‘Yes,’ said Michael, not moving. ‘The moment we have finished eating.’
Years of dining in College, where fast eaters tended to be better fed than those who took their time, meant it was not long before Michael had reduced the meal in the Brazen George to empty plates and a pile of gnawed bones. Then the three of them went to St Clement’s Church, where Reames’ body had been taken, but Bartholomew was able to tell them nothing they did not already know. The attack had been a vicious one, and the killer had delivered far more blows to the apprentice’s skull than had been necessary to end his life. There were no other injuries.
‘You are right about one thing, Dick,’ mused Michael, who had kept his eyes fixed on Reames’ torso to avoid looking at the ruin of his head. ‘He did dress like a courtier.’
‘Which is odd,’ said Bartholomew, ‘considering that Lakenham is so poor that he cannot afford to buy Cristine a new cloak.’
Tulyet shrugged. ‘Perhaps Reames hailed from an affluent family, who gave him an allowance. But are you sure there is nothing to help us catch his killer, Matt? Whoever did this is abnormally violent, so the sooner he is locked up, the better.’
Bartholomew shook his head, and was about to accompany Michael and Tulyet to visit Egidia and Inge when Cynric appeared, hot, tired and gasping for breath, because he had been frantically hunting the physician for some time.
‘Isnard,’ he rasped. ‘He needs you and says it is urgent.’
As the bargeman had been hale and hearty not long before, Bartholomew ran to his cottage in alarm, fearing that he had engaged in a violent confrontation with the tomb-makers, and had suffered some terrible injury, like Reames and Lucas.
‘Come in, Doctor,’ Isnard called jovially when Bartholomew arrived. ‘The fire is lit, the ale is hot, and good company awaits.’
The house was crammed with people, although it was difficult to tell precisely how many, because night had fallen, and Isnard only had one small lamp, which had been turned low.
‘Are you hurt?’ Bartholomew asked, a little testily, because he had risked life and limb by racing through streets that were slick with ice. ‘Or ill?’
‘No, I have information to impart,’ replied Isnard grandly. ‘I would have called Brother Michael, as it concerns him really. But I did not think he would come.’
‘He would not,’ agreed Gundrede. ‘Not after what happened at singing practice.’
Isnard was a long-term member of the Michaelhouse Choir, and had adopted a very proprietary attitude towards it. As his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, Bartholomew saw that most of the people in the room were basses, along with a smattering of tenors and a few women who should not have been permitted to join an all-male chorus. They went in disguise, and although Michael was perfectly capable of identifying false beards and horsehair moustaches, he never had the heart to turn them away.
‘It was his own fault,’ said the bargeman stiffly. ‘He should not be leaving us. I can lead the music, of course, but who will bring the food?’
‘I shall miss him, too.’ Bartholomew spoke gently, because Isnard’s eyes had filled with tears. ‘But he has been waiting for this opportunity for years. Would you keep him from it?’
‘Of course we would!’ cried Isnard, distressed. ‘We need him. And what happened earlier was just a mark of our affection. It was not our fault that he ended up covered in feathers.’
Bartholomew thought it best not to ask.
‘So we decided to tell you our news instead,’ said Gundrede. ‘And you can pass it on. Our first nugget is about Thelnetham the Gilbertine.’
‘He used to be at Michaelhouse,’ said Isnard, as if he thought Bartholomew might have forgotten. ‘And he is always very rude about our singing. However, we do not speak out of malice, but so that Brother Michael will know what sort of man he is.’
Bartholomew did not want to hear it. The choir members were very touchy about criticism, and Thelnetham had always been one of their more vocal detractors. He started to tell them to keep their gossip to themselves, but Gundrede overrode him.
‘He eats slugs,’ he declared. ‘He hunts for them under cover of darkness.’
Bartholomew was so taken aback that for several moments he could think of nothing to say. ‘How do you know?’ he asked eventually.
‘Because we have seen him,’ replied Isnard. ‘And do not say he was just looking for something he had lost, because I saw him near the Trumpington road, Gundrede noticed him by the Great Bridge and Marjory spotted him by St Clement’s.’
‘I did,’ said Marjory, a woman of indeterminate age who sold dubious remedies and charms from her little house in the Jewry, and made no bones about the fact that she considered Christianity to be a very inferior religion when compared to her own.
‘Besides, if he had been searching for mislaid objects, he would have done it in daylight,’ Gundrede went on. ‘He was eating slugs, and that is all there is to it. And if Michael will not take any notice of what we say, then we shall make it public ourselves.’
‘Please do not,’ begged Bartholomew, suspecting the trio had not been sober when they had drawn these particular conclusions. The fastidious Thelnetham was the last man on Earth to have anything to do with slugs, but his detractors would capitalise on the tale anyway, and it might destroy his chances of being elected, which was hardly fair. ‘Michael will look into it.’
‘Good,’ said Isnard. ‘But he must do it soon.’
‘You can tell him we are not thieves either,’ said Gundrede sourly. ‘He thinks I made off with the lead on Gonville’s chapel, just because I used to be a metalsmith. However, I rarely bother with that sort of work these days, so he can keep his nasty opinions to himself.’
‘And I do not ferry stolen goods about on my barges,’ declared Isnard. ‘Besides, those tomb-makers are probably lying about what they claim has been stolen. But sit down and have a drink, Doctor. You look tired, and we have some lovely French claret– Ouch!’
Gundrede had kicked him under the table, and it did not take a genius to guess why: the cask had been imported illegally, almost certainly on one of Isnard’s boats. Bartholomew began to back out, unwilling to consume contraband wine lest Tulyet or one of his men chose that particular evening to pay Isnard a visit.
‘I have to see Edith,’ he said, blurting the first excuse that entered his head. ‘To ask her about progress on Oswald’s tomb.’
‘She should have hired a mason from London to do it,’ said Gundrede, his voice thick with disapproval. ‘That Petit is a worthless rogue, and Lakenham is no better.’
Bartholomew took another step towards the door, but Isnard moved to stop him. ‘We have more to tell you yet, Doctor. And if you want something to occupy your hands while we talk, we can provide you with plenty of interesting ailments. Marjory has a rash, for a start.’
‘Here,’ said Marjory, baring her arm with a flourish. Bartholomew had treated it before, but it had taken a new and intriguing turn since he had last seen it. He sat.
‘Moleyns,’ hissed Isnard. ‘We have information about him, too. None of us saw who killed him, as we have said before, but–’
‘Wait!’ cried Gundrede. ‘We need assurances first.’ He turned to Bartholomew. ‘You must promise that Sheriff Tulyet will never know who told you. We could be hanged.’
‘He cannot betray us,’ declared Isnard confidently. ‘He is bound by oaths of discretion. Cynric told me so, when I asked him to find out what odd affliction made Chancellor Tynkell so different from the rest of us. He says physicians can never reveal their patients’ secrets.’