‘They are chilled to the bone, Brother,’ said Horneby, seeing what he was thinking. ‘It has been a long afternoon, and the wind was biting. I understand why they are eager to find a fire.’
Welfry agreed. ‘They are running to warm themselves, not to paw through Poynton’s things.’
‘My poor friend!’ said Horneby, regarding the Dominican sheepishly. ‘You came today because I promised you some fun, to make up for the distress of losing your signaculum, but I suspect you feel you have been most shamelessly misled.’
Welfry nodded unhappily. ‘Watching men punch and kick each other is not my idea of entertainment, and I am sorry for Poynton. There was nothing to laugh about this afternoon.’
‘Then let us remedy that,’ said Horneby. ‘Father William has given me a theological tract to read – one he penned himself. I warrant there will be something in that to bring a smile to your face.’
Welfry did not look convinced, but allowed himself to be led away, leaving Michael alone with Poynton. The monk stared down at the arrogant, unattractive face for a long time, grateful the death was an accident, and not something else he would have to investigate. Eventually, Bartholomew arrived, looking for him.
‘You had better examine Poynton,’ Michael said tiredly. ‘The Gilbertine Priory counts as University land, because some of its canons are scholars. His death comes under our jurisdiction.’
‘Now?’ asked Bartholomew unenthusiastically. ‘I am cold, wet and tired.’
‘So am I,’ snapped Michael. ‘But I will need a cause of death for my records, and I would like the matter concluded today. Then I can concentrate on catching the killer-thief and preventing the Colleges and hostels from tearing each other apart.’
With a sigh of resignation, Bartholomew obliged, but soon forgot his discomfort when he discovered what lay beneath the fine garments. He had suspected Poynton was ill, but he was appalled to learn the extent to which disease had ravaged its victim. He regarded the pilgrim with compassion, feeling it went some way to explaining why Poynton had been so irascible. It also explained why he had devoted so much time to pilgrimage – and why he had been so distressed when his signaculum had been stolen. Doubtless he knew he was living on borrowed time and would soon need any blessings such items might confer on their owners.
‘Well?’ Michael asked, impatient to be gone. ‘Which was it? Crushing or a broken neck?’
‘Neither,’ replied Bartholomew, tearing his thoughts away from Poynton’s sickness to more practical matters. ‘He died from a knife in the heart.’
There was silence in the Carmelite chapel after Bartholomew made his announcement. In the distance, Welfry was laughing, his voice a merry chime above Horneby’s deeper chuckle. Etone and some of his friars were chanting a mass in the shrine, and a cockerel crowed in the yard.
‘I have spoken to dozens of witnesses who tell me otherwise,’ said Michael eventually.
‘I cannot help that, Brother. The fact is that his neck is not broken, and there is no significant damage to his chest – other than the fact that someone has shoved a knife through it. He was also mortally sick, although that has no bearing on his demise.’
‘Murder?’ asked Michael in disbelief. ‘In front of a thousand spectators and sixty players?’
Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Or accident. The competitors were ordered to disarm before the game, but most managed to keep hold of at least one weapon. Then, during that colossal scrum, a blade may have slipped from its hiding place and into Poynton without its owner knowing anything about it.’
‘But it is equally possible that he may have been killed on purpose?’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘But Poynton’s body cannot tell us which.’
Michael grimaced. ‘I do not believe in coincidences, and it seems suspicious to me that he should be the one to die – a victim of the signaculum-snatcher. Or an alleged victim, at least.’
‘He was on your list of suspects as the killer-thief,’ recalled Bartholomew. ‘On the grounds that he poked his head around our College gates the morning Drax was dumped there.’
‘Along with Fen and those two horrible nuns.’ Michael sighed, and closed his eyes wearily. ‘Damn! The Carmelites will be outraged when they learn a potential benefactor has been unlawfully slain, and may blame the Gilbertines – Yffi, Neyll and Langelee, all members of the Gilbertines’ side, were the first to jump on Poynton, after all. There will be trouble for certain.’
‘Heslarton jumped on him, too, and he was playing for the Carmelites. But to be honest, I do not think anyone cared who was on whose team. The whole thing was just an excuse for a brawl.’
Michael’s anxieties intensified. ‘The Carmelites have always sided with the Colleges, while the Gilbertines prefer the hostels. Etone and Leccheworth – both sensible men – usually intervene if the rivalry turns sour, but if rabble-rousers like Kendale learn what happened to Poynton, the ill feeling between the two convents may escalate beyond their control.’
‘Then we had better keep the matter to ourselves until we understand exactly what happened. If we ever do – this will be not be an easy nut to crack. Incidentally, I heard Trinity Hall discussing Jolye again today.’
‘Jolye?’ asked Michael. ‘The lad who drowned after playing the prank with the balanced boats?’
‘Yes. You recorded it as an accident, but Trinity Hall is now braying that he was murdered by a hostel. I told them there was no evidence to suggest such a thing, but you know how these rumours take on a life of their own, especially when fuelled by unscrupulous men.’
‘Men like Kendale,’ sighed Michael. ‘So who killed Poynton, do you think?’
Bartholomew considered carefully before replying. ‘Just before the fatal scrimmage, Gib claimed to have broken his leg. He made a terrible fuss, although there was nothing wrong with him, and within a few moments he was back on the field.’
‘What are you saying? That he created a distraction, to allow an accomplice to commit murder?’
Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Neyll was one of the four who first hurled themselves on Poynton. However, although a lot of people watched Gib’s curious antics, not everyone did – so if it was a diversion, it was not a very effective one. I am not sure what to think, Brother. Perhaps Gib is just one of those players who enjoys making a scene over a scratch.’
Michael looked tired. ‘But regardless, we have another suspicious death to investigate?’
‘If it was suspicious. Accidents are not uncommon in camp-ball.’
‘Perhaps that is what someone hopes we will think. But the Senior Proctor will not be manipulated. If Poynton was murdered, I shall find out.’
They left the chapel just as the three pilgrims were emerging from the refectory, one nun still chewing vigorously. Clearly, Poynton’s death had not deprived the visitors of their appetites. The trio began to hurry towards the guest house, where smoke billowing from a chimney said a fire had been lit within. Michael muttered to Bartholomew that he had not yet had the chance to interrogate them properly, and intercepted them.
‘Were any of you watching the camp-ball when Poynton died?’ he asked, after some strained pleasantries had been exchanged. ‘Or were you more intent on talking to devious characters like Kendale?’
‘Is Kendale devious?’ asked Fen in surprise. ‘He is a scholar, so I assumed he was decent.’
Bartholomew looked hard at him, wondering if he was being facetious, but found he could not tell. Michael’s eyes narrowed, though.
‘What were you discussing?’ he demanded.