Pepin gave a tight smile. ‘You are, Brother. Angoulême has never produced paper.’
‘Just as I thought,’ said Michael with a small bow. ‘Thank you.’
Bartholomew followed him outside, but there was no time to enquire why he had asked Pepin such an odd question, because the monk was already knocking on Holm’s door.
‘What do you want?’ the surgeon demanded, answering it himself. ‘I am busy.’
The fact that his clothes were rumpled, and he was stifling a yawn, suggested his business involved sleeping, even though it was the middle of the day.
‘Browne is missing, and his students are worried,’ said Michael without preamble. ‘They think you and he might have had a lovers’ tiff.’
Holm scowled, then indicated with an irritable flap of his hand that Michael and Bartholomew were to step into his house. Glancing furtively up and down the lane to assess whether anyone else had heard the monk’s remark, he then closed the door.
Once inside, Bartholomew saw Julitta’s hand everywhere, from the tasteful rugs on the floor, to the cushions on the benches and the way the silver goblets had been arranged on the table. There was even a small library, which he supposed she had assembled for their married life together.
‘Browne and I are not lovers,’ the surgeon said, walking to the table and pouring himself some wine. He did not offer any to his guests. ‘The Batayl lads have never liked me, and they fabricated that vile accusation to show me in a bad light.’
‘It is not just Batayl,’ said Michael. ‘We have heard it from others, too. Indeed, half the town seems to know you prefer Browne to your hapless fiancée.’
Holm’s expression hardened. ‘Well, perhaps I do, although I shall take legal action against anyone who tells her so before we are married.’
‘When did you last see Browne?’ asked Bartholomew, struggling to mask his distaste.
‘Yesterday evening,’ replied Holm icily. ‘However, the louts of Batayl were with him long after I had made my farewells, so do not look to me as the last man who saw him alive.’
‘Now you seem convinced he is dead,’ said Michael.
Holm shrugged. ‘He was not popular with his students, so it stands to reason. They are a vicious horde, and I imagine they are responsible for braining Coslaye, too.’
‘Do you have any evidence to say that?’ asked Michael.
‘Yes – the evidence of common sense.’
‘Browne was your lover, yet you do not seem upset by his disappearance,’ mused Michael. ‘Why not? Because you know he is alive, so grieving is unnecessary? Or because you have experienced a cooling of affection for each other?’
‘Neither. I am devastated, actually, but my father taught me never to show needless emotions. He said it is unbecoming in a medical man.’
Bartholomew was thoughtful as they left the surgeon’s cottage. ‘Do you think he has dispatched Browne, perhaps because Browne learned some of his sinister secrets?’
‘What sinister secrets?’ asked Michael. ‘And do not say his preference for men, because I doubt Browne sees that as a crime, given that he is like-minded.’
‘What about his greedy determination to have Julitta’s dowry?’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Or the fact that he sided with the French at Poitiers? Or his lies, hollow boasts and cowardice?’
Michael laughed. ‘They are not secrets! Besides, there is nothing to say Browne is dead. Or that Holm killed him. And anyway, if I had to choose a suspect, it would be Pepin.’
‘Pepin might have murdered Coslaye, but he has no reason to harm Browne. Browne shared his distaste for Coslaye’s fascination with Poitiers.’
‘And what if Pepin did kill Coslaye, and Browne found out?’ asked Michael. ‘That is a motive for murder. Moreover, Pepin’s determination to have Holm implicated in Browne’s disappearance is suspicious. Then there is the fact that I tripped him up with my question about Angoulême, which does produce paper, and has done for years; my grandmother waxed lyrical about it the other night. If he does not know this simple fact, then he is lying about his origins.’
‘I suspect that is because he actually hails from Poitiers,’ said Bartholomew. He shrugged when the monk regarded him in surprise. ‘I might lie, too, were I a Poitevin living in England, and I imagine he did turn out for the battle. He looks more like a warrior than a scholar.’
‘He does,’ agreed Michael. ‘But how do you know he comes from Poitiers?’
‘Because of the name he gave the stew that made everyone ilclass="underline" tout marron. It is called tout brun everywhere but Poitiers. I cannot imagine why he did not abandon Batayl and enrol with a Principal who is less rabidly anti-French.’
‘That is easier said than done,’ explained Michael. ‘Students pay fees, and no hostel wants to lose those, so moving between foundations is strongly discouraged. Of course, Pepin is not the only candidate for dispatching Browne. Julitta has a powerful reason to dislike the fellow, too: no wife wants a manly lover waiting in the wings.’
Bartholomew gazed at him in shock. ‘That is a terrible thing to say!’
‘And people do terrible things, as we have learned in the past. Especially, it would seem, ones with angelic faces and kindly dispositions.’
‘But Julitta is–’
‘Julitta is about to marry a man she adores, but she is no fool, and may well know about his preferences. Browne’s demise can only benefit her, and if your befuddled emotions would let you view the situation objectively, you would agree with me.’
‘Killing Browne will not resolve anything – Holm will still be attracted to men. She is not stupid, Brother; she will understand that.’
Michael regarded him critically. ‘It seems to me that love blinds even the sanest of people to reason.’
‘I do not love her,’ Bartholomew snapped. ‘There is still Matilde …’
‘Is there? When was the last time you thought about her?’
Bartholomew was chagrined to feel colour rise into his cheeks. ‘I have not had time to think of anything except my teaching and your investigation for days,’ he replied stiffly.
Prudently, Michael changed the subject to their students’ upcoming disputations, for which Bartholomew was grateful. He did not want anyone to know the full extent of the affection he was beginning to feel for a woman who was shortly to become another man’s wife.
Tulyet’s hopeful smile quickly faded when he heard that Bartholomew and Michael had not come to the castle because they had something useful to report about the raiders.
‘Only more of the same,’ said Michael apologetically. ‘That they will come at Corpus Christi.’
‘I called a meeting in the Guild Hall earlier,’ said Tulyet gloomily. ‘To urge the burgesses to cancel the pageant. But a lot of money has been invested in it, so they voted to ignore me.’
‘Money for what?’ asked Bartholomew, puzzled.
‘For the cakes that have been baked, the ale that has been brewed, the performers who have been hired. Calling it off now will mean heavy financial losses. But perhaps my fears are unfounded. The raiders may not come when they learn the taxes are no longer in the Great Tower, and so will not be easy to find.’
Michael grimaced. ‘Unfortunately, there is a tale that they are now hidden in the University. The castle may be safe, but we must expect to be ravaged.’
‘You will not be,’ said Tulyet confidently. ‘Not even the most determined thief could consider searching eight Colleges, forty hostels and half a dozen convents.’
Bartholomew gazed at him horror as understanding dawned. ‘It was you! You started this rumour, to dissuade the robbers from coming!’
‘Steady on, Matt!’ breathed Michael, shocked. ‘That is a nasty accusation.’