A Bone of Contention

CHAPTER 2

Bartholomew and Michael hurried towards Valence Marie, while Guy Heppel panted along behind them. Bartholomew glanced round at the Junior Proctor, noting his white face and unsteady steps.

‘Another skeleton?’ he asked.

Heppel shook his head, but was unable to answer, and clutched at his heaving chest pathetically. Bartholomew wondered anew why the Chancellor had chosen such an unhealthy specimen to serve as a proctor, especially since he might be required to control some of the more unruly elements in the University with physical force.

Bartholomew doubted if Heppel could control a child, let alone some of the aggressive, self-confident young scholars who roamed around the town looking for trouble.

Not only was Heppel’s appointment a poor choice for the University and the town, it was a poor choice for Heppel himself. Bartholomew studied him hard.

Heppel was a small man, with a peculiarly oblong head. His face was dominated by a long, thin nose that always appeared to be on the verge of dripping, and underneath it rested a pair of unnaturally red lips. He had no chin at all, and his upper teeth pointed backwards in his mouth in a way that reminded Bartholomew of a rodent. Bartholomew supposed Heppel’s hair was dark, but the Junior Proctor always wore a woollen cap or a hood, even in church, so that his head was never exposed to the elements.

‘Does that physic I gave you help your cough?’ Bartholomew asked, concerned by Heppel’s pallor.

‘This is no time for a medical consultation,’ said Michael briskly, pulling on his friend’s arm. ‘You can do that when no more bodies claim your attention.’

‘I am a physician, not an undertaker,’ said Bartholomew, pulling his arm away irritably. ‘My first duties are to my patients.’

‘Nonsense, Matt,’ said Michael. ‘Your first duties are to your University and to me as Senior Proctor. Your second duties are to your patients – one of whom may well be waiting for you to unravel the mystery of his death.’

Bartholomew stopped dead in his tracks and gazed at Michael. ‘I can assure you, Brother, that the University, with all its treachery and plotting, is not more important than my patients. If I thought that were ever the case, I would resign my Fellowship and abandon teaching completely.’

‘No, you would not,’ said Michael with total assurance. ‘You like teaching, and you believe you play a vital role in training new physicians to replace those that died during the plague. You will never leave the University – unless you decide to marry, of course. Then you will have no choice. We cannot have married masters in the University. Although, I suspect there is no danger of that: you have been betrothed to Philippa for more than three years now, and you have done virtually nothing about it. Of course, there is always that whore of yours.’

‘What?’ asked Bartholomew, bewildered by the sudden turn in the conversation. ‘What are you talking about?’

Michael poked him playfully in the ribs with his elbow.

‘Do not play the innocent with me, Matt! I have seen the way you look at that Matilde, the prostitute. You should watch yourself. If Father William sees you ogling like a moonstruck calf, you will not need to worry about where your loyalties lie, because you will be dismissed from your Fellowship faster than you can lance a boil.’

‘But I have not… he cannot…’

Michael laughed. ‘If being tongue-tied is not a sign of your guilt, I do not know what is! Come on, Guy. We cannot be standing around all day listening to Dr Bartholomew describe his secret lust for the town’s most attractive harlot.’

Bartholomew grabbed Heppel’s sleeve as he made to follow Michael. ‘Ignore him,’ he ordered, scowling after the monk’s retreating back. ‘Did you take that physic I gave you?’

Heppel nodded vehemently, coughing into a strip of linen. ‘Every drop. I was going to ask you for more because it was beginning to have an effect. Of course, when the pains in my chest had eased, the ones in my stomach and head started.’

‘In your stomach and head,’ echoed Bartholomew thoughtfully, wondering which of the herbs in his medicine had adversely affected his patient.

‘And then there are my legs,’ continued Heppel, lifting his gown to reveal a skinny limb swathed in thick black hose. ‘They burn and ache and give me no rest.’ He rubbed his hands vigorously down the side of his gown in a peculiar nervous habit Bartholomew had noticed before. ‘And my ears ached last night. I think Saturn must have been ascendant. And I have an ulcer on my tongue, and my little finger is swollen.’

‘Anything else?’ asked Bartholomew dryly, now certain his medicine could not be to blame for Heppel’s impressive list of maladies.

Heppel gave the matter some serious thought. ‘No, I think that is all.’

‘Right,’ said Bartholomew, thinking that patients like Heppel were exactly the reason why he had no desire to treat the wealthy. The cure, he was sure, would be for Michael to allocate the Junior Proctor extra duties, so that he would not have time to dwell on every twinge in his body and imagine it to be something serious.

Perhaps exercise and fresh air might help, too, although Bartholomew’s attempts to suggest that bizarre remedy to patients in the past had met with a gamut of reactions ranging from patent disbelief to accusations that he was in league with the Devil.

‘As I said, I think Saturn was ascendant last night,’ said Heppel helpfully. ‘I was born when Jupiter was dominant, you see, and there was a full moon.’

‘Good,’ said Bartholomew, unimpressed. ‘I shall tell Jonas the Poisoner… I mean the Apothecary, to make you an infusion of angelica mixed with some wine and heartsease. I think when your cough eases, these other symptoms will disappear, too.’

‘But angelica is a herb of the sun,’ protested Heppel.

‘I need a herb of the moon to match the time when I was born. And I must have something to counteract the evil effects of Saturn.’

Like most physicians, Bartholomew did not particularly like patients who claimed a knowledge greater than his own – especially when that knowledge was flawed. He bit back his impatience, recalling his Arab master’s insistence on listening to every patient with sympathy and tolerance, regardless of how much nonsense they spoke.

‘Angelica is gathered in the hour of Jupiter,’ he said reluctantly, not particularly wanting to engage in what might be a lengthy discussion of herb-lore with Heppel when Michael was waiting. ‘You say you were born when Jupiter was dominant, and angelica is very effective against the diseases of Saturn. Heartsease, of course, is a saturnine herb.’

Considering the conversation over, he made to walk on. Heppel scurried after him, and tugged at his tabard to make him stop.

‘I think I shall require a complete astrological consultation,’ said the Junior Proctor. ‘Herbs of Saturn and Jupiter will not help my ears.’

Bartholomew sighed. In his experience, the planet that governed a particular herb made little difference to whether it healed a patient or not, and, over the years, he had gradually abandoned astrological consultations as a tool to determine the causes of a person’s malaise.

It was a decision that made him unpopular with his fellow physicians, and often resulted in accusations of heresy.

But there was no denying that he lost fewer patients than his colleagues, a remarkable achievement given that most of his clients were less well-nourished and more prone to infections than the wealthier citizens the other physicians doctored.

‘Just take the medicine,’ he said to Heppel impatiently.

‘And Saturn most certainly does control diseases of the ears, so the heartsease will work.’ He did not add that if, as he believed, Heppel’s ears ached only in his imagination, then Saturn could quite happily explode with no ill-effects to the organs under discussion.

‘All right, then,’ said Heppel dubiously. ‘But I will have my astrological consultation next week if your concoction does not work.’

