Death of a Scholar

Chapter 6

A little while later, Bartholomew entered St Mary the Great to find Michael at the back of the church. The nave rang with splenetic voices, ones far too agitated to pay heed to Chancellor Tynkell, who was struggling to impose order.

‘Normally, I would rescue him,’ said the monk. ‘But it was his idea to continue the debate for a second day, so he can manage by himself. That will teach him to make decisions without me.’

‘I thought it would be over by now,’ said Bartholomew.

‘It should be, but it will drag on into the evening, given that Tynkell is incapable of preventing our more wordy colleagues from repeating everything six times. I shall leave him to it. Heavens! Here is Langelee. It is rare to see him at this sort of occasion.’

‘Have you seen William’s tract?’ demanded the Master without preamble. ‘The one he has been working on these past two weeks?’

‘Not yet,’ replied Michael. ‘Although he aims to annoy Thelnetham with it, so I imagine it will be rich in reckless bigotry. Why?’

‘Because not only does it attack the Dominicans, the Gilbertines, Waltham Abbey and John Winwick in ways that will have the King and half the priests in England clamouring for our blood, but he has written about apostolic poverty.’

Michael sighed. ‘Then burn it before any of his victims see the thing. I am not worried about his ravings on religion – he is not clever enough to devise a thesis that will attract followers, and his ponderings will likely be laughed into oblivion.’

‘If only that were true, Brother. Unfortunately, he managed to acquire a copy of the text that caused Linton Hall to be dissolved and its members excommunicated. He has copied it out, and aims to pass it off as his own. I am no theologian, but even I can tell it is heresy.’

Michael regarded him in alarm. ‘Then why is it not on the fire already?’

‘Because he has hidden it and refuses to tell me where. You will have to use your authority as Senior Proctor to wrest it from him. And while you are at it, tell him that if he tries my patience again, I shall not be responsible for the consequences.’

‘Very well,’ sighed Michael wearily. ‘I shall come at once.’

‘He is here, listening to the debate, and will make a fuss that will attract unwanted attention if you haul him out in front of everyone. Nab him this evening, Brother, but for God’s sake do not forget or we shall be finished.’

‘William really is a nuisance,’ muttered Michael, as the Master turned on his heel and stalked away. ‘Why did he have to choose now to be controversial? But never mind him. We need to visit Potmoor before any more of the day is lost.’

‘Must we?’ asked Bartholomew without enthusiasm. ‘Is there no other way forward?’

‘None that I can see. Other than asking Illesy what he has to say about entertaining the villain on the night Elvesmere died – which we shall do as soon as we have Potmoor’s side of the story.’

As it transpired, they were spared a trek to Chesterton because they met Potmoor on the High Street. The felon was with his hulking son Hugo, and at his heels were men who wore the greasy half-armour of the professional lout. He was exchanging greetings with Olivia Knyt, who was pale and subdued. When the two scholars approached, she took the opportunity to hurry away from him.

Michael began his interrogation with some innocuous remarks about the recent spate of burglaries, but Potmoor only acknowledged them with grunts, his attention fixed on Olivia’s retreating form. His expression was hungry, making Bartholomew suspect he did harbour a hankering for her, although that was not to say that it had ever been reciprocated.

At that moment Illesy joined them. He was breathless, giving the impression that he had seen his former client waylaid, and had raced to give him the benefit of his legal skills. Bartholomew studied him carefully, but could read nothing in the bland, oily face. He could certainly read Michael’s, though: the monk quickly lost patience when Illesy began to reply to questions that were directed at Potmoor.

‘What do you think of Winwick Hall?’ asked Michael, finally devising one that Illesy could not possibly answer on Potmoor’s behalf.

‘I cannot say – I have never been inside.’ Potmoor smiled, revealing long yellow teeth beneath his dangling moustache, although the eyes remained cold and beady. ‘But that will change next week, as I have been promised a tour after the beginning of term ceremony. Certain members of the Guild of Saints have been invited to dine there, see.’

‘How odd,’ mused Michael. ‘I suppose those witnesses were mistaken when they said they saw you there the night that Elvesmere was murdered.’

Hugo stepped forward and shoved Michael hard enough to make him stagger, a considerable feat given that the monk’s bulk was not easily shifted.

