A Bone of Contention (30 page)

'David's is severely limited in whom it can afford for servants,' he said in a low voice, so he would not be overheard and hurt Ivo's feelings. 'Meadowman is efficient enough but our scullions must be supervised constantly.

But enough of our problems. What can we do for you, Doctor?' A smile crinkled his light blue eyes as he saw Ruthven and Davy Grahame return to their reading and he nodded approvingly at their diligence. 'I am afraid Master Radbeche is out at the moment but I will help you if I can.'

'I am afraid we are making little headway in this business concerning James Kenzie,' said Bartholomew.

'I really came to ask if there was anything else you might have heard, or remembered, since the last time we met that might help.'

The smile left Andrew's eyes and his face became sad.

'Poor Jamie,' he said softly. 'He would never have made a good scholar but he was a decent lad: truthful and kind. It was a terrible thing that he died such a death.

His parents will be devastated.' He shook himself. 'But my eulogies will not help you catch his killer. In truth, I have thought of little else during these last few days, but I have been unable to come up with the merest shred of information that could be of use to you. I did not know he had a secret lover, and I certainly did not know it was Dominica Lydgate, or I would have dissuaded him immediately.'

'Why?' asked Bartholomew. 'Did you not like her?'

Andrew shook his head vehemently. 'You misunderstand,' he said. 'I have never met her. But I can see no future in a relationship between a poor student and the daughter of a wealthy principal. I would have dissuaded him for his own ultimate happiness. It is not for nothing the University has strict rules about women!'

'Who do you think might have killed Jamie?' Bartholomew asked.

Andrew spread his hands. 'I wish I knew. As it is, I do not even know why. You asked his friends about a ring Jamie was supposed to have had. Perhaps he was killed for that, if his killer assumed it was of value. I cannot imagine what he was doing near the Ditch at Valance Marie, but maybe that is not a safe place to be of an evening. Perhaps a group of apprentices were looking for trouble and killed him for simple mischief.'

'Do you think it possible that he may have been killed by students from another hostel?' asked Bartholomew. 'For example the friars with whom he argued the day before he died?'

Andrew spread his inky hands again. 'It is possible, I suppose, but it seems an extreme reaction on the part of the friars. Students of different hostels are always quarrelling with each other, but such altercations seldom result in murder — at least, not cold-blooded, premeditated slaying; we all know they kill each other in the heat of the moment.'

Although they were pretending to be doing other things, Bartholomew knew that the students were listening intently.

'Do you think the friars killed Jamie?' he asked Stuart Grahame.

Stuart Grahame looked up and flushed red at the sudden attention. 'I did to begin with,' he said, 'but not now. The friars would have been more likely to have killed me or Fyvie, since we were the ones who reacted the most strongly to their insults. Jamie did not antagonise them enough so that they would want to kill him.'

And how much would that be? Bartholomew wondered.

He watched the others carefully but could see nothing in the wide, guileless eyes of Davy Grahame that suggested guilt, while Ruthven nodded wisely at Stuart Grahame's words, so that Bartholomew suspected that Grahame was merely repeating Ruthven's own logic. Fyvie, however, stared moodily at the rushes and his face revealed nothing.

'And what do you think, Fyvie?' asked Bartholomew, watching him intently.

Fyvie said nothing for a few moments, and then stood.

He loomed over Bartholomew, who would have felt threatened had Father Andrew not been present. He slowly pointed a finger at the physician.

'I have no reason to dismiss anyone from my list of suspects,' he said. 'Perhaps StuartGrahame is rightabout the friars and perhaps he is not. But who else had a reason to kill him?'

Who indeed? thought Bartholomew. If Werbergh had been telling the truth about Kenzie appearing at the church to ask if the friars had stolen his ring, then Edred might well have been presented with the perfect opportunity to follow and kill him. His motive might simply have been that he did not want the Scot to be alive to accuse him of theft. The more Bartholomew considered it, the more the evidence seemed to stack against Edred.

They all jumped as water hit one of the window shutters with a crash, splattering in over the sill and spraying Ruthven and Davy Grahame. The two students ducked away, grinning at each other as they shook droplets from their hair and wiped their faces with their sleeves. From the yard, there was a gale of laughter and a moment later the smirking face of the student who had been working there appeared. His mischievous delight vanished when he saw David's had a visitor.

