The Chancellor’s Secret

Chapter 3

It was difficult to sleep for what remained of the night, as the heat was stifling, even with the window shutters open. Insects seemed to know where the pickings were richest, and legions of them whined and buzzed around Bartholomew’s head. He tossed and turned uncomfortably, more sorry than he could say about Aynton, whom he had liked for his gentleness and amiability. He was even more sorry that the man should die on the eve of shedding a role he had found so burdensome.

He glanced across the dark room to where Stasy and Hawick slept. They had arrived home shortly after him, but had vigorously denied chanting curses. They were obviously lying, but it was too hot to argue, so he had let the matter drop. He knew they had lied about the nature of their discussion with Gille and Elsham, too, and wondered why. Because they were embroiled in something illegal or unsavoury that necessitated falsehoods to keep them out of trouble? Or was it just a natural reaction to a teacher prying into their private lives?

He had included them on his list of suspects for Aynton’s murder for reasons other than their mysterious association with Gille and Elsham, though. First, there was their refusal to leave the scene of the crime, and second there was their uncharacteristically helpful offer to carry the body. Were these enough to warrant them being turned over to Brampton for questioning? Yet they were unlikely to have had more than a nodding acquaintance with the Chancellor, so why would they kill him?

‘Do you need a remedy for restlessness, sir?’ came Stasy’s voice from the other side of the room.

Bartholomew had assumed the students were asleep, so the question made him jump. It also made him uneasy, wondering if Stasy had somehow read his thoughts. He struggled for insouciance. ‘The only remedies I need are a cool breeze and a way to repel insects.’

‘Poor Chancellor Aynton,’ whispered Stasy, although Bartholomew could not tell if he was sincere. ‘He was a spineless fool, but there was no harm in him.’

‘Michael will bring his killer to justice,’ said Bartholomew, aware even as he spoke that it sounded like a threat.

‘Not if Donwich wins tomorrow,’ came a rejoinder that sounded full of smug satisfaction. ‘He will dismiss Brother Michael and Junior Proctor Brampton, and appoint Gille and Elsham in their places.’

‘So they will see the killer caught,’ said Bartholomew coolly. ‘And if they fail, it means they are unequal to their new duties, and Donwich will have to appoint someone better.’

‘I am sure they will manage,’ said Stasy smoothly. ‘Yet I am astonished to hear you claim that Aynton had a killer. I was among the first to arrive after the alarm was raised, and it looked to me as if he had fallen – an accident.’

‘He told me he was pushed,’ said Bartholomew, and to see how the student would respond, added a brazen lie. ‘Indeed, he provided enough information to let us identify the culprit. All we need to do is think it through.’

There was a long pause, during which he could almost hear the lad’s mind working. ‘Then make sure you pass it all to Gille and Elsham,’ he said eventually.

Bartholomew sat up, determined to have some truth from him. ‘Why are you really friends with them, Stasy? I know it has nothing to do with remedies for the flux, because they will buy those from an experienced medicus, not a pair of untried novices.’

Stasy sighed irritably. ‘If you must know, we run a business together: they collect exemplars from scholars who have finished with them, and we sell them to the students who need them next.’

Exemplars were compilations of essential texts that undergraduates were required to study in depth, and were produced by the University stationer. They were less expensive than purchasing all the original books, but still costly, even so.

‘We offer more than Stationer Weasenham gives for second-hand copies,’ Stasy went on, ‘and we charge our customers less. Thus, our profit margins are smaller, but we do a lot more trade. Scholars know they get a better bargain with us than from him, so they come to us first. We are especially popular with the hostels, which, as you know, tend to be populated with lads who have very little money.’

‘Unfortunately, that is illegal,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘Weasenham pays the University handsomely for his monopoly on exemplars.’

‘So betray us to him,’ challenged Stasy. ‘But, if you do, you will hurt the poorest scholars who cannot afford his exorbitant prices. Exemplars should not cost so much that only the wealthy can have them.’

‘No,’ acknowledged Bartholomew, although he could not see Stasy and Hawick as champions of the penniless, and there was something about the explanation that did not quite ring true. ‘So why did you not tell me all this when I asked you earlier? Why respond with a lie about a cure for the flux?’

‘It was not a lie – we have invented a remedy. However, we could hardly admit that we are undercutting Weasenham while the Senior Proctor was listening, could we?’

Before Bartholomew could ask more, the bell rang, telling the scholars to rise for morning prayers. The other students stood up at once, suggesting that they had been awake and listening since the conversation had started. It made him suspect that they knew exactly what Stasy and Hawick did in their spare time, and that, as usual, the Fellows were the last to find out.

