‘Well, he inherited a fortune from his father. He refuses to share it with Lucy, though, because he thinks a husband should provide for her. Unfortunately, she will never get one now he is going after Narboro in the law courts. She has begged him to drop the suit, but his affection for her is less than his indignation at Narboro, so he refused.’
Bartholomew went to pass Clippesby’s report to Michael. The monk was unsurprised by the news that Brampton had spied on the Chancellor, leading Bartholomew to draw an obvious conclusion.
‘So you sent him to do it,’ he said heavily.
‘He had no orders along those lines from me this week, although perhaps he should have done – then I might have been able to stop Aynton from resigning. Do not look so disgusted, Matt! Watching the Chancellor comes under the remit of all Junior Proctors. One will be minding me after today. It is all part of our system of checks and balances.’
‘But Brampton acted of his own volition on the day that Aynton was murdered?’
‘Yes,’ conceded Michael. ‘However, there is nothing suspicious about that, although I will ask him about it later anyway. Leave him to me.’
‘I think he should be on our list of suspects for Aynton’s murder.’
Michael blinked his surprise. ‘Do you? Why?’
‘First, Clippesby says he is friends with Donwich, whom he may prefer to you. Second, he spied on the victim hours before the murder, but not on your directions. And third, he seems meek and inept, but there is something about him that I cannot like.’
Michael puffed out his cheeks in a sigh. ‘Well, if you do not like him, he must be a killer. I shall order his arrest immediately.’
‘I am serious, Brother!’
‘So I see, and between you and me, I am not overly enamoured of him either. But he is not a murderer. Besides, he knows he will do well with me as Chancellor. He will do nothing to jeopardise that.’
Bartholomew was unconvinced, but knew there was no point arguing. ‘Matilde and Lucy quarrelled with Aynton, too, but obviously they are not the culprits.’
‘No,’ agreed Michael. ‘Not least because they took pity on four hot, tired and thirsty beadles last night, and invited them into Matilde’s house for a cool drink. Their compassion has given them reliable alibis for the murder.’
‘For an amicable man, Aynton seems to have argued with a lot of people,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘However, the one that concerns me most is Chaumbre. The notion that my sister might be sharing her home with a man who shoved a scholar over a bridge …’
‘Edith would not have married a killer, Matt. Yet I do question Chaumbre’s choice of friends – not just Morys, but Donwich, too. He was at the Clare Hall feast last night – I saw him through a window when we delivered Aynton’s body. Morys was also there, although that is no surprise – he wants Donwich to be Chancellor because he thinks he will take bribes.’
‘How can Morys have been at Clare Hall? We both saw him on the Great Bridge last night, making sly agreements with Shardelowe the builder.’
‘According to my beadles, he was there earlier in the evening, but left “on business” some time before Aynton died. Shall we include him on our list? I cannot abide the man, and if you can put Brampton on it for simple dislike, then I am having Morys.’
Shortly afterwards, Cynric rang the bell for breakfast, and there was the usual mad scramble towards the hall. Bartholomew had never understood why there had to be a stampede, as no one could start eating before every man was standing in his place and grace had been said anyway. Michael eyed Bartholomew balefully as he sauntered up the stairs last, making everyone else wait.
When he had finished his prayers, Michael sat, so at ease in the Master’s chair that anyone watching might have been forgiven for thinking that he had occupied it for years, not just a few weeks. He rubbed his hands in gluttonous anticipation as the servants brought fresh bread, pats of yellow butter and platters of cold meat. Bartholomew asked Agatha to fetch him some fruit, disinclined to eat heavy fare in the heat.
‘Fruit!’ spat Michael, helping himself to an enormous portion of beef, then topping it with an even larger portion of lamb. ‘It is a proven medical truth that brains work better when fuelled by meat and bread.’
‘Is it indeed?’ said Bartholomew, who had been regaled with this particular ‘fact’ many times before, although the monk always declined to cite a written reference for it.
‘What you see is a perfectly balanced diet,’ Michael went on authoritatively. ‘Anything else is a waste of stomach space. I have ordered Agatha not to bother with fruit and vegetables any more.’
Bartholomew was aghast. ‘But that will cause–’
‘No one knows more about food than me,’ interrupted Michael. ‘And who would not rather eat a chop than a carrot? However, I shall allow the occasional vegetable to sully the table next term, if you help me today.’
‘That is blackmail, Brother! Besides, how will I know whether you have honoured the agreement? I shall have left Michaelhouse by then.’
‘You will just have to trust me,’ said Michael blithely. ‘Besides, there is no need for you to teach today: the disputations are over and everyone else is having fun. You are the only one who persists with a rigid timetable of classes.’
‘Because there is still so much for my lads to learn and–’
‘Please, Matt,’ said Michael quietly. ‘We must solve Aynton’s murder as quickly as possible, but Brampton and I will be busy with the election today. Hopefully, I shall be free to help you tomorrow.’
Bartholomew was alarmed. ‘You expect me to look into it on my own?’
‘Why not? You have plenty of experience. More than Brampton, actually.’
‘But I have no authority to–’
‘Here is a writ to say you do,’ interrupted Michael, producing a handsome document that smacked of sly pre-planning. ‘And while you are out and about, ask after those missing men – Huntyngdon and Martyn – as well.’
‘You expect me to solve a mystery that has defeated you? That is not going to happen!’
‘Fresh eyes, Matt. You may see something that I have missed.’
‘And my classes? What happens to them while I am doing all your work?’
‘Aungel will take them,’ said Michael. ‘It will be good practice for him, ready for next term. And if you will not help me out of loyalty to your dearest friend, then I shall pay you for your time – enough for a donation towards Matilde’s new school, which I am sure she would much rather have than a marriage kirtle.’
Bartholomew was silent, trying to balance his desire to do something good for the woman he loved with the fact that every day of teaching was precious now that he had so few of them left.
‘Very well,’ he said eventually, hoping the case would not be as complex as some he had undertaken with Michael, and answers would be easy to find.
‘Thank you. Just do not forget to vote for me at noon.’
As soon as breakfast was over, Michael went to St Mary the Great to oversee preparations for the election. There was already a buzz of excited anticipation in the air, although the number of scholars who nodded, winked and smiled at Michael as he hurried past suggested the other three candidates were likely to be disappointed.
Meanwhile, Bartholomew decided to start his enquiries with Geoffrey Dodenho. He had known him for years, and was sure he was no killer, but questioning him first would allow him to practise on a man who would not bite his head off or threaten eternal war between King’s Hall and Michaelhouse for the insult.
The University’s biggest and grandest College had an enormous Fellowship, which included not only Dodenho and the missing Huntyngdon, but Junior Proctor Brampton, too. Ergo, Bartholomew had three tasks to complete at King’s Hall that day: questioning Dodenho and any supporters he had about Aynton’s death; seeing what Brampton had to say about spying on Aynton – Michael might accept his deputy’s innocence, but Bartholomew would make up his own mind; and asking if there was any news about Huntyngdon.