The Chancellor’s Secret

Chapter 13

The next day was the Feast of St Swithun, and dawn revealed a sky that was an unnatural ochre hue. Then it began to rain, a modest downpour that still managed to turn the dust of the streets to a sticky brown paste. Bartholomew could not summon the energy to celebrate the end of the drought, because he had been called out several times in the night to individuals who felt the flux might kill them without his immediate intervention. He was tired and disconsolate, painfully aware that he was no closer to understanding – or preventing – the sickness than when it had first manifested itself.

As he trudged home from tending a patient near the King’s Ditch, he saw Ulf and his cronies merrily flinging mud at passers-by. Most folk were too glad to see rain to object, much to Ulf’s disappointment. Prior Pechem received a clod of mire in the chest, but when all he did was sketch a genial blessing, Ulf’s temper broke. He hurled his new hat at the departing friar and bawled obscenities that had jaws dropping all down the High Street.

Bartholomew arrived at Michaelhouse to find Walter in a foul temper, because someone – almost certainly Stasy, Hawick, or someone in their thrall – had tried to feed his poultry mouldy grain in the hope that it would make them sicken and die. Fortunately, the birds had become fussy eaters under Walter’s doting care, and had declined to touch it.

‘Are you fully recovered now?’ Bartholomew asked him. ‘The flux has gone?’

‘Enough to let me protect my birds,’ said Walter grimly. ‘And if anyone tries to poison them again, they will have me to answer to. Of course, I doubt they will attempt it in the next forty days, because it will be far too wet for mischief.’

‘Time is running out, Matt,’ said Michael anxiously at breakfast not long after. ‘It is Tuesday today, and we must have answers by Saturday. What if the culprit is a scholar? He may leave, never to return. Aynton deserves justice, and so does Elsham, even if he was a killer himself.’

‘I do not understand what is causing the flux, and it is not relinquishing its hold,’ said Bartholomew, wrapped up in his own worries. ‘There were ten new cases last night – or ten people who called me for help; the actual figure is likely to be much higher – but all I can do is recommend boiled barley water and rest.’

Michael was sympathetic. ‘You look as though you could do with some rest yourself.’

‘So do you. I saw you return home long after midnight.’

‘The business with the vicars-general is more complex than I anticipated.’ Michael rubbed bloodshot eyes. ‘I had hoped to finish in a day or two, so I could join you in solving the murders, but I fear I shall be tied up for days yet.’

Bartholomew frowned his exasperation. ‘I do not understand why whatever you are doing with them is taking so much time. You have never let University business interfere with a murder enquiry before.’

‘But I am Chancellor now,’ sighed Michael, so heavily that Bartholomew knew he was wondering whether his decision to stand for the post had been the right one. ‘I do not have the freedom I enjoyed as Senior Proctor.’

‘Such limitations do not seem to bother Donwich. Can you not press the vicars-general to make a quick decision about him? Having an Anti-Chancellor marching around, causing strife and issuing orders that no one wants to follow, is becoming tiresome.’

Michael grinned. ‘Which means our colleagues will be even more delighted when the vicars-general send him packing.’

‘So when will they? It should not take them long to see his claims are groundless.’

‘No,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But who should be Chancellor is not the only matter they must decide, as I think you have deduced. I cannot say more, much as I would like to confide in you. Just know that it is important, and that it suits me to have the decision about Donwich delayed for a while.’

‘Justice for Aynton and Elsham is important, too.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Michael, ‘which is why I so desperately need your help. You must catch this killer before we break for the end of term.’

‘I will do my best. However, I only have two more leads to follow, and if they transpire to be dead ends, I shall not know what else to try.’

‘What leads?’

‘Morys, although I have interrogated him before with no success, so doing it again is likely to be futile. And young Isaac de Blaston – I need to catch him when Ulf is not there.’

‘Corner Isaac first,’ instructed Michael. ‘Now what about Martyn? Have you learned anything new about him?’

