‘I have been practising my trade since I was ten years old,’ said Cook, eyeing Bartholomew with open hatred, ‘while you wasted years by reading books. I am far more experienced than you, and you have no right to gainsay me.’
Bartholomew ignored him and moved on, gratified when this annoyed Cook far more than any retort. But the barber would not leave him alone, and was a constant presence at his side, braying that anyone who put his faith in physicians was courting Death.
‘For God’s sake, Cook!’ snapped Tulyet eventually. ‘I cannot hear myself think with all your carping. If you cannot hold your tongue, go home.’
Cook opened his mouth to object, but had second thoughts when he recalled the Sheriff’s earlier threat. Wordlessly, he collected his implements and stalked out. It was easier for Bartholomew to work once he had gone, and he soon finished what needed to be done. He packed up his equipment and was about to leave when Cynric approached.
‘Isnard needs you outside,’ he whispered. ‘But he is hiding from Helbye, so he wants you to come discreetly. He is waiting in the stable.’
Bartholomew arrived in the outbuilding to find Gundrede with Isnard, both showing signs of being in the thick of the trouble. The bargeman had cuts on his face, while Gundrede’s nose was askew.
‘Why could you not just answer the soldiers’ questions?’ Bartholomew asked them reproachfully. ‘A spat was unwarranted, and you are lucky no one was killed.’
‘It was the principle of the thing,’ explained Isnard earnestly. ‘They know the King’s Head is a sanctuary for … hard-working folk, but they came storming in like Pontius Pilate after vestal virgins. It was an outrage that had to be challenged.’
‘We would have gone outside, if they had asked nicely,’ added Gundrede, while Bartholomew was still pondering the bargeman’s curious analogy. ‘There was no need for them to race in and start making accusations.’
‘Besides, we never stole anything last night,’ said Isnard. ‘We were not even here.’
‘Then where were you?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Away,’ replied Isnard airily. Then he regarded the physician with eyes that were full of hurt. ‘They accused me of taking Master Wilson’s lid, but he was once a member of Michaelhouse – the College I love with all my heart. I would never steal anything from you.’
‘Of course not,’ said Bartholomew, aware that Gundrede was studiously looking in the opposite direction.
‘Michaelhouse is dearer to me than my own home,’ Isnard went on tearfully. ‘Indeed, I plan to live there when I take over the choir.’
‘Oh,’ said Bartholomew, startled. ‘Do you?’
‘Unless you can persuade Brother Michael that his future lies here,’ said Isnard pleadingly. ‘Remind him of all the good things he has – not just the biggest and best choir in the country, but friends who are devoted to him.’
‘And who wants to be a bishop, anyway?’ asked Gundrede. ‘All they do is eat, drink and ponder about how to get one over on their colleagues.’
If that were true, then Michael would be in his element, thought Bartholomew. He worked in silence for a while, listening to Tulyet rounding up his soldiers in the street outside. Helbye was repeating the orders in a ringing voice, and Bartholomew supposed the sergeant was trying to claw back some of the authority he had lost with the ill-advised raid.
‘Incidentally, we have been looking for the woman in the fancy cloak,’ said Gundrede, breaking into his thoughts. ‘Lots of people saw her run off after Moleyns was killed – including you – so she probably knows the killer. Unfortunately, the wretched lass has disappeared.’
‘We want to take her to the Sheriff, see, so she can tell him that the Devil did it,’ elaborated Isnard. ‘And not us. We will keep searching. I am sure she will surface eventually.’
‘Unless Satan has silenced her with a claw to the heart, of course,’ said Gundrede darkly.
Bartholomew finished tending their injuries, and left them moaning about Michael’s disloyalty to the choir. He collected Cynric and started to walk home.
‘Blaston claims that fight was audible in Milne Street,’ said the book-bearer. ‘Helbye was a fool to march in and start throwing his weight around. It was deliberately provocative.’
‘So it would seem,’ sighed Bartholomew.
‘He probably wanted to prove that he is not too old for a skirmish,’ Cynric went on. ‘But it did the opposite – it showed everyone that it is time he retired.’
‘He should not bear all the blame for the brawl. It would not have happened if the patrons of the King’s Head had shown some restraint.’
Cynric shot him a sour glance to show he disagreed. ‘Speaking of restraint, Master Langelee should impose some on Kolvyle. That boy is a horror. In fact, it was probably him who killed Tynkell and the others.’
‘Was it?’ asked Bartholomew mildly. He was used to Cynric making outrageously unfounded remarks, and had learned to take them with a pinch of salt.
‘He murdered Tynkell because he wanted to be Chancellor, and then he stabbed Lyng for being popular. He was jealous, see.’
‘And why did Moleyns have to die?’
‘Oh, that is simple. You remember Dallingridge, the man who was poisoned in Nottingham? Well, Moleyns killed him for Kolvyle’s benefit. Dallingridge was a brilliant scholar, and Kolvyle was afraid that he would be seen as second-best.’
‘Right,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And what did Moleyns gain from this arrangement?’
‘Nothing,’ replied Cynric promptly. ‘Because the moment he asked for a favour, Kolvyle stabbed him. Now Kolvyle supports Godrich, who is the candidate least likely to do a good job, at which point he will demand another election and stand himself. There, I have solved the case. Now all you have to do is arrest the brat.’
At that moment, a familiar figure emerged from St Michael’s Lane with a train of beadles at his heels.
‘I am summoned to King’s Hall,’ said Michael worriedly. ‘Godrich is missing, and they fear the killer has struck again.’
Chapter 12
‘Has the killer struck again, Brother?’ asked Langelee a little later that morning.
It was still early, but he and his Fellows had already attended their devotions, broken their fast, and repaired to the conclave, where they were busily preparing for the day ahead. Michael was fluttering around Suttone with a brush and scissors, struggling to render him a little more Chancellor-like; Langelee, William, Clippesby and Kolvyle were assembling their notes for the morning’s lessons; Bartholomew was making a list of the texts he wanted his students to read; and Langelee himself was honing his letter-opener, originally an innocuous little implement but now a very deadly weapon. Clearly, he was of the opinion that only a fool would not take precautions to protect himself if Michael’s answer was yes.
Michael stopped primping Suttone, his expression bleak. ‘Well, Lyng went missing, and look what happened to him. However, I can tell you that Godrich is not on the banks of the King’s Ditch, because we searched them very thoroughly – by torchlight.’
‘Personally, I thought Godrich was the murderer,’ said William. ‘So perhaps he sensed the net closing in around him, and fled before he was arrested.’
‘Nonsense,’ declared Kolvyle. ‘He would never–’
‘He was my main suspect, too,’ interrupted Michael, ignoring Kolvyle and addressing William. ‘He is a despicable rogue. First, he was on the jury that acquitted Moleyns of poisoning Peter Poges. Second, Dallingridge was poisoned in Nottingham, and Godrich was there at the time, although he insists on denying it–’