‘One last question,’ he said. Meg nodded cautiously, still sniffling. ‘Could Joanna write?’
Meg looked taken aback. ‘Of course not,’ she said. ‘Her mother always planned for her to follow in her footsteps and become a dairy-maid at the Abbey. She had no need to learn her letters.’
But Eleanor could write, thought Bartholomew. And someone had written a note, purporting to be from Joanna, to Dunstan’s lovesick grandson, perhaps so that her sudden disappearance would not arouse the lad’s suspicion, and cause him to go to Ely to find her. If Joanna was illiterate, it was unlikely that she would have written a note – or even bother to dictate one to a moonstruck adolescent who could not read. Eleanor Tyler’s role in the affair was becoming increasingly suspect.
Bartholomew made his farewells to Meg and the agitated apothecary. As he turned to leave the shop the doorway darkened. Against the bright sunlight, a figure stood silhouetted.
‘Doctor Bartholomew,’ said the hulking shape in a loud, confident voice that dripped with loathing. ‘And Brother Michael. I have been searching for you two. We should talk. Meet me at St Andrew’s Church at sunset tonight.’
The figure moved away, leaving Bartholomew and Michael staring at the empty doorway.
‘Well,’ said Michael. ‘Do we obey this summons and meet Master Lydgate tonight?’
‘A summons from the Devil?’ asked Bartholomew dubiously.
CHAPTER 10
In a flaming ball of golden orange the sun began to dip behind the orchard walls, bathing the creamy stone of Michaelhouse in a deep russet – red shadows lengthened, or flickered out altogether and in the distance carts clattered and creaked as farmers and merchants made their way home at the end of the day.
Michael stood and stretched. ‘Ready?’ he said, looking down to where Bartholomew was still sitting comfortably on the fallen tree, his back against the sun-warmed stones of the orchard wall.
Reluctantly, Bartholomew climbed to his feet, and followed Michael through the trees to the back gate.
They let themselves out and walked quickly towards the High Street. It thronged with people heading for home. Horses and donkeys drew carts of all shapes and sizes and weary apprentices hastened to complete the last business before trading ceased for the day. One cart had lost a wheel in one of the huge pot-holes, and a fiery argument had broken out between the cart’s owner and those whose path he was blocking. A barking dog, children’s high-pitched taunting of the carter and a baker’s increasingly strident calls to sell the last of his pies, added to the general cacophony.
Bartholomew and Michael ignored the row, squeezing past the offending cart. As they emerged the other side, Bartholomew heard something thud against the wall by his head. Someone had thrown a stone at him! He turned, but Michael’s firm hand pulled him on.
‘Not a place to linger, my friend,’ he muttered. Bartholomew could not but agree. Any large gathering of townspeople, already riled by an incident such as the blockage caused by the broken cart, was not a place for University men to tarry. Bartholomew glanced backwards as they hurried on, glimpsing the owner of the broken cart howling in rage as three or four hefty apprentices tried to shoulder it out of the way.
He paused briefly, frowning at the carter as something clicked into place in the back of his mind, but yielded to Michael’s impatient tug on his sleeve. They reached St Andrew’s Church without further incident and slipped into its cool, dark interior. Here, the shadows lay thick and impenetrable and the only light was from a cluster of candles near the altar. Michael closed the door, blocking out the noise of the street, while Bartholomew prowled around the church looking for Lydgate.
Bartholomew had not wanted to come to this meeting.
He did not trust Lydgate and did not understand why, after so many protestations of dislike, the man should suddenly want to meet them. Inadvertently, his hand went to the dagger concealed under his tabard, which he had borrowed from the ailing Cynric. He rarely carried weapons but felt justified in bringing one to the meeting with Lydgate, although surely even Lydgate would be loath to commit murder in a house of God? But desperate or enraged men would not stop to consider the sanctity of a church. Even the saint, Thomas а Becket, had not been safe in his own cathedral.
The door gave a sudden creak and Bartholomew instinctively slipped into the shadows behind one of the pillars. Lydgate entered alone, pulling the door closed behind him with a loud bang. He stood for a moment in the gloom, accustoming his eyes to the dark after the brightness of the setting sun outside. Michael approached him and Bartholomew left his hiding place to join them.
