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Michael nodded. ‘You believe Celia poisoned Alice, because her own spouse was dead, and Alice stood in the way of her relationship with Heslarton. It is possible, I suppose. But does that mean she killed Drax and has been stealing pilgrim badges, too?’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Well, we know she and Drax were not a happy couple, and she illustrated her penchant for signacula when she ordered us to strip his body. But then what? Did she and Heslarton kill Gib, and tie a yellow wig on him to make you think the case is closed?’

‘It would make sense. However, I have seen Heslarton’s amorous glances, and it sounds as though last night was the first time they have been alone together since Drax died. Would he really have gone out a-killing when he could have been doing something rather more enjoyable?’

‘He might, if she told him that murdering Gib was the price of her favours. However, the two of them may be innocent, and we should not let our suspicions blind us to our other solutions.’

Michael nodded agreement. ‘Incidentally, Kendale asked the Gilbertines if he can use their field for his camp-ball game. I told Prior Leccheworth to refuse, but Thelnetham argued against me.’

Bartholomew looked at him sharply. ‘Thelnetham? What business is it of his?’

‘He said cancelling the game would cause ill feeling in the town, because Kendale has promised free ale and wine afterwards. He is afraid the resulting disappointment will be turned against the Gilbertines. He has a point, of course.’

‘So, we can expect trouble no matter what Leccheworth decides,’ said Bartholomew heavily. ‘It will be between the Colleges and hostels if the match goes ahead, and it will be between the University and town if it does not. Kendale has a lot to answer for.’

‘He has managed the situation with diabolical skill,’ agreed Michael. ‘He masquerades as the open-handed philanthropist, while I am the villain who wants to deprive the town of fun and free refreshments.’

‘How will he pay for it? Ale and wine in that sort of quantity will be expensive. Or do you think he intends to hawk a few stolen signacula to cover his costs?’

‘He might.’ Michael closed his eyes in sudden despair. ‘I do not see how we will ever get to the bottom of this case, Matt! I am at my wits’ end!’

‘You mean some murdering, thieving scoundrel has bested the Senior Proctor?’

Gradually, resolve suffused Michael’s chubby features. ‘No. Not yet, at least. But we need evidence if we are to make progress, and the situation is now so desperate that we must do whatever it takes to acquire some.’

‘How will we do that?’

‘You will slip into Chestre Hostel tonight, and ascertain why Kendal and Neyll were so determined that we should not examine Gib’s belongings.’

Bartholomew gaped at him. ‘What?’

‘You have done it before, so do not look so appalled. It has to be you – I will not fit through their tiny windows. And I cannot send a beadle on such a sensitive mission.’

‘No, but you can send Cynric.’

Michael smiled his relief. ‘Cynric, yes! Why did I not think of that?’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Corpse Examiners are useful in more ways than one.’

Before Bartholomew and Michael could reach Celia’s house, the monk was called to mediate in a dispute between Peterhouse and Maud’s Hostel – a silly argument regarding a horse that he learned Kendale had engineered – while the physician received a summons from a patient. The patient was an elderly man whose death was not unexpected, but the physician hated standing among distraught relatives while a loved one slipped away, and was in a bleak frame of mind as he walked home to Michaelhouse. Dusk had faded to night and the streets were cold, foggy and damp.

He went to his room, and stared at the puddles that covered the floor. His students had cleared everything out, except the desks, which were covered in oiled sheets. They had done the same with his medicine store, although the two locked chests that contained his most potent remedies had been left, and so had the mattress on which he slept. He slumped wearily on to one of the boxes, his thoughts full of the old man he had been unable to save.

‘There you are,’ said Michael, coming in a few moments later. He glanced around. ‘My quarters look just as bad, although at least you still have a ceiling.’

‘For the moment,’ said Bartholomew, wondering how long it would take Michael’s floorboards to rot from damp and exposure, and come crashing down on top of him.

‘I had just resolved that ridiculous spat between Peterhouse and Maud’s, when there was yet more trouble,’ Michael went on. ‘And this time blood was spilled – three scholars from Bene’t were injured when stones were lobbed by Maud’s. It was over the rumour that Jolye was murdered by the hostels.’

‘There is a similar tale that says Gib was dispatched by the Colleges. I heard it as I was coming home. They are calling him the Martyr of the Hostels.’

Michael gazed at him in horror. ‘No! That will make the situation infinitely worse – and it is already dire! I was expecting everything to come to a head on Tuesday at the camp-ball game, but perhaps it will explode sooner.’

They were silent for a moment, each reflecting on the events that had plunged the University into so much unnecessary disorder.

‘I heard about your patient,’ said Michael eventually. ‘And I am sorry: he was a good man. So, because I anticipated that you might not be in the mood for tackling Celia straight away, I arranged something nicer first: an invitation to dine with Dick Tulyet. It will cheer you up, and we can question Celia afterwards.’

‘I am not visiting the Tulyet house,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘Dickon might stab me again.’

‘It will be in the Brazen George, and Dickon will not be there, thank the good Lord. Dick wants a report on our findings, and has information to give us in return.’

A short while later, they were ensconced in the cosy comfort of the tavern, being presented with roasted chicken, salted beef, a dish of boiled vegetables and a basket of bread. Tulyet paid the landlord, who left with a bow, closing the door behind him. Bartholomew was not hungry, and picked listlessly at the meat Michael shoved towards him.

‘What is wrong?’ asked Tulyet, watching him. ‘You have barely spoken since you arrived.’

‘Like me, he is despondent because every time we think we have solved the case, something happens to make us question whether we are looking in the right direction,’ said Michael before Bartholomew could reply for himself. ‘I cannot recall ever feeling so frustrated.’

‘Unfortunately, we do not have time to chase around in circles,’ said Tulyet worriedly. ‘There are rumours that the killer-thief is a scholar – and the town is incensed at the notion. We must apprehend him before Kendale’s damned camp-ball game, or your warring hostels and Colleges will be the least of our worries.’

Michael outlined what more had been learned since the last time they had spoken, and it was clear from Tulyet’s face that he was disappointed by their progress.

‘You are wrong to think Heslarton and Celia might have killed Drax,’ he said. ‘My wife told me yesterday that they have been frolicking for years, and were content with the situation as it was – neither had any desire to murder the other’s spouse. Dickon knew about their relationship, too. He said Heslarton often visited Celia while Drax was out.’

‘I do not suppose he noticed Heslarton paying her court last night, did he?’ asked Michael hopefully. ‘Heslarton claims he was with Celia when Gib was killed, but I am unconvinced.’