‘If you are accusing my father of killing Elvesmere–’

‘Hugo, Hugo,’ interrupted Potmoor mildly. ‘I am sure the good Brother meant nothing of the kind. He knows that those of us who have seen the face of God would never commit base crimes.’

‘No?’ asked Michael archly. ‘Then what about your boast that you still enjoy breaking into people’s homes, despite the fact that you have an army of henchmen to do it for you?’

Potmoor continued to bare his amber teeth. ‘I did once enjoy plying the skills God gave me. However, I have not used them since my glimpse of Paradise. And you cannot prove otherwise.’

‘I can prove that you are lying about your visit to Winwick Hall. I have witnesses, as I said.’

‘He is not lying,’ intervened Illesy smoothly. He turned to the felon with an obsequious smile. ‘You did come to see us. It must have slipped your mind, since it was only for a moment. You came to donate ten marks. Do you remember now that I have jogged your memory?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Potmoor flatly. ‘Forgive me, Brother. I did not intend to mislead you.’

‘Good,’ said Michael. ‘Then perhaps you will tell us where you were at dusk last night. Gonville lost a valuable candlestick, and someone answering your description was seen in the vicinity. Obviously, we are keen to eliminate you from our enquiries.’

‘I was out on business,’ replied Potmoor shortly. ‘Alone – as I usually am whenever someone important is burgled. I cannot help it if the villain always chooses to strike when I am not in a position to provide you with alibis.’

‘But you do have alibis,’ countered Illesy with another greasy smile. ‘You were accompanied by servants. Would you like me to bring them to you, Brother? Tomorrow, perhaps?’

Bartholomew stared at him, wondering how the Provost could demean himself by manipulating the law to let a criminal remain at large. And Illesy clearly believed that Potmoor was guilty, or he would not be fabricating a defence for him.

‘Do not trouble yourself,’ said Michael, aware that Potmoor’s henchmen would be only too pleased to perjure themselves for their master. ‘It would be a waste of time for us all.’

‘Quite,’ said Potmoor. ‘And now, if you will excuse me, it is time I went home. I have another headache. Those of us blessed with holy visions do, you know.’

‘Really?’ asked Michael. ‘I wonder why no saint has ever complained of them. But I have one last question before you go: where is Nick Fulbut? I know he is in your pay.’

‘Not any more. He is a mercenary, and I have no need of such men now that I have made my peace with God.’

Eyebrows raised, Michael glanced pointedly at the louts who had ranged themselves behind him, but Potmoor only stared back insolently, a half-smile on his sallow face.

‘No one in Potmoor’s employ knows where Fulbut might be found,’ said Illesy. ‘Although you are right to hunt the man, Brother. There is a rumour that he shot your Junior Proctor.’

‘Fulbut is a slippery devil,’ added Potmoor, ‘and will work for anyone who can pay him. Perhaps you should liaise with the Deputy Sheriff, as I doubt your beadles will catch him on their own.’

‘Olivia Knyt suggested the same,’ said Bartholomew.

It was untrue, but Potmoor’s gloating confidence had irked him and he wanted to disconcert the man. He was wholly unprepared for the result. Potmoor’s smirk vanished, to be replaced by a look of such dark, brutal fury that Bartholomew took an involuntary step backwards. He was not the only one to be unnerved: Hugo and the henchmen promptly edged away.

‘Your father is tired, Hugo,’ said the Provost quickly. ‘Not yet recovered from his brush with death. You should take him home.’

Hugo reached for Potmoor’s arm, although with obvious trepidation. There was a moment when it seemed Potmoor would resist, but he glanced at Illesy, and something in the lawyer’s face caused him to nod and allow himself to be led away. The henchmen followed, but at a safe distance.

‘Have you found Elvesmere’s killer yet, Brother?’ asked Illesy, when they had gone. ‘If not, I suggest you refrain from harassing innocent citizens, and concentrate on hunting him instead.’

‘That is exactly what I have been doing,’ retorted Michael.

Illesy regarded him coldly. ‘Then have you visited King’s Hall, Gonville or Bene’t, to ask what they know about the vicious murder of one of our scholars? That is where the culprit will be – in another College. You know they hate us, and revel in anything that does us harm. They murdered Elvesmere, not Potmoor.’

