A Bone of Contention

CHAPTER 8

In the parish church of St Andrew, Werbergh lay on a trestle-table behind the altar. A tallow candle spluttered near his head, adding its own odour to the overpowering scent of cheap incense and death. Michael had been told that Werbergh’s colleagues had agreed to undertake a vigil for him until his funeral the following day, but the church was deserted.

It was late afternoon, the day’s teaching was completed, and the students had been given their freedom. Orange rays slanted through the traceried windows making intricate patterns on the floor, although the eastern-facing altar end of the church was gloomy. Bartholomew picked up the candle so that he could see the body better, while Michael wedged himself into a semicircular niche that had been intended to hold a statue before the church-builders had run out of money.

Someone had been to considerable trouble to give Werbergh a modicum of dignity during his last hours above ground. His hair had been brushed and trimmed and his gown had been carefully cleaned. Bartholomew inspected the friar’s hands and saw that they, too, had been meticulously washed and the nails scrubbed.

‘Where was he found?’ Bartholomew asked.

Michael regarded him in the dim light. ‘Tell me what you discovered yesterday and I will tell you about Werbergh.’

Bartholomew dropped Werbergh’s hand unceremoniously back on the table. ‘I will be able to tell you little of any value if you do not provide me with the necessary details,’ he said irritably. ‘In which case, we are both wasting our time.’

Michael stood. ‘I am sorry,’ he said reluctantly. He gave a sudden grin, his small yellow teeth glinting in the candlelight. ‘But it was worth a try.’

Bartholomew raised his eyebrows and returned his attention to Werbergh’s body.

‘He was found dead in the wood-shed in the yard of Godwinsson yesterday afternoon,’ said Michael. ‘Apparently, he had been looking for a piece of timber that he might be able to make into a portable writing table. Huw, the Godwinsson steward, said he had been talking about the idea for some weeks. The shed is a precarious structure and collapsed on top of him while he was inside.’

Bartholomew thought of his own visit to the ramshackle shed in Godwinsson’s back yard. It had definitely been unstable but he had not thought it might be dangerous, and certainly not dangerous enough to kill someone who went inside.

‘When did you first see the body?’

‘Lydgate sent word to the Chancellor as soon as it became clear that Werbergh was in the rubble. No one thought to look until he was missed some hours later. Why do you ask?’

Bartholomew picked at the tallow that had melted on to the table. ‘So, Werbergh has been dead for at least an entire day. I would expect the body to be suffer than it is, given the warm weather.’

Michael came to stand next to him as Bartholomew began a close inspection of the body. The physician ran his hands through Werbergh’s hair, then held something he had retrieved between his thumb and forefinger.

Michael leaned forward to look but shook his head uncomprehendingly.

‘It is a piece of dried river weed,’ said Bartholomew, dropping it into Michael’s outstretched palm. He forced his hands underneath the body while Michael looked increasingly mystified. Bartholomew explained.

‘Feel here, Brother. The body is damp underneath.’

‘It looks to me as though his friends may have washed his habit,’ said Michael, indicating Werbergh’s spotless robe. ‘Perhaps they washed it in the river so it would be clean for his funeral. People do launder clothes there, you know, despite what you tell them about it.’

‘Give me time,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I need to inspect the body without the robe. Can we do that? Will it give offence?’

‘Oh, doubtless it will give offence,’ said Michael airily, ‘especially if you can show that our friar’s death is not all it seems. Examine away, Matt, with the Senior Proctor’s blessing, while the Senior Proctor himself will guard the door and deter prospective visitors. After all, there is no need to risk offending anyone if your findings are inconclusive.’

He ambled off to take up a station near the door, while Bartholomew began to remove Werbergh’s robe.

The task was made difficult by the fact that the table was very narrow. Eventually though he completed his examination, put all back as he had found it and went to join Michael, slightly out of breath and hot from his exertions.

Michael was not at the door, but outside it, engaged in a furious altercation. Bartholomew shrank back into the shadows of the church as he recognised the belligerent tones of Thomas Lydgate, poor Werbergh’s Principal.

Bartholomew had never heard him so angry, and, risking a glance out, saw the man’s face was red with fury and his eyes were starting from his head. The physician in Bartholomew wanted to warn him to calm down before he had a fatal seizure, but he hung back, unwilling to become embroiled in the dispute.

‘You have no right!’ Lydgate was yelling. ‘The man is dead! Can you not leave him in peace even for his last few hours above ground?’

‘Like your students have done, you mean?’ asked Michael innocently. ‘The ones you told me would keep a vigil over him until tomorrow?’

Lydgate’s immediate reply was lost in his outraged spluttering, and Bartholomew smiled to himself, uncharitably gratified to see this unpleasant man lost for words.

‘If I hear that you have let that witless physician near him, I will complain in the strongest possible terms to the Chancellor and the Bishop.’ Lydgate managed to grate his words out and Bartholomew imagined his huge hands clenching and unclenching in his fury. ‘I will see you both dismissed from the University!’

‘Why should you object so strongly to Doctor Bartholomew examining your student’s body, Master Lydgate?’ asked Michael sweetly. ‘You have no reason to fear such an examination, surely?’

Once again came the sounds of near-speechless anger.

‘There are rumours that he is not himself,’ Lydgate managed eventually. ‘I would not wish his feebleminded ramblings to throw any kind of slur on my hostel!’

‘Can a slur be thrown, or should it be cast?’ Michael mused. Bartholomew smiled again, knowing that Michael was deliberately antagonising Lydgate. ‘But regardless of grammatical niceties, Master Lydgate, I can assure you that my colleague is no more witless than you are.’

Bartholomew grimaced, while Lydgate appeared to be uncertain whether Michael was insulting him or not. He broke off the conversation abruptly and pushed past Michael towards the door. Bartholomew edged behind one of the smooth, round pillars and waited until Lydgate had stormed through the church to the altar before slipping out to join Michael. Michael took his arm and hurried him to a little-used alley so that no one would see them emerge from the churchyard.

‘So, you think I am as witless as Lydgate, do you?’ said Bartholomew, casting a reproachful glance at the fat Benedictine.

‘Do not be ridiculous, Matt,’ Michael replied. ‘Lydgate is a paragon of wit compared to you.’ He roared with laughter, while Bartholomew frowned, wondering whether there was anyone left in Cambridge who was not intimately acquainted with the alignment of his stars – even Lydgate seemed to know all about them. Michael saw his expression and his laughter died away.

‘Witless or not, I would sooner trust your judgement than that of any other man I know,’ he said with sudden seriousness. ‘Even that of the Bishop. And as for your stars, I have far more reason to trust your judgement in matters of physic than Gray. If you say you are well, why should I doubt you?’

Bartholomew smiled reluctantly. Michael continued. ‘So I am inclined also to believe you over the matter of the identities of our attackers, despite my reservations the day before yesterday when you gave me answers that I thought conflicted with what you had said earlier. What you say makes no sense, but that is no reason to assume you were mistaken. We will just have to do more serious thinking.’

Bartholomew was more relieved than he would have thought possible. Some of his irritability began to dissipate and he found himself better able to concentrate on Werbergh.

‘So,’ said Michael cheerily, ‘tell me what your witless mind has seen that the genius of Lydgate has sought to hide.’

‘The evidence is crystal clear,’ began Bartholomew. ‘I judge, from the leakiness and swelling of the body, that Werbergh has been dead not since yesterday morning, but a day or two earlier. He probably died on Friday night or Saturday morning. At some point, he was immersed in water, although he did not die from drowning. His robe is still damp, the skin is slightly bloated which is consistent with his body being in water after death, and in the hair on one arm I found more river weed. Although there are marks on the body that are consistent with the shed collapsing on him, the fatal wound was a blow to the back of the head – like Joanna, Kenzie, and possibly the skeleton of the child.’

Michael’s face was grave. ‘You believe Werbergh was murdered then?’

‘Well, it was certainly not suicide.’

‘Could the wound have been caused by the falling shed?’

‘It could,’ said Bartholomew, ‘but in this case it was-not. There is no doubt that the shed collapsed, or more likely was arranged to fall, on Werbergh: there are wounds where slivers of wood can be found, but they were inflicted some time after he died. The injury to the back of his head was caused by something smooth and hard – the pommel of a sword perhaps, or some other metal object – and has no traces of wood in it. Had that wound been caused by the falling shed, I think it would have contained splinters, given the fact that the timber was so rotten.’

Michael scratched at his cheek with dirty fingernails, his face thoughtful. ‘Well, this explains all too clearly why Lydgate did not want you to examine Werbergh. Few would know these signs, or think to look for them, if the death appeared to be an accident.’

‘Do you think Lydgate killed him?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘His actions are certainly not those of an innocent man.’

‘They most assuredly are not,’ agreed Michael. ‘But if we try to report our findings to the Chancellor now, Lydgate will claim you are incompetent to judge because of your unfavourable stars.’ He resumed scratching his cheek again. ‘So, we will keep this knowledge to ourselves. And thinking he has managed to fool us might lead the killer – whether it is Lydgate or someone else – into making a mistake. I spoke to the Godwinsson scholars yesterday and all had alibis for the alleged time of Werbergh’s death, but now we need to know what they were all doing on Friday night, not Sunday.’

‘Kenzie first and now Werbergh,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I wonder where those Scottish lads were on Friday night. Perhaps they grew tired of waiting for justice and took it into their own hands to avenge Kenzie’s death.’

‘True,’ said Michael, nodding slowly as he ran through the possibilities in his mind. ‘Since Master Lydgate seems to have an aversion to you, I will go alone to chat informally to the scholars of Godwinsson, to see if I can find out what was afoot on Friday night. Meanwhile, how would you like to visit David’s to see how our Scottish friends are?’

Bartholomew shrugged assent. Michael rubbed his hands together and then clapped Bartholomew on the back. ‘We will outwit whoever is responsible for these crimes, my friend, you and I together.’

