‘So,’ said Michael, to distract Bartholomew from looking too obviously for Matilde as they began to walk back to Michaelhouse. ‘We can now be certain that Philius spoke the truth. He claimed to have seen a dead apprentice and here is the body. Philius assumed the lad was Stanmore’s because he had been called to Stanmore’s premises, and thus misled us. And the blisters around this apprentice’s mouth suggest that he met his death in the same way as did Armel.’
‘Oswald does not approve of his apprentices drinking,’ said Bartholomew, ‘although they have developed a number of ingenious plans to deceive him. I suspect that this was one such plan that went terribly wrong.’
‘Let us recap what we know. One of Oswald’s lads – Thorpe, no doubt – bought the wine in the Brazen George, as seen by Gray and his cronies, but it was Will Harper who drank it. When he became ill, they called Philius – not you, because they knew you would have told Stanmore – but when Philius declared him dead, they decided to hide the body and send Deschalers a note purporting to be from Harper saying he was bound for the cloister.’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘The whole plan is the kind of ill-conceived venture frightened teenagers might dream up, not anticipating that the corpse would poison the well or that Father Philius might mention the incident to someone else. Poor Isaac probably felt perfectly justified in confiscating the wine from them when he went with Philius to Oswald’s house that night.’
‘But he died for it,’ said Michael soberly. ‘And so did Philius. Did these apprentices, emboldened by their success in ridding themselves of Will Harper’s corpse, kill Isaac for stealing their wine?’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew, frowning in concentration. ‘The people who killed Isaac also stole the bottles from Michaelhouse and terrified Walter out of his wits. And, anyway, you saw the killers as they knocked you over – you did not mention that they were the size of Oswald’s apprentices.’
‘They were not,’ said Michael as they stepped through the wicket-gate into Michaelhouse. ‘Two at least were bigger than Thorpe. But I cannot think on an empty stomach. I am off to the kitchen to see if Agatha has left anything edible lying around. Are you coming?’
Bartholomew walked with him. ‘It is beginning to make sense. At least we know Philius was telling the truth. And Oswald, too,’ he added.
‘I suppose so,’ said Michael. ‘But things would be much clearer if your sister would allow us to talk to Thorpe. And I would certainly feel easier if I knew what had happened to Sacks’s last bottle of wine.’
‘I would feel easier if Thorpe were under lock and key,’ said Bartholomew vehemently. He paused, his hand on the kitchen door. ‘Do you think Edith and Oswald are safe? What if he tries to give the wine to them?’
‘They are protecting him, Matt,’ said Michael. ‘He is unlikely to harm them as long as they offer sanctuary from the unwanted attentions of the big, bad Senior Proctor and his henchmen.’
He opened the door to the kitchen, and Bartholomew headed gratefully towards the fire that roared in the hearth. The room was cosy and warm, and smelled of baking bread, stale grease and the sharper odour of burning logs. It was familiar, comfortable and went some way to dispelling the memory of being down the narrow stone chimney with the rotting corpse of Deschalers’s apprentice.
Michael was in the act of stretching fat white fingers towards a plate of freshly baked cakes, that Agatha had rashly left unattended, when Cynric burst in.
‘That Rob Thorpe was watching as the body was pulled from the well,’ he said breathlessly. ‘So I followed him after your sister took him and the others home. He was definitely anxious and left Master Stanmore’s house a few moments later.’
‘Oh? And where did he go this time?’ asked Michael, spraying the front of his habit with cake crumbs as he spoke. ‘St Mary’s Church for the mystery plays? To St Botolph’s Church to pray?’
Cynric shot him a mystified look. ‘To the Hall of Valence Marie.’
Rain began to fall again as Michael and Bartholomew walked up the High Street towards Valence Marie. Although it was only early afternoon, the light was poor, and in one or two of the wealthier houses lamps already gleamed behind glazed windows. Tradesmen from the Market Square were already giving up for the day, and carts of all shapes and sizes were trundling towards the Trumpington Gate. There was a multitude of smells, from the warm, damp odour of trampled manure to the acidic stench of urine that trickled down the ditches at the side of the street, widening into little ponds where they were blocked with offal from the butcher’s shop and rotten vegetable parings from the Brazen George.
The rain made the town seem drab and dismal. The thatches of roofs were dull and sodden, dripping brown rivulets of mould down the walls of the few houses the owners of which had bothered to paint. The others, chiefly wattle-anddaub, were scruffy with crumbling plaster, and everywhere was filth-impregnated mud. Bartholomew glanced up at the heavy grey clouds that slouched overhead and felt they matched his mood. The desire to see Thorpe confess to his crime, that he had felt so strongly when he had first recognised him, was tempered by the knowledge that Edith would hate him for it.
As they reached the junction between the High Street and Piron Lane, they met Edith herself, with her husband and one of his smaller apprentices. Bartholomew started backwards guiltily, wondering if she already knew where they were going and why.
‘What are you two up to?’ demanded Edith suspiciously. ‘You look positively furtive.’
Michael gave one of his most winning smiles, which served to make Edith more wary than ever. ‘University business, madam,’ he said suavely.
‘I suppose this University business involves Rob Thorpe?’ asked Stanmore bluntly. Bartholomew could not meet his eyes, and even Michael was hard pressed to lie so blatantly.
‘If the lad has done nothing wrong, he has nothing to fear,’ said the monk eventually. ‘What harm is there in our speaking with him? You can be present to ensure we treat him fairly.’
Edith was reluctant. ‘But he has had nightmares!’ she protested. ‘He would be angry if he thought I had told you, but he wakes in the night and cries.’
Perhaps there was hope for him after all, thought Bartholomew, if he felt a degree of remorse for what he had done.
‘We will handle him with care,’ said Michael. ‘We want only to ask him a few questions.’
Edith sighed and exchanged a glance with her husband and then gestured to the apprentice who stood between them. He was holding Edith’s hand, and the dark green tunic that reached the knees of most of Stanmore’s boys was almost at his ankles. He had a head of coarse ginger hair, and a smattering of orange freckles on both cheeks and across his nose. His eyes were swollen, as though he had been crying, and he clutched at Edith’s fingers harder than ever when Bartholomew and Michael looked at him.
‘We were actually coming to see you anyway,’ said Edith miserably. ‘Francis has something he would like to say.’
Francis looked as if he would like to say nothing at all, and stared uncomfortably at his feet.
‘Come on,’ said Stanmore, patting Francis’s tousled hair encouragingly. ‘They will not eat you.’
Francis glanced up at Brother Michael, uncertainly. ‘Rob Thorpe has gone,’ he said unhappily. ‘He made us promise not to tell Master Stanmore until tomorrow.’
‘Made you?’ asked Michael gently.
He hooked a finger under the boy’s chin, so that he looked up. Francis began to cry, and Michael drew the apprentice towards him, placing two large hands on his shoulders. Bartholomew was surprised to see the fat monk patient and gentle, but remembered Michael was popular with the youngsters in his choir, and possessed a talent for dealing with children that few who knew him would suspect he had.