Katherine hastened to elaborate. ‘Last night, Sister Alice announced to the entire gathering that Lyminster reeks of horse manure and should be suppressed.’
‘Her venom towards us springs purely from the fact that Magistra Katherine is the Bishop’s sister,’ said Joan in disgust. ‘Even though Katherine had nothing to do with the decision to depose her. This malevolence is grossly and unjustly misplaced.’
‘I will speak to her,’ promised Michael. ‘You are right to be vexed: her behaviour is hardly commensurate with a Benedictine. Incidentally, Goda has confirmed your alibi for the fire – she says she saw you in the stables.’
Joan smiled toothily, natural good humour bubbling to the fore again. ‘I am relieved to hear it! I should not like to be on anyone’s list of suspects.’
Katherine grimaced. ‘What about me? Or is it just God and His angels who can verify my whereabouts? Are you on speaking terms with them, Brother? If so, they will assure you that I was engrossed in Clippesby’s treatise.’
‘I tried to read that,’ said Joan, ‘but I only managed the first page. He should have had horses discussing these philosophies, as I could not imagine chickens doing it. Perhaps you will recommend that he uses something more sensible next time, Brother.’
‘But he chose chickens for a reason,’ explained Katherine earnestly, while Bartholomew smothered a smile that Joan could not envisage talking hens, but had no issue with talking nags. ‘Namely to demonstrate that two small, simple creatures can grasp the essence of–’
‘I have never been much of a philosopher,’ interrupted Joan, making it sound more like a virtue than a failing. ‘My steeds do not care about such matters, and if my nuns do … well, I can refer them to you.’
And with that, she began to show off Dusty’s side-stepping skills, while Katherine fought to prevent her own mount from doing likewise. Between them, they hogged the whole road, although as they were nuns, no one swore or cursed at them. While they were occupied, Abbess Isabel abandoned her circle of admirers and came to talk.
‘Have you caught the plagiarist’s killer yet, Brother?’ she asked, crossing herself with a thin, unnaturally white hand. ‘I cannot get his dead face out of my mind, and I know his soul cries out for vengeance.’
‘You will have to rely on Commissary Aynton to supply that,’ said Michael, but then produced the dagger from his scrip. ‘Here is the blade used to stab him. Is it familiar?’
The Abbess stared at it for a long time, but eventually shook her head. ‘Will you be able to identify the killer from it?’
‘Perhaps. It is distinctive, so someone may recognise the thing.’
‘Then I shall pray for your success,’ said Isabel. ‘Right now, in fact. Goodbye.’
She jabbed her donkey into a trot, and was off without another word. A train of folk ran after her, still begging for her prayers, but she barely glanced at them, and seemed keen to put as much space between her and Michael as possible.
‘That was peculiar,’ remarked Bartholomew, watching her disappear. ‘I wanted her to repeat exactly what she saw when she stumbled across Paris’s body, but she was gone before I could ask.’
‘She did leave rather abruptly,’ acknowledged Michael, ‘almost as if she had something to hide. Yet I do not see her stabbing anyone. You can see just by looking that she is holier than the rest of us.’
‘And if you do not believe it, ask her,’ said Bartholomew drily. ‘However, I can see her killing Paris. She is a fanatic, and they tend to consider themselves bound by different rules than the rest of us.’
Michael scoffed at the notion of the pious nun being a murderer, but they were prevented from discussing it further by Joan, who had finished showing off with Dusty, and came to find out what they had said to disconcert Isabel. Michael showed her – and Katherine – the dagger. Joan leaned down to pluck it from the monk’s hand, although Katherine fastidiously refused to touch it.
‘It is an ugly thing,’ Katherine declared with a shudder. ‘No wonder Isabel fled! I do not like the look of it myself, and I am used to such things, as my brother collects them.’
‘The Bishop collects murder weapons?’ asked Bartholomew warily.
‘When he can get them,’ replied Katherine. ‘And they–’
‘Actually, this is familiar,’ interrupted Joan, frowning. ‘I am sure I have seen it before.’
‘Seen it where?’ demanded Michael urgently. ‘Or, more importantly, carried by whom?’
Joan closed her eyes to struggle with her memory, but eventually opened them and shook her head apologetically. ‘It will not come, Brother. And even if it did, you would have to treat it with caution, as one weapon looks much like another to me. However, I shall keep mulling it over. Perhaps something will pop into my head.’
‘I doubt it will,’ predicted Katherine. ‘And you would do better to reflect on spiritual matters. Or, better yet, praying that the conloquium will be a success, even when women like Sister Alice stain it with spite.’
‘Oh, I pray for that all the time,’ said Joan, ‘although it does not seem to be working.’
Chapter 8
Although Bartholomew and Michael spent the rest of the day quizzing and re-questioning witnesses, they learned nothing new. As evening approached, Michael went to watch Heltisle’s new beadles embark on their first patrol, while Bartholomew dismayed his students by informing them that they were going to study – it was rare that classes continued after the six o’clock meal, and they had been looking forward to relaxing.
They grumbled even more when it became clear that they were going to work in the orchard, as it was chilly there once the sun had set. But Bartholomew’s room was too small to hold everyone, and Theophilis had bagged the hall for Clippesby, who had agreed to present a preview of his next treatise. This would feature the philosophising hens again, and was a more in-depth look at some of the issues raised in his first exposition.
The Dominican’s lecture sparked a vigorous debate, and Theophilis in particular asked a great many questions. It ended late, although not as late as Bartholomew, who lost track of time entirely and only stopped when his lamp ran out of oil, plunging the orchard into darkness. As a result, there were yawns and heavy eyes aplenty when the bell rang for church the following morning.
After their devotions, Michael led everyone back to the College for breakfast. With the resilience of youth, the students quickly rallied, and the hall soon rang with lively conversation, most of it about Clippesby’s latest hypotheses. Michael summarised them for Bartholomew and his medics, then made some astute observations of his own. Theophilis jotted everything down on a scrap of parchment.
‘For Clippesby to incorporate in his final draft,’ he explained as he scribbled. ‘What was that last point again, Brother?’
‘There is no need to make notes for me, Theophilis,’ said Clippesby politely. ‘I can remember all these suggestions without them.’
‘What, all of them?’ asked William, astonished and disbelieving in equal measure.
‘I have help.’ Clippesby indicated the two hens that he had brought with him, which hunted among the rushes for scraps of dropped food. ‘Ma and Gertrude act as amanuenses.’
‘Can they write, then?’ asked Theophilis with a smirk to let everyone know he was having fun at the Dominican’s expense.
‘Of course not!’ said Clippesby, regarding him askance. ‘They are chickens.’