‘That will not be a problem, I assure you,’ said Michael, looking around with a fastidious shudder. ‘My hands will remain firmly tucked inside my sleeves.’
While Bartholomew palpated the vintner’s abdomen and asked the questions that might help him determine the cause of Hakeney’s discomfort, Michael made a nuisance of himself by interrupting with queries about Frenge.
‘Poor Frenge,’ the vintner said sadly. ‘He lost his wife to a physician’s incompetence during the Great Pestilence, too, which is what drew us together as friends. He liked to drown his sorrows in ale, after which he often became boisterous.’
‘So he was drunk the night he invaded King’s Hall?’ probed Michael.
Hakeney shot him a sour look. ‘He would hardly have done such a thing if he had been sober. He was not a complete fool, and breaking in there was dangerous.’
‘So why did he do it?’
‘Because false friends put the idea into his head, knowing he was too tipsy to see that it was a stupid thing to do. He told me afterwards that he wished he had not listened to them.’
‘Then why did he refuse to apologise to King’s Hall? A little contrition would have gone a long way to soothing troubled waters.’
‘Because Wayt annoyed him by blowing the matter out of all proportion. And besides, the town thought him a hero, and would have reviled him if he had recanted.’
‘He frightened Cew badly,’ said Bartholomew, looking up from his examination. ‘That is hardly the act of a hero. Neither is terrorising pigs and geese.’
Hakeney shrugged. ‘Well, it is done now, and King’s Hall has made him pay dearly for it.’
‘There is no evidence that they are responsible for his death,’ cautioned Michael.
‘Then perhaps you should look at the matter a bit harder,’ Hakeney flashed back.
‘Do you know anything about the ale that Frenge was going to take there yesterday?’ asked Michael, manfully keeping his temper. ‘Peyn told us that he went to deliver a barrel.’
‘If he had, it would have resulted in a sore stomach or two,’ smirked Hakeney. ‘However, he would not have wasted his time: he knew they would have tipped it straight down the drain.’
‘Is there anyone else who might have meant him harm? Shirwynk, perhaps? Or Peyn?’
‘Of course not. They were not friends, but they had worked well together for a decade.’
‘Did Frenge own a boat?’ asked Bartholomew, writing instructions to the apothecary for a syrup that should ease Hakeney’s problem. Unfortunately, he was not sure what had caused the attack – it might have been the dyeworks, but it might equally well have been too much wine, a poor diet, a lazy lifestyle or a host of other factors.
Hakeney blinked his surprise at the question. ‘No, why?’
‘How well did he know the Austins?’ Michael turned to another subject without giving Bartholomew the chance to explain.
‘He did not know them at all – at least, not the ones in the convent. He was good friends with your colleague Wauter, though – Wauter’s old hostel is not far from the brewery, you see.’
‘You say he was drunk when he launched his foolish assault on King’s Hall,’ said Michael. ‘But what about when he went to the Austin Priory?’
Hakeney raised his hands in a shrug. ‘There was a lot of ale on his cart, and he was a scrupulous man – he would not have wanted to sell his customers sour wares, so of course he would have sampled them first.’
Michael regarded him thoughtfully. ‘There is something you are not telling us – I can read it in your face. It is almost as if you do not want Frenge’s death investigated.’
Hakeney regarded him with dislike. ‘Of course I do. But if you must know, I fear that Frenge might have gone to the friary because of me. My wife had a cross, you see. She inherited it from her father, who brought it back from a pilgrimage. But Almoner Robert stole it.’
‘I sincerely doubt he did any such thing!’ declared Michael, startled. ‘The Austins are good men. They are generous with alms, and even starved last winter, so that beggars could eat.’
‘I know,’ said Hakeney. ‘But that does not alter the fact that Robert is wearing my wife’s crucifix. It may not look like much – a simple thing of plain black wood – but it was something she cherished, and I want it back.’
‘His cross is crafted from black wood,’ said Bartholomew, recalling it hanging around the almoner’s neck. ‘But there is nothing remarkable about it, so how can you be sure it is hers?’
‘That is what he said, but he started flaunting it not long after I lost mine, which is too great a coincidence for me. It looks smaller than I remember, and the colour is slightly different, but I am sure it is the same piece.’
‘Speak to Prior Joliet about it,’ suggested Bartholomew, looking around the seedy chaos that was Hakeney’s home and suspecting that the original was still there somewhere; it would be found if the vintner ever bothered to tidy up.
Hakeney scowled. ‘I did, but Robert produced a bill of sale, so Prior Joliet told me I was mistaken. I often talked about the injustice of the matter to Frenge.’
Michael narrowed his eyes. ‘So you think Frenge might have gone to steal it back for you?’
‘He might,’ said Hakeney, although he spoke slyly, and Bartholomew wondered if he just aimed to exacerbate the trouble between town and University. ‘But he was drunk and they caught him, so they decided to kill him – to stop him from trespassing on their property again.’
Michael eyed him balefully. ‘I have never heard such arrant nonsense in all my life. The Austins are the last men to take umbrage at someone straying into their grounds. They are decent souls, Hakeney – not violent or vengeful.’
‘If that were true,’ said Hakeney sullenly, ‘then Robert would give me back my cross.’
Bartholomew felt like wiping his feet when he emerged from Hakeney’s lair, and he certainly wanted to wash his hands. He did so in a horse trough, then went with Michael to search Frenge’s house, a pleasant cottage near St Botolph’s Church. Apart from a dress with a low-cut front that clearly belonged to Anne, they discovered nothing of interest, and there was certainly nothing to suggest that he had poisoned himself, either by accident or design.
When they emerged, it was nearing noon, the time when they had been invited to visit the Austin Priory and examine in daylight the place where Frenge had died.
‘We cannot stay there long,’ warned Michael as he and Bartholomew hurried up the High Street. ‘No matter how fine a repast they provide. Impressing patrons at the disceptatio tomorrow is Michaelhouse’s only hope for the future, so we must be back to help with the preparations.’
Wryly, Bartholomew thought it would not be he who would linger to gorge at the Austins’ table.
They arrived to find Robert waiting for them at the gate. As the almoner waved them inside, Michael pointed to his pectoral cross.
‘Hakeney says you stole that from him.’
Robert winced. ‘I know, but I bought this in London years ago, and I have the bill of sale to prove it. Moreover, the priest who sold it to me wrote a letter confirming my claim.’
Bartholomew reached out to take the crucifix in his hand. ‘Is it valuable?’
‘It is to me. It is crafted from Holy Land cedar and was blessed by the Pope himself.’
‘But it is just plain wood,’ said Michael, squinting at it. ‘No jewels. It would fetch little at the market, and I do not understand why Hakeney is making such a fuss.’
‘Grief,’ sighed Robert. ‘He feels guilty for mislaying his wife’s most prized possession in that pit of disorder he calls home, and thinks that acquiring my cross will make him feel better.’
‘Did Frenge ever raise the subject with you?’ asked Michael.
Robert looked startled. ‘Frenge? Why would he … Oh, I see. He and Hakeney were friends, and they probably discussed it. But no, I never spoke to Frenge about the cross – or anything else, for that matter. Would you like to see my documents? I do not want you thinking that I am a thief.’