The Mark of a Murderer

CHAPTER 4

Bartholomew was angry with Michael for putting him in an awkward position with his former teacher and earning him a reprimand that stung. It was, after all, not he who had rifled through Duraunt’s belongings. Michael pointed out that by keeping watch Bartholomew had made himself an accessory to the crime, and was just as much to blame. Since they could not agree and Bartholomew was too tired to argue, they returned to Michaelhouse in silence.

The physician turned the facts about Chesterfelde over in his mind. Was the death a case of mistaken identity – something hard to believe, given the strange mode of execution – and Eudo or Boltone responsible? Or had he been murdered as retribution for starting a riot that had left hundreds dead and Oxford ablaze? Answers were not forthcoming, even when he lay on his bed in the comparative peace of his room and gave the matter all his attention.

Later that evening, Michael was summoned by his beadles to quell trouble brewing at the King’s Head. The monk was unsettled by the notion that what had happened in Oxford might be repeated in Cambridge, and was inclined to regard any symptom of unrest with more than his customary concern. The fact that the St Scholastica’s Day trouble had exploded from a relatively minor incident made him feel as though he should be on his guard at all times. Meanwhile, Bartholomew dozed in his room until every light had been extinguished in the College, then set out to see Matilde.

As he made his way through the dark streets, he tried to keep to the shadows, lingering in some to assess whether he was being followed or watched. He was too weary to be properly vigilant, and although he saw the occasional movement out of the corner of his eye, he could not determine whether it was just a leaf blowing in the soft breeze, a cat hunting rodents, someone who would gossip about him the next day, or the product of an overwrought imagination.

When he arrived, he told Matilde that their ‘secret’ was now common knowledge, and that even his sister knew about their assignations. Matilde’s expression was wry when she mentioned that Edith had quizzed her ruthlessly until she had extracted a confession, but together the two women had devised a plan that they hoped might ease the situation. Bartholomew flopped on to one of Matilde’s comfortable benches and rested his head in his hands, feeling exhaustion wash over him in a great unstoppable tide. Matilde looked fatigued, too; there were dark rings under her eyes and she was less immaculately groomed than usual.

‘Well?’ he asked, his voice muffled. ‘What have you and my sister decided will protect us from wagging tongues?’

‘This,’ Matilde replied, presenting him with a lurid, gold-coloured liripipe – a fashionable hood-come-scarf that could be donned in a variety of styles.

He regarded it without enthusiasm. ‘What am I supposed to do with that?’

Matilde sighed, her own lassitude making her unusually irritable with him. ‘You wear it, Matthew.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew, pushing it back at her and thinking how bizarre it would look with his sober academic attire. ‘This is not the kind of thing I favour. It is yellow, for God’s sake.’

She shoved it firmly into his unwilling hands. ‘You must try to get some sleep tonight, because you are uncommonly slow witted. The fact that this is not something you would normally wear means that people will not associate you with it and it will hide your face if you wrap it properly. Folk will see only an amber-hatted man.’ She saw his blank expression and sighed again. ‘It is what is generally known as a “disguise”.’

Reluctantly, he pulled the thing over his head. It felt ridiculous, and he disliked the scratchy sensation around his neck. ‘Will it work, do you think?’

‘Edith chose it as being the least likely thing you would ever select for yourself. But do not forget to conceal it during the day. If you leave it out for all to see, then it will have the opposite effect – it will advertise what you are doing.’

When he returned to the College, well before dawn this time, Bartholomew was annoyed, but not surprised, to discover that someone had barred the orchard door again. This time, however, he had a contingency plan – one that did not involve arriving early at the church and pretending to be at his devotions. He walked to the bottom of the lane, where a tall wall separated Michaelhouse’s grounds from the towpath that ran along the river. A heap of discarded barrels and other riverine clutter lay at the foot of the wall, and he clambered up it. There was a long drop over the other side, but he had spent an hour moving compost the previous afternoon, and it provided him with a soft landing. He jumped, rolled easily and made his way back to his room. He even managed to sleep for a while before the College bell and an answering shriek from the night porter’s peacock announced that it was time for the scholars to rise for the morning service.

He prised himself from his bed, and washed and shaved with the water his book-bearer left for him each night, feeling its icy chill revive him. He rummaged in a chest for a clean tunic, and pulled it over his head, acutely aware that the old one was scented with the rosemary Matilde kept in her bedroom. A jerkin followed, and his hose and academic tabard completed his uniform. His boots were near the door and, as he walked across the yard, he saw they were stained with mud from his nocturnal tramp through the gardens. Hoping no one was watching, he stood on one leg to scrub first one and then the other on the backs of his hose, before joining the line that formed as the scholars emerged from their rooms, most complaining about the early-morning chill, the shrillness of the bell, the fact that it was drizzling, and anything else that bothered them before the first sunrays touched the eastern sky.

The Fellows were in a huddle behind Langelee, waiting to follow their Master in their daily procession to church. Michael stood next to Father William, and Bartholomew was repelled to see that the strand of cabbage Michael had flicked away two days before still adorned the friar’s shoulder, crusted and dry. The morose Suttone, whose predawn conversation usually revolved around the imminent return of the plague, was with a lawyer named Wynewyk, who was invariably more concerned with predicting Michaelhouse’s imminent fiscal collapse. The last Fellow was Kenyngham, an ancient Gilbertine friar who was oblivious to his colleagues’ grumbles and proclamations as he stood with his hands clasped in reverent prayer.

‘Any news about Clippesby?’ Langelee asked Bartholomew, wincing when the wind blew drizzle directly into his face. ‘I heard you visited him on Sunday.’

‘He is still unwell.’

‘Unwell!’ snorted William. ‘He is insane, man, so say what you mean! However, we must remember that he is a Dominican, and men of that Order are prone to madness. It comes from being obliged to put up with each other’s company.’

‘Visit him again today,’ ordered Langelee, while Suttone pointed out to William that he himself was enough to drive sane men to lunacy with his bigoted opinions. ‘God knows, I was relieved to have him gone for a while – his philosophical discourses with bats and pigs were becoming an embarrassment – but we need him back. His students complained about Michael’s teaching again last night.’

‘Did they indeed?’ demanded Michael archly. ‘And what is wrong with it, pray?’

‘They say you do not know what you are talking about,’ replied Langelee baldly. ‘And do not look at me with such outrage, Brother. You told me yourself that you are not qualified to take these classes. The astronomy students are disgruntled, too, but they say they are being taught subjects that are too advanced. It is a pity you two cannot get together and provide something in the middle.’

‘I could teach them theology,’ offered William. ‘I am busy, of course, but I could manage an hour to tell them something worth knowing – something better than music or astronomy.’ He almost spat the last words, making no secret of what he thought about any subjects taught by a Dominican.

