‘So, you have solved a murder,’ said Michael the following day. It was Sunday, with breakfast later than usual because of the extended service in the church. ‘All on your own and within hours of me asking for your help. Perhaps I should make you a proctor.’
‘I solved nothing,’ said Bartholomew unhappily, looking at his food and thinking he would be inundated with demands for laxatives if Michael continued to provide his colleagues with nothing but bread and meat. ‘Elsham confessed. And if you did make me a proctor, it would be a very short appointment. I leave the University in six days.’
‘Next Saturday,’ sighed Michael. ‘By which time I hope to have some good news to announce to our scholars, after which I shall declare the University in summer recess.’
‘Good news about you being recognised as Chancellor?’
Michael nodded, but Bartholomew was seized with the sudden conviction that it was not what the monk had meant at all. He started to quiz him about it, but Michael raised a hand to stop him.
‘I cannot say more, Matt – I am sworn to secrecy. Suffice to say that I shall be busy for the next few days, so you will have to continue the investigation on your own.’
‘But—’
‘We now have another murder to solve,’ the monk went on. ‘Because I cannot believe that Elsham’s death was an accident – that Huntyngdon’s killer just happened to be beneath a lump of rock that plummeted down and crushed him.’
‘I spoke to Shardelowe afterwards,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He showed me how the stones were set. They were close to the edge, but none would have fallen without being pushed fairly vigorously.’
‘But no one saw who did it?’
‘Ulf and his friends were making a nuisance of themselves at the time, and everyone was either watching them or ducking their missiles. No one was looking at the stones.’
‘Could Ulf have done it? I would not put it past him.’
‘He was on the riverbank. And it was not his friends either, before you ask – they were on the ponticulus, and it was lucky the stone did not hit one of them on its way down. Besides, Shardelowe says it would have been too heavy for any of them to budge.’
‘So who are your suspects? I assume you have some?’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘Most are already on the list for dispatching Aynton, and all were near the bridge when the stone was pushed. They are Donwich, Brampton, Narboro, Stasy, Hawick, Morys and Shardelowe.’
Michael nodded. ‘But Chaumbre and Gille are eliminated, because they were on the ferry when Elsham died, and if the killer of Elsham and Aynton are one and the same …’
‘I had already discounted Gille as a suspect, because he has an alibi for Aynton’s murder. He and Elsham were in the Griffin, with witnesses to prove it.’
Michael considered. ‘Obviously, the culprit is Elsham’s mysterious friend. This person ordered Huntyngdon dispatched, but when Elsham failed to hide the body in a place where it would never be found, he exacted a terrible revenge.’
‘I would say the friend is Donwich, but he will need all the help he can get if he is to make himself Chancellor, and I do not see him dispatching a loyal ally just yet. Moreover, he was distressed when he learned that Elsham was dead – genuinely so, I believe.’
Michael was not so sure. ‘He has changed since becoming Master of Clare Hall, and has grown harder and colder. It would not surprise me if he killed a crony to suit himself, then feigned grief.’
Bartholomew supposed it was possible. ‘Then there are Stasy and Hawick. I have seen Elsham conferring slyly with them on three separate occasions. They claim it was about selling second-hand exemplars, but why should we believe them?’
‘You think either of that lowly, disreputable pair could force a brute like Elsham to kill on their behalf?’ asked Michael doubtfully.
‘Well, Elsham refused to give me the name of this friend, lest he disturbed his afterlife, and you expelled Stasy and Hawick for witchery …’
‘That is an interesting point. However, I do not believe that a lump of stone can be shoved off a bridge with no one seeing. There will be witnesses – we just need to find them.’
‘I tried, Brother,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘I questioned everyone who was there, but no one saw anything. And they would have told me if they had, not to win justice for Elsham, but because Chaumbre was also a victim, and people like him.’
