The Mark Of A Murderer

CHAPTER 2

When Bartholomew had finished his examination of the dead scholar, he and Michael left Merton Hall. Duraunt was troubled, and urged Michael to solve the murder as quickly as possible. Polmorva informed the monk that there was nothing to solve, and that Chesterfelde had been killed by Bailiff Boltone or the tenant Eudo, claiming they must have mistaken him for Duraunt in the dark – Duraunt had come to expose their dishonesty, and it was obvious they had reacted to the threat he posed. Unfortunately for Chesterfelde, in the unlit room and with so many men sleeping, an error was made.

‘Duraunt seems decent, but Polmorva is an ass,’ declared Michael, as he and Bartholomew walked down Bridge Street. The monk was alarmed by the notion that three merchants planned to conduct their own murder enquiry in his town, and hoped to interrupt their meeting with the Chancellor before he granted them the requisite permission. The last thing he needed with the Archbishop’s Visitation looming was burgesses asking scholars if they had committed a savage crime. It would bring about a fight between town and University for certain.

‘Duraunt is a good man,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘However, Boltone and Eudo have little to fear from an investigation into these alleged accounting irregularities: if Boltone says they made an honest mistake, Duraunt will believe him. Boltone no doubt knows this, which is why he seems unconcerned. However, if Duraunt recruits Polmorva, then Boltone will be in trouble: Polmorva will see him dismissed – or worse – on the most tenuous of evidence. Duraunt may be keen to see the good in people, but Polmorva always looks for the worst.’

‘I do not understand why Duraunt should invite Polmorva to travel with him in the first place. Gentle men do not choose that sort of company without a compelling reason.’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘I imagine Polmorva heard that Duraunt planned to leave Oxford, and seized an opportunity to escape the turmoil for a few weeks.’

‘I would love to discover that Polmorva killed Chesterfelde. I do not like his sneering smile or his condescending manners. But tell me about this feud of yours. You clearly detest each other, and since it is unlike you to harbour such feelings over two decades, it must have been a serious quarrel you had.’

‘It was a long time ago,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘It hardly matters now.’

Michael gave a derisive snort. ‘That was not how it appeared to me! If Duraunt had not been there, you would have been at each other like fighting cocks.’

‘It sounds ridiculous now,’ said Bartholomew, smiling ruefully. ‘But it started with those teeth Duraunt mentioned. Polmorva designed them, and hired them out to edentulous monks so they could eat the same amount of meat as their fully fanged colleagues. Obviously, metal teeth are not as good as real ones, and several monks became ill – partly because they were swallowing food that was not properly chewed, and partly because the wretched things were used communally.’

Michael started to laugh. ‘They shared them – passed them around like a jug of wine?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘And they did not clean them, so contagions passed from one to another. I was young and insensitive, and informed the monks that they owed their resulting sicknesses to greed, because they ate fine foods after God and Nature had decided it was time for them to stop.’

Michael regarded him with round eyes. ‘You said that? Do you not think it was a little sanctimonious? It is not for some student to tell an old man what he can or cannot eat.’

Bartholomew winced. ‘As I said, I was young.’

‘And this is why you and Polmorva are at loggerheads?’ asked Michael, thinking it ludicrously petty. ‘He invented some teeth and you denounced them?’

‘Eventually, a monk died. I accused Polmorva of bringing about the fatality and he objected. Once the gauntlet was down all manner of quarrels and fights followed. But then I left Oxford and that was the end of it.’

‘Until now,’ mused Michael. ‘Is that why you went to Paris, instead of continuing your studies at Oxford? You wanted to escape from Polmorva?’

‘He was one factor,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘But the chief reason was that I wanted to study with an Arab physician – their medicine is so much more advanced than our own. Paris had such a master, Oxford did not.’

Michael thought about what he had been told. ‘You are right; your feud is ridiculous – although, having met the man I can see why you fell out. But he will be gone soon, and you can forget about him again.’

‘Not if we find him guilty of Chesterfelde’s murder.’

‘There are other suspects – Boltone and Eudo for a start, although it would be galling to admit that Polmorva is right. So, what can you tell me about Chesterfelde? Are you sure that small wound on his wrist was the fatal one, and not the huge hole in his back? I did not want to question you in front of Polmorva, but I confess I am unconvinced.’

‘Chesterfelde’s sleeve was bloodstained, and the fact that the injury bled so profusely means he was alive when it was inflicted. However, the comparative lack of blood seeping from his back indicates he was dead when that happened. There is only one conclusion: his wrist was slashed, bringing about death by exsanguination, and the wound in his back was added later – to his corpse.’

‘You also said there were no other marks on his body – no bruises and no indication that he struggled. Why would he allow his wrist to be sliced, and then do nothing while he bled to death?’

‘Perhaps he was drunk. I doubt it was something that happened in his sleep, because it would have hurt enough to wake him up – unless he was fed some sort of soporific, I suppose.’

‘A soporific would explain why Duraunt slept through the incident, too,’ mused Michael. ‘He said he is usually a light sleeper.’

‘That means the entire party from Oxford – all four scholars and the three merchants – was dosed. They all claim to have slept through whatever happened last night.’

Michael nodded slowly. ‘We shall have to ask Boltone or Eudo whether they provided their guests with something more than wine.’

Bartholomew was silent for a moment, while he organised his thoughts. ‘I do not think Chesterfelde died in the hall. There would have been a lot of blood, and Duraunt and the others would definitely have woken up had someone started to scrub the floor in the middle of the night – sedated or otherwise. I think he must have been killed elsewhere.’

‘We shall have a good look around Merton Hall and its grounds later,’ promised Michael. ‘If as much blood was spilled as you say, then it will not be hard to find out where this foul deed took place. We can also search for stained clothing – his killer should be drenched in the stuff.’

‘Not necessarily. He may have slashed Chesterfelde’s wrist, then stood back. But it is worth looking, I suppose.’ Bartholomew gave a sudden, uncharacteristically malicious grin. ‘It will definitely be worthwhile if we discover something incriminating among Polmorva’s belongings.’

The town was busy by the time Bartholomew and Michael reached the High Street and started to walk to St Mary the Great, where Chancellor Tynkell had his office. People were out, enjoying the Feast of Pentecost before work began again the following morning. Merchants rode in carts drawn by sleek ponies or strutted in their Sunday finery, displaying to their colleagues that they were men of influence, who could afford the finest boots, the best cloth for their cloaks, and the richest jewellery for their wives and daughters. Apprentices gathered in gangs, yelling insults to passing students in the hope of goading them into a fight, while Michael’s beadles patrolled the streets, alert for any scholar who might be tempted to respond.

Even the poor were out in force, spending carefully hoarded pennies on jugs of strong church ale or the aromatic pies sold illegally – Sunday trading was an offence punishable with a heavy fine – by Constantine Mortimer the baker. Entertainers had flooded into the town, too, ready to take advantage of the holiday spirit among the townsfolk. Troops of jugglers vied for attention with singers and fire-eaters in the Market Square, although only the very best could compete with the threadbare bear that danced an ungainly jig in the graveyard of St Mary the Great. It revealed broken yellow fangs as it scanned the fascinated spectators with its tiny, malevolent eyes, and gave the impression that it would dearly love to maul someone.