Bartholomew was thoughtful. ‘Aynton knew that Narboro had gone to Linton, so he almost certainly asked Huntyngdon to take the letter there – not a local delivery, but one involving a lengthy ride. Perhaps he gave another missive to Martyn, and Martyn is still in the process of delivering it to its distant recipient.’

‘Possibly,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘Although the guards on the gates did not see him leave the town. We shall only know the truth if he reappears – dead or alive.’

‘I have a bad feeling it will be dead, and that Gille is the killer,’ said Bartholomew soberly. ‘Elsham lied about Gille being in the Brazen George when Huntyngdon was stabbed. Perhaps Gille was dealing with Martyn while Elsham dispatched Huntyngdon.’

‘I hope you are wrong.’

‘So do I, but Gille’s flight suggests otherwise. It was not the thefts that drove him away, because he had been stealing exemplars for a while – he ran when Elsham was murdered. Perhaps he was afraid he would be next.’

‘He fled to Stasy and Hawick after packing a bag at Clare Hall,’ mused Michael. ‘So, could one of them be the “friend” who urged Elsham to kill? I had assumed neither was man enough to order a lout like Elsham around, but …’

‘Them or Donwich, Morys, Brampton or Shardelowe. Those are our only remaining suspects. However, I think the key to understanding everything is Aynton’s letter – or letters.’

‘Or the bridge,’ countered Michael. ‘Aynton was killed on it; Huntyngdon’s body was found near it and his murderer was killed under it; and Shardelowe is rebuilding it, having won the commission by conniving with Morys.’

‘Baldok was killed on it, too,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And Dick still has not given up hope of justice for him.’

‘Of course, if I am right,’ Michael went on, ‘we shall have to cross Donwich, Stasy and Hawick off our list. They have no connection to the bridge whatsoever.’

‘On the contrary, it was Donwich’s loud mouth at the guildhall that forced scholars to pay more towards its repairs, while my old students will need a good working bridge if their practice is to thrive – a lot of rich townsfolk live north of the river.’

‘Then you had better visit them again today, and see what you can shake loose. Do it after you have spoken to Yolande’s boy.’

Bartholomew left the College in an anxious frame of mind, worried about the flux, a murder investigation that he felt was well beyond his ability to solve, his sister’s marriage to a man he did not know or understand, and the fact that in four days, he would leave the University and never teach again.

Then he thought about Matilde’s school for women and smiled. But of course he would teach, and it would be just as rewarding as educating men. More so, perhaps, as her pupils would enrol because they had a genuine thirst for knowledge, not because they wanted to make fortunes from calculating horoscopes and compiling astrological tables for wealthy hypochondriacs.

It was drizzling as he walked to the de Blaston house, although the rain had done nothing to cool things down. He arrived to be told that Isaac was out with his newest playmates, although Yolande was horrified when she discovered that one was Ulf.

‘If you find him before me, bring him home,’ she ordered, eyes flashing with anger. ‘I do not want him mixing with the Godenaves. They have low morals and are vulgar.’

Which was damning indeed coming from a woman who was a prostitute in her spare time, and whose large brood bore uncanny likenesses to a number of wealthy merchants and scholars.

Bartholomew decided to go to All Saints, to see if the brats had gone there to stay out of the wet. If Isaac were among them, he would drag him back to Yolande and she would certainly make him tell what he knew about Ulf’s antics on the bridge.

He passed Stasy and Hawick on the way. They wore new cloaks and fine waterproof boots, suggesting they had already started to make good money from medicine. He wondered how long it would continue if they persisted in crossing Margery Starre, who was not a woman to sit back meekly while liberties were taken.

‘The flux is getting worse and we are the only ones who can cure it,’ crowed Stasy. ‘Your barley water is useless, so people flock to buy our remedy.’

Nettled by their arrogance, Bartholomew went on the offensive. ‘Why did you order Elsham to stab Huntyngdon, and Gille to kill Martyn? What did Aynton’s letters contain that you are so frantic to keep secret?’

Both students gaped at him, and he was gratified to see even the brash Stasy at a loss for words for once. It did not last for long, though.