‘I will set a couple of beadles to ask around the taverns,’ said Michael. ‘There are a few townsfolk who will never share information with a scholar, not even to benefit one of their own, but they talk to the beadles. Did you believe Elsham when he claimed he did not know what was in Aynton’s letter?’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘I had the impression he did not want to know – that he “forgot” to take it lest he inadvertently found out. He says Huntyngdon’s purse held a few farthings when he left, but it was empty by the time Dickon cut it free. I suspect the thief emptied it out and threw the letter away, not realising its importance.’
‘Pity,’ said Michael.
‘What about Huntyngdon’s father?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Could he have killed Elsham? Perhaps he is a better investigator than me, and did not need a dying man’s confession to learn the truth about what happened to his son.’
‘Elsham died when the Earl – and everyone else at King’s Hall – was burying Huntyngdon. Well, everyone other than Brampton, who was out collecting the University’s share of the money for the bridge.’
‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, filing the last piece of information away in his mind.
Michael rubbed his chin. ‘I accept your reasoning for why Gille cannot be this sinister friend, but I do not like the fact that he disappeared the moment the ferry touched land.’
‘Especially as Elsham said he was more brother than friend – yet he abandoned him without a backward glance.’
‘Well, find him, and force him to reveal the name of the mysterious person who bent the loutish Elsham to his will.’
‘Find Gille?’ echoed Bartholomew warily. ‘On my own?’
‘I have ordered the beadles to be on the alert for him, while Dick has done the same with his soldiers. You are not on your own.’
Bartholomew sighed. ‘I suppose I could see if he went home to Clare Hall …’
‘As soon as I heard what happened, I sent beadles to apprehend him there, but he had already packed a bag and left. Innocent men do not vanish with such suspicious haste, so he definitely has something to hide. Speak to his colleagues and see what you can learn.’
‘I doubt they know anything – they do not like each other. Donwich might, though.’
‘If he does, he will not tell you, so do not waste your time on him. When you have finished in Clare Hall, visit the Brazen George to see if Gille really was there when Huntyngdon was murdered. Then speak to our other suspects – Morys, Narboro, Stasy, Hawick and Shardelowe.’
‘Brampton was also near the bridge when Elsham died. He was chatting to Donwich.’
Michael made a moue of irritation. ‘I imagine he was trying to convince him to pay Clare Hall’s share of the bridge money. I hope he succeeds, because if not, other foundations might follow suit, and we will be unable to meet our obligations.’
‘Are you sure Brampton is the right man for the task?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘It will take a forceful character to sway the likes of Donwich, and Brampton is hardly what you would call assertive.’
‘He scaled the greasy pole of University politics without too much trouble, so I imagine he will find a way. Leave him be until Wednesday, by which time he will have collected everything we must pay the town. You may question him then, assuming we are still looking for a culprit. Agreed?’
‘You really think he can do it?’ asked Bartholomew, sure he would fail, as scholars were notoriously good at finding ways to avoid parting with money.
‘I do,’ replied Michael. ‘Do not underestimate him – he has many hidden skills.’
Bartholomew was interested to hear it, and wondered if sly murder was among them.
As work on the Sabbath was forbidden, there were never classes or lectures on Sundays. Some Colleges allowed their students to roam free, but Michaelhouse had learned that letting dozens of bored – and sex-starved – young men loose in the town was unwise, so the Fellows always made sure there was plenty for them to do at home. Activities usually revolved around amusing talks, games or light-hearted debates.
That day, it was Zoone’s turn to provide the necessary distractions. In deference to the heat, he eschewed anything energetic, and set up a bridge-designing tournament instead. As he offered a monetary prize for the winner, and most students were short of cash so late in the term, everyone was keen to chance his hand. Before that, however, there was to be a mock disputation on the subject of gluttony.
All eyes turned immediately to Michael, who looked up from his post-breakfast cake in astonishment, startled to find himself the centre of attention.
‘Why are you staring at me?’ he demanded. ‘I know nothing about gluttony.’
‘Then allow me to enlighten you,’ offered Zoone, oblivious to the students’ smirks. ‘According to Aquinas, there are five different kinds: eating too soon, too expensively, too much, too eagerly, and too daintily. To these may be added eating too wildly.’
