‘What?’ asked de Wetherset, startled, while Simon struggled to mask his own surprise: he was loath to admit that strangers knew something about his city that he did not. ‘Lord! Perhaps God struck him down for lying – it was not Summer Madness that led him to fire Spayne’s storerooms after all. He denied he was even there at first, and only told the truth when he learned he had been seen.’
‘Seen by whom?’ asked Michael. ‘Spayne’s friends? If so, then their testimony probably cannot be trusted.’
‘By travelling Dominicans with no reason to lie for either side,’ replied Simon. ‘They were questioned by both Guild and Commonalty, but it was obvious they were telling the truth. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that Flaxfleete did indeed commit a grave crime, and it was a stroke of genius to blame it on Summer Madness.’
‘It certainly was,’ said de Wetherset. ‘It worked.’
‘Yes and no,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It may have seen him murdered.’
When Hamo came to collect the empty dishes and make the beds for the night, Bartholomew, Michael and Suttone, with Cynric trailing disconsolately behind them, retired to the chamber on the upper floor. Uninvited, de Wetherset and Simon accompanied them. There the monk casually mentioned his hope of renewing an acquaintance with Matilde – thinking that if Simon was as well versed in his city’s doings as he claimed, then he might have information to share. But although Simon gave the first genuine smile of their acquaintance when he heard her name, he knew no more than that she had once lived in Lincoln and that she had been loved by all. Then Michael gave an account of what had happened when the new keg of wine had arrived at Kelby’s home and Flaxfleete had made the mistake of serving himself first.
‘And you think Flaxfleete was killed because he set fire to Spayne’s property?’ asked Simon of the Michaelhouse men. ‘How can you know that?’
‘We do not,’ replied Michael hastily, unwilling to be associated with that sort of claim. ‘All we are saying is that the possibility should be assessed before it is dismissed.’
‘That is reasonable,’ said de Wetherset. ‘And there are plenty of suspects to choose from. The Commonalty was furious when it learned about Sheriff Lungspee’s decision to acquit Flaxfleete – and Spayne’s sister Ursula was so enraged that she is said to have smashed her favourite chamber-pot.’
‘Ursula does know about toxins,’ mused Simon, ‘but I cannot see her harming a man with one, not even an enemy from the Guild. There was a case six years ago … but I am sure Suttone’s kin will have told him about it, so perhaps he will elaborate for us.’
Suttone glared at him. ‘Their letters dwell on erudite matters pertaining to theology – nothing you would understand. So, I am afraid we shall have to rely on you to provide us with alehouse gossip.’
Simon sneered at him. ‘Canon Hodelston’s wicked life is classified as theology, is it?’ He turned to Michael before the Carmelite could take issue with him. ‘Ursula had a friend with a cough, so she concocted an electuary. Unfortunately, this friend was with child and the potion contained some herb…what was it now?…cuckoo-pint! It was cuckoo-pint. Anyway, the poor woman died, and the midwife said cuckoo-pint should never be given to expectant mothers. It was clearly an accident, but the Guild makes sure Ursula will never forget it.’
Bartholomew was unimpressed. ‘It is common knowledge that powdered root of cuckoo-pint is used to expel afterbirth, and only a fool would give it to a pregnant woman. Ursula should refrain from dispensing tonics if she does not know what she is doing.’
‘But this woman did not tell Ursula she was with child,’ said Simon. He lowered his voice to a prudish hiss. ‘She was not married, you see. Incidentally, it was your friend Matilde who discovered what had happened, and who insisted that the matter be investigated. She was very angry about it.’
Bartholomew could imagine. Matilde had always championed unlucky women, and the death of a pregnant one from a dose of cuckoo-pint would certainly arouse her condemnation.
‘It caused a serious falling out between Matilde and Ursula,’ elaborated Simon. ‘Some folk said it was Ursula’s error that led Matilde to reject Spayne’s offer of marriage – and perhaps was the reason why she left Lincoln so suddenly.’
‘But this is ancient history,’ said de Wetherset. ‘Suffice to say that Ursula has a working knowledge of medicine, and was angry when Flaxfleete was exonerated today. She might well have tampered with his wine.’
‘I do not see how,’ said Suttone. He addressed Bartholomew and Michael. ‘You said she was in her house with the doors barred.’
‘I see how,’ said de Wetherset. He smiled at the monk. ‘This reminds me of the murders we solved in the University – how we sat and reviewed the evidence with our scholarly logic.’
‘How?’ asked Michael, more interested in de Wetherset’s conclusions than his reminiscences.