Bartholomew did not attend church that morning, because he was summoned by Meadowman, Michael’s head beadle. Meadowman had the flux, but boiled barley water was not working and he grew worse by the day. The heatwave did not help, and he was uncomfortable in his tiny, badly ventilated cottage. He lived near the Mill Pond, between Isnard and Hoo Hall, so Bartholomew walked there at once. He examined him carefully, then prepared a tonic of poppy syrup, mint and comfrey. As he worked, he nodded to the stinking bucket that the beadle used to catch whatever spilled out of him.

‘Where do you empty that?’

‘I do not do anything with it,’ replied Meadowman miserably. ‘I am too ill. If it was not for the kindness of my fellow beadles and the Marian Singers, I would be dead by now. Here is Isnard now, God bless him.’

The bargeman swung inside on his crutches and gave Bartholomew a baleful glare. ‘I still have this cold,’ he rasped accusingly. ‘Your linctus did not work.’

‘Nothing will work,’ explained Bartholomew patiently, aware that he would have to explain this every time he and Isnard met until the bargeman recovered. ‘It will get better in its own time.’

Isnard indicated Meadowman with a jerk of his thumb. ‘You said that about him, but he will be in his grave unless you do something soon. Do you have nothing to help him?’

Bartholomew was perplexed by Meadowman’s case. There was no reason why the beadle should not recover like everyone else, and he was at a loss as to what to do about it. He spent a few moments reassuring him that all would be well – he was far from sure it would, but if Meadowman lost hope, he would die for certain – and finished by recommending rest and plenty more boiled barley water.

‘But I do not like it,’ objected Meadowman. ‘It is akin to drinking glue. Besides, why would such a mild remedy work on this powerful sickness? I need something stronger.’

‘Have you been throwing it away?’ demanded Bartholomew, suddenly hopeful that an explanation for the beadle’s continued sickness might be to hand.

‘I swallow as much as I can bear,’ replied Meadowman evasively, then added in plaintive tones, ‘Are you sure I will not die?’

‘Of course,’ replied Bartholomew briskly, and remembered what Margery Starre did to make barley water more palatable. ‘I will send a different kind when I get home. And you can try some broth. Do you have money for it? I know you have not worked for a week now.’

Meadowman nodded. ‘Someone sends me a farthing every other day. I have no idea who. Not Brother Michael – he brings me food, although I cannot face it, so Isnard takes it for the Marian Singers.’

‘This anonymous saint gives money to other flux-sufferers, too,’ put in Isnard. ‘Or rather, he sends it to their parish priests, who distribute it on his behalf. We tried to make them tell us his name, but he swears them to secrecy.’

Bartholomew was surprised to hear it, as most people who provided alms were keen for their largesse to be appreciated. He turned his mind back to the flux.

‘Where do you empty the waste bucket, Isnard?’ he asked, thinking that if it were the Mill Pond, he would know why the flux continued to claim victims in that area.

‘The public latrine by the Trumpington Gate,’ replied the bargeman. ‘I used to pour it in the river, which was a lot less trouble, but I stopped after you threatened to break my crutches if I did it again.’

Bartholomew blushed guiltily, but then told himself that anything was fair in the war against unhygienic practices. It was true that Isnard was only one man out of hundreds who did the same, but the fight had to start somewhere.

‘You caught that cold from the miasma that hangs around the hovels near All Saints-next-the-castle,’ said Meadowman, as Isnard sneezed violently. ‘I told you to stay away from that area. Nasty agues have been breaking out there for weeks – the Godenave family are always sniffing and snorting.’

‘I had no choice,’ rasped Isnard. ‘Ulf Godenave stole my purse, so I went to get it back. That boy will swing before he is much older. He cannot look at anything without filching it.’

‘Maybe it was him who burgled Burgess Chaumbre last night,’ said Meadowman, more talkative now the poppy syrup had eased his discomfort. ‘Did you hear about that? No one knows how much was taken, but the rumour is that it was a lot.’

Bartholomew regarded him in alarm. ‘Someone broke into my sister’s house?’

‘Chaumbre’s house,’ said Meadowman. ‘The one in Girton village, where he lived before he moved in with her. As the place was empty, the thief took advantage of it.’

‘I wish Chaumbre would fill in those dye-pits on the High Street,’ said Isnard, wiping his nose on his sleeve. ‘I stopped to relieve myself there last night, and it was only by the grace of God that I avoided toppling into one.’

Isnard liked to drink, which Bartholomew was sure had been a factor in the near-mishap. Still, the dye-pits were a hazard, and he wondered why Chaumbre was taking so long to remedy the matter.

‘Beadle Brown told me that Chaumbre had an awful row with Aynton about it yesterday,’ said Meadowman. ‘Aynton threatened to take up a spade himself, and Chaumbre told him to mind his own business. The discussion became quite heated, apparently.’

‘Did it?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering if he should include his brother-in-law on the suspect list, too. Yet people quarrelled all the time without killing each other.