‘What nonsense!’ cried Michael. ‘There is no such thing as eating “too soon” or “too much”, while eating “too eagerly” is just a man’s way of complimenting his cook.’
‘Quite right,’ put in William, who was something of a glutton himself.
‘Moreover, the “expense” of food is outside our control, given that we must eat what we are given,’ Michael went on, blithely ignoring the fact that he monitored every aspect of College victuals with an eagle eye. ‘And I have no idea what eating “too wildly” means. However, I concede that eating “too daintily” is a nasty habit.’
‘So there,’ said William, this particular response being his idea of incisive disputation.
‘Animals and birds only eat when they are hungry,’ put in Aungel tentatively. ‘So I suppose you could never accuse them of gorging.’
Clippesby laughed as he stroked the iridescent feathers of the College’s lead hen, who perched on his lap. ‘You would not say that if you knew them, Aungel. Ethel and her flock always have room for raisins, even when they are full of grain. So do the peafowl.’
‘You give our precious raisins to birds?’ demanded William, aghast. ‘Do you know how much those cost, man?’
‘No, and neither do they,’ replied Clippesby serenely. ‘It does not matter to a chicken if a raisin costs a farthing or a hundred marks – she will enjoy it equally. Aquinas could never accuse a hen of eating “too expensively”, because money means nothing to her.’
‘That is untrue,’ countered William. ‘When I bought a cheaper feed for them last term, they refused to touch it, and Ethel sent me a message – which you delivered – quoting Aristotle, who condemned those who put the accumulation of wealth above good living.’
‘Enough!’ said Michael, laughing. ‘You can save these fascinating insights for the debate. I only wish I could be there to hear it. Unfortunately, the vicars-general demand my presence in St Mary the Great today. There is much work to be done and—’
‘On a Sunday?’ interrupted William, immediately puffing up with righteous indignation. ‘When all labour is forbidden by God’s holy commandments?’
‘Blame Thomas Ely,’ Michael flashed back. ‘It was his idea. But he is a Franciscan, so what can they know about pious living?’
‘More than Benedictines,’ retorted William, predictably leaping to defend his Order. ‘And if Ely suggested it, then I withdraw my objection. We Grey Friars know what we are doing when it comes to theology.’
The students trooped out of the hall, and Bartholomew was about to follow when the peafowl set up a tremendous cacophony near the porter’s lodge. He looked through the window and spotted someone lurking in the shadows, but whoever was there beat a hasty retreat when Walter emerged from his lair to see what was going on.
‘Birds are better than any guard dog,’ said Clippesby, coming to stand at Bartholomew’s side. ‘I am sure that was Stasy, trying to sneak in while we were all at breakfast. But Henry remembers being kicked, and will not allow him past.’
Cynric appeared from nowhere. ‘Stasy is up and about?’ he demanded. ‘I assumed he was still in bed – as he was yesterday and Friday, when there was no College bell to summon him to church. I had better go and—’
‘I assume you watched them at the Great Bridge yesterday,’ interrupted Bartholomew. ‘Does that mean I can discount them as suspects for shoving the stone on Elsham?’
Cynric winced. ‘They are clever. They know I am keeping an eye on them, so they separate, forcing me to choose which one to follow. But as it happens, I was not with either when Elsham died. Stasy knocked Margery over, see – he says by accident – and I was helping her up.’
‘So they distracted you at the salient time?’ pounced Bartholomew.
Cynric nodded. ‘I imagine they are your killers, boy. They are warlocks, and the sooner they are hanged, the happier I shall be.’
And this coming from a man who revered a witch, thought Bartholomew.
Cambridge boasted more than a dozen parish churches, not to mention chapels in convents and Colleges, and nearly all had bells of some description. As it was Sunday, every one of them was in clanging action, calling the faithful to their devotions. They created a tremendous cacophony, the deep bass of St Mary the Great booming over the tinny clanks of St Botolph and Trinity Hall.
