‘He does not,’ said Paxtone immediately. ‘He needs to go home, where he can recover from this dreadful ordeal. It cannot have been easy, watching a priest slaughtered.’
‘No,’ agreed Shropham weakly.
‘Are you saying you did not kill him?’ asked Michael. ‘That someone else is responsible?’
‘That is not possible, Shropham,’ said Cleydon quietly. ‘You and Carbo were the only ones here when we happened across you. And you cannot deny that the knife poking from his belly is yours: you have none, and he holds his own in his dead hand.’
‘I am not sure…’ began Shropham. He swallowed. ‘Perhaps he had two – and killed himself.’
Bartholomew regarded him uncertainly. The explanation was feeble, to say the least.
‘Come, Shropham,’ cried Paxtone, equally appalled. ‘You must have more to say for yourself than that! Someone else was here, someone Cleydon missed in all this dark and rain. You were coming to this priest’s aid because you saw him being attacked by ruffians.’
‘Gosse,’ suggested Cynric helpfully. ‘He was here a few moments ago.’
‘I cannot remember,’ said Shropham dully. ‘Perhaps Carbo fell on the knife by mistake.’
‘Not from that angle,’ said Bartholomew, who had seen enough wounds to be able to distinguish the more obviously deliberate from the accidental.
‘Self-defence, then,’ said Paxtone, sounding desperate as he appealed to his colleague to save himself. ‘The Dominican was deranged, and did not know what he was doing. Priests often become unhinged if they spend too long fasting. It is a medical fact.’
‘He has a point,’ said Bartholomew to Michael. ‘Carbo was not rational when we met him. He did not seem dangerous, but ailments of the mind often take unpredictable courses.’
‘I do not know whether the Dominican was the type to starve himself for prayers,’ said Shropham. ‘I am not saying you are wrong, Paxtone – indeed, you are never wrong – only that I cannot verify it.’
‘So, the priest was a stranger to you,’ said Paxtone, refusing to give up. ‘He approached you without saying who he was, and you struck out to protect yourself. It was an accident.’
‘I am not sure,’ said Shropham tiredly. ‘Did you see those quills I left for you, Paxtone? They are the best out of the whole batch I sharpened today.’
Paxtone regarded him in disbelief. ‘How can you be thinking about such matters now? Do you not see the seriousness of the situation? You are accused of murder!’
Shropham hung his head, and tears slid down his cheeks. Michael and Cleydon pressed him with more questions, but he refused to answer.
‘Is there any reason why he should not be incarcerated, Matt?’ asked Michael eventually, exasperated by the lack of co-operation. Like Bartholomew, he had been ready to give Shropham the benefit of the doubt, but the evidence of his guilt was overwhelming, and his bewildering silence was doing nothing to help. ‘This wound will not kill him?’
‘Let me take him home,’ begged Paxtone. ‘I promise he will not escape.’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew, not liking the notion of Shropham roaming free. He had read of cases where someone had committed murder then remembered nothing about it, and did not want Paxtone to be Shropham’s next victim. ‘Michael can lock him in the documents room in St Mary the Great. It is warm and dry, but secure.’
Paxtone was dismayed, and barely listened to Michael telling him the crime was as straightforward as any he had seen: Shropham’s weapon was embedded in Carbo, and the Junior Proctor himself was able to say there was no one else in the Market Square when the victim was attacked. Shropham would almost certainly be found guilty of murder.
‘I refuse to believe it,’ said Paxtone, white-faced with horror as Cleydon led the prisoner away. ‘Shropham has been in Cambridge for decades and has never shown any propensity for violence before. Why should he start now?’
‘I wonder why he would not talk to us,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘It is almost as if he wants us to think he is guilty.’
‘He was a soldier once,’ said Cynric, who had been listening to the discussion from the shadows. When he spoke, everyone jumped, because they had forgotten he was there. Bartholomew knew he should not be surprised: since the year they had spent travelling overseas together, the Welshman had grown bold about offering his opinions where he thought they were needed. ‘He fought in Scotland. Afterwards, he came here and became a lawyer.’
‘Being a warrior does not make him a killer,’ said Paxtone, while Bartholomew wondered whether King’s Hall would have kept Shropham’s military past quiet, had Cynric not revealed it.
‘Of course it does,’ countered Michael. ‘That is what warriors do: they kill people. But why do you think he resisted your attempts to exonerate him?’
‘Because he is injured,’ snapped Paxtone. ‘And shock has robbed him of his wits. When he recovers, he will provide you with an explanation that will make you sorry you doubted him.’
‘Your loyalty commends you,’ said Michael quietly. ‘Did you ever meet this Dominican? Carbo?’
‘Of course not,’ replied Paxtone, turning to look at the dead man with distaste. ‘I do not fraternise with hedge-priests. However, look at the cuffs on his sleeves – the Cambridge Black Friars do not wear theirs like that. Ergo, he is a visitor, which means Shropham has no reason to harm him. Fellows of the University do not go around stabbing strangers.’
‘My experience as Senior Proctor tells me otherwise,’ said Michael sombrely. ‘I do not suppose you can throw any light on the matter, can you, Matt?’
Bartholomew crouched next to Carbo, grateful the beadles had finally ousted the ghouls, so he no longer had an audience. Carbo was no cleaner than he had been when they had met him in St Mary the Great, and his face was thin to the point of being skeletal. The physician was not surprised Paxtone assumed he had been fasting, and wondered if he was right.
‘He died of a single knife wound that penetrated his liver,’ he said, rinsing his hands in a rain-puddle before standing. They felt oily from touching the priest’s habit, and he would have to scrub them before he went to bed. ‘It would have killed him fairly quickly.’
‘I had better go and tell Warden Powys what has happened,’ said Paxtone. He sounded near tears. ‘He will doubtless want to talk to you about keeping Shropham in King’s Hall until we prove his innocence – which I am sure we will.’
‘He cannot imagine a colleague being capable of murder,’ said Michael, watching Paxtone waddle away. ‘But Cleydon virtually watched the whole thing happen, and he has no reason to lie.’
Bartholomew woke later than usual the following day, because his students were aware that he had been out late and had taken care not to disturb him when they rose. He was a heavy sleeper at the best of times, and might not have stirred until noon had Michael not taken it upon himself to do the honours by hurling open the window shutters and clapping his hands.
‘Shropham had a comfortable night,’ the monk reported, sitting at the desk while Bartholomew tried to rally his sluggish wits. He cocked his head as a bell began to chime. ‘Langelee is almost ready to lead us to church for Sunday prayers, so you had better get up or you will be late.’
The physician clambered out of bed, hopping across the icy flagstones on bare feet as he made for the bowl of water Cynric left him each night. He washed and dressed quickly, listening to Michael describe all he had done that morning. The monk made it sound as though he had been up for hours while his friend had been sleeping the day away.
‘Is Shropham showing any sign of fever?’ he asked, straightening his tabard as he followed Michael across the yard. They were the last to arrive, and Langelee immediately led his neat phalanx of scholars through the gate and up St Michael’s Lane.