He tended his patients, and was just passing the Gilbertine Priory on his way back when he met Michael. The monk reported that he had spent his morning racing after Morys, but had missed him at every turn. As he looked cool and fresh, Bartholomew suspected that he had not so much raced as strolled, with plenty of stops for refreshment along the way.
‘While I was tearing about like a March hare,’ the monk went on, ‘I met Donwich and his henchmen in St Mary the Great, Brampton and Chaumbre in the Market Square, and Stasy and Hawick in Shoemaker Row. I questioned them all but learned nothing useful.’
‘Did you press them on their alibis?’
‘Of course. Brampton said he was on University business, although he has no one to confirm it; Chaumbre was looking at dye, which we know; and Stasy and Hawick claim they were with each other, which is no answer at all.’
‘Is Dick helping you hunt for Morys?’
‘He is busy – something about a new clue for the murder of Baldok, which he still hopes to solve – so he sent Dickon in his stead. I endured the brat’s company for an hour, but sent him home when he suggested prising information from our suspects with a sword.’ Michael grimaced. ‘Although I wish I had accepted his offer with Stasy and Hawick.’
‘They were uncooperative?’
‘Naturally enough. I expelled them, after all.’
‘Hawick wants you to reconsider. Is there any way to let them have their degrees?’
‘They can appeal to the vicars-general, but my decision is unlikely to be overturned – the Archbishop’s men cannot be seen condoning witchery either. Hah! There is Narboro. Shall we question him together, as he is here?’
They walked towards where Narboro was adjusting the buckles on his elegant shoes. He straightened as they approached. Michael opened his mouth to speak, but the Peterhouse man cut across him.
‘You should know that I have lodged proceedings against Philip Chaumbre for leaving those great holes in St John’s cemetery,’ he declared haughtily. ‘I fell down one and suffered a grievous injury yesterday, so it is only right that he compensates me with money.’
‘Let me see it,’ ordered Bartholomew. ‘I may be able to help.’
‘That would be unethical,’ blustered Narboro, backing away. ‘You are related to the defendant.’
‘Anyone can see there is nothing wrong with you,’ said Michael sternly, ‘and that your sole aim is to win some easy money. If you have any sense, you will drop the suit before it lands you in trouble.’
Narboro’s expression turned sulky. ‘Well, how else can I raise the vast sum that your Senior Proctor demands of me for not marrying his sister?’
‘I do not understand why you agreed to wed her in the first place,’ said Michael. ‘You must have known ten years ago that she was not the right lady for you, or that you might prefer to remain unattached.’
‘I was young and reckless back then,’ sniffed Narboro. ‘And she had all her teeth.’
As Bartholomew and Michael walked towards the Trumpington Gate, they saw Morys, who was engaged in a furious altercation with the sentries.
Cambridge lay on a major highway, so all traffic paid a toll to pass through the town – money that was then used to keep the road in good working order. As there was always a shortfall between what was collected and what was needed for repairs, individual householders along the street were obliged to pay the difference. Naturally, they resented it, so to keep costs to a minimum, the guards were assiduous about what they allowed in. Any cart deemed too heavy was ordered to divide its load or divert to another route.
That day, an enormous wagon had arrived, piled high with huge blocks of stone, and drawn by eight oxen. It would mangle the road if permitted to trundle on, and the guards were right to stop it. Unfortunately, Morys had decided that he had the authority to grant an exemption.
‘But look at the thing!’ one soldier shouted. ‘It will destroy the High Street!’
‘Nonsense,’ stated Morys in a voice that brooked no argument. ‘Now step aside before I dock your wages for insolence. Carter? Proceed.’
The sentries watched in dismay as the great vehicle began to lumber forward. It knocked a chunk off the gate when the driver misjudged its width, and its wheels left deep furrows in their wake. As he passed, the carter winked conspiratorially at Morys and tossed him a purse. Michael was outraged and stormed over to say so.
‘The guards are right – that thing should never have been allowed through,’ he declared angrily. ‘Look at the ruts it has made! Who will pay to mend them? You?’
‘Those were already there,’ lied Morys. ‘Besides, it is none of your business.’
That was true, but rather than admit it, Michael began to interrogate him about the Chancellor’s murder instead. ‘You and Aynton quarrelled on the day he was killed. Why?’
‘It was not a quarrel, it was a difference of opinion,’ retorted Morys. ‘And it did not result in me shoving him off the bridge, if that is the direction your thoughts have taken.’
‘So where were you when he died?’
‘At Clare Hall, with a whole roomful of witnesses.’
‘Not during compline, which is when Aynton was killed,’ countered Michael. ‘We have reliable witnesses who say you left long before then.’
‘Oh, so I did,’ said Morys smoothly. ‘I remember now. However, I am not at liberty to divulge more, because my errand concerned confidential guildhall business.’
‘Then tell us who you met,’ ordered Michael. ‘Because I am sure you want to help us by eliminating yourself from our list of suspects.’
‘I am not in the habit of breaking council secrets,’ retorted Morys loftily. ‘So you will have to take my word that I was nowhere near your Chancellor when he died.’
‘Do I indeed?’ muttered Michael. ‘Then tell me about your argument with Aynton instead. What was the “difference of opinion” about?’
‘The bridge,’ replied Morys, and his expression turned sly. ‘He agreed to pay half the cost of a stone one, so I expect you to honour his promise.’
Michael shook his head in disbelief. ‘Aynton thought wood would suffice, and was vehemently opposed to building in stone. Do not lie to me, Morys.’
Morys smirked, unrepentant. ‘It was worth a try, and if you had believed me, I would have won something good for the town. The truth is that he offered to pay a tenth of a wooden one, but that is miserly, and I am sure the new Chancellor will want to reconsider in the interests of good town – University relations. Yes?’
Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘Legally, we are not obliged to pay anything at all, so be grateful for what you have. However, I want to know precisely why you argued with Aynton. Did you demand more money of him, as you have just done with me?’
‘Our discussion was private,’ said Morys archly. ‘But I cannot stand around gossiping with you all day – I should be at the guildhall. You do know that the burgesses will vote to build a stone bridge today, do you not?’
‘How do you know what they will decide?’ asked Bartholomew, although even as he spoke, he recalled the discussion on the bridge after Aynton’s murder, where Morys had promised Shardelowe that very outcome in exchange for free repairs on the ponticulus.
‘I have a nose for such things,’ replied Morys blithely. ‘Besides, it is the right thing to do. It will be expensive though, so I shall expect everyone to reach into his purse to pay for it – the University and the town.’