The Chancellor’s Secret

Chapter 5

Bartholomew was relieved to leave St Mary the Great, even if it was to embroil himself in the distasteful business of murder. He stepped through the door and felt himself wilt in the sun. He pulled off his heavy woollen robes, bundled them under his arm, and set off along the High Street, much more comfortably clad in loose shirt and knee-length breeches.

He was just turning into Gonville Lane when a small figure barrelled into him. Instinctively, his hand went to the purse on his belt, where it met some hot little fingers trying to unfasten it. It was Ulf Godenave, who abandoned his prize when he realised he was about to be caught, and darted away, pausing only to make an obscene gesture. The incident was witnessed by Shardelowe, the builder who had helped to retrieve Aynton’s body.

‘Little brat,’ he growled. ‘He will be hanged before he can grow a beard unless he mends his ways.’

‘I do not suppose you were on the bridge when Aynton was killed, were you?’ asked Bartholomew with more hope than expectation.

The builder shook his head. ‘I only came when I heard that a man with my expertise was needed to retrieve the body. It was a good thing I was available, because your Chancellor would have been pitched into the water – and you with him – if an amateur had tried to do it.’

Bartholomew recalled the conversation he had overheard the previous night between Shardelowe and the Mayor.

‘The King sent you to assess the bridge, but now it seems you will win the profitable task of carrying out the repairs, too.’

Shardelowe looked decidedly shifty. ‘Only if the town council votes for the Mayor’s recommendations. Of course, they would be fools not to – they need an experienced builder to solve the problem, or Aynton will not be the only man to fall foul of the thing.’

‘It has claimed another life this year already – a burgess named Baldok.’

‘I know nothing about him, but Aynton died because the rotten railings snapped under his weight when he was pushed against them. Had they been stone, they would have held.’

Bartholomew regarded him curiously. ‘How do you know he was pushed?’

Shardelowe shrugged. ‘I must have been told. I cannot recall by whom.’

He hurried away, and Bartholomew watched him go. Should the builder be included on the list of suspects, because he had decided that the best way to ensure himself a lucrative contract was to make sure the bridge suffered another fatality? He shook himself impatiently. He was seeing plots where there were none. Or was he?

Before he had taken many more steps along the lane, Bartholomew saw Edith walking towards him. His sister had raised him after the early death of their parents, and they had always been close. He had witnessed with painful helplessness her grief after losing her beloved husband, and sincerely hoped that her sudden, inexplicable decision to marry Philip Chaumbre would not end in tears, too.

Oswald’s death had aged her, so her once raven-black hair was now streaked with grey, although little of it could be seen under the matronly wimple she had favoured since she had become a widow. She wore a dress of pale blue, and looked cool, fresh and relaxed, which made Bartholomew even more aware of his own uncomfortable sweatiness.

She greeted him with a smile. ‘Matilde and Lucy are currently agonising over wedding flowers. Well, Lucy is agonising – Matilde would rather think about her school for girls, but humours Lucy because she knows it will help her deal with the shame of what that scoundrel Narboro did to her. You have caught yourself a good woman, Matt.’

‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘Although I have just learned that Donwich is courting Lucy, so perhaps she will follow us up the aisle yet.’

‘I hope not,’ said Edith with distaste, ‘for her sake. Philip is friends with Donwich, but I do not approve. Donwich is not very nice.’

‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew, and tried to make his next remark sound casual, although his heart was in his mouth as he spoke. ‘Beadle Meadowman, Clippesby and Brampton mentioned a recent quarrel between Philip and Aynton – about the dye-pits.’

Edith raised her eyebrows. ‘Philip did not mention it to me, although I know Chancellor Aynton disapproved of him leaving them open. Aynton disapproved of the possibility of a stone bridge, too, and I overheard an angry spat between him and Mayor Morys about it yesterday afternoon. Matilde was with me – she will tell you that tempers ran high.’

‘I suppose I had better speak to Morys then,’ said Bartholomew without enthusiasm, and hastened to explain. ‘Michael wants me to help him find Aynton’s killer, so we are talking to everyone who knew him.’

Edith shot him a cool glare. ‘Well, you can leave Philip out of it. He is no killer. You cannot speak to Morys either – at least, not today. He is visiting kin in the Fens – the ones he uses to bully political opponents. He will be back for tomorrow, though, obviously.’

‘Why “obviously”?’

