'Only one thing.' Bartholomew took one of Kenzie's hands and pointed at the little finger. There was a thin, but stark, white band on the brown skin, showing where, until recently, a ring had been worn.

'The motive for his murder was theft?' asked Michael, staring down at the young man's hand.

Bartholomew shrugged. 'Possibly. You should ask Kenzie's friends whether the ring was valuable and whether they know if he was wearing it when he died.

But, a.s.suming he died during the night, the killer would need eyes like an owl to detect a ring on his victim's hand in the dark before he struck. There was no moon last night.'

'Perhaps he killed first and looked later,' said Michael.

'Although a young man who is so obviously a student in patched clothes is hardly likely to render rich pickings to justify so foul a crime.'

Bartholomew gave a brief smile without humour. 'We both know that people have been killed for far less than a ring in this town.'

The sun was casting long shadows across the High Street by the time they had ordered Kenzie's body to be taken to St Botolph's Church, and spoken to the servant, Henry the scullion, who had discovered the corpse. He could tell them nothing, other than to say that he had seen no one matching Kenzie's description hanging around the Ditch the day before.

'I must go to David's Hostel before someone else tells this young man's friends what has happened,' said Michael, squinting at the sun, a great orange ball in the cloudless sky. 'Come with me, Matt. I would be happier if there were two of us judging the reactions of Kenzie's compatriots when we give them the news of his death.'

Bartholomew started to object - he had planned to work on his treatise on fevers while there was still sufficient daylight in which to write - but Michael was right.

If there had been some kind of falling out between the five friends that had resulted in the death of one of them, it would be better if there were more than one observer for guilty reactions. Neither Michael nor Bartholomew put much faith in Guy Heppel's powers of observation.

'You look tired, Guy,' said Michael solicitously to the Junior Proctor who trailed along behind them. 'Tell the Chancellor what has happened and then go home to rest.'

'I do feel weary,' said Heppel, stretching out a white hand to the monk's arm to support himself, as if even admitting to his weakness had suddenly sapped the remaining strength from his limbs.

'Shall I order you a horse to take you there?' asked Michael, eyeing the hand on his arm with disapproval.

'After all, it might be almost a quarter of an hour's walk by the time you retrace your steps from the Chancellor's office to your room in the King's Hall.'

Heppel seriously considered the offer, while Bartholomew turned away to hide his smile. 'I think I can manage to walk,' Heppel said eventually.

Michael and Bartholomew watched him walk away, a slender figure whose overlarge scholar's tabard hung in dense, c.u.mbersome folds.

'You are supposed to be compa.s.sionate to your fellow men, Brother,' said Bartholomew. 'Not add to his already impressive list of ailments by telling him he looks ill.'

'The man is a weasel,' said Michael, unrepentant.

'And I do not believe him to be as self-obsessed as he appears. He heard every word of what you told me about Kenzie's corpse, and will report it all faithfully to the Chancellor.'

Bartholomew was confused. 'You think Heppel is spying on you for de Wetherset?'

Michael gave a short bark of laughter. 'De Wetherset would not dare - especially with an agent of Heppel's mediocre talents. But de Wetherset had some reason for appointing him over Father William, and it would not surprise me to learn that Heppel is his nephew or some other relative.'

'If that is true, then you will never find out from de Wetherset,' said Bartholomew with conviction. 'He is not a man to allow himself to be caught indulging in an act of flagrant nepotism.'

'True,' said Michael. 'But at least Heppel will be out of our way when we visit David's Hostel. The last thing we want as we gauge reactions to the news of Kenzie's death is Heppel offering special potions to ease grief.'

They began to walk along the High Street to Shoemaker Row. The intense heat had faded with the setting of the sun, but the air was still close and thick with the smell of the river and the Ditch. Carts rattled past them, hurrying towards the Trumpington Gate and the villages beyond before darkness fell and the roads became the domain of robbers and outlaws. Although it was Sunday, and officially a day of rest, the apprentices were active, darting here and there as they ferried goods to and from their masters' storehouses along Milne Street and the wharves. Bartholomew ignored the noise and bustle, and thought back to his encounter with the David's students the day before.

'Two of the Scots - Ruthven and Davy Grahame seemed well-disposed to study,' he said. 'But the others gave the impression they would rather be anywhere other than making a pretence of scholarship in Cambridge.'

'Really?' asked Michael thoughtfully. 'What else would they rather be doing, do you think? Fighting? Rioting?

Whoring?'

'Very possibly,' said Bartholomew. 'The one you grabbed by the collar is called Fyvie. He has something of a temper, and is perhaps over-sensitive to insults to his nation, whether real or perceived. He is unwise to wear his emotions so openly: it is asking for someone to taunt him into starting a brawl.'

