The Mark of a Murderer

CHAPTER 1

Cambridge,

Pentecost 1355

Dawn was not far off. The half-dark of an early-June night was already fading to the silver greys of morning, and the Fen-edge town was beginning to wake. Low voices could be heard along some of the streets as scholars and friars left their hostels to attend prime, and an eager cockerel crowed its warning of impending day. Matthew Bartholomew, Master of Medicine and Fellow of Michaelhouse, knew he had lingered too long in Matilde’s house and that he needed to be careful if he did not want to be seen. He opened her door and looked cautiously in both directions, before slipping out and closing it softly behind him. Then he strode briskly, aiming to put as much distance between him and his friend as possible. He knew exactly what people would say if they saw him leaving the home of an unmarried woman – some would say a courtesan – at such an unseemly time.

He slowed when he emerged from the jumble of narrow alleys known as the Jewry and turned into the High Street. The elegant premises of the University’s stationer stood opposite, and Bartholomew detected a flicker of movement behind a window. He grimaced. If John Weasenham or his wife Alyce had spotted him, he was unlikely to keep his business private for long. Both were unrepentant gossips, and the reputation of more than one scholar – innocent and otherwise – had been irrevocably tarnished by their malicious tongues.

Once away from Weasenham’s shop, he began to relax. The High Street was one of the town’s main thoroughfares, and Bartholomew was a busy physician with plenty of patients. Anyone who saw him now would assume he had been visiting one, and would never imagine that he had spent the night with the leader of and spokeswoman for the town’s unofficial guild of prostitutes. The University forbade contact between scholars and women, partly because it followed monastic rules and its Colleges and halls were the exclusive domain of men, but also because prevention was better than cure: the Chancellor knew what would happen if his scholars seduced town wives, daughters and sisters, so declaring the entire female population off limits was a sensible way to suppress trouble before it began. However, rules could be broken, and even the prospect of heavy fines and imprisonment did not deter some scholars from chancing their hands.

It was not far to Michaelhouse, where Bartholomew lived and worked, and the journey took no time at all when the streets were quiet. When he reached St Michael’s Lane, he continued past his College’s front gates and aimed for a little-used door farther along the alley. He had left it ajar the previous evening, intending to slip inside without being obliged to explain to the night porter where he had been. He was startled and not very amused to find it locked. Puzzled, he gave it a good rattle in the hope that it was only stuck, but he could see through the gaps in its wooden panels that a stout bar had been placed across the other side.

He retraced his steps, wondering which of the students – or Fellows, for that matter – had crept out of the college the night before and secured the door when he had returned. Or had someone simply noticed it unbarred during a nocturnal stroll in the gardens and done the responsible thing? It was a nuisance: Bartholomew had been using it for ten days now, and did not want to go to the trouble of devising another way to steal inside the College undetected. He walked past the main gates a second time, and headed for nearby St Michael’s Church. All Michaelhouse men were obliged to attend daily religious offices, and no one would question a scholar who began his devotions early – particularly at Pentecost, which was a major festival. He wrestled with the temperamental latch on the porch door, then entered.

Although summer was in the air, it was cold inside St Michael’s. Its stone walls and floors oozed a damp chill that carried echoes of winter, and Bartholomew shivered. He walked to the chancel and dropped to his knees, knowing he would not have long to wait before his colleagues appeared. Smothering a yawn, he wondered how much longer he could survive such sleepless nights, when his days were full of teaching and patients. He had fallen asleep at breakfast the previous morning, a mishap that had not gone unnoticed by the Master. He was not entirely sure Ralph de Langelee had believed him when he claimed he had been with a sick patient all night.

The sudden clank of the latch was loud in the otherwise silent church, and Bartholomew felt himself jerk awake. He scrubbed hard at his eyes and took a deep breath as he stood, hoping he would not drop off during the service. The soft slap of leather soles on flagstones heralded the arrival of his fellow scholars; they were led by Master Langelee, followed closely by the Fellows. The students were behind them, while the commoners – men too old or infirm to teach, or visitors from other academic institutions – brought up the rear. They arranged themselves into rows, and Bartholomew took his usual place between Brother Michael and Father William.

‘Where have you been?’ demanded William in a low hiss. William was a Franciscan who taught theology, a large, dirty man who had fanatical opinions about virtually everything. ‘You left shortly after dusk and have been gone ever since.’

His voice was indignant, as if Bartholomew’s absence was a personal affront, and the physician wondered whether it was he who had barred the door. William was narrow minded and intolerant when it came to University rules, despite the fact that he did not always heed them scrupulously himself.

‘Fever,’ he replied shortly. William had no right to question him: that was the Master’s prerogative – and Langelee was mercifully accommodating when it came to the activities of a physician with a long list of needy customers. He encouraged Bartholomew to treat the town’s poor, in the hope that this might induce some of them to spare Michaelhouse during the town’s frequent and often highly destructive riots.

‘What kind of fever?’ asked William uneasily.

‘A serious one,’ replied Bartholomew pointedly, wishing the Franciscan would begin his prayers. He did not want to elaborate on his story – and he certainly could not tell the truth.

‘Fatal?’ asked William, covering his nose and mouth with his sleeve. His voice went from accusing to alarmed. ‘Is it the Death? There are rumours that it is coming a second time. Not enough folk mended their wicked ways, and God is still angry with them.’

Bartholomew smiled despite his irritation, amused by the way that William did not consider himself one of those with ‘wicked ways’. ‘It is not the plague.’

‘Then who has this fever? Anyone I know?’

‘A labourer – one of the men hired to clean the town for the Archbishop of Canterbury’s Visitation next week.’ This was true: he had indeed been summoned to tend one of the hollow-eyed peasants who worked all day for the price of a meal. He had physicked the fellow before visiting Matilde.

‘I do not mingle with such folk,’ said William loftily – and wholly untruthfully, since meeting the poor was unavoidable in a small town like Cambridge, and William was not a callous man, despite his pretensions of grandeur. ‘They are beneath the dignity of the Keeper of the University Chest and Cambridge’s best theologian.’ Smugly proud of himself, he turned his attention to his devotions.

‘That is not how I would describe him,’ muttered Brother Michael, who had been listening. ‘Well, he is the Keeper of the University Chest, but he is no more a theologian than is Matilde.’

Bartholomew glanced sharply at him, and could tell from the sly gleam in the monk’s eyes that more was known about his nocturnal forays than he would have liked. The obese Benedictine held the post of the University’s Senior Proctor, and was responsible for maintaining law and order among the scholars and a good deal more besides. He had a legion of beadles who patrolled the streets, hunting out students who broke the University’s strict rules – and any academic caught in a tavern or fraternising with women could expect a hefty fine. Bartholomew supposed that one of the beadles had spotted him visiting Matilde, and had reported the transgression to Michael.

