An Order for Death

Chapter 8

A SMALL FIRE BURNED IN LANGELEE’S ROOM, AND TWO lamps placed on the windowsills filled the chamber with a warm yellow glow. Bartholomew looked around him appreciatively, noting the tasteful wall-hangings and the clean but functional rugs that lay on the floor. Here was no wasteful decadence, but a pleasant and simple room that managed to create an atmosphere of industry and efficiency. Bartholomew, who had known Langelee for two years before the philosopher had been elected Master of Michaelhouse, was impressed by the room and the changes that had occurred in the man.

‘Where is this pie?’ demanded Michael, sitting in the best chair and looking aggrieved. ‘And what do you want to discuss? It is not those damned latrines again, is it? I have already told you that I do not care whether they are cleaned once a year, twice a year, ten times a year, or never again.’

‘All the Fellows except Bartholomew concur,’ said Langelee. ‘So, we will have them cleaned once a year, and we will use the money we save to buy a new bench for the hall.’

‘You will spend that money on medicines for intestinal disorders when summer comes,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘The latrines are not a problem now the weather is cold, but you remember how many flies they attracted last summer. The air was black with them.’

‘Please, Matt!’ said Michael with a shudder. ‘I am about to eat. And there is a very simple solution to this fly problem: only use the latrines at night. There are not nearly as many then.’

‘That is not the point,’ began Bartholomew, exasperated by their refusal to acknowledge that dirty latrines were likely to have serious repercussions on the health of Michaelhouse’s scholars.

‘I did not bring you here to talk about sewage,’ said Langelee, cutting across Bartholomew’s words as he sliced a decadently large piece of pie and handed it to Michael. ‘I brought you here because Clippesby told me the disturbing news that Prior Morden plans to commit murder.’

Michael gave a small smile. ‘That is not what transpired at the Dominican Friary. Trust that lunatic Clippesby to get it wrong! What Morden said was that Walcote discovered evidence that there was a plan afoot to harm me, and that meetings were organised between the religious Orders to discuss what should be done about it.’

‘Why would anyone want to kill you?’ asked Langelee, tearing the bread into pieces and passing it to his guests. ‘I know that as Senior Proctor you cannot be popular with everyone, and that there are men who hate the power of the University that you embody. But it is another matter entirely to murder someone for it.’

‘So far, there has only been a plot to murder me,’ corrected Michael. ‘I am still alive, remember?’

‘But Walcote is not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Do you think he was killed because he was trying to uncover the identity of the person who was planning to strike at you?’

Michael nodded slowly. ‘As you pointed out earlier, the fact that he was hanged, rather than stabbed or hit over the head, smacks of execution rather than murder. It is obvious now that I think of it.’

‘My experience of these matters, while I was an agent for the Archbishop of York, leads me to think that you are probably correct,’ said Langelee, sitting opposite him and poking at the fire. ‘Do you have any idea who this killer is?’

Michael shook his head. ‘And according to Morden, Walcote did not know, either.’

‘How did Walcote know about the plot?’ asked Langelee. ‘What evidence did he have?’

‘Apparently, he found a letter in which details of a proposed attack were given,’ said Michael. ‘This letter was in the possession of one of my beadles – a man I did not like, as it happens – whose body was discovered in a ditch on Christmas Eve.’

‘The beadle was called Rob Smyth, and he had been drinking in the King’s Head,’ elaborated Bartholomew. ‘On his way home, he drowned in a puddle. Beadle Meadowman found the body.’

Michael eyed the pie until Langelee cut him a second piece. ‘Matt inspected the corpse, and told me he was certain Smyth drowned accidentally – that no one else had done him any harm.’

Bartholomew agreed. ‘It was obvious that he had slipped on some ice and tumbled face-down in a puddle. Being drunk, he was unable to move.’

‘And this Smyth was the recipient of the letter?’ asked Langelee doubtfully. ‘I thought most of your beadles could not read.’

‘Smyth was a courier,’ replied Michael. ‘The other patrons of the King’s Head – including Agatha – claimed Smyth had been very generous that night: he bought ale for all his acquaintances, as well as for himself. Now I understand why: he was spending the money he had been paid to deliver the letter.’

‘Only, fortunately for Michael, he never did,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Smyth died before he could deliver the message.’

‘So, there are at least two people conspiring against you,’ observed Langelee. ‘The person who sent the letter, and the person to whom the letter was addressed.’

‘Right,’ said Michael. ‘But, according to Morden, Walcote had failed to uncover the identity of either. Damn! I wish Walcote had told me about this!’

‘Why did he keep it from you?’ asked Langelee, politely sucking the pie knife clean before cutting Michael a piece of cheese. ‘Had I found such a letter, you would have been the first to know, so that you could be on your guard against attack.’

‘Apparently, he decided that Michael had enough to worry about, and thought he would be better not knowing,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘It was only a few weeks after that business with Runham and the stolen gold at Michaelhouse, and Walcote considered that more than enough anxiety for a while.’

Michael scraped the pie crumbs from the table into his hand and slapped them into his mouth. ‘Matt is being politic,’ he informed Langelee. ‘It seems Walcote knew I was disappointed not to be elected Master of Michaelhouse, and thought I did not need to know that someone disliked me enough to end my life.’

‘But this does not tally,’ said Langelee, after a moment of thought. ‘A few days ago you told me that Walcote’s secret meetings started around or just after the time when Michaelhouse’s stolen gold spilled across the Market Square. That was in late November. But Smyth died at Christmas. Ergo, Walcote’s secret meetings had been taking place before he found the letter on the dead Smyth.’

‘We had fathomed that, thank you,’ said Michael testily. ‘According to Morden, Walcote had been anticipating trouble between the religious Orders for months. The meetings were his attempt to understand the causes, so that he could try to minimise the effects. The subject of the intended murder was raised at a later gathering.’

‘But I still do not understand why someone would want to kill you,’ said Langelee, poking the fire again. ‘Have you been involved in any especially dubious business recently that may have upset anyone? We all know about the arrangements with Oxford, of course.’

‘Thanks to you,’ said Michael, not without resentment. It had been Langelee’s announcement regarding his liaison with Heytesbury that had ultimately deprived Michael of the Michaelhouse Mastership. ‘But my Oxford business cannot be the reason. All I am doing is passing some property to Heytesbury in exchange for a couple of names and one or two bits of information.’

‘Controversial information?’ pressed Langelee, keenly interested.

Michael could not suppress a gleeful grin. ‘Not yet, but it will be. Heytesbury is almost ready to sign. He thinks I want to use the information to become Chancellor – which I might, as it happens – but I have other plans for it first. And Cambridge will emerge richer and stronger from it.’

‘Good,’ said Langelee, smiling warmly. ‘It is gratifying to see Cambridge besting Oxford. But what about the other men whom Walcote met? You say one was Morden, and I know another was Kenyngham.’

‘You do?’ asked Michael, startled. ‘How? He refused to speak to me.’

‘He refused to speak to me, too,’ said Langelee. ‘So, I paid a visit to his Prior instead. Gretford admitted that he and Kenyngham had attended about four of these meetings, but told me that the main issues discussed were repairing the Great Bridge – anonymously, so that the town would not expect the University to pay in the future – and the relative merits of nominalism and realism.’

