Michael laughed. ‘The University has never made a rapid decision in its life, and if you aim to indulge in that sort of madness, you should withdraw before you do us any harm.’
‘Besides, you underestimate me,’ said Suttone, hurt. ‘I can run the University alone.’
‘Of course you can,’ sneered Thelnetham, with such sarcastic contempt that everyone was reminded of why he had been so difficult to like. Then he turned his back on Suttone and addressed Michael again. ‘Have you caught the killer yet?’
‘No,’ replied Michael coolly. ‘But I have a number of leads.’
‘Good,’ said Thelnetham, although Bartholomew suspected the monk was lying, purely because he could not bring himself to admit that he was stumped. ‘It is not comfortable knowing that there is someone walking around who likes to shove knives into people.’
‘Not knives – a burin,’ said Michael.
‘You mean one of those pointed things used for engraving?’ asked Thelnetham. ‘Then surely the case should be easy to solve? There cannot be many people who own such items.’
‘You would be surprised,’ sighed Michael. ‘They feature in the toolboxes of most craftsmen, and even Deynman the librarian has one – he uses it to clean the locks on his books.’
Thelnetham was thoughtful. ‘Then I imagine horsemen have them, too, for prising stones from hoofs, which is what I saw Godrich doing yesterday. He was using a long metal spike.’
‘Really?’ asked Michael keenly. ‘Now that is most interesting.’
A short while later, the gate was flung open and Godrich strode in. He had not knocked, and he did not wait for Walter to conduct him across the yard, which precipitated a murmur of resentment from his hosts. He had brought Whittlesey with him, who shrugged apologetically behind his back – he appreciated College etiquette, even if his kinsman did not.
‘Dallingridge,’ said Michael, irked by the impertinence and so launching an attack. ‘Tell me about your association with him.’
‘What association?’ asked Godrich contemptuously. ‘There was none.’
‘Oh, yes, there was,’ countered Michael. ‘He wrote you letters and you drafted out his will.’ He assumed a haughty expression when he received a sharp glance of suspicion. ‘I have spies in many places, so please do not lie to me. I will always know.’
Godrich sighed angrily. ‘I had forgotten about the will – it was an insignificant incident that took place months ago. And perhaps he did write me a note burbling about poison and suspects for his murder. However, I did not take it seriously, as he was clearly out of his wits. Why do you–’
‘Were you in Nottingham on Lammas Day?’ demanded Michael, including Whittlesey in the question.
‘No,’ replied Godrich shortly. ‘I was in Derby, running an errand for King’s Hall.’
‘And I was on diocesan business in Leicester,’ said Whittlesey mildly. ‘As I have told you before. I am sure our Benedictine brethren will confirm it, should you wish to offend your new envoy by declining to believe him.’
‘Of course I believe him,’ said Michael flatly, and renewed his assault on Godrich before Whittlesey could remark that it did not sound as if he did. He changed the subject abruptly in an effort to disconcert. ‘Show me the tool you use for tending your horse’s hoofs.’
Godrich blinked his bemusement. ‘What tool? And why should I–’
‘I am conducting a murder investigation here,’ interrupted Michael sharply. ‘I shall arrest you if you refuse to cooperate.’
‘No one is refusing,’ said Whittlesey quickly. ‘Let him see it, Godrich. Clearly, he aims to eliminate you as a suspect, and this will help.’
Godrich scowled, but he opened the pouch at his side and pulled out a short nail.
‘You had a different one yesterday,’ said Thelnetham. ‘It was longer and thinner.’
The look Godrich gave him would have intimidated the boldest of souls, although Thelnetham held it without flinching. With ill grace, Godrich produced a spike that was as long as his hand, topped off with a wooden handle. Bartholomew inspected it carefully, ignoring the impatient sighs of those waiting for his verdict.
‘It might be the murder weapon,’ he said eventually. ‘It is the right size and shape. But I cannot be certain. However, there is dried blood here–’
‘Horse blood,’ said Godrich, snatching it back. ‘And you cannot prove otherwise.’
‘You might want to be careful, Michael,’ advised Whittlesey softly, as Godrich stalked away. ‘It is unwise to accuse powerful scholars of murder.’
‘I accused him of nothing,’ countered Michael. ‘I merely asked to inspect his burin.’
‘It is not a burin – it is a hoof-pick.’ Whittlesey lowered his voice even further. ‘I mean what I say, Brother. I should hate to see you fall before you are consecrated, simply for the want of a little discretion. I speak as a friend – which I hope we are, despite the reservations you evidently still hold about my whereabouts on Lammas Day.’
‘Dallingridge’s reservations,’ said Michael. ‘Expressed in a letter to Godrich.’
Whittlesey raised his hands in a shrug. ‘From what I hear, the poor man was raving in his final days. You would be wise to ignore anything he might have written.’
Michael inclined his head, then glared at Bartholomew once his fellow monk had hurried across the yard to prevent Godrich from entering the hall without the Master’s invitation.
‘It was our chance to arrest the killer, and you let it slip away,’ he hissed accusingly. ‘You know that was the burin that killed Tynkell, but you refused to say so.’
‘I know nothing of the kind,’ countered Bartholomew crossly. ‘And you would not thank me if I gave a verdict to please you, and it later transpired that Godrich was innocent.’
‘He tried to conceal the weapon,’ said Michael between gritted teeth. ‘That was suspicious. And there was blood on it. That should have been enough.’
‘I agree with Matthew, Brother,’ said Thelnetham with quiet reason. ‘It is better to wait for something less ambiguous.’
He might have added more, but the gate opened a third time, and Hopeman stepped through. His deacons were behind him, and there was an unseemly scuffle when Walter refused to let them pass.
‘Hey, you!’ bellowed Hopeman, stabbing a furious forefinger at Langelee. ‘Either allow my disciples to accompany me, or I am leaving.’
‘Leave,’ shrugged Langelee. ‘It makes no difference to me. Come, Suttone. Let us go and show everyone who is the superior candidate.’
Suttone looked anything but superior as he trailed after his Master, leaving Bartholomew to wonder if Thelnetham was right to question the Carmelite’s ability to rule. Anger suffused Hopeman’s face at the dismissive treatment, and he surged forward to grab Langelee’s arm.
‘I am God’s agent on Earth,’ he boomed. ‘You will afford me the respect I deserve.’
‘I did afford you the respect you deserve,’ retorted Langelee, freeing his arm firmly. ‘What I did not afford you was the respect you think you deserve.’
The students were expecting entertainment to rival the fun they had enjoyed the previous week, so their faces fell when Suttone, Thelnetham, Godrich and Hopeman – the latter sans disciples – strode towards the dais. It would be a good test of the candidates’ strength of character, thought Bartholomew, if they could keep his lively lads in order – he could already see them exchanging the kind of glances that suggested mischief was in the offing. But he had reckoned without Aungel.