The Lost Prophecies (29 page)

Michael frowned at him when March had gone. ‘One of the lessons you should learn as a proctor is picking the battles you know you can win. Agatha is invincible and unassailable, so leave her alone. You are not a perfect deputy, but you will suffice, and I do not want to be looking for a replacement because you have tackled Michaelhouse’s feisty laundress.’

John grimaced. ‘You may not want to lose a deputy, but Joan will not want to lose a fiancé, so I suppose I had better follow your advice. Will you take a cup of wine with me before you go home? We are right outside my house.’

‘So we are,’ said Michael, peering at the pleasant timber-framed building that John indicated. It was one of the more exclusive residences on the High Street, and a fitting abode for a man who was destined to become kin to the Earl of Suffolk. ‘Did you know Drayton rented a room here? It was long before you came, but he hired the attic on the top floor.’

‘Did he?’ asked John, startled. ‘No one told me.’

‘And that is another lesson you should learn,’ said Michael grimly. ‘People have a bad habit of declining to share information with proctors. Do you know any of your housemates well enough to ask them about Drayton? I questioned them when he was killed, of course, but no one was very helpful. Perhaps they will be more forthcoming with you.’

John regarded the dark house doubtfully. ‘Now? But they will all be in bed.’

Michael grimaced. ‘Of course not now. I need you to patrol tonight – to make sure the likes of March do not neglect their duties. Meanwhile, I shall try to devise a way to defuse this ridiculous business without further loss of blood.’

When Bartholomew reached home, he fell asleep almost immediately, although it was a fitful rest and he could hear Michael pacing in the chamber above. The creaking of floorboards continued for what remained of the night, as the monk used the silence to think about what he had learned. By morning he had assessed the murder of Neuton – and Drayton – from every conceivable angle, but had reached no firm conclusions, although he had theories aplenty. The problem, he thought irritably, was the crippling lack of evidence.

When Bartholomew awoke, the sun was up. The summer air was warm and still and stank of the river, the open drains that meandered along the town’s main streets, and the sharper tang of urine from the latrines. He went to St Michael’s Church for prayers and tried to keep his mind on his devotions, although images of the recent dead invaded his thoughts far too readily. He had a breakfast of pickled herrings and stale bread with his colleagues, eating the unappetizing fare in silence as they listened to the droning voice of the Bible Scholar, then waited for Michael in the yard.

The monk emerged from the kitchens a few moments later, jaws working furiously. An enraged screech from Agatha indicated that he had supplemented his paltry meal by stealing something, although his face was the picture of innocence when she demanded to know the whereabouts of a pie. Nevertheless, he headed for the gate while he was still in one piece, informing Bartholomew that he wanted to return to Peterhouse and ask questions of Neuton’s friends, to see if any of them remembered anything suspicious, now they had had a night to dwell on it.

‘I have been thinking about the poison,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And it may have come from France. When I was there last year, fashionable folk were taking a cordial made from some kind of poisonous fish and regional herbs. It is supposed to aid digestion, but only when diluted – it is quite toxic in its concentrated form. It has a distinctive smell, which I think I detected in Neuton’s wineskin.’

‘So our poisoner has French connections, does he?’ Michael gave the matter serious thought as they walked towards the High Street. ‘Most of the Bardolfs have French mothers. Perhaps they decided to avenge their brother Hugh by claiming a high-ranking victim from Peterhouse.’

‘Having a French mother does not necessarily mean a supply of French cordials.’

Michael narrowed his eyes. ‘But their grandmother is a witch, and it is not inconceivable that she thought such a potion might come in useful for her ambitious but not very talented grandsons.’

‘It is possible, I suppose. Neuton was never without a drink, so it was an obvious way to dispatch him. The door to the kitchen, where he filled his flasks, was often left open, according to Wittleseye, which means anyone could have come in and tampered with them. But there is a flaw in the theory: how would the Bardolfs know about the poor security? I did not.’

‘But you do not hate Peterhouse. You have no cause to study the weak points in their defences.’

Bartholomew acknowledged his point with a nod. ‘But King’s Hall are not the only ones with French connections. Wittleseye and Neuton visited the Pope in Avignon last year. Perhaps the poison belonged to them.’

