‘Thank God!’ sighed Michael as they left. ‘We had better inform Batayl immediately, to ensure they do not stage a revenge killing.’
‘Yes, but exonerating the Carmelites means you have no good suspects. Personally, I thought Riborowe or Jorz might be responsible. For friars, they are vindictive men.’
‘They are,’ agreed Michael. Then he stopped walking and closed his eyes. ‘Blast! I neglected to ask them to confirm Coslaye’s claim that he was arguing with them over soot when the castle was raided, and now it is too late – they will be at their prayers. I must be losing my touch.’
Bartholomew studied him closely. ‘You seem distracted. Is anything specific worrying you?’
Michael’s smile was wan. ‘Other than the prospect of a riot when the library opens, and the unsolved murders of Vale, Northwood, the Londons, Coslaye and possibly Sawtre and Rolee, too? Well, there is the rumour my beadles reported this morning – that something terrible will happen on Corpus Christi. Several of them have heard it, and the tale seems to have taken root among scholars and townsmen alike.’
‘What sort of “something terrible”?’
‘They were unable to say. Regardless, I am extremely concerned.’
While Michael went to inform Batayl that the Carmelites did not kill Coslaye, Bartholomew returned to College, where he put his students through their paces until the bell sounded for the noonday meal. They escaped with relief when Clippesby approached to report that Langelee had asked William to preside over dinner that day because he was busy elsewhere; the meal would be delayed for a few moments while the Franciscan tried to learn the appropriate grace. Puzzled, as the Master rarely delegated mealtime duties, Bartholomew used the spare time to hunt down Ayera, but the geometrician had not been seen in the College since church.
Uneasy in his mind – he and Michael were the only ones with permission to leave Michaelhouse during teaching hours, so Ayera should have been home – Bartholomew took his place at the high table. As usual, Michael sat on one side of him, while Clippesby was on the other, although the Dominican did not stay there for long: his rat escaped during William’s muddled and largely improvised prayers, and he was asked to leave.
Dinner was a paltry affair of stale bread and a watery stew that tasted powerfully of old fish. It reminded Bartholomew of the concoction that had poisoned Batayl, which then made him think of the riverfolk and his own illness. Had Newe Inn’s water killed Northwood and the others? Cynric was adamant that the pond was evil, and while Bartholomew did not believe such notions, he did know that superstitions sometimes held a grain of truth. Perhaps there was something wrong with the pool, and Cynric was right to be wary of it.
‘I think I was overly ambitious earlier, when I suggested we just go out and unearth a few clues,’ said Michael, dispiritedly. ‘It is easier said than done.’
‘Do you have no new information at all?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Or no good suspects?’
‘I have hundreds of suspects – that is the problem. Northwood, the London brothers and Vale supported the library, which means half the University bore them malice. Literally. And their sly experiments with lamp fuel mean we must include the medici on the list, too.’
‘Holm is the only one you should seriously consider.’
Michael gazed at him. ‘It is unlike you to take against someone so. What has he done wrong?’
Bartholomew did not want to admit that his antipathy stemmed from the fact that he hated the thought of Holm hurting Julitta. ‘He is an abysmal surgeon,’ he hedged. ‘He was on the side of the French at Poitiers, and he can barely open his mouth without lying. He told Dunning that he was at the castle all Saturday night, but he was not – he slunk off at dusk. And Clippesby says he has a lover.’
‘Really?’ asked Michael keenly. ‘Who is she?’
‘I did not let him say.’ Bartholomew shrugged defensively when Michael rolled his eyes. ‘It was gossip, Brother, and I am no Weasenham.’
‘I suppose Holm is unappealing, but no more so than the rest of your colleagues.’
‘Gyseburne is a decent man,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘He–’
‘He is abnormally fascinated with urine, which you now tell me can be used to make things explode. Coupled with his secret drinking, it means he is a man to watch very carefully.’
‘It does not,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘My colleagues – with the exception of Holm – are only interested in healing.’
‘And in making their fortunes with lamp fuel,’ added Michael dryly. ‘There is no group of men better qualified to kill by stealth, as I have said before.’
‘But that assumes Northwood and the others were experimenting with lamp fuel, and we have no evidence to prove they were. They may have been trying to make ink or paper. There will be money in those commodities, too.’
‘I suppose so,’ conceded Michael reluctantly. ‘And Northwood was a Carmelite, so was in a position to monitor what Riborowe and Jorz were doing.’
‘I cannot see Northwood spying,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And I am not sure what to make of the tales we have been told about him, either. He never gave me the slightest indication that he was eager to amass riches. He was just a man keen to stretch his mind and learn new things.’
‘That is not necessarily a virtue.’ Michael grimaced. ‘I know I sound like William, but we must set some limits on scholarship, or who knows where it might lead? Look at Tynkell, Riborowe, Langelee and Walkelate, who helped to build a ribauldequin for the French wars. Is that any way to use the wits God gave them?’
‘Restrictions will not prevent that sort of activity, Brother. It will only hinder those who are trying to make discoveries for the common good. It is–’
The debate was interrupted by the sudden appearance of Cynric.
‘Come quickly,’ the book-bearer said. ‘Someone has knocked Master Langelee over the head.’
Langelee was sitting disconsolately in Michaelhouse’s kitchen with Agatha hovering protectively behind him. Ayera was there, too, telling her how he had found the Master staggering around dazedly in Cholles Lane. Bartholomew inspected the bump on the back of Langelee’s head, but although it was no doubt uncomfortable, there did not seem to be any serious damage.
‘What were you doing in Cholles Lane?’ asked Michael, watching Langelee wince as Bartholomew applied a cool compress. ‘Visiting a tavern?’
‘I do not frequent taverns during the daylight hours,’ replied Langelee haughtily. ‘I was in Newe Inn’s garden, if you must know. I was curious to see the place where those four scholars died.’
‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew suspiciously.
‘Because it was a peculiar business, and it involved my University,’ replied Langelee tartly. ‘You two do not seem to be making any progress, so I decided to poke about myself.’
‘And did you learn anything?’ asked Michael, ignoring the slight.
Langelee grimaced. ‘No.’
Michael turned to Ayera. ‘And what were you doing in the vicinity? You do not have licence to wander about the town during teaching hours.’
Ayera’s expression was difficult to read. ‘I do not answer to you, Brother.’
‘I gave him permission to be out today,’ explained Langelee. ‘His family have offered to lend him the money to purchase that horse – the one that will benefit the College if we put it to stud – so he went to inspect it. And thank God he happened by! I can well imagine the rumours that would have started if the Master of Michaelhouse had been discovered lying insensible in Newe Inn’s garden.’