A Killer in Winter

CHAPTER 11

Michael was still furious at Ailred’s escape the following day, claiming he would have had the answers to many questions if the physician had managed to seize the Franciscan before he could skate away. Bartholomew disagreed. He did not think Ailred had been in the mood for throwing light on Michael’s mysteries, and believed the friar would simply have continued to lie. It came down to Godric’s word against his principal’s, and Bartholomew sensed Godric might not keep to his story anyway – he would capitulate, and declare that Ailred had been in after all. Loyalty was important in hostels and Colleges.

It was almost noon, and Bartholomew had spent the morning trailing around after Michael in a futile attempt to discover where Ailred might have gone. They had visited Ovyng Hostel twice and the Franciscan Friary once, but no one had any idea where a fleeing Grey Friar might go in an emergency. They all said much the same: Ailred was a quiet man, respected and liked by his contemporaries, whose life had revolved completely around his hostel and his students.

‘Only another four days,’ growled Suttone irritably. The bell had just chimed to announce the midday meal, and he was walking across the yard with Bartholomew and Michael, just back from their futile hunt. ‘Then this ridiculous charade will be over.’

‘You mean the season of misrule?’ asked Michael. ‘It has not been too bad this year. The cold weather spoiled some of the wilder schemes, and the fun is wearing too thin now for there to be many more surprises in store for us. Some students are already settling back to their studies.’

‘Quenhyth never stopped his,’ said the Carmelite in disgust. ‘Smug little beggar.’

‘I thought his obsession with learning would endear him to you,’ said Bartholomew, surprised the dour Carmelite so disliked Quenhyth. The student was dull, pedantic and single-minded, which were traits Suttone usually approved in a scholar. ‘He has not engaged in any of the antics surrounding the Lord of Misrule.’

‘Yes and no,’ replied Suttone. ‘His character makes people want to tease him. Indeed, his very presence in Michaelhouse has been the cause of pranks that would not have taken place had he been gone. We must remember to send him away next year – especially if Deynman is reelected.’

They walked into the hall and went to the servants’ screen, where large pots of food were waiting to be distributed. The Fellows were still obliged to serve the others on occasion, and some students continued to occupy the high table, although many had reclaimed their own seats in the body of the hall. The novelty of eating with Deynman had completely worn off for Agatha, however, and she declined his invitations, claiming that she was bored with the prattle of silly boys. She had reverted to dining in the kitchen, along with the rest of the servants.

‘Where is Langelee?’ demanded Michael crossly, snatching up a dish of something that was coloured a brilliant emerald. ‘It will take us ages to serve everyone without him. And what in God’s name is this?’ His attention had been caught by the contents of the bowl.

‘Deynman said all food served today should be green,’ said Bartholomew, laughing when he saw the mouldy bread that Agatha had piled into a basket and the platter of rancid pork that had been prepared. ‘He should have chosen a different colour, because if anyone willingly eats this stuff he deserves to die of poisoning.’

‘That will teach Deynman to make life difficult for Agatha, with his ridiculous demands and orders,’ said Wynewyk in delight. ‘Decaying meat, mouldy bread, cabbage and pea soup with added colouring. It is all green, but Deynman did not specify it also had to be edible!’

‘I shall be glad when this is over,’ said Suttone vehemently, grabbing the bread and preparing to distribute it to hungry students who would be in for a disappointment. ‘Because the servants are not allowed to work, the hall has not been cleaned for days, and it stinks.’

The odour of stale rushes and spilt food was indeed becoming noticeable, and Bartholomew was aware that fewer students used the hall for sleeping, preferring the fresher, if colder, air of their own rooms. The walls were splattered with wine and fat, where the Fellows’ inexpert handling of heavy serving vessels had resulted in mishaps, and the floor was lumpy with discarded scraps. It had almost reached the point where Bartholomew felt obliged to scrape his feet clean before he left.

He escaped from the hall as soon as Deynman said the final grace. It was an unusually short meal, because so little was actually edible, and it was not long before the students were clamouring to leave, so they could find victuals elsewhere. Because his room was still encased in a cocoon of snow – although it was melting quickly and it would not be long before it would be accessible again – Bartholomew went to William’s chamber.

The friar had not been obliged to consume green food. He sat replete and contented, with the remains of fish-giblet stew, and fine wheat-bread, which Bartholomew imagined had also been enjoyed by Agatha, lay in front of him. William informed Bartholomew that his meal had been excellent and that he was considering ‘breaking’ his other leg in order to be cosseted and excused from unpleasant duties.

‘Do not let Agatha know you are only pretending to be infirm,’ the physician advised. ‘If she discovers her charity has been in vain your life will not be worth living.’

‘The weather is changing,’ said William ruefully. ‘And the ground underfoot is not nearly as slick as it was. You can remove the splint in a day or two, but I may bribe you with books again, if I feel the need for a period of respite.’

‘Bribe away,’ said Bartholomew, running his hand lovingly over the fine cover of his Bradwardine. ‘Did you know that Michael spent all morning searching for one of your brethren? Ailred from Ovyng ran away when our questions became too uncomfortable.’

‘I heard,’ said William. ‘And I am astonished. Ailred is a kindly, God-fearing man. I cannot imagine him fleeing from anything.’

‘Has he ever spoken to you about kin from the village of Fiscurtune, near Lincoln? No one else seems to know much about his family.’

‘He has kin,’ replied William. ‘Or should I say had kin, since we Franciscans often renounce family ties once we have taken our vows. I know a little about Ailred’s, though, because we went on retreat to Chesterton together once. He talked about them then.’

‘What did he say?’ asked Bartholomew, feeling his excitement quicken.

‘Very little,’ came the disappointing reply. ‘He has a brother. Or was it a sister? I cannot recall now. And there is a nephew he is fond of.’

‘Do you know anything else about them?’ asked Bartholomew.

William thought for a moment. ‘They used to go fishing together.’

Bartholomew told Michael about his conversation with William as they sat in the Brazen George, eating roasted sheep with a sauce of beetroot and onions. There were parsnips and cabbage stems, too, baked slowly in butter in the bottom of the bread oven, so that the flavour of yeast could be tasted in them. The more he thought about it, the more likely it seemed to Bartholomew that Ailred was indeed associated with the dead John Fiscurtune. And he wondered whether there was some significance in the fact that Walter Turke had died while skating, when Ailred had shown himself to be a veteran on ice.

‘Do you think Ailred did something to bring about Turke’s death?’ he asked.

‘Possibly,’ said Michael. ‘There are too many connections between them to be ignored. So, Turke murdered Fiscurtune, then bribed the local Sheriff to ignore the crime. Fiscurtune’s family must have been outraged. Then Turke embarked on a pilgrimage to “atone” for his sin, making it clear he was doing so only because he intended to be elected Lord Mayor and did not want an inconvenient matter like murder to stand in his way.’

‘It would have added insult to injury,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘And then this pilgrimage took him through Cambridge, where one of the wronged kinsmen lives. When the snows isolated the town and trapped Turke here, it must have seemed as though fate was screaming for vengeance.’

‘God was screaming for vengeance,’ corrected Michael. ‘Ailred is a friar, remember? What did he do, do you think? Force Turke on to the ice somehow?’

‘There were no obvious injuries on Turke’s body, so I do not think violence was used.’

‘Ailred could have threatened him with a crossbow,’ suggested Michael.

‘In broad daylight on the Mill Pool? Someone would have seen them.’ Bartholomew rubbed a hand through his hair, and asked the question that had been gnawing at the back of his mind ever since he had first learned about the possible connection between Ailred and Turke. ‘Do you think Philippa suspects her husband’s death was not an accident, and she knows or has guessed that Ailred is involved?’

‘I do not see how, unless she was there.’ Michael studied his friend with sombre green eyes. ‘And I do not think she was there, despite the fact that we know Giles regularly locked himself in her room, leaving her free to wander.’

‘Then why do I feel as though she is not telling us the truth? Even Matilde can see there is something strange about Philippa, and they do not even know each other.’

Michael patted his arm. ‘Eat your parsnips, Matt. Then we shall search again for the elusive Ailred. He cannot be far – the roads are still closed, and he has nowhere else to go.’

Bartholomew and Michael left the Brazen George, and were about to turn down St Michael’s Lane when they encountered Langelee striding towards them, gripping Quenhyth by the scruff of his neck. Langelee’s face was impassive, but the student’s expression revealed exactly how he felt: angry, maligned and humiliated. He was trying to explain something to Langelee, but Langelee was refusing to listen.

‘I was on my way to your prison,’ Langelee said, thrusting Quenhyth at Michael, so hard that the lad bounced into Michael’s substantial girth and almost lost his balance. ‘I want you to take charge of this miserable specimen.’

‘What has he done this time?’ asked Michael, fixing the hapless student with a stern eye. ‘Another whore in his bed? Or has he hidden Father William’s crutches again?’

Quenhyth bristled. ‘I did neither of those things, and you know it. They were pranks designed specifically to land me in trouble.’

‘I caught him searching the servants’ belongings,’ said Langelee to Michael with considerable anger. ‘The steward came to me in a panic, saying there was a burglar in the stable loft, and when I investigated I found Quenhyth. I cannot imagine what he was thinking of.’

‘I was not among the servants’ possessions,’ said Quenhyth. ‘I was looking through baggage belonging to the Chepe Waits. Brother Michael himself gave me permission to search them, so I could prove they stole my scrip. I would have gone sooner, but I had to wait until they were out.’

