Death of a Scholar

Chapter 9

There was another storm that night, a gale that all but tore the window shutters from their fastenings, and that threatened to rip tiles from roofs. Bartholomew woke frequently, plagued by nightmares about Hemmysby’s dissection. He kept thinking of Marjory Starre’s claim, too – that strong winds marked the death of a good person. Did this one blow for Hemmysby, a generous and compassionate member of the Guild of Saints?

He drowsed again, only to start awake moments later from a dream in which he was to give a lecture, which he had not prepared, on apostolic poverty to a huge audience of clerics, all of whom were livid after reading William’s inflammatory tract. Hemmysby was among them, hands to the incisions in his neck and middle, and a reproachful expression on his face.

Bartholomew half expected to be struck down when he attended Mass the following morning, and was again acutely aware of Hemmysby’s corpse in the chapel. Guilt and remorse deprived him of his appetite at breakfast, and he refused the watery gruel that was on offer.

‘We shall go to the Brazen George for something to eat,’ determined Michael, when Langelee had intoned a final grace and the scholars were free to leave. ‘You will need your strength if we are to solve these mysteries in the next four days. And solve them we must, because I cannot be distracted by murder while Winwick Hall stages some disagreeable coup in St Mary the Great during the beginning of term ceremony.’

Although taverns and inns were forbidden to scholars, Michael saw no reason why the rule should apply to the Senior Proctor, and was such a regular visitor to the Brazen George that the landlord had set aside a room for his exclusive use. It was a pleasant chamber overlooking a pretty courtyard that boasted a well and a herb garden. Rubbing his hands in gluttonous anticipation, the monk began ordering enough food to victual an army.

‘I am hungry,’ he said defensively, although Bartholomew had passed no comment. ‘And we must do some serious thinking, which I always manage better on a full stomach. Besides, it will set me up for later.’

‘Why? What is happening then?’

‘Another choir practice. A lot of matriculands have joined, because they have no money and I provide free bread and ale. I suppose I should send them packing, but I do not have the heart to refuse hungry men. However, it does mean that I have three times as many singers as usual.’

‘Three? God Almighty! They will be audible in Scotland!’

‘Do not blaspheme,’ admonished Michael sharply.

‘Sorry. If these matriculands are so impecunious, how will they pay their tuition fees?’

‘They all hoped to be taken at Winwick, which offers free schooling to a small number of paupers. Of course, most have been rejected. Some have managed to enrol in hostels – six were founded yesterday alone – while others roam aimlessly, hoping Winwick will change its mind.’

‘How will you buy bread and ale for so many?’

Michael grinned. ‘With the handsome fee that de Stannell paid for the documents he needs to calculate certain town taxes.’

‘The ones you always give Dick Tulyet for free?’

‘The very same.’

He was interrupted by the landlord, who brought platter after platter of meat and bread – no vegetables, of course, as Michael considered them a waste of valuable stomach space. He tied a napkin around his neck, flexed his fingers, and pitched in.

‘We now have six deaths to explore,’ began Bartholomew, watching him absently. ‘Oswald, Felbrigge, Elvesmere, Knyt, Hemmysby and Ratclyf. Shall we start with Oswald?’

‘Proceed,’ said Michael, waving a hambone.

‘I think he was poisoned. He was called to a secret meeting, and everyone says he was distracted and unhappy afterwards. Edith thinks Potmoor killed him, and it seems they did do business together. However, I learned yesterday that all Winwick’s Fellows were here in Cambridge when he died.’

The bone was waved again; it had notably less meat. ‘Why would they want him dead?’

‘He founded the Guild of Saints to help the poor, but Winwick has been demanding ever bigger donations. I cannot see him approving – it was not what he intended.’

‘Fair enough. The next death was Felbrigge, shot before the ceremony giving Winwick its charter. Moments earlier, he had been telling me how he had instigated measures to control the place. Fulbut was the archer, but he almost certainly acted on someone else’s orders. We know Potmoor hires him, but Fulbut is a mercenary, and they will work for anyone. He is still missing, and I have a feeling he has been killed to prevent him from talking.’

‘Oswald and Felbrigge – and Knyt – were leading members of the Guild of Saints. De Stannell is in charge now, a man who is far more malleable than they would have been.’

‘Hemmysby felt strongly about looking after the poor, too,’ said Michael, wiping grease from his chin. ‘Now he was definitely poisoned, probably with cake eaten after the debate, although we do not know how. He died trying to reach our church. And if that is not bad enough, someone wants him accused of stealing the Stanton Hutch.’

‘And the culprit knows Michaelhouse well enough to make off with the chest himself, then come back and leave the cup and deeds on display in Hemmysby’s room.’

‘I suspect Potmoor of killing Knyt,’ said Michael. The hambone was stripped bare, so he turned his attention to the beef. ‘He was in Knyt’s house the day Knyt died, and he is enamoured of Olivia. But if Knyt was poisoned and Potmoor did it, then it means that Potmoor killed the others, too – I doubt we have two poisoners at large.’

Bartholomew agreed. ‘I cannot prove Ratclyf was fed dormirella, but he certainly suffered symptoms consistent with it. I seriously doubt he died of a weak heart – it is too convenient. Moreover, he had liquorice root in his purse, something people with unsteady hearts should avoid.’

Michael stopped eating and regarded him sombrely. ‘I hate to say it, Matt, but I fear you might have to make more of those judicious incisions. On Ratclyf, Elvesmere and–’

‘No! Winwick would find out for certain.’

‘But we need to know.’ Michael’s face was pale, and the food sat ignored on the platter in front of him, telling the physician that he was not the only one who uncomfortable with what was being suggested. ‘And I thought you were keen to use this new tool against wicked killers, learning more about the human body in the process.’

‘I am. Or rather, I was.’ Bartholomew rubbed a hand through his hair. It was not easy to discuss, even with Michael. ‘It felt very wrong, Brother. Perhaps because we did it in a church.’

‘Next time, it will be in St Mary the Great.’ Michael raised an oily hand when Bartholomew started to object again. ‘We have no choice, Matt. We must have the truth, and I cannot think of another way to find it. Besides, surely the second time will less distressing than the first?’

‘It will not,’ said Bartholomew with finality. ‘And I am not doing it.’

Michael regarded him balefully, then continued with their analysis, although his appetite had gone and he ate no more. ‘But Potmoor is not our only suspect. Winwick is not a College at ease with itself – none of its Fellows like each other, with the exception of the cloying Lawrence, who simpers over everyone.’