He turned on his heel and stalked away.

‘That was a waste of time,’ grumbled Michael when he and Bartholomew were alone again. ‘I did not expect Potmoor to confess to robbing half the town and arranging the deaths of Felbrigge and Elvesmere, but I had hoped for something in the way of clues.’

‘I did not, and we were rash to have challenged him, especially once Illesy was on hand to ensure that nothing incriminating was said. However, we did learn something.’

‘Potmoor’s obvious fancy for Olivia Knyt?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘Richard saw him leaving her house the morning before Knyt died, and Meryfeld thinks they are lovers. Yet I doubt Olivia would entertain a lout like him…’

‘My beadles inform me that she does. He is a powerful man, and women find that attractive. I speak from personal experience, of course – there is nothing more desirable to a lady than strength and charisma. But speaking of strength and charisma, it is time we visited a man who has neither.’

‘Deputy de Stannell?’

‘Yes. Potmoor was right – we should combine forces to catch Fulbut.’

They began to walk towards the castle. Bartholomew was silent for a while, reflecting on Potmoor’s unnerving flare of rage. ‘My sister thinks he murdered Oswald,’ he confided.

Michael sighed. ‘I wondered how long it would be before she decided that Oswald’s death was suspicious. I can see why – he was hale and hearty one moment, but dead the next.’

‘It happens, Brother. And there is no reason to doubt Rougham’s diagnosis.’

Michael raised his hands in a shrug. ‘Well, you had better make a show of investigating, or she will do it herself. And she bakes the best Lombard slices in the shire. I should hate to be deprived, just because she accuses Potmoor and he takes umbrage.’

Bartholomew winced at the thought. ‘Unfortunately, she will know if I try to deceive her. She always does. And then there will be trouble.’

‘I will think of something,’ promised Michael. ‘Do not worry.’

They climbed Cambridge’s only hill, where a motte had been raised by the Normans shortly after the Conquest. The castle had expanded since, and was now a formidable structure – a tall curtain wall bristling with towers and fighting platforms, which enclosed a huge bailey containing barracks for soldiers, a gaol, courtrooms, kitchens, stables, pantries, workplaces for clerks and repositories for records. It had never seen a serious attack, and its resources were mostly channelled into more peaceful purposes, such as collecting taxes.

The centre of operations was the Great Tower, a stalwart, cylindrical structure that formed the most secure part of the complex. Its first floor comprised the spacious chamber that Sheriff Tulyet used as an office, and de Stannell was sitting by its hearth with Ratclyf from Winwick Hall when Bartholomew and Michael arrived. The deputy’s face was flushed with wine, which made him appear more like an angry baboon than ever. Ratclyf, however, looked decidedly furtive.

‘I must be going,’ he said, standing abruptly and turning towards the door. ‘Thank you for your understanding, de Stannell. It is always good to do business with another guildsman.’

‘He came to ask for more help from the Guild of Saints,’ explained de Stannell, once the clatter of Ratclyf’s footsteps on the stairs had faded. He preened himself. ‘Now Knyt is dead, it falls to me to make the important decisions.’

‘Can you do that as well as your duty to the shire?’ asked Michael.

‘Of course. I am no Tulyet, who can only manage one post at a time. Today is a case in point. I gave Ratclyf a loan to repair the roof that was damaged in last night’s storm, and in return he will pay a higher tariff on Winwick’s fuel. I did Guild and county business in a single stroke.’

Ratclyf’s hasty departure and reputation for guile made Bartholomew suspect that de Stannell had just been cajoled into an agreement that would allow Winwick to prosper at the shire’s expense. He hoped it would not lead to more trouble between the town and the University.

‘We came to discuss Fulbut,’ said Michael. ‘And the possibility of you and I working together to lay hold of him.’

‘No, thank you,’ replied de Stannell briskly. ‘I would rather rely on my own men. He set St Clement’s alight, so I want him in my cells, not yours.’

‘Of course,’ said Michael stiffly. ‘However, he also shot my Junior Proctor, so I would like the opportunity to question him if you catch him first. I want to ask who hired him to do it.’

