‘The blood, Master John,’ Dame Agnes murmured.
John lifted his eyes to Owen. ‘I’d almost forgotten about that. What really did happen today?’
‘That is what I seek to discover,’ said Owen. ‘Why do you suppose your lads did not seek your help in retrieving young Hubert’s scrip?’
A fond smile broke through the concern. ‘Their sense of adventure, Captain. The older ones love to lead.’
‘They should know better than to engage the bargemen. What is innocent fun to the lads is threatening to the bargemen’s livelihood. I’ve explained that to Jasper many times, but he was there this evening despite my warnings, and despite promising he’d not go to the staithe.’
‘He was not there long, I assure you. He’d stayed behind to copy a passage.’
‘But he did go.’
‘And this time it was not a game with the lads. They did find the scrip, but it was empty.’
‘They did retrieve it?’ Owen had not heard this. ‘How?’
‘When Geoffrey, one of the older scholars, demanded it, Drogo tossed the little purse to him, just like that, and then moved deeper into the crowd.’
‘I would talk to Geoffrey,’ said Owen, glancing at Dame Agnes.
She was quick to understand. ‘I’ll fetch him at once.’ She slipped away.
‘But it was empty, you said.’ Owen thought about how the lad might have responded to that. ‘Did he charge after Drogo when he found it empty?’
‘I don’t think he realised at once that there was nothing in it,’ said Master John.
‘Where is the scrip now?’
The grammar master produced it. It was the size of Owen’s hand, clearly a woman’s scrip, and the pouch was indeed empty. ‘Keep it safe,’ he warned. ‘We may need it.’
The grammar master nodded uneasily.
‘What else have you heard from the lads?’ Owen asked.
‘I heard about the poor man’s bleeding face, and about Nicholas Ferriby fleeing into the abbey grounds in fear of his life.’ Master John shook his head. ‘Foolish man. He is such a foolish man.’
‘The crowd was angry, or so I am told,’ Owen reminded him.
‘Yes, yes, they do say so.’ Master John nodded as he lowered his gaze to the unremarkable floor. ‘Yes.’
‘Abbot Campian advised him to retreat into the abbey.’ Owen wondered whether John’s earlier claim of indifference about Nicholas Ferriby’s school might have been an attempt to deflect questions about the conflict. ‘It is natural that you would resent Nicholas for threatening your income.’
John gave an elaborate shrug. ‘The status and funding of St Peter’s School are Chancellor Thomas Farnilaw’s responsibilities. I am merely the schoolmaster. I’ve no cause to resent Master Nicholas. I am glad that Abbot Campian is giving him sanctuary.’
Owen believed John did resent Nicholas, but that his feelings embarrassed him, being of a mercenary nature.
Dame Agnes had returned with a tall, well-built older scholar with a man’s stubble on his chin and a sullen set to his mouth. ‘This is Geoffrey Townley, Captain,’ she said. ‘Geoffrey, this is Captain Archer, who wishes to ask you about what happened on the barges.’
‘I did not push him into the river,’ said Geoffrey in a wounded tone.
‘That is a good start,’ said Owen. ‘I understand you saw Drogo. Can you tell me all that happened? All that you noticed about him?’
The young man still looked uncertain. ‘You’re not accusing me?’
‘No. I’m asking for your help.’
Geoffrey seemed to think about that for a moment, then nodded. ‘I am sorry I spoke to you so, Captain.’ By his blush Owen understood that he’d been frightened, which was hardly surprising. The young man repeated what Master John had already told Owen about Drogo tossing the scrip to him, but with an additional piece of information. ‘He smelled of ale, Captain, and I thought he was drunk, the way he moved, like he had to think about lifting his hand and turning his head. But when he bled in front of the Virgin I understood that he’d been injured.’
Ale. He hoped Hempe learned something at the tavern. ‘Did you see him go into the water?’ Owen asked.
Geoffrey shook his head. ‘The crowd was thick round him. I feared the barges would start taking on water.’
‘When did you realise the scrip was empty?’
‘The lads crowded round me while we waited for Drogo to be pulled from the river. They asked me to look inside.’ Geoffrey paused, shifting a little, shrugging. ‘I wasn’t going to look, thinking it wasn’t right without Hubert there. But I thought I might feel around, see what I could learn from it, and I felt just the leather. Then I looked, and my fingers had been right. I was holding just the scrip, nothing in it.’
‘How did that make you feel?’
‘Tricked. Cheated. So were we all. But I don’t understand. Why return it if it was empty?’ Geoffrey nodded as Owen was about to speak. ‘I know, he satisfied me and was able to get away, but he did growl something about returning it to Hubert.’
So he’d mentioned the boy by name. Owen wondered whether Drogo had known him or had learned the lad’s name after he’d taken the scrip. ‘Even if you’d looked right away, it sounds as if he quickly disappeared.’
Geoffrey sighed. ‘He did. He was very fast.’ The sullen expression had softened into disappointment. ‘When I realised he’d tricked me I was glad he’d fallen into the river.’
‘Geoffrey!’ Dame Agnes need say no more, all the shock and disapproval clear in her tone.
The young man crossed himself. ‘I didn’t feel that for long. I was just angry.’
‘I would have been angry to find I was holding an empty scrip,’ said Owen. ‘Did anyone else catch your eye? Odd behaviour? Someone out of place?’
Geoffrey shook his head.
‘Do you know who Master Nicholas is?’
‘Who? Oh, yes. He was blamed for Drogo’s wounds.’
‘Did you see him on the barges? Take a moment to think back. They sound as if they were crowded.’
The young man lifted his gaze to the ceiling, frowning as he thought, and finally shaking his head as he lowered his gaze to Owen once more. ‘No. Do you think it was Master Nicholas who was drinking with Drogo?’
‘I doubt it, though I can’t say why. If you hear anything or remember anything else that you think might be of use, I need to know.’ Owen was about to give him leave to go, but thought of one more question. ‘Were you at the abbey gate when Drogo bled?’
‘I was, Captain.’
‘Did you see Master Nicholas approach him?’
‘I did.’ Geoffrey frowned. ‘Why?’
‘Did he carry a weapon?’
‘Not that I could see.’
‘Did he try to sneak up to Drogo?’
Geoffrey shook his head.
‘Did he seem worried? Frightened?’
‘No, Captain.’
‘I am grateful, Geoffrey. And — you might tell the other lads what I’ve asked. I would like to hear from anyone with anything to add.’
Geoffrey nodded and hastened out.
Hempe awaited Owen at the York Tavern, thoughtfully staring at the ceiling beam, a tankard of ale firmly in hand. As Owen greeted him he seemed to remember that he was cross, and pulled his brows together.
‘He’d been in the tavern, a cloaked man entered, said something and left, and then Drogo left.’ Hempe shrugged his powerful shoulders. ‘Precious little in that.’
‘No one recognised the man?’
‘Cloaked and hooded.’ Hempe snorted and shook his head. ‘It could not be much more useless, could it?’
‘So it might have been a priest?’
‘I suppose it might have been a woman for all they could tell.’ Hempe cursed under his breath.
‘You are so caught up in this?’ Owen asked, curious about this man who was becoming a friend.
‘I don’t like the smell of it,’ said Hempe. ‘What did you learn?’
Owen filled him in, by which time Hempe thought he ought to head home.