Meanwhile, Thomas Lydgate was missing all night, and gave a false alibi to Tulyet. He was probably also searching for her. The next day he and Edred went to the Castle to identify the friar who died, whom I thought was you' He faltered. That memory at least was burned indelibly into his mind.
'And you think that while Lydgate and Edred were at the Castle, they also had a look at this Joanna and satisfied themselves it was Dominica?' finished Michael.
Bartholomew nodded. 'Why else would Lydgate be at her grave?'
He saw Michael and Cynric exchange glances, but was too tired to be angry with them. Cynric had not seen Lydgate, but that did not mean he had not been there.
Because Michael doubted Bartholomew's memory over the events of two nights ago, the monk was prepared to doubt him now. How long would he continue to doubt?
A few days? Weeks? For ever? Bartholomew rubbed his eyes, trying to clear his blurred vision.
He wondered how Cynric had happened to be so close to hand all of a sudden, appearing at the church so fortuitously? It occurred to him that Cynric must have been following him. Probably not from Michaelhouse, but from Milne Street, where he had been alerted by Stanmore. Gray's insouciant diagnosis — made when the student did not have the most basic information necessary to allow an accurate prediction — was impinging on every aspect of Bartholomew's life. If only he had been teaching something else that week! He wondered whether he could bribe his fellow physician Father Philius to provide a more favourable astrological reading. But Philius and Bartholomew opposed each other on virtually all aspects of medicine, and Philius would probably seize on the notion that his colleague was unbalanced with the greatest of pleasure.
Michael was speaking, and Bartholomew realised he had not heard anything the monk had said. When he asked him to repeat it, Michael stood abruptly.
'I was saying that there might be all manner of reasons why Lydgate might visit Joanna's grave. Perhaps she was his personal prostitute, which might be why Matilde did not know her — it would mean she remained exclusive to him and did not tout for business on the streets. Perhaps he thought he was at the grave of his friar and not Joanna's at all. And if you persist in your theory that Dominica was Joanna, who do you think raped and killed her? It would hardly be the French students of Godwinsson!'
Bartholomew was too weary to try to reason it all out.
'Did you speak to Tulyet about asking Lydgate to identify the ring?' he asked, partly for information, but mostly so that he would not have to answer Michael.
The monk nodded. 'He advises — and on reflection, I believe he is right — that we should ease up on our inquiries into Ken/ie's death until the town is more peaceful. Inflaming a man like Lydgate by suggesting his daughter's ring is on Valence Marie's relic will serve no purpose other than to risk more violence.'
'So the next time I wish to murder someone, all I need to do to make sure I get away with it is to start a riot,' said Bartholomew hitterly. 'It is a good thing to know.'
Michael sighed theatrically. 'We are simply being practical, Matt. I would rather one murderer went free than another nine innocents — including someone like your Joanna — die in civil unrest. But we should not be discussing this while you are incapable of drawing rational conclusions. You should rest and perhaps the planets will be kinder to you tomorrow.'
Cynric agreed. 'You look tired, boy. Would you like me to see you to your room?'
'I am not one of Oswald Stanmore's seamstresses,' said Bartholomew, trying not to sound irritable when Cynric was attempting to be kind. 'I do not think I am likely to be accosted by ruffians while walking from the kitchens to my room.'
'You never know,' said Michael, smiling. 'You might be if Father William has caught wind of all your dalliances with these women!'
Bartholomew trailed across the courtyard to his room as the last orange rays of sun faded and died, still feeling helpless and angry. He took a deep breath, scrubbed at his face, and went over to the chest for the pitcher of water that usually stood there. It was on the floor. He frowned. He never kept it on the floor because he was likely to kick it over when he sat at the table. He looked around more carefully. The candle he had replaced on the shelf that morning now lay on its side, and one of his quills was on the floor. He picked it up thoughtfully, and looked in the chest. He was tidy in his habits and kept what few clothes he owned neatly folded, but the shirts in the chest had been moved awry.
He took the key from his belt to the tiny chamber where he kept his medicines, and tried to unlock the door. It was open already. He entered the room cautiously and peered around in the gloom. Several pots and bottles had been moved, attested by the stain marks on the benches.
When he crouched to inspect the lock, there were small scratches on it that he was certain had not been there before, suggesting that someone might have picked it.
Locking the door carefully, he went back to his room.
Only he had the key to the medicines room, on the grounds that he necessarily kept some potions that, if administered wrongly, might kill. Gray and Bulbeck were allowed in, Deynman was not, for his own safety. Could Gray or Bulbeck have entered the medical store while he was ill? It was possible, although neither of them was likely to rummage through his chest of clothes: they had no earthly reason to do so since Bartholomew probably owned fewer clothes than either of them, and those he did own were darned and patched and could scarcely be coveted items, even to impecunious students.
So, the only logical conclusion was that someone else had been in his room and the medicines store. Could this person have been looking for the object Bigod was so keen to have? Bartholomew thought again. He knew that either Gray, Bulbeck or Deynman had been with him the whole time he had been ill, so the first opportunity for anyone else to search his room would have been that day, either while he was teaching, or when he had gone out later. He frowned and rubbed the back of his head. He had been unable to find the candle stub the night of the thunderstorm; the notion crossed his mind that his room must have been searched before he was attacked, too.
He saw a shadow on the stair outside and saw Michael pause to glance in at him, before going upstairs to his own room. 'What is the matter?' asked the monk. 'What are you doing?'
'I think my room has been searched,' Bartholomew replied. 'Several bottles have been moved in the storeroom, and the water pitcher…' He stopped when he saw the expression on Michael's face.
'Good night, Matt,' Michael said and climbed the stairs to his room.
A light rain was falling when Bartholomew awoke the next morning, the clouds after the previous clear days making dawn seem later than it was. Bartholomew had slept well, feeling better than he had done for days as he washed, shaved, dressed and walked briskly across the courtyard towards the gates. Walter eyed him speculatively.
'Where are you going?' he demanded rudely.
Bartholomew was nonplussed. Where did Walter think he was going? Where did scholars usually go at this hour in the morning? Then it struck him. It was Sunday and the morning service was later on Sundays. Something in Walter's gloating look made him reluctant to admit his mistake and give the porter proof that he was mentally deficient as well as astrologicaHy lacking.
'I am going visiting,' he replied briskly, lifting the bar from the gate himself since Walter apparently was not going to do it for him. 'As 1 often do on Sundays.'
'In the rain?' queried Walter. 'Without a cloak?' Suspicion virtually dripped from his words.
'Yes,' said Bartholomew, opening the gate and stepping out into the lane. 'Not that it is any of your affair.' He closed the gate, and then opened it again moments later, catching Walter halfway across the yard. 'And I do not need Cynric to follow me,' he shouted.
He walked quickly towards the river, following a sudden desire to be as far away from Michaelhouse as possible.
There was a thick mist swirling on the dull waters, rolling in from the Fens. He began to walk upstream, thinking that he would visit Trumpington and have breakfast with Stanmore and Edith. Abruptly, he stopped. They would be as bad as the scholars of Michaelhouse: they would see him arriving early, having walked to them in the rain, and would doubt his sanity.
So, downstream then, he thought, and struck out enthusiastically along the towpath that led behind the Hospital of Stjohn. Once he saw a spider's web encrusted with more tiny drops of water than he thought it would have the strength to hold and stopped to admire it.
