Narboro smiled. ‘Lucy knew how to please me. Unlike her brother. Have you heard that he aims to sue me?’
Bartholomew nodded, and tried to bring the conversation back to the letter. ‘Did you–’
‘Hopefully, he will drop his case when I am elected Chancellor. I pray he does, because I cannot pay the kind of money he wants for “causing offence to his family”.’ Narboro’s face turned ugly with contempt. ‘But the insult was to me. How dare he expect me to marry a woman I do not love – with rotten teeth into the bargain!’
‘The letter,’ said Bartholomew forcefully. ‘Are you sure you never received it?’
‘Quite sure,’ replied Narboro. ‘Now, do you want anything else from me? If not, I must set out for St Mary the Great, or I will be late.’
‘Aynton was murdered during compline last night,’ said Bartholomew, opting for bluntness when he saw the interview was about to be terminated. ‘Where were you then?’
Narboro regarded him in astonishment. ‘I hope you are not accusing me of killing him. I barely knew the man, so why would I do such a thing?’
‘Because someone did, and those aiming to fill his shoes are our prime suspects.’
Narboro eyed him coolly. ‘The news of his resignation was all over the University hours before compline, so you cannot say I killed him in order to take his place. But speaking of taking his place, are Dodenho, Michael and Donwich on your list, or do you confine your nasty insinuations to me alone?’
‘Michael was with a dozen monks, reciting his daily offices, while Dodenho has alibis in a large number of colleagues. How about you?’
‘I was here,’ replied Narboro, gesturing around the empty room. ‘Applying curling devices to my fringe in readiness for my victory at St Mary the Great today.’
‘Can anyone else verify this?’
Narboro smiled thinly. ‘No – you must take my word for it, as a man of honour.’
A man of honour who broke promises, thought Bartholomew, watching Narboro stalk towards the door, and wondering whatever had possessed the intelligent Lucy to accept him as a suitor in the first place. Or had he changed radically during his ten years away?
As he still had a little time before the election at noon, Bartholomew went to the Cardinal’s Cap, where Martyn had lodged and where the missing men had last been seen. It was a quiet, respectable inn, where senior scholars often went for intelligent conversation. It was popular among those with friends in rival foundations, who wanted to meet them in a place where they would not be glowered at by less liberal-minded colleagues.
Unfortunately, most of its regulars had already gone to St Mary the Great, and all the landlord could remember about the night in question was that Huntyngdon had tied a red sash around his waist before he left, which was odd enough to have stuck in his mind.
‘I have reviewed that evening again and again,’ he said unhappily, ‘but nothing unusual happened, other than the sash. I can only repeat what I told Brother Michael – that Martyn is the perfect lodger. He is clean, quiet and always pays on time.’
He showed Bartholomew the scholar’s room, a pleasant chamber at the back of the building. Bartholomew went through it carefully, but there was nothing to tell him what had happened to its occupant.
‘Was Aynton here that night?’ he asked, following the landlord back down the stairs.
‘The Chancellor? Yes, he spent a few moments talking to Huntyngdon and Martyn, and then he left. They went out a short time later – not so quickly as to suggest they were following him, but as soon as they had finished their drinks.’
‘Did you see him give them anything?’
‘No, but it was busy that night, and all my attention was on keeping my patrons supplied with ale. He might have done, but if he did, I did not notice.’
Bartholomew hurried home, and washed in water that was warm, faintly malodorous, and did nothing to refresh him. He donned a clean shirt, then struggled into the thick woollen robes that were obligatory attire for formal occasions like elections. Feeling he might expire in them, he trotted out into the yard, where he found Michael waiting for him. The monk set off at once, moving at a leisurely pace so as not to arrive looking like a beetroot.
‘Well, Matt?’ he asked. ‘Is Aynton’s killer safely behind bars?’
Bartholomew shot him an irritable glance. ‘I can report that Dodenho has alibis galore, so we can cross him off our list. He does not have any passionate supporters, so we can eliminate that avenue of enquiry, too.’
‘Fair enough. What else?’
‘Narboro was alone in Hoo Hall. I could not gain his measure at all, Brother. He cannot really be as vain as he makes out. If he were, Peterhouse would never have accepted him as a Fellow ten years ago.’
‘People change, Matt. I vaguely recall him back then, proposing to Lucy. However, I have no recollection of him being obsessed with his appearance.’
‘Are you ready for today?’ asked Bartholomew, as they turned into the High Street, and a group of scholars from Gonville Hall cheered when they saw him.
Michael smiled. ‘Of course. And now the hour has come, I am looking forward to being Chancellor in name, as well as doing all the work.’
St Mary the Great was Cambridge’s most prestigious church, and the only building in the town large enough to hold every Regent Master – scholars eligible to vote – at the same time. This was necessary whenever they met to make important decisions, or for ceremonies like the one at the end of the academic year, when successful students were formally awarded their degrees. No townsman had been surprised, a century before, when scholars at the fledgling University had informed them that they were taking it for themselves. Of course, that did not mean they were happy about it, and resentment had festered ever since.
Elections for Chancellor were significant events, and no Regent Master wanted to miss one, so the church was packed. Many surged forward to shake Michael’s hand or express their good wishes as he sailed through the door, making it abundantly clear who would win that day. Even so, there was an order of ceremony to follow: an opening prayer; a summary of the rules by the Senior Proctor, who then introduced each candidate; speeches by each hopeful; the vote; the formal announcement of the result; and the winner’s victory bray.
Michael had always run elections with such smooth efficiency that no one could remember them being any other way. Brampton’s performance that day made everyone realise that they had taken the monk for granted. First, he was so nervous that he forgot the prayer, which had to be slotted in after his stammering explanation of electoral procedure. Then he had a moment of panic when he could not remember Narboro’s name. And finally, he fled the podium before announcing which candidate was to speak first.
‘It is a pity he is not as good at proctoring as he is at suing his sister’s suitor,’ muttered Doctor Rougham of Gonville Hall disparagingly. ‘No man will ever look at Lucy again, and she will end her days as a spinster in his house.’
‘Perhaps he wants a companion for when he is in his dotage,’ shrugged Father Aidan of Maud’s Hostel. ‘She is clever and amusing, so I can see why he wants to hang on to her.’
As Brampton had no idea how to decide the order in which the four candidates would address the gathering, he suggested they drew lots. It was hardly dignified, and resulted in disapproving mutters from those who were close enough to see what was happening. Dodenho’s straw was the shortest, so he went first.
His splendid voice filled the church, but he said nothing original or interesting, and as the church was stifling and the Regents were uncomfortable in their ceremonial robes, they grew increasingly restless as he boomed on. Eventually, they began to lob scrunched-up balls of parchment in the hope of making him stop. When someone exchanged parchment for a shoe, Warden Shropham hastened to drag him off the podium before he was hurt.