The atmosphere was generally amiable, although Bartholomew did not like the way the townsmen congregated in sizeable gaggles to savour their ale, or the fact that students from various Colleges and hostels tended to form distinct bands. He knew from experience that it took very little to spark off a riot – as Oxford had learned that February – and large gatherings of men with access to strong drink was often more than enough.

He considered the pending Visitation, and hoped the town would be peaceful when the Archbishop arrived. Simon Islip was deeply concerned about the number of clerics who had died during the plague, and had made it known that he intended to establish a new College for the training of replacements. He had studied in Oxford himself, and most people thought he would build it there, but every Cambridge scholar was united in the hope that he might be persuaded to change his mind. It was therefore imperative that he should find a town that was strife-free, clean and peaceful, filled with industrious, law-abiding scholars – and with townsmen who would welcome another academic foundation. Bartholomew thought uneasily of Chesterfelde’s death, and three merchants intent on investigating a murder, and prayed they would not spoil Cambridge’s chances of winning Islip’s patronage.

Then his mind drifted to the St Scholastica’s Day riot in Oxford, and he wondered whether the wanton destruction and indiscriminate killing would encourage Islip to look more favourably on Cambridge. Both towns and their universities were notoriously unstable, and fights were commonplace, despite Cambridge’s current attempts to pretend they were not. It occurred to him that Oxford’s disturbances must have been particularly serious, if they had encouraged ambitious and scheming men like Polmorva to abandon their homes. He said as much to Michael.

‘It was the most devastating incident Oxford has ever known,’ replied Michael gravely. ‘Did you not pay attention when I told you about it? We had the news four months ago, and I remember very clearly regaling you with details. I thought you seemed distant at the time, and now I see why: you were not listening.’

‘I am sure I was,’ said Bartholomew. He vaguely recalled the conversation, but it had been about the time when Clippesby had taken a turn for the worse and, as his physician, Bartholomew had been more concerned with him than with Michael’s gossip about a fracas in a distant city.

‘Well, I am sure you were not,’ retorted Michael. ‘Or we would not be having this discussion now. The riot started when scholars began an argument over wine in a tavern called Swindlestock.’

‘I know it,’ said Bartholomew with a smile. ‘I have done battle in it myself – against Polmorva, in fact, when he referred to Merton as a “house of fools”. The landlord threw us into the street, and told us to take our quarrels to University property, and leave his alone.’

‘Well, he was not so fortunate this time. He was hit over the head with a jug. His patrons came to his defence, and the scholars were obliged to take up arms to protect themselves. And then everything flew out of control. The townsfolk also grabbed weapons, and the Mayor urged them to slaughter every student they could find, so Oxford would be rid of the curse of academia once and for all.’

‘I doubt he did any such thing! There are thousands of clerks in Oxford and he could not possibly hope to dispatch them all. Your version of events came from a scholar with a grudge against the town, Brother.’

‘My “version of events” came from Chancellor Brouweon himself, in his official report to Tynkell,’ argued Michael. ‘The fighting continued into the next day, and only stopped when every scholar had been killed, wounded or driven from the city. Eventually, the Sheriff managed to impose calm and the King was informed. Four days later, all privileges and charters were suspended and the whole city was placed under interdict.’

‘The whole city?’ Bartholomew was astounded: these were Draconian measures. ‘When was this interdict revoked?’

Michael nodded in satisfaction. ‘You see? You did not listen back in February, or you would not be asking me this. You would have remembered that the University was pardoned and encouraged to resume its studies almost immediately, but that the town remains under interdict to this day.’

‘Still?’ asked Bartholomew in horror. ‘But that means the functions of the Church are suspended: no masses can be said, no townsman can have a Christian burial, his children cannot be baptised-’

‘I know what an interdict is. And Oxford’s looks set to remain in force for some time yet.’

‘I suppose this is good for us, though,’ said Bartholomew thoughtfully. ‘I cannot see Islip founding a College in a city under interdict.’

‘No,’ agreed Michael. ‘However, he will not build one in a town rife with unsolved murders, either – which is possibly what someone is hoping. So, I intend to have Chesterfelde’s killer in my prison before Islip arrives.’

‘You think Chesterfelde was killed to harm Cambridge’s chances with the Archbishop?’ Bartholomew was unconvinced. ‘It seems a drastic step, and not one that will necessarily work – especially if you discover that Polmorva is the culprit. Exposing an Oxford scholar as a murderer will only serve to make our case stronger, and theirs weaker.’

Michael’s expression was wry. ‘I suspect it is not as simple as that – not when men like Polmorva and Duraunt are involved.’ He overrode Bartholomew’s objection that his teacher would have nothing to do with such a plot. ‘I do not like the fact that as soon as Islip announces his intention to come here we have an invasion of Oxford men. Eight of them is a significant number.’

‘But two are dead,’ Bartholomew pointed out.

‘And the survivors include three merchants intending to solve a murder; Polmorva and Spryngheuse claiming they came for their safety; and Duraunt investigating his bailiff, despite the fact that you tell me he is the kind of man to believe good of Satan himself.’

‘Duraunt did not come for sinister purposes,’ reiterated Bartholomew firmly.

Michael shrugged. ‘Perhaps, but he is the Warden of a powerful Oxford College, and he is here. That is all I need to know at the moment. But leave him for now, and consider the others. Polmorva is the kind of fellow who enjoys feuds, while Chesterfelde made himself an enemy so bitter that he ended up dead. These Oxford men are clearly not peace-loving citizens.’

‘And the merchants?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Oxford’s burgesses hate scholars just as much as do the ones in Cambridge. Surely it would be in the interests of these three merchants to see Islip found a new College here, rather than in their own city?’

Michael’s green eyes gleamed, pleased by the prospect of a challenge that would require his wits. ‘I have been restless lately. Tynkell does everything I say, and the University is operating exactly as I want it. Michaelhouse thrives under Langelee’s surprisingly enlightened rule, and there is little for me to do there. We solved that crime involving the Mortimers and Gonville Hall recently, and since then I have been bored. Now things are looking up.’

‘Looking up?’ echoed Bartholomew, startled by his choice of words. ‘A man has been murdered.’

‘Quite,’ agreed Michael gleefully. ‘And we have clever scholars from Oxford and three cunning merchants involved. This promises to be interesting, Matt. And it will need a man like me to solve it!’

‘Then you had better do it quickly, Brother. Before Islip arrives.’

‘I shall!’ vowed Michael confidently. ‘Believe me, Matt, I shall.’

St Mary the Great was the University Church. Since it was the largest building under the academics’ control, and could accommodate huge numbers of scholars, it was used for public disputations, for when the Fellows were required to vote on issues pertaining to the running of their University, and for when they needed to resolve some of the frequent and bitter disputes that raged between its Colleges, hostels, friaries and convents. The church boasted a stalwart tower that housed their various deeds, documents and stockpiles of coins, and the Chancellor and his clerks had offices located off its aisles.

‘This really is a beautiful place,’ said Bartholomew, pausing to admire the way the sunlight poured through the windows to form delicate patterns on the newly laid chancel floor. ‘The coloured light virtually dances across the flagstones.’