‘I am afraid your enquiry is secondary to mine. I am investigating crimes against townsfolk, but your victim was only a scholar. And if you do not like it, complain to Tulyet when he returns.’

‘Oh, I shall,’ vowed Michael tightly. ‘But how do you know Fulbut burned St Clement’s?’

‘It is obvious,’ replied de Stannell. ‘Heyford was sent strong wine just before the fire started – by Fulbut, who aimed to ensure that his victim would be too drunk to douse the flames.’

‘Then perhaps he was following Potmoor’s orders. I learned today that Heyford was reckless enough to make Lazarus the subject of his Sunday sermon, to Potmoor’s detriment.’

‘I shall bear it in mind. Now if you will excuse me, Brother, there are important matters requiring my attention.’

Michael railed about de Stannell’s manners all the way to St Mary the Great, where they were astounded to discover the debate still in full flow, and in serious danger of extending into a third day.

‘How can Tynkell let this nonsense drag on?’ he cried. ‘Winwick Hall has offered to provide refreshments afterwards, but we shall be eating at midnight at this rate. Where are you going?’

‘To visit Eyer,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘Rougham thinks he made a mistake with the sal ammoniac I used on Potmoor. I doubt it, but I had better make sure.’

Michael was more interested in his own troubles. ‘If Dick Tulyet does not come home soon, he will have no town left to rule – that ridiculous de Stannell will have destroyed it with his crass stupidity. Do you think he killed Knyt, in order to take command of the Guild of Saints?’

‘According to my medical colleagues, Knyt had a seizure brought on by a surfeit of oysters.’

‘And you believe them? When Olivia was betraying him with the greatest criminal the town has ever known, and the slippery de Stannell wasted no time in filling his shoes? Knyt’s death is very convenient for them both, is it not?’

‘It is, but that does not mean he was murdered.’

Michael sighed, and some of the anger went out of him. ‘I had better brief my beadles for their evening patrols.’ He glanced at the sky. ‘Then I shall partake of Winwick’s refreshments.’

‘I thought those were for the men taking part in the debate. You have missed most of it.’

‘So what? The fare will be more appetising than boiled kidneys and leeks, which is what is on offer at College tonight. I recommend you do the same. And I shall need something decent inside me, because first I must confront William over his poached views on apostolic poverty, and then I have choir practice. A lot of new members have enrolled, so I need to assess them all for talent.’

Or lack of it, Bartholomew thought, but dared not say.

‘After choir, I shall visit Winwick Hall,’ the monk went on. ‘We have been told that Elvesmere and Bon were particular friends, so perhaps Bon will tell us a little more about our murder victim. He is likely to be feeling wretched, and may appreciate a kindly ear.’

‘Why will he be feeling wretched?’

‘Because Hemmysby savaged him in the debating chamber again today. He should have kept quiet, but he would insist on speaking, and Hemmysby led him into several cunning traps.’

The daylight was fading when Bartholomew reached Eyer’s shop. He entered, breathing in deeply the pleasing aroma of aniseed, cloves and blackcurrant. There were no customers, and the apothecary was in the process of shutting up, bustling about with a lantern in his hand. He smiled when he saw Bartholomew, and led him to the private parlour at the back.

‘Are you hungry?’ he asked, and before Bartholomew could reply, had slapped some yellow-brown sludge into a bowl. ‘Eat this. It will do you good, and you are too pale for my liking.’

‘What is it?’ asked Bartholomew, when a tentative chew yielded no recognisable flavour.

‘Boiled caterpillars. It is very nutritious, and will set your humours right in no time at all.’

Manfully, Bartholomew resisted the urge to spit it out. He had forgotten that the apothecary had a penchant for peculiar food, and it was not the first time he had been fed unpalatable snacks. He set the bowl on the table and sat on a bench, glad of some peace after his hectic day. Eyer busied himself with a fire to ward off the evening chill, his face flushed with pleasure at having company.

‘Do you need more aqua imperialis?’ he asked. ‘I made a new batch today.’

‘I do, but I cannot pay.’ Bartholomew was about to explain why when he remembered that Michaelhouse’s predicament was meant to be a secret.

Eyer took a bottle from a shelf. ‘Tell your patients that I gave it to you for free. I am still new here and it will do no harm for me to be seen as generous.’

