A Vein of Deceit

Chapter 2

Bartholomew raced out of Michaelhouse, medical bag banging at his side. It was raining heavily, and the night was dark, so it was difficult to see where he was going. He tripped twice, but did not slow down – he could not, not when his stomach churned in horror at Cynric’s news, and all he wanted was to reach Master Langelee as quickly as possible. He was so agitated that he was only vaguely aware of Michael puffing along behind him; Cynric ran at his side.

‘The Master was just leaving King’s Hall when he was attacked,’ panted Cynric. ‘Tobias, their porter, saw it happen, and thinks Osa Gosse is responsible.’

It was not far to King’s Hall, Cambridge’s largest, richest and most powerful College, and when Bartholomew arrived, there were three people in the street outside it. The first was its head, Thomas Powys. Powys had been Warden for years, and Bartholomew knew he must be good at his job, or the King, who loved to meddle in the College’s affairs, would have replaced him. The second was Tobias the porter, who held a lamp. And the third was Langelee, lying motionless on the ground. Bartholomew felt sick, appalled to be losing yet another colleague to the violence that erupted so often in the little Fen-edge town.

‘I sent for you as soon as I saw it happen,’ said Tobias, moving forward with the lantern when Bartholomew skidded to a halt and knelt to examine his fallen comrade. He sounded horror-stricken. ‘I could not believe it.’

‘What happened?’ gasped Michael, resting his hands on his knees as he struggled to catch his breath. It had been a hard sprint for a man of his girth.

‘A vicious little villain stepped out of the shadows and stabbed him,’ replied Tobias, shaking his head incredulously as he spoke. ‘Master Langelee was twice his size, so it was like David and Goliath. I am amazed Gosse had the courage to tackle someone with his reputation.’

‘What reputation?’ asked Powys. He was a pleasant man, with long teeth, dark eyes and a stoop.

‘As a dirty fighter,’ explained Tobias. ‘I would not have taken Master Langelee on, and I am a professional soldier.’

‘Are you sure it was Gosse?’ demanded Michael. ‘You saw his face?’

‘No,’ admitted Tobias reluctantly. ‘It was dark. But who else could it have been? It was only ever a matter of time before he went from theft to murder.’

‘If only Paxtone had been home,’ said Powys shakily. ‘He might have been able to save Langelee. But he is dining with Doctor Rougham at Gonville Hall – and now it is too late!’

‘Langelee told me he was coming here tonight,’ said the monk. His face was pale in the gleam of the lamp, and his voice was not quite steady. Like Bartholomew, he was fond of the Master, despite Langelee’s myriad idiosyncrasies. ‘Why did you invite him?’

‘He invited himself,’ said Powys, wringing his hands miserably. ‘Because Michaelhouse was having beetroot. I told him it was late – that he should not stay to help us drink yet another cask of wine – but he said he could look after himself. I should have insisted he leave sooner. This is my fault!’

‘It is no one’s fault,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And he is–’

‘It is one thing to murder students,’ whispered Michael. There was a catch in his voice, and his eyes were moist. ‘But this is our Master, and I will not rest until–’

‘He is not dead, Brother,’ interrupted Bartholomew. ‘He is in a stupor.’

A startled silence greeted his words.

‘But that is impossible!’ exclaimed Tobias, the first to find his voice. ‘He has no heartbeat.’

‘He does,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But you probably could not feel it because he is wearing a leather jerkin under his tabard. There is a deep gash in it, though, which suggests someone meant him harm.’

Michael peered at the slash. ‘So, he was attacked?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘I imagine the impact knocked him off his feet, and once he was down, the wine took over. He does tend to drink a lot when he is in other Colleges.’

‘He certainly indulged himself this evening,’ averred Powys, after crossing himself, and breathing a brief prayer of thanksgiving. ‘Far more than usual. In fact, it appeared as though he was trying to drink himself into oblivion. I suppose I should have stopped him, but it goes against the grain to deprive a guest of hospitality.’

‘So he is in a drunken slumber?’ asked Cynric, to be sure. ‘We have been upset for nothing?’

Michael pointed to the damage on Langelee’s jerkin. ‘It is not nothing, Cynric. Someone intended him to die, and would have succeeded, were it not for his armour. However, just because the attempt failed does not mean it will be forgotten. I will have this villain under lock and key!’

‘Do you think it has anything to do with Langelee’s work for the Archbishop?’ asked Powys, glancing around uneasily. ‘He made a lot of enemies then, if his stories are to be believed.’

‘I suspect those enemies know the difference between a blade catching on hard leather, and a blade sliding into flesh,’ said Michael wryly. ‘So I doubt this has anything to do with his past.’

‘His purse is missing,’ said Bartholomew, pointing to where it had been cut from Langelee’s belt. ‘Perhaps it is just a case of theft.’

‘Gosse is a thief,’ pounced Tobias. ‘He must be the culprit. The man I saw was small and wiry, and Gosse is small and wiry. Of course he is the villain! How can you even think otherwise?’

But Bartholomew was reluctant for conclusions to be drawn without proper evidence; attempted murder was a capital offence, and it would not be the first time an innocent man had hanged just because he owned a dubious reputation. And Tobias’s testimony was weak, to say the least.

‘But if Gosse is such an experienced thief, then why did he attack Langelee?’ he asked reasonably. ‘Our Master is a formidable opponent, even when drunk, so why not wait for an easier victim?’

‘That is a good point – one I shall address when Gosse and I enjoy an informal chat tomorrow,’ said Michael. He shivered as the wind blew a flurry of raindrops into his eyes. ‘Meanwhile, we had better carry poor Langelee home, before he drowns.’

Bartholomew had witnessed Langelee drunk on many occasions, but never to the point where he was quite so deeply insensible. It was worrying, so he decided to monitor him through the night, sending his own students off to sleep in the hall. He wrapped Langelee in blankets, and placed a bucket near his head. Then he sat at his desk and began to read the essays his students had written – all except Risleye, who still claimed his had been stolen. When the night-watch announced it was three o’clock, Langelee woke with a start.

‘Where am I?’ he demanded, looking around blearily. ‘Am I ill? I feel sick.’

‘An excess of wine can do that to a man,’ replied Bartholomew dryly, watching him reach for the pail. ‘Do you remember anything of what happened?’

‘I recall Warden Powys giving me cheaper brews once he thought I was too inebriated to notice.’

‘He said you made a concerted effort to drink yourself stupid. Why? Has something upset you?’

‘I am Master of a College,’ replied Langelee flatly. ‘Of course something has upset me: money. We do not have any, and I have nigh on a hundred mouths to feed – students, Fellows, commoners, servants. I was a fool to have taken on those new pupils last Easter, because they have transpired to be more of an expense than a source of revenue.’

