‘I do not need your permission,’ snarled Donwich. ‘I am Master, and I can do what I like. Now, if you will excuse me, I have invited guests to entertain.’
He stalked out. Pulham glowered at his retreating back, then indicated that Bartholomew and Michael were to walk with him to the gate. Stasy and Hawick hung back, and Bartholomew glanced around to see them talking to Gille and Elsham again. Cynric lurked nearby, and Bartholomew hoped the book-bearer would eavesdrop, because he wanted to know what they were saying to each other.
‘I am sorry,’ said Pulham, opening the gate. ‘As you can see, our Master is rather ungovernable at the moment. Being elected head of house has turned him into something of a despot. Obviously, the rest of us do not condone his behaviour, but as long as Gille and Elsham indulge his every whim, there is little we can do about it.’
‘Gille and Elsham are the only two Fellows who support him?’ fished Michael, always interested in the internal squabbles of rival foundations.
Pulham nodded. ‘The rest of us will not vote for him tomorrow. We want you, Brother.’
Bartholomew was astounded. There was an unspoken law that members of a foundation always stuck together, no matter what, so Donwich must have seriously ruffled his colleagues’ feathers to have precipitated such open dissent.
Michael indicated the brightly lit hall. Its occupants were growing rowdier by the moment, suggesting they were already drunk or heading that way.
‘Who is celebrating with him, if he has alienated all but two of his Fellows?’
‘A lot of hostel men, who he thinks will vote for him,’ replied Pulham. ‘They will not, of course, and are just enjoying a good night at our expense. And some wealthy burgesses, who he hopes will become benefactors.’
Bartholomew glanced up at the window and was unsettled to recognise the distinctive profile of Philip Chaumbre. What was his brother-in-law doing in such company?
‘I pity anyone trying to sleep,’ he said, wincing as someone began to bawl a tavern song and others joined in with gusto.
Pulham gave a disgusted snort. ‘It will not bother any of our students, because Donwich has let them all go home.’
‘Before the end of term?’ asked Michael indignantly. ‘But only the Senior Proctor has the power to grant that sort of indulgence.’
‘I know,’ said Pulham tiredly. ‘But Donwich thinks that particular statute is perverse, and aims to overturn it when he is Chancellor.’
‘He is not Chancellor yet,’ said Michael stiffly, ‘and I cannot have Masters ignoring the rules to please themselves. There would be anarchy! Clare Hall can expect a substantial fine tomorrow. But tell me, Pulham, would anyone here harm Aynton? It did not escape my notice that Donwich did not ask how he came to die.’
Pulham blinked. ‘No, he did not, did he! It was almost as if he already knew what had happened, so did not need an account from you.’ Then he shook himself. ‘What am I saying? The more likely explanation is that he could not bring himself to beg you for answers.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Michael.
Pulham nodded firmly. ‘Donwich would never hurt Aynton. On the contrary, he was delighted with him for resigning, as it allowed him a chance to further his own ambitions.’
‘Delighted enough to have coerced him into it?’ pressed Michael. ‘And then killed him lest he changed his mind?’
‘Donwich has recently revealed a side of himself that none of us knew existed,’ acknowledged Pulham. ‘But murdering a colleague? No, never.’
‘Then what about his henchmen?’ asked Michael, lowering his voice so the pair behind them would not hear. ‘Are Gille and Elsham the kind of men who would do anything to promote their Master’s interests?’
Pulham opened his mouth to deny it, then reconsidered. ‘I would hope not,’ he said eventually. ‘They are Aynton’s colleagues, too.’
‘So, our list of murder suspects has expanded by two,’ said Michael, as he and Bartholomew walked home; Stasy and Hawick trailed along behind them, and Cynric brought up the rear. ‘Pulham was unable to say with certainty that Gille and Elsham are innocent.’
‘Donwich did nothing to eliminate himself either,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He has always been ambitious, but, as Pulham pointed out, being elected Master of Clare Hall seems to have ignited a lust for even more power.’
Michael counted off the names on chubby fingers. ‘Donwich and his henchmen Gille and Elsham; Narboro and any supporters he might have; Dodenho and any supporters he might have; and Stasy and Hawick, who are suspiciously friendly with two Fellows from a rival foundation.’
Bartholomew stopped walking and waited until the students caught up. ‘What were you discussing with Gille and Elsham?’ he demanded bluntly.
‘They wanted a remedy against the flux,’ replied Hawick, so smoothly that Bartholomew knew he was lying.
‘They cannot afford to catch it, because Donwich relies on them so heavily,’ put in Stasy with one of his irritatingly sly smirks.
Bartholomew peered at them in the dim light of the lamps lit outside Trinity Hall. ‘The only “remedy” anyone can offer is good hygiene, rest, and plenty of fluids.’
Stasy’s face was full of smug disdain. ‘So you claim, but we have invented one, and we shall sell it when we open our practice. However, the recipe is a secret, so do not ask us for it, because we shall refuse to tell you.’
‘There is no remedy,’ insisted Bartholomew firmly. ‘And if you concoct something and sell it, knowing it will not work, you will be guilty of fraud.’
‘Which will see you arrested,’ put in Michael. ‘Not by me, but by the Sheriff, as you will come under his jurisdiction once you leave the University. Moreover, someone will sue you if you promise a cure and it fails. A lawsuit could ruin you before–’
‘We learned enough law at Michaelhouse to defend ourselves,’ interrupted Stasy dismissively. ‘Besides, our remedy will work. It will not only mend those who have the flux, but protect those who do not.’
‘Impossible!’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is like the common cold: all we can do is alleviate the symptoms – tinctures to relieve pain, and plenty of boiled barley water.’
Aware that once Bartholomew began talking about medicine, he might wax lyrical for hours, Michael walked on alone. Cynric waited patiently for the lecture to finish.
‘You and your boiled barley water,’ sneered Stasy. ‘You endorse it as the answer to everything. Well, in my opinion, it is worthless, and anyone who swallows it in the quantities you recommend is wasting his time.’
Bartholomew was silent for a moment, and when he spoke, his voice was cold enough to wipe the challenging grin from Stasy’s face.
‘My advice to patients is based on years of experience and observation, not something cooked up one night in a tavern. Boiled barley water will not cure the flux or a cold – nothing can – but it will help the body to recover lost fluids.’
Having had his say, he turned and strode away. A moment later, he heard Stasy chant in a voice so deep and sinister that all the hair stood up on the back of his neck.
‘May Matthew Bartholomew never cure the flux or the common cold,’ the student intoned. ‘Dark lord, hear the supplication of your faithful servant.’
Bartholomew whipped around, but Stasy was not there. Nor was Hawick, although Cynric emerged from the shadows.
‘They left,’ the book-bearer said. ‘Do you want me to fetch them back?’
‘Did you hear Stasy curse?’ demanded Bartholomew, wondering if his ears had deceived him, as the student had sounded very close – within touching distance, in fact.