The Killer of Pilgrims

Chapter 10

Because his students’ performance had been better than he had expected, Bartholomew gave them the rest of the afternoon off, an announcement that was greeted with a spontaneous cheer. He had been going to suggest they spent the time reading Theophilus’s De urinis, but their reaction made him wonder whether Michael was right, and he had been pushing them too hard. But there was a desperate need for qualified physicians, and he felt it was his duty to train as many as he could.

He was still thinking about teaching when Michael approached. The monk was dressed in his best habit, and his lank brown hair had been carefully brushed around his tonsure. He had shaved, too, so his plump face was pink and clean, although his expression was anxious.

‘We are going to Celia Drax’s celebration,’ he announced. ‘All our suspects are likely to be there, and we must catch this killer-thief before the camp-ball game.’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘And if we can make enough fuss about our success, it may even distract the hostels and Colleges from fighting, too.’

‘Quite,’ agreed Michael. ‘It is imperative we uncover some clues this evening. So change that torn tabard, don a clean shirt and let us be off. Incidentally, did your students tell you that the Colleges have replied to the trebuchet incident? Or are they too frightened of you to indulge in idle chatter these days?’

Bartholomew did not like to admit that he had not given them the chance. ‘I hope it was nothing to worsen the trouble,’ he said nervously. ‘Cynric told me that Gib and Jolye, now official martyrs for hostels and Colleges respectively, are being used as figureheads to rally support. It is becoming increasingly difficult for the peaceful scholars to remain neutral.’

‘The trick is very clever, and has Welfry’s hand all over it – amusing without being vicious or dangerous. I could have kissed him when members of both factions stood together to laugh.’

‘What did he do?’

‘I am not sure how, but he built a mountain of eggs and set Agatha in a large throne on top of them. Both laundress and chair are extremely heavy, and I cannot imagine how the whole thing does not collapse. But not one egg is so much as cracked.’

Bartholomew regarded him uneasily; only lunatics crossed Agatha. ‘Does she mind?’

‘She is having the time of her life. People are flocking to admire the spectacle – and admire her, too. I wish you could see it, but your duty lies at Celia Drax’s home, which represents a vital opportunity to see what can be learned about these thefts and murders.’

‘Does that mean you had no luck at Alice’s funeral?’ asked Bartholomew unhappily.

Michael winced. ‘None at all. It was a waste of time – and time is something we do not have. By this hour tomorrow, the camp-ball game will be over, and who knows what might be left?’

Worriedly, Bartholomew trailed after him to Celia’s house. When they arrived, it was to find every room packed with guests. An impromptu band of musicians had gathered and was belting out popular tunes, although the thudding beat of the drum drowned out the other instruments. People were dancing, too, in a heaving, gyrating mass. Whoops, cries, cheers and laughter abounded, and there was a rank smell of spilled wine and sweaty bodies.

‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘I have not been to one of these since I was a student.’

Michael looked around with narrowed eyes. ‘We shall start by having a word with Fen and his nuns. They are by the window, talking to Prior Leccheworth.’

They started to ease their way through the jigging dancers, but were intercepted by Celia, resplendent in yet another new gown.

‘All manner of vermin accepted my invitation, I see,’ she said unpleasantly, yelling to make herself heard over the racket. ‘Whores, impoverished students, warlocks, venal monks–’

‘Is this any way to honour your husband?’ demanded Michael, gesturing around him in distaste. ‘He is barely cold in his grave.’

‘It is what is called a wake,’ bawled Celia. ‘A celebration of his life. If you do not like it, leave.’

She turned and flounced away before Michael could respond. Bartholomew was tempted to do as she suggested, because he was not in the mood for rowdy parties, but the desperate hope that they might learn something to avert a crisis the following day kept him there.

‘Tell Leccheworth he is wrong, Brother,’ Fen cried, as the scholars approached. Tears of distress glistened in his eyes. ‘He keeps saying St Simon Stock’s holy scapular is a fake.’

‘Really?’ asked Michael, regarding the Gilbertine with raised eyebrows. ‘Why?’

‘Because Etone showed it to me once,’ explained Leccheworth, rather defiantly. ‘And it was too grubby to be sacred. In fact, it was nasty, and I was loath to touch the thing.’

‘It is a hundred years old,’ argued Fen, stricken. ‘Of course it is grubby! But I do not care what you think, because I know a blessed relic when I see one.’ He pointedly turned his back on the Prior, and addressed Michael. ‘What have you learned about the scoundrels who took it?’

‘That they are familiar with the Carmelite Friary and its grounds,’ replied the monk, watching him intently. Bartholomew did the same with the nuns. ‘A pilgrim, perhaps.’

‘Very possibly,’ said Fen, nodding earnestly, and if he thought Michael’s suggestion held an accusation, he gave no sign that he had taken it personally. ‘The shrine attracts many people, and hundreds must have paid homage there. I wish you success in your endeavours.’

He bowed, and walked away, hotly pursued by the nuns.

‘He is too sly to let anything slip,’ said Michael. ‘Damn! I am at a loss as how to trap him.’

‘Kendale and his students are better suspects, anyway,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Edith’s testimony told us that the culprit is probably a scholar.’

He pointed to where the Chestre men were enjoying themselves with several women he knew to be prostitutes, or Frail Sisters, as they preferred to be called. Celia had not been exaggerating when she had remarked on the range of people who had elected to accept her hospitality.

‘I will speak to them,’ determined Michael. ‘While you watch from a distance. They will not trip themselves up with words, either, so see what you can deduce from their demeanour.’

It was resorting to desperate measures, as far as Bartholomew was concerned, but he went to stand with Horneby and Welfry, using them as cover, lest the Chestre lads should happen to glance over and guess what he was doing. Both friars were sipping watered ale, and did not look comfortable amid the lively, noisy throng.

‘You should not be here,’ he said to Horneby. ‘You are supposed to be pretending to be ill so that no one will take offence over the cancelled Stock Extraordinary Lecture.’

‘The loss of our relic has put paid to that plan – as Acting Prior, I am obliged to be visible.’ Horneby shrugged. ‘But we can use the theft as an excuse to postpone, so it does not really matter.’

‘I feel like a virgin in a brothel,’ said Welfry unhappily, while Bartholomew watched the Chestre lads grow angry over something Michael had said. ‘But Drax was generous to both our priories, so it is our duty to be here. Of course, we did not expect the occasion to be quite so … so spirited.’

‘I heard about your trick with the eggs,’ said Bartholomew. Kendale’s expression had turned taunting, and the physician could see Michael struggling to keep his temper. ‘How did you do it?’

