‘The only other people left are nuns – Sister Alice and Magistra Katherine, who cannot prove their whereabouts when the Girards were murdered.’
‘But Katherine is the Bishop’s sister, and too busy being intelligent and superior at the conloquium to stab people. I do not see Alice braving the butts either, much as I dislike her.’ Michael stood and brushed crumbs from his habit. ‘That meagre dinner will not see me through the night. I need something else. Come and have a couple of Lombard slices.’
He marched to his quarters and flung open the door. Theophilis was inside, going through the documents on the desk. The Junior Proctor jerked his hand back guiltily, but managed an easy smile.
‘There you are, Brother. I am looking for the beadles’ work schedules for the coming week. They are not in St Mary the Great, so I assumed they were here.’
‘I gave them to Heltisle,’ said Michael. ‘Why did you want them?’
‘Because Perkyn is ill, and must be removed from the rosters until he is well again. He complains of ringing ears after listening to the Marian Singers.’
Michael’s expression hardened. ‘Then tell him his services are no longer required. I heard the choir, and my ears are not ringing.’
Theophilis inclined his head and left, while Bartholomew wondered what lie the Junior Proctor would tell Perkyn to explain why he no longer had a job.
‘He did not want the rotas,’ he said, looking through the window to watch Theophilis cross the yard. ‘The truth is that Heltisle uncovered nothing to hurt you in your office last night, so he sent him here to find something instead.’
‘Well, if he did, Theophilis would not be looking for it on my desk, lying out for all to see. He knows anything important will be locked away. You are wrong about him, Matt.’
Bartholomew failed to understand why the monk refused to accept what was so patently obvious. He looked out of the window again while Michael riffled about in his pantry for treats, and saw Clippesby with a drowsing chicken – he was going to the henhouse to put her to roost. Theophilis changed course to intercept him, and asked a question to which the Dominican shook his head. Theophilis persisted, and Clippesby became agitated. So did the bird, which flew at Theophilis with her claws extended.
The Junior Proctor jerked away with a yelp. He looked angry, so Bartholomew hurried down to the yard to intervene – the hen was Gertrude, and it would be unfortunate if Theophilis hurt her, as the nominalists in the University were likely to see it as an act of war. The last thing they needed was another excuse for strife.
‘This lunatic knows something about the murders,’ spat Theophilis, jabbing his finger accusingly at Clippesby. ‘He saw something last night, but declines to tell me what.’
‘What did you see, John?’ asked Bartholomew, while Clippesby retrieved the hen and stroked her feathers. She relaxed, although her sharp orange eyes remained fixed on Theophilis.
‘You will not get a sensible answer,’ hissed Theophilis. ‘Just some rubbish about a mouse. He ought to be locked away where he can do no harm. All this nonsense about philosophising fowls! He is an embarrassment, and as soon as I have a spare moment, I am taking him to the Spital. They know how to deal with madmen.’
Clippesby regarded him reproachfully. ‘But you have been fascinated by the birds’ theories for weeks, so why–’
‘You are a fool,’ interrupted Theophilis, so vehemently that Clippesby flinched and the hen’s hackles rose again. ‘I thought you were more clever than the rest of us combined, but I was wrong. I should never have befriended you.’
‘Not befriended,’ said Bartholomew, suddenly understanding exactly why Theophilis had spent so much time in the Dominican’s company. ‘Milked for ideas.’
Theophilis regarded him contemptuously. ‘You are as addle-witted as he is if you think I am interested in any theory he can devise.’
‘But you are interested,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘Because Clippesby is cleverer than the rest of us combined. The whole University is talking about the Chicken Debate, and his arguments are respected by people on both sides of the schism. He has single-handedly achieved what others have been striving to do for decades.’
He saw that Michael had followed him outside and was listening. William had sidled up, too, although Theophilis was too intent on arguing with Bartholomew to notice either.
‘Clippesby is a one-idea man,’ the Junior Proctor said contemptuously. ‘He has shot his bow and now his quiver is empty.’
‘On the contrary, he has been working on his next treatise all term, and it promises to be every bit as brilliant as the first. It is almost ready, so you aim to steal it and pass it off as your own. That is why you have quizzed him so relentlessly.’
‘Lies!’ cried Theophilis outraged. ‘I would never–’
‘But first, you must get rid of him,’ Bartholomew forged on. ‘You began calling him a lunatic a few days ago, rolling your eyes and smirking behind his back. Now you aim to have him locked him away, so that no one will hear when he says “your” treatise is really his.’
‘But he is insane! He should be shut in a place where he cannot embarrass us. And I resent your accusations extremely. Why would I claim credit for a discussion between hens?’
‘Oh, I am sure you can adapt it to a more conventional format. And that is why you were in Michael’s room just now – not spying for Heltisle, but looking for something that will allow you to discredit Clippesby.’
‘What if I was?’ flared Theophilis, capitulating so abruptly that Bartholomew blinked his surprise. ‘I will make sure that this new treatise honours Michaelhouse, whereas Clippesby will just draw attention to the fact that we enrol madmen. It is better for the College if I publish the work under my name. Surely, you can see that I am right?’
Bartholomew was so disgusted that he could think of no reply, although the same was not true of William, who stepped forward to give Theophilis an angry shove.
‘You are despicable,’ he declared, as Theophilis’s eyes widened in horror that his admission had been heard by others. ‘There is no room in Michaelhouse for plagiarists.’
‘There is not,’ agreed Michael, regarding his Junior Proctor with hurt disappointment. ‘Consider your Fellowship here terminated.’
‘Do not expel him on my account,’ begged Clippesby, distressed as always by strife. The hen clucked, so he put his ear to her beak. ‘Gertrude says that–’
‘You see?’ snarled Theophilis, all righteous indignation. ‘He is stark raving mad!’
‘He is,’ agreed William. ‘Because I would not speak in your defence if you had been trying to poach my ideas. It takes a very special lunatic to be that magnanimous.’
‘You cannot eject me, because I resign,’ said Theophilis defiantly. ‘From Michaelhouse and the Junior Proctorship. I want nothing more to do with any of you.’
‘Good,’ said William. ‘I will help you pack. Is now convenient?’
When Theophilis had been marched away by a vengeful William, Michael invited Bartholomew and Clippesby to his rooms for a restorative cup of wine. Bartholomew supposed he should feel triumphant that his doubts about the Junior Proctor’s integrity should be correct, but instead he felt soiled. He glanced at Clippesby, who perched on a stool with the hen drowsing on his lap.
‘What will poor Theophilis do now?’ asked the Dominican unhappily. ‘No other College will take him once they learn what he did. His academic career is over.’