Bartholomew was not only Michael’s closest friend, but also his Corpse Examiner, which meant he was paid a fee to investigate any sudden or unexpected deaths among members of the University or on University property. These occurred with distressing frequency, because life in Cambridge – as in any town across the country – was fraught with danger. People were killed in brawls; they had accidents with carts, horses and unstable buildings; they died from diseases, injuries and vagaries of the weather; and sometimes they took their own lives. Bartholomew and Michael explored them all, which meant that although any beadle would think twice about arresting Bartholomew for visiting a woman, he would certainly not hesitate to tell the Senior Proctor about the event.

‘You should be careful, Matt,’ whispered Michael. ‘Cambridge is a small town and very little happens that someone does not notice – even when you are being cautious.’

‘I know,’ said Bartholomew, closing his eyes prayerfully to indicate the conversation was over.

Michael was not so easily silenced. ‘I needed you earlier, and you were nowhere to be found. Then I discovered the orchard door unbarred – for the tenth night in a row.’

Bartholomew opened his eyes and regarded the fat monk accusingly. ‘Did you close it?’

Michael pursed his lips, offended. ‘Knowing you planned to use it later? Of course not! What sort of friend do you think I am?’

‘I am sorry,’ muttered Bartholomew. He rubbed his eyes again, and wished he felt more alert; Michael was the last man to lock him out, no matter what rules he was breaking. He changed the subject. ‘Why did you need me? Were you ill?’

‘There was a murder.’

‘How do you know it was murder?’

‘I am told there is a dagger embedded in the corpse’s back,’ replied Michael tartly. ‘And even a lowly proctor knows a man cannot do that to himself.’

Despite the fact that there was a body awaiting Michael’s inspection, and that he and his Corpse Examiner had been summoned before dawn – almost two hours earlier – the monk refused to attend his duties until he had had his breakfast. Personally, Bartholomew felt the fat monk could do with missing the occasional repast, and encouraged him to forgo the egg-mess, pickled herrings and rich meat pottage provided as part of the Pentecost celebrations, but his advice fell on stony ground. Michael intended to make the most of all the meals on offer that day, and no cadaver was going to lie in his way. When he had first been appointed proctor, Michael had chased recalcitrant students all over the town with considerable vigour, but he had since trained his beadles to do that sort of thing, and the only exercise now required was the short walk between College and his office in St Mary the Great. Over the past year, Bartholomew had noticed that the monk now waddled rather than walked, and that even a short burst of activity left him red-faced and breathless.

Langelee led his scholars back to Michaelhouse, where a bell rang to announce that breakfast was ready. Since it was Sunday, and the religious observations were always longer and later in starting, the scholars were peckish, so there was a concerted dash for the stairs that led to the handsome hall on the upper floor. The chamber’s window shutters had been thrown open, filling the room with light, and a gentle breeze wafted through the glassless openings, bringing with it the scent of summer. Benches and trestle tables had been set up, and loaves of bread, hacked into lumps, awaited the scholars’ consumption.

Michael charged to the high table, where the Fellows ate, and shuffled in agitated impatience while Langelee waited for the others to take their places, so he could say grace. Some masters used grace as an opportunity to hold forth to a helplessly captive audience, but Langelee was a practical man with plenty to do – little of which included studying – and his prayers were invariably short and to the point. He spoke one or two insincere words in a loud, confident voice, and was sitting down with his knife in his hand before most scholars even realised he had started. In view of the special occasion, he decreed that conversation was permitted that day, and dismissed the Bible Scholar, who usually read aloud during meals.

As soon as he had finished speaking, servants began to bring the food, which was served in ‘messes’ – large ones to be shared by four in the body of the hall, and smaller ones for two at the high table. Bartholomew was grateful he was not obliged to share with Michael, knowing it would be an unequal contest and that he would almost certainly go hungry. The monk reached for the largest piece of bread, then leaned back so that pottage, heavily laced with diced meat, could be ladled into the dish in front of him, demanding more when the servant stopped before it was fully loaded.

‘I see one of us does not miss Clippesby,’ said a morose Carmelite friar called Suttone, as he watched Michael’s gluttony with rank disapproval. ‘He is your mess-mate, and the fact that he is ill means you do not have to give him half.’ He glanced at Langelee, who shared his own dishes, and added pointedly, ‘Clippesby is considerate, and always divides the best parts evenly.’

Langelee responded by eating more quickly, and Bartholomew thought Suttone would be better fed if he did not waste time on futile recriminations: Langelee rarely spoke until he had finished feeding, and Suttone needed to do the same if he wanted an equal division of spoils. Bartholomew’s own mess-mate was William, who also ate more than his own allocation, but at least he usually asked whether the physician minded.

Michael was unashamedly gleeful that he could enjoy his food without competition. ‘I dislike teaching his music classes, but I do not miss him at meals.’ He released a sudden exclamation of horror and recoiled from his dish as though it had bitten him. ‘There is cabbage in this!’

‘Only a little,’ said Bartholomew. It was such a minute shred that he could barely see it. ‘It will not kill you.’

‘It might,’ countered Michael vehemently. ‘I do not eat food that is popular with caterpillars. I am always afraid that one of them might still be on it.’

‘Then it will be meat,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘And you have no objection to that.’

‘But caterpillars are green, and nothing green shall pass my lips,’ said Michael firmly, picking out the offending sliver and flinging it away with considerable force. It landed on William, who did not notice. Then the monk took an enormous horn spoon from his pouch, and began shovelling pottage into his mouth as if it might be the last food he would ever enjoy.

‘Slowly, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, aware that they went through this particular routine almost every day. ‘It is not a race – especially now Clippesby is not here.’

‘Yes and no,’ said Michael, glancing at Langelee. The Master was a rapid eater, and it was not unknown for him to gobble his own food, then leap to his feet, say the final grace and dismiss the servants before some scholars had even been served.

‘When can we expect Clippesby back?’ asked William. He rubbed his dirty hands on the front of his filthy habit, before breaking a piece of bread and passing half to Bartholomew. ‘Personally, I think he should stay where he is for ever. The man is not only a lunatic, but a Dominican.’ As a Franciscan, William detested Dominicans generally, and Clippesby in particular.

‘Having Clippesby incarcerated at Stourbridge hospital is highly inconvenient,’ said Suttone critically. ‘Not only does it mean we are missing a master – and his classes still need to be taught – but it does not look good to have our Fellows declared insane.’

Everyone except William glared at Bartholomew, who spread his hands helplessly. His colleagues were not the only ones who had been landed with additional duties; Bartholomew himself had been given the responsibility of looking after Clippesby’s astronomers, and fitting them into his already crowded schedule was far from easy. ‘I am sorry but, as his physician, I am under an obligation to do what is best for him. He is ill, and he needs to be somewhere he can recover.’

