‘I should visit Isnard before turning in,’ he said, loudly enough for his words to carry. ‘To see if he needs more salve for his bruises.’
Without waiting for a reply, he strode towards the river. He turned the corner, then doubled back and peered up the lane. He saw Michael waiting for the gate to be opened, while the spy watched from behind a buttress. Keeping to the darkest shadows, Bartholomew edged towards them, tiptoeing at first, then breaking into a run as he came closer. The figure started in alarm at the sudden clatter of footfalls.
‘Matt, no!’ cried Michael.
But Bartholomew was sick of being followed, and gave a whoop of triumph as he laid hold of his quarry. At the same time, Walter the porter opened the gate, and when he saw a Fellow wrestling with a stranger, he hurtled forward to help. The spy was ridiculously easy to overpower, after which it was a simple matter to bundle him into the porter’s lodge for questioning. The commotion drew a screech of alarm from Walter’s pet peacock, which was relaxing by the fire with a jug of ale.
‘I told you not to let him drink,’ said Bartholomew to Walter, while the spy brushed himself down and Michael stood in silent disapproval in the doorway. ‘It is bad for him.’
‘Yes, but he loves ale,’ said Walter defensively. ‘Besides, if I deprive him, he only goes to the kitchen and helps himself. I do not want him there – not when Agatha keeps threatening to wring his neck.’
‘Your College’s peacock is a drunkard, Michael?’ drawled the spy. ‘Singular.’
‘He is not a drunkard,’ objected Walter, offended. ‘He just likes an occasional tipple.’
But Bartholomew was more interested in the fact that the spy had addressed Michael by name. ‘You two know each other?’
The question was answered when the spy unfastened his cloak to reveal the Benedictine habit underneath. It was made of the finest cloth, which suggested he was no ordinary monk – as did his supercilious demeanour. Meanwhile, Michael was glaring at Bartholomew. Sensing trouble, Walter prudently made himself scarce, taking his tipsy bird with him.
‘I told you he would approach us when the time was right, Matt,’ Michael said irritably. ‘You really should have let him be.’
The spy’s eyes narrowed. ‘You knew I was following you? How? I kept to the shadows.’
Michael smiled superiorly. ‘You had not been in Cambridge an hour before your presence was reported to me. Of course I knew you were dogging my every move.’
‘Then why let me continue with the pretence?’ demanded the spy crossly.
‘I assumed you had your reasons, and far be it from me to question them.’ Michael turned to Bartholomew. ‘Allow me to introduce Richard de Whittlesey. You may remember him – he was once Master of Peterhouse, but left to become the Bishop of Rochester’s envoy.’
‘Before my time,’ said Bartholomew curtly. Whittlesey was not the only one who was annoyed with Michael for failing to be open with him.
‘Those were happy days,’ sighed Whittlesey wistfully. ‘And although I have done well since leaving the University, I still hanker for the intellectual sparring that only scholars can provide. I debated theology with Bishop Sheppey, of course, but it was not the same.’
‘So why did you come back?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘If it is to stand for Chancellor, you are too late – the closing date for applications has passed.’
Whittlesey laughed. ‘I have better things to do than struggling to impose order on a lot of opinionated academics. No, I came to bring Michael news. Some good and some bad.’
Michael frowned. ‘Bad news? Not about my family, I hope?’
‘Yes, in a way. Bishop Sheppey is dead, God rest his sainted soul.’ Tears shimmered in Whittlesey’s eyes before he blinked them away. ‘He died after a long illness, which he endured with courage and patience. He was a fine man, and I am honoured to have been his friend.’
‘A fine man indeed,’ agreed Michael quietly. ‘A Benedictine, like us. I first met him as a youth, when I heard him preach at Paul’s Cross in London. I had already decided to take holy orders, but he was the one who convinced me to become a Black Monk.’
‘He was proud of his sermons,’ said Whittlesey with a sad smile. ‘I wrote some of them down, and will publish them for him later this year. He was fond of you, Brother, and that is the good news – he has nominated you as his successor.’
Michael reacted with such a serene lack of surprise that Bartholomew wondered if the monk had been entirely honest about what had been in the letter from Avignon. ‘Then he has made a good choice, and it is fitting that Rochester will pass to another Benedictine. Continuity is important.’
‘Of course, your appointment still needs to be confirmed by the Holy Father,’ warned Whittlesey. ‘The King and the Archbishop have endorsed it, though.’
Michael waved an airy hand. ‘Formalities – the Pope will accede to Sheppey’s wishes. Yet I am surprised you came yourself. Do you not have messengers for this sort of task?’
‘The Archbishop sent me. He wanted to be sure that you were all Sheppey – and your patron, the Bishop of Ely – had promised. Which you are, of course. The University is five times the size it was a decade ago, and has grown stronger and more stable under your guidance.’
Michael inclined his head graciously. ‘So when do we travel to Rochester?’
‘Would tomorrow be convenient?’
Michael regarded him askance. ‘It would not! I cannot leave Cambridge for at least another month – I have a murdered Chancellor to avenge and an election to manage.’
‘Unfortunately, time is a luxury you do not have,’ said Whittlesey soberly. ‘The absolute latest we can go is next Thursday – the day after the election. Hopefully, it will be enough to allow you to usher in the candidate of your choice and catch the killer. But if you have not nabbed him by then, you will just have to entrust that task to your successor.’
‘Why the rush?’ asked Bartholomew suspiciously.
‘Because Michael has competition: the Bishop of Bangor is desperate for a better See, and he is expected to reach Rochester by Monday week. He may arrange to have himself installed if Michael is elsewhere, and then it will be difficult to oust him.’
‘He aims to steal my mitre?’ cried Michael in alarm. ‘We shall see about that! He–’
He stopped speaking when Cynric burst in. The book-bearer was panting hard.
‘There you are, Brother,’ he gasped. ‘Petit’s apprentice Lucas is dead, and the Sheriff wants you in St John Zachary at once.’
‘Lucas? Dead?’ breathed Michael, stunned, while Bartholomew gaped his shock. ‘How? Not murdered?’
Cynric shrugged apologetically. ‘All I can tell you is that the Sheriff wants you to hurry. You can ask for details when you get there.’
‘But we were going to meet Lucas later,’ cried Michael, horrified. ‘He has information about the murders.’
‘Then you should have prised the intelligence from him at once,’ said Whittlesey, although the monk did not need to be told. ‘You might have had the case solved by now.’
‘I did not want to put him in danger,’ explained Michael, then turned to Bartholomew, his troubled expression reflecting the physician’s own guilt-racked conscience. ‘I hope he is not dead because the killer saw us talking to him. Petit and his boys were inside the church, although Lakenham had left …’
‘Anyone might have been watching,’ said Bartholomew, and looked pointedly at Whittlesey. He did not care that the man was a bishop’s envoy or that he was an old acquaintance of Michael’s. Whittlesey had behaved peculiarly, as far as he was concerned, and his instincts were to distrust him. ‘Present company not excepted.’