‘Morden said much the same,’ said Bartholomew.

‘It seems to me that the person who wishes Michael dead may well be one of those powerful men who attended Walcote’s meetings,’ said Langelee thoughtfully. ‘To kill a proctor is to strike at the heart of the University’s authority – as I remarked when you first started to investigate this business. Thus, the would-be killer may be a high-ranking cleric.’

‘I think you are right,’ said Michael. ‘He probably kept Walcote alive long enough to learn from him what was happening regarding the investigation of Smyth’s letter, and then murdered him when he started to come too close to the truth.’

‘Then all we have to do is find out precisely who attended these meetings,’ said Bartholomew. ‘That will at least give us a manageable list of suspects. Otherwise, we have to assume it could be anyone – not just in the University, but in the town, too.’

Langelee agreed. ‘You have apprehended a lot of killers in your time, Brother. Many believed their crimes were justified and hated you for thwarting them, while others doubtless had families or friends who might want vengeance.’

‘True,’ said Michael. ‘But luckily, most of them were either killed in the chase or were subjected to the justice of the King’s courts – it was not I who hanged them; it was the Sheriff.’

‘Then what about criminals’ families?’ asked Langelee. ‘There are probably wives, children, parents and siblings who want you struck down for what you did to their loved ones.’

‘That kind of person would not plot to kill Michael,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He – or she – would just strike, not devise elaborate plans and send details via disenchanted beadles.’

‘I agree,’ said Michael.

‘So, let us consider your list of likely suspects, then,’ said Langelee, passing Michael another hunk of yellow cheese and taking an equally large slice for himself. Bartholomew was not halfway through his pie. ‘Who do you know for certain attended these meetings?’

‘Dame Wasteneys and Matilde claim that Kenyngham, Lincolne and Pechem were regular attenders,’ said Michael with his mouth full. ‘Brother Adam added Ralph of the Austins and Morden of the Dominicans. However, Morden denies seeing Kenyngham, and Kenyngham denies seeing Morden and Pechem.’

‘We have explained that, though,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Walcote simply arranged separate gatherings for the two factions of the realism – nominalism debate, because he knew they would squabble if he did not.’

Michael nodded. ‘Eve Wasteneys told us Walcote held eight or nine meetings in total: Morden and Kenyngham both claimed to have attended four or five. Since they were not at the same ones, we can deduce that Eve was telling us the truth about the total number.’

‘Can we be sure that Walcote’s reason for separating the factions was honourable?’ wondered Bartholomew thoughtfully. ‘He may have been playing a game, pitting one group against another.’

‘That would have been risky,’ said Langelee, topping up his own goblet, then doing the same for Michael. Bartholomew had barely touched his, but the Master gave him more anyway, filling the goblet so that a trembling meniscus lay over the top. ‘These are powerful men, who would not appreciate being pawns in the game of a mere Junior Proctor.’

‘Then perhaps that is why he died,’ said Michael soberly.

‘Do you know a novice at St Radegund’s Convent called Tysilia de Apsley?’ asked Bartholomew, changing the subject slightly. ‘She is tall with dark hair.’

‘I know her,’ said Langelee. He gave a salacious grin. ‘And so does every other red-blooded man in the town, I should imagine. Why? Had she worked her charms on Walcote? I thought he had a long-standing affection with one of his Austin colleagues. Still, with a woman like that…’

‘Matt thinks there is more to her than an evening of romping among the pews of the conventual church,’ said Michael bluntly.

‘Walcote’s meetings took place at St Radegund’s Convent,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘It is not the kind of place influential scholars should be seen frequenting, so they must have had good reason for choosing it over one of their own halls. I think the reason was that it suited Tysilia.’

Langelee rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘I would dismiss any of our students foolish enough to be caught in that den of iniquity, and something far more important than philosophy would need to be on the agenda to attract the heads of the religious Orders there. However, it is an excellent place for clandestine meetings, because no one would ever think of using it for such purposes.’

‘That is true,’ said Michael bitterly. ‘I certainly had no inkling that they were taking place.’

‘But Bartholomew is wrong about Tysilia,’ Langelee went on. ‘I have never met a person with fewer wits.’

‘No one believes Tysilia is involved, because they say she is too dense,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But what if that is an act? She is related to the Bishop of Ely, who is as cunning a man as I have ever met. Why will no one accept that she may be clever enough to fool us all?’

‘Because you only have to look at her face to see that there is nothing there,’ said Langelee, tapping his temple as he spoke. ‘It is like gazing into the eyes of a dead trout.’

‘Is that something you do often?’ asked Michael.

Langelee gave an irritable frown at Michael’s flippancy. ‘There is no earthly way Tysilia is involved, Bartholomew. I doubt the nuns even trusted her to open the convent doors on the nights these meetings took place. They would be afraid she would try to seduce their guests en route, or that she would forget they were supposed to be allowed in and see them out instead.’

‘She did try to seduce Kenyngham,’ said Michael, chuckling at the thought.

‘The nuns need the money she brings, and Eve cannot afford to lose it,’ said Langelee, ignoring him. ‘Still, I suppose the Bishop is unlikely to find anywhere else that will take such a brazen whore, so perhaps he will turn a blind eye to the situation for a while longer yet.’

Bartholomew stared into the flames of the fire, thinking about what they had learned. ‘If Walcote was killed because he came too close to discovering Michael’s would-be killer, then we have a smaller list of suspects than ever. Morden claims the murder was discussed at the meetings he attended; Kenyngham claims it was not.’

‘Kenyngham would never lie,’ said Langelee, settling back in his chair with his wine. ‘The poor man would not know how. I cannot imagine how he has managed to live to such a ripe old age by telling the truth, but there we are.’

‘His ripe old age almost ended when he refused to tell me what passed during these gatherings,’ said Michael resentfully. He raised Bartholomew’s overfilled cup to his lips with a steady hand that did not spill a drop.

‘We should return to the Carmelite Friary tomorrow,’ said Bartholomew, taking his cup from Michael, much to the monk’s annoyance. Langelee had provided a decent brew. ‘I am not yet convinced that they are innocent of Kyrkeby’s death. Perhaps they murdered him, and then killed Walcote because he heard or saw something on his patrols.’

‘Why do you think that?’ asked Langelee.

‘The timing,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Kyrkeby was last seen on Monday evening, while we know that Walcote was killed just after dusk on the same day. Perhaps one witnessed the death of the other, and was murdered to ensure his silence.’

‘That is possible,’ said Michael, thoughtfully. ‘And do not forget that Simon Lynne fled his friary on Monday night, too. We caught him in St Radegund’s Convent the following morning, pretending to visit his “aunt”.’

‘It seems a lot happened on Monday night,’ mused Langelee, voicing what Bartholomew had remarked upon at Faricius’s funeral, when Lincolne had told them that Lynne had gone. ‘Kyrkeby and Lynne disappeared and Walcote died.’

‘Very true,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But I am more concerned with catching the person who may have designs on Michael’s life than I am in looking for missing scholars.’

