Cynric led them to the Great Bridge, a grand name for the rickety structure that spanned the River Cam. It comprised a single stone arch, with timber rails to prevent people falling over the sides, and was always on the verge of collapse. Every so often, a tax was levied to fund its repair, but the town worthies were corrupt, and the money was invariably siphoned off to other causes.
That day, a crowd had gathered on it. They included Yffi and his apprentices, who were laughing and joking with drinking cronies from the Griffin.
‘You!’ exclaimed Michael, stopping dead in his tracks. ‘You are meant to be mending our roof.’
‘It is Sunday,’ replied Yffi piously. ‘We do not despoil the Sabbath by labouring.’
‘You were labouring this morning,’ called Isnard the bargeman, who could always be found among spectators, no matter what had attracted them. ‘You were in the Carmelite Priory, building their shrine. I saw you.’
‘I was not building anything,’ asserted Yffi stiffly. ‘I was surveying the site.’
‘You were hammering and sawing,’ countered Isnard.
‘Lies!’ snarled Yffi, bunching his fists.
Michael stepped forward to prevent a spat, but Bartholomew was more interested in what Cynric was trying to show them. He followed the book-bearer through the throng, knelt down and peered over the edge of the bridge. A rope had been tied to one of the stanchions to form a noose, and a man with yellow hair was dangling from the end of it. It was a fairly long rope, and the man’s legs were in the water, causing the body to sway as the river washed past.
Michael joined him, then turned to address the crowd. ‘Who found him?’
‘I did.’ It was Meryfeld, stepping forward importantly and rubbing his grimy hands together. ‘My windows overlook the bridge, and I saw him when I happened to glance out. He was invisible to anyone walking across it, and might have dangled there for days, had I not been vigilant.’
‘Was he there yesterday?’ asked Michael.
‘Of course not,’ replied Meryfeld tartly. ‘Or I would have raised the alarm then.’
While Michael continued to question the crowd, Bartholomew grabbed the rope and began to haul. Meryfeld helped, and they soon had the body up on the bridge. The long yellow hair was plastered across the corpse’s face, but when Bartholomew pushed it away, he noticed two things: that the victim was Gib from Chestre Hostel, and that he was wearing a wig.
‘I am sorry you have to see a patient like this,’ he said sympathetically, aware that his colleague was looking away in distaste. ‘Hangings are never pleasant.’
Meryfeld raised his eyebrows in surprise, then peered more closely at the corpse. ‘Why, it is Gib! I would never have recognised him! I wonder what drove him to take his own life.’
‘What makes you think it was suicide?’ asked Bartholomew, taken aback.
Meryfeld shrugged. ‘It is obvious. First, his hands are not tied, as they would have been, had it been murder. Second, none of the Chestre lads like Cambridge, so they tend to be gloomy all the time. Third, he used a long rope, to ensure he could not climb back up again, should he change his mind. And last, he is not the first tortured soul to fling himself off this bridge.’
Bartholomew sat back on his heels. ‘However, first, not all killers tie their victims’ hands, so that proves nothing. Second, it is a big step from gloom to self-murder. Third, he could not have climbed up a short rope, had he had second thoughts, so its length is irrelevant. And last, there have been suicides on the bridge, but most have thrown themselves in the water.’
‘So what are you saying?’ demanded Michael, overhearing. ‘That he was murdered?’
Bartholomew pointed to Gib’s ragged fingernails. ‘He certainly put up a fight.’
‘That happened when he clawed at the rope,’ argued Meryfeld. ‘Even when men are determined to die, they still rebel against the pain of a constricted neck. It is only natural.’
‘But there is a bruise on his head and his arm is broken,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He was involved in some sort of tussle before he died.’
‘He damaged his arm as he threw himself off the parapet,’ countered Meryfeld doggedly. ‘While the mark on his head occurred when we dragged him up.’
‘It is difficult to bruise a corpse,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Their blood vessels do not rupture…’
He stopped speaking when he became aware that the crowd was listening, and most were regarding him rather oddly. So was Meryfeld. He stifled a sigh, and wished he did not have to watch his words whenever he drew on something he had learned from cadavers.
‘I suppose you were taught this in Padua,’ said Meryfeld distastefully. ‘During a dissection.’
‘I have never dissected anyone,’ objected Bartholomew, although he could tell by the crowd’s reaction that it was more interesting to think that he had. ‘But my work as Corpse Examiner means I know what happens to a person after death, and they do not bruise. Only living tissues bruise.’
There was a murmur of revulsion at this revelation, and Michael rested his hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘Do not say anything else,’ he whispered. ‘You are digging yourself a deeper pit.’
‘But they believe I am a–’
‘Sharing grisly details about the dead will not help your case. But never mind this now. We need to take Gib somewhere private, so you can inspect him without an audience. I want the answers to two questions. First, is this really the yellow-headed killer-thief? And second, are we now obliged to look for his murderer?’
St Clement’s was the closest church, so Michael made arrangements for Gib to be carried there. While he did so, Bartholomew talked to the bridge’s guards, who were unrepentant about the fact that someone had been hanged on the structure they were meant to be watching. All he learned was that Gib had probably died between midnight and five o’clock, which was when they liked to sleep.
‘Assuming this is murder, who are our suspects?’ asked Michael, speaking softly, so as not to be overheard as they followed the grim procession off the bridge and back towards the town.
‘Heslarton is the obvious choice,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘He has been hunting the killer-thief since last Monday, and has vowed revenge on the man who not only invaded his mother-in-law’s home, but probably poisoned his wife and daughter, too.’
‘Poison that harmed Alice and Odelina, but that may have been intended for him or Emma.’ Michael was silent for a moment, thinking. Then he said, ‘Was it Gib you chased out of their house?’
Bartholomew closed his eyes as he replayed the memory. ‘The hair looks the same – a wild, yellow shock that tumbled about his shoulders. I did not see his face, not even when I grabbed the reins of his horse and he kicked me away. The thief was the same height as Gib…’
‘But?’ asked Michael, sensing a caveat.
Bartholomew’s eyes snapped open when he stumbled over a pile of manure. ‘But anyone can don a wig. And anyone can tie one on a corpse, too.’
Michael regarded him thoughtfully. ‘In other words, someone may have fastened this hair on Gib to make us – and Heslarton – stop pursuing the real villain?’
‘It is possible. However, we should not forget what Edith and Oswald told us – that all the Chestre lads were in the Gilbertines’ chapel the day her signaculum was stolen. Perhaps Gib did put on a yellow wig and make off with her cloak.’
Michael nodded slowly. ‘True. But let us assume for a moment that you are right, and Gib is innocent. If we do, then Heslarton cannot be a suspect – he would not have tied a yellow wig on a corpse to stop himself searching for the real culprit! So who is left on our list?’