‘We did nothing of the kind,’ Stasy hissed. ‘And you cannot prove it. You would do better looking to your own business and staying out of ours.’

‘You are guilty,’ Bartholomew went on relentlessly. ‘We know for a fact that Gille ran to you when he felt the net tightening around him.’

‘Yes, he came,’ acknowledged Hawick. ‘You know he did, because you found the book he left behind – the one that belonged to Elsham. But we have “ordered” no murders. Why would we? We barely knew Huntyngdon and Martyn.’

‘But Gille will not get far,’ said Stasy, his customary composure completely restored. ‘There are charms to prevent felons from escaping. And when he returns, he will prove that we are innocent of whatever dark business he and Elsham embroiled themselves in.’

‘You cast a spell on him?’ asked Bartholomew in distaste. ‘Because his antics landed you in hot water and you want revenge?’

‘Not revenge,’ replied Stasy. ‘Justice. We have done nothing wrong, and I am sick of arrogant scholars like you, Michael and Prior Pechem making nasty accusations.’

He strutted away, Hawick in tow, leaving Bartholomew angry with himself. He should have asked his questions more subtly, not raced at his quarry like a rampaging bull. Again, he wished Michael was with him, sure the monk would have handled the pair with more skill.

‘They will get their comeuppance,’ murmured Cynric, reappearing from nowhere and making Bartholomew jump by speaking in his ear. He looked exhausted from dogging their footsteps day after day. ‘Margery will see to that.’

‘So you have said, but please do not involve yourself in whatever she plans,’ begged Bartholomew. ‘You could end up in serious trouble.’

‘She does not need my help, boy,’ said Cynric, startled by the notion. ‘She has far more powerful resources at her disposal.’

‘Not the Devil?’ breathed Bartholomew, alarmed.

Cynric regarded him coolly. ‘Wealthy burgesses, high-ranking churchmen and influential scholars – friends in high places. Besides, she tends not to ask Satan for assistance any more, because his services are unreliable.’

Bartholomew hastened to change the subject before it grew any more disconcerting. ‘Have you learned anything useful from following Stasy and Hawick?’

‘Not really,’ sighed Cynric. ‘And it is tedious work. For example, all they have done today is buy green dye from Chaumbre.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘Dye for what? His wares cannot be used in medicine. They are intended for cloth, not human consumption.’

‘He told them that, but they said it is to add a nice verdant sheen to their consulting room walls. It is a stupid notion! They will look mildewed.’

Bartholomew met Isnard outside the Hospital of St John. The bargeman was watching a solitary labourer slowly fill the third of the dye-pits. Bartholomew was not surprised the operation was taking so long when he saw who had been hired to do it – Ned Verious, a notoriously lazy ditcher with a penchant for other people’s property. He scraped by on the barest minimum of work, and people rarely rehired him, because they soon learned he was not very good value for money.

‘The work should have been finished by now,’ Isnard told Bartholomew, ‘but Verious is making no effort to hurry.’

‘Really,’ said Bartholomew flatly, wondering why no one had warned Chaumbre to employ someone else.

‘Chaumbre should have let me have the job,’ sniffed Isnard. ‘I would have had those holes filled in a trice, but Verious was cheaper.’

‘You sound better,’ remarked Bartholomew. ‘Your cold has gone.’

‘Thanks to your linctus. Of course, Stasy and Hawick claim it was their doing.’

Bartholomew did not want to talk about them. ‘Since we last spoke, have you thought any more about the stone that killed Elsham? I know you did not see it pushed, but can you remember anything that might help us to identify the culprit?’

‘Actually, I did see it pushed,’ averred Isnard. ‘I saw a pair of arms heaving at it, and when it landed, I saw a fist raised in victory before the culprit scuttled away.’

‘You saw the killer?’ gasped Bartholomew. ‘Why did you not tell me at once?’

‘Because I did not see his face, and I have no idea who he was.’

‘But you must have noticed something to identify him? His size or shape? His clothes? His gait? Was it a man or a woman?’