Not from me, thought Bartholomew. Complete astrological consultations were time-consuming affairs, and while Bartholomew conducted the occasional one to ensure he still remembered how, he was certainly not prepared to do one at the beginning of term with corpses appearing in the King’s Ditch every few hours. Thoughts of the King’s Ditch made him look away from Heppel for Michael. The fat monk was puffing towards him.

‘What happened to you?’ Michael demanded. ‘There I was, regaling you with a list of the prostitute Matilde’s physical virtues, when I saw Father William staring at me. Then I saw that you were nowhere to be seen, and I had been strolling up the High Street talking loudly to myself about a whore! Really, Matt! You might have more regard for my vocation. I am a monk, chaste and celibate!’

‘You might have more regard for it yourself,’ said Bartholomew, smiling at the image of Michael being caught in the act of airing some of his less monkish thoughts by the austere Father William. ‘You should not be filling your chaste and celibate mind with thoughts of prostitutes – especially on a Sunday.’

‘I was trying to help you,’ retorted Michael pompously, eyeing him with his baggy green eyes. He smoothed down the lank brown hair that grew around his perfectly circular tonsure. ‘Now, Matthew, if you can spare a few moments away from your unseemly, lustful imaginings, a dead man awaits us at Valence Marie – assuming the poor fellow has not turned into the dust from whence he came in the interim.’

He turned abruptly, and stalked away, glancing around to ensure that Bartholomew and Heppel followed him.

The dark grey stone of St Botolph’s Church came into view, and Valence Marie stood a few steps away, on the far side of the King’s Ditch. They walked quickly along the small path that ran between the College and the Ditch to where Robert Thorpe stood, wringing thin hands.

‘This way, gentlemen,’ he said, clearly relieved at their eventual arrival. Without further ado, he ushered them over to the patch of scrubby grass near where the small skeleton had been retrieved the day before.

‘More bones?’ asked Bartholomew, curious at the man’s obvious agitation.

Thorpe flung him a desperate glance and gestured that he should look over the raised rim of the Ditch and into the water that trickled along the bottom. Puzzled, Bartholomew scrambled up the bank, while Michael followed more warily. Heppel declined to climb, and went to stand in the shade of one of the old oak trees, scrubbing his hands against his tabard. Bartholomew watched him, intrigued. The garment was shiny where the material had been rubbed so often, and Bartholomew wondered whether Heppel might have some itchy skin complaint that caused him to move them so.

Turning his attention back to the Ditch, he was greeted by the sight of a body floating face down in the shallow water, its arms raised above its head, almost as if it were swimming. Blood from a wound in its head stained the water in a pink halo around it.

Bartholomew turned questioningly to Thorpe, who had remained where he was, and obviously had no intention of scaling the bank.

‘He was found about an hour ago by one of the servants,’ Thorpe called. ‘I immediately sent word to the Chancellor, and he, presumably, sent the Junior Proctor to fetch you.’

Bartholomew slipped and skidded down the inside of the muddy bank and tried to haul the body over on to its back. It was so stiff that the task proved difficult, and Michael was obliged to clamber down into the smelly water to help. Their eyes met as Bartholomew wiped away some of the thick, black mud to reveal the face.

‘Which one is it?’ asked Michael, holding his sleeve over his nose against the smell rising from the Ditch.

‘James Kenzie, I think,’ replied Bartholomew, wracking his brains to try to recall the names of the five young Scots from David’s Hostel he had encountered the day before.

‘I saw the Principal of David’s yesterday, and he agreed to be responsible for the good behaviour of those five unruly undergraduates for the rest of the term,’ said Michael, shaking his head as he looked down at the student. ‘It looks as though he did not keep them out of trouble for long.’

He helped Bartholomew to pull the corpse out of the water and up on to the rim of the Ditch, away from the clinging mud that sucked at their feet and stained the hems on their gowns with an oily blackness. Bartholomew began a preliminary investigation.

‘He has been dead a good while,’ he said, pulling at one of Kenzie’s arms. ‘See how stiff he is? Of course, the heat will accelerate such stiffness; it would not be so if it were winter now.’

‘I am not one of your students, Matt,’ said Michael tartly. ‘Just tell me what I need to know and keep the lectures for the ghouls that enjoy them.’

Bartholomew grinned at him, but completed his examination in silence. Eventually, he sat back on his heels and looked thoughtfully at the body.

‘I think it likely that he died last night,’ he said, ‘nearer dusk than dawn. He was killed by the wound to the top of his head, which has stoved in his skull. You can see that splinters of the skull have penetrated the brain. He must have been put in the water after his death because his mouth is empty. Had he drowned, he probably would have inhaled mud and water from the Ditch as he tried to breathe air. I will make a more thorough examination later, if you wish.’

‘I do,’ said Michael. ‘So, are you saying he was murdered? He did not just die from a fall?’

Bartholomew just managed to stop himself from running his mud-coated hand through his hair as he surveyed the Ditch and its surroundings.

On one side of the Ditch were the high walls of Valence Marie, meeting the narrow stretch of poorly tended pasture on which Thorpe and Heppel now waited. Although this strip of land belonged to Valence Marie, it was not fenced off, and access to it was possible from the High Street at one end, and Luthburne Lane at the other. On the opposite side of the Ditch was an untidy line of houses, most wattle and daub, and all frail, dilapidated and mainly abandoned. The plague had struck hard at those people who had lived in cramped, crowded conditions, and Bartholomew knew that only a handful from these hovels had survived.

‘Yes, he was murdered,’ he said, having considered the possibilities. ‘I would say it was not possible to sustain a wound like this, on the top of his head, from a fall. I suspect Kenzie was hit with a heavy instrument, and his body was brought here or left where it fell – the current in the Ditch is not strong enough to move something as heavy as a corpse at the moment. Either way, I am certain he was dead when he entered the water.’

‘Was he drunk? Are there signs of a struggle?’

Bartholomew inspected the young man’s hands, but his finger-nails were surprisingly well-kept, and there was no sign that he had clawed or attacked his assailant. His clothes, too, were intact, and Bartholomew saw only the mended tears he had noted the previous day.

‘I would say he had no idea his attacker was behind him. Or that he knew someone was behind him, but felt no need to fear. As to drink, I can smell only this revolting Ditch on him. Perhaps he was drunk, but if so, the water has leached all signs of it away.’

He looked suddenly at Michael as if to speak, but then thought better of it and turned his attention back to the body.

‘What is it?’ asked Michael, catching his indecision.

Bartholomew frowned down at the body. ‘Remember I told you that the skeleton we found also had an indentation on the back of its skull? Possibly hit on the head and dumped in the Ditch?’

‘Of course,’ said Michael. ‘But you said there was not enough evidence to prove that the child was murdered, and you seem sure that Kenzie has been. What are the differences?’

Bartholomew rubbed his chin absently, leaving a black smudge there from the mud on his hand. ‘The child lay dead in the Ditch for many years, providing ample time for damage to occur to the skull after death; Kenzie has been dead only a few hours. Also, Kenzie’s wound bled copiously as you can see from his stained clothes. Wounds do not bleed so if inflicted after death, but we do not have such evidence for the skeleton. I did not say the child was not murdered, only that I cannot prove it.’

‘But let us assume he was,’ said Michael thoughtfully.