‘And before they parted,’ Meadowman went on, ‘the Chancellor asked Chaumbre if he needed to borrow some money to get it done. Chaumbre was so affronted that he called the Chancellor a meddlesome arse.’

‘Well, Chaumbre is not meddlesome enough,’ put in Isnard. ‘Father William and I asked him to help us persuade Morys to open the Mill Pond sluices, because the river stinks, but he said that challenging the Mayor was not his job.’

‘Oh, yes, it is,’ averred Meadowman. ‘He is a burgess. Who else’s is it?’

‘People are wary of using the bridge now it has claimed a second life,’ said Isnard, jumping to another subject. ‘So today, I shall set up a ferry service. It will make me a fortune, so some good has come out of those two deaths.’

Bartholomew was not sure Aynton and Baldok would have agreed.

By the time Bartholomew had finished with Meadowman, it was too late to attend the morning service, but too early for breakfast, so he went to spend a few moments with Matilde. He thought about the flux all the way along the High Street, and only when he reached her house did he turn his mind to happier matters. Or at least, to weddings.

Matilde’s home stood in the shadow of All Saints-in-the-Jewry, and was a pretty place with a creamy yellow wash and black timbers. He pushed open the door and stepped into an interior that was cool and smelled of lavender and roses. It was simultaneously practical and elegant, and he knew he would be a lot more comfortable living there than with students who tended to view tidiness and personal hygiene as something for other people.

Matilde stood helplessly in the middle of her parlour, surrounded by shoes, while her friend Lucy Brampton, the Junior Proctor’s sister, pondered which ones were suitable for a bride. They did not hear him enter, allowing him a moment to watch the woman who would become his wife in ten days.

To his mind, the passing years had only added to her beauty. There were one or two silver strands in her hair, and the laughter lines around her eyes and mouth had deepened, but she was still the loveliest woman he had ever seen, and his heart always quickened when he saw her. He remained amazed that, of all the men she had ever met, she had chosen to marry an impoverished physician-scholar, somewhat past his prime, with no prospect of wealth or influence. He sincerely hoped she knew what she was doing.

Lucy was older, but still pretty, and knew how to make the best of herself. Her clothes fitted snugly around her trim figure, and judicious use of face-paints hid most evidence of ageing. The only part she could not disguise was her teeth, which were sadly decayed. She had been beside herself with delight when her fiancé had arrived home after his ten-year absence, so Narboro’s rejection had been a very cruel blow. Like most of Matilde’s friends, she possessed an unusually sharp mind, but Bartholomew would have liked her more if she were less obsessed with his wedding.

‘Matt!’ cried Matilde. ‘What a lovely surprise! Have you–’

‘What do you think?’ interrupted Lucy, holding aloft two pairs of shoes; behind her back, Matilde rolled her eyes, albeit indulgently, and grinned at him. ‘The blue or the red?’

‘Blue,’ replied Bartholomew, knowing from experience that Lucy expected him to make a choice, regardless of whether or not he had a sensible opinion on the matter.

‘Really?’ she asked, frowning. ‘You do not think they are overly fancy?’

‘Red, then,’ capitulated Bartholomew.

Matilde laughed. ‘He would not notice if I walked up the aisle barefoot – unless it exposed some interesting medical problem with my toes.’

‘I was sorry to hear about your Chancellor,’ said Lucy, once the red shoes had been put to one side, although Bartholomew suspected the decision would be reviewed at least twice more before it was finally settled. ‘He was stuck in his ways, but he was not a bad man.’

‘You knew him?’ asked Bartholomew curiously. ‘How?’

‘Through my brother,’ replied Lucy. ‘Regrettably, Matilde and I quarrelled with him several times, because he wanted to prevent her from opening her school.’

‘Did he?’ asked Bartholomew, sincerely hoping this did not mean that they should be included on the list of murder suspects. ‘Did he say why?’

‘He thought learning should be the exclusive domain of men, because women’s inferior brains are unequal to it,’ explained Matilde drily. ‘I suggested we organise a public debate on philosophy between Lucy and Father William. Oddly enough, he declined to allow it.’

‘He also claimed that if women learned their letters, it would signal the end of the world as God intended it,’ added Lucy, and humour flashed in her eyes. ‘When I asked how he could be so sure, he said he had read it in a book, but refused to tell me which one. It was obvious that he was making it up.’

‘Perhaps he could not remember it on the spur of the moment,’ said Bartholomew, more charitably.

Lucy shot him a disbelieving look, but declined to argue further. ‘There was no malice in him, though. It is men like Father William who represent the real danger to our venture. Did you know that he has written to the Pope, asking for us to be suppressed? We have not even opened our doors yet!’

‘William writes to the Pope most weeks,’ said Bartholomew, ‘but I doubt the Holy Father reads his rants, so do not worry too much about papal condemnation.’

