‘I do not understand,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘How can they want revenge when they know they are in the wrong?’
‘Because they were caught,’ said Tulyet. ‘And that rankles.’
Michael and Bartholomew returned to the King’s Mill early the following morning to inspect the building in daylight. It was William’s turn to recite the daily mass again, and he shot through the office at such a speed that there was ample time to visit the mill and search for clues among its dusty corners before teaching began at eight o’clock. They explored every crack and crevice in the rambling building, but to no avail: there was nothing to help them ascertain what had caused Bottisham and Deschalers to die in such bizarre circumstances. Bartholomew rubbed a hand through his hair in frustration, wanting desperately to find something that would tell him what had happened, but not knowing where else to look or what else to do.
‘You see this dust?’ asked Bernarde, pointing to a thick, even layer of grainy-grey powder that lay across the floor. ‘It has not been disturbed since my boy swept it last night. Watch.’
He took a few steps across it, keys bouncing importantly at his waist, and Bartholomew saw his footprints quite clearly as they left a distinctive trail behind him.
‘We always sweep the floor before retiring for the evening,’ Bernarde went on. ‘Then we bag up the dust and sell it at a reduced rate to the lepers at Stourbridge. The only footprints when I arrived last night were the ones made by Bottisham and Deschalers, as they came in through the door and made for this end of the building. These have now been overlain by our own. But you can see for yourselves that no one went anywhere else to hide – as you suggested yesterday. There would be marks leading to his hiding place, and there are none.’
‘So, this really does discount the possibility of a third party,’ said Bartholomew, disheartened when he saw the miller was right. There were no trails leading to dark corners, and the killer would have been seen had he remained in the chamber with his victims. ‘Unless he escaped before the second body fell …’
‘Not possible,’ countered Bernarde immediately. ‘I left my house very quickly after I heard the machinery engage, and I would have seen anyone leaving. I am sorry, Doctor, but there were only two men here last night: Bottisham and Deschalers.’
Bartholomew wandered outside, to see whether there were windows or cracks that might be used to effect an escape, but mills suffered from interested rats and tended to be fairly well sealed. There was no other exit, except a gate high on the upper floor that was used to hoist sacks of grain to the storage bins. But Bartholomew knew this had been barred from the inside the previous night, because he had seen it himself. He sat on the river bank and looked across the Mill Pool to Isnard’s cottage. Bottisham’s pleasant face kept swimming into his thoughts.
‘Bernarde could have killed one or both of them,’ he said, when Michael joined him.
The monk glanced behind him, to ensure the miller was not listening. ‘You would not say that if you heard the fuss he was making about bits of bone in his pinions – whatever they are. He is furious about it. Besides, Deschalers was a member of the Millers’ Society, and I do not see why Bernarde would do away with a colleague and an investor.’
Bartholomew rubbed his hands together, noting that they were deeply impregnated with pale dust. ‘Do you think Bottisham killed Deschalers, and then Bernarde stabbed Bottisham in revenge? Bernarde then could have thrown them both in the workings to confuse us.’
‘I have just interrogated Bernarde’s boy, who is slow witted and an uneasy liar, and he corroborates his father’s story very convincingly. Bernarde left his house just as he says – after the change in the wheel’s pitch alerted him to the fact that something was not right. I do not see why Bottisham should kill Deschalers anyway.’ Michael sighed miserably. ‘None of this makes sense. I hate cases where I am obliged to investigate the death of a man I liked. They make me feel guilty when my enquiries do not proceed as quickly as they should.’
‘Then I suspect we will both be feeling guilty about this one, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I cannot imagine where we will begin.’
Michael gave a wan smile. ‘You plan to help me? That is good news. I do not think I will be able to solve this alone.’
They were about to leave the mill and return to Michaelhouse, when they saw they were not the only ones keen to explore the scene of the crime in the cold light of day. Members of the Millers’ Society assembled as the sun began to rise and the day lost the delicate silver shades of early dawn. Mayor Morice was there with the burly Cheney, while the Lavenhams stood arm in arm nearby, listening to Bernarde’s assurances that most of the gore had been removed from those parts of the mill that mattered.