Although Bartholomew was ready to begin his enquiries immediately, his patients had other ideas, and his morning was taken up with them. There were several new cases of flux, in places as far apart as the Dominican Friary and the cottages along the Chesterton lane. He was hungry when he had finished, so he returned to Michaelhouse to beg bread and cheese from Agatha – the noonday meal was already under way and he did not want to stroll into the hall late. He ate in the yard, thinking it was a good time to catch the scholars of Clare Hall, who would also be gathered in their refectory.
‘You seem better,’ he remarked to Walter, whom he passed on his way out.
The porter nodded, although his face retained its habitual scowl. ‘But not because of Stasy and Hawick, no matter what they claim. I refused to swallow the tonic they sent me, lest it was poisoned. I poured it away. Incidentally, a priest came earlier. He left you this, to help with the flux. It comes from the same person who has been helping the sick beadles.’
It was a heavy purse, containing enough to buy medicine for his poorer patients for a month. It was not unusual for people to leave Bartholomew charitable donations – Edith was generous in that respect, and so were several scholars, burgesses and town guilds. However, none had given him such a large sum before.
‘Who is this person?’ he asked, touched and grateful. ‘I should thank him.’
‘The priest would not tell me,’ replied Walter crossly. ‘And believe me, I tried to prise a name out of him. All he would say is that it comes from someone who appreciates what you are doing, and wants to help.’
‘Do you have any idea who it might be?’
‘The Earl of Huntyngdon,’ replied Walter promptly. ‘The King’s Hall porters told me that he is indebted to you for finding his son’s killer.’
‘I did not find him – he confessed. Besides, why would the Earl care about sick beadles and paupers? Or make his donation anonymous?’
‘True,’ acknowledged Walter. ‘Someone else then …’
‘Have you heard any rumours about who killed Elsham?’
‘None,’ replied Walter. ‘Although no one mourns him, least of all Clare Hall. Well, other than its Master. Oh, before I forget, Mayor Morys wants you to call, because his wife has the flux. When you visit, overcharge him. He cheats everyone else, so it will serve him right to be on the other end for a change.’
Bartholomew glanced at the dye-pits on his way to Morys’s house, and saw that while two had been carefully filled in, nothing had been done to the others. Naturally, the ones that remained were the largest and deepest. He heard people talking about Chaumbre as he passed them, and it seemed the dyer’s near-drowning had granted him a reprieve – he was popular, and folk were so glad that he had survived his dip in the Cam that they were willing to forgive him almost anything.
By contrast, Morys was not popular at all, and his mansion near the Round Church showed signs of having been bombarded with muck at various points during his residency. It was a pity, as it was a lovely house – its plasterwork was picked out with gilt and every window had real glass. Bartholomew was conducted to a room that was full of natural light, and after Morys had welcomed him, a maid brought them rose-water sherbets.
‘Is this ice?’ asked Bartholomew, regarding his goblet in astonishment.
‘I have it imported,’ replied Morys smugly. ‘It is costly, of course, but I deserve it.’
The fragment had melted by the time Bartholomew looked back at his cup again, but the drink was still beautifully cold. He swallowed it quickly, before it took on the ambient temperature of the room, thinking that if Morys could afford such a wild luxury, then he was richer than anyone knew, because not even kings and princes spent money on something that had invariably turned to water by the time it arrived.
‘My condolences for Elsham,’ said Morys, while they waited for the maid to come back and tell them that Rohese was ready to receive the physician. ‘His death is very sad.’
He did not look sad, and Bartholomew remembered what Ulf’s grandmother had said: that Rohese had taken Elsham as a lover. He had been sceptical at the time, but perhaps it was true. If so, it was a strong motive for murder, and Bartholomew had seen Morys near the bridge shortly after the stone had been pushed.
‘Did you know Elsham?’ he fished.
‘Not really, although Donwich said that Elsham and Gille are the only Clare Hall Fellows to remain loyal to him – the others are all treacherous dogs.’ Morys smiled. ‘He will make a fine Chancellor, much better than Michael, who is overly honest and friends with the Sheriff into the bargain. I cannot do business with a person like that.’
‘An incorruptible one, you mean,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Although it will not matter by the end of the month, because you will no longer be Mayor.’