‘Your obsession with the Waits verges on the fanatical,’ said Michael, shaking his head. ‘Such an attitude will land you in hot water one day.’

‘It has landed him in hot water today,’ said Langelee sternly. ‘I cannot condone students rifling through our servants’ belongings. They will leave us, and then where will we be? Good retainers do not grow on trees, unlike bothersome students.’

‘I was only doing what you told me to do,’ cried Quenhyth, appealing to Michael. ‘And I discovered something important, so it was worth my efforts.’

‘You found your scrip?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Something much more important than that,’ said Quenhyth, a note of triumph entering his voice when he saw he had Michael’s attention. ‘I can prove the Waits knew Dympna – the woman who sent notes to Norbert and lured him to his death.’

Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘And how can you do that?’

‘Because I have a message written by her,’ said Quenhyth smugly. He produced a piece of parchment with a flourish. ‘I decided to take it, because Frith would have rid himself of it by the time I had alerted you. The message was in plain view, between two floorboards.’

Michael snatched the note from him, read it quickly, then handed it to Bartholomew. It contained nothing other than the name Dympna and a series of numbers, just like the ones they had seen on the parchment in Gosslinge’s throat. These were one, thirteen and four, and the ink was pale enough to be all but invisible. The message still made no sense to the physician, although Quenhyth was right in that it indicated an association between the Waits and the benevolent moneylenders. Or perhaps they had gained possession of one of the messages sent to Norbert.

‘Being between the floorboards is not in plain view,’ said Bartholomew, passing it to Langelee.

‘It was in plain view to anyone conducting a thorough and meticulous search,’ said Quenhyth pedantically. ‘Well, what do you think? It is damning evidence, is it not?’

Michael took Bartholomew’s arm and pulled him away, so they could speak without being overheard by Quenhyth. Langelee followed, raising an imperious finger at the student to tell him to stay where he was.

‘It is possible that the Waits applied for a loan from Dympna, and this message is Dympna’s response,’ said Michael. ‘It is obviously in some kind of code.’

‘The one we found inside Gosslinge was written with onion ink or some such thing,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It only became visible when warmed. I wonder why this is not the same.’

‘I was once fooled by that, too,’ said Langelee, who knew a lot about codes and secret messages from his days as a spy for the Archbishop of York. ‘I believed a message had been written invisibly, but it transpired some cheap inks just fade with extremes of temperature – as this has started to do. The recent weather has been very cold.’

‘So Gosslinge’s note was not written in secret ink?’ asked Michael, shooting Bartholomew a look that indicated he felt the physician had misled him.

‘Probably not,’ said Langelee. ‘Why write invisibly, if the message is meaningful only to the recipient? However, remember also that codes are only good if the recipient knows what they mean, otherwise there is no point in using them.’

Bartholomew took the parchment, and thought about Langelee’s words: something that would be understood by each recipient. The fact that these possibly included Norbert, Gosslinge and the Waits meant it had to be something very simple. Suddenly, the whole thing was crystal clear.

‘Of course!’ he exclaimed. ‘I understand! One, thirteen and four.’

‘I can see that,’ snapped Michael testily. ‘The question is, what does it mean?’

‘There are three numbers here, just as there were three on the note we discovered in Gosslinge. And those numbers represent pounds, shillings and pence.’

‘Can it really be as basic as that?’ asked Michael, inspecting the parchment with renewed interest. ‘Someone makes an application, and Dympna responds by sending a note specifying the amount it is prepared to advance?’

‘Why not?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘There is no reason to believe it is more complex. The Waits have asked for five nobles – one pound, thirteen shillings and fourpence. Or perhaps they have borrowed money, and this is the sum Dympna would like repaid.’

‘Yes,’ said Michael, nodding excited agreement. ‘The latter. Such a scheme would explain why Norbert received messages from Dympna with such frequency: he had borrowed money, and Dympna was issuing demands for its repayment, either in full or in part.’

‘But Norbert had not borrowed money,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘Tulyet, Robin and Ailred all said his was not the kind of case they sponsor.’

‘Then perhaps Dympna’s members have not been acting together,’ suggested Michael. ‘It seems to me that one has been making loans without the knowledge of the others. We know Robin is not involved in financial decisions. Meanwhile, Kenyngham’s retirement has made him very absent-minded and Dick Tulyet is busy watching Sheriff Morice destroy everything he has worked to achieve. Neither of them will be watching Dympna very carefully at the moment.’

‘That leaves Ailred,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Do not forget the chest was in his care until recently, so he was in a position to raid it without the others being any the wiser.’

‘And then he wrote messages to Norbert demanding it back,’ said Michael nodding. ‘And as long as Norbert was crippled by repayment obligations, he would remain at Ovyng, where his uncle would pay for his education.’

‘Did Norbert know the principal of his own hostel was a member of Dympna?’ asked Bartholomew. He answered his own question. ‘Of course he did not. Ailred would not have written notes if that were the case – he would just have asked Norbert for the money.’

‘Ailred was in a perfect position to demand reimbursement from Norbert,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘He would have known exactly where and when to leave messages, and Norbert must have imagined Dympna had eyes everywhere. We know Norbert had debts – it was one of the first things I learned when I started to investigate his murder. He must have borrowed money from Dympna in an effort to repay some of them.’

‘But Norbert would have recognised Ailred when they met in St Michael’s,’ said Langelee reasonably. ‘Even if Ailred wore a disguise, there would be small traits to betray him – his gait or his voice. He must have recruited someone else to help him.’

‘Who?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I doubt Robin could be trusted with that sort of thing – and certainly not unless he was paid.’

‘Not Robin,’ determined Michael. ‘He would have blurted it out when we spoke to him earlier. And not Kenyngham or Tulyet, either, because we think Ailred has been acting without their knowledge in this matter. It is someone else. But who?’

‘Someone who lives here,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It cannot be a stranger, like Harysone, because Ailred will not have known him long enough to establish any kind of trust.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Michael, reluctant to admit that Harysone could be innocent of something. ‘But we have to remember the changes that have taken place in Dympna recently. Everyone says Norbert would not have been granted a loan, and yet it appears he had one. Similarly, it looks as if the Waits and Gosslinge also had them – and neither of those are worthy cases.’

‘The Waits,’ said Bartholomew, closing his eyes as something else occurred to him. ‘I knew their connections to so many aspects of this case were significant!’

‘The Waits are not Ailred’s accomplices,’ said Michael dismissively. ‘Why should a respectable principal throw in his lot with a band of jugglers?’

‘Because of Lincoln,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Remember how Frith first introduced himself? Frith of Lincoln. It is not unknown for folk to claim they come from large cities instead of small villages, thinking it increases their credibility, so Frith may well be a Fiscurtune man.’

Michael was unconvinced. ‘That represents a huge leap in logic,’ he warned.

‘It would explain why Frith’s music leaves so much to be desired,’ said Langelee. ‘He is not a real Wait at all, but joined them as a disguise, so he can help Ailred avenge Fiscurtune.’

‘Makejoy said the group has been together five years,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But revenge may well be the reason why Frith and his friends are so far from Chepe, where they were said to be doing so well.’

‘Were doing so well,’ said Michael meaningfully. ‘Makejoy and the singer we met in the Market Square told us the Waits’ business had taken a downward turn recently. Makejoy also mentioned that it was Frith who suddenly expressed a desire to see Cambridge.’ He scratched his chin, fingernails rasping on the whiskers. ‘And there is something else. The Market Square singer also said the Waits had friends in “high places”, who recommended them. Quenhyth told you that his father hired the Chepe Waits because John Fiscurtune said he should.’

‘So, Fiscurtune was the Waits’ “friend”,’ said Bartholomew. ‘So if we think Ailred and Frith may be related, and we have surmised that Ailred and John Fiscurtune are kinsmen, then we can also assume there is a connection between Frith and Fiscurtune. Frith’s “friend” – Fiscurtune – was his relative, which explains why a powerful merchant deigned to recommend a lowly juggler to his colleagues. Fiscurtune was the reason the Waits were doing well in Chepe. When Turke murdered him, he did more than merely kill a rival fishmonger; he destroyed the basis of the Waits’ success. This is beginning to make sense. Loss of livelihood would be a powerful motive for murder – except that Turke was not murdered, of course.’

‘Gosslinge and Norbert were, though,’ said Michael. ‘But unfortunately, we shall have to wait until Ailred is apprehended before we can test our theories. We should certainly speak to him before we tackle Frith and his cronies, since we have scant evidence to convict them without his testimony. But there are other matters that require our attention first, and one of them is regarding us very balefully.’

‘Quenhyth,’ said Langelee heavily, looking over at the student, who had given up trying to overhear their conversation. ‘Damn the lad! I do not know why he has taken such an unnatural dislike to these Waits.’

‘We have just shown he is right to be wary of them,’ said Michael. ‘Not only have we been told by several different people that they steal from their patrons, we now suspect they are here for a darker purpose.’

‘I do not want them in my College any longer,’ said Langelee decisively. ‘Deynman’s reign as Lord of Misrule is almost over, and even he has grown weary of their uninspired performances. I shall ask them to leave immediately – and damn their written contract.’ He hailed Quenhyth, and asked whether the student knew where the Waits might be.