‘Well, he was nimble, but so would I have been, if I had just committed murder in front of half the town. But the rest is a blur. His clothes were like everyone else’s – tunic and breeches – and I doubt it was a woman, because they tend to wear skirts.’

‘Anything else?’ pressed Bartholomew urgently.

Isnard considered. ‘He must have been strong, because the stone was heavy. Of course, Elsham had it coming to him. He was a rogue, and I do not know what Rohese Morys saw in him. He was not worth the risk. His friend Gille is no better – he is a thief.’

‘How do you know all this?’ asked Bartholomew wonderingly.

‘I visit taverns,’ shrugged Isnard. ‘And I listen to what people say in them.’

‘Elsham claimed he killed Huntyngdon as a favour to a friend,’ said Bartholomew, desperate enough to tap any source of information. ‘Do you have any suggestions as to who that person might be?’

Isnard shook his head. ‘But I saw Chancellor Aynton shortly before he died. He was stamping towards the bridge in a tremendous temper. Later, John Godenave – Ulf’s father – told me that Aynton tried to climb up the outside of Brampton’s house, aiming to look through the windows, but he kept falling down.’

Bartholomew stared at him. ‘I think I need to hear this story from Godenave himself.’

There were repercussions arising from the incident that had killed Elsham, and one was that Isnard had been forced to withdraw the damaged ferry from service. The other was working, but one boat was not enough to accommodate all the people wanting to use it. To avoid a riot, the builders had been forced to open the ponticulus to pedestrians.

‘It was good while it lasted,’ said Isnard, who had accompanied Bartholomew to the bridge in order to cast a proprietary eye over his reduced operation. ‘Even with the cost of mending my boat, I made enough money for a decent St Swithun’s Day celebration at the Griffin tonight. I shall need something to cheer me up, if it is going to rain for the next forty days.’

‘Then watch your step on the way home,’ advised Bartholomew. ‘I doubt Verious will have filled both dye-pits by then, so at least one will still be open.’

Isnard chuckled, then ducked as mud sailed past his ear, missing him by a whisker. ‘It is that damned Ulf again!’ he cried angrily. ‘Why will he not leave me alone? I did not ask for my leg to be sawn off, and he has no right to mock the way I get around.’

Bartholomew glanced to where Ulf was mimicking Isnard’s characteristic swinging gait. He sported his fine new hat, although the rest of him was black with wet mud. He had a small dog with him, and Bartholomew was shocked to see the boy had tied its legs together, so he could drag it along. Clippesby was hot on his heels, trying to rescue it. When Ulf drew a knife, Bartholomew hurried to intervene, Isnard swinging along at his heels.

‘That animal is mine!’ snarled Ulf, feinting at Clippesby with the dagger; it looked far too large and sharp to be in the hands of a child. ‘You cannot have it.’

Isnard knocked the weapon out of his hand with a crutch, and Clippesby used it to saw through the rope. The moment the dog was free, it leapt into the Dominican’s arms. Clippesby lobbed the blade into the river, and strode away without a word, although judging by the way he cocked his head, the dog had a great deal to say to him.

‘He stole my hound and my knife,’ howled Ulf, gazing after him in stunned disbelief. ‘He had better pay for them, or I will tell the Sheriff that he is a thief.’

‘Shall we go together, then?’ asked Bartholomew, indicating the castle with a wave of his hand. ‘And while we are there, you can tell him why you created a diversion at the bridge that allowed the murder of–’

Ulf raced away. Bartholomew started to follow, but when the brat turned and did a taunting dance, he thought better of it. Ulf was fast, and not only was it obvious that Bartholomew would fail to catch him, but that he would make a spectacle of himself in the process. However, some good might come out of the encounter: Ulf had run away from the place where his playmates were likely to be, which gave Bartholomew a chance to talk to them without his menacing presence.

As so many people wanted to use the ponticulus, Bernarde had been given the task of restricting the number of folk who were on it at any one time, lest excessive weight brought the whole thing down. He smiled and bowed as he counted them on and off, and his good humour did much to soothe the irritation of those who had been forced to wait. On the main bridge, Shardelowe worked with fierce concentration, shaping the keystone with powerful strokes of his mallet.