‘Walcote found that note three months ago,’ said Michael dismissively. ‘So, why should the killer strike now? It is entirely possible that Smyth’s death made him realise that murder is not an easy thing to do properly, and he decided to abandon the plan.’

‘Or perhaps the plan is already in action, and Walcote was killed because he stumbled on it,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘I do not understand why you seem so unperturbed about it.’

‘Because there is nothing I can do, so what is the point in worrying?’ replied Michael. ‘This is an excellent brew, Langelee. Is there any more of it? Matt seems to have taken mine.’

Bartholomew excused himself from Langelee’s room when the conversation degenerated into boastful accounts of Michael and Langelee’s past lives. Bartholomew had heard the stories before, and did not want to spend the rest of the evening listening to wildly exaggerated adventures that painted Michael and Langelee in ever more flattering light, so he returned to his own room to work on his treatise on fevers.

He had not been writing for long, although his eyes were already beginning to close as the unsteady light of a candle made him drowsy, and he was considering beginning the unpleasant transition from a cold room to a colder bed, when there was a knock at the door and Cynric entered.

‘I thought I would find you awake,’ the Welshman said softly, so as not to wake Suttone and his students, who occupied the room opposite. ‘I was just leaving home for the vigil in St Mary’s Church, when I met blind Father Paul, who used to be a Fellow at Michaelhouse.’

‘What was he doing out at this time of night?’ asked Bartholomew in surprise, thinking about the kindly Franciscan who had been so popular with the students. ‘He is too old to be roaming the streets so long after the curfew bell has sounded.’

‘He claims his blindness means that he is better equipped for wandering around in the dark than the others, and that by delivering any night-time messages he can serve his community in a way that no one else can.’

‘What did he want?’ asked Bartholomew, knowing that the friar was proud of his blindness and the fact that he felt it gave him an advantage over other men. ‘And where is he?’

‘Waiting by the gate,’ said Cynric. ‘He says Warden Pechem needs a physician.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew, reaching for his cloak and slinging his medicine bag over his shoulder. Then he recalled what Sergeant Orwelle had mentioned earlier that day. ‘It is nothing to do with being bitten by Richard’s horse, is it?’

Cynric grinned. ‘Apparently, the wound is sore. He was urged to send for you earlier, but he declined because he was afraid that the Dominicans would hear about it and make fun of him.’

But Bartholomew knew the real reason why Pechem had dallied: he had lied to Michael about being at Walcote’s meetings, and was now reluctant to talk to Bartholomew lest the physician also demanded some answers. That knowledge made Bartholomew even more determined to prise the truth from the Warden of the Franciscans.

He followed Cynric across the yard and out of the gate, where Father Paul was a pale grey shape in the darkness. The blind friar turned and smiled when he heard two sets of footsteps approaching him. Bartholomew took his arm and they began to walk towards the High Street, with Cynric slipping soundlessly in and out of the shadows behind them, watching over them like some dark guardian angel.

‘Warden Pechem will be pleased to see you,’ said Paul. ‘He is in pain.’

‘Bitten by a horse,’ mused Cynric, fighting not to smile.

‘It was not his fault,’ said Paul defensively. ‘He was lecturing to a group of novices in the Market Square, using his hands to illustrate the point, as is his wont…’

‘He is like a windmill,’ confirmed Cynric. ‘Arms wheeling around like sails in the wind.’

‘… and one of his hands came too near that horrible beast that Richard Stanmore uses to transport himself around a town where no distance is too great to walk.’

‘I take it you disapprove of the Black Bishop of Bedminster?’ asked Bartholomew mildly.

Paul nodded grimly. ‘The name suits it – overly large and unmanageable. Richard did not even apologise. A group of Dominicans witnessed the incident, and he merely joined in their mirth.’

‘Oxford manners,’ said Cynric disapprovingly. ‘I remember how rude they were when I was there. People are far more gentle here.’

Bartholomew was sure he was wrong: he recalled very little difference between the rowdy, belligerent scholars he had known at Oxford and the rowdy, belligerent scholars he now knew at Cambridge.

They strode briskly up the High Street, where Paul proved that his memory of the larger potholes and ruts was better than Bartholomew’s ability to peer into the gloom, and then turned right towards Bridge Street. The Church of All Saints in the Jewry loomed out of the darkness, and Bartholomew saw the glimmer of light from the candles that had been lit by the vigil-keepers within. Low voices murmured, some of them raised in a chant that rose and fell rhythmically. A pile of rubble lay to one side, where part of the tower had collapsed and its owners – the nuns of St Radegund’s Convent – could not afford to have it repaired.

On the left was the dark mass of St John’s Hospital, where lamps gleamed under the fastened shutters, and shadows moved back and forth as the friars tended their charges. Next to it was a noisy tavern called the Swan, and Sergeant Orwelle happened to reel out of it as they passed. As the soldier struggled to close the door, Bartholomew glimpsed the smelly cosiness within. He was surprised to see Richard and Heytesbury sitting at a table near the fire, raising slopping goblets in a drunken salute to the surgeon Robin of Grantchester. Heytesbury’s face was flushed and he looked happy and healthy, although Richard seemed pale. Their effusive camaraderie with their companions indicated that they had been enjoying the tavern’s ale for some time. Bartholomew thought his nephew looked seedy now that he was halfway through his second night of debauchery in a row, and he admired Heytesbury for his energy and dedication to his carousing.

Orwelle finally succeeded in closing the door, and the street was plunged into darkness again; the peace was then shattered by the sound of the soldier’s slurred singing. Bartholomew, Cynric and Paul walked on, passing the Round Church, which stood short and sturdy with its little lantern tower perched on top. Suddenly, a figure darted out of the blackness surrounding the graveyard and snatched at Bartholomew’s arm. The physician yelped in alarm, while a quick rasping sound indicated that Cynric had drawn his sword and was preparing to use it.

‘The owls saw them,’ hissed Clippesby wildly, gripping Bartholomew’s wrist so tightly that it hurt. ‘They told me to warn you.’

‘Damned lunatic,’ muttered Cynric testily, sheathing his weapon and glancing uneasily up and down the street. ‘What is he doing out? I thought Langelee had locked him in his room.’

‘I speak to the beasts of the night,’ raved Clippesby. ‘The owls and the bats and the unicorns.’

‘Take him home, Cynric,’ said Bartholomew, freeing his arm and feeling the fluttering panic in his stomach begin to subside. ‘And make sure he cannot escape again – stay with him, if you have to. He may harm himself when he is like this.’

‘He had better not try to harm me,’ said Cynric sternly, grabbing Clippesby by the hood and beginning to march him away down the High Street. ‘Or I shall see that his days with bats and unicorns are numbered.’

‘The poor man,’ said Paul with compassion, when the sound of Clippesby’s deluded ranting had faded into the night. ‘He is quite mad.’

Bartholomew took Paul’s arm and guided him the short distance to the Franciscan Friary. ‘You do not know anything about secret meetings held in St Radegund’s Convent, do you?’ he asked, as they waited for their knock to be answered, suspecting that Paul did not, but deciding he should question anyone who might have snippets of information, given that Michael’s life might be at stake. The blind friar was disconcertingly perceptive, and it was possible he had heard something pertinent in his friary.

