“I know what you suspect,” Dzierżka looked at him keenly, “but it’s doubtful. Your brother only lent money to people he knew and trusted. One can upset the Church with usury. Peterlin added some interest, not even half what the Jews ask, but it’s difficult to defend oneself against denunciation. And regarding your suspicions… While it’s true there’s no shortage of people prepared to murder for unpaid debts, the people your brother lent money to weren’t that kind. So you’re barking up the wrong tree, kinsman.”

“No doubt.” Reynevan pursed his lips. “There’s no point looking for new suspects. I know who killed Peterlin and why. I have no doubt in that regard.”

“Then you’re in a minority,” said the woman coldly, “because most people do.”

Another silence followed, interrupted once again by Dzierżka of Wirsing. “Folk are talking about it,” she repeated. “But it would be highly unwise, even downright foolish, to resort hastily to feuds and revenge on the basis of rumour. I say that in case by some chance you’re not making for Our Lady of Bardo at all, but have quite different plans and designs.”

Reynevan pretended he was utterly absorbed by a stain on the ceiling. Scharley’s expression was as innocent as a newborn baby’s.

Dzierżka kept her hazel eyes on both of them.

“But regarding Peterlin’s death, there are doubts,” she continued a moment later, lowering her voice, “and grave ones. Because a strange plague is abroad in Silesia, a mysterious pestilence that falls on tradesfolk and merchants, and not even noblemen are unscathed. People are dying mysterious deaths…”

“Sir Bart,” Reynevan muttered under his breath. “Sir Bart of Karczyn…”

“Sir Bart, indeed.” She nodded. “Then there’s Tomasz Gernrode, master of the leatherworkers’ guild from Nysa, and Herr Fabian Pfefferkorn, a lead merchant from the Niemodlin trading company. And most recently, barely a week ago, Mikołaj Neumarkt, a Świdnica cloth mercator. A veritable pestilence…”

“Let me guess,” Scharley spoke up. “None of them died of smallpox. Or old age.”

“Correct.”

“I’ll guess further: not without reason do you have a larger escort than usual, consisting of particularly heavily armed thugs. Where did you say you were going—?”

“I didn’t. I only mentioned the matter so you would understand how serious it is. So you would understand that what’s happening in Silesia, with the best will in the world, can’t be attributed to the Sterczas. Nor can Kunz Aulock be blamed for it, because it began well before the young Master of Bielawa was caught in bed with Lady Stercza. You’d do well to remember that. I have nothing more to add now.”

“You’ve said too much not to finish,” Scharley said without lowering his eyes. “Who’s killing the Silesian merchants?”