‘Because it is when the council will decide about the bridge – whether to fund a new one in stone, or patch up the old wooden one. Morys will want to make sure they vote for stone. Of course, he is right – stone is the only sensible option. However, I hope it will not entail closing the whole thing while the work is carried out – that would be very inconvenient.’

Edith’s cloth business relied on trade from the north, so shutting the bridge would have a direct impact on her. It would affect Bartholomew as well, as he used it to reach some of his patients.

‘The King sent some money,’ she went on, ‘and the University has offered to contribute a little, but the bulk of the outlay will come from merchants like me. Thank God for Philip! I would be in dire financial straits without him.’

Bartholomew was bemused. ‘I thought you were doing well.’

Edith winced. ‘I did not want to worry you, Matt, but Richard got himself very badly into debt again recently. Once all his creditors were paid, everything was gone – the business, my home, our warehouses …’

Richard was her son, a debauched young man who was considerably less charming as an adult than he had been as a boy.

‘You paid his debts?’ demanded Bartholomew, stunned and angry. ‘But why would–’

‘He found a loophole in Oswald’s will that left me no choice,’ explained Edith. ‘I was in despair, but then Philip came along. He has been in London these past thirty years, making his fortune in dye. He is an old friend, and when I confided my plight, he suggested an arrangement.’

‘What arrangement?’ Bartholomew grew more horrified with every word that fell from her lips. Why had she not told him? Because he never had two pennies to rub together, and so was useless to her? Or because she was afraid he would storm to London and make sure Richard would never hurt her again?

‘He bought my house and the business. My workers’ jobs are safe, and he lets me run things as I like, while he concentrates on his dyeing. The only difference is that Richard no longer has a claim on any of it.’

‘In return for what?’ asked Bartholomew, feeling sick.

‘Companionship,’ replied Edith. ‘I was apprehensive at first, but now I like him in my parlour of an evening, to tell him about my day and listen to him talk about his own. We play board games, he reads to me, and we laugh. He makes no other demands.’

Well, that was something, thought Bartholomew, as he struggled to come to terms with the enormity of what she had done. No wonder she had told him of her decision one day and married Chaumbre the next – he would have tried to talk her out of it if he had known the whole story, but she had been thinking about the two dozen people who relied on her for their livelihoods.

‘What would Oswald have thought?’ he breathed, then wished he could bite out his tongue. It was a question that should have remained unspoken.

‘He would have approved,’ replied Edith quietly. ‘He liked Philip when we were all youngsters together, and he would not have wanted his home and warehouses in the hands of men to whom Richard owed money.’

‘No,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘But even so …’

‘Philip has not only been generous, but accommodating, too,’ Edith went on. ‘He could have insisted that we move to his house in Girton, but he offered to live in Milne Street instead. His own home lies empty, and we shall rent it out as a hostel next term.’

‘Meadowman said it was burgled last night, and that a lot of money was taken.’

Edith was dismissive. ‘Philip says it was nothing. But here he comes now. Watch how his face lights up when he sees me.’

She was right: Chaumbre gave a grin of such unbridled delight when he spotted his wife that it was clear she meant a great deal to him. He was not an attractive man: his nose was too big, his chin was too small, and he had more hair sprouting from his ears than from his head. Bartholomew regarded him unhappily, sincerely hoping for Edith’s sake that the dyer’s quarrel with Aynton had not resulted in murder.

‘Matthew!’ Chaumbre cried merrily. ‘Is it not a beautiful day? I have been for a lovely walk along the river.’

‘Have you?’ asked Bartholomew warily, unable to see that a stroll along a festering sewer would be pleasant at any time, but especially in the heat.

‘I took the scenic route home after examining my dye-pits. People clamour at me to fill them in, but why should I? They are doing no harm.’

‘Isnard nearly fell down one,’ Bartholomew pointed out.

‘Then he should not stagger around dark cemeteries after spending all evening in a tavern,’ chuckled Chaumbre.

‘I am sorry to hear you were burgled. Your Girton home–’

‘My home is with your sister,’ interrupted Chaumbre, casting Edith such an adoring look that Bartholomew cringed. ‘And what is losing money when you have found love?’

Bartholomew changed the subject hastily, embarrassed by the saccharine display of affection, although Edith did not seem to mind it. ‘I understand you argued about the dye-pits with Aynton,’ he began.

Chaumbre sighed. ‘He ordered me to fill them in at once. I pointed out that he had no authority to boss me around, and, to my eternal shame, I called him a meddlesome arse. We argued about the bridge as well, because he wanted wood rather than stone. I regret it all now, of course, and wish our last exchange had been more congenial.’

