A Bone of Contention хмб-3

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘That was because we had no cause to ask such a thing,’ said Michael with a shrug.

  ‘And fourth.’ Bartholomew took a deep breath. ‘He was the man at Chesterton tower-house who said there would be a riot last night.’

  ‘What?’ exclaimed Michael, leaping to his feet. ‘You have not fully recovered your wits, my friend! That is one of the most outrageous claims I have ever heard you make! And believe me, you have made a fair few!’

  ‘I told you the voice was familiar, but that there was something about it I could not quite place,’ said Bartholomew defensively.

  ‘And why is it that you have suddenly remembered this fact now?’ asked Michael, not even trying to disguise the sarcasm in his voice.

  ‘It is not a case of remembering,’ said Bartholomew, controlling his own sudden flare of anger at Michael’s casual dismissal of his revelation. ‘It is a case of recognition. Andrew speaks with a Scottish accent. Well, when I overheard him in Chesterton making his proclamation about the riot, he did not. He spoke in the accent of an Englishman. It was his voice, I am certain, but I did not recognise it immediately because he usually disguises it.’

  ‘Oh really, Matt!’ said Michael, sitting back down again and stretching out his large legs in front of him. ‘The late Master Wilson would be spinning in his grave to hear such wild leaps of logic!’

  ‘Logic be damned!’ said Bartholomew vehemently. ‘It fits, Michael! If you put all we know together, it fits!’

  He sat next to the monk and gave the tree trunk a thump in exasperation. ‘We know David’s is involved in this business somehow. Ivo, who pre-empted yesterday’s riot with his broken cart in the High Street, works at David’s. Kenzie was killed, and he was at David’s. And the Galen, containing the letters from Norbert to me, was from David’s.’

  Michael shook his head slowly. ‘I accept your point that Andrew is not who he claims, but I cannot accept that he is Norbert. He is too old for a start.’

  ‘Grey hair and whiskers always add years to a man,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is probably a disguise to conceal his true age.’

  ‘Maybe, maybe.’ Michael picked up another oatcake and crammed it into his mouth so that his next words were muffled. ‘But tell me about the rings. What have you reasoned there?’

  ‘I have deduced nothing new,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘But we should reconsider what we do know. There are three rings. Dominica took two of them – the lovers’ rings – from Cecily, kept one for herself and gave the other to Kenzie. One of his friends is certain that the ring Kenzie had originally was of great value. But the ring that was stolen from him by Edred was the third ring and a cheap imitation of the others. At some point someone, perhaps Kenzie himself, exchanged them. Kenzie’s original ring then appeared three days after his death on the relic at Valence Marie. Cecily took the other half of the pair back from Dominica when she was sent to Chesterton, and gave it to me.’ He removed the ring from his sleeve and looked at it, glinting blue-green in the morning light.

  Michael took it from him and twisted it around in his fingers. ‘So, what you conclude from all this,’ he said, ‘is that the Principal of Godwinsson’s ring has ended up on Valence Marie’s relic via a student from David’s. And that Father Andrew is at the heart of it all, on the basis of William’s records and the fact that Andrew is at the same hostel that owns the Galen. Am I correct?’

  Bartholomew leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and closed his eyes. Now he had repeated his arguments to Michael, they sounded weak and unconvincing, whereas during the night they had seemed infallible.

  ‘Dominica,’ said Bartholomew suddenly, snapping upright. ‘Where is she? If she is not dead, then where is she?’

  ‘She was ruled by a rod of iron by two extremely unpleasant people,’ said Michael. ‘She saw her opportunity to escape and took it.’

  ‘I do not think so,’ said Bartholomew. ‘She is still here. In fact, I am willing to wager you anything you please that we will find her at David’s.’

  ‘In a hostel?’ cried Michael in disbelief. ‘You are insane, my friend! Adam Radbeche would never stand for such a flouting of the University rules! ‘

  ‘Well, in that case, you will have no objection to coming with me to see,’ said Bartholomew, rising abruptly and striding off through the orchard. Michael followed, grumbling.