‘We are better off without him,’ declared William airily. He alone of the Michaelhouse Fellows had escaped the burden of extra teaching, because his fanatical hatred of Black Friars was certain to cause offence to Clippesby’s Dominican students. ‘And we should throw away the key to his cell. The man is mad, and he is where he belongs.’

‘I suppose we are lucky Brother Paul agreed to take him in,’ said Langelee, finishing his meal and wiping his lips on the back of his hand. Michael ate faster, seeing the final grace was not far off and there was still plenty to be devoured. ‘Most hospitals refuse to accept madmen, because they can be disruptive, and we can hardly treat him here.’

‘No,’ agreed William. ‘The man truly believes he can commune with the beasts, you know.’

‘He communes with them a good deal better than he does with his students,’ said Michael, cheeks bulging. ‘His musicians have not read half the texts they should have learned this term, while Matt says his astronomers are sadly deficient in even the most basic methods of calculation.’

‘That is irrelevant,’ said Langelee, not a man to be fussy about the academic standards of others when his own were so sadly lacking. ‘I just want him back. It is not just the teaching – he is also wine steward and manages our loan chests. I have enough to do, without adding his work to my burden. When can we expect him home, Bartholomew?’

‘When he is well again.’ Bartholomew thought, but did not say, that Clippesby might never recover.

‘He is not the only one enjoying a life of leisure while the rest of us toil,’ said Suttone, sanctimoniously disapproving. ‘Two King’s Hall masters left Cambridge in the last few days, too – right in the middle of term, and when us teachers are at our most busy.’

‘Richard de Hamecotes and Robert de Wolf,’ said Michael immediately, to show that the Senior Proctor knew all about unofficial leaves of absence. ‘Hamecotes left a note to say he was going away on King’s Hall business, but Wolf simply vanished. They will both face heavy fines when they reappear.’

‘That is what comes of accepting Fellows who are deficient in Latin,’ said William, blithely unaware that most of his colleagues considered his own grasp of the language somewhat below par, too. ‘Hamecotes and Wolf are men with heavy purses, who think a few months at our University will advance their careers at Court. The Warden of King’s Hall takes anyone who can pay these days, and cares nothing that his scholars do not understand a word of the lectures they are obliged to attend.’

‘They are not alone in wandering off without the requisite permission,’ Suttone went on. ‘Doctor Rougham – that surly physician from Gonville Hall – has gone home to Norfolk, and sent a letter informing his colleagues that he would return “when he could”. All I can say is that I am glad such presumptuous behaviour is not permitted here, at Michaelhouse.’

‘Rougham is a terrible medicus,’ announced Langelee in the dogmatic tone of voice that suggested disagreement was pointless. ‘I would not want him anywhere near me, should Bartholomew be unavailable. I would sooner die.’

‘You probably would die, if Rougham touched you,’ said Suttone cattily.

‘Clippesby’s sin must be very great,’ said William, reverting to a topic that held more interest for him. ‘Madness is caused by an imbalance of the humours and, in Clippesby’s case, this imbalance is a direct result of an unnatural enthralment with all seven of the deadly sins. It is the only explanation.’

‘Is it indeed?’ said Bartholomew, wishing William would keep his bigoted ideas to himself. The students were listening, and he did not want them to think badly of a man who was simply ill.

‘Reason is the thing that ties us to God,’ William went on. ‘And all lunatics have wilfully alienated themselves from Him by purposely destroying their powers of reason with wickedness. A soul weakened by sin is easy prey for the Devil. Ergo, Clippesby is the Devil’s agent.’

‘He is not,’ said Bartholomew firmly, unwilling to allow such a statement to pass unchallenged, even though he knew from experience that there was no changing William’s mind once it was set: it was as inflexible and unyielding as baked clay. ‘His humours are in temporary disorder, but they are being restored by diet and rest. He is not the Devil’s agent. On the contrary, he is a kinder, better man than many I know.’ He was tempted to add that these included William.

‘We all croon to the College cat when it comes to sit in our laps,’ said Langelee unhappily. ‘But Clippesby claims it talks back, and that is what makes him so different from the rest of us. However, insanity is a small price to pay for the work he does, and I am prepared to overlook it. I want him back, Bartholomew, preferably before the Visitation next week.’

‘I am looking forward to Archbishop Islip’s visit,’ said William keenly. ‘He will want to come to Michaelhouse – the best of all the Cambridge colleges – and he will certainly insist on meeting me.’

‘God forbid!’ muttered Langelee, standing to say the final grace. ‘If he thinks all Michaelhouse men are like you, then we will never persuade him to become one of our benefactors.’

Summer had definitely arrived, Bartholomew realised, as he walked along the High Street with Michael. He had been so preoccupied over the past ten days – not only with Matilde, but with the additional teaching made necessary by Clippesby’s illness – that he had not noticed the trees were fully clothed in thick, green leaves, that flowers provided vibrant bursts of colour in unexpected places, and that the sun shone benignly in a clear blue sky. It was warm, too, and many of the casual labourers, who had been hired to make the town beautiful for the Visitation, had dispensed with tunics and presented pale, winter-white skin for the sun to touch as they enjoyed their day of rest.

As they passed the Jewry, Bartholomew stole a furtive glance along Matilde’s lane. Her door was closed, and he hoped she was managing to catch up on some of the sleep she had missed the previous night. He smothered a yawn, and wished he could do the same. Neither the glance nor the yawn escaped the attention of the observant Michael.

‘It will not be long before the whole town knows. I thought you liked life at Michaelhouse, but if you are caught defying the University’s prohibition against women you will lose your Fellowship and your students. You will be reduced to practising medicine in the town and nothing else.’

‘That would not be so bad,’ replied Bartholomew, thinking about the mountain of academic work that loomed ahead of him until term ended. His third-year students had not finished Galen’s De criticis diebus, while he was still dissatisfied with the lectures his postgraduates intended to deliver on Hippocrates’ Liber aphorismorum for their inceptions. The Regent Master who would examine them was his arch-rival Doctor Rougham, who would not grant them their degrees unless they were perfect.

‘You would starve,’ said Michael brutally. ‘Your Fellowship provides you with a roof over your head, regular meals and funds to squander at the apothecary’s shop. Most of your patients are too poor to pay for their own medicines, and without Michaelhouse you would not be able to help them. So, think of them as you brazenly stride away each night to frolic with Matilde.’

Bartholomew thought of the care he had taken on his nocturnal forays. ‘I am not brazen…’

Michael gave a snort of laughter. ‘Your students know what you do and they are beginning to follow your example. I caught Deynman and Falmeresham with a whore two nights ago. I have told you before: enjoy Matilde if you must, but do it with at least a modicum of discretion.’

‘I have never–’

‘Do not argue, Matt: you know I am right. And if you do not care about yourself or your patients, then think of me. I am the Senior Proctor. Imagine how it looks for me to have a Corpse Examiner who flouts the rules night after night, and I do nothing about it.’

