‘I warned you,’ said Clippesby. He was a Dominican friar who taught theology and grammar. The College cat was in his lap, and he held a frog in one hand and a mouse in the other. ‘The wren saw what Agatha had cooked, and I came immediately to tell you. But you ignored me.’
‘That wren is unreliable,’ retorted Michael. It was widely accepted that Clippesby was insane, although he had been at Michaelhouse long enough for his colleagues to overlook all but his most brazen idiosyncrasies. ‘If you had heard it from the peacock, I might have been more willing to listen.’
The two newest Fellows sat near the window, and Bartholomew was disconcerted to note that Thelnetham was filing Hemmysby’s nails. It was a curious thing to be doing, especially as Hemmysby was not very interested in personal appearances. He was a quiet theologian, who divided his time between Cambridge and Waltham Abbey, where he held a lucrative post.
Thelnetham, on the other hand, was interested in what he looked like, and was never anything short of immaculate. He was a brilliant Gilbertine, an expert in both canon and civil law, and a demon in the debating chamber. Like Wynewyk, he had a penchant for male lovers, although where Wynewyk was discreet, Thelnetham sported brightly coloured accessories to his religious habit and indulged in flamboyantly effeminate conversation. The students liked him, because his lectures were boisterously entertaining, although he could be brutally incisive, too.
‘What are you doing?’ Bartholomew asked him.
‘Hemmysby’s nails,’ replied Thelnetham, as if the answer were obvious. Bartholomew supposed it was, and realised he had asked the wrong question. Thelnetham smiled, and elaborated anyway. ‘They are a disgrace, and a man is nothing without smart nails. You always keep yours nice, which is considerate, given that you use them for clawing about in people’s innards.’
Bartholomew winced at the image. ‘I do nothing of the kind.’
Thelnetham wagged his file admonishingly. ‘Now Robin the surgeon no longer practises his unsavoury trade – for which we all thank God – you are free to hack and saw to your heart’s content. You should be careful, though. Physicians are not supposed to demean themselves with cautery.’
‘Leave him alone, Thelnetham,’ said Michael mildly. ‘Robin’s retirement means all the Cambridge physicians are forced to dabble in surgery these days. Even Paxtone is obliged to bleed his own patients, although word is that he is not very good at it.’
Bartholomew was astonished to hear this. He knew Paxtone was a firm believer in the benefits of phlebotomy, but he had not imagined him to be enthusiastic enough about the procedure to open his patients’ veins himself. The King’s Hall physician disliked getting his hands dirty, and preferred his treatments to revolve around the inspection of urine and the calculation of personal horoscopes.
‘There, I have finished, Hemmysby,’ said Thelnetham, sitting back in satisfaction. ‘You now have fingers any lady would be proud to own. Can I tempt anyone else to a little beautification?’
‘Not if you turn us into girls,’ said Suttone in distaste. ‘That nasty Osa Gosse mocked me today, shouting that my habit was womanly. I cannot have feminine hands, or he may do it again.’
‘Very well,’ said Thelnetham, slipping the rasp into the enormous purse that hung at his side. He turned to Bartholomew. ‘Has Wynewyk spoken to you about Tesdale yet?’
‘No,’ replied Bartholomew warily. ‘Why? What has he done?’
‘His nightmares,’ explained Thelnetham. ‘He cries and whimpers, and not all of us are heavy sleepers like you. He wakes us up. You must talk to him, find out what is causing these night-terrors.’
‘I have tried. But he denies there is a problem, and I cannot force–’
There was a sharp knock on the door, and Cynric burst in. His face was pale and his hands were shaking badly. Bartholomew regarded him in alarm – the book-bearer was not easily disturbed.
‘It is Master Langelee.’ Cynric took a deep, steadying breath. ‘He has been murdered.’
Chapter 2
Bartholomew raced out of Michaelhouse, medical bag banging at his side. It was raining heavily, and the night was dark, so it was difficult to see where he was going. He tripped twice, but did not slow down – he could not, not when his stomach churned in horror at Cynric’s news, and all he wanted was to reach Master Langelee as quickly as possible. He was so agitated that he was only vaguely aware of Michael puffing along behind him; Cynric ran at his side.
‘The Master was just leaving King’s Hall when he was attacked,’ panted Cynric. ‘Tobias, their porter, saw it happen, and thinks Osa Gosse is responsible.’
It was not far to King’s Hall, Cambridge’s largest, richest and most powerful College, and when Bartholomew arrived, there were three people in the street outside it. The first was its head, Thomas Powys. Powys had been Warden for years, and Bartholomew knew he must be good at his job, or the King, who loved to meddle in the College’s affairs, would have replaced him. The second was Tobias the porter, who held a lamp. And the third was Langelee, lying motionless on the ground. Bartholomew felt sick, appalled to be losing yet another colleague to the violence that erupted so often in the little Fen-edge town.
‘I sent for you as soon as I saw it happen,’ said Tobias, moving forward with the lantern when Bartholomew skidded to a halt and knelt to examine his fallen comrade. He sounded horror-stricken. ‘I could not believe it.’
‘What happened?’ gasped Michael, resting his hands on his knees as he struggled to catch his breath. It had been a hard sprint for a man of his girth.
‘A vicious little villain stepped out of the shadows and stabbed him,’ replied Tobias, shaking his head incredulously as he spoke. ‘Master Langelee was twice his size, so it was like David and Goliath. I am amazed Gosse had the courage to tackle someone with his reputation.’
‘What reputation?’ asked Powys. He was a pleasant man, with long teeth, dark eyes and a stoop.
‘As a dirty fighter,’ explained Tobias. ‘I would not have taken Master Langelee on, and I am a professional soldier.’
‘Are you sure it was Gosse?’ demanded Michael. ‘You saw his face?’
‘No,’ admitted Tobias reluctantly. ‘It was dark. But who else could it have been? It was only ever a matter of time before he went from theft to murder.’
‘If only Paxtone had been home,’ said Powys shakily. ‘He might have been able to save Langelee. But he is dining with Doctor Rougham at Gonville Hall – and now it is too late!’
‘Langelee told me he was coming here tonight,’ said the monk. His face was pale in the gleam of the lamp, and his voice was not quite steady. Like Bartholomew, he was fond of the Master, despite Langelee’s myriad idiosyncrasies. ‘Why did you invite him?’
‘He invited himself,’ said Powys, wringing his hands miserably. ‘Because Michaelhouse was having beetroot. I told him it was late – that he should not stay to help us drink yet another cask of wine – but he said he could look after himself. I should have insisted he leave sooner. This is my fault!’
‘It is no one’s fault,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And he is–’
‘It is one thing to murder students,’ whispered Michael. There was a catch in his voice, and his eyes were moist. ‘But this is our Master, and I will not rest until–’
‘He is not dead, Brother,’ interrupted Bartholomew. ‘He is in a stupor.’
A startled silence greeted his words.