Michael frowned, annoyed that the youth had confided something to the Sheriff that he had not mentioned to the Senior Proctor; he already knew it from Nicholas, but that was hardly the point.
‘Inge claimed they discussed siege engines,’ he mused, ‘although Kolvyle disagreed …’
‘So do I,’ said Tulyet firmly. ‘Moleyns might have been a knight, but he was no warrior, and if Tynkell had wanted to find out about weapons, he would have asked me.’ He rubbed his eyes again. ‘You two had better explore these peculiar ties between our three victims, while I find out how Moleyns contrived to escape. And when I do, heads will roll.’
Michael and Bartholomew went on their way, but had not gone far before Whittlesey appeared, asking if he might observe them at work. There was something about the suave Benedictine that Bartholomew did not like at all, and he was about to suggest that Michael used the envoy as a helpmeet instead, when Whittlesey stumbled over a pothole. He yelped, and hobbled away to perch on a nearby trough, rubbing his knee and wincing.
‘I hurt myself falling down the stairs on Thursday night,’ he explained. ‘Barber Cook stitched it up, but it still hurts like the Devil.’
‘Cook?’ echoed Michael in distaste. ‘Why would you demean yourself by hiring him?’
‘Because he offered me a free haircut at the same time,’ explained Whittlesey, ‘and my tonsure needed attention. Besides, Godrich summoned him almost before I had picked myself up. My cousin is very solicitous of me, and is never far away. It would not surprise me to learn that he is watching over me now in fact.’
Michael glanced around irritably, disliking the notion that he was being monitored by unseen eyes. ‘Matt will ease the pain in your leg, Whittlesey. He has a rare talent with knees.’
‘Good,’ said Whittlesey, and snapped imperious fingers. ‘Come, Bartholomew, we shall use the Cardinal’s Cap. It is far too cold to sit around out here.’
He began to limp towards it before Bartholomew could respond. The physician was sorely tempted to ignore such an impolite order, leaving the arrogant Benedictine to wait inside in vain, but Michael chose that moment to waylay Master Heltisle of Bene’t College, another person Bartholomew disliked, and Whittlesey was the lesser of two evils. He entered the inn, and found the envoy sitting on a bench by the window.
‘You did this tumbling down some stairs?’ he asked, examining the damaged joint.
‘Yes, and it was most embarrassing. I fear some King’s Hall men thought I was drunk.’
‘And were you?’
‘No,’ said Whittlesey indignantly. ‘Here is a shilling for your pains – conditional on you posing no more impertinent questions.’
It was an enormous sum, and would replenish nicely Bartholomew’s dwindling stock of remedies for lung-rot. He nodded acceptance of the terms, then called for hot water and bathed the wound before removing Cook’s tight little stiches – the gash was long, but shallow, and did not need them. He smeared it with a healing balm, then covered it with a clean dressing.
‘That is the third time you have washed your hands since we came in,’ remarked the envoy when Bartholomew had finished. ‘And Cook tells me that you are in the habit of boiling bandages over the kitchen fire. It strikes me that these are peculiar practices. Overly finicky.’
‘Perhaps,’ shrugged Bartholomew. ‘But they seem to prevent festering. Of course, I do not understand why …’
‘Then perhaps you should spend more time reading,’ suggested Whittlesey. ‘The answer will be somewhere in the vast body of literature available to diligent practitioners. However, you have eased my pain, so I shall not complain too loudly about your academic shortcomings.’
‘Good,’ said Bartholomew coolly. ‘Come back to see me in a–’
He faltered when the door burst open and Cook stormed in. Kolvyle was at his heels, and the younger scholar’s face was bright with malice.
‘You see?’ Kolvyle said. ‘I told you he was in here with one of your patients.’
‘This is an outrage!’ howled Cook, shoving Bartholomew away with considerable force. ‘You are a physician, not a surgeon. You have no right to tend my clients’ wounds.’
‘I asked him to do it,’ said Whittlesey, standing quickly and raising his hand to prevent Cook from pushing Bartholomew again. ‘He did not volunteer. And I am glad of it, as it happens, because I am much more comfortable now. You could learn a lot from him.’
It was not a diplomatic remark, and served to send Cook into even greater paroxysms of fury. His voice rose to a shriek, and spittle flew from his mouth. Worse, he began wagging his finger, a gesture that Bartholomew had always found intensely annoying.
‘Stick to urine flasks and astrological charts,’ he screeched, and the offending digit came so close to Bartholomew’s face that it was in danger of poking out an eye. ‘The next time you trespass in my domain, the Worshipful Company of Barbers will crush you like a snail.’
‘Do not bother suing him though,’ put in Kolvyle poisonously. ‘He does not have any money, because he spends it all on the poor. That is why they go to him for treatment. You would be a rich man, Cook, if it were not for his misguided generosity.’
Incensed, Cook lurched forward and grabbed the front of Bartholomew’s tabard. ‘You arrogant bastard! Poach my business again and I will break your–’
He did not finish, because Bartholomew thrust him away, hard enough to send him crashing into a table, where he suffered a painfully cracked elbow. More livid than ever, Cook surged forward a second time, finger at the ready. Bartholomew could not help himself. When it wagged in his face, he grabbed it and squeezed as hard as he could.
‘They come to me because they do not want to die,’ he said, in a quiet voice that nevertheless held considerable menace. Cook’s eyes widened in alarm. ‘And the next time I see evidence of your incompetence, I will tell the Sheriff to prosecute you. Is that clear?’
He held the finger a little longer, then released it abruptly. Cook gazed at him with open hatred, and Bartholomew supposed he should have controlled his temper. He did not want a feud with a fellow practitioner, and was sorry that he and the barber had failed to find a way to work together. However, he was tired of standing by while Cook butchered his patients, and his threat had not been an idle one.
‘You will not win,’ hissed Cook. ‘I will kill you first.’
‘Such hot words,’ said Whittlesey reproachfully. ‘It is hardly becoming. Come, both of you. Shake hands, and agree to be friends.’
‘Never!’ declared Cook hotly, while Kolvyle smirked at his side. ‘I would sooner cut off my right arm than make peace with him. But his days are numbered and–’
‘Why were you in St Mary the Great with Tynkell and Moleyns?’ interrupted Bartholomew, going on an offensive of his own and ignoring the voice in his head that told him to leave such questions to Tulyet. ‘The Chancellor was my patient, so do not say you were consulting them on a matter of medicine.’
‘That is none of your affair.’
‘Then tell me where you were on Thursday night,’ ordered Bartholomew, more than ever convinced that a sly jab in the heart would not be beneath the loathsome barber.
‘I was with customers. Lots of them, so do not think to accuse me of killing Lyng, because I have plenty of alibis.’
But worthless ones, thought Bartholomew, if Cook had been traipsing from house to house. After all, how long would it take to hit an elderly priest over the head, stab him, and drag the body out of sight?
‘You will probably die from his ministrations, and it will serve you right,’ Cook snarled at Whittlesey, before spinning on his heel and stalking out.