‘Kendale is the culprit?’ asked Michael, amusement fading when Bartholomew explained what he thought had probably happened. ‘Am I to assume this is a challenge to the Colleges, then? That we must brace ourselves for more mischief in retaliation?’
‘I do not care about scholars’ spats,’ said Tulyet resentfully. ‘But I do care about my Guildhall. How am I supposed to hold meetings with this monstrosity in here?’
‘Kendale pulled it to pieces and rebuilt it within the space of a few hours,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And he has probably never touched a device like this before. Surely your soldiers, who are familiar with its workings, can reverse the process? Or are you telling me that scholars–’
‘No,’ declared Tulyet, grimly determined. ‘Your University will not best the town. Not in this matter and not in any other, either.’
Chapter 6
Michael scowled as they left the Guildhall, annoyed that he should have to deal with student pranks when he was busy with more important matters. But he began to smirk when Bartholomew described the experiment he had conducted with his fellow physicians in Meryfeld’s garden. And he laughed aloud when he heard how they had all been knocked off their feet, an unrestrained guffaw that was infectious and had people who heard it smiling in their turn.
‘I wish I had been there,’ he declared, when he had his mirth under control. ‘Not standing by the pot, obviously, but with Dickon, spying over the wall.’
‘The tale will be all over the town soon,’ said Bartholomew gloomily. ‘And it will do nothing to convince people that I do not dabble in sorcery.’
‘But you were dabbling in sorcery,’ Michael pointed out, beginning to laugh again. ‘Or alchemy at least, which is much the same thing. And you corrupted your colleagues into doing likewise. What is wrong with just buying a decent lamp?’
‘Because there is no such thing. At least, not one that projects a steady light for delicate procedures such as…’
‘Such as surgery,’ finished Michael, when Bartholomew faltered. ‘Well, if you do not want this story to be blown out of all proportion, I recommend you keep your motives to yourself. And next time you experiment, make sure Dickon is out.’
When they reached Celia’s house, a maid informed them that her mistress had gone riding, and was not expected back until the afternoon.
‘Riding?’ asked Michael in distaste. ‘Is that any kind of activity for a recent widow?’
The maid refused to meet his eyes. ‘Come back later,’ she said, closing the door.
‘Celia’s behaviour is reckless,’ said Michael, turning to leave. ‘She might as well wear a placard around her neck, claiming she is glad her husband is dead. Does it mean she did have a hand in his murder, as we have speculated?’
‘Or does it mean she is innocent?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘If she were guilty, surely she would have put on a convincing show of grief, just to make sure people do not suspect her of foul play?’
‘The Lord only knows,’ sighed Michael, as they retraced their steps down Bridge Street. ‘I thought I would enjoy working on this case – an opportunity to tax my wits. But the hostel–College spat means I cannot give it my full attention. Did I tell you I spent half the night on patrol?’
‘Doing what?’
‘Ensuring York Hostel did not incinerate a College in revenge for the blaze that destroyed their stable yesterday. The fire was almost certainly an accident, but York brays it was an act of arson. It is all very annoying.’
‘There is Gyseburne,’ said Bartholomew, nodding to where his grim-faced colleague was striding towards them, long, grey hair flying. ‘Why is he glaring at me?’
‘Is it true, Bartholomew?’ Gyseburne asked without preamble. ‘You stole a great war machine from the castle and used some form of sorcery to spirit it through the Guildhall’s door?’
Bartholomew groaned, and it was Michael who answered. ‘A student prank, but there was no magic involved, just simple ingenuity. There was no Matt involved, either.’
‘Are you sure?’ Gyseburne asked. ‘Because I heard he dropped various identifiable belongings.’
‘That was part of the deception,’ interrupted Michael. ‘No doubt Chestre Hostel thinks it highly amusing to have a senior member of a College blamed for their mischief.’
Gyseburne made an expression that might have been a smile. ‘I suppose it is the sort of thing students might do. I was one once, and masterminded all manner of hilarious tricks.’
‘Did you?’ asked Bartholomew, trying to imagine the dour Gyseburne as a young and carefree prankster. The image would not come.
‘I do not like Chestre Hostel,’ Gyseburne confided. ‘They summoned me last night, but I refused to oblige. It goes against the grain to ignore pleas for help, especially from men who can pay, but they unnerve me, so I decided to have nothing to do with them.’
Bartholomew wished he had done the same. But Gyseburne was right: it was a physician’s duty to help those in need, and he had sworn sacred oaths to say he would always do so.
‘I heard about the jape in the Dominican Priory too,’ said Gyseburne, ranging off on another matter. ‘But Seneschal Welfry is better now, and came to inspect the Guildhall first thing this morning. He professed himself very impressed by your … by the trick.’
‘Oh no!’ moaned Michael. ‘He is going to devise some other prank to answer the challenge.’
‘He might, but his motive will be fun, not malice,’ said Gyseburne. ‘Like me, he is a God-fearing, peaceful man who has been on a pilgrimage, although his was only to some shrine where the Devil was trapped in a shoe. Mine was to Canterbury. I walked all the way, and felt I had done a great thing when the towers of the cathedral came into sight. I was unwell at the time, and the journey went a long way to curing me.’
‘Yet you do not wear a badge to proclaim what you have done,’ observed Michael.
Gyseburne’s expression was pained. ‘You have touched on a sore point, Brother, because it has been stolen from me. I am distressed, because it was a pretty thing, and cost me a fortune.’
‘Did you see the thief?’ asked Michael eagerly. ‘Or have any idea who he might be?’
‘He broke into my house when I was asleep. I have been racking my brains to think of suspects, and while I do not like to cast aspersions…’
‘Who?’ demanded Michael, when Gyseburne faltered.
Gyseburne looked away when he spoke, uncomfortable telling tales. ‘Well, Alice Heslarton remarked on it, and pointed it out to her family. Then those horrible Chestre men asked if it was authentic, and so did Yffi the builder. Horneby and Etone of the Carmelites eyed it covetously, and so, I am sorry to say, did Michaelhouse’s Thelnetham. And then there was Seneschal Welfry…’
‘None of them have yellow hair,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And the thief was–’
‘Have you ever heard of wigs?’ asked Gyseburne acidly. ‘The presence or absence of yellow hair means nothing, as far as I am concerned.’
Michael watched him go, his expression perturbed. ‘He has a point about the wig. However, I think we can cross Etone, Horneby, Welfry and Thelnetham off his list.’
‘Can we?’ Michael’s startled glance made Bartholomew feel treacherous, but he pressed on anyway. ‘I do not know Thelnetham well, despite us living in the same College for six months.’