‘I did, but do not worry,’ said Cynric. ‘Mistress Starre knows how to reverse nasty hexes, and when she has helped you, I shall ask her to turn it on him instead.’
‘Please do not,’ begged Bartholomew, although he knew he was pleading in vain, as the book-bearer always felt he knew best where witchery was concerned. ‘But never mind that – did you hear what he and Hawick said to those Clare Hall men? Gille and Hawick?’
‘Every word,’ replied Cynric. ‘Unfortunately, they chose to converse in French, so I did not understand any of them.’
‘Damn!’ muttered Bartholomew.
Chapter 3
It was difficult to sleep for what remained of the night, as the heat was stifling, even with the window shutters open. Insects seemed to know where the pickings were richest, and legions of them whined and buzzed around Bartholomew’s head. He tossed and turned uncomfortably, more sorry than he could say about Aynton, whom he had liked for his gentleness and amiability. He was even more sorry that the man should die on the eve of shedding a role he had found so burdensome.
He glanced across the dark room to where Stasy and Hawick slept. They had arrived home shortly after him, but had vigorously denied chanting curses. They were obviously lying, but it was too hot to argue, so he had let the matter drop. He knew they had lied about the nature of their discussion with Gille and Elsham, too, and wondered why. Because they were embroiled in something illegal or unsavoury that necessitated falsehoods to keep them out of trouble? Or was it just a natural reaction to a teacher prying into their private lives?
He had included them on his list of suspects for Aynton’s murder for reasons other than their mysterious association with Gille and Elsham, though. First, there was their refusal to leave the scene of the crime, and second there was their uncharacteristically helpful offer to carry the body. Were these enough to warrant them being turned over to Brampton for questioning? Yet they were unlikely to have had more than a nodding acquaintance with the Chancellor, so why would they kill him?
‘Do you need a remedy for restlessness, sir?’ came Stasy’s voice from the other side of the room.
Bartholomew had assumed the students were asleep, so the question made him jump. It also made him uneasy, wondering if Stasy had somehow read his thoughts. He struggled for insouciance. ‘The only remedies I need are a cool breeze and a way to repel insects.’
‘Poor Chancellor Aynton,’ whispered Stasy, although Bartholomew could not tell if he was sincere. ‘He was a spineless fool, but there was no harm in him.’
‘Michael will bring his killer to justice,’ said Bartholomew, aware even as he spoke that it sounded like a threat.
‘Not if Donwich wins tomorrow,’ came a rejoinder that sounded full of smug satisfaction. ‘He will dismiss Brother Michael and Junior Proctor Brampton, and appoint Gille and Elsham in their places.’
‘So they will see the killer caught,’ said Bartholomew coolly. ‘And if they fail, it means they are unequal to their new duties, and Donwich will have to appoint someone better.’
‘I am sure they will manage,’ said Stasy smoothly. ‘Yet I am astonished to hear you claim that Aynton had a killer. I was among the first to arrive after the alarm was raised, and it looked to me as if he had fallen – an accident.’
‘He told me he was pushed,’ said Bartholomew, and to see how the student would respond, added a brazen lie. ‘Indeed, he provided enough information to let us identify the culprit. All we need to do is think it through.’
There was a long pause, during which he could almost hear the lad’s mind working. ‘Then make sure you pass it all to Gille and Elsham,’ he said eventually.
Bartholomew sat up, determined to have some truth from him. ‘Why are you really friends with them, Stasy? I know it has nothing to do with remedies for the flux, because they will buy those from an experienced medicus, not a pair of untried novices.’
Stasy sighed irritably. ‘If you must know, we run a business together: they collect exemplars from scholars who have finished with them, and we sell them to the students who need them next.’
Exemplars were compilations of essential texts that undergraduates were required to study in depth, and were produced by the University stationer. They were less expensive than purchasing all the original books, but still costly, even so.
‘We offer more than Stationer Weasenham gives for second-hand copies,’ Stasy went on, ‘and we charge our customers less. Thus, our profit margins are smaller, but we do a lot more trade. Scholars know they get a better bargain with us than from him, so they come to us first. We are especially popular with the hostels, which, as you know, tend to be populated with lads who have very little money.’
‘Unfortunately, that is illegal,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘Weasenham pays the University handsomely for his monopoly on exemplars.’
‘So betray us to him,’ challenged Stasy. ‘But, if you do, you will hurt the poorest scholars who cannot afford his exorbitant prices. Exemplars should not cost so much that only the wealthy can have them.’
‘No,’ acknowledged Bartholomew, although he could not see Stasy and Hawick as champions of the penniless, and there was something about the explanation that did not quite ring true. ‘So why did you not tell me all this when I asked you earlier? Why respond with a lie about a cure for the flux?’
‘It was not a lie – we have invented a remedy. However, we could hardly admit that we are undercutting Weasenham while the Senior Proctor was listening, could we?’
Before Bartholomew could ask more, the bell rang, telling the scholars to rise for morning prayers. The other students stood up at once, suggesting that they had been awake and listening since the conversation had started. It made him suspect that they knew exactly what Stasy and Hawick did in their spare time, and that, as usual, the Fellows were the last to find out.
Bartholomew did not attend church that morning, because he was summoned by Meadowman, Michael’s head beadle. Meadowman had the flux, but boiled barley water was not working and he grew worse by the day. The heatwave did not help, and he was uncomfortable in his tiny, badly ventilated cottage. He lived near the Mill Pond, between Isnard and Hoo Hall, so Bartholomew walked there at once. He examined him carefully, then prepared a tonic of poppy syrup, mint and comfrey. As he worked, he nodded to the stinking bucket that the beadle used to catch whatever spilled out of him.
‘Where do you empty that?’
‘I do not do anything with it,’ replied Meadowman miserably. ‘I am too ill. If it was not for the kindness of my fellow beadles and the Marian Singers, I would be dead by now. Here is Isnard now, God bless him.’
The bargeman swung inside on his crutches and gave Bartholomew a baleful glare. ‘I still have this cold,’ he rasped accusingly. ‘Your linctus did not work.’
‘Nothing will work,’ explained Bartholomew patiently, aware that he would have to explain this every time he and Isnard met until the bargeman recovered. ‘It will get better in its own time.’
Isnard indicated Meadowman with a jerk of his thumb. ‘You said that about him, but he will be in his grave unless you do something soon. Do you have nothing to help him?’
Bartholomew was perplexed by Meadowman’s case. There was no reason why the beadle should not recover like everyone else, and he was at a loss as to what to do about it. He spent a few moments reassuring him that all would be well – he was far from sure it would, but if Meadowman lost hope, he would die for certain – and finished by recommending rest and plenty more boiled barley water.