‘I assume you have finished now?’ asked Morice, approaching Michael. ‘We cannot allow the mill to stand idle any longer. We have twenty sacks of grain left from yesterday, and we are expecting a consignment from Valence Marie this morning. Their flour is almost completely exhausted, and we have promised that their corn will be milled by this evening.’
‘Then they will have to buy some from the Market Square instead,’ said Michael coolly, not about to be bullied by Mayor Morice. ‘I am conducting a murder investigation, and that takes precedence over any trading agreements you might have.’
Morice’s expression was disdainful. ‘Although one of the bodies was a scholar’s, this mill is not University property and you have no right to tell us what to do. It will start working in an hour.’
‘We will see what Dick Tulyet says about that,’ argued Michael. ‘He—’
‘Tulyet should be ashamed of himself,’ spat Morice in disgust. ‘He told us this morning that you will be looking into Deschalers’s death on his behalf. Delegating to scholars! That would not have happened when I was Sheriff.’
‘It is because of the Great Bridge,’ said Cheney uneasily. ‘He needs to watch the felons – and Mortimer and Thorpe. I am just as glad to see him doing that, and—’
‘There are a lot of things that would not have happened when you were Sheriff, Morice,’ retorted Michael icily, ignoring the spicer. ‘And a thorough investigation was one of them. However, I have finished here, so the mill’s reopening depends on whether Bernarde feels his equipment is properly cleaned.’
‘I asked the Hand of Valence Marie to bless it,’ Bernarde told his assembled colleagues. ‘That should take care of any lingering evil spirits. And I spent most of the night washing blood and lumps from the cogs, so the wheel should run smoothly now.’
‘Never mind that,’ said Isobel de Lavenham. ‘What about the parts that grind the corn? We do not want complaints that our flour contains meat as well as grain. We might be fined!’
There were dismayed mutterings at that prospect, and Bernarde was enjoined to go back inside and check his millstones. The miller declared that he and his boy had been scrubbing them for hours, and that he was more concerned about expensive damage to his delicate mechanisms than about stray fingers in the flour. The debate raged back and forth until Bernarde told them exactly how much it would cost to repair a damaged spur wheel or a wallower. Then it stopped. Bartholomew was disgusted with them all for thinking more about profits than the death of one of their colleagues – and of Bottisham.
Now seriously worried that the incident might affect him financially, Morice turned on Michael and pointed an accusing finger. ‘It was a waste of time summoning you last night. All we have done is ensure you begin one of your ponderous enquiries, which will interfere with every aspect of our lives. You detest townsfolk, and an opportunity like this will give you the excuse you crave to make a nuisance of yourself.’
‘I do not detest townsfolk,’ replied Michael calmly. ‘It is you I do not like.’
‘We had no choice,’ replied Cheney, his local burr conciliatory as he addressed the Mayor. He was flushed that morning, and Bartholomew could smell wine on his breath. ‘Bernarde was obliged to tell someone in authority that two bodies w
ere in his mill.’
‘What I want to know is what Bottisham was doing here in the first place,’ said Isobel unhappily. ‘Deschalers I can understand: he had a key – and he had every right to inspect the property he invests in, no matter what the time of day or night. But Bottisham did not.’
‘Did Deschalers invite him, then?’ suggested Cheney thoughtfully. ‘Were they meeting for some reason? I thought they tended to avoid each other.’
‘What do you know about that?’ pounced Michael. ‘Were they enemies?’
‘I am not certain,’ replied Cheney, glancing around at his companions, who shrugged. ‘I recall something bad happened between them, but it was a long time ago.’
‘Bottisham be the rascal,’ said Lavenham hotly, pushing his apothecary’s hat back on his head. His accent was pronounced that morning, and agitation about the state of the mill seemed to deprive him of the ability to speak good English. ‘He be one with crime. Deschalers he not.’
‘We shall see,’ said Michael. He turned to Bernarde. ‘What time did you close the mill last night?’
