The Mark of a Murderer

CHAPTER 3

The following morning heralded another glorious day, clear and blue. Michael told Bartholomew that he had been reviewing the evidence surrounding Chesterfelde’s death and had eliminated none of the suspects from his enquiries. He had visited the King’s Head tavern and ascertained that Eudo had indeed consumed copious quantities of ale on the night in question, but pointed out that being drunk did not preclude anyone from committing murder. He also distrusted Boltone, and thought Polmorva might well be right to accuse him of the crime on the basis of mistaken identity in the dark. But he distrusted Polmorva more, and considered him exactly the kind of man to kill and confuse the evidence by thrusting knives into dead men’s backs. The result was a wealth of suspects.

‘But not Duraunt,’ said Bartholomew as they walked up the High Street, Michael to ask yet more questions of his potential culprits, and Bartholomew to answer a summons from Sheriff Tulyet. Tulyet’s son had stabbed himself with one of his toy arrows, and his anxious parents wanted to ensure the injury was not serious. Bartholomew regarded the prospect of a session with Dickon without enthusiasm, sensing the nagging ache behind his eyes that had been plaguing him all night was likely to become worse once Dickon’s enraged screeches had soared around it.

‘Duraunt seems kindly,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But do not forget that phial we found in his bag – and the fact that we suspect everyone was fed a soporific before Chesterfelde was killed.’

‘It probably belongs to Polmorva,’ insisted Bartholomew doggedly. ‘Besides, the merchants or the scholar we have not yet met – Spryngheuse – might have killed Chesterfelde.’

‘That is why I want to question Duraunt about the poppy juice and why I want to meet Spryngheuse – so I can at least try to eliminate some of them from my investigation. I will keep you company while you tend Dickon, and then you can help me. I would like you to watch Polmorva and assess his reaction when we produce that vial.’ He gave Bartholomew a sidelong glance. ‘And I assure you that you have the better half of the bargain: a few moments with Dickon is far more dangerous than an entire week with murderers from Oxford.’

‘What about our teaching?’ asked Bartholomew with arched eyebrows. ‘It is Monday, and we have lectures all day. I paid Falmeresham to read De criticis diebus aloud for an hour while I tend Dickon, but he cannot do it all morning.’

‘He can,’ said Michael. Bartholomew saw a crafty look in the monk’s eye. ‘I anticipated we might be assisting each other, so I slipped him a little extra. Galen’s De criticis diebus is a lengthy work, and Falmeresham has promised to keep your students enthralled with it until noon – or at least, occupied so they do not wander around the hall and make a nuisance of themselves. I cannot imagine anyone being interested in a medical view of diet. Food is not for the cold analysis of science.’

‘What about Clippesby’s astronomers? Galen’s thoughts on vegetables are not relevant to their studies, and they are my responsibility now he is indisposed.’

‘You have only yourself to blame for that,’ said Michael haughtily. ‘You went to see him yesterday; you should have pronounced him fit and brought him home. But, as it happens, you can set your mind at rest over the astronomers, too. Young Rob Deynman has agreed to supervise them while they calculate every movable feast in the ecclesiastical year for the next decade.’

‘Deynman?’ spluttered Bartholomew in appalled disbelief. ‘Deynman? He can barely calculate the time of day when he hears the dinner bell ring! He is not capable of helping other students.’

‘He is not going to teach them,’ said Michael, unmoved by his objections. ‘He will just make sure they do not make too much noise or escape early. And at least he can read, which is more than can be said for the scholars of some Colleges.’

He glanced meaningfully to the other side of the street, where Thomas Paxtone, the Master of Medicine from King’s Hall, was passing the time of day with Bartholomew’s sister. Paxtone was a rosy-cheeked, smiling man from a village near Huntingdon and, unlike the other two physicians in the town – Lynton of Peterhouse and Rougham of Gonville Hall – he was willing to tend the poor, as well as those who could afford to pay for his services. His charity meant that some of the burden was lifted from Bartholomew, who was grateful.

‘Mistress Edith is telling me that she and her husband are about to embark on a journey,’ said Paxtone, nodding a friendly greeting as Bartholomew and Michael approached. ‘The weather is fine, so they will leave for London today.’

Edith kissed her brother, her face flushed with excitement at the prospect of an adventure. ‘Oswald is packing the last of our belongings and the horses are saddled. It is a week earlier than we anticipated, but our son will not mind.’

‘He might,’ warned Bartholomew, suspecting his nephew would be appalled by the unannounced arrival of his parents. Richard was a lawyer, and youth and a high income had combined to render him wild. Bartholomew trusted he would outgrow his dissolute lifestyle in time, but the lad had not shown any indication of encroaching sobriety so far. He hoped Edith would not find her beloved son entwined in the arms of a prostitute, or drunk and insensible – or both – because it would hurt her.

Edith waved away his concerns with the happy optimism he had always envied, then became serious and pulled him to one side, so Michael and Paxtone could not hear. The two scholars immediately began a rather strained discussion about whether the Archbishop should spend more time at King’s Hall, which was one of the University’s richest foundations, or Michaelhouse, which had a reputation for academic excellence. The decision would depend on whether the University wanted Islip impressed by Cambridge’s scholarship or its capacity for lavish entertainment.

‘You know I am fond of Matilde,’ Edith whispered to her brother, ‘and I think she would make you a good wife. But your nightly visits are damaging her reputation and yours.’

‘You know about them, too?’ asked Bartholomew, mortified.

She nodded soberly. ‘But I do not want my parting words to be nagging ones, so I shall say no more. Just this: be careful and trust no one – especially sweet old men from your past.’

Bartholomew stared at her. ‘You mean Master Duraunt? Why? What has he done to make you wary of him?’

Edith lowered her voice further still. ‘I was in the apothecary’s shop when he bought a good deal of poppy juice. Now, there is nothing wrong with that, but when the apothecary questioned the high potency of the dosage, Duraunt said you had recommended that strength to him the previous evening. I happen to know you did not, because you were with Matilde all that night. He lied, Matt.’

Bartholomew’s thoughts whirled. ‘I have never recommended a sedative to him – weak or strong.’

Edith grimaced. ‘So, beware of him. But I must go, or Oswald will wonder where I am.’

She kissed Bartholomew again, and darted off down the High Street, more like a girl than a mature woman ten years Bartholomew’s senior. He watched her go fondly, trusting she would have a safe journey along the King’s highways, and that she would not be too distressed by what he was sure she would find when she invaded her debauched son’s domain.

‘I bought a new set of urine flasks recently,’ Paxtone said conversationally when she had gone. ‘Would you like to see them, Matt?’

‘He is going to visit Dickon Tulyet,’ said Michael, before his friend could accept the enticing offer. ‘He should not dally.’

‘He should,’ argued Paxtone fervently. ‘Because then the brat might have expired by the time he arrives – with luck.’

‘Thomas!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, shocked. ‘Dickon is a child.’

‘So his parents claim,’ said Paxtone grimly. ‘But I think otherwise. The boy is a monster, with his hot temper and unruly behaviour. You should dally, Matt. It will allow him to use up his strength by tormenting his helpless parents, so he will be more docile with you. I would not tend him if Tulyet made me a gift of Cambridge Castle!’

Without further ado, he took Bartholomew’s arm and guided him towards the impressive edifice that comprised King’s Hall. Not averse to Dickon expending some of his violent energy before their visit, and accepting the sense in Paxtone’s logic, Michael followed.

Founded almost forty years earlier, King’s Hall was a training ground for men who wanted to enter the King’s service or for those destined for exalted posts in the Church. Because it was a royal foundation, it was never short of funds, and no expense had been spared in providing its scholars with a supremely comfortable home. It comprised buildings gathered around a neat, clean yard, and well-tended grounds of orchards, fields and vegetable gardens that extended to the river. As a senior Fellow, Paxtone had been allocated two stately rooms for his personal use – an unthinkable luxury in a University where space was at a premium – both of which were elegantly furnished.

As they strolled across the scrubby grass in front of Paxtone’s window, someone hailed them. It was the Warden, a quiet Welshman with long front teeth and a shock of lank grey hair. Thomas Powys had been in office for several years and was a popular master, being kindly, tolerant and ready to grant his Fellows considerable freedom on the understanding that they did not break College or University rules. He was more strict with his students, though, which Bartholomew thought was a good thing: there were more of them in King’s Hall than in any other Cambridge institution, and the possibility of serious trouble with such a large body of closely knit young men was very real.

