‘Now what? The body has been taken to the church, and everyone else is out.’
‘Good,’ said Michael, pushing his way inside. ‘That will make our task here all the easier. And I want a word with you anyway. Where were you when Chesterfelde died?’
‘Why?’ asked Boltone, looking shifty. ‘What does that have to do with you?’
‘Just answer the question,’ snapped Michael.
‘I was asleep,’ replied Boltone. ‘It is common knowledge that Chesterfelde died between after the curfew bell at eight and before dawn. I was asleep all that time, and so was Eudo.’
‘Eudo?’ asked Bartholomew. He sensed he should know the name, but his tired mind refused to yield the information.
‘Eudo of Helpryngham,’ said Boltone impatiently. ‘He rents the manor from Merton College – I told you about him earlier. He and I sleep in the solar, while the scholars have the hall.’
‘Were the scholars alone last night?’ asked Michael. ‘Or did they entertain guests?’
‘They might have done,’ replied Boltone unhelpfully. ‘I went to bed immediately after the curfew, so I have no idea what they did. I am a heavy sleeper. I snore, too, and Eudo always wraps a cloth around his ears to block my noise, so neither of us heard what that miserable rabble were doing.’
‘What happened after you retired at eight?’
‘I heard nothing until the cockerel crowed before dawn. When I went to wake the Oxford men for their breakfast, there was Chesterfelde with a knife in his back. It was my yell of horror that roused the others from their slumbers.’
‘They were all there?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Three surviving scholars and three merchants?’
‘Yes,’ replied Boltone. ‘But I cannot say whether they were all there the whole night. Sometimes they debate and argue, and keep me awake, but I was exhausted yesterday, and I heard nothing.’
‘Argue?’ pounced Michael. ‘You mean they antagonise each other?’
Boltone shrugged. ‘Sometimes. Polmorva called Spryngheuse a sludge-brained pedant last week, and Chesterfelde responded by referring to him as a slippery-tongued viper. But I am busy today: Duraunt accused me of being dishonest in my accounting, so I have to prove him wrong. Do you want anything else, or can I go?’
‘Go,’ said Michael. ‘We only want to inspect the hall again.’
‘All right,’ said Boltone. ‘But do not touch any of the scholars’ belongings, or they will accuse me of doing it.’
Michael and Bartholomew climbed the stairs to the hall. The room was much as it had been the last time they were there. Straw mattresses were stored on one side, ready to be used again that night, and blankets were rolled on top of them. The trestle tables employed for meals had been stacked away, and only the benches left out, so there would be somewhere to sit when the visitors returned. The window shutters had been thrown open to allow the hall to air, and the fire Duraunt had enjoyed earlier had burned out – the day was warm and heating unnecessary, even for chilly old men.
‘Right,’ said Michael, rubbing his hands. ‘Do you want to go through these saddlebags for stained clothes, or keep watch to make sure no one catches us?’
‘You just told Boltone you would not touch anything.’
‘I lied,’ said Michael carelessly. ‘It comes from dealing with the likes of Abergavenny and Polmorva. Well? Hurry up and decide, or they will be back before we have started.’
‘You do it,’ said Bartholomew distastefully. ‘I will make sure no one comes.’
While Michael rummaged through the visitors’ bags, Bartholomew sat on a windowsill and struggled to stay alert. The sun was warm on his face, and he felt pleasantly relaxed. When Michael spoke, he started awake. For a moment, he did not know where he was, and gazed around him, blinking stupidly.
‘I see my integrity is safe under your vigilant care,’ remarked Michael caustically. ‘You really do need a good night’s sleep, Matt. Now I cannot even trust you to keep watch while I ransack people’s belongings. What would we have said if they had caught us?’
‘That they are all suspects until you have Chesterfelde’s killer under lock and key,’ replied Bartholomew, rubbing his eyes as he stood. ‘Duraunt will not object, but Polmorva will, which would be satisfying. Well? Did you find his clothes drenched in gore?’
‘No,’ said Michael in disgust. ‘Not so much as a spot. There are a few drips on the floor where we found the body, but that is not surprising. I found this in Duraunt’s bag, but it cannot have any relevance, given that no one has been poisoned.’ He handed Bartholomew a tiny phial.
The physician took it carefully, knowing that small pots often contained fairly powerful substances. This one was no exception, and it released the pungent odour of concentrated poppy juice when he lifted it to his nose. He recoiled. ‘There is enough soporific here to put half the University to sleep!’
Michael regarded it thoughtfully. ‘And it is partly empty, which means some of it has been used. Is there enough missing to make half a dozen merchants and scholars doze through a murder?’
Bartholomew inspected the vial. ‘Yes, but Duraunt is not your culprit. He was appalled by the murder, and he is a kind, gentle man.’
‘So you said earlier,’ said Michael. ‘But people change, and you have not seen him for years. Who knows what he might have become in the interim?’
Bartholomew had a better explanation. ‘Polmorva is not beyond hiding something incriminating among another man’s possessions. He did it to me once, and almost had me convicted of theft. I only just managed to hurl them out of the window, before my chest was searched.’
‘Them?’
‘Those teeth – the ones he made for the Benedictines. He claimed they had been stolen and accused me of taking them. When I went to my room, there they were, hidden under a book.’
‘How do you know it was he who put them there?’
‘The servants saw him. But this is getting us nowhere. Put the phial back where you found it, Brother. We can ask Polmorva and Duraunt about it later.’
‘No,’ said Michael, slipping the bottle into his scrip. ‘I do not want a potentially toxic substance in the hands of my suspects. I shall keep it, and we will know to whom it belongs when its disappearance is reported.’
‘That is dangerous,’ warned Bartholomew uncomfortably. ‘Boltone knows you have been here. It will not look good for the Senior Proctor to be on the wrong end of a charge of theft.’
‘I shall deny it,’ said Michael. He walked towards the solar. ‘Since we are here, we may as well be thorough. We should see whether Boltone and Eudo own stained clothes, too.’
The solar was far less tidy than the hall, and was strewn with bedding and discarded clothes. Filthy shirts sat in a pile in one corner, where they were evidently picked through to be worn again on subsequent occasions, while boots and shoes lay where they had been cast off. Two smelly dogs lounged in a shaft of sunlight from the open window, and watched with uninterest as Michael began to sift through the mess. Bartholomew remained by the door, standing so he would not fall asleep again.
‘There is nothing here, either,’ said Michael. He wiped his hands on his habit in distaste. ‘Eudo and Boltone live like pigs! I am not surprised Duraunt declined to wrest the solar away from them.’
‘Someone is coming!’ said Bartholomew urgently, hearing footsteps on the stairs. ‘Come into the hall and pretend to inspect the blood where the body was found.’
Michael had only just reached the place and leaned down to look where Bartholomew was pointing before the door was flung open. The man who stood there was tall, and Bartholomew supposed he was handsome, although there was something in his arrogant demeanour that was highly unattractive. His dark brown hair was long and wavy, and his blue eyes were surrounded by dark lashes, giving him the appearance of a foreigner, although his clothes were solidly English, with none of the cosmopolitan fripperies flaunted by many men of substance.