The Chancellor’s Secret

Chapter 8

The next day was Saturday, and Bartholomew was horrified to emerge into the yard to discover the weather was hotter than ever, even though it was still dark. He wondered if it would kill all the crops, so there would be food shortages and starvation that winter.

On a brighter note, Walter was recovering, which Bartholomew attributed to Agatha, who had forced the porter to drink all the boiled barley water he had been prescribed. Walter was still in some discomfort, but no longer needed to dash to the latrines with distressing haste. He sat in his lodge, his loyal peacock at his side, and when he began to grumble about the students, Bartholomew knew he was feeling better.

Unfortunately, there was an outbreak of flux around the Gilbertine Priory, and Bartholomew arrived to discover that Stasy and Hawick had been there before him, offering a remedy that they claimed would cure it. Desperate and miserable, the sufferers had paid up, although Bartholomew saw a mark on one pot that identified its contents as having been made by Margery Starre. She would be livid when she found out, especially as they had sold it at twice the price she usually charged.

On his way home, Bartholomew stopped to see Meadowman, and was pleased to see colour in the beadle’s face for the first time in days. He was sitting up, listening to Isnard describe the fun had by the Marian Singers in All Saints the previous evening, where they had arrived en masse to help with the St Benedict’s Day celebrations.

‘The congregation was not expecting us,’ Isnard chuckled, and although he was still hoarse, his cold seemed to be retreating. ‘So they had quite a shock.’

‘I can imagine,’ said Bartholomew drily. ‘Did they mind?’

‘Why would they mind?’ asked Isnard indignantly. ‘Everyone loves the joy and enthusiasm we bring to public events.’

‘Like Doctor Bartholomew’s wedding,’ said Meadowman with a sweet smile, ‘where the choir also plans to make a surprise appearance.’

This was news to Bartholomew, who was sure Matilde would not appreciate such a rabble performing on her special day – and Lucy certainly would not. Isnard scowled at Meadowman, who gaped his dismay when he realised what he had let slip.

‘It is this wretched flux,’ said the beadle defensively. ‘It has robbed me of my wits.’

‘It is not the flux, it is that medicine from Stasy and Hawick,’ said Isnard crossly. ‘You should not have sipped it, especially as they are now going around braying that one gulp cured you instantly. You should shout the truth – that it was the special powder Doctor Bartholomew put in your barley water.’

‘I am not the only one who has given them cause to brag,’ countered Meadowman. ‘Your cold is getting better, and they are taking the credit.’

‘Then they are liars!’ spat Isnard. ‘They did present me with a phial, but I threw it away. I will never trust them again after they almost saw me drowned in the Mill Pond.’

Satisfied that both patients were on the mend, Bartholomew left. He saw Stasy and Hawick on Milne Street, emerging from the house of a wealthy saddler – a man who was friends with Edith, and who Bartholomew had assumed would never annoy her by defecting to another medicus. But he could tell from his old students’ gloating expressions that the saddler had done just that.

‘People have heard about our success with the flux,’ crowed Stasy with the kind of smirk that would make anyone want to slap it off him. ‘Poor Meadowman would be dead by now, were it not for us.’

Bartholomew was not about to demean himself by arguing. ‘Where were you around compline time on Wednesday?’ he asked, supposing he might as well quiz them about Aynton, since they were there.

‘Out,’ replied Hawick defiantly. ‘With each other, as we have already told Michael. And do not accuse us of killing Aynton, because we never did.’

‘Besides, you said that Aynton had provided enough clues to let you identify the culprit,’ flashed Stasy challengingly. ‘Which means that either you lied or he did. Either way, you have no right to interrogate us.’

Their replies did nothing to persuade Bartholomew to delete them from his list of suspects. Unfortunately, he knew that badgering them would not convince them to cooperate, so he opted for affability instead. After all, he had taught them for years, and while they had never much liked each other, most of that time had passed without antagonism or hostility.

‘I hear you have set up in Shoemaker Row,’ he began pleasantly, although it was not easy to disguise his irritation. ‘I wish you success of it.’