Lucy smiled, and reached for her hat – a green affair with yellow feathers. ‘That is good to hear. And now I shall leave you two to discuss lace, while I visit the glover. My brother wanted me to break my fast with him, but I am disinclined to give him the pleasure of my company as long as he insists on suing my former suitors. I shall eat with the glover instead.’

‘Lace?’ asked Bartholomew warily, when she had gone.

‘For my kirtle,’ explained Matilde. ‘There are many different kinds, and she is determined to have the one that will best match the cloth she has chosen. I have no particular feelings on the matter, but she does – very strong ones.’

Bartholomew grimaced, feeling that while he was happy to snatch a few precious minutes with his fiancée, he was disinclined to do it if it meant debating lace. Then he recalled what Michael had told him about paying for the kirtle.

‘How much will it cost?’ he asked uneasily.

Matilde knew exactly why he wanted to know. ‘More than Brother Michael can lend you, so keep your money for your patients and I will buy the kirtle myself. But what did you think of Lucy today? Did she look pale to you?’

‘Not especially,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘Why?’

‘Because being rejected by Narboro was bad enough, but her brother has made things far worse with his lawsuit. Without it, she might have found another man, but no one will wed the sister of a man who sues. And pity is hard to bear, too – people feeling sorry for her and saying so.’

‘I think she had a narrow escape,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Narboro is an empty-headed fool and she deserves better.’

‘That is what I tell her, but folk nudge each other and point whenever she goes out anyway. It is why she spends so much time with me – my house is a refuge from well-meaning but unwanted sympathy.’

As he walked home, Bartholomew glanced up to see the sky was a flat, pale blue, with not so much as a wisp of cloud to break the monotony. It was going to be another sweltering day, and although he liked summer, he found himself longing for the cool grey clouds of autumn.

He waved to his sister and her new husband as he went, although they were laughing at something together, so caught up in the joke that neither noticed him. He remembered Chaumbre’s friendship with the corrupt Morys, and Michael’s warning about him. All he hoped was that Edith would not be hurt by the man she had married with such curious haste.

He stepped through Michaelhouse’s gate just in time to witness a commotion involving Stasy and Hawick. They had been walking towards the kitchen, but the peacock released such a cacophony of screams that they were forced to beat a hasty retreat. Then the chickens united in what sounded uncannily like a taunting cackle. Clippesby was watching.

‘It is because Stasy tried to kick Henry yesterday,’ the Dominican told Bartholomew. ‘Peafowl have long memories, so it is just as well that Stasy will leave at the end of term, because he will never know a moment’s peace here now.’

Bartholomew watched the two students flee to the orchard, after which the rumpus died down. Then he glanced at Clippesby, who had the College cat under one arm and a stray dog in the other, although neither looked particularly pleased with the arrangement, and there were hisses and warning growls aplenty.

‘I do not suppose you were near the Great Bridge last night, were you?’ he asked hopefully. ‘When Chancellor Aynton was killed?’

The Dominican liked to slip out at night to commune with his animal friends, so he often saw and heard things as he stood quiet and unnoticed in the shadows. Unfortunately, his way of reporting them invariably took some decoding, although Bartholomew had learned that the effort was often worthwhile.

‘No,’ came the disappointing reply. ‘I was here, working on my next treatise.’

Earlier that year, Clippesby had stunned everyone by producing a dissertation on the complex issue of nominalism and realism, which was so insightful that it had won instant papal approval. It had been presented as a discussion between two hens, and was commonly known as the Chicken Debate. A second discourse had followed, and he was now working on the third, which was eagerly awaited by the academic world.

Clippesby gave one of his vacant smiles. ‘But I can tell you two things about your new brother-in-law. First, his Girton home was burgled last night.’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘Beadle Meadowman mentioned it, but I saw Chaumbre laughing just now, so it cannot have been too serious.’

‘On the contrary,’ said Clippesby, his eyes wide. ‘The newt who lives in his garden says an enormous sum was stolen. Chaumbre rarely goes to that house now he lives with Edith, and has left it in the care of two elderly servants. It is no secret that it is vulnerable, so the newt was not surprised when a burglar chanced his hand.’

‘According to Edith, most of his money is still in London,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I can only assume he will not miss what was taken from Girton.’

‘Perhaps, but the second thing I have to tell you comes from the High Street rats, who saw Chaumbre quarrel with Aynton about those dye-pits yesterday morning. Harsh words were exchanged, and Aynton accused Chaumbre of not being as rich as he lets everyone believe. They parted on sour terms.’

Meadowman had mentioned that, too, and Bartholomew’s heart sank again. He did not want his brother-in-law to be a murder suspect – Edith would never forgive him. ‘Please tell me no threats were issued.’

‘None that the rats heard. But ask the Junior Proctor, because he was there, too. They saw him lurking behind a grave while it was happening.’

‘Lurking?’ echoed Bartholomew warily.

