A Bone of Contention (34 page)

He decided to visit two of the old men who lived «near the wharves on the river. Both were prone to I attacks of river fever and, despite Bartholomew's repeated I advice against drinking directly from the Cam's unsavoury depths, they were set in their ways; because they had been using the river as a source of drinking water since they were children, they saw no reason to change. They were old and each new bout of illness weakened them a little further, especially in the summer months. Bartholomew visited them regularly. He enjoyed sitting between them on the unstable bench outside their house, watching the river ooze past, and listening to tales of their pasts.

A cool breeze was blowing in from the Fens and the setting sun bathed the river in a soft amber light.

Even the hovels that stood in an uneven line behind Michaelhouse looked picturesque, their crude wattle- and-daub walls coloured pale russets and rich yellows in the late daylight.

The two old men, Aethelbald and Dunstan, were sitting in their usual place, their backs against the flimsy wall of their house, and their dim-sighted eyes turned towards the wharves where a barge from Flanders was unloading.

They greeted Bartholomew with warm enthusiasm and, as always, made room for him to sit between them on the bench that was never built to take the weight of three.

Bartholomew sat cautiously, ever alert for the sharp crack that would pre-empt the three of them tumbling into the dust. There was nothing more than an ominous creak and, gradually, Bartholomew allowed himself to relax.

They chatted for a while about nothing in particular.

Aethelbald was recovering well from his last attack of river sickness, and both claimed that they were now only drinking from the well in Water Street. They told him about a fox that was stealing hens, that there were more flies now than when they were young, arid that one of Dunstan's grandchildren was suffering the pangs of his first unrequited love.

The two old men talked while Bartholomew listened.

It was not that he found chickens, flies and adolescent crushes fascinating, but there was something timeless about their gossip that he found reassuring. Perhaps it was that what they told him was so unquestionably normal and that there were no hidden meanings or twists to their words. Their lives were simple and, if not honest, then at least their deceptions were obvious ones, and their motives clear — unlike the devious twisting and reasoning of the University community.

Dunstan was chuckling about his grandson's misfortunes in love because, apparently, the lady of his choice was a prostitute.

'Which one?' asked Bartholomew curiously.

'Her name was Joanna,' said Dunstan, still cackling.

Bartholomew stared at him. 'Joanna? But there is no prostitute in the town by that name!'

The two men stared back, their laughter giving way to amused disbelief. 'You seem very sure of that, Doctor,' said Dunstan with a wink at his brother.

Bartholomew was chagrined to feel himself flush. 'I was told,' he said lamely.

Now it was Aethelbald's turn to wink. 'I'm sure you were, Doctor,' he said.

Dunstan saw Bartholomew's expression and took pity on him. 'She is not from these parts. She was visiting relatives here from Ely when she met my lad. She has gone back now.'

'When did she go? What did she look like?' asked Bartholomew, sitting straight-backed on the rickety bench, oblivious to the protesting cracks and groans of its flimsy legs.

The brothers exchanged a look of surprise but answered his questions. 'She went back the morning after the riot,' said Dunstan, 'She was a big lass with a good deal of thick yellow hair.'

Fair hair, mused Bartholomew. Could Joanna have been the body he had seen in the castle after all?

Was it Joanna that Cecily had seen dead at the feet of her husband, and not Dominica? He recalled his own experiences of mistaken identity that night in relation to Michael and winced. It was not easy to be certain in the dark, with only the flickering light of uncontrolled flames to act as a torch. Perhaps Cecily Lydgate had seen only fair hair and had jumped to the wrong conclusion. Which would mean that Michael had been right all along and that Dominica and the mysterious Joanna were different people.

'Did you see her after the riot?' Bartholomew asked.

Dunstan shook his head. 'Our lad had a message the morning after, bidding him farewell. That is how we came to know about it. She wrote our lad a note and he cannot read, so he had to bring it here because Aethelbald has some learning — providing the words are not too long, and they are all in English.'

Aethelbald looked proud of himself, and explained that he had spent a year at the Glommery School next to King's Hall and had learned his letters. Bartholomew's thoughts tumbled in confusion. If Joanna, and not Dominica, had been killed during the riot, then why had there been no one except Bartholomew at her funeral service? What of the people she had come to the town to visit?