‘You are seen as generous already, for the money you give to the Guild of Saints for its charitable work. No one doubts your munificence.’

Eyer grimaced. ‘Between you and me, these donations are beyond my means, but I must be seen to be wealthy, or customers might think I skimp on my ingredients. I do not, of course, but reputation is all in my business.’

‘It is,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘And Rougham told me today that you made a mistake with the sal ammoniac I used on Potmoor.’

‘I did not! I merely said that I might have been a little liberal with the ammonium. However, I have no wish to share the blame for raising Potmoor, so I have been telling people that you prayed over it, to improve its efficacy.’

Bartholomew was dismayed. ‘You accused me of witchery?’

‘Praying is not witchery,’ said Eyer sternly. ‘And it would not be the first time that one of my potions was rendered more powerful by invoking God’s name. It is entirely possible that He imbued my sal ammoniac with unusual potency.’

‘But you just said you used too much ammonium.’

‘May have used too much ammonium. I shall certainly deny it should anyone else ask, and Rougham had no right to reveal something I told him in confidence.’ They sat in awkward silence until Eyer ranged off on another subject. ‘Poor Knyt. I recognised the symptoms of a seizure as soon as I set eyes on him, of course, although it was easy to do when he was still alive. I cannot imagine how you arrived at a diagnosis from a corpse. You are a braver man than me!’

‘I diagnosed nothing.’ Bartholomew spoke shortly, as apothecaries did not usually question physicians, and he was not sure he liked it. ‘I left that to Rougham, Meryfeld and Lawrence.’

‘I wonder what anatomical changes occur in seizures,’ mused Eyer, pouring wine into two goblets. Afraid it might be concocted from earwigs or some other undesirable ingredient, Bartholomew declined to take it. ‘I have long felt there is much to be learned from dissection. We might even be able to tell what medicines actually do, which would be of great value to those in my profession. Have you ever witnessed one?’

Bartholomew did not want to lie, but nor was he willing to discuss a practice that was frowned upon by the Church. ‘The universities in Salerno, Padua and Montpellier are very advanced compared to us,’ he hedged.

‘So I have heard.’ Eyer lowered his voice. ‘You will find no enemy of progress in me, Matt. Indeed, if it were in my remit, I would urge you to dissect Knyt. The resulting knowledge would be of great benefit to any medical man.’

‘It would,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘But I cannot see the Guild of Saints being very pleased. Or his wife, for that matter.’

Eyer sighed. ‘Ignorance is ever the enemy of advancement.’ At that moment, there was an ear-splitting wail that made him leap to his feet in alarm. ‘Christ God! What is that?’

‘The Michaelhouse Choir, warming up.’

‘Lord!’ breathed Eyer. ‘I had better stay open late tonight, because I imagine remedies for shattered nerves will be much in demand later.’

Bartholomew winced as a crescendo blossomed. ‘There is fever in the Dominican Priory, so I think I shall spend the evening there. The sound will not carry that far.’

‘Do not be so sure,’ said Eyer grimly.

Ever hospitable, the Dominicans invited Bartholomew to share their supper, so it was late by the time he returned to Michaelhouse. He walked towards the hall, intending to work for an hour before retiring to bed. As he climbed the spiral stairs, a rank stench told him that he had dined far better than his colleagues. He met Agatha the laundress by the door, carrying an empty pot.

‘Have you found the Stanton Hutch yet?’ she asked. ‘You have been out all day, so you must have some news.’

‘I am afraid not.’ Bartholomew hesitated, but then forged on, because Edith was very much on his mind. ‘Will you tell me again about the night that Oswald died? I know we have been through it several times already, but my sister … well, she continues to fret.’

‘You mean she suspects foul play?’ asked Agatha baldly.

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘She has her concerns, as do many who lose loved ones suddenly.’

Agatha’s habitually fierce expression softened. ‘Well, I am sorry he is gone. He was one of the best members of the Guild of Saints, and the poor miss him. They will miss John Knyt, too.’

‘Edith will continue their good work. So will Richard.’

‘Richard!’ spat Agatha. ‘He does not care about beggars. He voted in favour of Potmoor’s proposal to withdraw their free bread this winter.’