Michael regarded him stonily. ‘You need a night away from your exertions with Matilde. It is not normal, talking about buildings as though they were women.’

He moved away, leaving Bartholomew too bemused to point out that the association between the church and a lady was entirely one of the monk’s own devising. He opened the door to the Chancellor’s office, and Bartholomew could not help but notice that he did not bother to knock. Tynkell was so much under Michael’s spell after his third year in office that when the monk marched into the room as if he owned it, Bartholomew half expected him to leap from his seat and offer it up.

Tynkell had not been lawfully elected to his exalted office, although few people other than Michael knew it. There had been violent objections when Tynkell had first been declared the victor, but these had gradually died away, and now people were reasonably satisfied with the way Michael ran matters. Indeed, Michael’s power was so absolute that Bartholomew had once asked why the monk did not simply declare an election and have himself voted in properly. He replied that he did not have the patience to endure the many dull civic functions that chancellors were obliged to attend – and there was the fact that while he could take the credit when things were going well, he could always stand back when they were not, and let Tynkell weather the consequences.

Tynkell was a thin man with an aversion to water that led to a problem with his personal hygiene. He doused himself liberally with scents in an attempt to disguise the fact that not so much as a drop of water ever touched his skin, with the result that his office reminded Bartholomew of a rank public latrine sited near a lavender field. Tynkell suffered from digestive ailments, which the physician insisted would ease if the man were to rinse his hands before eating. Tynkell declined to follow the advice, and that morning sat clutching his stomach with one hand while the other played nervously with a pen. He was visibly relieved when Michael entered his domain, and Bartholomew supposed the three men who were with him had been pressing him for the unthinkable: a decision.

‘This is my Senior Proctor,’ said Tynkell, ushering Michael inside. ‘And my Corpse Examiner.’

‘Corpse Examiner?’ asked one of the men. ‘What sort of post is that?’

‘One that is useful,’ replied Michael enigmatically. ‘He has examined a corpse of your own, as a matter of fact.’

‘Chesterfelde’s,’ said the man. ‘His death was a pity. He was a cheerful fellow, although he did have a habit of quoting the Bible at you in Latin. At least, that is what he said he was doing. He could have been damning us all to Hell for all I know.’

‘Why would he do that?’ asked Michael. ‘Did you harm him in some way?’

‘Of course not,’ replied the man impatiently. ‘I am trying to illustrate my point. I am a spicer, and have no time for foolery like Latin. French and English were good enough for my father, God rest his soul, and they are good enough for me.’

‘We can hardly read the Bible in French!’ exclaimed Tynkell, shocked. ‘We are at war with France, and it would be an odd thing to do, anyway. Latin is the only tongue for sacred texts – and for proper academic discourse.’

‘Allow us to introduce ourselves again, Brother,’ said another of the trio, interrupting the spicer’s tirade. He spoke with the soft lilt of a man from Wales. ‘I am William of Abergavenny, burgess of Oxford and Master of the Guild of Saints.’ He indicated the spicer, who sat on his left. ‘This is Philip Eu, also a burgess and a past Mayor. And finally, this is Thomas Wormynghalle.’

The absence of any reference to title or claim to fame did not escape Wormynghalle’s notice, just as it did not the scholars’, and Bartholomew immediately sensed there was tension between the three merchants.

‘I will be Mayor next year,’ snapped Wormynghalle, shooting Abergavenny an unpleasant glance, ‘and I was elected a burgess in January. It is about time Oxford had a tanner as Mayor. It is just as respectable a trade as spicery or wine-selling.’

As he gazed challengingly at his companions, Bartholomew took the opportunity to study them. Abergavenny was black-haired and fair-faced, like many Celts, and his eyes held a humorous glint, as if he found much of what he saw amusing. His cloak was embroidered with a tiny vine motif, and Bartholomew surmised that he was a vintner. Eu was tall and thin, and spoke English with a thick French accent. The inflexion was inconsistent, and Bartholomew suspected English was his mother tongue, but that he liked to emphasise the fact that he hailed from old Norman stock. There was a carving of a nutmeg on his ring, which was exquisitely made and a symbol of tastefully understated wealth.

Wormynghalle was Eu’s exact opposite: short, heavily built and pugilistic. He did not wear his fine clothes as comfortably as his companions, and the rings on his fingers and his heavy gold neck-chain were ostentatious examples of his riches. The chain carried a heavy pendant in the shape of a sheep’s head, to represent his trade as a curer of skins; the workmanship was poor, despite the high quality of the medium, and the carving possessed a set of very un-ovine teeth. When inspecting him, Bartholomew was unfavourably reminded of the overweight peacock that lived at Michaelhouse, and was not surprised the man’s companions did not seem to like him. His trade as a tanner would not endear him to men who dabbled in the rarefied worlds of exotic spices and wines, either. Tanning was a foul, stinking business involving bloody, flayed skins and vats of urine.

‘We have come to investigate a murder,’ stated Wormynghalle, when no one replied. ‘The culprit fled to Cambridge, and we intend to hunt him out and take him home with us.’

‘It happened during the St Scholastica’s Day riot,’ elaborated Abergavenny, ‘while the town was in flames and there was murder and mayhem everywhere. It was then that this evil fellow chose to strike down an innocent man.’

‘With a sword,’ added Wormynghalle.

‘That unrest was months ago,’ said Michael, startled. ‘Why search for this culprit now? And how do you know he is in Cambridge anyway?’

‘His victim was left mortally wounded, but not dead,’ explained Eu. ‘The poor man – Gonerby was his name – gasped with his dying breath that he overheard his assailant telling a friend that he intended to hide in Cambridge until the hue and cry had died away. I was there: I heard Gonerby’s words with my own ears. Then he charged us to catch the killer and make him answer for his crime. I am from an ancient family, who believes in the sanctity of oaths and sacred vows-’

‘So do I,’ interrupted Wormynghalle, not to be outdone on the chivalry front.

‘-so I gave my word to Gonerby, as he died, that I would find his murderer,’ finished Eu, looking Wormynghalle up and down in disdain, to deny that he and the tanner shared common ideals.

‘Tell me this killer’s name,’ said Michael. ‘If he is guilty, then he is yours to take to Oxford.’

‘Gonerby did not know it,’ replied Abergavenny. ‘That is why we came ourselves, and did not entrust servants to find him.’

‘Tracking a killer is not easy, and will need men of intelligence and cunning,’ said Wormynghalle, oblivious to the long-suffering glances his colleagues exchanged behind his back. ‘That means us. Besides, Gonerby was popular, and if I catch his killer, everyone will vote for me as Mayor.’

‘Many people died during that riot,’ said Michael. ‘What makes Gonerby’s death worthy of investigation, when others are not?’

‘He was wealthy, popular and influential – a parchment-maker,’ replied Eu, twisting his nutmeg ring around on his finger. ‘We cannot afford to have men like him murdered and their killers going free. What message would that send to the general populace?’

‘We do not want scholars thinking they can slaughter us as they please, and nothing bad will ever happen to them,’ elaborated Wormynghalle, who did not seem averse to stating the obvious. ‘It might encourage others to try their luck.’