‘Brother Michael,’ said Powys, baring his impressive incisors in a smile. ‘I have been meaning to report to you that we are down two Fellows this term. You need to know for your attendance records.’

‘Robert de Wolf and Richard de Hamecotes,’ elaborated Paxtone. ‘It is highly inconvenient to be without them, actually – as you will know yourself, Brother. I understand Michaelhouse is missing poor Clippesby at the moment. Insanity again, is it?’

‘Are they absent with your permission or without it, Warden?’ asked Michael, ignoring the impertinent query and not revealing that he already knew about the King’s Hall truancies from his University spies.

Powys looked uncomfortable. ‘Hamecotes wrote to us saying he has gone to Oxford to purchase books for our library. We are short of legal texts, so his journey will be of great benefit to the College.’

‘If he wrote telling you what he planned to do, then it means he asked for permission after he had gone,’ Michael surmised. ‘You did not grant him leave: he just went.’ He eyed the Warden questioningly.

‘I do not want trouble,’ said Powys softly. ‘Hamecotes had no business abandoning us during term, but he has never done anything like this before. I confess I am surprised by his conduct, but if he returns loaded with books, then I am prepared to overlook the lapse.’

‘What about the other Fellow?’ asked Michael. ‘Wolf. Did he just decide to slip away, too?’

Powys nodded unhappily. ‘He is in debt – expenses unpaid from last year – but we had agreed to postpone the matter for a few weeks, because he was expecting an inheritance. I am astonished he decided to take unauthorised leave, too, and we miss him sorely. He is an excellent teacher and a popular master.’

‘Debt?’ asked Michael. ‘How much does he owe?’

‘Quite a bit,’ admitted Powys. ‘I know scholars with serious financial troubles sometimes abscond, so they will not have to pay their dues, but I do not think Wolf is one of them.’

‘Hamecotes’s room-mate was as surprised as the rest of us when he left, but Wolf’s was not,’ said Paxtone, rather imprudently, given that he was talking to the Senior Proctor – the man who might later penalise his colleagues for breaking the University’s rules. ‘Wolf likes women, and I suspect he is enjoying himself with one and has lost track of time.’

‘For eleven days?’ asked Powys archly. ‘She must be quite a lady!’ He turned to Michael. ‘Come to my office, Brother, so I can write down their details for your records.’

‘You are very honest,’ said Michael, as he started to follow. ‘Most Colleges would have tried to conceal the matter, because Wolf and Hamecotes will certainly be fined when they return.’

‘I considered keeping quiet,’ admitted Powys. ‘But we have too many students, and we cannot trust them all not to chatter. Besides, it is always best to tell the truth.’

‘I wish everyone believed that,’ said Michael wistfully.

Bartholomew left Michael to deal with the absent Fellows, and went with Paxtone to his chambers. These overlooked the herb gardens at the back of the College, and when the window shutters were thrown open, the rooms were filled with their rich scent, fragrant in the warmth of early summer.

‘You look tired,’ said Paxtone sympathetically, as Bartholomew flopped into a large oak chair that was filled with cushions. ‘Did a patient keep you up again last night?’

‘Yes,’ replied Bartholomew shortly, wondering whether this was his colleague’s discreet way of mentioning that he, too, knew about Matilde. Since even his sister was aware of it, he supposed it was not out of the question that the Fellows of King’s Hall were, too.

‘You must learn to refuse,’ advised Paxtone, peering into Bartholomew’s face, concerned. ‘You will make yourself ill if you persist in burning the candle at both ends. A man needs his rest just as much as he needs his daily bread.’

‘There are just not enough hours in a day to do everything,’ said Bartholomew wearily. He rubbed his eyes and sat up straight, knowing he would fall asleep in Paxtone’s peaceful chamber if he allowed himself to settle too deeply into the chair.

‘I know you are overburdened,’ said Paxtone kindly. ‘So, to help you, I visited one of your patients in the hovels at All-Saints-next-the-Castle last night – a morbid obstruction of the liver. He sent for you, but your porter said you were out, so his woman came to me instead, although she had no money to pay for my services.’

‘That couple barely have enough for bread, and only ask me to visit because I forget to charge them.’

‘I “forgot”, too,’ said Paxtone, removing the first of his urine flasks from a chest for Bartholomew to admire. ‘But that is not all I have done for you recently. Michael asked me to inspect a corpse for him a couple of weeks ago. I agreed, because you are my friend and I wanted to be of use, but I shall not do that again! I am a physician, not a Corpse Examiner, and I deal with the living, not the dead.’

‘I used to think that, too,’ said Bartholomew, taking the flask and thinking nostalgically of the days when his time had been filled solely with healing and teaching. ‘But the additional income from examining bodies is very useful – it is how I provide medicines for patients like the one you saw last night. Besides, I have learned a great deal from corpses that can be applied to the quick.’

‘Anatomy,’ said Paxtone with distaste, taking the flask from Bartholomew and presenting him with another. ‘I hear they are teaching that at the Italian universities these days, but I shall have nothing to do with it. Christian men do not prod about inside the dead. That is for pagans and heretics.’

‘What I do is hardly anatomy,’ protested Bartholomew, who had never dissected a corpse in his life, although he would not have objected to doing so. He had been an observer at several dismemberments at the University in Padua, and believed much could be gained from the practice. He turned the flask over in his hands as he spoke. It really was a fine thing, made from thin glass that would allow the urine to be seen clearly through it from any angle. ‘I only assess the–’

‘I do not care,’ interrupted Paxtone firmly. ‘I did not like looking at the dead man from Oxford, and I shall not oblige you again. I told Michael as much.’

‘What did you learn from Okehamptone’s cadaver?’ Bartholomew asked absently, wondering whether there had been a wound on the body’s wrist, like the one on Chesterfelde’s.

‘Learn?’ echoed Paxtone in distaste. ‘Nothing. His companions said he had died from a fever.’

‘But you examined the body, to make sure they were telling the truth. So, what did you–?’

‘I most certainly did not,’ replied Paxtone fervently. ‘Michael left me alone with the thing, and told me to “get on with it”, to quote his eloquent phrasing. But I saw no reason to disbelieve an honest man like Warden Duraunt, so I knelt next to Okehamptone and prayed for his soul. I considered that far more valuable than poking around his person. Besides, we all know corpses harbour diseases. I do not know how you have lived so long, given your penchant for them.’ He presented another flask with a flourish. It was beautifully engraved; clearly he had saved the best for last.

‘So, the only reason you know Okehamptone died from a fever is because his companions told you so?’ asked Bartholomew, taking the object without seeing it.

‘No,’ said Paxtone shortly. ‘I knew because there was a thick blanket around his body and one of those liripipes – a combined hood and scarf – enveloping his head and neck. In short, the corpse was dressed just like any man who had been laid low with an ague in his last hours. I possess some common sense, you know.’

‘You did not strip the body, to see if there was a dent in his head or a wound under these clothes?’

‘Is that what you do?’ Paxtone was clearly repelled and did not wait for a reply. ‘Well, such a distasteful task was not necessary in this case, because Okehamptone looked exactly like a man who had died of a fever: bloodless around the lips and chalk-faced. Besides, there were seven people at Merton Hall, and they all told the same story: Okehamptone contracted some virulent contagion on the way to Cambridge and died the night they arrived. They have no reason to lie.’

Bartholomew was not so sure, given what had subsequently happened to Chesterfelde, but Paxtone reminded him that Okehamptone had been in his grave almost two weeks, and they could scarcely dig him up to confirm the diagnosis. There was nothing he could do to rectify Paxtone’s ineptitude, and it was none of his affair anyway. He put the matter from his mind and concentrated on the flasks. After each bottle had been re-examined and admired, Paxtone offered to show him his new clyster pipes, too, stored in a shed in the garden. He led Bartholomew into the yard, where Michael was waiting.

‘I smell smoked pork,’ said Michael as they approached.

‘We always dine well on Mondays,’ said Paxtone, a little smugly, aware that Michaelhouse fare was mediocre on a good day and downright execrable on a bad one.

Michael watched a student trot across the courtyard and begin to pull on a bell rope. Tinny clangs echoed around the College. ‘Is it not a little late for breakfast?’ he asked, rubbing his stomach in a way that declared to even the most obtuse of observers that he was peckish.

‘The bell is for our mid-morning collation – it tides the more ravenous over until noon.’ Paxtone smiled engagingly. ‘We are going to see my clyster pipes. Would you like to come?’

