‘Tell Leccheworth he is wrong, Brother,’ Fen cried, as the scholars approached. Tears of distress glistened in his eyes. ‘He keeps saying St Simon Stock’s holy scapular is a fake.’
‘Really?’ asked Michael, regarding the Gilbertine with raised eyebrows. ‘Why?’
‘Because Etone showed it to me once,’ explained Leccheworth, rather defiantly. ‘And it was too grubby to be sacred. In fact, it was nasty, and I was loath to touch the thing.’
‘It is a hundred years old,’ argued Fen, stricken. ‘Of course it is grubby! But I do not care what you think, because I know a blessed relic when I see one.’ He pointedly turned his back on the Prior, and addressed Michael. ‘What have you learned about the scoundrels who took it?’
‘That they are familiar with the Carmelite Friary and its grounds,’ replied the monk, watching him intently. Bartholomew did the same with the nuns. ‘A pilgrim, perhaps.’
‘Very possibly,’ said Fen, nodding earnestly, and if he thought Michael’s suggestion held an accusation, he gave no sign that he had taken it personally. ‘The shrine attracts many people, and hundreds must have paid homage there. I wish you success in your endeavours.’
He bowed, and walked away, hotly pursued by the nuns.
‘He is too sly to let anything slip,’ said Michael. ‘Damn! I am at a loss as how to trap him.’
‘Kendale and his students are better suspects, anyway,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Edith’s testimony told us that the culprit is probably a scholar.’
He pointed to where the Chestre men were enjoying themselves with several women he knew to be prostitutes, or Frail Sisters, as they preferred to be called. Celia had not been exaggerating when she had remarked on the range of people who had elected to accept her hospitality.
‘I will speak to them,’ determined Michael. ‘While you watch from a distance. They will not trip themselves up with words, either, so see what you can deduce from their demeanour.’
It was resorting to desperate measures, as far as Bartholomew was concerned, but he went to stand with Horneby and Welfry, using them as cover, lest the Chestre lads should happen to glance over and guess what he was doing. Both friars were sipping watered ale, and did not look comfortable amid the lively, noisy throng.
‘You should not be here,’ he said to Horneby. ‘You are supposed to be pretending to be ill so that no one will take offence over the cancelled Stock Extraordinary Lecture.’
‘The loss of our relic has put paid to that plan – as Acting Prior, I am obliged to be visible.’ Horneby shrugged. ‘But we can use the theft as an excuse to postpone, so it does not really matter.’
‘I feel like a virgin in a brothel,’ said Welfry unhappily, while Bartholomew watched the Chestre lads grow angry over something Michael had said. ‘But Drax was generous to both our priories, so it is our duty to be here. Of course, we did not expect the occasion to be quite so … so spirited.’
‘I heard about your trick with the eggs,’ said Bartholomew. Kendale’s expression had turned taunting, and the physician could see Michael struggling to keep his temper. ‘How did you do it?’
Welfry was delighted to be asked. ‘Well, eggs have a certain internal strength, despite their outward fragility, so it is just a case of placing them so that they–’
‘My throat hurts from shouting to make myself heard,’ interrupted Horneby. Neyll was clenching his fists, and Bartholomew braced himself, ready to run to Michael’s rescue if one of them flew. ‘And I do not think this occasion is any place for priests. Your description of virgins in brothels is truer than you thought, Welfry, because I know for a fact that Helia over there is a whore. We had better leave.’
‘Have you made any more loud bangs?’
Both friars and Bartholomew turned to see Dickon standing behind them, grinning.
‘What is this?’ asked Horneby, startled. ‘Loud bangs?’
‘An accident while trying to create a lamp with a clean and steady glow,’ explained Bartholomew, turning his attention back to the Chestre men. ‘I had the idea from Kendale’s trick at St Mary the Great.’
Welfry nodded keenly. ‘You asked me about the formula, and I have been thinking about it. He would have required a sticky substance to rub on his “fuses”, but the solution in his buckets must have been much more fluid. Have you tried mixing different kinds of oil with the pitch?’
‘The stuff you made was very sticky, Doctor,’ supplied Dickon. ‘I climbed over Meryfeld’s wall later, and had a look at it. I tried to blow it up again, but my tinderbox would not work.’
‘Dickon, you must never tamper with such things,’ said Welfry, alarmed. ‘They can be extremely dangerous, and you may hurt someone.’
‘So what?’ asked Dickon airily. ‘Life is full of dangers, and everyone must take his chances.’
‘Heavens!’ breathed Welfry, when the child had gone. ‘That was an eerily sinister philosophy coming from the mouth of someone so young. I doubt he learned that from his parents.’
‘He might, if his father is the Devil,’ muttered Horneby. ‘But this house is definitely no place for friars if he is here. I am going home.’
‘That was a waste of time,’ said Michael angrily, arriving a few moments later. The Chestre men were already back with their ladies, carousing noisily. ‘We exchanged yet more threats and ultimatums, and I learned nothing. What about you? Did you see any nervous or guilty glances?’
Bartholomew shook his head. ‘But the prostitute called Helia is over there. Neyll claimed Gib was with her the night he died, so I am going to ask her whether it is true.’
‘Yes, I service Chestre,’ said Helia. She was a small, pretty woman with a pert figure and dyed red hair. ‘Mostly Neyll and Gib, although Kendale comes, too, on occasion.’
‘Do they ever quarrel about the arrangement?’
‘Almost certainly, I would think – they are a feisty crowd. However, I can tell you one thing: I am not entertaining that Neyll again. The University should send him home – he is a pig.’
‘Why is that?’
‘He is a killer. Do you remember that student who drowned a month ago – Jolye? Well, it was Neyll who pushed him in the river, and would not let him out again. And I doubt Jolye was his first victim, either. You should be careful around him – the Frail Sisters do not want to lose you.’
‘Can you prove Neyll killed Jolye?’
Helia wrinkled her nose. ‘Well, no one saw it happen, but Gib told Belle, who told the University’s stationer, who told his cousin, who told me. So it is absolutely true.’
‘When did you last see Gib?’ asked Bartholomew, suspecting there was unlikely to be much accuracy in a tale that had been passed along by quite so many gossiping tongues.
Helia was thoughtful. ‘Well, we had a bit of a spat, so I did not see him this week. The last time we met would have been more than seven days ago. He visited me from late on Sunday night, until he left for lectures at prime on Monday.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Bartholomew urgently. If Helia was right, then Gib could not have been the yellow-headed man he himself had chased from Emma’s house.
‘Absolutely sure. On Monday mornings, I look after Yolande’s children while she visits the Mayor. It is a longstanding arrangement, and I went there the moment Gib left me. I saw him go inside his hostel, ready for his morning lessons.’
‘And you did not see him after that?’