‘Hiding, so he could eavesdrop without being seen,’ elaborated Clippesby. ‘I do not know why, and nor do the rats.’

‘What do you think of Brampton?’ asked Bartholomew, who had a lot of respect for the gentle Dominican’s opinions, bizarrely presented though they were.

Clippesby was thoughtful. ‘I would like him more if he was not so close to Donwich. The Clare Hall robin tells me that Donwich will be livid when he loses the election today, which will put Brampton in an awkward position: will he stay loyal to his friend Donwich, or to Michael, the man who will promote him to Senior Proctor?’

‘Is that all you know about Brampton?’

‘Well, he inherited a fortune from his father. He refuses to share it with Lucy, though, because he thinks a husband should provide for her. Unfortunately, she will never get one now he is going after Narboro in the law courts. She has begged him to drop the suit, but his affection for her is less than his indignation at Narboro, so he refused.’

Bartholomew went to pass Clippesby’s report to Michael. The monk was unsurprised by the news that Brampton had spied on the Chancellor, leading Bartholomew to draw an obvious conclusion.

‘So you sent him to do it,’ he said heavily.

‘He had no orders along those lines from me this week, although perhaps he should have done – then I might have been able to stop Aynton from resigning. Do not look so disgusted, Matt! Watching the Chancellor comes under the remit of all Junior Proctors. One will be minding me after today. It is all part of our system of checks and balances.’

‘But Brampton acted of his own volition on the day that Aynton was murdered?’

‘Yes,’ conceded Michael. ‘However, there is nothing suspicious about that, although I will ask him about it later anyway. Leave him to me.’

‘I think he should be on our list of suspects for Aynton’s murder.’

Michael blinked his surprise. ‘Do you? Why?’

‘First, Clippesby says he is friends with Donwich, whom he may prefer to you. Second, he spied on the victim hours before the murder, but not on your directions. And third, he seems meek and inept, but there is something about him that I cannot like.’

Michael puffed out his cheeks in a sigh. ‘Well, if you do not like him, he must be a killer. I shall order his arrest immediately.’

‘I am serious, Brother!’

‘So I see, and between you and me, I am not overly enamoured of him either. But he is not a murderer. Besides, he knows he will do well with me as Chancellor. He will do nothing to jeopardise that.’

Bartholomew was unconvinced, but knew there was no point arguing. ‘Matilde and Lucy quarrelled with Aynton, too, but obviously they are not the culprits.’

‘No,’ agreed Michael. ‘Not least because they took pity on four hot, tired and thirsty beadles last night, and invited them into Matilde’s house for a cool drink. Their compassion has given them reliable alibis for the murder.’

‘For an amicable man, Aynton seems to have argued with a lot of people,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘However, the one that concerns me most is Chaumbre. The notion that my sister might be sharing her home with a man who shoved a scholar over a bridge …’

‘Edith would not have married a killer, Matt. Yet I do question Chaumbre’s choice of friends – not just Morys, but Donwich, too. He was at the Clare Hall feast last night – I saw him through a window when we delivered Aynton’s body. Morys was also there, although that is no surprise – he wants Donwich to be Chancellor because he thinks he will take bribes.’

‘How can Morys have been at Clare Hall? We both saw him on the Great Bridge last night, making sly agreements with Shardelowe the builder.’

‘According to my beadles, he was there earlier in the evening, but left “on business” some time before Aynton died. Shall we include him on our list? I cannot abide the man, and if you can put Brampton on it for simple dislike, then I am having Morys.’

Shortly afterwards, Cynric rang the bell for breakfast, and there was the usual mad scramble towards the hall. Bartholomew had never understood why there had to be a stampede, as no one could start eating before every man was standing in his place and grace had been said anyway. Michael eyed Bartholomew balefully as he sauntered up the stairs last, making everyone else wait.

When he had finished his prayers, Michael sat, so at ease in the Master’s chair that anyone watching might have been forgiven for thinking that he had occupied it for years, not just a few weeks. He rubbed his hands in gluttonous anticipation as the servants brought fresh bread, pats of yellow butter and platters of cold meat. Bartholomew asked Agatha to fetch him some fruit, disinclined to eat heavy fare in the heat.

‘Fruit!’ spat Michael, helping himself to an enormous portion of beef, then topping it with an even larger portion of lamb. ‘It is a proven medical truth that brains work better when fuelled by meat and bread.’

‘Is it indeed?’ said Bartholomew, who had been regaled with this particular ‘fact’ many times before, although the monk always declined to cite a written reference for it.

‘What you see is a perfectly balanced diet,’ Michael went on authoritatively. ‘Anything else is a waste of stomach space. I have ordered Agatha not to bother with fruit and vegetables any more.’

Bartholomew was aghast. ‘But that will cause–’

‘No one knows more about food than me,’ interrupted Michael. ‘And who would not rather eat a chop than a carrot? However, I shall allow the occasional vegetable to sully the table next term, if you help me today.’