Quenhyth’s face lit up at the mention of the subject so dear to him. ‘They are in the conclave – which is why I knew it was safe to look through their things.’

‘The conclave?’ asked Langelee suspiciously. ‘I said they were not allowed in the hall or the conclave unless accompanied by a member of the College. Why did you not stop them?’

Quenhyth glowered. ‘They are accompanied by a College member: Kenyngham is with them.’

‘What are they doing?’ asked Bartholomew. He was aware of a sensation of unease developing in the pit of his stomach.

‘They asked whether the conclave was empty, and when he said it was, they told him he and they should go there immediately,’ explained Quenhyth.

‘I do not like the sound of this at all,’ said Bartholomew.

Bartholomew was not the only one uncomfortable with the notion of Kenyngham in company with a rough group of people like the Chepe Waits; Michael and Langelee were worried, too. Langelee led the way down the slippery lane at a cracking pace, dragging Quenhyth with him. Quenhyth looked pleased with himself, as though he imagined he had finally proved some point and was going to avoid a sojourn in the proctors’ cells after all.

‘It was something about prayers,’ he said breathlessly, trying to be helpful. ‘You know how Kenyngham is always praying? Well, Frith asked if he knew any prayers for musicians, or some such nonsense, and Kenyngham offered to teach him some. He said he knows one by St Cecilia.’

Michael stopped dead in his tracks, grateful for a respite from running through the sludgy snow. ‘Kenyngham is praying with the Waits in the conclave? That sounds innocent enough. I thought they were doing something else.’

‘The Waits do not pray!’ said Quenhyth in a sneering voice. ‘They would not know how.’

‘Perhaps that is why they asked Kenyngham to teach them,’ said Michael cautiously. ‘We may be doing Frith an injustice here.’

‘Then they will have no complaint when we burst into the conclave to see what is happening,’ panted Langelee.

‘Actually, I imagine the reason for escorting Kenyngham to the conclave is more closely related to the presence of the chest of gold under the floorboards than to devotions,’ said Bartholomew quietly, taking Michael’s arm and pulling him on.

‘Chest of gold?’ demanded Langelee. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘It is Kenyngham’s turn to keep Dympna,’ explained Michael. ‘Matt thinks it is under the floorboards in the conclave, which is why they have been loose for the past three weeks. But there is a flaw in his reasoning: how could the Waits know where the chest is hidden? Its whereabouts is a closely guarded secret. Even Tulyet does not know where Kenyngham has put it, and Kenyngham is a man who is stubborn about such things. He would never reveal where Dympna was kept, especially to a band of entertainers with a reputation for light fingers.’

‘Ailred,’ said Bartholomew heavily, as another piece of the mystery fell into place. ‘Ailred knew where it was. Tulyet said the keepers tell one other person where they have hidden the chest, in case there is an accident. Kenyngham would not have told Robin, and we know it was not Tulyet, so he must have informed Ailred. And we believe the Waits are Ailred’s accomplices!’

Michael skidded and almost fell in a particularly slick patch of snow. He slowed down, to try to think clearly. ‘The Waits have been the common factor all along – just as you said. They associated with Gosslinge, Turke, Giles and Philippa in London; they were seen with Norbert on the night of his death; and they spoke to Harysone in the King’s Head. It is obvious now we have the whole picture: Frith was the shadowy “Dympna” who met Norbert in St Michael’s, and who was able to escape without being seen by Godric and his classmates.’

‘The Waits probably killed Gosslinge, too,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps he went to repay a loan, and they thrust the note into his throat when he told them he did not have their money. That may have been why he wore beggarly clothes – to pretend he was poor.’

‘It is possible,’ said Michael. ‘But we should catch these vagabonds before they make off with the gold and harm Kenyngham into the bargain.’

‘Hurry, then,’ said Bartholomew, breaking into a run again. He reached Michaelhouse and struggled with the gate, while the others fidgeted impatiently. As soon as it was open, he tore across the yard, heading for the hall. He almost collided with William, out in the milder weather for some much-needed exercise.

‘I have been evicted,’ said William peevishly. ‘The Waits insisted on being alone with Kenyngham in the conclave, while he taught them some prayers. Why do they not want me there? I know as many prayers as he does.’

Bartholomew did not stop to answer, but pushed past the friar and made for the conclave, racing up the stairs and across the hall. The door was locked, and he kicked at it in frustration.

‘They have him inside,’ he shouted to Langelee, who was behind him.

‘Calm down, Matt,’ said Langelee, pulling him away. ‘If the Waits have locked themselves in, then they have just sealed the door to their own prison. There is only one way in or out of the conclave, and that is through this door. We have them.’

‘That is not the point!’ said Bartholomew in agitation. ‘Kenyngham is in there. He may be in danger. And they do balancing acts for a living, so do not imagine they cannot escape through the windows. Send Quenhyth to stand in the courtyard and sound the alarm if they try to leave that way. And fetch an axe.’

‘An axe?’ asked Langelee in horror. ‘You are not taking an axe to one of my doors!’

‘Kenyngham is alone with men who have killed,’ hissed Bartholomew, grabbing the Master by the front of his gown. ‘We will smash down the walls, if we have to.’

‘There is no need to resort to that kind of measure,’ said Michael calmly. He studied the door for a moment, took several steps back, and then powered towards it with his shoulder held like a battering ram. Bartholomew winced, anticipating broken bones. But just as Michael reached it, the door was opened and Kenyngham peered out, curious to know what had caused the sudden commotion in the hall. Michael shot past him, and there was a loud crash.

Bartholomew darted forward. The floorboards inside the door had been removed, and in the resulting recess sat a handsome walnut chest. Dympna. Bartholomew spotted it too late, and suffered the same fate as Michael. He caught his foot in the gaping hole, and slid the entire length of the conclave on his stomach.

He joined Michael in a mass of colourful arms and legs – the monk had evidently entered the room with such force he had collided with Yna and Makejoy and had bowled them from their feet. While the physician tried to disentangle himself and work out what was happening, the door was slammed shut and a heavy bench dragged across it.

‘What are you doing, Frith?’ asked Kenyngham in dismay. ‘Now no one else can come in.’

‘You do not want people wandering in and out while your gold is sitting in full view,’ said Frith reasonably. ‘It is better we keep the door closed until it is hidden again.’

‘Very well,’ said Kenyngham tiredly. ‘Are you hurt, Michael? If not, you should stand up, because I think that poor lady underneath you is suffocating.’ He turned to Frith. ‘You said you would leave once you had the chest. There it is. Now take it and go.’

Michael gaped in astonishment, removing himself from Makejoy, who struggled to her knees and attempted to catch her breath. ‘What are you doing, Father? This money has been used for good deeds. Why are you prepared to give it away?’

Frith smiled unpleasantly. ‘Because I have just informed him that if he does not, I shall set light to his College and burn it to the ground with every Michaelhouse scholar inside it. The friar is an intelligent man, and knows when folk are speaking the truth.’

‘They were just leaving when you crashed in,’ said Kenyngham to Michael, sounding tearful. ‘They promised they would take the chest and be gone by nightfall. It is only money. Ten Dympnas would not be worth a single life.’

‘But lives may be lost once Dympna has gone,’ Michael pointed out, ignoring Frith and addressing Kenyngham. He took Bartholomew’s hand and allowed himself to be hauled to his feet. Makejoy and Yna stayed where they were, the former running tentative hands down her arms and legs as she tested for damage, while the other appeared to have been knocked all but insensible. ‘It is not just a chest of coins: it is something that has helped a lot of people.’

‘But, like all earthly wealth, it has become tainted,’ said Kenyngham softly. ‘I am not overly distressed to see it go.’

‘Ailred,’ said Bartholomew, watching him closely. ‘You are referring to Ailred.’

Kenyngham nodded, and his saintly face was grey with sorrow. ‘He was a good man, but the gold corrupted him. He started to make illegal loans from the chest, so I was obliged to demand custody of it three weeks ago. He was not pleased. He was even less pleased when I confronted him with the fact that a large amount was unaccounted for.’

‘Did you tell Tulyet?’ asked Bartholomew.

Kenyngham shook his head. ‘There was no need for that. I simply gave Ailred notice that the missing gold had to be returned by the end of the Twelve Days – in four days’ time now – because that is when we will lend a sizeable sum to Robert de Blaston to demolish the High Street hovels and replace them with decent dwellings. Ailred had almost a month to recover it all.’

‘Ailred needed funds quickly, so he started calling in the loans he should never have granted,’ said Bartholomew to Michael. ‘The first note from Dympna to Norbert was about three weeks ago. We were right: Ailred did demand money from Norbert in Dympna’s name.’

‘Ailred gave funds to Norbert?’ asked Kenyngham in horror. ‘That young man made an official application, but it was refused on the grounds that he wanted it to squander on earthly pleasures. That is not the purpose of Dympna.’

‘This is beginning to make sense,’ said Michael, brushing himself down. ‘The question that remains, however, is how did Ailred come to use the Waits as his accomplices? Did they travel to Cambridge for that purpose? Or was it just incidental to avenging the murdered Fiscurtune?’

He turned questioningly to the jugglers. Makejoy was flexing an arm in a way that suggested it was damaged, while Yna held her head, still dazed. Frith had listened carefully to the exchange between the scholars, while Jestyn stood guard at the door, picking at a skinned elbow. Bartholomew understood exactly why Frith was prepared to let the scholars talk among themselves without interruption: he was giving the women time to recover, and then they were going to make their escape – with the chest.

