He gave them an absent smile, his mind already busy making up such a list, and left. His students heaved a corporate sigh of relief.
'Another day survived!' said Gray, blowing out his cheeks and looking at the others.
'He is only trying to help us learn,' said Bulbeck defensively. 'He wants us to pass our disputations, and he wants us to become good physicians.'
Brother Boniface spat. 'He is teaching us contrary to the will of God. Why does he not teach us how to bleed patients? Why does he insist that we must always have a diagnosis? Some things are not meant to be known by man.'
'He does not believe that bleeding is beneficial,' said Gray. 'He told me that charlatans bleed patients when they do not know what else to do.'
Boniface snorted in derision. 'His teaching is heretical, and I do not like it. Give me a bottle of leeches and I could cure anything!'
Bulbeck laughed. 'Then tell Doctor Bartholomew that leeching is a cure for toothache in his lecture tomorrow,' he said.
Because Bartholomew had to see a patient, Michael went alone to hunt down the family of Marius Froissart. He asked the clerks in the church, but none of them knew where Froissart had lived. Somewhat irritably, he began to walk up Cambridge's only hill to the Castle to ask the Sheriff. The Sheriff had been called when Froissart had claimed sanctuary. Froissart could not, of course, be taken from the sanctuary of the church, but he had been questioned.
By the time Michael arrived, puffing and swearing at his enforced exercise, he was hot and crabby. He marched up to the Castle gate-house and pounded on the door. A lantern-jawed sergeant asked him his business, and Michael demanded an audience with the Sheriff. He was led across the bailey towards the round keep that stood on the motte. It was a grey, forbidding structure, and Michael felt hemmed in by the towering curtain walls and crenellated towers.
In the bailey a few soldiers practised sword-play in a half-hearted manner, while a larger group were gathered in the shade of the gate-house to play dice. Before the plague, the bailey had always seemed full of soldiers, but there were distinctly fewer now. Michael followed the-sergeant up wide spiral stairs to the second floor. As he took a seat in an antechamber, raised voices drifted from the Sheriffs office.
'But when?' roared a voice that Michael recognised as Stanmore's. The sergeant glanced uneasily at Michael but said nothing. There was a mumble from within as the Sheriff answered.
'But that is simply unacceptable!' responded Stanmore.
Michael stood and ambled closer to the door in an attempt to overhear the Sheriff s part of the conversation, but was almost knocked off his feet as the door was flung open and Stanmore stormed out. He saw Michael but was too furious to speak as he left. Before the sergeant could stop him, Michael strolled nonchalantly through the door Stanmore had left open.
The Sheriff stood behind a table, breathing heavily and clenching his fists. He glared at Michael, who smiled back benevolently.
'Master Tulyet,' said Michael, sitting down. 'How is your father, the Mayor?'
'My father is no longer Mayor,' growled Tulyet. He was a small man with wispy fair hair and a beard that was so blond it was all but invisible.
'Then how are you? How is your investigation of the whore murders?' asked Michael, knowing instinctively he would touch a raw nerve.
'That is the King's business and none of yours,' Tulyet snapped. Michael saw the Sheriffs hands tremble when he picked up his cup to drink, and when he put it back down again, there were clammy fingerprints smeared on the pewter.
'Have you traced that other murderer yet? What was his name? Froissart,' probed Michael, leaning back in the creaking chair.
Tulyet glared at him. 'He escaped sanctuary,' he said through gritted teeth. "I warned the guards that he might try, but they said they did not see him. I suppose they would not when they were asleep.'
'Who was it that he had killed?' asked Michael. 'A woman? And now a woman-killer stalks the night streets of Cambridge?'
'Marius Froissart is not the killer of the whores!' said Tulyet, exasperated. 'You believe that Froissart is the killer and that I lost him. Well, he is not the killer!
Froissart did not even have the sense to confess to the murder of his wife, even though a witness saw him commit the crime! He could not have the intelligence to outwit me over the whore murders.'
'Oh? Who saw him commit the crime?' asked Michael with interest.
'His neighbour, a MistressJanetta,' Tulyet said bitterly, 'although I am uncertain that her testimony is worth a great deal.'
Michael rose to leave. 'Thank you,' he said. 'You have been most helpful.'
Tulyet gaped at him. "I have?' he said. 'You have not told me what you want.'
Michael beamed and clapped him on the shoulder.
'Keep up the good work,' he said, his comment designed to antagonise, and he swept out of the room and into the Castle bailey. He sauntered over to the soldiers playing dice.
'Gambling is a device of the Devil, my children,' he said cheerfully. 'Were you playing dice when you should have been watching St Mary's Church?'
The soldiers exchanged furtive glances. 'No,' one lied easily. 'Froissart did not leave. The only person to go in or out was the friar.'
'What friar?' asked Michael, feeling his interest quicken.
'The friar that visited Froissart in the church,' said the soldier with exaggerated patience.
'What time was this?' Michael asked.
The soldier squinted up at him. 'About an hour after the church was locked. It was dark by then, and we did not see him until he was almost on top of us.' He turned back to his game and threw his dice.
'Did you know him?'
The soldier shook his head, handing over a few pennies to one of his comrades, who laughed triumphantly. 'He said his name was Father Lucius, and when he shouted his name, Froissart opened the door and let him in.'
'What did he look like?'
The soldier shrugged. 'Like a friar! Mean-looking with a big nose, and a dirty grey robe with the cowl pulled up over his head.'
Michael nodded. If he were wearing a grey robe, he must have been a Franciscan. 'Did you see him leave?'
'Yes. After about an hour. He warned us about gambling, and left' The soldier took the dice from his neighbour and threw them again. There was a series of catcalls as he lost a second time.
Michael sketched a quick benediction over them and strolled away. He had enjoyed making Tulyet give him the information he wanted by needling him into indiscretion.
Michael had discovered not only where Froissart lived, but the identity of the neighbour who had witnessed his crime. From Tulyet's men, Michael had also discovered the identity of Froissart's murderer: the mysterious friar.
He hummed a song from the taverns that he should not have known, and walked back down the hill a lot more happily than he had walked up it.
He saw Bartholomew talking to two Austin Canons outside the Hospital of St John the Evangelist as he turned from Bridge Street into the High Street. In fine humour he strolled across and greeted them.
Bartholomew looked at him suspiciously and quickly concluded his conversation with the Canons.
'What have you been up to?' Bartholomew asked suspiciously. 'You are not usually so cheery after climbing Castle Hill/ Michael toldhim, while Bartholomew listened thoughtfully.
"I know Richard Tulyet. He is not a bad man and, until recently, has been a good Sheriff. I hope you did not offend him. We might need his goodwill at some point'
Michael hastily changed the subject to the Franciscan friar. 'How many do you know that are mean-looking and have big noses?' he said.