‘I have not been drinking,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘Someone broke into Michael’s room and produced a knife when I tried to stop him. Will someone fetch him and tell him what has happened?’
‘Why would anyone want to burgle Michael?’ asked Suttone, nodding to one of his students to do as Bartholomew asked. ‘He owns nothing worth stealing. None of us do, otherwise we would all eat something other than fish-giblet soup for dinner.’
‘Well, someone did,’ said Bartholomew irritably. ‘You can see from here that the wicket gate is open, where this man made his escape.’
Suttone screwed up his eyes as he squinted in the darkness. ‘You are right. Go and secure it quickly, before we have marauding Dominicans in here.’
This last comment was directed at another of his students, who obligingly sped away to re-lock the door. Now that the skirmish was over and the attackers had fled, Bartholomew felt an unpleasant queasiness in his stomach. It was partly because he was cold, but it was also because he realised he had been foolish to try to take on the intruders alone, and that he should have fetched help. Not only had he rashly risked his life, but he had thrown away an opportunity to learn more about the case that had seen the University’s Junior Proctor murdered and the Senior Proctor facing charges of theft.
‘Martin Arbury is on duty this week, because Walter the porter is away,’ said Suttone. ‘I agreed to exempt him from a disputation, because Master Langelee thought he would be in no fit state for an examination if he had been awake all night. We discussed it at the last Fellows’ meeting, if you recall.’
Bartholomew began to cross the yard, hobbling on the stones and grit that hurt his bare feet. ‘Arbury is a reliable lad. What was he thinking of to let that pair of thieves in?’
As he drew closer to the gate, the answer to his question became clear. Arbury was half sitting and half lying against the wall of the porters’ lodge, all but invisible as his black tabard blended into the darkness that surrounded him. His fair head lolled to one side, and there was a pitchy stain on the ground beneath him.
‘Oh, no!’ whispered Suttone in horror, his big hands fumbling to cross himself. ‘What has happened? Is he dead?’
‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew, after a brief examination revealed that the lad was cool to the touch and that there was no life-beat in his neck. ‘Someone has stabbed him.’
Chapter 9
BARTHOLOMEW WAS COVERING ARBURY’S FACE WITH A sheet when Michael and Langelee arrived. The warm, sweet smell of wine preceded them, and Bartholomew questioned whether either was in a fit state to understand what had happened. Langelee’s florid face was sweaty, and his eyes were puffy and red. Michael looked no different than usual, although he was slightly flushed. Cynric was among those who came hurrying to see what the fuss was about, with Clippesby’s arm held firmly in one hand.
‘My God!’ breathed Langelee, looking at the body of the student in horror.
‘Two people were ransacking your room,’ Bartholomew explained to Michael. ‘I tried to catch them, but they escaped.’
‘I told you,’ wailed Clippesby. ‘I warned you tonight that there were bad men at large. You repaid me by locking me away.’
Bartholomew inspected him closely. ‘Did you see them?’
Clippesby shook his head. ‘The owls told me. But I saw them enter the College, when I was looking out of the window. I yelled to you, but Cynric told me to be quiet.’
‘Who were they?’ demanded Michael. ‘Did you see their faces?’
Clippesby swallowed. ‘Two men wearing dark clothes. They were just shadows in the dark.’
‘And what about you?’ asked Michael, turning to Bartholomew. ‘Can you identify them?’
‘No. One drew a knife, and we pushed and shoved at each other before he toppled us both down the stairs. As Clippesby says, it was dark.’
‘What were you thinking of?’ snapped Michael furiously. ‘You are not a beadle, and you should not be challenging armed intruders to fights in the middle of the night.’
‘I have no intention of making a habit of this,’ replied Bartholomew testily, nettled by Michael’s anger.
‘And these intruders stabbed Arbury on their way out?’ asked Langelee, kneeling unsteadily next to the dead scholar and pulling the sheet away so that he could inspect the young man’s face. ‘He is very cold. I must raise some funds so that the students on guard duty have a fire–’
‘He is cold because he was stabbed hours ago,’ interrupted Bartholomew impatiently. Langelee was often slow on the uptake, but large quantities of wine had made him worse. ‘I imagine he opened the door to these men, and they knifed him so that they could enter without him raising the alarm.’
‘And then they went to my room?’ asked Michael, his eyes huge in his flabby face.
Bartholomew sighed irritably. ‘I have no idea what they did next. All I can tell you is that I caught them leaving your chamber.’
‘All right, Matt,’ said Michael gently. ‘I know you are distressed by yet another unnecessary death – as am I – but that is no reason to snap at me. I am only trying to learn what happened.’
Bartholomew rubbed his hand through his hair and stared away into the darkness of the night. Michael was right: the incident had left him badly shaken. But it was his own stupidity that made him angry. He should not have tried to take on the intruders without summoning help, and he now wished he had listened to Clippesby when he had met him earlier that evening. For all his ravings, the Dominican occasionally made very astute observations, and the physician realised he should not have dismissed him so readily.
Langelee stood, grabbing Michael’s arm to steady himself. ‘Arbury is clearly beyond anything Bartholomew can do, so I commit him to your hands, Suttone. You can mount a vigil for him. Take him to the hall, though, not to the church. I do not want you leaving Michaelhouse at this hour of the night when there are killers at large.’ He turned to Bartholomew. ‘But before Suttone removes Arbury, is there anything you need to do? I know your examination of bodies in the past has helped you to identify killers.’
Bartholomew shook his head. ‘All I can tell you is that he died from a single wound to the chest, and that he bled to death.’
‘And you think this happened some time ago, because he is cold?’ clarified Langelee.
Bartholomew nodded. ‘But I cannot tell you exactly when.’
‘I see,’ said Langelee. He turned to Michael. ‘We should go to your room, to see whether anything is missing.’
‘Nothing will be missing,’ replied Michael. ‘I have very little to steal.’
‘What about your collection of gold crosses?’ asked Langelee immediately. ‘And your fine array of habits and expensive cloaks? And since your office at St Mary’s is not particularly secure, I expect you store certain documents here, too.’
Michael shook his head. ‘I keep my crosses behind a stone in the hearth – and I defy even Cynric to identify which one. Meanwhile, there is not exactly a thriving market for used Benedictine garments. Mine are distinctively large, and a thief would be caught immediately if he tried to sell any of those at Ely Hall.’
‘And the documents?’ asked Bartholomew.
The monk shrugged. ‘Anything important is locked in the chests at St Mary’s or the Carmelite Friary. There is nothing in my room worth taking.’
‘We should check anyway,’ said Langelee, beginning to walk across the courtyard towards Michael’s room.
Bartholomew and Michael followed him, leaving Suttone and his students to carry Arbury to the hall and begin their prayers for a soul that had died without the benefit of final absolution. As he climbed the stairs, Bartholomew saw the deep groove where the knife had raked the plaster in the wall. He shivered, not wanting to think of the force behind a blow that had left such a mark. Michael reached out to touch it, then turned to scowl at the physician, making it clear that he was unimpressed by the foolish risk his friend had taken.
The shock of the brief encounter with the intruders and finding Arbury dead was beginning to take its toll.