‘No,’ came the disappointing reply. ‘Is it connected to the murders of Walcote and Faricius?’

‘Possibly. Have you heard anything about those that may help us?’

Paul shook his head. ‘But I knew Faricius. Were you aware that he was writing an essay defending nominalism? I think his room-mates knew, but they are unlikely to mention it, and his Prior was certainly not party to this information.’

‘So how do you know?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I thought you Franciscans, like Carmelites, were of the opinion that nominalism is heresy.’

‘They are in general,’ said Paul. ‘But the Franciscan Order has not yet reached the point where it informs its members precisely which philosophical tenets they should embrace. Personally, I lean towards nominalism, although I do not feel it is wise to discuss it with my colleagues at the moment. This silly row will soon die down, and then we will all begin to see sense again.’

‘And Faricius talked to you about nominalism?’ asked Bartholomew. He closed his eyes, disgusted with himself as he realised the answer to that question was staring him in the face. When the dying Faricius had learned that his scrip was missing, he had asked Bartholomew to find it and hand it to Father Paul. And the Carmelite students had mentioned that Faricius had sought other nominalists in the University, including Paul.

Paul’s opaque eyes were curiously glassy in the lamplight. ‘Faricius attended a lecture on nominalism I gave last year, and he came to ask if we could discuss it. We discovered that we shared similar ideas, and he regularly read parts of his essay to me.’

‘How long was it? His friends mentioned it, but I have no idea of its size.’

Paul turned his blind eyes on Bartholomew. ‘Obviously, I never saw it, but I imagine it ran to several large pieces of parchment. It was of a very high quality, too: well argued and concise. It would have become a standard text in time.’

‘It was that good?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I thought it was just an undergraduate analysis of the ideas proposed by Heytesbury.’

‘Faricius’s work was original and clever. He would have been a great scholar, had he lived.’

‘Do you know where this essay is?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Faricius kept it under a stone in the churchyard of St John Zachary. His friends Simon Lynne or Horneby will tell you where to look.’

‘Lynne has fled,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But Horneby said the essay is missing.’

‘How dreadful,’ said Paul. ‘I hope it comes to light. I can recall some of his arguments, but Faricius had a writing style that was beautifully concise. I could never hope to emulate it accurately.’

‘When he was dying, he asked me to find his scrip and to bring it to you,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He wanted you to have his essay. What would you have done with it?’

Paul was moved by this, and tears spilled from his eyes and made their way down his leathery cheeks. ‘I would have kept it safe until this latest bout of bickering is over and we all have regained our senses. And then I would have had it read at one of the University lectures, so that our greatest scholars would be able to appreciate the purity of his logic and the clarity of his writing.’

A lay-brother came to open the gate, and Bartholomew followed Paul across a courtyard and up some stairs to where Prior Pechem occupied a pleasant suite of rooms that were located above a barrel-vaulted storeroom. The physician looked around him as he entered the Warden’s quarters. Like the leaders of the other Orders in Cambridge, the head of the Franciscans knew how to look after himself. Thick rugs spared him the unpleasantness of placing bare feet on the flagged floor, while tapestries adorned with exotic birds and plants meant that he was not obliged to stare at bare walls. There was a large bed heaped with furs near the window.

‘Ah, Bartholomew! At last!’ came a voice from under the bed-covers. Bartholomew jumped, because he had imagined the room was empty. ‘That horse has done me some serious harm.’

‘So I understand,’ said Bartholomew, advancing on the mountain of furs and peering over them, to see if he could detect the owner of the voice.

‘Young Stanmore promised you would not charge me for your services,’ said Pechem, as Bartholomew continued to hunt for him. ‘I plan to hold him to that – and you.’

‘As you wish,’ said Bartholomew, tentatively removing one fur, only to find another beneath it. ‘Perhaps you will show me the damage, so that I might examine it.’

He started backward as an arm shot though the covers, although there was still no sign of its owner’s face. He supposed that avoiding eye contact was the Warden’s way of approaching what might prove to be an uncomfortable interview. He perched on the edge of the bed and began to unravel the crude bandage that someone had wrapped around the afflicted limb. After some moments, during which the chamber was still and the only sound was the distant hum of prayers coming from the tiny chapel across the courtyard, Bartholomew removed the bindings to reveal a hand in which the impression of a large set of equine teeth was clearly etched.

‘This is not too bad,’ he said, rinsing away dried blood with water from a bowl on the table. ‘I have a salve of garlic and marsh-mallow that will ease the pain and encourage healing. You should have called me earlier, though. Bites have a nasty habit of festering unless treated quickly.’

‘I have never been bitten by a horse before,’ came the muffled voice. ‘And our herbalist confessed he was uncertain about which of his potions to use.’

‘Not his rat poison,’ said Bartholomew, in a feeble attempt at levity. ‘Did you know that particular poison is famed from here to Peterborough?’

Pechem chuckled appreciatively. ‘I am gratified. Rats can be a serious problem.’

He was silent while Bartholomew continued to clean the wound, and the only sign that the physician was tending a whole person and not merely an arm was when he touched a tender part, and the hand flinched.

‘Your book-bearer, Cynric, came to us earlier today,’ said Pechem, after a while, evidently deciding he needed something to take his mind away from the uncomfortable operation that was taking place outside his line of vision. ‘He wanted to know how a curse might be lifted. I was inclined to dismiss him, because we are not in the habit of dabbling in that sort of thing, but then he told me who the cure was for.’

‘Richard,’ said Bartholomew.

‘Richard,’ agreed Pechem. ‘I told him to burn the feathers of a pheasant with mint and garlic, say three Ave Marias and then give a groat to the church of his choice. That should see Richard restored to his former likeable disposition.’

‘Do the feathers need to belong to a pheasant?’ asked Bartholomew recalling Langelee’s bemusement when Clippesby – evidently under Cynric’s instructions – had caught the porter’s bird. ‘Or will a cockerel do?’

‘I really have no idea,’ said Pechem. ‘It was something I saw written in one of our more secular books once. Let me know what happens, will you? If it is effective, there are others I would like to see rendered a little more agreeable.’

Personally, Bartholomew thought that a good part of Cambridge would benefit from being treated to such a potion, but he held his peace. He hoped the stench of burning feathers would not make his arrogant nephew ill.

‘Kenyngham informed me today that you attended certain meetings in St Radegund’s Convent,’ he said, not entirely truthfully, as he worked. The fingers that had been wiggling in a tentative trial of movement, stopped abruptly.

‘He should not have said that,’ said Pechem sharply. ‘I told Brother Michael when he questioned me earlier this evening that I did not know what he was talking about.’

‘You lied to him,’ said Bartholomew flatly.

‘We all swore an oath. We vowed never to reveal the subjects that were discussed.’

‘Did you make that vow to Walcote?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Because if you did, then I suggest that the time has come for openness. Walcote is dead, and Michael is certain that whatever was discussed at the meetings has a bearing on the case.’

‘Michael would think that,’ said Pechem. ‘But what we discussed had nothing to do with him.’

‘You should let Michael be the judge of that,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And now it seems his life may be in danger. You should tell him what you know before more lives are lost – especially his. He is my friend, and I do not want to see him come to harm.’

