‘Thank you,’ said the fisherman, leaning back in relief. ‘It really hurt. It was your Master’s doing – we are on the same camp-ball team, and he is always so damned rough in practices. We ask him to save his violence for the opposing side, but he forgets himself in the heat of the moment.’
Camp-ball was Langelee’s greatest passion. It was hardly a genteel pastime for the head of a Cambridge College, but it was not one he could be persuaded to give up.
‘Would you have a word with him about needless fervour?’ the fisherman went on. ‘Of course it is too late for Friday. I shall not be able to play, which is a wicked shame.’
‘Friday?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Do you mean for the annual competition between the Gilbertines and the Carmelites?’
Each year, the two priories chose teams to represent them on the field – obviously, such dignified gentlemen were not going to indulge in the rough and tumble themselves – and the occasion drew enormous crowds. It was an honour to be selected to play, and Langelee had been beside himself with pride when he had been one of the lucky few.
The fisherman nodded bitterly. ‘And I will not be there, thanks to your Master.’
Bartholomew returned to Michaelhouse, and taught until it was time for his students to attend a mock disputation with Thelnetham, thus leaving him free to see more patients. Before he left, he mentioned the fisherman’s complaint to Langelee, who dismissed it with a careless flick of his hand, muttering something about weaklings not being welcome on his team anyway.
Bartholomew left the College, and tended two fevers and a case of cracked ribs. Then he went to visit Chancellor Tynkell, who was suffering from one of his periodic stomach upsets, and was just leaving when he met Michael. The monk was tired and dispirited.
‘Where have you been?’ he demanded irritably. ‘I needed your help with Drax’s murder today.’
‘What have you learned?’ asked Bartholomew, predicting from the monk’s sour mood that he would rather talk than listen to excuses about teaching and patients.
‘Nothing!’ Michael spat. ‘He was unpopular among his customers because he refused them credit, but that is hardly a reason to kill. And I have been told that he and Celia were not close, but we knew that already – the woman was hardly overwhelmed with distress yesterday.’
‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew. He glanced at Michael, and was surprised to see that a haunted expression had taken the place of his ire. ‘What is wrong?’
‘I have a very bad feeling about this case, and the more I think about it, the more worried I become. Drax’s body was deposited in our College – our home. Clearly, it was a deliberate attempt to harm us, so we must unravel the mystery before the culprit does something worse.’
Bartholomew was thoughtful. ‘Drax’s death must be connected to the theft at the Carmelite Priory – the villain there went straight for the gold badge on Poynton’s saddle, while Drax’s rings and necklaces were ignored but his badge – his hidden badge – was snatched off hard enough to tear his hat. The thief targeted only signacula in both cases.’
‘You may be right,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But why pick on these particular two men?’
Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Perhaps because they owned valuable tokens. And they may not be the only two victims, anyway – just the only two that you know about. Have you questioned Emma de Colvyll yet? The thief who took her box had yellow hair, and–’
‘It was not the same man,’ snapped Michael. ‘As I told you yesterday, Emma’s assailant will be lying low, hoping Heslarton does not catch him. He would not have returned to Cambridge and committed a very public theft and a murder.’
‘I disagree. Two yellow-haired villains in one day is a curious coincidence. Too curious.’
‘They are different,’ reiterated Michael testily. ‘And if you persist in seeing an association between two entirely separate incidents, we shall lead ourselves astray.’
‘If you say so,’ said Bartholomew, sure that Michael was wrong.
The monk blew out his cheeks in a sigh, and some of the tetchiness went out of him. ‘It has been a wretchedly frustrating morning. I wish you had been with me – you are good at reading people, and I need all the help I can get. Incidentally, did you hear that Welfry has been appointed Seneschal? I like the man, but he is hardly a suitable candidate for a post of such gravitas.’
‘Give him a chance, Brother. I think he means to do his best.’
‘I do not doubt his good intentions, but he will quickly become bored with the rigours of the post, and then we shall be inundated with silly jests. And the exchequer clerks are not noted for their sense of humour. I told the Dominican Prior-General that Welfry was a poor choice, but he said it was either him or Prior Morden.’
‘Morden is a decent man.’
‘So you have always said, but he does not have the wits to deal with sly exchequer clerks, and they would cheat us of our due. At least Welfry is intelligent. But I should not be worrying about him yet – catching the killer-thief is much more urgent. Will you help me?’
‘Later today,’ promised Bartholomew. ‘If I am not needed by patients.’
‘Tomorrow,’ countered Michael. He smiled suddenly. ‘It is the Feast of the Purification of the Blessed Virgin Mary this afternoon, one of my favourite festivals. And not because there will be food afterwards, before you think to cast aspersions on my piety. The truth is that I like the music.’
‘As long as your choir does not sing and spoil it,’ murmured Bartholomew, but not loud enough for the monk to hear. The College’s singers comprised a large section of the town’s poor, and were famous for their lack of talent. Michael was their conductor.
‘Where are you going?’ the monk asked, when Bartholomew started to walk away from Michaelhouse. ‘It is almost time for the noonday meal.’
‘To the Carmelite Friary. John Horneby has a sore throat.’
‘No!’ exclaimed Michael in horror. ‘Then you must cure him immediately! He is to give the Stock Extraordinary Lecture next week, and it will be one of the greatest speeches ever delivered – one that will have theological ramifications that will reverberate for decades.’
‘So I have heard,’ said Bartholomew flatly. Theologians were always delivering desperately important discourses, and he was a little weary of them. ‘Will you be there?’
‘Of course. And scholars from all over the country are flocking to hear him, so nothing – nothing – must prevent him from speaking. I had better come with you, to ensure he has the best possible care. The honour of our University is at stake here, Matt.’
The Carmelite Friary was busy that day. A contingent of White Friars had just arrived from London, the usual crowd of penitents milled around the shrine, and a service for the Purification was under way in the chapel. Bartholomew and Michael were just being conducted to the room where the sick theologian lay, when they were accosted by the four pilgrims.
‘Have you found it?’ demanded Poynton without preamble. His florid face made him look unwell, and Bartholomew wondered again whether illness had prompted his pilgrimages. ‘My token from the Holy Land?’
‘I am afraid not,’ replied Michael. ‘Although I spent the entire morning making enquiries. So has my colleague here. Can you see how he is limping? That is caused by the blisters earned from the distances he has walked on your behalf.’