Welfry was delighted to be asked. ‘Well, eggs have a certain internal strength, despite their outward fragility, so it is just a case of placing them so that they–’

‘My throat hurts from shouting to make myself heard,’ interrupted Horneby. Neyll was clenching his fists, and Bartholomew braced himself, ready to run to Michael’s rescue if one of them flew. ‘And I do not think this occasion is any place for priests. Your description of virgins in brothels is truer than you thought, Welfry, because I know for a fact that Helia over there is a whore. We had better leave.’

‘Have you made any more loud bangs?’

Both friars and Bartholomew turned to see Dickon standing behind them, grinning.

‘What is this?’ asked Horneby, startled. ‘Loud bangs?’

‘An accident while trying to create a lamp with a clean and steady glow,’ explained Bartholomew, turning his attention back to the Chestre men. ‘I had the idea from Kendale’s trick at St Mary the Great.’

Welfry nodded keenly. ‘You asked me about the formula, and I have been thinking about it. He would have required a sticky substance to rub on his “fuses”, but the solution in his buckets must have been much more fluid. Have you tried mixing different kinds of oil with the pitch?’

‘The stuff you made was very sticky, Doctor,’ supplied Dickon. ‘I climbed over Meryfeld’s wall later, and had a look at it. I tried to blow it up again, but my tinderbox would not work.’

‘Dickon, you must never tamper with such things,’ said Welfry, alarmed. ‘They can be extremely dangerous, and you may hurt someone.’

‘So what?’ asked Dickon airily. ‘Life is full of dangers, and everyone must take his chances.’

‘Heavens!’ breathed Welfry, when the child had gone. ‘That was an eerily sinister philosophy coming from the mouth of someone so young. I doubt he learned that from his parents.’

‘He might, if his father is the Devil,’ muttered Horneby. ‘But this house is definitely no place for friars if he is here. I am going home.’

‘That was a waste of time,’ said Michael angrily, arriving a few moments later. The Chestre men were already back with their ladies, carousing noisily. ‘We exchanged yet more threats and ultimatums, and I learned nothing. What about you? Did you see any nervous or guilty glances?’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘But the prostitute called Helia is over there. Neyll claimed Gib was with her the night he died, so I am going to ask her whether it is true.’

‘Yes, I service Chestre,’ said Helia. She was a small, pretty woman with a pert figure and dyed red hair. ‘Mostly Neyll and Gib, although Kendale comes, too, on occasion.’

‘Do they ever quarrel about the arrangement?’

‘Almost certainly, I would think – they are a feisty crowd. However, I can tell you one thing: I am not entertaining that Neyll again. The University should send him home – he is a pig.’

‘Why is that?’

‘He is a killer. Do you remember that student who drowned a month ago – Jolye? Well, it was Neyll who pushed him in the river, and would not let him out again. And I doubt Jolye was his first victim, either. You should be careful around him – the Frail Sisters do not want to lose you.’

‘Can you prove Neyll killed Jolye?’

Helia wrinkled her nose. ‘Well, no one saw it happen, but Gib told Belle, who told the University’s stationer, who told his cousin, who told me. So it is absolutely true.’

‘When did you last see Gib?’ asked Bartholomew, suspecting there was unlikely to be much accuracy in a tale that had been passed along by quite so many gossiping tongues.

Helia was thoughtful. ‘Well, we had a bit of a spat, so I did not see him this week. The last time we met would have been more than seven days ago. He visited me from late on Sunday night, until he left for lectures at prime on Monday.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked Bartholomew urgently. If Helia was right, then Gib could not have been the yellow-headed man he himself had chased from Emma’s house.

‘Absolutely sure. On Monday mornings, I look after Yolande’s children while she visits the Mayor. It is a longstanding arrangement, and I went there the moment Gib left me. I saw him go inside his hostel, ready for his morning lessons.’

‘And you did not see him after that?’

Helia shook her head. ‘But he sent me a message saying he intended to honour me with his presence on Saturday night. He never arrived.’

Probably because he had been murdered en route, thought Bartholomew, watching as Helia left to dance with Isnard. How the bargeman managed his wild skipping with only one leg was beyond Bartholomew, and seemed to defy the laws of physics.

As Michael was with Yffi’s apprentices, he went to sit with his fellow physicians until the monk had finished, surprised that the staid Rougham had deigned to attend such a riotous event. The man was a killjoy, and disliked seeing people having fun.

Rougham grinned, and raised his goblet in a happy salute. He was not usually friendly, and it did not take Bartholomew long to realise the man was drunk. So was Meryfeld, while Gyseburne was well on the way to joining them: Meryfeld’s hand-rubbing was approaching frenzied proportions, while Gyseburne was on the brink of cracking a genuine smile. Gyseburne offered Bartholomew a sip of wine from the goblet he was holding. It was remarkably good, and Bartholomew thought it a pity that it was being wasted on people who were too inebriated to appreciate it.

‘I am glad you are here,’ slurred Rougham. ‘Now we are all four physicians together, and that does not happen often. We are all too busy.’

‘We should talk about medicine, then,’ declared Gyseburne. ‘Because we are medici.’

The others agreed with the kind of exaggerated gravity often affected by the intoxicated. Bartholomew glanced at Michael, and hoped he would not be long – he did not like discussing medicine with Rougham when he was sober, and it would be worse when the man was drunk.

‘What did you give to Emma, to soothe her inflamed gums?’ Gyseburne asked Meryfeld.

Meryfeld tapped the side of his nose. ‘That is a secret.’

‘We should not have secrets from each other,’ said Rougham admonishingly. ‘We should share our knowledge, for the greater good of the profession. Except sorcery. I am not interested in learning diabolical cures, Bartholomew, so you can keep those to yourself.’

‘I do not know any,’ said Bartholomew indignantly. ‘My medicines are based on herbs that–’

‘I am not telling you my cure for sore gums,’ hiccuped Meryfeld. ‘My poultice of lettuce and rosemary is– Damn! Now look what you made me do! It was a secret!’

‘Her condition warrants a more potent remedy than that,’ warned Bartholomew, concerned. ‘It will not heal her, and the delay in extracting the tooth may cost her life.’

‘He is right,’ said Gyseburne. ‘It should have come out days ago. Personally, I am surprised she is still alive, because I have seen how quickly these things can poison the blood.’

‘Medicine is too contentious a subject for an occasion like this,’ said Meryfeld sulkily. ‘So let us debate something else instead. I have been thinking about our lamp, and I have devised a way to refine it. I think we used too much charcoal and not enough pitch. The reason for this is that pitch burns at a lower temperature than brimstone, and so will be more steady.’

‘Does it?’ asked Bartholomew, intrigued. ‘How do you know that?’

‘He does not know,’ said Gyseburne. ‘He is guessing. But it is worth a try. Shall we do it now?’

‘No!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, thinking they were likely to blow themselves up.

‘Yes,’ countered Meryfeld, struggling to stand. ‘We shall go while the notion is fresh in our heads, and I do not live far away. Next door, in fact. Which is quite close, I believe.’