‘No, thank you,’ said Langelee, without a moment’s hesitation. ‘I do not want them to grumble that they are being railed at by a fanatic, either.’ He turned to Michael while the Franciscan spluttered with indignation. ‘The whole town is talking about that murder at Merton Hall. Should we be concerned? It is rumoured that scholars from Oxford are trying to besmirch our good name, to encourage Islip to found his College there instead of here.’

‘Lord!’ muttered Michael. ‘Who has been spreading these tales?’

‘Probably that Doctor Rougham,’ said Suttone gloomily. ‘He is a nasty fellow, and it is the sins of men like him that will bring the Death down on us again.’

‘Rougham is not here,’ said William, who listened to a good deal of gossip himself. ‘He has gone to see his family in Norfolk, although I do not think he should have been granted permission to leave in the middle of term.’

‘He was not,’ said Michael. ‘He sent his Master a letter after he left, at a point when his “request” could not be refused. Hamecotes of King’s Hall did the same. They both knew what they were doing: once they have gone there is nothing we can do about it, and fines mean little to rich men.’

‘Hamecotes’s colleague Wolf did not send any such letter, though,’ said William. ‘He just left – probably because he is in debt.’

‘Probably,’ agreed Michael. ‘But I am more concerned with these tales about Oxford than in disobedient scholars. Where did they originate?’

‘With Weasenham, the University stationer,’ said Langelee. ‘You know what he is like for chatter.’

‘I do indeed,’ said Michael grimly. ‘But this is more dangerous than idle gossip. It may send our scholars in a vengeful horde to the Oxford men at Merton Hall, and we shall have yet more murders on our hands. And that will certainly not impress Islip.’

‘Do you think Chesterfelde was murdered by Cambridge students?’ asked Langelee. ‘Because they think he came here with the express purpose of harming us? That is what Weasenham was speculating, yesterday.’

‘I shall do some speculating with him,’ said Michael angrily. ‘Does the man want us to lose Islip? What is he thinking of, spreading those sorts of tales at a time like this?’

‘He has been fabricating rumours about Matt, too,’ said Wynewyk, shivering as the drizzle became a more persistent downpour. He pulled his cloak closely around his slight frame. ‘He said Matt has serviced Matilde every night for the last twelve days.’

‘Damn the man!’ exclaimed Langelee angrily. ‘Just because a man emerges from a woman’s boudoir does not mean that they have “serviced” each other. Bartholomew and Matilde could have been playing dice for all Weasenham knows.’

Bartholomew was appalled that the rumour should be so explicit, and wondered whether the liripipe ruse would work. He sincerely hoped so, for Matilde’s sake as much as his own. He was aware that his colleagues were waiting for him to deny the accusation, but was at a loss for words. He could hardly say he had not visited Matilde night after night, when he had done exactly that.

‘It does not look good,’ said Suttone, after a lengthy silence. ‘You should not be there, Matthew, even if you pass the time reading sacred texts. Not at that time of night.’

Langelee addressed Bartholomew more kindly. ‘I know a lusty man needs a little female attention now and again, and I do not condemn you for that – even though it is against College statutes – because I indulge myself on occasion, and I am no hypocrite.’

He glowered at Suttone in a way that indicated the same could not be said for him. Bartholomew was astonished: Suttone was the last man he would have imagined dealing with women.

Suttone looked decidedly furtive. ‘I do not–’

Langelee overrode him, still addressing Bartholomew. ‘But you must learn discretion, man! You must avoid being seen.’

Without further ado, the Master moved to the front of the procession and led his scholars to St Michael’s Church. Rob Deynman, the College’s least able student, walked in front, bearing the large cross that was only ever brought out for ceremonial occasions. There was nothing special about that particular Tuesday, but Langelee wanted it used during the Visitation, and since Deynman was apt to be clumsy, he needed all the practice he could get. Michael fell into place next to Bartholomew, speaking in a low voice so he would not be overheard.

‘You are lucky. Any other Master would have fined you or had your Fellowship revoked. But you should heed his warning – you cannot continue to flout the rules like this, because even he will not be able to protect you much longer, no matter how much he wants to keep you here.’

‘He does?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised. He was gradually beginning to like – and even to respect – Langelee, despite the man’s many faults and his appalling lack of scholarship, but he had been under the impression that medicine was barely tolerated at Michaelhouse, and was regarded as a necessary evil rather than the equal of the venerated disciplines of theology and law.

Michael nodded. ‘Your concern for Cambridge’s poor and their nasty diseases is good for Michaelhouse, and he would never risk antagonising them by dismissing you. He is also fond of you in his own brutish way and feels a certain kinship – you, he and Wynewyk are seculars among us monks and friars. Wynewyk prefers men, but you and Langelee are alike in your love of women.’

‘I love Matilde,’ acknowledged Bartholomew, thinking the clerics were no more chaste than he was, if Suttone’s reaction had been anything to go by, while he strongly suspected Michael was not always faithful to his vow of celibacy, either. ‘I am not lusting after half the women in town, as you imply.’

‘Neither is Langelee – at least not any more. He has curbed his appetites, and confines himself to a single paramour. However, they do not fling themselves into the bedchamber on a nightly basis without caring who sees them.’

‘Who is she?’ asked Bartholomew, intrigued. He experienced a sudden pang of alarm when he considered Langelee’s patient tolerance of him. ‘It is not my sister, is it?’

Michael gave a startled snort of laughter that drew the unwelcome attention of William. He lowered his voice further still. ‘Edith is a loyal wife, and you should be ashamed of yourself for thinking such thoughts about a woman who is above reproach. Besides, she has far more taste than to entertain Langelee. However, you will never guess the identity of our Master’s lover, because you would not believe he could seduce her without unhappy repercussions.’

‘No talking!’ snapped William. ‘We are about to witness a sacred mass, and you should be inspecting your souls for sin, not gossiping about women. Who is Langelee’s lover, then?’

Fortunately for Michael, Langelee was listening to Wynewyk’s diatribe about the alarming state of the College accounts, and was far too concerned by the predictions of impending bankruptcy to pay heed to the conversations of others.

‘Agatha the laundress,’ said Michael flippantly, selecting the least likely candidate imaginable. Agatha was the formidable woman who ran Michaelhouse’s domestic affairs, and who intimidated every male who lived or worked there. His jest went wide, however, and the Franciscan’s jaw fell open in astonishment as he took Michael’s comment at face value. Bartholomew grinned as William fell back to consider the implications of such a liaison, and wondered what trouble Michael had just created for the Master.

‘Surely not!’ exclaimed Deynman, who had also been listening. The cross swung precariously as he shifted his grip, knocking the hat from Wynewyk’s head. ‘Agatha will be too manly for him.’

‘Who is too manly for whom?’ asked Langelee, waiting for Wynewyk to retrieve his headwear.

‘Yolande the prostitute for Wynewyk,’ prevaricated Michael, shooting Deynman a glance to warn him to silence.

Wynewyk was startled to be the subject of such a discussion, but shook his head to indicate Michael was wrong. ‘She is not manly enough,’ he said meaningfully.

