‘Probably.’
‘She also sent Magistra Katherine some very dangerous gifts – candles that leaked poisonous fumes, a lamp that burst into flames, a book impregnated with a potion to burn the reader’s fingers, blankets infested with fleas …’
‘Fleas?’
Michael grinned. ‘And in a twist of irony, she is the one who crawls with them. We should not forget the comb she stole from Joan either. That is still missing, and I am sure she intends it to be a part of some mischief yet to unfold. Shall we go to meet Orwel now?’
‘Now?’ asked Bartholomew, startled by the abrupt change of subject. ‘It is too early.’
‘I know, but Lister makes a lovely roasted pork on a Saturday night and I am ravenous.’
‘You cannot be! You have just devoured most of a pie.’
‘To line my stomach, Matt – to prepare it for the proper meal to come.’
It was not only Michael who liked Lister’s roasted pork, and the tavern was full of muttering townsmen when they arrived. Bartholomew was glad of the private room at the back. Tulyet appeared much later, footsore and weary from asking questions of witnesses.
‘The town is now certain that scholars killed Wyse, hid French spies in the Spital and engineered last night’s riot,’ he reported. ‘A riot in which four of you died, but ten of us. I have done my best to quell the gossip, but folk believe what they want to believe.’
‘Then let us hope Orwel knows who killed Wyse,’ said Michael. ‘They may be appeased if that culprit is brought to justice. I imagine he will name Aynton – the gently smiling spider in the web.’
‘Or Theophilis,’ countered Bartholomew.
‘Theophilis would never betray me,’ said Michael. ‘Why would he, when I gave him his Fellowship, his post as Junior Proctor, a lucrative benefice–’
‘No man likes to be beholden to another,’ interrupted Tulyet. ‘However, Theophilis does not have the courage for murder, so my money is on de Wetherset or Heltisle. It was a bad day for the University and the town when they took power.’
Bartholomew told him that he and Michael now thought the dagger belonged to someone wealthy. Tulyet scrubbed his face with his hands.
‘Then I will interview burgesses tomorrow. You can do the same with rich scholars. However, the culprit cannot be a Jacques – they fled before Bruges was killed.’
‘If they left,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps one lingered long enough to avenge himself on the place that killed his friends and forced him out of his cosy refuge.’
‘Twenty-six dead,’ sighed Michael. ‘Paris, Bonet, five members of the Girard family, Wyse, the fourteen from the riot, plus the three who were hanged for murder and their victim. And more will follow unless we stop the contagion.’
Lister arrived at that point to collect the empty platters, and Bartholomew noticed that the landlord was careful to keep the door closed – he did not want his other customers to know that he welcomed scholars in his fine establishment.
‘Did I tell you that the Chancellor came here earlier, Brother?’ Lister asked. ‘He and his henchman Heltisle. They wanted to hire this room for their sole use, so that you would have to find somewhere else.’
Michael gaped at him in disbelief. ‘They did what?’
‘I had to lie – tell them that it is out of commission due to a smoking chimney. Yet it is rash for me to make enemies of such powerful men – they could break me by deciding to drink here, as my other regulars would leave.’
‘Do not worry, Lister,’ said Michael between gritted teeth. ‘They will never harm you or your business. I promise.’
Lister smiled wanly. ‘Thank you, Brother. Of course, it will be irrelevant if the town erupts into violence again. The streets felt more dangerous today than they have ever done.’
The moment Lister had gone, Michael embarked on a furious tirade. ‘How dare they! This is my refuge. I do not care about my office in St Mary the Great, but to invade a man’s tavern … I will not share it with de Wetherset and Heltisle!’
‘They do not want to share it,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘They want it all for themselves. It is another attempt to weaken you.’
‘Well, they will never interfere with the important business of victuals,’ vowed Michael. ‘I will not permit it. But there is the linkman calling the hour. It is time to meet Orwel.’
They trooped outside. Tulyet took up station near the back gate, which he said was the one Orwel would use, while Bartholomew was allocated the door at the side. Michael went to stand in the middle of the yard. It was very dark, and Bartholomew was just wondering how he would be able to help should there be trouble, when Michael gave a sharp cry.
‘What the– Help! There is a body!’
Bartholomew darted forward, but collided heavily with someone coming the other way. At first he thought it was Tulyet, but something caught him a glancing blow – aimed at his head but hitting his shoulder. He lunged blindly and grabbed a wrist, yelling for Tulyet. The arm was ripped free and he heard the side door open and slam shut again. Tulyet blundered past, fumbling for the latch in the dark. Then he was gone, too.
The commotion alerted Lister, who arrived with a lamp. It illuminated Michael crouching next to someone on the ground. Bartholomew hurried towards them.
‘It is Orwel,’ said Michael, rolling the body over to look at its face. ‘Is he dead?’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘Struck on the head – just like Wyse. Only this time the blow was powerful enough to kill him outright.’
They looked up as Tulyet arrived empty-handed, his face a mask of anger and frustration.
‘Who was it?’ he demanded. ‘Did you see?’
‘It was too dark,’ replied Bartholomew, and grimaced. ‘But I think we have just let Wyse’s killer slip through our fingers.’
‘I would keep that quiet, if I were you,’ advised Lister. ‘Or the town will lynch you.’
Chapter 12
The next day was Sunday, when bells all over the town rang to advertise their morning services. Scholars in academic or priestly robes hurried to and from their Colleges and hostels, while townsfolk donned their best clothes – if they had any – and stood in naves to listen to the sacred words that were sang, mumbled or bellowed, depending on the preference of the presiding priest.
Bartholomew had been summoned before dawn to tend one of the wounded at the Franciscan Priory. When he had finished, he went to St Edward’s, where Orwel’s body had been taken. This church celebrated Mass later than everyone else, so was empty, other than its ancient vicar, who was fast asleep on a tomb.
Bartholomew examined Orwel carefully, this time without the distraction of Michael and Tulyet clamouring questions at him. But there was no more to be learned in the cold light of day than there had been the previous night: Orwel had been struck, very hard, with a stone. Assailed by the uncomfortable sense that he was being watched – something he often experienced when he examined corpses on his own – Bartholomew put all back as he had found it, and hurried out into the warm spring sunshine with relief.
As he walked along the High Street, he saw the Marian Singers assembling outside St Mary the Great, ready to bawl the Jubilate they had been practising. As Michael was late, Isnard assumed command, assisted by Sauvage. At first, the still-hoarse bargeman tried to impose order by whispering, and when that did not work, told Sauvage to relay his orders in a bellow. When he was satisfied with the way they looked, Isnard began to lead the choir inside – only to find his way barred by Aynton and some of Heltisle’s Horde.