previous
year, but his fondness for bread, meat and lard-drenched Lombard slices meant he had regained most of it.
‘A silver paten was stolen from Peterhouse this morning,’ Michael went on when there was no response. All the while, he watched
the cake with eagle eyes. ‘It was Gosse, of course, but he managed to do it without being seen. I spent hours questioning
students, Fellows and passers-by, but no one saw anything useful.’
‘Then how do you know Gosse is responsible?’
‘Because I defied the town worthies, and questioned him anyway. He loved the fact that I am certain of his guilt but can do
nothing about it. He
claims
he was at a religious meeting in St Giles’s Church when the theft took place.’
‘Perhaps he was. Did you ask the vicar?’
‘Of course, but it was one of those ceremonies where the place was packed and people came and went at will. Gosse
was
at St Giles’s, but no one can say whether he was there the
whole
time. And those who might know are too frightened to talk. It is frustrating, knowing the identity of a culprit but being
powerless to act.’
‘He will make a mistake eventually, or steal in front of a witness who is not afraid to speak out.’
‘Yes, but how many more heirlooms will we lose in the meantime?’ demanded Michael bitterly. ‘It is his lawyer who is to blame.
Neubold.’
Bartholomew frowned. ‘Neubold? That is the name of the priest who accompanied Joan to Cambridge, then failed to come and give
her last rites.’
Michael shrugged. ‘Joan hailed from Suffolk, and so does Gosse. Perhaps Neubold is a common name there. Or perhaps this priest
dabbles in criminal law to supplement his stipend.’
‘What about the attack on Langelee?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Have you solved that yet?’
‘No, but come with me to my office in St Mary the Great,’said Michael, giving the cake one last, covetous glance before making for the door. ‘My beadles have found a witness, and
he has agreed to meet me there. It will not take long, and we shall be back in time for the Saturday Debate.’
CHAPTER 3
The witness to the attack on Langelee transpired to be a thin, beak-nosed Dominican with wild eyes and filthy robes. He stank,
and Bartholomew did not think he had ever seen hands more deeply ingrained with dirt. He wondered why Prior Morden, the head
of the Cambridge Black Friars, had not ordered him to bathe. The man was a hedge-priest – an itinerant cleric with no parish
of his own – but the fact that he wore a Dominican habit meant Morden would have some control over him.
‘Tell me what you saw,’ ordered Michael, indicating that the friar should sit on a bench – a handsome piece of furniture that
matched his exquisitely carved desk. Bartholomew surveyed the room’s tasteful elegance and understated wealth, and wondered
how long Michael would obey the order to leave Gosse alone. The monk had not risen to such dizzy heights by letting himself
be bullied, or by following instructions he thought were foolish.
‘It was dark that night,’ replied the friar with a peculiar smile. ‘As dark as the finest coal. Coal is a glorious substance.
It shines like gold. Black gold.’
‘Right,’ said Michael warily. ‘What is your name?’
‘I have many names, but I like the one God gave me best – Carbo. It is Latin, and means—’
‘Coal,’ said Michael. ‘Yes, I know. Now, about the incident near King’s Hall on Thursday …’
‘I saw a small man step from the shadows with a knife. He stabbed a big man, then ran away.’
‘Did you recognise the small man?’ asked Michael hopefully. ‘Or do you know his name?’
‘No.’
The priest gesticulated as he talked, and Bartholomew noticed that the movements of one hand were less fluid than the other.
He kept tilting his head to one side, too, shaking it, as if to clear his ears of water. The physician wondered what was wrong
with him.
‘Can you describe this
year, but his fondness for bread, meat and lard-drenched Lombard slices meant he had regained most of it.
‘A silver paten was stolen from Peterhouse this morning,’ Michael went on when there was no response. All the while, he watched
the cake with eagle eyes. ‘It was Gosse, of course, but he managed to do it without being seen. I spent hours questioning
students, Fellows and passers-by, but no one saw anything useful.’
‘Then how do you know Gosse is responsible?’
‘Because I defied the town worthies, and questioned him anyway. He loved the fact that I am certain of his guilt but can do
nothing about it. He
claims
he was at a religious meeting in St Giles’s Church when the theft took place.’
‘Perhaps he was. Did you ask the vicar?’
‘Of course, but it was one of those ceremonies where the place was packed and people came and went at will. Gosse
was
at St Giles’s, but no one can say whether he was there the
whole
time. And those who might know are too frightened to talk. It is frustrating, knowing the identity of a culprit but being
powerless to act.’
‘He will make a mistake eventually, or steal in front of a witness who is not afraid to speak out.’
‘Yes, but how many more heirlooms will we lose in the meantime?’ demanded Michael bitterly. ‘It is his lawyer who is to blame.
Neubold.’
Bartholomew frowned. ‘Neubold? That is the name of the priest who accompanied Joan to Cambridge, then failed to come and give
her last rites.’
Michael shrugged. ‘Joan hailed from Suffolk, and so does Gosse. Perhaps Neubold is a common name there. Or perhaps this priest
dabbles in criminal law to supplement his stipend.’
‘What about the attack on Langelee?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Have you solved that yet?’
‘No, but come with me to my office in St Mary the Great,’said Michael, giving the cake one last, covetous glance before making for the door. ‘My beadles have found a witness, and
he has agreed to meet me there. It will not take long, and we shall be back in time for the Saturday Debate.’
CHAPTER 3
The witness to the attack on Langelee transpired to be a thin, beak-nosed Dominican with wild eyes and filthy robes. He stank,
and Bartholomew did not think he had ever seen hands more deeply ingrained with dirt. He wondered why Prior Morden, the head
of the Cambridge Black Friars, had not ordered him to bathe. The man was a hedge-priest – an itinerant cleric with no parish
of his own – but the fact that he wore a Dominican habit meant Morden would have some control over him.
‘Tell me what you saw,’ ordered Michael, indicating that the friar should sit on a bench – a handsome piece of furniture that
matched his exquisitely carved desk. Bartholomew surveyed the room’s tasteful elegance and understated wealth, and wondered
how long Michael would obey the order to leave Gosse alone. The monk had not risen to such dizzy heights by letting himself
be bullied, or by following instructions he thought were foolish.
‘It was dark that night,’ replied the friar with a peculiar smile. ‘As dark as the finest coal. Coal is a glorious substance.
It shines like gold. Black gold.’
‘Right,’ said Michael warily. ‘What is your name?’
‘I have many names, but I like the one God gave me best – Carbo. It is Latin, and means—’
‘Coal,’ said Michael. ‘Yes, I know. Now, about the incident near King’s Hall on Thursday …’
‘I saw a small man step from the shadows with a knife. He stabbed a big man, then ran away.’
‘Did you recognise the small man?’ asked Michael hopefully. ‘Or do you know his name?’
‘No.’
The priest gesticulated as he talked, and Bartholomew noticed that the movements of one hand were less fluid than the other.
He kept tilting his head to one side, too, shaking it, as if to clear his ears of water. The physician wondered what was wrong
with him.
‘Can you describe this
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