‘We have never discussed it with him,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps he does. He is certainly the kind of man to latch on to an idea like a limpet and follow it doggedly. He seems to have done exactly that by championing the cause of nominalism.’
Langelee sighed. ‘I am a philosopher by training, but I find this nominalism – realism debate immensely dull. Am I alone in this? Is there not another living soul who would rather talk about something else?’
‘Not among the religious Orders at the moment,’ said Michael. ‘They are using it as an excuse to rekindle ancient hatreds of each other. But I did not know that Morden was against passing property to Oxford. After all, Heytesbury is a nominalist, so Morden should approve.’
‘That is not logical,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Just because Morden is a nominalist does not mean that he is willing to share his worldly goods – or those of his University – with other nominalists.’
‘You have not explained how you happened to be outside Michael’s room at that hour of the night, Bartholomew,’ said Langelee, moving on to other questions. ‘Did you hear a sound that roused you from your sleep?’
‘The only sounds I heard were you and Michael finishing that barrel of wine,’ said Bartholomew evasively, so that Langelee would not ask him what it was that he had considered so pressing that it could not wait until the morning. ‘Doubtless the killers heard it, too, and they knew that they were safe from discovery as long as Michael was enjoying your wine.’
‘Damn!’ swore Michael softly. ‘If ever there were a moral to a tale condemning the sin of gluttony, it is this. And poor Arbury paid the price.’
‘Arbury would have died anyway,’ said Langelee. ‘And so might you, had you been asleep in your room and not here with me.’
With a shock, Bartholomew realised that was true, and that Michael’s escape might have been as narrow as his own. He considered Arbury, and how the intruders – determined to search Michael’s room whether the monk was in it or not – might have gained access to Michaelhouse. It was obvious, once he thought about it.
‘I have a bad feeling that the killers watched me when I returned from the Franciscan Friary, and then did the same,’ he said.
‘Meaning?’ asked Michael.
‘Meaning that I did what we all do: hammered on the door and demanded to be let in. Arbury opened the wicket gate, I stepped inside and then pushed back my hood so that he could see who I was. If the killers were watching from the bushes opposite, it would have been easy to do the same, and then stab the lad before he saw that he should have been more careful.’
‘But the only people who have leave to be outside the College after curfew are you two,’ said Langelee. ‘Arbury
‘That may be true generally, but not this week,’ said Michael. ‘It is Lent, and a number of our scholars have been attending midnight vigils and nocturns, especially those in the religious Orders. Arbury probably did not know who was out and who was in.’
Langelee sighed. ‘Catch these killers, Michael. I want to see them hang for this.’
‘I will do my best,’ vowed Michael.
‘Well, the day is beginning,’ said Langelee, going to the window shutters and throwing them open. A blast of cold air flooded into the room, which rustled the documents and scrolls that lay in untidy piles on the table. ‘We all have work to do.’
‘You seem out of sorts this morning,’ said Michael, as he followed Bartholomew from Langelee’s chamber and across the courtyard. By unspoken consent, they made their way to the fallen apple tree in the orchard, where they could talk without fear of being overheard. Their rooms were usually sufficient for that, but neither felt much like being in the chaos of Michael’s chamber, while Bartholomew’s tended to be plagued by students with questions in the mornings.
It was no warmer in the garden that dawn than it had been during the night, and a thin layer of frost glazed the scrubby grass and the leaves of Agatha’s herbs. Michael settled himself on the trunk of the fallen apple tree and watched Bartholomew pace back and forth in front of him.
‘What is the matter?’
‘These murders,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And the fact that I feel as though I am in a river where the current is dragging me relentlessly somewhere, but I do not know where.’
‘That sounds familiar,’ agreed Michael. ‘I have worked hard to try to discover what plot is under way that makes necessary the deaths of a talented philosopher called Faricius of the Carmelites, a very untalented philosopher called Kyrkeby of the Dominicans and my Junior Proctor. I have interviewed at least fifty people who live near the places where these men were killed or found, and you have examined their bodies. But neither of us has come up with anything.’
‘What about the cases Walcote was working on before he died?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Have you discovered anything from them?’
Michael shook his head. ‘He was busy, but there was nothing to suggest he was working on something that would result in murder.’
‘What about the plot to kill you?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘That sounds as though it might lead to murder to me.’
‘But I can find out nothing about that,’ said Michael plaintively. ‘I have questioned my beadles again and again, but none seems to know anything unusual about Walcote or secret meetings in St Radegund’s Convent. Certainly none of them accompanied him to any.’
‘Not even the ones who work closest with him?’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘Tom Meadowman follows you around like a shadow. Did Walcote have a beadle like that?’
‘If he did, then it would have been Rob Smyth, who drowned at Christmas. He latched himself on to Walcote, although I neither liked nor trusted the man.’
‘The fact that no one is honest with us does not help,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I did not want to mention it in front of Langelee, but I persuaded Kenyngham to break his vow of secrecy last night.’
‘You did?’ asked Michael, pleasantly surprised. ‘I will not ask how; I do not want my innocent mind stained by knowledge of your unscrupulous methods.’
‘There was a theft from the Carmelite Friary,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He thinks you are responsible for it, and so does Warden Pechem.’
‘What theft?’ asked Michael, puzzled. ‘Do you mean Faricius’s essay? I thought we had reasoned that it had been stolen from him after he was stabbed on Milne Street. Why do they think I had anything to do with that?’
‘I mean the theft of documents that occurred at Christmas,’ said Bartholomew.
‘What are you talking about?’ demanded Michael. ‘What documents?’
Bartholomew edged away from the monk, slightly alarmed by the anger in his voice. ‘According to Pechem and Kenyngham, Lincolne reported a theft from his friary to Walcote–’
‘Did he now?’ asked Michael softly. ‘And how is it that I have been told nothing about it?’
‘Kenyngham said it was discussed at Walcote’s secret meetings,’ said Bartholomew, regarding the monk uneasily. He had predicted outrage and indignation when he informed Michael about the rumours that were circulating about him, but not cold fury.
‘And they accuse me of this crime?’ demanded Michael.
Half wishing he had not broached the subject, Bartholomew continued: ‘They said you were seen in the Carmelite Friary the night the documents went missing; you were spotted carrying a loaded bag away from the friary towards Michaelhouse the same night; and they told me you claimed it contained bread for your colleagues, when it did not.’
‘I see,’ said Michael. He gazed into Bartholomew’s face. ‘And what do you make of this story? Do you imagine me to be the kind of man to steal from a friary in the middle of the night?’
Bartholomew shook his head. ‘Of course not, Brother. And I told both Kenyngham and Pechem that they were wrong. But what is worse than this accusation of theft is that they have reasoned that whoever stole the documents also had a good reason for killing Walcote.’
Michael gazed up at the bare branches of the trees above him. ‘They think I murdered Walcote because he
