A Bone of Contention

by Susanna GREGORY

  'John!' admonished Father Andrew. 'Where are your manners, lad?'

  'Have you got him?' asked John of Bartholomew, leaning earnestly through the window. Ts that why you are here? To tell us you have caught Jamie's murderer?'

  'He has not,' said Father Andrew. 'Go back to, your chores, John, and no playing with the water or I will tell your brother to take over your duties.'

  While John reluctantly went back to his cleaning, the friar spoke gently to Fyvie, urging him to sit down.

  'Perhaps Jamie's murder was a random crime. Many deaths occur without a reason. You must brace yourself for the possibility that his killer may never be caught, despite the best efforts of the Senior Proctor and his colleagues.'

  Fyvie looked up at him and then his glower abated somewhat. 'I am sorry,' he wailed suddenly, making Bartholomew start nervously. 'But we are cooped up here day and night, not allowed to go out unless we are accompanied, and all the while Jamie's murderer is laughing at us! I am not saying I wish to kill the man myself,' he said, with an apologetic glance at Father Andrew, 'but I do wish to bring him to justice.'

  The friar patted his arm consolingly. 'The Proctor is doing all he can. Meanwhile, you would not wish to upset your family by becoming embroiled in things you should not.'

  He sighed and called to the open window. 'There is no need to eavesdrop, John. Come in if you insist on listening.'

  John's begrimed face appeared immediately, and he leaned his elbows on the windowsill.

  'A shed collapsed on Brother Werbergh yesterday morning,' said Bartholomew somewhat abruptly.

  Students and master looked at each other in confusion.

  'Is Brother Werbergh one of the Godwinsson friars with whom our students argued?' asked Andrew. Bartholomew nodded. 'Is he badly hurt?'

  'He is dead,' said Bartholomew.

  There was a deathly silence. Ts that why you are here?' asked Andrew. 'To see where David's Hostel students were at the time of his death?' His eyes became sad.

  'You might have been a little more straightforward with us, Doctor. I assure you, we have nothing to hide, and you have no need to resort to this trickery. Yesterday morning, you say? We were either at church or here.'

  'What about Friday and Saturday?' Bartholomew asked.

  'You said he died yesterday,' Andrew pointed out. 'But it makes no difference. Since this dreadful business began we have kept our students here, or out under supervision.

  As I told you earlier we cannot afford to be seen brawling, or we will lose our hostel. Either I, or the Principal, can vouch for every one of our students at any time since.

  And I can assure you that none of them has fooled us with rolled-up blankets this time.'

  Bartholomew rose to leave. 'I am sorry to have wasted your time, Father,' he said, 'but these questions needed to be asked — to clear your names from malicious gossip if nothing else.'

  Andrew's mild indignation abated somewhat. 'I am sorry, too, Doctor. We have nothing to be ashamed of, so we do not resent your inquiries. We will answer any questions that will bring Jamie's killer to justice.' He rubbed at the ink on his hands. 'Have you finished with our Galen yet? Although we have no medical students at David's, a book is a valuable thing, and we would like it back soon.'

  Bartholomew, who had been under the impression from Principal Radbeche that there was no immediate urgency for him to finish with it, was embarrassed that he had taken his time to read it. He offered to return it immediately. Andrew gave Bartholomew an apologetic smile.

  'It is the only book we own outright,' he said again.

  He gestured at the tomes that were piled on the table.

  'These others are borrowed from King's Hall. While I am delighted that you have found our Galen useful, I would feel happier in my mind knowing it is back here.' His grin broadened, and his voice dropped as he leaned towards Bartholomew so the students could not overhear. 'I show it to the illiterate parents of prospective students, so they know that we are serious about learning. Even though our book is a medical text, it serves an important function at David's!'

  Bartholomew said he would send Gray round with the book as soon as possible. He offered his hand to Father Andrew, who clasped it genially before settling down at the table to read with Ruthven and Davy. Robert of Stirling leapt to his feet to see him out and Bartholomew followed him along the stuffy corridor. The student removed the bar from the gate, all the while gabbling about the attack several weeks before in which the old door had been kicked down. Bartholomew sensed the lad was chattering to hide his nervousness.