‘That is blackmail, Brother! Besides, how will I know whether you have honoured the agreement? I shall have left Michaelhouse by then.’

‘You will just have to trust me,’ said Michael blithely. ‘Besides, there is no need for you to teach today: the disputations are over and everyone else is having fun. You are the only one who persists with a rigid timetable of classes.’

‘Because there is still so much for my lads to learn and–’

‘Please, Matt,’ said Michael quietly. ‘We must solve Aynton’s murder as quickly as possible, but Brampton and I will be busy with the election today. Hopefully, I shall be free to help you tomorrow.’

Bartholomew was alarmed. ‘You expect me to look into it on my own?’

‘Why not? You have plenty of experience. More than Brampton, actually.’

‘But I have no authority to–’

‘Here is a writ to say you do,’ interrupted Michael, producing a handsome document that smacked of sly pre-planning. ‘And while you are out and about, ask after those missing men – Huntyngdon and Martyn – as well.’

‘You expect me to solve a mystery that has defeated you? That is not going to happen!’

‘Fresh eyes, Matt. You may see something that I have missed.’

‘And my classes? What happens to them while I am doing all your work?’

‘Aungel will take them,’ said Michael. ‘It will be good practice for him, ready for next term. And if you will not help me out of loyalty to your dearest friend, then I shall pay you for your time – enough for a donation towards Matilde’s new school, which I am sure she would much rather have than a marriage kirtle.’

Bartholomew was silent, trying to balance his desire to do something good for the woman he loved with the fact that every day of teaching was precious now that he had so few of them left.

‘Very well,’ he said eventually, hoping the case would not be as complex as some he had undertaken with Michael, and answers would be easy to find.

‘Thank you. Just do not forget to vote for me at noon.’

As soon as breakfast was over, Michael went to St Mary the Great to oversee preparations for the election. There was already a buzz of excited anticipation in the air, although the number of scholars who nodded, winked and smiled at Michael as he hurried past suggested the other three candidates were likely to be disappointed.

Meanwhile, Bartholomew decided to start his enquiries with Geoffrey Dodenho. He had known him for years, and was sure he was no killer, but questioning him first would allow him to practise on a man who would not bite his head off or threaten eternal war between King’s Hall and Michaelhouse for the insult.

The University’s biggest and grandest College had an enormous Fellowship, which included not only Dodenho and the missing Huntyngdon, but Junior Proctor Brampton, too. Ergo, Bartholomew had three tasks to complete at King’s Hall that day: questioning Dodenho and any supporters he had about Aynton’s death; seeing what Brampton had to say about spying on Aynton – Michael might accept his deputy’s innocence, but Bartholomew would make up his own mind; and asking if there was any news about Huntyngdon.

King’s Hall was more fortress than College. Its walls and gatehouse were battlemented, there were arrow slits for archers, and a portcullis hung over the door. Such precautions were wise, as its brazen wealth and privilege made it vulnerable to attack by resentful townsfolk. A liveried porter opened the door, and Bartholomew was asked to wait in the courtyard while Dodenho was informed that he had a visitor. The physician was not left alone for long.

‘Good morning, Bartholomew,’ said a quiet, razor-witted scholar named Ufford. He was a son of the powerful Earl of Suffolk, so was destined for a glittering career at Court, where his intellectual talents would be wasted. ‘Is someone ill?’

‘I suppose it is this flux,’ said the man who was with him. William Rawby did not have influential kin to support him, but he was a gifted lawyer, and the connections he made at King’s Hall would help him to rise rapidly through the ranks of the judiciary. ‘I heard half the beadles are down with it.’

‘No one is ill,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I have come to see Dodenho.’

Rawby raised his eyebrows. ‘Not to offer him your support in today’s election, I hope? We love him dearly, but our votes will go to Michael.’

Bartholomew felt his jaw drop. College loyalties ran especially deep in King’s Hall, and he was amazed that Rawby should openly express a preference for an outsider. Seeing his shock, Ufford began to explain.

‘The University is not what it was ten years ago. It is now larger, stronger and becoming a rival to the other place in Oxford. We need a charismatic leader, who will continue to drive us forward, and that man is not Dodenho, much as it pains me to say it.’

‘King’s Hall needs Michael,’ elaborated Rawby. ‘It is no good being Fellows at the most prestigious College in a second-rate university. We want to belong to the most prestigious College in the best university. Michael can make that happen, the others cannot.’

‘Does anyone else in King’s Hall feel the same?’ asked Bartholomew, astonished.

Rawby winced. ‘All of us. Poor Dodenho is entirely oblivious, and will have a nasty surprise at noon. But we will make it up to him. We like the man – we just do not want him as our Chancellor.’

