Michael stood. ‘Then we had better make a start. If our killer hates Frenchmen enough to burn women and children alive, we need to catch him fast.’
‘I have just come from the Spital,’ said Tulyet, not moving. ‘The shed is still too hot for retrieving the victims, so I suggest meeting there at noon.’
‘Then in the meantime, Matt and I will question the folk who live along the Trumpington road. Perhaps one of them will have noticed someone slinking along intent on murder and arson.’ Michael raised a hand to quell Bartholomew’s immediate objection. ‘I know it will interfere with your teaching, but it cannot be helped. We must catch the culprit – or culprits – before any more blood is spilled.’
‘I will speak to my informants,’ said Tulyet. ‘See if they have heard rumours about groups of Frenchmen living in the area. I hope they would have already told me if there were, but there is no harm in being sure.’
‘None at all,’ agreed Michael.
The three of them left the College, and walked to the High Street, where Tulyet turned towards the castle, and Bartholomew and Michael aimed for St Mary the Great. It was Wednesday, the day when the market was dedicated to the buying and selling of livestock, so the town was busier than usual. Herds of cows, sheep and goats were being driven along the main roads, weaving around wagons loaded with crates of poultry. The noise was deafening, as none of the creatures appreciated what was happening and made their displeasure known with a cacophony of lows, bleats, honks, squawks and quacks.
It seemed normal, but Bartholomew knew the town well enough to detect undercurrents. Locals shot challenging glances at the students who trooped in and out of the churches, looks that were, more often than not, returned in full. Then he saw four King’s Hall men backed into a corner by a gaggle of angry bakers. The scholars’ hands hovered over the hilts of their swords, but it was the bakers who made a hasty departure when Michael bore down on them.
‘They accused us of being French,’ said one student defensively. His name was Foxlee, and it had been him and his three friends who had tried to pick a fight with Isnard the previous day. ‘But I was born not ten miles from here, and I have lived in England all my life.’
‘Whereas I hail from Bruges,’ put in another, ‘and while France may consider Flanders a vassal nation, my countrymen and I will never yield to their vile yoke.’
‘At least they had heard of Bruges,’ said a third. ‘When I told them I was from Koln, they asked which part of France it was in. Do none of these peasants have brains, Brother?’
They spoke loudly enough to be heard by passers-by. These included Isnard and one of his more dubious associates – Verious the ditcher, a rogue who supplemented his meagre income with petty crime.
‘If you are English, why do you wear them French clothes?’ Verious demanded.
‘What French clothes?’ asked Bruges, startled, although Bartholomew could understand why Verious had put the question, as all four scholars wore elegant gipons, tied around the waist with belts made from gold thread. The skirts fell elegantly to their knees, and their feet were encased in calfskin boots. Around their heads were liripipes – scarves that could double as hoods. All were blue, which was King’s Hall livery, although there was no sign of the academic tabards that should have covered their finery. But it was the dash of the exotic that rendered the ensemble distinctly un-English – mother-of-pearl buttons, lace cuffs and feathers.
‘He cannot tell the difference between French fashions and those favoured by the Court,’ scoffed Foxlee. ‘If the King were to ride past now, this oaf would probably accuse him of being French as well.’
‘You seem to have forgotten your tabards,’ said Michael coolly, preventing Verious from snarling a response by raising an imperious hand. ‘Doubtless you will want to rectify the matter before the Senior Proctor fines you.’
‘And any townsman who jeers at them will be reported to the Sheriff for breaking the King’s peace,’ put in Bartholomew hastily, as Verious and Isnard drew breath to cackle their amusement at the speed with which the King’s Hall lads departed.
‘We will be in flames within a week unless Dick and I impose some serious peacekeeping measures,’ muttered Michael as he and Bartholomew went on their way. ‘The only problem is that the triumvirate veto anything I suggest.’
Bartholomew frowned his mystification. ‘Do they want the University to burn then?’
Michael scowled. ‘This is what happens when our colleagues elect a man who thinks he knows better than me. When de Wetherset was last in charge, the town was a very different place. He does not understand that things have changed.’
‘Then you had better educate him before he does any irreparable harm.’
They began their enquiries at the Hall of Valence Marie and then Peterhouse, although no one at either College could tell them anything useful. Opposite Peterhouse was a row of houses, some of which were rented to the University for use as hostels. Unfortunately, the residents had either been out or had noticed nothing unusual until they had seen the smoke, at which point the culprit would likely have been well away. The fourth house they visited was larger than the others, and had recently been renovated to a very high standard.
‘It is a dormitory for Tyled Hostel,’ explained Michael as they knocked on its beautiful new door. ‘That place has more money than is decent.’
A student came to escort them to a pleasant refectory at the back of the house, where he and his friends were entertaining – the triumvirate were ensconced there, enjoying cake and honeyed wine. De Wetherset and Aynton were members of Tyled, but it was strange to see Heltisle – the Master of Bene’t – in a hostel, as he usually deemed such places beneath him, even wealthy ones like Tyled, and was brazen in his belief that Colleges were far superior foundations. Then Bartholomew saw several metal pens displayed on the table, and realised that Heltisle was there in the hope of making a sale.
The triumvirate looked sleek and prosperous that day, and had donned clothes that were bound to aggravate the locals. De Wetherset’s gold pilgrim badge glittered on a gorgeous velvet hat; Heltisle seemed to have done his utmost to emulate the Dauphin; and even the usually sober Aynton wore French silk hose. It was needlessly provocative, and Bartholomew was disgusted that they did not set a better example.
‘We have already asked these lads if they saw anything suspicious yesterday,’ said Aynton with one of his benign grins. ‘None did, because they were all at a lecture.’
‘But Theophilis told us that the dead lunatics were from a family called Girard,’ said Heltisle, pronouncing the name in the English way. ‘Is it true?’
‘Yes,’ replied Michael cautiously. ‘Why? Did you know them?’
‘They are the ones that de Wetherset and I hired as proxies in the call to arms,’ replied Heltisle. ‘At considerable expense.’
‘What a pity,’ said Bartholomew with uncharacteristic acerbity. ‘Now you will have to go to the butts yourselves.’
‘We are too important to waste our time there,’ declared Heltisle. ‘Besides, I do not need to practise. I am already an excellent shot and very handy with a sword.’
‘Not that we will ever have to put such talents to work, of course,’ put in de Wetherset. ‘If we are obliged to march to war, we shall be employed as clerks or scribes.’
‘No – generals,’ countered Heltisle. ‘Directing battles from a safe distance.’