  ‘But where is your evidence?’ he panted, struggling to keep up with Bartholomew’s healthy pace. ‘Where is your proof?’

  Bartholomew grinned mischievously. ‘I suppose I have none at all, just a feeling, a hunch if you will.’

  Michael made as if to demur, but could see the determination in his friend’s face and knew there was little he could do to dissuade Bartholomew from visiting David’s.

  All he could hope to do was to minimise any damage Bartholomew might cause by wild accusations.

  The signs of the previous night’s rioting were obvious as they hurried along the High Street to Shoemaker Lane, but the damage was mostly superficial and already much had been cleared away. None of the townspeople’s houses or shops had been attacked. The rioters had concentrated on University property. Bartholomew was puzzled. If he were to attack the University he would not choose Michaelhouse, one of the largest and strongest of the University’s properties or some small and impoverished institution like St Paul’s Hostel. He would pick those places that were known to be wealthy and not particularly well fortified – like Maud’s. He would also attack St Mary’s Church, since it was perhaps the most prominent of the University’s buildings, and look for the University chest where all the valuables were kept. But Michael said that St Mary’s had not been touched.

  He frowned. The only explanation he could find was that the leaders of the riot did not want to inflict serious damage on the University. In which case, what was their motive? Now the curfew on the townspeople would be imposed more harshly than ever, entry into the town would become more rigidly controlled, and legal trading times would be curtailed. Also, the Sheriff would have to hang some of the rioters he caught as a deterrent to others, and there would be taxes to pay for the damage. After the previous night’s riot, the townspeople would suffer more than the University.

  He tried to clear his thoughts as they approached David’s. Its strong door had been torn from its hinges and there were scratches along the wall where something had been forced along it. There was no reply to Michael’s knock, so they entered uninvited. Bartholomew called Radbeche’s name, but his voice bounced back at him through the empty corridor.

  He hammered on the door at the end of the passageway that led to the large chamber where lessons took place, and shouted again. There was no reply, so he opened it, stepped inside and looked around.

  The cosy room at David’s, with its ancient, patterned window-shutters and warm smell of cooking food, was deserted. Bartholomew walked slowly to look over the other side of the table. Master Radbeche lay there, his throat cut so deeply that Bartholomew thought he could see bone beneath the glistening blood.

  ‘Is Dominica there?’ came Michael’s voice from behind him.

  ‘No,’ said Bartholomew shortly. Michael elbowed him out of the way impatiently, but let out a gasp of shock when he saw Radbeche’s body.

  ‘Oh, Lord!’ he exclaimed in a whisper. ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘It seems as though someone cut his throat,’ replied Bartholomew dryly. ‘With considerable vigour, by the look of it.’

  ‘My question was rhetorical, Matt,’ said the monk testily. ‘As well you know.’ He gazed down at the redheaded philosopher. ‘Poor Radbeche! What could he ever have done to warrant such violence? The University will be a poorer place without his sharp intelligence.’

  He shuddered as Bartholomew began to examine Radbeche’s body. The Principal of David’s had been dead for several hours – perhaps even before the riot had started, when Bartholomew had been talking with Lydgate and Michael in the church. Bartholomew sat back on his heels and looked aroun
d the room. He saw that the small door that led to the kitchen and storerooms was ajar, and picked his way across the floor towards it. The door knob was sticky and Bartholomew’s hand came away stained red with blood. He gritted his teeth against his rising revulsion took a hold of it again, turning it slowly and pushing open the door. In the kitchen, pans had been knocked from their hooks on the wall and someone had kicked charred logs from the fire across the room. Bartholomew walked to the small storeroom beyond, shoving aside a strip of hanging leather that served as a door.

  Alistair Ruthven sat on the floor cradling John of Stirling in his arms. At first, Bartholomew thought they were both dead, since their faces were so white and their clothes so bloodstained. But, slowly, Ruthven turned an stricken face towards Bartholomew and tried to stand.

  Bartholomew lifted John off Ruthven and set him gently on the floor.

  ‘Are you injured?’ asked Bartholomew, looking to where Ruthven hovered nervously.

