‘That is probably true,’ conceded Michael, albeit reluctantly. He turned to Christiana. ‘I am grateful to you for showing Spayne to be a liar, but you seemed angry with him. Is it because Ursula harmed your mother?’
She was startled by the question. ‘Of course not! He cannot be held accountable for his sister’s actions. Anyway, as I have already told you, I think my mother knew exactly what she was doing when she asked Ursula for that particular tonic.’
Michael regarded the hill without enthusiasm. ‘Shall we be on our way to the top, then?’
Christiana hesitated. ‘However, just because the Spaynes had nothing to do with the death of my mother does not mean I consider them harmless innocents. You do not become mayor by being nice, and Spayne is just as ruthless as Miller, Kelby and anyone else you care to name. I am sure he is jealous of your friendship with Matilde, and may decide he does not want you to find her.’
Michael nodded. ‘That is true, Matt, so be careful. Do not let him send Cynric to the kitchens for refreshment with the servants, or some such nonsense.’
‘I shall come with you, then,’ said Bartholomew, pleased to be in a position to chaperon Michael. ‘And we can visit Ursula together on the way back.’
Christiana shook her head. ‘You should go now, when he is flustered. And you should accompany him, Michael – both to pit your clever mind against his defences and to make sure nothing happens to Matthew. With men like Spayne, there is always safety in numbers.’
‘I would much rather escort you to the cathedral,’ objected Michael, his face falling.
Gynewell had finished helping his bruised canon, and heard the monk’s remark. ‘I can do that, Brother. Her virtue will be safe with me. I have no interest in women. Except for their souls.’
Cynric gaped at him, then jabbed Bartholomew with his elbow, to ensure such a sinister remark did not go unnoticed.
‘It is for the best,’ said Christiana, seeing Michael’s disappointment and seeming to share it.
‘You had better appreciate this, Matt,’ grumbled Michael, as they made their way to the mayor’s house. ‘I am fond of you, but you are a poor second to Lady Christiana.’
‘Go with her, then. You can retrieve that poison from the shrine at the same time. Besides, Spayne may employ prostitutes, but he is no killer. And Cynric is here.’
Michael regarded him thoughtfully. ‘No, I will stay. If you still cannot see the real Spayne under his amiable façade, then you are not in a position to defend yourself. I cannot leave you.’
Spayne had seen them coming back, and was standing by his door, ready to usher them in. He had gone from pale to flushed, and Bartholomew saw he was acutely embarrassed.
‘It is only occasionally,’ he murmured, as they stepped across the threshold and stamped their feet to get rid of the snow that adhered to them. ‘Belle, I mean.’
‘Your vices are not our concern,’ said Michael coolly.
‘I do not want you to think badly of me,’ Spayne continued uncomfortably. ‘Since Matilde left, things have been difficult and… but you are right, my problems are not your concern. Please see what you can do to help my sister. Your book-bearer can take some refreshment in the kitchen with the servants while you are occupied.’
‘No, thank you,’ said Cynric, immediately suspicious. ‘I do not want anything.’
Spayne gave a tight smile. ‘Then you can wait outside. I do not allow men from the lower classes into my hall.’
He slammed the door in the startled Welshman’s face, and led Bartholomew and Michael to the main chamber, where Ursula reclined on a cushioned bench. A bucket stood on the floor nearby, but Bartholomew saw it was placed to catch drips from the ceiling, not for the patient. A cold, heavy droplet landed on Michael’s tonsure with a sharp click, and he glowered at the mayor, as though he had made it happen deliberately. Ursula was white-faced and frightened, and it was obvious she was more unwell than her brother had led them to believe. Bartholomew knelt next to her and began to ask questions. She had eaten nothing different, and had barely left the house, because of the cold.
‘I had a little milk yesterday,’ she said, clutching her stomach. ‘I suppose that was unusual.’
‘You do not normally drink milk?’
‘I love milk, but Surgeon Bunoun says it is responsible for blockages, so I only have it as a treat. I had some yesterday, though, to celebrate Dalderby’s funeral.’
‘Ursula!’ exclaimed her brother. ‘That is a terrible thing to say.’
‘Well, it is true,’ she said, unrepentant. ‘I am pleased he is dead. It will weaken Kelby, and that is a good thing for us. Miller knows I like milk, and he left it for me.’
‘Left it?’ echoed Bartholomew. ‘Left it where?’
‘On the doorstep. It was good milk, too. Full of cream.’
‘Do you still have the jug?’ asked Bartholomew.
She gazed at him. ‘It is in the parlour. Why? You do not think…?’
Frowning, Spayne left the hall, and returned a few moments later holding a pitcher. There was not much of an odour, but fishy poison was in it nonetheless. Bartholomew mixed Ursula a tonic containing charcoal, thinking that the fact that she had not noticed what was a very distinctive odour suggested she was not as competent an apothecary as she liked people to believe.
‘You have not ingested much,’ he said. ‘And if you drank it yesterday, you are already over the worst. Do you not know it is unwise to consume gifts left on doorsteps, no matter who you think they are from?’
‘Especially in a city that boils with hatred,’ added Michael.
‘I have learned my lesson,’ said Ursula bitterly, lying back against the pillows. ‘The burning is passing now, and I feel better. Thank you for your kindness.’
‘Would you be prepared to reciprocate?’ asked Michael. ‘With a little information about Matilde?’
‘I cannot,’ said Spayne before she could reply. ‘And I have explained why.’
‘Oh, tell them, Will,’ snapped Ursula. ‘Share whatever it is you are hiding. Matilde may welcome enquiries after her well-being from these scholars, and you owe her nothing, not after all these years.’
Spayne appeared to be in an agony of indecision. ‘All right. Let me think it over. I shall ask St Hugh’s advice. If he does not make his displeasure felt, I shall tell you what I know.’
‘That is good news, Matt,’ said Michael, when Spayne had closed the door behind them and they were out in the street again. ‘If he was going to ask for a positive sign, I would say you can forget about having his help, but he said he would share his knowledge if St Hugh does not object. Signs at Hugh’s shrine are rare, and you may be in luck at last. The man’s resolve is weakening.’
‘He will send you somewhere dangerous,’ said Cynric, who had not appreciated being shut out. ‘He cannot be trusted. Did he try to harm you while you were in there?’
Bartholomew shook his head. ‘He kept his distance, and–’
He glanced up at an odd scraping sound above his head. Cynric suddenly leapt forward to shove Michael to one side. Then there was an almighty crash.
‘Lord!’ breathed Michael, looking at the shattered rooftile that lay on the ground. ‘That might have killed me! It is heavy, and it came plummeting down like a … Dalderby!’
Bartholomew sighed when he understood what had happened. ‘Dalderby was “attacked” right here, killed by a blow to the skull from a stone. Sheriff Lungspee said he managed to reel to Kelby’s house, but died without speaking, and there were no witnesses. Kelby lives next door.’
‘Is that too far for an injured man to stagger?’ asked Cynric.
Bartholomew shook his head. ‘We saw Sir Josquin de Mons lurch twice that distance at Poitiers, and there was an axe embedded in his pate. So, we can explain Dalderby’s death, at least. The weight of snow on a roof already damaged by fire has caused the tiles to slip. No one killed Dalderby. It was an accident.’