Bartholomew was glad when the conversation was cut short by the return of the porter, as it was disconcerting to see scholars abandon their old ways and adopt new ones. Perhaps it was just as well this was his last term, he thought as he nodded a farewell to Ufford and Rawby and followed the porter across the yard, because he was finding it all very unsettling.

Dodenho was in his quarters, a pleasant suite of rooms overlooking the gardens. He was practising the speech he aimed to give that day, but although he loved to hear himself speak, he was not nearly as good an orator as he believed himself to be.

‘Ufford and Rawby suggested that I canvass support among the other Colleges last night,’ he told Bartholomew. ‘But I think I will win more votes with an erudite speech. It was good of them to encourage me to stand, but I know best.’

Bartholomew frowned his bemusement. ‘They encouraged you?’

‘Yes, after Donwich put his name forward. Some scholars are uneasy with the University’s recent rapid expansion, you see, and will vote for Donwich, because he has promised to put an end to it. But not everyone likes Donwich, so Ufford and Rawby said I should offer an alternative, as I would like to prevent unseemly progress, too.’

All became clear: Dodenho’s candidacy would ensure the anti-Michael faction was divided. Dodenho might be a fool, but he was a congenial one, and there would be many traditionalists who would baulk at voting for the unlikeable Donwich. Bartholomew changed the subject, unwilling for Dodenho to learn from him that he was being used.

‘Where was I during compline last night?’ said Dodenho, repeating the question to make sure he had understood it correctly. ‘In our refectory, working on my election speech.’

‘Can anyone confirm it?’

Dodenho wagged an admonitory finger. ‘I know what you are doing, Matthew – you aim to gauge its quality and report back to Michael. Well, for your information, it is perfect. Ask anyone. The Fellows were with me from dusk until midnight, and the students from midnight until we went to church this morning.’

‘So you had company from sunset onwards?’ pressed Bartholomew.

Dodenho preened. ‘Yes, because they all love my orations. They did ask me to keep my voice down a few times, but that was because they wanted me to save something new for them to enjoy today. But I must get back to it, if you will excuse me.’

Bartholomew bowed and left, and the students and Fellows he met on his way back to the porter’s lodge confirmed that Dodenho had indeed spent the entire night in the refectory. And, as none of them wanted him to be Chancellor, he had no supporters to shove Aynton off the bridge on his behalf. With a sense of satisfaction – albeit a modest one, as Dodenho was never a serious contender – Bartholomew crossed him off the list.

He asked the porter if Brampton was there – a perk of being a proctor was Brampton being allowed to live where he pleased, and he elected to sleep in his handsome Bridge Street house, although he still took most of his meals in King’s Hall.

The porter nodded. ‘He arrived an hour ago, but before you see him, Warden Shropham begs a word.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Is he ill?’

‘No,’ replied the porter. ‘I think he wants to talk about Huntyngdon.’

‘Good,’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘So do I.’

Shropham’s quarters were large but modestly furnished, as befitted an ex-soldier who disliked ostentation. He was entertaining guests. One was Brampton, which pleased Bartholomew, as it meant he would not have to waste time searching the College for him afterwards. The other was a man whose clothes and bearing suggested high birth. Sure enough, Shropham introduced him as Guichard d’Angle, the Earl of Huntyngdon, father of the missing scholar.

‘Do you have news of him?’ the Earl asked eagerly, when Shropham introduced Bartholomew, rather misleadingly, as Michael’s deputy.

When the physician shook his head, d’Angle demanded to know what was being done to find his son, and as Bartholomew had no answers, he gestured to Brampton.

‘Perhaps the Junior Proctor can tell you, My Lord. It is his enquiry now.’

‘Senior Proctor,’ corrected Brampton smugly, and indicated the document that lay on the table in front of him. ‘That arrived a few moments ago. Michael has resigned, and his last act in office was to appoint me as his successor.’

‘This monk must be very confident of victory,’ mused the Earl.

‘Oh, he is,’ Shropham assured him. ‘And with good cause. He has our support, and all the hostels like him. He will make a fine Chancellor.’

‘Then let us hope my son is here to see it,’ said the Earl sombrely.

There was a short, respectful silence, then Bartholomew began to ask his questions.

‘Chancellor Aynton told me that he gave Huntyngdon a letter to deliver the evening he disappeared. Do you know anything about it?’

‘Huntyngdon did mention a mission of some delicacy,’ nodded Shropham. ‘Indeed, it is why he went to the Cardinal’s Cap that night. He would say no more about it, but delivering a missive for the Chancellor would certainly fit the bill. What did this letter entail?’

‘We do not know,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘But it was intended for Narboro.’

‘For Narboro?’ echoed Shropham in astonishment. ‘I cannot see him being the recipient of anything vital. The man is an ass – a very vain ass.’

‘Even so, Aynton wrote to him, and Huntyngdon was charged to deliver it. Aynton thought it was important, because he spoke of it with his dying breath.’

