A Bone of Contention (22 page)

He retraced his steps through the meadow towards the High Street. Absorbed in thoughts of Mistress Fletcher's lungs and in ways to find Joanna's killer, he was so engrossed that he walked past Matilde without noticing her. It was only when she repeated his name, a little crossly, that he came out of his reverie and saw her.

'You are in a fine mood today,' she said, noting his grave face as he turned. 'I thought you were pretending not to know me!'

He smiled then. 'Oh no! Never that.'

But many men would, he knew. There were few who would converse openly with one of the town prostitutes in the middle of the High Street, at least, not during daylight hours. There were even fewer who would invite one to the most auspicious College event of the year, risking instant dismissal from their fellowships. He thrust that thought to the back of his mind, and listened to Matilde's amusing account about how a number of stray cats had raided the Market Square fish-stall while its owner had slipped away to view the relic at Valence Marie.

It occurred to Bartholomew, as he talked with Matilde, that she might very well know Joanna, the murdered prostitute with hair like Philippa. Bartholomew had no idea how many prostitutes worked in Cambridge, but he did know that they had an unofficial guild and held meetings during which they exchanged information and advice.

When he asked her, Matilde looked taken aback.

'I know of no sister called Joanna,' she said. Bartholomew smiled to himself; he had forgotten Matilde referred to the other prostitutes as sisters. 'What did this Joanna look like?'

Bartholomew was at a loss for words. Joanna's face had been so battered that to describe it was impossible. He remembered in vivid detail the wounds she had suffered during the rape, and the savage blow to her head that had killed her, but telling Matilde that would get him nowhere. 'She was tall and had long, fair hair,' he said lamely.

Matilde spread her hands. 'None of the sisters is called Joanna,' she repeated. 'I thought perhaps you may have been referring to one or two ladies in the villages who ply their wares here occasionally, but none of them has long, fair hair. Why do you want her? Perhaps I can help.'

Realising how her words might be interpreted, she blushed. Bartholomew, seeing her embarrassment also looked away, feeling the colour mounting in his own cheeks. After a brief silence they looked at each other again, and smiled, so that the uneasy atmosphere was broken.

'Joanna was killed in the riots,' he said. 'I wondered whether you might know her.'

Matilde looked shocked. 'No sister was foolish enough to be out when the riots were on, Matthew,' she said. 'All those men prowling around in gangs? Heavens, no! We may have been overwhelmed by business, but none of it would have been paid for. As soon as we saw what was happening, we put out the word that any sensible woman should remain indoors.'

'Do you know what all this rioting was about? Michael, Sheriff Tulyet, my colleagues at Michaelhouse, and even my brother-in-law, are at a loss as to why there is such an atmosphere of disquiet in the town.'

Matilde did not answer immediately, but looked away down the High Street. Bartholomew stared at her, admiring yet again her delicate beauty. She wore a plain blue dress that accentuated her lithe figure, and her unblemished skin, glossy hair and small, white teeth bespoke of health and vitality. She was also one of the few people Bartholomew knew who always seemed to have clean hands, and one of fewer still who did not have a perennial crust of dirt beneath her finger-nails. When she finally started to answer, Bartholomew found he had been so absorbed in looking at her, that he had all but forgotten what he had asked.

'In our profession,' she began, 'your hear things.

Recently, I have been hearing a great deal.' She turned to look at him. 'I trust you, Matthew, which is why I will tell you what I know, although you must understand that I am breaking one of my own rules by breaching the confidence of a client. I would not do it for anyone else.'

'Are you sure you should?' Bartholomew asked. He found himself wishing yet again that she was not a prostitute and was angry at himself. Philippa's sudden rejection of him must have affected him more than he had originally appreciated; he felt he was becoming like Brother Michael, full of secret lusts!

Matilde, unaware of the conflict within him, peered at him earnestly. 'Are you well, Matthew? You look pale.'

At his nod, she continued. 'I have heard that the death of the Scottish student and the discovery of the child's bones were used to start the riot. Rumours said that both had been murdered and students and townsfolk alike were goaded with accusations of cowardice because they had done nothing to avenge them. The rumours started among the stall-holders in the Market Square, who are notorious as sources of gossip.'

Bartholomew rubbed his chin. So it seemed that Stanmore, Tulyet and Michael had been right after all — there was more to the riots than met the eye. Rumours had been deliberately started in a place where they would be sure to spread and inflame.

Matilde watched him. 'You had already guessed that much,' she said. 'I can see in your face you are not surprised. I heard that the rumour that the Scot was murdered by a townsman came from Godwinsson Hostel and the Hall of Valence Marie.'

Bartholomew stared at her. Godwinsson and Valence Marie yet again!

Matilde smiled, showing her even teeth. 'There! Now I have told you something you did not already know.'

