‘I agree,’ said Michael soberly. ‘Unfortunately, Langelee does not.’
‘What about Blaston as the culprit?’ asked Tulyet, turning his mind back to murder. ‘He is a decent, hard-working man, but he has been very vocal about the high price of ale in Drax’s taverns.’
‘He left the College for nails, so has no alibi for the murder,’ replied Michael, before Bartholomew could stop him. ‘He is no killer, but I am keeping an open mind anyway.’
‘And I shall do the same,’ said Tulyet. ‘Do you have any other suspects?’
‘Fen the pardoner,’ replied Michael immediately. ‘He was seen – by Blaston – poking his head around our College gates not long before Drax’s corpse was so callously left there.’
‘Poynton and the two nuns also looked inside Michaelhouse,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘So did Prior Etone. But none of them – including Fen – has a motive for killing Drax.’
‘I can make a few enquiries about them,’ offered Tulyet, when Michael glared at Bartholomew. ‘I know the pilgrims stayed at one of Drax’s inns – the Griffin – the night before they arrived at the Carmelite Friary, and Poynton in particular seems easily provoked. Are these your only suspects, or are there more?’
‘Chestre Hostel argued with Drax about an increase in rent,’ replied Michael. ‘And there was a quarrel between them on the morning of the murder. Chestre is not far from Michaelhouse – they may have dumped the body there as some bizarre form of attack on the Colleges.’
‘They might,’ agreed Tulyet. ‘But I shall leave Chestre to you. Kendale is extremely devious, and I doubt a mere secular will catch him out in lies or contradictions. But be careful. I detect something dangerous about him – he is not a man to cross lightly.’
Bartholomew regarded Tulyet uneasily, not liking the notion that Kendale had unsettled a hard, practical, courageous man like the Sheriff. Michael did not seem to share his concerns, though, and went on to outline the case against the last of his suspects: Celia and Heslarton. Tulyet looked thoughtful when informed of the rumour that they were enjoying an amour.
‘That is an interesting hypothesis, but can you be sure that Alice was the intended victim?’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Emma is unpopular in the town, and Heslarton is her henchman. Perhaps the poison struck the wrong victims.’
Michael nodded slowly. ‘Emma is more than unpopular – she is feared and hated.’
Tulyet agreed. ‘She is involved in a number of unpleasant disputes, but the worst is the one with the Gilbertine Priory over Edmund House. She bought it for a pittance, when they were in desperate need of ready cash, but she leaves it empty and rotting, despite the fact that they have offered to pay well above the odds to have it back.’
‘Do you know why she has taken such a stance?’ asked Michael.
Tulyet shook his head. ‘I asked her, but she fobbed me off with some tale about Heslarton being fond of the place.’
‘Are you suggesting a Gilbertine might be our culprit?’ asked Bartholomew unhappily. Two canons came immediately to mind: the enigmatic Thelnetham, who had been behaving oddly of late, and Brother Jude, who was enough of a ruffian to enjoy camp-ball.
‘I am suggesting nothing, just telling you what I know of Emma’s dealings.’ Tulyet turned to Michael. ‘Now what about these pilgrim badges? I understand you believe the thief and the killer is one and the same?’
‘The first crime was against Poynton in the Carmelite Friary,’ obliged Michael. ‘But since then, the villain has also targeted the Mayor, Meryfeld, a wealthy burgess named Frevill, two Franciscans and Drax.’
‘I heard he picked on Celia, too,’ said Tulyet. ‘And if that is the case, she cannot be the killer – not if the culprit is also our thief.’
‘We only have her word that it happened,’ said Michael. ‘And in my experience, criminals lie.’
‘You can add Welfry to your list of victims, too,’ said Tulyet. ‘He has not made a formal complaint, but Prior Morden mentioned it. Apparently, it was a badge of which he was very fond.’
‘John Schorne’s boot?’ asked Bartholomew. Its loss would be a blow to Welfry, and the pity was that the thief would probably throw it away once he realised it was from an unofficial shrine and thus was essentially worthless.
‘What have you learned, Dick?’ asked Michael. ‘So far, we have provided more information than we have been given.’
‘That is because you have been more successful than me,’ replied Tulyet gloomily. ‘I questioned Emma’s entire household about the theft of her box and the poisoning, but learned nothing. They are terrified of her, so prising information from them was like drawing teeth.’
‘How is Emma’s tooth?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I do not suppose you noticed?’
Tulyet regarded him askance. ‘I cannot say I did, no.’
‘You mentioned a bone to pick with Matt?’ said Michael. ‘What was it?’
Tulyet’s scowl returned, and Bartholomew wished Michael had not reminded him of it. ‘I shall have to show you. Come with me.’
Exchanging bemused glances, Bartholomew and Michael followed the Sheriff along the High Street to the Guildhall. Scholars were normally barred from it, because it was where town matters were discussed, and the University was not welcome. Bartholomew had only ever been inside it once, when he was a boy and his brother-in-law had taken him. It was a fine place, unashamedly brazen about the fact that a lot of money had been spent on it. That day, its front entrance was ringed with spectators, and Tulyet was forced to shoulder his way through them to reach it.
But when he opened the door and ushered Bartholomew and Michael inside, it was not the extravagance of the interior furnishings that caught their eye – it was the massive war machine that sat in it. The device was a trebuchet, which was used for hurling missiles at the walls of enemy fortresses, and it usually stood in the castle grounds. Its mighty throwing arm grazed the ceiling of the lofty chamber, while its wheels only just fitted between the tiers of benches that were permanently afixed to the walls. Bartholomew glanced at the average-sized door through which they had just walked, then back to the contraption.
‘How in God’s name did you get that in here?’
‘You tell me,’ said Tulyet coolly.
Bartholomew frowned. ‘I suppose you must have dismantled it, then reassembled the pieces once they were all inside. But why would you do such a thing?’
‘I assure you, I did not,’ said Tulyet stiffly. ‘And do not play the innocent with me, Matt. This prank is not amusing.’
Bartholomew disagreed, and was all admiration for whoever had devised it. Then he turned to the Sheriff and saw he was being regarded in a way that was not at all friendly. He felt his jaw drop. ‘Surely, you cannot think I –’
‘I know you did,’ interrupted Tulyet. ‘You must have dropped your bag at some point, because we found two medicine phials with your writing on them, plus one of the implements you use for surgery. And do not tell me you are too busy for such tricks, because Dickon saw you blowing up pots in Meryfeld’s garden. That suggests you have plenty of free hours for mischief.’
Bartholomew saw Michael begin to snigger. ‘I did drop my bag,’ he admitted. ‘But it happened in Chestre Hostel, not here.’
He considered the events of the previous night. Kendale’s injury had not been caused by a door, but might well have occurred while a trebuchet was being dismantled. Kendale and his lads must have stolen the war machine from the castle, returned home to await treatment for Kendale’s damaged hand, then gone to reassemble the device when they were sure the Guildhall would be empty. Bartholomew had seen them set off with his own eyes, from outside Michaelhouse.