‘It is surely something of a coincidence that the body of a murdered child is discovered one day, and the very next, a man is killed in the same manner. You think there might be a connection?’

Bartholomew grimaced. ‘Yes, I do. But that is the essence of why I was reluctant to speak. If I am right about the length of time the skeleton has been in the Ditch, Kenzie would not even have been born when the child died.’

‘But you could be wrong, and the skeleton is only a few years dead. That would mean that there might be some connection between the two victims.’

‘Not even then, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Kenzie is a Scot and not local. He has only been here for twelve months at the very most. How could there be a connection?’

‘Can you not tell more from this child’s bones?’ asked Michael.

Bartholomew looked at him for a moment, and then laughed. ‘Despite the fanciful teachings of an Oxford astrologer who maintained in a lecture I once attended that the Scots are a “cruel, proud, excitable, bestial, false and underhand race who must therefore be ruled by Scorpio”, it is not possible to tell one of them from an Englishman from bones alone, Scorpio or otherwise!’

‘Oxford University supports that?’ said Michael, astonished.

‘No wonder their Scots are always rioting and looting its halls and colleges.’

‘It is only the claim of a single scholar,’ said Bartholomew.

‘And doubtless Scottish astrologers have cast an equally unflattering national horoscope for the English. But we are digressing from our task.’

‘So the child might have been born a Scot,’ mused Michael, looking back at Kenzie’s body, ‘but there is no way to prise that information from his bones?’

Bartholomew nodded, and Michael gave a sigh of resignation.

‘I have a feeling this might be more difficult to resolve than I first thought. If the link between these two bodies spans many years, we might never know the truth.’

‘There are some things to which we will never know the answers,’ said Bartholomew in an exaggerated imitation of Michael’s pompous words to him in the orchard the night before. ‘Perhaps this is one of them.’

Michael shot him an unpleasant look. ‘If you value peaceful relations between town and gown, Matt, you had better hope not,’ he said primly. ‘The students might riot if they believe one of their number has been murdered especially if we cannot provide evidence that the culprit was not a townsman.’

Bartholomew shook his head impatiently. ‘That would be an unreasonable assumption on their part. Kenzie’s killer might just as easily be one of his four friends from David’s Hostel.’

‘And since when has reason ever prevented a riot?’ demanded Michael in a superior tone. ‘You know as well as I that the mood of scholars and townsfolk alike is ugly at the moment. It seems to me that Kenzie’s death might provide the perfect excuse for them to begin fighting each other as they so clearly wish to do.’

Bartholomew regarded him soberly. The fat monk was right over the last month or so, he had noticed a distinctly uneasy atmosphere in the town: it had been the subject of discussion at high table at Michaelhouse on several occasions. Optimistically – overly so in Bartholomew’s opinion – the Master and Fellows hoped that the tension would ease once term began, and most students would be forced to concentrate on their studies.

Michael climbed to his feet clumsily, wincing at his stiff knees, and called down to Thorpe. ‘Why did you take so long to discover the body, Master Thorpe? Doctor Bartholomew says this man might have died as early as yesterday evening.’

Thorpe shrugged elegantly. ‘It is Sunday,’ he replied.

‘No one is dredging the Ditch today, and the body might well have remained undiscovered until tomorrow, but, by chance, our scullion, Henry, noticed the body when he came to dispose of some kitchen scraps.’

Bartholomew sighed. There was little point in dredging the Ditch if scullions were not prepared to dump their kitchen waste elsewhere. In a year or two, the town would be facing the same problems all over again.

‘I heard that their other servant – that little fellow, Will – claims to have seen more bones in the Ditch on the other side of the High Street,’ said Michael in an undertone to Bartholomew, drawing the physician’s mind away from the litany of diseases he believed owed their origins to dirty water. ‘Master Thorpe will doubtless move the workmen to look for martyr relics in more fertile ground tomorrow.’

‘What are you two muttering about?’ said Thorpe uneasily, taking a few steps up the bank towards them.

‘We are wondering whether you know this man who died on your property last night,’ Michael called back pleasantly. ‘Will you come to see?’

Very reluctantly, Thorpe scrambled towards them, and looked down at Kenzie’s body. He gave it the most superficial of glances, and then looked a second time for longer.

‘It is not a student of Valence Marie,’ he said, his voice halfway between surprise and relief. ‘I do not believe I have met him before. He is a student, though. He is wearing an undergraduate’s tabard.’

‘Thank you, Master Thorpe,’ said Michael, regarding the scholar with a blank expression. ‘I might have overlooked that, had you not pointed it out.’

Thorpe nodded, oblivious to the irony in Michael’s voice, and turned to make his way back down the bank, swearing when he slipped and fell on one knee. Heppel hurried to help him, and Bartholomew heard him regaling the Master of Valence Marie with an infallible remedy for unsteadiness in the limbs that could be procured from powdered earthworms and raw sparrows’ brains.

‘If Thorpe is foolish enough to take that concoction, then he deserves all the stomach cramps he will get,’ he muttered to Michael, watching Heppel warm to his subject.

‘Thorpe might be a coward for not coming immediately to see if the corpse was a member of his own college, but he is no lunatic. Can you tell me any more about Kenzie’s death before we move the body to the church?’

‘Only one thing.’ Bartholomew took one of Kenzie’s hands and pointed at the little finger. There was a thin, but stark, white band on the brown skin, showing where, until recently, a ring had been worn.

‘The motive for his murder was theft?’ asked Michael, staring down at the young man’s hand.

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Possibly. You should ask Kenzie’s friends whether the ring was valuable and whether they know if he was wearing it when he died.

But, assuming he died during the night, the killer would need eyes like an owl to detect a ring on his victim’s hand in the dark before he struck. There was no moon last night.’

‘Perhaps he killed first and looked later,’ said Michael.

‘Although a young man who is so obviously a student in patched clothes is hardly likely to render rich pickings to justify so foul a crime.’

Bartholomew gave a brief smile without humour. ‘We both know that people have been killed for far less than a ring in this town.’

The sun was casting long shadows across the High Street by the time they had ordered Kenzie’s body to be taken to St Botolph’s Church, and spoken to the servant, Henry the scullion, who had discovered the corpse. He could tell them nothing, other than to say that he had seen no one matching Kenzie’s description hanging around the Ditch the day before.

‘I must go to David’s Hostel before someone else tells this young man’s friends what has happened,’ said Michael, squinting at the sun, a great orange ball in the cloudless sky. ‘Come with me, Matt. I would be happier if there were two of us judging the reactions of Kenzie’s compatriots when we give them the news of his death.’

Bartholomew started to object – he had planned to work on his treatise on fevers while there was still sufficient daylight in which to write – but Michael was right.

If there had been some kind of falling out between the five friends that had resulted in the death of one of them, it would be better if there were more than one observer for guilty reactions. Neither Michael nor Bartholomew put much faith in Guy Heppel’s powers of observation.

‘You look tired, Guy,’ said Michael solicitously to the Junior Proctor who trailed along behind them. ‘Tell the Chancellor what has happened and then go home to rest.’