Bartholomew rubbed his forehead tiredly. ‘But what can I do? She needs me.’

‘I am sure she does,’ replied Michael primly. ‘But that is beside the point. I am giving you some friendly advice, and you would do well to listen. Practise discretion.’

‘I will bear it in mind,’ replied Bartholomew, thinking that if sneaking out quietly when no one was awake, always waiting for total darkness, and making sure no one watched when he entered the Jewry was not discreet, then he was defeated. He had been as careful as he could, and was horrified that so many people seemed to know what he had been about.

‘We are going to Merton Hall,’ said Michael, changing the subject. He saw Bartholomew’s blank expression, and added in exasperation, ‘To see this corpse we have been asked to inspect, man!’

‘Oh,’ said Bartholomew without much interest. ‘That.’

‘My beadles say the victim is a visiting scholar from Oxford.’ Michael glanced at his friend when he received no response. ‘Matilde must be wearing you out, because you have not asked a single question about the body and the circumstances of the man’s death, and you are normally full of them.’

‘Merton Hall,’ mused Bartholomew, trying to make an effort. ‘That is the house over the river, which is owned by the College I once attended in Oxford.’

‘I forgot you have connections to the Other Place,’ said Michael, not entirely approvingly. England had two universities – in Cambridge and Oxford – which were rivals for students and benefactors. Cambridge was newer and smaller, and its scholars invariably regarded its larger, more influential sister with rank distrust. ‘Merton is one of its biggest and richest Colleges, I understand?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘Its founder, Walter de Merton, was afraid his scholars might eventually be driven out of Oxford by rioting townsfolk, so he purchased a house and several parcels of land in Cambridge for them – a refuge should they ever be obliged to flee.’

‘Well, they have flown,’ said Michael. He saw Bartholomew’s puzzled expression, and elaborated. ‘Surely you remember the news? On St Scholastica’s Day – four months ago now – there were violent disturbances in their city that ended in the murder of sixty scholars. Several Oxford men have arrived here recently, although one evidently learned last night that we are not the safe haven he anticipated.’

‘A Merton man is dead?’ asked Bartholomew, feigning an interest he did not feel. His years as an undergraduate in Oxford seemed a long time ago, especially that morning, after his tenth night of interrupted sleep.

‘Not Merton. Balliol. Perhaps you knew him: his name is Roger de Chesterfelde.’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘I studied there two decades ago, and my contemporaries will have moved on to other things by now.’

‘Then what about Henry Okehamptone?’ asked Michael. ‘Is that name familiar?’

Bartholomew shook his head again. ‘Why?’

‘Because Chesterfelde is not the first Oxford man to have died in Cambridge recently. That honour went to Okehamptone, who passed away ten days ago – on Ascension Day – the morning after this large party from Oxford arrived. His friends said he had been unwell the previous night, probably from drinking bad water along the way, and he perished in his sleep. These things happen, and catching a contagion is just one of the many dangers associated with gratuitous travel.’

Bartholomew smiled. Michael disliked lengthy journeys, and always believed he took his life in his hands when he embarked on one. However, he had a point about the perils of drinking in strange places: it was not unknown for travellers to arrive and immediately fall prey to some ailment they had contracted en route. As a physician, Bartholomew encountered such cases regularly.

‘Was Okehamptone old?’ he asked. ‘Frail and more susceptible than his companions?’

‘He was a young man. I saw his corpse myself.’

‘Did you?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised he had not been summoned, too.

Michael shot him a nasty look. ‘I wanted you to do it, but you were nowhere to be found. You have become very elusive over the last two weeks.’

Bartholomew ignored the comment. ‘Why were you called? Merton Hall is not our University’s property, and Oxford scholars do not come under your jurisdiction.’

‘I beg to differ – they can hardly be investigated by the secular authority invested in the Sheriff, so of course they fall to me. However, there was nothing to suggest Okehamptone’s companions were lying about his fever.’ Michael cast Bartholomew another resentful glance. ‘My Corpse Examiner should have confirmed their diagnosis, but he was mysteriously unavailable.’

‘Ascension Day,’ mused Bartholomew, refusing to acknowledge the barrage of recriminations. The festival was a favourite of Michael’s and, after a solemn mass, the monk had furnished plenty of food and wine so that Michaelhouse could celebrate in style. Bartholomew recalled the occasion clearly, unlike some of his less abstemious colleagues. ‘I was obliged to tend Master Weasenham that morning. For a toothache.’

‘Then it is no wonder I could not find you,’ remarked Michael testily. ‘I did not think to look for you at Weasenham’s house, because he is not your patient: he is Doctor Rougham’s. You should take care, Matt. The University stationer is a rich man, and Rougham will not approve of you poaching one of his best sources of income.’

‘Rougham was unavailable, and Weasenham said he could not wait,’ replied Bartholomew, thinking it was ironic that he had treated the stationer out of compassion, and yet it was probably Weasenham who had been spreading the rumours about him and Matilde.

‘I did not need you anyway,’ Michael went on airily. ‘I met Paxtone of King’s Hall on the way, and he agreed to do the examination in your stead. He confirmed what Okehamptone’s friends said about a fever.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘And now there is a second death at Merton Hall. Are you sure you cannot pass this to the Sheriff, on the grounds that these scholars are aliens in our town? If Chesterfelde has been murdered, then any investigation is likely to be time consuming.’ He was uneasy with the notion that helping Michael solve an unlawful killing might impinge on his understanding with Matilde.

‘Dick Tulyet is busy at the moment, supervising arrangements for the prelatical Visitation.’

‘You are busy, too,’ Bartholomew pointed out.

Michael was one of the most powerful men in the University, and holding on to such authority entailed a good deal of work; it was generally known that the monk made the most important decisions and that Chancellor Tynkell just did what he was told. Michael also had students to teach and, like Bartholomew, had been obliged to undertake extra classes because of Clippesby’s indisposition. In addition, he was heavily involved with preparations for the Archbishop’s Visitation – it fell to him to ensure that England’s highest-ranking churchman would be impressed by what he saw of Cambridge’s studium generale. Since there were rumours claiming that Islip intended to found a new College at one of the two universities, impressing him was particularly important.

Michael grinned in a predatory manner. ‘This will provide a challenging diversion from my usual routines – Tynkell is so malleable that he is no fun to manipulate any longer, while my students virtually teach themselves – and it will be interesting to probe the affairs of our sister University.’

‘What about the challenge associated with teaching Clippesby’s musicians?’

Michael did not dignify the question with an answer. He was resentful that he had been saddled with the class; although he was proud of his achievements with the Michaelhouse choir, being able to sing was a long way from understanding the discipline’s theoretical framework, and he was hopelessly out of his depth. Clippesby’s astronomers had been inflicted on Bartholomew, because physicians were obliged to maintain a working knowledge of the celestial bodies in order to treat their patients, but at least the field was not a complete mystery to him, as academic music was to Michael.