Morys smiled enigmatically. ‘No, I suppose not.’
‘Did you see what happened on the bridge yesterday when Elsham died?’
‘I am afraid all my attention was on the brats who were throwing mud and bits of wood. Little ruffians! The Sheriff should hang the lot of them. They are no good to man nor beast.’
‘Can you think of anyone who might want to kill Elsham?’
‘Oh, dozens!’ replied Morys, eyes glittering slyly. ‘Most of the University thinks Michael should be Chancellor, and Elsham supported his rival. All of them should be on your list of suspects. As should the monk himself.’
Bartholomew saw he had been overly optimistic to think he could learn anything useful from Morys, who was far too clever to be trapped into saying something he would rather keep to himself.
At that point, the maid appeared to say Rohese was ready, so Morys led the way to the back of the house, where the lady in question lay on a bed that was loaded with silken covers. She was pale, and even as they entered the room, she lurched towards a bucket. Repelled, Morys beat a hasty retreat, leaving Bartholomew to tend to her on his own.
‘It is not the flux,’ said Bartholomew, when he had finished examining her. ‘But I imagine you already know that. You are with child.’
Rohese wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. ‘Yes, but you cannot tell my husband, because we have not … well, he will know he is not the father.’
Bartholomew could not bring himself to ask if that honour belonged to Elsham, when she lay so helpless and miserable. ‘The sickness will pass soon,’ was all he said. ‘Until then, the best remedy is rest, and perhaps a mild infusion of peppermint or raspberry leaf.’
Rohese shot him a rueful glance. ‘My predicament will do you no favours. If I keep vomiting like this, my husband will tell everyone that you have failed to cure me of the flux.’
‘He will guess the truth sooner or later, so you should consider how to deal with the situation before it arises. He is not a gentle man.’
She winced. ‘Unfortunately, I am not sure who is responsible for my … predicament. Perhaps I should say it is Dickon, as even my husband will be wary of challenging him.’
Bartholomew eyed her askance. ‘Is Dickon really a possibility?’
She sniffed. ‘I do not couple with children, not even strong and handsome ones like him. The two most likely candidates are Baldok and Elsham. Unfortunately, both are dead.’
‘Does your husband know about Elsham?’
‘I thought not.’ Rohese looked away. ‘But perhaps I was wrong.’
‘Is he the kind of man to kill your lovers?’
‘Whose husband is not?’ shrugged Rohese. ‘He would not do the deed himself, of course, but he has family in the Fens who are willing to exchange violence for money. You will never prove it, though, so do not waste your time trying.’
‘Do you feel safe here? If not, Matilde will find you somewhere to hide.’
Rohese gave him a lopsided smile. ‘I am safe for now, although I shall have to run eventually. However, it will be at a time of my choosing, and I refuse to be rushed.’
Bartholomew took his leave, feeling soiled by the encounter – and burdened, too, with a secret he wished he did not have. He hurried down the stairs and was just walking along the corridor when Morys emerged from a door to one side. The Mayor pulled it shut behind him, but it swung open again to reveal a flight of steps leading down to a cellar. At the bottom was his cousin John, the knight, who knelt by a chest of coins. It was the box containing the money raised for the bridge, which Morys had displayed at the guildhall meeting.
‘Well?’ demanded Morys, closing the door again to prevent the physician from seeing more. ‘Have you cured her?’
‘She needs to rest,’ replied Bartholomew ambiguously.
‘Will you prescribe some of your magical barley water?’ asked Morys. ‘Because I do not like the thought of her being sick on the coverlets. Vomit stains, you know.’
Outside, the heat hit Bartholomew like a furnace, and he wondered how much longer the sun would bake the town. Then he remembered Zoone’s prediction for two days hence, and hoped he was right about rain in the offing. Of course, then the superstitious would say it ‘proved’ their claims that a downpour on the Feast of St Swithun’s Day would presage forty more wet days. The likes of Cynric, Margery and Zoone would milk it for all it was worth.