‘There are plenty of men in the University who look like women,’ mused Deynman, off in a world of his own. ‘It is difficult to tell them apart in some cases. For example, Chancellor Tynkell–’

‘No,’ said Michael briskly, not wanting the student to dwell on that particular topic. Deynman had once attributed the Chancellor’s aversion to washing as evidence that he was a hermaphrodite, and had started wicked rumours that still plagued the man.

‘Let us take John Wormynghalle of King’s Hall instead, then,’ said Deynman. He tried to give Michael a meaningful look, catching Wynewyk a painful blow on the shoulder as the cross sagged to one side. ‘He is an odd sort of fellow.’

‘Watch what you are doing with that thing,’ yelped Wynewyk, cowering away from him. ‘And there is nothing odd about Wormynghalle, other than the fact that he is able to resist my charms.’

‘You tried to seduce him?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily, thinking that sort of behaviour might well bring about a fight between the two Colleges as each tried to defend its honour.

‘Of course not,’ said Wynewyk indignantly. ‘But I attempted to steer a conversation around to personal matters – to test the waters, if you take my meaning – and he refused to be diverted. He is interested in natural philosophy, musical theory and nothing else. He is dull, but not strange – except perhaps for the fact that he declines to set foot in taverns and never employs whores. That was why I thought he might be approachable, but it transpires he has no interest in the intimate company of men or women. All he wants to do is learn.’

‘He is fanatical about his studies,’ agreed Deynman. ‘He attends all the public lectures, and you can tell from his face that he is listening.’ The bemusement in his voice indicated that he did not.

‘I would not like to sit next to him at a feast – he would be tedious company,’ said Michael. ‘But you cannot suspect him of being a hermaphrodite, just because he enjoys scholarship. He and Tynkell cannot be compared.’

‘You admit it, then!’ crowed Deynman triumphantly. ‘I knew there was something singular about that Chancellor!’

‘That is not what I meant,’ objected Michael, alarmed by the way his words had been twisted. ‘I meant that Wormynghalle and Tynkell are completely different, and…’

He trailed off as Deynman, armed with new ‘evidence’, strode ahead, doubtless working out how to apply the information to the dubious medical theories he had accrued from half listening to lectures.

‘That has torn it, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, stifling a yawn. ‘Now you will never persuade him there is nothing wrong with the Chancellor that a bath would not cure.’

‘Damn Tynkell and his peculiar habits,’ muttered Michael. He saw the physician smother a second yawn and shook his head in disgust before changing the subject. ‘Langelee’s lover is Alyce Weasenham, wife of the town’s biggest gossip. You have to be impressed, Matt, because very little escapes our stationer’s sharp eyes. Still, I suppose Weasenham has more than enough to occupy him at the moment, what with fabricating tales about Merton Hall, about Oxford and its riots, and about you and Matilde.’

‘Alyce?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘How do you know?’

‘Few things happen here without someone telling me – and that includes reports about you. You think you were careful last night, but tongues are still clacking. I warn you again, Matt: stop this dalliance with Matilde, at least for a while.’

‘I cannot,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘I wish I could explain, because I know you would understand. But I cannot stop seeing her, and I cannot tell you why.’

Michael sighed. ‘Then you will lose your Fellowship, and the fine you will be ordered to pay will be so vast that you will spend the rest of your life in debt. Just think about that as you creep along the High Street tonight.’

‘Agatha the laundress,’ breathed William, still thinking about a relationship between Langelee and the only woman permitted to live inside Michaelhouse’s sacred portals. Even the morose Suttone was smirking at the way the Franciscan had so readily accepted Michael’s careless remark, and Suttone rarely smiled about anything. ‘He is a braver man than I thought.’

‘I am concerned about this Merton Hall murder,’ said Suttone, leaving the Franciscan to his musings and stepping forward to speak to Michael. ‘Another College founded in Cambridge would be greatly beneficial, and it would be a pity to lose Islip’s goodwill just because an Oxford man died in our town. Do you have any idea who killed Chesterfelde?’

‘None. But I plan to interview Merton Hall’s servants this morning.’

‘Do not neglect to speak to Eudo and Boltone,’ said William, reluctantly dragging his thoughts away from Agatha and Langelee. ‘They are an unpleasant pair – you may find they are your killers.’

‘What makes you say that?’ asked Michael, surprised the friar should know them at all. They were unlikely to move in similar circles.

‘They came to visit that relic I made available for public veneration earlier this year, and I saw then what kind of men they were. They probably killed Chesterfelde to keep their crimes a secret.’

‘What crimes?’

‘They have been cheating Merton for years,’ replied William, a little impatient that the monk should not know. ‘It is the talk of the whole town. Why do you think Warden Duraunt is here? It is to confront them. But that is not all: they steal from others, too – scholars and townsfolk alike.’

‘Such as whom?’ asked Michael, trying to recall whether he had received complaints in the past.

‘Geoffrey Dodenho at King’s Hall,’ replied William. ‘And if you want a witness from the town, then ask Matthew’s lover: Matilde.’

Michael and Bartholomew did not finish teaching until mid-afternoon. At that point, Michael’s sober Benedictines astonished him by showing they were an entire term ahead with Peter Lombard’s Sentences and were given their leisure for the rest of the day as a reward – they smiled polite thanks and immediately resumed their studies – while Clippesby’s musicians were dispatched to King’s Hall to hear Wormynghalle’s lecture on plainsong. Bartholomew’s medical students had been given a passage in Galen’s De simplicibus medicinis to learn, while the astronomers were to evaluate Ptolemaic epicycles using the mathematical tables constructed by an Arab scholar in the tenth century and translated into Latin by Adelard of Bath. They objected vociferously, and claimed the exercise was too advanced for them, while Bartholomew firmly maintained it was elementary.

‘You need the practice,’ he said, unmoved by their cries of dismay at the mountain of work he had set them. ‘Your calculations yesterday were entirely wrong.’

‘That was not our fault,’ said one, sulkily. ‘Brother Michael ordered Deynman to supervise the lesson, and he got us confused. We were figuring movable feasts, and his formula had Easter taking place the day after Christmas! We do not want him to “help” us again. He has set me back weeks by forcing us to use his convoluted equations.’

Bartholomew knew Deynman had taken a more active role in the class than he had been allocated. He was older than the astronomers, and eager to display his superior knowledge. Instead of merely making sure they kept at their work, and did not wander away before the session was over, he had stepped in to teach, and the result was seven very confused astronomers and an even more bewildered Deynman. That day it was the considerably more intelligent Falmeresham who had been left in charge, while Deynman was told to sit at the back and keep quiet.

‘We should visit Matilde,’ said Michael, who had accompanied the physician when he had tended a patient in nearby St John’s Hospital. The rain had stopped and the sun was out. ‘I want to know what they stole from her.’

‘Not now,’ said Bartholomew absently, still bemused by the students’ indignation at being asked to do some serious thinking. ‘I will ask when I see her tonight.’