  Ruthven shook his head. ‘I was not here when this happened. John is dead,’ he added, looking at his friend on the floor. He suddenly looked about him wildly. ‘Why could have done this?’ he wailed. ‘Master Radbeche and John are dead and I only escaped because I pretended to be dead, too.’ His eyes glazed, he stumbled into the halls.

  ‘Stop him!’ said Bartholomew urgently to Michael.

  With a blood-curdling howl, Ruthven dropped to his knees and brought clenched fists up to his head. ‘He will become hysterical,’ said Bartholomew warningly. ‘Take him outside, quickly. And send word for the Austin Canons to come for John.’

  With Michael’s large arms wrapped around him, Ruthven staggered along the corridor to the street. Bartholomew bent back to John who, despite Ruthven’s claim, was certainly not dead. He suspected that a good deal of the blood had probably come from Radbeche, for when he pulled away the lad’s shirt to inspect the wound, it was superficial.

  John’s eyes flickered open as Bartholomew slid a rug under his head, rummaged in his bag for clean linen and set about binding the gash.

  ‘Am I going to die?’ he whispered. ‘Or am I dead already?’

  ‘Neither,’ said Bartholomew, smiling reassuringly. ‘This is little more than a scratch. You will be perfectly all right in a day or two.’

  ‘But all that blood!’ He swallowed hard and looked at the physician with a desperate expression.

  ‘Lie still,’ said Bartholomew gently. ‘I think you must have fainted.’

  John smiled wanly, his eyes fixed on Bartholomew’s face. ‘The sight of blood makes me dizzy. It was bad enough seeing Master Radbeche’s, but someone came at me in the dark, and then I saw some of my own.’

  ‘So, what happened?’ asked Bartholomew, cradling the student’s head so that he could sip some water. ‘Did you see who attacked you?’

  John shook his head, his face suddenly fearful. ‘But I think it was Father Andrew. I think he killed Master Radbeche!’

  ‘Start at the beginning,’ said Bartholomew, not wanting his jumble of facts to become more confused by John’s wild speculations. ‘Tell me exactly what happened.’

  ‘I went out at sunset with Father Andrew to buy bread, although Master Radbeche had gone away for the night, and I was surprised that Father Andrew would leave the others unsupervised. Anyway, Father Andrew met Father William from Michaelhouse, and they started to argue, so he told me to buy the bread on my own.’

  If Radbeche was supposed to be away, thought Bartholomew, what was he doing lying dead in the kitchen? John sipped some more water before resuming. ‘It was the first time I had been allowed out alone for so long and so I determined to make the most of it. I met some friends and it was dark by the time I returned. There was a crowd of people outside the hostel, throwing stones and insults up at the windows and two people were stealing the door. I knew the others must have gone out, because they would never have allowed the hostel to come under attack like that without retaliating had they been in. I hid in the shadows of the runnel opposite, and watched.’

  He paused again. ‘After a while, Father Andrew, approached. He addressed the people confidently as though he had done so many times before. The leaders of the mob just led them away, like children. I was about to run into the hostel after Father Andrew, when I thought about what he had done: he had given the rioters orders and they had obeyed without question. His voice was different. I am not sure…’

  ‘He no longer sounded Scottish?’ asked Bartholomew.

  ‘Yes!’ exclaimed John. ‘That was what was different! His voice was his own, but he sounded like a someone from here. I always thought his accent was not from Stirling.’

  ‘Then what?’ asked Bartholomew gently, helping the student to sit up.

  John took a shuddering breath. ‘After talking to the mob, Father Andrew went inside David’s, but left again moments later. I came in and found… Master Radbeche dead with… As I stood looking at him I felt a pain in my chest and I looked down and saw…’ He shuddered and Bartholomew was afraid he might faint again. He eased the student back against the wall and gave him more water.

  After a few moments, John began to speak again. ‘I fainted and when I came round Alistair Ruthven was with me. He had been with me all night – he could not get out because of the rioters, although I tried to persuade him to leave in case Father Andrew came back. He had escaped by hiding upstairs.’

  ‘But you did not see Father Andrew kill Radbeche,’ said Bartholomew, ‘or who attacked you.’