‘I am ravenous,’ declared Michael, opting for brazen, now that subtle had failed. ‘And not for the sight of clyster pipes, either. I am sure there is room at your high table for a slender man like me.’

Bartholomew stifled a laugh. Michael was the last man who could be called slender, and the physician was worried that his overly ample girth meant he could no longer move at speed. It was not just friendly concern, either: he was aware that if he chased wrongdoers on Michael’s behalf, then he would be fighting them alone until the fat monk managed to waddle to his aid.

‘There is always room for friends,’ said Paxtone. ‘Would you like to eat before or after you see the clyster pipes?’

‘Before,’ said Michael, before Bartholomew could respond. The physician grimaced, knowing he would be unlikely to see Paxtone’s enema equipment that day, because once Michael had been fed, they would have to visit Dickon.

The King’s Hall refectory was a sumptuous affair, with wall hangings giving the large room a cosy but affluent feel. Since monarchs and nobles often graced it with their presence, the Warden and his Fellows were in constant readiness to receive them, with the result that they lived like kings and barons themselves most of the time. Their hall was furnished with splendid oak tables and benches, a far cry from the rough elm, which splintered easily and was a menace to fingers and clothes, that Bartholomew was used to in Michaelhouse. There was no need to scatter the floor with rushes, for the polished wood was a beauty to behold. Bowls of fresh herbs and lavender stood along the windowsills, while servants burned pine cones in the hearth; the scent of them along with the smell of bread and smoked meat was almost intoxicating.

Paxtone led his guests to a raised dais near the hearth, and gestured that they were to sit on either side of him. Several men were already there, and nodded amiably to the newcomers. Bartholomew noticed that they did not seem surprised or discomfited by their unexpected guests; at Michaelhouse it would have meant a shortage of food.

Bartholomew found himself sitting next to a man called John de Norton, who was something of a scandal, for he had been admitted to a College despite the fact that he could barely read and knew virtually no Latin. He could, however, pay handsomely for the privilege of a University education, and made no secret of the fact that he intended to use his sojourn in Cambridge to further his career at Court. He spent a good deal of time cultivating friendships with men he thought would later become similarly successful, ready for the time when they would be in a position to trade favours.

Michael’s neighbour was a man named Geoffrey Dodenho, infamous for his unbridled bragging. Short, squat Dodenho was no more scholarly than Norton, although he considered himself a veritable genius and seldom hesitated to regale folk with his various theories, most of which were either untenable or poached from more able minds.

‘I gave an excellent lecture last week,’ he announced to the table at large. Several of his colleagues struggled to stifle sighs of irritation. ‘It was on the notion that the world was created by the self-diffusion of a point of light into a spherical form. It is complex, of course, but I have the kind of mind that can assay these matters.’

‘You concur with Grosseteste, then?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised that Dodenho should lay claim to this particular theory. He was aware of smirks around the table, although it did not occur to him that his comment to Dodenho was the cause of them. ‘He first explained the Creation in terms of a diffusion of light into a specific form.’

‘Grosseteste did not pre-empt me,’ said Dodenho indignantly. Michael sniggered, while Paxtone looked uncomfortable, and Norton’s blank expression showed he had no idea what they were talking about – that Grosseteste might be a kind of cabbage for all he knew. ‘He proposed something entirely different. Where is Powys? I am hungry, and we cannot eat until he says grace.’

The Warden was walking slowly towards the dais. He was in earnest conversation with a young, fresh-faced man who sported half a faint moustache and whose boyishly wispy beard sprouted from odd and inconvenient places, bristles springing from under his chin rather than on it. Bartholomew supposed that, like many adolescents, he was so pleased to have grown any facial hair at all that he was loath to shave a single strand. The vague aura of femininity was enhanced by his long-lashed eyes and well-manicured fingernails.

‘Grosseteste talked about his particular notion in De luce,’ said Bartholomew, turning his attention back to Dodenho. He smiled encouragingly, waiting for Dodenho to take up the challenge in time-honoured academic fashion, but when he saw a reasoned answer was not to be forthcoming, he added, ‘We have a copy at Michaelhouse, if you would like to read it.’

‘I do not need to read it,’ cried Dodenho, offended. ‘The man’s logic will be inferior to mine in every way, and if it is the same, then he has copied from me.’

‘I doubt it,’ said Michael dryly. ‘He has been dead for a hundred years.’

‘Well, he still cannot be compared to me,’ declared Dodenho uncompromisingly. ‘I am a scholar of great renown, and will be remembered longer than a mere century. My writings are–’

‘Good morning, Warden,’ interrupted Paxtone, as Powys and his companion approached. ‘Brother Michael and Doctor Bartholomew have agreed to join us for our humble refection this morning.’

This was not how Bartholomew thought the invitation had been inveigled, but was grateful to Paxtone for his gracious manners.

‘They are welcome. The good brother is looking particularly undernourished this morning, so we shall have to see what we can do to put some colour into his cheeks.’ Bartholomew gazed at Powys, trying to assess whether he was making a joke, while Michael inclined his head with quiet dignity. Then Powys indicated the young scholar at his side. ‘Have you met John Wormynghalle? He has been with us since the beginning of term, and we are glad to have him. He is an excellent philosopher and is also helping with the music curriculum.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Paxtone warmly. ‘Wormynghalle has already proved himself to be a valuable asset.’ He glanced at Dodenho and Norton, as though he would not have said the same about them.

‘Wormynghalle?’ asked Bartholomew. The name was familiar, but his sluggish mind refused to tell him why. Then it snapped into place. ‘There is another Wormynghalle in Cambridge at the moment.’

Wormynghalle nodded with a smile that revealed even but sadly stained teeth. ‘A tanner. I sought him out when I first heard about him, but we own no common ancestor, despite our shared name. He is from Oxford, while I hail from Buckinghamshire.’

‘You are fortunate,’ said Norton in distaste. ‘It would be dreadful for a decent man to learn he has relatives in the tannery business. Tanneries reek and so, invariably, do tanners.’

‘This one does not,’ replied Wormynghalle pleasantly. ‘But he said he is a burgess, so I imagine he no longer soils his own hands with skins. However, although I studied briefly in Oxford, I never came across him or his kin. He must be a relatively new member of the city’s government.’

‘I do not know him, either,’ said Dodenho, not liking a conversation that did not have him as its focus. ‘I spent last term at Merton College, but I never encountered any Wormynghalles. They must be inferior businessmen, or they would have been introduced to me.’

‘I may have run into him, now I think about it,’ said Norton, scratching his chin thoughtfully. ‘I stayed at Oxford Castle once, and I vaguely recall a common trader named Wormyngton or Wormeley or some such thing. But I was more interested in the hounds than in meeting local dignitaries.’

‘Why does that not surprise me?’ said Dodenho caustically. He turned to Michael and murmured, ‘Norton should never have been admitted to King’s Hall, given that he has not even attended a grammar school, but the King wanted him to “study” here – and no one refuses the King. Still, it does little for my reputation to belong to a College that appoints Fellows who can barely read.’

‘I doubt it makes much difference to a man like you,’ Michael whispered back, leaving Dodenho to ponder exactly what he meant.

‘My first love is philosophy,’ said Wormynghalle, his eyes shining at the mere mention of the subject. ‘But in my spare time I study music. When I was at Oxford I had the pleasure of visiting Balliol, where there are manuscripts ascribed to the theorist William Gray.’

‘I know all about Gray,’ said Michael resentfully. ‘I have been obliged to read him of late, in order to pass his wisdom to Clippesby’s students. His notions about plainsong and metrics are complex.’

‘But they are also logical when you think about them,’ said Wormynghalle. He flushed furiously when he realised he might have insulted Michael’s intelligence, and hastened to make amends. ‘Perhaps you might permit me to invite your lads to the lecture I intend to give on Gray next week?’

‘You most certainly may,’ said Michael, transparently relieved to share some of his responsibilities. ‘I shall attend, too, and perhaps then I will understand what the wretched fellow was getting at with his discant styles and reference pitches. But meanwhile…’ He rubbed his hands and gazed at the servants who were waiting to serve the meal.

‘Wormynghalle is doing well with our College choir,’ said Dodenho, before Powys could open his mouth to say grace. Michael grimaced. ‘Of course, he is not achieving as much as I did, when I was choral master, but that would be too much to ask.’