He jumped as the doors of St Mary's Church were flung open with a crash and troops of noisy, yelling scholars came out, jostling and shoving each other. One of them was leading a chorus in Latin, the words of which made Bartholomew exchange a look of half-shock and half-amus.e.m.e.nt with Michael. Bartholomew smothered a smile when he noticed how much over-long hair was bundled into hoods, and bright clothing was hastily covered with sober scholars' tabards, as the students recognised Michael, the Senior Proctor. He also noticed that one of his own students, Sam Gray, was singing the bawdy Latin chorus as loudly as he could, and saw that he had his tabard wrapped around a girl he had obviously smuggled into the church.

The University, partly because of the large numbers of friars and monks in its ranks, and partly to protect the local female population, forbade its students any dealings with women. In some ways, the rule was a wise one, for it went at least some way in preventing potentially dangerous incidents involving outraged husbands, fathers and brothers. Yet, with hundreds of hot-blooded young men barely under the control of their masters, the rule was often impossible to enforce. If a headstrong and disobedient student - like Sam Gray - decided to embark on a relationship with a woman, there was little that could be done about it. Gray could be 'sent down' from the University in disgrace, but the plague meant that student numbers were low, and the University wanted to increase, not decrease them. The students were only too aware that the University's colleges and hostels were sufficiently desperate for their fees that they were prepared to overlook a good deal to keep them.

Gray saw Bartholomew, and his jaw dropped in horror.

He hastily disentangled himself from the girl in a feeble attempt to make it look as though she were with someone else. Bartholomew favoured him with a reproving stare, and was gratified to see that Gray at least had the grace to look shamefaced. Fortunately for Gray, Michael's eyes were still fixed on the singer, who, seeing he had the unwanted attention of the Senior Proctor, slunk away through the churchyard. Once their leader had gone, the other students dispersed rapidly under Michael's authoritative glower, some with almost comical furtiveness.

'The students are always rowdy at the beginning of term,' said Michael, walking on. 'But I detect more than just rowdiness in them now. They seem dangerous to me, Matt. I have a feeling it would take very little to ignite them into doing something quite serious. I only hope one of those Scottish lads confesses that he has killed Kenzie. If these students think the townspeople have killed a scholar, they will riot for certain.'

'All former differences forgotten in the common cause,' mused Bartholomew. That only yesterday saw the beginnings of a brawl between the Scots and the friars will not prevent them fighting side by side against the townsfolk.'

They turned off the High Street into Shoemaker Row.

David's Hostel was a half-timbered building, the rough plaster crudely covered in patchy white limewash that was stained with black rivulets running from some internal rot. The ends of the great wooden beams that formed the basic structure of the house were frayed and flaking, and bright orange fungus sprouted from the side of one window. Michael rapped officiously on a door that was new and strong, in contrast to the rest of the house, and waited.

Eventually, they heard footsteps, and the door was dragged open by a servant. He gave them a querying smile, and introduced himself as Meadowman the steward.

He added shyly that Bartholomew had once treated him for river-fever, although Bartholomew could not honestly say that there was anything familiar in the steward's homely face. Meadowman conducted them along the corridor, and into a s.p.a.cious room at the back of the house, which served as dining room and lecture hall. Beyond the room was a kitchen, where a scullion crashed about noisily, preparing the next meal.

'IvoF called Meadowman, warning the scullion to silence his clattering while David's was the subject of a proctorial visit. The noise stopped, and Ivo's greasy head poked around the door to study the august personage of the Senior Proctor with undisguised curiosity.

'Greetings, Father Andrew,' said Michael, pushing past Bartholomew to stride into the room. Sitting at a large table with an open book in front of him was an elderly friar who smiled serenely as Michael entered. He had watery blue eyes, and his unlined, honest face reminded Bartholomew of a saintly hermit he had once met on a remote Spanish island. Also gathered around the table were several students, all wearing neat, black scholars' tabards, despite the heat.

As Bartholomew was introduced to Father Andrew, he had the distinct impression they were interrupting a lecture. He glanced at the book and recognised it as Porphyry's Isagoge, a basic undergraduate introduction to the philosophy of Aristotle.

'You will see David's Hostel has taken your warning seriously about our students' behaviour, Brother,' said Father Andrew in a voice that was soft and lilting with the accent of southern Scotland. 'We have been reading philosophy today, even though it is Sunday and term does not begin until the day after tomorrow. The Princ.i.p.al, Master Radbeche, will continue with Aristotle's Praedicamenta immediately after ma.s.s in the morning.'

