'They think the smell from the tannery above might negate any ill-effects the odours from the bodies might produce,' said Bartholomew.
'I know what they think,' snapped the clerk. 'They were at great pains to explain it all to me when I complained.
My wife's sister lives next door.'
Bartholomew stared at him. 'The building was burned to the ground last night. I hope…' He wondered what he could say. The clerk came to his rescue.
'The fire spread the other way, thank the Lord.' He crossed himself automatically, testing the tip of his quill for sharpness at the same time with his other hand. 'But she does not like living next to corpses. It is all very well for the Canons to say there are no ill-effects, but how would they know?'
Bartholomew suspected the clerk had a point, and had argued with the Canons at the time that the stench from the tannery probably masked dangerous odours, rather than neutralised them. But debating the point with the clerk would lead nowhere. He gestured for the man to kindle the lamp and lead him to the bodies that awaited their attention.
For a moment, both men stood together staring down at the neat row of sheeted figures that lay on the beaten-earth floor. Then, anxious to complete his task as soon as possible, Bartholomew knelt next to the first one, and drew back the rough cover. Memories surged forward unbidden as he found himself looking into the face of the French student he had fought, and whom Mistress Tyler had stabbed. He made a pretence at searching for other wounds, glad that the clerk's mind was on his writing, but feeling as if guilt must shine from every pore in his body. He muttered that the cause of death was due to a single stab wound in the back, covered the body, and moved on thankfully to the next one.
If anything, this was a worse encounter, for it was the corpse of the friar he had mistaken for Michael. He found his hands were shaking, and blinked the sweat from his eyes. For a moment he thought he might faint, and had to close his eyes tightly before he could regain control of himself.
'Have you identified this friar?' he asked, partly for information, but mainly because he wanted to hear the clerk's voice in this room of death.
'Brother Accra from Godwinsson,' said the clerk, consulting a list.
Godwinsson again! 'How can you be sure?' Bartholomew snapped, rattled. He continued a little more gently. 'His skull is crushed beyond all recognition.'
'He was identified by a scar on his knee,' said the clerk, apparently oblivious to Bartholomew's outburst. 'Principal Lydgate and a Brother Edred were the witnesses. They both claimed there was no doubt.'
Bartholomew covered the friar's mangled head with its blanket, and braced himself for the next one. It was the potter he had tended that morning. He glanced along the row of bodies and saw that there were nine, and not eight after all.
'This man is dead from crushing injuries caused by a cart,' he told the clerk. 'I saw him alive this morning, but did not think much to his chances.'
The fourth body was so badly burned that Bartholomew could not recognise the features. A sudden picture of old Master Burney came into his head as he remembered the tannery workshop collapsing in the High Street. Other visions flitted through his mind too: the Market Square alive with fire, and someone staggering across it as the flames leapt up his body until he fell. Bartholomew peered more closely at the corpse in the dim light, but there was nothing familiar in the hairless, blackened head. He moved on.
Of the next four, one was a student, and the others townsmen. All had died of knife wounds, great gaping red slashes that had splintered the bone beneath. The last was the body of a woman with long fair hair. Bartholomew was appalled to see that she had been much misused. Her face was battered beyond recognition, and she had been raped. He told the clerk who did not write it down.
'Better to write that she died from a head injury, Doctor.
That is what you say killed her?'
Bartholomew frowned at him across the gloomy room.
'The wound to her head was the fatal one,' he said, 'but she has also been raped. What purpose is there in suppressing the truth?'
'The purpose is to prevent grounds for another riot,' said a voice from behind them. Bartholomew turned to see Richard Tulyet, the Sheriff, leaning against the door frame.
Tulyet, small, slight and efficient, gazed in distaste into the outbuilding and waited for Bartholomew to come out.
The clerk remained behind to finish making a record of Bartholomew's findings, his pen scratching away in the small circle of light thrown out by the lantern.
'The townspeople might revolt again if we tell them one of their womenfolk was raped before she was murdered,'
Tulyet said, closing the door and turning to look across the bailey. He made a sound of impatience as one of his men dropped a sword. The soldiers were nervous, and one of the sergeants strutted round them, yelling in a vain attempt to boost their courage. 'The town will automatically assume that the crime was committed by students, regardless of the truth.'
'I understand that,' said Bartholomew. 'But when her family comes to claim the body they will see for themselves what has happened. You do not need to be a physician to see how she was misused.'
'We have already considered that,' replied Tulyet. 'And so we are not releasing the dead to their families. The University will bury the students; the town will bury die others. In that way, no one will see the bodies, or attempt to instigate another riot to avenge them.'
'And that woman's attackers will go unpunished,' remarked Bartholomew disapprovingly. 'Perhaps they might commit such a crime again when the fancy takes them. Why not? No one bothered to investigate the first time.'
'Would you have me risk another riot and nine dead to avenge a rape?' asked Tulyet coldly.
'Yes I would,' Bartholomew returned forcefully. 'Because if you do not word will get round that any vile crime can be committed, and you will do nothing about it lest it interfere with the King's peace. Then, Master Tulyet, you will have a riot masking crimes that will make last night's business seem tame.'
Tulyet turned from him with a gesture of impatience.
'You scholars think you can mend the world with philosophy,' he said. 'I am a practical man, and I want to prevent another riot — whatever the cost.'
'And if your cost is too high?' demanded Bartholomew.
'What then?'
Tulyet tipped his head back, looking up at the darkening sky. Some of the anger went out of him and he grimaced. 'Perhaps you are right, Matt. But what would you have us do?'
Bartholomew contemplated. 'Make discreet inquiries.
Find out who last saw her alive and with whom.' He gripped Tulyet's mailed arm, his expression earnest. 'You should at least try, Dick. Supposing some of the townspeople saw her raped and murdered and are expecting at least some attempt to catch the culprit? The last thing the town needs is a retaliation killing.'
'Is that not what last night was about anyway?' asked Tulyet, leaning against the dark grey stone of the curtain wall, and scrubbing at his fair beard. 'Scholars seeking to avenge the death of James Kenzie and townsfolk the poor child in the Ditch?'
'Oswald Stanmore does not think so,' said Bartholomew.
'And neither does Brother Michael. Both believe the riot to be part of some other plot.'
Tulyet's interest quickened. 'Really? Do they know what?'
Bartholomew shook his head. 'No. But both arrived at the same conclusion independently of each other: that the riot was a means, not an end in itself.'
Tulyet took his arm and guided him to his office in the round keep that loomed over the bailey. He glanced around before closing the door, ensuring that they could talk without being overheard. 'I have been thinking along the same lines myself,' he said, his expression intense. 'I cannot understand why the town should have chosen last night to riot-1 do not see Kenzie's death or the discovery of the skeleton as particularly compelling motives to fight.
It has been scratching at the back of my mind all day.'