The two scholars turned on to Bridge Street. The sun shed a golden glow across the fields behind St John’s Hospital, catching in the thin mist that rose from the river. The air was balmy and smelled of new crops, with only a slight odour from the marshes that lay to the north, and the sky was light blue with a delicate membrane of high-scattered clouds. Birds sang loud and shrill and, in the distance, sheep bleated in water meadows that were carpeted with buttercups.

Bridge Street was busy, as people made their way to and from their Sunday devotions. There were orderly processions of scholars led by the masters of the Colleges and halls, there were friars in black, white or grey habits and cloaks, and there were townsfolk in their best clothes. Bells rang in a jubilant jangle, with the bass of St Mary the Great providing a rumbling accompaniment to the clanking trebles of Holy Trinity and All-Saints-in-the-Jewry.

Bartholomew and Michael reached the Great Bridge and started to cross it. Bartholomew gripped the handrail uneasily; the bridge was notoriously unstable, and comprised a gravity-defying mess of teetering stone arches, rotting wooden spars and a good deal of scaffolding. Funds were desperately needed for its repair – or, better still, for its complete replacement – but moneys raised by the burgesses always seemed to be diverted to some more pressing cause at the last moment. Bartholomew supposed the situation was set to continue until the whole thing toppled into the river; he only hoped no one would be on it when it did.

When he was halfway across, he glanced up to see someone standing near a section that was particularly afflicted with broken planking and crumbling masonry. The river was deep and fast at that point, and anyone jumping into it might well drown if he were not a strong swimmer. The man looked like a scholar; he wore dark, sober clothes and a cloak with a fringe of grey fur, but Bartholomew did not recognise him. He supposed he was a member of one of the many hostels that were scattered around the town. The fellow’s face was pale and shiny, as though he had been crying, and the physician watched in horror as he took a deep breath, then stepped hard on to one of the most precarious parts of the bridge.

Bartholomew darted forward as the plank bowed under the man’s weight. The fellow stumbled to his hands and knees, but the wood held just long enough for Bartholomew to reach out and drag him away by his hood. The man put up a feeble struggle, as several lumps of rotten timber splashed into the river below, but his heart was not in a serious escape. After a few moments, he went limp in Bartholomew’s restraining arms, and stared at the water rushing past below.

‘This is too public a place for self-murder,’ said Michael gently. One or two people stared, but there were better things to do than watching three scholars murmur in voices too low to be heard, and they soon moved on. ‘What brought you to this? Your studies? Love of a woman?’

‘It was an accident,’ mumbled the man, looking away. ‘I was not going to kill myself.’

‘No?’ asked Michael. ‘Surely you can see this side of the bridge is not safe.’

‘I am a stranger,’ said the man miserably. ‘I do not know your town and its buildings.’

‘You do not need to be local to tell which bits of this structure to avoid,’ retorted Michael. ‘What is your name? Which hostel are you from?’

‘I would rather not say,’ replied the man in a whisper. ‘You will report me for trying to break the Church’s laws against suicide, and I was not…’

‘I will do no such thing,’ said Michael firmly. ‘And if you say it was a mistake, then I shall believe you, although I will not allow you to linger here. Do you have friends who–?’

The man suddenly pulled free of Bartholomew and raced away, heading for the centre of the town. The monk raised his eyebrows in surprise, then shook his head helplessly.

‘He is probably pining over a woman. It is a pity he dashed off without giving us his name – I could have warned his principal to watch over him. But there is nothing I can do if he will not confide in me. Come on, Matt. If we do not visit Merton Hall soon, they will think we are never coming.’

‘And whose fault is that?’ asked Bartholomew archly, brushing splinters from his clothes. ‘We should not have eaten breakfast first.’

They reached the crossroads near St Giles’s Church, and turned along the road known as Merton Lane. Merton Hall was to the left, set amid its own neat strip-fields. Bartholomew had been inside it only rarely, usually when it was rented to the University as a venue for debates or public lectures. Most of the time it was a private dwelling, owned by a distant landlord and leased to a tenant who farmed the land. He and Michael followed a narrow path that wound pleasantly through an orchard, and approached the house.

It was a massive affair, built entirely of yellow-grey stone. It was old, but looked as though it would stand for many centuries to come, because its walls were thick and strengthened by sturdy buttresses placed at regular intervals along all four sides. Its lower floor comprised vaulted chambers used as offices, cellars and pantries; the upper floor contained a hall, with a solar at right angles to it, so the building was L-shaped. Bartholomew supposed it had been raised during a time of civil unrest, as everything about it suggested defence. He was not surprised that Merton’s founder had considered it a suitable refuge for scholars driven out of Oxford by force.

Besides the house were stables, barns and a small granary. In the distance was an enclosure for pigs and a large, square structure that Bartholomew knew was a cistern for storing water. A flock of pigeons clustered and cooed around a dovecote, and the fields bristled with vigorous shocks of barley and rye. The manor exuded an air of prosperity, and he was sure Merton College was grateful for the handsome profits it would almost certainly yield.

Michael knocked on the door, which was opened by a small man with hair so fair it was almost white. The fellow looked Michael up and down with rank distrust.

‘What do you want?’ he demanded.

‘I was summoned to inspect the body of Roger de Chesterfelde. Who are you?’

‘John de Boltone,’ replied the man. ‘Bailiff of this estate. That means I oversee everything that happens here, and I present the accounts to Merton College – usually every twelve months, although I did not go this year, winter being so severe.’

‘I know what a bailiff does,’ said Michael, impatient with the man’s self-important rambling. ‘However, I am surprised to find one here. I thought Merton rented the manor to a tenant, rendering a bailiff unnecessary.’

‘The tenant is Eudo of Helpryngham,’ replied Boltone. ‘He pays an agreed sum each year and, in return, takes a share of the manor’s profits from crop-growing and the like. That is why I am employed: to make sure he does not keep more of the income than he should.’

‘I see,’ said Michael. ‘So, was it you who sent me the message about the dead man? I was under the impression the summons came from scholars.’

‘They arrived almost two weeks ago,’ said Boltone, in a way that suggested he wished they had not. ‘There were riots in Oxford, so these brave souls decided it was time to inspect “some of the more distant outposts”, as they describe this fine manor. The reality is that they were too frightened to stay in their own city.’

‘What can you tell me about Chesterfelde?’ asked Michael, since the garrulous bailiff seemed to be in the mood for chatter. ‘Do you have any idea who slipped a knife into his back last night?’