'John!' admonished Father Andrew. 'Where are your manners, lad?'

'Have you got him?' asked John of Bartholomew, leaning earnestly through the window. Ts that why you are here? To tell us you have caught Jamie's murderer?'

'He has not,' said Father Andrew. 'Go back to, your chores, John, and no playing with the water or I will tell your brother to take over your duties.'

While John reluctantly went back to his cleaning, the friar spoke gently to Fyvie, urging him to sit down.

'Perhaps Jamie's murder was a random crime. Many deaths occur without a reason. You must brace yourself for the possibility that his killer may never be caught, despite the best efforts of the Senior Proctor and his colleagues.'

Fyvie looked up at him and then his glower abated somewhat. 'I am sorry,' he wailed suddenly, making Bartholomew start nervously. 'But we are cooped up here day and night, not allowed to go out unless we are accompanied, and all the while Jamie's murderer is laughing at us! I am not saying I wish to kill the man myself,' he said, with an apologetic glance at Father Andrew, 'but I do wish to bring him to justice.'

The friar patted his arm consolingly. 'The Proctor is doing all he can. Meanwhile, you would not wish to upset your family by becoming embroiled in things you should not.'

He sighed and called to the open window. 'There is no need to eavesdrop, John. Come in if you insist on listening.'

John's begrimed face appeared immediately, and he leaned his elbows on the windowsill.

'A shed collapsed on Brother Werbergh yesterday morning,' said Bartholomew somewhat abruptly.

Students and master looked at each other in confusion.

'Is Brother Werbergh one of the Godwinsson friars with whom our students argued?' asked Andrew. Bartholomew nodded. 'Is he badly hurt?'

'He is dead,' said Bartholomew.

There was a deathly silence. Ts that why you are here?' asked Andrew. 'To see where David's Hostel students were at the time of his death?' His eyes became sad.

'You might have been a little more straightforward with us, Doctor. I assure you, we have nothing to hide, and you have no need to resort to this trickery. Yesterday morning, you say? We were either at church or here.'

'What about Friday and Saturday?' Bartholomew asked.

'You said he died yesterday,' Andrew pointed out. 'But it makes no difference. Since this dreadful business began we have kept our students here, or out under supervision.

As I told you earlier we cannot afford to be seen brawling, or we will lose our hostel. Either I, or the Principal, can vouch for every one of our students at any time since.

And I can assure you that none of them has fooled us with rolled-up blankets this time.'

Bartholomew rose to leave. 'I am sorry to have wasted your time, Father,' he said, 'but these questions needed to be asked — to clear your names from malicious gossip if nothing else.'

Andrew's mild indignation abated somewhat. 'I am sorry, too, Doctor. We have nothing to be ashamed of, so we do not resent your inquiries. We will answer any questions that will bring Jamie's killer to justice.' He rubbed at the ink on his hands. 'Have you finished with our Galen yet? Although we have no medical students at David's, a book is a valuable thing, and we would like it back soon.'

Bartholomew, who had been under the impression from Principal Radbeche that there was no immediate urgency for him to finish with it, was embarrassed that he had taken his time to read it. He offered to return it immediately. Andrew gave Bartholomew an apologetic smile.

'It is the only book we own outright,' he said again.

He gestured at the tomes that were piled on the table.

'These others are borrowed from King's Hall. While I am delighted that you have found our Galen useful, I would feel happier in my mind knowing it is back here.' His grin broadened, and his voice dropped as he leaned towards Bartholomew so the students could not overhear. 'I show it to the illiterate parents of prospective students, so they know that we are serious about learning. Even though our book is a medical text, it serves an important function at David's!'

Bartholomew said he would send Gray round with the book as soon as possible. He offered his hand to Father Andrew, who clasped it genially before settling down at the table to read with Ruthven and Davy. Robert of Stirling leapt to his feet to see him out and Bartholomew followed him along the stuffy corridor. The student removed the bar from the gate, all the while gabbling about the attack several weeks before in which the old door had been kicked down. Bartholomew sensed the lad was chattering to hide his nervousness.

As Bartholomew stepped past him, Robert took his arm, casting an anxious glance back down the corridor.

