at Michaelhouse six years before, and had treated Buckley frequently for a skin complaint.
‘Who usually opens the chest?’ Bartholomew asked.
‘Well, Master Buckley, actually,’ said de Wetherset.
‘Gilbert usually kindles the lamps, and I like to set out the table, ready to work on the documents locked in the chest.’
Bartholomew looked at Gilbert, who hastened to
explain. ‘Master de Wetherset hands Master Buckley his keys, he unlocks the chest and removes any documents we require, and then he locks it again immediately.’ He looked down at the lock in renewed horror. ‘You mean poor Master Buckley could have been killed like that poor friar just by unlocking the chest?’
Michael shrugged. ‘Yes. Assuming the lock has not been changed.’
Bartholomew stood to leave. ‘That is all we can tell you,’ he said. “I am sorry it is not more, but perhaps Masters Harling andjonstan will uncover the truth when they begin to investigate.’
The Chancellor shook his head slowly, and indicated he should sit again. ‘My Proctors cannot investigate this,’ he said. ‘They have their hands full trying to keep peace between students and the gangs of people gathered for the Stourbridge Fair. Also, there are scores of entertainers, mercenaries, and the Lord knows what manner of people wandering through the town gawking at our buildings and assessing our wealth. An increase in non-University folk around the town has always been a danger, but has been especially so since the Death, with lordless labourers strolling free.’
Bartholomew knew all this: the Fair was the largest in England, and merchants from all over England, France, and even Flanders came to trade. The Fair also attracted entertainers - singers, dancers, actors, fire-eaters, jongleurs, acrobats, and many more - and with the entertainers came pickpockets, thieves, rabble rousers, and tricksters. The Proctors always struggled to keep the scholars out of trouble, but this year the situation was far more serious. The plague had taken landowners as well as those who worked for them, and many previously bonded men had found themselves free.
A shortage of labour had forced wages up, and groups of people wandered the country selling their services to those that could pay the most. Compounding all this, the soldiers who had been fighting the King’s wars in France had begun to return. It was easier to steal than to work, and robbers on the roads were increasingly common, especially given the number of carts that trundled along taking goods to and from the Fair.
The Fair was only in its second week, but already there had been three deaths, and a riot had been only narrowly averted when a local tinker had stolen a student’s purse.
‘Because my Proctors are busy with the Fair,’ the Chancellor continued, “I will need to crave your indulgence a little longer, and ask that you might make some preliminary enquiries on my behalf. Of course, Harling and Jonstan will help wherever they can, but…’
‘If you will forgive me, Master de Wetherset,’ interrupted Bartholomew, “I would rather not be a party
to an extended investigation. I am a physician, and I think the events of two Christmases ago show clearly that I am not adept at this kind of thing. You would be better asking one of your clerks to do it. Perhaps Gilbert?’
“I require a physician to examine the body of my scribe Nicholas to see if he, too, was killed by this foul device,’ said de Wetherset, gesturing to the lock on the table. ‘Gilbert cannot tell me whether a man has been poisoned or not.’
‘But Nicholas is buried!’ said Michael, shocked. ‘You said he died a month ago.’
‘You mean to dig him up?’ gasped Gilbert, his face white under his beard.
Cuthbert joined in. ‘Nicholas has been laid to rest in hallowed ground! You cannot disturb him! It is contrary to the will of God!’
De Wetherset looked disapprovingly at them before addressing Michael and Bartholomew.