‘The other litigants want a quick decision,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘So you had better arrange for someone to represent King’s Hall as soon as possible. Who will it be? You?’
‘Our best lawyer is Shropham, but he is in gaol. Perhaps Powys will represent us himself – he is not as good as Shropham, but he has an astute legal mind. I had better go and tell him at once.’
Bartholomew watched him waddle away, then caught up with the others. ‘When will you release Shropham?’ he asked of the monk. ‘Or are you inclined to dismiss what Gosse said – that Neubold was Carbo’s killer?’
Michael shook his head slowly. ‘The news of Shropham’s innocence comes as no surprise; you know I have never really been convinced of his guilt. But why did he not tell me he was blameless in the affair? It makes no sense. So, call me callous, but Shropham can stay in his cell until I know why he would rather hang than tell the truth.’
Bartholomew and Michael led the visitors along the High Street and down St Michael’s Lane. The College looked the same as always, and the physician felt a profound sense of relief when he saw its sturdy yellow walls. Walter opened the gate, peacock tucked under his arm.
‘Where is the Master?’ demanded Michael without preamble. ‘Will you tell him he is needed? Now?’
While Walter went to do as he was ordered, Bartholomew heard Thelnetham holding forth in the hall, entertaining his colleagues with one of his witty lectures.
‘I should check on my students,’ the physician said, keen to see his class and find out what they had learned in his absence. He found he was looking forward to the questions they would have on the texts he had set, and it made him realise how important they were to him.
‘No, you should not,’ hissed Michael, grabbing his arm. ‘You are going to stay here and help me out of this mess. It was not my idea to go to Suffolk in search of coal, timber and pigs.’
‘But it was your idea to lie about Langelee’s integrity,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘You are reaping the wages of your deceitful ways.’
Michael started to respond with a curt remark, but Langelee had heard the commotion by the gate and was striding across the courtyard to see what was happening. Michael gaped at him, while Bartholomew struggled not to laugh.
The Master had been with Agatha, being fitted for new clothes. Because money was tight, she was using an altar cloth that had been rendered unsuitable for its original purpose by moths and wine-stains. It was draped across his shoulders, and fell in folds to his feet. The damage had been disguised – although not very skilfully – with motifs cut from a fox pelt.
‘By heaven!’ breathed Luneday. ‘Is this him?’
‘I am afraid so,’ replied Michael wearily.
‘Fashions change so fast these days,’ said Elyan, glancing down at his own black garb. ‘And it is difficult to keep up when you live so far from court. But, if this is what is in vogue, then this is what we must wear. I had better purchase some of that cloth while I am here.’
‘It is very fine,’ declared Luneday. ‘Exactly what a man of honour and intelligence might select.’
‘Gentlemen,’ said Michael, as Langelee approached. Agatha was behind him, trying to keep the fabric from dragging in the mud. ‘This is Master Ralph de Langelee, Michaelhouse’s finest philosopher and a man of great wisdom.’
Bartholomew was amused to note that Langelee did not seem at all surprised or discomfited by the grand introduction. He effected an elegant bow, and Agatha swore under her breath when some of her pinning slipped and material cascaded to the ground.
‘I am deeply honoured, noble sir,’ said Luneday, stepping forward to make a low and very sincere obeisance. Langelee frowned a little, but took it in his stride.
‘There is an inheritance dispute over Elyan Manor,’ Michael started to explain. Bartholomew could see faces pressed against the windows of the hall, as students strained to see what was going on. ‘King’s Hall is also involved. You have been chosen to preside over a discussion of the business, to decide who has the strongest claim.’
‘All right,’ said Langelee amiably. ‘I am always pleased to voice an opinion, even if it is on affairs I know nothing about.’ He guffawed heartily, and Michael winced.
‘Will you hear us now, my lord?’ asked Luneday politely.
‘He will not,’ growled Agatha. ‘He is busy, and I had him first.’
‘You heard the lady,’ said Langelee, with a wink. ‘She has first claim on my person, and I need this cloak finished, because the other slipped off and fell in the latrine during a careless moment. Come back later – preferably during the Blood Relic contest.’
‘Oh, no!’ objected Luneday, chagrined. ‘We would not deprive the University of your wisdom for the world – especially as I am told you have solved the matter.’
‘Well, perhaps not solved,’ hedged Langelee, aware that he was in the presence of Michael, a talented theologian. ‘But I certainly have views. However, the reason I asked you to come this afternoon is because there is a camp-ball game later, and I shall be able to take part in it if you give me an excuse to miss the debate.’
Bartholomew ran after him when he started to walk away. ‘Do you not want more of an explanation?’
Langelee shrugged. ‘Here are folk in need of a decent mind to resolve a long-standing problem. What other explanation is needed? Besides, I suspect it has something to do with our missing thirty marks, and I am willing to do just about anything to retrieve that.’
Bartholomew’s pleasure at being among the safe, familiar things of home did not last long. The moment he had finished talking to Langelee, Deynman approached, his expression troubled. He began speaking without preamble.
‘Master Paxtone came to borrow poppy juice when you were gone. I gave him the whole jar, but he brought it back and said it contained nothing of the kind. I had a sip, and he was right. Someone had swapped it for water.’
Bartholomew knew there was no point in remonstrating with Deynman for tasting something that might have been dangerous. ‘Are you saying Paxtone exchanged an expensive medicine for–’
‘Oh, no! He was simply drawing attention to the fact – someone else is responsible. The culprit probably changed the pennyroyal for water, too, because it certainly did not put a shine on my hasps.’
Bartholomew was sceptical of Deynman’s claims, but obligingly followed him across the yard to the storeroom. Once there, it did not take him long to see the Librarian was right. He was aghast.
‘My God!’ he breathed, sinking down on to a bench. ‘Who would do something like this?’
‘Poppy juice is both costly and difficult to come by,’ replied Deynman. ‘So perhaps a student took it, in readiness for when he becomes a physician. Who do you know who is interested in money?’
‘Not Tesdale or Valence. They may be poor, but they–’
‘I said someone interested in money, not someone without any,’ interrupted Deynman. His curt tone suggested he had already given the question considerable thought, and had reached a conclusion.
‘Risleye?’ asked Bartholomew. Was that why Paxtone had declined to teach him, even though the lad was a decent student – he objected to having his supplies pilfered? And had Paxtone borrowed poppy juice to see whether Risleye had resumed his tricks with a new master? ‘No, I do not believe–’
‘Then who?’ demanded Deynman. ‘Because there are two facts you cannot escape here. First, the poppy juice is gone and water has been left in its place. And second, it did not happen by itself. So, who else might it have been? Valence? Tesdale? Me?’