‘Thank you,’ said Michael, and began to walk there, although Bartholomew knew it was more for the opportunity to quiz Hamo about the anonymous letter than to pray.
Night was approaching fast, and the precinct was full of shadows. All the brothers were uneasy, and each time there was a yell or a clatter from outside, they jumped in alarm. Several stopped in the little cemetery that held Arnold, though, declining to let their nervousness interfere with their obligations to a colleague’s soul.
‘Do you really think Nigellus killed him?’ asked Joliet softly. ‘He was old and in poor health, and I cannot imagine why anyone would want to dispatch a man with so little time left.’
‘The ways of felonious minds are not for us to fathom,’ replied Michael, as a roundabout way of saying that he had no answer.
They entered the chapel, the Austins carefully stacking their ‘weapons’ in the porch first. It was very dark inside, the only light coming from a candle burning on the altar. Suddenly, a huge shadow loomed, causing Robert to squawk in shock and the others to scatter in alarm.
‘Hamo!’ exclaimed Joliet, hand to his chest. ‘You frightened the life out of us! Why have you not set the altar? What have you been doing all this time?’
Hamo made no reply, and simply stood with his huge hands dangling at his sides.
‘Hamo,’ said Robert sharply. ‘The Prior asked you a question.’
‘There is something wrong!’ Bartholomew darted forward, and just managed to catch the hulking friar before he fell. He staggered under the weight. ‘Bring a lamp, quickly!’
The feeble glow from the lantern that was produced showed Hamo’s face to be unnaturally pale. It also revealed a spreading stain on the floor. Hamo had been stabbed.
‘Save him!’ cried Joliet, while the other Austins clamoured their horror and disbelief. ‘You must save him!’
But the wound, although small, had sliced deeply into Hamo’s lung, and Bartholomew could hear that it had already filled with blood. There was nothing he or anyone else could do, and he read in Hamo’s eyes that he knew it.
‘He needs last rites,’ he said to Joliet, hating to see the Austins’ instant dismay.
Hamo took a handful of Bartholomew’s tunic and tugged, indicating that he wanted to speak. Bartholomew put his ear close to the dying man’s mouth, but what emerged was so low as to be virtually inaudible. When he sat back, the others clamoured to know what had been said.
‘I am not sure,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘It sounded like “all”.’
‘All what?’ demanded Michael.
‘Perhaps he was beginning a prayer,’ suggested Robert, white-faced with shock. ‘Almighty God, have mercy upon me …’
‘Or he wanted to say aliteum,’ added Overe. ‘Meaning a crime – because one has certainly been committed here.’
‘Fetch some water,’ ordered Joliet urgently. ‘It may unlock his throat. Hurry!’
‘Who did this to you, Hamo?’ asked Michael, ignoring the panicky confusion that ensued as the friars blundered around in a frantic attempt to locate a cup. ‘Did you see?’
He crouched next to Bartholomew, but this time the whispered word was even softer.
‘Where is the water?’ cried Joliet, his voice cracking with desperation. ‘Overe!’
Hamo fixed Bartholomew with a bright-eyed stare, and the physician was sure he was trying to convey a message. The dying man held his gaze a moment longer, before giving a brief, conspiratorial nod. Then he closed his eyes and breathed his last.
Joliet began to intone a final absolution in a voice that was unsteady with shock, and one by one, his priests joined in. Some looked around fearfully as they did so, afraid the killer might still lurk, ready to claim another victim.
‘There is no one else here,’ said Michael, the only one who had thought to check. ‘The culprit must have committed his vile deed and fled.’
Resolve filled Joliet’s round face. ‘Our prayers for Hamo’s soul can wait – God will understand. Search the grounds. We cannot let this villain escape. He may kill again!’
Bartholomew went to help, leaving Michael to question those friars who were too old or infirm to join in the hunt. The obvious place to start as far as the physician was concerned was the back gate – Overe assured him that the front one had been locked and guarded all day – so he grabbed a pitch torch and hurried there at once, Robert at his heels. It was ajar when they arrived. Robert tugged it open and pointed at the priory’s boat.
‘We got a better mooring rope after Frenge died,’ he said, and Bartholomew noted that the little craft was now secured to the pier with a serious tangle of knots. ‘The killer cannot have used our boat to cross the ditch this time, so he must have swum across.’
‘Not unless he is a lunatic,’ said Bartholomew eyeing the still, black, stinking waters in revulsion. ‘However, I noticed that the gate was open – I thought you were going to keep it locked after what happened to Frenge.’
‘We meant to mend it,’ said Robert sheepishly, ‘but then other concerns assailed us, and I am afraid and we made the foolish assumption that lightning would not strike twice …’
‘So this is definitely how the culprit came in, then,’ said Bartholomew, sure such an unforgiveable oversight would not have happened at Michaelhouse. ‘He must have taken a boat from somewhere else. It would not be difficult – there are dozens of them further downstream.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Robert miserably. ‘Poor Hamo. How could such a terrible thing happen?’
Easily, thought Bartholomew, when his brethren were so cavalier about security.
News of Hamo’s stabbing spread like wildfire, and the town was soon abuzz with rumours. Bartholomew volunteered to help keep the peace, but first a gaggle of lawyers from Gonville Hall howled insults at him for being kin to the woman who hired whores, then a band of townsmen accused him of encouraging Edith to poison people in order to drum up trade for himself.
‘You are more liability than help, Matt,’ said Michael. ‘But your offer is appreciated, as are the ones from Michaelhouse and the Austins. No one else has bothered, presumably because they would rather be fighting.’
‘Or because they are too frightened to venture out,’ suggested Bartholomew.
Michael snorted his disbelief at that notion. ‘But I am worried about Wauter. Has he gone to find a nice spot for the University in the Fens? Or is there another, darker reason for his absence?’
Bartholomew stared at him. ‘You think that he might have killed Hamo?’
‘Well, he is an Austin, who knows his way around their priory.’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew, shaking his head. ‘I cannot believe that of him. The killer is more likely to be Hakeney, who has a grudge against the Order.’
‘Against Robert,’ corrected Michael.
‘He is a drunk and the chapel is poorly lit. Perhaps it is a case of mistaken identity.’
‘I doubt that even the most pickled of minds could confuse Hamo with Robert, even in the dark.’ Michael turned when his favourite beadle approached. ‘Well, Meadowman? Will there be a battle between us and the townsfolk tonight?’
‘No, thank God,’ replied the beadle tiredly. ‘But there may be one tomorrow, when the troublemakers use Hamo’s murder to whip up more bad feeling. We are going to be busy if we want to avert a crisis, Brother.’
Bartholomew walked back to College, grateful when Meadowman offered to escort him. The beadle’s burly presence saved him both from a spat with Zachary and from trouble with Shirwynk’s apprentices. It was the role Cynric usually fulfilled, but Bartholomew was glad he had detailed the book-bearer to stand guard over Edith instead.
As it was late, his students were already in bed, but Bartholomew was too unsettled to sleep. He sat in the hall, reading works by Aretaeus of Cappadocia, aiming to learn whether Nigellus had misquoted him. A little after midnight, Michael came to report that the town was quiet – partly because it had started to rain, but mostly because Tulyet had given Dickon charge of a patrol.