‘Master Poynton is a merchant,’ he said. ‘Hugh Fen is a pardoner, while Agnes and Margaret Neel are nuns of my own Order. They were both married to the same man.’
‘But not at the same time,’ added one of the nuns hastily. They were both short, middle-aged and plump, and in their identical habits, were difficult to tell apart.
‘A pardoner,’ said Michael, regarding Fen with distaste. He detested pardoners – men who peddled indulgences and relics to the desperate. Fen, however, looked a cut above his fellows. He was a tall, handsome man with a neat black beard, and if he had undertaken lots of pilgrimages, he did not advertise the fact by covering himself with tokens. He bowed politely to Michael, revealing fine white teeth in a smile, although he must have detected the disapproval in the monk’s voice.
‘He makes a fine living from it,’ said Poynton. ‘There is much money to be made from pilgrims.’
‘I hope so,’ muttered Etone. He smiled ingratiatingly at the merchant. ‘Brother Michael will retrieve your cross, Master Poynton, never fear. He is our Senior Proctor, and very good at investigating crimes that occur on University property.’
‘I am good,’ agreed Michael immodestly. ‘But I do not see how I shall solve this one. All you can tell me is that the thief wore a green tunic, but I shall need more than that if I am to succeed.’
‘He dashed in from the street,’ said Poynton, bristling with anger at the memory. ‘It happened so fast that I only had a glimpse of him. Damned villain!’
‘He had bright yellow hair,’ said Fen helpfully. ‘Lots of it.’
‘Yellow hair?’ asked Bartholomew, looking sharply at him. ‘Are you sure?’
‘It cannot be the same man you chased, Matt,’ said Michael in a low voice. ‘He fled the town, and Heslarton is now hot on his heels. He is unlikely to have returned within a couple of hours and committed a second offence.’
‘Why not?’ Bartholomew whispered back. ‘If Heslarton is scouring the Chesterton road, then Cambridge is as safe a place as any to hide. Here, there are crowds to disappear into.’
‘I accept that,’ said Michael. ‘But the operative word here is hide. If he did return, he will be lying low, not drawing attention to himself by stealing from pilgrims.’
Bartholomew shrugged. ‘If you say so. But it is an odd coincidence.’
When Prior Etone changed the subject from theft to shrines, Bartholomew took his leave, unwilling to be asked in front of quite so many devout penitents whether he had been struck by the sanctity of Simon Stock’s scapular. He muttered something about patients, and continued with his rounds. He visited a student with stomach pains, then aimed for Michaelhouse, eager to spend at least some time teaching before the day ended – it was already mid-afternoon.
He was walking down St Michael’s Lane, pondering a lecture he was to give on the theories of Maimonides the following day, when he became aware that his path was blocked by a wall of men. Academic thoughts flew from his mind when he recognised Principal Kendale and the scholars of Chestre Hostel.
Chestre was located not far from Michaelhouse, so the two foundations’ paths often crossed. Michaelhouse’s Fellows were mostly sensible, sober men, who took care to ensure the encounters were amiable, but the same could not be said for their students. Ever since Kendale’s trick had seen a College man gored by a bull, they had taken to bawling insults at Chestre. There had been no physical fighting so far, but Bartholomew sensed it would not be long in coming.
That day, Chestre’s scholars had ranged themselves across the alley in such a way that no one could pass. Kendale was in the middle, distinctive with his braided hair and sturdy bulk. He was a philosopher, with exciting ideas about mathematics and natural philosophy, and Bartholomew had been impressed when he had heard him in the debating chamber.
‘You are in our way, Michaelhouse,’ Kendale said coldly. ‘You had better retrace your steps.’
Bartholomew was half tempted to do as he suggested, just to avoid a confrontation, but was aware that if the same tactic was then tried on Michaelhouse’s students, there would be a fight for certain. With a stifled sigh of resignation – he did not want to bandy words with Chestre when he could be teaching – he adopted his most reasonable tone of voice.
‘This is no way to behave,’ he said quietly. ‘Why not live peacefully, and take advantage of–’
‘Peacefully?’ sneered Chestre’s Bible Scholar, a man named Neyll. He was a bulky, pugilistic Scot in his early twenties, with dark hair and curious black eyebrows that formed a thick, unbroken line across his forehead. There was something about him that reminded Bartholomew of an ape, and he could not imagine a fellow less suited to the task of daily scripture reading. ‘You mean to lull us into a false sense of safety, so the Colleges can slit our throats while we sleep!’
‘No one means you harm,’ said Bartholomew, although he suspected that the bull incident might well have changed that. ‘And it is–’
‘All College scum mean us harm,’ Neyll flashed back. ‘But they will never best us.’
Bartholomew declined to be drawn. He smiled at Kendale and tried a different tack. ‘I enjoyed your lecture the other day. Your contention that non-uniformly accelerated motion is–’
‘I was wasting my breath,’ said Kendale disdainfully. ‘No one at the Colleges has the wits to understand my analyses. I might just have well have been speaking Greek.’
‘You could have done,’ retorted Bartholomew coolly. There was only so far he would allow himself to be insulted. ‘Many of us would still have followed your reasoning.’
‘Liar!’ snarled Neyll, raising his fists as he stalked forward. ‘I am going to give you a–’
‘Hold, Chestre!’ came a loud, belligerent yell.
Bartholomew glanced around and saw a group of Michaelhouse students returning from a sermon in St Bene’t’s Church. They outnumbered Kendale’s lads by at least two to one, and Neyll’s aggressive advance immediately faltered. At their head was John Valence, Bartholomew’s best pupil, a freckle-faced lad with floppy fair hair.
‘We were just discussing Kendale’s lecture on the mean speed theorem,’ said Bartholomew quickly, before there was trouble. ‘But we have finished now, and it is time to go home.’
Valence did not look convinced, but began to walk towards Michaelhouse anyway, beckoning his cronies to follow. Neyll was ‘accidentally’ jostled as they passed, and his dark eyebrows drew down in a savage V, but he was not so reckless as to voice an objection.
‘You are a warlock, Bartholomew,’ hissed Kendale, as the physician turned to leave, too. ‘And a heretic – not the sort of man who should be teaching in any university. I will see you ousted.’
Bartholomew ignored him, but was relieved when he reached the sanctuary afforded by Michaelhouse’s sturdy gates.
‘At least we know where we are again now,’ said Walter, the College’s surly porter, after he had opened the gate and Bartholomew had remarked sadly that the recent peace seemed to be crumbling. ‘I did not like everyone being nice to each other. It did not feel right.’
‘You mean you prefer to be constantly on the brink of a riot?’ asked Bartholomew archly.
Walter nodded, unabashed. ‘Of course I do. It means I can suspect everyone of evil intent, which is much more satisfying than sickly cordiality. And the trouble is only within the University anyway – the town is quite happy to sit back and watch us squabble among ourselves this time.’
He picked up his pet peacock and hugged it. It crooned and nestled against him. Bartholomew had always been surprised by the relationship between porter and bird, because both were sour tempered and inclined to be solitary.