‘Who were these men? Did you recognise them?’ asked Michael.
Predictably, Walter shook his head. ‘I was asleep …’ he faltered, and gazed up at the scholars, aghast at his unintentional admission of guilt.
Michael gave a snort of disgust. ‘Tell us what we do not know, not what we do.’
‘I was resting my eyes in the dark, and the next thing I knew was that there was a blanket over my head. I started to yell and struggle, but a man’s voice said that if I did not shut up, he would strangle me. He asked which rooms were yours and then tied me up.’ He took another hearty gulp of ale and looked about him fearfully. ‘This town is becoming too dangerous for law-abiding folk.’
‘And I suppose you told him where our rooms were,’ said Michael, looking down at him disdainfully, his large arms folded across his chest.
‘Too right I did!’ exploded Walter, puffing himself up with righteous indignation. ‘They would have killed me if I had been difficult with them. And what does it matter, anyway? Neither of you owns anything worth stealing.’
‘But there are potent medicines in my storeroom,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘They might be used to injure or even kill.’
‘And I have a great many belongings that are of considerable value,’ said Michael, offended. ‘Besides my priceless illustrated books, I have a fine collection of gold crucifixes and a pair of silver candlesticks from the Holy City.’
‘Do you?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised. ‘You have never shown them to me.’
‘You are not supposed to own that kind of thing!’ retorted Walter belligerently. ‘You are a monk who has taken a vow of poverty.’
‘You are confusing Benedictines with Franciscans,’ said Michael contemptuously. ‘I have taken no such vow. And anyway, what I own is none of your affair. What is, however, is that you have failed miserably in your duty–’
He was interrupted by Cynric, who appeared breathlessly in the doorway. ‘When Walter said the robbers asked about your rooms, I slipped off to see if they were still there,’ he began.
‘And were they?’ demanded Michael, angry at himself that time had been wasted with Walter when he might have caught the thieves.
Cynric shook his head. ‘Your room is untouched,’ he said to Michael. He turned to Bartholomew. ‘But the chest in your room has been turned inside out and the lock on the medicine room forced. As far as a glance can tell, nothing has been stolen. Except the poisoned wine.’
Michael’s eyes narrowed. ‘All of it?’ he asked. ‘All four bottles?’
Cynric nodded. ‘Every last one of them. They must have searched his bedchamber first and then forced the lock on the medicine store. The bottles were not hidden and so they would have been easy to steal once the thieves had gained access to it.’
‘Damn!’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘Now we cannot prove that Armel and Grene were killed with the same substance.’
‘You can always compare the lesions on the corpses,’ said Michael. ‘Those little blisters you were inspecting so keenly should be proof enough. Anyway, we both had a good look at all four bottles, and they appeared to be the same. I would say that is evidence enough – our testimonies should stand in a court of law.’
‘This is the second time I have been attacked because of you,’ said Walter in an accusatory tone. ‘It was only a couple of years back that some other villain almost killed me in order to get to one of you two.’
‘And this is the second time you have failed me,’ retorted Michael, unmoved. ‘You did not protect me from the scoundrel who wanted to break into my chamber to deliver that satanic regalia two years ago, and tonight you have allowed intruders to make off with vital evidence that might help me unmask a murderer.’
‘But you just told Bartholomew that your spoken testimony would do, since the bottles have been stolen,’ objected Walter. ‘Do not try to browbeat me into feeling guilty!’
‘He is
Walter opened his mouth to answer, exchanged a glance with Cynric, and snapped it shut again.
‘It is better to be honest, Walter,’ said Cynric unsympathetically. ‘You will be found out eventually anyway.’
‘Thank you, Cynric,’ said Walter heavily, favouring the Welshman with a venomous glare. ‘Do I look like I need your advice?’
‘You did not bar the wicket-gate after we left earlier,’ said Bartholomew, frowning as he tried to remember. ‘I think I would have heard you. You left it undone, so that you would not have to get up to unlock it again when we returned.’
Walter refused to look at him, and sat stiffly, chin jutting out and arms folded.
‘Well?’ demanded Michael of Cynric. ‘Was the door barred when you came back to fetch me after you found Isaac dead?’
Cynric shook his head.
‘The intruders left it open after they escaped with your wine,’ said Walter with sudden inspiration. ‘You three are out to get me into trouble with the Master. It was not me who left the gate open when Cynric found it; it was the men who stole your wine!’
‘Lies!’ snapped Michael. ‘The intruders must have arrived
‘Oh, Walter!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, disgusted at the porter’s feeble attempts to vindicate himself. ‘You know these are dangerous times. How could you jeopardise the College and the scholars you are paid to protect when you know very well there are outlaws at large, just to avoid a few moments out in the rain.’
‘I do not even have a decent cloak,’ whined Walter, trying to shift the blame. ‘How can I be expected to go out on so foul a night with no proper clothing?’
‘Would you care to exchange yours for mine?’ asked Bartholomew sweetly, knowing that Walter had recently bought a very fine cloak that was far better than anything Bartholomew had ever owned.
Walter leaned forward acquisitively and felt the material of Bartholomew’s cloak between thumb and forefinger. ‘No,’ he said firmly, after the most superficial of examinations. ‘I will keep mine, thank you very much.’
‘All this is totally unacceptable,’ said Michael, watching the exchange in disdain. ‘You are a coward and a lazy, good-for-nothing wastrel! However, in view of your unpleasant experience, I will not recommend that the Master dismiss you. But this is your last chance, Walter. One more incident like this and I will ensure you never set foot in another College for the rest of your life. Not even in Oxford!’
Walter glowered and did not appear in the least bit grateful for Michael’s leniency. Michael favoured him with a scowl of his own and swept out, Bartholomew and Cynric at his heels.
‘Lord, Matt,’ said the monk, raising his face to let the rain patter down on it. ‘What a mess! Where in heaven’s name do we go from here?’
Michael wanted to discuss the case there and then, but Bartholomew was too tired. Ignoring the fact that his few possessions were strewn across his room, he took off his sodden cloak and best gown – now sadly stained and crumpled – and climbed wearily under the blankets clad in shirt and hose. The stone-built rooms in Michaelhouse could be miserable in winter: the constant rain had caused the roof to leak and great patches of moisture blotched the walls. Bartholomew had mould growing on some of his clothes and, worse still, he had noticed the College’s few and highly treasured books had developed water stains from the damp. Even the blankets on his bed had a chill, wet feel to them. He pulled them over his head and lay shivering until he fell into an uneasy doze.
What seemed like moments later, he was awoken by Michael vigorously shaking his shoulder and looming over him in the darkness like a great bird of prey.
‘What is the matter?’ he asked, sitting up and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He glanced to the ill-fitting window shutters, through which he could see the night sky was beginning to lighten, although dawn was still some way off.
