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latrine. Poor Elvesmere. He would have been mortified to know what had been done to him.’
    Michael stared at him in horror. ‘
Stabbed?
You mean murdered? And it did not occur to you to tell me immediately?’ He waved away Bartholomew’s sheepish apology. ‘Stabbed by whom?’
    ‘The killer left nothing to incriminate himself, Brother. All I can say is that the wound would not have been instantly fatal.’
    ‘Could you have saved him, had you been called at once?’
    Bartholomew shook his head. ‘The blade punctured a lung. At least, I assume it did. It is impossible to be sure without looking inside him.’
    ‘Then we shall accept your educated guess,’ said Michael briskly, well aware of his friend’s controversial views on the art of anatomy. ‘Could you deduce anything else? Such as whether Elvesmere knew his assailant?’
    ‘Of course not! However, there were no signs of a struggle, which means that either his killer attacked without warning, or Elvesmere did not consider him a threat.’
    ‘Poor Winwick Hall! A murder on the eve of its entry into the University will do its reputation no good whatsoever. Did you meet the other Fellows while you were there? And perhaps observe their reactions when you told them that one of their number had been unlawfully slain?’
    ‘Illesy was shocked, but I think it was more fear of the harm it might do his College than dismay for the victim. Lawrence had to take him to sit down. Ratclyf seemed more indignant than distressed, and the other two – Nerli and Bon – had heard the news before I went to their
parlura
, so I have no idea how they responded. Why? Do you suspect one of them of the crime?’
    ‘Well, they are the ones with access to the place where the victim died,’ Michael pointed out.
    ‘Not so, Brother. The gates are off their hinges, which means that anyone can wander in and out. Jekelyn has been hired as a porter, but he is not very conscientious.’
    ‘True.’ Michael’s green eyes were wide in his chubby face. ‘How am I supposed to find a culprit when there is so little in the way of clues? Moreover, I am still busy with the murder of my Junior Proctor, not to mention struggling to keep the peace between the townsmen and the new
matriculands
who are flocking to enrol in the University.’
    ‘Felbrigge,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘How is that enquiry progressing?’
    ‘Slowly. But I will catch his killer if it is the last thing I do. I must, or the culprit may set murderous eyes on another University official.’
    When the bell rang to announce the midday meal, Bartholomew and Michael started to walk towards the hall, joining the streams of scholars emerging from the accommodation wings and gardens. Meals in College were obligatory, and no one could absent himself without the Master’s permission. Fortunately for Bartholomew and Michael, the Master was a pragmatic soul who appreciated that physicians and senior proctors sometimes needed to obey more urgent summons, and rarely took them to task if they were missing.
    His name was Ralph de Langelee, a tall, barrel-chested individual who had been a henchman of the Archbishop of York before deciding that the University was a better place to ply his range of dubious skills. He knew little of the philosophy he was supposed to teach, but he was an able administrator, and his Fellows were mostly satisfied with his rule. He spotted Michael and Bartholomew as he came out of his quarters, and changed direction to intercept them.
    ‘You know the College statutes, Brother,’ he said shortly. ‘Is there anything in them that I can use to stop Father William and Thelnetham from sniping at each other? Their feud has lasted for months now, and I am heartily sick of it. It is even worse now that Hemmysby is back.’
    ‘Is it?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. Simon Hemmysby was a diffident theologian, who spent half his time teaching in Cambridge, and the other half as a canon in Waltham Abbey. Bartholomew could