friar, he thundered up the stairs to Morden’s room and flung open the door so hard that it rattled the candle- holders on the table. An inkwell rolled on to its side, then dropped to the floor, where a spreading black stain began to inch towards one of Morden’s fine rugs, and something dark dropped from the rafters to the floor. At first, Bartholomew thought it was a dead bat. Timothy shot him a nervous glance, uneasy with an approach so violent that it shook dead animals from the roof.
‘I want a word with you,’ snapped Michael, addressing the diminutive Dominican, who perched on a chair piled with cushions so that he would be able to reach his table. Small legs clad in fine wool hose swung in the air below.
‘What do you mean by bursting into my room like this?’ demanded Morden, outraged. ‘It is customary to knock. And will you
‘Does this belong to you?’ demanded Michael, ignoring the Prior’s ire as he removed the small glove from his scrip and tossed it on to the table.
Morden picked it up, turning it over in his hands in surprise. ‘Where did you find this?’
‘In my room,’ said Michael coldly. ‘It was dropped very late last night, after its owner had stabbed a Michaelhouse student to death in order to gain access. And not only did this villain kill our student, but he attacked Matt with a knife. I do not take kindly to people who threaten my friends with weapons.’
Morden’s face turned white as the implications of Michael’s words sunk in. ‘What are you saying, Brother? I can assure you–’
Michael cut through his words. ‘Is this your glove?’ he shouted. ‘Yes or no?’
Morden agreed reluctantly. ‘But it was not I who dropped it at Michaelhouse. It has been missing–’
‘How convenient,’ snapped Michael, his tone of voice making it obvious that he did not believe a word the Prior was saying. ‘And for how long has it been missing?’
Morden shrugged helplessly. ‘I do not know. I seldom go out these days, because of the cold weather. I first noticed it had gone a couple of days ago, because I had to go to St Mary’s Church to tell the Chancellor that Kyrkeby would not be able to give the University Lecture. But I have no idea whether it went missing then or whether it has been gone a lot longer.’
‘And where do you think it might have been?’ asked Timothy. The incredulous expression on his face suggested that he was of the same mind as Michael. ‘Are you suggesting that someone stole it?’
‘Of course someone took it,’ stated Ringstead firmly, leaping to the defence of his superior. ‘How else could it have ended up in your room, Brother? I can assure you that Prior Morden did not put it there.’
Michael and Timothy did not reply; they simply gazed at Morden, as if they considered him to be the lowest form of life. Bartholomew began to feel sorry for the little man – until he looked more closely at what had fallen from the rafters when Michael had flung open the door.
‘And who do you think may have taken your gloves and left them in Brother Michael’s chamber, Father?’ asked Timothy softly.
‘Glove,’ corrected Bartholomew, stooping to retrieve the object that lay on the floor. ‘Here is the twin of the one that we found at Michaelhouse. It seems that someone thought the ceiling a good place to hide it.’
‘I certainly did not put it there,’ said Morden, white-faced with worry. ‘I could not reach.’
‘You do not need to reach,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘You could have thrown it.’
‘Well, I did not,’ said Morden, shooting wary glances at his interrogators. ‘Someone else must have put it there – and placed the other one at Michaelhouse.’
‘Really,’ said Timothy flatly. ‘This is all very curious. You are claiming that someone took
‘I do not understand this,’ said Morden miserably. ‘I cannot imagine how one ended up in Michaelhouse or the other on the ceiling, but I do know it has nothing to do with me. I certainly did not stab any student to gain access to his College. Why would I do such a thing?’
‘Is there someone who can verify your whereabouts between midnight and the office of nocturns last night?’ asked Michael, declining to speculate on answers to the Prior’s question.
‘The entire friary,’ replied Morden immediately. ‘Everyone knows I retire to bed immediately after compline, and that I do not rise until it is time for matins.’
‘That is true,’ concurred Ringstead loyally. ‘Prior Morden likes a good night’s sleep.’
‘That is not the same as people actually
‘I shared it with Kyrkeby,’ said Morden bitterly. ‘But he is scarcely in a position to vouch for me. But how could I have slipped out at night, anyway?’
‘By walking down the stairs and across the yard,’ said Michael promptly. ‘Like every other night porter in Cambridge, yours dozes when he should be on watch. It would be an easy matter to tiptoe past him and leave the friary through the wicket door.’
‘Well, I did not,’ said Morden in an unsteady voice. ‘I am a Dominican Prior, and I have no need to sneak out of the friary in the middle of the night. And I ask you again, why would I want to go to your room anyway?’
‘That is what I should like to know,’ said Michael. ‘For your information, and for that of anyone else who may be interested, I never keep notes of the cases I am investigating in my room. I would not put Michaelhouse at risk like that. I keep them elsewhere.’
‘Where?’ asked Morden automatically.
‘Why?’ pounced Michael. ‘Because you did not find what you were looking for last night?’
Morden rubbed his eyes with his tiny fingers. ‘This is a nightmare! I do not know why I asked that. Even you must admit that your statement was a little provocative.’
‘Enough of this,’ said Michael, turning away from him. ‘I am too busy to waste any more time with you. You are under arrest for the murder of Martin Arbury. Brother Timothy will escort you to the proctors’ cells.’
‘What?’ cried Morden in horror, darting around to the other side of the table when Timothy took a step towards him. ‘But you cannot arrest me! I have done nothing wrong!’
‘Whoever broke into my room last night murdered the student on gate duty and attacked my friend,’ said Michael harshly. ‘Your glove was found at the scene of the crime, dropped when the culprit fled the College. That is evidence enough for me.’
Timothy grabbed the protesting Morden and led him from the room, easily encompassing the scholar’s small arm in one of his hands. Michael returned the glove to his scrip to use as evidence in the trial that would come later, then followed them down the stairs. Bartholomew brought up the rear, fending off the horrified Ringstead, who was trying to shove past him to reach Timothy and his prisoner.
‘This is an outrage!’ Ringstead shouted, his agitated voice ringing across the courtyard. Several student- friars heard it, and began hurrying to where their Prior struggled ineffectually against Timothy’s strong hand. ‘What will the Bishop of Ely say when he hears you have arrested the head of an important Order in the town?’
‘He will congratulate me for removing a ruthless killer from the streets,’ replied Michael. He glanced coolly at the assembling friars, who muttered and shuffled menacingly. ‘And unless you want more of your Dominican brethren to join Prior Morden in his cell, you will instruct your students to return to their rooms and behave themselves.’
‘Do not worry, Father,’ Ringstead called to Morden. ‘I will find the best law clerk in Cambridge, and he will have you back here in a trice.’
‘Hire that young man Heytesbury recommended,’ Morden shouted back. ‘He is said to be clever and crafty.’
‘But he is also Doctor Bartholomew’s nephew,’ said Ringstead, glowering at the physician. ‘We will have someone else.’
Meanwhile, the student-friars had been edging closer to where Timothy hauled his reluctant prisoner to the gates. Michael eyed them coldly.
‘Tell them to disperse, Ringstead,’ he ordered. ‘Or Morden will not be the only Dominican requiring the legal