Bartholomew was stunned, both by the fact that Potmoor would suggest revoking such a basic service, and by Richard’s betrayal of his father’s legacy. Why would Richard support a man who made no secret of his criminal activities? Was it because he hoped to curry favour with Winwick Hall, of which Potmoor was a patron? And would he turn against the felon now that Edith had raised the possibility that Potmoor might have poisoned his father? If so, Bartholomew hoped he knew what he was doing, as men like Potmoor tended to react badly to what they saw as betrayal.

‘You did not know,’ surmised Agatha. ‘I am not surprised – he is probably ashamed of himself now.’ She sighed. ‘The Guild did much good when Master Stanmore was alive, but it has since come under the control of less kindly members – Surgeon Holm, Potmoor and the Winwick men are more interested in what the Guild can do for them, than what they can do for the poor.’

‘Julitta will put matters right. She told me only today that she plans to devote more time to it.’

Agatha sniffed. ‘Unfortunately, she is married to a greedy, selfish rogue who has other ideas. But you asked about Master Stanmore’s death. Shall I tell the whole story again?’

‘If you would not mind.’

‘My cousin’s boy Mark works for your sister, and I made him a cake. When I arrived, Master Stanmore was getting ready for a Guild function, and he and Edith were chatting in that teasing, affectionate way they had with each other. Do you know what I mean?’

‘Yes,’ replied Bartholomew, experiencing a sharp pang of sadness. ‘I do.’

‘She was sewing a button on his tunic when a message arrived.’

‘The one asking Oswald out for a meeting,’ recalled Bartholomew.

Agatha nodded. ‘When he read it his manner changed – he went from happy, to strained and nervous. He told your sister that he had some business to attend, and left at once.’

‘Did you see the letter?’

‘It would not have mattered if I had, because I do not read.’ Agatha never said she could not read, always that she did not read. There was a subtle, but significant difference.

‘And were you still there when he returned a few hours later?’

‘Yes, because young Mark ate too much cake, and made himself sick. Edith and I put him to bed, then sat talking. Master Stanmore came home eventually, but went straight upstairs, saying he felt unwell. Your sister and I chatted a while longer, then she went to offer him a tonic. She found him ailing, and sent me for help. You were away, so I fetched Doctor Rougham.’

‘Did Rougham come at once?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Agatha’s expression was wry. ‘Master Stanmore was wealthy, and handsome fees were at stake. He diagnosed marsh fever, and Master Stanmore slipped away shortly thereafter.’

‘Did Oswald say anything about his evening when he came home?’

‘No. He just poked his head around the door to say he felt a little off-colour, and was going to bed. He did not retire immediately, though, because I could hear the floorboards creak as he walked around the solar.’

‘Did he seem feverish to you?’

‘Not at all. Indeed, it would not surprise me if your sister was right, and someone did do him harm. He knew some very nasty people, so I am glad she wants you to look into the matter.’

Bartholomew stared at her. Was Edith right after all, and Stanmore had been fed a toxic potion, either at the mysterious meeting or with his Guild friends afterwards? He decided to find out a little more about his kinsman’s last evening, to set his own mind at ease, as much as hers. After all, a few innocent questions could do no harm. Could they?

To reach the conclave, Bartholomew had to cross the hall. It was full of students, most of them newcomers, so unfamiliar. Some were reading, some were chatting and some were dicing – although the illicit cubes were quickly palmed when he walked by. Goodwyn and the other new medical students had claimed a shadowy corner, and Bartholomew was glad Aungel and his class were not with them, sure they were plotting mischief.

He entered the conclave. A lamp had been lit, but it was turned so low to conserve fuel that all he could see of his colleagues were silhouettes. Most of them were there. Clippesby had Ethel on his lap; portly Suttone was positively slender next to Michael’s impressive bulk; Father William was identifiable by his unkempt hair and smelly habit; and Thelnetham sat with his knees pressed together and a pomander to his nose. Langelee was by the hearth, holding a sack in his meaty fist.

‘Good, we are all here at last,’ the Master said, aiming for the table and indicating that his Fellows were to join him. ‘I suggest we begin immediately.’