Bartholomew ignored the last remark. ‘All were alone with the ailing Ratclyf at some point, although none would have admitted it if not pushed by the others. Nerli put him to bed, Illesy visited mid-morning, and Bon must have been in the vicinity or he would not have heard Illesy.’

‘And Lawrence took him a tonic,’ added Michael pointedly.

Bartholomew ignored him a second time. ‘They all behaved suspiciously: Illesy is eager for us to believe that Ratclyf had a weak heart; Bon wanted us to know that Ratclyf did not share the wine that made him drunk; Nerli ordered the garlicky pottage thrown away; and the cup used for the tonic looked to have been rinsed. It means we cannot test anything that Ratclyf swallowed.’

‘Nerli worries me most – there is something deeply sinister about him. Also, dormirella is an Italian creation, and he hails from Florence. It would not surprise me to learn that he is a poisoner. Which would mean that Potmoor visiting Knyt’s house on the morning of his death is irrelevant.’

‘Nerli has a motive for dispatching the other victims, too,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘He clashed with Elvesmere over the validity of his foreign degrees, while Oswald, Felbrigge and Knyt may have objected to the Guild’s support of his College. Meanwhile, it was to Nerli that Edith delivered the fruitcake for the debate…’

‘Elvesmere,’ said Michael. ‘Let us consider him next. He was stabbed somewhere other than the latrine where he was found, and the wound in his back would not have been instantly fatal. You say he may have been poisoned, too.’

‘It is possible.’ Restlessly, Bartholomew crumbled a piece of bread in his fingers.

‘Everyone at Winwick had the opportunity to kill him,’ the monk went on. ‘He died in the middle of the night, when they claim to have been asleep, and all his colleagues disliked him: he denigrated Nerli’s qualifications, despised Illesy for befriending Potmoor, scorned Lawrence for being a medicus, and even his friend Bon did not escape his bile.’

‘He drew attention to Bon’s illegitimacy,’ recalled Bartholomew.

‘But Bon is blind, which is a serious disadvantage for a killer. How could he be sure that no one was watching while he poisoned victuals, or indulged in a bit of stabbing? And what about his getaway? He stumbled in the parlura, a place he knows, so how could he manage outside? I suppose he could have hired someone to help him, but that would carry its own uncertainties.’

‘Yet despite all this, I am not sure the Winwick men are ruthless enough for murder. Several members of the Guild of Saints are, though. You do not accrue riches and power by being gentle.’

‘True,’ agreed Michael. ‘So our suspects are the wealthy guildsmen with Potmoor high on the list, the four Winwick men–’

‘Two Winwick men,’ interrupted Bartholomew. ‘Lawrence is not a murderer and Bon has hypochyma. However, there is another guildsman you have not mentioned: Holm, who bought dormirella, and has a workshop in which he experiments.’

‘I wondered how long it would be before you reminded me about him,’ said Michael wryly.

As Bartholomew and Michael left the Brazen George, they met two scholars from Bene’t College. John Samon was a short, ugly canonist with a cheery manner, while Master Heltisle was tall, aloof and unfriendly. Heltisle had never liked Bartholomew, but that day, he regarded the physician with more hostility than usual.

‘We were burgled yesterday,’ he said coldly. ‘By Potmoor.’

‘Possibly by Potmoor,’ corrected Samon, shooting him a cautionary glance. ‘Although I do not believe it, personally. I know he never has an alibi for these crimes, but I do not see a powerful villain like him demeaning himself with petty theft.’

‘He does it to keep his skills honed,’ explained Heltisle shortly. ‘Our porters heard him say so.’ He turned back to Bartholomew. ‘And it is your fault for resurrecting him.’

‘If you believe that medici can raise people from the dead, then you are a fool,’ said Bartholomew, tiredness and his continuing unease over Hemmysby making him uncharacteristically curt. ‘It is impossible, and anyone with a modicum of intelligence should know it. Potmoor was not dead, he was suffering from catalepsia.’

Heltisle took a step away, unused to the physician hitting back. ‘Well, perhaps. However, there is another rumour you should hear, too. We had it from Weasenham.’

‘What has he been saying now?’ groaned Michael wearily. The stationer was an incurable gossip, who shamelessly invented stories when he was low on true ones.

‘That Provost Illesy stole from the King when he was a clerk in Westminster. He was dismissed in disgrace, so he had no choice but to work for Potmoor until he was offered something better. It explains why he is so rich – he kept what he filched from His Majesty.’

Michael rolled his eyes. ‘What utter nonsense! John Winwick would not have appointed a thief to run his College, and he would certainly know if Illesy had been caught with his fingers in the royal coffers. Weasenham is just trying to make trouble, as usual.’

‘Do not be so sure,’ said Heltisle. ‘Winwick is full of rogues, and I hate them all. Upstarts!’

Samon hastened to explain. ‘We have just been to the reading of Knyt’s will. He always promised to remember Bene’t in it, but everything has gone to the Guild of Saints instead – which means that Winwick Hall is likely to get it all.’

‘Winwick is an abomination,’ spat Heltisle, ‘and if it had not come into being so fast, I would have contacted my friends at Court and put an end to it. As it was, we were essentially presented with a fait accompli.’

‘We were,’ agreed Michael. ‘But it is here now, and we must make the best of it.’

Heltisle drew himself up to his full, haughty height. ‘I shall oppose it at every turn, and so will King’s Hall, Gonville, Valence Marie, Bene’t, Trinity Hall, Clare and Peterhouse. Its greed and selfishness are damaging our University, and we want it gone.’

He stalked away, leaving Michael staring after him unhappily, thinking about Winwick’s intention to usurp precedence at St Mary the Great after the beginning of term ceremony. The other Heads of Houses would feel the same as Heltisle, and there would be trouble for certain.

‘Tynkell let slip something yesterday,’ he told Bartholomew, as they resumed their journey. ‘That my Junior Proctor encouraged John Winwick to wait until I had gone to Peterborough before forging ahead with his new College. In other words, Felbrigge wanted to oversee the arrangements himself, so he could claim all the credit.’

Bartholomew was not surprised. ‘You scoffed at the notion that Felbrigge was a threat, but he was ruthlessly ambitious. Yet his plan has misfired: no one thanks him for Winwick Hall.’

‘He said he had put measures in place to control it. I wish I knew what they were, because the wretched place is beyond my sway. Are people still saying I killed him, by the way?’

‘Not to me.’