‘Do not take it to heart,’ said Edith kindly. ‘He was meddlesome, and you are not the only one to have told him so over the years. He had opinions about everything – although that is true of most scholars, to be frank.’

‘It is,’ agreed Chaumbre ruefully. ‘I was invited to a feast in Clare Hall last night, where I learned that Donwich has some very opinionated friends. I was glad to leave.’

‘You were there all night?’ fished Bartholomew.

‘I slipped out just before compline, to check on a batch of fermenting dye.’

‘Did anyone see you?’

Chaumbre laughed. ‘Of course not! I do not keep my people working that late – it would be most unreasonable. I wanted to go home to Edith afterwards, but felt duty-bound to return to the feast, where I stayed until Donwich announced the news about Aynton. I told Edith about it the moment I arrived back.’

‘He did,’ said Edith, and because she knew her brother well enough to understand why the questions had been put, added pointedly, ‘which he would not have done if he had been the one to push Aynton to his death.’

Chaumbre blinked, then gave a great guffaw of laughter. ‘You think I killed Aynton over our spat? What foolery! I am a happy man, Matthew, and happy men do not kill.’

Bartholomew sincerely hoped he was right.

Clare Hall was oddly quiet when Bartholomew arrived, and he recalled that Donwich had sent all the students home early, confident that he would win the election and change the statute that forbade anyone to leave before the end of term. A porter led him to the conclave, where all the Fellows – other than Donwich and his two henchmen – had gathered.

‘We are mortified by Donwich’s challenge,’ said Pulham the moment he saw Bartholomew, while his colleagues nodded vigorous agreement. ‘It reflects badly on the whole College. Will Michael believe that we had nothing to do with it?’

‘I imagine so,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘He is not stupid.’

‘Unlike Donwich,’ said Pulham bitterly. ‘I barely recognise him these days. Did you know that he has threatened to expel any Clare Hall man who contributes funds for mending or rebuilding the Great Bridge? That sort of stance will cause all manner of strife with the townsfolk.’

‘It will,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘So perhaps you should elect a different Master.’

‘If only it were that easy,’ sighed Pulham.

‘Michael sent me to ask more questions about him. Shall we start with Donwich’s premature victory feast?’

‘None of us were invited,’ said a canon lawyer named Peter March, another smugly confident man who was better at politics than scholarship. ‘Only Gille and Elsham. However, no Fellow likes his College invaded by a lot of outsiders, so we monitored the event very closely. What does Michael want to know?’

‘Was Aynton also excluded?’

‘No, Donwich wanted him there,’ replied March. ‘His presence would have implied that he considered Donwich the best man to take his place.’

‘But Aynton would not have resigned if he thought anyone other than Michael would succeed him,’ put in Pulham. ‘He told us that the University is about to enter a new and important stage in its development, and he wanted Michael to oversee it.’

‘Michael would have preferred Aynton to remain Chancellor, while he himself worked quietly behind the scenes,’ said Bartholomew. ‘As he has always done.’

Pulham nodded. ‘We know, but Aynton was aware of his own limitations, and he was terrified of making mistakes that might cause damage. He was a good man.’

‘Was Donwich angry when Aynton refused to endorse him?’

The Fellows exchanged the kind of glances that suggested Donwich had been livid.

‘Not enough to push him over a bridge though,’ put in March. ‘He is not a killer.’

Bartholomew would make up his own mind about that. ‘If you monitored the feast, can you confirm that Donwich was there all night, so has an alibi for the murder?’

This time, the looks that flashed between the Fellows were more uncomfortable.

‘He slipped out for an hour,’ admitted March reluctantly. ‘And before you ask, it was during compline, when we understand Aynton died. However, Donwich did not kill him.’

‘Do you know where he went?’

‘Bridge Street.’ March grimaced. ‘He has taken a liking to Lucy Brampton, and often visits her there. I thought he would stay here that night, to fawn over his guests, but …’

‘His hypocrisy is embarrassing,’ said Pulham harshly. ‘He tells scholars not to pay for the bridge, but where would he be without it? Lucy lives on the other side!’

‘What about Gille and Elsham? Did they leave the feast, too?’

‘Yes, about an hour before compline,’ replied March. ‘They reappeared shortly before you arrived with Aynton’s body, and we have since learned that they watched him being hoisted off the ponticulus. When it was done, they hurried back here to report to Donwich.’