‘I would rather talk to her myself,’ said Michael. They were near the Jewry, and he took a couple of steps in that direction.

‘No,’ said Bartholomew, grabbing the monk’s arm and snapping out of his reverie. ‘I said I will speak to her later.’

Michael turned to face him. ‘Why? Are you ensuring she has her rest, so she will be better able to frolic with you tonight?’ He took an involuntary step backwards when he saw the dark expression on his friend’s face, then reached out to touch his shoulder. ‘I am sorry, Matt. I should not have said that. But Matilde is my friend, too, and you have no right to prevent me from seeing her.’

‘I am asking you to leave her alone,’ said Bartholomew, fighting to keep the anger from his voice. He rubbed his head, supposing tiredness was making him prone to losing his temper. ‘Please.’

Michael shook his head slowly. ‘This is an odd state of affairs, Matt. I am not sure Matilde…’ He faltered when he became aware that someone was close behind him, and turned around fast.

The University stationer was standing there, with his wife Alyce on his arm. He was grinning in triumph, and it was clear he had overheard at least part of the conversation and was anticipating the pleasure of repeating it. It was equally obvious that the snippet would be embellished so that soon it would bear little resemblance to what had actually been said. Bartholomew closed his eyes in despair.

‘Weasenham,’ said Michael amiably. ‘You startled me, approaching so softly from behind.’

‘So I imagine,’ said Weasenham with a leer. ‘I startle many folk with my silent-footed tread. I have surprised Doctor Rougham on occasion, too, as he creeps out to dally with his sweetheart.’

‘Not Rougham,’ said Michael immediately. ‘No woman would take him as a lover.’

‘Well, he is obliged to pay her,’ acknowledged Weasenham spitefully. ‘He is away from Gonville at the moment. I am told he sent a letter saying he was in Norfolk, but I do not think that is true.’

‘Why not?’ demanded Bartholomew. He probably disliked Rougham more than anyone, but he still objected to him being the subject of gossip. ‘He does have family there.’

‘He would never willingly leave during term, and especially not with the Archbishop about to visit,’ Weasenham pointed out with impeccable logic and a clear understanding of the man. ‘He would want to be here, to be seen and to curry Islip’s favour.’

‘What do you want?’ asked Michael coldly. ‘Why are you accosting us when we are busy?’

Weasenham ignored his hostility and gestured behind him. ‘My shop is there, gentlemen, and when I saw you chatting, I felt compelled to come out and pay my respects. I am always ready to pass the time of day with Michaelhouse men.’

‘So is your wife,’ said Michael baldly. Alyce swallowed uneasily, but Weasenham did not seem to grasp the monk’s meaning. He glanced at her, then back at Michael, and a frown of puzzlement creased his face.

‘Master Langelee does a good deal of business with us,’ blurted Alyce.

‘He is always in our shop,’ agreed Weasenham. He smiled, dismissing his confusion as he considered the prospect of lucrative future contracts. ‘He says Michaelhouse is planning to expand its membership, which means that a lot more writing supplies and exemplar texts will be required.’

‘Is that so?’ asked Michael, while Bartholomew recalled Wynewyk’s bleak analysis of the College’s finances with its current quota of scholars, and marvelled at the baldness of the lie.

‘He says Michaelhouse will soon be the largest College in the University,’ Weasenham went on, oblivious to his wife’s squirming mortification. ‘He is always in our solar, confiding his grand plans to my Alyce. That man has vision.’

‘I planned to visit you later,’ said Michael, bringing the discussion to a merciful end. Bartholomew was relieved; Alyce’s discomfort was too close to his own circumstances to be even remotely amusing. ‘The Chancellor is running short of vellum again.’

‘I always have vellum for Chancellor Tynkell. He is a good, decent man who sleeps in his own bed at night.’ Weasenham smirked at Bartholomew in a way that made the physician want to punch him.

‘But perhaps I will send to Ely Abbey for it instead,’ said Michael, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. ‘My Benedictine brethren produce remarkably fine vellum.’

The smug grin faded. ‘Yes, they do. I buy mine from them – to sell in my shop.’

‘I could save the University a good deal of money,’ said Michael, appearing to think aloud. ‘The monks know me and are sure to give me a good price. Better than anything you can offer.’

‘But you would have to pay to have it transported here,’ argued Weasenham uneasily. ‘And that road is very dangerous – plagued by robbers.’

‘It would not be worth the inconvenience to you,’ added Alyce, also alarmed. Her voice dropped to an appalled whisper as she glanced at her husband. ‘We cannot survive without the patronage of the Chancellor’s Office.’

‘Is that so?’ asked Michael softly. ‘Well, I suppose I could persuade Tynkell to continue to buy from you. Of course, it would very much depend.’

‘Oh?’ asked Weasenham nervously. ‘On what, exactly?’

Michael’s voice was low and menacing. ‘The Chancellor’s Office will purchase nothing from a man who damages my colleagues’ reputations. Furthermore, I shall urge the Colleges and hostels to follow my example. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Perfectly,’ replied Weasenham. He swallowed hard. ‘If I mention what I just overheard between you and Bartholomew, you will drive me out of business.’

‘Then can I assume we have reached an understanding?’ asked Michael, not bothering to deny the charge of blackmail, or even attempting to couch what he was doing in more pleasant terms.

‘Yes,’ said Weasenham shortly. His face was dark with resentment as he stalked back to his house, and Bartholomew saw the monk had just made himself a new enemy. Alyce lingered, however.

‘If our business fails because Tynkell takes his custom elsewhere, we will have nothing to lose,’ she said coldly. ‘Extortion works both ways, you know.’

‘You are right,’ said Michael softly. ‘Your husband will have no reason to keep quiet about Matt if he loses all his customers. But you will. You do not want me to inform Weasenham that you and Langelee discuss far more intimate matters than Michaelhouse’s fictitious expansion, do you?’

She glowered at him. ‘But that would damage your College, too. Michaelhouse will not want its Master exposed as a man who possesses a lover.’

‘True,’ agreed Michael amicably. ‘So I suggest we both keep still tongues in our heads. Then no one will be harmed and we will all be happy.’

She thought for a moment, then gave Michael a curt nod before following her husband. Bartholomew watched her open the door and bustle inside the shop, where scholars were waiting to be served with orders of pens, parchment, ink and the cheap copies of selected texts known as exemplar pecia. She did not look back, but Bartholomew could tell she was livid. He wondered whether she would inform Langelee about Michael’s threats, and plunge the College into a bitter dispute between its Master and its most influential member.

‘Thank you,’ he said sincerely. ‘But you should not have intervened, Brother. I do not want you involved in this mess.’

‘In what mess?’ The physician’s odd choice of words to describe his romance did not escape the astute Michael. He looked searchingly at his friend’s face, and spoke kindly. ‘What are you not telling me, Matt?’

‘Nothing,’ mumbled Bartholomew, acutely uncomfortable. ‘But thank you for taking care of Weasenham. I will tell Matilde what you did, and will ask her about whatever it is that Eudo and Boltone are supposed to have stolen when I visit this evening.’

