‘Through my brother,’ replied Lucy. ‘Regrettably, Matilde and I quarrelled with him several times, because he wanted to prevent her from opening her school.’
‘Did he?’ asked Bartholomew, sincerely hoping this did not mean that they should be included on the list of murder suspects. ‘Did he say why?’
‘He thought learning should be the exclusive domain of men, because women’s inferior brains are unequal to it,’ explained Matilde drily. ‘I suggested we organise a public debate on philosophy between Lucy and Father William. Oddly enough, he declined to allow it.’
‘He also claimed that if women learned their letters, it would signal the end of the world as God intended it,’ added Lucy, and humour flashed in her eyes. ‘When I asked how he could be so sure, he said he had read it in a book, but refused to tell me which one. It was obvious that he was making it up.’
‘Perhaps he could not remember it on the spur of the moment,’ said Bartholomew, more charitably.
Lucy shot him a disbelieving look, but declined to argue further. ‘There was no malice in him, though. It is men like Father William who represent the real danger to our venture. Did you know that he has written to the Pope, asking for us to be suppressed? We have not even opened our doors yet!’
‘William writes to the Pope most weeks,’ said Bartholomew, ‘but I doubt the Holy Father reads his rants, so do not worry too much about papal condemnation.’
Lucy smiled, and reached for her hat – a green affair with yellow feathers. ‘That is good to hear. And now I shall leave you two to discuss lace, while I visit the glover. My brother wanted me to break my fast with him, but I am disinclined to give him the pleasure of my company as long as he insists on suing my former suitors. I shall eat with the glover instead.’
‘Lace?’ asked Bartholomew warily, when she had gone.
‘For my kirtle,’ explained Matilde. ‘There are many different kinds, and she is determined to have the one that will best match the cloth she has chosen. I have no particular feelings on the matter, but she does – very strong ones.’
Bartholomew grimaced, feeling that while he was happy to snatch a few precious minutes with his fiancée, he was disinclined to do it if it meant debating lace. Then he recalled what Michael had told him about paying for the kirtle.
‘How much will it cost?’ he asked uneasily.
Matilde knew exactly why he wanted to know. ‘More than Brother Michael can lend you, so keep your money for your patients and I will buy the kirtle myself. But what did you think of Lucy today? Did she look pale to you?’
‘Not especially,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘Why?’
‘Because being rejected by Narboro was bad enough, but her brother has made things far worse with his lawsuit. Without it, she might have found another man, but no one will wed the sister of a man who sues. And pity is hard to bear, too – people feeling sorry for her and saying so.’
‘I think she had a narrow escape,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Narboro is an empty-headed fool and she deserves better.’
‘That is what I tell her, but folk nudge each other and point whenever she goes out anyway. It is why she spends so much time with me – my house is a refuge from well-meaning but unwanted sympathy.’
As he walked home, Bartholomew glanced up to see the sky was a flat, pale blue, with not so much as a wisp of cloud to break the monotony. It was going to be another sweltering day, and although he liked summer, he found himself longing for the cool grey clouds of autumn.
He waved to his sister and her new husband as he went, although they were laughing at something together, so caught up in the joke that neither noticed him. He remembered Chaumbre’s friendship with the corrupt Morys, and Michael’s warning about him. All he hoped was that Edith would not be hurt by the man she had married with such curious haste.
He stepped through Michaelhouse’s gate just in time to witness a commotion involving Stasy and Hawick. They had been walking towards the kitchen, but the peacock released such a cacophony of screams that they were forced to beat a hasty retreat. Then the chickens united in what sounded uncannily like a taunting cackle. Clippesby was watching.
‘It is because Stasy tried to kick Henry yesterday,’ the Dominican told Bartholomew. ‘Peafowl have long memories, so it is just as well that Stasy will leave at the end of term, because he will never know a moment’s peace here now.’
Bartholomew watched the two students flee to the orchard, after which the rumpus died down. Then he glanced at Clippesby, who had the College cat under one arm and a stray dog in the other, although neither looked particularly pleased with the arrangement, and there were hisses and warning growls aplenty.
‘I do not suppose you were near the Great Bridge last night, were you?’ he asked hopefully. ‘When Chancellor Aynton was killed?’
The Dominican liked to slip out at night to commune with his animal friends, so he often saw and heard things as he stood quiet and unnoticed in the shadows. Unfortunately, his way of reporting them invariably took some decoding, although Bartholomew had learned that the effort was often worthwhile.
‘No,’ came the disappointing reply. ‘I was here, working on my next treatise.’
Earlier that year, Clippesby had stunned everyone by producing a dissertation on the complex issue of nominalism and realism, which was so insightful that it had won instant papal approval. It had been presented as a discussion between two hens, and was commonly known as the Chicken Debate. A second discourse had followed, and he was now working on the third, which was eagerly awaited by the academic world.
Clippesby gave one of his vacant smiles. ‘But I can tell you two things about your new brother-in-law. First, his Girton home was burgled last night.’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘Beadle Meadowman mentioned it, but I saw Chaumbre laughing just now, so it cannot have been too serious.’
‘On the contrary,’ said Clippesby, his eyes wide. ‘The newt who lives in his garden says an enormous sum was stolen. Chaumbre rarely goes to that house now he lives with Edith, and has left it in the care of two elderly servants. It is no secret that it is vulnerable, so the newt was not surprised when a burglar chanced his hand.’
‘According to Edith, most of his money is still in London,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I can only assume he will not miss what was taken from Girton.’
‘Perhaps, but the second thing I have to tell you comes from the High Street rats, who saw Chaumbre quarrel with Aynton about those dye-pits yesterday morning. Harsh words were exchanged, and Aynton accused Chaumbre of not being as rich as he lets everyone believe. They parted on sour terms.’
Meadowman had mentioned that, too, and Bartholomew’s heart sank again. He did not want his brother-in-law to be a murder suspect – Edith would never forgive him. ‘Please tell me no threats were issued.’
‘None that the rats heard. But ask the Junior Proctor, because he was there, too. They saw him lurking behind a grave while it was happening.’
‘Lurking?’ echoed Bartholomew warily.
‘Hiding, so he could eavesdrop without being seen,’ elaborated Clippesby. ‘I do not know why, and nor do the rats.’
‘What do you think of Brampton?’ asked Bartholomew, who had a lot of respect for the gentle Dominican’s opinions, bizarrely presented though they were.
Clippesby was thoughtful. ‘I would like him more if he was not so close to Donwich. The Clare Hall robin tells me that Donwich will be livid when he loses the election today, which will put Brampton in an awkward position: will he stay loyal to his friend Donwich, or to Michael, the man who will promote him to Senior Proctor?’
‘Is that all you know about Brampton?’