‘It is not stealing,’ said Torvin, misunderstanding his silence. ‘No one else wants it.’
‘It is University property now,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You do not want to be caught there, so it might be wise to stay away. Besides, I think there is something wrong with the water.’
‘It did stink,’ conceded Torvin.
‘Stink of what?’
‘Corpses,’ replied Torvin darkly. ‘But we were too hungry to care. Will this mean you lose five marks to Surgeon Holm? Because we are caught taking carp?’
‘Not unless you tell him. I certainly will not.’
Amused and conspiratorial smirks flew between the riverfolk, and they all nodded. When the child returned with the remedy, Bartholomew fed it to his patients, then walked home. He had missed church, and the procession was making its way down St Michael’s Lane. Ayera was talking to Langelee at the front of the column, and Bartholomew experienced a twinge of unease when he remembered that he would have to tackle the geometrician that day about Gyseburne’s accusation. With a lurch of alarm, he saw Ayera was limping.
‘Not now,’ said Ayera, when Bartholomew indicated he wanted to talk. ‘I have an appointment, and I am late already. Suttone’s masses are much longer than William’s.’
‘An appointment?’ asked Thelnetham, overhearing. ‘Surely, it is too early for business?’
‘Not when horses are being discussed,’ said Ayera, although his smile was distinctly strained.
‘This is important,’ pressed Bartholomew.
‘So is the horse. I have been negotiating to buy it for weeks now, and would hate to lose it after all my efforts.’
‘Buy it with what?’ asked Bartholomew sceptically. ‘I thought your uncle had left you with nothing.’
Ayera’s smile froze. ‘I hardly think my finances are your affair, and it is ungentlemanly in you to raise such matters. Now, if you will excuse me, I have people to meet.’
He strode away, leaving Bartholomew staring helplessly after him. Now what? Should he follow, to see where Ayera was really going at such a peculiar hour? He took a step up the lane, but someone grabbed his arm and stopped him.
‘No.’ Clippesby’s face was pale, and his eyes had the curiously wild expression that said something was upsetting him. ‘He will prove to be too dangerous an adversary.’
‘What do you mean?’ Bartholomew relented when the Dominican flinched at the agitation in his voice, and spoke more gently. ‘What have you seen, John?’
‘The owls in Bridge Street …’ Clippesby saw Bartholomew’s exasperation and began again. ‘I happened to be in the castle when that raid took place, hiding with two frightened cows. And I saw Ayera. He was mud-splattered, fully armoured, and he was talking to that scribe.’
‘What scribe?’
‘The Carmelite Willelmus, whom Doctor Rougham later spirited away for personal nursing. I did not catch much of the discussion, because they kept their voices low, but I did hear Ayera say that the attack had failed because the raiders had retreated too soon.’
‘So?’ asked Bartholomew, although his stomach churned. ‘He was a soldier once, and is more than qualified to make that sort of assessment.’
‘But what was he doing at the castle at such an hour? Especially wearing armour.’
Bartholomew shrugged, loath to accept the conclusions to which Clippesby’s claims were driving him. ‘Perhaps he has taken a lover outside the town, and he stopped at the castle on his way home when he saw there was trouble.’
‘His lady lives in the Jewry, and he tends to dress nicely for her – his best tabard, not a grubby cloak with a hood that conceals his face. He does not don full battle gear for her, either.’
‘What are you saying?’ demanded Bartholomew, hating what the rational part of his mind was telling him; he still did not want to believe it. ‘That Ayera joined the attack on the castle?’
‘The bats assure me that he will have an excuse that exonerates him completely,’ said Clippesby, taking refuge in his eccentricity with considerable relief. But the guileless smile he tried to force would not come. ‘Unfortunately, the cows do not agree.’
‘We must catch Coslaye’s killer before Thursday, Matt, or Batayl is certain to make trouble at the ceremony,’ said Michael worriedly after breakfast. ‘They will blame the Carmelites, whose feisty novices will react with violence. Or worse, Batayl may accuse one of the library’s supporters – such as you – of the crime. They already know you own a bloodstained book.’
‘I have an alibi for Coslaye’s death,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘I was at Bene’t College.’
‘You think Heltisle will rally to your defence, do you? He has never liked you, and I imagine he will be delighted to see you in trouble.’
‘It would please him,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘However, he will not stand by and see me accused of murder when he knows I am innocent. Besides, he gave me a book, so perhaps he–’
‘A book he wanted out of his College. He was not being generous – he just saw it as a convenient way to avoid giving you cash. But never mind this. We are going to be busy today, not just with Coslaye’s murder, but with the other deaths, too.’
‘And the castle raid,’ said Bartholomew. He took a deep breath and forged on when Michael regarded him questioningly. ‘Because Ayera may be involved. Two witnesses saw him there.’
‘What witnesses?’ asked Michael sceptically.
‘Clippesby and Gyseburne,’ supplied Bartholomew reluctantly. ‘But Gyseburne will deny it if you question him, because he says Ayera frightens him.’
Michael shook his head firmly. ‘Their claims are a nonsense. Langelee told me only last night that Gyseburne had a reputation for secret drinking in York, which led him to all manner of lunatic imaginings, while Clippesby has been odder than usual of late. He announced before church this morning that his rat would be enrolling as a Regent in the Faculty of Canon Law.’
Bartholomew should have been relieved that the accusations against Ayera had been explained away – and he knew for a fact that Gyseburne did enjoy a drink, while Clippesby was currently in one of his more fey phases – but there remained an unpleasantly niggling doubt at the back of his mind, and he knew it would only ease when he had heard Ayera deny the charges himself. He decided to speak to the geometrician as soon as he could corner him alone.
‘How will you move forward on your investigations?’ he asked of Michael, forcing his mind back to the present. ‘You have no new leads to follow.’
‘No,’ agreed Michael. ‘So we must go out and find some. Please note that I am including you in my plans. I cannot manage alone, not without a Junior Proctor. Besides, you did mention a desire to see justice for Northwood, a man you liked and who was your friend.’
Bartholomew said nothing, loath to admit that what he had learned about Northwood since had made him wonder whether he had really known the man at alclass="underline" his bullying of novices, his inexplicable dealings with exemplars, the possibility that he had blackmailed Vale, and the fact that he had probably been experimenting with lamp fuel on the sly. Of course, to counter all that was his patient tutoring of Julitta and the fact that he had refused to help Tulyet build a weapon. In all, Bartholomew was not sure what to make of Northwood.
Their first stop was the Carmelite Priory, where they learned that everyone had an alibi for Coslaye’s death, because they had all been at a meeting to discuss arrangements for Corpus Christi. Etone had even conducted a roll call, as he had wanted to ensure that every friar, novice and lay-brother was briefed on his responsibilities for the forthcoming festivities. It would have been impossible for anyone to slip out and go a-murdering.