Bartholomew was bemused. ‘But you have been concerned about funding for years. What is different now?’

‘I cannot talk about it,’ said Langelee miserably, turning away. ‘Not to you, and not to anyone. The burden is mine alone to bear.’

Bartholomew would have been content to leave it at that, because he had no wish to become acquainted with the sort of business that could drive a resilient, insensitive man like Langelee to drink. But friendship compelled him to persist.

‘You do not have to worry alone. All the Fellows will help, especially if it concerns the College.’

‘It does concern the College,’ whispered Langelee, his expression agonised. ‘But I cannot…’

‘Perhaps we should talk tomorrow,’ suggested Bartholomew gently, when Langelee closed his eyes and seemed unable to continue. ‘When you are less overwrought.’

‘Overwrought,’ echoed Langelee bitterly. ‘That is a kinder word than drunk. And you are right: I did set out to drown my sorrows this evening, although it was a waste of time. They still plague me, only now I have a raging headache to go with them.’

Bartholomew handed him a dose of the tonic he often dispensed to those who had overindulged. ‘We were appalled when we heard you had been attacked,’ he said. ‘We thought you were dead.’

‘Attacked?’ Langelee frowned, cup halfway to his lips, then understanding dawned in his eyes. ‘God’s blood! You are right! Someone emerged from the shadows and tried to stab me! Christ! I might have forgotten, if you had not jogged my memory.’

‘If whatever is worrying you is going to lead to murderous ambushes, then you should not keep it to yourself,’ said Bartholomew, concerned for him. ‘Some of us may be able to help, especially Michael.’

Langelee gazed at him in confusion. ‘You think the assault on me is connected to my problem?’

‘Without knowing the problem, it is impossible to say,’ replied Bartholomew, supposing the Master’s wits must still be muddled, for the question was an inane one. ‘Did you see anything that might allow us to catch the culprit?’

Langelee’s face creased into a scowl as memories began to resurface. ‘I saw someone – a skinny devil – lurking in a doorway, and when I walked past, he cowered away. I thought that was the end of it, but then I heard footsteps and the scoundrel was on me before I could act. I saw the flash of a knife and managed to turn, so the blade caught my armour. Then I heard him running away.’

‘Did you see his face?’

Langelee shook his head. ‘I thought it was Osa Gosse at first, but he has a distinctive odour, and I have been trained to notice that sort of thing. It was not him. I think it was a scholar.’

Bartholomew eyed him warily. ‘Are you sure?’

‘No, I am not sure,’ snapped Langelee testily. ‘I shall have to think about it. However, my purse seems to be missing, and as I am sure you did not steal it, it seems I was the victim of a robbery. Forget I mentioned scholars. I am unwell, and fever is making me spout nonsense.’ He raised the cup and downed the tonic, evidently aiming to emphasise the current fragile state of his health.

‘Rest now and talk to Michael in the morning,’ said Bartholomew kindly. ‘The Senior Proctor does not like it when masters are stabbed. Especially his own.’

In a demonstration of his extraordinary capacity for recuperation, Langelee sat up the following morning and announced that he felt fighting fit. He was pale and his eyes were bloodshot, but he seemed otherwise unscathed, either by the attack or by the amount of wine he had swallowed. There was not even a bruise where the knife had hammered home.

He rang the bell for the daily procession to church, not caring that it was rather earlier than usual. Yet even though he tried to be his usual gruff and boisterous self as his colleagues emerged from their rooms and hurried to fuss over him and ask him questions, there was a reserve in his replies that was out of character. Michael noticed it, too.

‘What is wrong with him?’ he asked of Bartholomew. ‘He pretends nothing is amiss, but I am the Senior Proctor and I know the difference between lies and truth.’

‘Perhaps he is embarrassed,’ suggested the physician. ‘A camp-ball hero, knocked to the ground and almost stabbed by a fellow everyone agrees was petite. It must be humiliating.’

‘Wine,’ said Thelnetham, shaking his head disparagingly as he and the other Fellows came to join them. ‘It turns grown men into weaklings. Of course, that is just the way I like them–’

‘Hush!’ urged Wynewyk reprovingly. He also looked better that morning, finally recovered from his malady. ‘That is not the sort of remark that should be bawled at volume.’

‘Is it not?’ drawled Thelnetham. There was a merry twinkle in his eyes that said he was teasing. ‘I do not see why. It lets us all know where we stand. Or lie.’

‘Yes, but we are about to go to mass,’ objected Wynewyk prudishly. ‘We should not be thinking about venal matters – at least, not until after breakfast.’

Thelnetham laughed, and flung a comradely arm around the lawyer’s shoulders. ‘Very well. Then we shall resume our discussion immediately after we have devoured our coddled eggs.’

Wynewyk recoiled at his touch, and struggled free. ‘Please! Not here!’

‘Where then?’ asked Thelnetham mischievously. ‘The hall? Or do you have a particular tavern you frequent? I know they are forbidden to scholars, but I am sure you do not always obey the rules.’

‘Leave him, Thelnetham,’ warned Bartholomew, taking pity on his friend. ‘He has not been well.’

‘I apologise,’ said Thelnetham, effecting a gracious bow, although amusement still lingered in his eyes. ‘I shall leave my friendly jousting until he is ready for it, then.’

‘Thank you, Matt,’ said Wynewyk weakly, when Thelnetham had gone. ‘I am not in the mood for his banter today. Almost losing Langelee was distressing, and I had bad dreams all night.’

‘So did Tesdale,’ said Michael ruefully. ‘He howled like a Fury, and it took Valence ages to settle him down. I thought he was going to wake the Pope in Avignon, he yelled so loud.’

‘Poor Tesdale,’ said Wynewyk worriedly. ‘Something is bothering him, and I wish you would find out what, Matthew. It is probably money, because he owes Michaelhouse rather a lot of it.’

‘I will ask him again,’ promised Bartholomew. ‘But he always denies there is anything amiss, and I cannot force him to confide.’

‘Well, please try,’ said Wynewyk. ‘Kelyng suffered from night-terrors, too, and now he has disappeared. I would not like to think we have failed a second unhappy student.’

‘Kelyng has not disappeared,’ said Michael firmly. ‘He has decided to abscond. It is not the first time a lad has elected to run away rather than pay what he owes, and I doubt it will be the last. If I had incurred Kelyng’s level of expenditure, I might flee, too.’