‘Here comes de Stannell,’ said Michael, watching the deputy trot towards them on a lively bay. It was too spirited for his meagre equestrian skills – the secret riding lessons at the castle clearly had some way to go – obliging him to cling hard to the edge of his saddle.

‘There were more thefts in the town last night,’ he panted, struggling to control the beast and talk at the same time. ‘Including the Mayor, who lost a silver pot and five spoons.’

‘Bene’t was burgled, too, and Master Heltisle claims Potmoor is responsible.’ Michael took the reins, and the animal immediately quietened; he had a way with horses. ‘It is a serious allegation, and it is incumbent on you to investigate.’

De Stannell looked away. ‘I cannot. Potmoor is a fellow guildsman.’

‘If your post as Secretary interferes with your duties as Deputy Sheriff, you should resign one of them,’ said Michael sharply.

‘Do not tell me what to do,’ bristled de Stannell. ‘Besides, I did challenge him, and he told me he is innocent. He may have been lying, I suppose, but unless you have evidence to prove it, I suggest you let the matter drop. It is reckless to annoy vicious felons.’

‘But you are Deputy Sheriff!’ exclaimed Michael, stunned by the bald admission of cowardice. ‘It is your duty to annoy vicious felons.’

‘Rubbish! Besides, he thinks a scholar is the guilty party. I am inclined to believe he is right.’

‘Unless you can support such claims with facts, you would be wise to keep them to yourself,’ snapped Michael. ‘Or you will learn to your cost that slandering the University is expensive.’

‘Is that so? Well, for your information, the best lawyers are in Winwick, and they would never move against me. Who provided wine when they were struggling to supply refreshments after the debate? I did! They are in my debt.’

‘Then it is a pity you made them look mean by being niggardly,’ flashed Michael. ‘There was not enough to go around, and you embarrassed them with your miserliness.’

Before de Stannell could take issue, Michael dealt the horse a sharp slap on the flank. It reared and shot off down the High Street with its rider hauling ineffectually on the reins. Even Bartholomew, no equestrian himself, was unimpressed.

‘Heaven help us if we need his help to quell trouble next week.’

Michael and Bartholomew had interviewed Tynkell, Rougham and the Winwick men about the cake that Hemmysby had eaten at the debate, but they had not yet questioned the last two scholars who had formed the little group. They returned to Michaelhouse, where they found William and Thelnetham in the conclave. No one else was there, and the pair were bickering furiously.

‘I can give you some of my duties if you have too much time on your hands,’ said Michael acidly. ‘Or Matt’s. We are both worried about how we will manage next term, yet you two have leisure to lounge in here, sparring with each other.’

‘We were discussing my tract,’ said William, flushing guiltily. ‘Everyone criticised me for copying Linton Hall’s essay and passing it off as mine, so I have rewritten the whole thing in my own words. Although I left the foreword because that was the bit I had written myself anyway – and I certainly needed no help from Linton to tell me what I think of Gilbertines, Dominicans or that shameless pluralist John Winwick.’

‘And needless to say, the ideas in that poisonous rant are now more dangerous and asinine than ever,’ interposed Thelnetham.

Michael glared at William. ‘How did you rewrite it? We burnt your version and the original.’

‘I had two copies of Linton’s work and you only confiscated one.’ William smirked triumphantly. ‘You cannot complain, Brother. It is now an entirely original piece.’

Michael controlled his temper with difficulty. ‘The issue was not the plagiarism, it was the content – views that saw a brother foundation closed and its members excommunicated. Destroy it at once, or I shall instruct the Bishop to eject you from the Church.’

William paled. ‘You would never do such a thing.’

‘To save Michaelhouse from dissolution? I most certainly would.’ Michael felt he had made his point and moved on to another matter. ‘I understand you stood with Hemmysby, Tynkell, the Winwick Fellows and Rougham for the refreshments after the debate. You may have been among the last people to see him alive.’

‘I thought he looked wan,’ said Thelnetham. ‘But so were we all after listening to those ranting voices all day. And I would not have chosen the company of the rogues from Winwick Hall, but William called them over.’

‘To say how much I enjoyed watching Hemmysby make asses of Ratclyf and Bon,’ explained William, bouncing back quickly from Michael’s reprimand, as was his wont. He grinned gleefully. ‘They did not know how to respond!’

‘Vile creatures, the lot of them,’ spat Thelnetham. ‘They belong to that nasty Guild of Saints, for a start. I told Hemmysby to refuse the invitation to join, but he would not listen.’

‘He wanted to do good works,’ said William. ‘And with Stanmore at the helm, it was a benevolent force. Some awful scoundrels took the reins after he died, though. Potmoor, de Stannell, Mistress Mortimer, Mayor Heslarton, the Frevills…’

‘They probably corrupted Hemmysby,’ said Thelnetham. ‘It is their fault he turned dishonest.’

‘He was not dishonest,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘He–’

‘You can ignore the evidence, but I shall not.’ Thelnetham turned to Michael. ‘I was vexed when William hailed the Winwick men over, as they distracted me with their carping, and I only managed to snag one piece of Edith’s fruitcake. Everyone else had two.’

‘I got four,’ put in William gloatingly. ‘And they were all delicious.’

‘From the same plate as Hemmysby?’ asked Bartholomew.

Thelnetham nodded. ‘Lawrence had a platter that he was intending to tote around the vestry, but our little group fell on it like vultures, and it was emptied in a trice. Why? Was something wrong with the pastries, and they were what caused Hemmysby to die?’

‘Lord!’ exclaimed William in alarm. ‘Am I in danger then?’

Bartholomew was puzzled. The poison could not have been in Edith’s cake if so many others had eaten it with no ill effects, yet there had been nothing else in Hemmysby’s stomach. At least, nothing that he could identify. Of course, it was the first time that he had ever examined the sludge that remained in a man’s innards after death. Had he missed something, and led the investigation astray with his inexperience?

‘Hemmysby should have given those Winwick upstarts short shrift when Ratclyf demanded an apology,’ said Thelnetham. ‘If they cannot cope with having their theories demolished, there is no place for them in a university.’

‘Is there any news on the hutch, Brother?’ asked William, who did not like having his theories demolished either.

‘There will never be any news,’ predicted Thelnetham. ‘Hemmysby hid it, and it is lost for ever. I am glad we retrieved the deeds and the cup, but I shall never forgive him for making off with my bestiary. I have no idea what I shall say when my Prior General asks for it back.’