‘Begin what?’ asked Bartholomew, hoping it was nothing to do with William’s heretical tract. Michael was clutching a sheaf of parchment covered in the Franciscan’s distinctive scrawl, and tightly pursed lips told Bartholomew all he needed to know about what had been written there. ‘And we are not all here, anyway. Hemmysby is missing.’

‘He is still at the post-debate refreshments,’ said Langelee with a grimace of disapproval. ‘They finished ages ago, and I cannot imagine what is keeping him. However, he is the one I want to discuss, so it suits me that he is out.’

‘Is it about his manoeuvres to stop William from taking part?’ asked Thelnetham. ‘If so, I think he did the right thing. We would have been a laughing stock if he had been allowed to hold forth. Or excommunicated as heretics. Have you finished reading his silly tract yet, Brother?’

‘His stolen tract,’ corrected Suttone disapprovingly. ‘Really, William! If you must purloin other people’s work, you could at least choose some that has not drawn the angry attention of the King and the Pope.’

William glared at them both. ‘I explained why I did it,’ he said tightly. ‘To annoy this acid-tongued Gilbertine. I have no intention of letting anyone outside College see it. And I do not understand what all the fuss is about anyway. The piece seemed theologically sound to me, and Thelnetham is a fool for whining so.’

‘No!’ snapped Langelee, as Thelnetham drew breath to retaliate. ‘You will not distract us with a quarrel. I have something nasty to report, and you will sit quietly and listen. Are you ready? Here we go then. Hemmysby stole the Stanton Hutch.’

There was a stunned silence, the only sounds a faint hissing from the lantern and a muted cheer from the students next door as someone won at dice.

‘Have you been drinking, Master?’ asked William, the first to recover his composure.

‘I wish I had! It is not pleasant to learn that one of my Fellows is a thief.’

‘Hemmysby is not a thief,’ declared Clippesby, hugging the hen. ‘He is a priest.’

‘And priests do not steal?’ asked Langelee archly. ‘I could cite a dozen cases to prove otherwise, and so could you.’

‘On what grounds do you make this accusation?’ asked Michael worriedly.

‘On the evidence I found in his room.’ Langelee reached into the sack and withdrew an object they all recognised immediately. It was the Stanton Cup, its silver-gilt and precious stones glittering brightly, even in the dim light. ‘This was sitting on his table. He did not even bother to hide it.’

‘Perhaps one of his students put it there,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘He shares with–’

‘They are all staying at the Brazen George until term begins, to avoid our food,’ interrupted Langelee. ‘He sleeps alone. And I checked with the servants: none of them have been in there, because he locks the door. And now we know why – to conceal stolen goods.’

‘How did you get in, then?’ asked Thelnetham suspiciously.

‘I went to borrow some ink. The stuff he buys is better than the muck the rest of you use.’

It was a bald admission that Langelee raided his Fellows’ quarters in search of supplies he should have purchased himself, and that he picked locks in order to do so, but no one took issue with him over it. All were more concerned with Hemmysby.

‘The fact that the cup was in plain sight suggests to me that someone else put it there,’ said Michael. ‘If he stole it himself, he would have kept it hidden.’

‘Hemmysby is not a thief,’ repeated Clippesby, more loudly. His eyes were wild, and Bartholomew suspected they were in for one of his turns; such matters always touched him more deeply than the others. ‘The money will turn up sooner or later. Ethel here is sure of it.’

Michael ignored him. ‘Obviously, the real culprit realised that the cup is not something that can be sold, as it is too readily recognisable. So he decided to return it.’

‘That is not possible,’ said William in a low voice. ‘Since we lost the hutch, I have been watching the gate. No one has come in who should not have done. However, I did see Hemmysby acting oddly before today’s debate…’

‘Explain,’ ordered Thelnetham.

‘He was scurrying,’ replied William uncomfortably. ‘Walking oddly hunched, like Judas in the mystery plays. Yet I cannot believe–’

‘Hah!’ exclaimed Thelnetham. ‘That is evidence enough for me.’

‘Well, it is not for me,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘I suggest we refrain from drawing conclusions until we have spoken to Hemmysby and heard what he has to say.’

‘Quite right,’ agreed Michael. ‘There will be an innocent explanation for this.’