‘This is an odd tale,’ said Michael, frowning. ‘You know more about Gonerby’s death – and about his killer – than you are telling, since you cannot possibly hope to snag the culprit with the information you have shared with us. It is simply not enough to allow you to start.’

‘We know the killer is a scholar,’ offered Abergavenny. ‘Gonerby said he wore a student’s dark garb and he heard him say Oxford was too dangerous, so he would study in Cambridge instead.’

‘That does suggest you should look to a University member for your culprit,’ admitted Tynkell. ‘But it does not tell us whether he was an Oxford student who saw Cambridge as a safe haven, or whether he was a Cambridge student who happened to be visiting Oxford at the time of the riot.’

Abergavenny nodded. ‘So, we intend to look at both possibilities. Gonerby’s widow told us we cannot go home unless we bring her a killer. She made us promise to fulfil her husband’s last wish, even if we die in the attempt.’

‘She is a forceful lady,’ said Eu, not entirely admiringly. ‘Just because we three happened to stumble on the dying Gonerby, she decided we should be the ones to hunt down his murderer. I did not want to oblige, but we had made that promise to Gonerby, so it became a point of honour.’

‘I was only speaking to comfort the man in his final agonies,’ said Abergavenny ruefully. ‘But Wormynghalle here made the promise public and Mistress Gonerby held us to it.’ He cast an admonishing, resentful glance at the tanner.

‘I did what was right,’ declared Wormynghalle defensively. ‘How was I to know you were only humouring Gonerby when you swore to avenge him? I was under the impression that you held the same principles as me, and I was astonished to learn you were ready to renege.’

‘You are deliberately misrepresenting us,’ snapped Eu, seeming to forget he was in the Chancellor’s office and the argument was being witnessed by strangers. ‘Of course I believe in honour and the sanctity of oaths, but this was different. I was trying to calm him, not agree to sacrifice weeks of my life searching for a fellow whose name and description we do not know.’

‘It has cost you little so far,’ said Wormynghalle nastily. ‘You arrived here eleven days ago, and you have spent virtually all that time establishing new business contacts.’

‘We did not promise to hunt this killer to the exclusion of all else,’ said Abergavenny reasonably. ‘And the opportunities that have arisen in and around Cambridge have been irresistible.’

‘For spicers and vintners maybe,’ snapped Wormynghalle. ‘But not for tanners. Mine is not a trade that benefits from distant agreements – it is cheaper to buy and sell my materials locally.’

Abergavenny smiled to acknowledge his point, then turned to Michael. ‘But we have drawn our personal affairs to a close, and now we are ready to begin our hunt.’

‘But this still does not explain why you did not visit Cambridge sooner,’ said Michael. ‘If this quest is so important, then why the delay? Gonerby has been dead almost four months.’

‘We could not just up and leave,’ declared Eu. ‘We had arrangements to make, and there were important matters that required our attention. We came as soon as we could.’

‘We came when it became obvious we had no choice,’ corrected Abergavenny ruefully. ‘We thought the task an impossible one from the start, and were reluctant to begin something we could not finish. But Widow Gonerby is a forceful woman, and she was backed by the guilds. Gonerby was well liked, and everyone insisted that his last wish should be carried out.’

‘Because the city is under interdict, Gonerby was buried without the appropriate rites and his wife was furious,’ added Eu. He shuddered. ‘I would not like to see her lose her temper again – and she will, if we return without a culprit.’

‘An interdict is a terrible thing,’ agreed Tynkell. ‘Corpses rot in the streets, because their kin refuse to allow them to be buried without a requiem mass. The stench offends my delicate senses.’

For a moment, no one spoke, and all three merchants, Bartholomew and Michael regarded him in wary disbelief. Then Eu pointedly lifted a heavy pomander to his nose and mouth, while Abergavenny was clearly struggling not to snigger.

Michael dragged his thoughts away from the Chancellor and back to the merchants. ‘Your task would be difficult if the killer had remained in Oxford, but how will you find him here, in a town where you have no friends and where no one has any reason to help you?’

‘And even if you do discover a scholar who was in Oxford the day Gonerby died, it will be impossible to prove he is the culprit,’ added Bartholomew. ‘Unless he confesses.’

‘There were many vicious murders that dreadful day,’ added Tynkell softly. ‘Sixty scholars were slaughtered as they tried to go about their lawful business. Sixty!’

‘And how many townsmen?’ demanded Eu. ‘Probably twice that number!’

‘More,’ said Wormynghalle, tugging aggressively on his sheep-head pendant.

‘But the scholars were unarmed,’ insisted Tynkell. ‘Chancellor Brouweon wrote to us, and described dreadful acts of savagery.’

‘If the scholars were unarmed, then why did so many townsmen die?’ asked Abergavenny quietly. ‘The killing – with weapons – was carried out by both sides.’

‘You clearly dislike scholars,’ said Bartholomew to Eu. ‘Yet you travelled to Cambridge in their company. Why?’

‘It made sense,’ explained Abergavenny, resting his hand on Eu’s arm when the spicer looked as if he was about to make a curt response about his travelling arrangements being his own affair. ‘Duraunt was due to inspect Merton’s Cambridge holdings, and three of his colleagues were itching to leave the city, because they fear reprisals. Thus there were four academics, and we were four – if you count Okehamptone the scribe among our number. It seemed safer to make the journey as a single party, given that the highways are so dangerous these days.’

‘I appreciate your predicament,’ said Michael, regarding the three merchants soberly. ‘You have been charged to find a killer and you are determined to carry out your duty. But I must refuse you permission to do it here. The Archbishop of Canterbury is due in a few days, and I cannot have merchants asking inflammatory questions of scholars. You may cause a disturbance here, too.’

‘But you must!’ cried Eu, coming to his feet. ‘Widow Gonerby will be furious if we return empty-handed, and will denigrate us to our fellow burgesses.’

Abergavenny also stood. ‘Worse, she may come after this scholar herself, and then you will have a riot for certain. She is not a woman to be denied.’

‘I do not care,’ said Michael. ‘If she comes, she will be told what I am telling you: to go home.’

‘Then we shall see the Sheriff,’ declared Wormynghalle, making for the door. ‘He will not condone universities protecting scholars who slay innocent merchants.’

Wormynghalle’s tirade faltered when he found his way blocked by a small man with pale hair and a wispy beard. Despite his diminutive size, the man exuded an aura of confidence and authority, and even though Wormynghalle was at least a head taller, he stopped dead in his tracks when the fellow raised a hand to indicate he was to return to his seat. Sheriff Tulyet had approached so silently that no one was sure how much of the discussion he had heard. Bartholomew liked Tulyet, who was able, intelligent and more than a match for the criminals who tried their luck in his town. He introduced himself, and Bartholomew was gratified to see Wormynghalle at a loss for words.

‘Well?’ asked Abergavenny when he had repeated their request. ‘Will you see justice done?’

Tulyet walked to a window and stared across the grassy churchyard, hands clasped behind his back. ‘I know what happened on St Scholastica’s Day, and I do not want hundreds dead here because you interrogate our scholars. Brother Michael is right to forbid you from conducting your enquiries.’