‘But they did not bother to share the news with us as well,’ sniffed Pulham. ‘We only learned what had happened when you arrived with the bier.’

‘Do you know what they did when they were out?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Other than watching Aynton being retrieved?’

‘Not escort Donwich to his mistress, certainly,’ replied March. ‘He went there alone.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because Donwich was sweaty and agitated when they went over to him,’ replied Pulham, ‘and I heard Gille ask him what was wrong. He would not have had to do that if they had been together, would he? But we have no idea what Gille and Elsham did while they were out. You will have to ask them.’

‘So what did make Donwich “sweaty and agitated”?’ asked Bartholomew.

Pulham shrugged. ‘He spun some tale about seeing robbers and running for his life. It may be true – the town is dangerous for a lone scholar at night.’

Bartholomew was gratified to learn that his prime suspect for Aynton’s murder not only had no alibi, but had returned from his nocturnal foray all of a fluster – as anyone might be after pushing a colleague to his death.

‘None of the rest of us left the College,’ said Pulham, anticipating Bartholomew’s next question. ‘We were too busy monitoring Donwich’s guests.’

‘Except me,’ put in March. ‘I was in the chapel with our two chaplains, praying for Donwich to revert to the man he was before we elected him Master.’

‘So everyone has an alibi,’ finished Pulham. ‘Other than Donwich, Gille and Elsham.’

‘But Donwich is no killer,’ said March firmly. ‘I can assure you of that.’

Bartholomew ignored him. ‘What was Aynton doing while you defended Clare Hall from the Master’s guests?’ he asked.

‘He was with us for the first part of the evening, but he slipped out shortly after Donwich did,’ replied March, and glanced uneasily at his colleagues. ‘He …’

‘We think he followed Donwich,’ said Pulham, willing to voice his suspicions, even if March could not bring himself to do it. ‘To prove once and for all that Donwich’s friendship with Lucy is not as innocent as Donwich maintains. Aynton deplored their liaison, you see, because it set a bad example to our students.’

‘Which is why Donwich sent them home early, of course,’ said March bitterly. ‘Damn the man! He does Clare Hall great harm with his lust and his greed for power.’

‘Do you have proof that Aynton was spying on Donwich?’

‘No, but it stands to reason,’ replied Pulham unhappily. ‘Why else would he have been on Bridge Street at such an hour?’

‘Did Aynton and Donwich like each other?’

‘Not really,’ replied March. ‘Donwich considered Aynton weak and foolish, while Aynton found Donwich arrogant, selfish and rash.’

Bartholomew regarded each Fellow in turn. ‘So, to summarise: Donwich despised Aynton’s timidity, went out alone just before the murder, and returned home hot and agitated after it. Moreover, Aynton had offended him by refusing to support his bid for the chancellorship and condemning his relationship with Lucy.’

‘You twist what we have told you,’ objected March, alarmed. ‘Donwich would never resort to violence. I repeat yet again: Donwich is no killer.’

‘What about Gille and Elsham?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Are they?’

‘No,’ replied Pulham, but his voice lacked conviction, and none of the others would look him in the eye. It told Bartholomew all he needed to know about the unsavoury pair.

The physician barely noticed the wall of heat that hit him as he left Clare Hall, and he walked slowly, head bowed in thought. Had Donwich spotted Aynton shadowing him and killed him for it? After all, no College Master would take kindly to a colleague trying to expose him as a philanderer. All Bartholomew hoped was that Michael would find time to interrogate Donwich, because he did not fancy doing it again.

His reverie was broken by Ulf Godenave, who scampered up, begging him to visit the hovels near All Saints-next-the-castle, where his grandmother was ill with the flux.

‘The sickness is up there now?’ groaned Bartholomew, one hand on his purse lest the boy should try to steal it again, although he would win scant pickings if he did. ‘All the other cases have been in the south of the town.’

‘Deadly miasmas drift where they please,’ said Ulf sagely. ‘Now, the Carmelites gave me a nice pair of shoes today, and you can have them if you make my granddam better.’

‘That will not be necessary,’ said Bartholomew, sure they would be stolen.

‘Money, then,’ said Ulf, flashing a halfpenny. ‘A rich saint told the priest to give it to us for food. I was going to buy bread, but she needs your services more …’

‘Buy the bread,’ ordered Bartholomew. ‘She will want it when the flux leaves her.’