Pechem’s eyes appeared from beneath the bed-covers, small and black in a face that was flushed from the warmth of the furs. ‘But we discussed nothing that will endanger Brother Michael.’

‘Then what did you talk about?’

‘The fact that the nominalism – realism debate seems to be gaining more importance than it warrants. Walcote, to give him his due, tried to suggest that both sides should meet and battle out the issue in the debating hall, but none of us thought that was a good idea.’

‘Why not?’

‘Well, because we realists might have lost the argument, for a start,’ said Pechem. ‘Some of those nominalists are clever men – especially the Benedictines and the Austin canons. The Dominicans would have presented us with no problem, since they have no good scholars to speak of.’

‘Is that the only reason you did not want an open debate?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking that it was a poor theory if its proponents declined to expound it in the lecture halls lest they lost.

‘It was the biggest one. The other was that we did not want a riot on our hands. The Carmelites and the Dominicans, in particular, were on the verge of a fight, and we did not want a public occasion to provide the spark to set them on fire.’

‘And what else was discussed?’ asked Bartholomew.

Pechem sighed. ‘I suppose now that Kenyngham has revealed what he knows it makes no difference whether I keep my silence or not. We had plans to donate money anonymously to the town for the Great Bridge to be repaired.’

‘Why does that call for secrecy?’ asked Bartholomew, who already knew from Adam that repairs to the bridge were discussed.

‘Have you used the Great Bridge recently?’ asked Pechem, answering with a question of his own.

There had been a bridge over the River Cam since at least the ninth century, and William the Conqueror had raised another to link his newly built castle with the rest of the town. Gradually, the Conqueror’s bridge had fallen into disrepair, and in the 1270s a tax had been imposed on the town to build another. The money had promptly been pocketed by the Sheriff, who then declined to produce a new bridge and made superficial repairs to the old one instead. Since then, stone piers had been built, but the wooden planking was soft and rotten with age. The long wet winter had not helped, and the few remaining sound timbers had been stolen by soldiers from the Castle, who wanted to charge people for being rowed across the river in their boats. Anyone using the bridge therefore did so at considerable peril.

‘Well?’ demanded Pechem, still waiting for his reply. ‘Have you crossed the Great Bridge of late? Most sane men have not.’

‘I avoid it, if I can,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘But the townsfolk would be deeply indebted to the religious Orders for repairing it. Why should you keep such charity secret?’

‘Because we do not want the town thinking we have so much money that we can afford to scatter it in all directions,’ snapped Pechem. ‘If we did mend the thing, it would have to be funded discreetly.’

‘Is that all you talked about at these meetings? Repairing the Great Bridge and how to avoid a proper debate with the nominalists?’

Pechem sighed and gnawed at his bottom lip. ‘We discussed a theft from one of the University chests,’ he said reluctantly.

‘What theft?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘What was stolen?’

‘Deeds, books, all sorts of things,’ said Pechem. ‘The main University Chest is a large box stored in the tower of St Mary’s Church. Since an attempt was made to steal it some years ago, a duplicate chest has been stored at the Carmelite Friary.’

‘I know all this,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But when did this recent theft happen? I always understood that St Mary’s tower was virtually impregnable these days, and that it was impossible to gain access to it without the right keys.’

‘So it is,’ said Pechem. ‘It was the chest at the Carmelite Friary that was ransacked, not the one in St Mary’s Church.’

‘When was it attacked?’ asked Bartholomew a second time.

‘Christmas.’

‘That was months ago. Why was it kept secret?’

‘That is easy to answer,’ said Pechem. ‘When it was discovered that the chest had been breached, Prior Lincolne – who, as head of the Carmelite Order in Cambridge, is responsible for guarding it – immediately sent for the Junior Proctor to investigate.’

‘Why Walcote? Why not Michael? Presumably, this theft was taken very seriously?’

‘Very seriously,’ agreed Pechem. ‘But we could not have Brother Michael investigating the theft, could we?’

‘Why not?’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘He is the Senior Proctor. It is his job.’

‘Perhaps it is,’ said Pechem. ‘But not when there was plenty of evidence to suggest that it was Michael who committed the theft in the first place.’

Bartholomew returned to Michaelhouse, and was admitted by a student because the College was short of night porters. Martin Arbury had been reading by candlelight, and asked the physician for a summary of Heytesbury’s position on accelerating motion. Bartholomew obliged, and the youngster listened intently before returning to his studies.

Bartholomew wanted to talk to Michael, but he discovered that the monk and Langelee had done some serious harm to Langelee’s barrel of wine, and were still ensconced in comradely bonhomie next to the fire, toasting each other’s health. Their carousing could be heard all over the courtyard, and was probably keeping more than one weary student from his sleep. The physician wondered how Langelee felt able to justify the heavy fines he imposed on the scholars he caught doing the same thing.

He declined to join them, and instead went to Kenyngham’s room. He knocked softly on the door and slipped inside. Kenyngham was asleep, as were the three students who shared his room. They lay on straw mattresses that were stored under Kenyngham’s bed during the day and were brought out to cover the whole floor at night. Their steady breathing indicated that Bartholomew’s entry had not woken them, and he wondered whether they had been at the wine themselves, for the sounds of Langelee and Michael enjoying themselves in the room virtually above their heads were deafening. He sat on the edge of Kenyngham’s bed and shook the elderly Gilbertine awake.

‘I know what you discussed at these meetings,’ he whispered when the friar sat up rubbing his eyes. ‘The theft from the chest in the Carmelite Friary.’

He heard Kenyngham sigh softly. ‘Come outside, Matthew. My students mark all seven offices at church during Holy Week, and it will not do if they fall asleep during them because you want to talk to me in the middle of the night.’

If Kenyngham’s students were attending all the religious offices, as well as their morning lectures, no wonder they all slept so deeply, thought Bartholomew. He waited for Kenyngham to draw on a pair of shoes, then followed him into the courtyard.

‘What is that?’ asked Kenyngham, as his sleep-befuddled wits sharpened and he became aware of the row emanating from Langelee’s room. ‘I am surprised the Master permits such a racket at this time of night.’

‘I visited Prior Pechem tonight,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He told me about the Carmelites’ theft.’

‘He should not have done that,’ said Kenyngham, gazing up at the dark sky above. ‘But now you know, I suppose there is no point in further secrecy. I wish you had not meddled: you are Michael’s friend.’

‘Michael is not a thief,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He skates on thin ice from time to time, but he would never steal.’

‘The evidence suggests otherwise,’ said Kenyngham. ‘He was the only person with access to a key, other than Chancellor Tynkell.’

‘That means nothing,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Someone could have used a knife to prise the chest open.’

‘The master locksmith inspected it the morning after the theft. He told Walcote that it had been breached because someone had a key, not because it had been forced open.’

‘But Tynkell – or even Michael himself – could have mislaid the key or left it unguarded, enabling someone else to make a copy,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘This so-called “evidence” of yours does not prove that Michael is a criminal.’

‘I have not finished yet,’ said Kenyngham. ‘Michael was actually seen entering the friary by at least two people the evening the theft was committed. Walcote interviewed every Carmelite, and it was ascertained beyond the shadow of a doubt that he had visited no one there that night.’

