‘The blade was scratched, again suggesting it was a favoured, much-used item, and wide – which is consistent with the wound in Norbert’s back. And finally, and perhaps most importantly, there was blood on it.’
‘Then damn it again!’ snapped Michael. ‘It must be the murder weapon, and you lost it!’
Bartholomew ignored the accusation. ‘I can make a drawing with coloured inks, and we can see if anyone recognises it. Philippa, for example.’
Michael shrugged. ‘Very well, if you do not mind offending her by suggesting that her recently dead and much-lamented husband crept around the town at night knifing students in the back. More usefully, though, I can ask Meadowman to show it in the taverns when he does his rounds tonight.’ He gave the physician a rueful smile. ‘I suppose something may emerge from our incompetence.’
While Bartholomew sat in his room with a blank piece of parchment and several pots of coloured ink – borrowed from Deynman, who never wrote in black when blue, yellow, red or green was available – Michael perched on the physician’s windowsill and complained that the river water had stained his best riding boots. It was so cold that a rime was starting to form on them, and Michael hastily removed himself to the kitchens, where there was a fire to thaw them and perhaps even freshly baked oatcakes for the taking. It was true it was not long since he had eaten, but everyone knew that cold weather increased the appetite.
Agatha was there, presiding in her wicker throne near the fireplace, from which she oversaw the preparations for the evening meal with critical eyes. Deynman had provided a hundred eggs, and had decreed that no dish should be served that did not have egg of some form in it. Agatha’s infamous egg-mess was already mixed, and was busily transforming itself into rubbery lumps near the fire where it was being kept warm. The undercook was struggling with a vat of custard, which was lumpier than the egg-mess and smelled sulphurous, and the butler was patiently shelling hard-boiled duck eggs, humming as he did so.
‘No meat?’ asked Michael, surveying the preparations with disappointment. He found a stool and three boiled eggs, and carried them to the hearth, settling himself comfortably with legs splayed in front of him and his habit rucked up around his knees so that his boots could dry.
‘Hens,’ said Agatha, jerking a powerful thumb to one of the back kitchens, where a number of hapless birds were being roasted to dryness on spits that would have benefited from the occasional turn. ‘They had eggs in them, did they not?’
Michael laughed. ‘You are a clever woman, Agatha. Yes, they did. It will be interesting to see whether Deynman understands such a fine point.’
‘I saw you in the King’s Head yesterday,’ said Agatha conversationally. ‘You were watching that Harysone dancing. At least, I assume that was what he was doing. It looked obscene.’
‘It was obscene,’ agreed Michael, shelling an egg and then sliding it whole into his mouth. He spoke around it with difficulty. ‘Have you seen him in the King’s Head before?’
‘I have not eaten bear liver since I was a child,’ said Agatha, answering whatever question she thought Michael had asked. ‘But we were discussing Harysone. I have seen him in the King’s Head on several occasions, you know.’
‘Doing what?’ enunciated Michael carefully.
‘He likes to show off his dancing “skills”, and he has been hawking his book at reduced prices: three marks, and a bargain, he claims.’ Her strong face turned angry. ‘He is a pardoner, and he asked if I cared to buy a pardon for the seven deadly sins, because he had one that would take care of them all in one go.’
‘That was rash of him,’ said Michael, meaning it. The man was lucky to escape with all his limbs, given that Agatha had evidently considered herself insulted. He peeled another egg, and thought about Harysone’s claim that he had come to Cambridge only to sell his books. He had not mentioned to the guards that he was also a pardoner. The monk mulled over the possibility that misleading town officials might be sufficient grounds to expel the fellow.
‘Harysone gambles,’ said Agatha disapprovingly. ‘I saw him dicing with Ulfrid – who should know better. And I saw him gaming with Norbert the night he died.’
‘Did you now?’ mused Michael, realising he should not have bothered to send his beadles to the King’s Head to question uncooperative townsfolk when he had a fine source of information under his very own roof. ‘Did you see him win a fish?’
She nodded. ‘They are two of a kind: sly, lecherous and nasty. Harysone also asked whether I knew a person called Dympna. I told him that even if I did, I would not tell him!’
‘He asked that?’ said Michael. The third egg rolled from his lap and landed unnoticed on the floor. ‘He asked about a