‘I think he will do what he promised,’ said Isnard, watching. ‘He has made excellent progress, and he still has four days left. I believe he and his crew will win their bonuses.’

‘Where is Lyonnes?’ asked Bartholomew, aware that every so often Bernarde would stop counting pedestrians to call some cheerfully encouraging remark to the labourers, which did a lot more to inspire them than Shardelowe’s terse commands.

‘He did not appear for work this morning,’ replied Isnard. ‘Shardelowe probably dismissed him for being a mean-spirited rogue. Unlike Bernarde, who is a nice man.’

Bartholomew hurried to All Saints-next-the-castle, but the churchyard was deserted, and an elderly woman called out that the children had gone to watch the jugglers in the Market Square. Thwarted in one line of enquiry, he moved to another, and went to the Griffin. He arrived to find Godenave already drunk and slumped at a table. He prodded him awake.

‘If you are here about Ulf, there is nothing I can do about him,’ Godenave declared the moment he had gathered his wits. ‘He takes after his mother with his wild ways. I cannot say I like him very much.’

‘Yet you helped him dodge a charge of attempted murder,’ said Bartholomew coolly. ‘He stabbed a beadle, and you arranged for a lawyer to defend him – paid for by Morys.’

Godenave peered blearily at him. ‘I merely reminded Morys that he would be sorry to lose Ulf’s services if the lad was hanged. Ulf has quick fingers, see, and there is no one like him for opening stubborn windows.’

Bartholomew was not sure he had heard aright. ‘Are you saying that not only is Ulf an accomplished burglar, but the Mayor hires him for the purpose?’

Godenave shrugged. ‘I need to put ale on the table, and if Morys gives me a job …’

‘You should watch yourself, John,’ advised the landlord, overhearing. ‘Morys will see you hanged if he finds out you betray his secrets.’

‘He would not dare,’ said Godenave, taking a deep draught from his jug. ‘Ulf would not stand for it. The lad may be young, but no one pushes him around.’

With astonishment, Bartholomew saw he was afraid of the boy. He changed the subject to Aynton, although Godenave refused to speak until his jug had been refilled.

‘It keeps me healthy,’ he explained. ‘People who drink stuff made with water get flux.’

‘Ale is made with water,’ Bartholomew pointed out.

‘It is not! It comes from grain and yeast.’

‘And water,’ said Bartholomew, although he could see he was wasting his breath. ‘But never mind this. Tell me about Aynton.’

‘I saw him the night he died,’ said Godenave, and nodded through the window, which afforded an excellent view of Brampton’s house diagonally opposite. ‘He was trying to climb up to the bedrooms, but they are too high, and he kept falling down.’

‘Why would the Chancellor want to do that?’ asked the landlord in astonishment.

Godenave grinned. ‘That is what I wondered, so I went outside to get a better view. He was muttering about the Master of his College frolicking with a whore, and how he intended to put an end to it.’

‘He used those exact words?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘No, he swore a lot more. He was livid, see, because every time he got close to the bedchamber, he would lose his footing and slip. Eventually, the scholar came out.’

‘You mean Brampton? The man who lives there?’

‘No – the tall, nasty one from Clare Hall, who Aynton was trying to watch. They argued, and the Clare Hall rogue stormed off.’

Bartholomew was thoughtful. So Donwich had caught Aynton spying on him, and they had quarrelled about it. How curious – and suspicious – that Donwich had neglected to mention it.

Bartholomew escaped from the Griffin with relief. As he was close, he decided to report to Tulyet, feeling that while Ulf was still only a child, the Sheriff needed to know that he was well on the way to becoming an accomplished criminal. Moreover, he was now sure that Donwich was the killer, and he needed to discuss it with someone he trusted. Michael was unavailable, but Tulyet was the next best thing.