  As Bartholomew stepped past him, Robert took his arm, casting an anxious glance back down the corridor.

  He made as though to speak but then closed his mouth firmly. Sweat beaded on his upper lip and he scrubbed at it irritably with his shirtsleeve.

  'What is wrong? ' Bartholomew asked, wondering whether Robert had fully recovered from his fever. Perhaps he needed more medication and was afraid he would not have enough money to pay for it.

  'Jamie's ring,' the student blurted out. 'I admired it. My father is a jeweller, you see. I know about good stones.'

  His words were jerky and he gave another agitated glance down the corridor.

  'If it will put your mind at ease, I will tell no one we have spoken,' said Bartholomew gently, giving the nervous student a reassuring smile.

  Robert swallowed hard. 'I persuaded Father Andrew to take me and my brother John to see the relic at Valence Marie on Saturday,' he said. He paused again and Bartholomew forced himself to be patient. 'Jamie's ring was on that horrible thing!' Robert's words came in a rush.

  'I noticed the hand wore a ring similar to the one Jamie is said to have owned,' said Bartholomew carefully.

  One thing they could not afford was for Robert to claim Kenzie's ring was at Valence Marie: Valence Marie would start a fight with David's for certain. 'It is not necessarily the same one.'

  'It is the same!' said Robert, his voice loud, desperate to be believed. Bartholomew grew anxious and wondered how he might dissuade Robert from his belief.

  'Easy now,' he said. 'I will ask Brother Michael to inspect the ring, and-'

  'You do not understand!' interrupted Robert, shaking off Bartholomew's attempt to placate him. 'I am not telling you it is similar. I am telling you it is the same one.'

  'How can you be sure?' asked Bartholomew with quiet reason. 'I have seen at least one other ring identical to the one at Valence Marie myself recently.'

  Robert looked pained. 'You recognise different diseases,' he said. 'I recognise different stones. My father is a jeweller, and I have been handlingjewels since I was old enough not to eat them. It was the same ring, I tell you!'

  His point made, he became calmer, although he kept casting anxious glances towards the hall.

  'Why did you not tell me this when you were in the hall with the others?' asked Bartholomew.

  Robert shook his head violently and fixed Bartholomew with huge eyes. 'I could not explain how I know,' he whispered.

  Bartholomew was puzzled. 'But you said your father is a jeweller. Is that not explanation enough?'

  Robert lowered his gaze. 'No one but you knows that.

  John told a lie when we first arrived two years ago. We have been living it ever since. We cannot reveal that we are the sons of a merchant.'

  Bartholomew shook his head, nonplussed. Many merchants' sons studied in Cambridge and he was unaware that any of them faced serious problems because of it.

  Looking at Robert's dark features, he suddenly realised the physical similarity between him and the Arab master with whom he had studied in Paris. In a flash of understanding, it occurred to him that Robert and John might be Jewish, that their father was a money-lender rather than a jeweller. In France, the Jewish population had been accused of bringing the plague, and the situation was little better in England. If Bartholomew's supposition were true, he did not blame Robert and John for wishing to keep their heritage a secret.

 
; Robert continued. 'Master Radbeche and Father Andrew think my father owns a manor near Stirling.'

  'They will not learn otherwise from me,' said Bartholomew.

  'But this matter of Jamie's ring…'

  Robert became animated again. 'It is his ring! There is no doubt! I pretended to examine the hand closely but really I was looking at the ring.'

  Bartholomew felt in the sleeve of his gown. 'But what about this?' he asked, handing the ring Cecily had given him to Robert. Robert took it and turned it around in his fingers, smiling faintly.

  'Ah, yes, lovers' rings. I wondered if Jamie's might be one of a pair. But this is not the ring he had.' He gave it back to Bartholomew. 'He had the gentleman's; this is the lady's.'

  Bartholomew showed Robert the other ring, the one he had found on the floor of Godwinsson's shed. The shed that killed Werbergh, he thought, although obviously Werbergh could not have been looking for the ring, since he was already dead when he was put there.