Despite the cooler weather of the last two days, David’s Hostel was stifling. The shutters were thrown open but the narrow windows at the front of the house allowed little air to circulate: the large windows at the back allowed the sun to pour in but faced the wrong direction to catch the breeze. Bartholomew imagined that the decrepit building, although unhealthily hot in the summer, would be bitterly cold in the winter.

Meadowman, the David’s steward, showed Bartholomew into the large room that served as the hostel’s hall, while Fyvie hurried away to fetch the Principal. Davy Grahame and Ruthven were seated at the table with a large tome in front of them, while the older Grahame played lilting melodies on a small pipe in a corner with one or two other students. Through the window, Bartholomew could see the brother of the student who had been ill. He was stripped to the waist and was splashing around happily with a brush and a bucket of water. From the envious eyes of some of the others, Bartholomew could see that cleaning the yard and escaping from academic studies was regarded more as a privilege than a chore. Ivo the scullion clattered about noisily in the kitchen as usual, and Meadowman went back to polishing the hostel pewter.

Robert of Stirling, the brother of the student cleaning the yard, rose when he saw Bartholomew and began fumbling in the scrip tied around his waist. Shyly he offered Bartholomew a silver coin, muttering that it was for the medicine he had been given. Bartholomew, who could not recall whether he had been paid or not, waved the money away with a shake of his head. The student pocketed his coin again hurriedly, giving Bartholomew a quick grin.

‘Have you found Jamie’s murderer yet?’ he asked, the smile fading.

Bartholomew was aware that, although no one had moved, everyone in the room was listening for his answer.

‘Not yet,’ he said. What more could he say? They were really no further forward than they had been when he and Michael had first imparted the news of Kenzie’s death to his friends several days before. And now there was a second death, similar to the first.

He looked up as Father Andrew entered. The friar’s benign face was slightly splattered with ink, and his hands were black with it. He noticed Bartholomew’s gaze and smiled apologetically.

‘I am having problems with a new batch of quills,’ he explained in his soft, lilting voice. ‘I am a theologian, Doctor, and I am afraid such practical matters as cutting quills elude me.’

Bartholomew returned his smile, and Andrew perched on a stool next to him, clasping his stained hands together.

‘Ivo!’ he called to the noisy scullion. ‘We have visitors, boy! Meadowman, can you not give Ivo a task he might complete more quietly?’ He turned to Bartholomew.

‘David’s is severely limited in whom it can afford for servants,’ he said in a low voice, so he would not be overheard and hurt Ivo’s feelings. ‘Meadowman is efficient enough but our scullions must be supervised constantly. But enough of our problems. What can we do for you, Doctor?’ A smile crinkled his light blue eyes as he saw Ruthven and Davy Grahame return to their reading and he nodded approvingly at their diligence. ‘I am afraid Master Radbeche is out at the moment but I will help you if I can.’

‘I am afraid we are making little headway in this business concerning James Kenzie,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I really came to ask if there was anything else you might have heard, or remembered, since the last time we met that might help.’

The smile left Andrew’s eyes and his face became sad.

‘Poor Jamie,’ he said softly. ‘He would never have made a good scholar but he was a decent lad: truthful and kind. It was a terrible thing that he died such a death. His parents will be devastated.’ He shook himself. ‘But my eulogies will not help you catch his killer. In truth, I have thought of little else during these last few days, but I have been unable to come up with the merest shred of information that could be of use to you. I did not know he had a secret lover, and I certainly did not know it was Dominica Lydgate, or I would have dissuaded him immediately.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Did you not like her?’

Andrew shook his head vehemently. ‘You misunderstand,’ he said. ‘I have never met her. But I can see no future in a relationship between a poor student and the daughter of a wealthy principal. I would have dissuaded him for his own ultimate happiness. It is not for nothing the University has strict rules about women!’

‘Who do you think might have killed Jamie?’ Bartholomew asked.

Andrew spread his hands. ‘I wish I knew. As it is, I do not even know why. You asked his friends about a ring Jamie was supposed to have had. Perhaps he was killed for that, if his killer assumed it was of value. I cannot imagine what he was doing near the Ditch at Valance Marie, but maybe that is not a safe place to be of an evening. Perhaps a group of apprentices were looking for trouble and killed him for simple mischief.’

‘Do you think it possible that he may have been killed by students from another hostel?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘For example the friars with whom he argued the day before he died?’

Andrew spread his inky hands again. ‘It is possible, I suppose, but it seems an extreme reaction on the part of the friars. Students of different hostels are always quarrelling with each other, but such altercations seldom result in murder – at least, not cold-blooded, premeditated slaying; we all know they kill each other in the heat of the moment.’

Although they were pretending to be doing other things, Bartholomew knew that the students were listening intently.

‘Do you think the friars killed Jamie?’ he asked Stuart Grahame.

Stuart Grahame looked up and flushed red at the sudden attention. ‘I did to begin with,’ he said, ‘but not now. The friars would have been more likely to have killed me or Fyvie, since we were the ones who reacted the most strongly to their insults. Jamie did not antagonise them enough so that they would want to kill him.’

And how much would that be? Bartholomew wondered.

He watched the others carefully but could see nothing in the wide, guileless eyes of Davy Grahame that suggested guilt, while Ruthven nodded wisely at Stuart Grahame’s words, so that Bartholomew suspected that Grahame was merely repeating Ruthven’s own logic. Fyvie, however, stared moodily at the rushes and his face revealed nothing.

‘And what do you think, Fyvie?’ asked Bartholomew, watching him intently.

Fyvie said nothing for a few moments, and then stood.

He loomed over Bartholomew, who would have felt threatened had Father Andrew not been present. He slowly pointed a finger at the physician.

‘I have no reason to dismiss anyone from my list of suspects,’ he said. ‘Perhaps Stuart Grahame is right about the friars and perhaps he is not. But who else had a reason to kill him?’

Who indeed? thought Bartholomew. If Werbergh had been telling the truth about Kenzie appearing at the church to ask if the friars had stolen his ring, then Edred might well have been presented with the perfect opportunity to follow and kill him. His motive might simply have been that he did not want the Scot to be alive to accuse him of theft. The more Bartholomew considered it, the more the evidence seemed to stack against Edred.

They all jumped as water hit one of the window shutters with a crash, splattering in over the sill and spraying Ruthven and Davy Grahame. The two students ducked away, grinning at each other as they shook droplets from their hair and wiped their faces with their sleeves. From the yard, there was a gale of laughter and a moment later the smirking face of the student who had been working there appeared. His mischievous delight vanished when he saw David’s had a visitor.

‘John!’ admonished Father Andrew. ‘Where are your manners, lad?’

‘Have you got him?’ asked John of Bartholomew, leaning earnestly through the window. ‘Is that why you are here? To tell us you have caught Jamie’s murderer?’

‘He has not,’ said Father Andrew. ‘Go back to, your chores, John, and no playing with the water or I will tell your brother to take over your duties.’

While John reluctantly went back to his cleaning, the friar spoke gently to Fyvie, urging him to sit down.

‘Perhaps Jamie’s murder was a random crime. Many deaths occur without a reason. You must brace yourself for the possibility that his killer may never be caught, despite the best efforts of the Senior Proctor and his colleagues.’

Fyvie looked up at him and then his glower abated somewhat. ‘I am sorry,’ he wailed suddenly, making Bartholomew start nervously. ‘But we are cooped up here day and night, not allowed to go out unless we are accompanied, and all the while Jamie’s murderer is laughing at us! I am not saying I wish to kill the man myself,’ he said, with an apologetic glance at Father Andrew, ‘but I do wish to bring him to justice.’

The friar patted his arm consolingly. ‘The Proctor is doing all he can. Meanwhile, you would not wish to upset your family by becoming embroiled in things you should not.’

He sighed and called to the open window. ‘There is no need to eavesdrop, John. Come in if you insist on listening.’

John’s begrimed face appeared immediately, and he leaned his elbows on the windowsill.

‘A shed collapsed on Brother Werbergh yesterday morning,’ said Bartholomew somewhat abruptly.

Students and master looked at each other in confusion.

‘Is Brother Werbergh one of the Godwinsson friars with whom our students argued?’ asked Andrew. Bartholomew nodded. ‘Is he badly hurt?’

‘He is dead,’ said Bartholomew.

There was a deathly silence. ‘Is that why you are here?’ asked Andrew. ‘To see where David’s Hostel students were at the time of his death?’ His eyes became sad. ‘You might have been a little more straightforward with us, Doctor. I assure you, we have nothing to hide, and you have no need to resort to this trickery. Yesterday morning, you say? We were either at church or here.’

‘What about Friday and Saturday?’ Bartholomew asked.

‘You said he died yesterday,’ Andrew pointed out. ‘But it makes no difference. Since this dreadful business began we have kept our students here, or out under supervision. As I told you earlier we cannot afford to be seen brawling, or we will lose our hostel. Either I, or the Principal, can vouch for every one of our students at any time since. And I can assure you that none of them has fooled us with rolled-up blankets this time.’

Bartholomew rose to leave. ‘I am sorry to have wasted your time, Father,’ he said, ‘but these questions needed to be asked – to clear your names from malicious gossip if nothing else.’

Andrew’s mild indignation abated somewhat. ‘I am sorry, too, Doctor. We have nothing to be ashamed of, so we do not resent your inquiries. We will answer any questions that will bring Jamie’s killer to justice.’ He rubbed at the ink on his hands. ‘Have you finished with our Galen yet? Although we have no medical students at David’s, a book is a valuable thing, and we would like it back soon.’

Bartholomew, who had been under the impression from Principal Radbeche that there was no immediate urgency for him to finish with it, was embarrassed that he had taken his time to read it. He offered to return it immediately. Andrew gave Bartholomew an apologetic smile.

‘It is the only book we own outright,’ he said again. He gestured at the tomes that were piled on the table. ‘These others are borrowed from King’s Hall. While I am delighted that you have found our Galen useful, I would feel happier in my mind knowing it is back here.’ His grin broadened, and his voice dropped as he leaned towards Bartholomew so the students could not overhear. ‘I show it to the illiterate parents of prospective students, so they know that we are serious about learning. Even though our book is a medical text, it serves an important function at David’s!’