He had expected the bailey to be empty, with the soldiers and their lieutenants opting to stay in the dry. Thus he was surprised to find them all in full battle gear, with swords, pikes and cudgels flailing. Sergeant Robin, who came to greet him, said it was Dickon’s idea. Apparently, the boy had made the point that all warriors would have to fight in the rain one day, so they should be ready for it, as their generals were unlikely to postpone military engagements because it was wet.

‘That will not make him popular,’ remarked Bartholomew. ‘They will have to spend an age cleaning their equipment afterwards, or it will rust.’

‘He is not popular anyway,’ said Robin. ‘There is not a man among us who cannot wait until he goes to France. Here he comes now, and the Sheriff with him.’

He made himself scarce, and Bartholomew noted that Dickon had not followed his own suggestion of practising in the downpour, and was bone dry. While the boy watched the soldiers with a critical eye, Bartholomew told Tulyet all he had learned since they had last met. Dickon sneered contemptuously when he heard the physician’s concerns about Ulf.

‘You cannot be afraid of him! He does not even have a knife.’

‘Actually, he did,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘And I am not afraid of him. I just want him taken in hand before the beadle he stabbed is not his only victim.’

Pointedly ignoring Dickon, he explained to Tulyet why he thought Donwich was the killer. It was good to speak his suspicions aloud, as it clarified them in his mind.

‘You must be glad to be leaving that deadly University,’ said Tulyet when he had finished. ‘You will be a lot safer in the town. However, I sincerely hope these vicars-general find in Michael’s favour, because I shall resign if Donwich wins.’

‘It will not matter what they decide if Donwich is arrested for murder,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘He cannot be Chancellor if he is a felon.’

Tulyet laughed. ‘That has never stopped the University before. Of course, I have been spoiled by Michael. He and I work so well together that on the rare occasions when he is away, I find life here much more difficult. I have been offered other posts – easier ones – and if Michael ever becomes an abbot or a bishop, I shall accept one of them the same day.’

‘I will be in France,’ put in Dickon grandly. ‘But I might come back and be Sheriff when I am older.’

‘Much older,’ said Tulyet, regarding him fondly. ‘You should enjoy life before becoming bogged down with administration and law.’

‘I shall hire others to do that boring stuff,’ declared Dickon. ‘All I shall do is ride around keeping order with my sword.’

Bartholomew hoped that would not happen for many years yet. He took his leave, and Tulyet walked with him, saying he had an errand to run in Bridge Street.

‘You will miss Dickon when he goes,’ said Bartholomew, tactfully not mentioning that no one else would.

‘Yes,’ agreed Tulyet. ‘He will make a fine warrior once he learns restraint. But who did not long to spill an enemy’s guts when he was young, strong and felt himself to be invincible?’

‘I cannot say I ever did,’ said Bartholomew primly.

‘Well, I suppose your calling is to keep guts inside a body,’ conceded Tulyet. ‘But for the rest of us … well, I am glad Dickon is no shy daisy. Not like your new Senior Proctor. I made a sudden move the other day, and he reared back like a nervous cow.’

‘He is not the boldest of men,’ acknowledged Bartholomew.

‘No, although he is a formidable force in legal and administrational circles. Take the bridge money, for example. He will not have all of it collected from your Colleges and hostels by tomorrow, as Michael promised, but he will certainly have it by Thursday.’

‘You sound impressed, but missing a target by a whole day is hardly laudable.’

Tulyet laughed again. ‘The last time we were in this position, the money was not handed over for a decade, so an extra day is little short of miraculous. Of course, this same doggedness is ruining his sister’s life. No one will marry Lucy now. And do not say Donwich will have her, because he will never abandon his University.’

‘I doubt she would accept him anyway. She says they are just friends.’

As they passed All Saints, Bartholomew saw a flicker of movement, and saw children in the graveyard, playing by a puddle – they had returned to their favourite haunt while he had been in the castle. Tulyet spotted them, too, and strode through the dripping, overgrown cemetery towards them. They stiffened in alarm at the sight of the Sheriff bearing down on them, and Bartholomew was glad they did not bolt, because he was in no mood for a chase.

‘Do you want Ulf?’ asked Isaac uneasily. ‘Because he is not here.’

