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‘Does anyone know what gave rise to the tale about Knyt being unlawfully slain?’ asked Meryfeld before Bartholomew could press the matter further. ‘Was it because Potmoor was Olivia’s lover, and liked to slip into her house while Knyt was out?’

Bartholomew stared at him, recalling what Richard claimed to have seen. Could the rumour be true? He shook himself impatiently. Why would Olivia dally with the unsavoury Potmoor? If the man had visited Knyt’s house when its master was away, then it would have had nothing to do with her. So what had Potmoor been doing there? A small, nagging voice began to scratch at the back of his mind, telling him that perhaps he was wrong to dismiss Edith’s claim so precipitously.

Are we sure Knyt had a seizure?’ he asked, thinking how easy it would be to enter an empty kitchen and slip something toxic into a dish of food. ‘You said we were unanimous in our diagnosis, but that is untrue. I did not venture an opinion, because I only saw him after he was dead.’

‘Quite sure,’ replied Rougham curtly. ‘Please do not fuel these silly tales by disagreeing with the rest of us. A surfeit of oysters gave him colic, which brought on a fatal attack. And I am more sorry than I can say.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Lawrence sadly. ‘The town will be poorer without his goodness and charity.’

I shall be poorer without him,’ said Rougham sourly. ‘He was my richest client.’

CHAPTER 6

A little while later, Bartholomew entered St Mary the Great to find Michael at the back of the church. The nave rang with splenetic voices, ones far too agitated to pay heed to Chancellor Tynkell, who was struggling to impose order.

‘Normally, I would rescue him,’ said the monk. ‘But it was his idea to continue the debate for a second day, so he can manage by himself. That will teach him to make decisions without me.’

‘I thought it would be over by now,’ said Bartholomew.

‘It should be, but it will drag on into the evening, given that Tynkell is incapable of preventing our more wordy colleagues from repeating everything six times. I shall leave him to it. Heavens! Here is Langelee. It is rare to see him at this sort of occasion.’

‘Have you seen William’s tract?’ demanded the Master without preamble. ‘The one he has been working on these past two weeks?’

‘Not yet,’ replied Michael. ‘Although he aims to annoy Thelnetham with it, so I imagine it will be rich in reckless bigotry. Why?’

‘Because not only does it attack the Dominicans, the Gilbertines, Waltham Abbey and John Winwick in ways that will have the King and half the priests in England clamouring for our blood, but he has written about apostolic poverty.’

Michael sighed. ‘Then burn it before any of his victims see the thing. I am not worried about his ravings on religion — he is not clever enough to devise a thesis that will attract followers, and his ponderings will likely be laughed into oblivion.’

‘If only that were true, Brother. Unfortunately, he managed to acquire a copy of the text that caused Linton Hall to be dissolved and its members excommunicated. He has copied it out, and aims to pass it off as his own. I am no theologian, but even I can tell it is heresy.’

Michael regarded him in alarm. ‘Then why is it not on the fire already?’

‘Because he has hidden it and refuses to tell me where. You will have to use your authority as Senior Proctor to wrest it from him. And while you are at it, tell him that if he tries my patience again, I shall not be responsible for the consequences.’

‘Very well,’ sighed Michael wearily. ‘I shall come at once.’

‘He is here, listening to the debate, and will make a fuss that will attract unwanted attention if you haul him out in front of everyone. Nab him this evening, Brother, but for God’s sake do not forget or we shall be finished.’

‘William really is a nuisance,’ muttered Michael, as the Master turned on his heel and stalked away. ‘Why did he have to choose now to be controversial? But never mind him. We need to visit Potmoor before any more of the day is lost.’

‘Must we?’ asked Bartholomew without enthusiasm. ‘Is there no other way forward?’

‘None that I can see. Other than asking Illesy what he has to say about entertaining the villain on the night Elvesmere died — which we shall do as soon as we have Potmoor’s side of the story.’

As it transpired, they were spared a trek to Chesterton because they met Potmoor on the High Street. The felon was with his hulking son Hugo, and at his heels were men who wore the greasy half-armour of the professional lout. He was exchanging greetings with Olivia Knyt, who was pale and subdued. When the two scholars approached, she took the opportunity to hurry away from him.

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