Bartholomew felt exhausted, while his bare feet were so cold that he could barely feel them. The chill reached right through his bones to settle in the pit of his stomach, and he wondered whether he would ever be warm again.
Langelee pushed open the door to Michael’s room and the three scholars looked around them. Michael’s possessions had been dragged from their shelves and chests and scattered, so that the chamber looked as if a violent wind had torn through it. Michael took a sharp intake of breath when he saw the mess, and Langelee whistled, holding up the lamp so that it illuminated every corner.
‘The thief was certainly thorough. I wonder if he found what he wanted.’
‘They,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘There were two of them. I heard the feet of one running down the stairs, while the other fought with me.’
‘So, the first intruder did battle with you to allow the other to escape,’ summarised Langelee. ‘Was the first bigger than the second?’
‘I did not see the one who ran,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘I only heard his footsteps. I suppose he did sound small and light, though. Or perhaps he was on tiptoe because he was in the middle of a burglary. I really do not know.’
‘And the first?’ pressed Langelee. ‘Is there anything you can tell us about him? Was he taller than you? Fatter? Was he wearing a cloak, or just hose and shirt? Was there anything at all that you remember about him – perhaps a distinctive smell or a peculiar physical feature.’
‘It was dark,’ said Bartholomew wearily. ‘And he was waving a knife at me. I noticed very little about him, other than that. He knew what he was doing, though; he was a competent fighter.’
‘And you took him on,’ muttered Michael. He slumped down on his bed and surveyed the mess with round eyes. ‘I do not know whether I am more angry with you for risking your life, or with whoever had the audacity to enter the Senior Proctor’s College and go through his personal effects.’
‘Have you been keeping a record of your murder investigation?’ asked Langelee, sitting next to him and scratching his head as he tried to think of reasons why Michael’s room should have been subjected to such treatment. ‘Perhaps that is what they were looking for, so that they could see how close you are to catching them.’
‘I am not close at all,’ said Michael gloomily. He picked up a linen shirt that had been tossed carelessly on the floor, flinging it just as carelessly on to the chest that stood under the window. As he did so, something fell out. Bartholomew leaned down to retrieve it. It was a tiny glove, like something that had been made for a child.
‘A boy was one of the intruders?’ asked Langelee, taking it from him and turning it over in his hands. ‘I suppose it makes sense. A small child could search places that an adult could not reach. I have heard of monkeys being used for such purposes.’
‘You said the footsteps of the second intruder sounded light,’ said Michael to Bartholomew. ‘Could they have belonged to a child?’
‘It is possible,’ said Bartholomew, snatching the glove from Langelee and inspecting it in the candlelight. ‘But I do not think this belongs to a child. I think it belongs to Prior Morden, the leader of the Dominicans.’
It was nearing dawn, and the dense black of the sky was just beginning to show signs of brightening, although it would be another hour before it was light enough to see. Even at that early hour the town was stirring, and a lone cart could be heard rattling up the High Street on its way to the Market Square. A dog barked, and somewhere two people were greeting each other cheerfully. A dampness was in the faint wind that rustled the few dead leaves remaining on the winter branches, threatening more rain that day, and the sky was its usual leaden grey.
Bartholomew sat with Michael in Langelee’s room, sipping near-boiling ale that he knew nevertheless would not drive out the chilly sensation that still sat in the pit of his stomach.
‘And you say young Arbury was alive when you returned from tending Pechem at the Franciscan Friary?’ asked Langelee of Bartholomew again. ‘He opened the gate for you?’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘He had been reading Heytesbury’s
‘Then you went to the kitchens, and on the way back the bells were chiming for the midnight vigil and you heard him groan,’ Langelee went on.
‘Not quite,’ said Bartholomew. He did not want to tell Michael about Kenyngham’s accusation in front of Langelee, who had demonstrated in the past that he was not averse to using such information to suit his own ends. He would speak to the monk later, when they were alone. ‘I heard a groan, but I thought it was Suttone or his students making noises in their sleep. I realise now that it may have been Arbury. I wish I had checked.’
‘But Clippesby knew what was happening,’ said Michael. ‘Damn the man! If he was not so habitually strange, you would have known to take him seriously.’
‘Arbury’s injury was serious; you would not have been able to save him anyway,’ said Langelee kindly. ‘I am no physician, but I have seen my share of knife wounds. I think it would have made no difference whether you had found him three hours earlier or not.’
‘We could have asked who attacked him, though,’ said Michael. ‘And we might have caught his murderers, who then spent half the night rummaging in my room.’
‘But more important yet, I might have been able to make his last moments more comfortable,’ snapped Bartholomew, nettled by Michael’s pragmatic approach to the student’s death. ‘He would not have bled to death all alone and in the bitter chill of a March night.’
Michael’s large face became gentle. ‘I am sorry, Matt. I did not mean to sound callous. It is just that I now have four murders to investigate – Faricius, Kyrkeby, Walcote and Arbury – and I have no idea what to do about any of them.’
‘At least you know the motive for Arbury’s death,’ said Langelee. ‘He was killed because someone wanted to search your room. Either they stabbed him as soon as he opened the gate, or they killed him when he would not let them in.’
‘The former, probably,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘And if Matt is right, then they spent at least three hours searching my room – from the beginning of the midnight vigil, by which time Arbury had been stabbed, until he heard the bells chime for nocturns, when they were just leaving.’
‘What do you possess – or what do they think you possess – that would warrant such an exhaustive search?’ asked Langelee. He gestured around his own quarters. ‘It would not take anyone long to rifle through my belongings, even including all the College muniments.’
‘I really cannot imagine what they wanted,’ said Michael. ‘As I told you, I leave the most sensitive documents in the University chests.’
‘All of them?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Are you sure there is nothing that you might have brought home? And Langelee has a good point – perhaps we should consider what they may have
‘What about the deed signing the two farms and the church to Oxford?’ asked Langelee. ‘Where do you keep that? Presumably there is only one copy, because Heytesbury has not signed it yet – there would be no point in copying it until he has agreed to its contents.’
Michael dropped his hand to his scrip. ‘I have that in here. I do not know when Heytesbury will agree to sign, and so I have been carrying it about with me recently, so I can be ready the moment he relents. But why would anyone want to steal that?’
‘Because they do not want you to pass this property to Oxford?’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Thanks to Langelee, a lot of people know you have some kind of arrangement in progress, and not everyone is sufficiently far sighted to see that you have the ultimate good of Cambridge in mind.’
‘I have apologised for that
‘I suppose someone may think that the best way to prevent Oxford from getting what is perceived to be valuable property is to steal the deed of transfer,’ said Michael, ignoring Langelee’s objections and addressing Bartholomew. ‘But we are forgetting that one of the culprits seems to have been Prior Morden. I did not know he felt so strongly about it.’
