Bartholomew shook his head quickly, motioning for his friend to relax. ‘Of course not! Do you think I would be sitting here chatting with you if I thought the plague had returned? No, Brother, I was just remarking that Heppel’s chest complaint is similar to one of the symptoms some plague victims suffered – a hacking, dry cough that resists all attempts to soothe it. I suppose I could try an infusion of angelica…’
As Bartholomew pondered the herbs that he might use to ease his patient’s complaint, Michael flopped back down on the tree trunk clutching at his chest.
‘Even after four years the memory of those evil days haunts me. God forbid we should ever see the like of that again.’
Bartholomew regarded him sombrely. ‘And if it does, we physicians will be no better prepared to deal with it than we were the first time. We discovered early on that incising the buboes only worked in certain cases, and we never learned how to cure victims who contracted the disease in the lungs.’
‘What was he like, this martyr, Simon d’Ambrey?’ interrupted Michael abruptly, not wanting to engage in a lengthy discussion about the plague so close to bedtime. Firmly, he forced from his mind the harrowing recollections of himself and Bartholomew trailing around the town to watch people die, knowing that if he dwelt on it too long, he would dream about it. Bartholomew was not the only one who had been shocked and frustrated by his inability to do anything to combat the wave of death that had rolled slowly through the town. The monk flexed his fingers, cracking his knuckles with nasty popping sounds, and settled himself back on the tree trunk. ‘I have heard a lot about Simon d’Ambrey, but I cannot tell what is truth and what is legend.’
Bartholomew considered for a moment, reluctantly forcing medical thoughts from his mind, and heartily wishing that there was another physician in Cambridge with whom he could discuss his cases – the unsavoury Robin of Grantchester was more butcher than surgeon, while the other two University physicians regarded Bartholomew’s practices and opinions with as much distrust and scepticism with which he viewed theirs.
‘Simon d’Ambrey was a kindly man, and helped the poor by providing food and fuel,’ he said. ‘The stories that he was able to cure disease by his touch are not true – as far as I can remember these stories surfaced after his death. He was not a rich man himself, but he was possessed of a remarkable talent for persuading the wealthy to part with money to finance his good works.’
Michael nodded in the gathering dusk. ‘I heard that members of his household were seen wearing jewellery that had been donated to use for the poor. Personally, I cannot see the harm in rewarding his helpers. Working with the poor is often most unpalatable.’
Bartholomew laughed. ‘Spoken like a true Benedictine! Collect from the rich to help the poor, but keep the best for the abbey.’
‘Now, now,’ said Michael, unruffled. ‘My point was merely that d’Ambrey’s fall from grace seems to have been an over-reaction on the part of the town. He made one mistake, and years of charity were instantly forgotten. No wonder the townspeople believe him to be a saint! It is to ease their guilty consciences!’
‘There may be something in that,’ said Bartholomew.
He paused, trying to recall events that had occurred twenty-five years before. ‘On the day that he died, rumours had been circulating that he had stolen from the poor fund, and then, at sunset, he came tearing into town chased by soldiers. He always wore a green cloak with a gold cross on the back and he had bright copper-coloured hair, so everyone knew him at once.
As the soldiers gained on him, he drew a dagger and turned to face them. I saw an archer shoot an arrow, and d’Ambrey fell backwards into the Ditch.’
‘It is very convenient for Thorpe that his body was never found,’ observed Michael.
Bartholomew nodded. ‘A search was made, of course, but the Ditch was in full flood and was flowing dangerously fast. There were stories that he did not die, and that he was later seen around the town. But I have seen similar throat wounds since then on battlefields in France, and every one proved fatal.’
‘I still feel the town treated d’Ambrey shamefully,’ mused Michael. ‘Even if he were less than honest, the poor still received a lot more than they would have done without him.’
‘I agree,’ said Bartholomew, with a shrug. ‘And, as far as I know, it was never proven that he was responsible for the thefts. Just because his relatives and servants stole from the poor fund did not mean that d’Ambrey condoned it, or even that he knew. After his death, his whole household fled – brother, sister, servants and all – although not before they had stripped the house of everything moveable.’
