The bell summoning the college to dinner at midday still clanged incessantly long after the Fellows and students had filed into the great hall, marking time over the susurration of urgent whispered conversations that betrayed the tension crackling in the atmosphere like the charge before a storm. Outside, the rain beat against the windows so hard that we had to raise our voices to make ourselves heard even to our neighbours.

I was disconcerted to find that a place had been saved for me at the high table with the senior Fellows. Seated between Godwyn and Slythurst, who made no effort to disguise his distaste at my presence among his colleagues, I could not help but be aware that the seat I occupied must surely have belonged to one of the two dead men.

The high table was set on a low dais that gave me a vantage over the rest of the hall. It was a handsome room, its walls whitewashed and hung with tapestries in the French style of the last century that were clearly expensive work, though now grown somewhat faded with age. The hall was dominated by the open hearth that stood in the centre of the floor beneath an octagonal louvre set in the high timber roof, its beams blackened with soot, to allow the smoke to escape. Around the hearth was a wooden pale, wide enough for several people to sit on and warm themselves; either side of this, a long table had been set beneath the windows, where the undergraduates and junior Fellows now crammed onto benches with frequent glances at the dais, murmuring among themselves about the rector's drawn face and the second empty place at the high table.

A skinny young man with unkempt red hair, dressed in a gown several sizes too large for him, mounted the lectern that stood beside the high table and in a voice surprisingly sonorous for his slight frame, readied himself to pronounce grace. I recognised him as the boy I had watched clearing away the appurtenances of Matins in the chapel the previous day. The solemn tolling of the bell was silenced just as he opened his mouth.

"Benignissime Pater, qui providentia tua regis," he began, as the rector dutifully bowed his head and clasped his hands and the rest of the senior Fellows followed suit. From beneath lowered lids, I noticed that most of the undergraduates were still watching the high table with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. "Liberalitate pascis et benedictione conservas omnia quae creaveris," the boy intoned, and I noticed with a sudden pitch of relief that Gabriel Norris was seated at the head of one of the long tables among a clutch of other young men whose quality and cut of dress marked them out as separate from their fellow scholars. I did not take seriously Slythurst's suggestion that the instruments of murder pointed to Norris as the killer-it seemed to me rather that the use of his longbow implied his innocence, but at least now I would have the chance to speak to him after the meal. He continued to stare resolutely ahead of him, as if the deference of bowing his head in prayer would be beneath his dignity, and it occurred to me that there was something altered in his appearance, though I could not quite put my finger on what it might be. On the far side of the other table, I spotted Thomas Allen, head bent so far that his nose almost touched the table, the hands in front of his face clasped so tightly that the knuckles were bone-white.

"Per Christum Dominum nostrum, Amen," finished the red-haired boy, and a muttered "Amen" rose in response from the tables. The rector rose heavily to his feet and a wary silence settled over the hall.

"Gentlemen," Rector Underhill began, his voice drained of its usual bombast. "In the life of every Christian man there come times when God, in His divine and infinite wisdom, sees fit to test our poor faith with hardships and sorrows. Just so, in the life of our little Christian community, He has chosen these days to send us painful trials, the better to anchor our faith in His Providence." He took a deep breath and folded his hands in front of him in an attitude of humility. "It grieves me to inform you, gentlemen, so soon after the terrible accident that took the life of our dear subrector Doctor Mercer, that a second tragedy has intruded on our poor society. Doctor James Coverdale has been mortally wounded, it would seem in defending the college strong room from violent robbers."

He lowered his head; there was a moment's pause before a rumble of whispered speculation erupted into the stillness. The rector did not try to silence it; rather, he waited until the first wave of shock and disbelief had played itself out, then raised a hand, which he held aloft until the murmuring subsided.

"Wagers on who'll be brave enough to be subrector next?" Norris whispered to his friend, just loud enough for his voice to carry, and a ripple of tense laughter spread around the undergraduates' tables. The rector cleared his throat sternly.

"If anyone saw anything over the weekend that might have some bearing on this horrible act or could lead to the apprehension of these evil perpetrators, you may leave word at my lodgings," he announced.

Norris turned back to the rector and raised a hand. "Rector Underhill-may we know how much was taken from the strong room?"

The well-dressed young men among whom he sat nodded urgently; I wondered if the gentlemen commoners kept their own private wealth there too under lock and key.

The rector hesitated for a moment.

"Ah… well… it seems that nothing was actually taken, as far as we can tell. It must be that the altercation with Doctor Coverdale frightened the thieves and caused them to take flight."

"An odd sort of robbery, then," Norris observed, his words weighted carefully. "To take a man's life, all for nothing."

"Indeed, indeed," said the rector solemnly. "A terrible waste."

The meal passed largely in silence among those of us at the high table, though there was no lack of fevered hypotheses being aired among the junior men seated below us. On my right, Master Godwyn kept his eyes fixed on his plate and said almost nothing, but I noticed that when he lifted his tankard to drink, his hand was trembling like a man with palsy. Slythurst, on my left, occasionally put down his knife to comment between mouthfuls on the lax security that he believed had led to the deaths of his colleagues, as if he did not know very well that in both instances the killer had gained access with a key.

"The college should have a proper watchman on the gate," he opined loudly, through a mouthful of bread. "Cobbett is too old and too drunk to be of any use-why, a whole company of armed militia could march straight past his window and he wouldn't notice. As for that aged mutt of his-the college needs a proper guard dog, trained to deter intruders. And the main gate should be locked at all times, so that only those with a key can be admitted."

"I think, Walter, that a vicious dog is probably not what the college needs at this time," Godwyn said wearily, raising his head for a moment. "And we are a community of scholars, not a prison. We cannot lock the world out nor our young men in. Besides, think of the expense in issuing all the undergraduates with keys to the main gate." He shook his head and seemed to retreat inward to his own thoughts again.

"Master Slythurst, as bursar you must be frequently burdened with the task of having new keys cut for the various locks about the college." I said pleasantly, attempting to cut into a slice of boiled mutton.

Slythurst flashed me a furious sideways glance, as if to let me know that he divined my implication, but in the hearing of the other Fellows, he merely said, "Indeed. It is a considerable expense-people are forever losing or breaking them."

"And must this onerous duty always fall to you, or do you sometimes charge others with the errand of visiting the locksmith?" I continued, in the same innocent tone.