‘I know what he will say to you,’ said William spitefully. ‘That you should not have pawned property that does not belong to you in the first place.’

Michael stood to leave before Thelnetham could respond. ‘Burn your new tract, Father,’ he ordered, as he made for the door. ‘No, do not lean back on that bench as if you intend to resume your quarrel with Thelnetham instead. I want it on the fire before I reach the gate.’

‘I will do it,’ offered Thelnetham eagerly. ‘Suttone has it at the moment, but I shall ensure that no one else is corrupted by its heretical raving.’

‘Thank you,’ said Michael. ‘Well? What are you waiting for?’

Determined to stop the rumours about Illesy and the money he was alleged to have stolen from the King before there was trouble, Michael set off to visit Weasenham. Bartholomew went with him, as Goodwyn was a sullen, distracting presence in his room, and working in the conclave would be impossible with Thelnetham gloating over William about the tract. The stationer’s shop was on the High Street, near King’s Hall, but they had not gone far before Bartholomew felt someone tug his sleeve. It was Ylaria Verius.

‘My man has all but severed his thumb,’ she said. Her voice was hoarse, but he was pleased to see that she had shaken off her cough at last. ‘He is busily swallowing wine to dull the pain, but will you sew it back on when he is drunk enough?’

‘I will come now,’ said Bartholomew. ‘These matters should not be left.’

She shook her head. ‘He will still be sober, and you will never hold him down – the poor lamb is sensitive to pain. Come after noon. He should be ready then.’

She had drawn Bartholomew to one side, which put him in such a position that he had an unusual view of All Saints graveyard. He was surprised to see Potmoor there, leaning against a tomb with his thumbs hooked into his tunic. He appeared to be waiting for someone. Intrigued, Bartholomew ducked into the church porch to watch. Michael followed.

Within moments, Illesy sauntered along the High Street. He stopped by the lychgate and knelt, pretending to fiddle with his shoe while he looked around. Apparently confident that no one was watching, he made a curious sideways scuttle into the churchyard, where he hid behind a tree. After a few moments, he eased out and tiptoed towards Potmoor, whose eyebrows were raised in amusement. Michael gave Bartholomew a shove.

‘We cannot hear what they say from here. Go and eavesdrop from behind that monument.’

‘You do it,’ objected Bartholomew. He would almost certainly be caught, which would be embarrassing – and potentially dangerous if Potmoor took umbrage.

‘I cannot fit behind a tomb with my heavy bones. But those are two of our main suspects for killing Hemmysby, and they are obviously going to discuss something important, or Illesy would not be taking such elaborate precautions. It is your moral duty to listen.’

With a sigh, Bartholomew did as he was told, feeling a fool as he eased through the long grass on all fours. He sincerely hoped no one could see him from the road or there would be rumours galore – crawling through graveyards was hardly normal behaviour for a physician, even one with his dubious reputation. Eventually, he came close enough to hear.

‘I do not agree,’ Potmoor was growling. ‘It should have been done by a professional. They are more careful about the spillage of blood.’

‘Professionals are expensive,’ snapped Illesy. ‘We could not afford it.’

‘Then perhaps you should have hired one, just to maintain the illusion,’ countered Potmoor. ‘I have my reputation to consider, you know. Nerli is– What was that?’

Bartholomew had knelt on a twig, and it had cracked very softly. It had barely been audible to him, and he was amazed that Potmoor should have heard it. He tensed, ready to run, at the same time wondering whether having unusually acute hearing was a prerequisite for a successful thief.

‘What?’ asked Illesy, cocking his head. ‘Do you mean that peculiar wailing? It is just the Michaelhouse Choir warming up for another rehearsal.’

‘No, not that – I can tell the difference between good music and suspicious snapping sounds.’

Bartholomew peered around the tomb and studied the felon’s face, searching for signs that he was jesting, but saw none. Had Potmoor’s brush with catalepsia damaged his wits? The racket evidently reminded Illesy of what was to happen in four days’ time.

‘I am looking forward to leading the procession out of St Mary the Great on Tuesday, and the following feast will be exceptionally fine, thanks to your generosity. Our founder has promised to attend, and I am sure he will be impressed. He–’

‘I heard it again!’ hissed Potmoor, looking around wildly. ‘Someone is listening to us! I told you we should have met in Winwick Hall.’

‘We cannot,’ replied Illesy tartly. ‘You were seen the last time you came, and conclusions were drawn – conclusions that were bad for both of us.’

‘Then next time you can visit me in Chesterton.’ Potmoor began to stride towards Bartholomew’s monument. He pulled a knife from his belt as he went, and the expression on his face was malevolent. ‘I hate spies. If I find one here, I will–’

‘Provost Illesy!’ came Michael’s voice from across the cemetery. ‘Is that you? I was just coming to pray over the grave of an old friend. Do you have loved ones here?’

Bartholomew had braced himself for discovery, but nothing happened. When he summoned the courage to peer around the monument, Illesy was talking to Michael, and Potmoor had gone.

‘I buried an aunt here a year ago,’ the Provost was saying. ‘I often come to remember her before God, but I have finished now, so the churchyard is yours.’

When he was sure they were alone, Bartholomew stood up and glared at the monk.

‘I rescued you, so do not glower at me,’ said Michael defensively. ‘No harm was done.’

‘No harm?’ demanded Bartholomew. ‘I thought I was going to be skewered.’

Michael waved a dismissive hand. ‘Tell me what you heard.’

With ill grace, Bartholomew obliged, repeating the discussion verbatim.

The monk was thoughtful. ‘They must have been discussing the murder of Elvesmere, and were sorry that they had not chosen a more skilled man to do it.’

‘It sounded as if they were referring to a more major spillage to me. Elvesmere’s was not particularly profuse. Perhaps there is a victim we have not found yet. Fulbut, perhaps.’

‘Lord,’ breathed Michael. ‘That is an unpleasant thought.’

The stationer’s shop was always full, and scholars visited it not just to purchase pens, parchment, ink and exemplars – anthologies of the texts they were obliged to learn – but to enjoy its blazing fires, and to chat with friends. Bartholomew and Michael met a number of acquaintances inside, one of whom was Richard, who was with the dentally bereft Uyten from Winwick Hall.

‘I came for sealing wax,’ Richard said. ‘To help Mother with her business.’

Bartholomew was not sure whether he was more irked by the lie or by the fact that Richard expected him to believe it. ‘She has plenty already. You should not need more.’