They processed to the church, where Suttone officiated at the morning mass, and Bartholomew assisted. It was over in record time, because Suttone was eager to hear details of the Master’s brush with death. Flattered by the Carmelite’s demands for the full story, Langelee declared that talking was permitted at breakfast that day – meals were normally eaten to the sole sound of the Bible Scholar’s droning voice, although Kelyng’s absence made this difficult – then treated the entire College to a lively and improbably colourful account of his adventures. It was rather different to the version related by Tobias and Powys, and failed to mention the amount of wine he had swallowed or the drunken slumber that had followed, but his audience sat in spellbound silence until he had finished, anyway.

‘Well, we are glad you survived,’ said Suttone warmly, rubbing his hands together as the servants began to put bowls of food on the table. ‘None of us want the post of Master.’

‘I would not mind,’ said Michael, poking in distaste at something that appeared to be a mixture of scrambled eggs and parsnips. ‘But only if Wynewyk continues to manage the finances, which is the tedious part. The rest would be fun.’

‘I might resign and let you do it,’ said Langelee heavily. ‘God knows, it is a thankless task.’

Bartholomew raised his eyebrows in surprise. He had never heard the Master talk about stepping down before, and could see that Michael was alarmed by the notion that his flippant remark might have been taken seriously. The monk might have harboured ambitions in that direction once, but since then he had carved himself a niche as the University’s most influential scholar – the man who told the Chancellor what to do, and who made all the important decisions. Accepting the Mastership of Michaelhouse would represent a considerable demotion, and Bartholomew doubted the monk would do it – especially as he had once confided that his next post would be either abbot or bishop.

‘Do not make any hasty decisions, Master,’ advised Michael quickly. ‘Especially as you are probably still shocked after last night’s episode. Give yourself time to recover before–’

Langelee waved a dismissive hand. ‘Last night’s episode was nothing. I have experienced far worse in games of camp-ball – and not just on the field, either. Why do you think I have taken to wearing a boiled-leather jerkin? Because some teams will do anything to win, and good players like me are never safe from sly attacks in the street. But I had better say a final grace, because I have a great deal to do today, and I am sure you do, too.’

He had intoned no more than two lines before he faltered, having apparently forgotten the words. As it was a prayer he used regularly, Bartholomew peered around Michael’s bulk to regard him in alarm, wondering whether he had bumped his head when he had fallen and was not in his right wits. Langelee made a vague gesture to indicate that his scholars were dismissed, then left the hall.

‘What is wrong with him?’ demanded Suttone, when he had gone. ‘He is not himself today.’

‘Do you think it is malnutrition, from the terrible food we have been given over the last few weeks?’ asked Michael. ‘He is a large man, and will not thrive on this sort of muck for long.’

Bartholomew glanced sharply at him, wondering if he was making a joke. Langelee was a large man, but Michael was considerably bigger.

‘It might be,’ agreed Suttone, who also boasted an impressive girth. ‘I know I am wasting away.’

‘I am exhausted,’ declared Michael, flopping into a fireside chair in the conclave that evening. All the Fellows were there. Bartholomew, Suttone and Wynewyk were at the table, preparing lessons for the following day, Thelnetham and Hemmysby were reading a Book of Hours together, and Langelee was sitting by the window. He was gazing into the courtyard below, although it was dark outside and he would not be able to see anything. Clippesby was at his feet, playing with the College cat.

‘Why are you exhausted, Brother?’ asked Wynewyk courteously, when no one else seemed interested and the monk was beginning to look annoyed by the lack of response. Bartholomew forced his thoughts away from his work when he realised he was being rude.

‘For several reasons,’ replied Michael. ‘I spent all morning teaching, and all afternoon questioning Gosse about the attack on our Master last night. Then I visited the apothecaries and asked whether they had sold any pennyroyal recently.’

Bartholomew regarded him guiltily. He had meant to make that enquiry himself, but too many patients had demanded his services that day, and he had had no time. ‘And had they?’

‘They say not, but I am not sure whether to believe them. They have lied to me in the past.’

‘Pennyroyal?’ asked Thelnetham, bemused. ‘Why would you want to know about that?’

‘Matt is interested in it,’ replied Michael vaguely. He glanced at Langelee, who was still staring out of the window. ‘Is anyone curious to know the outcome of my encounter with Gosse?’

‘I am,’ said Wynewyk, when Langelee made no reply. ‘What happened?’

‘He does not live alone,’ began Michael. ‘He has a sister, although you would not think they were related to look at them; he is small, while she is enormous. She is reputed to be a witch – although people tend to say that about anyone they do not like.’

‘They say it about Matthew,’ Thelnetham pointed out. ‘But he is very popular – among the lower class of citizen, at least. He is heartily reviled by persons of quality, of course.’

‘That is untrue!’ declared Wynewyk hotly, while Bartholomew regarded the Gilbertine in surprise. He knew not everyone approved of the way he practised medicine, but he had not been aware that he was ‘heartily reviled’. ‘He is very highly regarded among the town’s burgesses.’

‘Only because they are afraid to antagonise his brother-in-law,’ said Thelnetham acidly. ‘Oswald Stanmore is a powerful man, and no sane merchant wants to incur his displeasure.’

‘Gosse’s sister is named Idoma – not a lady I would like to meet on a dark night,’ Michael went on, cutting across Wynewyk’s retort. Bartholomew’s unorthodoxy was one of few subjects on which the Fellows could not agree, and there was almost certain to be a quarrel if they pursued it. ‘I do not recall when I last met a more unpleasant pair, and I am glad I took plenty of beadles with me.’

‘You did not fight them, did you?’ asked Thelnetham with a moue of distaste. ‘Blood is so difficult to remove from one’s habit.’

‘I would not know,’ replied Michael, regarding him askance. ‘I am usually careful not to spill any, especially my own.’

‘Did Gosse confess to attacking the Master?’ asked Wynewyk.

‘No,’ replied Michael. ‘He claims he was in the Cardinal’s Cap when Langelee was ambushed, and the landlord confirms this. Unfortunately, the tavern was busy, and the landlord cannot say whether Gosse was there all night. And the Cardinal’s Cap is not far from King’s Hall.’

‘Langelee said it was a scholar who attacked him,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Not Gosse and–’

‘Forget the matter, Brother,’ said Langelee, turning from the window at last. ‘It was a scholar, but it will transpire to be someone who does not want me to play in the next camp-ball game – some cheating villain from one of the rival teams. Pretend it did not happen.’

‘I most certainly shall not,’ declared Michael, horrified. ‘An attempt was made to kill the Master of my College, and that is unacceptable. I will unmask this villain and he shall answer for his crime.’

‘Then do it after you have eliminated the annoyance represented by Gosse,’ said Langelee tiredly.

