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sister’s marriage had been arranged, she had loved her husband dearly, and his death had left her grief-stricken and lonely. Bartholomew hated seeing her so low, but was acutely aware that there was nothing he could do to help.
    ‘She buries herself in work,’ he replied. ‘Running Oswald’s business.’
    ‘He was wise to have left it to her,’ said Knyt. ‘Not only because it gives her life purpose while she mourns, but because I doubt your nephew would make a good clothier. Two dozen people rely on that venture for their livelihoods, and it is safer with Edith than with Richard.’
    Bartholomew nodded, although he feared that Edith’s increasing familiarity with the work might teach her things about it that she would rather not know. Like most successful merchants, Stanmore had not always been gentle or honest, a fact he had carefully concealed from his wife and son. Bartholomew might have remained in ignorance, too, were it not for patients who had complained to him. Thus every time Edith spoke with a customer or opened a ledger, he braced himself for her dismay at discovering something upsetting. Ten weeks had passed without incident, but this only meant that the shock would be all the greater when she did find something amiss.
    ‘I am surprised Richard is still here,’ Knyt went on. ‘His father’s death left him a very rich man. I thought he would have dashed straight back to London to make the most of it.’
    Bartholomew was also bemused by Richard’s disinclination to leave, as his lawyer-nephew had always professed to find Cambridge dull after the heady delights of the city. Unfortunately, rather than being a comfort to his mother, Richard was a strain. She could pretend he was sober and hard-working when he was away, but it was difficult to maintain the illusion when he was living under her roof.
    ‘Poor Stanmore,’ sighed Knyt. ‘His death was a great shock to us all. It was so sudden.’
    It had certainly been a nasty blow for Bartholomew. Stanmore and Edith had raised him after the early loss of his parents, so his brother-in-law had been part of his life for as long as he could remember. He might have deplored Stanmore’s shabby antics in commerce on occasion, but he had loved him as a kinsman, and his death left a hole that would never be filled.
    ‘The University’s students are returning, I see,’ remarked Knyt, as they stepped on to a High Street that teemed with people. ‘Is it my imagination, or are there more of them than usual?’
    ‘There
are
more,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘Most have come to apply to Winwick Hall. I did not realise that law was such a popular subject.’
    Knyt laughed. ‘Stanmore always said you were unworldly, and that remark proves it. Everyone knows that law is the most lucrative of professions.’
    ‘Is it?’ Bartholomew had never cared about money. He could have made a princely living if he had confined himself to calculating horoscopes for affluent townsmen, but he was more interested in genuine diseases, which meant that most of his clients were poor and unable to pay.
    ‘Oh, yes. We have several lawyers in the Guild, and they are by far our richest members. And look at the clerk who founded Winwick Hall – one of the wealthiest men in the country.’
    ‘So I have heard.’
    ‘Yet I would not trade places with him for the world. He might have power and pots of money, but
I
live in a town I love, surrounded by friends and family. And as Secretary of the Guild, I spend a lot of time helping people in need. What could be more rewarding than that?’
    They stepped aside to let a gaggle of young men strut past. Bartholomew supposed a senior member of the University and the Secretary of the Guild of Saints should have stood their ground, but he disliked pointless confrontation, and was glad Knyt did, too. Unfortunately, they were seen by several apprentices, who scoffed at their pusillanimity. He grimaced, suspecting there would be serious trouble between