‘I do feel weary,’ said Heppel, stretching out a white hand to the monk’s arm to support himself, as if even admitting to his weakness had suddenly sapped the remaining strength from his limbs.

‘Shall I order you a horse to take you there?’ asked Michael, eyeing the hand on his arm with disapproval.

‘After all, it might be almost a quarter of an hour’s walk by the time you retrace your steps from the Chancellor’s office to your room in the King’s Hall.’

Heppel seriously considered the offer, while Bartholomew turned away to hide his smile. ‘I think I can manage to walk,’ Heppel said eventually.

Michael and Bartholomew watched him walk away, a slender figure whose overlarge scholar’s tabard hung in dense, cumbersome folds.

‘You are supposed to be compassionate to your fellow men, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Not add to his already impressive list of ailments by telling him he looks ill.’

‘The man is a weasel,’ said Michael, unrepentant.

‘And I do not believe him to be as self-obsessed as he appears. He heard every word of what you told me about Kenzie’s corpse, and will report it all faithfully to the Chancellor.’

Bartholomew was confused. ‘You think Heppel is spying on you for de Wetherset?’

Michael gave a short bark of laughter. ‘De Wetherset would not dare – especially with an agent of Heppel’s mediocre talents. But de Wetherset had some reason for appointing him over Father William, and it would not surprise me to learn that Heppel is his nephew or some other relative.’

‘If that is true, then you will never find out from de Wetherset,’ said Bartholomew with conviction. ‘He is not a man to allow himself to be caught indulging in an act of flagrant nepotism.’

‘True,’ said Michael. ‘But at least Heppel will be out of our way when we visit David’s Hostel. The last thing we want as we gauge reactions to the news of Kenzie’s death is Heppel offering special potions to ease grief.’

They began to walk along the High Street to Shoemaker Row. The intense heat had faded with the setting of the sun, but the air was still close and thick with the smell of the river and the Ditch. Carts rattled past them, hurrying towards the Trumpington Gate and the villages beyond before darkness fell and the roads became the domain of robbers and outlaws. Although it was Sunday, and officially a day of rest, the apprentices were active, darting here and there as they ferried goods to and from their masters’ storehouses along Milne Street and the wharves. Bartholomew ignored the noise and bustle, and thought back to his encounter with the David’s students the day before.

‘Two of the Scots – Ruthven and Davy Grahame seemed well-disposed to study,’ he said. ‘But the others gave the impression they would rather be anywhere other than making a pretence of scholarship in Cambridge.’

‘Really?’ asked Michael thoughtfully. ‘What else would they rather be doing, do you think? Fighting? Rioting? Whoring?’

‘Very possibly,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The one you grabbed by the collar is called Fyvie. He has something of a temper, and is perhaps over-sensitive to insults to his nation, whether real or perceived. He is unwise to wear his emotions so openly: it is asking for someone to taunt him into starting a brawl.’

He jumped as the doors of St Mary’s Church were flung open with a crash and troops of noisy, yelling scholars came out, jostling and shoving each other. One of them was leading a chorus in Latin, the words of which made Bartholomew exchange a look of half-shock and half-amusement with Michael. Bartholomew smothered a smile when he noticed how much over-long hair was bundled into hoods, and bright clothing was hastily covered with sober scholars’ tabards, as the students recognised Michael, the Senior Proctor. He also noticed that one of his own students, Sam Gray, was singing the bawdy Latin chorus as loudly as he could, and saw that he had his tabard wrapped around a girl he had obviously smuggled into the church.

The University, partly because of the large numbers of friars and monks in its ranks, and partly to protect the local female population, forbade its students any dealings with women. In some ways, the rule was a wise one, for it went at least some way in preventing potentially dangerous incidents involving outraged husbands, fathers and brothers. Yet, with hundreds of hot-blooded young men barely under the control of their masters, the rule was often impossible to enforce. If a headstrong and disobedient student – like Sam Gray – decided to embark on a relationship with a woman, there was little that could be done about it. Gray could be ‘sent down’ from the University in disgrace, but the plague meant that student numbers were low, and the University wanted to increase, not decrease them. The students were only too aware that the University’s colleges and hostels were sufficiently desperate for their fees that they were prepared to overlook a good deal to keep them.

Gray saw Bartholomew, and his jaw dropped in horror.

He hastily disentangled himself from the girl in a feeble attempt to make it look as though she were with someone else. Bartholomew favoured him with a reproving stare, and was gratified to see that Gray at least had the grace to look shamefaced. Fortunately for Gray, Michael’s eyes were still fixed on the singer, who, seeing he had the unwanted attention of the Senior Proctor, slunk away through the churchyard. Once their leader had gone, the other students dispersed rapidly under Michael’s authoritative glower, some with almost comical furtiveness.

‘The students are always rowdy at the beginning of term,’ said Michael, walking on. ‘But I detect more than just rowdiness in them now. They seem dangerous to me, Matt. I have a feeling it would take very little to ignite them into doing something quite serious. I only hope one of those Scottish lads confesses that he has killed Kenzie. If these students think the townspeople have killed a scholar, they will riot for certain.’

‘All former differences forgotten in the common cause,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘That only yesterday saw the beginnings of a brawl between the Scots and the friars will not prevent them fighting side by side against the townsfolk.’

They turned off the High Street into Shoemaker Row.

David’s Hostel was a half-timbered building, the rough plaster crudely covered in patchy white limewash that was stained with black rivulets running from some internal rot. The ends of the great wooden beams that formed the basic structure of the house were frayed and flaking, and bright orange fungus sprouted from the side of one window. Michael rapped officiously on a door that was new and strong, in contrast to the rest of the house, and waited.

Eventually, they heard footsteps, and the door was dragged open by a servant. He gave them a querying smile, and introduced himself as Meadowman the steward.

He added shyly that Bartholomew had once treated him for river-fever, although Bartholomew could not honestly say that there was anything familiar in the steward’s homely face. Meadowman conducted them along the corridor, and into a spacious room at the back of the house, which served as dining room and lecture hall. Beyond the room was a kitchen, where a scullion crashed about noisily, preparing the next meal.

‘Ivo,’ called Meadowman, warning the scullion to silence his clattering while David’s was the subject of a proctorial visit. The noise stopped, and Ivo’s greasy head poked around the door to study the august personage of the Senior Proctor with undisguised curiosity.

‘Greetings, Father Andrew,’ said Michael, pushing past Bartholomew to stride into the room. Sitting at a large table with an open book in front of him was an elderly friar who smiled serenely as Michael entered. He had watery blue eyes, and his unlined, honest face reminded Bartholomew of a saintly hermit he had once met on a remote Spanish island. Also gathered around the table were several students, all wearing neat, black scholars’ tabards, despite the heat.

As Bartholomew was introduced to Father Andrew, he had the distinct impression they were interrupting a lecture. He glanced at the book and recognised it as Porphyry’s Isagoge, a basic undergraduate introduction to the philosophy of Aristotle.

‘You will see David’s Hostel has taken your warning seriously about our students’ behaviour, Brother,’ said Father Andrew in a voice that was soft and lilting with the accent of southern Scotland. ‘We have been reading philosophy today, even though it is Sunday and term does not begin until the day after tomorrow. The Principal, Master Radbeche, will continue with Aristotle’s Praedicamenta immediately after mass in the morning.’

