‘Perhaps he liked the look of you,’ suggested Risleye baldly.
‘Enough of that sort of talk,’ snapped Bartholomew, knowing Wynewyk would never engage in an inappropriate relationship with a student, especially one from Michaelhouse.
Risleye objected to the reprimand. ‘But he did like men – it was no secret. I am not maligning him – merely offering an explanation for his munificence. And you can say what you will, Tesdale, but Wynewyk was not generous – his tight hold on the College purse strings is testament to that.’
‘Well, he was generous to me,’ mumbled Tesdale. He sniffed, then regarded his classmate hopefully. ‘Did you mention sharing a jug of ale?’
Bartholomew left them, and walked aimlessly along the High Street, craving time alone to think. He heard someone calling his name, and turned to see Michael waddling after him.
‘How could you even think of wandering off after what has just happened?’ the monk demanded angrily. ‘Surely you must know I still have questions to ask?’
‘I am sorry,’ said Bartholomew unhappily. ‘I thought I had answered them all.’
Michael scowled. ‘I want to speak to you without Langelee giving his opinion every few moments. I still cannot believe what he said about the accounts. I will inspect them myself tonight, but I want your views first. Are you sure he is right?’
‘Quite sure. We gave Wynewyk free rein to buy everything the College needs – food, cloth, pots, fuel, stationery. Most of the entries show he paid impressively low prices for them. Except for three commodities purchased from Suffolk, where he paid ridiculously high ones: wood, coal and pigs.’
Michael’s face was pale. ‘This is dreadful! We all trusted him – he was our friend. But this is no place to be talking. Come to the Brazen George with me. We both need a drink.’
The Brazen George was Michael’s favourite tavern. Such places were forbidden to scholars, on the grounds that ale, students and townsfolk were a volatile mix and likely to result in trouble, and his beadles were always on the lookout for academics who thought the rules did not apply to them. Being caught resulted in hefty fines. Michael, however, did a good deal of University business in taverns, and had declared himself exempt from this particular statute. Punishing others for what he enjoyed himself made him something of a hypocrite, but he did not care enough to change his ways.
He led the way to the small chamber at the back of the inn, which the landlord kept for his exclusive use. It was a pleasant room, with real glass in the windows and a fire in the hearth.
‘It will be a bad winter,’ predicted Taverner Lister, bringing not just ale, but roast venison and a dish of apples, too. Michael’s eyes glistened: it was better fare than anything he was likely to be offered at Michaelhouse. ‘Folk will starve when the snows come.’
‘A number of my patients say the same thing.’ Bartholomew watched the monk tie a piece of linen around his neck to protect his habit from splattered grease. He wondered how Michael could bring himself to eat after what had happened. ‘Bread is already expensive.’
‘Then eat well while you can,’ suggested Lister. ‘Because this time of plenty will not last.’
‘Lord!’ exclaimed Michael, when he had gone. ‘He can be a gloomy fellow sometimes.’
‘I refuse to believe Wynewyk was cheating us,’ said Bartholomew, taking one of the apples and playing with it listlessly. ‘So there must be another reason why this thirty marks is missing. Do you have any idea what it might be?’
Michael began feeding, and was silent for so long that Bartholomew was beginning to think he had forgotten the question. ‘Blackmail,’ the monk said eventually.
Bartholomew gazed at him. ‘Wynewyk was not the kind of man to harbour dark secrets.’
Michael regarded him soberly. ‘How do you know? No matter how we look at it, he took thirty marks. This has shocked us, which implies we have no idea what kind of man he was.’
‘I know he was no thief,’ persisted Bartholomew stubbornly. ‘And Langelee will feel terrible when we uncover the truth and Wynewyk is exonerated. However, I accept your point that Wynewyk’s failure to tell us what he was doing suggests he was more enigmatic than we realised. What do you think someone could have been blackmailing him about?’
Michael tapped a bone on the edge of the platter as he thought. ‘He preferred men to women, but that was common knowledge, so no one could have threatened to make it public. And he confined himself to older men – rough, soldierly types – so there is no question of an inappropriate seduction.’
‘Perhaps it is something to do with his academic work,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘He devised a new and controversial theory.’
Michael laughed, genuinely amused. ‘You are the only Michaelhouse Fellow who indulges in that sort of thing, and Wynewyk was an uninspired scholar, to say the least. He did not even have any interesting ideas about Blood Relics – and everyone likes to hold forth about those. Indeed, I am worried about the debate on the subject that is due to take place Monday week.’
‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused.
‘Because too many clever men with novel theories have been scheduled to speak, and–’
‘Then what else could Wynewyk have been blackmailed about?’ demanded Bartholomew. He did not care about the debate. ‘If Wynewyk was a dull scholar, and his private life was an open book?’
Michael rubbed his flabby jowls. ‘I really have no idea. But if there is anything insalubrious in his life, we shall find it, you can be sure of that. Now, tell me more about his death.’
‘You know as much as I do. He swallowed nuts, which he should not have done, and Tesdale thinks he was drunk. Perhaps he ate the nuts because his wits were befuddled with wine, and his death was an accident. Or maybe he did it deliberately, because it was an easy way out of whatever predicament he was in. Or perhaps someone fed him something toxic earlier in the day and he was dying before the debate started, which would explain his odd behaviour. Or maybe it was a seizure.’
‘In other words, the possibilities are accident, suicide, murder or natural causes,’ concluded Michael dryly. ‘That is hardly helpful, Matt.’
‘I cannot draw conclusions from evidence that is not there.’
‘Then we must find some,’ determined Michael. ‘I want you to inspect Wynewyk’s body again. I know pawing the corpse of a friend will be distasteful to you, but we have no choice.’
Wynewyk had been taken to the Stanton Chapel in St Michael’s Church, where he occupied the parish coffin. The chapel, named for the College’s founder, was a pleasant, airy place adjacent to the chancel, with delicate windows and tasteful paintings on the walls. Niches on either side of the altar contained statues, one of the Virgin Mary and the other of St Michael. They looked down with flat stone eyes, although Bartholomew had always thought their expressions inexplicably sad. Perhaps they did not like the number of Michaelhouse scholars who had lain dead in front of them.
The physician forced himself to begin his examination. Obviously, there were no wounds to find, because Wynewyk had died in a room full of witnesses and someone would have noticed if he had been injured. Even so, he went through the motions – assessing his colleague for marks of violence and disease, trying to ascertain whether there might be something less obvious that had brought about the sudden death of a healthy man. He spent a long time examining the mouth, even tipping the head back, to assess the throat. It was slightly swollen.
‘Some people have aversions to specific substances,’ he said, more to himself than Michael, who was sitting on a nearby tomb trying not to watch, ‘which cause the neck tissues to swell. This prevents air from entering the lungs, so the victim suffocates. However, Wynewyk’s throat does not appear to be dangerously inflamed…’