‘The deaths of Huntyngdon and Aynton are connected, linked by the letter that one gave the other to deliver. However, it would make a lot more sense if Aynton had written to someone other than Narboro. I do not see anyone involving him in something serious enough to warrant murder.’
‘No, but Aynton wrote to him nonetheless. Perhaps his vanity is an act, a ruse to conceal the real man. Speak to him again today, and see what you can find out. But first, go to the castle and retrieve Huntyngdon’s pouch from that thieving Dickon.’
‘Why? I cannot imagine the Earl will want it.’
‘Actually, he does. Besides, I want to be sure it really is empty – that Dickon did not dismiss a mere letter as unimportant, because only weapons and money matter in his eyes. If the little ghoul refuses to part with it, take it by force.’
‘“Take it by force”?’ echoed Bartholomew in disbelief. ‘Would you have him run me through?’
Michael snorted his disdain. ‘He is all swagger, but a coward at heart. He would never dare attack you lest you hit him back. But if you are averse to violence, threaten to give him spots. That will bring him to heel, as no youth likes looking like a leopard.’
‘True.’
‘When you have the purse, deliver it to King’s Hall, and while you are there, ask again about Huntyngdon’s business with Aynton. Why was he chosen to deliver the letter, rather than someone from Aynton’s own College? And try to learn more about Huntyngdon’s relationship with the conveniently absent Martyn.’
‘Did you charge a beadle to scour the riverbank?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I assume Dickon found nothing, or we would have heard.’
‘He unearthed a wealth of dead animals, all of which he presented to his horrified sire. And yes, I sent a beadle to investigate, too, but he found nothing useful either.’ Michael chuckled. ‘Dickon was offended that we wanted to look for ourselves, and shadowed him every step of the way, barking orders and advice. The poor man was quite unnerved.’
Bartholomew was not surprised – he would not have been happy with Dickon dogging his footsteps as he hunted for corpses either.
‘What if Narboro and King’s Hall have no answers?’ he asked.
Michael raised his hands rather helplessly. ‘Speak to our main suspects again: Gille, Elsham, Stasy, Hawick, Chaumbre, Morys and anyone else you think merits attention. Not Donwich, though – leave him until we have solid evidence to confront him with.’
‘Brampton is on the list, too,’ said Bartholomew pointedly.
‘I know,’ said Michael drily. ‘But I need him to collect bridge money for the next few days, so leave him alone, too.’
In his room a short while later, Bartholomew issued Aungel with a long list of texts he wanted his students to study that day, although he could tell by the incredulous expression on the young Fellow’s face that his demands were unlikely to be met.
‘I will try,’ said Aungel. ‘But no one else is teaching, and all our lads can think about is going home. It is difficult to make them sit still, let alone get them to listen.’
‘Well, do your best,’ said Bartholomew, wondering if he was the only scholar in the entire University who thought students were there to learn.
‘Of course, it will be far easier without Stasy and Hawick,’ said Aungel, perching on the windowsill to chat. ‘They were a bad influence on the rest – disruptive.’
‘They were no worse than some of the others,’ said Bartholomew, tempted to point out that Aungel had not always been an ideal pupil either.
‘You would not say that if you knew them as well as I do,’ sniffed Aungel. ‘Michael was right to expel them. Graduates of the University are supposed to be men of upright and moral character, which they are not.’
‘No?’ asked Bartholomew absently, most of his mind still on the list of texts.
‘They think spells can take the place of proper medicine. I wish they would leave town, because they will be a nuisance here. People are superstitious, and will always opt for charms over the real weapons against disease – urine reading, phlebotomy and horoscopes.’
As far as Bartholomew was concerned, there was not much to choose between them, but he held his tongue, aware that Aungel was something of a traditionalist, despite all he had done to convince him to open his mind.
‘You speak as if casting spells is something they did a lot,’ he said, picking up his medicines bag and looping it over his shoulder.
Aungel shrugged. ‘It is – they have been at it for years now.’
Bartholomew raised his eyebrows. ‘And you never thought to mention it to me?’
‘Too right I never! They would have cursed me, as they have cursed you. But do not worry, sir. I am sure Cynric and Margery Starre will find a way to reverse the hex.’
The town baked under the relentless sun, and even though it was still early morning, Bartholomew could feel the heat of the road burning through his shoes. He tried to keep to the shade, but everyone else had the same idea, so there was lots of irritable jostling. It also meant zigzagging from one side of the street to the other, depending on the height and position of buildings, and at one point, he was sure someone was replicating his every move. He stopped to look behind him, but saw nothing amiss.
Yolande de Blaston, part-time prostitute and wife to one of the town’s carpenters, had left a bowl of water outside her house for thirsty animals. It thronged with small birds until Ulf Godenave darted forward and kicked it over. The birds scattered in alarm, and the water trailed into a nearby pothole. Ulf’s spiteful laughter turned to a startled yelp when someone shot from the house and cuffed him around the ear.
‘Got the little sod!’ crowed Yolande, as the boy raced away before she could do it again. ‘It is the fifth time he has kicked that bowl over, and I am tired of lugging water from the well. And he bit our dog.’
‘Did he?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘Why?’
‘Because she barked at him. He did it to shut her up, lest I came out to see what he was doing – which was stealing the laundry I set out to dry in the sun.’
Bartholomew hoped Ulf would have the sense to keep his distance for a while, as Yolande was not a person to aggravate. He asked after her enormous brood of children – fifteen at the last count – but before she could reply, their attention was taken by a screech and some pithy swearing. Narboro, flouncing along elegantly, had not watched where he was putting his feet, and had stumbled into the water-filled pothole.
‘Look at my robe!’ he cried angrily. ‘Wet and filthy! It is your legal duty to look after the street outside your home, madam, but you have allowed this great pit to develop.’
Householders were responsible for their bit of the road, but the de Blastons could barely afford rent and food, so repairing potholes was well beyond their means.
‘No harm has been done,’ said Bartholomew, pulling Narboro away before Yolande smacked him over the head, too; he could tell from her scowl that she was considering it.
‘No harm?’ snarled Narboro, although a glance at Yolande’s furious face warned him against marching back to have it out with her. ‘I am drenched!’
Bartholomew studied him out of the corner of his eye, trying to determine if he really was an empty-headed fool, or something else entirely. He could not do it, so he began to talk, hoping a conversation might reveal the truth about the man.
‘I assume you know that Huntyngdon is dead,’ he began. ‘The scholar who was last seen setting off to deliver a letter to you.’