Bartholomew frowned. ‘What annoyance?’

‘Several Colleges have been burgled recently,’ explained Langelee. ‘We all know Gosse is responsible, and the other heads of houses are beginning to ask why the Senior Proctor lets him roam free, doing as he pleases.’

‘Because my hands have been tied,’ Michael snapped. ‘Apparently, Gosse visited the town a few years back, and was convicted of theft. But he appealed the sentence, and clever lawyers got him acquitted. Then he sued, and Cambridge was forced to pay him a substantial sum in damages. The Mayor and his burgesses have informed me that it will not happen again.’

‘You mean you have been ordered not to challenge him?’ asked Suttone, shocked. ‘He can do what he likes, and you must let him, lest he demands more compensation?’

Michael nodded, his expression dark and angry. ‘He has already hired himself a lawyer, and knew exactly how not to incriminate himself when I interviewed him.’

‘What lawyer?’ demanded Thelnetham, indignant on behalf of his legal colleagues. ‘No one in the University would have anything to do with such a low scoundrel.’

‘He is a Suffolk man, apparently,’ replied Michael. ‘Probably someone from Clare, which is Gosse’s home. I did not meet him, but he had briefed Gosse well. I came away feeling as though I had been bested.’

‘This Gosse sounds horrible,’ said Hemmysby. ‘But I had never heard of him before last night.’

‘Neither had I,’ said Bartholomew. He opened his book again, not very interested in felons. Ambitious criminals were always invading the town in search of easy pickings, but they did not last long; Michael or Sheriff Tulyet usually ousted them before they did too much harm.

‘He is horrible,’ replied Michael grimly. ‘And so is his sister, who is said to be insane.’

‘I am said to be insane, too,’ remarked Clippesby from the floor. ‘But that does not make it true.’

‘Well, it is true in Idoma’s case,’ said Michael. ‘She twitched, blinked and flexed her fists the whole time I was there, giving the impression that it would take very little to send her into a frenzy of violence. I am not easily unnerved, but there was something about her that unsettled me profoundly.’

‘They are not like normal felons,’ agreed Suttone. ‘They are higher born, more intelligent and far more devious. I am glad it is not my duty to tackle them.’

Thelnetham was unimpressed by the situation. ‘Your hands may have been tied by the burgesses, Brother, but what about the Sheriff? Why does he not act?’

‘He is in London, explaining to the King why our shire is so expensive to run,’ replied Michael. ‘Constable Muschett is in charge – a man who would not challenge a goose. He openly admits that Gosse frightens him and that he has no intention of doing anything that might see him sued.’

‘Bastards,’ snarled Langelee suddenly, standing abruptly and stalking towards the hearth. He took a wild kick at the poker, which flew against the wall and ricocheted off, landing with a crash that made all the Fellows jump. The cat hurtled under the table in alarm.

‘My!’ drawled Thelnetham, wide-eyed. ‘Do we feel better now?’

‘No, we do not,’ snarled Langelee. ‘We shall feel better when we have broken his neck.’

‘Why would we … would you do that?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily, wondering what had precipitated the burst of temper. ‘You said Gosse was not the man who attacked you.’

‘No, but he has committed other crimes,’ said Langelee darkly. ‘And do not look at me like that, because I am not telling you anything about it. You will be angry. All of you will be angry.’

‘What has he done?’ demanded Michael. ‘If it is something to do with the College, we have a right to know. We will probably find out anyway – this is no place for keeping secrets.’

Langelee swallowed hard. It was a moment before he spoke, and when he did, his voice was choked with emotion. ‘Two days ago, I left the Stanton Cups in the hall by mistake – unattended. Someone stole them.’

His colleagues regarded him in horror. The Stanton Cups were a pair of beautiful silver-gilt chalices, bequeathed to Michaelhouse by its founder, Hervey de Stanton. They were normally kept in a locked chest in the Master’s room, but Langelee believed such treasures should be used regularly, for everyone to see and appreciate, so they were often out. It was an attitude Bartholomew applauded, although their loss was a serious blow.

‘They were taken from the hall?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Then why did no one see the thief? It is seldom empty. Students, Fellows or servants are always there.’

‘Because the cups went missing when we were all at that debate in Peterhouse,’ replied Langelee wretchedly. ‘And the servants were picking apples in the orchard. I suspect the culprit saw us leave then slipped in when Walter was looking the other way.’

‘Why do you think Gosse is responsible?’ asked Michael. His voice was flat and low, and Bartholomew looked at him sharply, suspecting he was more angry with Langelee for his carelessness than the burglar for his audacity.

‘Because both Suttone and Clippesby told me – independently – that Gosse was loitering around the College the morning the cups went missing. And later, Thelnetham reported seeing him running down the High Street with something tucked under his cloak.’

‘Yes, I did,’ agreed Thelnetham, horrified. ‘But I did not know it was the Stanton Cups!’

‘And I did not know Gosse was contemplating theft,’ added Suttone, equally appalled.

‘I did,’ said Clippesby. He was under the table, trying to soothe the cat. ‘The ducks guessed what was being planned, but Walter declined to put their warning to good use by being more vigilant.’

The Dominican’s odd habit of sitting quietly in the shadows while he communed with nature meant he was often witness to incidents no one else saw. Unfortunately, his eccentric way of reporting them meant he was rarely taken seriously. Bartholomew was not surprised Walter had declined to act on intelligence provided by birds.

‘Why did you wait so long before telling us?’ demanded Michael of Langelee. ‘I am Senior Proctor. I have a right to know about crimes committed in my own College.’

‘Because I hoped to get them back on the quiet,’ explained Langelee. ‘I went to Muschett, but he said that since no one actually saw Gosse make off with them, we cannot accuse him of theft. We–’

‘But that is outrageous!’ exploded Michael, temper breaking at last. ‘Those cups are worth a fortune. If Gosse took them, it is our prerogative to reclaim them.’

‘Not according to Muschett,’ said Langelee. ‘Believe me, there is nothing I would like more than to punch Gosse until he gives them back. But Muschett said that would be seen as an attack by the University against a layman. He feels the Stanton Cups are not worth the riot that is sure to follow.’

‘He is probably right,’ acknowledged Suttone, cutting across the spluttering reply Michael started to make. ‘Gosse may be a criminal, but there are many who would side with him against the University. And without Sheriff Tulyet to keep them in order, there might well be bloodshed.’

‘But we are talking about the Stanton Cups!’ protested Thelnetham, shocked. ‘Does Muschett seriously expect us to ignore the fact that this lout has stolen our most valuable treasure?’

