Miller accepted his explanation, although Lora remained suspicious. ‘So there is,’ he said, spitting at the ice and scoring a direct hit. ‘Thank you for seeing to Chapman, but he is better, so do not come back. We will bring you the other two pearls when he is on his feet.’
‘Very well,’ said Bartholomew, hoping he did not sound as relieved as he felt. While he disliked the notion of abandoning a patient quite so early on his road to recovery, he was perfectly happy never to set foot in Miller’s lair again. He escaped from the house without another word, and walked briskly around the nearest corner. When Michael found him, he was leaning heavily against a wall, shaking violently.
‘Whatever is the matter?’ asked Michael, regarding him in alarm. ‘Chapman is not worse, is he? Langar just told me that Miller will kill you if he dies after enduring your ministrations.’
‘Shirlok,’ said Bartholomew, gulping fresh air. ‘He is in Miller’s cellar. Dead.’
Michael took Bartholomew’s arm and strode towards the city. It was mid-afternoon, but the clouds were a sullen grey-brown, which meant some of the shops on the main street were already lit with lamps. Bartholomew tried to explain what he had seen, but Michael stopped him, claiming that it was not safe to speak on roads that teemed with weavers. One might overhear the discussion, and report to Miller that things had been seen that he might prefer to keep concealed.
They passed through the crowds that had gathered to watch a fire-eater in the Pultria, ducking into the porch of St Cuthbert’s Church, when they saw Kelby and a sizeable contingency of guildsmen processing towards them. Behind was a coffin, and Bartholomew supposed Dalderby was about to be buried. The merchants’ faces were bleak and watchful, expressions that did not go unnoticed by the weavers. Inside the chapel, a priest told Michael that Dalderby’s murder was considered an act of war on the Guild, and that he expected revenge to follow shortly. A weaver overheard, and slipped away quickly. Bartholomew saw him talking to several of his fellows outside, and knew it would not be long before the priest’s prediction became hard fact. There was menace and fear in the air, and he sensed it would take very little to spark off the kind of riot he had experienced in Cambridge.
When they reached the Swan, Michael pushed the physician inside and took a table near the fire, calling to the potboy to bring them wine. The tavern was warm after the chill of the December afternoon, and the braziers on the walls emitted a cosy red glow. Bartholomew found he was shivering, and wondered if it was the cold or a reaction to what he had seen in Miller’s cellar.
‘You are as white as a corpse,’ said Michael, when the boy had gone. He poured dark claret into two goblets as he grimaced an apology. ‘Sorry – that was an unfortunate analogy. Drink some wine; it will make you feel better. Cadavers are never very nice to behold.’
‘It was not the corpse,’ said Bartholomew shakily. ‘I have seen too many for them to shock me. It was the whole business of sneaking down the steps, and expecting to be trapped between Miller and Lora. I do not understand how Cynric has the nerve for that sort of thing. It was worse than a battle.’
‘What was Lora doing?’
‘Wrapping Shirlok’s body in a winding sheet. I suppose they intend to bury him somewhere, because he is beginning to reek.’
‘If he smells as strongly as you say, it means he has been dead for some time.’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘Especially as cold weather tends to retard that sort of thing. No wonder Lora – along with Chapman and Miller – was able to declare Shirlok dead when Cynric overheard her discussing him in the Angel tavern. She had his body in her basement!’
‘But Langar thought Shirlok might still be alive,’ said Michael, rubbing his flabby cheeks. ‘Which means he may not know Shirlok is currently in need of a shroud. This suggests the other three killed him without their lawyer’s knowledge.’
‘Langar is clever, Brother. He may have killed Shirlok himself, and left the body for his friends to dispose of. If we were in Cambridge, I would suggest lying in wait with your beadles, and catching them red-handed when they go to bury Shirlok, but not here. We do not know who is a friend.’
‘Gynewell,’ suggested Michael. ‘He stands aloof from the city’s feud.’
‘We think he is aloof, but we cannot be sure he will not go straight to Miller.’
‘Prior Roger and Hamo, then. They are not too deeply embroiled in the dispute.’
‘But Aylmer and Tetford were killed in their convent; Herl died in the Braytheford Pool – a stone’s throw away; and their guest Simon is missing. Also, Hamo does not approve of your liking for Christiana, and he injured his arm on the night we were attacked. We cannot trust them, either.’
‘Well, I do not think we should involve Sheriff Lungspee. It might be Miller’s turn to bribe him.’
‘You would overlook a murder?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘What is to say Shirlok was murdered? Perhaps he just died.’