‘About seven o’clock,’ replied Bernarde. ‘I locked the door myself, after my boy had finished sweeping. And it was empty,’ he added, anticipating Michael’s next question. ‘And the machinery was disengaged as I told you – the wheel was still turning, but the millstones were not. However, it is simple to start them up again. Even a scholar would be able to work out what to do.’
‘Who has access to your key?’ asked Bartholomew, ignoring the slur.
‘Me and my boy,’ replied Bernarde, jangling the metal on his belt. ‘My wife did, but she died of the Death, as you know, Doctor – you tried to save her. But we are not the only ones with keys: Morice, Cheney and Lavenham all have one, as did Deschalers.’
‘Why is that necessary?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘It is stipulated in the Millers’ Society charter,’ explained Cheney. ‘I have never understood why, but we keep them anyway.’ He rummaged about his plump person and produced a key made from ancient black metal. ‘Here is mine.’
‘There was one like that in Deschalers’s scrip,’ said Bartholomew to Michael. ‘I saw it when I examined him last night. I assumed it was for his house, but it seems I was mistaken.’
‘I carry mine never,’ declared Lavenham. ‘My wife, he cares for these thing.’
‘It is at home, locked in the cupboard where we keep our strongest medicines,’ said Isobel. Her smile became predatory. ‘I can show you, if you like, Brother.’
‘I will take your word for it,’ said Michael primly.
‘Mine is here,’ said Morice, and Bartholomew heard the tinkle of metal as he fumbled on his belt. ‘So, they are all accounted for. What does this tell you, Brother? What have you deduced by asking who has these keys?’ His jeering tone made Bartholomew want to punch him.
‘It has allowed me to conclude that Deschalers probably came here willingly, and that he used his key to let himself in,’ replied Michael, less aggravated by the Mayor’s insulting manners than the physician. ‘And the fact that it was in his scrip – rather than on a belt or a chain around his neck – indicates he was not in the habit of carrying it, but that he took it specifically to come here last night.’
‘So?’ demanded Morice, irritated that the monk could indeed make inferences from the results of his questioning. ‘What does that mean?’
‘It means he intended to come here,’ said Michael. ‘And that Bottisham is unlikely to have arranged it, because Deschalers was the one with the key.’
‘So, Isobel was right,’ said Cheney thoughtfully. ‘The real question we should ask is what was Bottisham doing here, not Deschalers. Bottisham was a scholar, after all, and not the sort of man with whom Deschalers would normally deign to fraternise.’
‘And he was from Gonville Hall,’ added Morice meaningfully.
‘Why is that significant?’ asked Michael.
Cheney replied. ‘Because Gonville are representing Mortimer’s Mill – our rivals – in the case we intend to bring before the King. We are suing them because they keep stealing our water.’
Morice’s expression was smug. ‘But we will win this case, because some of our profits go to the King – and the King is not a man to let the Mortimers interfere with the contents of his coffers.’
Bartholomew was sure he was right. The King was always in need of money, and would not let the Mortimers deprive him of what seemed to be a fairly regular and easy source of income. He would be almost certain to find in the Millers’ Society’s favour. However, the scholars of Gonville were skilled and clever lawyers, as he had seen for himself in the Disputatio. It was possible that the Mortimers’ case was not so hopeless after all.
‘You are not in a position to make comments about the integrity of others, Morice,’ countered Michael acidly. ‘I understand it was an endorsement from you that allowed King’s Pardons to be issued to Edward Mortimer and Rob Thorpe.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Morice calmly, and if he was concerned that his colleagues were regarding him uneasily, then he did not show it. ‘That had nothing to do with me. It must have been a forgery. These Westminster clerks are good at that sort of thing. They learn such skills in the universities.’
Bartholomew put his hand on the monk’s shoulder, to prevent the caustic retort he was sure was coming. They needed answers, not an argument with a man who could barely speak without uttering some falsehood. ‘But if Gonville’s clerks intend to represent the Mortimers, then it is very odd that Deschalers should be in this mill with Bottisham – a Gonville scholar,’ he said.