Before any greetings could be exchanged, Lydgate pointed a finger at Bartholomew.
‘You have many questions to answer, Bartholomew,’ he hissed belligerently.
Bartholomew eyed him with distaste. It was not an auspicious start. Even the Principal of a hostel had no authority to speak to him so. But nothing would be served by responding with anger, especially with the blustering Lydgate.
‘We have much to discuss with you,’ he replied as pleasantly as he could.
Lydgate regarded him with his small blue eyes. ‘First,’ he began, ‘where is Edred?’
Michael spoke before Bartholomew could answer.
‘Where is your daughter, Master Lydgate?’ he asked ‘Is she still with your relatives away from Cambridge?’
Bartholomew looked at him sharply. He did not want Michael to mention Cecily’s hiding place at Chesterton, even in connection with something else. Although he did not have an overwhelming respect for Lydgate’s powers of reasoning, he did not wish Michael to give him even the most obtuse clue that might betray her.
Lydgate seemed nonplussed at Michael’s question, and stood looking from one to the other in confusion, his hands dangling at his sides. How could such a man, a lout with poor manners and worse self-control, ever have become the Principal of a hostel wondered Bartholomew.
The University clearly needed to review its selection procedures.
‘She is…’ Lydgate began. He seemed to remember himself. ‘Tell me where Brother Edred is lurking. He did not return home this morning.’
‘This morning?’ Michael pounced like a cat. ‘Why this morning and not last night? Surely, you do not expect your scholars to return at dawn when they should be safely tucked up in bed all night, Master Lydgate?’
Again the confused look. Bartholomew began to feel tired. It was like having an argument about logic with a baby. Lydgate was incapable of subtlety: he was too brutal and impatient. Bartholomew looked at the great hands hanging at Lydgate’s sides. They were large, red and looked strong. Had those hands committed all the murders that Edred had claimed? ‘We have much information that might be of interest to each other,’ said Michael, relenting. ‘Let’s sit and talk quietly. Come.’
He led the way to some benches in the Lady Chapel.
Lydgate sat stiffly, unafraid, but wary and alert to danger.
Bartholomew sat opposite him, the hand under his tabard still on the hilt of his dagger. Michael sat next to Bartholomew.
‘Now,’ the monk said. ‘I will begin and tell you what Edred has told us. Then, in turn, you can tell us what you know and together we will try to make sense of it all. Is that fair?’
Lydgate nodded slowly, while Bartholomew said nothing.
The beginnings of a solution, or at least part of one, were beginning to form in his mind, and the implications bothered him. They centred around the carter who had been blocking the High Street.
‘Edred came to us last night saying he was in fear of his life,’ Michael began. ‘He claimed you had kill young James Kenzie, then your daughter Dominica and a servant from Valence Marie and finally your student Brother Werbergh.’
Lydgate leapt to his feet. ‘That is not true!’ he shouted, his voice ringing through the silent church. ‘I have killed no one.’
Michael gestured for him to sit down again. ‘I am merely repeating what we were told,’ he said
in placatory tones. ‘I did not say we believe it to be true. Indeed Edred’s claims were all based on circumstantial evidence and conjecture, and he had nothing solid to prove his allegations. We arranged for him to sleep in Michaelhouse last night, since he seemed to be afraid. While Matt’s bookbearer made his bed, Edred struck him from behind and began a search of the room. Do you have any idea what he might have been seeking?’
Lydgate shrugged impatiently. ‘No. What was it?’
‘We are uncertain,’ said Michael. Bartholomew grateful that Michael had decided to be less than open with Lydgate although, hopefully, Michael was providing him with sufficient information to loosen his tongue.
Michael continued. ‘When we caught Edred rummaging, he drew a sword and threatened us. In the ensuing struggle, Edred was killed.’
Lydgate’s mouth dropped open, and Bartholomew swallowed hard. The Chancellor and Master Kenyngham had advised against telling Lydgate of Edred’s death and Bartholomew wondered whether Michael had not committed a grave error in informing him so bluntly. He sat tensely and waited for an explosion.
