‘But he did not betray them,’ Michael pointed out. ‘Not when they seem to know exactly what he was doing. And the last time we discussed this, you said he had failed me deliberately, because he was actually on their side. You cannot have it both ways.’
‘Then what about the way he behaves towards Clippesby? Pretending to befriend him, but then mocking him behind his back?’
‘That is distasteful, but hardly evidence of a criminal mind. But here is where you and I part company. I shall spend the rest of the day at the Spital and St Mary the Great, trying to tease more information from everyone we have already interviewed.’
‘You do not want me with you?’ asked Bartholomew, brightening.
‘I do, but a message arrived when we were with the nuns. You are needed by patients, one of whom is Commissary Aynton. Go to him, and while you ply your healing hands, see if you can find out exactly what he was doing on the morning of the fire.’
‘He has already told us – he was either with de Wetherset and Heltisle in St Mary the Great, or practising his lecture on the sheep.’
‘Then press him to elaborate, and see if you can catch him in an inconsistency.’
Chapter 9
Cynric was waiting for Bartholomew by the Barnwell Gate, because the town was growing increasingly restive and he was protective of the physician. Together they walked past the butts, where one or two archers were already honing their skills, taking advantage of the fact that most folk would arrive later, once the day’s work was done.
‘There will be trouble tonight, boy,’ predicted Cynric. ‘It is the town’s turn to practise, but de Wetherset plans to turn up as well. He wants everyone to think he is brave for not buying another proxy, although the truth is that there is no one left for him to hire.’
‘Warn Michael and Theophilis,’ instructed Bartholomew. ‘One of them must convince him to wait until tomorrow before flaunting his courage.’
‘I am not speaking to Theophilis,’ said Cynric, pursing his lips. ‘I cannot abide him. He spent all morning humouring Clippesby by the henhouse, then told Father William that Clippesby is a lunatic who should be locked away.’
‘What do you mean by “humouring” him?’
‘Making a show of asking the chickens their opinions, then pretending to appreciate their replies. I tried to draw Clippesby away, but Theophilis sent me to de Wetherset with a letter, which he said was urgent. But it was not.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because I read it,’ replied Cynric unrepentantly. ‘All it said was that Brother Michael had gone to St Radegund’s to talk to the nuns. It was a ruse to get me out of the way.’
Bartholomew had taught Cynric to read, although he had since wondered if it had been a wise thing to do. He pondered the question afresh on hearing that the book-bearer had invaded the Chancellor’s private correspondence, and yet it was interesting to learn that Theophilis reported Michael’s movements to de Wetherset. It confirmed his suspicion that the Junior Proctor was not to be trusted.
‘You can tell Michael that as well,’ he said. ‘Although you should make sure Theophilis never finds out what you did.’
Cynric turned to what he considered a much more interesting subject. ‘Margery says the Devil is already very comfortably settled in the Spital.’
‘Stay away from that place,’ warned Bartholomew, afraid Cynric would go to see the sight for himself – he did not want his militant book-bearer to encounter like-minded Jacques.
‘I shall,’ promised Cynric fervently. ‘I have no desire to meet the Lord of Darkness, although Margery tells me that he is not as bad as everyone thinks. But even before Satan moved in, the Spital had a sinister aura. I want nothing to do with it.’
‘Good,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But advise Margery to keep her heretical opinions to herself. The University’s priests will not turn a blind eye to those sorts of remarks for ever, and we shall have a riot for certain if they execute a popular witch.’
Bartholomew found Aynton at his home in Tyled Hostel. The Commissary was in bed, one arm resting on a pile of cushions. His face was white with pain.
‘It happened at the Spital this morning,’ he explained tearfully, ‘and if I had a suspicious mind, I might say it was deliberate.’
‘What was deliberate?’ asked Bartholomew, sitting next to him and beginning to examine the afflicted limb.
‘I assume you know that de Wetherset wants me to solve the Spital murders,’ whispered Aynton. ‘Well, I was interrogating Warden Tangmer, when his cousin – that great brute Eudo – pushed me head over heels. My wrist hurts abominably, but worse, look at my boots! He has ruined them completely!’
Bartholomew glanced at them. They were calf-height, flimsy and so garishly ugly that he thought the scuffs caused by the fall had improved rather than disfigured them.
‘Pity,’ he said, aware that the Commissary was expecting sympathy. ‘But I am sure a good cobbler can fix them.’
‘He says the marks are too deep,’ sniffed Aynton. ‘I shall continue to wear them, as they cost a fortune, but they will never be right again. And my arm is broken into the bargain!’
‘Sprained,’ corrected Bartholomew, applying a poultice to reduce the swelling. ‘Eudo must have given you quite a shove to make you fall over.’
‘The man does not know his own strength. I suspect he did it because I was berating Tangmer for allowing his lunatics to play with swords. Some were engaged in a mock fight when I arrived, you see, which is hardly an activity to soothe tormented minds.’
‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew, supposing the Jacques had been practising the skills they might need to defend themselves, and that their imminent departure meant they were less concerned about being seen by visitors.
‘Between you and me, there is something odd about that Spital,’ Aynton went on. ‘I think it harbours nasty secrets.’
Bartholomew kept his eyes on the poultice lest Aynton should read the truth in them. ‘Well, its patients are insane, so what do you expect? I wish I could help them, but ailments of the mind have always been a mystery to me.’
The last part was true, at least.
‘I would have thought you had enormous experience with lunatics,’ said Aynton caustically. ‘Given that most of our colleagues are around the bend.’
Bartholomew laughed. ‘A few, perhaps.’
‘It is more than a few,’ averred Aynton. ‘It would take until midnight to recite a list of all those who are as mad as bats. Shall I start with Michaelhouse? Clippesby, Father William, Theophilis and Michael. And you, given your peculiar theories about hand-washing. Then, in King’s Hall, there is–’
‘Michael is not mad,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘Nor is Theophilis.’
He did not bother defending Clippesby for obvious reasons, while anyone who had met William would know that he was barely rational. And as for himself, he did not care what people thought about his devotion to hygiene, because the results spoke for themselves – he lost far fewer patients than other medici, and if the price was being considered insane, then so be it.
‘Theophilis spends far too much time with Clippesby,’ said Aynton disapprovingly. ‘They are always together, talking and whispering. He should be careful – lunacy is contagious, you know.’
Bartholomew declined to take issue with such a ridiculous assertion. ‘And Michael? What has he done to win a place on your list?’
Aynton lowered his voice. ‘He does not like me. I cannot imagine why, as I have given him no cause for animosity. Indeed, I have done my utmost to be nice to him, but he rejects my overtures of friendship.’