‘He has made vast improvements,’ said Powys, smiling encouragingly at Wormynghalle. ‘I know a good teacher when I see one. I spotted him when I was in Oxford, and I am afraid I resorted to poaching: I offered him a Fellowship. I am glad I did, especially now Hamecotes and Wolf are away.’

‘Richard de Hamecotes is my room-mate,’ said Wormynghalle to Michael. ‘We rent a large chamber, and I rattle around like a pea in a barrel without him. I hope he comes back soon.’

‘Speaking of peas,’ began Michael. ‘I–’

‘Count yourself lucky,’ said Dodenho. ‘Hamecotes is clean and tidy, but I share with Wolf, and he is a slut – clothes strewn across the floor, ink spots on the desks, parchment in untidy piles…’

‘A man with debts,’ said Norton disapprovingly. ‘You can never trust them not to run away without making good on what they owe.’

‘Wolf will pay,’ said Wormynghalle charitably. ‘His family were tardy in forwarding an inheritance, so he has doubtless gone to collect it in person. He lives in Suffolk, no great distance. I am sure he will return laden with gold soon, and prove his doubters wrong.’

‘You should have taught him to sing,’ said Dodenho, a little spitefully. ‘Then he could have earned pennies by warbling in the Market Square.’

‘I will sing, if it means the food is served,’ offered Michael pointedly.

‘Wormynghalle might know his music, but he knows nothing of horses,’ said Norton. He grinned approvingly at the young man. ‘Still, he is a crack shot with a bow.’

‘My brother taught me,’ said Wormynghalle, to explain what was an odd skill for an academic. ‘He said a scholar, travelling between far-flung universities, should know how to protect himself.’

‘This learning game is all very well,’ Norton went on, whetting an inappropriately large knife on a stone he had removed from the pouch at his side: the blade was already sharper than most of Bartholomew’s surgical implements. ‘But it means nothing if you do not also know how to hunt and ride. If a man cannot mount a horse and canter off to shoot himself a decent supper, then all the books in the world will not prevent him from starving.’

‘“Learning game”?’ echoed Powys. ‘Is that any way for a Fellow to describe academia?’ He turned to Wormynghalle, and Bartholomew saw that the Welshman regarded the youth as his best scholar, and one who would be equally affronted by Norton’s description of their profession.

‘You have a long way to go with our tenors,’ said Dodenho. The golden newcomer was stealing attention usually afforded to him, and he did not like it. ‘They are too shrill in their upper reaches.’

‘They are supposed to be shrill up there,’ said Michael. ‘Now, the meat is getting cold, and–’

‘I am a tenor, and I am not shrill,’ interrupted Dodenho. ‘But enough of my singing. We were discussing my theories about light being the origin of the universe.’

‘Your theory sounds heretical to me, Dodenho,’ said Powys. He grinned wickedly. ‘Father William of Michaelhouse has a deep interest in heresy, and considers himself an expert on the subject. Perhaps you should take your ideas to him, and have them assessed.’

‘God forbid!’ declared Dodenho. ‘The man is a lunatic. Of course, Michaelhouse is famous for that sort of thing.’

‘Famous for what sort of thing?’ demanded Michael coldly.

‘For lunatics,’ replied Dodenho. ‘Everyone knows it. You have Father William, who is so rabidly against anything he considers anathema that he is wholly beyond reason. And then there is Clippesby, and we all know about him.’

‘What do we all know about him?’ asked Michael quietly.

‘I am very hungry,’ stated Paxtone, rising quickly to his feet when he saw the dangerous expression on the monk’s face. ‘Perhaps you could say grace, Warden.’

Powys obliged, waiting until all the scholars were standing with their heads bowed before saying the familiar Latin with a heavy Welsh inflexion that meant not all of it was readily comprehensible. Bartholomew struggled to follow him, while Norton nodded knowledgeably and muttered ‘amen’ in inappropriate places.

‘Lord!’ muttered Michael, when Powys finished and they took their seats again. ‘I am not sure your idea of eating here was a good one, Matt. It is a bizarre experience, to say the least.’

‘I hear a man was killed at Merton Hall on Saturday night,’ said Norton, as servants brought baskets of boiled eggs and dried fruit. Pats of butter were placed at regular intervals along the table, along with substantial slabs of an oily yellow cheese; the smoked pork was sliced and placed on platters, one to be shared by two Fellows.

‘News travels fast,’ said Michael, rubbing his hands in gluttonous anticipation. ‘Matt inspected the corpse, and says Chesterfelde was murdered with a knife.’

Norton nodded eagerly. ‘I heard a dagger had been planted so hard in his back, that it pinned him to the floor.’

‘Please!’ said Paxtone sharply. ‘Not at the table!’

‘You are a physician,’ said Norton, startled. ‘Surely you are used to a bit of blood and gore?’

‘Not while I am dining,’ replied Paxtone firmly. ‘We can talk about the Archbishop’s Visitation instead. He is going to sleep in King’s Hall, you know. Wormynghalle has been persuaded to give up his room, since it is huge and Hamecotes has taken himself off to Oxford.’

‘I hope Hamecotes brings back some books on philosophy,’ said Wormynghalle wistfully. ‘The last time he went, he concentrated on theology and law.’

‘He has been on book-buying missions before?’ asked Michael, reaching for the meat.

‘Twice,’ said Powys. ‘He is rather good at it, actually, because he has contacts in some of the richer Colleges – Balliol, Exeter and Queen’s.’

‘I only hope he remembers the discussion we had about spurs,’ said Norton, giving the impression that he thought a journey solely for books was a waste of time. ‘There is a smith in Oxford who makes excellent spurs. I wish he had told me his plans to travel in advance, rather than slinking off in the middle of the night. Then I could have reminded him.’

‘What happened to this corpse in Merton Hall?’ asked Dodenho, overriding Paxtone’s distaste for the subject and determined to have some gossip.

‘He died from a wound in his wrist,’ replied Michael obligingly. ‘The blood vessels had been severed, and you know how quickly a man can die from such wounds, if the bleeding is not stanched.’

‘Then the rumours that he was stabbed are wrong?’ asked Norton. ‘That will teach me to listen to scholars. They are a worthless rabble for garnering accurate information.’ He gnawed on a piece of cheese, and seemed oblivious of his colleagues’ astonished – and offended – expressions.

‘Chesterfelde was stabbed in the back,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But the fatal injury was to his arm. It was odd, because he died elsewhere, and his body must have been dumped among his companions as they slept.’

‘Chesterfelde,’ mused Norton, pondering the victim’s name. He turned to Dodenho. ‘You know a Chesterfelde, do you not? I recall you entertaining him in your room last term. You got drunk together, and he was sick on the communal stairs.’

‘It was probably a different Chesterfelde,’ said Dodenho shiftily.

Michael narrowed his eyes. ‘Bailiff Boltone told me the murdered Chesterfelde had visited Cambridge on several previous occasions.’

‘Names mean nothing,’ said Wormynghalle lightly, seeing Dodenho’s face grow dark with resentment. ‘Look at me, with the same name as a tanner. There may be more than one Chesterfelde from Oxford who regularly travels to Cambridge.’

‘This fellow was burly, with dark hair,’ offered Norton obligingly. ‘In his early twenties.’

‘That is him,’ said Michael, looking hard at Dodenho.

‘Well, perhaps I did meet him,’ admitted Dodenho reluctantly. ‘But I do not know him.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Norton. ‘You sniggered and whispered in your room like a pair of virgins.’

Dodenho saw he was cornered, and that continued denials would be futile. He sighed. ‘He was a sociable sort of fellow who liked to drink – it was the wine that made him giggle – but he was not a friend. Simply an acquaintance.’

‘Then why did you deny knowing him?’ demanded Michael.

‘Because I wanted to avoid being interrogated,’ snapped Dodenho, finally giving vent to his anger. ‘I know how you work – quizzing people who have even the most remote associations with the deceased – and I did not want you adding me to your list of suspects.’

‘Do you know who killed this poor man?’ asked Powys of Michael, breaking into the uncomfortable silence that followed. Paxtone pointedly set down the little silver knife he used for cutting his food, and declined to eat as long as the discussion was about corpses and murder.

‘Not yet,’ replied Michael.

‘Were these Merton men deep sleepers?’ asked Wormynghalle curiously. ‘You say they dozed through the dumping of a body in their chamber.’

‘We suspect a soporific was used on them,’ said Bartholomew.

‘That would make sense,’ said Paxtone, intrigued, despite his antipathy to the subject. ‘I read about a similar incident that took place in Padua: a murder carried out in the presence of insensible “witnesses”. I recall that poppy juice was used.’

