‘What did Ayce tell you as he breathed his last?’ asked Tulyet. ‘I tried to listen, but his voice was too low.’
‘It was not … he was difficult to hear,’ mumbled Bartholomew. He was not good at lying.
‘Tell me,’ ordered Tulyet sharply. ‘It is no time for games.’
‘He claimed Ayera was among the raiders,’ replied Bartholomew unhappily, supposing Tulyet had a right to know, although his stomach twisted with guilt and shame as the words came out.
‘Ayera?’ echoed Tulyet. ‘He must be mistaken!’
‘Of course he was,’ agreed Michael smoothly. ‘And in the interests of harmony between town and University, I recommend that Matt and I look into the matter, Dick. Not you.’
‘Very well,’ said Tulyet, after a brief moment of reflection. ‘But will you send Cynric with news of what you discover? Whatever it may be? The moment you know it?’
‘As fast as he can run,’ agreed Michael.
‘I am sorry, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, as he and Michael hurried back to the College to confront Ayera. ‘I tried to dissemble, but Dick saw straight through me.’
‘It is not you who should be apologising,’ said Michael grimly. ‘It is Ayera. Thank God we have a Sheriff who appreciates the importance of good relations. Any other secular official would have raced to directly Michaelhouse and made an arrest. I am still furious with him over the rumour he started, but his prudence has gone some way to mollifying me.’
‘Our task will not be easy or pleasant,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And Gyseburne …’
‘Gyseburne what?’ demanded Michael, when Bartholomew trailed off.
‘Gyseburne mentioned several men poisoned in Langelee’s house in York – by Ayera’s cook. They died from eating lily of the valley, which is one of Ayera’s favourite flowers.’
‘Ayera likes flowers?’ asked Michael doubtfully.
Bartholomew nodded. ‘Toxic ones. And they grow in Newe Inn’s garden, by the pond.’
Michael stared at him. ‘What are you saying now? That Ayera killed those four scholars? And that Langelee may have helped him, because they have poisoned people together in the past?’
‘We now have three witnesses – Gyseburne, Willelmus and Ayce – who claim that Ayera is involved with the raiders, and Langelee was attacked in Newe Inn, which is where a lot of those particular flowers are growing.’
Michael’s eyes were enormous saucers in his plump face. ‘Lord, Matt!’
‘But Gyseburne does not like Ayera,’ said Bartholomew, trying to think of ways to exonerate his colleagues despite the evidence that was beginning to build against them. ‘He says he has been afraid of him ever since the incident in York, and I imagine he will be delighted if Ayera is forced to leave the town. Thus he has good reason to twist the truth.’
‘Perhaps,’ nodded Michael. ‘Gyseburne is a sly, selfish fellow with a penchant for the wine barrel. He might well lie to incriminate a man who unsettles him.’
Bartholomew was not sure whether it was worse to believe ill of Ayera or Gyseburne, and uncomfortably, it occurred to him that both could not emerge well from the affair.
‘No one else knows our suspicion that Northwood and the others were poisoned,’ he went on. ‘Well, I mentioned it to Julitta, but everyone else seems convinced that the Devil is responsible.’
‘Or God,’ agreed Michael. ‘But what is your point? That Ayera suggested lily of the valley as the culprit, and so incriminated himself by knowing the real cause of death?’
‘It crossed my mind,’ said Bartholomew unhappily.
‘Then we had better hurry,’ said Michael grimly, when Bartholomew began to drag his feet.
But Ayera was not home when they arrived, and none of the other Fellows knew where he had gone. Langelee was missing, too, and although it was not unusual for the Master to disappear of an evening – he had many friends, and often went out when work was finished for the day – his absence that night was worrying.
‘We need to find them,’ said Bartholomew, standing in the conclave and looking around helplessly. Suttone and William were sharing a plate of cakes, and Clippesby was playing with the College cat – back in favour now the rat had deemed places with libraries too dangerous.
‘I know, but they might be anywhere,’ said Michael, exasperated.
There was a flurry of Gilbertine habit and perfumed accessories as Thelnetham arrived. He flopped into a chair, and waved an imperious hand to say that Clippesby should bring him some wine. It was on the tip of Bartholomew’s tongue to tell him to fetch it himself, but Clippesby shot him a warning glance. The Dominican hated discord, and the look said that pandering to Thelnetham’s supercilious manners was a small price to pay for peace.
‘Have you seen Ayera or Langelee?’ Michael demanded.
‘Yes,’ replied Thelnetham, fanning himself with a beringed hand. ‘I passed them when I–’
‘Where were they going?’ interrupted Michael urgently.
Thelnetham frowned. ‘Why? What has Langelee done now? I have always said that he is not the kind of man who should be Master of a College, so it does not surprise me that–’
‘Where were they going?’ repeated Michael angrily.
‘To visit the White Friars,’ replied Thelnetham. He made a moue of distaste. ‘That particular priory is not a place I would set foot in, because Riborowe and Jorz are hardly conducive company. Of course, our Master is not very particular about–’
‘There is nothing wrong with Riborowe and Jorz,’ declared Suttone, rallying to the defence of his Carmelite brethren. Then he frowned. ‘But Langelee never ventures into our friary. He says we are too religious for his taste.’
‘He wanted some ink from its scriptorium,’ elaborated Thelnetham. ‘Apparently, they have invented a new kind, which is said to dry faster than the stuff Weasenham sells.’
‘It is red, too,’ put in Clippesby. ‘And Master Langelee likes red.’
‘Probably because it looks like blood,’ said Thelnetham with haughty contempt. ‘Once a soldier, always a soldier.’
‘He does like red pigments,’ agreed Suttone. ‘Agatha complained to me not an hour ago that he had just handed her a tabard that was drenched in the stuff.’
He and Thelnetham began a discussion about annoying stains, but Bartholomew did not wait to hear it. He strode quickly through the hall and clattered down the stairs to the yard, aware of Michael behind him, especially once he started along Milne Street and the monk began to pant.
‘I still do not believe it,’ he said, his mind a whirl of confusion. ‘I cannot see Ayera or Langelee stealing the King’s taxes. Men died in that raid.’
‘“Only soldiers”.’ Michael echoed the geometrician’s chillingly callous words and Bartholomew recalled that he had been so shocked to hear them from the lips of a scholar that he had reported it to the monk. ‘Men who are expendable in battle.’
Bartholomew began to move faster, leaving Michael behind. When he arrived at the Carmelite Priory, he rapped hard on the gate. The doorman took his time answering, and Michael had caught up by the time the grille slid open.
‘God save us!’ the doorman muttered, crossing himself. ‘How did you know you were needed? We only discovered what happened a few moments ago. Perhaps the Corpse Examiner does have diabolical powers, and can detect the scent of cadavers.’
Bartholomew was too fraught to ask what he meant. ‘Are Langelee and Ayera here?’
The doorman grunted as he removed the heavy bar that secured the convent after sunset. He yanked open the gate and indicated they were to enter. ‘No, why?’
‘Have they left?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘I have not seen them. Of course, they could have come in when I was doing my rounds.’