‘You were larking about on the ponticulus when the stone fell and killed the scholar,’ began Tulyet. ‘What did you–’

‘No, we were not,’ interrupted one of the others nervously. ‘It was someone else.’

‘I saw you,’ said Bartholomew wearily. ‘So please do not lie. Who told you to do it? Or rather, who told Ulf?’

The children exchanged furtive glances but none of them replied.

‘No one will get into trouble for telling the truth,’ said Tulyet. ‘But if someone ordered you to fool around, to distract everyone while a man was murdered, we need to know.’

‘No one did,’ replied Isaac, his eyes furtive. ‘We played because we wanted to.’

‘Do not protect Ulf,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He cheated you – he was given a nice new hat for his troubles, but you got nothing. Is that fair?’

‘No,’ conceded Isaac. ‘But we do not mind. Honest, sir.’

Bartholomew and Tulyet did everything in their power to convince them to talk, but the children remained tight-lipped. Clearly, they were a lot more frightened of Ulf than they were of the Sheriff and a physician.

‘If I see Ulf, I shall arrest him,’ said Tulyet, as they walked away. ‘Perhaps they will confide in us once he is behind bars.’

‘Only if there is no prospect of him getting out again,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And given that he stabbed a beadle and wriggled out of the charge …’

‘True,’ sighed Tulyet. ‘Shall we go to Clare Hall together? If Donwich really is the killer, he should not be allowed to roam free until Michael has a spare moment to deal with him. He might claim another victim in the interim.’

Bartholomew agreed, but when they arrived at Clare Hall it was to be told that Donwich was out and no one knew where he had gone, although the general consensus was that Lucy was involved.

‘His lover!’ spat Pulham angrily. ‘No matter what he claims about chaste friendships, that association will lead him straight to Hell.’

‘I rather think he knows how to get there on his own,’ muttered Tulyet. ‘We will confront him tomorrow, Matt. Meet me in the Brazen George after breakfast.’

Although Bartholomew had intended to speak to Morys again, the flux intervened. There was a sudden outbreak in the Carmelite Priory, and by the time he had finished, it was too late to visit suspects and expect them to be cooperative. He returned to Michaelhouse, but was called out again almost at once by a potter near the Mill Pond, who had suffered a compound fracture of the leg. Stasy and Hawick had been there before him, but had walked out again when they learned the man was unable to pay for their services.

As Bartholomew left the potter’s house, he stood for a moment to close his eyes and let rain patter coolly on his upturned face. Repairing the damaged limb had been difficult, and he was far from certain the patient would survive – the wound had been filthy, and he knew how quickly such injuries turned bad, especially in hot weather. But he had done his best, with the result that every fibre in his body ached from weariness.

He looked at the Mill Pond, which was fuller than when he had last seen it. The rain was replenishing the river at last, and he hoped it would wash away whatever was causing the flux, so there would be one less problem to worry about.

‘The Mayor refuses to open the sluices until the pond is filled to the brim,’ said the potter’s wife, who had followed Bartholomew outside. ‘But I think he should do it now. The water in it is stale and it stinks worse with every passing day. Your Father William has tried to persuade him to do it several times, but Morys will not listen to him.’

‘It does stink,’ agreed Bartholomew, then frowned as he looked across the Mill Pond’s glittering black surface. ‘I never realised Hoo Hall was so close to its edge. Will it flood if we really do have rain for the next forty days?’

‘Not if the sluices are opened. Of course, no one lives in Hoo Hall, so it does not matter anyway. Well, no one other than that vain man who admires himself so.’

‘Narboro,’ said Bartholomew absently.

‘He refused to marry Lucy Brampton. Poor lady! First him and now that tall, pompous scholar who ogles her like a moonstruck cow. What awful men she attracts!’

As Bartholomew began to walk away, he saw shadows moving by the edge of the Mill Pond. Curious, he started towards them, but by the time he reached the spot, there was nothing to see. Wearily, he trudged home to snatch a few hours’ sleep before the daily grind started all over again.