He followed Ulf over the Great Bridge, noting that the railings and the ponticulus had been so skilfully mended that there was nothing to show they had been the scene of a painful death. He stopped and looked over the parapet to see Shardelowe on the riverbank below. The builder was dictating notes to a clerk, ready for his report to the council at the guildhall the next day. He also saw Isnard, who had indeed established a ferry service, and was doing a roaring trade from those who did not want to take their chances on the bridge.

It was early evening when he finished tending Ulf’s grandmother, by which time Aynton’s death had slipped to the back of his mind. His tentative theory that the Mill Pond was responsible for the flux had been well and truly quashed, because the Godenaves never went anywhere near it.

The flux was distressingly familiar in summer, but that year’s outbreak was unusual for three reasons. First, it was concentrated in specific areas, although no one source seemed to be to blame. Second, there were more cases than normal. And third, the symptoms were different – generally milder, but taking longer to shake off. He feared that it might be some new form of the disease, one that was more resistant to the few remedies in his arsenal.

He began to walk home, and was halfway along Bridge Street when he heard his name called. He turned to see Tulyet and Dickon. The Sheriff was eager for news about Aynton’s murder, lest it affected the town. Bartholomew summarised the little he had learned.

‘So Donwich is the most likely suspect,’ he concluded. ‘Although I should speak to Morys before drawing premature conclusions. Apparently, his quarrel with Aynton was quite heated.’

‘Be careful, ‘warned Tulyet. ‘He will not appreciate being interrogated by a scholar.’

‘And he has rough kin to set on you, if you offend him,’ put in Dickon with inappropriate relish. ‘Most are useless louts, but his cousin John is nice. He is showing me how to kill people with my bare hands.’

‘How to wrestle,’ corrected Tulyet, and hastened to elaborate. ‘Hand-to-hand combat is a necessary skill for any warrior, one I have often had occasion to use myself. John Morys is a knight at the castle, so I hired him to train Dickon.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, thinking that the boy was dangerous enough as it was, without teaching him more ways to menace the general populace. ‘How do you feel about helping me with Morys tomorrow, Dick? He may cooperate with you there.’

‘I will come,’ offered Dickon eagerly, fingering the sword that he liked to carry at his side; Bartholomew noted with alarm that it was larger than his father’s. ‘I will threaten to spill his innards if he refuses to talk.’

‘It is a kind offer, but no,’ said Bartholomew firmly.

Dickon looked crestfallen. ‘That is a pity. He deserves it, because he is corrupt. His wife Rohese is lovely, though.’ He smiled rather dreamily. ‘I met her today. She called me a fine, strapping lad, so I told her she is a fine, strapping woman.’

‘That must have swept her off her feet,’ drawled Bartholomew, unsettled that Dickon was now old enough to show an interest in the opposite sex. It did not seem that long ago that he was a babe in arms. Where had the time gone?

It was nearing dusk when Bartholomew parted from Tulyet and Dickon. He felt hot, tired and soiled, not just from visiting the hovels near the castle, but also from the sordid business of murder. He wanted to wash in cool, clean water, don fresh clothes, eat a light meal – not one of Michael’s meat-loaded repasts – and go to sleep. Thoughts of the monk seemed to conjure him up, because, at that very moment, he emerged from the Hospital of St John. Bartholomew told him about the visit to Clare Hall.

‘So things are not looking good for Donwich,’ mused Michael. ‘However, he is a lawyer, so we shall need solid evidence before challenging him.’

‘What have you been doing since we parted company?’ asked Bartholomew, hoping the ‘we’ meant Michael would do it himself.

‘Arranging accommodation for the vicars-general and their retinue. King’s Hall has offered to house the most important ones, while the rest will lodge here in St John’s. I would have delegated the matter to Brampton, but I could not find him.’

‘Perhaps he went to destroy any evidence that points to him as the killer,’ said Bartholomew sourly. ‘He is on the suspects list, after all.’

‘On yours,’ countered Michael. ‘Not on mine.’

‘I still do not understand why you chose him to replace you. He does not have an ounce of authority, and will … what is he doing?’

He peered through the gathering gloom towards the hospital cemetery. Lamps had been lit near the dye-pits, where Narboro was holding forth to a group of influential burgesses, although Chaumbre was notable by his absence.

Michael chuckled. ‘He fell down one of the holes earlier, and had to pay for a donkey to pull him out. He is of the opinion that Chaumbre has left them open deliberately, so that anyone injured will need a physician – namely his brother-in-law.’