‘There is something amiss,’ said Michael, catching his arm and preventing him from walking on. ‘You never normally pass up an opportunity to see Matilde.’

Bartholomew searched desperately for a way to change the subject, knowing it would not be long before the monk smoked out his most intimate secrets if the discussion were to run its course. He was simply too tired for convincing prevarication, and Michael was too skilled an interrogator. He was transparently relieved to see John Wormynghalle and Dodenho coming towards them, deep in the throes of a debate. He did not know them well, but they served his purpose.

‘Good afternoon!’ he called, hailing them with considerable enthusiasm. ‘How are you?’

Wormynghalle was startled to be so buoyantly addressed, but Dodenho considered it only natural that someone should be interested in the state of his health.

‘I am in need of a physic,’ he announced. ‘Paxtone says I should take a purge but I detest those. I am sure there is a less dramatic way to remedy this burning in my innards.’

‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew, feeling on safer ground now he was talking about medicine. ‘A chalk solution might help, or perhaps some charcoal mixed with poppy juice and wine.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Dodenho, nodding keenly. ‘The latter remedy sounds acceptable. But omit the charcoal, if you please. Come to King’s Hall and write the recipe for this concoction now, so I can send it to the apothecary.’

It was difficult to refuse, having initiated the conversation in the first place, but Michael did not object as Dodenho led them into his College. The chance encounter presented a good opportunity for the monk to ask Dodenho whether Eudo and Boltone had stolen something from him, not to mention probing further into his relationship with the dead Chesterfelde. However, the boastful scholar was not Michael’s main concern at that moment: he was more troubled by what he now thought of as Bartholomew’s ‘predicament’ with Matilde, and resolved to add it to his list of problems to solve.

Dodenho led Bartholomew to his chamber, Michael and Wormynghalle trailing behind them, but then realised he had run out of ink. He claimed it was because he used so much for scribing his erudite masterpieces, but Bartholomew looked around the room and knew he was lying. It was arranged in such a way that writing would be difficult: its two desks were shoved in a corner where the light was poor, and the area near the window – where the tables should have been – held a pair of comfortable chairs that were obviously used for dozing in the sun.

The rest of Dodenho’s quarters was equally a shrine to easy living. Feathers clinging to the rugs on the floor suggested that he and his room-mate pampered themselves with down mattresses, rather than the more usual straw ones. A table held several jugs of wine, and on a tray stood a large plum cake, some cheese and a bowl of nuts.

‘How do you write with the desk so far from the light?’ asked Michael guilelessly.

‘He does not scribe as much as he would have you believe,’ whispered Wormynghalle, amused by the question. ‘But he reads by the window – learns theories that he then claims as his own.’

‘I work better in the gloom,’ pronounced Dodenho with considerable authority. ‘Now, where is my ink? Damn that Wolf! He must have made off with it.’

‘Wolf left on Ascension Day – almost two weeks ago,’ pounced Michael wickedly. ‘Does this mean you have only just noticed you have none left?’

‘Perhaps it was not Wolf,’ blustered Dodenho, caught out. ‘I must have used the last of it committing my mean speed theorem to parchment yesterday.’

‘You mean the one devised by Bradwardine?’ asked Bartholomew, who loved the complex physics entailed in the Mertonian’s theories about distance and motion.

‘I mean the superior one devised by me,’ snapped Dodenho, striding to what appeared to be a private garderobe and inspecting the shelves. Bartholomew thought it an unlikely place to find ink, and, judging from the grins of Michael and Wormynghalle, so did they. Wormynghalle began to whisper again, taking the opportunity to speak while Dodenho was out of earshot.

‘His plagiarism may deceive uneducated men like Norton, but I do not appreciate him trying to mislead me, too. I am no knuckle-brained courtier, but a man who takes his studies seriously. I find it extremely irritating, and expected a better quality of scholarship from a Cambridge College.’

‘There are plenty of men like Dodenho at Oxford, too,’ objected Michael, conveniently forgetting the fact that he had never been there.

Wormynghalle inclined his head apologetically, aware he had trodden on sensitive toes. ‘I know; I have met them. They are partly why I came here – to be away from boasters and theory-thieves.’

‘You will never escape those,’ said Bartholomew, thinking him naïve to suppose he could.

Wormynghalle smiled. ‘But I have met many brilliant men since I arrived here. I particularly enjoyed your lecture on Grosseteste’s notion that lines, angles and figures of geometry are a useful tool for understanding natural philosophy. Perhaps we could debate that some time?’

‘When?’ asked Bartholomew eagerly. His fatigue miraculously evaporated. ‘Now?’

Wormynghalle indicated Michael with a nod of his head. ‘It had better be later if we do not want to make an enemy of the Senior Proctor. I will set our students an exercise that will keep them occupied, and we can use the time for informal disputation. But you will be here all day if you wait for Dodenho to find his non-existent ink. Come upstairs and I will give you some of mine. I write all the time, and have a plentiful supply.’ He gave Dodenho a disparaging glance and led the way to the floor above.

‘It is much nicer here without Wolf and Hamecotes,’ declared Dodenho, following. ‘I am glad they have gone away on business of their own. I like having a room to myself.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Michael. ‘Your truant Fellows. Have you heard from them?’

‘I had a letter from Hamecotes today,’ said Wormynghalle, pulling a crumpled missive from the pouch on his belt. ‘He arrived safely in Oxford, and has already bought Gilbertus Angelicus’ Compendium medicinae and William of Pagula’s Oculus sacerdotis for our library.’

He seemed delighted, and Bartholomew supposed that, to an earnest scholar like Wormynghalle, securing books was far more important than staying in College to teach.

‘I have heard nothing from Wolf, however,’ offered Dodenho. ‘I doubt he is buying books, given how much money he owes the College. I do not miss him or his nasty habit of dropping nutshells all over the floor, where they hurt my bare feet. And Hamecotes has a habit of waking me far too early in the day with his damned pacing. He makes the floorboards creak, right above my head.’

‘He is thinking,’ said Wormynghalle defensively, pausing at the top of the stairs to open a window. The stairwell had the musty, sour odour often associated with places inhabited exclusively by men, even relatively wealthy ones like the scholars of King’s Hall, and Wormynghalle wrinkled his nose fastidiously. ‘He is especially sharp-witted in the mornings, and we always rise early and pass the time in scholarly discourse – and when he thinks, he walks back and forth. All you and Wolf talk about is the quality of College ale.’

‘That is important, too,’ argued Dodenho, watching him struggle with the latch before shoving him out of the way and opening it with brute force. He regarded his young colleague with dislike. ‘At least we can discuss something other than work. You cannot, and it is tedious in the extreme.’

‘I heard you were the victim of a crime recently,’ said Michael to Dodenho, seeing Wormynghalle’s angry look. He did not want to be caught in the middle of a petty row between two men who should have better manners than to bicker in company.