‘Excellent!’ slurred Rougham. ‘Then let us grab the pig by the horns, and begin.’

With mounting alarm, Bartholomew saw he would have to go with them, because it would be too dangerous to leave them unsupervised. He shrugged apologetically at Michael as he left, muttering that protecting three-quarters of Cambridge’s medical fraternity was just as valuable a way to spend their precious time as demanding answers from uncooperative suspects.

Rougham, Meryfeld and Gyseburne linked arms as they left Celia’s house. They tried to include Bartholomew, but he did not like the notion of four physicians in a line, weaving their way along a public highway, even if only for a short distance, and lagged behind. When they reached Meryfeld’s home, no one was able to fit the key in the lock. They dropped it so many times that it became a joke, and even the sour Rougham was convulsed in paroxysms of laughter.

‘It is not a good idea to play with dangerous materials when you are drunk,’ said Bartholomew, snatching the key and opening the door himself. ‘You might do yourselves some serious harm.’

‘I am not drunk,’ declared Gyseburne indignantly, toppling inside. ‘Really, Bartholomew! What a horrid thing to say! I am as sober as the Queen of Sheba.’

‘And I am not drunk, either,’ added Meryfeld, making for his pantry and grabbing a selection of bowls and phials. Rougham helped, making seemingly random choices from the compounds on offer. ‘A tad tipsy, perhaps. But a long way from being drunk. Now, where is the oil?’

‘You should do this in the garden,’ said Bartholomew, rescuing the oil when Meryfeld whipped it around vigorously, threatening to slop some in the hearth, where a fire was burning.

‘I will bring a lamp – it is dark outside,’ said Gyseburne, tripping as he took one from a shelf. ‘Lord! You must get your flagstones levelled, Meryfeld. They are a hazard.’

Bartholomew followed them to the garden, stopping to collect two pails of water en route, then selected a spot where they would not be seen by prying eyes from next door. He fetched the wooden table they had used the last time, and his colleagues began to toss their ingredients down on it. He read the labels with growing alarm.

‘This is not sensible,’ he said, when Rougham contributed a large pot of lye, some wool fat and a bottle of distilled rock oil. ‘These are volatile substances, and–’

‘Nonsense,’ declared Meryfeld. ‘We are educated men and know exactly what we are doing.’

‘Actually, I have no idea what we are doing,’ said Rougham with an uncharacteristic giggle. He picked up a pot of saltpetre. ‘But intuition tells me a dose of this might produce some interesting results.’

‘That is far too big a bowl,’ objected Bartholomew, when he saw the size of the receptacle Gyseburne had brought for mixing. It was large enough to accommodate a fully grown sheep. ‘I thought we had decided to experiment with smaller–’

‘Do not be tedious,’ said Meryfeld, elbowing him out of the way and emptying something red into the cauldron. ‘If we use piffling amounts, the reactions will be too minute to assess.’

Bartholomew watched uneasily as the others began to add their own favourites to the concoction. They were all speaking much too loudly, embarking on a lively debate about the efficacy of tying dead pigeons around a patient’s feet to combat fevers.

‘I never use them myself,’ declared Rougham. ‘Pigeons belong in a pie, not wrapped around the soles, in my humble opinion.’ He sounded anything but humble.

‘They may have fleas,’ added Gyseburne with a shudder. ‘And I have enough of my own.’

‘Well, I enjoy great success with pigeons,’ declared Meryfeld. ‘And with surgeons, too. I tie their eyes around a patient’s neck as a remedy against sore throats.’

‘No wonder surgeons are loath to ply their trade in Cambridge,’ mused Gyseburne gravely.

‘He means sturgeons,’ said Bartholomew, heartily wishing he had stayed at Celia’s house. Gyseburne shot him a blank look. ‘Fish.’

‘I dislike eels,’ said Rougham, off on a tangent of his own. ‘My Gonville Hall colleagues assure me they are more akin to worms than fish, but I am not so sure. They are all slippery and vile.’

‘Are they?’ asked Gyseburne. ‘I have always found your Gonville colleagues quite pleasant.’

‘Now there is a question,’ said Meryfeld, ladling pitch into the bowl. He missed, and some oozed down the outside. ‘Are eels fish or worms? We should debate that some time.’

‘We are debating it now,’ Gyseburne pointed out.

‘Stop!’ cried Bartholomew, horrified when he saw the quantity of saltpetre Rougham planned to use. ‘That is far too much, and it will–’

‘Take as much as you want, Rougham,’ countered Meryfeld. ‘We are all rich, and can afford expensive ingredients in the name of science. Well, you are not wealthy, Bartholomew, but you could be, if you were to dispense with your poor patients.’

‘Yes, but then they would come to us,’ Rougham pointed out. ‘And I do not want them. I like things the way they are, with him taking the dross and me compiling horoscopes for the affluent.’

‘Well, that is honest,’ said Bartholomew, taken aback by the baldness of the remark. ‘But the poor often have more interesting ailments. Just last week, one had a sickness that looked like leprosy, but I managed to cure it with a decoction of–’

‘You have a remedy for leprosy?’ asked Meryfeld eagerly. ‘Now we shall be rich.’

‘He said it looked like leprosy,’ corrected Gyseburne. He staggered, and the rock oil in the bottle he was holding glugged into the bowl. ‘That means it was actually something else. Perhaps we should name it after him. It will bring him the fame he will never have from being affluent.’

‘What a dreadful notion,’ said Rougham, shuddering in distaste. ‘Who wants to be remembered for a disease? I would rather have a stained-glass window in my College chapel. Then people will see my handsome face for centuries to come.’

‘Not if it is smashed by rioting students,’ said Gyseburne. ‘The glass, I mean. What is in this jug, Rougham? I cannot read the label. Oh, well. In it goes. Stir it around a bit, Meryfeld.’

‘I would not mind this light being named after me,’ said Meryfeld, giving the concoction a prod.

‘The Meryfeld Lamp,’ mused Rougham. Then he shook his head. ‘No – it sounds like a tavern.’

‘The ingredients are mixed now,’ said Gyseburne, peering into the cauldron. ‘What shall we do next? Shove some in a lantern and see what happens?’

‘Good idea,’ said Meryfeld, making a lunge for the torch.

Bartholomew reached it first. ‘We will take a small amount of your potion, and touch a flame to it. But we are wasting our time, because even if it works, you did not keep a record of the ingredients you used so we will never be able to replicate the result.’

‘You are too cautious,’ said Meryfeld disdainfully. ‘And timidity in science is not a virtue. We shall set the lot alight, and see what happens.’

He snatched the lamp from Bartholomew and tossed it into the bowl.

Bartholomew hurled himself backwards, and managed to pull Gyseburne with him, while Rougham had been bending over to retrieve a bottle he had dropped. There was muffled boom, and for a moment the dusky garden was lit up as bright as a summer day. Meryfeld shrieked as flames shot towards him, so Bartholomew scrambled to his feet and dashed a bucket of water over him before he could ignite, leaving him coughing and spluttering.