But Richard’s attention was elsewhere, and Bartholomew saw he was eyeing the stationer’s wife with open lust. Ruth Weasenham did not seem to mind, and there were answering simpers aplenty. Bartholomew groaned, seeing more worry in the offing for Edith.

‘I thought you would have learned your lesson with the Earl of Suffolk’s daughter. You were lucky he did not kill you.’

Richard smirked. ‘It was worth the inconvenience – she was a lovely lass. But so is Ruth, and I am sure that dry old stick of a husband cannot satisfy her.’

‘Please do not antagonise Weasenham,’ begged Bartholomew. ‘He is a powerful man who–’

‘I do not need advice about amours from you,’ interrupted Richard crisply. ‘I have far more experience in such matters.’

Bartholomew was sure he did, and was equally sure he was none the wiser for it. ‘If you are caught, Weasenham will have his revenge by spreading tales that might hurt Edith. He has a vicious tongue. And she has been through enough grief already.’

‘As have I. She is not the only one who misses Father, you know.’ Richard changed the subject abruptly, perhaps to disguise the tears that pricked his eyes. ‘Uyten here tells me that you think my mother’s cakes killed Hemmysby and Ratclyf. Is it true?’

‘No,’ replied Bartholomew, wondering how Uyten had found out. He could only suppose that one of his discussions with Michael had not been as private as they had thought.

‘Then let us hope no one tells her otherwise. She will be mortified. Shall we make an agreement? You say nothing about my dalliance with Ruth, and I say nothing about the fact that my mother is a murder suspect in one of your investigations.’

‘She is nothing of the kind!’ Bartholomew was stunned that Richard should resort to such tactics.

Richard’s expression was unpleasantly calculating. ‘If you say so.’

‘We will be late,’ said Uyten, tugging on his arm. ‘The Guild meeting will start soon.’

‘Not without me.’ Richard’s eyes were still locked on Bartholomew’s. ‘De Stannell hopes for a donation, and is afraid of offending me in any way. You should be proud that I hold such sway in so venerable a body, Uncle. But Uyten is right. I should put in an appearance at the guildhall. Then he and I are going to join the Michaelhouse Choir.’

‘Really?’ asked Bartholomew suspiciously. ‘Why?’

‘Because Goodwyn says it is fun. Of course, we might need a cure for broken ears later.’

He gave a mock salute and threaded his way through the busy shop to the door, leaving Bartholomew staring after him unhappily.

Weasenham was an unattractive individual in his sixties with long oily hair and a sly face, and Bartholomew was not surprised that his vivacious wife – Julitta’s sister, in fact – had taken a shine to a man nearer her own age. It could not be easy to live with the stationer, and Bartholomew recalled that the man’s previous spouse had sought comfort outside the wedding bed, too.

‘The tale is quite true,’ Weasenham was telling Michael, who had cornered him behind his counter. ‘Illesy did steal from the King when he was a clerk in Westminster. I heard it from Heyford, who worked in the same place.’

‘Heyford of St Clement’s?’ asked Michael. ‘The vicar?’

‘The very same. And it was his church that was set alight the other day…’

Michael frowned. ‘What are you saying? That Illesy did it in revenge?’

‘It stands to reason. Heyford thinks the same, which is why he gave a sermon about it today. It had everyone in a frenzy of outrage against Illesy. And against his former employer Potmoor, who doubtless helped him in his evil designs.’

‘You should watch your tongue,’ advised Michael. ‘Or the pair of them might take offence.’

‘Offence!’ sneered Weasenham. ‘What do I care? They have done their worst already.’

‘Why? What has–’

‘I was burgled, Brother! The culprit stole all my best ink and parchment, and several valuable books. And at the beginning of term, too, when demand is always highest.’

‘I doubt Potmoor would be interested in those,’ remarked Bartholomew.

‘This is a University town,’ said Weasenham acidly. ‘There is a huge market for such items. Or do you think thieves only ever take what they want for themselves, not what can be sold?’ He leaned forward suddenly and lowered his voice. ‘But Potmoor has a weak point: Olivia Knyt. They are lovers, and he would do anything for her.’

‘How do you know?’ asked Michael.

‘I have seen them together with my own eyes, kissing and pawing. There is no accounting for taste where passion is concerned.’

He stared so hard at Bartholomew that the physician wondered if he knew about Julitta. Then the stationer nodded a greeting at someone, and the two scholars turned to see Heyford standing behind them. The vicar was full of righteous indignation, and when Michael asked whether he had recovered from his near-incineration, he received a waspish reply.

‘My altar table is destroyed and I burned a finger. And no, I do not want Bartholomew to tend it. He is alleged to commune with the Devil, and I am a priest.’

‘He does nothing of the kind,’ snapped Michael. ‘And if I hear anyone else making that sort of remark, they will find themselves charged with slander. Do you hear me, Weasenham?’

‘Tell him about Illesy, Heyford,’ said Weasenham, unfazed by the threat.

‘That scoundrel! Money went missing from the royal coffers when he and I were treasury clerks – this was several years before the plague – and Illesy was the only possible culprit. Rather than risk a scandal by exposing him, he was ordered to leave Westminster.’

‘John Winwick would not have hired a thief as Provost of–’ began Michael.

‘John Winwick does not know,’ interrupted Heyford. ‘The affair was too thoroughly hushed up. I said nothing when Illesy first arrived in our town, and he doubtless thought I had forgotten, but I decided to speak out when his College began getting uppity. In revenge, he and Potmoor sent me strong wine, then set my church alight, intending me to burn inside it.’

‘These are serious allegations,’ warned Michael.

‘Yes,’ agreed Heyford haughtily. ‘And arson and attempted murder are serious crimes.’

Bartholomew and Michael left the shop to find the High Street awash with noise – the Michaelhouse Choir was bawling a lewd tavern song. With a squawk of dismay, Michael raced away to stop them, while passers-by grinned or scowled, depending on how they felt about obscenities being howled in churches. Bartholomew went to the Verius house, where the ditcher had imbibed sufficient alcohol to render himself insensible.

‘I am afraid Surgeon Holm has come to help, though,’ Ylaria whispered apologetically. ‘I told him he was not needed – and that we could not pay – but he insisted on staying anyway.’

Bartholomew was mystified: Holm never did charity work. However, he stopped thinking about the surgeon when he saw that Julitta was there as well. She smiled in a way that made his stomach turn somersaults, and although he struggled to keep his face impassive, he obviously did not succeed, because Holm’s voice was distinctly peevish when he spoke.

