He left the sniggering clan grouped about their leader and walked through into the hall where they all studied. Only a small room, it had a series of trestle tables set about it. Luke went to his desk. Although he wasn’t supposed to keep food here, he had concealed his half loaf on the shelf beneath. If he became hungry during his work, he could take a lump of the drying crust and chew it. Not that he would want to, because the coarse loaf was growing hard. Luke hadn’t had a chance to pick at it, for the Choristers had been spending almost all their time in the Cathedral practising their singing for the Christmas celebrations and the Feast of Holy Innocents. He wasn’t hungry now anyway, he thought, putting the loaf back; he was too angry to think of food.
At least Henry hadn’t attacked him out in the Cathedral grounds since that last time when he hurled horseshit at him. Luke still hadn’t found Henry’s hiding place. Yet another failure. The common, nasty boy had a hideaway, somewhere that Luke couldn’t even find, let alone use himself. It wasn’t fair.
Rising, he wandered disconsolately along the desks, glancing at the work being done by each of the boys. At Henry’s was a rough picture in fine charcoal with the words of a prayer alongside it and Luke peered forward to read it. It was a text from the Bible, the piece from the Book of Revelation which told how the boys were all murdered at Herod’s command. Henry had worked hard, using the most expensive materials to colour it in vivid yellows, reds and greens.
‘Centum quadraginta quatuor milia qui erupti…’ he read, translating easily as he did so: ‘The hundred and forty-four thousand which were raised from the earth reign in Heaven and the Lamb of God is with them.’
He recognised the text. It was the reading which would be given on Holy Innocents’ Day, one of those spoken by the boy-Bishop. The sight made his bowels twist with impotent rage. From his outer appearance it would have been impossible to detect, but he was filled with a loathing of Henry so strong that it almost choked him.
Slumping down into Henry’s seat, he stared at the badly executed picture. He could have done it better. And the text was hardly clear. If Luke had drawn the characters, they would have been greatly improved. It was tempting to smudge the page, to eradicate the hard but essentially ill-conceived effort. But he couldn’t. No, it would be an affront to God. God had decided that Henry should become the boy-Bishop, and he had decided to draw and colour this page in praise of God. To damage it would be to insult God Himself. The only means Luke had of revenge was by doing a similar picture and doing it better.
That was what he would do, he decided. Another picture, working on the same text, but this one with the careful attention to detail that only Luke could achieve. He smiled unpleasantly. That would show them – all of them. He should have been the boy-Bishop, and he’d show them how wrong they were.
There was a pot of orpiment on Henry’s desk, the naturally occurring arsenic that all the students used for the richer gold colours. Luke picked it up with a smile. He would use Henry’s own colours.
Vincent le Berwe thrust his hands into his belt, whistling. He had to stop a while and watch outside a tavern where some apprentices and maidens had commandeered the roadway, dancing and singing in celebration of Christmas. One girl spun round so fast, she grew dizzy and fell on her rump with a scream of delight, hiccuping and burping, her head moving still, forwards and backwards, as she attempted to focus on her friends. They laughed and grabbed pots from a table nearby, moving out of the way of the people waiting patiently in the roadway, and Vincent could walk on again.
Peter’s death was already common knowledge. A boy dropping dead in the middle of a service was hardly the kind of news which could be hushed up, especially since several churchmen had been heard to allege that it was poison. Vincent smirked to himself. This was turning into a much better end-of-year than he could have hoped for: Karvinel emasculated, Ralph dead and buried – and now Peter too had died, the only witness Vincent had needed to fear after Ralph’s death.
There was something troubling him, however. He was not at all happy that Jolinde might be implicated in Peter’s death. It was one thing to see his enemies ruined or destroyed, and quite another to see his sole heir at risk because of it. He had heard a pair of men in the road discussing the affair and deciding that Jolinde must have had a hand in it.
That was something he would have to see to. He didn’t want Jolly to suffer in any way while he triumphed. Still, if Jolly was accused of anything, Vincent would arrange the best protection for him. He would bribe the Sheriff, if he could – or the Justice sent to try the case, if it came to that.
It would cost a great deal of money, though, he reflected. And that, ironically enough, was one thing he didn’t have a lot of at present. But provided that his other competitors didn’t hear about his little reverse, there was no reason why he shouldn’t survive this crisis. By the time the Justice arrived, Vincent was sure he’d have enough to protect his son.
Glancing up he realised that it was already past noon and strode off towards his home once more, beaming as he passed more revellers in the streets, laughing as he joined in an impromptu dance.
He was so proud of his boy. Vincent knew what his son had done for him.
Baldwin looked over at Simon as they walked the quiet streets towards Talbot’s Inn where Jeanne awaited them. He knew that the Bailiff’s brain was not so logical as his own, but he also knew that Simon had a stronger intuition when it came to offences or to the behaviour of people. ‘What do you think?’ he asked.
‘Me? God knows!’ the Bailiff answered with a shrug. ‘I don’t think we’ll get anywhere with an investigation. Peter’s dead, but he was poisoned without being forced, if he was poisoned, which means his food was poisoned without his knowing, or he willingly took the stuff, whatever it was. And although Karvinel was there just at the right time to poison Jolinde’s food, why would Karvinel have wanted to harm his own clerk? More to the point, how would he know that the food was destined for Peter Golloc’s belly?’
‘Could he have been hoping to kill Jolinde instead?’ Baldwin mused. ‘And what of the dead glovemaker? There must surely be something that makes sense of all this mayhem.’
‘God knows!’ Simon laughed weakly. ‘I thought we were here to enjoy ourselves.’
‘But think of the glovemaker a moment,’ Baldwin persisted. ‘Elias said that the doors to the shop and house were locked, so he went round to the back door. Then he hurried back to the front and found the door ajar. Why should the murderer leave it open?’
Simon considered. ‘If the killer was there, he’d have locked the doors while he was inside.’
‘Yes. And as soon as he was done, he would have unlocked the front door and left the scene as quickly as possible. Bolted from the place.’
‘Why leave the shop unlocked?’
‘Through sheer cunning. Think about it, Simon. What happened? The Bailiff arrives and finds the apprentice’s knife and keys at the dead man’s side. What inference can he make, but that Elias is the guilty party. It’s the perfect set-up. The killer knew Elias was there. He’d been banging on the door. So the killer waits inside the house until Elias has gone round the back, then he unlocks the front door, leaves it, runs to the shop, unlocks it, throws in the keys, stabs the corpse of Ralph with Elias’s own knife, and then dashes off. It was a very clever, bold crime.’