‘Do they?’ asked Michael of Bartholomew doubtfully.
Bartholomew nodded. ‘Pliny says that tench applied to the hands or feet can cure fevers, jaundice, head pains and toothache. But, more importantly, I am sure this was the fish I saw the night Norbert died. Whoever pushed me over grabbed it before he escaped.’
‘Then how did it end up abandoned on Milne Street?’ asked Michael. ‘It is a wretched thing – already rotten, despite its salting. Why would your attacker risk capture for it?’
‘Perhaps he did not know its state when he acted,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘He only learned it was bad when he took off the wrappings – at which point he discarded it.’
‘It was thrown into some bushes,’ added Clippesby helpfully. ‘I would not have noticed it, but one of the cats mentioned it was there, so I went to look.’
‘A cat told you to ferret about behind some shrubs?’ asked Michael dubiously. ‘You should choose your friends more carefully, man. You do not know what you might unearth, foraging around in places like that.’
Bartholomew surmised that Clippesby had observed a cat expressing an unusual interest in the spot where the fish had been thrown and had gone to investigate. The mad musician’s claims about talking to animals nearly always had some rational explanation behind them.
‘We have already deduced that Norbert’s killer and the man who pushed me were not the same,’ the physician mused. ‘So, I suppose this means that the tench is also irrelevant.’
‘Probably,’ said Michael. ‘But I do not want to dispense with evidence prematurely. Will you store it in the basement, Clippesby? Hide it well, or we may find it served up for dinner in a week. You know how Michaelhouse’s nasty policy of “waste not, want not” works these days.’
Smiling amiably, Clippesby wandered away with his fishy prize, stopping to exchange pleasantries with the porter’s cockerel as he went.
‘Do you really think the tench might be significant to Norbert’s case, or was that just a ruse to remove Clippesby and the rank odour of fish?’ Bartholomew was laughing.
Michael remained sombre. ‘Both. William thinks it will be simple to solve Norbert’s murder, because it will be easy to identify people who did not like him. But he is wrong: I think it will be very difficult to isolate the real culprit. Perhaps your assailant had nothing to do with Norbert, but I will keep him in mind until I am absolutely certain. And since he considered the fish sufficiently important to grab before he ran away, we shall keep that, too.’
‘Look,’ said Bartholomew, pointing to the front gate as it was suddenly flung open and an important visitor was ushered inside. ‘There is Sheriff Morice, waving to catch your attention. He is all yours, Brother. I have work to do, and I should probably pay my respects to Phillippa …’ He faltered. Meeting the woman he had almost married was not something he wanted to do at all.
‘Wait,’ said Michael, shooting out a fat, white hand to prevent Bartholomew from escaping. The physician did not bother to shake him off. He had decided that an interview with the corrupt Sheriff was infinitely preferable to an encounter with Philippa Abigny. ‘I do not trust him,’ Michael continued, ‘and it would be good to have a witness to anything he says.’
‘Brother Michael!’ said Morice, advancing on the monk with a smile that reminded Bartholomew of a leering demon he had once seen on a wall painting. Morice was a dark-haired, swarthy man with curiously blue eyes and a beard and moustache that went some way, but not all, to disguising a mean-lipped mouth. His shoulders were slightly rounded, and he might have been a scholar, were it not for his extravagant robes and handsome water-resistant boots.
‘Sheriff,’ said Michael politely. ‘What brings you to our humble abode?’
Morice looked around him, noting the rotting timber and the loose tiles on the roof, and seemed to concur with Michael’s description. ‘I have come about Norbert. The boy was a wastrel and the Tulyets are well rid of him, but murder is murder, and I do not want the relatives of wealthy merchants slain on my streets. Have you done anything or shall I look into it?’
‘I have been investigating,’ said Michael coolly. ‘Norbert was a student, and therefore his death comes under University jurisdiction.’
‘But he was the kinsman of a burgess,’ said Morice, not at all disconcerted by Michael’s unfriendly tone. ‘So his death comes under my jurisdiction, as far as I am concerned. Will you hand the culprit to me now, or shall I hunt out the guilty scholar myself?’
‘What makes you think the killer is a scholar?’ asked Bartholomew, feeling his hackles rise at the man’s presumption. ‘Since Norbert spent his last few hours in a tavern, it is likely the murderer was a patron of the King’s Head – a tavern frequented by townsfolk.’
Morice’s dark features broke into a sneer. ‘I guessed this would happen. You know the identity of Norbert’s killer, but you are protecting him by having a townsman convicted of the crime instead. Very well, then. I shall initiate my own enquiries. I will expose the culprit – be he one of the beggars in tabards who claim to be students or the Chancellor himself.’ He turned on his heel and stalked across the yard.
‘No wonder Tulyet was so keen for you to investigate,’ said Bartholomew, watching the Sheriff shove the porter out of the way when the man fumbled with the door. ‘He knows any enquiries Morice makes will not reveal the true killer.’
‘But they may result in a scapegoat,’ said Michael worriedly. ‘And you can be sure that Morice will demand full punishment according to the law. If I do not want to see innocent scholars hang, there is no time to waste.’
‘Do you need help?’ asked Bartholomew reluctantly. He was loath to leave the College now he knew that Philippa was in the town.
Michael smiled. ‘I plan to spend the day learning exactly what Norbert did on his last night, which will mean time in the King’s Head, and I do not need you for that. But I may need you tomorrow, if my enquiries lead me nowhere.’
Bartholomew had a bad feeling that Michael would be unsuccessful and that the Twelve Days of Christmas were going to be spent tracking down a killer.
‘Philippa Abigny,’ mused Michael, as he lounged comfortably in a chair in the conclave that evening. The conclave was a small chamber that adjoined the hall, used by the Fellows as somewhere to sit and talk until it was time to go to bed. It was a pleasant room, with wall hangings that lent it a cosy atmosphere, and rugs scattered here and there. Although there was glass in the windows – fine new glass, made using the latest technology – the shutters were closed, and rattled occasionally as the wind got up outside. The wooden floor was well buffed and smelled of beeswax, so that the conclave’s overwhelming and familiar odour comprised polished wood, smoke from the fire and faint overtones of the evening meal that had been served in the hall.
It was already well past eight o’clock, and Bartholomew, William and Michael were the only ones who had not gone to their rooms. William was there because there was still wine to drink and, despite his outward advocacy of abstinence and self-denial, the friar was a man who liked his creature comforts, particularly the liquid kind. Michael was there because he was obliged to be at the church at midnight to perform Angel Mass, and did not want to go to bed for only a few hours. Bartholomew had remained because he was unsettled by Philippa’s presence in the town.
‘Philippa Abigny,’ echoed William, walking to the table, where the wine stood in a large pewter jug. He stumbled near the door, where the floorboards had worked loose within the last three weeks and needed to be fastened down. Reluctant to hire a carpenter to solve the problem so near the expensive season of Christmas, Langelee had placed a rug over the offending section, but it tended to ‘walk’ and was not always where it needed to be. William refilled his goblet, then carried the jug to Michael, who had been hastily draining his cup to ensure he did not miss out. Bartholomew followed suit, feeling that plenty of wine was the only way he would sleep that night.