‘Well, there you are then!’ said Michael triumphantly.
‘His family and servants fled taking everything saleable with them. Surely that is a sign of their guilt? Perhaps d’Ambrey was innocent after all. Who can say?’
Bartholomew shrugged again, poking at a rotten apple with a twig. ‘The mood of the townspeople that night was ugly. D’Ambrey’s family would have been foolish to have stayed to face them. Even if they had managed to avoid being torn apart by a mob, the merchants and landowners who had parted with money to finance d’Ambrey’s good works were demanding vengeance. D’Ambrey’s household would have been forced to compensate them for the thefts regardless of whether they were guilty or not.’
‘So d’Ambrey paid the ultimate price, but his partners in crime went free,’ said Michael. ‘A most unfair, but not in the least surprising, conclusion to this miserable tale. Poor d’Ambrey!’
‘No one went free,’ said Bartholomew, sitting and leaning backwards against the wall. ‘The town nominated three of its most respected burgesses to pursue d’Ambrey’s family and bring them back for trial. Although the d’Ambreys had gone to some trouble to conceal the route they had taken, they were forced to sell pieces of jewellery to pay their way. These were identified by the burgesses, who traced the family to a house in Dover. But the evening before the burgesses planned their confrontation with the fugitives, there was a fire in that part of the town, and everyone died in it.’
‘Really?’ asked Michael, fascinated. ‘What a remarkable coincidence! And none of the fugitives survived, I am sure?’
Bartholomew shook his head. ‘The town erupted into an inferno by all accounts, and dozens of people died in the blaze.’
‘And I suppose the bodies were too badly charred for identification,’ said Michael with heavy sarcasm. ‘But the requisite number were found in the d’Ambrey lodgings, and the burgesses simply assumed that the culprits were all dead. D’Ambrey’s family must have laughed for years about how they tricked these “most respected burgesses”!’
‘Oh no, Brother,’ said Bartholomew earnestly. ‘On the contrary. D’Ambrey’s household died of asphyxiation and not burning. None of the bodies were burned at all as I recall. D’Ambrey’s brother and sister had wounds consistent with crushing as the house collapsed from the heat, but none of their faces were damaged. The bodies were brought back to Cambridge, and displayed in the Market Square. No member of d’Ambrey’s household escaped the fire, and there was no question regarding the identities of any of them.’
‘I see,’ said Michael, puzzled. ‘This body-displaying is an addendum to the tale that is not usually forthcoming from the worthy citizens of Cambridge. Do you not consider these deaths something of a coincidence? All die most conveniently in a fire, thus achieving the twofold objective of punishing the guilty parties most horribly, and of sparing the town the bother and cost of a trial.’
Bartholomew flapped impatiently at the insects that sang their high-pitched hum in his ears. ‘That was a question raised at the time,’ he said, ‘although certainly not openly. I eavesdropped on meetings held at my brother-in-law’s house, and it seemed that none of the burgesses had unshakeable alibis on the night of the fire.’
‘What a dreadful story,’ said Michael in disgust. ‘Did any of these burgesses ever admit to starting the fire?’
‘Not tha
t I know of,’ said Bartholomew, standing abruptly in a futile attempt to try to rid himself of the insects. ‘They all died years ago – none were young men when they became burgesses – but I have never heard that any of them claimed responsibility for the fire.’
‘So, dozens of Dover’s citizens died just to repay a few light-fingered philanthropists for making fools of the town’s rich,’ said Michael, shaking his head. ‘How unpleasant people can be on occasions.’
‘We do not know the burgesses started the fire,’ said Bartholomew reasonably. ‘Nothing was ever proven. It might have been exactly what they claimed – a fortuitous accident, or an act of God against wrongdoers.’
‘You do not believe that, Matt!’ snorted Michael in amused disbelief. ‘I know you better than that! You suspect the burgesses were to blame.’
