‘That may be true generally, but not this week,’ said Michael. ‘It is Lent, and a number of our scholars have been attending midnight vigils and nocturns, especially those in the religious Orders. Arbury probably did not know who was out and who was in.’
Langelee sighed. ‘Catch these killers, Michael. I want to see them hang for this.’
‘I will do my best,’ vowed Michael.
‘Well, the day is beginning,’ said Langelee, going to the window shutters and throwing them open. A blast of cold air flooded into the room, which rustled the documents and scrolls that lay in untidy piles on the table. ‘We all have work to do.’
‘You seem out of sorts this morning,’ said Michael, as he followed Bartholomew from Langelee’s chamber and across the courtyard. By unspoken consent, they made their way to the fallen apple tree in the orchard, where they could talk without fear of being overheard. Their rooms were usually sufficient for that, but neither felt much like being in the chaos of Michael’s chamber, while Bartholomew’s tended to be plagued by students with questions in the mornings.
It was no warmer in the garden that dawn than it had been during the night, and a thin layer of frost glazed the scrubby grass and the leaves of Agatha’s herbs. Michael settled himself on the trunk of the fallen apple tree and watched Bartholomew pace back and forth in front of him.
‘What is the matter?’
‘These murders,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And the fact that I feel as though I am in a river where the current is dragging me relentlessly somewhere, but I do not know where.’
‘That sounds familiar,’ agreed Michael. ‘I have worked hard to try to discover what plot is under way that makes necessary the deaths of a talented philosopher called Faricius of the Carmelites, a very untalented philosopher called Kyrkeby of the Dominicans and my Junior Proctor. I have interviewed at least fifty people who live near the places where these men were killed or found, and you have examined their bodies. But neither of us has come up with anything.’
‘What about the cases Walcote was working on before he died?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Have you discovered anything from them?’
Michael shook his head. ‘He was busy, but there was nothing to suggest he was working on something that would result in murder.’
‘What about the plot to kill you?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘That sounds as though it might lead to murder to me.’
‘But I can find out nothing about that,’ said Michael plaintively. ‘I have questioned my beadles again and again, but none seems to know anything unusual about Walcote or secret meetings in St Radegund’s Convent. Certainly none of them accompanied him to any.’
‘Not even the ones who work closest with him?’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘Tom Meadowman follows you around like a shadow. Did Walcote have a beadle like that?’
‘If he did, then it would have been Rob Smyth, who drowned at Christmas. He latched himself on to Walcote, although I neither liked nor trusted the man.’
‘The fact that no one is honest with us does not help,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I did not want to mention it in front of Langelee, but I persuaded Kenyngham to break his vow of secrecy last night.’
‘You did?’ asked Michael, pleasantly surprised. ‘I will not ask how; I do not want my innocent mind stained by knowledge of your unscrupulous methods.’
‘There was a theft from the Carmelite Friary,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He thinks you are responsible for it, and so does Warden Pechem.’
‘What theft?’ asked Michael, puzzled. ‘Do you mean Faricius’s essay? I thought we had reasoned that it had been stolen from him after he was stabbed on Milne Street. Why do they think I had anything to do with that?’
‘I mean the theft of documents that occurred at Christmas,’ said Bartholomew.
‘What are you talking about?’ demanded Michael. ‘What documents?’
Bartholomew edged away from the monk, slightly alarmed by the anger in his voice. ‘According to Pechem and Kenyngham, Lincolne reported a theft from his friary to Walcote–’
‘Did he now?’ asked Michael softly. ‘And how is it that I have been told nothing about it?’
‘Kenyngham said it was discussed at Walcote’s secret meetings,’ said Bartholomew, regarding the monk uneasily. He had predicted outrage and indignation when he informed Michael about the rumours that were circulating about him, but not cold fury.
‘And they accuse me of this crime?’ demanded Michael.
Half wishing he had not broached the subject, Bartholomew continued: ‘They said you were seen in the Carmelite Friary the night the documents went missing; you were spotted carrying a loaded bag away from the friary towards Michaelhouse the same night; and they told me you claimed it contained bread for your colleagues, when it did not.’
‘I see,’ said Michael. He gazed into Bartholomew’s face. ‘And what do you make of this story? Do you imagine me to be the kind of man to steal from a friary in the middle of the night?’
Bartholomew shook his head. ‘Of course not, Brother. And I told both Kenyngham and Pechem that they were wrong. But what is worse than this accusation of theft is that they have reasoned that whoever stole the documents also had a good reason for killing Walcote.’
Michael gazed up at the bare branches of the trees above him. ‘They think I murdered Walcote because he was about to expose me as a common thief. Damn Walcote for his suspicious mind!’
Bartholomew shot him a sidelong glance. ‘I have no doubts about your innocence. We will have to work to prove it to those who do.’
Michael gave a tired grin. ‘You are a good friend, Matt. I do not deserve such unquestioning loyalty. It makes me feel guilty.’
Bartholomew gazed at him in alarm. ‘What are you saying, Brother?’
Michael shrugged. ‘I see I have disappointed you.’
‘No!’ said Bartholomew, still staring. ‘Are you telling me that Kenyngham and Pechem are right? That you really did break into the friary and make off with some of the University’s most valuable documents?’
‘Yes and no,’ said Michael. ‘I removed documents, but I was hardly “breaking in”. I had arranged for doors and gates to be left unlocked and the porter to be drinking ale in the kitchens with a servant who owed me a favour. It was a pity I did not know about the baker’s problematic oven sooner, because obviously I would not have used buying bread as my excuse for being caught red-handed on my way home. That was poor planning on my part.’
Bartholomew rubbed a hand through his hair, his thoughts tumbling in confusion. ‘But why did you not tell me this sooner? It may be important.’
‘It is not,’ said Michael dismissively. ‘However, I understand why Walcote thought so. He must have wondered why the Senior Proctor was raiding friaries in the middle of the night.’
‘He was not the only one,’ said Bartholomew, horrified. ‘So do the heads of half the religious Orders in Cambridge.’
‘It is unfortunate Walcote did not confront me about it, though,’ continued Michael pensively. ‘Then I could have taken him into my confidence, and he would not have felt the need to chatter about it at his secret meetings with people who had no right to know my business.’
‘And what was this business?’ asked Bartholomew warily.
Michael glanced at him. ‘I can assure you it was nothing sinister. The truth is that Prior Lincolne had become somewhat fanatical in his beliefs by Christmas, and I did not like the idea of storing sensitive information at his friary. Because he is radically opposed to nominalism, I did not want him to see any of the documents pertaining to the arrangements I am making with Heytesbury – who is a nominalist.’