  Robert was talking, and Bartholomew forced his thoughts back to the present. 'This would once have held a stone about the same size as the ones in the lovers' rings, although the craftsmanship on this is very inferior. See the crudeness of the welding? And the arms of the clasp are different sizes.' His nervousness seemed to abate as he talked about something he knew. 'This is a nasty piece. I would say it belonged to a whore, or someone who could not afford anything better. In fact, I would go as far as saying there was no stone at all, but perhaps coloured glass.'

  He looked up, dark brown eyes meeting Bartholomew's.

  'I cannot say how Jamie's ring came to be on that horrible hand, but it is his without a doubt. The matching ring you have is the other half of the pair; I imagine you got it from Dominica. The third ring is nothing — a tawdry bauble. Do you think they might have some connection to why Jamie was killed?'

  Bartholomew slipped them back into his sleeve and shrugged. 'The one on the relic definitely does. You have helped considerably by telling me what you have, and I promise you, no one will ever know where I came by the information. Perhaps you will return the favour by keeping your knowledge of the matter to yourself.'

  Robert looked at Bartholomew as though he were insane. 'I feel I have risked enough just talking to you.

  I will not tell another soul — not even my brother John.

  John does not share my interest in precious stones, and found the hand sufficiently repulsive that he did not look at it long enough to recognise Jamie's ring.'

  Bartholomew felt in his bag, pulling out a small packet.

  'Take this. It is a mixture of herbs I give babies when they are teething and will do you no harm. If anyone should ask why you have been talking with me for so long, tell them you still feel feverish and wanted some medicine.'

  The student gave Bartholomew a grin and took the packet. 'I should go,' he said, with another glance over his shoulder. 'I am glad I could help. I want you to catch Jamie's killer.'

  As Bartholomew left, he heard Robert slide the bar into place behind the door, and frowned thoughtfully.

  Assuming Robert was not mistaken, Kenzie's ring on the hand found at Valence Marie lent yet more evidence to the fact that Thorpe's relic was a fake: if Kenzie had worn the ring a few days before, there was no legitimate way the bony hand could have been wearing it for the last twenty-five years. Bartholomew walked slowly, his head bent in concentration. Will, the Valence Marie servant, might have been near the place where Kenzie had died.

  Had he discovered Kenzie's body, stolen the ring, and then decided to adorn the hand with it?

  Bartholomew sighed. He was back to a question he had asked before: who else would recognise the ring? Kenzie would have done, certainly, but he was dead. Dominica, assuming Bartholomew was right in his assumption that she was Joanna, was also dead. Thomas and Cecily Lydgate would know it, especially Cecily. Had Kenzie been killed just so that the ring could be put on the hand for the Lydgates to see? It seemed a very elaborate plot and there was nothing to say that the Lydgates would ever go to view the hand. Also, it necessitated a high degree of premeditation: Kenzie was killed several days before the relic appeared, and it was surely risky to kill for a ring, then just toss it into the Ditch on a skeletal hand in the hope that it might be found by the dredgers.

  Try as he might, Bartholomew could make no sense of it all. Only one thing was clear. His left sleeve had a small tear in it that he had been meaning to ask Agatha to mend. Because of this, he had been careful to put the two rings into his right sleeve the night before. But when he had shown the rings to Robert, they were in his left sleeve. Although the hiding place was perhaps an obvious one, there was only one person who might guess that he would use it. Bartholomew frowned again, wondering why Michael had searched not only his gown the previous night as he slept, but also his room the day before.

  The day of the Founder's Feast dawned bright and clear.

  All the scholars of Michaelhouse rose long before dawn to help with the preparations for the grand occasion.

  Agatha, who had not slept at all the night before, bellowed orders at the frantic kitchen staff and at any scholars who happened to be within bawling range. Bartholomew smiled when he saw the dignified Senior Fellow, Roger Alcote, struggling irritably across the courtyard with a huge vat of saffron custard, trying not to spill any on his immaculate ceremonial gown.

