Behind Michael were the newest Fellows. The Dominican Clippesby stood with the Carmelite friar, Thomas Suttone. Clippesby was talking in loving tones to a dead frog he had somehow acquired, and Suttone was trying to wrest it away from him before Langelee saw it. Langelee was not particularly tolerant of the Dominican’s idiosyncrasies, mostly because he did not know how to respond to them.
Suttone was a long, bony man with short white hair that contrasted oddly with Clippesby’s wild locks. He had some of the largest teeth that Bartholomew had ever seen in a person, and was a sombre individual, wholly devoid of humour. He was not an unkind man, but his unsmiling demeanour did not make him popular with his colleagues. Even the dour, uncompromising William was not serious all the time, and enjoyed a little light-hearted banter of an evening, especially if it were at the expense of the Dominicans.
Suttone and Clippesby began a covert push – pull competition over the frog, determination to possess it clearly written in the features of both. Bartholomew and Michael watched the tussle warily, hoping that Clippesby would not have one of his tantrums if Suttone were the victor, because when Langelee locked Clippesby in his room ‘for his own safety’ the other Fellows were obliged to take over his teaching responsibilities. The struggle, however, ended abruptly when the frog broke in two. Clippesby regarded his part in surprise, and then generously presented it to Suttone, whispering that there was little anyone could do with half a frog and that Suttone should take both bits. Michael snorted with laughter as Clippesby clasped his hands in front of him in genuine innocence, while Suttone was left holding a mess of spilled entrails that he was unable to explain to the disgusted Langelee.
Considering that the Fellows of Michaelhouse comprised a Benedictine, a Dominican, a Franciscan, a Carmelite and a Gilbertine, the College was remarkably strife-free. Bartholomew sincerely hoped it would continue, and that his colleagues would not be drawn into the rivalries and disputes in which the religious Orders indulged. William posed the greatest threat, with his naked hatred of Dominicans, but, fortunately, Clippesby was not sufficiently sane to provide him with a satisfactory target. Sometimes he objected to the hail of abuse the Franciscan directed towards him, but most of the time he seemed unaware that there was a problem.
Thinking of the unease between the Orders reminded Bartholomew of why Michael had left Edith’s house early the previous night. He glanced at the monk, noting again that he looked exhausted and out of sorts.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked, brushing mud from his tabard as they waited for the procession to move off. ‘Sergeant Orwelle told me how he found the body.’
Michael shook his head slowly. ‘Walcote was a good man, despite my complaints that he was too gentle. I shall catch whoever did this, and string them up, just as they did to him.’
‘It was definitely murder, then?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘There is no possibility it was suicide?’
‘His hands were tied behind him,’ said Michael shortly. ‘It was not suicide.’
‘Did the Dominicans do it?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘It seems a little brazen to use their own walls as an execution ground.’
‘They said it had nothing to do with them, and that the first they knew about it was when Tulyet hammered on their gates and demanded to know why a corpse was dangling from their wall. Prior Morden maintains that the gates have been locked since the fight with the Carmelites.’
Bartholomew raised his eyebrows. ‘Prior Lincolne claimed the Carmelite Friary doors were shut, and that Faricius could not possibly have left the premises. But Faricius still ended up gutted like a fish in a grimy alley. These locked doors have peculiar properties, it seems.’
Michael sighed. ‘If I had a groat for every time a scholar claimed he could not have committed a crime because he was locked inside a College or a hostel, when all the time he was as guilty as sin, I would be a rich man.’
‘So, do you think the Dominicans killed Walcote, then?’
Michael rubbed his eyes wearily. ‘I have no idea. Walcote was hanged from a drainage pipe that juts out from the top of the wall. Anyone outside the friary could have flung a rope over it and hauled him up by the neck.’
‘Walcote was an Austin. Do the Dominicans have a dispute with them?’
Michael sighed again. ‘The reality is that, at the moment, the Dominicans seem happy to fight anyone – anyone – who is not from their own Order.’
‘Then it is not safe for any non-Dominican to be out on the streets,’ said Bartholomew. ‘That is not a healthy state of affairs.’
‘You do not need to tell me that,’ said Michael. ‘I thought the town was calm last night, or I would never have allowed you to persuade me to go to Trumpington. Priors Morden and Lincolne promised to keep their students in, and I thought the worst of the trouble was over.’
‘So, do you have any idea who might have killed Walcote? Were there any clues with the body?’
‘None. He was killed in a secluded spot, probably just after sunset, when no one would have been around. I doubt there are witnesses.’
‘So, what will you do?’
Michael fell into step beside Bartholomew as Langelee led the procession out of the yard and into the street. ‘I must be careful with this case, Matt. I liked Walcote, despite my reservations about his gentleness, and I am in danger of allowing affection to cloud my judgement. If that happens, the killer may go free.’
‘Can you delegate the investigation to your beadles?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘I do not trust any of them with something this important. Meadowman shows promise, but he is inexperienced. I need you to help me, Matt.’
‘I will examine Walcote’s body for you,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But I am no good at hunting down criminals. And anyway, what about my teaching?’
‘It is Holy Week, and you only teach in the mornings,’ said Michael. ‘Walcote’s murder is not only a deep personal blow, it is a strike against the University. The proctors are symbols of authority and order, and killing one of us is a statement of chaos and anarchy.’
‘I think you are overstating the case, Brother,’ said Bartholomew reasonably. ‘It may just be that Walcote was alone, and that the attack on him was opportunistic. Or maybe some resentful student – previously arrested or fined by Walcote – saw an opportunity for revenge. His death is not necessarily imbued with a deeper meaning.’
Michael turned haunted eyes on him. ‘I hope you are right, Matt. But I need your expertise, and I need another sharp mind to assess facts that I may miss. Will you do it?’
‘Very well,’ said Bartholomew reluctantly.
The monk nodded his thanks, and they walked the rest of the way to the church in silence. Bartholomew’s thoughts were full of foreboding when he saw that, yet again, he was about to be sucked into a world of treachery and violence that had already claimed the life of Michael’s deputy. He hoped they would solve the matter quickly, so that his life could return to normal.
‘Two murders,’ said Michael, pacing back and forth in his room after breakfast that morning, his black habit swirling around his thick white ankles. A jug on the table wobbled dangerously as his weight rocked the floorboards, and Bartholomew was grateful he was not working in his own room below, attempting to concentrate over the creak of protesting wood.
Michael had directed his three serious-minded Benedictine students to read part of an essay by Thomas Aquinas, thus neatly abrogating his teaching responsibilities for the rest of the day. Bartholomew’s pack of undergraduates were not quite so easily dealt with, and tended to be rowdy and difficult to control if he were not with them. Surprisingly, when he had learned why Bartholomew wanted to be excused, Langelee had offered to supervise them himself. Like Michael, the Master regarded the death of a Junior Proctor as a serious threat to the University on which he had pinned his personal ambitions.