Susanna GREGORY - A Bone of Contention

‘I still feel the town treated d’Ambrey shamefully,’ mused Michael. ‘Even if he were less than honest, the poor still received a lot more than they would have done without him.’

‘I agree,’ said Bartholomew, with a shrug. ‘And, as far as I know, it was never proven that he was responsible for the thefts. Just because his relatives and servants stole from the poor fund did not mean that d’Ambrey condoned it, or even that he knew. After his death, his whole household fled – brother, sister, servants and all – although not before they had stripped the house of everything moveable.’

‘Well, there you are then!’ said Michael triumphantly.

‘His family and servants fled taking everything saleable with them. Surely that is a sign of their guilt? Perhaps d’Ambrey was innocent after all. Who can say?’

Bartholomew shrugged again, poking at a rotten apple with a twig. ‘The mood of the townspeople that night was ugly. D’Ambrey’s family would have been foolish to have stayed to face them. Even if they had managed to avoid being torn apart by a mob, the merchants and landowners who had parted with money to finance d’Ambrey’s good works were demanding vengeance. D’Ambrey’s household would have been forced to compensate them for the thefts regardless of whether they were guilty or not.’

‘So d’Ambrey paid the ultimate price, but his partners in crime went free,’ said Michael. ‘A most unfair, but not in the least surprising, conclusion to this miserable tale. Poor d’Ambrey!’

‘No one went free,’ said Bartholomew, sitting and leaning backwards against the wall. ‘The town nominated three of its most respected burgesses to pursue d’Ambrey’s family and bring them back for trial. Although the d’Ambreys had gone to some trouble to conceal the route they had taken, they were forced to sell pieces of jewellery to pay their way. These were identified by the burgesses, who traced the family to a house in Dover. But the evening before the burgesses planned their confrontation with the fugitives, there was a fire in that part of the town, and everyone died in it.’

‘Really?’ asked Michael, fascinated. ‘What a remarkable coincidence! And none of the fugitives survived, I am sure?’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘The town erupted into an inferno by all accounts, and dozens of people died in the blaze.’

‘And I suppose the bodies were too badly charred for identification,’ said Michael with heavy sarcasm. ‘But the requisite number were found in the d’Ambrey lodgings, and the burgesses simply assumed that the culprits were all dead. D’Ambrey’s family must have laughed for years about how they tricked these “most respected burgesses”!’

‘Oh no, Brother,’ said Bartholomew earnestly. ‘On the contrary. D’Ambrey’s household died of asphyxiation and not burning. None of the bodies were burned at all as I recall. D’Ambrey’s brother and sister had wounds consistent with crushing as the house collapsed from the heat, but none of their faces were damaged. The bodies were brought back to Cambridge, and displayed in the Market Square. No member of d’Ambrey’s household escaped the fire, and there was no question regarding the identities of any of them.’

‘I see,’ said Michael, puzzled. ‘This body-displaying is an addendum to the tale that is not usually forthcoming from the worthy citizens of Cambridge. Do you not consider these deaths something of a coincidence? All die most conveniently in a fire, thus achieving the twofold objective of punishing the guilty parties most horribly, and of sparing the town the bother and cost of a trial.’

Bartholomew flapped impatiently at the insects that sang their high-pitched hum in his ears. ‘That was a question raised at the time,’ he said, ‘although certainly not openly. I eavesdropped on meetings held at my brother-in-law’s house, and it seemed that none of the burgesses had unshakeable alibis on the night of the fire.’

‘What a dreadful story,’ said Michael in disgust. ‘Did any of these burgesses ever admit to starting the fire?’

‘Not that I know of,’ said Bartholomew, standing abruptly in a futile attempt to try to rid himself of the insects. ‘They all died years ago – none were young men when they became burgesses – but I have never heard that any of them claimed responsibility for the fire.’

‘So, dozens of Dover’s citizens died just to repay a few light-fingered philanthropists for making fools of the town’s rich,’ said Michael, shaking his head. ‘How unpleasant people can be on occasions.’

‘We do not know the burgesses started the fire,’ said Bartholomew reasonably. ‘Nothing was ever proven. It might have been exactly what they claimed – a fortuitous accident, or an act of God against wrongdoers.’

‘You do not believe that, Matt!’ snorted Michael in amused disbelief. ‘I know you better than that! You suspect the burgesses were to blame.’

‘Perhaps they were,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But it hardly matters now. It was a long time ago, and everyone who played any role in the affair died years ago.’ He sat again, fiddling restlessly with the laces on his shirt. ‘But all this is not helping with our skeleton. Did you have any luck with the Sheriff this afternoon, regarding to whom these bones might belong?’

‘Do bones belong to someone, or are they someone?’ mused Michael, rubbing at his flabby chins. ‘We should debate that question sometime, Matt. The answer to your question is no, unfortunately. There are no missing persons that fit with your findings. Are you sure about the identification you made? The age of the skeleton?’

Bartholomew nodded slowly. ‘After you had gone to the Chancellor, I helped Will dredge up the rest of the bones and the skull. I am certain, from the development of the teeth and the size and shape of other bones, that the skeleton is that of a child of perhaps twelve or fourteen years. I cannot say whether it was a boy or a girl – I do not have that sort of expertise. There were no clothes left, but tendrils of cloth suggest that the child was clothed when it was put, or fell, into the Ditch.’

‘Could you tell how long it had been there?’ said Michael. ‘How long dead?’

Bartholomew spread his hands. ‘I told you, I do not have the expertise to judge such things. At least five years, although, between ourselves, I would guess a good deal longer. But you should not tell anyone else, because the evidence is doubtful.’

‘Then why do you suggest it?’ asked Michael. He leaned forward to select an apple on the ground that was not infested with wasps, and began to chew on it, grimacing at its sourness.

The blackbird he had startled earlier swooped across the grass in front of them, twittering furiously. Bartholomew reflected for a moment, trying to remember what his Arab master had taught him about the decomposition of bodies. He had not been particularly interested in the lesson, preferring to concentrate his energies on the living than learning about cases far beyond any help he could give.

‘All bones do not degenerate in the same way once they are in the ground, or in the case of this child, in mud. Much depends on the type of material that surrounds them, and the amount of water present.

These bones had been immersed in the thick, clay-like mud at the bottom of the Ditch, and so are in a better condition than if they had been in peat, which tends to preserve skin, but rot bone. But despite this, the bones are fragile and crumbly, and deeply stained. I would not be surprised if they had been lying in the Ditch for twenty or thirty years.’

‘So, we might be looking for a child of fourteen who died thirty years ago?’ asked Michael in astonishment. ‘Lord, Matt! Had he lived, that would make him older than us!’