Before he could stop himself Bartholomew asked, 'Was the person who told you all this responsible for

starting the rumours? He must be, or how else would he know?'

Matilde pursed her lips. Bartholomew knew she was resentful that he should ask the name of her client when she had already overstepped her own personal code of conduct by talking about him in the first place.

'The riot was started in order to hide something else,' she continued, ignoring his question. 'Two acts were committed that night and the riot was contrived to hide them.'

'What two acts?' asked Bartholomew, nonplussed. 'The burglary of Deschalers's property? The burning of the Market Square?'

'I do not know,' said Matilde. 'I am only repeating what I have been told. The riots were contrived to mask the true purpose of two acts. Those were the exact words of my client.'

They talked a little more, before they parted to go separate ways. Bartholomew was mystified. He wished he knew the identity of Matilde's client, so that he could discover what these two acts were that necessitated such bloodshed and mayhem to mask them. The burglary at Deschalers's house had not been masked: several of Stanmore's apprentices had heard the house being ransacked and had seen dark-cloaked figures running away from the scene of the crime. Could one of the acts be the death of the woman called Joanna? But why?

Bartholomew distinctly remembered her clothes. They were of good quality but not luxurious, suggesting that she had been comfortable but not rich. So, why would anyone need to spark off a riot to harm her? If she had committed some offence, it would have been far easier to have dispatched her in a dark alley with a knife.

Matilde was scarcely beyond earshot when Bartholomew was accosted by Eleanor Tyler, her dark hair bundled into a white veil and her grey eyes narrowed against the sun.

'Eleanor!' he exclaimed in genuine pleasure. 'Good evening!'

'Not so good,' she muttered, looking down the street to where Matilde picked her way gracefully through the ever-present rubbish and waste.

'Why? What has happened?' asked Bartholomew, concerned.

'Is your mother ill? One of your sisters? Hedwise?'

Eleanor pulled a sulky face at him and glanced back to where Matilde now stood talking to one of Stanmore's seamstresses. Eleanor's meaning suddenly struck home to Bartholomew. Did she believe he had been making arrangements for an assignation with Matilde? 'Matilde is a friend,' he began, wishing her to know the truth before it went any further. He hesitated. What more could he say without being offensive about Matilde — especially since it would not be long before Eleanor learned that Matilde was to be his other guest at the Founder's Feast? 'I heard you have a liking for her,' said Eleanor coldly.

'It is not like you imagine,' said Bartholomew, not certain that he was telling her the entire truth.

'You mean you do not engage her professional services?' said Eleanor bluntly. 'All very well, but it does your reputation no good to be seen chatting with her so confidently in the High Street. And now, since I am talking to you, my reputation is also being damaged.'

Bartholomew stared at her in disbelief. 'I hardly think-'

'For a man who has spent so much time travelling and seeing the world you have learned very little.' She raised her hand to silence his objections. 'I am not saying you have not learned your medicine. Indeed, you are generally regarded as the best physician in Cambridge, although you should know that many say your methods are dangerous, and disapprove of the fact that you are regularly seen in the streets talking to beggars, lepers and now prostitutes!'

'But many of these are my patients-'

'And,' she continued, overriding him a second time, 'you should know that this woman — Lady Matilde, as you doubtless call her — should not be trusted. She makes up stories about her clients. See her if you must, but I would warn you against it for your own good.'

With that, she turned on her heel and stalked away, leaving Bartholomew bewildered in the middle of the High Street. A shout from a farmer with a huge cart saved him from being trampled by a team of oxen and, regaining his composure, he was suddenly angry. He hardly knew Eleanor Tyler and felt she had no right to talk to him about Matilde in the way she had. A veritable fountain of responses came into his mind, in the way that they usually did when the situation for using them had passed.

Then his anger faded. What did it matter? Eleanor had called him naпve. Perhaps he was — Matilde and Michael had both told him as much recently. It was clear that Eleanor strongly disapproved of Matilde and he should see her outburst for what it was: a simple, and not entirely surprising, dislike of prostitutes. He wondered whether Eleanor imagined she had some kind of claim on him following the invitation to the Founder's Feast.

The thought also crossed his mind that his innocent discussion with Matilde might well give Eleanor cause to decline his offer, and then at least he would only have one woman to explain away to his chaste-minded colleagues.

He looked back to where Matilde was still speaking with the seamstress. Seeing him watching them, they both waved; self-consciously, he waved back. He hoped Eleanor's words were nothing more than jealousy, because he felt Matilde's information might prove helpful to Tulyet and Michael if it were true. But if Matilde were known to be untrustworthy, her clients might feed her false information, so her claim that the riot had been started to hide two acts might be meaningless. Yet she had appeared to consider carefully before breaking the confidence of her client. But then perhaps she preceded all her gossip with this show of reluctance. He dismissed the whole affair from his mind impatiently, realising that mulling over what Matilde and Eleanor had said meant that he was merely raising yet more questions to which he had no answers. He decided to tell Michael what Matilde had revealed, but to advise him to use the information cautiously.

