the investigation of the suspicious deaths in the first place, and bitterly resented the fact that it seemed to have placed him in such a dangerous position.
Colton scowled at him, but then, to Bartholomew’s surprise, he yielded. ‘Very well, then. I suppose that unless you satisfy yourself that poor Philius died of a flux of bad humours, rumours will follow that Gonville is seeking to hide the truth. But, be assured, Bartholomew, I will ask Doctor Lynton from Peterhouse to verify anything you find. I will not have my College dragged through the mire because you are unwilling to admit that you misdiagnosed Philius’s illness the first time.’
He walked to the other end of the room so he would not have to watch, and began to pare his nails with a small knife in the light from the window.
Bartholomew bit back several scathing remarks that flooded into his mind, and bent to inspect Philius once again. It appeared that the Franciscan had prepared himself for bed when he was struck down – wary of over- exerting himself following his close brush with death a few days before – because he wore a long brown nightgown with a silk robe over the top. His feet were bare, so perhaps he had already been asleep. Bartholomew felt carefully around the friar’s head, but Colton was right in saying there was no wound. Then he looked at the dead man’s neck, but there was no bruising and no marks to suggest throttling. Finally, he drew the gown up, and looked for puncture wounds. With Tulyet’s help, he turned the body over, but there was nothing to be seen.
Perhaps he had been wrong after all, he mused, and the internal damage sustained from the poison Philius had swallowed earlier
On the left side of Philius’s chest, a sliver of metal was embedded, all but invisible among the hair. Bartholomew leaned closer and saw that only the merest fraction protruded. Someone had clearly forced it in as far as it would go to hide it from view. Bartholomew took it between thumb and forefinger, and drew it out with some difficulty. Tulyet edged closer to watch, while Colton abandoned his manicure and stood next to him, his mouth agape with horror. The metal object was a nail, as long as Bartholomew’s hand was wide, and whoever had used it had known exactly where to strike to bring about almost instant death.
‘It penetrated his heart,’ explained Bartholomew, holding it up for Colton to inspect. Colton’s eyes were wide in a face that was suddenly bloodless. ‘He would have died quickly and, as you can see, the wound did not bleed much. My interpretation of what happened is that Philius was asleep, but was roused by a knock at his door. The killer forced his way in and Philius began to fight – hence the scattered parchments and the upturned furniture. The killer then must have thrust the nail into Philius’s chest. If you look here, you can see a little hole in his gown, and there is a small bloodstain that barely shows because of the dark colour.’
‘There must have been two of them, Matt,’ said Tulyet, putting both hands firmly behind his back as Bartholomew offered him the nail to examine. ‘Philius would hardly stand still while someone stabbed him. One must have held him while the other drove the nail into him.’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Bartholomew. He stood behind Tulyet, and wrapped an arm around his throat to demonstrate. ‘Philius was not a large man. His assailant might have managed to grab him from behind, and hold him still, like this, and the rest would be easy.’ He made a quick, downwards motion with the nail in his hand to illustrate his point, making Colton flinch.
‘This nail,’ said Colton, unable to drag his eyes from the grisly object. ‘Why did the killer not take it back?’
‘Probably because it prevented the wound from bleeding,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And because it was virtually invisible anyway. The gown Philius is wearing will do well enough as a shroud, and I imagine the killer did not anticipate anyone taking it off to conduct a more rigorous investigation. You were meant to believe he died naturally. As indeed you have been suggesting.’
Colton slumped down on a stool, and clasped unsteady hands together. ‘This is dreadful! We said a mass yesterday to give thanks for his recovery. Afterwards, he and I went for a walk to the Franciscan Friary.’ He gazed at Philius’s body, swallowed hard, and looked up at Bartholomew. ‘Are you certain this nail killed him? Could it not have been there some time before today?’
Bartholomew raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Hardly! It was driven into his heart. Call Lynton to confirm it, if you like. Or Robin of Grantchester. Both will tell you the same. The wound was a fatal one.’
Just then, the student returned with the porter who had been on duty that day. Bartholomew took one look at his heavy eyes and rumpled clothes, and guessed exactly why he had not heard anything from Philius’s room.
‘Do you sleep all the time you are supposed to be guarding your College?’ he asked coolly.
‘No, not all the time,’ said the porter, and bit his lip when he realised what he had said.
Colton gave him a withering look. ‘John!’ he said tiredly. ‘How could you? You know what happened here three days ago. I trusted you to be vigilant.’
‘I was vigilant!’ protested John. ‘But there was nothing going on, and the whole place was as still as the grave. All the students were studying with the masters in the hall, and the cooks were busy in the kitchen. The College was so quiet, it was almost like the middle of the night. So, I thought there would be no harm if I just closed my eyes for a moment.’
‘And you heard nothing?’ asked Colton, looking at the porter in weary resignation.
‘Nothing!’ said John. ‘Nothing at all. The first I knew of this …’ his eyes strayed to Philius’s body on the bed, ‘was when you raised the alarm. I swear, I heard nothing!’
‘And then, when you went to unlock the main gate to send for Matt and the Proctors you found it already open,’ said Tulyet, walking to the window and leaning his elbows on the sill.
‘Yes. No!’ John gaped at the Sheriff, aghast at having been so easily tricked.
‘And how much were you paid to leave the door unlocked, John?’ Tulyet continued softly.
Colton stared at the Sheriff in mute horror. Disgusted by the porter’s treachery, Bartholomew turned his attention back to Philius, straightening the stiffening limbs, and smoothing down the rumpled gown. Philius was not a man whom Bartholomew had especially liked, but he was a colleague and he would miss him – even if only for the dubious pleasure of disagreeing with his theories.
‘I did not … they made me!’ John said in a wail. ‘They said they would kill me if I did not do what they said. I was to leave the door open and ask no questions. I decided it would be safer for me if I was asleep when it happened.’
‘Who, John?’ asked Tulyet calmly, still looking out of the window. ‘Who told you to do this?’
‘Them!’ insisted John. ‘The outlaws!’
‘And how do you know they were outlaws?’ asked Tulyet, his voice deceptively quiet. Bartholomew, who knew him well, was aware that his measured tones concealed a deep anger – partly at John’s selfishness, but mostly that the outlaws who were outwitting him at every turn had succeeded yet again.
John clasped his hands together and gnawed at his knuckles. ‘I just know,’ he said, his voice shaky. ‘They were the outlaws who killed Isaac and are robbing houses and church in the town.’
‘But how do you know?’ persisted Tulyet.
He spun round as John bolted from the room, slamming the door closed behind him. They heard a thump as the bench in the hallway – on which Philius’s patients sat while they waited to be seen – was jammed against the door to prevent their escape. By the time Tulyet had forced it away, John was out of the yard and through the front gate. Tulyet tore after him, Bartholomew and Colton at his heels.
‘Damn!’
Tulyet kicked the gate in frustration and pressed his palms into the sides of his head as he walked in a tight circle, every movement betraying the fury and helplessness he felt.
The lane was deserted: nothing moved and all was silent. In the middle of it lay John. The porter was slumped on his side, a crossbow quarrel embedded in his back and a thin trickle of blood oozing from his nose.
As the sun disappeared from the sky, Michael eased himself into Agatha’s great chair by Michaelhouse’s kitchen fire, and allowed her to fuss over him. He accepted yet another oatcake smeared with honey, and washed