‘Thumbs are notoriously difficult to treat, and only surgeons are qualified to approach them with needles and saws. One wrong move, and the humours will be seriously unbalanced, leaving the patient to die an agonising death.’

‘Then you had better be careful,’ said Bartholomew, surprised by the oblique reminder that he would be trespassing on Holm’s domain if he operated. It had never happened before – being an indifferent practitioner, Holm was usually only too happy to let someone else try his hand.

‘Will and Verius are friends,’ said Julitta, smiling again. ‘So we thought he should be here.’

‘Are they?’ Bartholomew would not have imagined the suave surgeon demeaning himself by associating with a common layabout like Verius.

‘Not friends,’ countered Holm, shooting her an irritable look. ‘Passing acquaintances. Shall we begin the procedure before he wakes up?’

Bartholomew looked at the slumped, snoring figure on the floor, and thought it would be some time before that happened. He knelt and inspected the wound. There was a deep gash at the base of Verius’s thumb, and it had bled profusely, but the bone was undamaged, and the laceration would heal with a few judiciously placed stitches, although he suspected the ditcher would never enjoy full feeling in it again.

‘He cut it when he was working,’ explained Ylaria, fondly stroking her husband’s hair. ‘People throw sharp things in streams, and do not care that others might be hurt by them.’

Such injuries were an occupational hazard for ditchers. However, Verius’s was very clean, and Bartholomew suspected he had lied to his wife about how he had come by it.

‘I will hold him still, while you irrigate the wound,’ he told Holm.

‘How foolish of me,’ said Holm, backing away. ‘I neglected to bring the ointments to … do what is necessary when something needs irritating.’

‘Irrigating,’ corrected Julitta gently. ‘You meant to say irrigating.’

‘I did say irrigating,’ snapped the surgeon. ‘You will have to do it instead, Bartholomew. Do not worry. I shall not criticise your technique.’

‘Thank you,’ said Bartholomew drily. He began to work, although he was obliged several times to stop and show the surgeon yet again how to immobilise the limb. Julitta took over the task in the end, leaving Holm to perch on the table and inspect his fingernails in an attitude of boredom.

‘How are your various investigations going, Matt?’ she asked conversationally.

Bartholomew was not really in a position to concentrate on his answer, with tiny stitches to insert and a woman he loved sitting so close that he could feel the warmth of her breath on his face. He gave a mumbled, disjointed report that had her blinking in confusion.

‘The reason I ask is because I saw something odd last night,’ she said, speaking softly so that Ylaria would not hear. ‘And I wondered whether Nerli and Lawrence were among your suspects. If they are, I shall tell you something about them.’

‘Not Lawrence,’ said Bartholomew. ‘At least, he is not on my list.’

Julitta spoke reluctantly. ‘I like him as well, but I could not sleep last night, and looked out of my window at midnight to see him and Nerli sneaking along in the most furtive manner. Nerli was carrying a sword and looked downright dangerous.’

‘That hurts, damn you!’ said Verius, opening bleary eyes. ‘I shall tell the money soldier, and he will slit your throat.’

‘It is the ale talking,’ said Holm. He flicked his fingers at Ylaria. ‘Block his mouth, woman, lest he blurt something that will later embarrass him.’

‘No,’ countered Bartholomew quickly, when Ylaria stepped forward with a piece of cloth. ‘You might cause him to thrash about if you obstruct his breathing.’

‘But surely we must respect the privacy of his secret thoughts?’ asked Julitta.

‘Bartholomew would never do anything so unprofessional as to repeat what a man says in his cups,’ said Holm, a little too acidly for the physician’s liking.

Verius lapsed into snoring insensibility again, so Bartholomew concentrated on his needlework. Julitta was ready with a clean dressing when he finished, and their fingers touched as she passed it to him. She kept them there rather longer than necessary, and her smile – given so that her husband would not see – tore at his heart. Why had she married a creature like Holm? And why had he not stopped the ceremony and taken her himself, as his friends had urged him to do?

‘The money soldier will see me right,’ mumbled Verius, settling more comfortably on the floor now the operation was over. ‘A fine friend for a poor man.’

‘Perhaps he will say something to embarrass us,’ said Julitta, tearing her eyes away from Bartholomew to look down at the patient. ‘Maybe Will should sing, to drown him out.’

‘That will not be necessary.’ Holm opened the door, allowing a waft of noise to drift in. There was a moment when Bartholomew thought there might be a riot in progress, but then he realised it was the Michaelhouse Choir, turning Tunsted’s beautiful Gloria into something akin to a battle chant.

‘The Fellows of Winwick Hall think they will be the highlight of the ceremony on Tuesday,’ Holm sniggered. ‘But Brother Michael’s rabble will upstage them.’

Verius stirred himself to join in, and Bartholomew was astounded when the ditcher’s voice transpired to be a high, clear tenor that was unexpectedly sweet for so hulking a man.

‘He has the voice of an angel,’ whispered Ylaria, regarding him lovingly.

‘If you want to hear the voice of an angel,’ declared Holm, ‘you should listen to me.’

‘A duet, then?’ asked Julitta eagerly. ‘I should like that very much.’

‘Not here,’ said Holm loftily. ‘I do not perform with drunks.’

As people complained if choir practices went on too long, Michael was obliged to keep them brief, and the bread and ale were being distributed by the time Bartholomew passed St Michael’s Church on his way home. There was a lot of angry yelling inside, and he could hear Michael struggling to keep the peace, so he went to help. The latch stuck, reminding him sharply that Hemmysby still lay in the Stanton Chapel.

Once he had wrestled his way inside, he was greeted by pandemonium. Goodwyn and the new medical students had been put in charge of the bread, but their portions were outrageously uneven, and quarrels had broken out. As soon as Michael quelled one disagreement, another began, and Bartholomew could see from the gleeful expression on Goodwyn’s face that he was delighted by the trouble he had caused.

Uyten was dispensing ale, but so carelessly that a lot spilled, eliciting roars of outrage from several elderly baritones. The lad eyed them challengingly. His thick ears and missing teeth should have warned the ancients that he was no stranger to brawls, but they persisted in haranguing him, oblivious to or careless of the danger. Richard watched from behind a pillar, safely away from the commotion, with an expression on his face that was difficult to read.

‘Help me,’ Bartholomew ordered his nephew sharply, ‘before someone is hurt.’