As he walked past St Bene't's Church, the doors opened and the students who had been to sext filed out. Since this was not one of the religious offices the students were obliged to attend, only those that wanted to pray were there. Thus it was a subdued crowd that emerged, in contrast to the high-spirited one he had seen three days before.

He saw a familiar figure and darted after him, stopping him dead in his tracks with a firm grip on his arm.

'You are hurting me!' whined the terrified Werbergh, looking in vain for help from his Godwinsson cronies.

They, however, had more sense than to interfere in the dubious affairs of their untrustworthy colleague, and quickly melted away, leaving the friar and Bartholomew alone. Panic-stricken, Werbergh began to struggle, whimpering feeble objections about his rough treatment.

'Let me go! You cannot lay hands on a priest! I am one of God's chosen! I will tell Master Lydgate that you have been molesting a man of God!'

Bartholomew gave a small, humourless smile. Then of God do not lie. And you were not wholly honest with me, Brother Werbergh.'

Werbergh squirmed in Bartholomew's grip. 'I told you everything that happened. Please!'

'But when I discussed what you had told me with Brother Michael, your story and Edred's did not tally. You said you returned to Godwinsson with Cecily Lydgate after compline the night Kenzie was murdered, but Edred with Cecily listening — claimed to have accompanied you.

One, or both, of you is lying. What have you to say?'

Werbergh stopped struggling, his head and shoulders sagging. 'I told you the truth,' he insisted. 'I did go to compline with Edred and I did walk back with Mistress Lydgate. The Scot — Kenzie — did ask us if we had stolen his ring the night he was killed. But I suppose I did not tell you everything,' he added with a fearful glance at Bartholomew. 'That is to say, I only told you what I know to be true and what I understand.'

'Oh, for heaven's sake!' said Bartholomew, exasperated.

'Stop twisting words and tell me something honest.'

People on the High Street were beginning to notice them, wondering why he was holding the friar's arm so uncomfortably high. Bartholomew's tabard was in his medicine bag, so he looked like a townsperson abusing a student. He relaxed his hold on Werbergh to one that looked more natural, before some scholars took it into their heads to rescue the friar.

'I omitted only one thing,' said Werbergh miserably, looking up at Bartholomew. The physician in him noted

the friar's shaking hands and unhealthy pallor. Werbergh was not a man at peace with the world or himself. 'I think Edred probably did steal the ring. I did not see him do it, but he has done it before. He jostles people, and afterwards, they discover that something is missing.

I do not know how he does it. Anyway, he jostled the Scot, but it misfired and we ended up in that silly argument in the street.'

Bartholomew released Werbergh completely, watching him as he rubbed his arm. 'Anything else?'

'I was coming to see you anyway,' said Werbergh, glancing up and down the street nervously. 'That is why I was in the church — I was praying for guidance. I had just decided to come to talk to you and there you were, like an avenging angel.'

He looked at Bartholomew with glistening eyes, and Bartholomew wondered whether he had been drinking.

'I think Edred stole the ring. I think he knows more about Kenzie's death than he is telling,' said Werbergh in a rush. 'He was also gone all night when the riot was on and I believe he was out fighting. Perhaps he has a taste for violence; when I asked him where he had been the next day, he gave me this black eye."

Bartholomew remembered Werbergh's bruised face the day after the riot and saw that his cheek remained discoloured. Edred had been limping. So what had the other duplicitous friar been doing? 'And where were you when the town was ablaze, Brother Werbergh?' Bartholomew asked.

'In Godwinsson, virtually alone,' said Werbergh unhappily.

'I have no taste for rough behaviour. I imagined I might get hurt if I went out fighting.'

'What about the French students at Godwinsson? Were they out that night?'

Werbergh, once he had started informing on his colleagues, was more than ready to continue. 'Of course.

They love fighting, and they boast that they are good at it. Two came back later and said that their friend had been killed.'

'Did they say anything about what they had done that night?'

'Oh, yes. They spoke in great detail about the tremendous fight they had had with ten townsmen all armed with massive broadswords. They say they were lucky to survive but that Louis had been treacherously stabbed in the back before being overwhelmed.'

So, the Frenchmen's pride had been injured, Bartholomew thought, and they were unwilling to admit that Louis had been killed by a woman. Perhaps it was better that way. He did not like to think that the Godwinsson students might take revenge on the Tyler household for his death. Werbergh could tell him nothing more and Bartholomew let him go, watching him thoughtfully as he weaved his way through the throngs of tradesmen making their way home.