‘Yes, please,’ said Michael, ignoring the flash of hurt in the almoner’s eyes.
While they waited for Robert to return, Bartholomew looked around, thinking the Austins’ domain was by far the prettiest of Cambridge’s convents with its grassy yard and attractive chapel. The almoner soon came back, and thrust two pieces of parchment into Michael’s hand. The monk scanned them quickly, then passed them back, nodding to say they were in order.
‘Poor Hakeney,’ said Robert, placing them carefully in his scrip. ‘Prior Joliet thinks I should just give him the cross, given that he is so desperate to have it, but I feel such an act of sacrifice will not help. His obsession with it is a symptom of his unhappiness, not the cause.’
‘Is our food ready?’ asked Michael, cutting to the chase. ‘Or shall we inspect the scene of the crime first?’
‘It is ready, but you must wait a moment, because we are burying Father Arnold. We should have finished by now, but the ceremony had to be delayed – on account of Prior Joliet being called to sit with Will Lenne while he died.’
He led the way to the back of the church, where there was a little cemetery. All the friars had gathered there, and Joliet was intoning the final words of the burial service.
‘What was wrong with Arnold?’ whispered Bartholomew.
‘Insomnia,’ replied Robert. ‘Nigellus told us he would recover if he avoided foods that had fruited when Venus was in the ascendency, but Arnold must have laid hold of some without our knowledge, because he suddenly grew feverish and was dead within hours.’
Michael waited until Robert had gone to help shovel earth into the grave before murmuring, ‘That makes three of Nigellus’s patients to die recently: Arnold, Letia and Lenne. And there were six deaths at Barnwell …’
The same thought had occurred to Bartholomew. ‘Yet it might just be a run of unrelated misfortunes. Last winter, I lost four patients in one day …’
‘Yes, but from causes that were patently obvious even to laymen – there was none of this “dizziness” or “insomnia” nonsense. So we had better make a few discreet enquiries, if for no other reason than Nigellus is a member of the University, and we should be ready with answers if a townsman raises eyebrows at his somewhat alarming mortality rate.’
When the friars had finished burying their colleague, three hurried to the chapel to recite more prayers, while the rest trooped to the modest building that served as their refectory. Then four disappeared to the kitchen to finish cooking and three served the others, so fewer than ten sat down to eat. The meal was frugal, with watery soup, a few prunes and some grated onion. Moreover, the presence of guests meant there was not really enough to go around. Michael regarded it in dismay, feeling he had been misled when told the fare would be ‘wholesome and plentiful’.
‘We are sorry about Arnold,’ he said, refusing a sliver of onion with ill grace. ‘Robert said he suffered from insomnia.’
Prior Joliet nodded. ‘For about a month, along with pains in the innards. He would have been ninety next year, and he had planned to celebrate in style – well, what passes for style with us. It is not what you would consider extravagant, I am sure. I heard last night’s feast was very impressive, and the reception after tomorrow’s disceptatio is predicted to be equally magnificent.’
‘We intend it to be an occasion our founder would have appreciated,’ said Michael, ‘as it is the anniversary of his death. Your mural is certain to draw much admiration.’
Joliet flushed with pleasure. ‘Perhaps it will encourage others to hire our services, and we shall earn enough money to mend the roof in our dormitory. Another prune, Brother?’
When the meal was over, Joliet led the way to the back gate, where Bartholomew and Michael scoured the area for clues. Robert and the burly Hamo helped, but there was nothing to find. Moreover, the spot was shielded by overhanging trees, and so was invisible from the road – appealing for witnesses would be pointless.
‘Is that yours?’ asked Bartholomew, pointing to a boat that was tied to the pier with a scrap of ancient rope.
Robert nodded. ‘We use it when one of our older residents fancies an outing. It is easier to transport them by boat than in a cart – less jostling for ancient bones.’
Bartholomew bent to examine it, noting a fresh scratch near the back, and then stared at the opposite bank. It comprised a strip of land that was too boggy for building, so was used for grazing sheep. He stepped into the boat and paddled across. There were footprints in the silt at the water’s edge, and although some were smudged, he was fairly sure they came from one person. And Frenge’s boots had been muddy. When a brief search of the reeds revealed a grapnel, he thought he knew what had happened. He rowed back again.
‘Frenge stood over there,’ he said, pointing to where he had just been. ‘He tossed this hook across the water, snagged your boat and drew it towards him. That gouge on the stern is where it bit. The mooring rope is rotten with age, so it would have been easy to snap.’
‘But why?’ asked Joliet, his round face perturbed. ‘To despoil our priory, as he did King’s Hall? I know he hated the University – especially after Wayt decided to sue him.’
‘I think he came for something else, said Michael, staring pointedly at Robert’s cross.
Robert blinked his astonishment, but then shook his head. ‘That cannot be true, Brother. Frenge came in the daytime, when I was wearing it. If his intention was to steal, he would have invaded at night, when it hangs by my bed.’
‘He was probably drunk,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Such men are not noted for their logic.’
‘But the cross does not belong to Hakeney,’ objected Joliet, distressed. ‘Do you think I would let one of my friars keep stolen property? Hakeney is mistaken.’
‘Poison,’ grunted Hamo, speaking for the first time. ‘Madness.’
‘That is a good point,’ said Joliet, although Bartholomew and Michael had exchanged a glance of mutual incomprehension. ‘Perhaps it was the toxin that encouraged Frenge to retrieve what he thought was his friend’s property – it addled his wits.’
‘Impossible,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The poison was caustic, and Frenge would have felt its effects immediately. He could not have rowed across the King’s Ditch once it was inside him.’
Robert gazed at him, blood draining from his face. ‘But that means he swallowed it here – after he had snagged the boat and crossed the ditch.’
‘It means he was made to swallow it here,’ corrected Michael. ‘Do not forget the bruises on his jaw. He did not drink it willingly.’
‘But who would have done such a dreadful thing?’ cried Joliet. ‘Not only to kill, but to do it on hallowed ground?’
‘Who indeed?’ murmured Michael.
A soldier was waiting outside the Austin Priory when Bartholomew and Michael emerged, to say that the physician was needed at the castle. He would not explain why, but the amused gleam in his eye suggested it was probably something to do with Dickon.
‘I shall come with you,’ said Michael. He raised a plump hand when Bartholomew started to smile startled thanks. ‘Not to protect you from that little hellion – no friendship extends that far – but to brief Dick on our investigation. Then we must return to Michaelhouse and help our colleagues with the preparations for tomorrow.’
The castle lay to the north of the town. It was a grand affair, its curtain walls studded with towers and gatehouses, and it boasted a sizeable bailey. Its function was now more administrative than military, and the Sheriff preferred to spend his budget on clerks and tax assessors than repairs, so parts of it were rather shabby. That day, however, it teemed with soldiers, some preparing to go out on patrol and others returning. All were armed to the teeth.