‘Barges, probably,’ shrugged Bartholomew. ‘Just like any other contraband. I am told that sucura comes from Tyre, so it must be shipped across the Mediterranean Sea around Spain and France–’
‘Impossible! I search every boat that docks here, and I know none has slipped past me.’
‘Then concentrate on who is selling it,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘You can start with your wife: where did she buy hers?’
‘From a friend,’ said Tulyet sourly. ‘Who had it from a cousin, who got it from a man in a tavern. And there the trail ended. Have you attempted to investigate, Brother?’
‘I do not have the time – and it is not my business anyway. It is yours.’
Tulyet shot him an unpleasant look. ‘I suppose you – like most of Cambridge – think that smuggling serves the King right for imposing such high taxes. But we will all suffer if he finds out what is going on, so if you know anything, I strongly urge you to tell me.’
‘I have nothing to tell,’ shrugged Michael, although Bartholomew suspected Tulyet was right to imply that the monk was not being entirely honest with him. Perhaps Michael did look the other way because he disapproved of a levy that put sucura out of the reach of all but the very wealthy.
‘Then come to me when you do,’ advised Tulyet shortly. ‘Because I know for a fact that scholars like sucura just as much as townsfolk.’
‘Not my College,’ declared Michael. ‘We prefer honey.’
‘Good luck for tomorrow,’ said Tulyet. His sardonic expression suggested that he did not believe Michael, but was not about to call him a liar. ‘I shall attend the debate with the town’s burgesses, who tell me I can expect to be impressed.’
‘You will be impressed,’ promised Michael. ‘We are the University’s best and most stable foundation, and I would appreciate you saying so to your wealthy friends.’
‘So they will give you donations?’ asked Tulyet, amused by the bald instruction.
‘So we can say prayers for their immortal souls,’ said Michael grandly.
Bartholomew and Michael arrived home to find Michaelhouse in the grip of frenzied activity, and the hall was in such disarray that they regarded it in horror, sure it would not be ready in time. The Austins were at their mural, while all around them was a frantic hubbub of scrubbing, dusting, buffing and brushing. Agatha the laundress was standing on a table in the middle of the room, screeching orders at Fellows, students and servants alike.
Women were not generally permitted in University foundations, but exception could be made if they were old and ugly, and thus unlikely to inflame carnal desires among the residents. Agatha was not particularly old or notably ugly, but it would be a very reckless scholar who would foist himself on her. She had been part of the College for so long that no one recalled how she had come to be there, and she was comfortable in the knowledge that she was a permanent fixture.
‘Polish the benches, Doctor,’ she instructed, shoving rags and a jar of beeswax into Bartholomew’s hand. ‘And do not stop until you can see your face in them. Brother? I need you to taste the marchpanes in the kitchen, because I think I used too much sucura.’
‘Sucura?’ echoed Michael in alarm. ‘But the Sheriff is coming, and I have just told him that we do not have any.’
‘He dislikes sweet food,’ said Wauter, who was folding tablecloths. ‘So I doubt he will find out. However, sucura is a sign of wealth, and if we fail to flaunt it, people will think we are poor – which defeats the whole exercise.’
‘Then make sure no one offers Dick a marchpane or he may think we are so rich that we can afford to pay a fine for defrauding the King of his taxes,’ said Michael, not much comforted.
‘Who bought the stuff?’ asked Bartholomew keenly.
‘I am not at liberty to say,’ replied Agatha haughtily, although the physician was sure Michael had made some sly signal to her behind his back. ‘Lest someone decides to tattle and we are made an example of – which would be unfair, as we only have a few grains, while places like King’s Hall buy it by the bucket-load.’
‘Hakeney the vintner,’ said Michael to Wauter, bringing an abrupt end to the discussion. ‘He told us today that you knew Frenge.’
‘Did he?’ asked Wauter, startled. ‘Then he is mistaken. I might have exchanged nods with Frenge on occasion – as I do with many people – but I did not know him.’
‘So Hakeney was lying?’
Wauter smiled. ‘I imagine we Austins all look alike in our habits, so perhaps he thought I was someone else.’
‘He identified you as an ex-member of Zachary Hostel,’ Michael persisted, ‘which suggests he can tell you apart from the others.’
Wauter raised his hands in a shrug. ‘It still does not alter the fact that I did not know Frenge. Of course, Hakeney likes a drink, and his wits are somewhat pickled.’
‘True,’ conceded Michael. ‘Which is a pity, as we have no idea why Frenge should have died in the Austin Friary, and information from you would have been most welcome.’
‘I wish I could help, Brother, but I know nothing about it. Yet the whole business concerns me greatly, and makes me feel that the University should leave the town and resettle in the Fens. I have heard that you and the Chancellor are considering such a move, which is excellent news.’
‘It is untrue,’ said Michael. ‘A tale started by misinformed gossips. Pay it no heed.’
‘Really?’ asked Wauter, disappointed. ‘That is a pity. I dislike the ill-feeling we engender among townsmen, and I have no wish to antagonise anyone unnecessarily – if they want us gone, we should accede to their wishes and leave them in peace. How is Cew, by the way? Any better? It is a terrible thing when a gifted man loses his mind.’
‘It is,’ agreed Michael soberly. ‘Do you know him well?’
‘Not very well, but I spent many an evening with him, debating points of logic.’
‘You did not enjoy the intellects of your Zachary comrades? Kellawe, Irby, Nigellus, Morys and Segeforde. All charming men, I am sure.’ Michael’s dour expression made it clear he was not.
‘Irby is a fine man,’ replied Wauter. ‘But Kellawe is quarrelsome, Morys an ass, and Segeforde dull company. And as for Nigellus, I moved here before he was officially installed at Zachary, so he was never a colleague.’
‘Wauter!’ called Langelee, hurrying up with bustling urgency. ‘Deynman tells me that you have not put your Martilogium in the library, and it is a work that must be displayed to our visitors tomorrow. Fetch it at once!’
‘I cannot, Master,’ said Wauter, a little testily. ‘It is not finished.’
‘No one will know.’ Langelee turned to Bartholomew. ‘And you must exhibit that treatise on fevers you have been writing for the past five years. Its size alone will impress, although we must make sure no one opens it – Deynman tells me it contains some very nasty illustrations.’
‘He is right, Matt,’ said Michael, as the Master dashed away hauling Wauter with him. ‘We must present ourselves as active scholars, and Deynman has all my academic scribblings. Yet I shall be glad when tomorrow is over. We have made scant progress with Frenge, and the disceptatio is a distraction we could do without.’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘Although at least we have some suspects: Shirwynk, Peyn, Rumburgh and the three men from King’s Hall.’
‘And Wauter. I did not believe him when he denied knowing Frenge.’
‘You would take Hakeney’s word over his?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised. ‘A drunk, who dislikes all scholars – and Austins in particular, because he thinks one stole his cross?’
Michael was thoughtful. ‘Then perhaps Hakeney is our culprit. He and Frenge were friends, but they would not be the first to fall out after copious quantities of ale, and Hakeney would certainly like the University blamed for the murder. And there is Nigellus, of course. Frenge was his patient, as were Lenne, Letia, Arnold and six dead people from Barnwell.’