‘It is not your fault, Brother,’ Bartholomew whispered back. ‘It is Brampton’s, for letting them sneak inside in the first place.’
‘Better blame the flux then,’ said Michael. ‘Half the beadles are laid low with it, so none were available to stand watch at the doors. The fit ones are needed to keep order among a lot of students who think that the looming end of term gives them licence to run riot.’
At that point, their attention was snagged by a growing spat between Donwich and the men from King’s Hall.
‘… your mistress,’ Ufford was saying accusingly. ‘Oh, yes, we know all about your nocturnal visits to Bridge Street, Donwich. No wonder you are such good friends with our new Senior Proctor! His house provides the venue for your trysts with his sister.’
Bartholomew blinked his astonishment. ‘Are they saying that Donwich has taken Lucy as a lover?’ he breathed. ‘I do not believe it! For a start, Matilde would have told me.’
‘I imagine she considers it none of your business,’ replied Michael, an answer which told Bartholomew that the revelation was not news to him. ‘But why the shock? Why should Lucy not form an attachment to someone else, now she is free of Narboro?’
‘Lucy is not my mistress,’ yelled Donwich, so full of red-faced rage that he could barely speak. ‘She is a friend. There is nothing in the statutes that forbids me from visiting respectable townswomen.’
‘Read them again,’ drawled Rawby. ‘You will find there is.’
‘Does Brampton know about this relationship, Brother?’ asked Bartholomew in a low voice, then answered the question himself. ‘I suppose he must, if they meet in his house. And he condones it?’
‘Perhaps he feels she deserves a chance to snag herself a spouse,’ shrugged Michael.
‘But if Brampton and Donwich collude to facilitate that sort of thing, it means they are closer than we thought,’ said Bartholomew in alarm. ‘You may not be able to trust your Senior Proctor when you are Chancellor.’
‘Brampton knows where his loyalties lie.’
For his sake, Bartholomew hoped he was right. At that moment, he happened to glance at Gille, who had been pushed up against the table by the press of scholars who crowded in behind him. It allowed the Clare Hall Fellow to palm one of Michael’s pretty jewelled ink-pots, a gift from a grateful Bishop of Ely. It happened so fast that Bartholomew wondered if his eyes had deceived him.
‘Why do you support the monk over me?’ Donwich demanded of the trio from King’s Hall. ‘You have never sided with Michaelhouse before, and our two Colleges have always been allies. Reconsider your position, and I shall reward you well.’
‘That is a good point,’ whispered Father William to the other Michaelhouse Fellows. ‘Why are Ufford and Rawby so keen to help Michael? It is suspicious if you ask me.’
‘They simply support the better candidate,’ replied Zoone. ‘And this challenge of Donwich’s is ridiculous. There is nothing in the statutes to say that Michael must acknowledge the pitiful claims of a defeated rival, so why does he?’
‘It is odd,’ agreed Clippesby, cuddling a hedgehog. ‘But perhaps he has been listening to the badgers, who are democratic to a fault. Their elections are always–’
‘Hush!’ hissed William, looking around in alarm. ‘No peculiar animal-inspired opinions here, if you please. It will reinforce the rumours that you are barking mad.’
‘We should go, if we are to reach Ely by nightfall,’ said Ufford to Rawby, and turned to Michael. ‘Do we have your permission to leave, Chancellor?’
Michael inclined his head. ‘Bring the vicars-general as soon as possible.’
‘You can rely on us,’ said Rawby, and then he and Ufford were gone, shouldering their way through the throng and treading on not a few enemy toes on the way.
‘Yes, bring them quickly,’ called Donwich to their retreating backs. ‘Because Michael’s reign will soon degenerate into chaos. Nearly all his beadles have the flux, so he no longer has a personal army to support him.’
Michael stepped forward and addressed the gathering in a voice that was eminently calm and reasonable, which made Donwich look petty and ill-mannered by comparison.
‘Master Donwich has lodged his complaint and we have all heard it. All that remains now is to put it in writing. He and I will nominate two men to witness the deed, after which we will sign it and affix our seals. The rest of you may as well go home.’
Donwich opened his mouth to argue, but most scholars had had enough of being squashed and sweaty, so there was a murmur of agreement and a concerted move towards the door. Bartholomew was about to follow when Michael grabbed his arm.
‘Donwich will be tied up here for a while, so go to Clare Hall and find out where he, Gille and Elsham were when Aynton died. At the moment, they head my list of suspects. I would do it myself, but you will appreciate why that would not be a good idea.’
Bartholomew did indeed.
Chapter 5
Bartholomew was relieved to leave St Mary the Great, even if it was to embroil himself in the distasteful business of murder. He stepped through the door and felt himself wilt in the sun. He pulled off his heavy woollen robes, bundled them under his arm, and set off along the High Street, much more comfortably clad in loose shirt and knee-length breeches.
He was just turning into Gonville Lane when a small figure barrelled into him. Instinctively, his hand went to the purse on his belt, where it met some hot little fingers trying to unfasten it. It was Ulf Godenave, who abandoned his prize when he realised he was about to be caught, and darted away, pausing only to make an obscene gesture. The incident was witnessed by Shardelowe, the builder who had helped to retrieve Aynton’s body.
‘Little brat,’ he growled. ‘He will be hanged before he can grow a beard unless he mends his ways.’
‘I do not suppose you were on the bridge when Aynton was killed, were you?’ asked Bartholomew with more hope than expectation.
The builder shook his head. ‘I only came when I heard that a man with my expertise was needed to retrieve the body. It was a good thing I was available, because your Chancellor would have been pitched into the water – and you with him – if an amateur had tried to do it.’
Bartholomew recalled the conversation he had overheard the previous night between Shardelowe and the Mayor.
‘The King sent you to assess the bridge, but now it seems you will win the profitable task of carrying out the repairs, too.’
Shardelowe looked decidedly shifty. ‘Only if the town council votes for the Mayor’s recommendations. Of course, they would be fools not to – they need an experienced builder to solve the problem, or Aynton will not be the only man to fall foul of the thing.’
‘It has claimed another life this year already – a burgess named Baldok.’
‘I know nothing about him, but Aynton died because the rotten railings snapped under his weight when he was pushed against them. Had they been stone, they would have held.’
Bartholomew regarded him curiously. ‘How do you know he was pushed?’
Shardelowe shrugged. ‘I must have been told. I cannot recall by whom.’
He hurried away, and Bartholomew watched him go. Should the builder be included on the list of suspects, because he had decided that the best way to ensure himself a lucrative contract was to make sure the bridge suffered another fatality? He shook himself impatiently. He was seeing plots where there were none. Or was he?
Before he had taken many more steps along the lane, Bartholomew saw Edith walking towards him. His sister had raised him after the early death of their parents, and they had always been close. He had witnessed with painful helplessness her grief after losing her beloved husband, and sincerely hoped that her sudden, inexplicable decision to marry Philip Chaumbre would not end in tears, too.