‘You cannot, Brother. Technically, all they did was give us wine and engage us in conversation. Besides, Kendale may well have done it to exacerbate the trouble between the hostels and the Colleges, and we should not play into his hands.’
‘No,’ acknowledged Michael reluctantly. ‘We should not. But I will be watching him, and if he puts one foot wrong, he will learn what it means to annoy the Senior Proctor.’
Once washed and dressed, Bartholomew limped lethargically into the yard to join his colleagues for their morning devotions. The leg he had broken falling off his horse the previous year ached from the cold, and the wine had left him with a nasty headache. Langelee regarded him in alarm.
‘You cannot be ill!’ he cried. ‘Not when you are supposed to be Official Physician for the camp-ball this afternoon. Prior Leccheworth said he would not let the game go ahead unless there was a qualified medicus on hand, to deal with mishaps.’
‘I disapprove of camp-ball,’ said Suttone, who was in an awkward position: should he support his Order or his Master? ‘Why could the Gilbertines not sponsor a lecture instead?’
‘Because they know what people like,’ explained Langelee impatiently. ‘Which do you think will be more popular among the masses – a lecture or an exciting game, full of blood and savagery?’
‘Christ!’ muttered Bartholomew.
‘And hundreds of people will be there to watch,’ Langelee went on, turning back to him. ‘So you had better pull yourself together. Go and lie down. Use my room, if you like. There is a fire burning, and the blankets are reasonably clean.’
‘I am not ill,’ said Bartholomew. He became aware that Thelnetham was regarding him oddly. He had been about to tell his colleagues what had happened at Chestre, but the Gilbertine’s expression made him reconsider, although he was not sure why. ‘Just tired.’
‘Then rest,’ ordered Langelee. ‘If you are not fighting fit by this afternoon I shall be very disappointed. And you do not want me disappointed, believe me.’
‘You had better do as he says,’ murmured Michael, while Bartholomew tried to decide whether he had just been threatened with violence. ‘And afterwards, Valence can read to your class while you come with me to see Celia Drax. I know we have spoken to her already, but I am sure there is more to be learned from her.’
Bartholomew decided to take Langelee at his word, and exchange a chilly hour in church for a pleasant interlude reading by the fire. He heard the procession leave a few moments later, and was already engrossed in Galen’s Tegni, when the door opened and Thelnetham walked in.
‘Are you sure you are not ill?’ the Gilbertine asked. ‘You are paler than usual.’
For some reason, Bartholomew felt uneasy with Thelnetham in the room. The canon was older and smaller than he, and represented no kind of physical threat, but there was something about his manner that morning which was unsettling. His eyes seemed oddly bright, and his smile brittle.
‘Too much wine last night,’ explained Bartholomew, supposing he might as well be honest.
‘I see,’ said Thelnetham, his expression unreadable. ‘But I am forgetting the purpose of my visit. Agatha is outside, and wants to know if she can bring you some broth. She is reluctant to enter our rooms uninvited, as you know.’
Agatha always did exactly as she pleased, and it was Thelnetham who made a fuss about her going where she was not supposed to be. Bartholomew could only suppose the Gilbertine had intercepted her, and ordered her to wait. He could not imagine she would be pleased, and knew he had to make amends fast – Agatha was vengeful, and her grudges lasted a long time.
‘I will come,’ he said, starting to stand. But Thelnetham waved him back down.
‘It is unseemly to entertain women in our quarters, but I will overlook the matter today, as you are unwell. I shall tell her she may enter, just this once.’
Within moments, Agatha’s bulk filled the door, all sturdy hips and swinging skirts. Bartholomew was relieved when he saw Thelnetham had not accompanied her.
‘Here,’ she said, handing Bartholomew a steaming bowl. ‘You cannot be ill for the camp-ball, because I am looking forward to it. And do not say Leccheworth can appoint another Official Physician, for none of the others will sew wounds.’
Bartholomew sipped the broth, and was surprised to find it was good, proving that decent victuals could be produced in Michaelhouse on occasion. While he drank, Agatha regaled him with opinions. She covered a wide range of topics, including the stolen pilgrim regalia, the University’s excitement over the Stock Extraordinary Lecture, Emma’s ruthless greed in acquiring property, and Seneschal Welfry’s skill in practical jokes.
‘He has become the Colleges’ champion,’ she declared. ‘But unfortunately, he is so determined that no one will be hurt during his pranks that he lets himself be limited. Kendale, on the other hand, does not care about safety. And if a College member is injured, he is delighted.’
Bartholomew suspected she was right. Her next subject was Celia Drax, and the new widow’s unseemly behaviour since her husband’s death.
‘She is out all the time, enjoying herself. Of course, it was all timed perfectly.’
‘What was?’ Bartholomew asked, bemused.
‘The two deaths – Celia’s husband and Heslarton’s wife. They are free to be together now.’
‘They are lovers?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. But then he recalled how Heslarton had looked at Celia during Drax’s funeral, and supposed Agatha might be right.
‘Of course they are,’ declared Agatha. ‘And everyone in the town knows it. Except you, it would seem. And Drax and Alice were murdered on successive days, so it is obvious what happened – Heslarton and Celia plotted together to get rid of them.’
‘It could be coincidence,’ said Bartholomew. Or could it? What about the pharmacopoeia he had found in Celia’s house, which listed wolfsbane as a herb that could kill? But would they really put poison in wine Heslarton’s beloved daughter might drink? And why would either want Drax’s body left in Michaelhouse?
‘Drax had a book,’ Bartholomew began tentatively. ‘One that listed herbs and their uses…’
Agatha folded her arms, and a look of immense satisfaction settled on her heavy features. ‘Well, there you are, then. Drax could not read, but Celia can.’
‘Celia told me it was the other way around: Drax was literate, but she is not.’
Agatha’s eyes narrowed. ‘Then you had better find out why she lied to you.’
Although Agatha’s broth had soothed Bartholomew’s headache and settled his stomach, her gossip and theories had left him acutely uneasy. When Michael arrived, he repeated what she had said. The monk listened carefully, rubbing his jowls.
‘It is possible that Celia and Heslarton dispatched their spouses. And it would certainly make for a tidy solution. Unfortunately, a pharmacopoeia and an alleged affair do not represent evidence – we need more than that to charge them. Moreover, we know the killer has a penchant for pilgrim badges, but Celia and Heslarton are wealthy – they can buy such items, and have no need to steal.’
‘Emma is wealthy,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘But Heslarton may not have disposable income of his own. Meanwhile, Celia is the kind of woman who removes valuables from corpses.’
‘True,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘However – and I am reluctant to mention this, because you will be angry – they are not my only suspects for Drax’s murder. I am not ready to exclude Blaston from our enquiries yet. He had the motive and the opportunity.’
‘Blaston is not a killer,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘You know he is not, and we will be wasting our time if we pursue him.’