‘But a good deal of Michael’s business is secret,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘Remember what happened when Langelee revealed his pending arrangements with Heytesbury last year? There was a perfectly honest explanation, but he could not tell anyone because of the delicacy of the negotiations.’

‘There is yet more evidence against Michael,’ Kenyngham went on. ‘The same night, he was seen by his own beadles carrying a bulging bag from Milne Street – where the Carmelite Friary is located – to Michaelhouse. Michael told them it contained fresh bread as a gift to his Michaelhouse colleagues. But we had no fresh bread that morning.’

‘How can you be sure of that?’ demanded Bartholomew, becoming distressed as Kenyngham’s accusations mounted. ‘I doubt you remember what you had for breakfast this morning, let alone what you ate months ago, and Michael does occasionally buy bread for us.’

‘But I do remember, Matthew,’ Kenyngham insisted. ‘It was Christmas Day. Traditionally, we give the parish children their breakfast then, but that morning we only had stale bread to offer.’

Bartholomew knew that was true, because he vividly recalled the expressions of abject disappointment in the faces of the children who had been waiting since dawn for their yearly treat. He also remembered that it had been Michael who had quietly suggested that they return that afternoon, when the children were given bread, apples, milk and cheese paid for from his own pocket. The fat monk had a soft spot for children.

‘Walcote then visited the baker,’ Kenyngham continued. ‘The baker was unequivocal: there was some problem with the oven, which meant that no one had fresh bread that night – including Michael. Whatever he had been carrying was certainly not food.’

‘And you think this proves Michael is guilty of theft?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Well, yes,’ said Kenyngham. ‘And so would you, if Michael were someone other than your dearest friend.’

‘There will be a rational explanation for all of it,’ Bartholomew declared.

‘I wish that were true,’ said Kenyngham. ‘But I do not see how there can be. Do you understand now why I declined to tell you what we discussed at St Radegund’s Convent?’

Bartholomew nodded reluctantly. ‘What else did you talk about? Was there any mention of a plot to kill Michael?’

‘I have already told you there was not,’ said Kenyngham. ‘Who said there was?’

‘Prior Morden.’

Kenyngham shook his head. ‘Morden was at no meeting I ever attended.’

‘Then what about the dead beadle and the letter?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Surely that is good evidence that something was afoot?’

Kenyngham sighed tiredly. ‘I know nothing of this. What beadle and what letter?’

‘A beadle called Rob Smyth drowned in a puddle last winter. Walcote found a letter in his possession that gave details of a plot against Michael’s life.’

‘Was Michael with you when Morden spun this tale?’

‘Of course,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We are investigating Walcote’s murder and were trying to understand the nature of these secret meetings, so that we could work out who might have killed him.’

Kenyngham scrubbed at his halo of fluffy white hair. ‘There is one explanation for why Morden chose to fabricate such lies, although I doubt you will appreciate the logic behind it.’

‘What?’ asked Bartholomew warily.

‘Walcote was looking into the theft from the Carmelite Friary. He had collected enough evidence to incriminate Michael, and was waiting for an opportunity to confront him with it. Then he was murdered. Obviously, Morden was not going to say all this with Michael towering over him, and so he invented some silly story to distract Michael’s attention from the real issue.’

Bartholomew gazed at Kenyngham in utter disbelief. ‘Surely you are not suggesting that Michael is investigating a murder he committed himself? How could you even begin to think such a thing?’

‘Whoever hanged Walcote was strong, and probably had a couple of henchmen to help,’ said Kenyngham heavily. ‘Michael’s beadles are loyal to him, especially Tom Meadowman. The killer was also able to stalk the streets at night; Michael regularly patrols the town, and few know it as well as he does.’

‘This is insane,’ said Bartholomew, beginning to back away from Kenyngham as though he was infected by a virulent contagion. ‘It is all gross supposition. The rawest undergraduate could destroy your arguments like a house of straw.’

‘Poor Walcote was horrified by his discoveries,’ Kenyngham went on relentlessly. ‘He told us he did not know what to do next, and said it was not pleasant for him to learn that a man he admired, and who is the embodiment of law and order in the University, is corrupt.’

‘I do not believe I am hearing this,’ said Bartholomew. He took another step away from Kenyngham, then turned his back on the Gilbertine and began to walk across the yard. ‘I refuse to listen to any more of it.’

‘God be with you, Matthew,’ came Kenyngham’s voice, drifting across the yard as he walked. ‘And do not let friendship blind you to the truth.’

From the shadows near his staircase, Bartholomew watched Kenyngham return to his bed, then paced back and forth in Michaelhouse’s dark yard, uncertain whether to join Michael and Langelee in the Master’s quarters and tell them what he had learned from Kenyngham, or whether to go to his room and give himself time to identify more flaws in Kenyngham’s story. The voices of Michael and Langelee, slurred from the wine, echoed around the stone buildings as they continued to carouse.

Bartholomew was unable to concentrate over their racket, and so he walked through the kitchens and opened a small back door, which led to a large garden that sloped towards the river. The grounds boasted vegetable plots that provided stringy cabbages and tough turnips, and a small orchard of apple and pear trees. Near the gate was Agatha’s herb garden, a neat rectangle of thyme, mint, rosemary and parsley. Even on a cold winter night, their comfortingly familiar scents pervaded the air.

Next to one of the walls a tree had fallen many years before, and the trunk provided a comfortable seat for scholars who wanted to be alone with their thoughts. In the summer it was an attractive place shaded by leaves and carpeted with long green grass; at night in late winter, it was less appealing, with leafless branches clawing at the dark sky and a sprinkling of frost underfoot, but at least it was quiet. Bartholomew sat on the trunk and leaned back against the wall, marshalling his thoughts.

The physician knew perfectly well that Michael was not above breaking all kinds of rules in order to achieve his objectives. He was also sure that the monk treated his religious vows with a certain degree of laxness, that he owned property he should not have had, and that the Seven Deadly Sins – especially Gluttony and Lust – were what provided him with his greatest enjoyment in life. The monk was a conspirator, he was not averse to lying, and he regularly cheated the people with whom he dealt – as Heytesbury would discover if he ever signed Michael’s contract. He played power games with the wealthy and influential, and was vindictive to people who tried to treat him in the same shabby way as he treated them. And despite the mutual backslapping that was taking place, even as Bartholomew agonised over his quandary, Langelee had been responsible for Michael not being elected as Master, and Bartholomew knew Michael had not forgiven him. At some point in the future, Michael would have his revenge.

But to claim that Michael was a thief – and worse – was another matter entirely. Bartholomew’s instinctive reaction was to dismiss what Kenyngham had told him, and to believe that Walcote had been mistaken. And yet the evidence for Michael’s guilt was compelling – especially the fact that he had been present in the Carmelite Friary without an excuse at the time of the theft, and that he had been seen carrying a bulky sack from the friary towards Michaelhouse. And then he had lied about the sack’s contents.

