Michael nodded wearily. ‘You are almost certainly right.’
‘I thought at first that Yffi did it, because they were his tiles. I assumed he had intended to keep the corpse hidden until he could find somewhere more permanent for it – a plan thwarted by Agatha and the dog. But then I heard Drax was killed in Physwick’s dairy, and my theory made no sense – the dairy is a much better place for storing bodies. So I reconsidered. The villain must be from the hostels, and he left a corpse in Michaelhouse because it was the nearest available College.’
‘Speaking of Yffi, why is no work being done on our roof today?’ asked Michael. He had already reasoned as much himself, and did not need to hear Blaston’s speculations on the matter. ‘I know it is Sunday, but we were awash again last night, and this is an emergency.’
‘I wish I could finish the work for you,’ said Blaston tiredly. ‘But I am a carpenter, not a mason.’
‘I shall have another word with Emma,’ said Michael. ‘She will encourage him back to work.’
‘I doubt it. It is she who is paying for St Simon Stock’s new shrine, and I imagine she thinks completing that will earn her more favour with God than mending your roof.’
‘I did not know that,’ said Michael grimly. ‘Thank you.’
It was raining again when Bartholomew and Michael left Blaston. The monk went to petition Emma, while Bartholomew returned to the College and gave the last of his money to Valence, to buy milk and bread for Yolande’s baby – Edith’s pie had ‘accidentally’ been left behind for the others. Then he went to his room where Edith, knowing her brother well enough to predict what would happen, had arranged for a replacement pie to be sitting on his desk. He could not have eaten it to save his life: the plight of the Blaston family had sickened him. He sank down on a chest, put his head in his hands, and was still sitting so when Michael returned. The monk went straight to the parcel and unwrapped it.
‘Beef!’ he exclaimed in pleasure. ‘And Lombard slices, too. They are my favourites, so clearly she packed them for me.’
‘Actually, she told me not to share them with greedy Benedictines.’
‘Well, there you are then,’ said Michael with a shrug. ‘I am not greedy, so she cannot have been referring to me. Eat something, Matt, and I shall join you. It will eliminate the nasty taste in my mouth, after begging Emma to order Yffi back to work and hearing her say she will not interfere.’
‘I do not want any.’
‘Starving yourself will not help the Blaston brats. Eat this, or I shall tell Edith you gave it to your students. And then there will be trouble.’
Bartholomew had a feeling he might do it, so took the proffered slice. It was good, although he barely tasted it, and at one point he gagged.
‘Perhaps I should go on a pilgrimage,’ said the monk, watching him. ‘And ask for an early end to winter. What do you think?’
‘That the University would be in flames by the time its Senior Proctor returned.’
Michael selected the largest of the Lombard slices and inserted it into his mouth. ‘In that case, perhaps I had better stay,’ he said, enunciating with difficulty. ‘I shall content myself by catching this killer-thief instead. Perhaps that will suffice to see my sins forgiven.’
‘What sins?’ asked Bartholomew.
Michael waved an airy hand, took another cake and aimed for the door. ‘Come with me to see Walter. Like Blaston, he may have remembered something else now he has had a chance to reflect.’
They found Walter and his peacock sharing a piece of bread, the porter soaking each crumb in wine before feeding it to the bird. The creature’s eyes were glazed, and it was unsteady on its feet.
‘Drax,’ stated Michael without preamble. ‘I know you were in the latrines when the body was brought here, but did anything else happen that was unusual that morning?’
Walter scowled, ever surly. ‘I already told you, no.’
‘Yes,’ said Michael, struggling for patience. ‘But please think again. Was there anything different – anything at all, no matter how small or insignificant it may seem?’
‘Well, we had sightseers,’ said Walter disapprovingly. ‘Prior Etone brought the pilgrims to stand at our gate and gawp around – he has always admired the Colleges, which is why he sides with us against the hostels. Then Kendale and his louts tried to do the same, but I saw them off.’
‘Kendale?’ cried Michael, shocked. ‘Why did you not mention this before?’
‘Because I chased them away the instant they arrived. They had no time for mischief – I saw to that.’ Then Walter looked thoughtful. ‘Although I suppose they could have brought Drax’s body here a bit later, when I was in the latrines.’
Michael closed his eyes and whispered something, presumably a prayer for fortitude. Then he opened them again and looked at Bartholomew. ‘This is enough to allow us to tackle Chestre at last, although it will not be pleasant.’
‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew unenthusiastically. The peacock issued a noise he had never heard from a bird before, and pecked at the porter’s sleeve to indicate it was time for more wine-dipped bread. ‘Should you be feeding him that?’
Walter frowned, puzzled. ‘Of course I should. He loves claret.’
‘I am sure he does, but I doubt it is good for him.’
‘You mean I may be doing him harm?’ asked Walter, alarmed.
Bartholomew nodded, so Walter dunked the bread in water instead. The bird ignored it, and looked pointedly at the wine jug. Clearly, the creature was well on the way to becoming a sot.
‘Feed him seed,’ suggested Bartholomew, taking pity on the horrified porter. ‘Or worms.’
‘He does not eat worms!’ cried Walter indignantly. ‘He is cultured!’
Shaking his head in disgust, both at Walter’s peculiar perception of his pet and his withholding of information that would have been helpful days ago, Michael aimed for the gateless doorway. He was almost bowled from his feet when Cynric raced into the yard. He was red faced and breathless.
‘They have found him,’ he gasped. ‘The yellow-headed villain.’
‘Found him where?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Dead,’ panted Cynric. ‘Come and see.’
The rain had stopped when Bartholomew and Michael ran towards the High Street, hot on Cynric’s heels. Because it was Sunday, the streets were quiet, and most pedestrians were scholars, going to and from their Sabbath devotions. There were friars and monks in habits of brown, grey, black and white, and students in the uniforms of their foundations. There were rather more of them than usual, and Bartholomew noticed for the first time that those who had allied themselves with the hostels had donned some item that was red, while Colleges and their supporters favoured blue. He regarded them unhappily as he trotted past, dismayed to note that places previously neutral had now declared an affiliation. The trouble was spreading fast.
‘Jolye was murdered by the hostels,’ he heard the lads of Peterhouse telling the scholars of Bene’t College. ‘He is a martyr to our cause, and the crime must be avenged.’
‘He fell in the river and drowned,’ countered Michael sharply, skidding to a standstill. ‘It was a tragic accident. Do not abuse his memory by making his death something it was not.’
The Peterhouse students nodded dutifully as they backed away, but the members of Bene’t looked thoughtful, and Bartholomew knew the damage had been done.
‘This damned rivalry has taken on a life of its own, Matt,’ muttered Michael worriedly. ‘It is gathering momentum, and it is only a matter of time before it erupts into killing and bloodshed.’