‘Now do you see why I was reluctant to confide in you?’ asked Langelee, accusing in his turn. ‘You have reacted just as I predicted you would.’

‘Oh, do not worry,’ said Michael bitterly. ‘I do not want a riot. However, I shall keep a close eye on Gosse, and pounce with all the weight of the law if I catch so much as a glimmer of silver gilt.’

‘I wonder if he took my pennyroyal, too,’ mused Bartholomew. But then he shook his head. ‘No, he cannot have done, because my storeroom would have been locked when we were at the debate.’

‘Unless one of your careless lads left it open,’ said Michael savagely. ‘And as far as I am concerned, we have no idea what Gosse did when he roamed here unattended.’

As soon as it was light the following day, Michael left the College to investigate the Stanton Cups’ disappearance, but it did not take him long to learn that Langelee was right: Gosse’s curious activities around the time of the theft were circumstantial, and there was no indisputable evidence to link him with the crime – and certainly none convincing enough to allow a search of his house. Bartholomew doubted the monk would find anything anyway: too much time had passed, and the chalices would either be hidden in a safe place, or sold.

‘It is hopeless,’ said Michael despairingly, when he and the physician met in the hall for the noonday meal. ‘Constable Muschett, the Mayor and all the burgesses joined together and expressly forbade me to investigate – they do not usually tell the University what to do, but it is different this time. They are presenting a united front because they still resent the fine they were obliged to pay the last time Cambridge tackled Gosse. I wish to God Dick Tulyet were here.’

‘It is a pity the Sheriff is away,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘But being angry will not bring our chalices back. It is better to devise a way to prevent Gosse from burgling anyone else.’

‘How can I, when I have been ordered to stay away from him?’ shouted Michael, banging a plump fist on the table in frustration. Several students eased away, not wanting to be close when the Senior Proctor was in a temper. ‘Well, all I can say is that I hope he robs these cowardly officials, because then they might feel differently. Of course, Gosse is too clever for that – he knows who is protecting him, and chooses his victims with care.’

‘The Blood Relic debate is a week on Monday,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Virtually every scholar in the University will be there – we have been looking forward to it for weeks now.’

‘So?’ snapped Michael. ‘What does that have to do with anything?’

‘It will mean a lot of empty Colleges and hostels,’ explained Bartholomew patiently. ‘And if Gosse invaded Michaelhouse when everyone was out, then–’

‘Then he will almost certainly be planning something for then,’ finished Michael. His eyes gleamed, and some of the fury went out of him. ‘You are right! And I shall be ready for him. Thank you, Matt. You have made me feel considerably better, good physician that you are.’

Because it was Saturday, Bartholomew could finish teaching early, so he set his students some astrological calculations to keep them occupied and out of trouble, then went to visit his sister. Although he did not believe in the power of horoscopes, he still taught his pupils how to calculate them: they would not pass their disputations if he ignored that part of the curriculum, and he had no desire to be accused of corrupting their minds with unorthodox theories.

He found Edith making preserves in the kitchen, and the sweet scent of fruit filled the house – apples and plums from the garden, and the last of the blackberries from the hedgerows.

‘The harvest was dismal this year,’ said Edith, wiping her face with the back of her hand. It was hot in the room, with several huge pots bubbling furiously over the fire. ‘I usually make three times this amount – half for us, and half for Yolande de Blaston’s brood. They will be disappointed.’

‘I thought you would have gone back to Trumpington by now,’ said Bartholomew. He had been in the process of stealing an apple from one of the jars, but her words stopped him: he had no wish to deprive Yolande’s children.

‘You mean after what happened to Joan?’ Edith gave a wan smile. ‘I considered it, but Trumpington is lonely without Oswald, and I will only dwell on what happened. I am better off here.’

‘I am sorry I could not help Joan.’

‘You did your best. That priest never did appear, by the way.’

Bartholomew gazed at her blankly. ‘What priest?’

‘The one she came here with – Neubold. We sent for him to give her last rites, but he never arrived. I made enquiries at the Brazen George, where he was lodging, but the landlord said he has not been back to his room since the night Joan died, although he paid for it until the end of the week.’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Perhaps he finished his business early and decided to go home.’

‘And abandon the wife of his employer without saying a word?’

Bartholomew was uneasy. ‘What are you saying? That he is implicated in Joan’s death?’

Tears welled in Edith’s eyes. ‘I am sure she did not take the pennyroyal deliberately, Matt. I know Mother Coton thinks Joan’s joy at being with child was a ruse, so she could rid herself of it without suspicion, but she is wrong. I spent three days with Joan – I would have seen through such an act.’

Bartholomew was not sure she would. Edith was an honest, uncomplicated soul, and expected others to be the same. Her open nature was one of the things he loved about her, because it was not something he often encountered in the University, where men had been trained to prevaricate.

‘Then it was an accident – she took something she thought would help the baby,’ he said, feeling a sharp twinge of guilt when he thought about his missing supplies. ‘But she was misinformed.’

‘I cannot imagine how she came by pennyroyal. The apothecaries would not have sold her any.’

‘Perhaps she brought it with her.’ Bartholomew thought, but did not say, that if she had, then it indicated premeditation, and Joan’s few days of so-called happiness with Edith were indeed a cover for the crime she had been intending to commit.

He changed the subject, knowing they would argue otherwise, and began to talk about the forum on Blood Relics that was due to take place in nine days’ time. It was not a topic that greatly intrigued him, but the University was on fire with it, and some of the enthusiasm had seeped into him. He found he was looking forward to hearing some of the best minds in the country – Michael’s among them – hold forth on the matter.

‘I made you a cake,’ said Edith, passing him a neatly wrapped parcel when he paused for breath. Blood Relics did not interest her at all. ‘It contains the last of the almonds from our garden.’

‘Thank you. I had better be going. The Saturday Debate is due to start soon.’

‘The Saturday Debate?’ Edith frowned. ‘I thought you said this event was to be Monday week.’

‘The Blood Relic colloquy is on Monday. But the Saturday Debate is the weekly discussion at Michaelhouse, instigated by Thelnetham to keep our students off the streets. The Fellows kept avoiding them, so Langelee made them mandatory. I have missed the last two because of summonses from patients, and my colleagues will think I am shirking if I do it again.’

‘Can you spare a few moments more?’ asked Edith, rather tearfully. ‘Joan’s husband made arrangements to collect her body from St Mary the Great today, and I should talk to him. Will you come with me? I would rather not go alone.’