There was something else, too. Bartholomew leaned forward and buried his head in his hands, reluctant to confront the mounting tide of evidence against Michael. When Bartholomew had first agreed to help the monk, they had sat together in Michael’s room and Bartholomew had made notes on a scrap of used parchment. Walcote had written on it, and then someone – possibly Walcote but probably Michael – had scraped it and covered it in a thin layer of chalk so that it could be used again. But the scraper had done a poor job: Bartholomew had been able to read what had been written previously, and he recalled that one side had contained a list of items stolen from the chest at the Carmelite Friary.

So, what did that tell him? That Michael knew about Walcote’s investigation, and he had even managed to purloin a list of the very items he himself had stolen? Or was the parchment just some scrap Michael had grabbed without looking at it, and its presence in his room purely coincidence? Bartholomew decided it had to be the latter. Michael was no burglar.

He sighed and leaned back against the orchard wall, gazing up at the dark sky above. He realised that he would have to prove Michael’s innocence – that if he could show Michael had not committed the theft, then no one would have grounds on which to accuse him of murdering his Junior Proctor. But where was he to begin? How could he investigate a crime that had taken place months before? Any evidence that might have been left at the scene of the burglary would be long since gone.

He stood abruptly, and paced in front of the tree-trunk. Should he tell Michael what was being said about him, so that they could work together to clear the monk of the charges? Or would Michael be so outraged by the accusations that he would decline to respond to them at all, and forbid Bartholomew to give them credence by investigating on his behalf? He knew that the monk could be stubborn about such things. He also knew that Michael’s position as Senior Proctor did not make him popular with everyone, and that many scholars would love to see him fall from grace, especially those who had fallen foul of his quick mind and sharp tongue. It would not be easy to exonerate him in some circles, no matter how much evidence Bartholomew might provide to the contrary.

The physician rubbed a hand through his hair, trying to decide upon the best course of action. Michael would know immediately if Bartholomew was concealing something important from him, and the physician thought that there had been more than enough lies already: he owed Michael his honesty. Then, if Michael reacted as Bartholomew feared, and treated the accusations with dismissive contempt, the physician would have to conduct his own investigation to clear his friend’s name secretly, perhaps with Meadowman’s help.

He was too tired to discuss the affair with the monk that night, and decided to wait until morning. Michael was also drunk, and drunkenness often led to belligerence. Bartholomew did not want to start some argument for the whole College to hear, or run the risk of the monk damaging his chances of proving his innocence by storming off into the night to inform the heads of the religious Orders that they were wrong.

He left the orchard and made his way back to his room. The bells started to chime as he walked past Agatha’s neat rows of herbs, and he realised that it was time for the midnight vigil that many people kept in Easter Week. He was grateful that Michaelhouse did not insist that its scholars undertook such duties, as well as the other offices they were obliged to attend.

The kitchens were cold and empty as he walked through them, and even the cat that usually slept there had gone to find a warmer spot to pass the night. The yard was also deserted, except for Walter the porter’s cockerel, now minus several of its tail feathers. Michael and Langelee had moved on from noisy bonhomie, and were at the stage where they were sharing muttered confidences. Bartholomew knew Michael would learn a lot more about Langelee than Langelee would ever know about him, and as he passed under Langelee’s window, he thought he heard the distinctive sound of Michael’s chuckle.

He stood still for a moment, gazing up at the dark silhouettes of the buildings opposite. A soft groan invaded his thoughts. At first, he did not know where it had come from, but then he heard snoring coming from the chamber Suttone shared with three lively students from Lincolnshire: the sound had either been Suttone himself, or perhaps one of his students, caught in some restless dream. Then there was a blood-chilling howl followed by a babbling voice, which made him leap in alarm and silenced the soft sounds of merriment issuing from Langelee’s chamber. Bartholomew heard Cynric sharply informing Clippesby that people were sleeping, and that he had best save his screeches for the daytime.

Bartholomew heaved a sigh of relief, and heard the muted conversation resume in Langelee’s quarters. Nocturnal disturbances were commonplace when Clippesby was going through one of his episodes, and there was nothing anyone could do but try to calm him. Cynric seemed to have it under control, so, taking a final breath of sweet night air that was scented with a faint tang of salt from the marshes to the north, Bartholomew turned and entered his room.

It was dark inside his chamber without a candle, and Bartholomew groped around blindly, swearing under his breath when he stubbed his toe on the end of the bed. He ran his hands up the damp wall until his fingers encountered the wooden pegs that had been driven into it, and then hung up his cloak and tabard. He tugged off his boots, setting them near the window in the futile hope that the icy blasts that whistled under the shutters might serve to dry them out a little, and then washed in the jug of water left for him each night. The surface of the water cracked when he touched it, and tiny slivers of ice scratched him as he splashed handfuls of it over his face and neck. Finally, hopping on tiptoe on the freezing flagstones, with his hands aching and burning from the coldness of the water, he leapt into the bed.

The first few moments in bed during the winter were never pleasant, and on very cold nights, the unpleasantness sometimes lasted until dawn. The bed-covers were damp, and Bartholomew did not know which was worse: the chill wetness that forced him to curl into a tight ball until the warmth of his body began to drive the cold away, or the moistness that made him feel sticky and clammy once it had warmed up. He lay shivering in his night-shirt and hose, his hands tucked under his arms, rubbing his feet together in a futile attempt to warm them.

Gradually, the cold began to recede and he was able to uncoil himself bit by bit, until his feet were at the end of the bed. Once the misery of the icy blankets had been breached, his mind automatically returned to Michael and the accusations regarding the Carmelites’ chest. He tried not to think about it, and to consider more pleasant matters, such as the treatment of the lepers at Stourbridge or the arguments he might use on Langelee regarding cleaning of the College latrines. But even these fascinating issues failed to distract him, and he found himself once again pondering how best to prove Michael’s innocence.

He tossed and turned in an exhausting half-sleep, while his mind teemed with questions. He was restless enough to become quite hot, and the moist blankets stuck to him in a restricting kind of way that made him hotter still. At last he sat up, knowing that he would be unable to rest properly until he had spoken to Michael. He listened carefully, trying to hear whether the monk was still with Langelee, or whether he had returned to his room. A small creak from above indicated that he was at home, and was probably sitting at his table, working in the silence of the night.

Now grateful for the sensation of cool stone against his bare skin, Bartholomew walked across his room and opened the door, stepping into the small hallway beyond. Lamplight still gleamed under the window shutters in Langelee’s quarters, and he imagined that Michael was not the only one to take the opportunity of the peace and quiet to do some work. He heard the bell of St Mary begin to toll, announcing the office of nocturns for those who were awake. It was three o’clock.

He turned, and began to grope his way forward until he encountered the wooden stairs that led to the upper floor, swearing under his breath when he stubbed his toe a second time that evening, this time on the metal scraper on which scholars were supposed to remove the worst of the mud from their shoes before entering their rooms. It was heavy and hard, and Bartholomew hopped around for several moments in mute agony as the pain shot through his foot. He hoped his inadvertent antics had not disturbed the scholars who were sleeping in the room opposite.

In Michaelhouse, each ‘staircase’ had four rooms: two on the ground floor and two on the upper floor. Suttone, the skeletal Carmelite, lived in the room opposite Bartholomew’s, and the sounds of snoring that issued through the door suggested that he and his room-mates were doing what all decent people should be doing so late in the night – which was certainly not preparing to tell a friend that he was accused of murder and theft.