Stasy regarded him suspiciously, although Hawick took him at his word and grinned happily. ‘We shall make a fortune there. People already flock to buy our services – not just our remedies, but horoscopes and urine readings, too. You taught us well.’

‘Donwich has promised to give us our degrees when he is Chancellor,’ put in Stasy gloatingly. ‘He thinks our expulsion was unfair, and wants to make things right.’

‘We shall continue our used-exemplar trade as well,’ Hawick went on. ‘That is very lucrative. The profits allowed us to rent the shop and buy remedies to sell.’

‘Margery Starre’s remedies,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘She will not appreciate you passing her wares off as your own, so you might want to be careful.’

‘Come, Hawick,’ said Stasy haughtily. ‘We do not need business advice from a man who barely makes ends meet, and who will be deep in debt when he leaves his College.’

Bartholomew sincerely hoped he was wrong. They strode away, and he jumped when he heard a soft voice in his ear – he had forgotten Cynric was shadowing them.

‘Do not worry about the remedies. Margery knows about them, and she has a plan.’

‘What plan?’ asked Bartholomew, alarmed.

Cynric grinned. ‘One that will discredit them so badly that they will leave the town and never be heard of again. And good riddance!’

And with that, he hurried after his quarry.

Bartholomew arrived in the hall just as Michael was saying grace. It was already stifling and the students had been given permission to wear whatever they found most comfortable after two of them had fainted. The result was a sea of colour, as everyone had leapt at the chance to don something other than the prescribed black.

Agatha, flushed and flustered, came to report that the butter had turned rancid and the meat had spoiled overnight. The meal therefore comprised dry bread and an eclectic selection of boiled vegetables.

‘The heat is dismal enough,’ said Michael, regarding his platter in dismay. ‘But when it affects my victuals …’

‘It will rain on Tuesday, after which we shall have forty cool, wet days,’ declared Zoone with such confidence that the other Fellows regarded him in surprise. He began to elaborate. ‘A change in wind direction tells me that a wet spell is on the way, while Tuesday is the Feast of St Swithun. And, as everyone knows, rain on St Swithun’s Day means forty soggy days always follow.’

‘Rank superstition!’ exclaimed Michael. ‘I am surprised at you, Zoone.’

‘I have seen many a dry summer ended by that venerable saint,’ countered Zoone, ‘and this time will be no different. I am an engineer, do not forget – my structures will not stand firm unless I take weather patterns into account. Ergo, I know a lot about them.’

‘The swallows anticipate a change soon, too,’ put in Clippesby, who had carried two peahens into the hall, and was feeding them grain picked from his bread. ‘They are also tired of the drought, as there is no wet soil for repairing their nests.’

Father William’s eyes narrowed. ‘Someone has been leaving bowls of mud all around the College, and I should have guessed it was you. I tripped over one last night, and look at the state of my best habit.’

Everyone did, although the new stains were barely visible among ones that were fouler and had been there for a lot longer. Seeing he was going to get no sympathy, William changed the subject to Narboro.

‘I dislike him for being a peacock,’ he declared, then glanced at Clippesby’s avian guests. ‘No offence, ladies. He is an empty-headed fool, and I do not believe that the King considered him an indispensable part of his retinue.’

‘It is difficult to imagine,’ agreed Zoone. ‘However, I was in London once, and I saw Narboro with the royal party. I cannot say if he was indispensable, but he was certainly there.’

‘Probably sharpening the pens,’ sneered William. ‘Or polishing His Majesty’s mirrors, thus allowing him to admire himself at the same time.’

While the friar held forth, Bartholomew turned to Michael. The monk was immaculate – freshly shaved, his tonsure a perfect circle, and his habit spotless. He exuded authority and confidence, although Bartholomew knew him well enough to detect unease behind the elegant demeanour.

‘You are worried about the vicars-general,’ he surmised, keeping his voice low so that no one else would hear. ‘But I doubt you have cause for concern. Donwich’s challenge is absurd, and they will see it in moments.’