  ‘No, but Father Andrew went into the hostel and then came out again. It must have been him!’

  Bartholomew shook his head. ‘That cannot be possible. You said Father Andrew came from elsewhere when he addressed the mob, and you had noticed that the hostel seemed abandoned. Radbeche must already have been dead when Father Andrew entered.’

  ‘Then why did he not cry for help when he found Master Radbeche dead?’ asked John, regarding Bartholomew with his dark, solemn eyes.

  ‘I did not say that he is not involved, only that he probably did not kill Radbeche while you watched from outside,’ said Bartholomew. He sat back and thought.

  Andrew had met Father William at sunset. William could well have confronted him about the fact that he knew Andrew was not whom he claimed to be, and so Andrew must have realised that he had to complete whatever business he was involved in quickly. Meanwhile, the Scottish students had probably escaped the hostels as soon as Andrew had left them unchaperoned, taking quick advantage of their sudden chance of freedom, and Radbeche had arrived back to find the hostel deserted.

  So, either Andrew had killed Radbeche, left and come back again to be seen by John, or another person had done the slaying.

  ‘Perhaps it was Norbert.’ Bartholomew spoke aloud without intending to.

  ‘Norbert?’ said John, looking at him in confusion. ‘You think Norbert might have killed him?’

  ‘Do you know Norbert?’ asked Bartholomew in astonishment.

  ‘Well, yes,’ said John. ‘Not well, of course, him being a servant and newly arrived. But I know him. I cannot say I like him, though – he is surly and rude. And he smells.’

  ‘What does he look like?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering whether he would be able to recognise Norbert from a description twenty-five years after their last meeting.

  ‘He is always dirty,’ said John, ‘and he wears a piece of cloth swathed around his head. We always say he looks like a Saracen, especially because his face is nearly always black with dirt. He usually wears lots of clothes, even in the heat, bundled round him in the way that beggars do in winter. Father Andrew brought him here about a week ago to work in the kitchens. He told us he was a mute and that we should leave him be.’

  ‘How old?’ said Bartholomew, feeling excitement rising.

  ‘Perhaps sixteen or seventeen,’ came the disappointing answer. ‘It was hard to tell with all that dirt. Master Radbeche said if he were to stay, he had to wash, but Father Andrew begged for him to be left alone.’
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  ‘I bet he did,’ said Bartholomew, a sudden flash of inspiration coming to him. ‘Tell me, John, did you ever see James Kenzie’s lover, Dominica?’

  ‘No,’ said John, his face clouding. ‘But he talked about her: fair hair, blue-green eyes.’

  ‘And what were Norbert’s eyes like?’ asked Bartholomew.

  John looked at him with a slack mouth. ‘Blue-green,’ he said. ‘Startling – the only nice thing about him. But surely you cannot believe…’ He was silent for a moment, plucking at the edges of his bandage. ‘There is probably something you should know.’

  ‘What?’ asked Bartholomew warily, sensing he was about to be told something of which he would not approve.

  John shot him a guilty glance. ‘I did not consider it important before, and anyway, Father Andrew ordered me not to tell.’

  ‘Tell what?’ said Bartholomew, spirits sinking.

  ‘A couple of weeks ago, Father Andrew told me that if I were to borrow Jamie’s ring, which he said was one of a pair of lovers’ rings, he would pray over it that the relationship between Jamie and Dominica would finish. I liked Jamie, and agreed with Father Andrew that he would be better not seeing Dominica any more.’

  ‘And he said that praying over the ring would cause this relationship to end?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised. ‘How peculiar! It is almost as bad as consulting the stars!’

  John looked at him oddly before continuing. ‘I borrowed Jamie’s ring when he took it off to clean out some drains. Father Andrew kept it for several days and poor Jamie nearly went mad searching for it. When he eventually returned it, I lied and told Jamie I had found it between the floorboards because Father Andrew had made me promise not to tell him what we had done. He said it was for Jamie’s own good that he should not know.’

  Bartholomew groaned. ‘I wish you had told us this a week ago, John,’ he said. ‘It would have helped us more than you can possibly imagine.’