Bartholomew turned to the stairs and began to climb. They were rough and gritty under his bare feet, and at one point he trod on something soft. He did not even want to consider what it might be, and made a mental note to ask Agatha to see it cleaned up the following day.

The chamber opposite Michael’s was occupied by three elderly men whom Langelee had admitted to the College. They were priests who found the daily running of a parish too much and who wanted nothing more than to be provided with a bed at night, regular meals and a little teaching. The snores emanating from the old men’s chamber were even louder than the ones issuing from Suttone’s room, and Bartholomew wondered whether he would feel the door vibrating if he put his hand on it.

There was a ribbon of light under Michael’s door, and another slight creak indicated that the monk was moving between the table and the shelves where he kept his pens and parchment, treading softly so that he would not disturb Bartholomew sleeping below. The physician was about to unlatch the door, when he heard the unmistakable sound of Michael laugh. But it had not come from his own chamber: it had come from Langelee’s quarters across the courtyard, where, it seemed, he was still enjoying the Master’s hospitality.

Then who was moving so carefully in the monk’s room? Was it a Michaelhouse colleague looking for a book or a scroll that might have been borrowed from the College’s library? But it was late to be ransacking the room of a friend for a book, and most people would have waited until the morning to ask for it. The only alternative was that it was an intruder from outside the College, and that whoever it was had no business to be there.

Bartholomew considered his options. He could run across the yard to fetch Michael and Langelee, both of whom were large men and a match for any would-be thief. But the intruder might escape while Bartholomew was rousing them, and then they would never know his identity. He supposed he could wake Suttone and his students, but Suttone was not a man noted for courage, and Bartholomew was afraid he would decline to help and forbid his students to become involved, too. There was only one real choice: he would have to approach the intruder himself. He had heard no voices, so he assumed the burglar was alone.

He took a deep breath to steady himself, and was reaching out to unclip the latch when the light disappeared as the candle was extinguished. Simultaneously, the door was jerked open. Bartholomew had a brief glimpse of a hooded outline in the doorway and heard a sharp intake of breath when, presumably, the intruder also saw Bartholomew. For a moment, neither of them did anything. Then the intruder struck.

Bartholomew found himself wrestled against the wall with one arm twisted behind his back. It happened so quickly that he had no time to react, and he was unable to move. Light footsteps tapped on the stairs as he was held still while someone else fled. So, there had been two people after all. He opened his mouth to yell, but the sound froze in his throat when he felt the prick of a knife against his throat. He tried to struggle, but the person who held him was strong and experienced, and he was barely able to breathe, let alone wriggle free.

He kicked backwards, but this only resulted in him being held even tighter. Then he became aware that his captor was bracing himself, and had the distinct impression the man was preparing to use the knife that lay in a cold line across his neck. Desperation gave Bartholomew the strength he needed. Gritting his teeth against the searing pain of his bent arm, he pushed away from the wall with all his might and succeeded in freeing himself.

Twisting around quickly, he kicked out as hard as he could, but his bare feet made little impression on the shadowy figure that now advanced with serious purpose. In the gloom of the hallway he saw the silhouette of a long, wicked-looking knife, and threw himself backwards as the blade began to descend. A metallic screech sounded as the knife blade met with plaster instead of flesh. He lunged at the intruder while the man was off-balance from the force of the blow, and succeeded in gripping the arm that wielded the knife. He opened his mouth to yell for help, but the intruder was an experienced fighter who knew that if Bartholomew raised the alarm he would be caught. He reacted quickly, and the howl died in Bartholomew’s throat as the intruder let himself fall backwards, pulling Bartholomew with him.

Still desperately trying to gain control of the knife, Bartholomew and his attacker crashed down the stairs in a confused tangle of arms and legs. The intruder landed on top, and used the advantage to struggle free of Bartholomew’s grasp and head for the rectangle of faint light that marked the door. Bartholomew leapt to his feet to follow, but the shoe scraper was in the way, and he fell headlong. He glanced up in time to see a dark figure reach the wicket gate, tug it open and disappear into the lane outside.

Suttone’s door flew open, and Bartholomew heard the scratch of tinder before the wavering halo of a candle illuminated the hallway. He climbed to his feet, but Suttone’s students were milling around, and by the time he had extricated himself from them, it was too late to follow. The intruder would have reached the top of Foule Lane, and there was no way of telling whether he had turned towards the river, where he could hide among the wharfs, reeds and long grass that ran along the banks, or towards the High Street, where he could evade the night patrols by concealing himself in the overgrown churchyards of All Saints in the Jewry, St Clement’s or St John Zachary. Bartholomew knew that pursuit was futile. He closed his eyes in mute frustration and allowed himself to slide down the wall until he was in a sitting position.

‘My dear fellow,’ cried Suttone in alarm, rushing to kneel next to him. ‘What has happened?’

‘He has been drinking with Brother Michael and Master Langelee all night,’ said one of the students knowledgeably. ‘It would not be difficult to fall down the stairs after a night of wine with those two. I certainly could not keep up with them.’

‘I have not been drinking,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘Someone broke into Michael’s room and produced a knife when I tried to stop him. Will someone fetch him and tell him what has happened?’

‘Why would anyone want to burgle Michael?’ asked Suttone, nodding to one of his students to do as Bartholomew asked. ‘He owns nothing worth stealing. None of us do, otherwise we would all eat something other than fish-giblet soup for dinner.’

‘Well, someone did,’ said Bartholomew irritably. ‘You can see from here that the wicket gate is open, where this man made his escape.’

Suttone screwed up his eyes as he squinted in the darkness. ‘You are right. Go and secure it quickly, before we have marauding Dominicans in here.’

This last comment was directed at another of his students, who obligingly sped away to re-lock the door. Now that the skirmish was over and the attackers had fled, Bartholomew felt an unpleasant queasiness in his stomach. It was partly because he was cold, but it was also because he realised he had been foolish to try to take on the intruders alone, and that he should have fetched help. Not only had he rashly risked his life, but he had thrown away an opportunity to learn more about the case that had seen the University’s Junior Proctor murdered and the Senior Proctor facing charges of theft.

‘Martin Arbury is on duty this week, because Walter the porter is away,’ said Suttone. ‘I agreed to exempt him from a disputation, because Master Langelee thought he would be in no fit state for an examination if he had been awake all night. We discussed it at the last Fellows’ meeting, if you recall.’

Bartholomew began to cross the yard, hobbling on the stones and grit that hurt his bare feet. ‘Arbury is a reliable lad. What was he thinking of to let that pair of thieves in?’

As he drew closer to the gate, the answer to his question became clear. Arbury was half sitting and half lying against the wall of the porters’ lodge, all but invisible as his black tabard blended into the darkness that surrounded him. His fair head lolled to one side, and there was a pitchy stain on the ground beneath him.

‘Oh, no!’ whispered Suttone in horror, his big hands fumbling to cross himself. ‘What has happened? Is he dead?’

‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew, after a brief examination revealed that the lad was cool to the touch and that there was no life-beat in his neck. ‘Someone has stabbed him.’