As if reading his thoughts, Dunstan began telling him about the relatives Joanna had come to see.

'It was that family on the High Street,' he began unhelpfully.

'That family of women,' added Aethelbald. 'A mother and three daughters.'

For the second time in the space of a few minutes, Bartholomew gazed from one to the other of the brothers in bewilderment.

'Mistress Tyler and her daughters?'

Dunstan snapped his fingers triumphantly. 'That's it!' he exclaimed. 'Agnes Tyler.' He was silent for a moment, before he began to chuckle again. 'And, although she said she was delighted to have a visit from her Ely niece, I know for a fact from Mistress Bowman that she did not take kindly to Joanna running some unofficial business from Agnes's home!'

The two old men howled with laughter, then returned to the business of the fox and the chickens, while Bartholomew's thoughts whirled in confusion. Joanna had not been with the Tylers in the riot. Surely Mistress Tyler would not have left her inside the house? He chewed on his lower lip as he recalled the events of that night. He had offered to go back to oust looters from the Tyler home after the fire had died out, but Mistress Tyler had asked him to escort them to Jonas the Poisoner's house instead. If Dunstan was right, then Joanna would still have been in Cambridge and had left the following morning.;

But if it had been Mistress Tyler's niece that had been murdered, why were her aunt and cousins not at her funeral service? Was it because they did not know she was dead? But surely that was not possible? The names of the riot victims had been widely published and Tulyet had gone to some trouble to ensure the families of the dead were informed. And even if Mistress Tyler had believed Joanna had already left for Ely, the name Joanna on a list of town dead must surely have raised some question in her mind?

He closed his eyes, seeing again the events ofthat night: students and townsmen running back and forth, shouting and brandishing weapons; Master Burney's workshop alive with flames and the fire spreading to the Tyler home nearby; Mistress Tyler saying there were looters in the house after the French students' attack had been thwarted. Bartholomew had not seen or heard the looters: he only had Mistress Tyler's word that they had been in her house. And then he thought about the house when Michael and he had recovered from the attack; it had been pleasant, clean and fresh-smelling, and the furniture was of good quality and well kept. There was no evidence that the room had been ill-used or damaged by fire.

He felt sick as the implications began to dawn on him.

Had Mistress Tyler left Joanna in the house deliberately, to be at the mercies of the supposed looters? Did that explain why she wanted him to escort her to Jonas's house — even though the family had already shown they were more than capable of looking after themselves, and his presence would not make a significant difference to their chances — to keep him from knowing Joanna was still in the house? And did it explain why Eleanor had been so keen to dissuade him from his investigations when he had told her that he was looking for Joanna's killer during the Feast?

Also, the night he and Michael were attacked, Agnes Tyler had invited them into her house as an act of charity without knowing who they were. Would she have invited them so readily had she known, aware that any signs of looters in the house only a few nights before were essentially invisible? When Eleanor had invited him to eat with them the day after the riot, he had been taken to the garden, not to the house itself. Or was it simply that the Tylers had been to some trouble to eradicate quickly any signs of what must have been an unpleasant episode in their lives?

Slowly, feeling that the frail bench was beginning to give way under their combined weight, he stood to take, his leave of the old men. He walked slowly back along J the river bank in the gathering gloom, aware that the curfew bell must have already sounded because the path was virtually empty. His thoughts were an uncontrolled jumble of questions and he tried to sort them outf into a logical sequence. First and foremost was the | revelation that Joanna had existed, while Bartholomew! had wrongly assumed that she was Dominica. Second was that Matilde had been certain that Joanna had not been a prostitute, which had misled him: Joanna had not been a prostitute who lived in Cambridge.

He rubbed at his temples as he considered something else. Eleanor Tyler had seen Bartholomew talking in the street with Matilde and had chided him for it. What had she said? That Matilde was not to be trusted, and that she revealed the secrets of her clients. At the time, he had been disturbed more by the slur to Matilde than by what she might have meant. Eleanor's was an extreme: reaction but one he had put down to the natural dislike of prostitutes held by many people. But in the light oi what he had just learned from Dunstan and Aethelbald, i could mean that she had guessed that he might be asking about Joanna, and wanted to ensure that any information? given to him by Matilde would be disregarded.