Bartholomew said he would send Gray round with the book as soon as possible. He offered his hand to Father Andrew, who clasped it genially before settling down at the table to read with Ruthven and Davy. Robert of Stirling leapt to his feet to see him out and Bartholomew followed him along the stuffy corridor. The student removed the bar from the gate, all the while gabbling about the attack several weeks before in which the old door had been kicked down. Bartholomew sensed the lad was chattering to hide his nervousness.

As Bartholomew stepped past him, Robert took his arm, casting an anxious glance back down the corridor.

He made as though to speak but then closed his mouth firmly. Sweat beaded on his upper lip and he scrubbed at it irritably with his shirtsleeve.

‘What is wrong? ‘ Bartholomew asked, wondering whether Robert had fully recovered from his fever. Perhaps he needed more medication and was afraid he would not have enough money to pay for it.

‘Jamie’s ring,’ the student blurted out. ‘I admired it. My father is a jeweller, you see. I know about good stones.’

His words were jerky and he gave another agitated glance down the corridor.

‘If it will put your mind at ease, I will tell no one we have spoken,’ said Bartholomew gently, giving the nervous student a reassuring smile.

Robert swallowed hard. ‘I persuaded Father Andrew to take me and my brother John to see the relic at Valence Marie on Saturday,’ he said. He paused again and Bartholomew forced himself to be patient. ‘Jamie’s ring was on that horrible thing!’ Robert’s words came in a rush.

‘I noticed the hand wore a ring similar to the one Jamie is said to have owned,’ said Bartholomew carefully.

One thing they could not afford was for Robert to claim Kenzie’s ring was at Valence Marie: Valence Marie would start a fight with David’s for certain. ‘It is not necessarily the same one.’

‘It is the same!’ said Robert, his voice loud, desperate to be believed. Bartholomew grew anxious and wondered how he might dissuade Robert from his belief.

‘Easy now,’ he said. ‘I will ask Brother Michael to inspect the ring, and…’

‘You do not understand!’ interrupted Robert, shaking off Bartholomew’s attempt to placate him. ‘I am not telling you it is similar. I am telling you it is the same one.’

‘How can you be sure?’ asked Bartholomew with quiet reason. ‘I have seen at least one other ring identical to the one at Valence Marie myself recently.’

Robert looked pained. ‘You recognise different diseases,’ he said. ‘I recognise different stones. My father is a jeweller, and I have been handling jewels since I was old enough not to eat them. It was the same ring, I tell you!’

His point made, he became calmer, although he kept casting anxious glances towards the hall.

‘Why did you not tell me this when you were in the hall with the others?’ asked Bartholomew.

Robert shook his head violently and fixed Bartholomew with huge eyes. ‘I could not explain how I know,’ he whispered.

Bartholomew was puzzled. ‘But you said your father is a jeweller. Is that not explanation enough?’

Robert lowered his gaze. ‘No one but you knows that. John told a lie when we first arrived two years ago. We have been living it ever since. We cannot reveal that we are the sons of a merchant.’

Bartholomew shook his head, nonplussed. Many merchants’ sons studied in Cambridge and he was unaware that any of them faced serious problems because of it.

Looking at Robert’s dark features, he suddenly realised the physical similarity between him and the Arab master with whom he had studied in Paris. In a flash of understanding, it occurred to him that Robert and John might be Jewish, that their father was a money-lender rather than a jeweller. In France, the Jewish population had been accused of bringing the plague, and the situation was little better in England. If Bartholomew’s supposition were true, he did not blame Robert and John for wishing to keep their heritage a secret.

Robert continued. ‘Master Radbeche and Father Andrew think my father owns a manor near Stirling.’

‘They will not learn otherwise from me,’ said Bartholomew.

‘But this matter of Jamie’s ring…’ Robert became animated again. ‘It is his ring! There is no doubt! I pretended to examine the hand closely but really I was looking at the ring.’

Bartholomew felt in the sleeve of his gown. ‘But what about this?’ he asked, handing the ring Cecily had given him to Robert. Robert took it and turned it around in his fingers, smiling faintly.

‘Ah, yes, lovers’ rings. I wondered if Jamie’s might be one of a pair. But this is not the ring he had.’ He gave it back to Bartholomew. ‘He had the gentleman’s; this is the lady’s.’

Bartholomew showed Robert the other ring, the one he had found on the floor of Godwinsson’s shed. The shed that killed Werbergh, he thought, although obviously Werbergh could not have been looking for the ring, since he was already dead when he was put there.

Robert was talking, and Bartholomew forced his thoughts back to the present. ‘This would once have held a stone about the same size as the ones in the lovers’ rings, although the craftsmanship on this is very inferior. See the crudeness of the welding? And the arms of the clasp are different sizes.’ His nervousness seemed to abate as he talked about something he knew. ‘This is a nasty piece. I would say it belonged to a whore, or someone who could not afford anything better. In fact, I would go as far as saying there was no stone at all, but perhaps coloured glass.’

He looked up, dark brown eyes meeting Bartholomew’s.

‘I cannot say how Jamie’s ring came to be on that horrible hand, but it is his without a doubt. The matching ring you have is the other half of the pair; I imagine you got it from Dominica. The third ring is nothing – a tawdry bauble. Do you think they might have some connection to why Jamie was killed?’

Bartholomew slipped them back into his sleeve and shrugged. ‘The one on the relic definitely does. You have helped considerably by telling me what you have, and I promise you, no one will ever know where I came by the information. Perhaps you will return the favour by keeping your knowledge of the matter to yourself.’

Robert looked at Bartholomew as though he were insane. ‘I feel I have risked enough just talking to you. I will not tell another soul – not even my brother John. John does not share my interest in precious stones, and found the hand sufficiently repulsive that he did not look at it long enough to recognise Jamie’s ring.’

Bartholomew felt in his bag, pulling out a small packet.

‘Take this. It is a mixture of herbs I give babies when they are teething and will do you no harm. If anyone should ask why you have been talking with me for so long, tell them you still feel feverish and wanted some medicine.’

The student gave Bartholomew a grin and took the packet. ‘I should go,’ he said, with another glance over his shoulder. ‘I am glad I could help. I want you to catch Jamie’s killer.’

As Bartholomew left, he heard Robert slide the bar into place behind the door, and frowned thoughtfully.

Assuming Robert was not mistaken, Kenzie’s ring on the hand found at Valence Marie lent yet more evidence to the fact that Thorpe’s relic was a fake: if Kenzie had worn the ring a few days before, there was no legitimate way the bony hand could have been wearing it for the last twenty-five years. Bartholomew walked slowly, his head bent in concentration. Will, the Valence Marie servant, might have been near the place where Kenzie had died. Had he discovered Kenzie’s body, stolen the ring, and then decided to adorn the hand with it?

Bartholomew sighed. He was back to a question he had asked before: who else would recognise the ring? Kenzie would have done, certainly, but he was dead. Dominica, assuming Bartholomew was right in his assumption that she was Joanna, was also dead. Thomas and Cecily Lydgate would know it, especially Cecily. Had Kenzie been killed just so that the ring could be put on the hand for the Lydgates to see? It seemed a very elaborate plot and there was nothing to say that the Lydgates would ever go to view the hand. Also, it necessitated a high degree of premeditation: Kenzie was killed several days before the relic appeared, and it was surely risky to kill for a ring, then just toss it into the Ditch on a skeletal hand in the hope that it might be found by the dredgers.

Try as he might, Bartholomew could make no sense of it all. Only one thing was clear. His left sleeve had a small tear in it that he had been meaning to ask Agatha to mend. Because of this, he had been careful to put the two rings into his right sleeve the night before. But when he had shown the rings to Robert, they were in his left sleeve. Although the hiding place was perhaps an obvious one, there was only one person who might guess that he would use it. Bartholomew frowned again, wondering why Michael had searched not only his gown the previous night as he slept, but also his room the day before.

The day of the Founder’s Feast dawned bright and clear.

All the scholars of Michaelhouse rose long before dawn to help with the preparations for the grand occasion.

Agatha, who had not slept at all the night before, bellowed orders at the frantic kitchen staff and at any scholars who happened to be within bawling range. Bartholomew smiled when he saw the dignified Senior Fellow, Roger Alcote, struggling irritably across the courtyard with a huge vat of saffron custard, trying not to spill any on his immaculate ceremonial gown.

‘Sam Gray!’ yelled Agatha from the door of the kitchen, loud enough to wake half of Cambridge. Gray’s tawny head appeared through the open window shutters of his room, looking anxious. ‘Run to the Market Square and buy me a big pewter jug for the cream. That half-wit Deynman has just cracked mine.’

‘How can he have cracked a pewter jug?’ called Gray, startled. ‘They are supposed to be unbreakable.’

Bartholomew heard Agatha’s gusty sigh from the other side of the courtyard. ‘That is what I always thought but Deynman has managed it. So, off to the market with you. Now.’

Gray rubbed his eyes sleepily. ‘The market stalls will not be open yet,’ he called. ‘It is still dark.’

‘Then go to the metal-smith’s house and wake him up!’ shouted Agatha, exasperated. Even the wily Gray knew better than to disobey a direct order from Agatha, and he scuttled away, running his fingers through his hair in a vain attempt to tidy it. Meanwhile, Agatha had spotted Bartholomew who, with Father William, was draping one of Alcote’s luxurious bed-covers over the derelict stable that teetered in one corner of the yard.

‘And what do you think you are doing?’ she demanded in stentorian tones to Father William. He looked taken aback, apparently considering that the purpose of their task was obvious to any onlooker.

‘Father Aidan said he thought these crumbling walls were an eyesore and he suggested we cover them.’ He shook his head in disapproval. ‘All vanity! We should be saving our guests from the eternal fires of hell, not pandering to their earthly vices by disguising ramshackle buildings with pieces of finery! ‘ He gave the bed-cover a vicious tug as though it were personally responsible for Father Aidan’s peculiar recommendation.

