‘I will ask,’ said Tulyet. ‘And now I shall tell you my news. Yffi’s apprentices are in something of a state, because he went out this morning and failed to return.’
‘He was among the crowd when Gib’s body was retrieved,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I saw him.’
Tulyet nodded. ‘Afterwards, he told them to keep working on the Carmelites’ shrine until he returned at noon. But he did not return at noon, and was still missing when I left to come here.’
‘What do you mean by missing?’ asked Michael. ‘Do you think he has fled the town?’
‘No, I think something has happened to him. His lads say he never leaves them unsupervised for more than an hour or two, and they are genuinely concerned. Moreover, I think it odd that this should have happened so quickly after the discovery of Gib’s corpse.’
Bartholomew was bemused. ‘Are you saying Yffi killed Gib, and has been dispatched in his turn?’
Tulyet shrugged. ‘The thought has crossed my mind, certainly.’
Michael was thoughtful. ‘Kendale and his students were suspiciously calm about Gib’s death. Perhaps it was because they knew that justice had already been served.’
‘They are an unruly crowd,’ agreed Tulyet. ‘My soldiers say they are always creeping about at night. Meanwhile, you saw them arguing with Drax not long before he was killed, and they are refusing to let you search their hostel. It all adds up to something very suspicious.’
They talked a while longer, then Tulyet stood to leave, saying he was going to spend a pleasant evening in the company of his son, although Bartholomew wondered how he thought he was going to do both. They walked to Bridge Street together, where the two scholars aimed for Celia’s home and Tulyet for the golden, welcoming lights of his comfortable mansion.
‘I will not have Dickon much longer,’ said Tulyet with a sad sigh. ‘It is almost time for him to begin his knightly training – assuming I can find someone good enough to take him. I half hope I fail, because I shall miss him terribly when he goes. Everyone will. He is such a good-natured boy.’
‘I am tempted to consult a witch about Dick,’ said Michael, as he rapped on Celia’s door. ‘Someone must have put a spell on him, because his opinion of that little hellion is not normal. Of course, if Celia is right, I could ask you to do it, and save myself some money.’
‘Do not jest about such matters, Brother,’ said Bartholomew wearily. ‘It is not funny.’
‘It is very late for callers,’ said Celia, opening her door a crack, and making it clear that the scholars were not to be permitted inside. ‘What do you want?’
‘To talk to you,’ said Michael. Like Bartholomew, he had noticed a shadow in the room beyond: she was not alone. ‘May we come in? It is cold out here.’
‘I am not letting a warlock in my house after sunset,’ said Celia. ‘It would be asking for trouble.’
‘Let them in, Celia,’ came a girlish voice from behind her. Bartholomew’s heart sank when he recognised it as Odelina’s. ‘We do not want the poor Doctor to catch a chill.’
‘Or the poor Senior Proctor,’ added Michael, shoving past Celia to step inside. She staggered.
There was a fire burning in the hearth, and two goblets stood on the table. So did two sets of sewing, and if Heslarton had been there, they had been very quick to eliminate the evidence.
‘We shall not take much of your time,’ said Bartholomew, ducking behind Michael as Odelina surged towards him. ‘We want to know what you did last night.’
Celia raised her eyebrows. ‘Why, Doctor! Is that any sort of question to ask a lady, when you have been told she entertained her lover? Do you want details of our intimate activities, then?’
‘But my father said you spent a romantic but chaste night looking at a psalter,’ objected Odelina, regarding her friend uncertainly. ‘Him on one side of the hearth, and you on the other. He said he would not do anything … improper until a decent amount of time had passed.’
‘Of course,’ said Celia, eyeing her pityingly. She smiled at Bartholomew. ‘So there you are. We spent the night with a book. However, I would appreciate a little discretion. People talk, and I do not want a reputation.’
‘It is a little late for that,’ said Michael bluntly. ‘You have been seen with Heslarton on previous occasions, too, especially ones when Drax happened to be away on business.’
Celia’s pretty face creased into something ugly. ‘Dickon! He is always spying, and you are friends with his father. I should have left the little beast to the bees.’
‘So are you saying you read here all last night?’ asked Michael, treating her to a searching look. ‘Neither of you left the house for any reason?’
‘Why should we?’ said Celia shortly. ‘There is much here to occupy us. And now, if that is all…’
‘This is an impressive library,’ said Michael, ignoring her dismissal and indicating the collection of books with a flabby hand. ‘Are they all yours?’
‘I have been through this with the warlock,’ replied Celia irritably. ‘They belonged to my husband. He could read, I cannot.’
‘Then how did you peruse this book with Heslarton?’ pounced Bartholomew, recalling that Agatha had claimed it was the other way around. ‘He cannot read, either – he has already told me he has no Latin. Surely, it would be tedious for you both to stare at words neither of you understand?’
‘That particular tome is very prettily illustrated,’ replied Celia icily. ‘It was prepared in the Carmelites’ scriptorium, and–’
Whatever else she had been about to say was lost, because there was another knock on the door. The two women exchanged an uneasy glance, and Bartholomew wondered if they were afraid it was Heslarton, come to pay suit to his woman, and that he might contradict the tales they had told. But it was Cynric, who always seemed to know where his master was.
‘You are needed urgently at Trinity Hall,’ he said without preamble. ‘And then at the Swan tavern in Milne Street, where there has been a fight and there are wounds that need stitching.’
Bartholomew shrugged apologetically at Michael and took his leave.
Bartholomew walked briskly towards Trinity Hall, where two scholars had been injured by flying glass when rocks had been tossed through their chapel windows. The stones were believed to have been thrown by a contingent from Batayl Hostel.
‘They want to murder us,’ said the one of the wounded resentfully. ‘In revenge for Gib.’
‘There is nothing to suggest that Gib was killed because he belonged to a hostel,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘This madness must stop.’
‘That is what we said, but Batayl would not listen,’ said another student bitterly. ‘But they will not get away with it – we will have our revenge.’
Bartholomew tried to reason with them, but could tell his words were falling on deaf ears. He left feeling anxious and unsettled, and his peace of mind was not much helped when he reached the Swan tavern, which stood opposite the Carmelite Friary. Apparently, a gang of youths wearing hoods and red ribbons had stormed the place, and engaged in a vicious fist fight with several lads from Bene’t and Clare colleges. Townsmen had joined the mêlée, and the invaders had fled when they saw they were outnumbered.
People were milling about in the street, as they always did after an incident, and voices were raised in excitement. A dog barked furiously on the other side of the road, and as Bartholomew glanced across at it, he saw the friary gate was ajar. He was surprised, because it was usually kept locked after dark. As no one at the Swan seemed to need him urgently – the remaining combatants were more interested in quarrelling with each other than in securing his services – he walked towards the convent, Cynric at his heels.