He had not taken many steps along the High Street when he was hailed by a familiar voice. It was Meadowman. The beadle was pale and walked with a stick, but it was a huge improvement on their last meeting, when Bartholomew had been desperate enough to add pepper to his barley water and lie about it. He was delighted that the ruse had worked.
‘I shall be able to return to work soon,’ the beadle said happily. ‘I wish you had given me that powerful powder sooner.’
As he seemed unsteady on his feet, Bartholomew helped him home. He emerged from the beadle’s cottage only to be intercepted by a Peterhouse student, who said that Narboro needed to see him in Hoo Hall at once.
Bartholomew walked there quickly, noting that the Mill Pond was emptier than ever as the drought continued. Morys had doubled the guards around it, to make sure people paid for the water they took. It reeked horribly, which was not surprising, with virtually no through-flow to prevent it from turning stagnant.
Hoo Hall was dark after the glare of the sun, so Bartholomew waited for his eyes to grow accustomed to it, then descended the steps to the cellar-like hall. Since his last visit, it had come into service as a store for perishable food, which was sensible, as it was deliciously cool. He walked across the hall, and climbed the stairs on the opposite wall to the dormitory, where Narboro lay on his bed.
‘What happened?’ blurted Bartholomew, when the man turned his head towards him and he saw his face. ‘Did someone hit you?’
‘That bad?’ whispered Narboro miserably. ‘Lord! What shall I do? I cannot go out looking like this. People will think I have been brawling.’
Bartholomew sat next to him. ‘Who punched you?’
‘No one – I fell down one of Chaumbre’s pits. It is his fault that I am bruised and bloody, and I am going to sue him for every penny he owns. You can tell him that.’
‘Best not,’ advised Bartholomew. ‘His lawyers will request the opinion of a medicus, and any physician will testify that you cannot have suffered this injury from a fall. You will be dismissed as a liar.’
Narboro deflated. ‘Damn! Getting free money from Chaumbre seemed like the answer to all my problems, because unless I can pay off Brampton, he will destroy me. Very well. The truth is that I butted a tomb with my face.’
Bartholomew blinked. ‘What for?’
Narboro shot him a nasty glance. ‘It was not deliberate, I assure you. If you must know, it was after Elsham died yesterday. I saw his body carried past and I thought I might be sick, so I ran to the nearest open space – St Clement’s cemetery. As my head went down to vomit, my nose smacked into a grave.’
Bartholomew’s first inclination was to laugh, and his second was to treat the tale with a healthy dose of scepticism. Elsham had not been an especially terrible sight, and it occurred to Bartholomew that the only person it might disturb was a guilt-stricken culprit. He struggled to keep his expression professionally noncommittal. ‘Do you usually have such extreme responses to the dead?’
‘Always,’ declared Narboro. ‘I am sensitive, not like the ghouls who surged forward for a better look. I do not know how you could bear to touch the thing. I hope you washed your hands afterwards.’
‘Many times,’ Bartholomew assured him. ‘The University is determined to catch Elsham’s killer. What do you know about what happened to him?’
Narboro appeared to consider the question carefully. ‘Well, I saw Donwich watching events unfold with unseemly interest, but he cannot be the culprit, because he liked Elsham. Indeed, there were tears in his eyes when he learned the identity of the victim.’
‘Why mention him in particular?’
‘Because he was whispering with Mayor Morys shortly before the incident, and as I was sure they were up to no good, I tried to eavesdrop.’
‘Why on Earth would you want to do that?’
‘I hoped they might say something that would allow me to blackmail them,’ replied Narboro bluntly. ‘I am so desperate for funds to give to Brampton that I will stoop to any depths to get some. But Morys’s cousin John feinted at me with a knife, so I beat a hasty retreat.’
‘So you do not know what they discussed?’
Narboro smirked. ‘I do, actually, because John did not notice me immediately. In essence, Morys was paying Donwich for speaking at the guildhall. Apparently, his remarks forced Michael to contribute a lot more towards the bridge, and the whole “disagreement” was part of a plan devised by Morys to make our University do what he wanted.’