‘Perhaps they were,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But it hardly matters now. It was a long time ago, and everyone who played any role in the affair died years ago.’ He sat again, fiddling restlessly with the laces on his shirt. ‘But all this is not helping with our skeleton. Did you have any luck with the Sheriff this afternoon, regarding to whom these bones might belong?’
‘Do bones belong to someone, or are they someone?’ mused Michael, rubbing at his flabby chins. ‘We should debate that question sometime, Matt. The answer to your question is no, unfortunately. There are no missing persons that fit with your findings. Are you sure about the identification you made? The age of the skeleton?’
Bartholomew nodded slowly. ‘After you had gone to the Chancellor, I helped Will dredge up the rest of the bones and the skull. I am certain, from the development of the teeth and the size and shape of other bones, that the skeleton is that of a child of perhaps twelve or fourteen years. I cannot say whether it was a boy or a girl – I do not have that sort of expertise. There were no clothes left, but tendrils of cloth suggest that the child was clothed when it was put, or fell, into the Ditch.’
‘Could you tell how long it had been there?’ said Michael. ‘How long dead?’
Bartholomew spread his hands. ‘I told you, I do not have the expertise to judge such things. At least five years, although, between ourselves, I would guess a good deal longer. But you should not tell anyone else, because the evidence is doubtful.’
‘Then why do you suggest it?’ asked Michael. He leaned forward to select an apple on the ground that was not infested with wasps, and began to chew on it, grimacing at its sourness.
The blackbird he had startled earlier swooped across the grass in front of them, twittering furiously. Bartholomew reflected for a moment, trying to remember what his Arab master had taught him about the decomposition of bodies. He had not been particularly interested in the lesson, preferring to concentrate his energies on the living than learning about cases far beyond any help he could give.
‘All bones do not degenerate in the same way once they are in the ground, or in the case of this child, in mud. Much depends on the type of material that surrounds them, and the amount of water present.
These bones had been immersed in the thick, clay-like mud at the bottom of the Ditch, and so are in a better condition than if they had been in peat, which tends to preserve skin, but rot bone. But despite this, the bones are fragile and crumbly, and deeply stained. I would not be surprised if they had been lying in the Ditch for twenty or thirty years.’
‘So, we might be looking for a child of fourteen who died thirty years ago?’ asked Michael in astonishment. ‘Lord, Matt! Had he lived, that would make him older than us!’
‘I could be wrong,’ said Bartholomew. He stood and stretched, giving such a huge yawn that Michael was compelled to join him.
Michael tossed his apple core into the grass. ‘Simon d’Ambrey died twenty-five years ago,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps even at the same time as this child. Can you tell how this child met its death?’
‘Again, I cannot be certain,’ said Bartholomew, rubbing his eyes tiredly. ‘But there is a deep dent on the back of the skull that would have compressed the brain underneath. Had the child been alive when that wound was delivered, it would have killed him – or her – without doubt. However, if the body has lain in the King’s Ditch for thirty years, the damage may have been done at any time since by something falling on it. So, this child may have been knocked on the head and disposed of in the Ditch; he may have fallen and hit his head; or he may have died of some disease and his body disposed of in the Ditch and the skull damaged later.’
Michael disagreed. ‘Not the latter. Why would anyone need to hide a corpse of someone who had died in a legitimate manner? And surely someone would miss a child if it had had an accident and fallen in the river? The only likely solution, I am sorry to say, is the first one. That the poor thing was killed and the body hidden in the Ditch.’
Bartholomew shook his head, smiling, and slapped his friend on the shoulders. ‘You have become far too involved in murder these last few years,’ he said. ‘Now you look for it where there may be none. How do you know the child was not an orphan, or that his parents simply did not report him missing? You know very well that a death in a large, poor family is sometimes seen as more of a relief than a cause for grief, in that it is one less mouth to feed – especially with girls. Or perhaps he was one of a group of travellers, who had passed out of Cambridge before he was missed? Or perhaps he was a runaway from…’
‘All right, all right,’ grumbled Michael good-humouredly. ‘Point taken. But you were in Cambridge as a child. Did any of your playmates go missing with no explanation?’
