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Michael’s expression was bleak. ‘I am serious, Matt. A lot of things are going wrong at the moment — the various lawsuits, the murders, the assault on Anne, the trouble at the dyeworks. And now Wauter has vanished.’

Bartholomew regarded him blankly. ‘I do not understand-’

‘I have assumed they are all unrelated, a random collection of nasty events. But there are so many of them, and they all do one thing: damage the relationship between town and University. In short, I think someone is orchestrating the whole lot — someone who wants the situation to explode into violence.’

‘Why would anyone want that?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘Who would benefit?’

‘Those who would like us to move to the Fens. What began as a silly rumour has become a movement with growing support. A lot of our scholars think it is a very good idea. And if there is open war between us and the town, even more will agree.’

‘But there is nothing in the Fens. It is a stupid notion.’

‘Is it? The priests among us have long deplored the University’s growing secularism, and a move to the marshes would make us more like a monastery — a self-sufficient foundation set apart from the vices of the laity.’

Bartholomew rubbed a hand through his hair. ‘Let us assume you are right. Is Nigellus the sly mastermind behind this scheme?’

‘It is possible: he does think we should go. But so does another suspect, one who is much closer to home.’

Bartholomew regarded Michael in alarm. ‘You mean Wauter?’

‘Yes. He was a scholar in Zachary until the beginning of term — Nigellus’s hostel. Their terms of tenure did not overlap, but they still had dealings with each other.’

‘You think Wauter encouraged Nigellus to … No, Brother! This is too outlandish.’

‘Perhaps. Yet Zachary lies at the heart of all our problems: one of its masters assaulted Anne; he and two other members lie dead in odd circumstances; another has a licence to absolve scholars from violent acts; its new Principal has an unsavoury hold over the Chancellor; it lies on the same street as the brewery and the dyeworks; and its resident medicus stands accused of murder.’

‘And an ex-member is a strong supporter for a move to the Fens,’ added Bartholomew reluctantly. ‘Although I do not see Wauter as an arch villain who would sacrifice lives to get what he wants.’

‘I do not know what to think. However, there is only one way forward: Frenge’s murder started it all, and I have the sense that finding his killer will allow us to make sense of everything. You have never been happy with the evidence against Nigellus, so let us explore our other suspects for a while instead — the men of King’s Hall, Shirwynk and Peyn, Hakeney and Stephen.’

‘The last four would be glad to see the University leave Cambridge,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But the King’s Hall men would rather it stayed.’

‘So they claim — they may be lying in an effort to confuse us. We shall ask them as soon as we have had words with Stephen about his sly manipulation of our gullible priors.’

They walked directly to Stephen’s house on the High Street, only to be informed by his maid that her master was out with a client, although she was unable to say which one.

‘Tell him we called,’ ordered Michael, not bothering to hide his irritation. ‘And that he had better be in when we visit later, or there will be trouble.’

The girl gulped, clearly loath to repeat that sort of message to the man who paid her wages. ‘Then come in and wait for him,’ she suggested. ‘He will not be long — he is still not very well, so he will be keen to come home and lie down. He has pains in his wrists and he keeps being sick.’

‘I hope he will not use ill health as an excuse to avoid answering our questions — if he is fit enough to dash out after customers, then he is fit enough to speak to us,’ said Michael unsympathetically. ‘You can tell him that when he returns as well.’

Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and began to stalk towards King’s Hall. However, he and Bartholomew had not taken many steps before they met Tulyet and Dickon. The boy’s face was as vividly scarlet as ever, so he remained an unsettling sight. He favoured the two scholars with a wide grin, and they blinked their astonishment: his teeth were blue.

‘You cannot blame that on the dyeworks,’ said Bartholomew to the Sheriff.

‘He drank some woad,’ said Tulyet, giving his son a disapproving glare. ‘It was a stupid thing to have done. He might have poisoned himself.’

‘I did not drink it,’ Dickon informed him chirpily. ‘I just took a mouthful, kept it there during Mass, then spat it out.’

‘I wondered why you were so quiet.’ Tulyet turned anxiously to Bartholomew. ‘It will not stain him permanently, will it?’

‘No, although he might want to remember in future that one of the ingredients of blue dye is urine.’

Horror stole over the lad’s face, and there followed a good deal of agitated spitting.

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