He brought his gaze back to the physician, who slid his hand inside his medical bag and let his fingers close around his childbirth forceps. They were reassuringly heavy. The implement had been a gift from Matilde, and he wondered what she would say if she knew he used it more often as a weapon than he did to assist pregnant women. He was sure she would not approve, and rightly so.
‘But we shall give him another chance,’ Gosse was saying softly. ‘Because we are generous.’
Idoma scowled, and Bartholomew was under the impression that she had hoped for a more violent end to the encounter. He recalled the rumour that she was insane, and thought the tale might well have some basis in fact; that day, everything about her bespoke barely suppressed aggression, from the odd twitching of her ham-sized hands to her peculiar eyes.
‘Give it back,’ she snarled. ‘Just tell them that.’
‘Give what back?’ asked Bartholomew, tightening his grip on the forceps.
‘Someone will know,’ replied Gosse enigmatically. ‘And you can tell that monk something else, too. He will make no more disparaging remarks about us. If he does, he can expect to hear from our lawyer.’
‘He is not the only one to associate you with certain…’ Bartholomew decided at the last moment that ‘crimes’ would not be a wise choice of words ‘… certain incidents, and–’
‘Then you can pass them the same message,’ declared Gosse. ‘To keep their slanderous opinions to themselves. But we have wasted enough time here, Idoma. Come.’
He spun on his heel and stalked away. Idoma watched him go, and when she turned back to the physician, there was a curious and far from pleasant expression on her face. Bartholomew forced himself to meet her eyes, fighting a deeply rooted instinct that clamoured at him to take to his heels. It was Idoma who looked away first. Unhurriedly, she turned and began to follow her brother. For someone so bulky, she had an uncannily light tread, like a large predator. Bartholomew leaned against the wall the moment she had passed out of sight, aware that his heart was racing furiously.
He asked himself what it was about the pair that had inspired such a reaction – he was not a timid man, and they had not said or done anything overtly frightening. Had he been wrong to dismiss the notion that Idoma dabbled in witchcraft? Or were they just two powerful bullies who knew how to use the force of their personalities to good effect? Regardless, he was glad they had gone.
Michael’s eyes narrowed when Bartholomew told him what had happened, and the physician was hard pressed to stop him from assembling his beadles and going to tackle the Gosses there and then.
‘They did nothing wrong,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Other than exude an air of menace, and I do not think that is illegal. If it were, you would be obliged to arrest yourself, because it is an art you have honed to perfection when dealing with recalcitrant undergraduates.’
Michael grimaced. ‘That is different – I am on the side of right and justice. The Gosses are not.’
‘How many burglaries have you attributed to them now?’ asked Bartholomew, changing the tack of the subject slightly.
‘Seven – all in the wealthiest Colleges and hostels. But there is not a single witness, which means they are both cunning and skilful. Unfortunately, they are confining themselves to the University; the townsfolk have not had to suffer their depredations. And the burgesses intend to keep it that way, which is why they are making it difficult for me to investigate.’
‘You think they have an agreement?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. ‘That the Gosses will restrict themselves to scholars’ property, as long as the town keeps you in check?’
‘I do,’ said Michael. ‘Constable Muschett virtually told me as much. Normally, I would treat his orders with the contempt they deserve, and go after the Gosses as I see fit. But he has the backing of all the burgesses, and I cannot antagonise them en masse, especially as Dick Tulyet is not here to calm troubled waters. There are too many delicate trading arrangements at risk.’
Bartholomew was not very interested in commerce. He began to think about Gosse’s mysterious words. ‘What does he want from us? He kept saying we have something that is rightfully his.’
Michael raised his hands. ‘How can the University have anything that belongs to thieves from Suffolk?’
Bartholomew returned the gesture. ‘Scholars travel, Brother. And some of them hail from Clare – the home of the Gosses is a large settlement, complete with castle and priory.’
‘I know that, but I checked our registers, and no one currently enrolled in the University comes from there. There were three last year, but they have left. I can state, quite categorically, that we have no association with Clare at the moment.’
‘Then what did Gosse mean? What does he want from us?’
‘You may be looking for logical answers where there are none to find. As I have told you before, Idoma is not quite sane – her demand may be the product of a deranged mind.’
Bartholomew regarded the monk doubtfully. ‘I am not so sure, Brother. I was under the impression that she and Gosse think we have some specific item that they believe belongs to them. Neither sounded confused to me.’
Michael waved a dismissive hand. ‘Well, we do not have it, whatever it is. I have already asked all seven Colleges and hostels whether any of their members have been to Clare recently, but none have. I repeat: there are no connections between these felons and their Cambridge victims.’
‘Perhaps you had better pass their request to our colleagues, anyway,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Or they may corner someone else – someone who does not carry childbirth forceps in his bag, and who might be rather more intimidated by them.’
Michael agreed. ‘Very well. You know, Matt, I have met many scoundrels since becoming a proctor, some of them extremely dangerous. But I do not think I have ever encountered anyone who unsettles me to the same extent as Idoma. There is definitely something sinister about her.’
Bartholomew frowned. ‘There is, but I cannot decide what. It cannot just be her shark-fish eyes; there is something else, too. Could it be that she is extremely large?’
‘Possibly. I grabbed one of her arms when I interviewed her once, and it was like gripping iron – she is strong as well as sizeable. You should steer clear of her and Gosse from now on. I have my beadles to protect me, but you are often out alone.’
‘You think they could best me?’ asked Bartholomew, smiling. ‘A deadly veteran of Poitiers?’
‘It is not funny,’ said Michael sternly. ‘You are a fool if you underestimate the threat they pose.’
‘I do not underestimate them. But equally, I will not let them unnerve me again – it is what they want, and I do not intend to play that game. But Wynewyk is more important than them, and it is time to bury him. Come, or we will be late.’
The weather suited the occasion as Michaelhouse’s scholars gathered outside the church. The clouds were a dense, unbroken grey, and rain fell in misty veils, blown this way and that by a determined wind. In their uniform black cloaks and tabards they formed a sombre group as they processed to the grave, accompanied by no sound except the tolling of a bell. Once there, Bartholomew listened to the sorrowful, moving eulogy delivered by Clippesby, and found himself inventing all manner of improbable explanations that would see Wynewyk absolved of any wrongdoing. When Clippesby had finished, the servants lowered the coffin into the ground.
‘He might as well be buried at sea,’ muttered Thelnetham – the drizzle had formed a deep puddle at the bottom of the grave. ‘Still, perhaps it will serve to quench the fires of Hell, because that is where he is bound. God does not approve of men who cheat their colleagues.’