'Master Radbeche?' asked Bartholomew, impressed. 'I had no idea Master Radbeche was Princ.i.p.al here.'

The old friar smiled. 'We are lucky to have such a notable scholar in our midst. Without wishing to sound boastful, there is no one who understands Aristotle like Master Radbeche.'

'Indeed not, Father,' said Michael. He cast a disparaging glance at the students. 'And it is unfortunate that his students do not seek to uphold his reputation and that of his hostel with scholarship and gentle behaviour.'

Bartholomew looked around the room. The fiery-tempered Fyvie sat staring morosely at the table, although whether his ill-humour resulted from the unwelcome proctorial visit or from being made to listen to Porphyry's dry text, Bartholomew could not determine. The cousins, Davy and Stuart Grahame, sat together at the end of the table, Davy with a quill in his hand and a pile of parchment sc.r.a.ps in front of him for making notes. Ruthven sat next to Father Andrew where he had evidently been peering over the friar's shoulder.

Perhaps Father Andrew's reading had been too slow for him, and he was trying to read ahead. Three other students sat near the empty fireplace on stools, which were arranged in such a way that Bartholomew wondered whether they might have been playing dice out of Father Andrew's line of vision.

'Where were you all last night?' asked Michael, not wasting time on further formalities.

There was a startled silence until Father Andrew found his tongue.

'Why do you ask, Brother? Has there been more trouble in the town? I can a.s.sure you that after you spoke to the Princ.i.p.al yesterday, we kept all our students here. The front door was locked at seven o'clock last night, and no one left until ma.s.s at five this morning.'

'You said there were ten students at David's,' said Bartholomew to Ruthven. 'Where are the others?'

'Well,' said Ruthven slowly, casting a quick, nervous glance at Fyvie that neither Bartholomew nor Michael missed. 'There are the five of us from Edinburgh whom you met yesterday, and then there are the three Tarbert cousins from the Isles.' He gestured to the trio of students near the fireplace. 'We all have been here studying as you can see. Robert of Stirling is upstairs suffering from an ague, and his brother John is with him. That is all of us.'

Not exactly, thought Bartholomew, watching the faces of the others intently as Ruthven spoke. Fyvie sat motionless, his eyes fixed unblinking on the table. Davy Grahame held his quill with trembling hands, while his cousin flushed such a deep red, that the colour seemed to reach as far as his throat. However smooth Ruthven was trying to be, the others were very much aware that their comrade was missing, and might even know why.

'I can vouch for these young men,' said Father Andrew, waving his hand round at his charges. 'We have been here all day, and even took our meals here - despite the fact that Ivo, our scullion, has much still to learn about cooking. The students have not been out of the building at all. Robert of Stirling and James Kenzie are ill upstairs, and John is looking after them. The others are all here as you can see.'

'What about last night?' said Michael. He looked at the four students who sat round the table. 'I think some of you know why we are asking. '

Father Andrew's expression was one of confusion, and he looked at his students in bewilderment. 'Tell the Proctor you were all here,' he said, looking at each one in turn. When none of them spoke up, his shoulders sagged suddenly in weary resignation. 'What are you hiding?' he asked in a tone that indicated he would tolerate no lies or half-truths. 'What have you done this time to bring shame upon David's Hostel?'

There was a silence during which the four looked from one to the other, knowing that they would have to tell what they knew, but none wanting to be the one to begin. Finally, Ruthven spoke.

'James Kenzie is gone,' he said miserably.

'James Kenzie is ill upstairs,' protested Father Andrew.

'I saw him asleep in his bed only a short while ago.'

'You saw his rolled up blankets,' said Ruthven apologetically to Father Andrew. Jamie is not here. He has gone.'

'Gone where?' demanded Michael.

'We do not know. We would have looked for him today, but we have been kept here studying. We did not wish to make a fuss and draw attention to the fact that he is absent, but now we are worried about him. We decided this afternoon that if he has not returned by nightfall, we would tell the Princ.i.p.al and Father Andrew.'

'Why wait?' asked Michael, unconvinced. 'Surely it would be better to tell them sooner, rather than later, if you are worried about your friend?'

Ruthven looked away, chewing on his lower lip in agitation.

Davy Grahame took a deep breath. 'Jamie has a woman,' he blurted out.

Father Andrew's jaw dropped in shock, and he regarded Davy Grahame aghast.

'Davy!' exclaimed Fyvie, starting to his feet. 'You did not have to tell them that!'

'Yes, I did,' said the younger Grahame, his firm tone of voice forcing Fyvie to sit again. 'I am worried.