‘That was dazzling,’ said Gyseburne, in something of an understatement as he picked himself up. ‘And it was steady, too, but it did not last very long. Perhaps there was too much pitch.’

‘Are you all right?’ asked Bartholomew, peering at Meryfeld in concern. Flames licked across the table, and their light showed Meryfeld’s round face to be bright pink, like a bad case of sunburn.

‘The smell!’ exclaimed Rougham, waving a hand in front of his face. ‘It is awful!’

‘Do not inhale it,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘I imagine it is poisonous.’

‘What in God’s name is going on?’ It was Dick Tulyet, who had scrambled over the wall that divided his home from Meryfeld’s. Dickon was with him, eyes alight at the prospect of mischief. ‘We heard a lot of drunken revelry, followed by a huge bang and screams.’

‘I told you they were doing something bad,’ said Dickon smugly. ‘I saw them leave Celia’s–’

‘What have you done to that table?’ demanded Tulyet, watching Bartholomew struggle to smother the flames that still danced across it. Nothing was working. Water hissed and had no effect, his cloak simply ignited, and the flames even burned through the handfuls of soil he piled over them. ‘What devilry have you invented?’

‘Not devilry,’ said Bartholomew, uncomfortably aware of how it must look. ‘Simple alchemy. I suspect these flames will burn as long as there is air to feed them. So we must deprive them of it.’

‘But you have deprived them of it,’ Tulyet pointed out. ‘You have heaped a great stack of earth on them, and they are still going strong. I can see the smoke.’

‘They must be drawing it through the wood. They will burn out eventually.’

‘You cannot leave them,’ cried Tulyet, appalled. ‘They might grow hungry for more fuel, and incinerate the whole town.’

‘We can bury the tabletop,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘That should make it safe.’

‘I will fetch a spade,’ offered Gyseburne, sheepish in the face of Tulyet’s growing horror. ‘The Sheriff is right: there is something of Satan in these flames.’

While they waited for him to come back, Tulyet poked the bench with a stick. Some of the substance adhered to it, and it burst into flames. He hurled it from him in revulsion.

‘Dig,’ he ordered, when Gyseburne returned. ‘And let us make an end of this mischief.’

Gyseburne made an enthusiastic but ineffectual assault on the ground and, unwilling to be there all night, Bartholomew took the shovel from him. It was hard going, because the soil was clayey.

‘I liked the bit where Doctor Bartholomew threw the pail of water in Meryfeld’s face,’ said Dickon gleefully, watching him work. ‘Can I have a go? He is still pink.’

‘Put that bucket down,’ ordered Tulyet sharply. He turned back to the table. ‘God preserve us! The flames seem to be getting fiercer!’

‘Because the pitch is heating up, I imagine,’ said Bartholomew, stopping his labours to watch. ‘We must have precipitated some sort of chain reaction.’

‘I do not care what it is,’ said Tulyet angrily. ‘Just stop it.’

‘This would make an incredible weapon,’ mused Meryfeld, picking up the stick Tulyet had dropped and inspecting it minutely. ‘Imagine if you were in a castle, being attacked. You could drop this on your enemies, and they would never be able to extinguish it. And, as an added bonus, its fumes are toxic.’

Bartholomew felt sick, appalled that a physician should suggest such a terrible thing.

‘How did you make it again?’ asked Dickon.

‘Actually, I cannot remember,’ said Meryfeld. ‘And that is a pity, because I am sure the King would pay handsomely for such a device. It would be devastating in battle.’

‘Quite,’ said Rougham, suddenly sober. ‘And we are physicians. We do not invent methods to kill people, so I recommend we dispense with the pitch next time.’

‘Pitch?’ asked Dickon keenly.

‘Among other ingredients,’ said Rougham coolly. ‘Many other ingredients. You cannot possibly hope to replicate what we did here this evening.’

Dickon pulled a face at him, then turned to his father. ‘If I make some, I could take it to school. That would teach my classmates for not wanting to sit next to me.’

‘It is not a joke, Dickon,’ said Bartholomew quietly. ‘This compound could subject someone to a very slow and painful death.’

‘Better and better,’ grinned Dickon.

‘I still cannot believe you allowed yourself to be involved in such a wild scheme,’ said Tulyet a short while later. He and Bartholomew were in his house, sitting in the room he used as an office, and he was pouring wine for his guest. ‘I hope to God your cronies will not remember the formula tomorrow, especially Meryfeld. He strikes me as rather unscrupulous.’

‘They were hurling substances into the pot willy-nilly,’ said Bartholomew. He was exhausted, partly from his colleagues’ irresponsible antics, partly from the worry of what might unfold the following day, and partly from too many disturbed nights. ‘Even if one of them does recall what he added himself, he will never know what the others put in.’

‘You probably do, though,’ said Tulyet. ‘And it is a dangerous secret.’

‘It is not a new invention – I have read about “wildfire” in texts from the Ancient Near East. It is said to have brought great armies to their knees.’

Tulyet regarded him balefully. ‘This is deadly knowledge, and you should not share it with anyone else. I find it repulsive, and I am a professional soldier, used to slaughtering my enemies. Let us hope your friends will be less reckless when they are not sodden with wine. Unless…’

‘Unless what?’ asked Bartholomew, suspecting from the tone of Tulyet’s voice that he was about to be told something he would rather not hear.

‘Unless one of them knew exactly what he was doing. I am sorry to malign men you probably like, but Gyseburne bothers me. He claims he studied at Oxford and Paris, but the Chancellor told me there is no record of him at either, and there is something … unsettling about him.’

‘The Chancellor must be mistaken.’

‘I doubt it. And Meryfeld is as bad. I am uncomfortable with the fact that it was he who found Gib’s body, and I am not sure I believe his tale about the pilgrim badge he claims to have lost. Or Gyseburne’s, for that matter. I think one of them may be the killer-thief.’

Bartholomew regarded him coolly. ‘And is Rougham on your list of suspects, too?’

‘He was,’ Tulyet flashed back. ‘But Yolande de Blaston is his alibi for several of these crimes, and I trust her implicitly. I am not confiding my suspicions to annoy you, Matt, but to warn you to be on your guard. One of them may have been trying to kill you tonight, to hinder your investigation.’

‘That is ridiculous!’ All four of us were in danger from the experiment, not just me. And even if one of them is the culprit, why would he harm me? You and Michael are the ones on his trail.’

‘And we have had our close calls, too,’ said Tulyet soberly. ‘Michael when a rock was lobbed during a skirmish he was trying to quell, and me when the castle portcullis fell suddenly yesterday.’

‘That portcullis has been threatening to drop for years. Its chains are rusty.’