Michael gave a brief smile. ‘I am not worried about Donwich, Matt. I just want the vicars to see me at my best.’

‘Because they will report to the Archbishop, and he is someone with the power to award you an abbacy or a bishopric?’

‘Oh, no – he cannot be more dazzled by me than he is already,’ replied Michael, never a man to waste time with false modesty. ‘I need to impress them because I now embody the University. This chancellorship carries a heavy burden of responsibility.’

‘One you have carried for years,’ said Bartholomew, wondering if there was more to his friend’s disquiet than he was telling.

‘True,’ acknowledged Michael, and sighed. ‘But the constraints of the post – especially now the vicars are here – make it impossible for me to investigate these murders, and it is hard for me to watch you struggle alone. I itch to join you.’

Bartholomew regarded him balefully. ‘It is hard for me, too. Every teaching day I have left is precious, but I am forced to sacrifice them in order to do the Senior Proctor’s work. Brampton should–’

‘While I am closeted with the vicars, Brampton must begin collecting the bridge money,’ interrupted Michael. ‘If he does not, Morys will bray that the University reneges on its promises and there will be trouble. And you are the only person I trust to win justice for Aynton and Huntyngdon. You liked them – you will not deny them what they deserve.’

‘Appoint a Junior Proctor,’ suggested Bartholomew, disliking the way Michael was backing him into a corner. ‘Narboro has already offered, and William would do it in a heartbeat.’

Michael grimaced. ‘They could not solve a murder if they saw one committed right in front of them. It must be you who investigates these crimes, Matt. Obviously, I would rather do it myself, but that is impossible now the vicars-general are here. However, if you do this for me now, I swear that I will never make another demand of you again.’

Bartholomew started to laugh at a promise he knew would never be kept, but then he saw the agonised expression on Michael’s face. The monk did hate not being able to pursue the killer himself, and agreeing to become Chancellor had cost him more than anyone realised. Bartholomew was suddenly ashamed of his selfishness. He nodded agreement, and turned his mind to what they knew so far.

‘The deaths of Huntyngdon and Aynton are connected, linked by the letter that one gave the other to deliver. However, it would make a lot more sense if Aynton had written to someone other than Narboro. I do not see anyone involving him in something serious enough to warrant murder.’

‘No, but Aynton wrote to him nonetheless. Perhaps his vanity is an act, a ruse to conceal the real man. Speak to him again today, and see what you can find out. But first, go to the castle and retrieve Huntyngdon’s pouch from that thieving Dickon.’

‘Why? I cannot imagine the Earl will want it.’

‘Actually, he does. Besides, I want to be sure it really is empty – that Dickon did not dismiss a mere letter as unimportant, because only weapons and money matter in his eyes. If the little ghoul refuses to part with it, take it by force.’

‘“Take it by force”?’ echoed Bartholomew in disbelief. ‘Would you have him run me through?’

Michael snorted his disdain. ‘He is all swagger, but a coward at heart. He would never dare attack you lest you hit him back. But if you are averse to violence, threaten to give him spots. That will bring him to heel, as no youth likes looking like a leopard.’

‘True.’

‘When you have the purse, deliver it to King’s Hall, and while you are there, ask again about Huntyngdon’s business with Aynton. Why was he chosen to deliver the letter, rather than someone from Aynton’s own College? And try to learn more about Huntyngdon’s relationship with the conveniently absent Martyn.’

‘Did you charge a beadle to scour the riverbank?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I assume Dickon found nothing, or we would have heard.’

‘He unearthed a wealth of dead animals, all of which he presented to his horrified sire. And yes, I sent a beadle to investigate, too, but he found nothing useful either.’ Michael chuckled. ‘Dickon was offended that we wanted to look for ourselves, and shadowed him every step of the way, barking orders and advice. The poor man was quite unnerved.’

Bartholomew was not surprised – he would not have been happy with Dickon dogging his footsteps as he hunted for corpses either.

‘What if Narboro and King’s Hall have no answers?’ he asked.

