‘Thank you,’ said Michael, aware that the King’s Hall physician was waiting for his discoveries to be acknowledged. ‘This will help us greatly. However, we still do not know the answer to one basic question: did Bess knowingly obtain and swallow this potion; was she given it, because she had uncovered something she should not have done in her quest to locate her man; or did she simply find it, then take it because she was addled?’
‘We will have to question Lavenham again,’ said Bartholomew. He glanced at the apothecary’s shop and saw Isobel loitering outside, passing the time by waggling her hips at anyone who looked in her direction. ‘Bess’s phial probably came from his shop, and the one that killed Warde certainly did. We should ask him how many more of the things are loose in the town.’
‘You have already interrogated Lavenham,’ said Cheney. Bartholomew jumped in alarm; he had not noticed the silent approach of the merchants behind him, keen to hear what was being said.
‘And he did not like it, either,’ added Morice, his blue eyes darting here and there so that Bartholomew began to ask himself if there was anyone in the town who could hold a conversation without behaving as though he had just committed the most heinous of crimes. ‘He was upset, and claimed you hinted that he had poisoned Warde, Deschalers and Bottisham. It is all nonsense, of course. Deschalers is no good to any of us dead. We needed him alive.’
‘You cannot interrupt the Commissioners’ meeting,’ said Cheney, catching Michael’s arm as the monk started determinedly towards Lavenham’s shop. ‘We want them to decide whether there is enough evidence to warrant a formal hearing – and if you disturb them now, they may never make up their minds. Lavenham and Bernarde are fighting for us, but Master Thorpe is annoyingly neutral.’
‘Look at the Mortimers,’ said Paxtone, pointing to where Thomas, Constantine and various nephews milled about. Thorpe was with them. ‘They are as keen to know the verdict as you are.’
‘Of course,’ said Stanmore, watching as Thomas reeled against one of his clan, who struggled to hold him upright. The miller tugged a wineskin from his belt, and Bartholomew saw he was fortifying himself in anticipation of grim news to come. ‘There is a lot of money at stake.’
‘Look!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, gazing at the shop. ‘Is that smoke?’
‘It is smoke,’ said Stanmore, hurrying towards it. ‘And there are flames. Lavenham’s shop is afire! Fetch water! Sound the alarm!’
In a town where many buildings were made of wood and had thatched roofs, and lots of houses were crammed into a relatively small area, fire was something all citizens feared. To some, it was even more frightening than the plague, and there was nothing like the stench of burning to throw the Fen-edge community into a panic. Humans were not the only ones terrified. Bartholomew could hear horses whinnying in alarm, kicking their iron-shod hoofs against stable doors with a rhythmic drumming sound. He hoped someone would let them out in time.
Stanmore’s frantic cries had not brought people running with buckets of water to douse the flames. Instead they had caused havoc, with folk running here and there, desperate to return to their own properties and protect them before the fire could spread. Stanmore himself was among them. His house was not far from Lavenham’s shop and, although he was wealthy enough to have purchased a building without immediate neighbours, there was always the danger that his wooden storage sheds would be ignited by the orange sparks that were dancing ever higher in the sky.
Bartholomew knew he should organise a chain of people with pails and other utensils, from the well in the Market Square to Lavenham’s house. He also knew there would be burns, or injuries caused when folk fell in their haste to escape. But Matilde was at home that day, and his first thoughts were for the safety of his friend. So like all the others, he ran to see to his own interests, rather than trying to control the flames while there was still a chance.
Matilde was sitting quietly with Dame Pelagia when Bartholomew burst in on her. She listened to his garbled explanation, then climbed the steps to her bedroom to throw open the window shutters and see what was happening. Bartholomew followed, and saw that across the tiled and thatched rooftops smoke rose in a thick black pall, lit here and there by orange embers that zigzagged into the grey sky like wild spirits. He and Matilde watched as the reed roof of Trinity Hall began to smoulder. Scholars scrambled across it, flapping with blankets and rugs.
‘Young Alfred told me he saw Bess leaving Lavenham’s shop moments before she died,’ Matilde said quietly. ‘I was just telling Dame Pelagia about it. I blame Lavenham for Bess’s death. He sold her a dangerous potion knowing she was unstable in her mind. I think it was wrong of him.’
‘You do not know he sold her anything,’ said Bartholomew reasonably. ‘He may have refused her, and she found the phial somewhere else. Apothecaries are careful with dangerous potions for exactly this reason: it is easy to blame them for accidents. For all his faults, Lavenham is not a fool.’
‘But he is not careful, either. He will sell anyone anything, as long as they can pay. Alfred said Bess had something in her hand – probably the phial. But you should go, Matt. The wind is from the north, and the fire will not affect me. See what you can do to help others, while I round up Yolande’s children. She will be beside herself if she comes home and finds they are not all here.’ She stood on tiptoe and kissed him. ‘Be careful, and come back when this is over.’
Bartholomew hurried down the stairs and raced through the parlour, noting it was already empty. Dame Pelagia had gone, but he was sure she did not intend to use her wiry strength for hauling buckets of water from the town’s wells – she was more likely to use the chaos as a diversion to carry out some mission of her own. He ran to Michaelhouse, where Langelee had students gathering every available utensil that could hold water. They had already saturated the stable roof; sodden thatch made for poor kindling. The Master had the situation well under control, so the physician went to Stanmore’s house on Milne Street, which was a good deal closer to Lavenham’s shop, to see whether his brother-in-law needed an extra pair of hands.
The sheds on Stanmore’s premises contained large quantities of valuable cloth, and the merchant stood in the centre of his yard with his hands on his hips, bawling orders to an army of scurrying apprentices. Every surface was to be drenched. The ground was already flooded, and apprentices were still hauling water-filled containers from the clothier’s private well.
‘Put that sheet over there!’ he yelled. ‘We will go up like Lavenham otherwise. Hurry, lads!’
The activity grew even more frenzied, and Bartholomew could hear leather buckets scraping against the well’s stone sides as they were hauled up and down. Feet slapped in puddles as apprentices tore here and there, and the swish and drip of cascading water soon added to the cacophony. Bartholomew coughed. Smoke was swirling in thick, gagging clouds, and the town reeked of the acrid stench of burning. He could taste it in his mouth, and it seared the back of his throat.
He left the organised chaos of Stanmore’s yard and went to the very disorganised chaos of the area around Lavenham’s shop. The fire had taken hold completely and the roof was a sheet of blazing yellow that sent sparks far into the sky and released a column of thick, poisonous smoke. Paler billows poured through the windows, and the houses on either side were beginning to catch, despite desperate attempts by their owners to save them. Already they were a lost cause. Wynewyk and Paxtone were among the folk who gaped open-mouthed at the destruction. Paxtone was soot-stained, as if he had been closer to the blaze than was wise. They saw Bartholomew looking at them and immediately moved apart, as though trying to show that their proximity to each other was coincidence.