‘Very,’ agreed Cheney. ‘It looks as though Deschalers was consorting with the enemy. However, we must remember that he was a clever man, and may have been trying to make some sort of arrangement to our advantage. I do not think his liaison with Bottisham necessarily implies he was doing something that might harm the Society.’
‘I am not so sure,’ said Bernarde worriedly. ‘If he was being honest, then why not meet Bottisham during the day, in a tavern or a church? You are wrong, Cheney. The fact that Deschalers was here alone in the dark with Bottisham indicates that he was up to no good as far as I am concerned.’
‘He was probably buying shares in the Mortimers’ enterprise,’ said Morice angrily, quick to condemn. ‘And that would have weakened our case. Damn the man! What was he thinking of?’
They continued to bicker, so Bartholomew went inside the mill again, thinking he should conduct a final search if it was going into action in an hour. Once the waterwheel started to turn, any remaining evidence would quickly be obliterated. He felt under considerable pressure to find something, but although he exhausted himself by frantically hauling bags of grain this way and that as he hunted for clues, his Herculean efforts went unrewarded.
When he had finished, he stood still, trying to catch his breath. The complex mess of gears and cogs had been scoured and lovingly coated with grease, while the millstones had been scrubbed spotlessly clean. Bernarde’s boy was still working on them, and Bartholomew thought no one need have concerns about finding body parts in their bread. As the great wheel was lowered into the water to commence its work, Bartholomew dropped to his knees and began one last, desperate inspection of the floor, ignoring the splinters that stabbed his hands as he groped under sacks and bins.
Bernarde’s apprentices started to arrive, tripping over him and treading on his fingers, and at last he was forced to concede defeat. He stood again, thinking that Michael’s assumptions must be correct: Deschalers had indeed met Bottisham after dark, when he knew the mill would be locked. It would be an ideal location for an assignation he did not want anyone to know he was having. But why? Was Morice correct: that the grocer had been trying to strike some sort of bargain with a man who was legally representing his adversary? Or was it nothing to do with the mill dispute, and the two men had other things to discuss?
‘There is nothing here, Brother,’ he said, when Michael came to join him. The mon
k regarded him with amusement, and when he looked down he saw his clothes were covered in dust, giving him a ghostly appearance. He brushed irritably at his tabard, raising a cloud of white. ‘I hope it does not rain today, or I will find myself encased in pastry.’
‘No,’ said Michael, after a moment of serious thought. ‘You need butter and lard to make pastry, so you will be encased in glue. What do you think of them, Matt? The Millers’ Society, I mean?’
‘They are like all merchants – there is good and bad in each. Except Morice, of course. There is no good whatsoever in him. He is unashamedly corrupt, and is motivated purely by self-interest.’
‘What of the others? Cheney? The Lavenhams?’
‘Cheney is pompous, but decent enough. Lavenham is as untrustworthy an individual as I have ever met. He knows I re-weigh the medicines he sells me, so he has stopped cheating me now. Isobel is very popular with my students, because she seduces them each time they visit her shop.’
‘And what do you think about this dispute with the Mortimers over water?’
‘I think they should resolve the issue like rational men. I do not approve of rushing to the King each time there is a squabble. The Mortimers should be careful about how much water they divert, and the Millers’ Society should devise some sort of timetable to avoid clashes. It cannot be that difficult. They worked perfectly well together until recently.’
‘Things are always difficult when there are large amounts of money at stake,’ said Michael soberly. ‘And there is plenty of money in milling.’
CHAPTER 4
On Mondays Bartholomew taught in the mornings, then took his three senior students – Quenhyth, Redmeadow and Deynman – with him when he visited his patients. But his mind was full of Bottisham and Deschalers as he ate the bowl of oatmeal Agatha had saved for his breakfast, and he wondered whether he should abandon his academic duties and concentrate on the murders instead. But he could think of nothing to do that would move the enquiry along, and his students were waiting. Reluctantly, he went to the hall and led a discussion on the Greek physician Galen’s short treatise on barley soup. After the midday meal, he collected his three students and set off to see his patients, Bottisham’s death still playing heavily on his mind.
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