Bartholomew was horrified. ‘Does anyone believe him?’

‘I doubt it, but the burgesses are obliged to hear his complaint anyway. They all like Chaumbre, but Narboro is a scholar – and an unpopular one at that – so nothing will come of his grumbles. Come away, before he sees you. You do not want to be dragged into something that will waste your time.’

As they turned into the High Street, they met Matilde and Lucy, who had been visiting Weasenham the University stationer regarding some exemplars that Matilde had ordered for her school. Judging by the women’s dark expressions, the texts were still not ready.

‘Do not worry,’ Lucy was saying. ‘I shall put it about that his scribes make critical errors, so his texts are not to be trusted. After a week of falling sales, Weasenham will be only too glad to complete our order.’

‘He cannot bear the thought that women are as clever as men,’ said Matilde angrily. ‘So he aims to thwart our plans by refusing us supplies. But now you are Chancellor, Brother, you can command him to cooperate with us.’

‘And I shall,’ promised Michael. ‘As soon as the vicars-general have been and gone.’ He turned to Lucy. ‘I was proud to appoint your brother as my Senior Proctor today. I am sure he will serve me well, and make a name for himself in University politics at the same time.’

Lucy smiled wryly. ‘He certainly thinks so. However, I fear his suit against Narboro will overshadow all else. Perhaps you can persuade him to drop it.’

‘I have already tried,’ sighed Michael. ‘But the insult rankles and he refuses to listen. Of course, Narboro does not help by flaunting himself about the town. He makes it hard for Brampton to forget about him.’

‘Narboro is his own worst enemy,’ agreed Matilde. ‘But speaking of legal challenges, I hope you have a plan to defeat Donwich. It will be a disaster if he is Chancellor: he will anger townsfolk by refusing to help fund the new bridge, and he opposes my school.’ She glanced at Lucy. ‘I do not know what you see in him.’

‘He is always very charming to me,’ replied Lucy defensively. ‘A different man altogether from the one who offends his colleagues and aggravates the town.’

‘Did you see him last night?’ fished Bartholomew. ‘Around compline?’

‘Yes, he visited me briefly, but I told him to return to his guests at once. I felt it was rude to abandon them in order to spend time with me. As far as I know, he did as I suggested.’

Bartholomew frowned. March had said that Donwich had been gone for an hour. Was this evidence that he had taken the opportunity to kill the man who refused to endorse his candidacy, and who dared to spy on his romantic liaisons into the bargain?

‘Your friendship with him has become common knowledge,’ he warned. ‘It may harm your reputation if it continues.’

Lucy grimaced. ‘I would rather be seen as a fallen woman than as an object of pity. Besides, Donwich will keep me amused until someone better comes along – assuming another man is brave enough to risk my brother’s litigious nature, of course.’

‘I forgot to mention it earlier,’ said Matilde to Bartholomew, ‘but Edith and I overheard Aynton quarrel with Morys yesterday afternoon, and it occurs to me that it might be relevant to finding his killer.’

‘Edith told me they argued about the bridge,’ said Bartholomew.

Matilde nodded. ‘Our Mayor wants an expensive stone affair, but your Chancellor said that the University will pay only one tenth of the cost of a wooden one, and not a farthing more. At one point, Morys told Aynton that he would regret his decision.’

Bartholomew stared at her. ‘And within hours Aynton was dead?’

‘I think Morys meant that wood is only a temporary solution,’ explained Matilde, ‘and that Aynton would be sorry if he failed to look further into the future.’

Bartholomew was not so sure, but at that moment the town’s bells began to chime for evening prayers, and Matilde said it was time for her to go home. Bartholomew offered to accompany her there.

‘Then allow me, madam,’ said Michael, offering Lucy a plump arm. ‘Escorting you to your house will be no trouble, as I can use the opportunity to discuss University business with my Senior Proctor.’

Bartholomew was pleased to have Matilde to himself, especially when she listened patiently and with interest to his ideas about the flux.

‘So the culprit seems to be ale one day, and water butts the next,’ he finished. ‘With wells and the Mill Pond thrown in totally at random. It is all very perplexing.’

‘Have you considered the possibility that water has nothing to do with it?’ she asked. ‘All the other medici say it is a miasma, which is certainly the accepted wisdom on the subject. Or perhaps it is bad food or this terrible heat.’

