‘You do Harling an injustice,’ remonstrated Michael. ‘Any other man who lost the post that should have been his would have been bitter. Harling accepted his defeat with a graciousness I find honourable, and he has continued to serve the University with the utmost integrity. Anyway, he clearly thinks highly of you, because he said your duties in treating the poor are more important than helping me solve the affair of the poisoned wine.’
‘Really?’ asked Bartholomew, startled into speaking loudly. Several heads turned towards him, and Michael pretended to be absorbed in eating his eggs.
Master Kenyngham looked at them with raised eyebrows. ‘Since you two clearly have something to discuss, perhaps I should allow conversation at meals today,’ he said wryly. ‘Then you will not set a poor example to the students.’
‘That would be a mistake, Master,’ said the dour Father William promptly. ‘It is only a small step from ill-discipline to heresy.’
‘I hardly think erudite disputation at breakfast will lead to heresy, William,’ said gentle Father Paul with a smile. ‘And the students are restless because the rain is keeping them in. I think the time has come to make concessions before we really do have a discipline problem.’
‘Nonsense!’ said William. ‘You are far too soft with them. If anything, they need a reduction of concessions, not an easier life. If I were appointed Junior Proctor, I would show the University how to keep order among the students.’
He shot Michael a baleful look that Michael pretended not to notice. Father William had put himself forward for the post of Junior Proctor when the previous incumbent had left to serve the King. Not surprisingly, given the Franciscan friar’s uncompromising and inflexible views of the world and everyone in it, his application had not been successful. Bartholomew did not know whether Michael had played a role in William’s rejection or whether the friar’s reputation had spoken for itself, but Michael was, nevertheless, invariably uncomfortable when the issue was raised.
‘Have some eggs,’ said Bartholomew, before William could begin a tirade on how he would personally reform the University by burning half its scholars in the Market Square for heresy.
‘Eggs!’ said William in disgust, gesturing at the bowl Bartholomew held out to him. ‘I was never so coddled when I was an undergraduate!’
‘But you have eaten them, nevertheless,’ Alcote observed, eyeing William’s empty trencher. ‘Anyway,’ he continued hastily when he saw William preparing himself for a row, ‘I see no harm in conversation, so long as it is kept to religious matters and is in Latin.’
While Father William shook his head in fervent disapproval, Kenyngham announced that conversation would be permitted during meals that day, provided the topic were theological and the language Latin. There was an immediate buzz of chatter from the students, although the little core of Franciscans followed William’s example and maintained their silence.
‘Good,’ said Michael. ‘Now we can discuss last night’s events before I meet Harling.’
‘Hardly a religious matter, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, turning his attention back to his breakfast.
‘But we are speaking Latin,’ said Michael comfortably, ‘so we are half-way there.’
‘I do not want to become involved in this,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I am sick of murder.’
‘So are we all, Matt,’ replied Michael. ‘I told Harling as much this morning, and that was when he said you need not assist me in this if you feel you do not want to, and that your work among the people with winter fever was more valuable to the University than assisting me.’
‘Harling said that?’
Michael nodded, genuinely puzzled. ‘I admit I was surprised. I thought he would have commandeered anyone’s assistance in order to solve this as quickly as possible. He said you should not be forced to do anything that would interfere with your other duties.’
Bartholomew’s opinion of Harling rose several degrees. It was certainly unexpected – the University’s officials seldom considered people’s preferences when their beloved institution was at risk – and Harling’s sympathetic response came as a pleasant change from orders and demands.
‘There is a curious thing about Tynkell’s election as Chancellor,’ mused Bartholomew, his mind wandering back to the ballot that Harling lost. ‘I have never met anyone who voted for him. Everyone I know says they voted for Harling, but Harling still did not win.’
Michael shrugged. ‘That is because Tynkell is an unknown quantity. No one would be foolish enough to admit voting for him when he might prove … inappropriate.’
‘Not everyone I know is so dishonest,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘I voted for Harling myself.’
‘So did I,’ said Michael fervently. ‘Although you know that – you took my voting slip to St Mary’s Church because I was ill.’
‘You had indigestion because you ate three apple pies one after the other and shared them with no one,’ corrected Bartholomew.
‘So?’ asked Michael. ‘Indigestion is being ill. I was confined to my bed, was I not? Anyway, by eating those pies myself, I saved you from a similar fate.’
‘Most thoughtful of you, Brother.’
‘But let us go back to Harling. He has his faults, but better the Devil you know. He works well with the Proctors, has the respect of the beadles and is a cunning negotiator.’
‘I had never heard William Tynkell’s name before the election,’ reflected Bartholomew. ‘Yet everyone knew Harling, and he is not unpopular. I do not understand why so many masters voted for such a nonentity as Tynkell.’
Michael stared at him. ‘Are you suggesting the election was falsified?’
Bartholomew shrugged. ‘I confess the notion has crossed my mind. Who counted the votes?’
Michael grabbed the egg bowl and began to dig out the bits left at the bottom with his knife. ‘Each master signs his own name and that of his favoured candidate on a slip of parchment, and hands it to the Senior Proctor. The Senior Proctor and the Vice-Chancellor then count the votes.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Bartholomew impatiently. ‘I know what is supposed to happen. But when Tynkell was elected that procedure was not followed: Harling, as Vice-Chancellor, could not count the votes of an election in which he was a candidate; and you did not count them, as Senior Proctor, because you were brought low by three apple pies.’
Michael crammed a loaded knife of egg scraps into his mouth. ‘In our absence, two men were selected whose integrity was beyond question.’ He ignored Bartholomew’s snort of derision and continued. ‘Namely Father Eligius from Valence Marie and our own Master Kenyngham.’
Bartholomew reconsidered. He did not know Eligius particularly well, but Kenyngham’s honesty was beyond question. He watched Michael’s face grow sweaty with the exertion of reclaiming the last of the egg from the bowl and tried to put the matter from his mind. Michael was doubtless right, and most scholars would be waiting to see what kind of chancellor Tynkell made before admitting that they had helped him into power.
‘We digress,’ said Michael, pushing the empty bowl away from him and leaning back in his seat. ‘I know you do not want to become involved – and that you have Harling’s sanction to let me struggle against evil killers alone – but you will not refuse me a discussion of the facts, will you?’
Bartholomew shook his head, although his instinct was to decline. Michael steepled his fingers and rested his elbows on the table.
‘Then let us review the events leading to these deaths. Yesterday morning, a man in the Brazen George sells three bottles of poisoned wine to a group of students, one of whom later dies. At some point, a similar bottle of wine found its way to James Grene, who perished horribly, but highly conveniently, before a goodly part of the town. Valence Marie’s most eminent scholar, Father Eligius, believes Grene’s rival, the newly installed Master Bingham, murdered him.’