‘Perhaps. However, just ask yourself whether it was lucky no one was hurt in Meryfeld’s garden, or whether someone just did not anticipate your speedy reactions when you hurled yourself away from the blast.’

‘You are wrong,’ persisted Bartholomew doggedly. ‘I know you are.’

Tulyet changed the subject. ‘What more have you learned about the case? I hope your antics were a way to gain information, because you should not have been fooling around when we have a moral obligation to use every available moment to stall tomorrow’s trouble.’

‘I “fooled around” because I did not want three of Cambridge’s four physicians to be out of action when we might need their services,’ retorted Bartholomew tartly, thinking it was not the Sheriff’s place to berate him. Then he relented, knowing Tulyet was apprehensive about the next day, too, and it was worry speaking. ‘I have learned something new: Helia claims Neyll murdered Jolye.’

‘Really?’ Tulyet was interested. ‘Then do you think he dispatched Gib, too? They often quarrelled over Helia – my men were called to quell fights between them at least three times.’

‘It is possible. Neyll does seem to be a violent man.’

Tulyet rubbed his chin. ‘Of course, that solution makes no sense. Even Neyll – no great intellect – must know that sticking a yellow wig on a colleague and shoving him off the Great Bridge is not a good idea. It basically says that Chestre Hostel is home to the killer-thief.’

‘Neyll may have acted on Kendale’s orders. I agree with you that Gib’s murder seems to do Chestre no favours, but Kendale is complex and sly, and may well have devised a way to turn such a situation to his advantage. I cannot see how, but that means nothing.’

Tulyet groaned. ‘Damn scholars and their love of intrigue! Has Michael arrested Neyll?’

‘I imagine he will wait until after tomorrow’s game. The tension between the Colleges and hostels is too tight to do it before. Have you learned anything new?’

‘Yes, actually. I have eliminated Celia and Heslarton as suspects for the killer-thief.’

‘Really? How?’

‘I have a trustworthy informant in Emma’s household, and Heslarton was with him when Drax was murdered. And if Heslarton did not kill Drax, then he is innocent of the other crimes, too, given that Michael assures me we are looking for a single culprit.’

‘And Celia?’

‘Reliable witnesses say she was in Emma’s home for the first part of the morning that Drax died, and in mine the second.’ Tulyet grimaced. ‘My wife saw fit to admit to me this morning that Celia came to complain about Dickon. She claims he has been spying on her, but of course it is nonsense.’

Bartholomew wondered why Tulyet should think so, when the Sheriff knew perfectly well that Dickon regularly spied on their other neighbours. Prudently, he kept his thoughts to himself.

‘I hate to admit it, but Chestre has bested me,’ said Tulyet, after a while. ‘My engineers have been unable to manoeuvre that damned trebuchet out of the Guildhall, and your hostels will be laughing at me, knowing their ingenuity is greater than mine.’

Bartholomew stood. ‘Would you like me to try?’

‘What, now?’ asked Tulyet, startled.

‘Why not? It is not so late. Besides, Michael wants Cynric to break into Chestre tonight, to look for evidence that Gib’s cronies are the killer-thief. I will not be able to sleep until he is safely back.’

Tulyet frowned. ‘Is that a good idea? If a College servant is caught burgling a hostel…’

‘That is what I said, but Cynric assures me that capture is not on his agenda.’

Tulyet’s eyes gleamed. ‘In that case, I have an excellent idea for a diversion.’

‘You do?’

‘The trebuchet. If you really can get it back to the castle, we shall make sure the Chestre boys know we have solved the problem they have created. They will come to watch, to see whether it is true. And while they do, Cynric can go about his business.’

Bartholomew and Tulyet met Michael on the High Street. The monk was with his beadles, prowling the town to make sure the hostels did not reply to Welfry’s egg trick with something vengeful. But nothing was happening, and he was almost disappointed to report that the streets were quiet.

‘They will not stay that way for long,’ warned Tulyet. ‘It is the calm before the storm.’

‘I am at my wits’ end, Dick,’ said Michael worriedly. ‘I can feel a catastrophe looming, but I am powerless to avert it.’

‘Then let us hope Cynric finds evidence to prove the killer-thief is Kendale and his louts,’ said Tulyet. ‘Without its sponsor, the game will be cancelled, and it will not matter if half the town marches on Chestre and sets it ablaze, because it would have to be closed down, anyway.’

‘Well, that is one way of solving the problem, I suppose,’ said Michael, round eyed. ‘Although I would prefer a solution that does not involve arson and large numbers of rioters.’

‘It is better than the alternative,’ said Tulyet shortly. ‘Namely that we have battles on and off the playing field, as hostels and Colleges attack each other, and my town joins in. And the Chestre men are certainly my first choice of suspects for the killer-thief, anyway.’

‘They are not mine,’ said Michael. ‘I prefer Fen and his nuns. And I have not forgotten the fact that Yffi is conveniently missing, either. Or that Matt’s medical colleagues are a sinister rabble, who might think a few signacula will make them better healers.’

‘They are not–’ began Bartholomew.

‘Thelnetham has been acting oddly of late, too,’ said Tulyet, overriding him. ‘He is not the outrageously cheerful man he was a month ago, and I have come to distrust him intensely.’

‘Nonsense!’ declared Michael. ‘Our College does not harbour killers.’

Bartholomew said nothing, but his mind ranged back to the past, when he had learned the bitter lesson that not everyone who enrolled at Michaelhouse was a good man.

They walked the rest of the way in silence. When they reached the Guildhall, Bartholomew studied the war machine for a long time, working out angles, distances and measurements in his mind. It did not take him long to understand why Tulyet’s engineers had failed: the device needed to be dismantled in a specific order, or the pieces were never going to fit through the door. Tulyet soon grew impatient with him.

‘How much longer are you going to stare at the damned thing?’ he demanded. ‘We need it disassembled now if we are to help Cynric, not next week.’

‘I think I see how they did it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Do you have six strong soldiers, who can help with the lifting?’

Tulyet nodded, then lowered his voice. ‘But give me a few moments to make a fuss while I assemble them – we must ensure that Chestre hears what we intend to do, or Cynric will find himself invading their domain while they are still in it.’

Bartholomew followed him outside, where a large number of people were walking home after Celia’s celebration. Among them were Rougham, Gyseburne and Meryfeld, evidently having returned to the festivities after the incident in the garden. Meryfeld and Rougham were still reeling from the wine they had imbibed, but Gyseburne appeared to be sober. In fact, he seemed to have recovered so completely that Bartholomew wondered whether he had been drunk in the first place.

‘The trebuchet will be gone tonight,’ Tulyet was announcing in a ringing voice to a group of men from the Guild of Corpus Christi. ‘Do not worry – you shall have your meeting in here tomorrow.’

A number of people stopped to listen, and Bartholomew was pleased when he saw Kendale and Neyll were among them. It would save adopting more creative measures to ensure they had heard.

