Bartholomew raised his eyebrows. ‘No wonder they are working so hard! And what happens if they do not finish within a month?’
‘That will not be an issue,’ said Clippesby confidently.
Bartholomew was not so sure, knowing very well that builders often encountered unexpected problems that delayed matters. He hoped the scramble to complete on time would not result in roofs that leaked, walls that needed buttressing, and windows that did not fit their frames.
‘Are you sure Runham has the funds to pay them?’ he asked doubtfully. ‘If they have been promised double pay, there will be a riot if they do not get it.’
‘I am sure,’ said Clippesby, indignation on Runham’s behalf making his voice suddenly loud. ‘He has a great chest of gold in his room – I have seen it myself.’
‘A great chest of gold in his room?’ asked one of the builders cheerily as he staggered past them bearing a heavy pole. Several of his colleagues heard him, and exchanged acquisitive grins. ‘Now that is reassuring to hear. We were worried the old fox might not be able to pay up.’
‘There is no question of that, Blaston,’ said Clippesby superiorly. ‘But you should get back to work if you want to see any of it.’
The master carpenter winked at Bartholomew and continued on his way, whistling merrily as he went. He wore no shoes, Bartholomew noticed, which was unusual for a man of his status. But Robert de Blaston was married to Yolande, the prostitute-friend of Matilde; they had nine children and doubtless no funds to spare on luxuries like footwear. Yolande’s own shoes were so ill-fitting that they had caused her feet to swell, he recalled.
‘I hope this gold is securely locked away,’ said Bartholomew, turning back to Clippesby and thinking it was not wise to advertise the fact that Michaelhouse was swimming in ready cash. Desperately poor people often resorted to desperate measures, and Michaelhouse would not be difficult to burgle now that Runham had dismissed the porters who had guarded its gates.
Clippesby shrugged. ‘I expect it is. Runham is no fool. He is a great man who will transform this College from a cluster of shabby hovels into the grandest institution in Cambridge.’
‘Our hall is not shabby,’ objected Bartholomew, who personally thought the main building with its oriel window and handsome porch one of the finest in East Anglia.
Clippesby gave it a disparaging glance. ‘It is haunted by tortured souls. I hear them howling to each other sometimes.’
Bartholomew regarded him uncertainly, wondering whether he was jesting. ‘You do?’ he asked cautiously.
Clippesby nodded casually. ‘It is not a pleasant sound. It keeps me awake at night. Have you never heard it?’ He turned eyes that were not quite focused on the physician.
Bartholomew shook his head. ‘I cannot say that I have.’
‘Then how about the voices of the dead stable boys that mutter in the south wing?’ Clippesby gave a sigh. ‘But you live in the north wing, so I suppose you would not know about them.’
Bartholomew nodded noncommittally, and escaped from the unstable Dominican with some relief. While religieux regularly claimed to hear voices, the context of their messages was usually saintly, not the gabble of dead groomsmen. He wondered whether he should take Clippesby to the Hospital of St John, where the Prior knew a good deal more about the various forms of insanity than did Bartholomew. But, he supposed, as long as Clippesby did not pose a risk to himself or others, there was not much to be done. He was sure at least half the masters of the Cambridge colleges were more lunatic than sane anyway, and Clippesby was no odder than many of them.
His encounter with Clippesby, and the nagging worry that Michaelhouse might have demanded more than it could pay for, meant that he was not in the right frame of mind for visiting St Bene’t Church to inspect the bodies of Raysoun and Wymundham. He knew he should do it sooner rather than later, but doubted that a second examination would reveal more than he knew already. He appreciated Michael’s desire to leave no stone unturned but he was weary of the University and its scheming, plotting scholars.
In the High Street he hesitated, wondering whether Edith might be in town. Ignoring the fact that if he were not inspecting corpses for Michael he should be supervising his students’ reading, working on his treatise on fevers or revisiting the riverman with the rat bite, he strode towards Milne Street, suddenly yearning for the uncomplicated and spontaneous cheerfulness of his sister’s company.
A light drizzle fell as Bartholomew walked the short distance to the row of grand houses and storerooms on Milne Street, where the town’s richest and most successful merchants resided. As always, the road was full of apprentices in brightly coloured liveries bustling here and there, and ponies and carts delivered and collected loads of every size and shape. The air rang with shouts, curses and the impatient stamp and whinny of horses in their traces, and was thick with the odour of manure, the yeasty smell of grain, the filth of the gutters and the brighter tang of spices.
Oswald Stanmore’s property, one of the largest and most impressive, boasted a cobbled yard and several sheds piled high with bales of cloth. Multicoloured strands of wool were caught in the rough wood of doors and windows, pasted into the mud on the ground and entangled in the thatching of the roof.
Stanmore’s own apprentices were busy unloading a cart carrying silk and wool that had just arrived from London. The guards, who had protected the precious cargo from the outlaws who plagued the roads between the two cities, were pulling off leather helmets and hauberks, and Cynric was pouring them cups of mulled ale to wash away the dust of the journey. When the ex-book-bearer had finished, he came to stand next to Bartholomew.
‘How is life at the College from Hell?’ he asked conversationally, watching the mercenaries with proprietary eyes.
‘Growing worse by the hour,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘How is life as a merchant’s man?’
Cynric rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘It has its moments, but I admit I miss my friends – you, Brother Michael, Agatha and even Walter. And I miss our night forays to catch killers, thieves and other ne’er-do-wells.’
‘I have not done that for months, thank God,’ said Bartholomew fervently. ‘Not since we were in Suffolk.’
‘What about when you went to find the body of Wymundham?’ asked Cynric. ‘That was at night. I was still your book-bearer, but I was tucked up in bed with my wife. You should have asked me to go with you.’
‘I missed you,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We had one of Michael’s beadles, but it was not the same.’
Cynric grinned and slapped him on the shoulder. ‘We had some good times, you and me. Visit me some evening, and we will reminisce over a jug of good wine. I can afford good wines on the salary Master Stanmore pays me – not like what I had to drink at Michaelhouse.’
He wandered away to stand with his soldiers, refilling their cups and listening to their reports about the journey. Just as Bartholomew was about to climb the stairs to Stanmore’s office, the merchant emerged with Edith close on his heels.
‘Matt!’ Edith cried in delight. ‘You have come to visit us!’
Stanmore’s smile of welcome faded suddenly. ‘You are not in trouble, are you?’ he asked anxiously. ‘You only come to see us these days if there is something wrong.’
‘There is nothing wrong,’ said Bartholomew guiltily, knowing that Stanmore had a point. ‘I had some free time and I felt like spending it with my family.’
Edith gave such a beam of pleasure that Bartholomew’s guilt increased tenfold. ‘How is Brother Michael?’ she asked. ‘We heard he has been ill.’
‘He is well,’ said Bartholomew, ‘and eating enough to plunge the College into debt with all the grocers and bakers in Cambridge.’