‘Because the cups went missing when we were all at that debate in Peterhouse,’ replied Langelee wretchedly. ‘And the servants were picking apples in the orchard. I suspect the culprit saw us leave then slipped in when Walter was looking the other way.’
‘Why do you think Gosse is responsible?’ asked Michael. His voice was flat and low, and Bartholomew looked at him sharply, suspecting he was more angry with Langelee for his carelessness than the burglar for his audacity.
‘Because both Suttone and Clippesby told me – independently – that Gosse was loitering around the College the morning the cups went missing. And later, Thelnetham reported seeing him running down the High Street with something tucked under his cloak.’
‘Yes, I did,’ agreed Thelnetham, horrified. ‘But I did not know it was the Stanton Cups!’
‘And I did not know Gosse was contemplating theft,’ added Suttone, equally appalled.
‘I did,’ said Clippesby. He was under the table, trying to soothe the cat. ‘The ducks guessed what was being planned, but Walter declined to put their warning to good use by being more vigilant.’
The Dominican’s odd habit of sitting quietly in the shadows while he communed with nature meant he was often witness to incidents no one else saw. Unfortunately, his eccentric way of reporting them meant he was rarely taken seriously. Bartholomew was not surprised Walter had declined to act on intelligence provided by birds.
‘Why did you wait so long before telling us?’ demanded Michael of Langelee. ‘I am Senior Proctor. I have a right to know about crimes committed in my own College.’
‘Because I hoped to get them back on the quiet,’ explained Langelee. ‘I went to Muschett, but he said that since no one actually saw Gosse make off with them, we cannot accuse him of theft. We–’
‘But that is outrageous!’ exploded Michael, temper breaking at last. ‘Those cups are worth a fortune. If Gosse took them, it is our prerogative to reclaim them.’
‘Not according to Muschett,’ said Langelee. ‘Believe me, there is nothing I would like more than to punch Gosse until he gives them back. But Muschett said that would be seen as an attack by the University against a layman. He feels the Stanton Cups are not worth the riot that is sure to follow.’
‘He is probably right,’ acknowledged Suttone, cutting across the spluttering reply Michael started to make. ‘Gosse may be a criminal, but there are many who would side with him against the University. And without Sheriff Tulyet to keep them in order, there might well be bloodshed.’
‘But we are talking about the Stanton Cups!’ protested Thelnetham, shocked. ‘Does Muschett seriously expect us to ignore the fact that this lout has stolen our most valuable treasure?’
‘Now do you see why I was reluctant to confide in you?’ asked Langelee, accusing in his turn. ‘You have reacted just as I predicted you would.’
‘Oh, do not worry,’ said Michael bitterly. ‘I do not want a riot. However, I shall keep a close eye on Gosse, and pounce with all the weight of the law if I catch so much as a glimmer of silver gilt.’
‘I wonder if he took my pennyroyal, too,’ mused Bartholomew. But then he shook his head. ‘No, he cannot have done, because my storeroom would have been locked when we were at the debate.’
‘Unless one of your careless lads left it open,’ said Michael savagely. ‘And as far as I am concerned, we have no idea what Gosse did when he roamed here unattended.’
As soon as it was light the following day, Michael left the College to investigate the Stanton Cups’ disappearance, but it did not take him long to learn that Langelee was right: Gosse’s curious activities around the time of the theft were circumstantial, and there was no indisputable evidence to link him with the crime – and certainly none convincing enough to allow a search of his house. Bartholomew doubted the monk would find anything anyway: too much time had passed, and the chalices would either be hidden in a safe place, or sold.
‘It is hopeless,’ said Michael despairingly, when he and the physician met in the hall for the noonday meal. ‘Constable Muschett, the Mayor and all the burgesses joined together and expressly forbade me to investigate – they do not usually tell the University what to do, but it is different this time. They are presenting a united front because they still resent the fine they were obliged to pay the last time Cambridge tackled Gosse. I wish to God Dick Tulyet were here.’
‘It is a pity the Sheriff is away,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘But being angry will not bring our chalices back. It is better to devise a way to prevent Gosse from burgling anyone else.’
‘How can I, when I have been ordered to stay away from him?’ shouted Michael, banging a plump fist on the table in frustration. Several students eased away, not wanting to be close when the Senior Proctor was in a temper. ‘Well, all I can say is that I hope he robs these cowardly officials, because then they might feel differently. Of course, Gosse is too clever for that – he knows who is protecting him, and chooses his victims with care.’
‘The Blood Relic debate is a week on Monday,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Virtually every scholar in the University will be there – we have been looking forward to it for weeks now.’
‘So?’ snapped Michael. ‘What does that have to do with anything?’
‘It will mean a lot of empty Colleges and hostels,’ explained Bartholomew patiently. ‘And if Gosse invaded Michaelhouse when everyone was out, then–’
‘Then he will almost certainly be planning something for then,’ finished Michael. His eyes gleamed, and some of the fury went out of him. ‘You are right! And I shall be ready for him. Thank you, Matt. You have made me feel considerably better, good physician that you are.’
Because it was Saturday, Bartholomew could finish teaching early, so he set his students some astrological calculations to keep them occupied and out of trouble, then went to visit his sister. Although he did not believe in the power of horoscopes, he still taught his pupils how to calculate them: they would not pass their disputations if he ignored that part of the curriculum, and he had no desire to be accused of corrupting their minds with unorthodox theories.
He found Edith making preserves in the kitchen, and the sweet scent of fruit filled the house – apples and plums from the garden, and the last of the blackberries from the hedgerows.
‘The harvest was dismal this year,’ said Edith, wiping her face with the back of her hand. It was hot in the room, with several huge pots bubbling furiously over the fire. ‘I usually make three times this amount – half for us, and half for Yolande de Blaston’s brood. They will be disappointed.’
‘I thought you would have gone back to Trumpington by now,’ said Bartholomew. He had been in the process of stealing an apple from one of the jars, but her words stopped him: he had no wish to deprive Yolande’s children.
‘You mean after what happened to Joan?’ Edith gave a wan smile. ‘I considered it, but Trumpington is lonely without Oswald, and I will only dwell on what happened. I am better off here.’
‘I am sorry I could not help Joan.’
‘You did your best. That priest never did appear, by the way.’
Bartholomew gazed at her blankly. ‘What priest?’
‘The one she came here with – Neubold. We sent for him to give her last rites, but he never arrived. I made enquiries at the Brazen George, where he was lodging, but the landlord said he has not been back to his room since the night Joan died, although he paid for it until the end of the week.’