Black Wreath by Peter Sirr Page A

man’s chest. Possibly Vandeleur just meant to frighten him, but however it happened the man, in his eagerness to hit Vandeleur, seemed to trip on the cobbles and his full weight fell on the student’s blade. It all happened so quickly, James could hardly tell one part of the action from the other. All he knew was that at the end of it all, the man lay dead in the street.

Nine

The Pursuit
    V andeleur and McAllister ran, panic-stricken, back towards the safety of the college. For a moment, James felt he should stay and explain that what had happened was an unfortunate accident. But who would believe him? Instead, he backed away quickly, slipped into a laneway and walked back towards the college, making sure no one noticed him.
    Vandeleur and McAllister had run down Dame Street and hadn’t dared stop until the night porter had admitted them into the college. They’d run on towards Library Square and only when they had gained it did they come to a standstill.
    ‘I think we’re safe,’ Vandeleur said, his breath coming in desperate gasps. ‘No one there knew us’.
    McAllister nodded, out of breath. His face was white, the horror of what they had done only now beginning to dawn on him. ‘Is he dead, do you think?’
    ‘Indubitably,’ Vandeleur replied, not entirely without satisfaction.
    McAllister groaned. ‘If only we hadn’t brought these damned swords!’ He looked down and found that his coat was spattered with bloodstains.
    ‘Quickly,’ he shouted at Vandeleur. ‘We must hurry!’
    They ran to McAllister’s room, where the young student immediately began to wipe at the stains on his clothes. Vandeleur, now that the initial excitement had abated, was less hurried; he seemed to want to contemplate the fruit of his actions a bit longer. When James arrived, he was dispatched to fetch hot water to try to remove the blood from their clothes. When he came back, Vandeleur still had made no attempt to clean his weapon. James looked at it with horror. He couldn’t quite believe what had happened.
    ‘My dear fellow,’ Vandeleur was drawling to McAllister. ‘I’m sure he was a man of no account. I don’t know why you’re troubling yourself.’
    ‘He was a man!’ McAllister shouted at him. ‘Isn’t that enough? We have taken a man’s life?’
    Vandeleur shrugged.
    James asked leave to speak.
    Vandeleur glared at him. ‘Why do you keep this wretch?’
    ‘Oh shut up, Vandeleur. Yes, James, speak up.’
    ‘Did you meet anyone in the tavern? Did you talk to anyone?’
    ‘I can’t remember,’ McAllister said.
    ‘Did anyone see you leave?’
    ‘Only the dead man,’ McAllister said.
    ‘And he won’t be giving evidence to anyone,’ Vandeleur said, a smile on his face.
    As he said this, the blood drained suddenly even farther from McAllister’s already pale face.
    ‘Oh my God!’
    ‘What is it?’ Vandeleur looked up.
    ‘
Quis separabit
!
Quis separabit
!’ McAllister’s words came out in a near-shriek.
    ‘Ah,’ Vandeleur said. He looked slightly less composed now. ‘Our names on the table, carved for all to see.’
    James saw at once how serious the situation was.
    ‘There’s no time to lose,’ he said. ‘Once anyone remembers you were there and sees your names, this is the first place they’ll come looking. Who else but students would carve their names like that?’
    ‘With a Latin inscription to boot,’ McAllister acknowledged. ‘We’re doomed, then.’ He sagged visibly, all animation banished from his features.
    ‘You should go now,’ James said. ‘You should both go. And you shouldn’t be seen together.’
    ‘Go where?’ Vandeleur snarled at James, but before James had a chance to reply there was a sudden commotion on the cobbles below. James rushed to the window. He saw four sheriff’s men in the square outside, the college porter with them. They were making for the entrance to the building where Vandeleur’s rooms were.
    ‘They’re here,’ he said.
    Vandeleur ran to