‘Not specifically,’ said Boltone, standing aside to allow them inside. The door opened into a stone-vaulted entrance chamber packed with storage barrels and an eclectic assortment of agricultural implements. Merton Hall evidently placed a greater emphasis on accommodating its farming needs than on appearances, since the chaotic jumble could hardly be said to provide an attractive welcome to visitors. A spiral staircase in one corner led to the hall and solar above. ‘He was a happy sort of man – although he had a temper – and he has been here before. I think he liked Cambridge.’

‘Anything else?’

Boltone shrugged. ‘He was more cheerful than that miserable lot upstairs, so perhaps his gaiety led them to dispatch him. Not everyone likes a smiling face in the mornings.’

Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘You think he was killed because he was a morning person? That does not sound like much of a motive.’

‘Do not be so sure,’ said Boltone sagely. ‘I imagine it would be very annoying, day after day. As I said, the others are a morose rabble who seldom laugh about anything. But you took so long to answer their summons that some grew tired of waiting and have wandered off.’

‘I was delayed because I am busy,’ said Michael stiffly, not liking the censure in the bailiff’s tone. ‘I cannot drop important business the moment anyone snaps his fingers.’

Boltone shot him an unpleasant glance, offended by the implication that events at Merton Hall were insignificant. He sniffed, then his eyes took on a spiteful gleam. ‘The scholars refused to eat their breakfast with a body in the room, and insisted on moving it to the solar – I told them they should leave it where it was until you arrived, but they ignored me. Still, it is obvious what killed Chesterfelde. All you need do is work out which of his so-called friends did it.’

Michael and Bartholomew were about to follow Boltone upstairs to the hall, when the door clanked and someone else entered the vestibule. While Michael introduced himself, Bartholomew, feeling sluggish again, wondered whether he could manage to snatch an hour of sleep that afternoon or whether he would have to spend the time preparing lessons for Clippesby’s astronomers.

‘My God!’ breathed the newcomer. The shocked tone of his voice dragged the physician out of his reverie. ‘Matthew Bartholomew! I heard you had settled in Cambridge, but I did not believe it. I thought even you had more taste than to come here.’

Boltone was affronted. ‘Hey! This is a nice place, not like Oxford, which has riots every week.’

It took a few moments for Bartholomew to identify the face that was gazing imperiously at him, not because it had been forgotten, but because it was not one he had ever expected to see again.

‘William de Polmorva,’ he said, startled. It was not a pleasant surprise. He and Polmorva had not been on good terms when they had been undergraduates together at Oxford, and had come to blows on several occasions. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘You two know each other?’ asked Michael, looking from one to the other.

‘Obviously,’ drawled Polmorva, employing the aggravating sarcasm Bartholomew recalled so vividly.

‘Why are you here?’ asked Bartholomew, before Michael could formulate a suitably cutting retort. He had barely given Polmorva a thought in the twenty years since he had left Oxford, but memories started to crowd unbidden into his mind now, most of them centred around the fellow’s arrogance and condescension.

Polmorva shrugged. ‘Oxford is dangerous at the moment, and a man like me cannot be too careful.’

‘A man like you?’ echoed Michael, arching his eyebrows. The tone of his voice indicated that the comment could be taken in one of several ways and that he was busily sorting through them for the worst. Bartholomew had known Michael long enough to see he had taken a dislike to Polmorva.

‘Wealthy and erudite,’ elaborated Polmorva with a wolfish grin. ‘However, this squalid little village is every bit as dangerous as Oxford, and a good deal less charming. I arrived here eleven days ago, and two of my party have died already – one of them murdered.’

‘It will be three dead if he insults Cambridge again,’ hissed Boltone, addressing Michael. ‘I will not stand here and see my lovely town maligned by the likes of him.’

‘Go about your business,’ ordered Polmorva icily. ‘You should not be here, listening to your betters. Be off with you!’

‘You see?’ said Boltone to Michael. ‘Rude and miserable. That is what these Oxford scholars are – and one of them killed Chesterfelde.’ He turned on his heel and stalked out, slamming the door behind him.

‘You will not find Chesterfelde’s killer among Oxford’s scholars,’ said Polmorva in the ensuing silence. ‘But townsmen like him should be worth a long, hard look. And now, let me look at you.’

He walked around Bartholomew as if he was inspecting a prize bull. The physician forced himself not to show his irritation, knowing perfectly well that his old nemesis would be delighted if he succeeded in irking him. The physician saw time had not mellowed the man, and that he was just as spiteful and rebarbative as he had been in his youth.

Polmorva had always taken pride in immaculate grooming and he was perfectly attired now. His hair was fashionably cut, his gipon – a padded, above-the-knee tunic – fitted snugly around his waist, and he wore a sword-belt that aped the recent fashion among knights. The cloth of his cloak was expensive, while his soft-leather shoes were modelled into impractical points in the style popular among those who were not obliged to walk very far. In his patched and faded garments, still rumpled from his time with Matilde, Bartholomew felt grubby and impoverished. But for all his finery, Polmorva was unable to disguise the fact that his hair was thinning and there were puffy pouches under his eyes. By contrast, Bartholomew’s complexion was unblemished, resulting from plenty of exercise and the fact that his College rarely provided him with enough wine to allow debauchery. His hair was still mostly black, and he lacked the paunch that Polmorva’s expensive clothes could not disguise. He stood a little taller under the scrutiny, feeling that the years had been kinder to him than they had to his rival, and that he cut a finer figure, despite the disparity in the quality of their costumes.

‘Well,’ drawled Polmorva, reverting to spoken insults. ‘I see you have not used your education to earn your fortune. How have you managed to fall on such hard times?’ He reached for the pouch that hung at his belt, and his voice dripped with contempt. ‘Perhaps I can oblige with a loan? At least you could buy a decent tabard.’

‘Who is this cockerel?’ demanded Michael of Bartholomew, affronted on his friend’s behalf.

Polmorva gave one of his infuriating smiles. ‘I see you are a forgetful man, Brother. We were introduced last week, when you examined Okehamptone’s corpse.’

‘I do not recall you,’ said Michael with calculated insouciance. ‘As Senior Proctor, I meet many important men, and tend to dismiss lesser mortals from my mind.’

Polmorva gave another of his nasty sneers. ‘I am William de Polmorva, formerly Chancellor of the University of Oxford, and now Fellow of Queen’s College.’

Bartholomew could not stop himself from gaping. ‘They elected you Chancellor?’

Polmorva preened himself. ‘A two-year appointment.’

‘Queen’s College?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘You were a Fellow of University College when I knew you – after you had been expelled from Exeter.’

‘I was not expelled,’ objected Polmorva stiffly, and Bartholomew saw he had annoyed him. ‘I resigned, because University College offered me a better room.’

Bartholomew turned to Michael. ‘There were rumours that he was dismissed for embezzling.’

‘The rumours were false,’ said Polmorva coolly, while Michael gazed at Bartholomew in astonishment. It was unlike his mild-mannered friend to be so brazenly uncivil.

‘What are you doing here?’ asked Bartholomew again. ‘In a house owned by Merton?’