‘I meant why are you forcing Doctor Bartholomew to help you?’ she roared. ‘He should not be cavorting about with you when his stars are bad.’

Bartholomew closed his eyes in despair, wondering yet again how much longer Gray’s diagnosis would continue to haunt him. Still, he thought, trying to look on the positive side, at least his recent accident had meant that Agatha had forgiven him for inviting Eleanor Tyler to the Feast, and he was now back in her favour. When he opened his eyes again Father William was regarding him uneasily.

‘I can finish this, Matthew,’ he said. ‘You go to your room and lie down.’

‘I am perfectly healthy,’ Bartholomew snapped, pulling the bed-cover into place with unnecessary roughness. ‘In fact, much more so than you.’

‘Me?’ asked William, surprised. ‘How can you tell that?’

‘You keep rubbing your stomach and you are as white as snow. Did you eat that fish-giblet stew that has been making an appearance at every meal since last week?’

William winced and looked away queasily. ‘It tasted much stronger than usual and I should have known not to eat it when some of it spilled and the College cat would not touch it.’

Bartholomew stepped back, satisfied that the unsightly, tumbledown stable would not now offend the sensibilities of Michaelhouse’s august guests. Of course, some of them might well wonder why a bed-cover was draped over one of the buildings in the yard, but that question could be dealt with when it arose.

‘I can give you some powdered chalk mixed with poppy juice. That should settle it down. But if you take it you must avoid drinking wine today.’

‘I was not planning to indulge myself in the sins of the flesh,’ said William loftily. ‘A little watered ale is all I shall require at the Feast. And I certainly shall not be eating anything.’

‘Good,’ said Bartholomew, setting off towards his room, Father William in tow. He stopped abruptly. ‘Oh, Lord! There is Guy Heppel. I hope he has not found another body in the King’s Ditch.’ It crossed his mind, however, that investigating such a matter might be a perfect opportunity for him to extricate himself from the delicate situation he faced with his two female guests that day.

William snorted. ‘That canal is a veritable cemetery! I cannot see that either the town or the University will be keen to dredge it again after all it has yielded this time.’

He watched Heppel making his way delicately across the uneven yard, holding his elegant gown high, so that it would not become fouled with the mud, some hard and dry but some sticky and thick, that covered it.

‘That man is a disgrace! To think he was appointed over me to keep law and order in the town!’ William drew himself up to his full height and looked down his nose as the Junior Proctor approached. ‘And I think he wears perfume!’

Heppel arrived, breathless as always. He was apparently to be someone’s guest, perhaps Michael’s, for he wore ceremonial scarlet and a pair of fine yellow hose.

Uncharitably, Bartholomew could not but help compare the skinny legs that were thrust into them with those of a heron.

‘Thank the Lord you are awake,’ said Heppel to Bartholomew in relief. ‘I must have this astrological consultation before I enjoy the pleasures of your Founder’s Feast today. After the last one I attended, I was ill for a week. I must know whether my stars are favourable, or whether I should decline the invitation.’

Father William gave a sudden groan and clutched at Bartholomew to support himself. ‘Oh, I do feel ill, Matthew,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘I think I might have a contagion.’

‘A contagion?’ squeaked Heppel in alarm, moving backwards quickly. ‘What manner of contagion?’

‘One that is both painful and severe,’ said William, holding his stomach dramatically. ‘I do hope its miasma has not affected Matthew. You might be better waiting a while for this consultation, Master Heppel, in case he passes it to you.’

Heppel took several more steps away, and shoved a vast pomander to his nose.

‘Saturn is still ascendant,’ said Bartholomew, thinking he should at least try to ease Heppel’s obvious concern for his well-being. ‘So take a small dose of that angelica and heartsease I gave you and eat and drink sparingly today. That should see you safely through the ordeal. And avoid anything that might contain fish giblets.’

‘Are fish giblets under the dominion of Saturn, then?’ asked Heppel, puzzled and taking yet another step backwards as William reeled.

‘Yes,’ said William before Bartholomew could reply. ‘Say a mass before you come to the Feast, Master Heppel, and pray for me.’

Heppel bowed briskly to Bartholomew and William and walked out of the yard a good deal more quickly than he had walked in. Bartholomew took Father William’s arm, although the ailing friar made a miraculous recovery once Heppel had been ushered out of the front gate by the porters.

‘Did you smell it?’ William growled to Bartholomew. ‘Perfume! Like a painted whore! And God knows whores have no business in a place of learning!’

Bartholomew swallowed hard and hoped Michael had ensured that Matilde was not seated anywhere near Father William at the Feast. He unlocked the little storeroom where he kept his medicines and mixed a draught of chalk and poppy syrup. William gulped it down and pulled a face.

‘God’s teeth, Matthew, that is a vile concoction! You should give a dose to that reprehensible Heppel. That would stop him coming after you for his astrological consultations.’

‘Remember,’ Bartholomew warned as the friar left. ‘No wine.’

‘I am not one of your dull-witted students, Matthew,’ said William pompously. ‘I only need to be told something once for it to sink in. No wine.’ He looked Bartholomew up and down disparagingly. ‘I do hope you are going to change into something a little more appropriate. You look very scruffy this morning.’

‘But wearing fine clothes would be indulging in the sins of the flesh,’ Bartholomew pointed out to the man who professed to have no wish for material goods and to care nothing for appearances.

Aware that he had been caught out in an inconsistency, Father William pursed his lips. ‘You have my blessing to indulge yourself today, Matthew. After all, we cannot have Fellows of other colleges thinking that Michaelhouse scholars are shabby, can we? I, of course, as a lowly friar, own no fine clothes, but Agatha washed my spare habit specially for the occasion. Unfortunately, it shrank a little and is now a lighter shade of grey than it should be, but it is spotlessly clean.’

‘Are you telling me that this is the first time it has ever been washed?’ asked Bartholomew, disgusted. ‘You have had the same two habits since before I became a Fellow here and that was eight years ago!’

‘Grey does not show the dirt, Matthew. And anyway, I was afraid laundering might damage them. I am well aware of your peculiar notions about washing, but I personally believe that water has dangerous properties and that contact with it should be avoided at all costs.’

‘So I see,’ said Bartholomew, noticing, not for the first time, that the friar’s everyday habit was quite stiff with filth. He imagined there was probably enough spilled food on it to keep the College supplied for weeks.

‘Well, I must go and prepare the church for prime,’ said William. He raised a hand to his head. ‘The burning in my stomach has eased but I feel a little giddy. Is it that potion you gave me?’

‘It might be,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Of course, it might equally well be the terrifying notion of wearing a clean habit. You will need to take another dose, probably just before the Feast. I will leave it for you on my table, so you can come to get it when it is convenient. Only take half of it, though. The rest is to be drunk before you go to bed.’

William nodded and was gone. Alone, Bartholomew washed and shaved and donned a clean shirt and hose, although both were heavily patched and darned. Cynric slipped into the room with Bartholomew’s ceremonial red gown that he had painstakingly brushed and ironed.

Bartholomew took it reluctantly, guessing that Cynric had been to some trouble to render it so smart. The physician was careless with clothes, and knew it would be only a matter of time before something spilled on it or it became crumpled.

‘It should be a fine day,’ said Cynric, nodding to where the sky was already a clear blue. ‘I hope you have a good time with that Eleanor Tyler.’

His good wishes did not sound entirely sincere and Bartholomew glanced at him, puzzled. ‘First Agatha and now you. What is wrong with Eleanor Tyler?’

‘Nothing, nothing,’ said Cynric hastily. He hesitated. ‘Well, she is a touch brazen, boy, if you must know the truth. And she is after a husband. With no father to negotiate for them, those Tyler daughters are taking matters into their own hands. That is what makes them brazen.’

But not as brazen as a prostitute, Bartholomew thought, wondering what Cynric would say when he found out about Matilde. It crossed his mind that Cynric, Agatha and even Father William, might excuse his choice of guests on the grounds that his stars were misaligned, assuming, of course, that they did not discover that the invitations were issued long before he was hit on the head.

The day was already becoming warm as the scholars assembled in the yard to walk to the church for prime.

Bartholomew found he was uncomfortable in his thick gown, and warned Cynric that watered ale might be required at some point of the proceedings if someone fainted. Master Kenyngham, the gentle Gilbertine friar who was head of Michaelhouse, beamed happily at his colleagues, blithely unaware of Gray scampering late into his place near the end of the procession. Agatha approached Gray nonchalantly, and a large pewter jug exchanged hands, even as the line of scholars began to move off towards the church.

Michael walked next to Bartholomew, behind the Franciscans, his podgy hands clasped reverently across his ample stomach. He wore his best habit, and the wooden cross that usually hung around his neck had been exchanged for one that looked to be silver. His thin, brown hair had been trimmed, too, and his tonsure was, as always, perfectly round and shiny.

‘You look very splendid today, Brother,’ Bartholomew remarked, impressed by the fact that, unlike everyone else, the monk had escaped being involved in the frantic preparations that morning.

‘Naturally,’ said Michael, raising a hand to his hair. ‘A good many important people will be at this Feast, not to mention your gaggle of hussies. I must make a good impression.’

‘Did you ask the steward to make sure Matilde was not near William?’ asked Bartholomew anxiously.

The monk nodded. ‘Eleanor will be next to Father William. Matilde will sit between you and our esteemed Senior Fellow, Roger Alcote.’

‘Are you insane?’ Bartholomew cried. The Franciscans looked round to glower at him for breaking the silence of the procession. He lowered his voice. ‘Alcote will be worse than William, if that is possible, and William will be horrified to find himself next to Eleanor!’

‘That cannot be helped,’ said Michael primly. ‘You should have considered all this before inviting a harem to dine in our College.’

