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Poynton’s body and soul must be in a very poor state indeed, if they required quite so many acts
     of penance, Etone introduced him. Then he indicated the pilgrims.
    ‘Master Poynton is a merchant,’ he said. ‘Hugh Fen is a pardoner, while Agnes and Margaret Neel are nuns of my own Order.
     They were both married to the same man.’
    ‘But not at the same time,’ added one of the nuns hastily. They were both short, middle-aged and plump, and in their identical
     habits, were difficult to tell apart.
    ‘A pardoner,’ said Michael, regarding Fen with distaste. He detested pardoners – men who peddled indulgences and relics to
     the desperate. Fen, however, looked a cut above his fellows. He was a tall, handsome man with a neatblack beard, and if
he
had undertaken lots of pilgrimages, he did not advertise the fact by covering himself with tokens. He bowed politely to Michael,
     revealing fine white teeth in a smile, although he must have detected the disapproval in the monk’s voice.
    ‘He makes a fine living from it,’ said Poynton. ‘There is much money to be made from pilgrims.’
    ‘I hope so,’ muttered Etone. He smiled ingratiatingly at the merchant. ‘Brother Michael will retrieve your cross, Master Poynton,
     never fear. He is our Senior Proctor, and very good at investigating crimes that occur on University property.’
    ‘I am good,’ agreed Michael immodestly. ‘But I do not see how I shall solve this one. All you can tell me is that the thief
     wore a green tunic, but I shall need more than that if I am to succeed.’
    ‘He dashed in from the street,’ said Poynton, bristling with anger at the memory. ‘It happened so fast that I only had a glimpse
     of him. Damned villain!’
    ‘He had bright yellow hair,’ said Fen helpfully. ‘Lots of it.’
    ‘Yellow hair?’ asked Bartholomew, looking sharply at him. ‘Are you sure?’
    ‘It cannot be the same man you chased, Matt,’ said Michael in a low voice. ‘
He
fled the town, and Heslarton is now hot on his heels. He is unlikely to have returned within a couple of hours and committed
     a second offence.’
    ‘Why not?’ Bartholomew whispered back. ‘If Heslarton is scouring the Chesterton road, then Cambridge is as safe a place as
     any to hide. Here, there are crowds to disappear into.’
    ‘I accept that,’ said Michael. ‘But the operative word here is
hide
. If he did return, he will be lying low, not drawing attention to himself by stealing from pilgrims.’
    Bartholomew shrugged. ‘If you say so. But it is an odd coincidence.’
    When Prior Etone changed the subject from theft to shrines, Bartholomew took his leave, unwilling to be asked in front of
     quite so many devout penitents whether he had been struck by the sanctity of Simon Stock’s scapular. He muttered something
     about patients, and continued with his rounds. He visited a student with stomach pains, then aimed for Michaelhouse, eager
     to spend at least some time teaching before the day ended – it was already mid-afternoon.
    He was walking down St Michael’s Lane, pondering a lecture he was to give on the theories of Maimonides the following day,
     when he became aware that his path was blocked by a wall of men. Academic thoughts flew from his mind when he recognised Principal
     Kendale and the scholars of Chestre Hostel.
    Chestre was located not far from Michaelhouse, so the two foundations’ paths often crossed. Michaelhouse’s Fellows were mostly
     sensible, sober men, who took care to ensure the encounters were amiable, but the same could not be said for their students.
     Ever since Kendale’s trick had seen a College man gored by a bull, they had taken to bawling insults at Chestre. There had
     been no physical fighting so far, but Bartholomew sensed it would not be long in coming.
    That day, Chestre’s scholars had ranged themselves across the alley in such a way that no one could pass. Kendale was in the
     middle, distinctive with his braided hair and