‘We will not convene before the game, though,’ said one of the Guild. He was Burgess Frevill, a thickset, loutish fellow who was one of the killer-thief’s victims. ‘I am looking forward to that.’

‘Are you?’ asked Tulyet in distaste. ‘Why? There may be violence and bloodshed.’

‘Quite,’ said Frevill gleefully. ‘It will be great sport to see the University tear itself to pieces. And I may join in – I have heard a scholar is responsible for murdering Drax and stealing pilgrim badges – including the one I bought from the time I went to Hereford. I dislike a large number of those snivelling academics, and one might confess if I give him a taste of my fists.’

‘I would not recommend taking matters into your own hands,’ said Tulyet, his voice deceptively mild. ‘I shall not be pleased if you make my task tomorrow any harder than it needs to be.’

Frevill backed away with his hands in the air: only fools crossed the Sheriff. But Bartholomew had a bad feeling that the burgess’s words reflected the views of others, and suspected it would be a miracle if Kendale’s game passed without incident. The Chestre men had heard the exchange, too, and exchanged smug grins at the notion that the Sheriff was anticipating serious trouble. Unable to look at them, Bartholomew went to speak to his medical colleagues.

‘We might be wise to abandon our experiments,’ he said, thinking he could at least put an end to one area of mischief. ‘The Sheriff was unimpressed, and we do not want any more explosions.’

‘As you wish,’ said Meryfeld. He sounded pleased, and Bartholomew found himself wondering whether he planned to continue the tests on his own, so he would not be obliged to share any profits that might accrue from the invention. ‘I have plenty of other business to occupy me.’

‘What other business?’ asked Gyseburne immediately.

‘Nothing to concern you,’ said Meryfeld, rubbing his hands together. ‘And now I must bid you goodnight. Oh, dear! I seem to have walked rather a long way past my front door. You should not have distracted me, Gyseburne.’

‘He is an odd fellow,’ said Gyseburne, watching Meryfeld totter back the way he had come. ‘But it is late and I am tired, so I shall bid you goodnight, too. Take care in your dealings this evening, Bartholomew. Whatever they might be.’

‘That was a peculiar thing to say,’ said Michael, narrowing his eyes as Gyseburne strode away, Rougham at his side. ‘What did he mean by it? It sounded uncannily like a warning.’

Uneasily, Bartholomew was forced to admit that it did

He walked back inside the Guildhall, and went to work with Tulyet’s engineers and a team of burly soldiers. The door was ‘accidentally’ left open, to encourage folk to stay and watch.

‘All the Chestre men are among the crowd outside, and I am ready,’ muttered Cynric in Bartholomew’s ear, making him jump. He had not heard the book-bearer approach.

‘Are you sure?’ he asked. ‘They have not left a guard? I would have done, if I were Kendale. They have attracted a lot of ill feeling.’

‘It is all of their own making,’ replied Cynric. He grinned. ‘I am pleased to be invading them. It will serve them right for stealing our gates. Did I tell you I found them, by the way?’

Bartholomew gaped at him. ‘No! Where were they?’

‘Master Clippesby had a tip from a ferret, so I followed up on it and learned that Neyll and Gib were not as clever as they thought they were, because the riverfolk saw everything.’

‘The riverfolk,’ mused Bartholomew, thinking of the poverty-stricken men and women who inhabited the hovels by the waterside, and who never admitted to seeing or hearing anything; it was safer for them that way. They liked Cynric, though, because his sense of social justice often entailed purloining items from Michaelhouse’s kitchen for distribution among those who were poorer still.

‘Neyll was the ringleader,’ Cynric went on. ‘Kendale was not involved – it was too crude a trick for him. They hid the gates in the Carmelite Priory, under the rubble that Yffi has excavated for the foundations of St Simon Stock’s new shrine.’

‘Why there?’ asked Bartholomew. He had assumed they were at the bottom of the river and would be found in the summer when the water level dropped.

Cynric raised his hands in a shrug. ‘A gate is an enormous thing, when you think about it – there are not many places you can hide them.’

‘Did you tell Langelee?’

‘Yes, as soon as I found them. They are being retrieved as I speak.’

Bartholomew was grateful that Michaelhouse would soon be secure again, but his relief did not last long. Now the time had come, he hated the notion of sending Cynric into the lair of what might be some very ruthless villains, and wished he had not suggested it. Cynric waved away his concerns, then slipped silently through the rear door, clearly relishing the opportunity to practise the kind of skills his master wished he did not have.

‘Do not worry,’ said Michael. ‘He knows what he is doing.’

‘I am sure he does,’ said Bartholomew unhappily. ‘But that is not the point.’

‘But we need answers. Earlier, when you were blowing up Meryfeld’s garden, Batayl Hostel marched on Bene’t College, claiming they were going to avenge Gib. Gonville joined in, and the resulting altercation was the most difficult to quell yet.’

‘What does that have to do with Cynric raiding Chestre?’

‘The hostels cannot promote Gib as a martyr if we prove he and his cronies were involved in something untoward. In other words, without one of its figureheads, the trouble might simmer down into something manageable.’

‘It will not,’ said Bartholomew unhappily. ‘The Colleges will still have Jolye to rally around.’

‘But the hostels are unlikely to react to the challenge if their hero is discredited. Unless you have a better idea – in which case, please share it with me – this is our best chance of averting a crisis.’

It seemed to Bartholomew that Cynric was gone for an age, although they made rapid progress with the trebuchet. Once the throwing arm had been disengaged, the great machine was very quickly disassembled, and the soldiers began the laborious task of ferrying the pieces up Castle Hill. It was not long before the last section was being eased through the door, at which point the onlookers began to disperse. It was now very late, and most of the town had been asleep for hours.

‘Dick! Say something to make Chestre stay,’ hissed Bartholomew in alarm, seeing Kendale move towards home, students at his heels. ‘Cynric is not back – they will catch him!’

‘They will not fall for such a ploy,’ said Michael, equally worried. ‘The Sheriff is not in the habit of encouraging folk to stay out after the curfew, and Kendale will see through any attempt to make him do so. Worse, it may warn them that they should not have left in the first place, and then Cynric really will be in danger.’

‘I am going there,’ determined Bartholomew. Michael seized his arm. Bartholomew tried to disengage it, but the monk was a strong man, for all his lard, and the physician could no more break free from him than he could fly to the moon.

‘You may do more harm than good,’ snapped Michael. ‘Just wait for–’

‘There!’ whispered Tulyet, pointing into the darkness. ‘Here he comes.’

Bartholomew sagged in relief when the book-bearer sidled into the Guildhall, his dark features alight with excitement and satisfaction. He was carrying a small chest, and Bartholomew did not think he had ever seen him look so pleased with himself.