Michael raised his hands rather helplessly. ‘Speak to our main suspects again: Gille, Elsham, Stasy, Hawick, Chaumbre, Morys and anyone else you think merits attention. Not Donwich, though – leave him until we have solid evidence to confront him with.’

‘Brampton is on the list, too,’ said Bartholomew pointedly.

‘I know,’ said Michael drily. ‘But I need him to collect bridge money for the next few days, so leave him alone, too.’

In his room a short while later, Bartholomew issued Aungel with a long list of texts he wanted his students to study that day, although he could tell by the incredulous expression on the young Fellow’s face that his demands were unlikely to be met.

‘I will try,’ said Aungel. ‘But no one else is teaching, and all our lads can think about is going home. It is difficult to make them sit still, let alone get them to listen.’

‘Well, do your best,’ said Bartholomew, wondering if he was the only scholar in the entire University who thought students were there to learn.

‘Of course, it will be far easier without Stasy and Hawick,’ said Aungel, perching on the windowsill to chat. ‘They were a bad influence on the rest – disruptive.’

‘They were no worse than some of the others,’ said Bartholomew, tempted to point out that Aungel had not always been an ideal pupil either.

‘You would not say that if you knew them as well as I do,’ sniffed Aungel. ‘Michael was right to expel them. Graduates of the University are supposed to be men of upright and moral character, which they are not.’

‘No?’ asked Bartholomew absently, most of his mind still on the list of texts.

‘They think spells can take the place of proper medicine. I wish they would leave town, because they will be a nuisance here. People are superstitious, and will always opt for charms over the real weapons against disease – urine reading, phlebotomy and horoscopes.’

As far as Bartholomew was concerned, there was not much to choose between them, but he held his tongue, aware that Aungel was something of a traditionalist, despite all he had done to convince him to open his mind.

‘You speak as if casting spells is something they did a lot,’ he said, picking up his medicines bag and looping it over his shoulder.

Aungel shrugged. ‘It is – they have been at it for years now.’

Bartholomew raised his eyebrows. ‘And you never thought to mention it to me?’

‘Too right I never! They would have cursed me, as they have cursed you. But do not worry, sir. I am sure Cynric and Margery Starre will find a way to reverse the hex.’

The town baked under the relentless sun, and even though it was still early morning, Bartholomew could feel the heat of the road burning through his shoes. He tried to keep to the shade, but everyone else had the same idea, so there was lots of irritable jostling. It also meant zigzagging from one side of the street to the other, depending on the height and position of buildings, and at one point, he was sure someone was replicating his every move. He stopped to look behind him, but saw nothing amiss.

Yolande de Blaston, part-time prostitute and wife to one of the town’s carpenters, had left a bowl of water outside her house for thirsty animals. It thronged with small birds until Ulf Godenave darted forward and kicked it over. The birds scattered in alarm, and the water trailed into a nearby pothole. Ulf’s spiteful laughter turned to a startled yelp when someone shot from the house and cuffed him around the ear.

‘Got the little sod!’ crowed Yolande, as the boy raced away before she could do it again. ‘It is the fifth time he has kicked that bowl over, and I am tired of lugging water from the well. And he bit our dog.’

‘Did he?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘Why?’

‘Because she barked at him. He did it to shut her up, lest I came out to see what he was doing – which was stealing the laundry I set out to dry in the sun.’

Bartholomew hoped Ulf would have the sense to keep his distance for a while, as Yolande was not a person to aggravate. He asked after her enormous brood of children – fifteen at the last count – but before she could reply, their attention was taken by a screech and some pithy swearing. Narboro, flouncing along elegantly, had not watched where he was putting his feet, and had stumbled into the water-filled pothole.

‘Look at my robe!’ he cried angrily. ‘Wet and filthy! It is your legal duty to look after the street outside your home, madam, but you have allowed this great pit to develop.’

Householders were responsible for their bit of the road, but the de Blastons could barely afford rent and food, so repairing potholes was well beyond their means.

‘No harm has been done,’ said Bartholomew, pulling Narboro away before Yolande smacked him over the head, too; he could tell from her scowl that she was considering it.

