‘Essex Hostel had a lot of dead rats delivered to it this evening,’ Ayera explained, when Bartholomew asked where the monk had gone. ‘So he is trying to prevent Essex from marching on Trinity Hall and tossing the lot back through their windows.’
Bartholomew sat at the table, and helped himself to a Lombard slice. It was sweet, rich and cloying. He poured some wine to help it down, but when he raised the cup to his lips he found he could not bring himself to swallow anything else, so he set it back on the table untouched. Langelee abandoned his monologue, and came to sit next to him, lowering his voice so the others would not hear.
‘Michael told me – in confidence – that Poynton was stabbed, and wanted my opinion as to how it might have happened. I have been pondering the matter. Obviously, some players must have kept their weapons after you ordered us to disarm.’
‘I know they did,’ said Bartholomew dryly. ‘And you were one of them.’
Langelee grinned sheepishly. ‘Well, I did not want to be at a disadvantage. I knew damn well that Heslarton had a dagger, while Neyll and Gib are louts, who would never play camp-ball without a blade. Then Brother Jude is fond of knives, and so is Yffi.’
The list continued for some time, and Bartholomew saw his efforts to make the game safer had been a sham. He might have eliminated the more obvious weapons, but every competitor had still been armed to the teeth.
‘So what have you concluded from all this?’ he asked. ‘Who killed Poynton?’
‘It must have been one of the three men who reached him first,’ replied Langelee. ‘Because he was directly beneath them and they acted as a shield, separating him from the second wave of players. Ergo, your suspects are Heslarton, Yffi and Neyll.’
‘Neyll claims you are the culprit,’ said Bartholomew, feeling Langelee’s analysis told him nothing he had not already found out for himself. ‘Probably because you belong to a College.’
Langelee waved a dismissive hand. ‘He is always trying to cause trouble between us and the hostels, but the dispute is ridiculous, and I refuse to let Michaelhouse become embroiled.’
‘Good,’ said Bartholomew. ‘So which of these three do you think is the killer?’
‘Heslarton,’ replied Langelee, without hesitation. ‘It is not always easy to remember who is on one’s own team, but Poynton was distinctive. I would not have forgotten a fellow like him, and I cannot imagine Heslarton would have done, either.’
Bartholomew was thoughtful. Langelee knew a great deal about camp-ball, so his opinion was worth considering. But why should Heslarton kill an ailing pilgrim? Was it for his remaining signacula? Or, rather more sinisterly, had Heslarton uncovered evidence to suggest Poynton was somehow involved with the yellow-headed thief?
‘Speaking of Heslarton, I visited his home earlier,’ said Langelee, when Bartholomew made no reply. ‘I went to beg Emma’s help – to see whether she would order Yffi back to work on our roof. Odelina was there, and she made some remarks.’ He winked and touched the side of his nose.
‘What kind of remarks?’ Bartholomew had no idea what the gesture was supposed to convey.
‘Ones that say she has developed a hankering for you,’ replied Langelee, a little impatiently. ‘So I am afraid you will have to bed her.’
Bartholomew blinked. ‘I am sorry?’
‘Yes, I imagine you will be, because she is an unattractive lass. But it cannot be helped.’
Bartholomew gaped at him. ‘You want me to lie with our benefactress’s granddaughter?’
Langelee nodded, as if such a discussion between Master and Fellow were the most natural thing in the world. ‘It will almost certainly result in more gifts, because Emma dotes on her. In other words, if Odelina asks Emma to build us a new accommodation wing, I am sure she will oblige. I know it will be unpleasant for you, but you can always keep your eyes closed.’
‘Christ!’ muttered Bartholomew, feeling rather weak at the knees.
Langelee slapped a manly arm around his shoulders. ‘Come to my chambers later and I shall give you advice on how to go about it.’
‘I do not need advice. I know how to manage these matters myself. But–’
Langelee’s next slap was hard enough to hurt, and he guffawed conspiratorially. ‘Good! Then do your duty, and we shall say no more about it.’
‘I am not doing it,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘Not with Odelina. She is a patient, for God’s sake.’
‘Even better. No one will raise any eyebrows when you visit her. Do not be a fool, Bartholomew. We need the generosity of people like Emma de Colvyll, and the occasional frolic with Odelina might make all the difference. Would you really condemn us, your friends, to live in poverty, just because you cannot bring yourself to pleasure a young woman?’
‘Emma is far too shrewd a businesswoman to be influenced by Odelina. Besides, you may have misread the situation. She might object to her granddaughter’s seduction, and withdraw her support altogether – perhaps demanding a refund from us into the bargain.’
Langelee was thoughtful. ‘True. Perhaps I had better make a few discreet enquiries before you undertake this mission. You are right: it would not do to get it wrong.’
When Langelee wandered away to resume his commentary on the game to Clippesby and Ayera, Bartholomew worked on his lectures for the following day. One by one, the other Fellows retired to their beds, until he was the only one remaining. He laboured on a little while longer, but the lantern’s dim light and oily fumes were giving him a headache. With a sigh, he closed his books and left the conclave, to walk slowly across the yard. He jumped violently when a shadow stepped out of a doorway to accost him.
‘Easy!’ said Thelnetham, starting in his turn. ‘It is only me.’
‘What are you doing?’ demanded Bartholomew, more curtly than he had intended. He glanced at the missing gates and wished the pranksters had thought of another way to express their cleverness, because he did not feel safe as long as they were gone.
‘I live here, if you recall,’ replied Thelnetham acidly. ‘Beyond this porch is the entrance to my room. I was taking a little fresh air before retiring to it.’
‘Oh,’ said Bartholomew. He could not have said why, but he did not believe Thelnetham, and was under the distinct impression that he had been lurking. ‘What do you want?’
‘To do a colleague a good turn, actually.’ Thelnetham sounded offended. ‘Your students have begged beds elsewhere, because rain has invaded your quarters, and I wondered whether you might like a mattress on my floor. We are cramped, but we can manage one more.’
‘Thank you,’ said Bartholomew, relenting. ‘It is kind, but the medicine room will suffice.’
‘That is awash, too,’ said Thelnetham. ‘It will be like sleeping at sea.’
Bartholomew walked to the little chamber and saw with dismay that Thelnetham was right. He was tempted to accept his colleague’s offer, but something stopped him. He smiled awkwardly.
‘I appreciate your kindness, but I am almost certain to be called out by … by Emma tonight, so I doubt I will be sleeping much anyway.’ He looked away, never comfortable with fabrication, but better a lie than offending a man who was probably only trying to be neighbourly.
Thelnetham sighed. ‘As you please. Does Emma’s tooth still pain her? She is a fool not to listen to your advice. Of course, the procedure will be painful, so her reluctance to let you loose on her jaws is understandable. Heslarton once had a molar drawn by a surgeon in Huntingdon, and he said pieces of bone were dropping out in bloody gobbets for weeks afterwards.’