second death, similar to the first.
He looked up as Father Andrew entered. The friar's benign face was slightly splattered with ink, and his hands were black with it. He noticed Bartholomew's gaze and smiled apologetically.
'I am having problems with a new batch of quills,' he explained in his soft, lilting voice. 'I am a theologian, Doctor, and I am afraid such practical matters as cutting quills elude me.'
Bartholomew returned his smile, and Andrew perched on a stool next to him, clasping his stained hands together.
'Ivo!' he called to the noisy scullion. 'We have visitors, boy! Meadowman, can you not give Ivo a task he might complete more quietly?' He turned to Bartholomew.
'David's is severely limited in whom it can afford for servants,' he said in a low voice, so he would not be overheard and hurt Ivo's feelings. 'Meadowman is efficient enough but our scullions must be supervised constantly.
But enough of our problems. What can we do for you, Doctor?' A smile crinkled his light blue eyes as he saw Ruthven and Davy Grahame return to their reading and he nodded approvingly at their diligence. 'I am afraid Master Radbeche is out at the moment but I will help you if I can.'
'I am afraid we are making little headway in this business concerning James Kenzie,' said Bartholomew.
'I really came to ask if there was anything else you might have heard, or remembered, since the last time we met that might help.'
The smile left Andrew's eyes and his face became sad.
'Poor Jamie,' he said softly. 'He would never have made a good scholar but he was a decent lad: truthful and kind. It was a terrible thing that he died such a death.
His parents will be devastated.' He shook himself. 'But my eulogies will not help you catch his killer. In truth, I have thought of little else during these last few days, but I have been unable to come up with the merest shred of information that could be of use to you. I did not know he had a secret lover, and I certainly did not know it was Dominica Lydgate, or I would have dissuaded him immediately.'
'Why?' asked Bartholomew. 'Did you not like her?'
Andrew shook his head vehemently. 'You misunderstand,' he said. 'I have never met her. But I can see no future in a relationship between a poor student and the daughter of a wealthy principal. I would have dissuaded him for his own ultimate happiness. It is not for nothing the University has strict rules about women!'
'Who do you think might have killed Jamie?' Bartholomew asked.
Andrew spread his hands. 'I wish I knew. As it is, I do not even know why. You asked his friends about a ring Jamie was supposed to have had. Perhaps he was killed for that, if his killer assumed it was of value. I cannot imagine what he was doing near the Ditch at Valance Marie, but maybe that is not a safe place to be of an evening. Perhaps a group of apprentices were looking for trouble and killed him for simple mischief.'
'Do you think it possible that he may have been killed by students from another hostel?' asked Bartholomew. 'For example the friars with whom he argued the day before he died?'
Andrew spread his inky hands again. 'It is possible, I suppose, but it seems an extreme reaction on the part of the friars. Students of different hostels are always quarrelling with each other, but such altercations seldom result in murder — at least, not cold-blooded, premeditated slaying; we all know they kill each other in the heat of the moment.'
Although they were pretending to be doing other things, Bartholomew knew that the students were listening intently.
'Do you think the friars killed Jamie?' he asked Stuart Grahame.
Stuart Grahame looked up and flushed red at the sudden attention. 'I did to begin with,' he said, 'but not now. The friars would have been more likely to have killed me or Fyvie, since we were the ones who reacted the most strongly to their insults. Jamie did not antagonise them enough so that they would want to kill him.'
And how much would that be? Bartholomew wondered.
He watched the others carefully but could see nothing in the wide, guileless eyes of Davy Grahame that suggested guilt, while Ruthven nodded wisely at Stuart Grahame's words, so that Bartholomew suspected that Grahame was merely repeating Ruthven's own logic. Fyvie, however, stared moodily at the rushes and his face revealed nothing.
'And what do you think, Fyvie?' asked Bartholomew, watching him intently.
Fyvie said nothing for a few moments, and then stood.
He loomed over Bartholomew, who would have felt threatened had Father Andrew not been present. He slowly pointed a finger at the physician.
'I have no reason to dismiss anyone from my list of suspects,' he said. 'Perhaps StuartGrahame is rightabout the friars and perhaps he is not. But who else had a reason to kill him?'
Who indeed? thought Bartholomew. If Werbergh had been telling the truth about Kenzie appearing at the church to ask if the friars had stolen his ring, then Edred might well have been presented with the perfect opportunity to follow and kill him. His motive might simply have been that he did not want the Scot to be alive to accuse him of theft. The more Bartholomew considered it, the more the evidence seemed to stack against Edred.
They all jumped as water hit one of the window shutters with a crash, splattering in over the sill and spraying Ruthven and Davy Grahame. The two students ducked away, grinning at each other as they shook droplets from their hair and wiped their faces with their sleeves. From the yard, there was a gale of laughter and a moment later the smirking face of the student who had been working there appeared. His mischievous delight vanished when he saw David's had a visitor.
'John!' admonished Father Andrew. 'Where are your manners, lad?'
'Have you got him?' asked John of Bartholomew, leaning earnestly through the window. Ts that why you are here? To tell us you have caught Jamie's murderer?'
'He has not,' said Father Andrew. 'Go back to, your chores, John, and no playing with the water or I will tell your brother to take over your duties.'
While John reluctantly went back to his cleaning, the friar spoke gently to Fyvie, urging him to sit down.
'Perhaps Jamie's murder was a random crime. Many deaths occur without a reason. You must brace yourself for the possibility that his killer may never be caught, despite the best efforts of the Senior Proctor and his colleagues.'
Fyvie looked up at him and then his glower abated somewhat. 'I am sorry,' he wailed suddenly, making Bartholomew start nervously. 'But we are cooped up here day and night, not allowed to go out unless we are accompanied, and all the while Jamie's murderer is laughing at us! I am not saying I wish to kill the man myself,' he said, with an apologetic glance at Father Andrew, 'but I do wish to bring him to justice.'
The friar patted his arm consolingly. 'The Proctor is doing all he can. Meanwhile, you would not wish to upset your family by becoming embroiled in things you should not.'
He sighed and called to the open window. 'There is no need to eavesdrop, John. Come in if you insist on listening.'
John's begrimed face appeared immediately, and he leaned his elbows on the windowsill.
'A shed collapsed on Brother Werbergh yesterday morning,' said Bartholomew somewhat abruptly.
Students and master looked at each other in confusion.
'Is Brother Werbergh one of the Godwinsson friars with whom our students argued?' asked Andrew. Bartholomew nodded. 'Is he badly hurt?'
'He is dead,' said Bartholomew.
There was a deathly silence. Ts that why you are here?' asked Andrew. 'To see where David's Hostel students were at the time of his death?' His eyes became sad.
'You might have been a little more straightforward with us, Doctor. I assure you, we have nothing to hide, and you have no need to resort to this trickery. Yesterday morning, you say? We were either at church or here.'
'What about Friday and Saturday?' Bartholomew asked.
'You said he died yesterday,' Andrew pointed out. 'But it makes no difference. Since this dreadful business began we have kept our students here, or out under supervision.
As I told you earlier we cannot afford to be seen brawling, or we will lose our hostel. Either I, or the Principal,