‘Master Radbeche?’ asked Bartholomew, impressed. ‘I had no idea Master Radbeche was Principal here.’

The old friar smiled. ‘We are lucky to have such a notable scholar in our midst. Without wishing to sound boastful, there is no one who understands Aristotle like Master Radbeche.’

‘Indeed not, Father,’ said Michael. He cast a disparaging glance at the students. ‘And it is unfortunate that his students do not seek to uphold his reputation and that of his hostel with scholarship and gentle behaviour.’

Bartholomew looked around the room. The fiery-tempered Fyvie sat staring morosely at the table, although whether his ill-humour resulted from the unwelcome proctorial visit or from being made to listen to Porphyry’s dry text, Bartholomew could not determine. The cousins, Davy and Stuart Grahame, sat together at the end of the table, Davy with a quill in his hand and a pile of parchment scraps in front of him for making notes. Ruthven sat next to Father Andrew where he had evidently been peering over the friar’s shoulder.

Perhaps Father Andrew’s reading had been too slow for him, and he was trying to read ahead. Three other students sat near the empty fireplace on stools, which were arranged in such a way that Bartholomew wondered whether they might have been playing dice out of Father Andrew’s line of vision.

‘Where were you all last night?’ asked Michael, not wasting time on further formalities.

There was a startled silence until Father Andrew found his tongue.

‘Why do you ask, Brother? Has there been more trouble in the town? I can assure you that after you spoke to the Principal yesterday, we kept all our students here. The front door was locked at seven o’clock last night, and no one left until mass at five this morning.’

‘You said there were ten students at David’s,’ said Bartholomew to Ruthven. ‘Where are the others?’

‘Well,’ said Ruthven slowly, casting a quick, nervous glance at Fyvie that neither Bartholomew nor Michael missed. ‘There are the five of us from Edinburgh whom you met yesterday, and then there are the three Tarbert cousins from the Isles.’ He gestured to the trio of students near the fireplace. ‘We all have been here studying as you can see. Robert of Stirling is upstairs suffering from an ague, and his brother John is with him. That is all of us.’

Not exactly, thought Bartholomew, watching the faces of the others intently as Ruthven spoke. Fyvie sat motionless, his eyes fixed unblinking on the table. Davy Grahame held his quill with trembling hands, while his cousin flushed such a deep red, that the colour seemed to reach as far as his throat. However smooth Ruthven was trying to be, the others were very much aware that their comrade was missing, and might even know why.

‘I can vouch for these young men,’ said Father Andrew, waving his hand round at his charges. ‘We have been here all day, and even took our meals here – despite the fact that Ivo, our scullion, has much still to learn about cooking. The students have not been out of the building at all. Robert of Stirling and James Kenzie are ill upstairs, and John is looking after them. The others are all here as you can see.’

‘What about last night?’ said Michael. He looked at the four students who sat round the table. ‘I think some of you know why we are asking.’

Father Andrew’s expression was one of confusion, and he looked at his students in bewilderment. ‘Tell the Proctor you were all here,’ he said, looking at each one in turn. When none of them spoke up, his shoulders sagged suddenly in weary resignation. ‘What are you hiding?’ he asked in a tone that indicated he would tolerate no lies or half-truths. ‘What have you done this time to bring shame upon David’s Hostel?’

There was a silence during which the four looked from one to the other, knowing that they would have to tell what they knew, but none wanting to be the one to begin. Finally, Ruthven spoke.

‘James Kenzie is gone,’ he said miserably.

‘James Kenzie is ill upstairs,’ protested Father Andrew. ‘I saw him asleep in his bed only a short while ago.’

‘You saw his rolled up blankets,’ said Ruthven apologetically to Father Andrew. Jamie is not here. He has gone.’

‘Gone where?’ demanded Michael.

‘We do not know. We would have looked for him today, but we have been kept here studying. We did not wish to make a fuss and draw attention to the fact that he is absent, but now we are worried about him. We decided this afternoon that if he has not returned by nightfall, we would tell the Principal and Father Andrew.’

‘Why wait?’ asked Michael, unconvinced. ‘Surely it would be better to tell them sooner, rather than later, if you are worried about your friend?’

Ruthven looked away, chewing on his lower lip in agitation.

Davy Grahame took a deep breath. ‘Jamie has a woman,’ he blurted out.

Father Andrew’s jaw dropped in shock, and he regarded Davy Grahame aghast.

‘Davy!’ exclaimed Fyvie, starting to his feet. ‘You did not have to tell them that!’

‘Yes, I did,’ said the younger Grahame, his firm tone of voice forcing Fyvie to sit again. ‘I am worried. Supposing those two friars came across him last night and had him harmed? The Proctor might be able to help him.’ He turned to Michael. ‘Jamie has had a lover since last term. He occasionally slips out before the door is locked at night, and one of us makes up his bed to look as though it is occupied. He then joins us at mass at first light, and walks back with us to the hostel. Last night, it was more difficult than usual, because Father Andrew was with us constantly after he learned of our quarrel in the street yesterday. Anyway, Jamie feigned illness and said he was going to bed early. He must have slipped out while we were eating our supper. But this morning he did not appear at mass, and we have not seen him since. Do you know where he is?’

The others looked eagerly at Michael, and Bartholomew did not envy the fat monk his next task.

‘I am afraid I do,’ said Michael quietly. ‘He is in St Botolph’s Church.’

‘St Botolph’s?’ echoed Fyvie, puzzled. ‘What is he doing there?’

‘Then why does he not come back?’ demanded Stuart Grahame belligerently. ‘We have been worried sick about him all day. He must surely know that! Why has he not sent word?’

‘He will not be coming back,’ said Michael, trying to be gentle.

Fyvie and Ruthven stared at him in disbelief, while Davy Grahame, quicker on the uptake than his elders, brought his hands quickly to his mouth in shock. Father Andrew’s face was pale as the meaning of Michael’s words became clear to him.

‘Not coming back?’ said Stuart Grahame. ‘Why ever not? He has not decided to become a friar, has he? Has he been hurt in this love affair and sworn to forsake the world?’ He stood abruptly. ‘Let me see him. I will talk some sense into the fool!’

‘Sit down, Stuart,’ said Davy Grahame in a soft voice. ‘Brother Michael is telling us that Jamie is dead.’

‘What?’ The colour drained from Stuart Grahame’s face and he sat down suddenly with a jolt, as if his legs had turned to jelly. ‘But he cannot be dead, Davy!’ he said unsteadily. ‘We saw him yesterday evening!’

Davy ignored him. ‘How did he die?’ he asked, looking from Michael to Bartholomew, his expression one of dazed horror. ‘Where?’

‘Quickly,’ said Bartholomew, ‘and without pain. Near the King’s Ditch at Valence Marie. Can you think of anyone who would want to harm him?’

‘He was killed by another?’ asked Father Andrew, appalled. ‘You mean murdered?’

Michael nodded, and calmly blocked the door as Stuart Grahame suddenly lurched towards it. ‘Those friars!’ the Scot yelled. ‘The friars killed him!’