Matilde had also told him that the riots had been started to hide two acts. Perhaps one of the acts was, the murder of Joanna — getting rid of the unwelcome^ visitor that had been bringing shame to Mistress Tyler's respectable household.

He raised his eyes heavenward at this notion. Now he was being ridiculous! How could Mistress Tyler possibly have the influence, funds or knowledge to start riots? And surely it was not necessary to start a riot merely to be rid of Joanna? Why not simply send her home to Ely?

All Dunstan's information had done was to muddy already murky waters. Now Bartholomew did not even know whether Dominica was alive or not, whereas before he had been certain she had been dead. But he was sure Lydgate had been at the grave. Why? Had he, like Cecily, mistaken Joanna for Dominica in the dark? Was his graveside visit to atone for a life taken by mistake?

The shadow of a cat (or was it a fox?) flitting across the path brought him out of his reverie. He realised that he had been so engrossed in his thoughts that he had walked past the bottom of St Michael's Lane and was passing through the land that ran to St John's Hospital. With an impatient shake of his head, he turned to retrace his steps, quickly now, for the daylight was fading fast, and he did not wish to be caught outside the College by the Sheriffs men or the beadles without a valid excuse.

As he turned, he saw another shadow behind him.

This time, it was two-not four-legged and made a far less competent job of slipping unobtrusively into the bushes than the animal. Bartholomew was after him in an instant, diving recklessly into the undergrowth and emerging moments later clutching a struggling student.

He hauled him upright to see if he could recognise the scholar's face in the rapidly fading light.

'Edred,' he said tonelessly. He released the Godwinsson friar and watched him warily.

Edred made a quick twitching movement and Bartholomew thought he might dart away. But he stayed, casting nervous glances at his captor.

'Well?' asked Bartholomew. 'Why were you following me?'

Edred's eyes slid away from Bartholomew's face looking off down the river.

'To see where you were going.'

'That is no answer,' said Bartholomew impatiently. 'Did someone tell you to? Master Lydgate?'

The name produced a violent reaction, and Edred shook his head so vigorously that Bartholomew thought he might make himself sick. Bartholomew had seen many soldiers before they went into battle and knew naked fear when he saw it. He took the young friar's arm and escorted him firmly back towards Michaelhouse.

Michael had been waiting at the gates. Relief showed clearly in his face when Bartholomew shouted to be let in. He was surprised to see Edred but said nothing while Bartholomew led the student to the kitchen, and asked Agatha to give him a cup of strong wine. While Edred drank, colour seeped back into his pinched white features. Michael nodded to Agatha to keep her matronly eye on him and beckoned Bartholomew out of earshot in the yard.

Venus was twinkling way off in the dark blue sky and Bartholomew wondered what it was that made it shine first red, then yellow, then blue. When he had been a child, he had imagined it was about to explode and had studied it for hours. He had watched it with Norbert, too, many years before, both wanting to witness what they imagined would be a dramatic event. The last time they had seen it together had been at the gates of Stanmore's house in Trumpington, before Norbert had disappeared into the night to flee to the safety of Dover Castle.

'I was beginning to be worried,' Michael was saying. 'I was back ages ago and I thought you may have run into trouble, given that your attackers are still on the loose. I was about to go out to look for you.'

Bartholomew raised apologetic shoulders and gave his friend a rueful smile. 'Sorry. I did not think you might be anxious.' He ran his fingers through his hair. 'What did you discover at the Hostel from Hell?'

Michael laughed softly at his appellation for Godwinsson.

'Very little, I am afraid. There was some kind of celebration at Valence Marie on Friday night because of finding the relic. The scholars of Maud's and Godwinsson were invited. Some went, others did not, but by all accounts it was a drunken occasion and those that did attend are unlikely to recall those who did not. It will be almost impossible to check alibis for anyone. Just about anybody could have knocked Werbergh over the head and hidden his body. Including Lydgate.'