‘Langelee!’ he shouted urgently, wondering whether the Master had gone for an axe, or whether he had decided to wait and see what happened before damaging his precious College. Considering the conclave door had been slammed in his face, Bartholomew sincerely hoped Langelee had the sense to do something practical.

‘Quiet!’ hissed Jestyn menacingly. ‘Or I will silence you once and for all.’

Suddenly, both he and Frith had knives in their hands. Jestyn seemed uncertain and nervous, and Bartholomew saw that he was the kind of man who would use his weapon just because he could think of no other way out of the predicament in which he found himself. Bartholomew drew breath to shout again, to warn the Master the Waits were armed, but Jestyn was on him in an instant, and the physician found himself pressed hard against the wall with the blade of a knife held at his throat by a desperate and frightened man.

‘I think Jestyn is suggesting we shall have no more shouting,’ said Frith, when he saw his friend was fully prepared to slit the physician’s throat if another sound was uttered. ‘He is right: we do not want everyone in a frenzy over nothing. People might get hurt.’

Michael took a step forward, to go to Bartholomew’s aid, but stopped dead when Frith grabbed Kenyngham’s arm and waved his own weapon menacingly near the old man’s face.

‘Sit on the bench by the wall.’ Makejoy’s stern voice came from the other side of the room. She was kneeling next to Yna, who had apparently suffered the most from the monk’s onslaught. ‘All of you. And put your hands on your knees, where we can see them. If you do as you are told no one will be harmed.’

There was no option but to obey. Bartholomew eased past the agitated Jestyn and went to the bench, relieved to be away from the unsteady blade. Michael perched next to him, while Kenyngham sat on the monk’s other side. They placed their hands on their knees and waited, watching while Frith had low and urgent words with Jestyn, obviously attempting to calm him. Bartholomew suspected he was lucky that Jestyn had not silenced him with a stab wound there and then; the fellow looked unsettled enough to commit a rash act.

He looked around, assessing his chances of reaching the door and removing the heavy bench before Jestyn could catch him. He decided they were slim. And what would happen to Michael and Kenyngham if he escaped, anyway? The Waits would still have hostages, and therefore the means to force Langelee to do what they wanted.

Frith hefted the box of coins from the hole in the floor and set it on the bench next to Bartholomew. The physician glanced at it, and saw it was about half full of gold nobles, along with some jewellery with precious stones. There were silver coins, too, and a neatly bound stack of parchments listing various transactions that had been made. Bartholomew looked at the top page, and saw Ailred had kept a careful list of his loans, despite the fact that they had been made without his colleagues’ consent. Near the end was Norbert’s name, with the numbers one, thirteen and four next to it. They were the same digits as on the note Quenhyth had found in the Waits’ belongings. He wondered whether the parchment had been retrieved from Norbert when he had gone to meet ‘Dympna’ in the church, or if it had been written but never sent. Regardless, it was a strong indication that the Waits were Ailred’s accomplices.

‘When did you become involved in this?’ asked Michael of Frith. ‘And how?’

Frith smiled. ‘Have you not worked that out yet? You scholars think you are so clever, and yet you know nothing.’

‘I know enough,’ said Michael, unruffled by the jibe. ‘I know you probably hail from a village called Fiscurtune, which is also Ailred’s home. And I know you were keen to avenge the death of one John Fiscurtune, who was murdered by Walter Turke. It is no coincidence that you and Turke’s household arrived in Cambridge on the same day.’

‘Good,’ said Frith, clapping his hands together in mocking congratulations. ‘And how did you guess all this?’

‘Because we know you helped Ailred regain his bad loans. Since he would not have told just anyone about them, it is reasonable to assume he told someone he trusted. A kinsman. You have been here since the fifteenth of December, which is about when Norbert had his first letter.’

‘Ailred and John of Fiscurtune are my uncles,’ said Frith. ‘They were brothers to Isabella – my mother – who was Turke’s first wife, God rest her poor soul.’

‘Do you mean that you are Turke’s son?’ asked Kenyngham, bewildered.

Frith looked angry. ‘Of course not! Turke was my mother’s second husband, and my stepfather. He married her because she was a wealthy widow. When I learned he planned to embark on the pilgrimage he imagined would absolve him of Uncle John’s murder, I decided a journey of my own was in order. Someone needed to prevent a killer from becoming Lord Mayor.’

‘You make it sound altruistic,’ said Michael scathingly. ‘Be honest. You wanted to kill Turke because Fiscurtune’s death meant there was no one to recommend you to wealthy merchants.’

‘But Frith did not kill Turke,’ Kenyngham pointed out. ‘Turke fell through the ice while skating. The whole town knows his death was an accident.’

‘Uncle John’s son – my cousin – is not interested in avenging his father,’ said Frith bitterly, ignoring the friar. ‘He will spare a few pennies for a requiem mass, but that will be all.’

‘I thought Fiscurtune’s son had drowned himself,’ said Bartholomew, recalling a story Quenhyth had spun.

‘His rescuers should have let him die when he hurled himself into the Thames,’ said Frith, turning angrily on him. ‘Uncle John deserved better than that ungrateful wretch – he should have been disowned and I made heir in his place. I would have made Uncle John proud.’

‘By playing the pipe and tabor?’ asked Michael archly. ‘However, although you may not have killed Turke, two other men have died in suspicious circumstances: Norbert and Gosslinge are connected to the chain of events that led you to help Ailred collect his lost pledges.’

‘We had nothing to do with either of them,’ said Jestyn furiously. He turned accusingly to Frith. ‘You see? I told you they would blame us if we became involved in the mess your uncle created with his box of gold. Now they think we have committed murder!’

‘Well, we did not,’ said Frith shortly. Bartholomew found his denial unconvincing and, judging by the uncomfortable expressions on the faces of Jestyn and Makejoy, so did they. ‘This is all Turke’s fault. If he had kept control of his temper, Uncle John would still be alive and we would be enjoying a continuation of our success in Chepe.’

‘We should not be here,’ agreed Jestyn. He glanced around him disparagingly. ‘I do not like these religious institutions. They are full of fanatics and lunatics. We are not safe.’

‘We would have managed in Chepe without Fiscurtune, Frith,’ said Makejoy, bitterly. ‘But Jestyn is right: we should not have come and we should stay here no longer. I want to leave now.’

‘In a moment,’ said Frith, indicating Yna with a nod of his head and giving Makejoy a meaningful look. Yna was still unsteady on her feet, and Frith wanted to give her more time to recover before making what would probably be a dramatic escape.

‘What was Fiscurtune like?’ asked Bartholomew, taking advantage of the fact that the Waits were predisposed to talk. It occurred to him that the Fiscurtune described by Tulyet, Giles and Philippa did not seem the kind of character to inspire others to great loyalty. ‘You were ready to avenge him, and yet others claim he was … less worthy.’

‘I suppose you spoke to Abigny and Turke’s wife,’ said Frith with a sneer. ‘Of course they would not like Uncle John. He could be rude, and the early loss of his teeth did not improve his looks. But, nevertheless, he was hurt when Philippa rejected him as a suitor.’

‘Turke and Fiscurtune were both courting her,’ said Bartholomew, recalling that Philippa had chosen Turke on the basis of his roofed latrine.

‘My uncle was better off without her,’ declared Frith vehemently. ‘Later, he invented a new method for salting fish, but Turke would not give him permission to develop it, despite the fact that it would have made the finished product cheaper to buy. My uncle was an imaginative man.’

‘So, you travelled to Cambridge after his murder, where you met Ailred and agreed to do two things,’ surmised Bartholomew. ‘First, you would ensure that Turke never finished his pilgrimage; and second, you offered to help Ailred extricate himself from the mess he had created with Dympna. Unfortunately – or perhaps fortunately, depending on your point of view – Turke died naturally before you could do anything about the first. But you have been very active as regards the second.’

Frith looked away. ‘Ailred is not dishonest, just weak. I think he enjoyed the power to make people’s wishes come true. He is just a man who cannot say no – even to someone like Norbert.’

‘But he – with your help – intends to do something dishonest now,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘Once Dympna has gone, it will never help needy souls again.’

‘Right,’ agreed Frith. ‘But its disappearance also means that the amount outstanding from Ailred’s bad loans will be irrelevant, and he will be free from the whole nasty mess.’

Makejoy cleared her throat noisily, giving Frith the kind of look that indicated she thought he was making a grave mistake by telling the scholars all their secrets. Bartholomew felt his hopes rise. Makejoy would not be concerned about such matters if she believed the encounter would end with their deaths. Meanwhile, Yna was recovering fast.

‘Is that why you killed Norbert?’ asked Michael. ‘Because he did not pay what he owed?’

‘We have killed no one!’ shouted Jestyn, becoming distressed by the repeated accusations. ‘We occasionally relieve folk of baubles, but we have not committed murder!’

‘Baubles like our salt dish and Wynewyk’s inkpot?’ asked Michael. ‘And Ulfrid’s knife, which led me to wonder whether he had stabbed Harysone? And Quenhyth’s scrip?’

