‘That is none of your business,’ replied Fen sharply. Then he rubbed his face with a hand that shook. ‘Forgive me. It is shock speaking – as I said, Poynton and I have travelled together for a long time, and his death has distressed me. Kendale asked whether I could locate Bradwardine’s Tractatus de continuo for him. I deal in books occasionally, you see.’
‘It is true,’ said the nun called Agnes. Or was it Margaret? She pulled a disagreeable face. ‘The conversation went on for some time, and we were ignored.’
Michael changed the subject abruptly. ‘What did you see when Poynton died?’
Margaret smiled coyly. ‘Very little, because we were huddled inside Master Fen’s cloak.’
‘When he was in it, too,’ simpered Agnes. ‘It meant our vision was limited.’
Fen cleared his throat uncomfortably. ‘Most of my attention was on Kendale, but I did happen to glance at the field during the fatal skirmish. Unfortunately, all I saw was a flurry of arms and legs. I wish I could help you, but I cannot. And now I shall bid you good evening.’
He bowed politely, and walked towards the guest house. The two nuns scurried after him, trying to catch up so they could cling to his arms. Michael watched them go, hands on hips.
‘Fen is a liar,’ he declared. ‘Moreover, he intends to deflower those silly ladies, if he has not done so already. I could see the lust shining in his eyes.’
‘I disagree,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He is not interested in them, and the gleam you saw was tears of grief. He was fond of Poynton, and is genuinely distressed by his death.’
‘Rubbish! You are too easily swayed by a pleasant face and courtly manners.’
‘And you are too easily influenced by a man’s profession,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘Not all pardoners cheat their customers, and Fen is a pilgrim. Pilgrims generally avoid committing crimes while they are conducting major acts of penitence.’
‘How do you know Fen is a genuine pilgrim? Perhaps his real intention was to befriend Poynton and lay hold of his signacula the moment this disease claimed his life.’
‘I do not believe it. And Fen can have nothing to do with Poynton’s death, because he was on the sidelines when Poynton was stabbed.’
‘Killers can be bought,’ argued Michael. ‘And for a small fraction of what Fen stands to earn from selling Poynton’s signacula. He is implicated in this death, Matt. I am sure of it.’
Their debate was cut short by the arrival of Cynric. He was mud-smeared, and Bartholomew suspected he had been enjoying a celebratory ale with the camp-ball players in the King’s Head.
‘Oh, no!’ exclaimed Michael, putting out his hand suddenly. ‘Rain! My room will be awash!’
‘It will,’ agreed Cynric. ‘Because the sheet over your ceiling will not repel anything more than a shower, and I suspect we are in for a good downpour tonight.’ He turned to Bartholomew. ‘But I came to tell you that Emma de Colvyll has summoned you, boy.’
‘She is no longer my patient,’ said Bartholomew, glad to be able to refuse her. ‘Meryfeld–’
‘The messenger said Meryfeld needs a second opinion. He wants you to go, too.’
Bartholomew had no desire to visit Emma. He was chilled through from an afternoon of kneeling in frost-encrusted grass to tend wounds, and he was still fragile from Chestre’s hospitality the night before. He felt like going home, to sit by the conclave fire and enjoy the comforting, familiar conversation of his colleagues.
‘You had better go – your conscience will plague you all night if you do not,’ said Michael. ‘And while you are there, see if you can learn two things. First, the status of Heslarton’s enquiry into the yellow-headed thief. And second, whether it was Heslarton’s knife that killed Poynton.’
‘How am I supposed to do that?’ objected Bartholomew, not very happy about probing such delicate matters when the sinister Emma was likely to be present.
‘I am sure you will find a way,’ said Michael.
They parted company on the High Street. Bartholomew knocked on Emma’s door, which was opened by the chubby-faced maid. She conducted him to the solar where her mistress spent most of her time. Emma was sitting by the hearth, black eyes glittering in the firelight. Celia Drax, elegant and laconic, was sewing in the window, while Heslarton sat opposite her, honing his sword. Their knees were touching, and Bartholomew recalled Agatha’s contention that they were lovers. There was no sign of Meryfeld.
‘Did you enjoy the camp-ball, Doctor?’ asked Heslarton, looking up from his whetting to grin. He seemed to have fewer teeth than when Bartholomew had last seen him. ‘Everyone says my two goals were the best of the day.’
‘I am sure they were,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Where is Meryfeld?’
‘It was entertaining to see that pilgrim die,’ declared Emma, ignoring his question. ‘There is nothing like a death to liven up a game.’
Bartholomew had heard her make insensitive remarks before, but never one that was quite so brazenly callous. ‘Did you see what happened to him?’ he asked, struggling to mask his distaste.
Emma nodded smugly. ‘He caught the ball and went down under a wall of men. How did he die, Doctor? Was it crushing or a broken neck? Thomas and I have a small wager on it, you see, and I would like the matter resolved tonight, so I can gloat over him when he is proven wrong.’
‘I forgot he was on my side, and ran to grab the ball,’ said Heslarton, either uncaring of or oblivious to Bartholomew’s grimace of distaste at Emma’s confession. ‘By the time I realised my mistake, Langelee, Yffi and Neyll were looming, and then everything happened very fast. There was a huge scrum, and it took ages to unravel it. Unfortunately, Poynton was at the bottom. Some players are heavy, so my money is on crushing.’
‘No – necks are easily broken,’ countered Emma. Bartholomew did not like to imagine how she knew. She flicked imperious fingers at him. ‘Well? Who is right?’
‘It is not something I am free to discuss,’ he replied coolly. ‘You are neither his friends nor his next of kin.’
‘Give him some wine,’ suggested Celia. ‘It may loosen his tongue.’
‘No, thank you,’ said Bartholomew, recalling what had happened to Alice and Odelina.
‘It is quite safe,’ said Emma, seeming to read his mind. ‘The servants threw away all the old stock, and everything is tasted before it comes to us now.’
‘Tasted by whom?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.
Emma smiled slyly. ‘Rats. Thomas keeps a ready supply of them in the cellar. And that yellow-headed thief will join them there when he is caught.’
Bartholomew stared at her, taking in the beady eyes and thin lips, devoid of humour and kindness, and was hard pressed to suppress a shudder. She appeared especially malevolent that evening, because her head was swathed in a curious back turban and it, combined with her round body and short, thin limbs, served to make her look more like a predatory insect than ever.
‘You are still hunting him, then?’ he forced himself to ask, although instinct urged him to race away as fast as his legs would carry him, and have nothing to do with her or her household.
‘Of course,’ said Heslarton. ‘He murdered my wife, hurt my daughter, and made off with my mother-in-law’s most treasured possessions. And he jostled Celia and stole her badge.’
‘You think the thief is the poisoner,’ said Bartholomew, aiming to make him think twice before doing anything rash. ‘You do not know it, not for certain.’
‘Of course it was him,’ countered Celia. ‘He was the only stranger to enter this house that day. Other than you, of course – the physician who dabbles in sorcery.’