Michael had heard Bartholomew’s voice from his room upstairs, and came down to speak to him. He pulled a disagreeable face as he watched the two pupils walk away.
‘It seems to me that virtually anyone can get inside your storeroom,’ he said reprovingly. ‘You claimed originally that it was just Tesdale and Risleye, but now we learn Deynman has been there, too – and he was “promoted” to Librarian specifically to keep him away from toxic medicines.’
There was no defence to the accusation, and Bartholomew saw he would have to be a lot more careful about his security arrangements in future.
‘I visited Shropham,’ he said, changing the subject before the monk could admonish him further. ‘He is recovering well, but still refuses to explain what happened on the night Carbo died.’
‘Carbo,’ mused Michael. ‘We still know nothing about him, other than the fact that he was a Black Friar who was not in his right mind. It is time we remedied the situation, so we had better visit the Dominican Friary – see what Prior Morden has managed to learn about the fellow. Are you ready?’
Bartholomew looked out of the window without enthusiasm. It was raining again. ‘Now?’
‘Yes, now! There is a mystery surrounding this priest’s murder, and I mean to find out what it is. I refuse to let Shropham hang, just for the want of a little probing.’
‘You think Shropham is innocent, then?’
‘There is insufficient information to allow me to judge,’ replied Michael pompously.
‘I thought you said this was as straightforward a case as any you have seen.’
‘I have changed my mind.’ Michael’s expression was haughty. ‘And I need your help, because I am feeling overwhelmed. Besides Carbo’s murder, I am expected to explore Wynewyk’s transgressions, find Langelee’s attacker, devise a way to retrieve the Stanton Cups, and locate your lost pennyroyal.’
‘I am investigating the pennyroyal myself.’
‘But not very effectively, for you still do not know what happened to it, and it has been four days since you noticed its disappearance. Do not look sour, Matt. It is true.’
Feeling somewhat chastened, Bartholomew followed him across the sodden courtyard to the gate. He was surprised to see Walter using the thicker, heavier of the two bars to secure it – the porter usually favoured the lighter one during the day, as it was easier to handle.
‘It is to keep Gosse out,’ Walter explained. ‘I am not having him in my College again.’
‘Do you think he might pay us another visit?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised.
‘Yes I do – he got the Stanton Cups last time, so he probably thinks there are other rich pickings to be had,’ said Walter grimly. He bent down to pick up his peacock, rubbing its head with a calloused finger. It crooned at him, and Bartholomew saw the affection between them was mutual. ‘I reckon he stole my bird’s tail, too. For a long time, I assumed you were the culprit, because you said in a lecture that peacock feathers can cure aching joints. But now I begin to wonder.’
‘I mentioned a superstitious belief to that effect,’ corrected Bartholomew, not for the first time. ‘But then I went on to explain how there is no evidence that it works, and–’
‘Gosse would think nothing of hurting a bird,’ interrupted Walter, lost in his own bitter reflections. ‘He came to Cambridge because Sheriff Tulyet is away, you know. He would not have dared show his face if our Sheriff were here.’
‘Then you will just have to rely on the Senior Proctor to see justice done,’ said Michael grandly, brushing a speck of mud from his elegant cloak.
Walter looked him up and down disparagingly. ‘I suppose we will,’ he muttered. ‘God help us.’
To reach the Dominican Friary, Bartholomew and Michael had to pass through the guarded entrance to the town known as the Barnwell Gate, then travel along a road called the Hadstock Way. And after the village of Hadstock, Bartholomew thought as they walked, the highway went on to Suffolk, where Elyan and d’Audley lived.
‘I told Edith you would look into Joan’s death,’ he said, recalling his promise to his sister. ‘I know you are busy, but it was the only way I could stop her from mounting her own investigation.’
Michael was mystified. ‘I thought you said it was an accident or suicide. Or has Edith learned that you were careless, and wants to know whether it was your supplies that killed her friend?’
Bartholomew winced. ‘She believes Joan was provided with pennyroyal by someone who meant her harm – or to deprive Elyan of his heir. I think she is wrong, but…’
‘But you would rather I meddled with a distant landowner’s dangerous enemies than your sister,’ finished Michael flatly. ‘Very well. I shall tell her enquiries are under way – which they are, because I want to know exactly who has been in your storeroom. I do not like Risleye.’
Bartholomew regarded him uneasily, uncomfortable with the juxtaposition of the two remarks. ‘You think he took it?’
‘Two days ago, I would have said no one at Michaelhouse is a thief, but Wynewyk’s treachery has given me pause for thought. And I have been wary of Risleye ever since Paxtone foisted him on you. He said he could no longer teach the lad because of irreconcilable personal differences, but I am sceptical; you do not abandon a bright student when one more year will see him graduate.’
Bartholomew was not sure where the discussion was going. ‘You think Paxtone sent Risleye to Michaelhouse for a reason other than teaching?’ he asked, bemused. ‘Such as what?’
Michael shrugged. ‘To spy. Risleye told Paxtone that Wynewyk summoned you for a cure on Wednesday night. Now why would he do that, if they find each other’s company so objectionable?’
‘It would have been a casually passed remark when they happened to meet in the street,’ replied Bartholomew, regarding him askance. ‘It is hardly enough to warrant accusations of espionage!’
‘If they like each other enough to exchange gossip, then why did Paxtone part with Risleye in the first place?’ demanded Michael. ‘And do not say Michaelhouse has nothing Paxtone could possibly want, because it has you: he has always been jealous of your success.’
‘Lord, Brother!’ breathed Bartholomew, stunned by the turn the conversation had taken. ‘You have been Senior Proctor too long, because you see intrigue where there is none. I imagine he gives daily thanks he is not me, with my destitute patients, over-full classes and unconventional theories.’
‘Well, just bear my warning in mind,’ said Michael coolly. ‘And if it transpires that Paxtone did send Risleye to you for reasons other than education, then do not say I did not warn you.’
They walked in silence through a soggy, dripping landscape. To their left lay the boggy expanse of Barnwell Field, in which a flock of grey-brown sheep grazed, jaws working rhythmically as they watched the scholars pass. To the right was the fetid snake of the King’s Ditch. When they reached the powerful walls of the Dominican Friary, Michael knocked on the gate and asked to see the Prior.
Prior Morden was tiny, with legs and arms in perfect proportion to his elfin torso. He was sitting at a table in his handsome solar, chair loaded with cushions to raise him to a functional height; Bartholomew recalled his sister making similar arrangements for him when he was a child. Morden’s legs swung in the space below the seat, clad in minute knee-high boots.
‘I have learned nothing new, Brother,’ he said, wincing as the monk threw open the door so hard that the latch hit the wall with an ear-splitting crack. ‘I still do not know who Carbo was, or where he came from. I assume that is why you are here? To ask me about him?’