St Mary the Great was Cambridge’s biggest and grandest church, used by the University for events too large for the debating halls – such as discussions about Blood Relics. That day, loud voices rang from the Lady Chapel where Joan lay, and Bartholomew saw that quite a deputation had arrived to claim her earthly remains. Two men and an elderly woman stood side by side, watching the verger and half a dozen servants struggling to load the body into a sturdy box for transport home.

‘Which one is Henry Elyan?’ whispered Bartholomew. ‘Joan’s husband?’

Edith regarded him askance. ‘The one wearing black, of course, to show he is in mourning. Do you know nothing of the latest courtly fashions?’

Bartholomew did not, but it was clear that Elyan was well versed in such matters. The cut of his black clothes indicated they were expensive, and his gipon, or tunic, was decorated with more buttons than the physician had ever seen on a single garment. His handsome shoes were made from soft calfskin, and the jewellery that glittered at his throat and on his fingers was exquisite.

‘It is a pity you could not save her,’ Elyan said bitterly, after Edith had introduced her brother and given a brief account of what had happened. Elyan’s eyes were red, indicating he had been weeping. ‘She was very dear to me, and so was her child – my heir. Their deaths are a terrible shock.’

The elderly woman stepped forward. She was tall for her age, and voluminous skirts swirled around thick, practical travelling boots. A veil covered her head, but several strands of white hair had escaped to hang rakishly down the sides of her leathery cheeks. Sharp blue eyes indicated a person of character, who was used to having her own way.

‘I am Agnys Elyan,’ she announced. ‘My grandson and I are grateful for your efforts. Joan often talked about her happy childhood here, and we are glad she died among friends.’

‘Her death was unnecessary,’ said Elyan. His voice was unsteady. ‘She came to buy ribbons for our child – she should not have died purchasing ribbons.’

‘No, she should not,’ agreed his grandmother gently. She reached out to touch his arm, a self-conscious gesture of sympathy that caused him to look away quickly, a sob catching at the back of his throat. She turned to Bartholomew and Edith, speaking to give him time to compose himself. ‘Joan was fit and well before she left, and we were horrified to learn about this horrible accident.’

‘Accident?’ asked Edith.

Bartholomew felt like jabbing her with his elbow, but suspected Agnys would notice and demand an explanation. He held his breath, hoping Edith’s question would not lead the Haverhill folk to wonder whether there was more to Joan’s death than they were being told. It would do no one any good if they clamoured murder – and Bartholomew was sure it was nothing of the kind.

Agnys nodded. ‘Constable Muschett told us how she had swallowed a potion to strengthen the babe. We were appalled, because she was very careful about what she ate and drank. But I suppose even cautious women make mistakes.’

‘Her mistake cost me a much-loved wife,’ said Elyan in a muffled voice. He stood with his back to them, scrubbing surreptitiously at his eyes. ‘Not to mention an heir twenty years in the making. Of course, this assumes it was her fault. For all I know, someone gave her this poison on purpose.’

‘Pennyroyal is not poison,’ said Bartholomew, thinking guiltily about the loss of his own. ‘It is–’

‘Pennyroyal?’ echoed Agnys in disbelief. ‘I sincerely doubt she drank that! I taught her about herbs myself, and she was well aware that pennyroyal is not for expectant mothers.’

‘You are right,’ said Edith, before Bartholomew could stop her. ‘Joan did not take it on purpose.’

‘What are you saying?’ demanded Elyan, whipping around to regard her intently. ‘If she would not have taken it of her own volition, and she was too sensible to have swallowed it by accident, does this mean she was forced to imbibe it against her will? She was murdered ?’

‘Of course she was not murdered,’ said Agnys, before Bartholomew could say the same thing. ‘But there are many elixirs with fanciful names that make no mention of the nature of their contents. She must have bought one that promised health and vitality, and the seller neglected to–’

‘That is murder,’ said the third member of the visiting party, entering the discussion for the first time. He was small and dark, with short black hair that was plastered to his head like a greasy cap. Spindly red-clad legs poked from under a purple gipon, giving him the appearance of a predatory insect.

‘I agree, d’Audley,’ said Elyan coldly. ‘Any apothecary or physician giving pregnant women pennyroyal is guilty of murder, as far as I am concerned. And he deserves to hang for his crime.’

‘Stop it, both of you,’ ordered Agnys sharply. She glared at d’Audley. ‘And you can keep your nasty opinions to yourself. No one asked you to accompany us to Cambridge, and I, for one, wish you had not. You have been nothing but trouble – complaining all the time.’

D’Audley did not like being admonished like a naughty child. He drew himself up to his full height, eyes flashing with indignation. ‘I am lord of a Suffolk manor, and I shall not be berated–’

‘Oh, be quiet, you silly little man,’ snapped Agnys, regarding him with utter disdain before turning her back on him. She addressed her grandson, taking his hand in hers. ‘Joan’s death was an accident, Henry, so let us leave it at that. There is no evidence of foul play, and you will only distress yourself further if you start making unfounded accusations.’

‘But she swallowed pennyroyal,’ said Elyan stubbornly, pulling away from her. ‘And I want to know why. How could she do such a thing? Could she not taste it?’

‘It must have been disguised,’ said Edith quietly. ‘Perhaps with honey or wine. I am sure she did not know what she was drinking.’

‘Quite. So it was an accident,’ said Agnys, in the tone of voice that suggested the discussion was over. ‘But the servants have finished now, and Joan is in the box. Go outside and help them put her on the cart, Henry, and then let us be away from this sad place. I want to be home by this evening.’

‘I will help you, Elyan,’ said d’Audley, with the air of a martyr. ‘And then we shall visit Constable Muschett together and order him to mount an enquiry into this grave matter.’

‘You will do no such thing,’ snapped Agnys, although her grandson looked as if he thought it a very good idea. ‘It is none of your damned business. Help Henry with the coffin, if you will, but we shall speak no more of murders and enquiries – unless you want to ride home alone. But I would not recommend it – the roads are hardly safe.’

D’Audley shot her a look of such loathing that Bartholomew was unnerved. Agnys glowered back, unabashed, and it was d’Audley who looked away first. He turned on his heel and stalked out. Elyan followed, and it was not long before the physician and his sister were alone with the old lady.

‘I am sorry if I upset them,’ began Edith apologetically. ‘But–’

‘They will survive,’ stated Agnys grimly. ‘Although in the case of d’Audley, I might wish otherwise. But I am sorry you have been subjected to all this sorrow. You have been more than kind.’

‘Is there anything more we can do?’ asked Bartholomew, before Edith saw in Agnys a sympathetic ear and tried to convince her that Joan’s death was suspicious. ‘Fresh horses, perhaps, or the loan of a sturdier cart?’