The church was gloomy in the early morning light but candles, lit in honour of the occasion, cast wavering shadows around the walls. The procession made its way up the aisle and filed silently in two columns into the chancel, Fellows in one and students in the other. The body of the church was full of townspeople and scholars from other colleges. Eleanor Tyler was standing at the front and gave Bartholomew a vigorous wave when he saw her.

Michael sniggered unpleasantly and then slipped away to join his choir.

‘What in God’s name is Father William wearing? ‘ hissed Roger Alcote from Bartholomew’s side. ‘Has he borrowed a habit from Father Aidan? It is far too small for him – you can virtually see his knees! And the colour! It is almost white, not grey at all!’

‘He washed it,’ explained Bartholomew, smiling when he saw William’s powerful white calves displayed under his shrunken habit. ‘He said he thought that water might be dangerous to it, and, from the state of it, I would say he was right!’

Michael cleared his throat, and an expectant hush fell on the congregation.

‘Let us hope he has chosen something short,’ muttered Alcote, as Michael raised his hands in the air in front of his assembled singers. ‘Or we may find we have fewer guests for the rest of the day than we had anticipated.’

His uncharitable words were not spoken lightly. As one, the congregation winced as the first few notes of an anthem by the Franciscan composer Simon Tunstede echoed around the church. What Michael’s singers lacked in tone was compensated for by sheer weight of numbers, so that the resulting sound was deafening. Michael gesticulated furiously for a lowering of volume but his volunteers were out to sing for their supper and their enthusiasm was not to be curtailed. The lilting melody of one of Tunstede’s loveliest works was rendered into something akin to a pagan battle song.

The door of the church opened and one or two people slipped out. Bartholomew saw his sister standing near the back of the church, her hand over her mouth as she tried to conceal her amusement. To his horror, he saw Eleanor Tyler had no such inhibitions and was laughing openly.

Next to her, Sheriff Tulyet struggled to maintain a suitably sombre expression, while his infant son howled furiously, unsettled by the din. Only Master Kenyngham seemed unaffected, smiling benignly and tapping his hand so out of time with the choir that Bartholomew wondered if he were hearing the same piece.

To take his mind off the racket, Bartholomew looked at the space that had been cleared for Master Wilson’s tomb. The mason had said the whole contraption would be ready before the end of autumn, when Wilson’s mouldering corpse could be removed from its temporary grave – recently desecrated by Bartholomew – and laid to its final rest under his black marble slab. The notion of exhuming the body of a man who had perished in the plague bothered the physician. Some scholars believed that the pestilence had come from graves in the Orient, and Bartholomew had no desire to unleash again the sickness that took one in every three people across Europe. He decided that he would exhume the grave alone, wearing gloves and mask, to reduce the chances of another outbreak. Anyone who felt so inclined could come later and pay their respects – although he could not imagine that the unpopular, smug Master Wilson would have many mourners lining up at his grave.

When the long Latin mass was over, the scholars walked back to Michaelhouse and prepared to greet their guests in the courtyard. There was a pleasant breeze – although it had blown the bed-cover hiding the stable askew – and the sun shone brightly. Agatha’s voice could be heard ranting in the kitchens, almost drowned out by the church bells. The gates were flung open and the guests began to arrive.

One of the first was Eleanor Tyler, who flounced across the courtyard, looking around her speculatively.

She looked lovely, Bartholomew thought, dressed in an emerald-green dress with her smooth, brown hair bound in plaits and knotted at the back of her head. She beamed at Bartholomew and took his arm. Her face fell somewhat when she saw a patched shirt-sleeve poking from under his gown.

‘I thought you were all supposed to be wearing your best clothes,’ she said, disappointed.

‘These are my best clothes,’ protested Bartholomew. ‘And they are clean.’

‘Clean,’ echoed Eleanor uncertainly, apparently preferring grimy finery to laundered rags. But her attention was already elsewhere. ‘Why is there a bed-cover on that old wall?’ she asked, pointing to Bartholomew and William’s handiwork. ‘If it is being washed, you might have taken it in before your guests arrived.’

‘Your choir put their hearts and souls into that anthem by Simon Tunstede,’ remarked Bartholomew as Michael came to stand next to him. ‘It must have been heard fifteen miles away in Ely Cathedral.’

Michael winced. ‘More like sixty miles away in Westminster Abbey! Once their blood is up, there is no stopping those people. My only compensation is that my guest, the Prior of Barnwell, told me he thought it was exquisite.’

‘But he is stone deaf,’ said Bartholomew, startled. ‘He cannot even hear the bells of his chapel any more.’

‘Well, he heard my choir,’ said Michael. ‘Here he comes. You must excuse me, Madam.’ He bowed elegantly to Eleanor, lingering over her hand rather longer than was necessary.

Eleanor’s indignation at the monk’s behaviour was deflected by the magnificent spectacle of the arrival of Sheriff Tulyet and the Mayor, both resplendent in scarlet cloaks lined with the softest fur, despite the warmth of the day. Sensibly, Tulyet relinquished his to a servant, but the Mayor knew he looked good and apparently decided that sweating profusely was a small price to pay for cutting so fine a figure. Master Kenyngham approached, smiling beatifically, and introduced himself to Eleanor, asking her if she were a relative of Bartholomew’s.

At that moment, Bartholomew spotted his sister and her husband, and excused himself from Eleanor’s vivid, and not entirely accurate, description of how Bartholomew had saved her on the night of the riot. Kenyngham, Bartholomew noted, was looking increasingly horrified; he hoped Eleanor’s account of the violence that night would not spoil the gentle, peace-loving Master’s day.

‘Matt!’ said Edith Stanmore, coming to greet him with outstretched arms. ‘Are you fully recovered? Sam Gray tells me your stars are still poorly aligned.’

Bartholomew raised his eyes heavenwards. ‘I am perfectly well, Edith.’ He fixed his brother-in-law with a look of reproval. ‘And I have no need of Cynric following me everywhere I go.’

Stanmore had the grace to look sheepish. ‘This is Mistress Horner,’ he said, turning to gesture towards an elderly woman who stood behind him. Mistress Horner was crook-backed and thin, wearing a dowdy, russet dress that hung loosely from her hunched figure. A starched, white wimple framed her wind-burned face, although her features were shaded by a peculiar floppy hat. A clawed, gloved hand clutched a walking stick, although she did not seem to be particularly unsteady on her feet.

Bartholomew had not seen her before and assumed she must be someone’s dowager aunt, wheeled out from some musty attic for a day of entertainment. He bowed politely to her, disconcerted by the way she was staring at him.

Stanmore caught sight of the Mayor standing nearby, and was away without further ado to accost him and doubtless discuss some business arrangement or other. Edith was watching her brother with evident amusement.

‘You have met Mistress Horner before,’ she said, her eyes twinkling with laughter.

‘I have?’ asked Bartholomew, who was certain he had not. He looked closer and his mouth fell open in shock.

‘Matilde!’

‘Shh!’ said Matilde, exchanging a look of merriment with Edith. ‘I did not go to all this trouble so that you could reveal my disguise in the first few moments. What do you think?’

She smiled up at him, revealing small, perfectly white teeth in a face that had evidently been stained with something to make her skin look leathery, while carefully painted black lines served as wrinkles. Bartholomew was not sure what he thought; there was no time anyway because Eleanor had arrived to reclaim him, and the bell was chiming to summon the scholars of Michaelhouse and their guests into the hall for the Feast. His heart thudded painfully as he escorted Eleanor and Mistress Horner through the porch, in the way that it had not done since he was a gawky youth who had taken a fancy to one of the kitchen maids at his school. He heard his sister informing Eleanor, who was not much interested, that Mistress Horner was a distant relative.

When they reached the stairs, Eleanor grew impatient with Mistress Horner’s stately progress, and danced on ahead, eyes open wide at the borrowed tapestries that hung round the walls of Michaelhouse’s hall, and at the yellow flicker of several hundred candles – the shutters were firmly closed to block out the daylight, although why Michaelhouse should think its guests preferred to swelter in an airless room to dining in a pleasant breeze, Bartholomew could not imagine. On the high table, the College silver was displayed, polished to a bright gleam by Cynric the night before. Bartholomew solicitously assisted his elderly guest towards it, alarmed when Father William stepped forward to help. Matilde, however, was completely unflustered and accepted the friar’s help with a gracious smile that she somehow managed to make appear toothless.

Despite the fact that there were perhaps four times as many people dining in College than usual, only one additional table had been hired for the occasion. The scholars and their guests were crammed uncomfortably close together, particularly given that the day was already hot, and hundreds of smoking candles did not make matters any easier. Squashed between Eleanor on the one side and Matilde on the other, Bartholomew felt himself growing faint, partly from the temperature, but mainly from anticipating what would happen if Matilde’s make-up should begin to melt off, or Eleanor Tyler display some of the indiscretion that his friends seemed to find so distasteful. He reached for his goblet of wine with an unsteady hand and took a hefty swallow.

Next to Eleanor the misogynistic Father William did the same, sweat standing out on his brow as he tried to make himself smaller to avoid physical contact with her.

Father Kenyngham stood to say grace, which was perhaps longer than it might have been and was frequently punctuated by agitated sighs from behind the serving screen, where Agatha was aware that the food was spoiling.

And then the meal was underway. The first course arrived, comprising a selection of poultry dishes.

Eleanor clung to Bartholomew’s arm and chattered incessantly, making it difficult for him to eat anything at all. Father William was sharing a platter with the voluptuous wife of a merchant that Father Aidan had invited, and was gulping at his wine as his agitation rose with the temperature of the room. Bartholomew could only imagine that the College steward, who decided who sat where, must have fallen foul of William’s quick tongue at some point, and had managed his own peculiar revenge with the seating arrangements. Meanwhile Roger Alcote, another Fellow who deplored young women, was chatting merrily to the venerable Mistress Horner and was confiding all kinds of secrets.

‘I hear you have had little success in discovering the killer of that poor student – James Kenzie,’ said Eleanor, almost shouting over the cacophony of raised voices. She coughed as smoke from a cheap candle wafted into her face when a servant hurried by bearing yet more dishes of food.