Bartholomew decided not to mention Aynton’s fear that the business had killed Huntyngdon until he knew more about it, out of consideration for the young man’s father.

The Earl gave a faint smile. ‘I am not surprised Aynton chose my son to oblige him. William is discreet, reliable and conscientious.’

‘He is,’ agreed Shropham, ‘which is why I am so concerned about him vanishing without a word. It is out of character.’

‘What about Martyn?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Would you say the same about him?’

Shropham nodded. ‘He is another respectable, steady young man. He has no College or hostel affiliation yet, so he lodges in the Cap. I shall offer him a Fellowship here next term.’

‘Would you like to see my son’s room?’ asked the Earl, standing abruptly. ‘As Michael’s deputy, you will be well qualified to read a man’s true nature from his quarters.’

Ignoring the derisive snort from ‘Senior Proctor’ Brampton, Bartholomew followed him to a building that overlooked the river. Huntyngdon’s room was small, but clean and neat. The book-loaded shelves suggested a man who was serious about his studies, and a glance at the table told Bartholomew that its occupant was writing a treatise on civil law.

‘There was no letter from the Chancellor here,’ said Shropham helpfully. ‘We would have found it when we scoured the place for clues as to where he might have gone. That means he either delivered it as charged, or it is still on his person – wherever that may be. Did you ask Narboro if it arrived?’

‘I will do it this morning,’ promised Bartholomew.

‘Thank you,’ said the Earl, and his face crumpled. ‘William is very dear to me, so please do all you can to find out what has happened to him. I am not a fool – I realise there may be an unhappy ending to the matter – but the uncertainty is unbearable.’

Moved to compassion, Bartholomew found himself promising to do all he could, but once away, he wished he had held his tongue. He could not afford to take on work that would keep him from teaching, and Brampton was clearly irked with him for agreeing to meddle in matters that came under the Senior Proctor’s jurisdiction.

‘You will inform me if you uncover anything pertinent,’ he said coldly, as he escorted Bartholomew to the gate. ‘No reporting to the Earl or Shropham first.’

The curtness of the order made Bartholomew determined to ignore it. ‘Congratulations on your appointment,’ he said, to change the subject. ‘You must be pleased.’

‘It is no more than I deserve,’ shrugged Brampton. ‘And I shall be Chancellor when Michael goes on to become an abbot or a bishop.’

‘Will you indeed?’ murmured Bartholomew, amazed that Brampton thought he could step into Michael’s enormous shoes. In an effort to avoid saying so, he turned the conversation to Aynton, asking if Brampton had considered the Chancellor a friend.

‘I did not,’ replied Brampton shortly. ‘I had no respect for the man, and he should never have accepted the post, because he was entirely unequal to it. I will be much better.’

‘So will Michael,’ said Bartholomew, to remind him that the position was not his quite yet. ‘Better than your friend Donwich.’

Brampton gave an unfathomable smile. ‘Donwich does have much to learn before he can run a university. Rather like Aynton did, in fact.’

‘Is that why you spied on Aynton?’ asked Bartholomew baldly. ‘I know you eavesdropped on a quarrel between him and Chaumbre.’

Brampton’s expression became even more difficult to read. ‘I did witness a spat, although I cannot see how it is relevant to Aynton’s death. They were arguing about the dye-pits – specifically the fact that Chaumbre cannot be bothered to fill them in. Have you seen my sister today, by the way? We were meant to meet for breakfast.’

Bartholomew was taken aback by the abrupt change of subject, but had the presence of mind not to blurt that she had opted for a glover’s company instead. ‘Not recently,’ he hedged.

‘I imagine she is engrossed in some aspect of your wedding,’ sniffed Brampton, ‘which is much more important to her than a mere brother.’

‘Only because she is unlikely to have one of her own,’ said Bartholomew pointedly.

‘Thanks to Narboro,’ spat Brampton, his small face turning hard and cold. ‘I will destroy him for what he did to her, or rather, to me, as it was my honour he impugned.’

‘Are you sure it might not be wiser to overlook–’

‘I would sooner die than ignore what he did,’ snarled Brampton. ‘His rejection of her was a public slap in the face for my family’s honour, and I shall never forgive it.’

Bartholomew was disconcerted by his vehemence, which he thought was disproportionate to the offence. He changed the subject before the new Senior Proctor could begin a rant. ‘Will you visit Peterhouse to ask if Huntyngdon delivered the letter to Narboro? Or would you rather we did it together?’

‘I would rather you went alone,’ replied Brampton shortly. ‘I am needed at St Mary the Great to help with the election. Report back to me as soon as you have finished.’

Bartholomew inclined his head, but he was not at Brampton’s beck and call, and decided that if the new Senior Proctor wanted information, he could go to Peterhouse and find it himself.