There was a moment when he thought Richard would refuse, but then he pushed away from the pier and followed Bartholomew to the bread baskets. Goodwyn blanched when he saw his teacher bearing down on him, and stumbled as he was elbowed unceremoniously out of the way. The furious babble quietened once the pieces were more fairly sized, and it calmed further still when a bass called Isnard the bargeman took over the distribution of ale.

‘I need not worry about how to buy refreshments next time,’ said Michael sourly, when the bulk of singers had received their victuals and had trooped meekly away. ‘The fines I am going to impose on your lads should cover the expense nicely.’

Bartholomew leaned against a wall, tired now the fuss was over. Goodwyn had been sent to rinse jugs at the back of the church, which he was doing with ill grace. Aungel, Uyten and the new medical students were helping, although Richard declined to sully his hands, and came to talk to Bartholomew and Michael instead. So did Isnard, who had developed a very proprietary attitude towards the choir. Like most members, he was Bartholomew’s patient; unlike most, he earned a decent living, despite having lost a leg in an accident some years before. He was aware of the importance of free food to his friends, and hated anything that threatened it.

‘I do not want that rabble here next time, Brother,’ he said, stabbing an angry finger towards the students. ‘They lower the tone.’

Richard laughed. ‘It was not them who were scolded for spitting during the Conductus. Besides, I see nothing wrong with having a few Michaelhouse scholars in the Michaelhouse Choir. Without them, the only College member would be the good Brother here.’

‘That is because no other scholar has sufficient talent,’ explained Isnard earnestly. From anyone else, this might have been interpreted as irony, but the bargeman genuinely believed it. Then he sniffed the air suspiciously. ‘What is that reek? Are you wearing perfume, lad?’

‘Just a dab,’ replied Richard. ‘I deemed it necessary to mask the stench of the altos. Can you not ask them to change into clean clothes before coming here, Brother?’

‘It would do scant good: those are the only ones they own,’ replied Michael. ‘And you used more than a dab – you reek like a whore’s boudoir. Not that I would know, of course. So apply less in future, if you please. I do not want my singers asphyxiated.’

Before Richard could issue a rejoinder, the monk turned away and began to set the church to rights. Richard was asked to sweep up, but it was not many moments before he took the opportunity to slink away. Goodwyn and his cronies started to follow, but a stern look from Bartholomew made them reconsider. They expressed their resentment by “accidentally” spilling water, and even breaking a brush.

At last they finished, and Isnard invited Bartholomew and Michael for an evening of riotous fun in the Laughing Pig. They declined – it was a particularly rough tavern, and the domain of townsmen, not scholars.

‘I am going to pray for Hemmysby,’ said Michael, when the thump of Isnard’s crutches on the stone floor had faded and the church was quiet again. ‘Will you join me?’

Bartholomew knew he should work on his lectures, but his wits were muddy with exhaustion, and he doubted he would achieve much that night. He nodded, thinking it might make him feel less guilty about despoiling his colleague’s corpse, and followed Michael into the Stanton Chapel.

‘How curious,’ said Michael. ‘Something has been nailed to Hemmysby’s coffin. It was not here earlier. Someone must have done it while my attention was on the music.’

It was a piece of parchment, and he set about removing it while Bartholomew dropped to his knees next to the casket. All was quiet for a moment, then Michael released a gasp of horror.

‘We are being blackmailed, Matt! This message says that if Michaelhouse does not pay twenty marks by noon on Monday – three days’ time – William’s tract will be made public.’

‘What tract? The one he and Thelnetham were squabbling about earlier – Linton Hall’s heresy transcribed into his own words? Thelnetham will have burned it by now.’

Michael was white-faced with shock. ‘He should have burned it, and I should have watched to ensure it was done. William must have tricked him somehow…’

‘William may be a fool, but he is not so stupid as to let that sort of thing fall into the wrong hands,’ said Bartholomew comfortingly. ‘Do not worry.’

Michael brandished the letter in agitation. ‘The author of this has included two pages of the original, so the wrong hands do have it!’

‘Then the culprit will be Thelnetham, aiming to give us a fright.’

‘This is not his writing,’ snapped Michael, rattled. ‘And you would not be so glib if you had read Linton’s so-called theology. Moreover, William’s foreword contains a lot of scandalous remarks about Gilbertines, Dominicans and John Winwick. If those are made public, Michaelhouse will be finished.’

Bartholomew took the missive from him. Its tone was coolly menacing, and it was clear that the anonymous sender meant what was said. The writing was a neat roundhand, and although it was the style used by most literate people, there was something about it that was familiar.

‘I think I have seen this hand before,’ he mused. ‘But I cannot recall where.’

‘Well, try,’ cried Michael. ‘It is important!’

Bartholomew did, but was forced to shake his head. ‘It is no good. It might have been anywhere. You always have a mass of documents in your office, I marked dozens of essays over the summer, Edith has asked me to read writs regarding Oswald’s business…’

‘Unfortunately, there are no other clues. This is cheap parchment that Weasenham sells by the cartload and the ink is unremarkable. We are doomed, Matt! Damn William and his stupid yen to aggravate Thelnetham!’

Bartholomew was unnerved by the distress with which the Master and other Fellows greeted the news of the anonymous letter, as until then he had been inclined to think Michael was overreacting. The blood drained from Langelee’s face, Suttone slumped on a bench, and Clippesby began to cry. William turned accusingly to Thelnetham, but even he could see the Gilbertine’s shock was genuine, and that the note had nothing to do with him.

The Franciscan swallowed hard, and his finger shook as he pointed to the pages in Michael’s hand. ‘Those are from my second draft, the one I wrote in my own words. And they are the originals. I recognise the ink blots.’

Michael scowled at Thelnetham. ‘You agreed to oversee its destruction–’

‘Suttone offered to do it instead,’ bleated Thelnetham defensively. ‘I thought he could be trusted.’

‘I took it to the kitchen,’ said Suttone unsteadily, ‘to put it on the fire, but we had bread and cheese today, so Agatha had not bothered to light one. She promised to burn it the next time she had a blaze going, so I left it with her. I assumed it would be safe in her domain…’

Langelee and Michael hurried downstairs, but it was not long before they returned to report that the laundress had been out for much of the day. The kitchen had been unattended for hours.

‘God damn it, William!’ cried Langelee. ‘I shall go down in history as the Master whose College was suppressed for second-hand heresy.’