He made as though to speak but then closed his mouth firmly. Sweat beaded on his upper lip and he scrubbed at it irritably with his shirtsleeve.

'What is wrong? ' Bartholomew asked, wondering whether Robert had fully recovered from his fever. Perhaps he needed more medication and was afraid he would not have enough money to pay for it.

'Jamie's ring,' the student blurted out. 'I admired it. My father is a jeweller, you see. I know about good stones.'

His words were jerky and he gave another agitated glance down the corridor.

'If it will put your mind at ease, I will tell no one we have spoken,' said Bartholomew gently, giving the nervous student a reassuring smile.

Robert swallowed hard. 'I persuaded Father Andrew to take me and my brother John to see the relic at Valence Marie on Saturday,' he said. He paused again and Bartholomew forced himself to be patient. 'Jamie's ring was on that horrible thing!' Robert's words came in a rush.

'I noticed the hand wore a ring similar to the one Jamie is said to have owned,' said Bartholomew carefully.

One thing they could not afford was for Robert to claim Kenzie's ring was at Valence Marie: Valence Marie would start a fight with David's for certain. 'It is not necessarily the same one.'

'It is the same!' said Robert, his voice loud, desperate to be believed. Bartholomew grew anxious and wondered how he might dissuade Robert from his belief.

'Easy now,' he said. 'I will ask Brother Michael to inspect the ring, and-'

'You do not understand!' interrupted Robert, shaking off Bartholomew's attempt to placate him. 'I am not telling you it is similar. I am telling you it is the same one.'

'How can you be sure?' asked Bartholomew with quiet reason. 'I have seen at least one other ring identical to the one at Valence Marie myself recently.'

Robert looked pained. 'You recognise different diseases,' he said. 'I recognise different stones. My father is a jeweller, and I have been handlingjewels since I was old enough not to eat them. It was the same ring, I tell you!'

His point made, he became calmer, although he kept casting anxious glances towards the hall.

'Why did you not tell me this when you were in the hall with the others?' asked Bartholomew.

Robert shook his head violently and fixed Bartholomew with huge eyes. 'I could not explain how I know,' he whispered.

Bartholomew was puzzled. 'But you said your father is a jeweller. Is that not explanation enough?'

Robert lowered his gaze. 'No one but you knows that.

John told a lie when we first arrived two years ago. We have been living it ever since. We cannot reveal that we are the sons of a merchant.'

Bartholomew shook his head, nonplussed. Many merchants' sons studied in Cambridge and he was unaware that any of them faced serious problems because of it.

Looking at Robert's dark features, he suddenly realised the physical similarity between him and the Arab master with whom he had studied in Paris. In a flash of understanding, it occurred to him that Robert and John might be Jewish, that their father was a money-lender rather than a jeweller. In France, the Jewish population had been accused of bringing the plague, and the situation was little better in England. If Bartholomew's supposition were true, he did not blame Robert and John for wishing to keep their heritage a secret.

Robert continued. 'Master Radbeche and Father Andrew think my father owns a manor near Stirling.'

'They will not learn otherwise from me,' said Bartholomew.

'But this matter of Jamie's ring…'

Robert became animated again. 'It is his ring! There is no doubt! I pretended to examine the hand closely but really I was looking at the ring.'

Bartholomew felt in the sleeve of his gown. 'But what about this?' he asked, handing the ring Cecily had given him to Robert. Robert took it and turned it around in his fingers, smiling faintly.

'Ah, yes, lovers' rings. I wondered if Jamie's might be one of a pair. But this is not the ring he had.' He gave it back to Bartholomew. 'He had the gentleman's; this is the lady's.'

Bartholomew showed Robert the other ring, the one he had found on the floor of Godwinsson's shed. The shed that killed Werbergh, he thought, although obviously Werbergh could not have been looking for the ring, since he was already dead when he was put there.

Robert was talking, and Bartholomew forced his thoughts back to the present. 'This would once have held a stone about the same size as the ones in the lovers' rings, although the craftsmanship on this is very inferior. See the crudeness of the welding? And the arms of the clasp are different sizes.' His nervousness seemed to abate as he talked about something he knew. 'This is a nasty piece. I would say it belonged to a whore, or someone who could not afford anything better. In fact, I would go as far as saying there was no stone at all, but perhaps coloured glass.'