‘We would not touch anything of Quenhyth’s,’ said Makejoy in distaste. ‘He hates us, because we made him look foolish over the “theft” of a chalice. He blamed us, but it later transpired that his father had sold the cup in order to pay for the wedding we were hired to perform at. He had not wanted anyone to know he was short of funds, and was furious when his son drew attention to his missing silver. It created a breach between them that has never healed.’

Bartholomew noted Makejoy had only denied stealing the scrip, and assumed they had indeed taken the other items. ‘You took Gosslinge’s clothes,’ he said, thinking their light fingers probably explained other mysteries, too.

‘He did not need them,’ replied Frith. ‘And I did not see why we should leave them for Turke to reclaim.’ He spat into the rushes on the floor.

‘If it was not you,’ said Michael, ‘then who killed Norbert?’

‘Turke,’ said Frith flatly. ‘He was the sort of man who enjoyed taking the lives of the innocent – as poor Uncle John could tell you.’

‘Can you prove that?’ asked Bartholomew. He had suggested this particular solution earlier, but had discounted the possibility because he could not think of a plausible motive.

Frith sneered, in a way that suggested he could not.

‘Gosslinge, then,’ said Michael. ‘Did you kill him by stuffing vellum into his throat?’

‘We did not!’ denied Jestyn hotly, the knife even more unsteady in his sweating hand. ‘What kind of folk do you think we are? We have killed no one!’

‘We have not,’ agreed Frith. ‘Indeed, I even tried to save Gosslinge when he started to choke, but the vellum was lodged too deeply inside him. It later occurred to me that his corpse was being kept above ground for an unnaturally long period of time, and I thought the physician here might be planning to dissect him for some anatomy lesson. I was afraid he might find the vellum, and associate Gosslinge with Uncle Ailred and Dympna …’

‘Ha!’ exclaimed Michael. ‘So you were the intruders in St Michael’s Church that night.’

‘But we did not do anything,’ said Jestyn in a voice that shook with tension. ‘Those priests arrived before we could have a proper look for the thing, and as soon as they left we heard a commotion outside. We saw we were going to have no peace, so we escaped while we could.’

‘I searched your room the night that blizzard raged,’ said Frith to Bartholomew, gloating at the appalled expression on the physician’s face when he realised that he had slept through the invasion. ‘But when I saw what had become of the vellum after a week in a corpse, I could not bring myself to touch it. However, I was fairly certain that nothing would be legible, anyway.’

‘But we killed no one,’ said Jestyn, returning to a theme that was clearly important to him. He stepped forward and brandished his knife in a way that made Bartholomew think it would not be long before the juggler claimed his first victim. ‘No one.’

‘I shall make my own mind up about that,’ said Michael, disdainfully watching the knife that quivered in the man’s hand. Bartholomew nudged him, sensing Jestyn was near the end of his tether. As long as the Wait was brandishing a weapon, he did not think it was wise to aggravate him.

‘Then let us return to Turke,’ said Michael, the tone of his voice making it clear that he still had the entertainers marked as responsible for the death of both Norbert and Gosslinge. He looked at them one by one. ‘Did you force him on to the ice against his will?’

‘We were not there,’ said Makejoy, casting another uneasy glance at Frith, as though she was not sure that was true of him.

‘No one killed Turke,’ said Frith firmly. ‘I would have knifed him, as he killed my uncle, to let him see his life blood drain away and know that there was nothing he could do to save himself. And Ailred did not do it, either, before you think to abuse his good name.’

‘If you divide Dympna between you – I assume you plan to share with Ailred – how will he explain his sudden riches?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Surely it will raise questions, especially so soon after the mysterious disappearance of a large sum of money from his keeping?’

He saw Frith look at Makejoy, asking silently whether Yna was sufficiently recovered. He obviously wanted her alert and mobile, so they could leave and put an end to the uncomfortable inquisition. Makejoy examined Yna, then indicated that more time was needed.

‘He can say it is a legacy from a kinsman,’ said Frith. He grimaced. ‘Perhaps even from his brother, John. That would be an ironic twist to the tale, would it not? Besides, no one will be looking at Ailred’s finances when all attention is fixed on Michaelhouse. Fires are always breaking out in the winter, when the weather is cold and people are careless with their hearths. The one that starts here today will give people enough to talk about.’

‘But you said if I gave you the chest you would leave with no violence,’ objected Kenyngham.

‘I never intended you to live,’ said Frith coldly. ‘I love my uncle, and I do not want you alive to denounce him as a thief. It would break his heart.’

‘So will being an accessory to murder,’ said Bartholomew.

‘I do not know about this, Frith,’ said Makejoy uneasily, exchanging an agitated glance with Jestyn. ‘It is not what we agreed …’

‘We cannot back down now, unless you want to hang,’ said Frith, silencing her with a look. ‘This is our only way out. If you leave these men alive they will set Sheriff Morice after us and we will all die.’

‘That is not true,’ said Bartholomew desperately. ‘No one need–’

‘I have made up my mind,’ interrupted Frith. ‘I will not leave you scholars in a position to harm us. Uncle Ailred will assume the fire started by accident, just like everyone else and will never know your deaths were a deliberate act.’

‘But other people share our suspicions,’ argued Michael untruthfully. ‘We are not the only ones who know about Ailred’s abuses of Dympna and your role in the affair.’

‘Who?’ demanded Frith, furiously. He approached Michael with menace in his eyes, fingering his knife. He drew back his arm, and with horror Bartholomew saw he intended to stab the monk there and then, perhaps in the hope of frightening the others into telling him what he wanted to know.

The physician cast around desperately, looking for something – anything – he could use as a weapon. Frith stood over Michael and assessed the monk coldly, as if deciding which part he should pierce first. With mounting panic, Bartholomew saw there was nothing available, that he would be obliged to watch while his friend was butchered. Then his frantic gaze fell on the open box of coins at his side. He dropped his hand and snatched up as many as he could hold, then flung them as hard as he could in Frith’s face.

As the sharp edges cut into him, Frith howled in pain and Jestyn sprang forward with his dagger poised to strike. Jestyn was agitated, fearful that Frith’s plan would see him hanged even if they did manage to escape with the gold, and Bartholomew saw again that he was irrational enough to kill all three scholars just because he did not know what else to do. The physician braced himself as Jestyn lurched forward, ready to fight back if he could.

With cool aplomb, Kenyngham thrust out a foot and Jestyn stumbled into Michael. The monk gave the Wait a hefty shove that sent him sprawling into the two women. With shrieks of pain and outrage, Makejoy and Yna were bowled to the ground for a second time that day.

Bartholomew leapt to his feet and flung more coins at Frith, wondering how long he, Michael and the elderly friar could hold off strong, armed men like the Waits. He yelled for Langelee, shouting even more loudly when he saw the two women – Yna was now fully recovered – draw small, nasty-looking knives of their own. He lobbed more coins in their direction, then backed away in alarm as Frith uttered a howl of fury and advanced on the physician with his dagger stretched in front of him and his left hand raised to protect his bleeding face from further injury.

There was a loud thump at the door and everyone jumped in alarm. Even Frith stopped in his tracks. Then there was a crash, and the blade of an axe could be seen glinting through the wood before it was torn out again. Langelee was coming to rescue his colleagues.

Frith glanced at Jestyn, and Bartholomew saw them reach an unspoken understanding. Not wanting to find out what it entailed, he went on the offensive. He lunged for Jestyn but missed, and the burly Wait raced past and hurled himself at one of the tall windows. Glass flew in all directions as he hurtled through, leaving a jagged hole behind him. Frith followed, lumbering like an ox, while the women were more agile as they disappeared. Bartholomew darted forward, half expecting to see them lying with broken bones on the ground below. But all were up and running, and heading for the open gate.

‘Catch them!’ he yelled to Quenhyth, who was gaping stupidly at the spectacle. ‘Do not let them escape!’

But even the Waits’ mediocre skill in somersaults and tumbles made them adept at avoiding Quenhyth’s clumsy lunges. They jigged past him, and he only succeeded in snatching thin air. Bartholomew watched helplessly as they reached the gate and Frith turned to make a defiant and abusive gesture. Makejoy was fumbling with the latch, and Bartholomew saw she would have it open long before Quenhyth could stop them.

The Waits, however, had not taken Michaelhouse’s stalwart Fellows into account. Alerted by Bartholomew’s shouts and the sound of smashing glass, they emerged from the porters’ lodge, where they had evidently been given gate duties by the Lord of Misrule. William was wielding a crutch like a madman, while Clippesby had grabbed a poker from the fire. Its end glowed red hot, and the Waits backed away in alarm. Wynewyk was waving the sword the porters kept for emergencies in a way that suggested that although he was not competent with it, he could still do a lot of damage. Suttone, while declining to go too near the affray lest he come to personal harm, lobbed logs at the escaping entertainers.

The Waits did not stand much chance once the Fellows had sprung into action. Makejoy dropped shrieking to the ground as a log caught her a nasty blow on one knee. Jestyn abandoned his knife in order to smother the flames that started to lick up his tunic, then surrendered to Clippesby when he saw the friar was prepared to set him alight again. Wynewyk had Yna backed up against a wall, and she was covering her head with her hands as the wavering blade threatened to scalp her. And, as for Frith, there was a sharp crack as a crutch met a head, and he crumpled into an insensible heap on the snowy ground.

