Inside, the Austins’ domain was much like any other Cambridge convent. Its chapel formed the heart of the community, and huddled around it were dormitory, refectory, kitchen, stable, storehouses and sheds. Most were timber-built with thatched roofs, although the chapel was of stone, an intimate, pretty place pierced by lancet windows and famed for its fabulous murals. The sound of chanting emanated from within.
Hamo led the way inside, and the clanking of the door made two of the kneeling brethren break off their prayers to greet the visitors. One was Prior Joliet, and the other was his almoner Robert, a tall, rangy man with a shock of long white hair and the eccentric bearing of the dedicated academic. Robert was the other friar Joliet took to Michaelhouse, although to teach rather than paint. He was responsible for distributing alms, which he did with a quiet, kindly compassion that did much to make the Austins the most popular Order in the town.
‘We were praying for Frenge’s soul,’ Joliet explained. His round face was pale, and his hands shook as he plucked agitatedly at a loose thread on his sleeve. ‘It seemed the right thing to do, although we have no experience of violence committed on holy ground.’
‘The Dominicans, Franciscans and Carmelites are used to it,’ elaborated Robert. ‘But we have always managed to remain aloof from the spats between University and town.’
‘“Aloof” is the wrong word,’ said Joliet unhappily. ‘Apart might be better.’
‘What happened?’ asked Michael, unwilling to waste time on semantics.
Joliet rubbed his eyes with unsteady fingers. ‘The town feels oddly dangerous today, so just before sext, Hamo went to check that our back gate was shut and found …’ He trailed off.
‘Frenge,’ finished Hamo helpfully.
Robert hastened to supply a bit more detail. ‘The gate was open and Frenge was lying there, dead. The town is saying that he was murdered by King’s Hall, because of his vow that he would never pay for the damage he did there.’
Joliet looked as though he might be sick. ‘When we heard Hamo shout, we raced to see what was the matter. We did our best to revive Frenge, but he was well past any help we could give.’
‘When terrible things like this happen, it makes me wonder whether our predecessors might have been wiser to found our University out in the Fens,’ said Robert. He fingered the cross he wore around his neck; it had been carved of wood so dark that it appeared black.
‘It would certainly have made for a more peaceful life,’ agreed Michael.
Joliet led the way out of the chapel to the greasy grey snake of the King’s Ditch, an ancient waterway that had been built to defend the town from attacks from the east. It was as wide as the river but its flow was sluggish, which meant that anything tossed in it tended to stay. As a result, it comprised a reeking, sulphurous sludge of sewage, entrails from the slaughterhouses and miscellaneous rubbish.
As they approached, they saw they were not the first to arrive. Sheriff Tulyet was already there. Tulyet was slightly built with a boyish face, and more than one criminal had lived to regret making the assumption that youthful looks equalled weakness. He and Michael had worked hard to develop an efficient working relationship, one unblighted by the usual jurisdictional spats.
Puzzled, Bartholomew wondered why Joliet had not stayed with him – it was rude to leave a high-ranking official on his own – but the answer soon became clear: Tulyet had brought his son. Dickon was only ten years old, but was already taller than his father, and was a mean-spirited bully. Because he bore no resemblance to either of his parents, in looks or temperament, there was a rumour that he had been sired by the Devil. By rights, he should have been sent to another wealthy household to begin knightly training, but his reputation had gone before him and Tulyet had been unable to find one that would take him.
‘This is bad news,’ said Tulyet without preamble. ‘Even if Frenge’s death is natural, the town will assume the worst. Dickon! Do not prod the body with your sword. It is disrespectful.’
‘I hope people do not think that we had anything to do with the poor man’s demise,’ said Joliet unhappily, as Bartholomew, one wary eye on Dickon’s blade, knelt next to Frenge and began his examination.
‘They will certainly suspect a scholar,’ replied Tulyet. ‘If not an Austin, then someone from King’s Hall.’
‘They will deny it,’ said Michael.
‘They will,’ agreed Robert. ‘I have already heard several holler that Frenge broke in to make good on his threat to damage more University property, and was struck down for his temerity.’
‘The town will not appreciate that being said about one of its favourite brewers,’ said Tulyet. He scowled when Bartholomew jerked backwards suddenly. ‘Dickon! Step away from the corpse and let Matt work in peace. And sheathe your sword this instant!’
Bartholomew waited until Dickon had complied before resuming his inspection, much happier once there was no longer a sharp weapon waving about so close to his head.
‘So why was Frenge here?’ asked Michael of the Austins. ‘Was he visiting or was he intent on mischief?’
‘Mischief,’ replied Hamo tersely.
‘Hamo is right,’ said Robert. ‘As you know, there are only two ways into our grounds: the main gate and this one. Frenge did not come to the front, which means he must have crossed the ditch in a boat – slyly and secretly.’
‘I cannot imagine why,’ said Joliet tearfully. ‘We brew our own ale, so we are not among his customers. None of us know him other than by sight – and only then because his spat with King’s Hall earned him a certain notoriety.’
‘What about your servants?’ asked Tulyet.
‘We do not have any,’ replied Robert, slightly smug. ‘We prefer to channel our resources into alms, rather than catering to our own comforts.’
‘Well, Matt?’ asked Michael, as Bartholomew stood. ‘What can you tell us?’
‘Frenge has not been dead long,’ replied the physician. ‘The damp mud on his boots indicates that he was walking around in them not long since, and there is a residual warmth in his body, despite the coolness of the day.’
‘More importantly, how did he die?’ asked Tulyet.
‘Poison,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘There are burns on his mouth and hands, and considerable damage to his throat. I have never seen a clearer case of murder.’
‘Damn it, Matt!’ muttered Michael. ‘I thought I told you to declare it accident or suicide.’
The reeking King’s Ditch was no place for a serious discussion, so once Frenge had been loaded on to a stretcher and taken to the nearest town church, Joliet invited everyone to his house, which transpired to be a modest cottage with spartan furnishings. It was spotlessly clean, though, and the only extravagance was a small collection of theological tomes.
‘I agree with Michael,’ said Tulyet, once they were settled with cups of watery ale. The convent did not run to cakes, so pieces of bread dusted with herbs were provided instead. Dickon took one bite, pulled a face and lobbed the rest out of the window, much to his father’s chagrin. ‘We cannot let this be murder: Frenge must have taken this toxin by mistake.’
‘I do not think so,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Finger-shaped bruises on his jaws suggest that he was forced to drink it. And even if I am wrong, and he did swallow it willingly, why would he kill himself here? It is not on the beaten track, so I sincerely doubt he just happened to be passing when he was overwhelmed by a sudden desire to commit suicide.’
‘He would not have killed himself here,’ stated Joliet firmly. ‘We have done nothing to earn his ire. If he had wanted to make that sort of point, he would have gone to King’s Hall.’
‘But security has been increased at King’s Hall,’ countered Michael. ‘He may have tried to break in, but failed, so came here instead.’