‘You are too good for this world,’ said Michael. ‘If he had tried to steal my ideas, I would have driven him from the country, not just the College.’
Clippesby kissed the chicken’s comb. ‘There was never any danger of him taking my ideas. Gertrude and Ma warned me weeks ago that his interest in them was not quite honourable, so they have been having a bit of fun with him.’
Michael regarded him warily. ‘What kind of fun?’
A rare spark of mischief gleamed in the friar’s blue eyes. ‘Theophilis will publish a thesis soon, but as Gertrude and Ma have been largely responsible for its contents, it will have some serious logical flaws. Then they will help William prepare a counterclaim.’
Bartholomew shook his head wonderingly. ‘Which will have the dual purpose of bringing more academic glory to Michaelhouse – William’s refutation is sure to be flawless if your hens are involved – and embarrassing Theophilis by having his errors exposed by the least able scholar in the University. My word, John! That is sly.’
Clippesby kissed the bird again. ‘Gertrude has a very wicked sense of humour.’
Michael eyed him with a new appreciation. ‘It is a scheme worthy of the most slippery of University politicians. Perhaps I should appoint you as my new Junior Proctor.’
‘No, thank you,’ said Clippesby vehemently, then turned to Bartholomew. ‘When you confronted Theophilis, did I hear you accuse him of spying for Heltisle?’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘Why? Do you know something to prove it?’
‘I know something to disprove it. Hulda the church mouse often listens to Heltisle and de Wetherset talking. She says they did ask Theophilis to monitor you, but he refused.’
‘Did he say why?’ asked Michael. ‘And more to the point, why did this mouse feel compelled to eavesdrop on high-ranking University officials in the first place?’
‘Because she was afraid they would conspire against you – which they did, by trying to buy your Junior Proctor. But Theophilis was loyal. He refused to betray you, even for the promise of your job.’
‘Then what a pity he transpired to be an idea-thief,’ spat Michael in disgust. ‘Faithful deputies do not grow on trees. I do not suppose he was pumping you for ideas when any of these murders was committed, was he? Matt has him at the top of his list of suspects.’
‘He was with Gertrude, Ma and me when Paris was stabbed,’ replied Clippesby promptly. ‘Does that help?’
Bartholomew was not sure whether to be disappointed or relieved. He had wanted Theophilis to be the culprit, especially in the light of what the man had tried to do to Clippesby, but it would be better for Michaelhouse if the killer was someone else. Then he recalled another thing that Theophilis had said.
‘He mentioned you knowing something about the murders. Do you?’
‘Just another snippet from Hulda the mouse – that she saw a nun running away from the Brazen George last night. It was not long after Orwel was bludgeoned, although Hulda did not know this at the time, of course.’
Michael gaped at him. ‘A nun killed Orwel? Which one?’
‘Hulda did not say this nun killed Orwel,’ cautioned Clippesby. ‘She said the nun was running away from the Brazen George shortly after Orwel died. She does not know her name, but the lady was thin, pale, and wore a pure white habit.’
Michael blinked. ‘Abbess Isabel? She would never leave St Radegund’s at that time of night! She knows the town is dangerous, because she is the one who found Paris’s body.’
‘How was she running?’ asked Bartholomew of Clippesby. ‘In terror? In triumph?’
The Dominican shrugged. ‘She was just running.’
‘Abbess Isabel is not the killer,’ said Michael firmly. ‘She would never risk her place among the saints by committing mortal sins.’ He turned back to Clippesby. ‘Was this mysterious white figure alone?’
Clippesby nodded. ‘And not long before, Hulda saw her calling on Margery Starre.’
‘Then it cannot have been Isabel,’ said Michael at once. ‘She would never visit a witch. I imagine someone stole her distinctive habit and used it as a disguise.’
‘So ask Margery who it was,’ suggested Clippesby. He bent his head when the hen on his lap clucked. ‘But not tonight. Gertrude says she is busy casting spells to prevent another riot.’
‘Then we shall see her tomorrow,’ determined Bartholomew, although he could see that Michael itched to have answers immediately. ‘We cannot disrupt Margery’s efforts to keep the peace, Brother. If we do, and trouble breaks out again, everyone will say it is our fault for getting in her way.’
‘They will,’ agreed Clippesby. ‘And if more people die fighting, it will be even harder to restore relations between us and the town.’
Reluctantly, Michael conceded that they were right.
Chapter 13
The next day saw a change in the weather. Blue skies were replaced by flat grey ones, and a biting north wind scythed in from the Fens. Bartholomew rose while it was still dark, woke Aungel with instructions for the day’s teaching, then joined Michael for a hurried breakfast in the kitchen with Agatha the laundress, who had a great many things to say about the fact that the town and the University were teetering on the brink of yet another major confrontation.
‘And it is not just each other they hate,’ she declared, pursing her lips. ‘There are divisions in both that mean the strife will be all but impossible to quell. I would not be in your shoes for a kingdom, Brother. Or the Sheriff’s, for that matter.’
‘She is right,’ muttered Michael, as he and Bartholomew hurried to Margery’s home in Shoemaker Row. ‘Dick managed to stamp out some trouble last night, but all it did was give the would-be rioters more cause to resent him – and us.’
‘Have you arranged an escape for the peregrini yet?’ asked Bartholomew.
Michael grimaced. ‘I need to be careful, because if I confide in the wrong nun … well, I do not need to explain to you that the matter is delicate.’
Although it was only just growing light, the streets were busy as folk took advantage of the curfew’s end to see what was happening outside. They included both townsmen and scholars, the latter making no effort to pretend they were going to church. On the High Street, some of Heltisle’s Horde were engaged in a fracas with students from King’s Hall, while there was a quarrel in the market square between those who wanted to fight the French spies at the Spital and those who thought it was better to lynch them.
‘Vengeance is for God to dispense, not you,’ declared Prior Pechem of the Franciscans as he passed – a remark that meant there were then three factions yelling at each other.
An angry bellow from Michael was enough to make them disperse, although Bartholomew sensed it was only a matter of time before they were at it again. He suspected most cared nothing about the issues they supported, and their real objective was just a brawl.
He and Michael reached Shoemaker Row, where Margery’s cottage looked pretty in the daylight – painted a cheerful yellow, with an array of potted plants on the doorstep. It was not how most folk would picture the lair of a witch.
‘You will have to go in alone,’ said Michael, who had been walking ever more slowly towards it. ‘I cannot be seen dropping in on her – our students might interpret it as licence to do the same, and enough of them beat a track to her door as it is. Besides, I have my reputation to think of.’
‘What about my reputation?’ demanded Bartholomew indignantly.
‘Already compromised – it is common knowledge that she likes you. Now hurry up! We cannot afford to waste time. If Margery confirms that Abbess Isabel was indeed out and about when Orwel was murdered, we will have to go to St Radegund’s and demand an explanation.’