‘I have already spoken to Pechem,’ said Michael irritably. ‘Since Clippesby introduced the subject so tactlessly with Morden, I decided there was nothing to lose by approaching Pechem directly.’
‘And?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘What did he say?’
‘He pretended he did not know what I was talking about, and said he had never been to St Radegund’s in his life. More lies, Matt. Just when we force the Carmelites to be honest, the Franciscans start bombarding me with falsehoods.’
‘Ah, Michael and Bartholomew. Just the men I wanted to see.’ Langelee was approaching the door from the darkness outside. ‘I would like to speak to you. Join me in my chamber, if you will.’
‘Why?’ demanded Michael irritably. ‘It has been a long day and I am tired. All I want to do is go to bed and forget about that monstrosity that paraded itself as dinner.’
‘Then that is even more reason why you should come to my chamber,’ said Langelee, laying a meaty arm across Michael’s shoulders. ‘A beef and onion pie, a barrel of French wine, and a couple of loaves of fresh bread are waiting there.’
Michael eyed him suspiciously. ‘Why? So you can laugh about the amount I eat and tell everyone that I have a stomach like a bottomless well?’
‘Do you eat a lot?’ asked Langelee, genuinely surprised. ‘I cannot say I have noticed. But you and I are both large men, so healthy appetites are to be expected. Come and join me in my room, and we will do justice to this fine food. What do you say?’
Michael gazed at him. ‘What kind of pie did you say it was?’
Chapter 8
A SMALL FIRE BURNED IN LANGELEE’S ROOM, AND TWO lamps placed on the windowsills filled the chamber with a warm yellow glow. Bartholomew looked around him appreciatively, noting the tasteful wall-hangings and the clean but functional rugs that lay on the floor. Here was no wasteful decadence, but a pleasant and simple room that managed to create an atmosphere of industry and efficiency. Bartholomew, who had known Langelee for two years before the philosopher had been elected Master of Michaelhouse, was impressed by the room and the changes that had occurred in the man.
‘Where is this pie?’ demanded Michael, sitting in the best chair and looking aggrieved. ‘And what do you want to discuss? It is not those damned latrines again, is it? I have already told you that I do not care whether they are cleaned once a year, twice a year, ten times a year, or never again.’
‘All the Fellows except Bartholomew concur,’ said Langelee. ‘So, we will have them cleaned once a year, and we will use the money we save to buy a new bench for the hall.’
‘You will spend that money on medicines for intestinal disorders when summer comes,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘The latrines are not a problem now the weather is cold, but you remember how many flies they attracted last summer. The air was black with them.’
‘Please, Matt!’ said Michael with a shudder. ‘I am about to eat. And there is a very simple solution to this fly problem: only use the latrines at night. There are not nearly as many then.’
‘That is not the point,’ began Bartholomew, exasperated by their refusal to acknowledge that dirty latrines were likely to have serious repercussions on the health of Michaelhouse’s scholars.
‘I did not bring you here to talk about sewage,’ said Langelee, cutting across Bartholomew’s words as he sliced a decadently large piece of pie and handed it to Michael. ‘I brought you here because Clippesby told me the disturbing news that Prior Morden plans to commit murder.’
Michael gave a small smile. ‘That is not what transpired at the Dominican Friary. Trust that lunatic Clippesby to get it wrong! What Morden said was that Walcote discovered evidence that there was a plan afoot to harm me, and that meetings were organised between the religious Orders to discuss what should be done about it.’
‘Why would anyone want to kill you?’ asked Langelee, tearing the bread into pieces and passing it to his guests. ‘I know that as Senior Proctor you cannot be popular with everyone, and that there are men who hate the power of the University that you embody. But it is another matter entirely to murder someone for it.’
‘So far, there has only been a plot to murder me,’ corrected Michael. ‘I am still alive, remember?’
‘But Walcote is not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Do you think he was killed because he was trying to uncover the identity of the person who was planning to strike at you?’
Michael nodded slowly. ‘As you pointed out earlier, the fact that he was hanged, rather than stabbed or hit over the head, smacks of execution rather than murder. It is obvious now that I think of it.’
‘My experience of these matters, while I was an agent for the Archbishop of York, leads me to think that you are probably correct,’ said Langelee, sitting opposite him and poking at the fire. ‘Do you have any idea who this killer is?’
Michael shook his head. ‘And according to Morden, Walcote did not know, either.’
‘How did Walcote know about the plot?’ asked Langelee. ‘What evidence did he have?’
‘Apparently, he found a letter in which details of a proposed attack were given,’ said Michael. ‘This letter was in the possession of one of my beadles – a man I did not like, as it happens – whose body was discovered in a ditch on Christmas Eve.’
‘The beadle was called Rob Smyth, and he had been drinking in the King’s Head,’ elaborated Bartholomew. ‘On his way home, he drowned in a puddle. Beadle Meadowman found the body.’
Michael eyed the pie until Langelee cut him a second piece. ‘Matt inspected the corpse, and told me he was certain Smyth drowned accidentally – that no one else had done him any harm.’
Bartholomew agreed. ‘It was obvious that he had slipped on some ice and tumbled face-down in a puddle. Being drunk, he was unable to move.’
‘And this Smyth was the recipient of the letter?’ asked Langelee doubtfully. ‘I thought most of your beadles could not read.’
‘Smyth was a courier,’ replied Michael. ‘The other patrons of the King’s Head – including Agatha – claimed Smyth had been very generous that night: he bought ale for all his acquaintances, as well as for himself. Now I understand why: he was spending the money he had been paid to deliver the letter.’
‘Only, fortunately for Michael, he never did,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Smyth died before he could deliver the message.’
‘So, there are at least two people conspiring against you,’ observed Langelee. ‘The person who sent the letter, and the person to whom the letter was addressed.’
‘Right,’ said Michael. ‘But, according to Morden, Walcote had failed to uncover the identity of either. Damn! I wish Walcote had told me about this!’
‘Why did he keep it from you?’ asked Langelee, politely sucking the pie knife clean before cutting Michael a piece of cheese. ‘Had I found such a letter, you would have been the first to know, so that you could be on your guard against attack.’
‘Apparently, he decided that Michael had enough to worry about, and thought he would be better not knowing,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘It was only a few weeks after that business with Runham and the stolen gold at Michaelhouse, and Walcote considered that more than enough anxiety for a while.’
Michael scraped the pie crumbs from the table into his hand and slapped them into his mouth. ‘Matt is being politic,’ he informed Langelee. ‘It seems Walcote knew I was disappointed not to be elected Master of Michaelhouse, and thought I did not need to know that someone disliked me enough to end my life.’