‘Is there nothing else?’ asked Michael, disappointed.
Bartholomew nodded, then pointed to several places where Yffi’s clothes were torn. There was also a deep abrasion on his stomach, where pieces of wood had embedded themselves in the skin.
‘This did not bleed much,’ he said. ‘Which indicates it happened after he died.’
‘You mean when he was stuffed in the crate?’
Bartholomew shook his head. ‘You can see for yourself that there are no jagged edges on it. However, if you look closely at the wound, you will detect flecks of red. And Cynric said the broken window in Chestre’s scullery was red.’
Michael stared at him. ‘In other words, Yffi was killed elsewhere, and his body was brought into Chestre via a window?’
‘The evidence seems to point that way. But the Chestre men would have no reason to manhandle Yffi through a window – they would use a door. Ergo, I think they are telling the truth. Someone has left a body in their domain in the hope that they will be accused of murder. It is not the first time someone has done it – Drax was left in Michaelhouse, do not forget.’
There was a sudden clatter of footsteps on the stairs, and one of Tulyet’s soldiers arrived.
‘Trouble, Brother,’ he called. ‘Bene’t College is marching on Batayl. And Maud’s, Ovyng and Cosyn’s hostels are empty. We think they are planning a joint assault on King’s Hall.’
‘You see what you have done?’ Michael rounded on Kendale. ‘All this unrest is your doing – the rivalry between hostels and Colleges was never so bitter until you came along.’
‘Oh, yes, it was,’ snapped Kendale. ‘Only you, being from a College, never paid heed to it. I am right to encourage the hostels to stand up for themselves. It is grossly unfair that the Colleges should wallow in riches while the hostels are poor, and it is high time the inequity was removed.’
‘Michaelhouse is not wealthy,’ said Bartholomew quietly. ‘Sometimes, there is barely enough to eat, and we have debts. Why do you think Langelee accepted Emma’s charity? Because we are desperate. We could never afford wine and ale for the whole town after a camp-ball game.’
Kendale stared at him. ‘Well, that is not how it appears.’
‘We prefer people not to know,’ said Michael stiffly, shooting Bartholomew an angry glance for his indiscretion. ‘But enough of this. I want you to cancel the camp-ball game, and–’
‘No,’ said Kendale. ‘I could not, even if I wanted to. The town is expecting entertainment and free refreshments, and will attack the University if we renege. And even if they managed to restrain themselves, the Colleges would attack the hostels for breach of promise. Calling off the game is not the way to avert trouble. Not now.’
‘He is right,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Your best hope for peace is a short game, and enough food and drink to appease all the would-be rioters.’
‘I shall see what can be done about both,’ offered Kendale. ‘But only if you acknowledge our innocence of these crimes. It is obvious that someone is trying to frame us.’
The soldier coughed meaningfully – there was no time to debate the matter. Reluctantly, Michael nodded, and his capitulation was greeted by a chorus of triumphant jeers from the Chestre students. The heckling continued until he was outside. The moment the door closed behind him, there was a clink of jugs on goblets and a rousing cheer: Kendale and his lads were going to celebrate their deliverance from what had initially appeared to be a hopeless situation.
Michael glowered at the building with its lopsided leer, while Bartholomew leaned against a wall and wished he had been more forceful in voicing his reservations earlier, because it was not going to be easy living with Kendale’s righteous indignation.
‘I hate them,’ muttered Meadowman venomously. ‘And I do not think they are innocent, no matter how clever they were with their logic and their explanations.’
‘There you are, Doctor,’ shouted Valence, flushed and breathless. ‘I have been looking for you everywhere. Emma de Colvyll has fallen into a terrible fever, and you are needed to cure her.’
‘She is Meryfeld’s–’ began Bartholomew.
‘He has been dismissed,’ said Valence. ‘They want you, because they fear she is dying.’
Bartholomew ordered Valence back to Michaelhouse, unwilling for his student to be out when the town felt so uneasy. The lad was reluctant to be deprived of excitement, but did as he was told.
‘Stay with Michael, Cynric,’ said Bartholomew, aiming for the High Street. ‘He will need you.’
‘So might you,’ argued Cynric. He glanced up at the sky, which was beginning to lighten almost imperceptibly. ‘It will be dawn soon, and I do not like what the day promises.’
Neither did Bartholomew. ‘We are back to the beginning as regards suspects,’ he said in frustration, breath coming in short gasps as he ran. ‘We have been up all night, but have gained nothing – and I doubt Kendale’s measures will see the game pass off peacefully.’
‘They might help,’ said Cynric, although with scant conviction. ‘I was certain he was the villain, but now I am not even sure the culprit is a scholar, as we have been led to believe these last few days.’
He hauled the physician into a doorway when a gaggle of lads from Ovyng Hostel appeared. Bartholomew did not think they would harm him, given that he was their physician, but he was wearing a tabard that said he was from Michaelhouse, and there was a risk they might punch first and ask for names second. Nevertheless, he fretted at the moments that ticked away as Ovyng sauntered past – moments that might mean the difference between life and death for Emma.
‘The only evidence that the villain is a scholar comes from the fact that your sister’s token was stolen during an event that comprised mainly members of the University,’ whispered Cynric. He sensed his master’s agitation and was keen to take his mind off it, lest he decided to bolt before it was safe. Bartholomew tended to be single minded when it came to his patients’ welfare.
‘An event at the Gilbertine Priory,’ said Bartholomew, trying to concentrate on what Cynric was saying. ‘But the canons’ guests included all the Carmelites, the Chestre men, my medical colleagues, Ayera, Emma and the pilgrims. With that many people, it would have been easy to don a disguise and walk about unnoticed.’
‘In other words, the culprit might be anyone,’ said Cynric, nodding to indicate they should begin running again. ‘He might even be someone we have never met – a visitor to St Simon Stock’s shrine, who considers our town fair game for his villainy.’
‘No, he must be a local,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘A stranger would have no reason to poison Emma’s wine – or put Drax’s body in Michaelhouse.’
When they reached Emma’s house, it was mostly in darkness, in stark contrast to the other High Street homes, which were brightly lit. Some residents, anticipating trouble, had boarded up their windows and barricaded their doors, but Emma had taken no such precautions. Bartholomew wondered why, when she was by far the most unpopular person in the town, and so most likely to be targeted for mischief. Was it because she thought no one would dare? He rubbed his head, simply too tired to think about it.
‘We should go around the back,’ said Cynric, setting off in that direction. ‘Banging on the front door will wake the entire household, and I would sooner Heslarton stayed in bed.’
‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew, trotting after him. ‘You do not like him? He is not our killer-thief, because he has an alibi for Drax’s murder – one that has satisfied the Sheriff.’