‘Their absence has made them bitter as well as dangerous,’ said Bartholomew, watching them walk away. ‘I wish they were not here.’
‘You are not alone,’ said Michael gravely. ‘There have been all manner of complaints about them, but unfortunately nothing serious enough to warrant prosecution. Dick was right: if we expel them without irrefutable and incontestable evidence, it will appear as though we are criticising the King’s Pardon. His Majesty will not like that, and it should be avoided at all costs.’
‘What sort of complaints?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘About their manners, for a start,’ said Quenhyth, back at Bartholomew’s side now the two louts had gone. ‘Edward especially is rude and overbearing. You are right to include him in your investigation into the deaths of Deschalers and Bottisham.’
‘Why do you think he is part of that?’ asked Michael.
Quenhyth looked superior. ‘It is obvious that he and his friend are the culprits, and common sense dictates that you must arrest them immediately.’
‘But they have learned to fight, so challenge them with care,’ added Redmeadow, who had been in Cambridge when the pair had first come to public attention. ‘They were apprentices, so they already knew how to brawl, but in France they were taught how to use swords and knives.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Michael, fixing him with a steely glance. ‘Have you been listening to gossip in taverns, and thus breaking University rules?’
‘I have not,’ said Quenhyth sanctimoniously. ‘I would never do such a thing.’ He looked smugly at his discomfited colleague.
Redmeadow blushed, but shook his head. ‘A tavern is not where I witnessed their newly acquired fighting skills. It was near St Mary the Great. They picked a quarrel with Ufford from Gonville Hall – or perhaps he picked one with them. Regardless, Ufford was lucky they did not kill him.’
‘Ufford is a son of the Earl of Suffolk,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘He has been well trained in the knightly arts and should know how to take care of himself.’
‘Quite,’ said Redmeadow, nodding vigorously. ‘That is why I was surprised when they defeated him. I would have nothing to do with them, if I were you, Doctor. Leave them to the Senior Proctor.’
‘Thank you very much,’ said Michael flatly.
There was a glorious sunset that evening. Bartholomew and Michael walked through the kitchens to where the College grounds stretched in a thin strip down to the river. The part nearest the door was planted with herbs and vegetables; some of the beds were dug ready to receive annual seeds and bulbs, while others were the kind that grew all year. The herb garden, Agatha’s pride and joy, was laid out in neat squares, each section containing a different kind of aromatic or edible plant. She was less interested in the vegetables, and their management was left to the cook and his two assistants. One was there now, hoeing a space for the powerful little leeks she used to disguise the taste of meat that was past its best.
Behind the vegetable plots a gated wall separated the cultivated part of the garden from the orchard. The orchard was one of Bartholomew’s favourite places, mainly because only he and Michael ever seemed to use it. The fruit – largely apples and pears, but some cherries and plums – was harvested each year, but for the most part the trees were left unattended. The cook occasionally directed one of his helpers to cut the grass, which was gathered, dried and used as hay, but such activities were infrequent, and the fragrant little wood was invariably deserted and peaceful.
Near one of the walls, an old apple tree had fallen, and its sturdy trunk formed a pleasant bench for any scholar wanting a little tranquillity, away from the hubbub in the conclave and hall. It was sheltered from the prevailing wind, but placed to catch the best of the sun, and Bartholomew loved the way the branches swayed above him and created dappled patterns on the grass with the sunlight.
It was pleasant to sit there that evening, despite the fact that the end of the day brought cooler temperatures and a wind that was biting. The distant sun was a glowing orange orb that lit the clouds in layers of purple and scarlet. The sounds so characteristic of dusk were beginning: the hoarse yell of a baker selling the last of his wares, the clatter and creak of carts making their way home, the weary voices of labourers returning from surrounding fields, and bells chiming for vespers. Bartholomew could hear the great bass of St Mary the Great, followed by the cracked treble of St Botolph’s.
Michael shivered. ‘I do not know why you wanted to sit out here, Matt. It is freezing.’
‘It is peaceful,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘Besides, William is ranting in the conclave about some lecture he heard today. He claims the speaker’s points were wrong, because he was a Dominican – and being a Dominican rendered him incapable of rational argument. I do not want to listen to that sort of rubbish. I would rather be out here.’
‘William in full flow does change matters,’ agreed Michael, pulling his cloak more tightly around his shoulders. ‘But we should not stay here long. We both need a good night’s rest, if we are to be alert and perceptive when we interview the Gonville Fellows tomorrow. I did not like the fact that they refused to speak to me today.’
‘They were praying, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, who did not think it odd at all for Bottisham’s colleagues to spend the day of his burial on their knees. ‘And they declined to break their vigil out of concern for his soul.’
‘Yes, yes,’ murmured Michael, knowing he was right. ‘We shall speak to them in the morning, and I shall have my answers. Perhaps it was just as well. I was tired and sluggish today when we interviewed Deschalers’s apprentices, and I need to be sharp for the men who defeated us in the Disputatio. The workmen told us nothing of relevance, and I do not want Gonville to do likewise, just because I am too weary to see through clever lies.’
‘The apprentices were not lying, Brother – they really do know nothing of any relevance. But you are right about being tired today. It was difficult to sleep last night. I kept thinking about Bottisham – and Deschalers, of course. But Bottisham was harder … because I liked him, I suppose.’
Michael nodded. ‘I was restless, too. And attending Bottisham’s requiem this afternoon sapped the last of my energy. It was a sad business. I saw you there, with Master Warde of Valence Marie.’
‘He kept coughing,’ said Bartholomew, who had used the distraction to take his mind off the fact that they were burying someone of whom he had been fond. ‘Have you learned anything about what might have happened in the King’s Mill last night from other sources?’
Michael banged his fist hard against the trunk, making Bartholomew jump. It was unlike the monk to be openly emotional. ‘No! But it is not from want of trying. I interviewed the Millers’ Society – Morice, Cheney, Bernarde and the Lavenhams – but learned nothing I did not already know.’
Bartholomew closed his eyes, and it crossed his mind that they might never discover the truth about the deaths. They were silent for a while, each thinking about the bodies in the mill. Eventually, Michael spoke again.
‘Did I tell you Sergeant Orwelle has still not managed to find out who killed Bosel? He asked for my help this afternoon. No witnesses have come forward, and he cannot decide whether it is because there are none, or because they are too afraid to speak.’
‘Has he taken Dick Tulyet’s lead, and narrowed his list of suspects to Thorpe and the Mortimer clan? And that odd woman?’
‘That woman – Bess – barely recalls her own name, let alone whether she murdered someone. Perhaps you could talk to her, and see whether you can make sense of what she says. You have a way with the insane. You should do, given the practice you have in dealing with Clippesby.’