‘What crime?’ demanded Dodenho. ‘Do you mean the time when Hamecotes defamed me, by publicly accusing me of stealing his ideas on the meaning of time?’

‘No,’ said Michael. ‘I mean a theft. Something was stolen from you.’

‘Nothing was stolen,’ said Dodenho, and his face flushed red. ‘I found it again.’

Wormynghalle regarded him in disbelief. ‘You found it? But you stormed around the College for days, accusing people of making off with your astrolabe, and now you say it was not taken after all? Why did you not say so sooner? We have been thinking there was a thief under our roof all this time.’

‘An astrolabe?’ asked Bartholomew, recalling that he had seen such an object in the hands of the tanner at Merton Hall. ‘It was not silver, was it?’

‘Show it to me,’ ordered Michael.

‘I sold it,’ said Dodenho uneasily. ‘It was silver, and therefore too valuable to keep in a place like this, where impecunious students are in and out of our rooms all the time.’

‘A student stole it?’ asked Michael, confused. ‘And then you got it back and sold it?’

‘Yes,’ replied Dodenho. ‘No.’

Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, it must be one or the other. However, I was under the impression that Bailiff Boltone or Eudo might have laid sticky fingers on the thing.’

Dodenho appeared to be bemused. ‘What makes you mention them in particular?’

‘No reason,’ hedged Michael. ‘Why? Do you know them?’

Dodenho seemed to consider his options. ‘A little,’ he replied eventually. ‘I met them once or twice through my friend… through my slight acquaintance, Chesterfelde. But they did not steal my astrolabe. That was students.’ His face took on a grim, stubborn look.

‘Misleading the Senior Proctor is a serious matter,’ said Michael sternly. ‘You would not be lying, would you, Dodenho?’

‘Of course not,’ bleated Dodenho. ‘Why would I do such a thing?’ He gave one of the falsest smiles Michael had ever seen and changed the subject. ‘Now, where is this ink, Wormynghalle?’

He pushed past the younger man and opened the door to an airy chamber where two desks were placed in the windows, to make best use of the light. Bartholomew looked around and saw a neat, functional room, obviously occupied by two people dedicated to academic pursuits. Shelves contained books and scrolls, all carefully stacked, while ink and pens were kept on a windowsill, to avoid accidental spillage that might damage the precious tomes. It was a clean place; Bartholomew could not see so much as a speck of dust anywhere.

Wormynghalle placed a tray on one of the tables and fetched a scrap of parchment. Bartholomew dipped his pen in the inkwell, and was amused when the first word he wrote came out bright green.

‘Sorry,’ said Wormynghalle, hurriedly supplying another pot. ‘That is Hamecotes’s. He has a liking for this particular colour, because he says it does not fade as readily as black.’

‘He is a verdant kind of man,’ said Dodenho, not entirely pleasantly. ‘He wears a green hood on Sundays, and dons emerald hose under his tabard. And he likes vegetables, especially cabbage.’

‘And folk think Clippesby is insane,’ muttered Michael.

Bartholomew wrote out the prescription, ignoring Dodenho’s insistence that wine and poppy juice would work better without the unnecessary addition of charcoal. Michael followed Dodenho when he went to find a servant to carry the recipe to the apothecary, to see if he could shake loose any more details about the mysterious movements of the astrolabe, while Bartholomew remained with Wormynghalle, who showed him a scroll containing quotations from the Arabic scholar al-Razi. The physician was pleasantly surprised when Wormynghalle listened attentively to his explanation about why Western medicine could benefit from the wisdom of the East, and even more pleased when he offered a number of intelligent comments. Wormynghalle was single-minded, perhaps a little fanatical, about learning, but Bartholomew preferred him to the shallow Dodenho.

All too soon, Michael returned, and Wormynghalle reluctantly relinquished his guest. He walked with them to the gate, clasping and unclasping his hands as he expounded a theory he had devised based around Grosseteste’s precepts of geometry. While he listened, Bartholomew noticed again Wormynghalle’s downy moustache and the few bristles that sprouted from the underside of his chin, and supposed he left them there to make himself appear older. He understood why, recalling the frustration he had experienced himself when mature scholars had dismissed his ideas, simply because he was young.

When they reached the road, Michael found it hard to prise the two men apart. Each time he tried to draw their discussion to a close, one would think of another point he wanted to raise. The monk was about to leave them to it, when his attention was caught by three people walking down the High Street together.

‘What are they doing out, when I expressly forbade them to stray from their lodgings?’

Wormynghalle dragged his attention away from Bartholomew’s analysis of radiant lines, and followed the line of the monk’s pointing finger. ‘It is the tanner – the one from Oxford who has the same name as me. But, Bartholomew, have you considered the pro contra abstraction, which–’

‘Well?’ demanded Eu imperiously, directing his question at Michael and cutting across the King’s Hall scholar’s erudite exposition. ‘What have you learned about Gonerby’s murder?’

‘Gonerby?’ asked Wormynghalle the scholar in puzzlement. ‘I thought you said the dead man from Merton Hall was called Chesterfelde.’

‘Gonerby was an Oxford merchant,’ explained Abergavenny politely. ‘He died during the St Scholastica’s Day riots, and Brother Michael has agreed to look into the matter for us.’

‘Only because he is afraid our questions will spark off civil unrest,’ said Eu nastily. ‘He does not want a war in progress when the Archbishop is here.’

‘Of course he does not,’ said Wormynghalle the scholar sharply. ‘Only a fool would.’

Eu regarded him coldly. ‘You must be a fool yourself, for approaching my colleague here in the hope of discovering some common kinship. He is a tanner, for God’s sake!’

The scholar’s eyebrows rose in surprise at the crude insult, but he clearly did not want to become embroiled in a row between merchants. Before his namesake could frame a suitable response to the jibe, he made a tight bow, turned on his heel and marched back inside King’s Hall, giving the impression that he had better things to do than to squabble with burgesses.

‘Are you sure you two are not kin?’ asked Eu archly. ‘You both have poor manners.’

‘I will kill any man who suggests I have ties to that ruffian!’ snarled Wormynghalle. ‘He wants to claim an association with me, so he can demand a donation towards his studies. He probably assumed my name for that express purpose, but I will not be taken in by charlatans.’

‘He is not poor,’ said Bartholomew. Wormynghalle’s chamber was an expensive one shared only with one other man, and with a private garderobe. In Michaelhouse such a large room would have been used as a dormitory for at least six.

‘Never mind him,’ said Eu impatiently. ‘I want to know about Gonerby.’

‘We have narrowed our list of suspects,’ replied Michael. ‘So, it is only a matter of time before we have your man.’

‘Good,’ said Eu, beginning to move away. ‘As we agreed, you have until the Visitation. If you do not have our culprit by then we shall follow Wormynghalle’s advice and take this physician to Oxford for hanging.’

