‘I am afraid that is not enough,’ said Michael. ‘And much can be achieved in a few hours. We have done it before, after all.’
‘You will not do it this time,’ said William. ‘You have no clues left to follow. Ergo, you will announce Gille as the culprit regardless of whether it is true. You mark my words.’
Bartholomew escorted Brampton and Lucy out of the College, while a resentful William gave Michael a more detailed account of what had transpired in Clare Hall. As they went, Brampton confided that when the vicars-general had first arrived in Cambridge, they had already decided to favour Oxford, and had only agreed to listen to Michael’s arguments as a favour to an old friend. None of them had expected Michael to change their minds.
‘So now you must solve these murders,’ he ordered peremptorily. ‘Because if you fail, it will take the shine off his victory.’
‘You do it then,’ retorted Bartholomew, resenting the man’s presumption. ‘You are Senior Proctor.’
Brampton looked startled by the notion. ‘But I would not know where to start! My skills lie in other areas.’
‘I have something that might help you, Matthew,’ said Lucy, and withdrew a piece of parchment from the purse at her waist. ‘I found it when I washed Martyn’s corpse.’
‘When you did what?’ blurted Bartholomew.
‘He had no family or College,’ explained Brampton, ‘so it fell to me, as Senior Proctor, to organise his burial rites. However, the crone who came to prepare him was drunk, so I dismissed her and told my sister to do it instead.’ He glanced slyly at her. ‘Another favour in exchange for dropping my suit against Narboro.’
‘But I searched Martyn’s body,’ said Bartholomew, wondering if Brampton could be trusted to keep his end of the bargain when it so obviously suited him to have her at his beck and call. ‘I do not believe I missed anything.’
‘You probably did not pull the brim off his hat, though,’ explained Lucy sheepishly. ‘I did not mean to, but I grabbed it too roughly, and it came away in my hand. This note was tucked into the lining, suggesting he intended to keep it very safe. It was soaking wet, so the ink has run, but I have dried it as well as I can.’
She started to pass it to Bartholomew, but Brampton snatched it from her first. He turned it this way and that, then screwed it into a ball and tossed it away. ‘It is illegible. What a pity. From the way you spoke, I thought it would be a vital clue. But we cannot stay gossiping here all day. Come along, Lucy. We have much to do.’
Lucy’s jaw dropped in dismay at his cavalier treatment of something with which she had evidently taken considerable pains, but he grabbed her arm and steered her through the gate before she could voice her objections. She managed to shoot Bartholomew an apologetic glance over her shoulder, then she and her brother were gone.
Bartholomew bent to retrieve the crumpled parchment. It was wet all over again, which darkened the faint marks that had once been letters, so that one or two words could still be made out. He ducked into the porter’s lodge to examine it out of the rain.
He felt his pulse quicken when he recognised the spidery scrawl – all scholars were familiar with their chancellors’ writing. So Aynton had given Martyn a letter to deliver, perhaps a twin of the one he had entrusted to Huntyngdon. But excitement was quickly followed by disappointment, because Brampton was right: most of it was illegible. One word stood out though – Baldok. He frowned. Did it refer to the village that lay to the southwest of Cambridge, or the burgess who had been murdered on the bridge a few weeks earlier?
He peered at it again, and made out Hunty, which he assumed would have read ‘Huntyngdon’. Then yet so in the middle of a sentence, which was meaningless without the rest. And at the top, y f-d Teof.
‘My friend Teofle?’ he wondered aloud. ‘Aynton was writing to the Archbishop of Canterbury’s vicar-general?’
But if so, why was the message in the vernacular, when Latin was the language of choice for communicating with high-ranking churchmen? Or had Aynton and Teofle known each other well enough to dispense with such formality? After all, Bartholomew did not always use Latin when jotting notes to Michael, and Teofle had mentioned a long-standing friendship with Aynton when he and his retinue had first arrived in the town.
He continued to stare and to think, and the more he did, the more he became convinced that Aynton had written to Teofle with information about Burgess Baldok. Had he learned the identity of Baldok’s killer? It was a crime that had never been solved, despite Tulyet’s best and continued efforts, and surely, it could not be coincidence that the sender of both letters and their bearers had been murdered themselves?
Hopeful for the first time in days, he hurried to discuss his idea with Michael.
The monk was sitting alone with his eyes closed and an expression of intense concentration on his face. William had gone to inspect the sluices again, dragging a reluctant Zoone with him – the engineer had no desire to be out in the pouring rain – still concerned about flooding.
‘I am reviewing all you told me about the murders,’ said Michael, opening his eyes. ‘Hoping to spot something that you have missed.’
‘And have you?’
‘No.’ Michael winced before blurting, ‘I cannot tell you what agony it was, watching you struggle, but being unable to help. I am more sorry than I can say.’
‘Are the negotiations the reason why Aynton resigned so suddenly?’
Michael nodded. ‘He thought they should be led by a strong Chancellor, not a weak one with a Senior Proctor whispering in his ear. I disagree – it would have been easier with two of us. But what is done is done, and I shall honour his memory by helping you catch his killer.’
Bartholomew showed him the letter. ‘You can make out part of the names Huntyngdon and Baldok, part of my friend Teofle, and the words yet so.’
Michael squinted at it through the glass that Bartholomew had given him some years ago, when he had started to complain about everyone else’s illegible handwriting.
‘But why would Aynton write to Teofle and Narboro – of all people – about a murdered burgess?’ he asked, bemused.
‘Because he knew the identity of the culprit,’ replied Bartholomew.
‘Then why not tell the Sheriff – the man who was investigating the crime? Or me, if the culprit is a scholar?’
Bartholomew had no answer. ‘Time is passing, and we cannot sit in here all day. Where do you want to start?’
‘At Peterhouse,’ said Michael, standing abruptly. ‘Martyn taught there on occasion, and he was friends with Gayton and Stantone. Perhaps he talked to them about his mission.’
‘Why would he?’ asked Bartholomew, feeling it was a waste of time they did not have. ‘Huntyngdon never did, and they were both discreet, trustworthy men.’
‘Can you think of a better idea?’ demanded Michael. ‘No? Then let us go.’
The moment they left Michael’s quarters, they became aware that something bad had happened. Urgent footsteps hammered in the lane outside, and there was a lot of agitated shouting. The other Fellows were with William, who was speaking in a frantic gabble. Students and servants were running towards them, eager to find out what was going on.
‘The crisis will come tonight,’ William was yelling. ‘And it cannot be averted, because the sluice gates are jammed and not even Zoone knows how to unlock them.’
‘Poor Peterhouse and Valence Marie,’ said Aungel. ‘They will suffer the worst–’