Michael’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. ‘You think Neuton killed himself? But he was in fighting spirits yesterday, and a long way from suicide. And do not say he wanted his enemies accused of a capital crime, because he would have left more in the way of obvious clues had that been the case.’

‘Actually, I was thinking of Wittleseye. He was more angry than grieved by his cousin’s murder, and in the kitchen he made sure we noticed the open door. What better way to strike a blow at the Bardolf clan than have them under suspicion of poisoning a priest in a church?’

Michael rubbed his chin. ‘I am still bothered by the hooded whisperer, who seems so determined to have our town awash with blood. John was lucky when he was attacked yesterday, because I suspect he would have been killed had we not arrived when we did – he is a decent organizer of patrols, but no fighter. I believe the whisperer ambushed him to eliminate a peacekeeper – to give this feud a better chance of igniting. Perhaps Neuton was killed for the same reason.’

‘What reason?’

‘To escalate the violence. Perhaps the culprit has a liking for fighting in the streets. Or maybe he has a grudge against Peterhouse or King’s Hall and wants them in flames.’

‘If you place any faith in the Black Book of Brân, and interpret “
Will murder spoil the rock’s most sacred place
” to mean Neuton’s death in Peterhouse’s collegiate chapel, then you still have King’s Hall’s shattered bones to come. Your whisperer may be in luck: the feud
is
predicted to worsen.’

Michael shot him an unpleasant look. ‘I thought you did not believe in this sort of thing.’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘I do not. However, it is an uncanny coincidence.’

Michael shivered suddenly, although the day was warm. ‘Then we had better hurry and do our work, because I do not want more deaths in my town, no matter what that madman wrote.’

They met John on their way to Peterhouse. He tried not to be proud of the fact that the night had passed without violence, but he did not succeed. He grinned smugly when he reported that all was well, and was so pleased by his performance that he insisted he was not in the least bit tired and would accompany the Senior Proctor and his Corpse Examiner to see what more could be learned about the death of Neuton.

‘I think Joan would have been impressed with my performance,’ he said, trying to keep the triumph from his voice and failing miserably. ‘Lads from Peterhouse
and
King’s Hall slipped past the beadles and went looking for trouble, but they did not get far. I anticipated their every move, and the proctors’ gaol is bursting at the seams to prove it.’

‘And no one made any more attempts on your life?’ asked Michael. ‘Or the beadles’ lives?’

John shook his head. ‘We were all careful. Did I tell you the Peterhouse contingent slipped past their guards because they intended to steal the Black Book of Brân? I heard Shirford screaming for help, and when I arrived they were trying to batter down the door. I arrested the lot of them.’

‘And King’s Hall?’ asked Michael. ‘Why did they sneak out?’

‘Beadle March found them lurking behind Peterhouse making fire-arrows.’

Michael was genuinely impressed. ‘You
have
done well.’

John preened, but then a shadow crossed his face. ‘I do not suppose you would put that in writing and send it to the Earl of Suffolk, would you? The last time we met, he told me I was too scholarly.’

Michael smiled. ‘He is not stupid; he knows wits can serve him just as well as swords, especially at court. I have heard that Joan prefers ruffians, but I am sure you will win her round.’

John looked rather daunted by the prospect, but mustered a manful smile. He cleared his throat and turned his attention to the matter in hand. ‘Are you sure Neuton was poisoned? He did not die of a seizure, or some such thing?’

‘There were burns in his throat,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘I do not think I have ever seen a more clear case of death from toxins. The killer made no attempt to conceal his handiwork.’

John shuddered. ‘Then the sooner we catch him, the better. I am inclined to look to King’s Hall for the culprit. They are the ones with a grudge against Neuton.’

‘I agree,’ said Michael. ‘However, we have not a shred of evidence, so we must ask some careful questions of Neuton’s colleagues first. A false accusation could start all manner of trouble, and I do not want “shattered bones” on my conscience.’

Peterhouse wanted everyone to know that King’s Hall had killed five of their students. They had painted the victims’ names on a sheet, which was pinned across the front of their church. For the benefit of those who could not read, drawings of the dead lads’ faces had been included, each with a skull below it, to represent death. When Bartholomew, Michael and John arrived, Wittleseye was ordering the artist to add a picture of King’s Hall with flames coming out of it.