Michael took him firmly by the elbow and led him to sit at the table again, where Father Andrew put a comforting arm around his shoulders. The biggest, oldest and toughest of the Scots began to weep uncontrollably. The others looked away, Ruthven scrubbing surreptitiously at his eyes with the back of his hand.

‘We will speak to the friars, of course,’ said Michael.

‘But at the moment, we need you to think of reasons others might have for wishing Kenzie harm. We can start with his woman.’

Fyvie shook his head as if he were trying to clear it. ‘She would not kill him – she loved him dearly! Her name is Dominica and she is the daughter of the Principal of Godwinsson Hostel.’

Ruthven seized Michael’s sleeve. ‘Tread carefully, though. She is a kindly girl, but her father is not well-disposed towards Scots. You could ruin her by indiscretion.’

The indiscretion was James Kenzie’s, thought Bartholomew, if he had picked a lover whose father was so adverse to his nationality. But Ruthven’s caution was obviously meant well – a final act of friendship in attempting to protect the reputation of his dead comrade’s lover.

Michael appraised him coolly. ‘We will not be indiscreet,’ he said, ‘although I trust no other of you is so flagrantly breaking the University’s rule about women?’

Vigorously shaken heads met his inquiry, and Michael relented. ‘Do you have anything more that might help us? Were you all here last night as you claim?’

Ruthven, still white-faced, answered. ‘Yes. Father Andrew was with us until it was time for the door to be locked, but Jamie had already left by then. We told Father Andrew that Jamie was ill and was resting upstairs in bed, like Robert of Stirling. Father Andrew saw us all to our dormitory, and can vouch that we all accompanied him to mass this morning. The Principal stayed here with the two students from Stirling and Jamie… or so he thought.’

Father Andrew nodded. ‘Seven students were with me at mass: these seven,’ he said, gesturing at Kenzie’s four friends and the trio by the fireplace. ‘I thought Jamie was ill. Until now.’ He looked sternly at the subdued students. ‘You have been extremely foolish in aiding your friend to slip out at night, and you very possibly have contributed to his death. Think on that before you break more University rules.’

‘I want to go home!’ wailed Stuart Grahame suddenly.

His younger cousin rushed to his side in an attempt to quell the tears. ‘I do not like this violent town!’

‘Did Jamie have a ring?’ asked Bartholomew, watching Davy comfort his distraught kinsman. ‘One that he wore on his little finger?’

For a moment there was silence, except for Stuart’s soft weeping, and then Davy spoke up. ‘Yes, he did. And although he never said so, I had the feeling that Dominica gave it to him. Why? Do you have it? I doubt it was valuable.’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘It was missing, and so we must consider theft as a possible motive for Jamie’s murder. In the dark, it would have been difficult to tell whether or not something was valuable, and a thief might have stolen it believing it was worth more than it was.’

‘Have there been others in his family to die violently?’ asked Michael, addressing Ruthven.

‘Of course there have,’ said Ruthven, as surprised by the question as Michael was by the answer. ‘At home we need constantly to defend our lands and property, sometimes from the English and sometimes from our neighbours. And, on occasions, we attack others. Of course Jamie has relatives who have died violently.’

‘I see,’ said Michael, bemused. ‘But that is not what I meant.’

‘He wants to know whether there is any possibility that the skeleton unearthed yesterday is related to Jamie,’ said Davy. The student shrugged at Michael’s surprise. ‘You said Jamie died in the King’s Ditch at Valence Marie, and rumour has it that a skeleton was found in the same location yesterday. It does not take three terms of Aristotle to guess why you posed such a question.’

‘Of course Jamie is not related to those bones,’ said Ruthven, bewildered. ‘Why should he be? Do you know who the skeleton is?’

Michael shook his head. ‘I am merely trying to ensure that I overlook nothing. As Davy has just noted, Jamie and the skeleton were found in the same area within a few hours of each other.’

Davy frowned. ‘We have only been studying here for a year. Jamie was the first of his family to acquire learning – he constantly joked that he was the first of his clan to step on English soil without intending to steal the cattle. The skeleton cannot be any of his forebears. ‘

‘What will happen to us?’ asked Ruthven in a low voice, as Michael prepared to leave.

‘You will remain in the hostel, and you will not leave it unless you are in the company of a master,’ said Michael. ‘If I hear that any of you has disobeyed me, I will arrest you at once.’

He turned abruptly and left the room, waiting for Father Andrew and Bartholomew to follow him into the corridor. As Father Andrew closed the door behind them, they heard Stuart Grahame begin to cry again, while Fyvie and Ruthven’s voices immediately rose in a clamour of questions and self-recriminations.

Father Andrew shook his head wearily, and leaned against the door. ‘I am so sorry, Brother. I had no idea they would be so stupid as to assist one of their number to spend nights out with his paramour. I should have realised that they would not be subdued as easily as they pretended to be. Do you know who killed Jamie? Was it these friars they mentioned, the ones with whom they brawled yesterday?’

‘We do not know yet,’ said Michael. ‘His killer may have been a friend. Can you be certain that all four were here last night?’

Father Andrew nodded. ‘I saw them into the dormitory.

I was still furious with them – if we Scots are seen brawling in the streets, the townspeople may take reprisals. You probably noticed our new door? We were forced to buy that when our last one was kicked to pieces following an argument between the Principal and a baker about underweight loaves. People here still resent the Scots’ victory over the English at Bannockburn in 1314, you know – some of the older townsmen were even in King Edward the Second’s army at the time. Anyway, suffice to say that our intention is to remain aloof from conflict at all costs. It would not do if our landlord refused to rent us this building next year because we had earned a reputation for fighting.’

Michael gave him a sympathetic smile. ‘I appreciate that maintaining a distance from brawls might prove difficult for these fiery lads,’ he said. ‘And I appreciate your efforts in attempting to control them. The continued good reputation of your hostel is even more reason why we must resolve James Kenzie’s death as quickly as possible. We should take a quick look at his belongings to see if he left some clue regarding the identity of his killer. Where did he sleep?’

Father Andrew led the way up a narrow wooden staircase to the dormitory. Bartholomew saw that, as was the case in many hostels, the dormitory was converted into a common room during the day, when the straw mattresses that served as beds were rolled up and stacked against one wall. The room was reasonably tidy, although there was a strong smell of dirty clothes. Two large chests stood at one end of the room in which the students could store their few belongings.

Two mattresses were still out. A young man tossed feverishly on one, while another student sat anxiously at his side. The other mattress held nothing more than cunningly bundled clothing. Father Andrew clicked his tongue in disapproval.

While Michael conducted his search of the upper floor, Bartholomew went to the ailing student and rested his hand on the boy’s forehead. It was burning hot, but the bed was heaped with blankets. The room was stuffy, too, and a quick glance around told Bartholomew that the poor lad was provided with nothing to drink to ease his fever. He sent for fresh water, and set about making him more comfortable. He prescribed a potion to ease the ague, and showed the student’s anxious brother how to keep him cool. Dismissing Father Andrew’s grateful thanks with a nod, he went to join Michael who was waiting at the door.