He waited in vain. ‘You killed Edred?’ said Lydgate, his voice almost a whisper. He scrubbed hard at the bristles on his face and shook his big head slowly.
Michael flinched. ‘I did not kill him deliberately. Which cannot be said for the murderer of Werbergh.’
‘Werbergh?’ echoed Lydgate. ‘But he died in an accident. My servants, Saul Potter and Huw saw it happen.’
‘Werbergh did not die in the shed,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I hope this will not distress you, Master Lydgate, but I took the liberty of examining Werbergh’s body in the church. I think he died on Friday night or Saturday, rather than Sunday morning under the collapsing shed. And he died from a blow to the head, after which he fell, or was pushed, into water.’
Lydgate scratched his head and let his hands fall between his knees. He looked from one to the other trying to assimilate the information.
‘How can you be sure?’ he asked. ‘How can you tell such things? Did you kill him?’
‘I most certainly did not!’ retorted Bartholomew angrily. ‘I was not up and about until Saturday, as anyone in Michaelhouse will attest.’
Michael raised his hands to placate him. He turned to Lydgate. ‘There are signs on the body that provide information after death,’ he said. ‘Matt is a physician. He knows how to look for them.’
Lydgate rubbed his neck and considered. ‘You say Werbergh died on Friday night or Saturday? Friday was the night of the celebration at Valence Marie. A debauched occasion, although I kept from the wine myself. I do not like to appear drunk in front of the students. Virtually all of them were insensible by the time the wine ran out.’
‘Was Werbergh there?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Was Edred?’
Lydgate scowled, and Bartholomew thought he might refuse to answer, but Lydgate’s frown was merely a man struggling to remember. ‘Yes,’ he said finally. ‘Both were there. Werbergh was drunk like the others. Edred was not. They left together, late, but probably before most of the others.’ He looked from Michael to Bartholomew. ‘Do you think this means Edred killed Werbergh?’
Bartholomew ran a hand through his hair. ‘Not necessarily. I think he genuinely believed Werbergh had die by your hand sometime on Sunday morning, not from blow to the head on Friday night.’
‘No,’ said Michael, shaking his head. ‘That is false logic, Matt. He may have killed Werbergh on Friday, but claimed Master Lydgate had killed him on Sunday lest and should remember that it was Edred who accompanied then drunken Werbergh home on the night of his death.’
Lydgate scratched his scalp. ‘What an unholy muddle!’ he said.
‘Unholy is certainly the word for Edred,’ said Bartholomew feelingly. ‘What was his intention last night? What did he think he could gain by blaming the murder on his Principal?’
‘Oh, that is simple,’ said Lydgate. ‘It is the only thing I understand in this foul business.’ He gave a huge sigh and looked Bartholomew in the eye. ‘But I do not know why I should trust you. You have already tried blackmail me.’
Bartholomew gazed at him in disbelief. Michael gave a derisive snort of laughter. ‘Do not be ridiculous, Master Lydgate! What could Matt blackmail you about?’
But Bartholomew knew, and wondered again whether Lydgate had overheard him and Michael discussing burning of the tithe barn during their first visit Godwinsson.
After a few moments, Lydgate began to speak in a voice that was quiet and calm, quite unlike his usual bluster.
‘Many years ago, I committed a grave crime,’ he said. He paused.
‘You burned the tithe barn,’ said Bartholomew, thinking to make Lydgate’s confession easier for him.
Lydgate looked at him long and hard, as though trying to make up his mind. ‘Yes,’ he said finally. ‘Not deliberately, though. It was an accident. I… stumbled in the hay and knocked over a lantern. It was an accident.’
‘I never imagined it was anything else,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Nothing could have been gained by a deliberate burning of the barn – it was a tragic loss to the whole village. That winter was a miserable time for most people, with scanty supplies of grain and little fodder for the animals.’
‘You do not need to remind me,’ said Lydgate bitterly. ‘I was terrified the whole time that you would decide to tell the villagers who was the real cause of their misery – me and not that dirty little Norbert you helped to escape.’
