ‘No man likes to be made a fool of, and you have turned Thorpe into a spectacle for all to mock.’
‘Help me!’ cried Thorpe as he floundered. Bartholomew was not unduly alarmed. The river was deep at that point, but Thorpe was easily reachable. ‘I cannot swim!’
‘Let him drown!’ called one of the apprentices. His sentiment was applauded by his fellows.
‘Is she all right?’ asked Bartholomew, kneeling next to Bess. There was a trickle of blood from a split lip, but she seemed more shocked than harmed. ‘I do not like men who hit women.’
‘Neither do I,’ said Matilde furiously. ‘And if you had not punched him, then I would have done so.’
‘Help!’ gasped Thorpe, his voice barely audible over the sound of splashing. ‘Please!’
‘Pull him out, Matt,’ ordered Michael. ‘Tempting though it is to leave him there, my monastic vocation does not allow me to stand by while men die. Give him your hand.’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He will drag me in with him.’
‘Is this your idea of practising medicine?’ came an angry voice at Bartholomew’s shoulder. It was Rougham, and he wore a pained expression on his face. ‘You stand gossiping while a man drowns?’
‘I thought you were in Ely,’ said Michael. ‘With the other Gonville Fellows.’
Rougham looked smug. ‘Someone needs to stay here and look after College business. I have been entrusted with Gonville’s safe keeping until Acting Master Pulham and the others return.’
‘In that case,’ said Michael, ‘you can tell me why they all lied about the Mortimers’ donation–’
Rougham brushed him aside. ‘I will not answer questions put by the likes of you while a member of my own College perishes before my very eyes. I will save him!’
‘He can swim,’ said Bartholomew.