The following morning, Bartholomew sat in William’s room, explaining to the bemused Franciscan Thomas Bradwardine’s theory about the relationship between moving power and resistance. It was a difficult text, full of mathematical statements and axioms, all leading to calculations showing the variations in velocity that occurred when the original ratios of moving force and resistance were less than, more than or equal to the proportio dupla, which was two-to-one. Despite its complexity, the physician regarded it as exciting scholarship, and tried hard to simplify it for William, so they could debate it together.

‘Heresy,’ muttered William darkly, before Bartholomew had reached the end of his analysis of the second of Bradwardine’s twelve conclusions. ‘You do not need to know ratios in order to apply force or resist something.’

‘That is not the point,’ said Bartholomew, frustrated. ‘Bradwardine is explaining moving power and resistance in mathematical terms – to define them as universal laws.’

‘Only God makes universal laws,’ said William firmly. ‘It is not for men from Oxford to try to do it.’ So much contempt dripped from his voice when the name of the Other University was mentioned that Bartholomew decided he had better find someone else to debate with. His eyes lit up when there was a perfunctory knock at the door and Michael entered.

‘Good,’ he said, pleased. The monk had a sharp mind, and was easily the best Fellow to engage in a discussion about natural philosophy. The others tended to dismiss physics and mathematics as secular – and therefore inferior – subjects. ‘Let me read you Bradwardine’s refutation of Aristotle’s theorem pertaining to the second opinion–’

‘When will Matthew’s own room be available?’ interrupted William rudely. ‘I do not think I can take much more of this velocity business. I should have offered him a copy of Thomas Sutton’s De pluralitate formarum instead. That is a religious commentary, and would have kept him away from all this nonsense involving resistance.’

‘You gave him a book?’ asked Michael suspiciously. ‘Why did you do that?’

William blanched, rubbing the still-splinted leg in agitation. He began to prevaricate, clearing his throat and coughing, while he tried to invent a reason for the gift that Michael would accept. He certainly did not want the Senior Proctor to know he had been malingering.

‘It was payment for treating his leg,’ replied Bartholomew truthfully, although he was aware that Michael knew perfectly well William’s injury was not as serious as he claimed. ‘And for keeping certain personal details confidential.’

‘What kind of details?’ demanded Michael immediately.

Bartholomew laughed. ‘This is an excellent book, and I do not want to give it back by betraying William’s medical history. Anyway, his injury is none of your affair. Leave him alone.’

‘Thank you, Matthew,’ said William, relieved. ‘But I still mean what I said about Bradwardine. The next time I require your confidential services, you will be getting Sutton.’

‘Look at this, Matt,’ said Michael, proffering a piece of parchment.

‘It is the list of loans made by Dympna since its origins during the plague,’ said Bartholomew, glancing at it. His eyes strayed back to the much more tempting words of Bradwardine. ‘I saw it yesterday, when Frith had us trapped in the conclave.’

‘I have been going over it with Kenyngham,’ said Michael. ‘Ailred made loans totalling almost ten pounds over the last few weeks. Some money has been repaid, but most has not. Norbert was lent three pounds, eight shillings and fourpence, which was the amount mentioned on the note we found inside Gosslinge. Meanwhile one pound, thirteen shillings and fourpence, the amount on the note Quenhyth found in Frith’s belongings, was demanded from him the day he died.’

‘So, you were right about the “missing hour” in Norbert’s last night,’ said William. ‘He left Ovyng and went to St Michael’s to meet Dympna, who was actually Frith. It was only after that he went to the King’s Head, where he stayed for the rest of the evening.’

‘He left the tavern at midnight and was stabbed on the way home,’ said Michael. ‘By Frith, I imagine, because he failed to bring money for Dympna, yet promptly went to a tavern and bought ale and a woman. But Norbert’s is not the only name next to an amount that is outstanding.’

Michael looked pleased with himself, and the physician knew why. ‘Harysone’s is there.’

Michael was crestfallen. ‘How did you know that?’

‘I noticed it yesterday. You must be happy: you have been looking for an opportunity like this ever since he arrived.’

‘It is enough for me to expel him from the town if he refuses to pay. I am going to see him now, in the King’s Head. Come with me.’

‘No, thank you,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I do not want to help you victimise a man who has done nothing but borrow money. You had him marked down as involved in the deaths of Gosslinge, Norbert and Turke at various stages of the investigation, and you were wrong.’

‘He borrowed two pounds, thirteen shillings and fourpence.’ Michael grinned with delight. ‘And that is what he must pay me today, or he can leave my town. I do not want debtors here: we have enough of our own.’

‘But if you send him away, Dympna will never be repaid.’

Michael sat on the windowsill and folded his arms. ‘You think I am unreasonable, but I do not trust that man. He has done nothing illegal – at least, nothing that I know about – but it is only a matter of time before he does. I want him gone. Trust me, Matt. I am not often wrong about these things.’

‘Very well,’ said Bartholomew, rising reluctantly and placing his new book on a shelf. He glared at William. ‘Your splint can come off soon, and then you can trail around after the Senior Proctor like a performing bear.’

‘Tomorrow,’ said William. He cast a disparaging look at the Bradwardine. ‘I would rather be evicting pardoners from taverns than listening to theories about things that push and pull, anyway.’

‘Do not hurry on my account,’ muttered Michael to Bartholomew as they started to walk to the High Street, Bartholomew still fastening the clasp on his cloak. ‘It has been a pleasant relief to be rid of him for a while, although my fines chest is not what it was. You can let him malinger a little longer, so he has his money’s worth for the book he gave you. You are as bad as Morice – prepared to sell your soul for material goods. But speak of the Devil and he will appear.’

Sheriff Morice was riding along the High Street on his handsome grey horse. His saddle gleamed expensively, and his fur-lined cloak was thick and heavy. His lieutenants flanked him, gaudy, fluttering hens around a strutting peacock. Morice was in the very centre of the road, where he was least likely to be deluged by the snow that still dropped from roofs. He rode carelessly, making no attempt to steer around other folk, and anyone who did not move was casually trampled.

‘I have just seen some students in the King’s Head,’ he announced to Michael, reining in and gazing with brazen disdain at the monk. ‘I ordered them out, but they informed me I had no jurisdiction over them. I want them imprisoned and fined for insolence.’

‘What are their names?’ asked Michael coolly.

‘I did not bother to find out,’ said Morice nastily. ‘I have better things to do than engage in conversation with a group of ill-mannered louts who think a Franciscan habit gives them leave to insult the Sheriff.’

‘I am on my way to the King’s Head now,’ said Michael, patting Morice’s elegantly clad leg patronisingly. ‘Do not worry; I will show them who is master. But what were you doing in such a disreputable institution? I hear there are some illegal gambling games scheduled in the King’s Head this week. Were you planning to take part?’

‘I do not gamble in taverns,’ snapped Morice, leaving everyone who heard him with the impression that he gambled elsewhere. ‘I was visiting a man named Harysone. Complaints have been filed against him for licentious dancing, so I was obliged to demand a fine of two shillings.’

‘Really?’ asked Michael, amused. ‘I hope he paid, because I am about to order him to leave Cambridge. He has borrowed funds from a charitable chest, and if he does not have the money to give me now, he will be escorted to the town gates tomorrow at dawn.’

‘If he goes, he will never repay this charity,’ said Morice, obviously regarding financial considerations first and foremost. ‘But he may have sold enough books to make a respectable profit, so perhaps you will be in luck. Deal with those students, though, Brother, or I shall be obliged to teach them a lesson myself.’

He spurred his horse into a rapid trot, scattering people and animals as he went. His men cantered after him, following his cavalier example.

When Bartholomew and Michael reached the King’s Head, a celebration was in progress. People were laughing and singing, and there was an atmosphere of gaiety. Michael looked around him in astonishment, while Bartholomew entered with a degree of unease, sensing something had happened that might mean scholars were unwelcome. But they were greeted with pleasure by Isnard the bargeman, who sang bass in Michael’s choir. He clapped a large, calloused hand across Michael’s shoulders and passed the monk his goblet. Michael accepted a drink cautiously.

The main room was full, and fires were burning in both hearths. All the shutters were firmly closed, but this was common practice in the King’s Head, where the patrons did not want their activities observed by Sheriff’s men or beadles peering through the windows. The air smelled of wood-smoke, spilled ale and unwashed bodies, and was close and humid. Bartholomew felt himself begin to sweat. A group of pardoners sat near one fire, Harysone among them, while Ovyng’s Franciscans were standing around the hearth at the opposite end of the room. Godric seemed to be the centre of the general bonhomie.

‘That Godric is a fine lad!’ slurred Isnard, eyeing the friar fondly.

Bartholomew watched with amusement as he saw Godric glance in Michael’s direction, look away, then back again with an expression of horror. He nudged his companions, who all hastily downed the remains of their ale and headed for the door, pursued by disappointed cries from their drinking companions.

‘Godric,’ said Michael pleasantly, stopping the young friar in his tracks. ‘A word, please.’

‘It was not my fault,’ said Godric immediately. A chorus of support from his cronies told Michael that was true.

‘Morice complained about you,’ said Michael. ‘He wants you arrested and fined.’

‘Never!’ declared Isnard warmly, removing his arm from Michael and draping it around Godric. ‘This good priest told that leech where to go, and we will not see him fined for his courage. Will we, lads?’ There were loud shouts of agreement. ‘Morice prances in here and starts demanding money for all manner of imagined crimes. He ordered me to pay sixpence because my donkey fouled the Great Bridge, but look what he did!’