‘These men are from Oxford,’ said Michael, taking an egg with one hand and more meat with the other, ‘so they may well have access to sinister texts from foreign places, telling them how to render men senseless while they murder their colleagues. What a feast! And what makes it so especially fine is that there is not a vegetable to be seen. Only meat will help me solve the mystery surrounding this particular victim’s death, because it is complex and nothing is what it seems.’

‘I have a theory,’ said Dodenho, who had recovered from his embarrassment at being caught out in a lie, and was back to his confident self.

‘You do?’ asked Michael, cheeks bulging with pork. ‘Let us hear it, then.’

‘Well, it is a reductio ad absurdum, really.’ Dodenho cleared his throat and adopted an expression he imagined was scholarly. ‘Consider this proposition: what I am now saying is false.’

‘The “liar paradox”,’ said Bartholomew, wondering what the man was getting at. ‘Expounded by Bradwardine in his Insolubilia. What does it have to do with Chesterfelde?’

‘Nothing,’ replied Dodenho impatiently. ‘I never said it did – I just said I have a theory. It relates to the paradox I have just mentioned, and it is my idea, not this Bradwardine’s. I could grow to dislike you, Bartholomew, always telling a man his ideas belong to someone else.’

‘I thought you meant you had an idea relating to Chesterfelde, too,’ said Norton accusingly. ‘But all you did was change the subject to something that revolves around you.’

Dodenho shrugged. ‘I can think of worse things to discuss.’

Eventually, Powys stood and said the final grace, dismissing the Fellows to their teaching. Paxtone walked with Bartholomew to the gate, with Michael trailing behind, his large face glistening with grease. Reluctantly, Bartholomew declined Paxtone’s offer of a visit to the clyster pipes, knowing duty called him to the Tulyet household and Dickon.

‘Good luck with the Devil’s brat,’ said Paxtone. ‘And with your murder. I hope you solve it quickly, so it does not plunge us into a series of riots, like those at Oxford.’

‘So do I,’ agreed Michael. ‘Especially with the Archbishop’s Visitation looming.’

As it transpired, Paxtone’s recommendation to dally before visiting Dickon was a good one, and, by the time Bartholomew and Michael arrived, the boy had recovered from his initial shock and was back to normal. The injury comprised a small bruise surrounding a minute perforation, and needed no more than a dab of salve. The operation was over in a moment, and Bartholomew and Dickon were relieved to discover it was painless for both of them. This was not always the case, because Dickon employed fists, teeth, feet and nails to fight off the physician’s ministrations, often resulting in Bartholomew being just as badly mauled as his small patient.

Tulyet then invited Bartholomew and Michael to his office and, wanting to hear more about the town’s preparations for the Visitation, Michael accepted. The Sheriff led the scholars into the ground-floor chamber he used for working, and barred the door so Dickon could not follow. He was amused when a tousled head appeared at the window a few moments later: Dickon had discovered an alternative entrance. While Tulyet crowed his delight at the child’s resourcefulness, Bartholomew and Michael braced themselves for an invasion. They were not to be disappointed.

‘Bang!’ yelled Dickon, leaning through the window with a small bow in his chubby hands. There was an arrow nocked into it, and the missile was pointed at Michael.

Although Dickon hated Bartholomew tending the results of his various mishaps – and anything went when treatment was in progress – he did not mind the physician at other times, and was perfectly happy to sit on his knee and insert grubby fingers into his medical bag in search of something dangerous. But Michael was a different matter. Dickon did not like Michael, and the feeling was wholly reciprocated. Michael was not averse to doling out the occasional slap while Dickon’s doting parents were not looking, and was unmoved by the boy’s shrieks of outrage when he did not get his own way. In essence, Dickon knew that in Michael he had met his match, although that did not prevent him from trying to score points over the monk whenever he could. That morning it looked as if he might do it with a potentially lethal weapon.

‘God’s blood, Dick!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, leaping up to interpose himself between boy and target. ‘I thought you said you would not let him have that again after he shot himself in the foot.’

‘That was a freak accident,’ objected Tulyet. ‘The drawstring was too tight, and made the arrows fly with too much power. But we have loosened it again, and now it is quite safe.’

‘I do not feel safe,’ snapped Michael, cowering behind Bartholomew. ‘Tell him to put it down.’

‘Dickon!’ said Tulyet sharply. ‘Do you remember what I said? You can only have the bow if you do not point it at anyone. If you aim it at Brother Michael, I will take it away and burn it.’

Dickon’s small face lost its expression of savage delight and became sombre as he considered his options. He studied his father hard, as if assessing how seriously to take the threat, then moved to one side so he could see the tempting target that quailed behind the physician. Then he looked back at Tulyet. His fingers tightened on the weapon and Bartholomew saw that the little arrow had a nasty point on it, and while Dickon was probably too small to shoot it with sufficient power to kill, he could certainly cause some painful damage. He moved again to block Dickon’s line of vision, and wondered what the Sheriff was thinking of, to give the lad such a dangerous plaything.

‘Come and watch me,’ ordered Dickon imperiously, lowering the bow when he saw he would not have a clear shot at Michael anyway. ‘By the river.’

‘We are busy,’ replied Michael shortly. ‘Go away.’

‘Come!’ insisted Dickon firmly. ‘Now.’

‘Go and see your mother, Dickon,’ suggested Tulyet, wheedling. ‘She may have a cake.’

‘Now,’ repeated Dickon, and the bow came up again. ‘I shoot.’

‘We shall have no peace unless we oblige,’ said Tulyet resignedly. ‘He only wants us to watch him in the butts at the bottom of the garden for a moment.’

‘You should not give in to him, Dick,’ grumbled Michael heaving himself out of his seat and preparing to hike to the end of the Tulyets’ long toft. ‘It will make him worse than he already is.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Tulyet indignantly. ‘He is a little more boisterous than some lads his age, but only because he is unusually intelligent. Besides, what do you know about being a parent? You are a monk.’

‘I know more than you can possibly imagine,’ replied Michael, aloofly enigmatic and leaving Bartholomew and Tulyet wondering exactly what he meant.

‘But a bow, Dick,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is not wise. He may harm himself again or, worse, decide to shoot a person or an animal. He could do real harm.’

‘He must to learn how to handle weapons,’ insisted Tulyet. ‘It will be part of his knightly training, and the younger he is, the faster he will become accomplished in their use. He will be Sheriff one day, and I want him properly prepared, or the first armed outlaw he meets will make an end of him.’

‘I must have myself promoted to Chancellor before you relinquish your post,’ muttered Michael, as they followed the boy to the end of the vegetable plots, where a sturdy wall had been erected to keep the child away from the river. ‘Dickon will not work as smoothly with me as you do.’

Tulyet draped an arm around his shoulders. ‘Give the lad a chance, Brother. He will be a splendid man in time – taller than his father and with the sweet temperament of his mother.’

‘He will be tall,’ agreed Michael.

‘Watch,’ commanded Dickon, aiming his arrow at a circular target made of straw. Bartholomew was perturbed when the boy sent the missile thudding neatly into its centre, and even more so when he saw how hard Dickon had to pull to extricate it. His father may have loosened the bowstring, but it was still taut enough to drive the arrow home with considerable force. Tulyet grinned in proud delight.

‘You can see Merton Hall from here,’ said Michael, peering over the top of the wall and refusing to admire anything Dickon did.

‘Our properties are divided only by the Bin Brook,’ said Tulyet, applauding as Dickon repeated the exercise, which indicated that the first shot had been skill, not chance. ‘We are neighbours, although my house fronts on to Bridge Street and Merton Hall is accessed from Merton Lane.’

‘I do not suppose you saw anything odd the night Chesterfelde was murdered, did you?’ asked Michael hopefully.

Tulyet shook his head. ‘Eudo is a noisy fellow, and his loud voice occasionally disturbs us while we sit in our orchard of an evening, but we usually hear nothing from the others who are currently staying there – those scholars and the merchants.’

Bartholomew and Michael exchanged a bemused glance that Tulyet should dare to complain about Eudo when he had sired such a raucous brat. ‘Usually?’ asked Michael. ‘There are exceptions?’

Tulyet nodded. ‘They were quite noisy on Saturday night, as a matter of fact. They were not arguing or fighting, just speaking loudly and laughing a lot.’

‘Laughing?’ asked Michael. ‘Laughing about what?’

