did not bother to
shake him off. He had decided that an interview with the corrupt Sheriff was infinitely preferable to an encounter with Philippa
Abigny. ‘I do not trust him,’ Michael continued, ‘and it would be good to have a witness to anything he says.’
‘Brother Michael!’ said Morice, advancing on the monk with a smile that reminded Bartholomew of a leering demon he had once
seen on a wall painting. Morice was a dark-haired, swarthy man with curiously blue eyes and a beard and moustache that went
some way, but not all, to disguising a mean-lipped mouth. His shoulders were slightly rounded, and he might have been a scholar,
were it not for his extravagant robes and handsome water-resistant boots.
‘Sheriff,’ said Michael politely. ‘What brings you to our humble abode?’
Morice looked around him, noting the rotting timber and the loose tiles on the roof, and seemed to concur with Michael’s description.
‘I have come about Norbert. The boy was a wastrel and the Tulyets are well rid of him, but murder is murder, and I do not
want the relatives of wealthy merchants slain on my streets. Have you done anything or shall I look into it?’
‘I have been investigating,’ said Michael coolly. ‘Norbert was a student, and therefore his death comes under University jurisdiction.’
‘But he was the kinsman of a burgess,’ said Morice, not at all disconcerted by Michael’s unfriendly tone. ‘So his death comes
under my jurisdiction, as far as I am concerned. Will you hand the culprit to me now, or shall I hunt out the guilty scholar
myself?’
‘What makes you think the killer is a scholar?’ asked Bartholomew, feeling his hackles rise at the man’s presumption. ‘Since
Norbert spent his last few hours in a tavern, it is likely the murderer was a patron of the King’s Head – a tavern frequented
by townsfolk.’
Morice’s dark features broke into a sneer. ‘I guessed this would happen. You know the identity of Norbert’s killer, but you
are protecting him by having a townsman convicted of the crime instead. Very well, then. I shall initiate my own enquiries.
I
will expose the culprit – be he one of the beggars in tabards who claim to be students or the Chancellor himself.’ He turned
on his heel and stalked across the yard.
‘No wonder Tulyet was so keen for you to investigate,’ said Bartholomew, watching the Sheriff shove the porter out of the
way when the man fumbled with the door. ‘He knows any enquiries Morice makes will not reveal the true killer.’
‘But they may result in a scapegoat,’ said Michael worriedly. ‘And you can be sure that Morice will demand full punishment
according to the law. If I do not want to see innocent scholars hang, there is no time to waste.’
‘Do you need help?’ asked Bartholomew reluctantly. He was loath to leave the College now he knew that Philippa was in the
town.
Michael smiled. ‘I plan to spend the day learning exactly what Norbert did on his last night, which will mean time in the
King’s Head, and I do not need you for that. But I may need you tomorrow, if my enquiries lead me nowhere.’
Bartholomew had a bad feeling that Michael would be unsuccessful and that the Twelve Days of Christmas were going to be spent
tracking down a killer.
‘Philippa Abigny,’ mused Michael, as he lounged comfortably in a chair in the conclave that evening. The conclave was a small
chamber that adjoined the hall, used by the Fellows as somewhere to sit and talk until it was time to go to bed. It was a
pleasant room, with wall hangings that lent it a cosy atmosphere, and rugs scattered here and there. Although there was glass
in the windows – fine new glass, made using the latest technology – the shutters were closed, and rattled occasionally as
the wind got up outside. The wooden floor was well buffed and smelled of beeswax, so that the conclave’s overwhelming and
familiar odour comprised
shake him off. He had decided that an interview with the corrupt Sheriff was infinitely preferable to an encounter with Philippa
Abigny. ‘I do not trust him,’ Michael continued, ‘and it would be good to have a witness to anything he says.’
‘Brother Michael!’ said Morice, advancing on the monk with a smile that reminded Bartholomew of a leering demon he had once
seen on a wall painting. Morice was a dark-haired, swarthy man with curiously blue eyes and a beard and moustache that went
some way, but not all, to disguising a mean-lipped mouth. His shoulders were slightly rounded, and he might have been a scholar,
were it not for his extravagant robes and handsome water-resistant boots.
‘Sheriff,’ said Michael politely. ‘What brings you to our humble abode?’
Morice looked around him, noting the rotting timber and the loose tiles on the roof, and seemed to concur with Michael’s description.
‘I have come about Norbert. The boy was a wastrel and the Tulyets are well rid of him, but murder is murder, and I do not
want the relatives of wealthy merchants slain on my streets. Have you done anything or shall I look into it?’
‘I have been investigating,’ said Michael coolly. ‘Norbert was a student, and therefore his death comes under University jurisdiction.’
‘But he was the kinsman of a burgess,’ said Morice, not at all disconcerted by Michael’s unfriendly tone. ‘So his death comes
under my jurisdiction, as far as I am concerned. Will you hand the culprit to me now, or shall I hunt out the guilty scholar
myself?’
‘What makes you think the killer is a scholar?’ asked Bartholomew, feeling his hackles rise at the man’s presumption. ‘Since
Norbert spent his last few hours in a tavern, it is likely the murderer was a patron of the King’s Head – a tavern frequented
by townsfolk.’
Morice’s dark features broke into a sneer. ‘I guessed this would happen. You know the identity of Norbert’s killer, but you
are protecting him by having a townsman convicted of the crime instead. Very well, then. I shall initiate my own enquiries.
I
will expose the culprit – be he one of the beggars in tabards who claim to be students or the Chancellor himself.’ He turned
on his heel and stalked across the yard.
‘No wonder Tulyet was so keen for you to investigate,’ said Bartholomew, watching the Sheriff shove the porter out of the
way when the man fumbled with the door. ‘He knows any enquiries Morice makes will not reveal the true killer.’
‘But they may result in a scapegoat,’ said Michael worriedly. ‘And you can be sure that Morice will demand full punishment
according to the law. If I do not want to see innocent scholars hang, there is no time to waste.’
‘Do you need help?’ asked Bartholomew reluctantly. He was loath to leave the College now he knew that Philippa was in the
town.
Michael smiled. ‘I plan to spend the day learning exactly what Norbert did on his last night, which will mean time in the
King’s Head, and I do not need you for that. But I may need you tomorrow, if my enquiries lead me nowhere.’
Bartholomew had a bad feeling that Michael would be unsuccessful and that the Twelve Days of Christmas were going to be spent
tracking down a killer.
‘Philippa Abigny,’ mused Michael, as he lounged comfortably in a chair in the conclave that evening. The conclave was a small
chamber that adjoined the hall, used by the Fellows as somewhere to sit and talk until it was time to go to bed. It was a
pleasant room, with wall hangings that lent it a cosy atmosphere, and rugs scattered here and there. Although there was glass
in the windows – fine new glass, made using the latest technology – the shutters were closed, and rattled occasionally as
the wind got up outside. The wooden floor was well buffed and smelled of beeswax, so that the conclave’s overwhelming and
familiar odour comprised
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