‘No one will believe that William speaks for us all,’ said Bartholomew reasonably. ‘I am sure we can distance ourselves from–’

‘Two members of Linton Hall tried that defence, and it made no difference,’ interrupted Michael savagely. ‘They were excommunicated regardless.’

Langelee blew out his cheeks in a sigh. ‘Well, we cannot pay this extortionist, so our only options are to catch him or retrieve the text. Does anyone have any ideas?’

No one did, and there were angry recriminations against Thelnetham and Suttone for ineptitude, and William for penning such a thing in the first place. Bartholomew expected the Franciscan to react with his usual blustering defiance, and was alarmed when he muttered a sheepish and very uncharacteristic apology, as it meant that the others’ concerns were justified.

‘I told you: it was never meant to go outside the College,’ he finished miserably. ‘It was written purely to annoy this stupid Gilbertine. It is his fault that I felt compelled to resort to such measures. And Suttone’s for leaving it in a place where it could be stolen.’

‘I wish I had never enrolled in this horrid College,’ spat Thelnetham. ‘It is a disgrace. If William does not see us suppressed, Bartholomew will, for his unseemly fascination with the insides of corpses. No, do not deny it! How else would he know that Hemmysby was poisoned?’

‘He did the right thing,’ argued Langelee. ‘Our colleague was murdered, a foul deed that might have gone undetected if Bartholomew had not had the courage to look beyond the obvious.’

Thelnetham eyed him in distaste. ‘Hemmysby was a thief. He did not warrant such a risk taken on his behalf.’

‘He was killed before he could answer those charges,’ Langelee reminded him. ‘Which suggests to me that he was innocent – that someone is using him in the most appalling manner.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Clippesby unhappily. ‘I am sure of it.’

‘And now that same villain aims to blackmail us,’ Langelee continued.

Bartholomew blinked. ‘How do you know the two matters are connected?’

‘Because Hemmysby was killed by the person who made off with the Stanton Hutch – the villain who later returned and left “evidence” to make sure he was blamed. Then this same rogue plied his burgling skills a third time to steal William’s tract.’ Langelee turned to Michael. ‘Find him, and we will show the bastard what happens to those who threaten our existence.’

He and Michael began a low-voiced discussion about how this was to be achieved, which left Thelnetham and Suttone free to resume their assault on William. The Franciscan sat in dejected silence, and Bartholomew vacated the conclave when he could bear it no longer. When he reached his room, Goodwyn was there, gleefully telling the other students about the near-riot in the church.

‘You should not have meddled with the bread,’ said Aungel disapprovingly. ‘It was cruel.’

‘It was fun,’ countered Goodwyn, sniggering at the memory. ‘There were no injuries, though, which was a pity. I could have bandaged them, and charged for my services.’

‘You would not have made much from the choir,’ said Aungel. ‘They do not have a penny between them. Why do you think they joined? It is not because they love music.’

‘It is not because they can sing, either,’ chortled Goodwyn. ‘My ears still hurt.’

Unwilling to listen to more, Bartholomew grabbed the scroll he needed for his lecture on Galen’s Tegni, and went to the kitchen to work. He arrived to find Agatha drinking mulled wine with Cynric. She immediately pointed to the table.

‘The tract was there. When I returned to find it gone, I assumed Father William had sneaked in and grabbed it, to prevent it from being destroyed.’

Cynric was tight-lipped with anger that thieves had invaded his College yet again. ‘The culprit must have watched her leave, then crept in when no one was paying attention.’

‘Could it have been one of our new students?’ Agatha asked him.

Cynric shook his head. ‘Master Langelee set them exercises in the hall, to prevent them from attending that heretical debate. He told me to guard the door to stop anyone from leaving. I did as he ordered, and no one escaped, not even to visit the latrine.’

He and Agatha began a vitriolic analysis of possible suspects, which was essentially a list of people they did not like. Bartholomew tuned out their acrimonious voices, and began to write his commentary. Not long afterwards, Clippesby appeared with Ethel.

‘He has taken to coming here since Hemmysby died,’ whispered Agatha, watching him settle in a corner. ‘When he is not in the henhouse. He and Hemmysby were friends, and he misses him.’

Bartholomew noted with concern that Clippesby was paler than usual, and his eyes were sunken. He was muttering to the bird, which chuntered back. It did look as though they were holding a conversation, and the physician wondered if he would be regaled with it later, along with some clue to the mysteries he and Michael were trying to solve.

‘Agatha boxed Goodwyn’s ears today,’ announced Cynric with a smile of enormous satisfaction. ‘Once he had stopped staggering, he pulled out a knife, but thought better of using it on her when she raised her fist a second time.’

‘He did what?’ Bartholomew surged to his feet. No student of his was going to draw weapons on College staff and expect it to pass unremarked.

‘He was scoffing cheese from the pantry,’ explained Agatha. ‘And when I caught him, he dared me to stop him. He thought himself too old to be belted, but I do not take cheek from students, no matter how grand they consider themselves to be.’

‘I am sorry, Agatha,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is my fault for not being here to control him.’

She grinned. ‘When I told Master Langelee, he offered me a choice of being rid of the boy or having him fined two shillings. I chose the fine, and the Master let me keep it for myself.’

Bartholomew was disgusted that such a serious offence should be so casually handled, and was about to say so when Cynric changed the subject.

‘I took this from your storeroom,’ the book-bearer said, producing a tiny flask containing a bright blue pigment. ‘I hope you do not mind.’

Bartholomew regarded it blankly. ‘What is it?’

‘The stuff Goodwyn made when he was experimenting the other day. It was clear at first, but had turned blue by the morning. That means he accidentally stumbled across some powerful magic, and I plan to daub some on all the College’s walls, to keep us safe in the coming riots.’

‘What coming riots?’ asked Bartholomew in alarm.

‘The ones that will take place when the townsfolk finally despair of all these matriculands,’ explained Cynric. ‘A few have settled into hostels, but most have declined to put themselves under the University’s control and roam in packs, pestering women, picking fights and generally making a nuisance of themselves.’

‘There is only so much we can be expected to endure,’ added Agatha. ‘Folk will snap soon.’

‘I will tell Michael.’ Bartholomew held out his hand for the phial. ‘Meanwhile, you had better give that to me. It is almost certainly toxic, and I should have disposed of it already.’

‘If it is toxic, then it means the magic is all the stronger,’ said Cynric, pleased. He clutched the little bottle to his chest, and Bartholomew knew he was not going to relinquish it without a fight – which was not something the physician was fool enough to attempt. ‘And that is a good thing for us.’