attend her funeral, certainly no one cared enough to avenge her murder. Michael had said it was none of the University's affair, and anyway, the University was not in the business of hunting down its students for a crime on a victim that no one claimed; and Tulyet had neither the time nor the manpower.
Bartholomew stretched his legs out in front of him, and closed his eyes. Godwinsson, David's, Valence Marie and Maud's. All four seemed to be interconnected somehow with the murders of Kenzie or Joanna. And the dead child? Somehow he had been overlooked in all this. He had been buried the day before, his bones bundled up in a dirty sheet and thrust into a shallow grave in St Bene't's churchyard. A small mound of brown earth marked the site now, but in a few weeks it would be gone, and he would be forgotten again, just as he had been all those years before.
That thought brought a picture of Norbert into his mind, and Bartholomew smiled. It had been his only serious act of disobedience in Stanmore's household but one that he still felt was just. Did Lydgate know that Bartholomew had finally revealed his long-kept secret?
Although the crime was twenty-five years old, there were still many who would remember it, and the hunt that had taken place for Norbert the following day. Bartholomew winced. That had been an unpleasant day for him, wondering whether vengeful villagers would return with Norbert captive to reveal who had let him escape.
Bartholomew wondered what he should do next. Should he follow the advice of Michael and Tulyet, and forget Joanna? The French students at Valence Marie had gone, so the only way forward was for him to talk to the two at Godwinsson. He knew their names and their faces, which meant he would not have to ask to see them through Lydgate. He stood up and reached for his bag, determining upon a course of action. The ailing Mistress Fletcher lived close enough to Godwinsson to allow Bartholomew to be nearby a good deal without arousing suspicion. He could even see Godwinsson from the windows on her upper floor. Starting tomorrow, he decided he would stay with Mistress Fletcher until he saw the Frenchmen leave, then follow until they reached a convenient place for him to confront them.
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
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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?'