‘Chesterfelde was guffawing, and encouraging the others to enjoy themselves,’ elaborated Tulyet. ‘I met him once or twice on his previous visits to our town, and he was always smiling.’

‘Bailiff Boltone said the same,’ said Bartholomew. ‘So did Norton. He seems to have been a cheerful sort of man.’

Michael rubbed his chin. ‘I wonder whether Dodenho’s initial denial that he knew Chesterfelde is significant. His excuse for the lie may be valid – that he does not want a passing friendship to implicate him in a murder enquiry – but now I find myself wary of what he told us. Still, Chesterfelde sounds as though he was a likeable sort of fellow.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Tulyet. ‘Generally speaking.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Michael.

Tulyet folded his arms, watching his son shoot off the head of a flower. ‘He had a hot temper, and I recall Dodenho telling me that it took very little to set it off. But, like many quick-to-anger men, his fury faded fast, and I do not think it was a serious flaw in his character. I am glad this is not my investigation, Brother. It takes a particular kind of skill to explore scholars and their cunning ways, and it is not one I shall ever possess. I am just grateful that my boy will never attend a University.’

‘Yes,’ said Michael wholeheartedly. ‘So am I.’

It was noon by the time Bartholomew and Michael reached Merton Hall. Michael rapped sharply on the door and it was answered, as previously, by Boltone. There was ink on the bailiff’s fingers, and his eyes were red and raw, as if he had been straining them. Bartholomew supposed he had been working on his accounts so that Duraunt could assess whether he had been cheating.

‘Tell me, Master Bailiff,’ said Michael, smiling in a friendly fashion, ‘when did you last visit Oxford?’

‘I am obliged to present yearly accounts,’ said Boltone, looking furtive, ‘but I go there as rarely as possible. It smells, and all the streets look the same. Why?’

‘Were you there in February?’ asked Bartholomew. He could think of no reason why a Cambridge steward should kill an Oxford merchant, but that did not mean it had not happened.

‘No,’ said Boltone, a little too quickly. ‘I have not been since last October, and February was too cold for long journeys. The roads were closed by snow then, anyway.’

‘They were,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But not for the whole month.’

Boltone stood aside to allow them to enter. ‘Have you decided which of these Oxford men killed Chesterfelde? Was it a scholar or a merchant? I do not know who I would prefer you to hang: I dislike that condescending Eu, but I hate the sly Polmorva.’

‘What makes you think it was one of those two?’ asked Michael.

‘Who else could it be?’ asked Boltone, his eyes wide with surprise that there should be other culprits. ‘Chesterfelde was murdered in their room while they were present – sleeping or otherwise. You do not need one of your University degrees to assess that sort of evidence. And Polmorva and Eu are the nastiest of the group, so they are the best suspects for this vile murder. It is obvious.’

Michael regarded him thoughtfully. ‘You think Abergavenny, Wormynghalle, Spryngheuse and Duraunt are innocent, do you?’

Boltone returned the appraising stare, then seemed to reconsider, apparently afraid the monk might be laying some sort of trap that would see him in trouble. ‘Well, I suppose the killer could be one of them,’ he said after a long pause. ‘Except Duraunt, of course. He would never harm anyone.’

‘Is that so?’ asked Michael flatly. ‘Of course, Polmorva has you marked down as the assassin. He thinks you killed Chesterfelde by mistake, because you are desperate to do away with Duraunt and prevent him from exposing your dishonesty.’

‘Polmorva is a fool,’ snapped Boltone. ‘If I did kill Duraunt, then what do you think would happen? That Merton will forget these accusations and leave me alone? Of course not! They will send another man to look at my records, and then what would I do? Kill him, too? And another, and another? Polmorva is deranged if he believes I would see murder as a way to clear my name. Besides, I have nothing to hide – no reason to stab anyone.’

‘I see,’ said Michael. ‘Well, I would like to speak to Duraunt myself today. Do not bother to escort me; I can find my own way. Go back to your accounting.’

Bartholomew followed Michael up the stairs into the hall. The three merchants sat there, talking in low voices that still contrived to sound hostile. Wormynghalle presented a grotesque sight that day, in a fashionably close-fitting gipon made from gold cloth that gave him the appearance of a shiny grub. His sheep’s head pendant and the rings on his fingers glinted in the sunlight, and he looked exactly what he was: a man of humble origins who found himself rich, and who did not have the taste to accommodate it decently. He played restlessly with a silver disc, and when Bartholomew looked more closely he saw it was an astrolabe, although he could tell from the way the tanner handled the instrument that he did not know how to use it. To him it was just a pretty object made of precious metal.

Eu, meanwhile, wore a gipon of dark green, with a discreet clasp on his cloak that carried his nutmeg motif. He carried himself with a natural dignity, and Bartholomew wondered how the two merchants, diametrically opposed in all respects, managed to stomach each other’s company. He supposed it was because Abergavenny was there, to keep the peace and remind them that they had a common purpose. The Welshman seemed relieved to have company, and Bartholomew suspected he was finding his role as arbitrator hard work.

‘Where are the scholars?’ asked Michael.

‘In the solar,’ replied Wormynghalle with an unpleasant sneer. ‘They claim they are afraid of boring us with their debates, but the truth is that they prefer their own company.’

‘What they prefer is conversation that does not revolve around tanning,’ said Eu acidly. ‘And who can blame them? I do not want to be regaled with the difference between dog and horse urine while I am at table, either.’

‘Better than one bristling with cleverly disguised aspersions,’ retorted Wormynghalle. ‘You were the one who offended them on Saturday with your sly tongue and ambiguous “compliments”.’

‘We should all moderate our conversation, and–’ began Abergavenny.

‘I am surprised you remember,’ snarled Eu to the tanner. ‘You drank so much wine that you were asleep most of the evening.’

‘You were drunk when Chesterfelde died?’ pounced Michael. ‘And the night ended in insults?’

‘No,’ said Abergavenny hastily. ‘Wormynghalle provided a casket of claret for us all to share, but no one was insensible and no discourtesies were exchanged – just one or two harmless jests…’

‘Then why do you occupy separate rooms now?’ asked Bartholomew, knowing what happened when wine and poppy juice were combined, and thinking that he and Michael now had the answer to at least one part of the mystery. If the men at Merton Hall had swallowed such a mixture, they would probably not have stirred from their slumbers if the King of France had mounted an armed invasion; a body placed carefully among them would almost certainly have passed unnoticed.

‘Because we are trying to be good guests,’ said Abergavenny with a strained smile. ‘The scholars enjoy long, pedantic debates and I do not see why these should be curtailed by our presence. It was my suggestion that they adjourn to the solar during the day for their erudite discussions. Duraunt was kind enough to allow us to stay here, so the least we can do is stay out of his way.’

‘Why did he invite you?’ asked Michael. ‘You seem odd bedfellows.’

‘Because we are rich,’ replied Wormynghalle smugly. ‘We are all in a position to make handsome benefactions to his College when we return to Oxford, and wealthy merchants are always being courted by scholars – like whores after men with full purses.’

Abergavenny winced at Wormynghalle’s coarse analogy, while Eu shook his head. Bartholomew watched them closely, and thought about what Michael and Tulyet had said. The Sheriff distrusted the laconic, noble-born Eu, because he had met his kind before, while alarm bells had jangled in Bartholomew’s own mind over Wormynghalle, because he was aggressive, overconfident and brutal. But it had been the diplomatic, reasonable Abergavenny that Michael had elected as the villain, on the grounds that the Welshman’s congeniality was good cover for evil intent.

‘It suits us to stay at Merton Hall,’ said Abergavenny, again calming troubled waters. ‘The best taverns are inside your town gates – where we have no desire to be.’

‘Why not?’ asked Michael.

Eu sighed impatiently. ‘Why do you think? We have just left a city ravaged by scholars, and we do not want to be trapped inside another. We are safer here on the outskirts.’

‘That is why I bought claret on Saturday,’ explained Wormynghalle. He glared at Eu, implying that the spicer’s failure to do likewise indicated he was cheap. ‘I wanted to thank Duraunt for his hospitality. He declined to accept coins, no doubt hoping for a larger donation when we return, but he is fond of wine, and I felt I should do something pleasant for him while we are here.’

‘Never mind this,’ said Eu. Bartholomew saw the tanner’s barb had hit its mark. ‘Have you come to give us Gonerby’s killer, so we can go home?’

‘It is him!’ said Wormynghalle, pointing at Bartholomew. ‘He is our culprit.’

