‘At this rate, you will be carrying Aynton by yourself,’ said Bartholomew.
Cynric regarded him admonishingly. ‘It is no laughing matter, boy. Now, keep your distance as we go, because I should not like you to be singed by stray sparks.’
He placed his three helpmeets where he wanted them and they set off. Bartholomew, Michael and Tulyet followed at a respectful distance.
‘I still cannot believe that someone killed him,’ said Michael, a catch in his voice – he had liked the inept, bumbling, amiable Aynton. ‘His tenure was so short that no one can have found fault with it. Virtually no decisions were made, and I took responsibility for the ones that were. Ergo, the culprit must be a townsman – a non litteratus – who aims to damage the University.’
‘I disagree,’ said Tulyet. ‘First, we have been at peace for weeks now, and I have not heard so much as a whisper of trouble. And second, it is pitch black and he wore a plain robe, so how could any townsman identify him? Do not lay this murder at our door, when it is obviously a scholar’s work. A litteratus.’
‘But I have just explained why it is not,’ argued Michael. ‘Aynton was an affable soul, who had no time to accrue enemies among his colleagues.’
‘Then his death must be connected to his resignation,’ shrugged Tulyet. ‘Someone who objects to the fact that his replacement will be appointed tomorrow, and hopes that his murder will slow everything down.’
‘I sincerely doubt it! Usually, everyone clamours at me to get a move on, and my colleagues will be delighted by the speed with which I have organised this election.’
‘If you ask me, it is too fast,’ persisted Tulyet. ‘Your rivals have had no time to rally support, and they will resent it.’
‘In which case, Brampton has his first three suspects,’ put in Bartholomew. ‘Namely Donwich, Narboro and Dodenho.’
Michael was thoughtful. ‘It is possible, I suppose. This election is important, because once I am in post, it may be years before I decide to move on to greater things. My rivals will have a long wait before they can stand again.’
‘Would any of them kill to be Chancellor?’ Tulyet hid a smile at the monk’s hubris.
‘We shall have to find out,’ replied Michael. ‘However, even if one of the three did not strike at Aynton in person, they may have supporters to do it on their behalf. What is wrong, Matt? I can tell something is bothering you, because you are oddly quiet.’
He was right. ‘Stasy and Hawick,’ said Bartholomew unhappily. ‘Why were they out when they should have been home? Why did they linger when I ordered them away? And why do they insist on carrying the stretcher?’
‘Does your concern arise from the fact that you think them capable of murder?’ asked Tulyet, eyeing him shrewdly.
‘I am not sure what to think,’ hedged Bartholomew, not about to speak his mind in front of the University’s most powerful scholar and the Sheriff, although the truth was that his students were an unpalatable pair who might stoop very low indeed if they thought they would benefit from it.
‘So these are the men Brampton must interview tomorrow,’ said Michael. ‘Donwich, Narboro and Dodenho; any followers they might have; and Stasy and Hawick.’
Clare Hall was the fourth College to be founded in the University, following on the heels of Peterhouse, King’s Hall and Michaelhouse. It stood on Milne Street, between Trinity Hall and the church of St John Zachary, and owed its wealth to the generosity of a rich baroness who had taken it under her wing.
Michael tapped on its gate, unwilling to hammer when the hour was late and the residents would be sleeping. He need not have worried, though, because the porter opened the door to reveal a hall that blazed with lights and the sounds of a party in progress.
‘For tomorrow,’ the man explained. ‘Master Donwich anticipates a victory.’
‘Does he indeed?’ said Michael, startled. ‘But never mind that. I am afraid Chancellor Aynton is dead. We have brought him home. Shall we put him in the chapel?’
The porter disappeared towards the hall to ask his Master for instructions, leaving the visitors to set their burden down in the yard while they waited for a response. They were not alone for long: a scholar named John Pulham approached, carrying a lamp.
The Fellows of Clare Hall were all much of an ilk – suave, self-satisfied men whose contribution to academic life tended to be in University politics rather than any intellectual achievements. Bartholomew was not surprised that one of their number intended to run for the chancellorship the following day.
‘Aynton?’ breathed Pulham, when Michael told him what had happened. ‘No! He was a gentle man. Who could have done this terrible thing?’
‘Brampton will find out,’ promised Michael. ‘I would do it myself, but it is the Senior Proctor’s responsibility, and I cannot fulfil those duties as well as being Chancellor.’
‘Donwich thinks he will win,’ said Pulham, casting a wry glance towards the hall.
‘Where would you like Aynton?’ asked Michael, declining to comment. ‘The chapel?’
Pulham led the way, asking questions about Aynton’s death that the monk was mostly unable to answer. His sadness seemed genuine, and there was a tremble in his voice that would have been difficult to fabricate.
The chapel was small, but boasted beautiful wall paintings, fabulous misericords, and stained glass that was among the best in the town. It smelled of expensive incense and new wood. The bearers set the bier on the floor, then Cynric, Stasy and Hawick went to stand in the yard, while Tulyet and Dickon left to quell a spat in a nearby tavern. Bartholomew waited inside the chapel with Michael, who had knelt to say more prayers. The monk had barely begun when Master Donwich strode in, two more Fellows at his heels.
John Donwich was an impressive figure – tall, elegant and haughty. His two companions were also handsomely attired, but there was a coarseness about them that made them different from the other members of Clare Hall. They were the pair who had been talking to Stasy and Hawick earlier, and Bartholomew wondered again why his students should associate with them when Michaelhouse and Clare Hall had never been friends.
‘What is going on?’ demanded Donwich. ‘Why are strangers in our domain?’
‘They brought Aynton to us,’ explained Pulham quietly, watching Michael clamber to his feet. ‘I am afraid he is dead.’
‘You gave them permission to enter?’ snarled Donwich. ‘You overstep your authority, Pulham! I do not want the Senior Proctor and his minions in my College, thank you.’
‘Master!’ breathed Pulham, shocked by his incivility. ‘You cannot–’
‘You may leave now,’ said Donwich, looking Michael up and down with undisguised distaste. ‘Forgive me for not offering you refreshment, but it is late.’
‘Not too late for a feast apparently,’ retorted Michael, cocking his head at the sounds of continued merriment. ‘Will you end your frivolities now that one of your Fellows lies dead?’
‘That is none of your business,’ snapped Donwich indignantly. ‘Gille, Elsham? See him and his lickspittles out.’
‘Steady on, Master,’ gulped Pulham, acutely embarrassed. ‘There is no need to insult the Senior Proctor with such–’
‘He will not be a proctor tomorrow,’ interrupted Donwich. ‘Because I shall dismiss him and appoint Gille and Elsham instead. They have always supported me, unlike some people.’
‘If you refer to me and the other Fellows,’ said Pulham tightly, ‘then perhaps you should stop favouring new-comers over old friends.’ He glared at Gille and Elsham. ‘Moreover, it was wrong to make a bid for the chancellorship without discussing it with us first. The outcome will affect the whole College and–’