‘Then we shall see the Sheriff,’ declared Wormynghalle, making for the door. ‘He will not condone universities protecting scholars who slay innocent merchants.’
Wormynghalle’s tirade faltered when he found his way blocked by a small man with pale hair and a wispy beard. Despite his diminutive size, the man exuded an aura of confidence and authority, and even though Wormynghalle was at least a head taller, he stopped dead in his tracks when the fellow raised a hand to indicate he was to return to his seat. Sheriff Tulyet had approached so silently that no one was sure how much of the discussion he had heard. Bartholomew liked Tulyet, who was able, intelligent and more than a match for the criminals who tried their luck in his town. He introduced himself, and Bartholomew was gratified to see Wormynghalle at a loss for words.
‘Well?’ asked Abergavenny when he had repeated their request. ‘Will you see justice done?’
Tulyet walked to a window and stared across the grassy churchyard, hands clasped behind his back. ‘I know what happened on St Scholastica’s Day, and I do not want hundreds dead here because you interrogate our scholars. Brother Michael is right to forbid you from conducting your enquiries.’
‘But what shall we do?’ demanded Wormynghalle. ‘We cannot go home without a culprit, and I shall not stay here for ever.’
‘And we do not want you here,’ said Tynkell with a deplorable lack of tact. ‘But it is not our fault you agreed to this ridiculous quest. You must devise a solution to your predicament yourselves.’
‘You cannot let a killer go unpunished, any more than we can,’ reasoned Abergavenny. ‘He will be so delighted to get away with one murder that he may commit another.’
‘Perhaps he has already struck,’ said Eu uneasily. ‘Chesterfelde was stabbed last night: perhaps he knew the killer’s identity, and was murdered before he could tell.’ He appealed to his colleagues. ‘The Sheriff is right: we cannot do anything here, and we should leave while we are still able.’
‘I suppose we could go home,’ said Abergavenny cautiously. ‘But . . .’
‘We could not,’ stated Wormynghalle firmly. ‘We are not Chesterfelde – a grinning fool who spouted Latin at every turn – and we will not slink away like beaten curs.’ He gazed defiantly first at Michael, and then at Tulyet.
‘Tell me a little about Chesterfelde, since you are here,’ said Michael opportunistically. ‘I heard you were in the hall when he was killed.’
‘We were,’ said Eu with a shudder. ‘It was not pleasant to wake up and find a corpse in our midst, I can tell you! We were all tired and slept heavily – even old Duraunt, who usually only naps. We doused the lamps at dusk – about nine o’clock on these light evenings – and none of us knew any more until Bailiff Boltone woke us shortly before dawn.’
‘It was a vile shock,’ agreed Abergavenny quietly. ‘Knowing you slept through a murdered man’s final agonies. There are similarities between the deaths of Chesterfelde and Gonerby, Brother, and you would be rash to ignore them.’
‘And those similarities are?’ asked Michael, surprised.
Abergavenny raised his hands in a way that suggested he thought the answer obvious. ‘Both were killed with blades, and both were killed in such a way as to leave no witnesses.’
‘Gonerby was killed with a sword, and Chesterfelde with a knife,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘Chesterfelde died during the night, and Gonerby during a daytime riot. Gonerby was a parchment-maker and Chesterfelde a scholar. They do not sound similar to me.’
‘However,’ said Michael, ‘if these two deaths are related, then we shall have confirmation of it when I find Chesterfelde’s killer – which I will do, gentlemen.’ He looked at each one in turn, and Bartholomew thought that if any of the three merchants are the culprit, then he should be experiencing some serious unease. ‘I intend to have Chesterfelde’s killer in my prison before the Archbishop arrives, and if the fellow also did away with Gonerby, then your problem will be solved.’
‘How do we know we can trust you?’ asked Wormynghalle suspiciously.
Michael did not dignify the question with a reply. ‘You will return to Merton Hall and throw yourself on Duraunt’s hospitality while I make some enquiries. Then, when I have my culprit, you can question him about Gonerby.’
The three merchants looked at each other. Bartholomew could see Eu was ready to accept, because it was the easiest and safest option – and it would leave time free for business. Wormynghalle was against it, because he did not trust the monk to apprehend the right man. Abergavenny wavered, torn between wanting to be amenable to the authorities and preferring to conduct his own investigation.
‘Very well,’ said the Welshman eventually. ‘We shall do as you ask.’
‘We will bide by your decision until the Archbishop arrives – next Monday,’ said Wormynghalle, clearly irritated by the decision. ‘It is Sunday now, so you have seven full days. But then I am going home, and I will take a culprit with me. Either you will hand him to me, or I shall find one myself. I will not return to Oxford empty-handed.’
The warmth of the day, combined with the relaxed atmosphere of a Sunday and several nights of interrupted sleep, made Bartholomew drowsy. He knew he would be unable to concentrate on reading that afternoon, so did not mind when Michael suggested they return to Merton Hall to search for stained clothing and the place where Chesterfelde had died. Tulyet walked with them, heading for his house on Bridge Street, where he lived with his wife and their hellion son, Dickon.
‘I am not sure it was a good idea to volunteer to find their killer,’ said Bartholomew, watching a group of children play with a discarded cartwheel. Their shrill, excited voices drew disapproving glances from a group of Carmelite friars, who were chanting a psalm as they walked to their friary.
‘I had no choice,’ said Michael, turning a flabby white face to the sky, relishing the sun’s caressing rays. ‘What a trio! They would have Cambridge in flames within a day.’
‘I agree,’ said Tulyet. ‘They care nothing for our town, and want only to give this vengeful widow someone to hang. Eu, who is the most dangerous of the three, is not a reasonable man.’
‘You think Eu was the worst?’ asked Michael in surprise. ‘I had the Welshman marked as the villain. He pretends to be amiable, but he manipulates the others like puppets.’
‘The tanner was the one I did not like,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He is desperate to be accepted by ancient and respected families, and I think he will do anything to prove himself worthy. He is also determined to have himself elected Mayor. It would not surprise me to learn that he had engineered this whole business of avenging Gonerby, just to show voters his mettle.’
‘He is not clever enough,’ argued Tulyet. ‘But Eu is cunning. I am from an old Norman family myself, and I recognise his kind. You mark my words: if Michael does not hand him a culprit in a week, it will be Eu who selects a victim.’
‘We shall have to agree to differ,’ said Michael, ‘because you are both wrong. But it is a strange business that brings them here. Hundreds of folk died in the St Scholastica’s Day riots, and I find it difficult to believe that these men travelled all this way to investigate one death. Perhaps they instigated the disorder themselves, for reasons we have yet to fathom.’
‘Actually, scholars were responsible for that,’ said Tulyet. ‘I had a letter from the Mayor, and he said it was all the fault of the students – a fight started over wine in a tavern.’
‘A Mayor would say that,’ declared Michael disparagingly. ‘I heard the whole thing began with a quarrel over claret, too, but it was townsmen who took it to its bloody conclusion.’
‘There was a sinister set of coincidences in the chain of events that led to the trouble,’ mused Bartholomew, thinking about what Michael had told him. ‘First, weapons were readily available – for scholars and townsfolk alike. And second, alarm bells sounded very quickly after the initial squabble in the Swindlestock Tavern. It was almost as if someone was fanning the spark of an insignificant incident, to ensure it caught and ignited the rest of the city.’