‘We have had no success in finding the murderers of Kenzie, the skeleton in the Ditch, or the prostitute, Joanna,’ said Bartholomew, taking a tentative bite of something that might have been chicken. It was sufficiently salty that it made him reach immediately for his wine cup.

Further down the table Father William did the same, although, unlike Bartholomew, the friar finished his meat, along with another two cups of wine to wash it down.

Bartholomew was concerned, knowing that wine reacted badly with poppy juice, as he had warned that morning.

So much for William’s claim that he only needed to be told something once, thought the physician. He tried to attract the friar’s attention, but then became aware that Eleanor had released his arm and was regarding him in a none-too-friendly manner.

‘Why are you bothering with this whore?’ she demanded, loud enough to draw a shocked gasp from Alcote, two seats away. ‘No one in the town cares about her, so why should you?’

‘I feel she was badly used,’ said Bartholomew, surprised by the venom her voice.

‘So were the other eight people who were killed in the riot, but none of them has a personal crusader searching for their killers.’

‘But they all had someone who cared about them at their funerals,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘Joanna had no one.’

‘That was probably because she was unpopular,’ said Eleanor coldly.

‘Did you know her then?’ asked Bartholomew, startled.

‘Of course not! She was a whore!’

Bartholomew glanced uneasily at Matilde, but if she was paying any attention to Eleanor, she did not show it.

Her head was turned in polite attention towards Roger Alcote, who had recovered from his shock at the mention of whores and was informing her, in considerable detail, about the cost of silver on the black market. Bartholomew wondered how Alcote knew about such matters, but realised that Alcote was not the wealthiest of Michaelhouse’s Fellows for nothing.

‘You must desist with this ridiculous investigation,’ Eleanor announced firmly. ‘This harlot’s killer is long gone and you will only waste your time. Not only that, but think how it looks for a man of your standing and reputation to be fussing about a prostitute!’

‘Because she was a prostitute does not give someone the right to kill her,’ reasoned Bartholomew quietly.

‘No, it does not, but you are wrong in applying yourself so diligendy to her case. Why can you not look into whose cart crushed that poor potter instead – he was a good man and well-liked. Or what about the scholars who were slain? That friar from Godwinsson, for example.’

‘I do not think I will be able to make much progress with Joanna’s murder anyway, ‘ said Bartholomew in a placatory tone, reluctant to discuss the matter with Eleanor if she was going to be hostile. It was none of her business and she had no right to be telling him what he could or could not do in his spare time. ‘I have discovered nothing at all, except that the two Frenchmen from Godwinsson are the most likely suspects, and they are never at home.’

‘Are you mad?’ asked Eleanor in horror. She dropped her voice to a whisper when Alcote leaned forward to gaze disapprovingly at her. ‘My mother killed their friend to save you! Have you not considered that your prying might force them to reveal her as the killer? And then she will be hanged, and it will be all your fault!’

She had a point. Eleanor had already told him that the French students had often pestered her while she sat outside to sew, and the surviving pair would know exactly who had killed their friend. In fact, Mistress Tyler was probably fortunate that they had not retaliated in some way already, although the fact that the students had told all and sundry that they were attacked by a crowd of well-armed townsmen seemed to indicate that they were prepared to overlook the matter in the interests of appearances.

‘All right,’ he conceded. ‘And as I said, I think there is little more I can do anyway.’

Eleanor gazed at him sombrely for a moment, before turning her attention to the portion of roast pheasant in front of her.

‘Thank you,’ she said, as she ripped the bird’s legs off. ‘But we should not spoil this wonderful occasion by quarrelling, Matt. Pass me some of that red stuff. No, not wine, addle-brain! That berry sauce.’ She took a mouthful, and quickly grabbed her goblet. ‘Pepper, flavoured mildly with berries!’ she pronounced, fanning her mouth with her hand. That is spicy stuff!’

Father William evidently thought so too, for Cynric stepped forward to refill his cup three times in quick succession. By the time the second course arrived, the friar was distinctly red in the face, and was considerably more relaxed than he had been when the Feast had begun.

‘I advised you to drink no wine, Father,’ Bartholomew whispered to him behind Eleanor, who was giving her entire attention to stripping the pheasant to the bone with her teeth. ‘It does not mix well with the medicine you took.’

‘Nonsense,’ said William expansively. ‘I feel in excellent health. Try some of this meat, Matthew, lad. I do not have the faintest idea what it is, but what does that matter, eh?’

He elbowed Eleanor hard in the ribs and Bartholomew regarded him aghast. The Franciscan slapped a generous portion of something grey on top of the mountain of gnawed bones on her trencher, and then peered at it shortsightedly.

‘That should probably do you,’ he said finally. ‘Put some flesh on you, eh?’

He gave her another nudge and burst into giggles.

Amused, Eleanor grinned at him, and he slapped his hand on her knee, roaring with laughter. Bartholomew groaned.

‘Cynric! Do not give him any more to drink. Fetch him some water.’

‘I told you this morning, I do not approve of water,’ bellowed William jovially. ‘Bring me wine, Cynric and bring it quickly! Now, Mistress, I do not believe I have seen you in our congregation very often. I hope you are not bound for the old fires and brimstone of hell, eh?’

William would have fires and brimstone in his stomach the next day if he did not moderate his wine consumption, Bartholomew thought, astonished as the friar brought his face close to Eleanor’s and began to regale her with a tale of how he had once sought out heretics in the south of Spain. It was not a pleasant story, nor one that was appropriate for such an occasion, but Eleanor was spellbound, her food forgotten as she listened to the Franciscan’s account of what amounted to wholesale slaughter in the name of God.

As dessert was being served, Bartholomew noticed that Father William had not been the only one who had drunk too much too quickly. Alcote, next to Matilde, had the silly, fixed grin on his face that told all those who knew him that he was on the verge of being insensible. With relief, Bartholomew was able to give Matilde his full attention.

Like the physician, she had eaten and drunk little, and was one of the few people left in the hall in full control of her faculties. She watched the guests and scholars around her with delight, laughing when the Mayor’s fine hat fell into his custard because he was trying to maul Edith Stanmore who sat across the table from him, and enthralled by the way Michael’s choir went from appalling to diabolical as they became steadily more intoxicated. When one of the tenors passed out, taking a section of the altos down with him, she turned to Bartholomew with tears running down her cheeks.

‘Oh, Matthew! I do not think I have laughed so much in years! Thank you for inviting me. I was uncertain about coming at first – after all, a feast in a University institution attended by a crowd of debauched, drunken men, is not really an occasion respectable women should attend – but now I am glad I came. The sisters will love hearing about all this!’

It was ironic, Bartholomew thought, that one of the most auspicious occasions in the University calendar should be seen in terms as a source of mirth for the town’s prostitutes. But looking around him, it was difficult to argue with her. Alcote had finally slipped into oblivion, and was asleep in his chair with his mouth open. Father Aidan, Bartholomew was certain, had his hand somewhere it should not have been on the person of the St Radegund’s Convent cellarer who sat next to him. Michael, virtually the only one in the hall still eating, was choking on his food, and was being pounded on the back by a trio of young ladies. Father Kenyngham had blocked out the racket around him and was contentedly reading a book. William was on his feet, unsteadily miming out some nasty detail about his days in the Inquisition while Eleanor listened agog and in the body of the hall, scholars and guests alike were roaring drunk or on the verge of passing out.

Those that were still able were beginning to leave. Edith gave Bartholomew and Matilde a nod before she picked her way out of the hall, followed by Oswald Stanmore who walked with the unnatural care of those who have over-imbibed. Judging from Edith’s black expression, her husband was not in her good graces for enjoying the wine and carelessly abandoning her to the unwanted attentions of the Mayor. Bartholomew would not have wanted to be in Stanmore’s shoes the following morning.

‘So, did you dress as a grandmother to save your reputation, or mine?’ he asked, turning away from the chaos to look at Matilde.

‘Both,’ she said. ‘But mainly yours. It was your sister’s idea, actually, although of course her husband knows nothing about it. He thinks I am some distant cousin you invited, and lost interest in me as soon as he learned I had nothing to sell and didn’t want to buy anything.’

Bartholomew laughed, then raised an arm to protect her as Father William, now describing some fight in which he had emerged victorious, snatched up a candlestick and began to wave it in the air, splattering wax everywhere and landing the voluptuous merchant’s wife on his other side a painful crack on the back of the neck.

‘And so I managed to escape from those evildoers, stealing back all my friary’s sacred relics to protect them from pagan hands,’ he finished grandly, slumping back down into his chair.

‘You escaped from these heathens with all the relics?’ asked Eleanor, impressed. ‘All alone, and with no weapon other than a small stick and your own cunning?’

‘And the hand of God,’ added William, as an afterthought.

He wiped the sweat from his face with the edge of the tablecloth. ‘The relics are now safe in Salamanca Cathedral. We later returned to the village and charged everyone with heresy.’

‘The whole village?’ asked Eleanor, eyes wide and round. ‘What happened?’

William seized the candlestick again and lurched to his feet. ‘There was a fight, of course, but I was ready for them!’

The merchant’s wife received another crack on the head as William girded himself up for action. Before he could do any more damage, Bartholomew wrested the object from him and he and Cynric escorted him, none too willingly, to his room. The fresh air seemed to sober the friar somewhat.

‘That damned medicine of yours,’ he muttered. ‘You gave me too much of it.’

Bartholomew looked sharply at the friar. ‘Did you take all that I left on the table? You were supposed to have saved some of it for later.’

‘Then you should have told me so,’ growled William, trying to free his arm from Cynric to walk unattended. ‘It was powerful stuff.’

‘So was the wine,’ remarked Bartholomew. As soon as the friar was on his bed, he began to snore. Bartholomew turned him on his side and left a bucket next to the bed, certain he would need it later.