‘Yes, there will,’ said Clippesby softly. ‘It is–’

‘There will not,’ declared Thelnetham. ‘Look at the facts. Hemmysby is guilty, so accept it.’

‘Nonsense,’ argued William, although whether he believed it or just could not bring himself to side with the Gilbertine was difficult to say. ‘You do not know what you are talking about.’

‘I am not sure what to think,’ said Suttone miserably. ‘The evidence suggests … yet…’

‘So Bartholomew, Michael, Clippesby and William deem Hemmysby innocent, Thelnetham and I judge him guilty, and Suttone wavers,’ summarised Langelee. ‘What shall we do? Go to St Mary the Great and demand some answers?’

‘Lord, no! That would set tongues wagging.’ Thelnetham stood. ‘We shall await his return, and while we do, I suggest we visit his lair, and see what else he has secreted there.’

Hemmysby’s quarters were in the south wing, where the rooms were larger, newer and in better repair than the ones where Bartholomew lived. Its ceiling did not leak, and there were thick rugs on the floor and books on a shelf above the hearth. The bed was loaded with blankets, and the students’ mattresses were stacked neatly beneath it. It smelled pleasantly of the spices that hung above the door to ward off agues, and of the lavender that was heaped in a silver bowl on the windowsill.

Bartholomew watched Langelee and Thelnetham rummage in the iron-bound box that held Hemmysby’s personal belongings. Spare habit, underclothes and shoes were tossed out with callous indifference, along with a lovingly embroidered blanket from the priest’s mother. Bartholomew picked it up and folded it carefully, deeply uncomfortable with what they were doing.

‘Someone else left the Stanton Cup here,’ he continued to insist. ‘William cannot have kept watch all day, so the real thief waited until he was not looking.’

‘Yes,’ nodded Clippesby. ‘Of course that is what happened.’

Thelnetham regarded them both in distaste. ‘Clippesby is mad, so can be excused asinine remarks, but you should know better, Matthew.’

‘Here are the deeds that prove we own our churches and manors!’ exclaimed Suttone, seizing a pile of documents that lay openly on the bed. ‘How did you miss them when you were here earlier, Master?’

‘I did not linger – I just grabbed the cup and hurried to the conclave to talk to you,’ replied Langelee. ‘Are they all there?’

Michael rifled through them quickly. ‘Yes, thank God! What about the money? Is there any sign of that?’

‘And my bestiary,’ added Thelnetham.

A more detailed search revealed no more. It was now very late and Bartholomew was worried, fearing that Hemmysby might have learned what was happening and be afraid to return lest his explanations were rejected. Cynric was sent to find him, but returned alone.

‘St Mary the Great is empty,’ he reported. ‘And I do not know where else to look.’

It was decided that he might be in the College church, so Bartholomew and Michael went to see. As they walked there, the physician reiterated his certainty of Hemmysby’s innocence.

‘I agree,’ said Michael. ‘He has plenty of money, and his needs are modest. He has no reason to steal. Besides, the placement of the cup and the deeds in his room had a contrived feel about them. I seriously doubt he put them there himself.’

They entered St Michael’s graveyard and approached the porch, where Michael began the laborious business of jiggling the awkward latch – more difficult in the dark than in daylight.

‘Hemmysby will never mend this if he learns that Thelnetham and Langelee have declared him a felon,’ he said. ‘And it would serve them right. Lord! The wretched thing is stickier than ever tonight. It must be the damp. You try.’ He stepped back to give the physician room, then released a yelp of surprise as he toppled backwards.

‘Are you hurt, Brother?’ asked Bartholomew, struggling to keep the amusement from his voice. It was not often that Michael lost his dignity.

The monk replied with some pithy obscenities that made Bartholomew laugh aloud.

‘I tripped over a … Oh, Christ!’ While Michael was not averse to swearing, he rarely blasphemed, and the exclamation put an abrupt end to Bartholomew’s mirth. ‘Help me, Matt! Quickly! I am sitting on someone. A dead someone!’

Bartholomew groped about in the blackness, locating a chest and then a face. There was no breath, and the skin was cold. Michael was right: it was a corpse. He felt something else, too – a familiar pectoral cross and a head of wildly bushy hair.

It was Hemmysby.