‘Well, neither of them is the culprit,’ said Bartholomew in a low voice, indicating the two lads in the dormitory.

‘One would have been too sick, and the other has not left his brother’s side.’

‘And the mullions on the windows are so close together that I doubt even a slender student could squeeze through,’ whispered Michael. ‘The other room on the upper floor is where the masters sleep, and has similarly narrow windows. There is no back door: ergo, the only way out is through the front. And Kenzie was the only one who has been absent since last night, if we can believe what we have been told. I would guess they have been honest with us.’

He and Bartholomew left the hostel with relief, still conscious of Stuart Grahame’s wails of grief, and the voices of his friends trying to offer him comfort.

‘Well?’ said Bartholomew. ‘What now? It looks as though none of Kenzie’s friends killed him. Do we go to see the friars?’

‘We do indeed,’ said Michael, his expression serious. ‘Because, for one thing, I still have not spoken to their Principal about their behaviour in the High Street yesterday, and for another thing, they are members of Godwinsson Hostel, where Kenzie’s lover is also the Principal’s daughter.’

Godwinsson’s door was answered by a gangling Welshman called Huw, who conducted them into a small, but comfortable, solar that glowed red with the last of the setting sun. The windows were glazed, an extravagance that had not been considered necessary for most of the house, which had only shutters to exclude winter winds and summer flies.

Bartholomew began to prowl restlessly as they waited for the Principal to see them. The steward had explained that Principal Lydgate lived with his wife in the adjoining house, while the students and other masters lived at the hostel proper. Godwinsson was a more pleasant house than David’s – it was larger, cleaner, and did not smell of burning cabbage.

‘It is odd how Lydgate’s name has occurred so often of late,’ said Michael, speaking mainly to distract Bartholomew, who was becoming impatient. ‘First, two of his students are involved in a disturbance of the peace; then you reveal his childhood secret; and finally, it is his daughter who was receiving the attentions of the murdered man.’

‘Lydgate was no child when the barn was fired,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He was at least eighteen: almost as old as Kenzie. But we should not speak of this, especially here. It will do no good to unturn such a stone, and he would probably deny it anyway.’

‘Deny what, Bartholomew?’

Bartholomew jumped at the sound of Lydgate’s voice so close behind him. The Principal of Godwinsson had not entered by the same door through which Bartholomew and Michael had been shown, but from a second door in the opposite wall that Bartholomew had assumed was a cupboard. Glancing through it, he could see that it connected Lydgate’s family house next door with the hostel. Had this been the route James Kenzie had used to meet Lydgate’s daughter: either him to sneak to her room, or her to slip out to him? ‘We are here to investigate the death of a student from David’s,’ said Michael, recovering from his surprise faster than Bartholomew, who was wondering, uncomfortably, how much of their conversation Lydgate had overheard.

‘A student of David’s is no concern of mine,’ said Lydgate, shifting his small, hard blue eyes from Bartholomew and fixing them on Michael.

‘The brutal murder of a member of the University should be the concern of every scholar,’ Michael retorted superiorly. ‘Especially now, in this climate of unease.’

‘Who has been murdered?’

Bartholomew thought he had detected a shadow in the interconnecting corridor between the two houses, and so the unannounced entry of Lydgate’s wife into their conversation did not startle him as Lydgate’s had done.

‘A David’s student, Mistress,’ said Michael, bowing politely to her. ‘He was last seen alive yesterday evening at seven o’clock, and was found dead this afternoon.’

‘Not one of our boys?’ asked Cecily Lydgate. She sniffed dismissively. ‘Then this has nothing to do with us.’ She went to her husband, placing a proprietary hand on his arm. With undisguised irritation, he shrugged it off.

Bartholomew remembered the marriage of Cecily to Thomas Lydgate some twenty years or more before. It was not a love match, but a union designed to bring together two adjoining manors in Trumpington. When both fathers had died, Lydgate sold the Trumpington land within a week, and bought himself a pair of handsome houses in the town centre.

The physician studied Cecily Lydgate with interest.

Although she had lived in the town for many years, he had seldom seen her. She had servants who did her shopping, and daily trips to church and the occasional outing to a fair or a banquet apparently satisfied any ambitions she had for entertainment outside her home.

Lack of exercise and fresh air, however, were beginning to take their toll, for although her clothes were evidently made of cloth that was expensive, they did little to disguise the plumpness underneath. A fiercely starched wimple kept every hair from her face, making her eyes appear bulbous and her teeth too large.

By contrast, her husband had aged well, and still retained his hulking figure, although it was beginning to turn to fat around his waist. His hair remained jet black, with no traces of grey, and his clean-shaven face made him appear much younger than his wife, although Bartholomew knew they were the same age. Bartholomew had had nothing to do with Lydgate since his own studies had taken him to Peterborough, Oxford, and Paris, but dislike for the man, suppressed for many years, began to resurface, as fresh and crystal clear as when he had wronged Norbert.

Michael, uninvited, sat on the best chair in the room, and indicated, with an insolent flick of his hand, that Lydgate and his wife should sit on a bench opposite him.

Lydgate declined, and went to stand with his back to the last sunlight that streamed in dark gold rays through the window. A clever move, Bartholomew noted, for it was difficult to see his face with the light behind him.

‘So, Brother. You have told me a David’s scholar is dead. What would you have me do about it?’ Lydgate asked coldly.

‘Yesterday he was seen quarrelling in the street with two friars who live here,’ said Michael, easing himself back comfortably in his chair, and folding his hands across his stomach.

Lydgate’s response was aggressive. ‘Rubbish,’ he said, with a contemptuous toss of his head. ‘Whoever claimed to have seen this was lying to you.’

‘Really?’ said Michael, with a pleasant smile. ‘Then you will have no objections to us speaking to Brothers Edred and Werbergh.’

‘I most certainly do have objections,’ said Lydgate vehemently. ‘You have no authority to come here harassing my students on the word of some lying townsman.’

‘Oh? And who do you think has been lying to us, Master Lydgate?’ probed Michael softly, raising his eyebrows and tapping one hand gently on the other.

‘Labourers or guildsmen, they are all the same,’ said Lydgate. He walked to the door and hauled it open to indicate that the interview was over. When Michael and Bartholomew did not move, Lydgate made an impatient gesture with his hand. ‘I am a busy man. That is all, gentlemen.’

‘I do not think so, Master Lydgate,’ said Michael, standing to stroll casually across the room and close the door. ‘You see, the witnesses you are so certain were lying are Doctor Bartholomew and me.’ His tone lost its silkiness. ‘I want to speak to Brothers Werbergh and Edred, and I want to do it now. And I can assure you that the authority I own was invested in me by the Chancellor from the King himself. If you do not consider the King’s authority sufficient to answer my questions, tell me so, and I will relay the message to His Majesty myself.’

Disconcerted by Michael’s sudden force of will and by the none too subtle threat of treason, Lydgate hurriedly sent his steward to find the friars, and fought to regain moral superiority by bluster.

‘I will complain to the Chancellor about your attitude,’ he said hotly. ‘The King’s authority does not give you the right to be offensive.’

