‘Well, you need not worry about accommodating us much longer,’ said Fen kindly. ‘We intend to leave soon – Poynton’s family must be informed of his death as quickly as possible.’
They all looked around as the gate was opened, and Seneschal Welfry stepped inside. The Dominican saw Horneby, and ran towards him, his face a mask of shock.
‘I am so sorry! When Prior Morton told me what had happened, I thought it was his idea of a joke. I would have come last night had I known – I could have helped search for these vile scoundrels.’
‘It would have made no difference,’ said Horneby sadly. ‘We hunted all night and found no trace of them – and we had Cynric. If he could not catch them, then no one could.’
‘Cynric is the physician’s man,’ said one of the fat nuns unpleasantly. Bartholomew thought she was Agnes. ‘Perhaps he did not try as hard as he might have done.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ demanded Michael, hands on hips.
‘What was he doing here in the first place?’ Agnes snarled. ‘It was late, dark and wet. Yet he was lurking around the shrine, unaccompanied by Carmelites. It is suspicious, to say the least!’
‘It is not,’ said Horneby quietly. ‘He and Bartholomew saw the gate ajar and came to investigate. And thank God they did, or we would not have known the scapular was missing until this morning. Besides, they did their best to tackle the invaders.‘
‘Did they?’ sneered the other nun – Margaret. ‘Are you sure about that?’
‘Ladies!’ said Welfry sharply. ‘You would be wise to keep such nasty insinuations to yourself. There is no room for them here.’
‘You are right,’ said Fen softly. ‘My fellow pilgrims speak out of turn. Please accept our apologies, Doctor. It has been a long night, and we are all tired.’
‘Yes, you should beg his forgiveness,’ said Horneby firmly. ‘Bartholomew did all he could to prevent the thieves from escaping. I saw him knocked to the ground myself.’
‘Then why did you not give chase?’ demanded Margaret. ‘If you were that close?’
‘I am unwell,’ said Horneby stiffly. ‘Confined to my room, and–’
‘I know you have postponed the Stock Extraordinary Lecture,’ said Agnes, regarding him doubtfully. ‘But you do not look unwell to me.’
‘He is ill,’ said Welfry, indignant on his friend’s behalf. ‘He should not be out of bed now, as a matter of fact, but he has rallied because of this crisis. Please do not rail at him. And do not rail at Matthew, either. He is the last man in Cambridge to steal relics.’
‘I am not so sure about that,’ said Agnes snidely. ‘There are rumours that he dabbles in sorcery, and sacred objects are very useful when performing dark rites.’
‘So we are told,’ added Margaret hastily.
‘You overstep the mark, sisters,’ said Welfry coldly. ‘And although successful physicians attract this sort of from half-wits, I am appalled to hear it from you. You should know better.’
‘Matt said the front gate was open,’ mused Michael, when the nuns seemed unable to think of a reply to the rebuke, and only shuffled their feet. ‘Yet the thieves did not leave that way. Why?’
‘Probably because they were afraid of being seen by the patrons of the Swan tavern opposite,’ supplied Fen. ‘The bell was ringing at that point, and everyone would have been looking over.’
‘Or because they were already home,’ whispered Michael to Bartholomew. ‘In other words, Fen and his two fat nuns had no need to tear out of the convent, because they intended to spend the night in its comfortable guest hall. And now we hear they will soon be leaving.’
There was no more to be learned from the White Friars, so Bartholomew and Michael left them to their grieving and walked towards the High Street. Alice was going to be buried that day, and the monk was so desperate for clues regarding her death that he had already said he wanted both of them to mingle with the mourners, to see what might be gleaned from questions and eavesdropping.
‘Fen and his nuns are scoundrels,’ Michael growled as they walked. ‘I wager they stole the scapular, then tried to have you blamed for the crime, to shift attention from themselves.’
‘It is possible, I suppose,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘Still, assuming the killer-thief – with helpmeets – did steal the scapular last night, at least we can say that Gib was not the culprit. You cannot have a better alibi than being dead. In other words, someone probably did tie the yellow wig on him in order to mislead us.’
‘Our other suspects remain the same, though,’ said Michael grimly. ‘Fen and his nuns at the top of the list, followed by the devious scholars of Chestre, Yffi–’
‘But not Blaston,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘He would never tamper with holy relics. And neither would my medical colleagues, before you think to include them in your inventory.’
Michael sighed. ‘Welfry did you a favour today. A tale that the town’s favourite warlock stole the scapular would have spread like wildfire, but he managed to knock it on the head. He was forceful but polite. Perhaps he will not be as disastrous a Seneschal as I initially feared.’
The churchyard of St Mary the Great was already filling with mourners, most from the town, but some scholars among them. Bartholomew went to stand with Edith and Stanmore, who confided that Alice had had a nasty habit of accusing traders of giving her the wrong change. Then Blaston told him she had been critical of craftsmen and had reduced several to tears. Finally, Isnard claimed she had drunk more wine than the rest of the Colvyll clan put together.
Bartholomew regarded the bargeman thoughtfully. Was this significant? Did it mean the poisoner’s target had been Alice, and wine had been chosen because she was the one most likely to imbibe it? Eager to learn more, he started to ask questions about Emma, but the flow of information stopped abruptly. People were far too frightened to gossip about the old lady.
‘But why?’ asked Bartholomew of his sister. ‘She is not so terrifying.’
‘She most certainly is,’ averred Edith. ‘I cannot recall ever meeting a more evil individual. Do you know what Cynric told me? Not to stand too close when we go inside the church, lest the saints object to her wicked presence and make her explode into pieces.’
‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew, struggling not to laugh. ‘Cynric has a vivid imagination.’
Edith did not share his amusement, and turned to another subject. ‘Fen gave Heslarton a signaculum from Rome to put in Alice’s coffin. It was a kind thing to do.’
Michael overheard, and came to join them. ‘I have just looked at it. It is made of tin, although I am sure he has plenty of gold ones. Heslarton should have held out for something better.’
‘That would have been ungracious,’ said Edith reproachfully. ‘And Heslarton may be a ruffian, but he has some manners. But Celia is announcing something. What is she saying?’
‘That everyone is invited to a celebration this evening,’ explained Michael. ‘In her house. It is primarily to honour her husband, but she plans to drink toasts to Alice, too.’
‘Does she mean it?’ asked Bartholomew, looking around. ‘There are a lot of people here.’
‘She means it,’ said Edith. ‘She is very wealthy now Drax is dead.’
Odelina was among the crowd, wearing another of her unflatteringly tight gowns. Welfry ducked hastily behind Prior Morden when she made a beeline in his direction. But despite his determination not to be mauled, his words to her were kind, and it was clear he was doing his best not to hurt her feelings. When she saw she was going to have no success with him, she aimed for Bartholomew.