‘You will do no such thing,’ snapped Michael. ‘It would be akin to a declaration of war, and I told you last night that I want the violence to end.’

‘That was before they murdered Neuton,’ said Wittleseye sullenly, watching the artist slink away before the Senior Proctor could fine him for his handiwork. ‘The situation has changed now.’

‘We came to ask you about Neuton,’ intervened John hastily, seeing Michael’s temper begin to fray. The Senior Proctor did not like scholars defying him. ‘Had you known him for long?’

‘Of course I had,’ snarled Wittleseye. ‘He was my cousin, and we had known each other since childhood. The archbishop will be furious when he hears what has happened.’

‘Did Neuton have any enemies
other
than the Bardolf brothers?’ asked Michael. ‘And do not fob me off with nonsense about him being popular, because we both know he was anything but.’

Wittleseye glared at him but then relented. ‘All right, I admit that wine made him dour on occasion. But he was not so irascible as to make someone want to kill him.’

‘Sometimes the most obvious solution really is the right one,’ whispered John to Michael. ‘The Bardolfs lost Hugh, so they reciprocated by eliminating a Peterhouse man.’

‘Will you agree to a search of Neuton’s room?’ asked Michael of Wittleseye. ‘I must ensure that your cousin did not have a secret stash of French cordial before I tackle King’s Hall.’

‘I will agree to no such thing,’ declared Wittleseye, incensed. ‘
We
are the injured party here, with Neuton and five students slaughtered. Why should we submit to such indignities?’

‘Because it is part of the process of learning the truth,’ replied John soothingly. ‘Please let us do our duty, sir. It will be better for everyone in the end.’

Wittleseye was mollified by the polite plea. ‘Very well, John de St Philibert. But only
Neuton’s
chamber. If you set so much as a toe in anyone else’s, I shall have you removed by force.’

Michael narrowed his eyes, suspicious of the caveat, and immediately launched into an interrogation of Wittleseye that was only just short of offensive. Bartholomew left them bickering and accompanied John to Neuton’s quarters, afraid the Junior Proctor might not recognize the French cordial if he found it. It did not take long to root through Neuton’s worldly goods, but Bartholomew had the distinct impression that someone had been there before them, although whether to hide poison or just to see what there was to inherit was impossible to say.

‘I did not like the way Wittleseye ordered us not to search anywhere else,’ John whispered when they had finished. ‘I am going to have a quick look around. You keep watch.’

Bartholomew was acutely uneasy with that. ‘We have no authority—’

John gripped his arm, his voice urgent. ‘Wittleseye wants us to accuse King’s Hall of the crime, but his own behaviour is deeply suspect. This will not take a moment, and I have a bad feeling about Peterhouse’s vengeful priests.’

He had disappeared before Bartholomew could object further, then took far longer than ‘a moment’. When footsteps warned that someone was coming, and John still declined to break off his hunt, the physician braced himself for the embarrassment of discovery. But with impeccable timing, the Junior Proctor appeared an instant before Wittleseye came to see what was taking so long.

‘There you are,’ said Wittleseye. He glanced at the door to his chamber, which now stood ajar. ‘I hope you confined your activities to my cousin’s room and have not trespassed elsewhere.’

‘Of course not,’ said John, although the uncomfortable expression on his face screamed that he was lying. He turned to Michael and began to gabble. ‘Have you finished, Brother? If so, then we should let Wittleseye go about his business. I am sure he is very busy.’

Michael raised his eyebrows when they were outside. ‘You need to learn how to dissemble, man! Wittleseye would have to be a drooling idiot not to guess that you had extended your search.’

John raised his hands defensively. ‘I am sorry, Brother, but he was so vehement about keeping us out of his room that it made me suspicious.’

Michael nodded slowly. ‘Me too – and I am delighted that you had the nerve to act on it. Well? What has unsettled you so? Did you find evidence that he poisoned his own cousin in order to see King’s Hall blamed for the crime?’

In reply, John shook his arm, causing an object to slide from his wide sleeve and fall to the ground. It was a mallet, the kind that was used to smash stones into gravel. It had a metal head, and something red adhered to it. Bartholomew bent to inspect it, then rose slowly and met John’s eyes.