‘We suspected as much,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Although your testimony is proof of it.’
‘And that is not all. Donwich will use the incident to show the vicars-general that it makes Michael unfit to be Chancellor. When they appoint him instead, he will force Michaelhouse to pay the University’s entire contribution on its own.’
Bartholomew made a mental note to warn Michael. ‘So will you use all this to extort money from Morys? Or Donwich?’
‘I tried, but they both threatened me with violence, so I decided to leave it. Perhaps I should invent a yarn about them dispatching Elsham instead, and you can buy my testimony. They cannot hurt me if they are hanged for murder, can they.’
‘We would rather have the truth,’ said Bartholomew coolly. ‘So, speak honestly now: did you hear anything to implicate them in Elsham’s death?’
Narboro grimaced. ‘No, not a thing, unfortunately.’
Bartholomew was growing exasperated. ‘Look, Narboro, this is important: we know Huntyngdon was murdered – by Elsham – after Aynton gave him a letter for you. You must have some idea what it was about.’
Narboro sighed irritably. ‘But I do not! How many more times must I say it? All I can think is that he wanted me to get him a Court post for when he retired. It is normally the sort of favour one begs in person, but I was away when you say he gave Huntyngdon this letter, so he must have decided to write instead.’
Bartholomew frowned. ‘You have not mentioned this before. Where were you?’
‘On a personal errand,’ replied Narboro haughtily. ‘Which is none of your business.’
‘Then you can sit in the proctors’ gaol until you tell me,’ blustered Bartholomew. ‘This is a murder enquiry. It is no time for secrets.’
‘You cannot throw me in a cell,’ cried Narboro, alarmed. ‘I have done nothing wrong!’
‘Then tell me where you were.’
Narboro scowled. ‘If you must know, I went to Linton to order a new mirror. You see, Lucy spotted me using the one she gifted me ten years ago, and it made me feel like a scoundrel. So I decided to replace it.’
Bartholomew had no idea if he was telling the truth. ‘Is that all? I thought it was something important.’
‘It is important,’ declared Narboro indignantly. ‘The situation with Lucy is delicate, and not just because her brother aims to ruin me. I cannot have her thinking that I might change my mind about marrying her, just because I am attached to a present she once gave me. I ordered another mirror – without her painting on the back – and was home four days later.’
‘Four days?’ echoed Bartholomew in disbelief. ‘For a journey to Linton? You could have been there and back in a quarter of that time.’
‘There were decisions to be made,’ said Narboro stiffly. ‘I had to choose the wood, the design and the size. Besides, I was glad to get away from Cambridge, to be frank. I am tired of Brampton glaring at me every time our paths cross. I would have stayed away longer but the glazier needed his spare room back.’
‘Can you prove you were away all that time?’
Narboro pondered. ‘Well, Aynton saw me leave, although he is not in a position to say so, regrettably. I ran into him by the Barnwell Gate, and he asked why I was leaving during term. To avoid him reporting me – I cannot afford a fine – I confided my tale.’
Bartholomew narrowed his eyes. ‘You told the Chancellor that you were breaking University rules to buy yourself a new mirror, and he just let you go?’
Narboro looked sheepish. ‘Actually, I told him it was for the King, who wanted it urgently. He believed me, thankfully.’ He brightened. ‘It will be ready soon, and I shall go to Linton to collect it.’
‘But, as you pointed out, Aynton is dead, so cannot confirm or deny your tale.’
‘No,’ sighed Narboro, ‘which is why I did not bother telling you in the first place.’
‘What about the glazier?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Will he verify your claims?’
‘Bartholomew, you are a genius!’ cried Narboro. ‘Why did I not think of that? Of course he will! I stayed with him for three nights, so he will remember me well.’
He provided the glazier’s name so readily that Bartholomew was sure he was telling the truth. And if he had been away when Huntyngdon had been dispatched, the chances were that he was innocent of murdering Aynton, too. Bartholomew had eliminated another suspect, but the mystery of the letter remained, and he was not sure how to resolve it.