‘I have everything you want and more,’ Cynric declared. ‘It was hidden under Kendale’s bed, which was almost the first place I looked. The man is a fool to store it in so obvious a location.’

Eagerly, Michael seized the box. It was an unattractive piece, carved – rather oddly – with illustrations of girdles, which Bartholomew assumed was a play on the Latin word for Chestre.

‘I had to break the lock,’ said Cynric. ‘But I think you will agree it was worth it. Look inside.’

Michael obliged. It contained several letters, a signaculum and a packet containing powder. He shoved the box at Tulyet to hold, and began to read the letters.

‘They are from Drax,’ he said, scanning them quickly. ‘Threatening legal action unless Chestre agrees to pay more rent. The tone is rude, confrontational and bullying, and I am not surprised Kendale took umbrage. I would have done, too.’

‘This is Gyseburne’s signaculum!’ exclaimed Tulyet, snatching it up. ‘He was proud of it, and once showed me how he had adapted the pin to make it stronger – he was worried about it falling off his cloak. It is his badge without question.’

‘And I may be mistaken,’ said Bartholomew soberly, having taken the packet and sniffed at its contents, ‘but I believe this is wolfsbane.’

‘The substance that dispatched Alice and almost killed Odelina?’ asked Tulyet.

Bartholomew nodded.

Tulyet slapped his hand on the box. ‘I knew it! Here is ample evidence that Chestre is responsible for all the evils that have plagued our town ever since that yellow-headed villain raided Emma’s home a week ago.’

Michael agreed. ‘These letters explain why Chestre dispatched Drax, the wolfsbane tells us they poisoned Alice, and Gyseburne’s signaculum tells us they are badge thieves, too. We have our answers at last. Now all we have to do is arrest them and try to think of a way to cancel the camp-ball without a riot.’

‘Wait,’ said Bartholomew urgently. ‘I do not trust this – it is too neat. We could not have had better evidence had we put it under Kendale’s bed ourselves.’

‘What are you suggesting?’ asked Tulyet, staring at him. ‘That Cynric planted this box?’

‘Now just a moment,’ said Cynric, shocked and angry. ‘I would never–’

‘Of course not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But we should take time to consider–’

‘We do not have time,’ snapped Michael. He brandished the box. ‘This is all the evidence we need, and it is time to act on it. I will assemble my beadles. Are you coming, or will you go to the castle to make sure the trebuchet is not rebuilt back to front?’

‘My engineers can manage now, thank you,’ said Tulyet, a little stiffly. ‘Do you want me to come to Chestre with you?’

Michael shook his head. ‘Not unless we want the University screaming that the town was involved in raiding one of their foundations. That would precipitate trouble for certain.’

‘Then send me word the moment you have a confession,’ said Tulyet. He glanced up at the sky. ‘I have no idea of the time, but I doubt I will be sleeping tonight. Frevill will not be the only townsman itching to bloody a few academic noses, especially once it becomes known that scholars really are behind all this mischief.’

‘I thought catching Chestre would calm troubled waters,’ said Cynric, crestfallen.

‘It will – if we can present them as a rogue foundation acting without the support or blessing of the rest of the University,’ said Michael. ‘But it will take time for the rumours to take hold.’

‘I shall help, by setting my soldiers to spread the tale now,’ said Tulyet. ‘They can pass it to anyone they happen to meet on their patrols.’

‘I doubt they will encounter anyone of significance out and about at this hour,’ said Michael.

‘Then you do not know this town very well,’ said Tulyet tartly. ‘Excitement is running high about tomorrow, and even if folk are asleep now, they will rise early, so as not to miss anything. I anticipate Cambridge will be awake and waiting long before dawn.’

Bartholomew tried again to explain his misgivings to Michael, but the monk was too distracted to listen. He assembled his beadles, and led them and Cynric towards Chestre, issuing instructions, orders and contingency plans as he went. It was clear he expected the hostel to fight, and Bartholomew hoped this little army would be able to subdue Kendale before too much blood was spilled.

He followed them through the dark streets. It was bitterly cold, and a mist had rolled in from the Fens. It reeked of the marshes – of rotting vegetation, stagnant water and wet grass. It was a smell he had known all his life and it was as familiar as sunshine or April rain, but there was nothing comforting in it that night – it felt dangerous and wild, and so did the town. Shadows flitted, and he saw Tulyet was right to say not everyone was sleeping peacefully in their beds.

‘Thank God we have our gates back,’ muttered Michael as they passed their College. Langelee and Ayera were setting them back in their posts. Both looked uneasy as the monk and his pack of beadles trotted past, and Langelee indicated that Ayera was to hurry. Michaelhouse was not the only foundation to be awake: lamps burned in nearby Physwick and Ovyng hostels, while Gonville Hall was positively ablaze with torches.

‘Please, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, trying again to voice his concerns, which mounted with every step he took. ‘Something feels very wrong about Cynric’s find.’

‘What is wrong?’ snapped Michael impatiently. ‘It provides everything we need to arrest these villains.’

‘Exactly,’ pounced Bartholomew. ‘And Kendale is not stupid. I seriously doubt he would keep such a neat collection of “evidence” under his bed. Cynric said it was virtually the first place he looked, and Kendale would have been more wary about where he left it.’

‘This is nonsense,’ said Michael with annoyance. ‘Like me, you have suspected Kendale of killing Drax from the beginning, so do not look a gift horse in the mouth. Besides, I doubt he anticipated that we would burgle him, so he probably saw no reason to find a better hiding place for his box of treasures.’

Chestre loomed through the swirling fog, and Bartholomew saw several beadles cross themselves as they approached. The dampness had darkened its plaster, and the ‘face’ formed by its windows was lit by lanterns within. It seemed to be scowling.

‘You were brave to go in there alone, Cynric,’ said Beadle Meadowman, ‘when everyone knows Kendale has invited a lot of evil spirits to live with him. I am not keen on entering, and I am with you and a dozen stalwart men. And Doctor Bartholomew, of course, who is on good terms with the Devil and will see off any demons who try to harm us.’

‘Yes – we will be safe with him,’ agreed Cynric comfortably, while Bartholomew supposed it was not the time to reiterate that he had no such understanding with Satan. He saw other beadles nod their appreciation of the protection they thought he afforded, and wondered whether he would ever slough off the sinister reputation he had acquired.

Michael hammered on Chestre’s door, and every beadle crossed himself a second time when the sound boomed hollowly and eerily along the hallway within. Bartholomew was tempted to do likewise, because it was certainly unsettling, especially in his unhappy and agitated state. He leapt in alarm when there was a sudden hissing sound and something dark whipped past his face. It looked like a huge bat, all jagged wings and pointed claws, which swooped for a moment, then fluttered into the shadows on the opposite side of the lane.

‘Demons!’ hissed Cynric, and several beadles yelped their fright. ‘Come to inspect us.’

