‘Poisoned?’ asked Michael in surprise. He watched Bartholomew examine the beggar’s corpse as they waited for the Sheriff to arrive. ‘Are you sure? Who would poison Bosel? He is harmless.’
‘You would not think that if you were one of the people he had burgled,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Or if you were Thomas Mortimer, and had him claiming you deliberately ran over Lenne and Isnard.’
‘You think Mortimer killed Bosel?’ asked Michael. He rubbed his chin, nodding to himself. ‘Ridding yourself of an inconvenient witness is a powerful motive for murder.’
‘I thought he had more sense, though,’ said Bartholomew, prising open Bosel’s mouth to show Michael the discoloured tongue and bloodied gums. ‘He must have known he would be the obvious suspect.’
‘Desperate men are not always rational,’ replied Michael, looking away quickly before he lost the illicit early breakfast he had eaten in his room before mass that morning. Bosel’s mouth was not a pretty sight. ‘But Thomas is constantly drunk these days. I am surprised he could carry out a murder using as discreet a means as poison.’
‘His family, then,’ said Bartholomew. ‘His brother Constantine and all those nephews and cousins. Still, I am surprised. Poisoning Bosel is an utterly stupid thing to do.’
Michael agreed. ‘Poor Bosel. I shall miss his insolent demands for spare change on the High Street. What killed him?’
‘He ate or drank something caustic that burned his mouth and innards,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It would not have been an easy death.’
‘She might have killed him,’ suggested Quenhyth, nodding to where Deynman was sitting on a tomb with his arm around the shoulders of the madwoman. It was not quite clear who was comforting whom, and Deynman seemed to be deriving as much relief from the warm, close presence of another living person as was the woman herself. ‘She was discovered next to his corpse, after all.’
‘She does not have the wits,’ said Michael, although Bartholomew remained sceptical. His alarm when he had thought she might have harmed Deynman was still bright in his mind.
‘She says she was keeping his body company,’ said Redmeadow, eyeing her uneasily, as if he did not know what to believe. ‘She claims she found him at dawn this morning, and did not want him to be alone. She was waiting for a priest to come and relieve her of her vigil. She told me Deschalers the grocer gave Bosel his new clothes, though. Perhaps that is significant.’
Bartholomew did not see why it should be. ‘Bosel was a beggar, and people were always giving him things. It is how he made his living.’
‘I do not see Deschalers poisoning him to get them back, either,’ said Michael, surveying what had once probably been some decent garments, but that had become soiled and ragged in Bosel’s possession. He glanced up and saw the Sheriff striding towards him. ‘But this is his problem, not mine. The victim here is a townsman.’
Tulyet listened in silence to Bartholomew’s opinion that Bosel had died from ingesting something highly caustic. The physician pointed out an empty wineskin and a pool of vomit near the body, which he thought indicative that Bosel had died fairly soon after swallowing the substance. He did not possess the skill claimed by some of his medical colleagues to determine an exact time of death, but a lump of bread in Bosel’s scrip was unmistakably the kind handed out by the Canons of St John’s Hospital at seven o’clock each evening. Therefore Bosel had died later than seven. The body was icy cold, suggesting it had been dead several hours. Tulyet bullied and cajoled Bartholomew until he had the physician’s best guess: Bosel had probably died late the previous evening, most likely before midnight.
Tulyet frowned. ‘Did he do this to himself? Is he a suicide?’
‘I do not see why,’ said Bartholomew. ‘First, he had no funds to buy poison. And secondly, I imagine he was going to demand money from the Mortimers – by offering to retract his story about the incident with Lenne and Isnard. His future was looking rosy.’
‘It was,’ agreed Tulyet thoughtfully. ‘The obvious conclusion is that Thomas Mortimer did this: mixed poison with wine and gave it to Bosel to drink. However, if Bosel was murdered between seven and midnight, then Mortimer is innocent. He was at a meeting of the town burgesses during those hours, discussing repairs to the Great Bridge. I know, because I was there.’
‘One of his family, then,’ said Michael. ‘God knows, there are enough of them. And do not forget that they now include his nephew, Edward, whom we know is a killer.’
‘Edward was at this meeting, too,’ said Tulyet. He grimaced. ‘And so was young Rob Thorpe.’
‘Thorpe and Edward,’ mused Quenhyth, who was listening uninvited to their discussion. ‘The two felons who were found guilty by the King’s Bench but who then secured themselves pardons.’
‘Quite,’ said Tulyet bitterly. ‘Two ruthless criminals given the liberty to roam free in my town. I have enough to worry about, without watching them day and night.’
‘You should not have recommended them for a King’s Pardon, then,’ said Michael tartly. ‘I made some enquiries about that, and learned it was a letter from the Sheriff of Cambridgeshire that tipped the balance in their favour. Without that letter, they would still be in France.’
Tulyet shot him a withering look. ‘That may well be true, but I was not Sheriff when their case came under review. Stephen Morice was. He was the one who claimed the town had no objection to their release, not me.’
‘Do you think Thorpe and Edward killed Bosel?’ asked Michael of Bartholomew, ignoring the Sheriff’s ire that he should be blamed for something his predecessor had done.
Tulyet raised his eyebrows and spoke before the physician could reply. ‘I have just told you they were both in a meeting last night. How can they be responsible?’
‘Because you do not need to be present when your victim dies of poison,’ Michael pointed out. ‘They could have given Bosel the doctored wine hours before they went to this meeting.’
Tulyet considered, then nodded towards the madwoman. ‘In my experience the person who finds a murdered corpse is often its killer, and she seems to have no rational reason for being with Bosel. Do I know her? She looks familiar.’
‘Where would she find the money to buy wine and poison?’ asked Michael. ‘And why kill Bosel when she is a stranger in Cambridge, with no reason to harm any of its inhabitants?’
‘How do you know she had no reason to harm Bosel?’ asked Bartholomew reasonably. ‘We know nothing about her, not even her name. And she is out of her wits, so is not rational. She may have killed him because she thought he was someone else.’
‘Shall I arrest her, then?’ asked Tulyet. ‘I will, if you think she is guilty.’
‘I do not know,’ said Bartholomew, unwilling to condemn anyone to the Castle prison. It was a foul place, full of rats and dripping slime. ‘She might be telling the truth – that she found the body and did not like to leave it alone until a priest came.’
‘Perhaps she stole the wine,’ suggested Tulyet, reluctant to dismiss a potential culprit too readily. ‘Or Bosel did – and got more than he bargained for. Unfortunately, I am too busy to look into this myself. Repairs to the Great Bridge begin today, and I must be there to supervise.’
‘Why?’ asked Michael curiously. ‘That is the burgesses’ responsibility, not yours.’
Tulyet’s face was angry. ‘Because the burgesses, in an attempt to cut costs, want to use the cheapest labour available: the prisoners in my Castle. That is why we had that meeting last night. I objected very strongly, but I was outvoted on all sides, so debtors, thieves and violent robbers will be set free to work on the bridge this very afternoon. I need to make sure they do not try to escape – or that my soldiers will know how to stop them, if they do.’