Cecily Lydgate joined in with her nasal whine. ‘You have been most rude.’

Michael rounded on her fiercely. ‘How so, Madam? By requesting to speak to two men who were seen quarrelling with a student the day before he was brutally murdered? Do you have something to hide from me?’

‘No! I…’ protested Cecily, flustered. ‘I have done nothing…’

‘Then kindly refrain from meddling in University affairs, Madam,’ said Michael in his most icy tones. ‘Neither the Chancellor nor the King will be pleased if they hear that Godwinsson proved unhelpful – obstructive even – during the course of my inquiries into the foul murder of a member of the University.’

By the time Huw had ushered the friars into the solar, Lydgate and his wife were sitting side by side on the bench, while Michael stood in front of them, allowing his own considerable bulk to dominate them, as Lydgate had attempted to do to him.

‘Where were you last night?’ Michael snapped at the wary friars. ‘Ah! Do not look at each other for the answer! Where were you? Come on, come on. I do not have all day!’

‘Here,’ ventured Werbergh, watching Michael fearfully.

‘Here!’ sneered Michael. ‘Doctor, would you take Brother Werbergh into the corridor and ask him for his movements since his quarrel in the street yesterday? I will talk to Brother Edred here, and then we will see whether their accounts tally.’

Bartholomew took Werbergh’s arm before he had the chance to exchange the slightest of glances with the sullen Edred, and guided him outside, closing the door behind them. Huw the steward scuttled away from where he had evidently been listening through the keyhole.

Werbergh looked terrified, which was no doubt what Michael had intended. Bartholomew waited in silence for Werbergh to bare his soul. The physician had learned from Michael that uncomfortable silences frequently served to make people gabble, and, in gabbling, they often revealed more than they intended.

‘After we… after you saved us from the Scots, Edred and I went to St Botolph’s Church for vespers. We came straight home then, because the Senior Proctor told us to. We had to go out in the evening for compline, and after that I came back here. I walked home with Mistress Lydgate. You can ask her. She likes one of us to take her arm when she goes to church. Prefers us to her husband, I would say,’ he added, with a sly grin at Bartholomew.

‘What are you saying, Brother?’ asked Bartholomew coldly, not liking the way in which the pale-faced friar was trying to ingratiate himself by taletelling.

Werbergh began to talk quickly again, Bartholomew’s hostility making him more nervous than ever. ‘Mistress and Master Lydgate are not the loving couple they seem, and she prefers younger scholars to his company.’

‘What has this to do with where you were last night?’ asked Bartholomew, making no attempt to hide his disgust at the friar’s transparent obsequiousness. Any fool could see that relations between the Lydgates were far from rosy, and Bartholomew resented Werbergh’s attempt to distract him from his inquiries by plying him with malicious gossip. Mistress Lydgate could seduce all the young scholars she pleased, and it would be none of Bartholomew’s business – unless she set her sights on any of his own students, but they were all perfectly capable of looking after themselves in that quarter, probably far more so than Bartholomew would be.

The student shook his head miserably, his attempt to distract Bartholomew in tatters. ‘I escorted Mistress Lydgate to her house and then followed the other students here. It was already getting dark, so most of us went to bed.’

‘And what of Edred? Where was he?’

Werbergh licked dry lips. ‘I did not notice where he was. We do not go everywhere together, you know,’ he added with a spark of defiance. ‘But I have been with other people from the moment we returned from our quarrel with the Scots until now. You can check.’

‘Do you have any idea why we might be asking you this?’ asked Bartholomew, watching the student carefully.

Werbergh shook his head, but two pink spots appeared on his cheeks, and the way in which his eyes deliberately sought and held Bartholomew’s was more indicative of guilt than honesty.

‘It is surely against the rules of your Order to lie?’ said Bartholomew softly.

Werbergh’s eyes became glassy, and the redness increased. ‘Yes,’ he said finally, tearing his gaze away, and studying his sandalled feet instead. ‘I can guess why you are asking me these questions. But I was afraid such an admission might make you assume my guilt. You think Edred and I may have stolen his ring.’

‘Ring?’ echoed Bartholomew, taken off-guard.

Werbergh looked at him with an expression of one who has played cat-and-mouse for long enough. ‘The Scottish student’s ring,’ he said wearily. ‘He was waiting for us when we came out of compline. He accused us of stealing his ring while we were pushing at each other in the High Street.’ He paused for a moment, oblivious to Bartholomew’s confusion. ‘He was very upset; I almost felt sorry for him. We professed our innocence, and he left quietly.’ He looked up and met Bartholomew’s eyes a second time, but this time with truthfulness. ‘That is why you have come, is it not? Because he has accused us of stealing his nasty ring?’

‘It is not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘James Kenzie was murdered last night. And if what you say is true, you may have been the last ones to see him alive, with the exception of his killer.’

Blood drained from Werbergh’s face, leaving him suddenly white and reeling. Bartholomew, genuinely concerned that the friar might faint, took his elbow and sat him on a chest. Werbergh stared ahead of him blankly for a moment, before looking up at Bartholomew with eyes that were glazed with shock.

‘You would not jest with me on such a matter?’ he asked in a whisper. He studied Bartholomew’s face. ‘No. Of course you would not. What can I tell you? The Scot had been waiting in the churchyard, and he beckoned Edred and me to one side. Mistress Lydgate saw, I think. He sounded more hopeful that we might give his ring back to him, than angry that we might have stolen it. When we denied having it, he left. As I said, I felt almost sorry for him, even though he was so offensive earlier. He was alone – at least, I saw no one with him. I did not see anyone following him when he left.’ He screwed up his face in what Bartholomew assumed was a genuine attempt to remember anything that might help.

Eventually, he shrugged, and shook his head. ‘That is all I can recall, I am afraid. We had a stupid argument in the street, but I did not wish any of the David’s men dead because of it.’

The solar door flung open and Michael stalked out, the Lydgates and Edred, whose face was tearstained, on his heels. Bartholomew bowed to Mistress Lydgate, and followed Michael, leaving Werbergh to make good his escape from his Principal by scuttling off in the other direction. Bartholomew was aware that Lydgate was pursuing him and Michael along the corridor and down the stairs to the front door, but was surprised to find his shoulder in a grip that was so firm it was almost painful. He spun round quickly so that Lydgate was forced to let go.

‘I resent this intrusion into my affairs, Bartholomew,’ said Lydgate in a low hiss. ‘I have connections in the University. If I find you have been meddling in things that are not your concern, you will live to regret it.’

Had Lydgate overheard them talking about the burning of the tithe barn, Bartholomew wondered, as he met Lydgate’s hostile glower with a cool stare of his own? Or was he merely referring to the rather insalubrious connection of two of his students with a murder victim?

‘Leave well alone, Bartholomew,’ Lydgate whispered with quiet menace when Bartholomew did not answer, and pushed the physician roughly towards the door.

Bartholomew slithered out of his grip, and thrust Lydgate away from him. The two stared at each other for a long moment of undisguised mutual loathing, before Bartholomew turned on his heel and strode after Michael.

Lydgate watched him go and then closed the door. He leaned against the wall and his eyes narrowed into hard, vicious slits.