But Bartholomew saw a flash of movement at an upper window, and heard a muted snigger. He walked to where the thing had landed.

‘Parchment,’ he said, picking it up. ‘Cut into a sinister shape, and propelled by some kind of membrane that holds air under pressure.’

‘A trick,’ said Michael in disgust. ‘Something that might impress children, but that has no impact on my bold beadles. It will take more than a hoax to unsettle their brave hearts.’

His words had the desired effect, and his men stood a little taller. He pounded on the door again, and eventually it was opened by Neyll, who did not seem at all surprised that the Senior Proctor and a sizeable retinue should be calling at such an hour. Bartholomew suspected he was one of those who had released the parchment spectre, in the hope that it would send them scurrying for their lives.

‘What do you want?’ Neyll demanded coldly. ‘We are all in bed.’

‘With torches burning?’ asked Michael archly. ‘And within moments of watching the Sheriff manhandle his trebuchet back to the castle? I do not think so!’

‘The Colleges had to help Tulyet in the end,’ sneered Neyll, not bothering to deny the charge. ‘He is stupid! But even then, it took them days to manage what the hostels achieved in hours.’

‘On the contrary,’ said Michael haughtily. ‘Once we had been invited to participate, the problem was solved in moments, not hours. But we are not here to discuss foolery. We have come on a far more serious matter, namely murder. Stand aside and let us enter.’

When Michael, with Bartholomew, Cynric and the beadles at his heels, marched into Chestre’s hall, Kendale was sitting in a comfortable chair by the hearth. All his students were with him, every one of them holding a goblet. The place reeked of wine.

‘We are discussing tomorrow’s camp-ball,’ Kendale said. Then his eyes widened when he saw the number of beadles who were crowding into his lair. ‘What in God’s name–’

‘There will be no game,’ interrupted Michael briskly. ‘Because you will be in my prison. You have committed theft and murder, and I have evidence to prove it.’

‘What are you talking about?’ demanded Kendale, coming quickly to his feet. ‘We have not killed anyone. And we have not stolen anything, either. At least, nothing of significance. My lads have just confessed to me that they were responsible for borrowing your gates, but you have them back now, and it was only a joke. You cannot arrest us for a joke.’

‘We did it without his knowledge,’ added Neyll defiantly. ‘So you cannot detain him, because he had nothing to do with the escapade.’

‘I am furious about it,’ said Kendale. ‘It was a stupid prank, one unworthy of our talents.’

‘Never mind the gates,’ said Michael briskly. ‘I refer to evidence that says you stabbed Drax and left his corpse in Michaelhouse, that you put poison in wine that dispatched Alice Heslarton, and that you have been stealing signacula. You doubtless murdered Gib, too.’

Kendale was suddenly pale. ‘But you cannot have evidence, Brother, because there is none to find! We are innocent of these charges. Why would we kill Gib? He was one of us.’

Michael showed him the box. ‘Here are letters, poison and a stolen signaculum. All were found under your bed earlier tonight, so do not deny that they are yours.’

‘But I do deny it!’ cried Kendale, shocked. ‘I have never seen that chest before! And do you really think I would own something so wretched? Not only is it poorly made, but I do not go in for rudimentary puns on the Latin word for Chestre. I have more taste.’

‘The letters are addressed to you,’ said Michael, waving them at him. ‘They are from Drax, and comprise several demands for more rent.’

‘But Drax never sent letters – he was illiterate. He only ever asked for more rent verbally.’

‘Then what about the poison?’ demanded Michael. ‘There can be no excuse for that being here.’

‘This is outrageous and ridiculous!’ shouted Kendale. ‘We have no reason to harm anyone in the de Colvyll household. And may I remind you, we were not angry about the scholarship Emma declined to fund, because we had already decided not to accept it. We did not want to be in the debt of such a family – we have our principles. Unlike some foundations, it would seem.’

‘And the badge?’ asked Michael, ignoring the dig. ‘How do you explain that?’

‘Clearly, it was left here in a clumsy attempt to implicate us in crimes we did not commit,’ said Neyll hotly, saying much what Bartholomew had already reasoned. ‘Someone wants us hanged.’

‘Moreover, it is only one badge,’ added Kendale, coming to peer at it. ‘One. And do you know why? Because the culprit was reluctant to waste more than that in his effort to frame us. If you do not believe me, then search the place. You will not find any more.’

‘It is a valid point,’ said Bartholomew, when Michael looked set to argue. He lowered his voice, so Kendale would not hear. ‘I tried to tell you – the choice of evidence in that box is so contrived that it screams foul play. You will not find the other badges here. Kendale is telling the truth.’

Michael nodded to his beadles, who began a systematic hunt, both in the hall and in the bedchambers above. The Chestre men gritted their teeth at the indignity of it all, and Bartholomew could tell that Neyll in particular was finding it difficult to restrain himself. Sure enough, it was not long before the beadles returned empty handed.

‘There is a broken window in the scullery,’ said Cynric, the last to finish. ‘The one with the red shutters. When did that happen?’

‘We noticed it when we came back from the Guildhall,’ replied Neyll. Then understanding dawned. ‘Obviously, whoever left this so-called evidence broke in that way!’

‘It was not me,’ muttered Cynric to Michael, speaking too softly for his victims to hear. ‘I gained entry through one of the bedrooms.’

‘What about the cellar?’ asked Meadowman, who had been more assiduous than his colleagues, and had even checked up the chimneys and assessed the floorboards for hidden cavities. He disliked the Chestre men, and hated the notion that they might go free.

‘We use it for storing old crates and wine,’ said Kendale coldly. ‘But please explore it. I do not want you coming back later with more nasty accusations. You will prove us innocent now.’

Meadowman took him at his word, so Bartholomew and Cynric went to help. Neyll and a lean, red-haired student named Ihon followed, to monitor the proceedings.

‘Much as it pains me to admit it, I think you are right,’ Cynric whispered to Bartholomew. ‘I was so pleased when I found that box that I did not stop to consider. But Kendale is devious, and would not have left a chest containing those things for any burglar to find. And that broken window says I was not the only one who slipped in uninvited tonight.’

‘We made a serious mistake in coming here,’ said Bartholomew worriedly. ‘Now Chestre will feel justified in whipping up the antagonism between hostels and Colleges with even more fervour.’

Knowing there was nothing to find did not encourage Bartholomew to poke through the contents of Chestre’s dismal basement. He sat on a barrel and watched Cynric and Meadowman work, feeling weariness wash over him. He had been tired before he had stayed up all night fiddling with trebuchets, and wondered whether he had the energy for yet another day of turmoil. Dawn could not be far off, and he doubted he would manage to snatch even a short nap that night.

Suddenly, Cynric released a yelp of shock, and backed away from the chest he had been exploring.

‘It is Yffi!’ he exclaimed in horror. ‘And he is stone-cold dead!’