Seeing she had made her point, the laundress bustled Bartholomew out of the kitchens and began bellowing orders at the cowering scullions.
'What is wrong with Eleanor Tyler?' asked Bartholomew of Michael, a little resentfully. 'She is attractive, intelligent, witty…'
'Yes, yes,' said Michael impatiently. Ttis perfectly clear that you are smitten with the woman. But beware! Do not imagine that you will be allowed to render free services to poor patients if you marry either of the Tyler women. You will only be able to take wealthy clients who will pay you well enough to keep them in the lap of luxury.'
'Oh, really, Brother! I have invited them to a feast, not proposed marriage! Being crushed into a church, and then a hall, with dozens of other people can scarcely be considered romantic, can it!'
Michael pursed his lips primly and did not deign to reply.
While they had been in the orchard, Michael had sent Cynric to the Chancellor's office with a request for a list of all the French students in residence. The book-bearer was waiting with it in Bartholomew's room.
'You were right, Matt,' said Michael, scanning the list. 'There are only fourteen French scholars currently registered at the University. Of these, three are in Maud's, and have alibis in Gray and Deynman; three are in Godwinsson, although we know that one of them is now dead; two are in Michaelhouse — the only students missing from here were Gray and Deynman, so that lets them off the hook; one is in Peterhouse-'
'I know him,' interrupted Bartholomew. 'He cannot walk without the aid of crutches and his health is fragile.
He cannot be involved.'
'There is one at Clare Hall,' continued Michael, 'but he is a Benedictine, who is at least seventy and would certainly not be out on the streets in the dark, let alone abduct and rape a young woman. Then there are two at St Stephen's, and two at Valence Marie.'
'So, the only possible suspects are the two at Valence Marie, the two at St Stephen's and the two surviving students at Godwinsson,' said Bartholomew.
Michael regarded him thoughtfully. 'I wonder if there are connections in any of this,' he said. 'We have Godwinsson and David's scholars quarrelling in the street, after which one of them is killed near Valence Marie; the same student of David's is having an affair with the Principal of Godwinsson's daughter, his identity unknown to her parents; French scholars from Godwinsson try to attack Eleanor Tyler, and one of them is killed in the process; and the Principal of Godwinsson wrongfully claims that he has been at Maud's all night.
Meanwhile, his wife really did visit Maud's after the riot began; a skeleton is found at Valence Marie; and the dead prostitute is last seen with French scholars, which must have been those from Valence Marie, Godwinsson or St Stephen's.'
Bartholomew considered. 'There is nothing to suggest this skeleton can be linked with any of the other events.'
'Except that we have agreed that it is a strange coincidence that Kenzie should die so near where the skeleton had been found the day before, and in an identical manner.'
'We agreed no such thing!' said Bartholomew, startled.
'I said there was insufficient evidence to show that they died in the same way, although it is possible that they did.'
Michael flapped a flabby hand dismissively, before standing and stretching his large arms. 'I would like to make two visits this afternoon. I want to ask the Scottish lads at David's more about Kenzie, and then I want to have another word with those unpleasant Godwinsson friars. While we are there, we can drop a few questions about their part in the riot, and about the French louts that tried to kill you. If our inquiries proceed well, I might even ask a few questions of Lydgate himself-if he really was up to no good while the riot was in full swing, I doubt he has the brains to cover his tracks sufficiently to fool someone of my high intellectual calibre.'
'And on the way, we can stop off at St Stephen's and Valence Marie and see about these Frenchman, thus making the best possible use of the brilliant skills at detection you have just claimed,' said Bartholomew with a smile, ignoring Michael's irritable sigh.
The nearest hostel was St Stephen's, where the Principal told them, with some ire, that he had received a letter from France informing him that the two students he had been expecting would not be coming because of a death in the family. His anger seemed to result chiefly from the fact that bad weather had delayed the letter by more than a week, and he would have problems in finding students to fill their places now that most scholars were already settled in lodgings. There was no reason to doubt the authenticity of the letter, so Bartholomew's list of suspects was narrowed to those French students registered at Godwinsson Hostel and those at the Hall of Valence Marie.
The next visit was to David's, where the young Scots told Bartholomew and Michael that Kenzie had been becoming increasingly agitated about his affair because Lydgate was so intent on preventing it. Kenzie and Dominka had been forced to invent more and more ingenious plans to see each other, and they had begun to run out of ideas — much as Eleanor and Hedwise Tyler had suggested the night of the riot.
When Michael asked for more information about the missing ring, the students were unable to add anything, other than that they all believed Dominica had given it to Kenzie. It had been silver, they said, with a small blue- green stone. Ruthven, clearly embarrassed, revealed reluctantly that Kenzie had often waxed lyrical about Dominica's blue-green eyes, while playing with the ring on his finger.
As they made their way from David's to Godwinsson, Michael turned to Bartholomew.
'The last time we visited Godwinsson, Lydgate threatened you,' he said. 'I think you should wait outside.'
He raised a hand to quell Bartholomew's objections.
'Lydgate does not like you, and nothing will be gained from antagonising him with your presence in his own home. Wait outside: listen at the window if you would, but stay out of sight. I will ask about the Frenchmen for you.'
Despite his misgivings, Bartholomew knew Michael was right, and as the fat monk knocked loudly on Godwinsson's front door, he slipped down a filthy alleyway by the side of the house and into the yard at the back. He glanced up and saw that, as last time, the window shutters in the solar where Lydgate had received them were flung open. The glazed windows also stood ajar to allow a breeze to circulate inside.
A sound from what he presumed to be the kitchen startled him, and he realised he was being foolish in prowling so openly around Godwinsson's back yard. There was a decrepit lean-to shed against the back of the house, a tatty structure that would not survive another winter.
Its door was loose on decaying leather hinges and the roof sagged precariously. Heart pounding, Bartholomew slipped inside just as someone emerged from a rear door to pour slops into a brimming cesspool in a far corner of the yard.
The shed was stiflingly hot, and full of pieces of discarded wood and rope. Bartholomew picked his way across it until he was on the side nearest the solar. The warped wood created wide gaps in the walls that allowed him to see out, and, as long as Michael and Lydgate did not whisper, Bartholomew thought he should be able to hear much of what was happening in the solar without being seen.
He heard Huw, the Godwinsson steward, show Michael into the room as before and saw the monk lean out of the window to look into the yard as he waited for Lydgate.
Bartholomew was about to signal to him when the kitchen scullion came out with another bowl of slops. Alarmed, Bartholomew jerked backwards, realising too late that sudden motion was more likely to give away his hiding place than his raised arm, half-hidden in shadows.
'You will find nothing of interest there, Brother,' came Lydgate's voice, clear as a bell, moments later.
Bartholomew saw Michael's head withdraw and the scullion glance up at the window, distracted momentarily from his task. 'Unless you like cesspools.'
'Which brings me to your hostel, Master Lydgate,' came Michael's unruffled reply. 'I would like to see two of your students: the two French lads.'
'Why?' asked Lydgate. 'They have not been brawling with the Scots.'
The scullion in the yard gave his bowl a final scrape and returned to the kitchen.
'How do you know?' said Michael. 'Reliable witnesses saw them brawling with one member of the University and four defenceless women.'
Despite his tension, Bartholomew smiled at Michael's description: defenceless was certainly not a word that