‘No harm?’ snarled Narboro, although a glance at Yolande’s furious face warned him against marching back to have it out with her. ‘I am drenched!’

Bartholomew studied him out of the corner of his eye, trying to determine if he really was an empty-headed fool, or something else entirely. He could not do it, so he began to talk, hoping a conversation might reveal the truth about the man.

‘I assume you know that Huntyngdon is dead,’ he began. ‘The scholar who was last seen setting off to deliver a letter to you.’

‘I did hear, but all I can tell you is what I said last time: that Aynton may well have written to me, given my important Court connections, but no letter from him ever arrived, delivered by Huntyngdon or anyone else.’

‘It is probably connected to his murder,’ Bartholomew went on. ‘So if you know anything about it – anything at all – now is the time to tell me.’

Narboro regarded him in alarm. ‘Are you saying that I might be in danger, too?’

‘You might,’ said Bartholomew, although the truth was that he had no idea. ‘So it is in your interests to help me catch the killer before he strikes again.’

‘But I cannot think of anything,’ wailed Narboro, unsettled. ‘Other than that Aynton must have wanted me to secure him a position at Court once he left the University.’

‘That cannot be it,’ said Bartholomew, exasperated. ‘Aynton had no intention of abandoning Cambridge – just shedding the onerous responsibility of being Chancellor. Besides, Huntyngdon seemed to think the letter contained something important.’

‘Begging favours of me is important,’ countered Narboro huffily. ‘And I honestly cannot think of any other reason for him to write.’

‘Could it have been about your refusal to marry Lucy?’

Narboro blinked. ‘If so, it was none of his business!’

‘Perhaps he thought it reflected badly on the rest of us. A scholar’s word should be his bond, and you broke yours.’

Narboro glared at him. ‘It is all very well for you to take the moral high ground – your fiancée is pretty. Worse yet, I returned home to discover that Lucy had spent the last ten years educating herself. No man wants a wife who thinks she is cleverer than him.’

‘Especially if it is true,’ muttered Bartholomew.

‘Now, if there is nothing else, I am busy.’ Narboro stalked away, leaving the physician less sure than ever what to make of him.

Bartholomew began to traipse towards the castle, which stood on a hill to the north of the town, aiming to retrieve Huntyngdon’s purse from Dickon. His feet kicked dust from the hard-baked mud of the streets, staining his clean white shirt brown. He turned into Bridge Street and found it thronged with people. At first, he did not understand why it was so busy, but then he remembered that the bridge was closed so that Shardelowe could rebuild it.

He eased through the commotion, and saw that the only way to cross the Cam – short of swimming – was on Isnard’s ferry, as the ponticulus had also been shut. A long line of people waited to use it, and Bartholomew sagged, aware that queuing would be uncomfortable in the full glare of the sun.

Then it occurred to him that Dickon might be in the Tulyets’ Bridge Street house, rather than at the castle. He did a right-angled turn to cross the road, and for the second time that day, was assailed by the feeling that someone had just changed course to follow. But when he stopped to look behind him, there was nothing to see.

He knocked on Tulyet’s door and was admitted to the solar, a lovely room with views down the river. The window shutters were closed that day, though, partly to exclude the stink of the water, but mostly to mute the racket made by the builders and those waiting with ever-increasing fractiousness to use the ferry.

Neither Dickon nor his father was in, but Mistress Tulyet was there, entertaining a large group of women that included Edith, Matilde and Lucy. Rohese Morys was there, too, wearing a bodice that was cut precariously low, while her lips and cheeks were painted so scarlet that there was a moment when Bartholomew wondered if she was suffering from a hectic fever. Everyone’s attention was on a piece of embroidered cloth.

‘I am not sure,’ Lucy was saying. ‘It is rather coarse, and we want the best.’

‘I agree,’ said Rohese. ‘You should send these back, Matilde. After all, it is a day you will remember for the rest of your life, and it should be perfect.’

