‘I do not think it will take five days to demand thirty marks from three Suffolk lords,’ said Bartholomew, struggling to mount his horse. ‘We should be home long before then.’
‘I hope we find answers there,’ said Michael unhappily. ‘When I first saw Carbo dead with Shropham’s knife in him, I thought the case was cut and dried. But now I am uncertain. I cannot put my finger on it, but there is something badly amiss.’
‘I do not understand your reservations,’ said Bartholomew, becoming frustrated by the nag’s refusal to stand still. It was the fierce black one, and he was not sure he agreed with Michael’s assessment that it was the most docile of the bunch. ‘Your Junior Proctor arrived very quickly, and he says no one else was in sight. Moreover, Shropham was injured, which suggests he was involved in some sort of spat.’
‘That is what the application of cold logic would dictate. But we both know things are seldom what they seem, and I am beginning to think there may be a good reason for Shropham’s bewildering silence. The problem is that unless he confides in me, I may never know what it is.’
‘Shropham is so quiet and unassuming that it is difficult to gain his true measure. Who knows what he is really like? I do not. Perhaps he is a killer, but has managed to conceal it – until now.’
‘There is also the issue of motive,’ continued Michael, lost in his reverie. ‘Why should Shropham stab Carbo? Edith says Carbo is not Neubold, so we must abandon the theory that it was something to do with King’s Hall’s negotiations for coal.’
‘Perhaps he did it because he could.’ Bartholomew managed to climb into the saddle at last, then hung on grimly while the horse pranced about. ‘I have just said he might be a natural killer.’
‘Or perhaps Carbo tried to blackmail Shropham,’ suggested Michael, seeing the physician was going to be thrown, and leaning forward to grab the reins. He glanced at the students, who were watching their master’s antics in open-mouthed disbelief; politely, Cynric was pretending not to notice. ‘That would explain why Shropham is now reluctant to explain why he stabbed the man.’
‘Then he will not thank you for trying to discover the secret he committed murder to hide,’ said Bartholomew, breathing a sigh of relief when Michael brought the animal under control. ‘He does not value his life, or he would have pleaded self-defence. But perhaps he will feel differently by the time we return – or we will have answers that make his silence irrelevant.’
‘Perhaps Paxtone is the killer,’ suggested Michael. Bartholomew looked sharply at him, and the monk shrugged as he handed back the reins. ‘It is just a suggestion.’
‘Based on what evidence?’ Bartholomew was shocked.
‘On the fact that Shropham has developed a rather unhealthy admiration for him, so might be prepared to take the blame for a crime his hero committed. Did you know he rinses Paxtone’s urine jars? I would not do that for you, and we are genuine friends.’
‘He debases himself by waiting on all the King’s Hall Fellows, not just Paxtone.’
‘I am just playing with ideas here, Matt. In the past one of us has proposed a wild theory, and the subsequent discussion has allowed us to deduce sensible answers. I hoped that would happen now.’
‘In other words, you are desperate.’ Bartholomew grabbed the horse’s mane when it began to buck again, and wished he had paid closer attention to the riding lessons he had been given as a child.
‘I cannot rid myself of the notion that Shropham is innocent. Do not ask why, when common sense, logic and the testimony of my Junior Proctor tell me otherwise. But it is a strong feeling, and I have learned not to ignore my instincts.’
‘We should go,’ said Valence, uneasy about the amount of time that was passing. ‘Or we run the risk of being out on unfamiliar roads after dark.’
‘I do not want to be out at all,’ said Tesdale fervently. ‘I will be useless in a skirmish. Kelyng was a veritable Ajax – almost as skilled as Doctor Bartholomew or Cynric with weapons – but I am not.’
‘You are good with a knife, though,’ said Risleye. He did not often compliment people, so Bartholomew assumed Tesdale must be outstanding. ‘Did you hear Kelyng’s parents have written to Master Langelee, by the way? They want to know why they have not heard from him since August.’
Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘To what extents a man will go to avoid his debts!’
‘I do not think he fled for debts,’ whispered Cynric to Bartholomew. ‘I think Wynewyk hired him as personal protection. But he found the work too dangerous, so he took to his heels while he was still able.’
‘Christ, Cynric!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, amazed, as always, by the Welshman’s capacity for devising wild theories. ‘How in God’s name did you come up with that?’
‘Because Kelyng was Wynewyk’s student,’ explained Cynric, unperturbed by his master’s less than positive reaction to his thesis. ‘And he is poor, so will do anything for money. Meanwhile, Wynewyk was busily cheating his colleagues, which means he would have felt vulnerable–’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew. He realised he should not be surprised that Cynric knew of Wynewyk’s alleged crimes, when only the Fellows were supposed to be party to the secret – the Welshman was an inveterate eavesdropper. ‘Kelyng did not leave Cambridge because of Wynewyk.’
‘We shall see, boy,’ said Cynric comfortably.
Six riders represented quite a cavalcade in Cambridge’s narrow streets, and people stopped to look at them or call greetings as they rode past. Edith was waiting with a bag of food for their journey. She started to give it to Bartholomew, but changed her mind when she saw he was not in sufficient control of his horse to allow her to approach safely. Michael thrust out an eager paw, but she handed it to Cynric instead.
Then Paxtone hurried forward to assure Bartholomew – again – that he should not worry about his patients, that he was ready to step into the breach in the event of an emergency. Bartholomew smiled, but sincerely hoped the King’s Hall physician would not attempt to inflict his rigid, uninspired medicine on Cambridge’s hapless poor.
‘There is Gosse,’ muttered Michael, as they rode past the leafy churchyard of St Mary the Great. ‘And Idoma is with him. What are they doing?’
‘She is angry,’ said Bartholomew, watching the furious way she shoved her brother away from her. He declined to be repelled, and moved forward again each time he was pushed, all the while speaking in a low, calm voice. Idoma said nothing, but even from a distance Bartholomew could see the expression on her face was dark and dangerous. ‘And he is trying to soothe her.’
Michael grinned slyly. ‘I wonder if her ire stems from the fact that I thwarted an attempt to burgle Bene’t College last night.’
‘Did you?’ asked Bartholomew. Gosse seemed to be winning the battle; Idoma’s jostles were becoming less forceful. She still looked incensed, though, and the physician was glad their paths would not cross. ‘How?’
‘Beadle Meadowman reported two cunningly broken windows there – clearly, a villain had damaged them with a view to gaining easy access at some point in the future. I had them mended, and arranged for a couple of fierce dogs to be stationed nearby. There was a commotion at midnight, and a would-be burglar was seen running for his life.’
‘Was it Gosse? Or Idoma?’
‘Not Idoma – she is too large for scaling walls and squeezing through windows. But witnesses say the culprit was the right size for her brother. Of course, the sly devil was heavily disguised, and no one can identify him with certainty. Still, at least he did not manage to steal anything, and the fright he had may make him think twice before targeting other University buildings.’