‘But what shall we do?’ demanded Wormynghalle. ‘We cannot go home without a culprit, and I shall not stay here for ever.’

‘And we do not want you here,’ said Tynkell with a deplorable lack of tact. ‘But it is not our fault you agreed to this ridiculous quest. You must devise a solution to your predicament yourselves.’

‘You cannot let a killer go unpunished, any more than we can,’ reasoned Abergavenny. ‘He will be so delighted to get away with one murder that he may commit another.’

‘Perhaps he has already struck,’ said Eu uneasily. ‘Chesterfelde was stabbed last night: perhaps he knew the killer’s identity, and was murdered before he could tell.’ He appealed to his colleagues. ‘The Sheriff is right: we cannot do anything here, and we should leave while we are still able.’

‘I suppose we could go home,’ said Abergavenny cautiously. ‘But . . .’

‘We could not,’ stated Wormynghalle firmly. ‘We are not Chesterfelde – a grinning fool who spouted Latin at every turn – and we will not slink away like beaten curs.’ He gazed defiantly first at Michael, and then at Tulyet.

‘Tell me a little about Chesterfelde, since you are here,’ said Michael opportunistically. ‘I heard you were in the hall when he was killed.’

‘We were,’ said Eu with a shudder. ‘It was not pleasant to wake up and find a corpse in our midst, I can tell you! We were all tired and slept heavily – even old Duraunt, who usually only naps. We doused the lamps at dusk – about nine o’clock on these light evenings – and none of us knew any more until Bailiff Boltone woke us shortly before dawn.’

‘It was a vile shock,’ agreed Abergavenny quietly. ‘Knowing you slept through a murdered man’s final agonies. There are similarities between the deaths of Chesterfelde and Gonerby, Brother, and you would be rash to ignore them.’

‘And those similarities are?’ asked Michael, surprised.

Abergavenny raised his hands in a way that suggested he thought the answer obvious. ‘Both were killed with blades, and both were killed in such a way as to leave no witnesses.’

‘Gonerby was killed with a sword, and Chesterfelde with a knife,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘Chesterfelde died during the night, and Gonerby during a daytime riot. Gonerby was a parchment-maker and Chesterfelde a scholar. They do not sound similar to me.’

‘However,’ said Michael, ‘if these two deaths are related, then we shall have confirmation of it when I find Chesterfelde’s killer – which I will do, gentlemen.’ He looked at each one in turn, and Bartholomew thought that if any of the three merchants are the culprit, then he should be experiencing some serious unease. ‘I intend to have Chesterfelde’s killer in my prison before the Archbishop arrives, and if the fellow also did away with Gonerby, then your problem will be solved.’

‘How do we know we can trust you?’ asked Wormynghalle suspiciously.

Michael did not dignify the question with a reply. ‘You will return to Merton Hall and throw yourself on Duraunt’s hospitality while I make some enquiries. Then, when I have my culprit, you can question him about Gonerby.’

The three merchants looked at each other. Bartholomew could see Eu was ready to accept, because it was the easiest and safest option – and it would leave time free for business. Wormynghalle was against it, because he did not trust the monk to apprehend the right man. Abergavenny wavered, torn between wanting to be amenable to the authorities and preferring to conduct his own investigation.

‘Very well,’ said the Welshman eventually. ‘We shall do as you ask.’

‘We will bide by your decision until the Archbishop arrives – next Monday,’ said Wormynghalle, clearly irritated by the decision. ‘It is Sunday now, so you have seven full days. But then I am going home, and I will take a culprit with me. Either you will hand him to me, or I shall find one myself. I will not return to Oxford empty-handed.’

The warmth of the day, combined with the relaxed atmosphere of a Sunday and several nights of interrupted sleep, made Bartholomew drowsy. He knew he would be unable to concentrate on reading that afternoon, so did not mind when Michael suggested they return to Merton Hall to search for stained clothing and the place where Chesterfelde had died. Tulyet walked with them, heading for his house on Bridge Street, where he lived with his wife and their hellion son, Dickon.

‘I am not sure it was a good idea to volunteer to find their killer,’ said Bartholomew, watching a group of children play with a discarded cartwheel. Their shrill, excited voices drew disapproving glances from a group of Carmelite friars, who were chanting a psalm as they walked to their friary.

‘I had no choice,’ said Michael, turning a flabby white face to the sky, relishing the sun’s caressing rays. ‘What a trio! They would have Cambridge in flames within a day.’

‘I agree,’ said Tulyet. ‘They care nothing for our town, and want only to give this vengeful widow someone to hang. Eu, who is the most dangerous of the three, is not a reasonable man.’

‘You think Eu was the worst?’ asked Michael in surprise. ‘I had the Welshman marked as the villain. He pretends to be amiable, but he manipulates the others like puppets.’

‘The tanner was the one I did not like,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He is desperate to be accepted by ancient and respected families, and I think he will do anything to prove himself worthy. He is also determined to have himself elected Mayor. It would not surprise me to learn that he had engineered this whole business of avenging Gonerby, just to show voters his mettle.’

‘He is not clever enough,’ argued Tulyet. ‘But Eu is cunning. I am from an old Norman family myself, and I recognise his kind. You mark my words: if Michael does not hand him a culprit in a week, it will be Eu who selects a victim.’

‘We shall have to agree to differ,’ said Michael, ‘because you are both wrong. But it is a strange business that brings them here. Hundreds of folk died in the St Scholastica’s Day riots, and I find it difficult to believe that these men travelled all this way to investigate one death. Perhaps they instigated the disorder themselves, for reasons we have yet to fathom.’

‘Actually, scholars were responsible for that,’ said Tulyet. ‘I had a letter from the Mayor, and he said it was all the fault of the students – a fight started over wine in a tavern.’

‘A Mayor would say that,’ declared Michael disparagingly. ‘I heard the whole thing began with a quarrel over claret, too, but it was townsmen who took it to its bloody conclusion.’

‘There was a sinister set of coincidences in the chain of events that led to the trouble,’ mused Bartholomew, thinking about what Michael had told him. ‘First, weapons were readily available – for scholars and townsfolk alike. And second, alarm bells sounded very quickly after the initial squabble in the Swindlestock Tavern. It was almost as if someone was fanning the spark of an insignificant incident, to ensure it caught and ignited the rest of the city.’

‘Do you think it had something to do with the death of Gonerby?’ asked Tulyet. ‘It would explain why these merchants are so determined to have his killer. The fellow also left their town in ashes.’

‘If that is true, then you are putting yourself in considerable danger,’ said Bartholomew to Michael. ‘Eu capitulated very quickly when you refused him permission to investigate: he was glad to see someone else take the risks.’

Michael waved a dismissive hand. ‘I am more than a match for anyone from Oxford. However, the real reason Eu gave way so readily was that he and his cronies have no intention of obeying my orders. They plan to make their enquiries, regardless. I read it in the Welshman’s eyes.’

Tulyet agreed. ‘I will set a sergeant to follow them, and ensure they do not cause trouble. I would just as soon lock them up until the Archbishop has gone, but I do not think we can get away with it – not with prosperous merchants. Our own burgesses would claim I had overstepped my authority, and they would be right. But we may be worrying over nothing: there are hundreds of scholars in Cambridge, and any one of them could be this killer. Our merchants will never identify their man.’