Meanwhile, back in the hall, Bartholomew’s place had been taken by Sam Gray who was deep in conversation with Eleanor. When the physician offered to walk her home, she waved him away impatiently, and turned her attention back to Gray.

‘I will see her home,’ Gray volunteered, far more readily than he agreed to do most things. He proffered an arm to Eleanor, who took it with a predatory grin. Side by side, they picked their way across fallen guests, scraps of food and empty bottles, and left the hall.

‘Eleanor will be safe enough with him,’ said Matilde, seeing Bartholomew’s look of concern. ‘It is still daylight outside and she is a woman well able to take care of herself.’

‘Then, perhaps I can escort you home.’

‘No, Matthew. The sisters will be waiting to hear all about this Feast, and they will want to see me in my disguise. I shall go to them now, so that they have my tale before they start work tonight.’

‘Why are they so interested?’

‘Why should they not be? These men, who lie in drunken heaps, are the great and good of the town, who use us for their pleasures on the one hand, but who are quick to condemn us on the other. The sisters will enjoy hearing about how they have debased themselves. My only regret is that I have no suitable words with which to describe the choir.’

‘I could think of some,’ said Bartholomew, looking across to where a few of them were carousing near the screen. Whether they were still singing, or simply yelling to make themselves heard, he could not decide.

‘Thank you again,’ she said, touching him on the arm. ‘You will be busy tomorrow, dealing with all these sore heads and sick stomachs, so go to bed early.’

With this sound advice, she took her leave, making her way carefully across the yard and out of the gates, a curious figure whose matronly attire and walking stick contrasted oddly with her lithe, upright posture and graceful steps.

Bartholomew heaved a sigh of relief, aware that a combination of good luck, Matilde’s ingenuity and strong wine had extricated him from his delicate situation with no damage done. Wearily, still smiling about the spectacle William had made of himself, Bartholomew headed for his room.

No one at Michaelhouse was awake before sunrise, and the Franciscans, to a man, missed their pre-dawn offices.

Father William looked gaunt and pale and roundly damned the perils of over-indulgence. Notwithstanding, he helped himself to a generous portion of oatmeal at breakfast, so Bartholomew supposed that he could not feel too ill.

Before lectures started, Robin of Grantchester appeared at the gates, informing the scholars of Michaelhouse that he was prepared to offer them a collective discount on any leeching or bleeding that was required. No one took advantage of his generosity, although a number of Fellows and students availed themselves of Bartholomew’s services, which tended to be less painful, less expensive, and more likely to work. Unkindly, Bartholomew suggested that Robin should visit the Mayor, who was last seen being carried home in a litter, singing some bawdy song that, rumour had it, Sam Gray had taught him.

Once teaching was finished, Bartholomew found he had a large number of patients to see. A few of them were people suffering the after-effects of the previous night’s excesses, but others were ill because food was scarce following the plague, and not everyone could afford to buy sufficient to keep them in good health.

The irony of it did not escape the physician.

Michael meanwhile, after a day’s break from his duties, announced that he was going to pay another visit to Godwinsson Hostel to try to wring more information from its students about their whereabouts at the time of Werbergh’s death. His previous attempt had proved unsuccessful because no one had been at home. Concerned for his friend entering what he considered to be a lion’s den, Bartholomew offered to accompany him but Michael waved him away saying that the physician might be more hindrance than help in view of Lydgate’s antipathy towards him. They walked together to the High Street and then parted, Michael heading towards Small Bridges Street, and Bartholomew to St Mary’s Church; where the Chancellor was paying for his greed over a large plate of sickly marchpanes the day before.

It was late by the time Bartholomew had completed his rounds, and the evening was gold and red. He knew he should return to Michaelhouse, and send Gray to return the Galen to David’s Hostel that he had forgotten about the day before, but it was too pleasant an evening to be indoors. There were perhaps two hours of daylight left – time enough for him to walk to the river and still be back at Michaelhouse sufficiently early to send Gray to David’s with the book before curfew.

He decided to visit two of the old men who lived near the wharves on the river. Both were prone to attacks of river fever and, despite Bartholomew’s repeated advice against drinking directly from the Cam’s unsavoury depths, they were set in their ways because they had been using the river as a source of drinking water since they were children, they saw no reason to change. They were old and each new bout of illness weakened them a little further, especially in the summer months. Bartholomew visited them regularly. He enjoyed sitting between them on the unstable bench outside their house, watching the river ooze past, and listening to tales of their pasts.

A cool breeze was blowing in from the Fens and the setting sun bathed the river in a soft amber light.

Even the hovels that stood in an uneven line behind Michaelhouse looked picturesque, their crude wattle- and-daub walls coloured pale russets and rich yellows in the late daylight.

The two old men, Aethelbald and Dunstan, were sitting in their usual place, their backs against the flimsy wall of their house, and their dim-sighted eyes turned towards the wharves where a barge from Flanders was unloading.

They greeted Bartholomew with warm enthusiasm and, as always, made room for him to sit between them on the bench that was never built to take the weight of three.

Bartholomew sat cautiously, ever alert for the sharp crack that would pre-empt the three of them tumbling into the dust. There was nothing more than an ominous creak and, gradually, Bartholomew allowed himself to relax.

They chatted for a while about nothing in particular.

Aethelbald was recovering well from his last attack of river sickness, and both claimed that they were now only drinking from the well in Water Street. They told him about a fox that was stealing hens, that there were more flies now than when they were young, arid that one of Dunstan’s grandchildren was suffering the pangs of his first unrequited love.

The two old men talked while Bartholomew listened.

It was not that he found chickens, flies and adolescent crushes fascinating, but there was something timeless about their gossip that he found reassuring. Perhaps it was that what they told him was so unquestionably normal and that there were no hidden meanings or twists to their words. Their lives were simple and, if not honest, then at least their deceptions were obvious ones, and their motives clear – unlike the devious twisting and reasoning of the University community.

Dunstan was chuckling about his grandson’s misfortunes in love because, apparently, the lady of his choice was a prostitute.

‘Which one?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.

‘Her name was Joanna,’ said Dunstan, still cackling.

Bartholomew stared at him. ‘Joanna? But there is no prostitute in the town by that name!’

The two men stared back, their laughter giving way to amused disbelief. ‘You seem very sure of that, Doctor,’ said Dunstan with a wink at his brother.

Bartholomew was chagrined to feel himself flush. ‘I was told,’ he said lamely.

Now it was Aethelbald’s turn to wink. ‘I’m sure you were, Doctor,’ he said.

Dunstan saw Bartholomew’s expression and took pity on him. ‘She is not from these parts. She was visiting relatives here from Ely when she met my lad. She has gone back now.’

‘When did she go? What did she look like?’ asked Bartholomew, sitting straight-backed on the rickety bench, oblivious to the protesting cracks and groans of its flimsy legs.

The brothers exchanged a look of surprise but answered his questions. ‘She went back the morning after the riot,’ said Dunstan, ‘She was a big lass with a good deal of thick yellow hair.’

Fair hair, mused Bartholomew. Could Joanna have been the body he had seen in the castle after all?

Was it Joanna that Cecily had seen dead at the feet of her husband, and not Dominica? He recalled his own experiences of mistaken identity that night in relation to Michael and winced. It was not easy to be certain in the dark, with only the flickering light of uncontrolled flames to act as a torch. Perhaps Cecily Lydgate had seen only fair hair and had jumped to the wrong conclusion. Which would mean that Michael had been right all along and that Dominica and the mysterious Joanna were different people.

‘Did you see her after the riot?’ Bartholomew asked.

Dunstan shook his head. ‘Our lad had a message the morning after, bidding him farewell. That is how we came to know about it. She wrote our lad a note and he cannot read, so he had to bring it here because Aethelbald has some learning – providing the words are not too long, and they are all in English.’

Aethelbald looked proud of himself, and explained that he had spent a year at the Glommery School next to King’s Hall and had learned his letters. Bartholomew’s thoughts tumbled in confusion. If Joanna, and not Dominica, had been killed during the riot, then why had there been no one except Bartholomew at her funeral service? What of the people she had come to the town to visit?

As if reading his thoughts, Dunstan began telling him about the relatives Joanna had come to see.

‘It was that family on the High Street,’ he began unhelpfully.

‘That family of women,’ added Aethelbald. ‘A mother and three daughters.’

For the second time in the space of a few minutes, Bartholomew gazed from one to the other of the brothers in bewilderment.

‘Mistress Tyler and her daughters?’

Dunstan snapped his fingers triumphantly. ‘That’s it!’ he exclaimed. ‘Agnes Tyler.’ He was silent for a moment, before he began to chuckle again. ‘And, although she said she was delighted to have a visit from her Ely niece, I know for a fact from Mistress Bowman that she did not take kindly to Joanna running some unofficial business from Agnes’s home!’

The two old men howled with laughter, then returned to the business of the fox and the chickens, while Bartholomew’s thoughts whirled in confusion. Joanna had not been with the Tylers in the riot. Surely Mistress Tyler would not have left her inside the house? He chewed on his lower lip as he recalled the events of that night. He had offered to go back to oust looters from the Tyler home after the fire had died out, but Mistress Tyler had asked him to escort them to Jonas the Poisoner’s house instead. If Dunstan was right, then Joanna would still have been in Cambridge and had left the following morning.

But if it had been Mistress Tyler’s niece that had been murdered, why were her aunt and cousins not at her funeral service? Was it because they did not know she was dead? But surely that was not possible? The names of the riot victims had been widely published and Tulyet had gone to some trouble to ensure the families of the dead were informed. And even if Mistress Tyler had believed Joanna had already left for Ely, the name Joanna on a list of town dead must surely have raised some question in her mind?

He closed his eyes, seeing again the events of that night: students and townsmen running back and forth, shouting and brandishing weapons; Master Burney’s workshop alive with flames and the fire spreading to the Tyler home nearby; Mistress Tyler saying there were looters in the house after the French students’ attack had been thwarted. Bartholomew had not seen or heard the looters: he only had Mistress Tyler’s word that they had been in her house. And then he thought about the house when Michael and he had recovered from the attack; it had been pleasant, clean and fresh-smelling, and the furniture was of good quality and well kept. There was no evidence that the room had been ill-used or damaged by fire.

