Hamo answered, his expression gleefully spiteful. ‘Miller and several cronies arrived in Lincoln twenty years ago and, almost immediately, there was an increase in crime – a lot of property went missing over the next few months and they became ever more rich. At the same time, they started to infiltrate the Commonalty, and now they run it to suit themselves. Personally, I think they still deal on the wrong side of the law.’
‘And Aylmer?’ asked Michael, ignoring the way Simon shook his head in a way that suggested he thought there was no truth to the accusations. ‘Was he one of the men who arrived with Miller?’
‘No, he came a few weeks later,’ replied Hamo, also ignoring Simon. ‘But he lost no time in having himself elected to the Commonalty. Miller was fond of him, and I imagine the killer will be quaking in his boots as we speak. He will be terrified his identity will be exposed, and Miller will come after him. He will not appreciate you asking questions that might reveal him, Brother, so you should be careful.’
Bartholomew regarded him in alarm, although Michael remained unmoved. ‘If what you say is true, then I shall have Miller on my side.’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Hamo. ‘He will be keen to subject the killer to his own brand of justice, and will try to prevent you from getting to him first. I do not envy you your task.’
It was after noon by the time Bartholomew managed to escape from Michael and climb the hill to see Spayne. He walked briskly, Cynric trotting at his side, and his stomach churned when he considered how important the meeting might be to his personal happiness, despite Michael’s cautionary warnings. But his nervous anticipation was all for nothing, because when he arrived, he was informed by a maid that both Spayne and his sister were out.
‘Where?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking he would collect his horse and ride to meet them.
The maid shook her head. ‘I do not know, sir. I can only tell you that Mistress Ursula said not to expect them back until after nightfall tomorrow, and to lock up the house early.’
‘You have some very large fires going, lass,’ observed Cynric, peering past her into the hall. ‘Why would you make such a blaze, if no one is at home?’
‘Mistress Ursula ordered them for the snow on the roof,’ explained the maid. She led them away from the door and into the middle of the street, where she pointed upwards. ‘It fell very thickly a few nights ago, and the weight has made the roof sag. Can you see it? Mistress Ursula said we need to keep fires burning all the time, so the heat will melt it away.’
‘It might slough off and land on someone,’ said Bartholomew uneasily. ‘In Cambridge, we once had a man die when a great mass of ice fell from a roof. We did not find his body for months.’
She crossed herself. ‘I will warn Mayor Spayne. Perhaps he can build barriers, to stop folk coming too close. Of course, then the guildsmen will say he is claiming part of a common highway for himself. They will moan if he tries to protect people, and they will moan if someone is hurt. Vile men! Tell me, did you really travel here with a member of the Suttone clan?’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘Why?’
Her eyes gleamed. ‘It is a great honour – they are so well thought of in these parts. Bishop Gynewell was delighted when he heard one was in holy orders and might be persuaded to take a prebendal stall. Everyone likes the Suttone family.’
Bartholomew was amused. ‘We had no idea we were in such exalted company. Have the Suttones taken a side in the city’s feud?’
She shook her head. ‘They do not come to town very often – perhaps because when they do, the Guild and the Commonalty try to recruit them.’ She gave him a shy smile. ‘Mayor Spayne had business with Sheriff Lungspee this morning, sir. I doubt he is still there, but one of the soldiers might know his plans for later. You will find the castle on top of the hill.’
Lincoln’s main street was so spacious in places that it was able to accommodate a whole string of markets. First, there was an area where corn was traded, which had pigeons picking at the filthy ground and sturdy scales ready for weighing sacks of grain. Then there was the Pultria, or Poultry, which was fringed with tightly packed houses and churches. The air was full of clucks, hisses, coos and quacks, and underfoot, feathers, eggshells and bird droppings had been trodden into the mud to form a thick mat. The fish market was next, but the silting of the Fossedike meant it took too long to bring the catch from the sea, and the specimens on display were dull-eyed and smelly. Gulls soared overhead, diving occasionally to snatch a morsel from under the feet of the haggling fishmongers, and cats stalked and crouched in the shadows. Then came the High Market, with ramshackle stalls that sold everything from ribbons to rabbits. It reeked of old urine and decaying meat.