‘Not so,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘Most of our students were here on the tenth day of February, keeping University term. There will not be many who were away.’

‘That is easy to find out,’ said Michael. ‘Any scholar wanting to leave during term must apply in writing for permission, so his request will be documented. Of course, the murderer may be an Oxford man who is visiting us for a few weeks – but we have lists of those, too. So if Gonerby’s killer really is an academic who was in Oxford in February, and who then came here, he will not be difficult to identify.’

Tulyet began to tell Michael about the arrangements the town was making to entertain the Archbishop, and Bartholomew listened with half his attention; the rest was engaged in a sluggish contemplation of the lurid pink wash that adorned the home of the town’s surgeon. The guilds had united to organise a splendid feast, Tulyet was saying, while public buildings and the Market Square were being cleaned. The Sheriff pointed out the parallel drains that ran along the High Street, and declared proudly that they had never been so empty. Bartholomew knew this perfectly well: he had been summoned to tend several people who had been taken unawares by the sudden appearance of deep trenches in Cambridge’s main thoroughfares, and had fallen down them. Tulyet had also raised funds to pay for additional dung collections, and the High Street was oddly bereft of the odorous piles that usually graced it. People with horses had been ordered to remove what their animals left behind, and the public latrine pits had been emptied. Bartholomew thought it a pity the improvements would last only as long as the Visitation was under way. As soon as Islip departed, business would be back to normal, and Cambridge would revert to its usual vile, stinking state.

‘And I do not want any lepers hanging around,’ Tulyet said sternly to Bartholomew, as if the physician was in a position to oblige. ‘They are invited to a special service in St Clement’s Church, where they will receive Islip’s blessing, but then they will make themselves scarce.’

‘Right,’ said Bartholomew, tiredness making him uncharacteristically caustic. ‘We do not want sloughed fingers and noses littering our clean streets, do we?’

‘No, we do not,’ agreed Tulyet, equally tart. He turned to Michael. ‘And you can make sure he has a good night’s sleep. I do not want him snapping at Islip, because he is overly weary.’

‘He will not listen to me,’ said Michael. ‘Nor am I bold enough to prise my way between a man and his paramour.’

‘Now, just a moment,’ began Bartholomew indignantly. ‘I do not-’

Tulyet cut across him. ‘Rougham is away in Norfolk, so you must be ready should the Archbishop require a physician. I know you are busy, with Clippesby indisposed, but it cannot be helped. You are better than Lynton of Peterhouse and Paxtone of King’s Hall, and I want you to tend Islip, should the occasion arise. It is our duty to ensure he has the absolute best we can offer – of everything.’

‘I am surprised Rougham has chosen now to leave for a family reunion,’ said Michael conversationally. ‘He is an ambitious man, and I would have thought he would be here, showing off to important people. Still, he has a nasty habit of polishing his teeth on his sleeve after formal dinners – presumably to improve the quality of his smile – so perhaps it is just as well he is gone.’

‘Teeth polishing will not bother Islip,’ said Tulyet disapprovingly. ‘He does it himself. How is Clippesby, by the way? Still ailing?’

‘I plan to visit him today,’ replied Bartholomew, ‘and hope to find him a little recovered.’

‘You had better find him more than “a little recovered”,’ said Michael testily. ‘I cannot imagine why you have so suddenly decided he is unfit to teach. He has always been insane, and it has never bothered you before. I do not know how much longer I can teach his classes – I know nothing of musical theory and I am not interested in learning. So, either declare him well and reinstate him, or declare him irrecoverably mad, so we can hire someone in his place.’

‘Soon,’ promised Bartholomew. ‘Give him time. He has been gone only a few days.’

‘Since Ascension Day,’ said Michael, aggrieved. ‘Ten days. I know, because that was when Langelee so blithely ordered me to teach a subject I have never studied. Does he think we are King’s Hall, with no standards?’

‘King’s Hall?’ asked Tulyet. ‘You criticise their teaching practices? I thought most of its scholars were men destined for high ranks within the Church or the King’s Court.’

‘Quite,’ muttered Michael venomously. ‘I met one Fellow last week who knew no Latin. None at all! I was obliged to speak to him in French, for God’s sake! And there are others who do not know the most rudimentary aspects of the Trivium. It must be like teaching children!’

Tulyet bade them farewell when he reached his house. Even from the street, Bartholomew could hear the excited screeches of his son Dickon as he played some boisterous – and probably violent – game with the Sheriff’s long-suffering servants, and did not miss Tulyet’s grimace of anticipation as he knocked on the door to be allowed in. It could not be left open for people to come and go as they pleased, because Dickon would be out in a trice, and his parents were afraid he would come to harm. From what Bartholomew had seen of Dickon’s developing personality over the past few months, he was not entirely sure it would be a tragedy. Michael grinned as they walked on alone.

‘Poor Dick! That is the only child he will ever sire – within his marriage, at least – and the boy is a monster. How did it happen, do you think? William believes the Devil slipped into his bedchamber and fathered the brat. Dickon is so unlike his parents that I cannot help but think he may be right.’

An ear-shattering scream of delight followed them as Dickon greeted his father. Several people jumped in alarm, while those who knew Dickon shook their heads in mute disgust. Bartholomew walked a little more quickly, in case the boy spotted him through a window and demanded a visit, setting a pace that had Michael gasping for breath. They crossed the Great Bridge, where there was no sign of anyone thinking of self-murder, and turned along Merton Lane. For the second time that day, Michael hammered on the door. As before, it was answered by the pale-headed bailiff.

‘Now what? The body has been taken to the church, and everyone else is out.’

‘Good,’ said Michael, pushing his way inside. ‘That will make our task here all the easier. And I want a word with you anyway. Where were you when Chesterfelde died?’

‘Why?’ asked Boltone, looking shifty. ‘What does that have to do with you?’

‘Just answer the question,’ snapped Michael.

‘I was asleep,’ replied Boltone. ‘It is common knowledge that Chesterfelde died between after the curfew bell at eight and before dawn. I was asleep all that time, and so was Eudo.’

‘Eudo?’ asked Bartholomew. He sensed he should know the name, but his tired mind refused to yield the information.

‘Eudo of Helpryngham,’ said Boltone impatiently. ‘He rents the manor from Merton College – I told you about him earlier. He and I sleep in the solar, while the scholars have the hall.’

‘Were the scholars alone last night?’ asked Michael. ‘Or did they entertain guests?’

‘They might have done,’ replied Boltone unhelpfully. ‘I went to bed immediately after the curfew, so I have no idea what they did. I am a heavy sleeper. I snore, too, and Eudo always wraps a cloth around his ears to block my noise, so neither of us heard what that miserable rabble were doing.’

‘What happened after you retired at eight?’

‘I heard nothing until the cockerel crowed before dawn. When I went to wake the Oxford men for their breakfast, there was Chesterfelde with a knife in his back. It was my yell of horror that roused the others from their slumbers.’

‘They were all there?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Three surviving scholars and three merchants?’

