‘But Ayera claimed he found you in Cholles Lane,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Not in–’
‘I was stunned, so my memory is foggy,’ interrupted Langelee curtly, while Ayera’s face remained curiously blank. ‘Do not nit-pick, Bartholomew.’
‘Newe Inn’s pond is haunted,’ declared Agatha matter-of-factly, before the physician could press the matter further. ‘Everyone in the town knows it. And on certain very dark nights, strange smells seep out. It is the reek of Hell escaping.’
‘I did not notice any smells,’ said Langelee. ‘But someone came along and hit me very hard. It is fortunate I have a thick skull, because I am sure he meant to kill.’
‘Do you have any idea who the rogue might have been?’ asked Ayera.
‘None at all, but when I find out, I am going to hit him back!’
‘Please do not,’ begged Michael. ‘I do not want another murder to investigate, and there may be an innocent explanation for what happened – one of the workmen may have seen you, and mistook you for a thief. But I shall visit Newe Inn as soon as I have set my students some work. No one strikes the Master of my College and gets away with it.’
Agatha and Langelee followed him out, leaving Bartholomew alone with Ayera. The geometrician went to pour himself a cup of wine, at which point Bartholomew noticed two things: that Ayera’s hands were unsteady and that he was still favouring his left leg. He decided there would not be a better time to ascertain the truth.
‘There has been a report that you were among the men who attacked the castle,’ he said baldly.
Ayera gaped at him. ‘Me? Why would I be involved in such a thing?’
‘I cannot imagine,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘But perhaps it explains why you are wearing half-armour under your academic tabard now, and possibly why you are limping, too.’
Ayera continued to stare. ‘I often wear armour under my tabard. This is a dangerous town, in case you had not noticed. And I hurt my knee just now, helping Langelee back to the College.’
‘May I see it?’ Bartholomew was more than capable of distinguishing between sprains and injuries sustained in armed skirmishes.
‘No, you may not.’ Ayera’s expression was impossible to read. ‘Or are you calling me a liar?’
‘I will apologise if you show me a wrenched knee.’
‘What is going on?’ came a voice from the door. It was Langelee, and Bartholomew wondered how long the Master had been listening. For a large man, he could move with considerable stealth, a skill learned when he had performed dubious deeds for the Archbishop of York.
‘Bartholomew is accusing me of attacking the castle,’ replied Ayera, with a short laugh to tell the Master what he thought of such a ridiculous assertion.
‘Then he will stop it at once,’ said Langelee angrily. ‘There is discord enough in the College with William and Thelnetham sparring all the time. I will not have you two at it, too.’
‘Where lies the problem?’ asked Bartholomew, spreading his hands. ‘I am a physician, and I do not like to see my colleagues suffer. I may be able to ease this painful joint.’
‘I said stop,’ snapped Langelee. ‘And if you persist with these absurd claims, I shall do what other Masters would have done years ago – withdraw permission for you to put patients before your academic duties. That will make you think twice about causing friction in the Fellowship.’
The accusation was wholly unfair, because Bartholomew had never shirked his teaching responsibilities and Langelee knew it. ‘But–’
‘No buts. You enjoy considerable freedom at the moment. Do not make me curtail it.’
Bartholomew watched unhappily as the Master stalked from the kitchen. He half expected Ayera to shoot him a gloating smile as he followed, but the geometrician’s face was oddly impassive. When they had gone, Bartholomew flopped on to a bench and rubbed a hand through his hair. Perhaps he should have been more subtle, and attempted to solicit information without Ayera realising what he was trying to do. But Ayera was not stupid, and would certainly have seen through such tactics. He looked up tiredly when Cynric came to find him.
‘There has been another death, boy,’ Cynric said quietly. ‘In Gonville Hall’s library this time.’
Bartholomew’s stomach lurched. ‘Who?’
‘The messenger did not say, but you had better hurry. The dead do not like to be kept waiting. There are too many angry souls floating around the town already, without adding another.’
It was not far to Gonville and Bartholomew, with Michael puffing at his heels, arrived there in moments. He was relieved when he saw Rougham waiting.
‘This is terribly embarrassing,’ Rougham said, wringing his hands. ‘I hope we can rely on your discretion. We do not want trouble with Bene’t College – they have the ear of the Guild of Corpus Christi, and we cannot afford to lose benefactions over this matter.’
‘What matter?’ gasped Michael. ‘What are you talking about?’
Rougham did not answer, and instead led them to the library. It contained mostly books on law, so Bartholomew had visited it only rarely. Like the libraries in King’s Hall and Bene’t, it was an elegantly appointed chamber, with a profusion of dark polished wood. The books sat in neat lines, each one attached to the wall by a chain to prevent theft. The room was usually busy with students, but it was quiet that day, and empty. Except for one man.
The feisty little scholar called Teversham was lying at a very peculiar angle by one of the lecterns, almost as if his upper half was suspended in thin air. At first, Bartholomew did not understand what he was seeing, but when he crouched next to the Bene’t Fellow, he saw a book-chain wrapped around his neck. He examined the body quickly, noting that there was a triangular indentation in Teversham’s forehead, which matched perfectly the corner of the lectern.
‘The floor is dreadfully uneven,’ said Rougham. ‘We will fix it one day, but at the moment, all our spare cash is going towards the chapel. Teversham must have tripped and struck his head.’
‘And landed on the book-chain?’ asked Michael sceptically. ‘Which strangled him?’
‘It is technically possible,’ said Bartholomew. ‘His head certainly came into contact with the lectern at some point, and he may well have fallen forward and become entangled.’
‘Where, unable to breathe but too dazed to do anything about it, he died,’ finished Rougham. ‘Thank you, Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps you are not such a bad Corpse Examiner after all.’
‘Of course, he might equally well have been shoved into the lectern deliberately, and the chain wrapped around his throat when he was too befuddled to resist,’ added Bartholomew.
Rougham glared. ‘I take it back.’
‘Teversham is not a member of Gonville – he is a Fellow of Bene’t,’ said Michael. ‘So what was he doing here? I surmise he was alone, because otherwise someone would have rescued him.’
‘He came to consult Leycestria’s Qui Bene Praesunt,’ explained Rougham. ‘And he was alone, because I was lecturing on Plato, and ordered all the Gonville scholars to listen to me. Teversham was an old friend, and I thought he could be trusted not to do anything silly. Clearly I was wrong.’
‘Clearly,’ agreed Michael dryly. ‘Have you had any other visitors today? Or seen anyone loitering who should not have been here?’
‘No,’ said Rougham. ‘Yet your questions imply foul play, but this was an accident. Of course it was! We cannot have Bene’t scholars murdered in Gonville! It would cause trouble for certain.’
‘It would,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘However, I do not see how this can be a mishap. It is too … contrived. It is surely a case of unlawful killing.’