Bartholomew was not about to demean himself by arguing. ‘Where were you around compline time on Wednesday?’ he asked, supposing he might as well quiz them about Aynton, since they were there.
‘Out,’ replied Hawick defiantly. ‘With each other, as we have already told Michael. And do not accuse us of killing Aynton, because we never did.’
‘Besides, you said that Aynton had provided enough clues to let you identify the culprit,’ flashed Stasy challengingly. ‘Which means that either you lied or he did. Either way, you have no right to interrogate us.’
Their replies did nothing to persuade Bartholomew to delete them from his list of suspects. Unfortunately, he knew that badgering them would not convince them to cooperate, so he opted for affability instead. After all, he had taught them for years, and while they had never much liked each other, most of that time had passed without antagonism or hostility.
‘I hear you have set up in Shoemaker Row,’ he began pleasantly, although it was not easy to disguise his irritation. ‘I wish you success of it.’
Stasy regarded him suspiciously, although Hawick took him at his word and grinned happily. ‘We shall make a fortune there. People already flock to buy our services – not just our remedies, but horoscopes and urine readings, too. You taught us well.’
‘Donwich has promised to give us our degrees when he is Chancellor,’ put in Stasy gloatingly. ‘He thinks our expulsion was unfair, and wants to make things right.’
‘We shall continue our used-exemplar trade as well,’ Hawick went on. ‘That is very lucrative. The profits allowed us to rent the shop and buy remedies to sell.’
‘Margery Starre’s remedies,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘She will not appreciate you passing her wares off as your own, so you might want to be careful.’
‘Come, Hawick,’ said Stasy haughtily. ‘We do not need business advice from a man who barely makes ends meet, and who will be deep in debt when he leaves his College.’
Bartholomew sincerely hoped he was wrong. They strode away, and he jumped when he heard a soft voice in his ear – he had forgotten Cynric was shadowing them.
‘Do not worry about the remedies. Margery knows about them, and she has a plan.’
‘What plan?’ asked Bartholomew, alarmed.
Cynric grinned. ‘One that will discredit them so badly that they will leave the town and never be heard of again. And good riddance!’
And with that, he hurried after his quarry.
Bartholomew arrived in the hall just as Michael was saying grace. It was already stifling and the students had been given permission to wear whatever they found most comfortable after two of them had fainted. The result was a sea of colour, as everyone had leapt at the chance to don something other than the prescribed black.
Agatha, flushed and flustered, came to report that the butter had turned rancid and the meat had spoiled overnight. The meal therefore comprised dry bread and an eclectic selection of boiled vegetables.
‘The heat is dismal enough,’ said Michael, regarding his platter in dismay. ‘But when it affects my victuals …’
‘It will rain on Tuesday, after which we shall have forty cool, wet days,’ declared Zoone with such confidence that the other Fellows regarded him in surprise. He began to elaborate. ‘A change in wind direction tells me that a wet spell is on the way, while Tuesday is the Feast of St Swithun. And, as everyone knows, rain on St Swithun’s Day means forty soggy days always follow.’
‘Rank superstition!’ exclaimed Michael. ‘I am surprised at you, Zoone.’
‘I have seen many a dry summer ended by that venerable saint,’ countered Zoone, ‘and this time will be no different. I am an engineer, do not forget – my structures will not stand firm unless I take weather patterns into account. Ergo, I know a lot about them.’
‘The swallows anticipate a change soon, too,’ put in Clippesby, who had carried two peahens into the hall, and was feeding them grain picked from his bread. ‘They are also tired of the drought, as there is no wet soil for repairing their nests.’
Father William’s eyes narrowed. ‘Someone has been leaving bowls of mud all around the College, and I should have guessed it was you. I tripped over one last night, and look at the state of my best habit.’
Everyone did, although the new stains were barely visible among ones that were fouler and had been there for a lot longer. Seeing he was going to get no sympathy, William changed the subject to Narboro.
‘I dislike him for being a peacock,’ he declared, then glanced at Clippesby’s avian guests. ‘No offence, ladies. He is an empty-headed fool, and I do not believe that the King considered him an indispensable part of his retinue.’
‘It is difficult to imagine,’ agreed Zoone. ‘However, I was in London once, and I saw Narboro with the royal party. I cannot say if he was indispensable, but he was certainly there.’
‘Probably sharpening the pens,’ sneered William. ‘Or polishing His Majesty’s mirrors, thus allowing him to admire himself at the same time.’
While the friar held forth, Bartholomew turned to Michael. The monk was immaculate – freshly shaved, his tonsure a perfect circle, and his habit spotless. He exuded authority and confidence, although Bartholomew knew him well enough to detect unease behind the elegant demeanour.
‘You are worried about the vicars-general,’ he surmised, keeping his voice low so that no one else would hear. ‘But I doubt you have cause for concern. Donwich’s challenge is absurd, and they will see it in moments.’
Michael gave a brief smile. ‘I am not worried about Donwich, Matt. I just want the vicars to see me at my best.’
‘Because they will report to the Archbishop, and he is someone with the power to award you an abbacy or a bishopric?’
‘Oh, no – he cannot be more dazzled by me than he is already,’ replied Michael, never a man to waste time with false modesty. ‘I need to impress them because I now embody the University. This chancellorship carries a heavy burden of responsibility.’
‘One you have carried for years,’ said Bartholomew, wondering if there was more to his friend’s disquiet than he was telling.
‘True,’ acknowledged Michael, and sighed. ‘But the constraints of the post – especially now the vicars are here – make it impossible for me to investigate these murders, and it is hard for me to watch you struggle alone. I itch to join you.’
Bartholomew regarded him balefully. ‘It is hard for me, too. Every teaching day I have left is precious, but I am forced to sacrifice them in order to do the Senior Proctor’s work. Brampton should–’
‘While I am closeted with the vicars, Brampton must begin collecting the bridge money,’ interrupted Michael. ‘If he does not, Morys will bray that the University reneges on its promises and there will be trouble. And you are the only person I trust to win justice for Aynton and Huntyngdon. You liked them – you will not deny them what they deserve.’
‘Appoint a Junior Proctor,’ suggested Bartholomew, disliking the way Michael was backing him into a corner. ‘Narboro has already offered, and William would do it in a heartbeat.’
Michael grimaced. ‘They could not solve a murder if they saw one committed right in front of them. It must be you who investigates these crimes, Matt. Obviously, I would rather do it myself, but that is impossible now the vicars-general are here. However, if you do this for me now, I swear that I will never make another demand of you again.’
Bartholomew started to laugh at a promise he knew would never be kept, but then he saw the agonised expression on Michael’s face. The monk did hate not being able to pursue the killer himself, and agreeing to become Chancellor had cost him more than anyone realised. Bartholomew was suddenly ashamed of his selfishness. He nodded agreement, and turned his mind to what they knew so far.