‘Thank you, but we will manage. Did Joan … say anything before she died?’

‘Anything about what?’ asked Edith, bemused.

‘About her child,’ replied Agnys vaguely. ‘About Haverhill.’

‘A great deal,’ replied Edith. An expression of unease immediately flitted across the old woman’s face, although Edith did not notice and chattered on blithely. ‘She said she had never been so happy, and was looking forward to being a mother with all her heart.’

Agnys’s relief was palpable, although she struggled to mask it. ‘I am glad she died contented.’

‘That was an odd remark,’ said Edith, when Agnys had followed her grandson and neighbour outside, and she and Bartholomew were alone again. ‘What did she mean?’

‘She is terrified that Joan might have swallowed pennyroyal deliberately, and loves her enough to want her buried in a churchyard, not a suicide’s grave. Why do you think she is so insistent that it was an accident and that there must be no investigation?’

‘But it was not an accident,’ protested Edith. ‘And she should know that Joan was murdered.’

‘She was not murdered,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘There is no evidence–’

‘There is no evidence it was an accident, either,’ interrupted Edith, beginning to walk away from him, wearing the determined face that told him argument would be a waste of time. ‘I know what I believe, and nothing you can say will convince me otherwise.’

Bartholomew left Edith with the guilty sense that he was deceiving her: that he should confess that her friend had died from a dose of the same kind of herb that was missing from his storeroom. But he knew it would achieve nothing other than to fuel her suspicions, and he was almost certain now it was his pennyroyal Joan had swallowed anyway. As he had told Michael, it was not a rare or unusual plant, and women often kept some dissolved in vinegar, as a remedy against swooning. Perhaps she had swallowed some of that, either by accident or design.

He was so engrossed in his thoughts as he walked home that Paxtone of King’s Hall was obliged to prod him in order to gain his attention.

Paxtone was a portly physician, whose ample bulk was perched atop a pair of ludicrously slender ankles; Bartholomew was always expecting them to snap under the weight, and never knew what to say when his colleague complained of aching feet. Paxtone was not a talented practitioner, for he refused to act on any theory that had not been penned by ancient Greeks, but he was a decent teacher, and no one had a better grasp of Galen and Hippocrates.

That morning, he was with Warden Powys and another King’s Hall Fellow named Shropham. Shropham had been in Cambridge long before Bartholomew had joined the University, but was one of those mousy nonentities who was hard to remember. He was older than his two colleagues, but his demeanour towards them had always been deferential. He was slightly built, with large, sad eyes and hair of an indeterminate colour, somewhere between brown and grey.

Wynewyk was with them, which Bartholomew thought was odd – the Michaelhouse Fellow rarely befriended scholars outside his College. But then he recalled Wynewyk saying he enjoyed intellectual discussions with King’s Hall. It did not appear that their discussion was intellectual that day, however: he and Powys were laughing fit to burst, Paxtone looked aggrieved and Shropham dismayed.

‘Matthew can resolve this,’ said Paxtone stiffly. ‘Because the debate has turned absurd.’

‘It has,’ agreed the Warden, wiping tears from his eyes. ‘I have not laughed so much in years.’

Paxtone grimaced, then turned to his fellow physician. ‘We are debating whether knives keep their sharpness if you leave them pointing northwards at night.’

Bartholomew failed to see what could be amusing about such a topic, or why Paxtone should be so obviously irritated by it. ‘Yes?’ he prompted warily.

Paxtone pursed his lips as he glared at Powys and Wynewyk. ‘And this pair will insist on guffawing every time I posit a notion – they say I am employing a posteriori reasoning to argue a baseless superstition. It is Shropham’s fault: he does not believe my contention that blades self-sharpen under certain conditions.’

Shropham’s expression was one of abject mortification. ‘I am not saying you are wrong, Paxtone,’ he said, in something of a bleat. ‘I merely remarked that I tried leaving my dagger in the way you suggested, and it was still blunt the following morning.’

‘Then you did not aim it directly north,’ declared Paxtone. He took a small knife from the pouch he carried at his side. It was identical to the ones Bartholomew used for surgery. ‘Look at mine. You could shave a pig with this.’

‘Why would you want to do that?’ asked Powys innocently. Wynewyk smothered a snigger.

‘It is sharp,’ acknowledged Shropham, ignoring them as he ran a tentative finger along the edge. ‘And I am not questioning whether the trick works for you. I am only saying that I tried it, and it failed to work for me. I do not suppose you chanted a spell at the same time, did you?’

‘A spell ?’ squawked Paxtone, so loud in his horror that Shropham cringed. Wynewyk and Powys dissolved into more paroxysms of mirth, although Bartholomew could not help but notice that the humour did not touch Wynewyk’s eyes; there was an odd expression in them, which could only be described as bleak. He wondered what was going on. ‘Spells are for witches and heathens, but I am a physician!’

Bartholomew pulled his attention away from Wynewyk when he realised Paxtone was being inconsistent. ‘Believing knives retain their sharpness when they point north is hardly scientific,’ he pointed out. ‘Ergo, it is not unreasonable to assume you invoke charms–’

‘There is a wealth of difference between a natural phenomenon that hones metal, and magic,’ countered Paxtone curtly. ‘I am not superstitious.’

‘What about you, Bartholomew?’ asked Powys, struggling to bring his amusement under control. ‘Do you sharpen your knives by leaving them pointing northwards at night?’

‘No,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘I use a whetstone.’

‘Well, I suppose you would,’ said Shropham. ‘You use yours for cautery, and I imagine slicing into a man’s entrails with blunt blades would be unpleasant for all concerned. You, of all people, will want to be assured of a keen edge.’

‘Shropham has won this debate, Paxtone,’ said Warden Powys, before Bartholomew could inform them that he was not in the habit of slicing into entrails with sharp knives – at least, not as long as other viable options were available. ‘His empirical test nullifies your contention.’

‘Good steel needs less whetting than cheaper metal,’ said Wynewyk kindly, seeing Paxtone’s vexed expression. ‘So, perhaps we should conduct a series of experiments using different alloys. Personally, I think the debate is still in progress.’

‘I did not mean to cause trouble, Paxtone,’ said Shropham, eyeing his colleague uncomfortably. ‘You are almost certainly right – I must have mis-aimed my knife. I would not have mentioned the matter at all, but it is my job to prepare the quills for the students’ examinations, and–’

‘You take things too seriously, Shropham,’ said the Warden, flinging a comradely arm around his Fellow’s shoulders. ‘You are a scholar, so you are supposed to be argumentative – there is no need to apologise because you question someone else’s ideas. Look at Bartholomew – he does it all the time, even to medical theories that have been accepted as proven fact for hundreds of years.’