‘Yes,’ replied Boltone. ‘But I cannot say whether they were all there the whole night. Sometimes they debate and argue, and keep me awake, but I was exhausted yesterday, and I heard nothing.’

‘Argue?’ pounced Michael. ‘You mean they antagonise each other?’

Boltone shrugged. ‘Sometimes. Polmorva called Spryngheuse a sludge-brained pedant last week, and Chesterfelde responded by referring to him as a slippery-tongued viper. But I am busy today: Duraunt accused me of being dishonest in my accounting, so I have to prove him wrong. Do you want anything else, or can I go?’

‘Go,’ said Michael. ‘We only want to inspect the hall again.’

‘All right,’ said Boltone. ‘But do not touch any of the scholars’ belongings, or they will accuse me of doing it.’

Michael and Bartholomew climbed the stairs to the hall. The room was much as it had been the last time they were there. Straw mattresses were stored on one side, ready to be used again that night, and blankets were rolled on top of them. The trestle tables employed for meals had been stacked away, and only the benches left out, so there would be somewhere to sit when the visitors returned. The window shutters had been thrown open to allow the hall to air, and the fire Duraunt had enjoyed earlier had burned out – the day was warm and heating unnecessary, even for chilly old men.

‘Right,’ said Michael, rubbing his hands. ‘Do you want to go through these saddlebags for stained clothes, or keep watch to make sure no one catches us?’

‘You just told Boltone you would not touch anything.’

‘I lied,’ said Michael carelessly. ‘It comes from dealing with the likes of Abergavenny and Polmorva. Well? Hurry up and decide, or they will be back before we have started.’

‘You do it,’ said Bartholomew distastefully. ‘I will make sure no one comes.’

While Michael rummaged through the visitors’ bags, Bartholomew sat on a windowsill and struggled to stay alert. The sun was warm on his face, and he felt pleasantly relaxed. When Michael spoke, he started awake. For a moment, he did not know where he was, and gazed around him, blinking stupidly.

‘I see my integrity is safe under your vigilant care,’ remarked Michael caustically. ‘You really do need a good night’s sleep, Matt. Now I cannot even trust you to keep watch while I ransack people’s belongings. What would we have said if they had caught us?’

‘That they are all suspects until you have Chesterfelde’s killer under lock and key,’ replied Bartholomew, rubbing his eyes as he stood. ‘Duraunt will not object, but Polmorva will, which would be satisfying. Well? Did you find his clothes drenched in gore?’

‘No,’ said Michael in disgust. ‘Not so much as a spot. There are a few drips on the floor where we found the body, but that is not surprising. I found this in Duraunt’s bag, but it cannot have any relevance, given that no one has been poisoned.’ He handed Bartholomew a tiny phial.

The physician took it carefully, knowing that small pots often contained fairly powerful substances. This one was no exception, and it released the pungent odour of concentrated poppy juice when he lifted it to his nose. He recoiled. ‘There is enough soporific here to put half the University to sleep!’

Michael regarded it thoughtfully. ‘And it is partly empty, which means some of it has been used. Is there enough missing to make half a dozen merchants and scholars doze through a murder?’

Bartholomew inspected the vial. ‘Yes, but Duraunt is not your culprit. He was appalled by the murder, and he is a kind, gentle man.’

‘So you said earlier,’ said Michael. ‘But people change, and you have not seen him for years. Who knows what he might have become in the interim?’

Bartholomew had a better explanation. ‘Polmorva is not beyond hiding something incriminating among another man’s possessions. He did it to me once, and almost had me convicted of theft. I only just managed to hurl them out of the window, before my chest was searched.’

‘Them?’

‘Those teeth – the ones he made for the Benedictines. He claimed they had been stolen and accused me of taking them. When I went to my room, there they were, hidden under a book.’

‘How do you know it was he who put them there?’

‘The servants saw him. But this is getting us nowhere. Put the phial back where you found it, Brother. We can ask Polmorva and Duraunt about it later.’

‘No,’ said Michael, slipping the bottle into his scrip. ‘I do not want a potentially toxic substance in the hands of my suspects. I shall keep it, and we will know to whom it belongs when its disappearance is reported.’

‘That is dangerous,’ warned Bartholomew uncomfortably. ‘Boltone knows you have been here. It will not look good for the Senior Proctor to be on the wrong end of a charge of theft.’

‘I shall deny it,’ said Michael. He walked towards the solar. ‘Since we are here, we may as well be thorough. We should see whether Boltone and Eudo own stained clothes, too.’

The solar was far less tidy than the hall, and was strewn with bedding and discarded clothes. Filthy shirts sat in a pile in one corner, where they were evidently picked through to be worn again on subsequent occasions, while boots and shoes lay where they had been cast off. Two smelly dogs lounged in a shaft of sunlight from the open window, and watched with uninterest as Michael began to sift through the mess. Bartholomew remained by the door, standing so he would not fall asleep again.

‘There is nothing here, either,’ said Michael. He wiped his hands on his habit in distaste. ‘Eudo and Boltone live like pigs! I am not surprised Duraunt declined to wrest the solar away from them.’

‘Someone is coming!’ said Bartholomew urgently, hearing footsteps on the stairs. ‘Come into the hall and pretend to inspect the blood where the body was found.’

Michael had only just reached the place and leaned down to look where Bartholomew was pointing before the door was flung open. The man who stood there was tall, and Bartholomew supposed he was handsome, although there was something in his arrogant demeanour that was highly unattractive. His dark brown hair was long and wavy, and his blue eyes were surrounded by dark lashes, giving him the appearance of a foreigner, although his clothes were solidly English, with none of the cosmopolitan fripperies flaunted by many men of substance.

‘Who are you?’ he demanded, hands on hips as he regarded the scholars imperiously. ‘And what are you doing here?’

Michael straightened, irked by the man’s manner. ‘Senior Proctor, investigating the murder of Roger de Chesterfelde.’

‘He smiled a lot,’ said the man, making it sound sinister. ‘And he cited a good deal of Latin – not that those stupid merchants could understand him. Unlike me. I attended the King’s School when I was a boy, and I can read.’ He drew himself up to his full height and looked as if he expected them to be impressed.

‘I imagine reading will be helpful to the man who rents this manor,’ said Michael evenly. He had surmised that the man was Merton’s tenant, Eudo of Helpryngham.

‘Actually, no,’ replied Eudo. ‘If there is any reading to be done, Boltone does it. I prefer to be outside, with the sun on my face and fresh air in my lungs.’

‘I am not surprised,’ said Michael, casting a significant glance at the squalor of the solar. ‘What do you know about Chesterfelde’s death?’

‘Nothing,’ replied Eudo. ‘I was at the King’s Head last night, and then I came here. I was drunk and heard nothing at all – not even Boltone’s infernal snoring. I probably downed seven or eight jugs of ale.’ He looked as if he was fishing for compliments, in the same way that Bartholomew’s younger undergraduates bragged about the amounts of wine they could consume without being sick. But Eudo was in his thirties, and should have grown out of such foolishness.

‘You have hurt yourself,’ said Bartholomew, pointing to a crude bandage that adorned Eudo’s left arm. ‘What happened?’

‘I probably fell over when I was staggering home last night. You are a physician, are you not? Tend it for me. It is very sore.’

