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with the key from Langelee’s room, which was then replaced. You were out on Sunday evening. Did you notice anything odd when you came back?’
    ‘No, but the porter was away on his rounds, so I let myself in.’ A stricken expression crossed Bartholomew’s face. ‘Perhaps someone saw how easy it was, and simply copied me.’
    ‘Unlikely – Thelnetham was right to point out that if it were a random crime, the thief would not have known where to find the key.’ Michael’s expression hardened. ‘The culprit made a mistake when he targeted our home. You offered to help me catch him yesterday—’
    ‘I did not offer. You coerced me.’
    ‘—but I need help with the murders of Felbrigge and Elvesmere, too. No one has offered to take Felbrigge’s place, and it is difficult to manage so much without a Junior Proctor.’
    ‘I cannot, Brother,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘Unless you can arrange for more hours in the day. I am struggling to cope as it is.’
    ‘Felbrigge and Elvesmere were fellow scholars. You should want justice for them.’
    ‘I do, but—’
    ‘Good, it is settled then,’ said Michael, with such relief that Bartholomew glanced sharply at him. There were dark bags under his friend’s eyes, and he realised that he had been so wrapped up with his own problems that he had failed to notice the toll Michael’s responsibilities were taking on him – murders to solve, a huge influx of matriculands to control, all the difficulties surrounding the birth of a new College, and now the stolen hutch.
    ‘I can give you until the start of term, Brother. A week. After that I shall be swamped with teaching. We both will. So we had better make a start. What have you learned about Felbrigge?’
    ‘Nothing,’ replied Michael bitterly. ‘He was standing next to me when he was shot, but neither I nor anyone else saw a thing to help. My beadles found the bow, and we were able to deduce that it probably belonged to a professional archer, but that is all. In short, we still have no idea who did it or why.’
    ‘Perhaps Felbrigge was not the intended victim,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Maybe this professional archer was aiming at the Chancellor or you – the University’s most powerful scholar.’
    ‘I have already assessed that possibility and dismissed it. Such men do not miss their targets, and nor could they have mistaken Felbrigge for me or Tynkell. I wear my habit, Tynkell is thin and grey, and Felbrigge was short, fat and clad in a ceremonial robe of scarlet. The three of us look nothing alike.’
    ‘When I was at Winwick yesterday, Ratclyf said that Felbrigge was unpopular.’ Bartholomew spoke hesitantly, never happy with gossip. ‘That he was disliked by scholars
and
townsmen.’
    ‘It is true. Felbrigge managed to antagonise an extraordinary number of people while you and I were away in Peterborough. Clearly, I should never have left him in charge.’
    ‘Did you know he was arrogant and abrasive when you appointed him?’
    ‘Yes, but he was the only one who applied for the job, and I was desperate for help.’
    It was no surprise that scholars were not queuing up to be Michael’s helpmeet. He was dictatorial, impatient with mistakes, and hated being challenged. Moreover, the post was poorly paid, sometimes dangerous and involved everything Michael did not fancy doing himself.
    ‘Did you like him?’ Bartholomew asked.
    ‘Not really. On his first day in office he told me that he intended to step into my shoes by the end of the year. The audacity of the man! Anyway, he obviously angered someone less tolerant than me, and he paid for it with his life. Of course, he was a member of the Guild of Saints…’
    Bartholomew regarded him uneasily. ‘Are you saying that one of them killed him? Lord, that would be awkward! They comprise the town’s most influential people – folk who will not appreciate being accused of murder. Who is on your list of suspects?’
    ‘I do not have a list, Matt. I