‘I was invited,’ replied Polmorva silkily. ‘I expressed a desire to be away from Oxford’s unsettled atmosphere, and Warden Duraunt asked if I would like to accompany him here. When I did not see you at the public debates last week, I made the assumption – wrongly, it would seem – that you had moved away. I confess I am surprised to see you today: if you have no time to attend compulsory disputations, then surely you have no time to satisfy a ghoulish interest in cadavers.’

‘He has been busy,’ said Michael, ‘with no time for old acquaintances – not even ones of your evident charm.’

‘Warden Duraunt is here?’ asked Bartholomew with eager pleasure. Some of his happiest Oxford memories were associated with Duraunt, a mentor who had been acutely intelligent, but also patient and gentle. ‘He is Warden of Merton now?’

Polmorva inclined his head in a nod, and returned to his own quest for information. ‘Are you some sort of lackey to this monk, Bartholomew? Or do you make use of your medical skills to lay out corpses? We employ pauper women for that sort of thing in Oxford.’

Michael eyed him with distaste. ‘I must remember to thank the good Lord that Cambridge has William Tynkell as its figurehead, and not a chancellor like you. I would not give much for its chances during a riot if it had to rely on your tact and diplomacy to soothe an enraged mob. Is that why Oxford was aflame in February?’

Polmorva gave a short bark of laughter. ‘Master Brouweon was in office then, not I – if I had been Chancellor, the rabble that attacked us would have been put down with proper force. But do not allow me to detain your from your important duties. Come upstairs and see about removing this body. It is a damned nuisance, lying in the way.’

‘Tell me about Chesterfelde,’ said Michael, indicating that Polmorva was to precede them up the stairs. He tried to sound detached, but did not succeed: Polmorva’s manners had irritated him far too deeply, and his next question came out like an accusation. ‘Who killed him?’

‘I thought that was why you were here. If we knew the identity of the killer, we would have dealt with the matter ourselves, not invited outsiders to meddle.’

‘That is not how things work in this town,’ said Michael coolly. ‘I investigate all suspicious deaths and the perpetrators are always brought to justice.’ He looked hard at Polmorva, and the unmistakable message was that he hoped the ex-Chancellor would prove to be the culprit.

Merton Hall’s main chamber was a large room with narrow lancet windows set into thick walls, which made it a dark and somewhat cheerless space. There was a hearth in the middle, and a door at the far end led to the adjoining solar. The floor was of wood, and was badly in need of cleaning, while ancient cobwebs hung thickly from the rafters. Bowls containing herbs had been placed on the windowsills, but they had long since finished emitting their sweet scent; they were dry, dusty and mixed with dead flies, and should have been changed. In all, the hall looked in desperate need of someone who would care for it.

‘Matthew!’ exclaimed an elderly man who sat by the fire. ‘I assumed you had moved away from Cambridge.’

Smiling with genuine affection, Bartholomew went to greet the man who had taught him the Trivium – grammar, logic and rhetoric – so long ago. Duraunt had aged since Bartholomew had left Merton to complete his studies in Paris. His hair was white, and there were deep lines in his kindly face. He had taken major orders with the Austin Canons, too, and wore a friar’s habit, rather than the traditional Merton tabard Bartholomew recalled. When he clasped his teacher’s hand it felt thin and light-boned, although the grip was still firm and warm. His grin was warm, too, and his face lit with joy as Bartholomew sat next to him.

‘You did not write as often as you promised,’ Duraunt said, gently chiding. ‘Nor did you accept my offer of a Fellowship at Merton. What does Cambridge have that we could not provide?’

‘My sister,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘She wanted me near her. Besides, I like the Fens. They produce a poisonous miasma that is the cause of several interesting agues.’

Duraunt smothered a fond smile. ‘Well, that is a virtue with which Oxford cannot compete.’ He glanced at Polmorva. ‘I hope you two will behave respectfully towards each other, and do not continue that silly feud you began as students. It was a long time ago, and I doubt you even recall what started it.’

‘I do,’ said Polmorva coldly. ‘It is not something I am likely to forget – or to forgive.’

‘You could have asked me about Matt when I came to inspect Okehamptone,’ said Michael, after a short and tense silence; out of respect for Duraunt, Bartholomew refrained from responding in kind. ‘You did not mention then that you knew him, and I was with you for some time.’

Duraunt shrugged. ‘You are a Benedictine and Matthew detests that particular Order. I did not imagine there was any possibility that you and he would be acquainted.’

‘Is that so?’ asked Michael, startled. ‘And what, pray, is his problem with Black Monks?’

‘He is very vocal about their venality,’ explained Duraunt, oblivious to his former student’s discomfort. ‘And then there was that business with them and the set of artificial teeth provided at feasts for those who had lost their own. He made no secret of what he thought of that.’

‘I can imagine,’ said Michael, intrigued by a hitherto unknown episode in his friend’s past. ‘But perhaps you would elaborate?’

‘Another time,’ said Duraunt, finally noting the mortified expression on Bartholomew’s face.

‘You have still not explained why you have come to deal with a corpse,’ said Polmorva, addressing Bartholomew. ‘Have I underestimated you, and you have reached the dizzy heights of Junior Proctor?’ He smirked disdainfully.

‘He is the University’s Senior Corpse Examiner,’ replied Michael, making the post sound a good deal grander than it was, ‘and one of our most valued officers. So, lead us to Chesterfelde’s body, and we can set about bringing his killer to the hangman’s noose.’

‘Polmorva said it was not decent to leave him on the floor while we ate breakfast, so we put him in the solar,’ said Duraunt. ‘However, he was killed here, in the hall, during the night – we know, because he was found at dawn today, and he was alive when we retired to bed.’

‘Where did the rest of you sleep?’ asked Michael. ‘In the solar?’

Duraunt shook his head. ‘The solar is used by Eudo, who rents this manor, and Bailiff Boltone. It is the best room in the house, and it would not be right to oust the man who pays to live here.’

‘I disagree,’ said Polmorva, and from the weary expression on Duraunt’s face, Bartholomew saw this was not the first time this particular issue had been aired. ‘Merton owns this building, and its bailiffs and tenants should evacuate the “best room” when College members visit.’

‘I do not want our people claiming we treat them shabbily,’ said Duraunt tiredly. ‘We are the visitors, so we shall sleep in the hall and leave them the solar.’

Michael brought the discussion back to the murder. ‘But you said Chesterfelde died in the hall. How could that happen, if you were here?’

Duraunt’s expression was sombre. ‘That is precisely why we were all so shocked. I sleep lightly, and wake at the slightest sound, but I heard nothing last night, and neither did anyone else. I suppose I was exhausted – I was in church most of yesterday, preparing myself for Pentecost.’

Michael was bemused. ‘Are you telling me Chesterfelde was killed while he was in the same room as you both?’