Without waiting for Bartholomew’s consent, Eudo unravelled the dressing to reveal an injury on the inside of his forearm that was no more than a scratch. It was slight enough to have been caused by brambles or even a cat, and the reams of material enveloping it were far in excess of what was needed. Despite its superficial nature, Eudo grimaced and sucked in his breath when Bartholomew examined it.

‘You do not need to keep it wrapped,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I will smear it with salve, but the best thing would be to leave it open to the air. It will heal more quickly.’

‘It is a serious injury,’ declared Eudo, watching Bartholomew apply a balm of woundwort and hog’s grease. ‘Besides, I told Boltone I was too sick to work, and he will think I am malingering if he sees me without a bandage. Put it on again.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew, replacing the salve in his bag. ‘It will not heal if you keep it covered. Besides, you are malingering if you claim it is stopping you from working.’

Eudo’s handsome face creased into a scowl as he bound the afflicted limb himself. ‘You are no good. Doctor Rougham would have ordered me to spend a week in bed and buy half an apothecary’s shop in poultices and purges, but he is away at the moment, more is the pity. Still, it has saved me money, because I am not paying you for bad advice and a smear of pig oil.’

‘So, you can tell us nothing about Chesterfelde’s murder?’ asked Michael, seeing Bartholomew about to take issue. ‘You saw and heard nothing?’

‘No,’ said Eudo proudly. ‘Not with nine jugs of ale inside me.’

‘You said seven or eight.’ Bartholomew pounced.

‘Did I?’ asked Eudo carelessly. ‘It was a lot. Probably nearer ten.’

‘I wish it had been twenty,’ muttered Bartholomew in an undertone. ‘That would have wiped the smile off your face this morning.’

Bartholomew and Michael left Merton Hall and began to walk towards their College. On the way they met Duraunt and Polmorva, who said they had been visiting Duraunt’s fellow Austin Canons at nearby Barnwell Priory. Polmorva’s expression hardened when Michael told him that he and his Corpse Examiner had re-inspected the place where Chesterfelde had died, and Bartholomew thought he detected an uneasy flicker in his eye; he wondered whether he guessed they had searched his possessions and was afraid of what might have been found. Duraunt contented himself with reciting a short prayer for Chesterfelde, then started to discuss the next University Debate. Michael fretted impatiently as the old man gabbled on about his favourite topics for such occasions, while Bartholomew listened with interest, recalling disputes on similar issues they had attended together in Oxford – an erudite, careful teacher and his eager but inexpert student.

When they eventually parted, Michael went to search the University’s records for any scholars who had been granted leave of absence to study in Oxford, and to peruse applications from Oxford students who wanted to visit Cambridge, while Bartholomew walked to the hamlet of Stourbridge, outside the town. He wanted to see Clippesby, and assess whether there was any improvement in his condition. As it was such a fine day, he strolled slowly, enjoying the sweet scent of ripening crops and the damp earthiness of fertile soil. The sun lay golden and warm across the fields, occasionally cooled when fluffy white clouds drifted across its bright face.

The hospital was a sprawling complex of buildings enclosed within a fence of woven hazel. It had originally been founded for lepers, so their disease would not contaminate others, but now it accepted patients with a variety of ailments. It comprised the Chapel of St Mary Magdalene, an ancient two-celled church with thick walls and tiny windows, and a number of huts with thatched roofs, where the inmates lived. The community had its own well, fish-ponds, fields, orchards and livestock, and its residents were seldom obliged to deal with the outside world.

The warden who cared for the eclectic collection of people who had been banished from ‘normal’ society was an amiable Austin Canon called Paul. He tended his thirty or so patients with the help of a small staff of lay-brothers, and Bartholomew considered the man little short of a saint. He was tall and sturdy, which was a useful attribute when dealing with the obstreperousness of madness and the heavy lifting required for the bedridden, and his brown hair lay thickly around his untidy tonsure. He was nearly always smiling, and it was not unusual for the compound to ring with his laughter.

There was no humour that day, however, because he was troubled. Michaelhouse’s Master of Music and Astronomy was afforded a fair degree of freedom in the hospital, and had been helping to care for some of the sicker inmates. But Clippesby had a habit of wandering away without telling anyone where he was going, and Bartholomew was disturbed to learn that he had vanished several times since he had been enrolled at Stourbridge. Most worrying was the fact that he had been gone for part of the previous night, when Chesterfelde had died.

‘I was with the ducks near the river, Matt,’ said Clippesby dreamily, when the physician asked him about it. He laughed merrily. ‘They will provide me with an alibi, should you require one.’

Bartholomew studied him intently, trying to ascertain whether the man was genuinely trying to be helpful, or was playing him for a fool. He rubbed his hand through his hair when several moments of staring into Clippesby’s clear grey eyes told him nothing at all.

‘You promised you would stay here,’ said Paul reproachfully. ‘Why did you break your word?’

‘I was needed elsewhere, Brother,’ said Clippesby with a serene smile. ‘You have duties towards your charges, so you will understand these obligations. Besides, I do not like being shut up all night. There are too many interesting things happening elsewhere.’

‘What sort of things?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.

‘Things you would not understand. Why do you want to know?’

‘A man was killed in Merton Hall last night. You should not wander around the town, Clippesby. People know you are unwell, and we do not want them to accuse you of a crime because they cannot find the real culprit and need a scapegoat. I brought you here for your own safety.’

‘So you say,’ replied Clippesby acidly. He did not like Stourbridge. ‘But that is the second death at Merton Hall. A fellow called Okehamptone perished there a week or two ago. I was visiting some geese at the time, and they were very unhappy that he died so suddenly after arriving in their town.’

‘Were they,’ said Bartholomew. The Dominican’s nocturnal wanderings meant he was often a witness to criminal activities, and he had provided Michael with valuable clues in the past. The difficulty, however, lay in deciding what was true and what was fancy.

‘They were,’ asserted Clippesby. ‘Tell Michael not to forget Okehamptone. It will please the geese to know they have a Senior Proctor who takes all deaths seriously. Can you see that lark, Matt? High in the clouds? I have just heard her say she saw you leaving Matilde’s house at dawn again this morning. You must be more discreet when you visit her, my friend, or you will tarnish her good name.’

‘Matilde the courtesan?’ asked Paul, regarding Bartholomew askance. ‘You visit her during the night? This lark is right, man! You should show some discretion. Leave while it is still dark, not once the sun has started to rise.’

‘I will bear it in mind,’ said Bartholomew shortly. ‘Although the lark should mind her own damned business, and keep her gossip to herself.’

He spent the rest of the day with his ailing colleague, but even after several hours still had no idea whether the Dominican was improving. It was frustrating, and he walked home helpless and angry, wishing there were not so many ailments that his medical training could not cure. He was light-headed from tiredness, but when he flopped on to his bed at Michaelhouse, intending to doze until it was time to meet Matilde, sleep would not come. Images of Clippesby, Polmorva and Duraunt rattled around his mind, along with Chesterfelde and the knife embedded in his back. He sensed he was about to embark on an investigation where nothing would be what it seemed, and that would take all his wits to solve. The unsettling part was that he did not think his wits were up to the task.