‘I had better follow him, to see what he is doing,’ said Michael, rubbing his hands as a plan took shape in his mind. ‘If he is buying ale, I shall advise Langelee to withdraw the offer we made this morning.’
‘You are too conspicuous – Candelby is sure to notice you. I will go.’
Michael reached out to stop him, sure it was an excuse to resume the conversation about Blankpayn, but the physician jigged away from his hand and began to trot back towards the inn. The monk started after him, but was no match for his more fleet-footed colleague.
‘Do not to go in,’ he called urgently, giving up when he saw it was hopeless. ‘Just poke your head around the door and then come back and tell me what he is doing.’
Bartholomew ducked behind the courtyard well when he saw Honynge had not gone very far inside the inn. The cold fury he had felt towards Candelby was already subsiding, and his natural common sense was telling him that another confrontation would do nothing to help Falmeresham – and might even do some harm. With a sigh, he realised that shaking the truth out of the taverner would not be a good idea, and that Michael’s plan to set Meadowman to watch him was far more likely to yield results. Immediately, he began to wish he had not offered to spy on the man who was to be his colleague. It was hardly ethical, and he sincerely hoped Honynge would not catch him.
Honynge and Candelby were near the entrance, talking. Unfortunately, a chicken chose that moment to announce the laying of an egg, and taverner and scholar turned instinctively at the abrupt frenzy of squawks. Bartholomew did not think they had seen him, but could not be sure. The two resumed their discussion, and after a moment Honynge’s voice began to rise. Words quickly became audible.
‘… an outrage,’ he snapped. ‘And I will not endure such remarks.’
‘I do not care,’ said Candelby. ‘It is true. Michaelhouse is full of second-rate scholars.’
‘Well, your pies are rancid,’ retorted Honynge childishly. ‘You probably make them with dog.’
He turned and stalked away, leaving Candelby to mimic his stiff-backed gait in a flash of juvenile petulance. The pot-boys grinned, but their smiles vanished when the taverner began to bark orders at them. Bartholomew moved further behind the well as the furious Honynge stamped past him, and was disconcerted to hear the man talking quite loudly to himself.
‘You do not have to put up with his insults, not even for a pie. In fact, you should tell him his ale is not up to scratch, either.’ He stopped, glared back at the Angel, but then resumed walking. ‘No, you have more dignity than that. Go home and prepare for your removal to Michaelhouse.’
Bartholomew waited until he had gone, then set off to find Michael. He faltered when he saw the monk talking to Honynge himself, but Honynge did not linger long. He growled something, then continued on his way, anger radiating from him like heat from the sun.
‘What did he say?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.
Michael was bemused. ‘He suggested I use my powers as Senior Proctor to stop the Angel from trading. It seems Candelby said something rude about Michaelhouse, and he took it as a personal affront. Well? Was he buying ale?’
‘Food – although I think he squabbled with Candelby before he could get any. He is an odd man. I would not have thought him the kind of person to leap to our defence – he made disparaging comments about Michaelhouse himself this morning – yet it seems he feels some spark of loyalty.’
Michael groaned. ‘Lord! Now here comes Tyrington, grinning at us like a gargoyle. Will we never be allowed to investigate these murders? All I want is to concentrate on finding out what happened to Lynton and Falmeresham. Is that too much to ask? Tyrington is eating, by the way. This could be dangerous.’
‘Good morning, colleagues,’ gushed Tyrington. Bartholomew did not step away quickly enough, and found himself liberally splattered with cake. ‘I cannot wait to be installed in your – our – College. Oh, the debates we shall have, on all subjects from theology to alchemy!’
‘What about natural philosophy?’ probed Bartholomew, prepared to overlook a few missiles of oral origin if the reward was a discussion on one of his favourite subjects.
Tyrington simpered at him. ‘I have a great interest in anything that necessitates complex arithmetic and geometry, especially if it can be used to define our universe.’
‘Really?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘What do you think of the work of the Oxford calculatores, who use mathematics to measure the increase and decrease in intensity of qualities–’
‘Not much, if he has any sense,’ muttered Michael.
Tyrington’s leer threatened to split his face in half. ‘It fascinates me deeply, particularly as it applies to what happens in the first and last instants of potentially infinite processes.’
‘I hope you two will not spend all your evenings calculating together,’ said Michael coolly. ‘There are other issues to debate, besides mathematics.’
Tyrington laughed uneasily, sensing he had annoyed the monk. He hastened to be conciliatory. ‘There will be plenty of time for discourses on all manner of exciting matters, and I shall grant them all equal attention, I promise.’
Bartholomew watched him walk away. ‘Lynton lectured on the work of the Oxford calculatores last term, and Tyrington made several intelligent contributions. Honynge was not there, though – I would have remembered him. I hope Honynge does not transpire to be one of those scholars only interested in discussing his own speciality, because he is a theologian and therefore dull–’
He faltered when he recalled that Michael’s academic expertise was also in the ‘Queen of Sciences’, and shot him a sheepish glance. The monk smothered a smile. ‘We have wasted too much time already today. Let us see what Ocleye can tell us.’
St Bene’t’s thick walls immediately quelled the clamour from the street, and the scholars’ footsteps echoed softly through the ancient arches as they walked up the nave. The building smelled of the fresh rushes that had been scattered in the chancel, and of the flowers that had been placed along the windowsills in celebration of Easter. Bartholomew looked around appreciatively – he had always liked St Bene’t’s – but Michael was more interested in his investigation. He frowned when he removed the pall that had been placed over the coffin.
‘Ocleye seems rather old to be called “boy” – he must be nearing sixty! I was expecting an apprentice. Are you sure he is the right one?’
‘I thought you knew him,’ said Bartholomew, surprised. ‘He was standing near Candelby after the accident – obviously, given that he had been riding in the back of Candelby’s cart.’
‘Candelby is a demanding master and servants tend not to stay with him long. Hence I know very few of them. But my point remains: Ocleye is old for such an occupation.’
‘He was a newcomer, so probably took whatever work was offered.’ Bartholomew began his examination. ‘It explains why he wanted his own accommodation, though – a man of his years will not want to share an attic with a dozen rowdy youths. Yet Ocleye could not have been earning much, so I wonder how he intended to pay the elevated rent Lynton would have charged.’
‘That is a question to which we must find the answer. It cannot be coincidence that Lynton was holding the agreement signed by him and Ocleye, and both end up dead on the same day. Do you mind hurrying? I know we have Candelby’s permission to be here, but I would rather we were not caught pawing the body of a townsman – not in this current climate of unrest. What can you tell me? Where was he stabbed?’