Michael plumped himself down on a bench, heavily enough to make it tip. He squawked in alarm as it threatened to deposit him on the floor, flailing his arms in a wild attempt to regain his balance. To his credit, Morden did not laugh, although Bartholomew saw an amused twinkle in his eyes, which was suppressed the moment the monk recovered his composure and began to glare.
‘We have a number of questions,’ said Bartholomew, before the monk could accuse Morden of deliberately placing unstable furniture where unwary guests might use it. The charge would probably be justified, because the Black Friars were notorious for indulging their slapstick sense of humour. Bartholomew did not mind, and had always liked Morden, but Michael considered him a buffoon, and his manner towards the diminutive Prior often verged on the contemptuous.
‘Fire away, then,’ said Morden amiably, sliding off his chair and landing with a slight thump. He walked across the room and filled two goblets from a jug. ‘I shall do my best to answer, but do not hold your breath. As I said, I have met with scant success.’
‘Did Carbo hold a post in Cambridge?’ Michael accepted the proffered goblet, and downed the contents in a single swallow. Then he gagged. ‘God save us, man! What is this? It is not wine.’
‘It is a little something my brethren and I enjoy on cold mornings,’ replied Morden, and if he thought the monk’s response was entertaining, he hid it well. ‘Fermented parsnip juice.’
Michael shoved the goblet back at him with distaste. ‘I thought you were being hospitable, but now I feel as though my innards are being scoured with drain cleaner.’
‘It will do you good,’ said Morden ambiguously. ‘And the answer to your question is no: Carbo did not hold a post in Cambridge. He was an itinerant, as far as I can tell – a wandering preacher who follows the road. It is odd that a respectable man like Shropham should want to kill him.’
‘I am not sure he did.’ Michael shrugged at the Prior’s surprise. ‘As you say, it is an odd thing for a scholar of King’s Hall to do, and I feel there is something we are not being told.’
‘Shropham is holding out on you?’ asked Morden, his interest piqued.
Michael nodded, frowning as he assembled his thoughts. ‘He could have argued self-defence, or claimed that the real culprit ran away before my Junior Proctor arrived on the scene. But instead he refuses to speak. I cannot imagine what kind of secret is worth his life: he may very well hang if we let matters lie.’
‘Perhaps that is what he wants,’ suggested Morden. ‘Some folk find shame difficult to handle.’
‘Shame?’ queried Michael. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Perhaps he has done something to embarrass King’s Hall, and sees death as the only honourable recourse. He is certainly the kind of man to sacrifice himself for his College – he is always trying to ingratiate himself by performing menial tasks for his colleagues, after all.’
‘If he is that devoted, he would not have done anything to discredit King’s Hall in the first place,’ Bartholomew pointed out.
‘We all make mistakes,’ said Morden. ‘It would not be the first time a good man has erred.’
‘Is Shropham a good man?’ mused Bartholomew, more to himself than the others. ‘I have known him for years but I have no idea what he is really like.’
‘Yes, I believe he is essentially decent,’ replied Morden. ‘At one point, he was considering taking major orders, and we spent several weeks discussing it. In the end, he decided to remain a secular, which disappointed me. He would have made a fine Dominican.’
Michael’s expression suggested that a fine Dominican did not necessarily equate with a decent man, but he said nothing, and moved to another subject. ‘So what have you discovered about Carbo?’
‘We have been unable to ascertain his origins, despite summoning all Black Friars within a ten-mile radius to come and look at him. The cuffs of his habit are odd, though, and the style is unfamiliar to us. They suggest he hails from somewhere distant, perhaps London or Norfolk.’
‘What about Suffolk?’ asked Michael.
Morden raised his tiny eyebrows, surprised by the question. ‘Yes, possibly. Other than that, all we have are guesses. His habit was patched and frayed, which may imply he took holy orders some time ago. Of course, it might also mean he inherited a second-hand robe from another priest.’
Michael stood. ‘Drink your parsnip juice, Matt, and let us go and inspect this hapless fellow.’
Bartholomew swallowed the concoction, feeling a strong but not unpleasant burn as it made its way to his stomach. He experienced a moment of agreeable light-headedness, followed by a sensation of warmth all over his body. Morden was right: the beverage did dispel the chill of winter.
Bartholomew and Michael followed the Prior across the yard, to the chapel in which Carbo’s body was being stored. It had been washed and dressed in a clean habit, ready to be laid to rest as soon as the proctors released it. While Bartholomew began his examination, Michael regaled the Prior with details of the upcoming Blood Relic debate. The monk was looking forward to the occasion, eager to show off his prowess as a disputant; Morden, by contrast, was dreading it, afraid he might be called on to say something, thus exposing his poor grasp of the subject in front of the whole University. He had never been a gifted academic.
‘Have you had any word from Kelyng?’ Morden asked, more to change the subject than to elicit information about Michaelhouse’s missing Bible Scholar. ‘He was thinking of becoming a Dominican, too, and I was disappointed when I learned he had failed to return for the start of term.’
‘We suspect he was intimidated by his unpaid fees,’ replied Michael. ‘It is a pity, because he was an excellent student, and might have gone on to great things. And I do not mean by becoming a Black Friar, either – I mean by making contributions to philosophy.’
‘Or camp-ball,’ countered Morden waspishly. ‘He was Langelee’s student, and your Master would much rather study game strategies than Aristotle.’
‘Perhaps Carbo was not a priest at all,’ said Bartholomew, to prevent Michael from responding with a retort that might lead to a spat. It was true that Langelee preferred sport to lessons, but Morden was hardly the person to be making snide remarks about it. ‘Maybe he found or was given the Dominican habit, and wore it because he was a beggar who had nothing else.’
‘And your evidence for such a suggestion?’ asked Michael.
‘This,’ replied Bartholomew, pushing the lank black hair from Carbo’s forehead to reveal a pink scar that curved around towards the left temple.
‘So he suffered a cut on his head at some point,’ said Michael, bemused. ‘What of it?’
‘From the colour of the scarring, I would say it happened in the last two years or so. And it was a serious injury – there is a depression of the skull beneath, suggesting a healed fracture. People with damage to the front of their heads often exhibit the symptoms we saw: an inability to communicate, strange behaviour, paralysis of the limbs. One hand moved jerkily, if you recall.’
‘Not really,’ said Michael, unconvinced. ‘But–’
‘Then there was the way he kept shaking his head, as if to clear his ears.’ Bartholomew was disgusted with himself for not making the diagnosis when Carbo was alive. ‘Hearing a persistent ringing sound is another symptom. So is confusion about smells – he asked twice if we could detect garlic. I should have understood immediately what was wrong with him.’
‘But why does all this make you think he was not a Dominican?’ asked Morden, puzzled.
‘Because your Order would have taken better care of a member who had lost his senses after such an injury,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He would not have been allowed to wander the country alone, without food or shelter. And poor Carbo is badly malnourished.’