He felt sick as the implications began to dawn on him.

Had Mistress Tyler left Joanna in the house deliberately, to be at the mercies of the supposed looters? Did that explain why she wanted him to escort her to Jonas’s house – even though the family had already shown they were more than capable of looking after themselves, and his presence would not make a significant difference to their chances – to keep him from knowing Joanna was still in the house? And did it explain why Eleanor had been so keen to dissuade him from his investigations when he had told her that he was looking for Joanna’s killer during the Feast?

Also, the night he and Michael were attacked, Agnes Tyler had invited them into her house as an act of charity without knowing who they were. Would she have invited them so readily had she known, aware that any signs of looters in the house only a few nights before were essentially invisible? When Eleanor had invited him to eat with them the day after the riot, he had been taken to the garden, not to the house itself. Or was it simply that the Tylers had been to some trouble to eradicate quickly any signs of what must have been an unpleasant episode in their lives?

Slowly, feeling that the frail bench was beginning to give way under their combined weight, he stood to take, his leave of the old men. He walked slowly back along the river bank in the gathering gloom, aware that the curfew bell must have already sounded because the path was virtually empty. His thoughts were an uncontrolled jumble of questions and he tried to sort them out into a logical sequence. First and foremost was the revelation that Joanna had existed, while Bartholomew had wrongly assumed that she was Dominica. Second was that Matilde had been certain that Joanna had not been a prostitute, which had misled him: Joanna had not been a prostitute who lived in Cambridge.

He rubbed at his temples as he considered something else. Eleanor Tyler had seen Bartholomew talking in the street with Matilde and had chided him for it. What had she said? That Matilde was not to be trusted, and that she revealed the secrets of her clients. At the time, he had been disturbed more by the slur to Matilde than by what she might have meant. Eleanor’s was an extreme reaction but one he had put down to the natural dislike of prostitutes held by many people. But in the light of what he had just learned from Dunstan and Aethelbald, it could mean that she had guessed that he might be asking about Joanna, and wanted to ensure that any information given to him by Matilde would be disregarded.

Matilde had also told him that the riots had been started to hide two acts. Perhaps one of the acts was, the murder of Joanna – getting rid of the unwelcome visitor that had been bringing shame to Mistress Tyler’s respectable household.

He raised his eyes heavenward at this notion. Now he was being ridiculous! How could Mistress Tyler possibly have the influence, funds or knowledge to start riots? And surely it was not necessary to start a riot merely to be rid of Joanna? Why not simply send her home to Ely?

All Dunstan’s information had done was to muddy already murky waters. Now Bartholomew did not even know whether Dominica was alive or not, whereas before he had been certain she had been dead. But he was sure Lydgate had been at the grave. Why? Had he, like Cecily, mistaken Joanna for Dominica in the dark? Was his graveside visit to atone for a life taken by mistake?

The shadow of a cat (or was it a fox?) flitting across the path brought him out of his reverie. He realised that he had been so engrossed in his thoughts that he had walked past the bottom of St Michael’s Lane and was passing through the land that ran to St John’s Hospital. With an impatient shake of his head, he turned to retrace his steps, quickly now, for the daylight was fading fast, and he did not wish to be caught outside the College by the Sheriffs men or the beadles without a valid excuse.

As he turned, he saw another shadow behind him.

This time, it was two – not four – legged and made a far less competent job of slipping unobtrusively into the bushes than the animal. Bartholomew was after him in an instant, diving recklessly into the undergrowth and emerging moments later clutching a struggling student.

He hauled him upright to see if he could recognise the scholar’s face in the rapidly fading light.

‘Edred,’ he said tonelessly. He released the Godwinsson friar and watched him warily.

Edred made a quick twitching movement and Bartholomew thought he might dart away. But he stayed, casting nervous glances at his captor.

‘Well?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Why were you following me?’

Edred’s eyes slid away from Bartholomew’s face looking off down the river.

‘To see where you were going.’

‘That is no answer,’ said Bartholomew impatiently. ‘Did someone tell you to? Master Lydgate?’

The name produced a violent reaction, and Edred shook his head so vigorously that Bartholomew thought he might make himself sick. Bartholomew had seen many soldiers before they went into battle and knew naked fear when he saw it. He took the young friar’s arm and escorted him firmly back towards Michaelhouse.

Michael had been waiting at the gates. Relief showed clearly in his face when Bartholomew shouted to be let in. He was surprised to see Edred but said nothing while Bartholomew led the student to the kitchen, and asked Agatha to give him a cup of strong wine. While Edred drank, colour seeped back into his pinched white features. Michael nodded to Agatha to keep her matronly eye on him and beckoned Bartholomew out of earshot in the yard.

Venus was twinkling way off in the dark blue sky and Bartholomew wondered what it was that made it shine first red, then yellow, then blue. When he had been a child, he had imagined it was about to explode and had studied it for hours. He had watched it with Norbert, too, many years before, both wanting to witness what they imagined would be a dramatic event. The last time they had seen it together had been at the gates of Stanmore’s house in Trumpington, before Norbert had disappeared into the night to flee to the safety of Dover Castle.

‘I was beginning to be worried,’ Michael was saying. ‘I was back ages ago and I thought you may have run into trouble, given that your attackers are still on the loose. I was about to go out to look for you.’

Bartholomew raised apologetic shoulders and gave his friend a rueful smile. ‘Sorry. I did not think you might be anxious.’ He ran his fingers through his hair. ‘What did you discover at the Hostel from Hell?’

Michael laughed softly at his appellation for Godwinsson.

‘Very little, I am afraid. There was some kind of celebration at Valence Marie on Friday night because of finding the relic. The scholars of Maud’s and Godwinsson were invited. Some went, others did not, but by all accounts it was a drunken occasion and those that did attend are unlikely to recall those who did not. It will be almost impossible to check alibis for anyone. Just about anybody could have knocked Werbergh over the head and hidden his body. Including Lydgate.’

‘Not so for David’s Hostel,’ said Bartholomew, recalling his visit there two days before. ‘Master Radbeche has his students under very strict control – perhaps too strict for such active young men. Anyway, none of them are ever out of the sight of either Radbeche or Father Andrew.’

He had a pang of sudden remorse as he remembered the Galen. He considered sending Gray with it, but it was almost dark and he did not wish to be the cause of his student’s arrest by the beadles. Father Andrew would have to wait until morning.

‘The only thing I managed to ascertain,’ continued Michael, ‘was that Edred has not been seen since Werbergh’s body was found. And, as I was beginning to wonder whether he might have gone the same way as his friend, you bring him to Michaelhouse.’

Bartholomew told him how he had encountered Edred, and Michael listened gravely. He decided to keep his thoughts about Joanna until later, when he and Michael had the time to unravel the muddle of information together.

When they returned to the kitchen, Agatha had settled Edred comfortably at the large table with some of her freshly baked oatcakes. He looked better than he had done when he first arrived, and even managed a faint smile of thanks at Agatha as she left the kitchen to go to bed. Bartholomew was aware of a slight movement from the corner, and saw Cynric sitting there, crouched upon a stool, eating apples which he peeled with a knife. He raised his eyebrows to ask whether he should leave, but Bartholomew motioned for him to stay.

Bartholomew sat opposite Edred and leaned his elbows on the table. Michael went to Agatha’s fireside chair and the room was filled with creaking and puffing sounds until the fat monk had wriggled his bulk into a position he found satisfactory.

‘Why did you steal James Kenzie’s ring?’ asked Bartholomew softly.

Edred’s gaze dropped. ‘Because Master Lydgate offered money for the student who returned it to him,’ he said, his voice little more than a whisper. ‘We were all looking for it, mostly on each other. Then I saw it on the Scot. It was me who started the argument in the street that! day. I wanted to get closer to him to make sure it was the right ring.’

He looked down, unable or unwilling to meet the eyes of his questioners.

‘How did you steal the ring from Kenzie’s finger?’ asked Bartholomew, more from curiosity than to help with solving the riddle of Kenzie’s death.

Edred shrugged. ‘I have done it before,’ he said. ‘I jostled him and we pushed and shoved at each other. I pretended to fall and grabbed at his hand. When I released it, I had his ring and he did not.’

‘A fine talent for a friar,’ said Bartholomew dryly.

Edred favoured him with a superior smile. ‘It is a skill I learned from a travelling musician in exchange for a basket of apples when I was a child. It is a trick, nothing more.’

‘Not to James Kenzie,’ said Michael. ‘Why did you lie about this when I asked you about it later?’

Edred’s eyes became frightened again and he seemed to lose some of the colour from his face. ‘Because I took the ring to Master Lydgate and he told me if I ever mentioned to anyone what I had done, he would kill me,’ he said.

‘So, why are you telling us now?’ asked Michael, unmoved by the friar’s fear.

‘Because he made a similar threat to Werbergh. Werbergh spoke to you,’ said Edred, looking at Bartholomew with large eyes, ‘and now he is dead.’

‘But if you think Werbergh died because he spoke to me,’ said Bartholomew reasonably, ‘why are you now doing the same?’

‘Because I do not know what else to do,’ said Edred.

Bartholomew had expected him to break down into tears and wail at him, but Edred was made of sterner stuff. He swallowed hard and met Bartholomew’s gaze evenly. ‘I thought if I told you what I know, you might be able to sort out this mess and offer me some kind of protection.’

Michael sighed. ‘It all sounds most mysterious,’ he said cynically. ‘But let us start at the beginning. We will consider your protection when we better know what we must protect you against.’ He leaned back into his chair again, ignoring the creaking wood. ‘Proceed.’

Edred looked from one to the other, his face expressionless. ‘Master Lydgate killed Dominica and a servant from Valence Marie that she was with the night of the riot. He also killed Werbergh and James Kenzie. And if he knows where I am he will kill me too.’