Duraunt nodded unhappily. ‘I am afraid so, Brother.’

Michael raised his eyebrows and gazed dispassionately at Polmorva. ‘I see. Were the three of you alone, or were there others present, too?’

Duraunt rubbed his eyes. ‘There was Spryngheuse, who is a Merton man, like me. Chesterfelde was from Balliol, but he and Spryngheuse were friends regardless. And there were three Oxford burgesses called Abergavenny, Eu and Wormynghalle.’

‘Chesterfelde was murdered in the presence of six other people?’ asked Michael, making no attempt to hide his incredulity. ‘And none of you heard or saw anything?’

‘That is what we said,’ replied Polmorva insolently. ‘Would you like me to repeat it, so it can take root in your ponderous mind?’

Bartholomew blocked Michael’s way, as the monk took an angry step towards him. He knew from experience that Polmorva could goad people to do or say things they later regretted, and he did not want Michael to strike him and face some trumped-up charge of assault that would divert attention from Chesterfelde’s death. Then it occurred to him that Polmorva might have antagonised Chesterfelde, and the resulting fracas had ended in a death. It would not be the first time such a thing had happened and, as far as Bartholomew was concerned, Polmorva was at the top of his list of murder suspects.

‘Where are Spryngheuse and the three merchants now?’ he asked.

‘Out,’ replied Polmorva shortly. ‘They grew tired of waiting for you to come, so they left.’

Michael was now in control of himself. He smiled pleasantly as he took a seat opposite Duraunt. ‘Then we shall have to make do with you two. What can you tell me about Chesterfelde? Why did he come here? Because he was friends with Spryngheuse?’

Polmorva sighed. ‘We answered these questions when you came to poke into Okehamptone’s death. Do you have nothing better to do? Cambridge scholars are a wild and undisciplined rabble. Surely your time would be better spent in taming them?’

‘I hardly think we need that kind of advice from you,’ retorted Michael tartly. ‘You have been obliged to run away from your University because it is so unsettled. At least here we can walk the streets without resentful townsmen coming after us with pitchforks and spades.’

This was not strictly true, and the relationship between University and town was uneasy, to say the least. But there had been no serious disturbances for several months, and Cambridge was as calm as could be expected. Bartholomew hoped it would stay that way until the Archbishop had been and gone.

‘We all came for different reasons,’ replied Duraunt, striving to keep the peace. ‘As I told you before, Brother, I am here to do an inventory of Merton property in Cambridge. There is evidence that Bailiff Boltone and Eudo are keeping some of the profits that should come to us…’ He trailed off unhappily, clearly uncomfortable with his role in investigating others’ dishonesty.

‘The man who let us in?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘He did not seem worried about you being here.’ He did not add that the bailiff seemed more concerned with the scholars’ maudlin spirits than bothered by what they might learn about his accounting practices.

‘Probably because he thinks he has covered his tracks,’ said Polmorva. ‘But why do you think I told him to be about his work, and not to stand gossiping with you? It is because I want to impeach the fellow, as he deserves, so we can move to another of Merton’s manors and leave this nasty town.’

‘So, Polmorva is here because Oxford is too dangerous for him,’ said Bartholomew, addressing his summary to Duraunt. ‘And you came to investigate a dishonest tenant. What about the others? Why are three Oxford burgesses staying here, and what about the dead men: Okehamptone and now Chesterfelde? Why did they come?’

‘I am not the only one who believes it is prudent to let Oxford settle before we return to our studies,’ replied Polmorva. ‘Chesterfelde and Spryngheuse also left because they feared for their safety. As Duraunt said, they were friends – Spryngheuse decided to flee, so he invited Chesterfelde to run with him.’

‘And the three merchants are here to look for a killer,’ explained Duraunt. ‘They believe a scholar used the St Scholastica’s Day riot as an excuse to kill one of their colleagues, and they have evidence that suggests the villain came to Cambridge afterwards. Okehamptone was their scribe.’

Michael pursed his lips. ‘You did not mention this when I was here last time. You said then that these merchants were here for business. This is poor form, gentlemen. The proper procedure for such matters is to inform the appropriate authority – me, in this case – immediately upon arrival. It is not polite to investigate crimes in other people’s towns without asking.’

‘They are with your Chancellor as we speak – obtaining official permission for something they have been doing anyway,’ said Polmorva smugly.

‘That is not true,’ said Duraunt sharply. Bartholomew recalled Polmorva’s unpleasant habit of rumour-mongering, and was disgusted the man had not grown out of it. ‘These are merchants – men always looking for opportunities to expand their trade. They have been visiting other burgesses in the area – not just in Cambridge, but in the surrounding villages – and have been so busy that they have had no chance to investigate the death of their colleague.’

‘Then Chesterfelde was murdered, and they realised Cambridge is just as dangerous as Oxford,’ finished Polmorva. ‘They decided they had better find their killer and go home before anyone else dies.’ He sighed, and glanced meaningfully at the sun. ‘Do you want to see Chesterfelde’s corpse or not?’

He led the way to the solar, where a body rested on the floor, covered with a sheet. A bulge near its shoulders indicated that although it had been moved to a more convenient location, nothing else had been done: Chesterfelde was lying on his front with the dagger still protruding from his back. Bartholomew pulled the cover away and began his examination, childishly gratified when he heard Polmorva’s soft exclamation of disgust, followed by a walk to the window for fresh air.

Bartholomew was thorough. He did not like the idea of a man being murdered in the same room as six other people, and no one noticing. He also felt there was more to the case than either Duraunt or Polmorva had led them to believe. Seeing Polmorva again reminded him of how much he had detested the man, and he admitted to himself that at least some of his attention to detail was in the hope that he would discover something that would incriminate him.

‘Whoever stabbed Chesterfelde did so after he was dead,’ he said eventually, sitting back on his heels and looking up at Michael. ‘No dagger killed this man.’

Astonishment flashed in Michael’s eyes, but was quickly suppressed; he did not want to appear at a loss in front of men from Oxford. ‘Matt is good at this kind of thing,’ he said, rather boastfully. ‘It is why we always – always – solve any crimes that are committed here. If a man has been killed in Cambridge, then you can trust us to bring his murderer to justice.’

‘I am glad he is useful,’ said Duraunt, although distaste was clear in his voice. ‘But what do you mean, Matthew? Of course he died from being stabbed. Look at the knife buried in his back!’

‘But there is very little blood. His clothes would have been drenched in it had the dagger killed him, and you can see they are not. This wound was inflicted after he died.’

‘Someone stabbed a corpse?’ asked Polmorva in a tone that suggested he thought the physician was wrong. ‘Why would anyone do that?’

‘I have no idea,’ said Bartholomew. He pointed to a ragged gash in Chesterfelde’s wrist. ‘But this is the injury that caused him to bleed to death.’