Michael glowered at their departing backs, although Abergavenny shot the Michaelhouse men an apologetic smile as he left. ‘Eu is a nasty piece of work. Perhaps Dick was right, and he is the one in that unholy trio we should watch. But I still have a hunch about Abergavenny. Did you see the way he leered at us just now?’

‘Not really,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Were you honest in the reply you gave them? Have you narrowed your list of suspects? Men who were in Oxford in February, and who are now here?’

‘Yes,’ said Michael. ‘That was the absolute truth. However, I have eliminated so many of them with conclusive and incontestable alibis, that I now have a very short list indeed.’

‘How many are left on it?’

‘None,’ replied Michael. He shot his friend a rueful grin. ‘I told you it was short.’

Bartholomew was worried that Michael had no suspects for Gonerby’s murder, since he thought that Eu might be as good as his word, and try to abduct him if the real culprit was not produced. There was also a nagging anxiety that Langelee might just let it happen, on the grounds that it would rid Michaelhouse of the embarrassing situation involving his relationship with Matilde.

‘He will not,’ said Michael, when he voiced his concerns. ‘As I said before, he is fond of you. Besides, I shall soon have their man and, if worse comes to worst, I intend to fob them off with a tale about their culprit fleeing to London – send them chasing phantoms while Islip is here.’

‘And what if they catch someone innocent? They will execute him.’

‘Perhaps, but there is no point worrying about that yet, since we have several days to uncover the truth.’ Michael was silent for a moment, thinking. ‘I have the feeling that Abergavenny was right when he mooted the possibility that the murders of Gonerby and Chesterfelde might be related.’

‘What makes you think so?’

‘One man is murdered, then a second is killed and his body dumped in the presence of those avenging the death of the first. I dislike such coincidences. However, since I will have Chesterfelde’s killer before the Visitation, hopefully that means I shall have Gonerby’s, too.’ Michael scratched his chin. ‘I need to know more about Boltone and Eudo and their dishonest dealings. The best solution would be to learn that they were in Oxford in February, and once we have proved they murdered Gonerby, we can encourage them to confess to Chesterfelde’s killing.’

‘The merchants said it was a scholar who made an end of Gonerby. Eudo and Boltone are not members of any university.’

Michael shrugged. ‘Gonerby was dying, and dying men do not always make good witnesses – even assuming these merchants have been scrupulous in repeating his alleged last words. Is that Spryngheuse over there, wearing his grey-hemmed cloak, despite the sunshine? He looks dreadful.’

Bartholomew agreed: Spryngheuse’s eyes were red-rimmed, there were dark pouches under them, and his face had an unhealthy, waxen appearance. ‘What is wrong?’ he asked as their paths crossed. ‘Are you ill?’

Spryngheuse’s voice was hoarse when he replied. ‘Remember that Benedictine I told you about – the one Polmorva claims does not exist? I saw him last night, lurking in the garden.’

‘Did you speak to him?’ asked Michael. ‘Did he say what he wanted?’

Spryngheuse shook his head. ‘I told the others to come and look, but by the time they reached the window, he had gone. Polmorva told them I imagined it. I detest that man.’

‘I understand why,’ said Michael. ‘He is sly and spiteful. But will you tell me what your friend Chesterfelde thought of Polmorva? Did you ever discuss him together?’

Spryngheuse regarded him unhappily. ‘You want to know whether Polmorva is Chesterfelde’s killer. Well, he is certainly bold enough to do such a thing, especially since he knew he could.’

Michael frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

Spryngheuse sighed and massaged his temples, eyes tightly closed. ‘Ignore me – I meant nothing. I am speaking nonsense, because I am so tired. I do not sleep well these days.’

‘I know how that feels,’ said Bartholomew wryly. ‘But if you know something about Chesterfelde’s death, please tell us. We would like to see his killer brought to justice.’

Spryngheuse swallowed, and for a moment looked as though he might weep, but he pulled himself together. ‘Very well. Polmorva declined to drink much wine the night Chesterfelde died – unlike the rest of us. He abstained in a discreet way – often raising his goblet, but seldom drinking.’

‘Why did you notice that?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.

Spryngheuse’s expression was grim. ‘I have become much more observant since the riots – terror of reprisal does that to a man. Also, you told us Chesterfelde was murdered somewhere other than in the hall, so perhaps he was killed when he went to the latrines. He had imbibed copious amounts of liquid, and would have needed to relieve himself, while Polmorva has an unusually small bladder and is often obliged to get up in the night. It is not impossible that they were out there alone together.’

‘So, you were all intoxicated except Polmorva?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Does that include Chesterfelde?’

Spryngheuse gave a sad smile. ‘He was used to wine, and could drink a lot without his head swimming, but he was merry, too, that evening. It just made him laugh a lot – giggle, rather.’

‘Interesting,’ said Michael. ‘We must have words with Polmorva.’

Spryngheuse paled. ‘Please, no! He will know it was I who told you about his deception with the wine, and life is bad enough without having him after me with his sharp tongue.’

‘Better that than with his sharp knife,’ Michael pointed out. ‘But I will ensure he does not know you are our source. Besides, he may even confess once he learns I have him trapped.’

‘I doubt it,’ said Bartholomew, knowing the monk would need more than speculation to corner the likes of Polmorva. ‘But we need to speak to Eudo and Boltone first. Are they at home?’

‘In the garden,’ replied Spryngheuse. ‘There is a cistern, which provides fresh water for the house, and they are repairing its pulley. They have been fiddling with it all day.’

Bartholomew and Michael walked through Merton Hall’s neat vegetable plots to where they ended in a small arm of the River Cam known as the Bin Brook. The manor cultivated turnips, cabbages, onions, peas and beans using labour hired by the bailiff, although no one was working there that day. It was a pleasant garden. Walls and trees protected it from the wind, and the paths that wound through it were attractive and peaceful. Bartholomew took a deep breath of air laden with the scent of earth soaked by the morning’s shower, and paused to admire the line of red-tiled roofs belonging to the houses on Bridge Street. He recalled that Merton Hall and Tulyet were neighbours, their grounds separated only by the stream and the Sheriff’s Dickon-proof wall.

At the very bottom of the toft was the cistern. It comprised a huge, stone-walled chamber that was sunk into the earth, like a deep, square well. Its walls rose above the ground to knee height, and a massive wood and metal lid fitted snugly across them to prevent animals and leaves from dropping inside and contaminating its contents. An intricate system of drains and sluices allowed river water to enter it, and it was invariably at least half full, even in times of drought. Merton Hall thus always had a source of fresh water, albeit at times a murky one.

‘This design is clever,’ said Bartholomew, impressed as always by skilful feats of engineering. ‘Its builders have ensured that, as long as the Bin Brook is flowing, there will always be water. It is deep, too – two or three times the height of a man.’

‘Then I would not like to fall in it,’ said Michael with a shudder. ‘I cannot swim.’

