Blaston laughed. ‘Tiling is a skilled task, Brother, and I will not undertake anything I cannot do well. Of course, I could probably do a better job than Yffi – I have no respect for his workmanship.’
‘You are not the only one,’ muttered Michael. ‘Did you see anyone tampering with our gates?’
‘Unfortunately not,’ said Blaston ruefully. ‘Or I would have stopped them. But my work absorbs me, as you have just seen, and I notice very little once I start.’
‘When we spoke before, you mentioned your unhappiness with the high prices Drax charged for ale. Will you tell me exactly what–’
Blaston’s eyes opened wide with alarm. ‘You think I killed him because his ale was too expensive! But I was here, in Michaelhouse, when he was murdered.’
‘Actually, you were not,’ countered Michael. ‘Drax died when you told us you left to buy nails.’
‘The smith will tell you I went to his forge and left him money,’ objected Blaston. ‘Ask him.’
‘I have, and he did. I am not accusing you, Blaston. I am merely pointing out a fact – namely that no one can vouch for you at the time of Drax’s death.’
‘Then what about Yffi?’ demanded Blaston angrily. ‘His alibi is those vile lads, who would think nothing of lying to protect him – or rather, to protect their jobs. Moreover, he disliked Drax’s high prices, too, and was always complaining about them. Ask him these questions, not me!’
Bartholomew was dismayed to see tears glitter as Blaston turned back to his work. He grabbed Michael’s arm and tugged him away, determined that the carpenter should be distressed no further.
‘You hurt his feelings with your “facts”, Brother,’ he said reproachfully, when they were out of earshot. ‘We both know he is innocent, so why torment him?’
Michael glared. ‘Because it would be remiss not to explore all the lines of enquiry available to us. Blaston probably is innocent, but you think so because he is a friend and you like him, whereas I would rather eliminate him with solid evidence. Dick Tulyet will not be sentimental about what he learns, and neither should we.’
Bartholomew supposed he had a point, although he did not feel like admitting it. ‘Where are you going next?’
‘It is time I put my needs first, and my investigations second. I am going to ask Yffi why he has left us with no roof. Are you coming, or are you afraid I might say something to offend him, too?’
With a sigh, Bartholomew followed him through Michaelhouse’s gateless entrance.
The Carmelite Priory was a good deal calmer than it had been during the kerfuffle over the attempt to snatch St Simon Stock’s scapular. The shrine was busy, as usual, but it was now being guarded by two sturdy lay-brothers. Bartholomew and Michael arrived just as the visiting pilgrims emerged from it. The physician was surprised to see Horneby and Welfry with them.
‘You should be resting,’ he told the Carmelite.
Horneby smiled. ‘I woke this morning feeling much better, although, as you can hear, I am still hoarse. Then Welfry said St Simon Stock might be willing to ensure I have a strong voice for the lecture I am to give in his honour, so we went to pray in his shrine.’
Welfry crossed himself. ‘I hope he listened, and will be inclined to oblige. I am looking forward to Horneby’s address – the University is dull during term time, when everyone is too busy teaching to propound new theories, and I need something to enliven my life.’
‘I do not suppose you enlivened it by stealing my College’s gates, did you?’ asked Michael coolly. ‘Someone spirited them away this morning.’
Welfry looked startled, then laughed when Michael explained what had happened. The monk was unimpressed by his reaction.
‘I would not have thought the Seneschal would delight in silly ventures,’ he said icily.
‘Then you do not know him very well,’ muttered Horneby.
‘I am all admiration for the hostels’ ingenuity today,’ declared Welfry, still smiling. ‘Taking the gates is not as clever as the trebuchet business, but–’
‘How do you know it was a hostel that stole them?’ Michael pounced.
‘Oh, come, Brother!’ exclaimed Welfry. ‘Of course it was a hostel. Who else would pick on a College? I shall have to think of an answering trick to–’
‘No,’ ordered Michael sharply. ‘This ridiculous rivalry has gone far enough. We shall have a war on our hands if it continues, and none of us want a bit of foolery to end in bloodshed.’
Welfry sobered immediately. ‘Of course not, Brother. Forgive me. It must be because…’ He trailed off, and his hand went to the place where the little boot had been pinned. A hole in the material showed where it had been ripped away.
‘I heard you lost your signaculum,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I am sorry.’
‘So am I,’ said Welfry, genuinely downcast. ‘I know Dominicans are not supposed to own personal property, but that badge represented … It was my reminder that…’
‘It helped him keep his sense of fun in check,’ explained Horneby. ‘He thinks laughter makes him a poor friar, although I cannot say I agree. There is nothing wrong with making people smile, and if more men were like Welfry, Cambridge would be a happier place.’
Welfry blushed, clearly uncomfortable with his friend’s approbation. He turned awkward and tongue-tied, uncharacteristically at a loss for words.
‘I had better do all I can to retrieve it, then,’ said Michael. ‘In the meantime, concentrate on your duties as Seneschal. That should keep you away from the temptations posed by practical jokes.’
‘Come, Welfry,’ said Horneby, taking his friend’s arm. ‘I have prepared the next part of my lecture and I would like you to read it. That should keep you out of mischief for a while.’
Keenly interested, Welfry allowed himself to be led away. Michael watched them go.
‘There is something odd about their friendship,’ he said. ‘Welfry possesses an excellent mind, but he is too frivolous to put it to good purpose, so why does Horneby waste time with him?’
‘Horneby is not wasting his time,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Welfry has helped him a great deal with his sermon – probably more than Horneby will ever admit.’
But Michael was not listening. He had fixed glaring eyes on Prior Etone, who was standing by the shrine with Yffi. He marched towards them, ignoring the greetings of Poynton and Fen as he stalked past. Not wanting to cause offence, Bartholomew hastened to wish the pilgrims good day.
‘Has Michael located the villain who stole my badge yet?’ demanded Poynton. His face was more flushed than usual, and his eyes had a yellow cast, both signs of poor health.
‘If he had, he would have told you,’ retorted Fen sharply, and it seemed that even his equable temper was being tested by Poynton’s constant belligerence.
‘I understand you stayed in the Griffin when you first arrived in the town,’ said Bartholomew, also sufficiently irritated by Poynton’s manner to go on the offensive. He did not share Michael’s suspicions about Fen as a suspect for the killer-thief, but Poynton was another matter entirely: he might well have lied about his badge being stolen, and the crimes did seem to have started the day he arrived. ‘It was owned by John Drax, who was subsequently murdered. Did you meet him?’
‘Yes – and we disliked him profoundly,’ Poynton declared. ‘I am not surprised God saw fit to end his miserable life. His ale was expensive, and he denied his regular patrons credit.’
Fen smiled at the physician. ‘Speaking of wine, Thelnetham was here earlier, and he mentioned that you partook too heavily of it last night. Are you recovered? You are very pale.’