  'Sam Gray! ' yelled Agatha from the door of the kitchen, loud enough to wake half of Cambridge. Gray's tawny head appeared through the open window shutters of his room, looking anxious. 'Run to the Market Square and buy me a big pewter jug for the cream. That half-wit Deynman has just cracked mine.'

  'How can he have cracked a pewter jug?' called Gray, startled. 'They are supposed to be unbreakable.'

  Bartholomew heard Agatha's gusty sigh from the other side of the courtyard. 'That is what I always thought but Deynman has managed it. So, off to the market with you. Now.'

  Gray rubbed his eyes sleepily. 'The market stalls will not be open yet,' he called. 'It is still dark.'

  'Then go to the metal-smith's house and wake him up!' shouted Agatha, exasperated. Even the wily Gray knew better than to disobey a direct order from Agatha, and he scuttled away, running his fingers through his hair in a vain attempt to tidy it. Meanwhile, Agatha had spotted Bartholomew who, with Father William, was draping one of Alcote's luxurious bed-covers over the derelict stable that teetered in one corner of the yard.

  'And what do you think you are doing?' she demanded in stentorian tones to Father William. He looked taken aback, apparently considering that the purpose of their task was obvious to any onlooker.

  'Father Aidan said he thought these crumbling walls were an eyesore and he suggested we cover them.' He shook his head in disapproval. 'All vanity! We should be saving our guests from the eternal fires of hell, not pandering to their earthly vices by disguising ramshackle buildings with pieces of finery! ' He gave the bed-cover a vicious tug as though it were personally responsible for Father Aidan's peculiar recommendation.

  'I meant why are you forcing Doctor Bartholomew to help you?' she roared. 'He should not be cavorting about with you when his stars are bad.'

  Bartholomew closed his eyes in despair, wondering yet again how much longer Gray's diagnosis would continue to haunt him. Still, he thought, trying to look on the positive side, at least his recent accident had meant that Agatha had forgiven him for inviting Eleanor Tyler to the Feast, and he was now back in her favour. When he opened his eyes again Father William was regarding him uneasily.

  'I can finish this, Matthew,' he said. 'You go to your room and lie down.'

  'I am perfectly healthy,' Bartholomew snapped, pulling the bed-cover into place with unnecessary roughness. 'In fact, much more so than you.'

  The?' asked William, surprised. 'How can you tell that?'

  'You keep rubbing your stomach and you are as white as snow. Did you eat that fish-giblet stew that has been making an appearance at every meal since last week?'
>
  William winced and looked away queasily. 'It tasted much stronger than usual and I should have known not to eat it when some of it spilled and the College cat would not touch it.'

  Bartholomew stepped back, satisfied that the unsightly, tumbledown stable would not now offend the sensibilities of Michaelhouse's august guests. Of course, some of them might well wonder why a bed-cover was draped over one of the buildings in the yard, but that question could be dealt with when it arose.

  'I can give you some powdered chalk mixed with poppy juice. That should settle it down. But if you take it you must avoid drinking wine today.'

  'I was not planning to indulge myself in the sins of the flesh,' said William loftily. 'A little watered ale is all I shall require at the Feast. And I certainly shall not be eating anything.'

  'Good,' said Bartholomew, setting off towards his room, Father William in tow. He stopped abruptly. 'Oh, Lord!

  There is Guy Heppel. I hope he has not found another body in the King's Ditch.' It crossed his mind, however, that investigating such a matter might be a perfect opportunity for him to extricate himself from the delicate situation he faced with his two female guests that day.

  William snorted. 'That canal is a veritable cemetery! I cannot see that either the town or the University will be keen to dredge it again after all it has yielded this time.'

  He watched Heppel making his way delicately across the uneven yard, holding his elegant gown high, so that it would not become fouled with the mud, some hard and dry but some sticky and thick, that covered it.

  That man is a disgrace! To think he was appointed over me to keep law and order in the town!' William drew himself up to his full height and looked down his nose as the Junior Proctor approached. 'And I think he wears perfume!'