they will be back before we have started.’
‘You do it,’ said Bartholomew distastefully. ‘I will make sure no one comes.’
While Michael rummaged through the visitors’ bags, Bartholomew sat on a windowsill and struggled to stay alert. The sun was
warm on his face, and he felt pleasantly relaxed. When Michael spoke, he started awake. For a moment, he did not know where
he was, and gazed around him, blinking stupidly.
‘I see my integrity is safe under your vigilant care,’ remarked Michael caustically. ‘You really do need a good night’s sleep,
Matt. Now I cannot even trust you to keep watch while I ransack people’s belongings. What would we have said if they had caught
us?’
‘That they are all suspects until you have Chesterfelde’s killer under lock and key,’ replied Bartholomew, rubbing his eyes
as he stood. ‘Duraunt will not object, but Polmorva will, which would be satisfying. Well? Did you find his clothes drenched
in gore?’
‘No,’ said Michael in disgust. ‘Not so much as a spot. There are a few drips on the floor where we found the body, but that
is not surprising. I found this in Duraunt’s bag, but it cannot have any relevance, given that no one has been poisoned.’
He handed Bartholomew a tiny phial.
The physician took it carefully, knowing that small pots often contained fairly powerful substances. This one was no exception,
and it released the pungent odour of concentrated poppy juice when he lifted it to his nose. He recoiled. ‘There is enough
soporific here to put half the University to sleep!’
Michael regarded it thoughtfully. ‘And it is partly empty, which means some of it has been used. Is there enough missing to
make half a dozen merchants and scholars doze through a murder?’
Bartholomew inspected the vial. ‘Yes, but Duraunt is not your culprit. He was appalled by the murder, and he is a kind, gentle
man.’
‘So you said earlier,’ said Michael. ‘But people change, and you have not seen him for years. Who knows what he might have
become in the interim?’
Bartholomew had a better explanation. ‘Polmorva is not beyond hiding something incriminating among another man’s possessions.
He did it to me once, and almost had me convicted of theft. I only just managed to hurl them out of the window, before my
chest was searched.’
‘Them?’
‘Those teeth – the ones he made for the Benedictines. He claimed they had been stolen and accused me of taking them. When
I went to my room, there they were, hidden under a book.’
‘How do you know it was he who put them there?’
‘The servants saw him. But this is getting us nowhere. Put the phial back where you found it, Brother. We can ask Polmorva
and Duraunt about it later.’
‘No,’ said Michael, slipping the bottle into his scrip. ‘I do not want a potentially toxic substance in the hands of my suspects.
I shall keep it, and we will know to whom it belongs when its disappearance is reported.’
‘That is dangerous,’ warned Bartholomew uncomfortably. ‘Boltone knows you have been here. It will not look good for the Senior
Proctor to be on the wrong end of a charge of theft.’
‘I shall deny it,’ said Michael. He walked towards the solar. ‘Since we are here, we may as well be thorough. We should see
whether Boltone and Eudo own stained clothes, too.’
The solar was far less tidy than the hall, and was strewn with bedding and discarded clothes. Filthy shirts sat in a pile
in one corner, where they were evidently picked through to be worn again on subsequent occasions, while boots and shoes lay
where they had been cast off. Two smelly dogs lounged in a shaft of sunlight from the open window, and watched with uninterest
as Michael began to sift through the mess. Bartholomew remained by the door, standing so he would not fall asleep again.
‘There is nothing here, either,’ said Michael. He wiped his hands on his habit in distaste. ‘Eudo
‘You do it,’ said Bartholomew distastefully. ‘I will make sure no one comes.’
While Michael rummaged through the visitors’ bags, Bartholomew sat on a windowsill and struggled to stay alert. The sun was
warm on his face, and he felt pleasantly relaxed. When Michael spoke, he started awake. For a moment, he did not know where
he was, and gazed around him, blinking stupidly.
‘I see my integrity is safe under your vigilant care,’ remarked Michael caustically. ‘You really do need a good night’s sleep,
Matt. Now I cannot even trust you to keep watch while I ransack people’s belongings. What would we have said if they had caught
us?’
‘That they are all suspects until you have Chesterfelde’s killer under lock and key,’ replied Bartholomew, rubbing his eyes
as he stood. ‘Duraunt will not object, but Polmorva will, which would be satisfying. Well? Did you find his clothes drenched
in gore?’
‘No,’ said Michael in disgust. ‘Not so much as a spot. There are a few drips on the floor where we found the body, but that
is not surprising. I found this in Duraunt’s bag, but it cannot have any relevance, given that no one has been poisoned.’
He handed Bartholomew a tiny phial.
The physician took it carefully, knowing that small pots often contained fairly powerful substances. This one was no exception,
and it released the pungent odour of concentrated poppy juice when he lifted it to his nose. He recoiled. ‘There is enough
soporific here to put half the University to sleep!’
Michael regarded it thoughtfully. ‘And it is partly empty, which means some of it has been used. Is there enough missing to
make half a dozen merchants and scholars doze through a murder?’
Bartholomew inspected the vial. ‘Yes, but Duraunt is not your culprit. He was appalled by the murder, and he is a kind, gentle
man.’
‘So you said earlier,’ said Michael. ‘But people change, and you have not seen him for years. Who knows what he might have
become in the interim?’
Bartholomew had a better explanation. ‘Polmorva is not beyond hiding something incriminating among another man’s possessions.
He did it to me once, and almost had me convicted of theft. I only just managed to hurl them out of the window, before my
chest was searched.’
‘Them?’
‘Those teeth – the ones he made for the Benedictines. He claimed they had been stolen and accused me of taking them. When
I went to my room, there they were, hidden under a book.’
‘How do you know it was he who put them there?’
‘The servants saw him. But this is getting us nowhere. Put the phial back where you found it, Brother. We can ask Polmorva
and Duraunt about it later.’
‘No,’ said Michael, slipping the bottle into his scrip. ‘I do not want a potentially toxic substance in the hands of my suspects.
I shall keep it, and we will know to whom it belongs when its disappearance is reported.’
‘That is dangerous,’ warned Bartholomew uncomfortably. ‘Boltone knows you have been here. It will not look good for the Senior
Proctor to be on the wrong end of a charge of theft.’
‘I shall deny it,’ said Michael. He walked towards the solar. ‘Since we are here, we may as well be thorough. We should see
whether Boltone and Eudo own stained clothes, too.’
The solar was far less tidy than the hall, and was strewn with bedding and discarded clothes. Filthy shirts sat in a pile
in one corner, where they were evidently picked through to be worn again on subsequent occasions, while boots and shoes lay
where they had been cast off. Two smelly dogs lounged in a shaft of sunlight from the open window, and watched with uninterest
as Michael began to sift through the mess. Bartholomew remained by the door, standing so he would not fall asleep again.
‘There is nothing here, either,’ said Michael. He wiped his hands on his habit in distaste. ‘Eudo
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