Bartholomew glanced sideways, and thought Michael was a fine one to be talking. The monk had lost some weight the previous year, but his fondness for bread, meat and lard-drenched Lombard slices meant he had regained most of it.
‘A silver paten was stolen from Peterhouse this morning,’ Michael went on when there was no response. All the while, he watched the cake with eagle eyes. ‘It was Gosse, of course, but he managed to do it without being seen. I spent hours questioning students, Fellows and passers-by, but no one saw anything useful.’
‘Then how do you know Gosse is responsible?’
‘Because I defied the town worthies, and questioned him anyway. He loved the fact that I am certain of his guilt but can do nothing about it. He claims he was at a religious meeting in St Giles’s Church when the theft took place.’
‘Perhaps he was. Did you ask the vicar?’
‘Of course, but it was one of those ceremonies where the place was packed and people came and went at will. Gosse was at St Giles’s, but no one can say whether he was there the whole time. And those who might know are too frightened to talk. It is frustrating, knowing the identity of a culprit but being powerless to act.’
‘He will make a mistake eventually, or steal in front of a witness who is not afraid to speak out.’
‘Yes, but how many more heirlooms will we lose in the meantime?’ demanded Michael bitterly. ‘It is his lawyer who is to blame. Neubold.’
Bartholomew frowned. ‘Neubold? That is the name of the priest who accompanied Joan to Cambridge, then failed to come and give her last rites.’
Michael shrugged. ‘Joan hailed from Suffolk, and so does Gosse. Perhaps Neubold is a common name there. Or perhaps this priest dabbles in criminal law to supplement his stipend.’
‘What about the attack on Langelee?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Have you solved that yet?’
‘No, but come with me to my office in St Mary the Great,’ said Michael, giving the cake one last, covetous glance before making for the door. ‘My beadles have found a witness, and he has agreed to meet me there. It will not take long, and we shall be back in time for the Saturday Debate.’
Chapter 3
The witness to the attack on Langelee transpired to be a thin, beak-nosed Dominican with wild eyes and filthy robes. He stank, and Bartholomew did not think he had ever seen hands more deeply ingrained with dirt. He wondered why Prior Morden, the head of the Cambridge Black Friars, had not ordered him to bathe. The man was a hedge-priest – an itinerant cleric with no parish of his own – but the fact that he wore a Dominican habit meant Morden would have some control over him.
‘Tell me what you saw,’ ordered Michael, indicating that the friar should sit on a bench – a handsome piece of furniture that matched his exquisitely carved desk. Bartholomew surveyed the room’s tasteful elegance and understated wealth, and wondered how long Michael would obey the order to leave Gosse alone. The monk had not risen to such dizzy heights by letting himself be bullied, or by following instructions he thought were foolish.
‘It was dark that night,’ replied the friar with a peculiar smile. ‘As dark as the finest coal. Coal is a glorious substance. It shines like gold. Black gold.’
‘Right,’ said Michael warily. ‘What is your name?’
‘I have many names, but I like the one God gave me best – Carbo. It is Latin, and means–’
‘Coal,’ said Michael. ‘Yes, I know. Now, about the incident near King’s Hall on Thursday…’
‘I saw a small man step from the shadows with a knife. He stabbed a big man, then ran away.’
‘Did you recognise the small man?’ asked Michael hopefully. ‘Or do you know his name?’
‘No.’
The priest gesticulated as he talked, and Bartholomew noticed that the movements of one hand were less fluid than the other. He kept tilting his head to one side, too, shaking it, as if to clear his ears of water. The physician wondered what was wrong with him.
‘Can you describe this attacker?’ Michael was asking.
Carbo breathed in deeply, and an uneasy expression crossed his face. ‘Can you smell garlic?’
‘Garlic?’ queried Michael, startled. ‘No. Unless Agatha put some in my midday pottage…’
‘There!’ exclaimed Carbo, snapping his fingers and beaming. ‘It has gone! All is well again.’
‘I am glad to hear it,’ said Michael, regarding him askance. ‘But you were about to describe–’
Carbo closed his eyes, and began to speak in a curious, chant-like manner. ‘The man I saw. A youth or small man. Well dressed. Scholar’s uniform. Neat hair. Good boots – black, like coal.’ His eyes snapped open again, and he grinned broadly. ‘Coal is a marvellous thing, although it brings out the worst in people. Do you not agree?’
Michael blinked. ‘I have never given it much thought, frankly. Is there any more you can tell us? This was an attempt on a man’s life, and we are eager to catch the culprit, lest he tries it again.’
‘I can tell you he should have darkened his face with coal-dust, because then I would not have seen him loitering in that doorway, waiting for his prey. He would have been invisible.’
‘Do you think Langelee – the big man – was his intended victim?’ asked Michael.
‘Yes – he let other folk pass unmolested, and only made his move when the big man came. He knew who to kill. Can you smell garlic? I smell garlic.’
‘Lord, Matt!’ exclaimed Michael, when Carbo had been sent on his way with money for a decent meal. ‘He is as mad as Clippesby. What is it about the Dominican Order that attracts lunatics?’
‘You should speak to Prior Morden about him,’ said Bartholomew, concerned. ‘He is obviously ill, and should not be wandering about on his own. He needs care and attention.’
‘Very well. Do you think we can trust his testimony?’
Bartholomew shrugged. ‘He confirmed what Langelee said – that the culprit wore academic garb.’
Michael was thoughtful. ‘His description of the culprit’s neat hair does not sound like Gosse, either – Gosse is virtually bald. So perhaps this is one crime of which he is innocent. But speak of the devil, and he will appear, because there is Idoma.’
‘Who?’
‘Gosse’s sister. Folk say she is a witch, but only because they are afraid of her. Obviously, it is easier to be frightened of a witch than admit to being intimidated by an ordinary woman.’
Bartholomew studied Idoma as she approached, and supposed she was an impressive specimen. She was taller and broader than most men, and many of his younger students would have been proud to boast a moustache like hers. Her hair was bundled under a wimple, but the tendril that escaped was jet black. It matched her eyes, which were oddly expressionless, and reminded him of a shark-fish he had once seen off the Spanish coast. The similarity was enhanced when she opened her mouth to speak, revealing two rows of sharp, jagged teeth. And Suttone had been right when he claimed she was a cut above the average villain, too – she carried herself with an aloof dignity that indicated she was no commoner.
‘Lost any more chalices recently, Brother?’ she asked gloatingly.
‘Why?’ asked Michael coldly. ‘Which ones has your brother stolen now?’
‘You cannot make that sort of accusation,’ said Idoma, stepping forward threateningly. Michael held his ground, so they were eye to eye. ‘Our lawyer says so.’
Michael smiled without humour. ‘But your lawyer is not here, is he, madam? What did Gosse do with my College’s cups? If they are returned, I may be persuaded to speak at his trial – the one that is a certainty, given the number of crimes he commits. A word from me may see him escape the noose.’