Bartholomew and Michael followed his accusing finger to a pile of fresh horse dung that sat in splendid isolation in the centre of the room.

‘Morice rode his horse inside the tavern?’ asked Michael in astonishment.

‘Either that or he should lay off the hay,’ muttered Bartholomew. He had not intended his comment to be overheard, but Isnard caught it, and repeated it in a braying voice to the delight of the other patrons. More back-slapping followed, and it was declared that scholars were splendid fellows, and worthy company for honest townsmen.

‘He fined Harysone for dancing – two shillings!’ added Isnard when the levity had died down. ‘Mind you, Harysone’s jigs do verge on the obscene, so I cannot blame the Sheriff for that. But when Morice tried to fine Godric for being in a tavern the lad pointed out the law regarding scholars, and sent him away with something to think about.’

‘I was not abusive,’ said Godric quickly. ‘I just pointed out that clerics are under your authority, not his. I will pay you the four pennies he demanded. But we will not pay him.’

‘That will not be necessary,’ announced Michael to more cheers. He lowered his voice so the townsmen would not hear. ‘But this tavern is no place for scholars, lad. Go home, and do not let me find you here again.’ He caught Godric’s arm as he made to leave. ‘I do not suppose you have heard from your principal?’

Godric gave a rueful smile. ‘Do you think we would be here if he was back? Anyway, I have already promised we will send you word if he returns. Ailred needs more help than we can give him, so you can rely on us to contact you.’

‘But we do not believe him to be guilty,’ added one of the students. ‘We talked about it all last night. He may have made mistakes with this charity – Dympna – but we do not think he killed Norbert.’

‘He is a desperate man,’ said Bartholomew gently. ‘And desperate men are often driven to do things they would never normally contemplate.’

‘He may have been desperate, but he was not wicked,’ insisted Godric loyally. ‘I went through the hostel’s finances last night, and do you know why we have been shivering in front of mean fires and eating bad fish all week? It is because Ailred gathered together all the funds he could find, and bought food and firewood to make Dunstan’s last few days comfortable.’

‘That was from Dympna,’ said Michael. ‘Robin of Grantchester organised its delivery, as he did with its other loans and gifts.’

Godric shook his head vehemently. ‘I have the receipts for every item of food and every scrap of fuel that Dunstan received. They match outgoing sums from our own accounts – along with money Ailred had from selling a silver locket that belonged to a brother called John.’

Fiscurtune’s locket, thought Bartholomew immediately. Since it was evident Ailred had loved his brother, selling something that had belonged to him would not have been easy.

‘You said you did not know whether Ailred had any male kin,’ he said to Godric.

‘I did not,’ replied Godric. He gestured to one of his colleagues. ‘But he mentioned a brother called John to Nathan here. It was Nathan who sold the locket on Ailred’s behalf the day Athelbald died.’

‘He was fond of that trinket,’ added Nathan. ‘But he parted with it to help Dunstan. He is not a wicked man.’

Michael released Godric’s arm, and watched the Franciscans troop out of the tavern, accepting the congratulations of delighted townsfolk as they went. They were a serious, sober group, and Bartholomew wondered why they did not prefer the quieter atmosphere of a tavern like the Brazen George or the Swan. He supposed it was because the King’s Head was outside the town gates, so they were less likely to be caught there by other members of their Order.

Michael strolled nonchalantly towards Harysone, and Bartholomew was amused to see the pardoner’s companions hastily slip away, reluctant to be with the man while he had yet another brush with town officials. The monk plumped himself down in a recently vacated chair and beamed alarmingly. Bartholomew sat next to him, while Isnard and the others went back to their ale.

‘You owe Dympna a lot of money,’ said Michael without preamble. ‘When can you pay?’

‘Never mind that,’ said Harysone indignantly. ‘I was stabbed in the back by the Franciscan friars you just spoke to. Why did you not arrest them?’

‘There is no evidence those particular clerics harmed you,’ said Michael. ‘And I am far more interested in the fact that you owe Dympna three pounds. I repeat: when can you pay?’

‘It was two pounds, thirteen shillings and fourpence,’ said Harysone immediately. He did not seem surprised by Michael’s demand, and Bartholomew wondered whether he had been anticipating it. ‘I will pay you next week, since I will have sold enough books by then. However, I did not expect a request for repayment quite so soon. Loans are usually made for longer periods.’

‘Your particular transaction was illegal,’ said Michael. ‘Father Ailred is ill, and made some poor decisions. When exactly did he make this loan to you?’

‘He gave me the money last Wednesday evening,’ replied Harysone. ‘I was surprised by the speed at which he obliged me. It is the only good thing I have to say about your town: your moneylenders make rapid decisions. The interest was a little high, but I suppose haste costs.’

‘Interest?’ asked Michael. ‘Dympna does not charge interest. That is its appeal.’

‘Well, it charged me,’ said Harysone firmly. ‘I borrowed two pounds, but agreed to pay two pounds, thirteen shillings and fourpence by the end of next month. By loaning me six marks, Ailred was going to gain another two.’

‘And you paid Langelee for the relic two days later, on the Friday,’ said Bartholomew to Harysone, who nodded. The physician leaned close to Michael and spoke in a low voice. ‘Ailred must have been trying to recoup his losses by charging interest. But although Harysone’s tale answers one question, it raises another. It explains why Ailred lied about his whereabouts the night the intruders entered St Michael’s: he was busy making an illegal loan. However, by last week, Kenyngham had already reclaimed Dympna and had stored it in Michaelhouse, so where did this two pounds come from?’

‘That is something we shall have to ask Ailred,’ said Michael. He eyed the pardoner coldly. ‘Why did you need to borrow money, when you seem to be doing well with your book sales?’

Harysone smiled again, showing his unpleasant ivory teeth. He fingered the bag containing what Bartholomew believed was Gosslinge’s thumb. ‘This relic of St Zeno cost me five pounds – which was more than I could lay my hands on at short notice, so I was obliged to seek out Dympna and ask for funds. Langelee threatened to sell it to someone else unless I came up with the money quickly, you see.’

‘How did you learn about Dympna?’ asked Michael.

‘I asked people,’ replied Harysone. ‘There was a fat laundress who let slip that Robin of Grantchester might help me. I was about to knock at Robin’s door when I happened to hear him muttering to someone about Dympna and Father Ailred of Ovyng. A friar seemed a better class of person than that surgeon, so I approached Ailred and the transaction was agreed – very quickly, as I told you. I was to repay it by the end of the month, but you can have it next week, if you insist.’

Robin was talking to his pig again, Bartholomew surmised, probably railing bitterly that Ailred and the others did not consider him an equal member of Dympna. So, Clippesby was not the only one to overhear the man murmuring to himself, and Harysone had also benefited from the surgeon’s dangerous and unwise habit.

‘I want it today,’ said Michael. ‘And if you cannot pay, I shall ask you to leave. The road to London is now open, and we cannot afford debtors here. In my experience, they never raise the money they promise, but become entangled in a web of ever-increasing obligations.’

‘Very well,’ said Harysone stiffly. ‘I would have paid you next week, but since you choose to be unpleasant I shall leave and you will never have it. I am weary of this sordid little town anyway. It is dirty and soulless, and I dislike the fact that you have harassed me continuously and your Sheriff has not stopped demanding money. I would not have had to borrow from Dympna if he had not fined me every time we met.’

‘For jigging like a Turkish whore?’ said Michael expressionlessly.

‘For demonstrating my dancing skills,’ replied Harysone huffily. ‘And now, if you will excuse me, I shall set about packing my remaining books. Goodbye, Brother. I hope we never have the misfortune to meet each other again.’

‘I quite agree,’ said Michael, sitting back with a happy smile. The pardoner was leaving, Dympna’s remaining funds were secure with Kenyngham, and he had arrested the people who he believed had murdered Norbert and Gosslinge. Michael was a contented man.

‘Just tell me again,’ said Langelee, shaking his head in confusion. ‘Simply this time, without all the details. How did you guess that Ailred and the Waits were planning to steal Dympna?’

Langelee and the other Michaelhouse Fellows were sitting in the conclave three mornings later. A fire burned brightly, but the shutters were closed because the Waits had smashed the largest of the three windows and it had not yet been repaired. In the hall next door, the students were sitting quietly, reading or playing innocent games like chess or backgammon. Deynman had tried to induce them to do something more daring on his last day of chaos, but Michaelhouse’s students were not a seriously rebellious crowd, and most had already had enough of the season of misrule. They were keen to return to their lessons, and to settle back into the rules and regulations that governed their lives – where they would not be served green food.

‘It is not difficult,’ said Michael, holding out his cup to be refilled. Langelee stood to oblige him. ‘First, a man named John Fiscurtune was murdered by Turke. Turke bought himself a pardon, and no more was said on the matter.’

‘That is odd in itself,’ said Langelee, frowning. ‘Someone must have objected to a murder.’

‘Someone did,’ said Michael. ‘Fiscurtune’s kinsmen: his brother Ailred and his nephew Frith. Meanwhile, Turke knew he needed to atone publicly for the crime – which otherwise might prevent him from becoming Lord Mayor of London – by undertaking a pilgrimage.’

