Dodenho grimaced. ‘Curse you and your loose tongue! You are worse than a woman, for chattering like a magpie.’
‘I shall pretend I have not heard this conversation,’ said Michael. ‘Blackmail and concealing stolen goods are criminal offences, but I am presently concerned with more serious matters. Dodenho, your astrolabe links you to a place where two men have been murdered – three, if we include Spryngheuse. You are also a Fellow of King’s Hall, where Hamecotes was found with a fatal wound similar to that of Okehamptone and perhaps Gonerby, and you were friends with Chesterfelde.’
‘What of it?’ snapped Dodenho, unsettled by the direction the discussion was taking. ‘It is coincidence, and you cannot use it to tie me to these deaths. What about Wormynghalle? It was his room-mate who was killed.’
‘But Wormynghalle did not know Chesterfelde, did he?’ asked Michael coolly.
‘Dodenho has nothing to do with these deaths,’ objected Wormynghalle, loyally speaking up for her colleague. ‘He is right: all the links you have listed are no more than coincidence.’
‘We should not forget that Dodenho studied in Oxford, either,’ said Michael, unrelenting.
‘So have I,’ Wormynghalle pointed out. ‘But it does not mean I was acquainted with Spryngheuse, Chesterfelde or Okehamptone. It is a large community, full of transients, who come and go with bewildering rapidity. You can conclude nothing from the fact that someone has been there.’
‘Then what about this astrolabe?’ demanded Michael, fixing Dodenho with a glare. ‘Explain that.’
‘Very well,’ said Dodenho, seeing the monk would not leave him alone unless he had answers. ‘I made a mistake. I thought it had been stolen, because I could not find it, but I was wrong.’
‘No,’ said Michael, raising his hand to prevent Wormynghalle from speaking in Dodenho’s defence again. ‘It is more complex than that. Tell me the truth, or I shall press charges of blackmail and dishonesty.’
‘All right, all right!’ snapped Dodenho. ‘I sold the thing to Polmorva and pretended someone had taken it. Hamecotes had a spare, you see – a better one than mine – and I hoped he might give it to me if he thought I had been the victim of a crime. He did not, and then Wolf thought my accusations were levelled at him. I saw I was in a fix, so I dropped the subject and hoped everyone would forget about it. Unfortunately, they did not, and the stupid thing ended up in a place where men have died.’
Michael was unconvinced. ‘Well, we shall see, because I always uncover the truth, no matter how long it takes. Lying about a murder is a serious matter. Men have been hanged for less.’
CHAPTER 10
Michael was silent as he and Bartholomew continued their walk towards Michaelhouse, lost in speculation about how and why Dodenho should be involved with the men from Merton Hall. Bartholomew thought about Joan Wormynghalle, and her dedication to learning. She was insightful and intelligent, and he hoped she would be able to fool men over her sex for the rest of her life, and devote herself to something she loved – and at which she excelled. He was certain the discipline of natural philosophy would be the richer for her contributions, and felt it would be a pity if it were to be deprived because of an accident of birth.
When they reached the corner where Weasenham’s shop was located, Michael stopped. Like most of the High Street businesses, Weasenham was doing his bit to make the town attractive for the Archbishop, and his apprentices had been released from their duties of scribing exemplars, making pens and preparing parchment, and were enjoying themselves with brushes and poles. The timbers were freshly treated with resin, to make them shiny and black, and the plasterwork had been washed in a delicate shade of amber. The front door was so new that two carpenters were still adding the finishing touches, and Alyce had placed pots containing colourful plants outside it.
‘She will have to get rid of those,’ said Michael disapprovingly. ‘The Archbishop will think we only buy pens and ink because we like looking at her flowers.’
‘He will not,’ said Bartholomew, laughing. ‘Besides, their scent is helping to disguise the stench from the river, so perhaps you should encourage other merchants to do the same.’
‘We need another word with Weasenham,’ said Michael, making for the door. ‘I want to know why he summoned you at the precise time when your services were needed as Corpse Examiner, thus almost bringing about a gross miscarriage of justice.’
The shop was busy as usual and, without the help of his apprentices, Weasenham was overwhelmed with demands for pens, inks, sand, sealing wax, texts, vellum, parchment, and all the other clerkly supplies required by scholars. Bartholomew looked for Alyce, and was not particularly surprised to see her attention focused on a single customer, despite the fact that her husband was rushed off his feet. Langelee leaned close to her as she spoke, oblivious to all else.
‘And he accused me of indiscretion!’ muttered Bartholomew as he weaved his way through the throng towards his Master.
Langelee jumped in guilty alarm. ‘I was just negotiating a better price for Michaelhouse’s ink,’ he gabbled. ‘Wynewyk uses such a lot when he writes the College accounts.’
‘I am sure he does,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You are always in here these days, and tongues will start to wag soon, just as they did with my visits to Matilde. You are carrying on your dalliance right under the nose of the biggest gossip in the town.’
‘My husband is hardly likely to begin rumours that he is a cuckold,’ said Alyce scornfully. ‘Besides, he is so busy talking about other people that he never notices anything I do. He says producing such tales encourages you scholars to patronise us.’
‘Is that why he does it?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘To improve his trade?’
‘Why else?’ asked Alyce with a shrug. ‘Surely you do not believe he is genuinely interested in who sleeps with whom, or who has the pox?’
Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘Why not? It seems most of his customers are.’
‘Father William told him that Ralph here has a fondness for Agatha the laundress,’ said Alyce, amused. ‘Expanding that tale should keep him busy for a while.’
‘Have a care, man!’ breathed Michael to Langelee. ‘Do you know what will happen if Agatha learns she is the subject of such a story? Your life will not be worth living!’
‘She has heard already,’ said Langelee resentfully. ‘And she is being awkward – she is taking an age to launder my cloak, whereas she washed yours the same day. But they are right, Alyce; we should not linger here together. Thank you for the astrolabe. I shall treasure it.’
‘Astrolabe?’ asked Michael, when Alyce had gone to assist her beleaguered husband.
Langelee produced a cloth from under his arm, and unwrapped what was inside. Sure enough, it was the instrument that Dodenho had sold to Polmorva, who had in turn sold it to Wormynghalle, who had then lost it to Polmorva’s sticky fingers, before Weasenham had retrieved it from the cistern.
‘Well,’ said Michael, raising his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Now the thing comes to Michaelhouse.’
‘Not for long,’ said Langelee, lowering his voice. ‘It is useless, because the alidade is broken, but it is silver, and so worth a tidy sum. We need new guttering for the hall, and this will pay for it – and more besides. This little liaison of mine is not entirely detrimental to Michaelhouse.’
‘You just told Alyce that you would treasure it,’ said Bartholomew accusingly.
‘But I did not say for how long,’ replied Langelee.
‘I would not keep it for more than a few days, if I were you,’ advised Michael. ‘It is stolen property, although its list of owners is so convoluted that I have no idea who has the right to claim it.’
‘Not Dodenho,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He sold it to Polmorva. And not Polmorva, either, because he sold it to Wormynghalle – before stealing it back.’