‘How in God’s name have you deduced that?’ asked Michael, startled.

‘It is obvious. He knows Oxford, because he was an Oxford scholar himself. Polmorva told me. He must have visited our city in February, perhaps to meet old acquaintances, killed Gonerby and fled home again.’

‘Why would I do that?’ asked Bartholomew, not bothering to hide his contempt for the man. ‘I have never met Gonerby.’

‘So you say,’ countered Wormynghalle. ‘But, for all we know, you may have been enemies for years. Polmorva said you were a Merton man two decades ago, and Gonerby was living in the city then. Perhaps you ordered some parchment from him, and were dissatisfied with the result. There could be all manner of reasons why you did not like each other.’

‘Did Gonerby supply parchment that was of inferior quality, then?’ asked Michael.

Abergavenny intervened, as usual. ‘Of course not. His parchment was excellent, and few scholars had cause for complaint. But I do not think this physician is our man, Wormynghalle.’

‘He is a suitable suspect, though,’ said Eu. He looked Bartholomew up and down appraisingly. ‘He looks poor, so no one will miss him. We will take him with us when we leave.’

‘You will not,’ said Michael, ‘because he is not your culprit. He gave the University Lecture on St Scholastica’s Day, and more than five hundred people – scholars and townsmen – will vouch he was here, in Cambridge, not off stabbing merchants in Oxford.’

‘Am I to understand from this discussion that you have learned nothing about Gonerby’s killer?’ asked Wormynghalle, sounding disgusted.

‘Give me time,’ said Michael coldly. ‘I have other matters to attend, besides looking into the murders of men I do not know in cities I have never visited. But I have spoken to a number of Cambridge students who were in Oxford during February, and some Oxford scholars who are here now. I have several promising lines of enquiry.’

Bartholomew knew for a fact he did not, but said nothing to contradict him. He did not like the merchants and their assumption that money made them important, and he resented Wormynghalle’s accusations. He did not know whether he would prefer Chesterfelde’s killer to be Polmorva or the tanner, and began to hope they were in cahoots, and had done it together. Then he realised he was allowing his dislike to interfere with his reason, and tried to control his growing antipathy.

Michael turned to Wormynghalle. ‘We met a relative of yours this morning.’

Wormynghalle was aghast. ‘It was not my wife, was it? She is heavy with child, so I hope you are mistaken. I would not like to think of her travelling so far when she is about to provide me with a son.’

‘A scholar named John Wormynghalle,’ said Michael. ‘Of King’s Hall.’

‘Oh, him,’ said Wormynghalle uninterestedly. He gave the astrolabe a vigorous shake. Something rattled, and Bartholomew saw that his fiddling had broken it. ‘He is no kin of mine. He came sniffing around as soon as I arrived, doubtless hoping we were related, so I would be obliged to donate money for his education. We talked for an hour, but could find no common kin, and he left disappointed. Did he tell you we were from the same stock? Cheeky beggar!’

‘I came to speak to Duraunt,’ said Michael, suddenly heading for the door that led to the solar. His abrupt departure had the effect he intended: the merchants were puzzled and uneasy, suspecting he knew more than he had told them about Gonerby’s murder and the repercussions it might have on the men who had decided to avenge it. ‘I will keep you informed of my progress.’

Bartholomew caught Michael’s arm before he reached the solar door and spoke in a low voice as the merchants began a carping argument among themselves, debating what the monk might have learned that he declined to share with them. ‘Why did you ask Wormynghalle the tanner about Wormynghalle the scholar? He told us this low fellow is not his kin, and we have no reason to disbelieve him. There was no reason to check his story.’

‘His, no,’ agreed Michael. ‘But I did not like the way the tanner accused you of murder, just because he has been listening to Polmorva. I wanted to see if I could catch him out in a lie – to see whether he would deny meeting young Wormynghalle on the grounds that he will not want to be associated with anyone at Cambridge. But he was more honest than I imagined he would be.’

Bartholomew considered. There was definitely something unsavoury about the tanner, and it went further than his coarse manners and penchant for wild accusations. ‘I told you the first time we spoke to him that I had a bad feeling about the fellow.’

‘You have not met him before, have you?’ asked Michael, pausing to look hard at Bartholomew. ‘In Oxford, when you were a student?’

‘No. I would have told you.’

‘Would you? You keep a lot from me these days, and I do not know what to think.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You slip out every night to meet Matilde, but you refuse to tell me why your relationship has taken this sudden and unexpected step. You do not usually hide secrets from me.’

‘Just because I decline to share details about Matilde does not make me a liar,’ said Bartholomew, faintly irritated. ‘You should know me better than that.’

Michael did not reply. He knocked on the solar door, but did not wait for an answer before pushing inside. Duraunt sat near the hearth, a book on his knees, while Polmorva diced with a man who wore a distinctive grey-fringed cloak. The man’s jaw dropped in horror when he recognised the visitors, while Michael regarded him thoughtfully and Bartholomew’s mind whirled with questions.

‘So,’ said the monk amiably to the man who had been contemplating suicide on the Great Bridge the previous morning. ‘We meet again, sir.’

‘You know each other?’ asked Duraunt, surprised.

‘No,’ replied the man quickly. His eyes held a mute appeal for Michael’s silence. ‘Not really.’

Duraunt closed his book and indicated that the visitors were to sit with him on the stools that were clustered around the hearth. Bartholomew obliged, but Michael remained standing.

‘Who are you?’ the monk asked of the stranger.

‘Walter Spryngheuse.’ The man began to gabble, and Bartholomew sensed he would say anything to prevent Michael from telling Polmorva and Duraunt about the incident on the bridge. ‘And you are here to look into Chesterfelde’s murder. I cannot believe someone killed him. He was good company and everyone liked him.’

‘Someone did not,’ Michael pointed out.

Spryngheuse’s eyes became watery. ‘I miss him. He was a Balliol man and I am from Merton, but we were friends nonetheless. I wish he had not died.’

‘We all do,’ said Duraunt comfortingly. ‘But he has gone to better things.’

Spryngheuse pulled himself together. ‘Duraunt has been telling me about you, Bartholomew.’

‘Not very accurately,’ said Polmorva nastily. ‘He has been far too kind in his reminiscences.’

‘And you have been too harsh,’ said Spryngheuse immediately.

‘Your tongue is overly sharp, Polmorva,’ agreed Duraunt, leading Bartholomew to wonder what the man had been saying.

‘Meanwhile, I have learned that you like to drink and argue,’ said Michael to Duraunt, preventing the physician from responding with some reminiscences of his own. ‘You were making so much noise on the night Chesterfelde died, that you disturbed your neighbours.’

Duraunt was astounded. ‘Really? It was quite unintentional, I assure you, and I shall apologise to them at once. We were discussing Bradwardine’s mean speed theorem, and it was so exciting that we may have been a tad raucous.’

‘Chesterfelde had interesting opinions,’ explained Spryngheuse shyly. ‘He was an amusing debater, so we laughed a lot. We did not mean to annoy anyone, though.’

‘It was the merchants’ fault,’ said Polmorva testily. ‘They were the ones guffawing at Chesterfelde’s inanities. Debates are not meant to be funny – they are serious expressions of philosophical ideals, and I disapproved very strongly when you all made that one into a joke.’

‘Do not be so ready to frown,’ admonished Duraunt mildly. ‘There is nothing wrong with laughter. Indeed, I am glad we were merry that night, since it was Chesterfelde’s last. At least he died after a lovely evening in pleasant company.’

‘Mostly pleasant,’ said Bartholomew, suspecting Polmorva had been a terrible misery.

‘You drank plenty of wine,’ fished Michael. ‘It made you sleep more deeply than usual.’

‘We did not imbibe that much,’ objected Duraunt. ‘And I seldom sleep well these days. It is one of the curses of old age.’

‘Is that why you take poppy juice?’ asked Bartholomew.

Duraunt stared at him. ‘I do not dose myself with poppy juice or any other kind of soporific. When I am restless, I pray, and eventually sleep overtakes me.’

‘Then what about the tincture you bought from the apothecary?’ asked Michael. ‘You claimed Matt had recommended that you swallow a strong dosage, but he has done no such thing.’

‘He did,’ said Duraunt firmly. ‘Twenty years ago, when I had stomach pains, he recommended poppy juice at a specific strength that cured them instantly. I have used his remedy ever since on rare occasions, particularly when I undertake long journeys. My digestion is adequate at home, where I am used to the food, but it occasionally misfires when I travel and am obliged to eat unfamiliar fare.’