‘You would not get out, either,’ elaborated Bartholomew, oblivious to the monk’s uncomfortable reaction to this news. ‘At least, not easily. The walls are too slick, and there are no handholds for climbing. That is why the lid remains in place at all times – a hatch can be opened when anyone wants to draw water, but the lid is always closed. I suppose it is possible to tumble through the hatch, but you would have to be very careless.’

‘Fascinating,’ said Michael, wishing he would stop. Even the thought of deep, stone vaults filled with water was enough to make his stomach churn, and the notion of being trapped inside one made him feel sick. ‘But I am more interested in the men mending it.’

As they came closer, they heard the sound of a hammer, and saw Eudo swinging furiously at the mechanism that allowed buckets to be raised and lowered, looking as if he was more intent on destroying it than fixing it. His handsome face wore a vicious scowl, while Boltone stood to one side with his arms folded, watching dispassionately. To belie Bartholomew’s recent statements, the gigantic lid of the cistern had been raised for the occasion, and was flipped back, so that one edge rested in the grass; its opposite side was attached to the wall by massive iron hinges.

‘Having trouble?’ asked Michael mildly.

Eudo glared at him. ‘The pulley has jammed, and I have been playing with the damned thing all day to no avail. Whoever built it is an imbecile.’

‘You will not repair it by attacking it like a maniac,’ said Boltone, earning himself a foul look. ‘I have been telling you for hours that a contraption like this needs coaxing, not brute force.’

Eudo shoved the hammer into his belt. As he did so, Bartholomew noticed the cut on his arm had almost healed, and probably would not even scar.

‘You do it, then,’ Eudo snapped, sweaty and irritable. ‘You have been giving advice and making suggestions all afternoon, but nothing has worked. I am tired, hot and my wrist hurts. You do it.’

‘Never mind that for now,’ said Michael, raising one hand to prevent Boltone from accepting the challenge. ‘We have come to ask about this unpleasant business at Merton Hall.’

‘We did not kill anyone,’ said Boltone firmly. ‘Duraunt claims I falsified the accounts – which is untrue, as I shall demonstrate when I have devised a way of doing so – but we had nothing to do with Chesterfelde’s demise.’

‘No?’ asked Michael, throwing down the gauntlet in the frail hope of learning something by unnerving them. ‘Prove it.’

Eudo gave an insolent shrug. ‘We do not need to prove it: we are innocent, and that is that. We are not obliged to explain ourselves to you or to any other man.’

Boltone adopted a less confrontational attitude. ‘Neither Eudo nor I has a reason to hurt anyone at Merton Hall – least of all a pleasant man like Chesterfelde.’

‘What about that scratch on your arm?’ asked Bartholomew, pointing to Eudo’s cut. ‘Chesterfelde had one rather like it – and it killed him.’

Eudo did not seem to find the association a worrying one. He shrugged again. ‘Perhaps the killer tried to murder me, but, finding me too manly, decided to slaughter the cackling Chesterfelde instead.’

Michael was unconvinced. He doubted that someone had been so determined to kill by exsanguination that he had moved to a second victim when his first attempt was unsuccessful. ‘Where were you when Chesterfelde died?’

‘In the King’s Head, as I told you the last time you asked,’ replied Eudo with a bored sigh. ‘However, since you do not know exactly when Chesterfelde died, I cannot know exactly where I was.’ He sneered. ‘Is that clear enough logic for you, Proctor?’

‘It is very clear,’ said Bartholomew, leaning forward to peer into the cistern. Its contents were dark and muddy, and the sides slick with slime. ‘So here is some logic for you: Chesterfelde did not die in the hall – he was killed when someone sliced his wrist and allowed him to bleed to death. His corpse was stabbed and dumped later. Do you have any logic to explain how that happened?’

Eudo regarded him coldly, and removed the hammer from his belt. It was a large one with a thick oak handle and a mass of metal for a head. ‘That is rubbish,’ he said, swinging it like a weapon. ‘I saw the knife embedded in his spine myself.’

‘I am sure you did,’ said Bartholomew, ignoring the threat. ‘However, we cannot always believe what we see, particularly when it is intended to mislead us.’

‘We shall talk about this another time,’ said Michael, taking a step away. He had seen the kind of damage expertly wielded tools could do, and decided he would rather discuss Chesterfelde’s murder when he had a posse of beadles at his heels, all armed with knives and swords.

Eudo regarded him with rank disdain. ‘And do not come here again with nasty accusations and no way to prove them.’

‘Very well,’ said Michael, edging further away. ‘Matt, come with me.’

Boltone shot his companion an uneasy glance. ‘Put the hammer down, Eudo, and let us see to this pulley. We have done nothing wrong and have nothing to fear from the Proctor and his lackey.’

‘Not so,’ said Bartholomew, leaning down to inspect the ground. He poked the turf with his finger, and it came away stained reddish-brown. He held it up for the others to see. ‘Chesterfelde was killed here – and his blood in the grass proves it.’

Even before he had finished speaking, Eudo moved. He swung the hammer at Bartholomew’s head in a savage, deadly arc. Startled by the speed of the attack, the physician jerked away and lost his footing. Without breaking stride, Eudo lunged at Michael.

‘No,’ screamed Boltone in horror. ‘Eudo! There is no need for violence!’

Michael moved with surprising speed for a man of his girth, and managed to twist out of the way. He staggered backwards, where the low wall of the cistern bumped against his calves, and windmilled his arms furiously in an attempt to regain his balance. Boltone darted forward. Bartholomew could not tell whether the bailiff intended to push or help the monk, but before he could do either Michael disappeared over the edge with a piercing shriek. A splash indicated that he had landed.

‘Now you have done it,’ growled Eudo to Boltone. ‘There is no turning back now.’

Bartholomew rolled in an effort to put as much distance between him and Eudo as possible, then tried to scramble to his feet. Eudo was quicker, and the hammer plunged downward again. Bartholomew squirmed out of the way and heard it connect hard with the pulley, so the whole structure shuddered. While the physician’s attention was taken with Eudo, Boltone approached from the other side, evidently deciding attack was the only way to extricate himself from the situation his friend had created. He was unexpectedly strong for so small a man, and when he grabbed one of Bartholomew’s wrists and shoved him roughly towards the cistern, he was difficult to fend off. From inside the well, Bartholomew could hear the panicky gurgling of a man who could not swim.

He struggled hard, seeing that the bailiff intended to hold him while Eudo battered him to death. Seizing the medical bag he always carried, he hurled it with all his might at the approaching Eudo, skidding and dropping to one knee as he did so. Boltone fell with him, his small hands still fixed firmly around the physician’s left arm. Eudo faltered when the bag struck him, but then advanced again, while Bartholomew raised his free arm to protect his head. Eudo’s first blow went wide, and the hammer struck sparks as it smashed into the wall with devastating force. Bartholomew saw he did not have much time, and was acutely aware of the terrified choking sounds emanating from the cistern. He attempted to bring Boltone in front of him, to use as a shield, but the bailiff saw what he was trying to do and resisted. With a grin that verged on the manic, Eudo approached.