‘What have you been doing to produce such a healthy appetite?’ said Langelee of Michael, watching the monk peel three hard-boiled eggs and eat them whole, one after the other. ‘Another murder? You have not had one of those for a year now – although I suppose you solved some in Ely last summer.’
‘Tulyet’s cousin,’ replied Michael, selecting the largest piece of bread in the basket. ‘He was found murdered in St Michael’s Lane.’
‘I heard,’ said Langelee. ‘That is too close to Michaelhouse for my liking. I hope you catch this killer quickly.’
‘Then there is the puzzling case of the body in the church,’ Michael continued. He leaned back to allow a servant to ladle a quantity of oatmeal into the bowl in front of him. ‘Go on, man! Fill it! A dribble is no good for a man of my stature.’
The butler’s face was expressionless as he spooned the thick porridge into Michael’s bowl until there was a glutinous meniscus across the top. Only then did the monk incline his head to acknowledge that it was sufficient.
‘Eat slowly, Brother,’ admonished Bartholomew automatically, as the monk fell on the food like a starving peasant. ‘There is enough for everyone, and this is not a race.’
‘Huh!’ muttered Michael, not bothering to hide his contempt for the physician’s advice, since he knew perfectly well that Michaelhouse occasionally ran out of food before everyone had been served. And the fastest eaters were invariably the ones who secured seconds.
‘Norbert’s case will not be difficult to solve,’ declared William, giving his horn spoon – still stained from his previous meal – a cursory wipe on the sleeve of his filthy habit. ‘He was a vile lad, and Ovyng is well rid of him, although Ailred will miss the fees. But what about this other case – the body in the church? I have not heard about that. Is this another murder? You have not mentioned it to me – your Junior Proctor.’
‘Matt said it was natural,’ replied Michael, ignoring the reproachful tone of William’s voice.
‘I did not,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘I said he probably died from the cold. That is not the same thing.’
‘So, he could have been frozen deliberately,’ mused William with relish. ‘That would be murder in my book. I shall set about making enquiries immediately.’
‘Lord!’ muttered Michael, alarmed by the prospect of the Franciscan on the loose, accusing all and sundry of a murder that had never happened. ‘We must find out who he was first. Will you do that? He was a beggar, who perhaps sought sanctuary from the weather in our church, and–’
‘In our church?’ interrupted Langelee in horror. ‘You mean St Michael’s?’
‘No, the other one,’ mumbled Michael facetiously. He spoke more loudly. ‘He was hidden among the rotten albs, Master, although Matt thinks he had wrapped himself up for warmth. I was going to tell you about it yesterday, but it slipped my mind.’
‘You must discover the identity of this man immediately,’ said Langelee, alarmed. ‘I cannot have unnamed corpses appearing in my church. And just before Christmas, too. I shall have to have it resanctified.’
‘I shall do that – after I discover the killer,’ offered William generously. ‘Do not worry, Master. I shall have the whole matter resolved by nightfall. I shall begin by asking the Dominicans what they know about the matter.’
‘You will spend your time discovering this beggar’s name,’ ordered Michael sternly. It would not be the first time the Franciscan used a crime to indulge his hatred of Dominicans, and Michael could not afford wild and unfounded accusations to damage the fragile truce between the Orders.
‘We cannot sit here and chatter all day,’ said Langelee abruptly, standing to say the final grace. He was a fast eater, and disliked sitting for longer than necessary when a busy day lay ahead of him. ‘We all have work to do. Pax vobiscum.’
Several students looked at their full bowls in dismay, realising too late that they should have eaten instead of eavesdropped on the lively conversation at the high table. Michael’s spoon made a harsh scraping sound as he reached the bottom of his dish – he was not a man to fall victim to Langelee’s disconcerting habit of cutting mealtimes short – while Bartholomew and the others hastily drained theirs. Langelee dismissed the assembled scholars, marching purposefully from the hall in order to begin the many tasks that fell daily to the Master of a Cambridge College. Wynewyk hurried after him, muttering officiously about documents that needed to be signed if the scholars wanted food, drink and fuel for the Christmas season.
Michael reached for another piece of bread before the servants cleared the tables. ‘I am glad I did not listen to your advice about how to eat, or I would be facing a morning without breakfast.’
‘Gobbling is not good for you,’ said Bartholomew stubbornly. ‘It unbalances the humours and gives rise to pains in the stomach.’
‘Christmas is a wonderful time for men with healthy appetites,’ said Michael, thinking fondly of the gobbling that was to come. ‘Twelve days with no teaching and plentiful food and wine.’
‘But then come January and February,’ said Bartholomew gloomily. ‘I dislike those months, They are dark and cold, and it is painful to lose patients from afflictions of the lungs – like Dunstan the riverman. He will not see Easter.’
Michael was silent. Dunstan had been a loyal, if toneless, member of his choir for many years, and he was fond of the old man. It was hard for him to see Dunstan’s suffering and be powerless to help.
‘These are strange times,’ announced Suttone, walking out of the hall with them. ‘The Devil stalks the land, and God and His angels weep at what they see. Sinful men fornicate in holy places and debauchery, lust and greed are all around us. The river freezing in November is a testament to the fact that the end of the world is nigh. Things were different when I was a boy.’
‘People always think the past was better than the present,’ said Bartholomew, who had grown used to the Carmelite’s grim predictions. ‘But I do not think they are very different now – except for the Death, of course.’
‘The Death,’ pronounced the Carmelite in a booming voice that was sufficiently sepulchral to send a shiver of unease down Bartholomew’s spine. ‘It will come again. You mark my words.’
‘But not before Christmas,’ said Michael comfortably. ‘We shall at least have a good feast before we die.’
Bartholomew found he could not dismiss Philippa from his thoughts, and barely heard Suttone regaling Michael with details of the plague’s return as he walked across the yard to his room. He recalled how she had admired the fine oriel window in the hall, but had thought Bartholomew’s chamber cold and gloomy. He remembered walking with her through the herb garden, when the summer sun warmed the plants and sweetened the air with their fragrance. And he was reminded of the times he had climbed over the College walls like an undergraduate after the gates had been locked, because assignations with her had made him late.
‘I thought you might like this,’ said the insane Clippesby shyly, breaking into his thoughts by sidling up and offering him a stained and lumpy bundle. Bartholomew could see a glistening tail protruding from one end of it. He was being offered the fish that Clippesby had taken to breakfast.
‘He has just eaten,’ said Michael. ‘He does not need to consume a squashed pike just yet, thank you. And anyway, it has been dead far too long already. It stinks.’
‘It is a tench,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Where did you find it, Clippesby?’
Clippesby was pleased by the physician’s curiosity. ‘On Milne Street, near Piron Lane. It had been tossed there, probably by someone walking past.’ He turned a resentful gaze on Michael. ‘Matt knows perfectly well that I am not bringing this for him to eat. It is common knowledge that tench have healing powers.’