Bartholomew realised they were talking about his wedding, and was appalled that Lucy had chosen to discuss it with so many other people. He glanced behind him, wondering if he could escape before he was trapped into answering questions on matters he knew nothing about. He caught Matilde’s eye, and saw she was amused – not just by Lucy’s obsession with the event, but by his obvious fear that his own opinion might be solicited.

‘I doubt most of our guests will notice the table linen,’ she said, smiling indulgently at her friend. ‘Just the food and wine placed on it.’

‘I agree,’ said Edith. ‘These are perfectly adequate, Lucy.’

‘Oh, they are adequate,’ sniffed Lucy. ‘But who wants adequate when she can have exceptional? No, these will not do. We shall hold out for something better – something superior.’

‘What do you think, Matthew?’ asked Rohese, eyeing him as if he was something to eat, and making him more uncomfortable than ever.

‘Well,’ hedged Bartholomew, and glanced at Matilde, pleading silently for her help. She struggled not to laugh, but took pity on him.

‘Enough, Lucy. We should move on to the real business of the day: our school. We have raised sufficient funds to rent a house, pay teachers, and establish a small library. Now we must decide where to put it.’

‘On the High Street,’ replied Lucy promptly. ‘Where it will be seen.’

‘I think we should start somewhere more discreet,’ countered Edith. ‘We can always flaunt it later, once the University’s bigots have stopped trying to shut it down.’

‘Our current finances allow us to offer lessons not only in reading, writing and grammar,’ said Matilde, her eyes alight with enthusiasm, ‘but in arithmetic, music, philosophy, theology, Latin, Greek and medicine.’

‘Matt will teach the medicine, of course,’ put in Edith.

‘I will?’ gulped Bartholomew, not liking to imagine what his colleagues would say about it. Then it occurred to him that it would not matter, because he would no longer be a member of their University. He could do what he liked, no matter how controversial. He smiled suddenly at the prospect of new challenges, already compiling mental lists of the texts he would want his classes to study.

‘Stasy and Hawick offered their services,’ said Lucy with a moue of distaste. ‘But I declined. Our school will be a respectable place, and they are warlocks.’

‘But they can cure the flux and the common cold,’ countered Rohese.

‘So can Satan,’ said Lucy tartly. ‘But I would not advise soliciting his help, either. Stay away from them, Rohese. They are poison.’

At that point, Mistress Tulyet stood and indicated that Bartholomew was to follow her into the hallway, where they could speak without an audience. Unlike her husband, she accepted that Dickon was not very nice – she had seen him bully servants, terrorise other children, and make visitors think twice about calling. She might love her son, but she did not like or understand him, and was less inclined than Tulyet to excuse his disagreeable personality as a ‘passing phase’.

‘What has he done now?’ she asked, anxious and resigned in equal measure.

‘He borrowed something belonging to Huntyngdon and I need it back,’ replied Bartholomew, deciding that she had enough to contend with regarding her son, so did not need to hear that he was a corpse-robber as well. ‘Is he here?’

She winced. ‘He should be – we hired a tutor to teach him his letters.’

‘But?’ prompted Bartholomew.

‘But he escaped through a window, and is probably at the castle. Dick … well, he lays down the law, but he is secretly delighted to see such spirit in the boy. He thinks he will make a fine warrior one day.’

‘I know he does,’ said Bartholomew ambiguously.

Hoping to be spared a journey to the castle, Bartholomew asked to search Dickon’s room. His mother made no objection, although the missing purse was not there. There was, however, an alarmingly large collection of knives, and some crudely drawn sketches of naked women. Mistress Tulyet gaped her horror.

‘My students have some of those,’ Bartholomew informed her reassuringly. ‘It is quite normal for adolescent boys to–’

‘I do not care about the pictures,’ she interrupted. ‘I am more concerned about the weapons. Does he aim to declare war on the town single-handed?’

Bartholomew would not put it past him. ‘He is just preparing for France,’ he said soothingly. ‘Do not worry.’

He took his leave and turned towards the Great Bridge. As he went, he caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye. Someone was following him! Quick as a flash, he ducked down one of the alleys that ran to the river, then slipped into a doorway to wait. Moments later, Gille and Elsham hurried past. They reached the end of the lane, and looked around irritably when they saw he had vanished.

