‘Is it?’ asked Heltisle slyly. ‘Or was there another reason?’
Bartholomew’s eyes narrowed. ‘What are you saying?’
Heltisle smirked. ‘My lips are sealed. You must find another source of gossip.’
‘Ignore him, Matt,’ said Michael, once they were outside. ‘It is not the first time Heltisle has hinted that Suttone resigned for unsavoury reasons of his own. But it is a lie – a shameful attempt to hurt someone who is not here to defend himself. He aims to besmirch Michaelhouse and unsettle us at the same time.’
‘I wish de Wetherset had not appointed him,’ said Bartholomew unhappily. ‘The power seems to have driven him mad, and all he cares about is besting you. And to be frank, I am not sure de Wetherset is much better. How dare he raid the funds reserved for the sick and poor! It is an outrage! Moreover, it is sheer lunacy to alienate Dick.’
‘It is, and de Wetherset knows it. However, he was elected on a promise to stand up to the town, so that is what he is doing. He will posture and strut to show the University gaining the upper hand, but once he has won a few battles, he will settle down.’
Bartholomew hoped he was right, and that irreparable harm was not done in the process. ‘What will you do now?’ he asked. ‘Leave the murders to Aynton and concentrate on training these new beadles?’
Michael regarded him askance. ‘Of course not! I shall continue to do my duty as I see fit, and Meadowman can lick Heltisle’s men into shape. We shall speak to Leger and Norbert with Dick, as planned, then make enquiries about the triumvirate, and find out what they were really doing on Wednesday.’
‘You do not believe what they told you?’
‘I do not believe anything without proof, and I am suspicious of their need to shut themselves up together. I suspect they were just plotting against me, but we should find out for certain.’
They reached the Great Bridge, where Tulyet was waiting, angry because Sergeant Orwel had reported that Leger and Norbert had taken themselves off hunting and were not expected back until the following day.
‘It is our turn at the butts tonight, and they are supposed to supervise,’ he said between gritted teeth. ‘I suppose this is their revenge for me refusing to let them do it yesterday.’
‘You think you have troubles,’ sighed Michael, and told him about his confrontation with the Chancellor and his deputy.
Tulyet grimaced. ‘Their antics are absurd, but I will not allow them to destroy all we have built. I shall find an excuse to avoid them until they no longer feel compelled to challenge me at every turn. Now, what about the knife that killed Paris? Do you have it?’
Michael handed it to him. ‘Matt says there are similarities to the one that claimed the Girards’ lives. What do you think?’
Tulyet examined it carefully. ‘He is right. I would bet my life on the hilts being made in the same area, while the blades are crafted from steel of matching quality. However, I have never seen their like manufactured in this country.’
Bartholomew stared at him. ‘Could they be French?’
Tulyet shrugged. ‘It would be my guess, but I cannot be certain. Perhaps Leger and Norbert will know. They were a-slaughtering there until recently.’
‘Leger is not stupid enough to admit to anything incriminating,’ predicted Bartholomew. ‘Norbert, on the other hand …’
‘Of course, my two knights are not the only ones with French connections,’ said Tulyet. ‘Do not forget that the peregrini hail from there.’
They agreed what each would do for the rest of the day: Tulyet to see what more could be learned about Wyse’s killer, and Michael and Bartholomew to re-question everyone on their list of suspects. Tulyet would show the blade that had killed the Girards around, and Michael would do the same with the one found at the scene of Paris’s murder.
‘Good hunting,’ said Tulyet, as he strode away.
The first thing Bartholomew and Michael did was return to St Mary the Great to ask if any clerks or secretaries could confirm the triumvirate’s alibis. None could, but someone suggested they ask a Dominican friar who had been near de Wetherset’s office at the time in question, repairing a wall painting. Bartholomew and Michael hurried to his priory at once, only to learn that the artist had been absorbed in his work and had not noticed the triumvirate’s comings and goings at all.
As they passed back through the Barnwell Gate, they met a group of thirty or so nuns who had played truant from the conloquium, brazenly flouting Michael’s order for them to stay at St Radegund’s. The working sessions that day were aimed at sisters who struggled to balance the books, which was dull for those for whom arithmetic was not a problem. Ergo, a few of the more numerate delegates had organised a jaunt to the town – a foray to the market to shop for bargains, followed by a guided tour of the Round Church.
Leading the little cavalcade was Joan, wheeling Dusty around in a series of intricate manoeuvres that drew admiring glances from those who appreciated fine horsemanship. She looked more like a warrior than a nun, with her powerful legs clad in thick leather riding boots, and her monastic wimple covered by a functional hooded cloak. Her delight in the exercise was obvious from the glee on her long, horsey face.
Behind her was Magistra Katherine, clinging to the pommel of her saddle for dear life, although her mount was a steady beast with a dainty gait. Like its rider, it seemed to regard those around it as very inferior specimens, and it carried itself with a haughty dignity.
Abbess Isabel was astride her donkey, and Bartholomew nearly laughed when he saw that someone had dusted it with chalk to make it match its owner’s snowy habit. She rode with her hands clasped in prayer, eyes lifted to the skies, and looked so saintly that people ran up to beg her blessing. Katherine smirked sardonically at the spectacle.
At the end of the procession was Sister Alice, although as her dubious accounting skills were what had led the Bishop to investigate her priory in the first place, she was someone who might have benefited from lessons in fiscal management. She was scowling at the other nuns, her expression so venomous that those who were asking for Abbess Isabel’s prayers crossed themselves uneasily.
The ladies had evidently found much to please them at the market, as they had hired a cart to tote their purchases back to St Radegund’s. It was driven by Isnard, while Orwel walked behind it to make sure nothing fell off. The boxes were perfectly stable, but the sergeant steadied them constantly, at the same time contriving to slip a hand inside them to assess whether they held anything worth stealing.
‘The offer still stands, Brother,’ called Joan. ‘You may borrow Dusty here whenever you please. The roads make for excellent riding at the moment, as they are hard and dry.’
‘It is tempting to gallop away, and let de Wetherset and Heltisle run the University for a week,’ sighed Michael, ‘by which time everyone will be frantic for me to return. But I know where my duty lies.’
‘Are you still exploring the Spital murders?’ asked Katherine, struggling to keep her seat as her proud horse decided it could do better than Dusty and began to prance.
‘The Chancellor has asked Commissary Aynton to do it instead,’ replied Michael, artfully avoiding the question.
‘Then perhaps you will do us the honour of joining the conloquium,’ said Katherine. ‘Not today – you will learn nothing from watching Eve Wastenys struggle to teach the arithmetically challenged – but tomorrow, when we discuss the Chicken Debate. You will discover that female theologians have some very intelligent points to make.’
‘Some of them do,’ muttered Joan, and glared at Alice, who had baulked at exchanging pleasantries with the Senior Proctor and had ridden on ahead. ‘But other nuns’ tongues are so thick with poison that it is best not to listen to anything they say.’