‘We do not know,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘But it was intended for Narboro.’
‘For Narboro?’ echoed Shropham in astonishment. ‘I cannot see him being the recipient of anything vital. The man is an ass – a very vain ass.’
‘Even so, Aynton wrote to him, and Huntyngdon was charged to deliver it. Aynton thought it was important, because he spoke of it with his dying breath.’
Bartholomew decided not to mention Aynton’s fear that the business had killed Huntyngdon until he knew more about it, out of consideration for the young man’s father.
The Earl gave a faint smile. ‘I am not surprised Aynton chose my son to oblige him. William is discreet, reliable and conscientious.’
‘He is,’ agreed Shropham, ‘which is why I am so concerned about him vanishing without a word. It is out of character.’
‘What about Martyn?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Would you say the same about him?’
Shropham nodded. ‘He is another respectable, steady young man. He has no College or hostel affiliation yet, so he lodges in the Cap. I shall offer him a Fellowship here next term.’
‘Would you like to see my son’s room?’ asked the Earl, standing abruptly. ‘As Michael’s deputy, you will be well qualified to read a man’s true nature from his quarters.’
Ignoring the derisive snort from ‘Senior Proctor’ Brampton, Bartholomew followed him to a building that overlooked the river. Huntyngdon’s room was small, but clean and neat. The book-loaded shelves suggested a man who was serious about his studies, and a glance at the table told Bartholomew that its occupant was writing a treatise on civil law.
‘There was no letter from the Chancellor here,’ said Shropham helpfully. ‘We would have found it when we scoured the place for clues as to where he might have gone. That means he either delivered it as charged, or it is still on his person – wherever that may be. Did you ask Narboro if it arrived?’
‘I will do it this morning,’ promised Bartholomew.
‘Thank you,’ said the Earl, and his face crumpled. ‘William is very dear to me, so please do all you can to find out what has happened to him. I am not a fool – I realise there may be an unhappy ending to the matter – but the uncertainty is unbearable.’
Moved to compassion, Bartholomew found himself promising to do all he could, but once away, he wished he had held his tongue. He could not afford to take on work that would keep him from teaching, and Brampton was clearly irked with him for agreeing to meddle in matters that came under the Senior Proctor’s jurisdiction.
‘You will inform me if you uncover anything pertinent,’ he said coldly, as he escorted Bartholomew to the gate. ‘No reporting to the Earl or Shropham first.’
The curtness of the order made Bartholomew determined to ignore it. ‘Congratulations on your appointment,’ he said, to change the subject. ‘You must be pleased.’
‘It is no more than I deserve,’ shrugged Brampton. ‘And I shall be Chancellor when Michael goes on to become an abbot or a bishop.’
‘Will you indeed?’ murmured Bartholomew, amazed that Brampton thought he could step into Michael’s enormous shoes. In an effort to avoid saying so, he turned the conversation to Aynton, asking if Brampton had considered the Chancellor a friend.
‘I did not,’ replied Brampton shortly. ‘I had no respect for the man, and he should never have accepted the post, because he was entirely unequal to it. I will be much better.’
‘So will Michael,’ said Bartholomew, to remind him that the position was not his quite yet. ‘Better than your friend Donwich.’
Brampton gave an unfathomable smile. ‘Donwich does have much to learn before he can run a university. Rather like Aynton did, in fact.’
‘Is that why you spied on Aynton?’ asked Bartholomew baldly. ‘I know you eavesdropped on a quarrel between him and Chaumbre.’
Brampton’s expression became even more difficult to read. ‘I did witness a spat, although I cannot see how it is relevant to Aynton’s death. They were arguing about the dye-pits – specifically the fact that Chaumbre cannot be bothered to fill them in. Have you seen my sister today, by the way? We were meant to meet for breakfast.’
Bartholomew was taken aback by the abrupt change of subject, but had the presence of mind not to blurt that she had opted for a glover’s company instead. ‘Not recently,’ he hedged.
‘I imagine she is engrossed in some aspect of your wedding,’ sniffed Brampton, ‘which is much more important to her than a mere brother.’
‘Only because she is unlikely to have one of her own,’ said Bartholomew pointedly.
‘Thanks to Narboro,’ spat Brampton, his small face turning hard and cold. ‘I will destroy him for what he did to her, or rather, to me, as it was my honour he impugned.’
‘Are you sure it might not be wiser to overlook–’
‘I would sooner die than ignore what he did,’ snarled Brampton. ‘His rejection of her was a public slap in the face for my family’s honour, and I shall never forgive it.’
Bartholomew was disconcerted by his vehemence, which he thought was disproportionate to the offence. He changed the subject before the new Senior Proctor could begin a rant. ‘Will you visit Peterhouse to ask if Huntyngdon delivered the letter to Narboro? Or would you rather we did it together?’
‘I would rather you went alone,’ replied Brampton shortly. ‘I am needed at St Mary the Great to help with the election. Report back to me as soon as you have finished.’
Bartholomew inclined his head, but he was not at Brampton’s beck and call, and decided that if the new Senior Proctor wanted information, he could go to Peterhouse and find it himself.
Chapter 4
Peterhouse was an ancient foundation located outside the Trumpington Gate. It harboured no ambitions to rival other Colleges in terms of size and wealth, and its Fellowship was small, although it still produced lawyers and theologians of outstanding quality. Bartholomew was conducted into its hall, which, as at Michaelhouse, doubled as lecture room and refectory. All the Fellows were seated at their high table, except the one he wanted to see.
‘Narboro never dines with us,’ said a quiet, intelligent priest named John Gayton. ‘So I assume he is in his quarters.’
Bartholomew was surprised to hear it, as attendance at meals tended to be obligatory in Colleges – communal dining was seen as a good way to forge bonds of scholarship and lasting loyalty. Gayton read his mind and gave a thin smile.
‘Eating together is compulsory, but we do not enforce the rule with him. To be frank, we prefer it when he is not here.’
‘You do not like him?’ fished Bartholomew.
‘Not particularly,’ replied Gayton. ‘Especially after his scandalous treatment of Lucy Brampton. Her brother would never have sued him if he had broken the marriage contract quietly and discreetly. Instead, he bellowed offensive remarks about his betrothed’s teeth. Of course Brampton leapt to defend her.’
‘She is better off without Narboro,’ declared a very old Fellow named Stantone. ‘He has nothing to commend him, other than perhaps a perfect coiffure. However, a contract is a contract, and I dislike men who break their word. They can never be trusted.’
‘No,’ agreed Gayton. ‘Which is why I shall vote for Michael today. Narboro may be a member of Peterhouse, but he will not make a very good Chancellor.’
So yet another College aimed to reject its own candidate, thought Bartholomew in astonishment, as a murmur of agreement rippled around the other Fellows.
‘Chancellor Aynton wrote Narboro a letter,’ he said, moving to another matter, ‘and he asked Huntyngdon to deliver it. I need to know if it arrived.’