Bartholomew watched the three King’s Hall men walk away, and supposed his attempts to be uncontroversial had not been as successful as he had hoped.

‘Ignore him, Matt,’ said Wynewyk, seeing his dismay. ‘He was only trying to make Shropham feel better – he does not really think you are an incurable nihilist. Incidentally, the Saturday Debate has been postponed for an hour because Langelee needs to finish something. He would not say what, but he has been in his office all morning. Perhaps he is devising a way to reclaim the Stanton Cups.’

‘I hope not. He is not subtle, and any plan he develops is almost certain to be violent.’

Wynewyk looked alarmed. ‘Do you think he would consider hurting someone, then?’

‘To reclaim valuable heirlooms for his College? Yes, of course! You know what he is like as well as I do. He is an avid player of camp-ball, for a start – and the only purpose of camp-ball is to legitimise a lot of thumping, punching and kicking.’

Wynewyk crossed himself. ‘Do not be late for the debate, Matthew. Our Master has been in an odd mood all week, and I would hate to see this violence unleashed on you.’

When Bartholomew arrived home, he was unimpressed to find his students involved in a quarrel about Risleye’s lost essay. It had still not been found, and Risleye wanted to search his classmates’ possessions. They were outraged by the notion, and had presented a united front against him.

‘If you were innocent, none of you would mind,’ Risleye was shouting. He was near tears.

‘It does not exist,’ jeered Tesdale provocatively. ‘You only claimed it was stolen, so you would be excused from handing it in.’

‘Lies!’ howled Risleye. ‘But I will recover it, no matter what it takes. I will come at night, while you are all sleeping, and look then.’

‘You will do no such thing,’ ordered Bartholomew, not liking to imagine the commotion that would ensue should Risleye attempt what he threatened. He was almost certain to be caught, and the resulting rumpus would wake the entire College. ‘You cannot have forgotten all these brilliant ideas so soon. Write them out again.’

‘And make sure you keep them safe this time,’ gloated Tesdale, delighted that Risleye had effectively lost the argument.

‘Enough,’ said Bartholomew sharply. ‘I cannot believe how petty you have all become of late. What is wrong with you?’

‘It is not me,’ objected Risleye. ‘It is them. I am not the one who made the book explode–’

‘But you knew about it, and did nothing to stop us,’ countered Valence. ‘Complicity is–’

‘For God’s sake!’ cried Bartholomew, supposing he would have to find ways to keep them away from each other until the disputation started, to give tempers a chance to cool. ‘You are like a lot of children. Risleye, go to Yolande de Blaston and collect the forceps I left behind last week. Meanwhile, Tesdale can scrub that stain off the workbench in the storeroom.’

‘Scrub?’ echoed Tesdale, appalled by the prospect of physical labour. ‘Me? Let Valence do it – he is more junior than I.’

‘But it is my birthday,’ objected Valence. ‘I need to cut up the cake I bought, to distribute to my friends during this afternoon’s debate.’ He shot Tesdale a look that said he would not be getting any.

Bartholomew ignored them both. ‘The rest of you can visit patients and report back to me on their health. Valence, you can have Isnard.’

‘Not Isnard!’ groaned Valence. ‘He will want to sing to me again. I cannot imagine why Brother Michael let him back into the Michaelhouse Choir, because he cannot carry a tune.’

‘None of them can,’ said Tesdale. ‘But they think that if they bellow at the top of their lungs, no one will notice. And it is true, by and large. I never realised before that something can simply be too loud to hear. Why is that, sir? Is there a physiological–’

‘The cleaning materials are in the kitchen,’ interrupted Bartholomew, knowing perfectly well that lazy Tesdale was trying to sidetrack him in order to avoid the chore he had been set. ‘You had better make a start, or you will miss the debate.’

Shooting each other resentful glances, the students shuffled past him, rolling their eyes or grimacing when he allocated them particularly awkward or garrulous customers. He did not care. The sick would appreciate the attention, and it would do his pupils no harm to learn that life as a physician was not all interesting diseases and challenging wounds.

‘Is that a cake?’ asked Michael, arriving just as the last pupil had been dispatched to see Chancellor Tynkell. The lad would not have a pleasant time of it, as Tynkell had an aversion to any form of personal hygiene. Bartholomew often wondered how Michael, who was fastidious, could bear to spend so much time in the man’s pungent company.

‘Edith gave it to me,’ he said, moving to prevent the monk from unwrapping it. ‘I am going to take it to the debate, for the Fellows to share. The students have one of their own, apparently.’

Michael pulled a disagreeable face. ‘Edith’s cakes are wasted on our colleagues. Clippesby is too fey to appreciate what he is eating, while Suttone is getting fat and should avoid rich foods.’

Bartholomew glanced sideways, and thought Michael was a fine one to be talking. The monk had lost some weight the previous year, but his fondness for bread, meat and lard-drenched Lombard slices meant he had regained most of it.

‘A silver paten was stolen from Peterhouse this morning,’ Michael went on when there was no response. All the while, he watched the cake with eagle eyes. ‘It was Gosse, of course, but he managed to do it without being seen. I spent hours questioning students, Fellows and passers-by, but no one saw anything useful.’

‘Then how do you know Gosse is responsible?’

‘Because I defied the town worthies, and questioned him anyway. He loved the fact that I am certain of his guilt but can do nothing about it. He claims he was at a religious meeting in St Giles’s Church when the theft took place.’

‘Perhaps he was. Did you ask the vicar?’

‘Of course, but it was one of those ceremonies where the place was packed and people came and went at will. Gosse was at St Giles’s, but no one can say whether he was there the whole time. And those who might know are too frightened to talk. It is frustrating, knowing the identity of a culprit but being powerless to act.’

‘He will make a mistake eventually, or steal in front of a witness who is not afraid to speak out.’

‘Yes, but how many more heirlooms will we lose in the meantime?’ demanded Michael bitterly. ‘It is his lawyer who is to blame. Neubold.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘Neubold? That is the name of the priest who accompanied Joan to Cambridge, then failed to come and give her last rites.’

Michael shrugged. ‘Joan hailed from Suffolk, and so does Gosse. Perhaps Neubold is a common name there. Or perhaps this priest dabbles in criminal law to supplement his stipend.’

‘What about the attack on Langelee?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Have you solved that yet?’

‘No, but come with me to my office in St Mary the Great,’ said Michael, giving the cake one last, covetous glance before making for the door. ‘My beadles have found a witness, and he has agreed to meet me there. It will not take long, and we shall be back in time for the Saturday Debate.’