Pulham took a deep breath. ‘When we were at the Brazen George, Deschalers showed me his new will. This had been signed, but not sealed. It was quite simple. Bottisham was to have a house on Bridge Street, and Julianna was to have the rest. Two beneficiaries. He said it was to atone for years of bitterness and anger that should have been avoided. But he said he would not seal it – so it would not be legal – unless Bottisham came to him in person.’
‘The will was made out?’ asked Bartholomew, angry in his turn. ‘Here is something Quenhyth neglected to mention.’
‘I doubt Quenhyth wrote this,’ said Pulham. ‘That boy has neat, rather lovely writing. This one was scribbled, as though it was jotted down in great haste. Deschalers told me it was his third will. The first made a bequest to his apprentices, but he had decided against doing that a month ago. The second left everything, except a chest, to Julianna. And the third was to have benefited Bottisham.’
‘I see,’ asked Michael tightly. ‘And then what happened?’
‘I do not know. I returned to Gonville, and told Bottisham what had transpired, but it was the last conversation we ever had. I do not know whether he believed Deschalers’s sincerity, and I do not know whether he contacted Deschalers and asked to meet.’
‘This is all very intriguing,’ said Michael icily. ‘But Deschalers’s will was not changed. Julianna inherited everything except Quenhyth’s box – and Bottisham died before he could acquire this Bridge Street house anyway.’
Pulham nodded. ‘So you see why I said nothing about this earlier. And yet …’ He trailed off.
Michael regarded him with beady eyes. ‘And yet what?’
Pulham closed his eyes, and seemed to be undergoing some sort of inner battle. Bartholomew watched in fascination. He had never seen so many emotions – worry, doubt, fear and unhappiness – so clearly etched on the face of a man. Eventually, Pulham opened his eyes and began to fiddle with the purse he carried at his waist. Wordlessly, he handed Michael a document. The monk scanned it, then passed it to Bartholomew. It was a deed, badly written and bearing a mark that the physician recognised as Deschalers’s ‘signature’ – a crude letter D.
‘It is Deschalers’s new will,’ he said, returning the parchment to Michael. It amounted to powerful evidence, and he did not think Pulham should have it back. ‘It gives Bottisham the Bridge Street house and Julianna the rest of his property.’
Pulham nodded miserably. ‘It is the one Deschalers showed me in the Brazen George – signed, but not sealed.’
‘Deschalers gave you this?’ asked Bartholomew, slightly puzzled. Pulham shook his head, and several facts came together in the physician’s mind. ‘It was you who burgled Deschalers’s house the night he died? I almost caught you, and you escaped by climbing down the back of the house.’
Pulham looked startled. ‘I assure you I did not! Do you imagine me capable of that sort of agility? I was hiding under the bed, waiting for you to leave.’
‘But you emerged to stop me from falling through the window,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I knew that old servant did not have the strength to haul me to safety! It was you.’
Pulham flushed bashfully. ‘I only just managed to reach you in time. I escaped when the servant came and started burbling about crow pie – I just walked down the stairs and left through the front door. However, the window shutters opened in Cheney’s house as I left, and I think he saw me.’
‘His prostitute did,’ said Bartholomew. He turned to the monk. ‘When Una claimed she saw someone leave through Deschalers’s front door, we assumed she was either mistaken about the time, or drunk. But she was right, she did see a burglar: Pulham.’
‘Why did you do it?’ asked Michael, regarding Pulham with rank disapproval. ‘You are Acting Master of a highly respected College. Theft should not be something you enjoy.’
‘I did not enjoy it,’ cried Pulham, distressed. He made an attempt to calm himself. ‘When I heard Bottisham and Deschalers had died in peculiar circumstances within hours of Deschalers making his new will, I knew what people would say. Bottisham was a good man, and I did not want his reputation besmirched by scandals and rumours.’
‘You thought folk would assume he had killed Deschalers for the Bridge Street house,’ surmised Michael. ‘But what did you intend to do with the new will, once the fuss had died down? Contest Julianna’s inheritance?’
‘I could not, even if I wanted to. I am a lawyer and I know about this kind of thing. This will is signed, but it bears no seal. As far as the courts go, it is not worth the parchment it is written on. But can you imagine what folk would have made of such a thing anyway?’
‘People do not care about legal niceties,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘They would only see the fact that Deschalers changed his will in Bottisham’s favour – and died suddenly in Bottisham’s company.’
‘Quite. They would have claimed Bottisham had tried to murder him, and the two engaged in a fatal struggle. I took the will to protect them both. I probably should have destroyed it.’
‘I am glad you did not,’ said Michael. ‘It is evidence. Is there anything else you want to tell me?’
‘Just one thing,’ said Pulham. ‘I was not the only one raiding Deschalers’s house that night. Someone else was there, too, creeping around in the dark. He gave me quite a fright, I can tell you.’
‘Who?’ asked Michael.
‘I have no idea. I thought it might be Julianna, Edward Mortimer or young Thorpe. Or even a merchant, looking for incriminating documents about past unsavoury business deals. But I did not see his face, so I cannot tell you who he – or she – was. Just that he slithered out of the back window.’
‘And you cannot identify him, can you, Matt?’ asked Michael accusingly, as though the physician was deliberately trying to thwart him.
‘I have already told you it was too dark,’ said Bartholomew patiently. ‘It could have been anyone – man, woman, scholar, townsman. But at least we know why Una’s account conflicted with mine.’
‘Yes, but it does not help,’ said Michael crossly. ‘It is only yet another loose end to clear up.’
Bartholomew and Michael walked the short distance from Gonville to Lavenham’s shop. The entire town seemed to have been affected by the blaze, even though the damage had been mostly confined to the houses immediately adjacent to Lavenham’s home. People darted here and there, calling loudly to each other in excitement, and pools of water from slopped buckets lay in every pothole and dip in the road. A greasy veneer of soot coated many buildings, and the streets were even more littered with rubbish than usual.
Lavenham’s home had been reduced to a black skeleton, punctuated by jagged, charred pieces of fallen timber. The houses next door had fared little better; one still had its roof, but neither would be safe for human habitation again. The air around them was rank with the stench of burning, and Bartholomew detected something rotten and unsettling underneath, where potions that should not have been heated or mixed had combined to deadly effect.
‘Have you discovered what happened?’ asked Michael when he saw Tulyet, who looked as weary as Bartholomew felt. The Sheriff’s clothes were stained and sodden, indicating that he had been in the thick of the action. Morice and Cheney, who still hovered near the seat of the fire, were relatively pristine, suggesting their role had been confined to spectating. This had not gone unnoticed, and they were being given a wide berth and plenty of dark looks by townsfolk and scholars alike. Neither seemed to care.
‘The fire started in Lavenham’s shop,’ said Tulyet. ‘We do not know how yet, but an apothecary is always boiling some potion or other, so it is not surprising something was forgotten and caught alight. Accidents happen, even in the most careful of households.’