‘You have been taking concentrated poppy juice for two decades?’ asked Bartholomew in horror.

A note of genuine irritation crept into Duraunt’s voice when he replied. ‘You are not listening, Matthew. I said I take it on rare occasions when I travel. But Okehamptone’s death upset me, and I felt the need for a dose. I thought I had brought some with me, but I could not find it, so I purchased more from the apothecary. And now you know everything about my stomach and its sporadic irregularities. Does that satisfy your morbid and unwarranted curiosity?’

‘I am sorry,’ said Bartholomew, startled and hurt by the reprimand. He was aware of Polmorva’s smirk. ‘But it is odd that you all slept through Chesterfelde’s murder, and that a dose of strong medicine was added to your wine is not an unreasonable conclusion to draw.’

‘Especially since we found some in your bag,’ added Michael.

But it was Bartholomew who bore the brunt of Duraunt’s outrage. ‘You searched my possessions? Without my permission?’ He shook his head and there was a hard, unforgiving look in his eye that cut the physician to the quick. ‘I expected better of you, Matthew. I do not know what you have become here in Cambridge, but I do not like it.’

‘I did not like what he was before,’ said Polmorva. ‘I am not surprised to learn he is the kind of man to go through our belongings. It would also not surprise me to learn that he killed Chesterfelde, since he seems to have developed a talent for skulking and prying.’

‘I would not go that far,’ said Duraunt, his faded blue eyes still fixed unblinkingly on the physician. ‘But the next time you want to know something, Matthew, you can ask. You will not rifle through my bags. Is that clear?’

Bartholomew nodded, feeling like an errant schoolboy, and fumed at the gloating expression on Polmorva’s face.

‘Good,’ said Duraunt, leaning back in his chair. ‘Then we shall say no more about the matter. Why are you here? Was it just to ask about the poppy juice, or do you have another purpose?’

‘We came to inform you that we have been busy with Chesterfelde’s case,’ said Michael. ‘And that progress has been made. We would also like to ask Spryngheuse some questions, since he is the only one we have not yet interviewed.’ He turned to the man. ‘Why did you come to Cambridge?’

‘I told you that yesterday,’ said Polmorva. ‘Did you not listen?’

Michael rounded on him. ‘I am not talking to you, so keep your answers to yourself until you are asked for them. Spryngheuse?’

‘I fled because I was afraid for my life,’ replied Spryngheuse. He hung his head. ‘It is disconcerting to arrive at another university, only to have your closest friend murdered within days.’

Michael included Duraunt and Polmorva in his next question. ‘You did not come because you know the Archbishop is due to visit, and you hope to ensure he founds his new College in Oxford?’

Duraunt was appalled by the accusation. ‘Of course not! What a terrible thing to say! No wonder Matthew has turned bad, if he listens to men like you.’

‘Now, just a moment,’ said Michael indignantly. ‘Oxford is in a state of turmoil – and under an interdict. It is not so far-fetched to imagine someone might take steps to make Cambridge appear similarly uneasy, to ensure we do not gain Islip’s patronage at your expense.’

‘It is far-fetched,’ insisted Duraunt angrily. ‘None of us are so low-minded.’

‘Really,’ said Michael, giving Polmorva a stare to indicate he thought otherwise. ‘But let us return to Chesterfelde, and who might have wanted him dead. Spryngheuse, do you have any ideas?’

Spryngheuse was thoughtful. ‘Chesterfelde visited Cambridge several times, but he was not here long enough to make enemies. He only had friends – not like in Oxford, where he and I are shunned and hated.’

‘That is the price of instigating a riot that left hundreds dead,’ said Polmorva unpleasantly.

Bartholomew stared at Spryngheuse. ‘Chesterfelde was one of the scholars who began the argument in the Swindlestock Tavern?’

‘He was,’ said Polmorva, before Spryngheuse could speak. ‘And Spryngheuse was another.’

‘Let me explain,’ said Spryngheuse tiredly. ‘We were in the alehouse, happy and good humoured, when this Benedictine attached himself to our party. We had never seen him before, but were too polite to send him away. I wish to God we had. He seemed to know Chesterfelde had a quick temper, and needled him with inflammatory statements until he reacted with violence – against Croidon the landlord. It was the monk who started the fight, not me and not Chesterfelde, although we are the ones being blamed.’

‘But it was Chesterfelde who smashed the pot over Croidon’s head,’ said Polmorva. ‘And it was you who shot the mason. No one – except you – recalls this elusive Benedictine.’

‘Our friends did,’ objected Spryngheuse. ‘The two others who were with us.’

‘But they were killed,’ said Polmorva. ‘Of the original party, only you and Chesterfelde survived – other than this monk, of course.’ He turned to Michael. ‘I am sure many Benedictines enjoy a good riot, but they are innocent of inciting this one. I made enquiries among the Oxford brethren myself, and this mysterious monastic does not exist.’

‘Is this true?’ asked Michael of Duraunt, his voice cold and angry. ‘Why did you not mention it before? If Chesterfelde was responsible for bringing about these riots, then there is probably an entire city full of people who would like to see him dead.’

‘I did not tell you for two reasons,’ said Duraunt calmly. ‘First, because Spryngheuse and Chesterfelde have always maintained their innocence.’ Here Spryngheuse nodded and Polmorva made a sceptical moue. ‘And second, if they do have enemies, then they are in Oxford, not here.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Michael. ‘How do you know one of your three merchant friends did not exact revenge? After all, it was the riot Chesterfelde started that saw their friend Gonerby murdered.’

Duraunt shook his head. ‘If that were true, then the killer would have struck during the journey to Cambridge, when there were better opportunities.’

Michael was unconvinced. ‘Perhaps that is what we are supposed to think. Personally, I shall reserve judgement until I have more evidence.’

‘So, what have you learned so far?’ asked Polmorva, in the kind of voice that indicated it would be nothing of significance.

‘I never compromise my investigations by indulging in idle chatter with suspects,’ said Michael haughtily. ‘But I have finished with you for now. Tomorrow I shall have another word with Boltone and Eudo, and see what they can tell me about rowdy debates that kept half the town awake.’

‘My bailiff,’ said Duraunt, closing his eyes. ‘A landlord cannot be held responsible for the character of his tenant, so I disclaim anything Eudo might have done. But I confess to appointing Boltone. He and Eudo have been stealing from us regularly, as became obvious when I examined their records this morning. I have known for some time that our Cambridge estate was not yielding the income it should, but I was ready to trust Boltone’s explanation that times were hard. After all, there was the plague to consider: many properties became unprofitable after the Death, and I saw no reason to suppose this manor was not one of them.’

‘So what made you suspicious of him all of a sudden?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘The losses have grown steadily larger, and a few months ago, Okehamptone – the clerk who died of fever here recently, and who had friends in Cambridge – suggested I should review Bolton’s sums. When I followed his advice, I discovered inconsistencies that required clarification.’

‘What did Boltone say when you confronted him?’ asked Michael. ‘When we first met, he did not seem overly concerned by the fact that he was under investigation by the Warden of Merton.’

Duraunt shrugged. ‘I think he believed he had covered his tracks well enough to deceive me, and that he had nothing to worry about. But I pointed out one or two problems today, and I think it has finally dawned on him that he may be in trouble.’

‘He is now extremely concerned,’ agreed Polmorva with satisfaction. ‘Had he been my bailiff, I would have dismissed him at once, but Duraunt has given him an opportunity to acquit himself.’

‘He says there has been a mistake,’ said Duraunt tiredly. ‘It is difficult to find reliable men these days, and I have known him for years. I have decided to give him the benefit of the doubt, and allow him to prepare a considered defence.’

‘Was he – or Eudo – sufficiently angry about the accusations to kill?’ asked Bartholomew. While Boltone claimed that killing Duraunt would not solve his problems, Bartholomew was not sure that Eudo was equally rational, especially after numerous jugs of ale. He thought it entirely possible that Chesterfelde might have been the victim of mistaken identity, as Polmorva claimed, and the real target was the man who was in the process of exposing a collaborative dishonesty.

‘No,’ said Duraunt immediately. ‘That was the first thing that crossed my mind when we found Chesterfelde. But Eudo or Boltone are not the kind of men to kill.’

‘Any man can kill,’ said Polmorva, looking at Bartholomew in a way the physician found disturbing. ‘All he needs is enough incentive.’