‘The heat exacerbates the problem but does not cause it, while food cannot be to blame because there is no common supply. I understand why people think that miasmata – tiny airborne particles of rotting matter – cause diseases, but this does not explain why some folk fall ill while others are spared. I am missing something.’

‘Well, I am sure you will work it out,’ said Matilde comfortingly. Then her eyes narrowed and her voice turned angry. ‘Look at him, slinking along like some common felon. I shall never forgive him for what he did to Lucy. He is a rat!’

Bartholomew followed her pointing finger, and saw Narboro, who had finished regaling the burgesses and was returning to Hoo Hall. He was clearly uneasy to be out alone after dark, so was trying to keep to the shadows in the hope of remaining invisible.

‘Did you hear how he came to fall down Chaumbre’s dye-pit?’ she went on scathingly. ‘He was admiring himself in that hand-mirror of his, and did not look where he was going.’

Bartholomew laughed. ‘Was it the one Lucy gave him to remember her by, with the painting of her on the reverse?’

Matilde nodded. ‘Yes, but her image is all but rubbed off, because he prefers what he sees on the other side. Did he show it to you? The man has no shame! Perhaps Brampton is right to destroy him with the law.’

‘Would Lucy take him, if he offered himself again?’

‘Not if I have anything to do with it – she deserves better. A lot better. But here we are at home. Will you come in?’

It was late by the time Bartholomew arrived back at Michaelhouse. He had been so busy since the election that he had forgotten about Stasy and Hawick, and was startled when he opened his door to find them stuffing the last of their belongings into a sack. Cynric stood over them impatiently.

‘I keep telling them to hurry,’ he growled. ‘But they are slower than snails.’

‘They cannot leave the town now,’ said Bartholomew, alarmed for them. ‘The King’s highways are dangerous after dark, especially for travellers with baggage. They will stay here tonight, and go in the morning.’

‘We have no intention of leaving Cambridge, not tonight or any other time,’ declared Stasy indignantly. ‘We are going to appeal Michael’s decision in front of the Archbishop’s emissaries, and they will reverse it.’

‘And thank you for the offer, but we refuse to spend one more night in this nasty old place,’ said Hawick, looking around with studied distaste. ‘We shall go to the shop we have rented in Shoemaker Row – the one we shall open to patients tomorrow.’

‘And there is nothing you or your fat friend can do to stop us,’ put in Stasy fiercely. ‘We do not need degrees to heal the sick and make lots of money.’

‘No,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘But–’

‘You should have stood up for us, sir,’ blurted Hawick, defiance crumbling as he remembered again all he had lost. ‘To be expelled for a harmless jape after all our hard work! It is not fair.’

‘Prior Pechem heard you chanting spells, and there was a Satanic symbol on the floor,’ Bartholomew pointed out tartly. ‘What did you expect? A monk can hardly turn a blind eye to that sort of thing in the University church, especially in front of all the Regent Masters.’

‘We are sorry,’ said Hawick tearfully. ‘Please talk to him and plead our case.’

Bartholomew did not want to, but reminded himself that they had been his students for years, so he should at least try to help them.

‘Very well,’ he said tiredly. ‘But I doubt Michael will change his mind.’

‘Do not bother,’ spat Stasy. ‘We want nothing from you or anyone else at this stupid College. And Michaelhouse will be sorry – I can promise you that.’

‘You threaten us?’ asked Cynric dangerously, fingering the dagger in his belt.

‘Not in the way you think,’ gulped Hawick with an unconvincing smile. ‘You know we are in the used-exemplar business? Well, we shall no longer sell our wares to Michaelhouse students. That means they will have to pay the stationer’s exorbitant prices, so the College will be very sorry indeed that its Master has crossed us.’

‘Come on, Hawick,’ said Stasy, picking up his bag and slinging it over his shoulder. ‘It is time to go. Wait for me by the gate – I need to use the latrine before we leave.’

Bartholomew was glad when they had gone, although he was not alone for long, as Islaye and Mallett sidled in, confessing sheepishly that they had not liked to be there while the other two were packing. However, they soon wished they had steeled themselves to the poisonous atmosphere, because their erstwhile roommates had not confined themselves to their own belongings when loading up their bags. The cries of outrage were cut short by a screech from Agatha, followed by a tremendous racket from the peafowl. Bartholomew and Islaye ran outside to see Stasy streaking across the yard with several birds in hot pursuit.