Bartholomew leaned down to pick up his medicine bag. ‘Not that I recall. It was a long time ago.’
‘Oh, come now, Matt!’ exclaimed Michael. ‘You are not an old man yet! If you are right in your hunch about the time of this child’s death, he may well have been a playmate of yours. Older than you, perhaps, but you would have been children together.’
Bartholomew yawned again. ‘I can think of none, and I did not play with girls, anyway, which means I only have knowledge of half of the juvenile population. You should ask someone else. And now it is late, and so I will wish you good night.’
He turned to walk back through the orchard to the College, leaving Michael to his musing. He cut through the kitchens, his leather-soled shoes skidding on the grease that formed an ever-present film over the stone-flagged floor. The great cooking fires were banked for the night, and the kitchens were deserted.
A door, concealed behind a painted wooden screen, led from the kitchen to the porch where Michaelhouse’s guests were received before being ushered to the hall and conclave above. Bartholomew walked through the porch, and across the beaten earth of the courtyard to his room in the north wing.
The last rays of the sun were fading, and the honey-coloured stone of Michaelhouse’s walls was a dark amber.
Bartholomew paused, and glanced around at the College, admiring, as he always did, the delicate tracery on the windows of the north and south wings where the scholars slept. The dying sunlight still caught the bright colours of the College founder’s coat of arms over the porch, a cacophony of reds, blues and golds. He yawned yet again, and gave up the notion of reading for an hour by the light of a candle before he slept – all that would happen would be that he would fall asleep at the table and candles were far too expensive a commodity to waste, not to mention the possibility that an unattended candle might fall and set the whole College alight.
His mind wandered back to the grisly display of asphyxiated corpses in the Market Square some twenty- five years ago, the result of another careless candle if the burgesses were to be believed. Then, he pushed thoughts of murder and mayhem to the back of his mind, opening the door to his small, neat room. He lay on the bed, intending to rest for a few moments before rising again to wash and fold his clothes, but he was almost immediately asleep, oblivious even to the sharp squeal of a mouse that the College cat killed under his bed.
Alone in the orchard, Michael chewed his lip thou
ghtfully.
Bartholomew had a sister who lived nearby, whose husband was one of the richest and most influential merchants in the town. Edith was some years older than her brother. She had married young, and Bartholomew had lived with her and her new husband until he went to the school at the Benedictine Abbey in the city of Peterborough to the north. Perhaps Edith, or her husband, Sir Oswald Stanmore, might remember something about a missing child.
Michael saw the Stanmores the following day on his way back from church. It was a fine Sunday afternoon, and the streets thronged with people. Gangs of black-gowned students sang and shouted, eyed disapprovingly by the merchants and tradesmen dressed in their Sunday finery.
Edith and her husband looked happy and prosperous, walking arm-in-arm down Milne Street to the large house where Stanmore had his business premises. Although Stanmore worked in Cambridge, he preferred to live at his manor in Trumpington, a tiny village two miles south of the town. It was unusual to see him and his wife in Cambridge on a Sunday, and Michael strongly suspected that the merchant had been conducting some covert business arrangement when he should have been paying attention to the words of the priest at mass. Edith, a lively soul who enjoyed the occasional excursion into the town from the village, would not have noticed what her husband was doing, and would have been more interested in catching up with the local gossip from the other merchants’ wives.
Edith had the same distinctive black hair and pale complexion of her brother, a stark contrast to Stanmore’s slate-grey hair and beard. She wore a dress of deep crimson, and she carried a blue cloak over one arm, one corner of it trailing unheeded along the dusty road. With a smile, the monk recognised that she apparently had the same careless disregard for clothes as her brother, whose shirts and hose were always patched and frayed.
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