The Fellows exchanged glances of mystification. ‘Why would Aynton write to Narboro?’ asked Gayton. ‘I cannot imagine they had much to say to each other.’
‘Unless Aynton wanted advice on hair care,’ put in Stantone acidly. ‘Narboro is good for nothing else.’
‘He must have some desirable qualities,’ said Bartholomew, feeling their dislike was painting a picture that was almost certainly unfair. ‘He was a royal clerk for ten years, and such posts are competitive. He would have been dismissed if he was inept or stupid.’
‘Perhaps he taught the Court popinjays how to nurture their tresses,’ sniffed Stantone. ‘Because I cannot believe what he told us: that he was the King’s favourite clerk.’
There was a rumble of agreement from the others.
‘What will he do now he has decided not to marry?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Stay here?’
‘He will not,’ declared Gayton fervently. ‘His Fellowship expires at the end of term and will not be renewed. We cannot recall what he was like ten years ago, but we deplore what he has become today.’
‘But to answer your original question,’ said Stantone, ‘we know nothing of any letter from Aynton, and Huntyngdon was never here, delivering messages or anything else.’
‘Has there been any news of him or Martyn?’ asked Gayton, and grimaced when Bartholomew shook his head. ‘Pity. I like Martyn in particular. He lectures here on occasion, and is very good.’
‘He is,’ agreed Stantone. ‘I had business in Bottisham this week, so I took the liberty of visiting his family on my way home. They have had no word of him either, and are at a loss as to where he might be. There is a rumour that he and Huntyngdon were killed by a drunken townsman, but I do not believe it. Neither were men for a brawl.’
‘I imagine you want to ask Narboro about this letter in person,’ said Gayton, heaving himself to his feet. ‘I shall take you to Hoo Hall, where he lives.’
Hoo Hall was located on the edge of a marshy area called Coe Fen, and could be reached in one of two ways: along a tiny causeway across the bog, which was only practical in very dry weather, or via a lane leading off the Trumpington road. Bartholomew would have chosen the lane, but Gayton elected to use the more direct route over the swamp. It was an unpleasant journey, as every step they took disturbed hordes of biting insects. There was not so much as a breath of wind, and the air was full of the reek of rotting vegetation.
‘Our students hate Hoo Hall,’ confided Gayton flapping furiously at the flies that swarmed around his head. ‘They spent one year there, and threatened to defect to another College unless we offered them alternative lodgings.’
‘What is wrong with it?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘It is wet and cold in winter, you can only reach it by boat when there is heavy rain, and you cannot sleep for the insects that invade during summer,’ explained Gayton. ‘Moreover, Morys’s mill is noisy and sometimes operates at night.’
‘But Narboro does not mind these problems?’
A sly expression crossed Gayton’s face. ‘It was the only place available when he returned here, demanding his rights and privileges as a Peterhouse Fellow. But it has one advantage – he has the place all to himself.’
‘It is a handsome building,’ said Bartholomew, admiring the tile roof and stone walls, and thinking that most scholars would give their eye-teeth to live in such a place, regardless of its defects.
‘Hoo was our very first Master,’ said Gayton. ‘Although I cannot see him being pleased to have a house in a bog named after him. It was originally a warehouse for goods arriving by river, but it became redundant when the dams were built to make the Mill Pond. We should have let it fall down, because it was a mistake to convert it into student housing.’
The notion of Narboro’s company was evidently too distasteful for Gayton, because he escorted Bartholomew to the door and left without another word. Bartholomew knocked, and when there was no reply, he walked in, thinking to search Narboro’s quarters on the quiet if the Fellow was out.
The house was simple, with a hall on the ground floor and a dormitory above. Because it had originally been used to store perishable goods, the hall was lower than the ground outside, like a cellar, and had no windows. As a result, it was dark, cool and musty.
It was nicely furnished, though, with long tables, polished benches, and shelves for books. As Narboro was not there, Bartholomew aimed for the upper floor, which was reached via a flight of stone steps built up the opposite wall. At the top of the stairs was a door. It was open, so he walked through it into a long room with large windows. It was beautifully light, but stiflingly hot, and he appreciated why the students had not liked it.
Narboro stood at one of the windows. He held a mirror in his hand, and turned his head this way and that as he checked his hair.
‘I am busy,’ he said curtly, his eyes not moving from his reflection.
‘So I see,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But I want to ask you about–’
‘Can it not wait?’ snapped Narboro. ‘I shall be elected Chancellor in an hour, and I am not happy with the lie of my fringe.’
‘It looks all right to me,’ said Bartholomew.
Narboro tore his gaze away from himself and studied the physician, whose black mop was damp with sweat and had not seen a comb in days.
‘You are not qualified to judge,’ he determined, returning to his primping. ‘And appearance is important, given that a Chancellor will mingle with kings, princes and bishops.’
Bartholomew turned to his questions, keen to leave the dormitory before he melted. ‘Chancellor Aynton sent you a letter, which was delivered by Huntyngdon. May I see it?’
Narboro frowned. ‘I received no letter from Aynton. Of course, it does not surprise me that he wrote. I am a favourite of the King, and many men clamour for my acquaintance.’
‘How well did you know Aynton?’
‘I met him once, when I informed him of the high standing that I enjoy with powerful members of Court. I could tell he was impressed. Then he asked for the name of my barber.’
Aynton had been a polite, friendly man, and Bartholomew suspected he had posed a question that he knew Narboro would enjoy answering – it had not sprung from a genuine desire for information. However, it did not sound as if the conversation had been one to warrant further correspondence in writing.
‘Did you know Huntyngdon?’
‘I exchanged words with him twice,’ replied Narboro crisply. ‘Both times to admire what he was wearing. He responded politely enough, but made it clear that he was more interested in philosophy than clothes.’
‘Then did you ever meet his friend Martyn?’
‘I saw him at the Cardinal’s Cap on occasion, but all he wanted to do was debate metaphysics, so we had nothing in common.’ Narboro lowered his voice. ‘He is like my Peterhouse colleagues, who prefer scholarship to sourcing a decent haircut. And forgive my impertinence, but you could do with paying some attention to your personal appearance yourself. Look in this – you will see what I mean.’
He handed Bartholomew his mirror. It was of surprising weight and quality, and when the physician examined it more closely, he saw a painting of a woman on the back, resplendent in a green hat with yellow feathers. The image was almost worn away – rubbed off, because its user preferred the reflection on the other side.
‘Lucy Brampton owns a hat like that,’ he mused, then wished he had held his tongue when he recalled how they were acquainted.
‘She gave me this when we first became betrothed,’ said Narboro, taking it back. ‘It was a thoughtful gift, and has been very useful.’
‘A “lovers’ mirror”,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘I saw those in Venice. They represent unity – one face reflected and the other painted, but both on the same object. However, I think men usually give them to women, not the other way around.’