‘Frith lived in Chepe, where his Uncle John Fiscurtune secured him plenty of business,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It must have been hard to watch Turke enjoy his freedom, while Frith and his friends began to lose their custom. I imagine his hatred festered and he began to plot a murder of his own. But Turke was wealthy and it is not easy to attack such a man in a well-populated city. It was only when Turke announced his pilgrimage that Frith saw his opportunity.’

‘The Waits are thieves,’ said Suttone, holding out his goblet for Langelee to fill. He had listened carefully the first time Michael had told his story, and understood the twists and turns well enough to explain them to the slower-witted Langelee. ‘They played in the homes of wealthy merchants in Chepe – thanks to Fiscurtune – and stole small things that would not be missed. These were passed to a third party to sell – Fiscurtune himself, I imagine. As time passed, wise investment and a steady trickle of pennies amassed them a fortune.’

‘Never mind what they did in London,’ said Langelee. ‘I am interested in what they did here.’

‘The same thing,’ said Suttone, annoyed by Langelee’s dismissal of his information. ‘They stole things like inkpots, salt dishes and knives – along with gold from the King’s Head.’

‘The pilgrimage,’ prompted Langelee, looking at Michael for an explanation. ‘What happened when Turke decided to undertake the pilgrimage?’

‘When Turke and his household arrived in Cambridge, Frith was hot on their heels. It must have been a shock for Turke to see him here.’

‘He knew Frith was Fiscurtune’s kinsman?’ asked Langelee.

‘Of course,’ replied Michael, shooting the Master a glance that indicated he thought Langelee was being very slow on the uptake. ‘Frith’s mother was Fiscurtune’s sister, Isabella. And Isabella was Turke’s first wife. Turke did more than know Frith and Fiscurtune were kin: Turke was Frith’s stepfather, so of course they knew each other.’

‘The fact that Turke and Frith were related by marriage explains the odd reactions of Turke, Philippa and Giles when the Waits performed at Michaelhouse on Christmas Day,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Philippa refused to acknowledge them, and Giles immediately left the room – twice – when they appeared. Meanwhile, Frith jostled Turke – quite deliberately, I think – and made him spill his wine, but although Turke was furious at the insult, he did not make the sort of fuss I would have expected from a wealthy merchant doused in claret by an unrepentant juggler.’

Langelee still did not understand, so Bartholomew elaborated further. ‘Frith had a hold over Turke. Meanwhile, Philippa was a loyal wife, and did not reveal Turke’s nasty secrets even after his death, and Giles was just upset because he thought the Waits’ presence would distress the sister he loves. They all had their own reasons for their individual reactions.’

‘Gosslinge and Abigny were both seen talking to the Waits,’ added Michael. ‘Doubtless they were trying to find out what Frith had in mind. I think Frith intended to kill Turke, but Turke died before he could act.’

‘Meanwhile, Ailred had been using his position as “keeper” of Dympna to make illegal loans,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Among others, he made one to Norbert about a month ago, and another to Harysone last week. Kenyngham noticed the losses, and demanded that Ailred should hand the chest to him. He set a time limit for the money to be replaced.’

‘Next week,’ said Kenyngham in a soft voice. ‘We plan to use a large part of it to rebuild the hovels opposite St John’s Hospital.’

‘Ailred made the loan to Harysone last Wednesday,’ said Michael. ‘I know he did not lend his own money, because by then he had spent it all on supplies for Dunstan; and we know he did not use Dympna, because you had already taken it from him. So, we do not know how he came by two pounds to lend the pardoner.’

‘I can explain that,’ said Kenyngham tiredly. ‘Ailred said he had devised a way of retrieving two nobles, but said he needed six to bring it about.’

‘The loan to Harysone,’ said Michael.

‘I suspected that was the kind of thing he had in mind,’ Kenyngham continued, ‘and I was loath to give him the money. But he was so desperate to make amends for his earlier mistakes that I did not have the heart to refuse him.’

‘You should have done,’ said Michael. ‘I doubt Harysone had any intention of giving Ailred two nobles in interest.’

‘You cannot know that, Brother,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘Harysone was guilty of nothing except borrowing money. He was just a pardoner, who had the misfortune to arrive in Cambridge the same time as Turke and Frith, and who happened to have an interest in fish. He will talk to virtually anyone to sell a book, which explains why he was seen with Frith and Gosslinge, but it meant nothing significant. He was not the criminal you imagined.’

‘Norbert was unable to repay Ailred, because he had already squandered his loan,’ said Michael, electing to explain a different aspect of the tale, since he did not want to acknowledge he had been mistaken about the pardoner. ‘Frith or Ailred – probably Frith – killed him after the several summons they issued failed to bring back the money.’

‘But Frith said Turke killed Norbert,’ said Kenyngham. ‘I heard him myself.’

‘He was lying, Father,’ said Michael patiently. ‘Turke had no reason to stab a student he did not know. Matt thought Turke was looking for the murder weapon when he went skating on the Mill Pool, but he is wrong, too.’

‘I know that,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘As you said, Turke had no reason to harm Norbert. It must have been Frith who killed him.’

‘Quite,’ said Michael, satisfied. ‘But let me continue with my story. After Frith murdered Norbert, he devised a plan that would see Ailred relieved of the Dympna problem once and for all. It would also allow him to repay Michaelhouse for what he considered shabby treatment.’

‘He planned to burn the College with Kenyngham in it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘That would protect Ailred – who was doubtless unaware his nephew’s plan extended to murder – and would be a neat end to the adventure.’

‘But we thwarted it,’ said Langelee, pleased. ‘The College is still here, and Dympna is in the possession of a man who will use it justly and wisely. I do not want the thing in Michaelhouse, though, Father. When do you propose to remove it?’

‘It has already gone,’ replied Kenyngham. ‘I am shocked by Ailred’s role in this. We worked together for years, until the sheen of gold seduced him. Gold is a curse, not a blessing.’

‘I hope you have not hidden it under any more floorboards,’ said William accusingly, glancing at his leg, newly relieved of its splint.

Kenyngham smiled. ‘I have forgotten the skills I once had with nails and wood, but I did not make a total mess of it. You all looked at the boards, but none of you realised I had created a storage hole below them. I did better than you give me credit for.’

‘So, Frith killed Norbert,’ mused Langelee, still thinking about the deaths that had occurred so close to his college. ‘And Turke just had an accident while messing around on the Mill Pool. What did you decide about Gosslinge?’

‘He choked on a piece of vellum,’ replied Michael. ‘This was marked with Dympna’s name and a sum of money, and was sent to Norbert the night he died. I think what happened was this. Norbert went to the church and told Frith he could not pay him. Meanwhile, Gosslinge had either found the note or overheard the interchange between Norbert and Frith. He was caught watching, and Frith – or it could have been Ailred, I suppose – rammed the vellum down his throat and suffocated him. Then Frith stole Gosslinge’s fine clothes and hid his body among the albs, where it was found by us two days later.’

‘But Frith denies killing anyone,’ said Bartholomew, thinking there were still questions unanswered about the whole affair, such as why Philippa wandered around the town wearing Abigny’s cloak and why Turke carried Gosslinge’s finger and claimed it was St Zeno’s.

Michael waved a dismissive hand. ‘Well, he would, wouldn’t he? But do not cast shadows over our achievements, Matt. I want to bask in our success, and enjoy the fact that we have culprits for Dick Tulyet.’

‘My God!’ exclaimed William suddenly, stooping to retrieve something from the floor near the conclave door. With amusement, Bartholomew saw it was part of the marchpane Madonna Deynman had presented at his first feast as Lord of Misrule. Because the floors had not been cleaned, the piece had remained hidden among the rushes after Michael had flung it from him in disgust when he realised it was made from salt. ‘What is this?’

No one liked to answer. The sculpted head had not fared well from its time in the rushes: it had been trampled and its face was distorted, and the hairs of the tonsure had slipped and were in a lopsided beard. However, Bartholomew thought it was still recognisable as William, and judging from the expressions of mirth on the other Fellows’ faces, so did they.

‘Marchpane,’ replied Langelee nonchalantly, struggling not to laugh. ‘It was one of Deynman’s jests. Do not eat it: it is salty.’

‘I am not in the habit of devouring scraps retrieved from the floor, Master,’ said William indignantly. He turned it over in his hand. ‘It seems familiar, although I do not know why. It is as if it is wearing a disguise, and the face is just beyond the reaches of my memory.’

‘It is a good thing he does not spend much time in front of a mirror,’ whispered Michael gleefully. ‘Or his memory might be more reliable. It still looks like him, even though it is crushed.’

‘It is the hair around the tonsure,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is his most notable feature, and the thing I always imagine when his face appears in my mind.’

‘I try to avoid that,’ said Michael. ‘I would rather dwell on more pleasant images. Like Matilde. Or Yolande de Blaston. I tend not to contemplate the faces of men.’

‘I did not say I was swooning over him,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And my point remains: most people have a distinctive feature that makes them unique. Take Suttone’s big hands, Clippesby’s mad eyes, Wynewyk’s nose and William’s hair as examples. This single feature can often be so distinctive that it masks all others. For example, do you know the colour of William’s eyes?’

‘Blue,’ said Michael immediately. ‘No, brown.’ He sighed. ‘I have no idea.’

‘That is because you see the tonsure,’ said Bartholomew, satisfied that he had proved his point. He was about to add more, but the door opened and Cynric entered.

‘I think you had better come,’ said the Welshman. ‘Ailred has been found.’