Supposing those two friars came across him last night and had him harmed? The Proctor might be able to help him.' He turned to Michael. 'Jamie has had a lover since last term. He occasionally slips out before the door is locked at night, and one of us makes up his bed to look as though it is occupied. He then joins us at ma.s.s at first light, and walks back with us to the hostel. Last night, it was more difficult than usual, because Father Andrew was with us constantly after he learned of our quarrel in the street yesterday.

Anyway, Jamie feigned illness and said he was going to bed early. He must have slipped out while we were eating our supper. But this morning he did not appear at ma.s.s, and we have not seen him since. Do you know where he is?'

The others looked eagerly at Michael, and Bartholomew did not envy the fat monk his next task.

'I am afraid I do,' said Michael quietly. 'He is in St Botolph's Church.'

'St Botolph's?' echoed Fyvie, puzzled. 'What is he doing there?'

'Then why does he not come back?' demanded Stuart Grahame belligerently. 'We have been worried sick about him all day. He must surely know that! Why has he not sent word?'

'He will not be coming back,' said Michael, trying to be gentle.

Fyvie and Ruthven stared at him in disbelief, while Davy Grahame, quicker on the uptake than his elders, brought his hands quickly to his mouth in shock. Father Andrew's face was pale as the meaning of Michael's words became clear to him.

'Not coming back?' said Stuart Grahame. 'Why ever not? He has not decided to become a friar, has he? Has he been hurt in this love affair and sworn to forsake the world?' He stood abruptly. 'Let me see him. I will talk some sense into the fool!'

'Sit down, Stuart,' said Davy Grahame in a soft voice.

'Brother Michael is telling us that Jamie is dead.'

'What?' The colour drained from Stuart Grahame's face and he sat down suddenly with a jolt, as if his legs had turned to jelly.

'But he cannot be dead, Davy!' he said unsteadily. 'We saw him yesterday evening!'

Davy ignored him. 'How did he die?' he asked, looking from Michael to Bartholomew, his expression one of dazed horror. 'Where?'

'Quickly,' said Bartholomew, 'and without pain. Near the King's Ditch at Valence Marie. Can you think of anyone who would want to harm him?'

'He was killed by another?' asked Father Andrew, appalled. 'You mean murdered?'

Michael nodded, and calmly blocked the door as Stuart Grahame suddenly lurched towards it. 'Those friars!' the Scot yelled. The friars killed him!'

Michael took him firmly by the elbow and led him to sit at the table again, where Father Andrew put a comforting arm around his shoulders. The biggest, oldest and toughest of the Scots began to weep uncontrollably. The others looked away, Ruthven scrubbing surrept.i.tiously at his eyes with the back of his hand.

'We will speak to the friars, of course,' said Michael.

'But at the moment, we need you to think of reasons others might have for wishing Kenzie harm. We can start with his woman.'

Fyvie shook his head as if he were trying to clear it. 'She would not kill him - she loved him dearly! Her name is Dominica and she is the daughter of the Princ.i.p.al of G.o.dwinsson Hostel.'

Ruthven seized Michael's sleeve. 'Tread carefully, though. She is a kindly girl, but her father is not well-disposed towards Scots. You could ruin her by indiscretion.'

The indiscretion was James Kenzie's, thought Bartholomew, if he had picked a lover whose father was so adverse to his nationality. But Ruthven's caution was obviously meant well - a final act of friendship in attempting to protect the reputation of his dead comrade's lover.

Michael appraised him coolly. 'We will not be indiscreet,' he said, 'although I trust no other of you is so flagrantly breaking the University's rule about women?'

Vigorously shaken heads met his inquiry, and Michael relented. 'Do you have anything more that might help us? Were you all here last night as you claim?'

Ruthven, still white-faced, answered. 'Yes. Father Andrew was with us until it was time for the door to be locked, but Jamie had already left by then. We told Father Andrew that Jamie was ill and was resting upstairs in bed, like Robert of Stirling. Father Andrew saw us all to our dormitory, and can vouch that we all accompanied him to ma.s.s this morning. The Princ.i.p.al stayed here with the two students from Stirling and Jamie... or so he thought.'

Father Andrew nodded. 'Seven students were with me at ma.s.s: these seven,' he said, gesturing at Kenzie's four friends and the trio by the fireplace. 'I thought Jamie was ill. Until now.' He looked sternly at the subdued students. 'You have been extremely foolish in aiding your friend to slip out at night, and you very possibly have contributed to his death. Think on that before you break more University rules.'

'I want to go home!' wailed Stuart Grahame suddenly.

His younger cousin rushed to his side in an attempt to quell the tears. 'I do not like this violent town!'

'Did Jamie have a ring?' asked Bartholomew, watching Davy comfort his distraught kinsman. 'One that he wore on his little finger?'