Bartholomew was sure it was nothing of the kind. ‘The decision has been made,’ he said coolly. ‘So that is that.’
‘Well, she is not getting her deposit back,’ flashed Petit.
‘Wilson’s ledger slab,’ said Bartholomew, watching the masons intently as he embarked on what he suspected would be a futile set of questions. ‘It has been stolen, but it can never be resold, because every church in the country knows that particular piece of stone. It is unique.’
It was a lie, but two of the apprentices exchanged an uneasy glance, while he thought there was a flicker of alarm in Petit’s eyes. Of course, furtive reactions were not evidence of guilt, and more than that was needed to see them charged with its theft. With a final glower, Petit led his lads away, but they had barely left the chancel before Lakenham and Cristine came to stand at Bartholomew’s side.
‘Did they accuse us of stealing your stone?’ demanded Cristine angrily. ‘Because we never did. We have been nowhere near St Michael’s. However, we lost two big boxes of brass nails, three hammers and a bucket of pitch last night. We are sure they took them.’
‘It is easy to target us now that Reames is dead, you see,’ explained Lakenham. ‘He used to sleep in our supplies shed – which is why they killed him, of course.’
Bartholomew was inclined to believe them over the belligerent Petit. Or was he wrong to base his suspicions on the fact that he liked the latteners more than the masons? He asked more questions but learned nothing of relevance, and turned to leave. Then he jumped in shock when he saw Edith’s steward standing in the shadows, so still and silent that he might have been an effigy himself. The man abandoned his hiding place when he saw he had been spotted.
‘Edith sent me over when she saw Petit corner you,’ he explained. ‘But the hero of Poitiers needed no help from me.’
‘Look after her,’ said Bartholomew softly. ‘I do not trust Petit.’
‘He will come nowhere near her, never fear.’ A determined gleam lit the steward’s eyes. ‘We will get her deposit back and all.’
When Bartholomew left the church, he walked to the river for no reason other than a desire to stand quietly and think for a while. The lane he chose happened to be the one that led to Michaelhouse’s pier, which had been a busy dock just a few weeks earlier. Now all that remained was a mess of charred timbers. He was surprised to see a boat moored to one of its scorched bollards – a boat containing Isnard and Gundrede.
‘What are you doing?’ he called. ‘You know you should not be there.’
The structure had been deemed unsafe by the town’s worthies, and river traffic was forbidden to use it. However, it was by far the best place to unload goods bound for the Market Square, so some bargemen surreptitiously flouted the ban. Bartholomew supposed he should have guessed that Isnard, with his cavalier disregard both for authority and his own safety, would be one of them.
‘Just looking, Doctor,’ the bargeman replied airily, beginning to cast off. ‘That blaze made quite a mess of this poor quay. When will you be getting it mended?’
Never, thought Bartholomew glumly, unless a wealthy benefactor could be persuaded to pay for it. However, Michaelhouse’s Fellows were not in the habit of making their financial difficulties public, so he asked a question instead.
‘Have you heard that part of Wilson’s tomb was stolen from our church?’
‘A vile act of desecration,’ declared Isnard, while Gundrede busied himself with the ropes and refused to look at the physician. ‘I hope the Sheriff catches the rogue responsible.’
With a cheerful wave, he poled the boat away, meaning that Bartholomew either had to drop the matter or bawl his next question at the top of his voice. He watched the little craft skim away, wondering what the pair had been doing at the wharf in the first place.
Michael’s illicit visit to Godrich’s quarters had yielded two discoveries of interest. First, a scroll itemising all the bribes that had been promised in exchange for votes – so many he was sure that Godrich could not possibly make good on them all. Unfortunately, the disappointed parties would already have voted him into power by the time they realised that he had no intention of honouring the pledges he had made.
The second was a letter from Dallingridge, written shortly before his death. It stated unequivocally that he had been fed a toxin, and a list of suspects was appended. It comprised many people Michael did not know, but a number he did, including Kolvyle, Egidia, Inge, the tomb-makers and Barber Cook. Whittlesey’s name was also there, and Godrich was instructed to ignore any claim the envoy might make about being nowhere near Nottingham on Lammas Day. Dallingridge was sure Whittlesey was lying, and Godrich should ask himself why the envoy should feel the need for such brazen untruths.
Michael was not sure why Dallingridge should have chosen to confide in Godrich, of all people, but the answer came at the very end of the missive: Dallingridge had asked Godrich to draft out his will, on the grounds that he was neither kin nor a close friend, and therefore could not expect a legacy. However, judging by the way the letter had been screwed up into a tight ball – the monk had found it under the bed, where it had evidently rolled after being tossed away in a rage – Michael suspected that Godrich had entertained hopes of a reward, and had been vexed when he had learned that he was not going to get one.
Godrich therefore could not be eliminated from Michael’s list of suspects for the murders in Cambridge. Or for Dallingridge’s death in Nottingham, for that matter.
The monk was back in Michaelhouse by noon, ready to ask Godrich about the letter when he arrived to address the students. The other Fellows joined him in the yard, although Kolvyle lingered in his room, primping. Suttone came from the kitchens. He had been at the wine, perhaps for courage, so his cheeks were flushed, while his best habit had suffered a mishap in the laundry and was too tight around his middle. His boots were muddy, and the book he held in an attempt to appear erudite was one on arithmetic, which everyone knew he would not have read. Bartholomew itched to take him aside and brush him down, disliking the slovenly spectacle he presented.
Thelnetham was the first to arrive, smart, clean and businesslike in a pristine robe. He was ushered in with genuine pleasure by Walter – the Gilbertine had been quietly generous to the College staff, and had often slipped them gifts of money and food. He looked around fondly.
‘You have repaired the conclave roof, I see,’ he said amiably. ‘It must be nice to sit there of an evening, and not feel the patter of rain on your heads.’
‘It is,’ agreed William stiffly. He loathed Thelnetham, and hated seeing him in the College again. ‘And Stanmore bequeathed a sum of money for fuel, so we have fires most nights.’
‘It sounds positively luxurious,’ drawled Thelnetham. ‘What about the food? Has that improved, or is Agatha still in charge?’
‘Lower your voice, man,’ hissed Langelee. ‘She might hear, and then you will never be Chancellor, because you will be dismembered.’
Thelnetham shuddered. ‘True, and living in terror of her is one thing about Michaelhouse that I have definitely not missed.’
‘She will be vexed if you defeat me in this election,’ warned Suttone, a sly move that had Langelee and William nodding their approval. ‘She likes the idea of a Michaelhouse man in charge.’
‘I shall bear it in mind,’ replied Thelnetham. He turned to Michael. ‘I know you think you will continue to rule the University through Suttone when you are in Rochester, but such an arrangement will be a disaster. We need a Chancellor who can make pronouncements instantly, not one who needs to wait for an exchange of letters.’