‘Looking for me?’ he called, watching with satisfaction as they jumped in alarm.

‘Of course not,’ snapped Gille, rather too quickly. ‘We saw that young pickpocket – Ulf – scamper down here. He stole Elsham’s purse the other day, and we want it back.’

No one had entered the lane other than the three of them, so Bartholomew knew they were lying.

‘I am going to the castle,’ he said coolly. ‘Then King’s Hall. Will that make dogging my footsteps any easier for you?’

Gille looked set to continue blustering, but Elsham knew the game was up. ‘You are Brother Michael’s closest friend. Of course we must monitor you, lest you launch a scheme that will benefit him at Donwich’s expense.’

‘Actually, I am trying to find out who pushed Aynton to his death.’

‘He intends to accuse Donwich of it,’ said Gille to Elsham. ‘Michael cannot weave a web of lies himself, not with the Archbishop’s men demanding his presence in St Mary the Great, so he has ordered his henchman to do it instead.’

‘Donwich will not be accused unless there is evidence to warrant it,’ said Bartholomew shortly. ‘But perhaps you can exonerate him. Was he with you two during compline on Wednesday?’

‘No,’ replied Elsham. ‘He was–’

‘We do not need to tell you anything, Bartholomew,’ interrupted Gille angrily, glaring at his friend for being ready to cooperate with the enemy. ‘And do not think of accusing us of harming Aynton. We went nowhere near him.’

‘Can you prove it?’ asked Bartholomew and raised his hands when both looked indignant. ‘All I want is to eliminate you from the enquiry. Surely you cannot object to that? He was a member of your College, after all.’

‘Not a very loyal one,’ muttered Gille. ‘He should have supported Donwich, but instead he told everyone to vote for Michael. It was an outrage, and we would have ousted him from Clare Hall had he lived.’

‘So you had a good reason to want him dead,’ pounced Bartholomew. ‘Revenge.’

‘There are other ways to destroy a man besides murder,’ said Gille in a voice that was full of menace. ‘As you will learn, if you try to meddle in our affairs.’

‘Enough, Gille,’ said Elsham tiredly. ‘You are making him think we are guilty.’

‘Let him,’ snarled Gille. ‘It will waste his time and serve him right.’

‘But mud sticks,’ Elsham pointed out crossly. ‘And if he asks impertinent questions about us all over town, people will assume we do have something to hide. That will harm us, Donwich and Clare Hall.’

‘It will,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘So I repeat: where were you when Aynton was killed?’

‘About an hour before compline, we decided to go out,’ began Elsham, ignoring his friend’s angry sigh. ‘As we left the College, we saw Aynton hiding near the main gate. He was waiting to see if Donwich would visit Lucy, aiming to follow him, and then accuse him of breaking one of the University’s rules.’

‘The most ridiculous one,’ growled Gille. ‘Namely, forbidding red-blooded men access to women. It runs contrary to nature!’

‘We assumed Donwich would remain in the hall with his guests that night,’ said Elsham. ‘So we surmised that Aynton was wasting his time.’

Gille laughed coarsely. ‘But the lure of his lady love proved too much. Donwich left not long after we did, although we never saw him.’

‘We went to the Swan Inn,’ Elsham went on. ‘John Godenave drinks there on a Wednesday, and he owes us money – we wanted to collect it. We had a few ales with him, but left when we heard the commotion as Aynton’s body was found.’

‘Ask anyone in the Swan,’ said Gille with a gloating smirk. ‘They will tell you that we have plenty of alibis for when Aynton was killed.’

As the Swan was just across the road, Bartholomew decided to do what they suggested. Godenave was there, and confirmed that two surly brutes from Clare Hall did indeed come to demand money from him on the night of the murder. There had been a spat when he had tried to short-change them, which every patron remembered. Without a shadow of a doubt, Gille and Elsham had not killed the Chancellor.

However, they had said nothing to make Bartholomew think Donwich was innocent, so their Master remained firmly at the top of his list.