‘Do not tell Spayne the real reason why you want to locate Matilde,’ said Michael suddenly. ‘He may be the jealous type, and might refuse to help you because she slipped through his own fingers.’
‘I know,’ said Bartholomew. His months of searching in France, the Italian peninsula and remote parts of England had taught him that not everyone was inclined to be sympathetic to his quest.
Michael shot him a sidelong glance. ‘Then let me do the talking. Some people are like the traders in the Market Square at home – they have ways of knowing when you really want something, and they raise the price accordingly. I suspect you will learn more from Spayne if the questions are put by someone who is not quite so desperate for answers.’
Bartholomew was sure he was right, and the fact that Lincoln – and Spayne – represented his last hope meant it might be difficult to conceal his true feelings. ‘Thank you, Brother,’ he said gratefully.
Eventually, the door was answered by Ursula. She gave a cool smile when she recognised her visitors, but stood aside so they could enter, gesturing them into the hall within. It was a fine room, although its proportions were marred by the addition of a heavy pillar near the central hearth, and there was a pan at one end to catch drips from a leaking roof. Windows opened to the front and back of the house, although the rear ones were shuttered, indicating that Spayne probably did not want to look into a yard containing the charred remains of his warehouses.
‘You are probably wondering about that brace,’ said Ursula, although Bartholomew was actually staring at a cushion embroidered in a bold, flamboyant style that was almost certainly Matilde’s, and Michael was admiring a dish of sugared almonds. She pointed to the wooden post. ‘It is to stop the house from tumbling about our ears. When Flaxfleete burned our storehouses, the blaze damaged the roof in our home, too. The weakened timbers are buckling under the weight of the recent snows.’
‘Can you not mend it?’ asked Michael, glancing up uneasily.
‘Not as long as the ice is up there, apparently. The builders say it will collapse if they step on it now, and we are all waiting for a thaw. Only then can work begin to repair it.’
‘Then I hope winter ends early this year,’ said Bartholomew politely, when she paused for sympathy. ‘Is your brother home?’
‘Yes, and he is eager to meet you. He says any friends of a member of the Suttone clan can consider themselves friends of his. He is with a customer at the moment, but will come as soon as he is finished. Meanwhile, he has asked me to entertain you while you wait. Would you like some wine?’
‘Not at this hour in the morning,’ said Michael, lowering his ample rump on to Matilde’s cushion. ‘Ale, if you please. And perhaps a little bread. Unless you have any Lombard slices? Lincoln does produce rather fine Lombard slices – better than Cambridge, I am forced to admit. Did you hear about the death of your neighbour on Wednesday?’
She winced at the abrupt change of topic. ‘Not our neighbour, unfortunately. That would mean Kelby is dead, but we have only lost his henchman, Flaxfleete. Still, the loss will blunt Kelby’s claws. It has not stopped him accusing my poor brother of murdering Flaxfleete, though. He claims Will gave Flaxfleete another bout of Summer Madness, so it is a good thing Will was staying with the Black Monks that night. They will swear he did not leave them, not even for a moment.’
‘How do you think Flaxfleete died?’ asked Michael, not mentioning the fact that he had already ascertained the Benedictines were able to do no such thing.
She grinned. ‘I imagine he was struck down by God, because he was going to demand absolution for burning our sheds at the General Pardon, when we all know he was not sorry at all.’
A servant arrived with a platter of pastries, and Michael leaned forward to claim the largest one. ‘Are you sure he was unrepentant?’ he asked, fingers hovering as he made his choice.
‘Of course I am,’ she snapped irritably. ‘He said Summer Madness made him do it, but no other sufferer was seized by a desire to commit arson.’
‘People are saying that you killed Flaxfleete,’ said Bartholomew, tugging the cushion from under Michael and inspecting it more closely. It was definitely Matilde’s handiwork, although it was frayed in places and had been repaired, suggesting it was several years old. ‘Because you have a motive, and it is known that you have dispensed strong substances in the past.’
‘I know,’ she said with a rueful sigh. ‘I made one mistake, and the Guild will never let me forget it. A woman came to me with a cough. She was with child, but did not men tion it when she asked for a cure. I gave her a remedy, but it served to bring the babe early and both died. It was not my fault. If she had been honest about her condition, I would never have given her an electuary containing cuckoo-pint.’
‘Flaxfleete was killed with a different poison,’ said Michael. ‘It was-’
