‘His logic may be contorted,’ said Michael, his laughter dissipating. ‘But his conclusions are not. Tynkell is indeed a hermaphrodite, although I would rather keep this between ourselves. I do not want men like William claiming that a woman cannot hold the post of Chancellor. Tynkell is malleable, and does what I ask. I do not want him expelled, just because of an accident of birth.’
Bartholomew gaped at him. ‘I do not believe you.’
‘Have you not noticed that he never removes his clothes?’ asked Michael. ‘Or wondered why he refuses to let anyone see his body? Even you have not seen it, and you were his physician. Also, you must be aware that he does not bathe. That is because he cannot risk anyone intruding and viewing what he has sought to hide all these years.’
‘No!’ said Bartholomew in disbelief. ‘You cannot be right!’
Michael shrugged. ‘It is your prerogative to be sceptical. But look more closely at his shape when you next have the opportunity. You will notice swellings in the chest. And in the latrines–’
‘But the condition is so rare,’ interrupted Bartholomew, trying to recall what he had learned about a physiology he never thought he would see. ‘I read about it, but I have never seen it manifest itself.’
‘I imagine folk so afflicted do not make themselves available for general viewing. Most hide it, as Tynkell has done. It is safer, considering we live in a world populated by the intolerant and fanatical.’
‘So Deynman’s diagnosis was right?’ Bartholomew narrowed his eyes. ‘You are jesting with me!’
‘Yes,’ said Michael, convulsing with laughter.
‘We are left with a mystery, Matt,’ said Michael the next morning, as he and Bartholomew walked to St Michael’s Church. Father William, ahead of them in the line of scholars that filed along the lane, turned to mutter about them setting a poor example to students by talking in the procession.
It was a pretty day, with a pale blue sky flecked by wispy clouds. The scent of spring was in the air, and bluebells and tiny white violets lined the grassy banks along the edge of the alley. Scruffy children were already gathering them to sell in the streets and at church doors. If they were lucky, they might earn enough to exchange for bread or an onion.
Despite the early hour, the town was busy. Traders gathered in the Market Square to sell their wares, and beggars were out in force, displaying sores and wounds, and raising piteous voices in an appeal for spare coins. Many gathered around the High Street churches, hoping to catch scholars in a pious frame of mind as they left their morning prayers.
‘We still have no idea whether Deschalers killed Bottisham, then committed suicide, or the other way around,’ Michael went on. ‘Nor do we know why. We have established that Deschalers and Bottisham knew each other, and that they had quarrelled in the past. Warde told you Bottisham’s antagonism had long since evaporated, but who knows whether that was really true? And, regarding the ancient dispute about the field, it is difficult to decide which of the two men was in the right.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised. ‘Deschalers should not have been angry with Bottisham because he declined to break the law. I would say Bottisham was in the right.’
‘And I would say Deschalers was. If Bottisham was squeamish about what needed to be done for his client, then he should not have agreed to represent him in the first place. But it does not matter what we think. What is important is what they thought. By all reports Deschalers was barely civil to Bottisham, so what led them to meet each other in such a curious place the night they died?’
‘They must have agreed to go there,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The King’s Mill is not somewhere you would happen upon by accident.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Michael, ignoring William’s black scowl.
‘I might have suggested that Deschalers visited the mill to inspect the property he had invested in, and Bottisham spotted lights in a building usually locked at that time of night and went to investigate. But that is not possible: no one passes the mill by chance, because it is on a path that leads nowhere.’
‘True. Then what about the possibility that one caught the other committing suicide, and ended up dead when he tried to stop him?’ Michael shook his head and answered his own question. ‘No. Neither was the kind to kill himself.’
‘We know Deschalers intended to go to the mill, because he had the key with him,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘But why he was there is not really the question we need answered: we need to know why Bottisham was there with him.’
‘We must come up with a solution soon, or people are going to start accusing the University of covering up a murder. It is one thing when someone lowly is killed by a scholar, but there will be a furious outcry about Bottisham killing a rich man like Deschalers.’
‘It may have happened the other way around. In fact, if I were to wager on the outcome, that would be my choice: Deschalers was ruthless and inclined to be vicious, whereas Bottisham was more likely to wound with his tongue.’
‘We will never prove either theory with the information we have now. I think–’
‘If you must persist with this unseemly chattering, then leave the procession,’ boomed William, finally driven to anger. Several students smirked at the sound of discord among the Fellows. ‘I know you have murders to solve, but there is a time and a place for everything, and your investigations do not belong here.’
‘He is jealous,’ whispered Michael to Bartholomew, as William moved on. ‘Now he is no longer my Junior Proctor, he feels left out when I am on a case.’
‘Who will replace him? Do you have someone in mind?’
‘I do not want a replacement.’
Bartholomew looked at him sharply. ‘You did not use the Junior Proctor’s honorarium to pay for a Corpse Examiner, did you? I am effectively your subordinate, but with a different title?’
‘Well, why not?’ asked Michael, not bothering to deny that he had manipulated the situation. ‘I know where I am with you. And better the devil …’
‘And you certainly should not discuss the Devil while you process to mass!’ screeched William. ‘I am Keeper of the University Chest, and I will not stand by and see College rules shamelessly flaunted by Fellows who should know better.’
‘And I am Senior Proctor, and outrank you,’ snapped Michael.
‘I am an important man,’ argued William, although his voice dropped to a more reasonable level. He knew Michael was right. ‘Particularly now the Hand of Valence Marie is in my care.’
Michael regarded him with cool, green eyes. ‘And you must see how badly that will end. You have drawn attention to the fact that the University holds a relic that was discovered in the town’s ditches. Note I say town’s ditches, Father. It is only a matter of time before the burgesses claim we have taken something that is rightfully theirs.’
‘I am doing what I think is ethical,’ declared William hotly. ‘The Chest is in my care, and I shall decide how to deal with its contents. I will not have you telling me what I can and cannot do.’
Michael continued to glare. ‘Actually, you have no choice. I created the post of Keeper, and I can just as easily dispense with it. If you want to stay in power, then you will do as I say. You must devise a way to stop people coming to view the Hand without it resulting in ill feelings – or worse.’
‘But I–’ objected William.
Michael overrode him. ‘This is not something for debate. The Hand is dangerous, so you must ensure it is quietly forgotten. You have a week to devise a plan – or you will be Keeper no more.’
‘Do not talk while we are processing to the sacred mass,’ snapped William, unable to think of anything else to say. ‘It creates a bad impression on the students.’
‘Unless he puts an end to his little enterprise, creating bad impressions will be the least of our worries,’ muttered Michael behind the friar’s stiff, unbending back as they entered the church.