‘You knew about that?’ asked Bartholomew, astonished.
Lydgate nodded. ‘I saw you let him go. But I kept your secret as you had kept mine. Until the last few weeks, that is, when you threatened to tell.’
‘I have done nothing of the sort,’ said Bartholomew indignantly. ‘The whole affair had slipped my mind and I did not think of it again until the skeleton was uncovered in the Ditch. Edith thought the bones might be Norbert’s and I told her that was impossible.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Lydgate curiously.
‘Because I received letters from him,’ said Bartholomew.
He looked at Michael. ‘Copies of which were concealed in a book I have recently read,’ he added.
‘Then it must be Norbert who is trying to blackmail me and not you at all! He has waited all these years to claim justice! I see! It makes sense now!’ cried Lydgate.
Various things became clear in Bartholomew’s mind from this tangled web of lies and misunderstandings.
Lydgate must have already been sent blackmail messages when Bartholomew and Michael had gone to speak to him about Kenzie’s murder, which was why he had threatened Bartholomew as he was leaving Godwinsson, and why he had instructed Cecily not to contradict anything that was said. And it was also clear that Lydgate’s aversion to Bartholomew inspecting Werbergh’s body was not because he was trying to conceal his murder, but because he was keen to keep his imagined blackmailer away from events connected to his hostel.
‘Not so fast,’ said Michael, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. ‘We must consider this more carefully before jumping to conclusions. We found copies of Norbert’s letters in a book. That tells us that he probably kept them to remind himself of the lies he had written, so he would not contradict himself in future letters. Perhaps he always intended to return to Cambridge to blackmail the man who almost had him hanged for a crime he did not commit.’
‘Were these blackmail messages signed?’ asked Bartholomew of Lydgate.
Lydgate shook his head. ‘There have been three of them, all claiming I set the barn alight, and that payment would be required for silence.’
‘What about Cecily?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Could she have sent the notes? After all, you are hardly affectionate with each other.’
‘She did not know it was me who set the barn on fire!’ said Lydgate with frustration. ‘No one does, except the three of us.’
‘But why has Norbert not contacted me?’ mused Bartholomew looking puzzled. ‘I would have thought he might, given what
I risked to save him.’
‘Perhaps he is afraid you will not support him,’ said Michael. ‘How does he know you can still be trusted after twenty-five years?’ He rubbed at the bristles on his chin.
‘But it does seem that you were right and that Norbert has returned to Cambridge. We find his letters to you and Master Lydgate receives blackmail notes. It is all too much of a coincidence to be chance.’
‘So it was Norbert and his associates who attacked us a week ago, looking for the book that contained that vital piece of evidence?’ said Bartholomew, standing and beginning to pace, as he did when he lectured to his students and needed to think. He had sometimes carried the Galen in his medicine bag and it had probably been there when his room had been searched. But the night he was attacked, he had left the book behind because it was going to rain and he did not want it to get wet. Norbert and his associates had been unfortunate in their timing.
‘And Norbert killed Werbergh?’ asked Lydgate. He rubbed at his eyes tiredly. ‘Even with my story and your information, it is still a fearful mess. I can make no sense of it. It was all clear to me when I thought Bartholomew was the blackmailer.’ He watched Bartholomew pace back and forth, and then cleared his throat. ‘One of the notes said Dominica would die as a warning,’ he said huskily.
‘What is this?’ said Michael, aghast again. ‘A warning for what?’
‘This is painful for me,’ said Lydgate. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, large hands dangling, and his head bowed. ‘One note said that if I did not comply and leave money as instructed, my daughter would die. I sent her immediately to Chesterton for safety. During the riot, Edred came back to say she was in Cambridge again. I went out to see if I could find her but it was too late. She already lay dead, her face smeared in blood and her long golden hair soaked in gore and dirt. Ned from Valence Marie lay by the side of her, a dagger in his stomach. I pulled it out. I suppose it might be possible she was just a random victim of the riots, but I am sceptical so soon after I had the letter threatening her life.’
A Bone of Contention хмб-3 Page 34
