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‘So what are you saying?’ demanded Michael, when the physician trailed off.

‘Wynewyk knew nuts were dangerous for him, so why did he eat them? Even drunk, I cannot imagine him being so recklessly careless.’

‘So you think it was suicide?’ pressed Michael.

‘No,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Suicide means accepting that he did something untoward – something that warranted a brisk exit from the world. And I refuse to believe that of him.’

‘So, we are left with murder, accident or natural causes. What do you make of his giggling? Would he have been able to laugh so heartily, if he was struggling to breathe?’

Bartholomew shrugged helplessly. ‘Clearly, he did laugh, because you heard him. I suppose it might have been a hysterical reaction brought about by a shortness of breath.’

‘I am not sure about this nut theory,’ said Michael, after a moment of silence. ‘It smacks of deviant thinking on your part, and I do not want attention drawn to your heterodoxy. I prefer our original diagnosis: that he died laughing – a seizure. It will be better for everyone – including Wynewyk – if we agree on a verdict of natural causes.’

‘You mean we should lie?’ asked Bartholomew coolly.

‘I mean we keep our fears and suspicions to ourselves until we have sufficient evidence to make them public.’ Michael gazed at their colleague’s cold, waxen face, then released an anguished cry that made the physician jump. ‘Lord Christ, Wynewyk! How could you do this to us?’

When they had finished their dismal business in the church, Michael went to tackle the accounts, but Bartholomew did not feel like going with him. Nor was he inclined to visit the conclave, which would be full of talk about Wynewyk, or his room, where his students might ask for a medical explanation for what had happened. Normally, he encouraged his pupils’ willingness to learn, but he was not equal to it that evening. He told the monk he was going to see a patient, and set off along the High Street.

It was dusk, although there was not the merest glimmer of colour in the western sky, where the sun had set behind a bank of thick clouds. It was cold, too, and people scurried along with their heads down, reluctant to be out. Traders hauled their carts homeward, wheels squelching and hissing in the mud that formed most of Cambridge’s streets. A musician played a haunting melody on a pipe, hoping to be tossed coins by passers-by, but Bartholomew wished he would play something a little more cheerful. The tune was so sad that he felt his throat constrict, and he was forced to take several deep breaths when an image of Wynewyk’s face sprang unbidden into his mind.

He glanced at King’s Hall as he passed, seized by a sudden desire to discuss his nut theory with a fellow physician – someone who would understand what he was talking about. Medicine was not an exact science, and the longer he practised, the more he realised he did not know, so it was always good to air new ideas with colleagues. Paxtone was not an ideal choice for debates, because his experience was narrow and so was his mind, but he was better than Rougham of Gonville Hall. Making up his mind, Bartholomew headed towards the College that was Paxtone’s home.

He hammered on the gate and was admitted by Tobias the porter. As he was being escorted across the yard, they were intercepted by a thin, mouse-like man wearing King’s Hall’s blue tabard. As usual, it took Bartholomew a moment to recall Shropham’s name, for the diffident lawyer never did or said anything to make it stick in his mind.

‘I shall conduct our visitor to Paxtone’s quarters,’ Shropham said to Tobias. ‘Gosse was loitering around earlier, and I would rather you stayed by the gate.’

‘You think he might burgle King’s Hall?’ asked Bartholomew, as Shropham led the way to the handsome suite of rooms on the top floor where Paxtone lived. It did not sound very likely: not only was the College built like a fortress, but many of its scholars were the sons of nobles, who had been trained to wield swords and shoot arrows. Gosse would have to be insane to risk an invasion.

‘Probably not, but you cannot be too careful. I am sorry about Wynewyk, by the way. I saw your book-bearer carrying his corpse to the church and he told me the news. Your poor College is not having much luck this term; first you lose Kelyng the Bible Scholar, and now Wynewyk.’

‘Kelyng is not dead,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘He just decided not to return for his final year because it would have meant paying a massive debt for past fees.’

‘I see,’ said Shropham. He smiled sadly. ‘But I shall miss Wynewyk. He was a fellow lawyer, and was always laughing at something.’

Bartholomew glanced at him sharply. ‘Laughing?’

His tone startled Shropham, who backed away with his hands in the air, apologetic for having said something out of turn. ‘I only meant that he was a cheery sort of fellow, but if you say I am mistaken, then that is fair enough. I am sure he was perfectly sombre.’

‘He was not sombre, either,’ snapped Bartholomew. He disliked sycophants, and recalled with distaste Shropham’s habit of never contradicting anyone. It was a curious trait for a scholar: they had been trained to argue, and were usually delighted to do so.

Shropham was becoming flustered. ‘Perhaps he was both – merry sometimes, and grave the rest of the time. A man of contrasts. Yes, that must be it.’

‘Actually, he was very even tempered,’ countered Bartholomew, a little testily.

‘Yes, he was that, too,’ gushed Shropham, somewhat desperately. ‘Very even tempered.’

Bartholomew smothered his irritation, knowing Shropham was only trying to make conversation; he was just not very good at it, and had chosen a subject that was too raw for idle chatter.

‘You teach law?’ he asked, deciding they might do better if they discussed something else.

‘Yes,’ replied Shropham. ‘Except when I teach the Trivium – grammar, logic and rhetoric.’

‘I know what the Trivium is,’ said Bartholomew. He grimaced at his abrupt tone and wondered what it was about Shropham that seemed to be bringing out the worst in him. He struggled to make amends, forcing himself to smile. ‘Which parts of it do you teach?’

‘All of it,’ replied Shropham. ‘The other masters ask me to take their classes, and I do not like to disappoint – you know how senior scholars hate wasting their time with basics.’

‘But you are a senior scholar,’ Bartholomew pointed out, bemused. ‘You have been here for years – before me, and long before Paxtone. You should not be saddled with the Trivium.’

‘Perhaps I should not,’ said Shropham, blushing furiously. ‘But when friends approach me for assistance it seems churlish to refuse.’

‘Right,’ said Bartholomew, suspecting he was abominably abused by his so-called friends.

‘Here we are,’ said Shropham, opening Paxtone’s door with obvious relief.

Paxtone’s two light, airy chambers – one for teaching and the other for private use – overlooked the water meadows, and saw some spectacular sunsets. That day, however, the shutters were closed, and a fire was blazing in the hearth, filling the private room with a warm, amber glow. The floor was of wood, but woollen rugs were scattered across it, and the walls had matching hangings, all selected with impeccable taste. Unlike Michaelhouse, not all King’s Hall Fellows were obliged to share their accommodation with students, and Paxtone paid a hefty rent to ensure his continued privacy.

‘He is teaching,’ whispered Shropham, pointing through the door that linked the two chambers; three lads could be seen sitting on stools at Paxtone’s feet. They were listening to his analysis of Galen’s views on almonds as an astringent. ‘He is one of the most inspired tutors in the College. Do you lecture on Galen, Doctor Bartholomew?’