‘No,’ said Kendale frostily. ‘You are not welcome there.’
‘I see,’ said Michael, cool in his turn. ‘Did you say all your students attended this lecture?’
‘Yes, and they are keen to discuss it with me. At home. Good afternoon, Brother.’
‘Wait,’ ordered Michael, as Kendale started to move away. ‘I have come about Gib.’
‘He is the most eager of them all,’ snapped Kendale. ‘So if you will excuse us now–’
‘He is dead,’ interrupted Michael. ‘I am sorry to break the news in so brutal a fashion, but you left me no choice. Now, let us go to Chestre, so we can consider the matter quietly.’
Kendale’s face was impossible to read, although it was certainly several shades paler. ‘He is not dead,’ he said after a moment. ‘He is…’
‘He is where?’ asked Michael when he faltered. ‘Not here with the other students, certainly.’
‘He must have slipped away for a moment,’ said Kendale. ‘A call of nature.’
‘That is right,’ said Neyll, equally pallid. ‘None of us noticed, because we were all entranced by Aristotle’s mean theory about speed concepts … or whatever Principal Kendale was talking about.’
‘When did you last see Gib?’ asked Bartholomew, eager to ask his questions and leave. He did not feel easy among the Chestre men; not even with armed beadles at his back.
‘I told you,’ said Kendale. ‘He must have slipped away for a moment. To a latrine.’
‘That is untrue,’ said Bartholomew quietly. ‘He has been dead for hours. I doubt any of you have seen him since five o’clock this morning.’
‘How do you know that?’ demanded Neyll, dark eyes flashing. ‘Have you anatomised him?’
‘Of course not,’ said Bartholomew, aware of several hands dropping to daggers. The beadles tensed, too. ‘But the soldiers on the bridge relax their guard between midnight and five, and it seems likely that was when Gib died.’
Kendale’s expression was still inscrutable. ‘I suppose I have not seen him today, now you mention it. But he was a quiet soul, and I often overlooked his presence. What happened to him?’
‘Is it true that Emma de Colvyll considered funding a scholarship at Chestre?’ asked Michael, unwilling to answer questions until he had been provided with answers he could trust. ‘And Gib acted as your messenger for a while?’
‘Yes, but she elected to mend your roof instead,’ said Neyll unpleasantly. ‘We bear her no grudge, if that is what you are thinking. In fact, we were relieved she decided to post her charity elsewhere, because we were never comfortable about the notion of being in her debt.’
‘That is true,’ agreed Kendale. ‘Indeed, we would not be in Michaelhouse’s shoes for a kingdom. You will be repaying her “kindness” for years to come.’
Bartholomew had a very bad feeling he might be right.
‘So when did you last see Gib?’ asked Michael. ‘And please be honest. I will find the truth eventually, and lies will just waste everyone’s time.’
Neyll shot him a nasty look. ‘He went out last night. He has a whore, you see, and often stays with her, so we thought nothing of it.’
‘Who is the whore?’ asked Bartholomew. She would have to be questioned.
‘Helia, who lives in the Jewry,’ replied Neyll. ‘She is my whore, too, and we see her on alternate evenings. Now Gib is gone, I shall have her all the time.’
Bartholomew stared at him. Had he dispatched his classmate? Spats over women were not uncommon in a town where willing partners were few and far between. Of course, it would have to be a very heady passion that led to murder.
‘Did any of you quarrel with him?’ asked Michael, also studying the students’ reactions intently.
Kendale gave his sly smile. ‘Why would we do that? He lived in our hostel, so we were all the best of friends. It is the Colleges with whom we have arguments.’
‘So you love each other, and Chestre is a haven of peace and tranquillity?’ asked Michael acidly.
Kendale inclined his head. ‘Yes. And if Gib has been murdered – as your questions lead me to surmise – then you must look to a College for the villain. They are the ones who mean us harm.’
‘Any particular College?’ asked Michael.
Kendale met his gaze evenly. ‘The louts at Michaelhouse do not like us.’
‘Speaking of Michaelhouse,’ said the monk, declining to be baited, ‘I have been told that you spied on us on Monday morning.’
‘Yes, I did,’ replied Kendale glibly. ‘Your porter saw me, did he? I thought he might. I was looking for Gib.’
‘Why did you expect him to be in Michaelhouse?’ asked Bartholomew suspiciously.
‘Because he was missing, and I was afraid someone there might have kidnapped him. And I was right to be concerned: less than a week later, he is unlawfully slain.’
Kendale was clever, thought Bartholomew, regarding him with dislike. It was cunning to claim Gib as his reason for sticking his head around Michaelhouse’s gate on the morning Drax had died, because Gib was not in a position to confirm or deny the tale.
‘I do not believe you,’ said Michael.
Neyll drew his dagger, a great, wicked-looking thing that had been honed to a savage point. ‘You accuse my Principal of lying?’
Kendale raised his bandaged hand to stop him. ‘Then ask your porter precisely what he saw,’ he said to Michael. ‘If he is an honest man, he will say I looked briefly around your yard and left. No more and no less. And I have explained exactly why I did it.’
‘Then did you see anything suspicious?’ asked Michael, although his expression remained sceptical. ‘The reason I ask is because Drax’s body was dumped there not long after.’
‘No,’ said Kendale blithely. ‘I did not see Drax, his killer or anyone else.’
‘You quarrelled with Drax not long before his murder,’ said Michael. ‘I saw you myself. Why?’
‘Because he wanted to raise our rent,’ replied Kendale. He laughed suddenly, a humourless, bitter sound. ‘And do you know why? Because he claimed evil spirits inhabit the place with us, and so should pay their share. Have you ever heard anything more ridiculous?’
Bartholomew found himself uncertain whether the ‘ridiculous’ referred to the notion of evil spirits in the building, or the fact that Drax had expected them to pay for their lodgings.
‘May we inspect Gib’s room?’ he asked, supposing that if Gib really were the yellow-headed thief, then the proof would be in the place where he kept his other belongings.
‘No,’ said Neyll immediately. ‘You may not.’
‘I agree,’ said Kendale. ‘It would be most improper. His goods will be parcelled up and returned to his family, without suspicious fingers pawing through them.’
‘What are you afraid we might find?’ asked Michael keenly.
‘We are afraid of nothing,’ snapped Kendale. ‘And all you will find are spare clothes, a psalter, a few rings and a handsome saddle, which we all covet. But I deny you access, so you will just have to take my word for it.’
‘You say you love each other, but you do not seem overly distressed by Gib’s demise,’ remarked Michael, turning his thoughtful stare from Kendale to Neyll, and then around at the others. ‘Why is that? Could it be there is trouble in paradise?’
‘We are men,’ replied Kendale coldly. ‘We do not shame ourselves by weeping. We do not shame ourselves by talking to impertinent College men, either.’ He turned to his scholars. ‘Come.’
‘I could not read them at all,’ said Bartholomew, watching them slouch away. ‘Their evasive answers may have been intended to throw you off the scent of their guilt, but might equally well have been to confound you, because you belong to a College.’