‘He must have tried to steal food from the kitchen,’ surmised Islaye. ‘But Agatha hates him, so when her howl woke the birds … well, they do not like him either.’

‘My prayer book has gone!’ shouted Mallett, rushing out to join them. ‘The one my mother gave me. Come on, Islaye – help me get it back.’

They tore after Stasy, but the ex-student had too great a start, and was gone before they could reach him. Cynric also gave chase, but not for long, because he knew a lost cause when he saw one. He came back to talk to Bartholomew.

‘I do not believe Hawick’s claim that they will only avenge themselves by withholding cheap exemplars,’ Bartholomew told him. ‘Will you warn everyone to be on their guard?’

‘I already have,’ said Cynric. ‘But they will not get in here again, especially now the birds have taken against them. They were fools to make enemies of peafowl – Master Clippesby says they are the most vindictive of all God’s creatures. Well, other than people.’

They had certainly seen Stasy on his way, thought Bartholomew, watching the Dominican help Walter round them up and chivvy them back to their roost.

‘We are protected by spells and charms, too,’ Cynric went on. ‘Ones I asked Margery Starre to prepare. She will not let us down, so you can sleep safe in your bed tonight, boy.’

Bartholomew nodded a terse goodnight and trudged to the conclave, hoping to spend an hour relaxing with his colleagues before bed. He was tired, but he was too tense to sleep after the confrontation with Stasy and Hawick.

The conclave was stuffy, even though only one lamp was lit. Moths circled it in a fluttering cloud, and their shadows danced on the walls. He arrived at the same time as Clippesby, who reported that all the birds had settled back down for the night, sure the physician would want to know. Then he went to sit in a corner, where he produced two mice from his sleeve, and proceeded to hold a conversation with them.

Michael had returned not long before, and was sitting in his chair by the hearth, while William and Zoone regaled him with their opinions about the election.

‘You said that today was an auspicious date for it, because St Benedict would ensure that you woke up as Chancellor on his feast day, tomorrow,’ said William, rather accusingly. ‘But you will not. Perhaps you should have petitioned my founder – St Francis – instead.’

‘Of course I shall wake up as Chancellor,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘Everyone knows that Donwich’s ambitions will never be realised.’

Zoone regarded him narrowly. ‘You seem remarkably composed about all this, Brother, almost as if you do not care that he called you a cheat. I would be incandescent with rage, but you only smile, and radiate wisdom and tolerance.’

Michael shrugged. ‘Which is how a Chancellor should behave. No one would thank me for aping Donwich’s manners.’

‘You will need help to overthrow him,’ declared William. ‘So I suggest you make me Junior Proctor. I did it once before, and I was very good at it.’

‘Thank you, William,’ said Michael, tactfully not pointing out that William’s narrow-mindedness and bigotry had been a real liability. ‘But I shall not appoint anyone until the situation is resolved. To do otherwise would be like prodding an angry hornet.’

‘True,’ acknowledged Zoone. ‘Hopefully, Ufford and Rawby will be in Ely by now, and they will bring the vicars-general tomorrow. This business must be resolved before term ends, or our scholars will carry news of the situation to all corners of the civilised world. What is Donwich thinking? It is almost as if he wants to harm the University.’

‘He does not care about reputations,’ averred William. ‘How can he, when he is enjoying a lustful liaison with the Senior Proctor’s sister?’

‘Not lustful,’ said Michael mildly. ‘They are friends.’

William laughed coarsely. ‘Is that what you call it? But perhaps you should persuade him to marry her, Brother – he cannot be Chancellor then, and Lucy is in need of a husband. Of course, she could do a lot better than that arrogant ape …’

Zoone was thoughtful. ‘Perhaps the rule about women is another statute Donwich aims to change if his challenge is successful. He told me himself that he will abolish the keeping of term, allowing students to come and go as they please.’

‘The Clare Hall blackbird says he wants to let scholars visit taverns and carry weapons, too,’ put in Clippesby from his corner. ‘And as such a policy will lead to violent and drunken brawls with townsfolk, she hopes he is never in a position to do it.’

‘He must be stopped,’ agreed Zoone. ‘So, what can I do to help, Brother? I am an engineer, so shall I arrange an accident? I can make it a non-fatal one, if you prefer.’

Michael laughed, although Bartholomew suspected that Zoone had not been joking. ‘I think we can trust the vicars-general to make the right decision without resorting to that sort of tactic, Zoone. But it is late and it has been a long day. I bid you all good night.’