All eyes turned immediately to Michael, who looked up from his post-breakfast cake in astonishment, startled to find himself the centre of attention.
‘Why are you staring at me?’ he demanded. ‘I know nothing about gluttony.’
‘Then allow me to enlighten you,’ offered Zoone, oblivious to the students’ smirks. ‘According to Aquinas, there are five different kinds: eating too soon, too expensively, too much, too eagerly, and too daintily. To these may be added eating too wildly.’
‘What nonsense!’ cried Michael. ‘There is no such thing as eating “too soon” or “too much”, while eating “too eagerly” is just a man’s way of complimenting his cook.’
‘Quite right,’ put in William, who was something of a glutton himself.
‘Moreover, the “expense” of food is outside our control, given that we must eat what we are given,’ Michael went on, blithely ignoring the fact that he monitored every aspect of College victuals with an eagle eye. ‘And I have no idea what eating “too wildly” means. However, I concede that eating “too daintily” is a nasty habit.’
‘So there,’ said William, this particular response being his idea of incisive disputation.
‘Animals and birds only eat when they are hungry,’ put in Aungel tentatively. ‘So I suppose you could never accuse them of gorging.’
Clippesby laughed as he stroked the iridescent feathers of the College’s lead hen, who perched on his lap. ‘You would not say that if you knew them, Aungel. Ethel and her flock always have room for raisins, even when they are full of grain. So do the peafowl.’
‘You give our precious raisins to birds?’ demanded William, aghast. ‘Do you know how much those cost, man?’
‘No, and neither do they,’ replied Clippesby serenely. ‘It does not matter to a chicken if a raisin costs a farthing or a hundred marks – she will enjoy it equally. Aquinas could never accuse a hen of eating “too expensively”, because money means nothing to her.’
‘That is untrue,’ countered William. ‘When I bought a cheaper feed for them last term, they refused to touch it, and Ethel sent me a message – which you delivered – quoting Aristotle, who condemned those who put the accumulation of wealth above good living.’
‘Enough!’ said Michael, laughing. ‘You can save these fascinating insights for the debate. I only wish I could be there to hear it. Unfortunately, the vicars-general demand my presence in St Mary the Great today. There is much work to be done and–’
‘On a Sunday?’ interrupted William, immediately puffing up with righteous indignation. ‘When all labour is forbidden by God’s holy commandments?’
‘Blame Thomas Ely,’ Michael flashed back. ‘It was his idea. But he is a Franciscan, so what can they know about pious living?’
‘More than Benedictines,’ retorted William, predictably leaping to defend his Order. ‘And if Ely suggested it, then I withdraw my objection. We Grey Friars know what we are doing when it comes to theology.’
The students trooped out of the hall, and Bartholomew was about to follow when the peafowl set up a tremendous cacophony near the porter’s lodge. He looked through the window and spotted someone lurking in the shadows, but whoever was there beat a hasty retreat when Walter emerged from his lair to see what was going on.
‘Birds are better than any guard dog,’ said Clippesby, coming to stand at Bartholomew’s side. ‘I am sure that was Stasy, trying to sneak in while we were all at breakfast. But Henry remembers being kicked, and will not allow him past.’
Cynric appeared from nowhere. ‘Stasy is up and about?’ he demanded. ‘I assumed he was still in bed – as he was yesterday and Friday, when there was no College bell to summon him to church. I had better go and–’
‘I assume you watched them at the Great Bridge yesterday,’ interrupted Bartholomew. ‘Does that mean I can discount them as suspects for shoving the stone on Elsham?’
Cynric winced. ‘They are clever. They know I am keeping an eye on them, so they separate, forcing me to choose which one to follow. But as it happens, I was not with either when Elsham died. Stasy knocked Margery over, see – he says by accident – and I was helping her up.’
‘So they distracted you at the salient time?’ pounced Bartholomew.
Cynric nodded. ‘I imagine they are your killers, boy. They are warlocks, and the sooner they are hanged, the happier I shall be.’
And this coming from a man who revered a witch, thought Bartholomew.
Cambridge boasted more than a dozen parish churches, not to mention chapels in convents and Colleges, and nearly all had bells of some description. As it was Sunday, every one of them was in clanging action, calling the faithful to their devotions. They created a tremendous cacophony, the deep bass of St Mary the Great booming over the tinny clanks of St Botolph and Trinity Hall.
Although Bartholomew was ready to begin his enquiries immediately, his patients had other ideas, and his morning was taken up with them. There were several new cases of flux, in places as far apart as the Dominican Friary and the cottages along the Chesterton lane. He was hungry when he had finished, so he returned to Michaelhouse to beg bread and cheese from Agatha – the noonday meal was already under way and he did not want to stroll into the hall late. He ate in the yard, thinking it was a good time to catch the scholars of Clare Hall, who would also be gathered in their refectory.
‘You seem better,’ he remarked to Walter, whom he passed on his way out.
The porter nodded, although his face retained its habitual scowl. ‘But not because of Stasy and Hawick, no matter what they claim. I refused to swallow the tonic they sent me, lest it was poisoned. I poured it away. Incidentally, a priest came earlier. He left you this, to help with the flux. It comes from the same person who has been helping the sick beadles.’
It was a heavy purse, containing enough to buy medicine for his poorer patients for a month. It was not unusual for people to leave Bartholomew charitable donations – Edith was generous in that respect, and so were several scholars, burgesses and town guilds. However, none had given him such a large sum before.
‘Who is this person?’ he asked, touched and grateful. ‘I should thank him.’
‘The priest would not tell me,’ replied Walter crossly. ‘And believe me, I tried to prise a name out of him. All he would say is that it comes from someone who appreciates what you are doing, and wants to help.’
‘Do you have any idea who it might be?’
‘The Earl of Huntyngdon,’ replied Walter promptly. ‘The King’s Hall porters told me that he is indebted to you for finding his son’s killer.’
‘I did not find him – he confessed. Besides, why would the Earl care about sick beadles and paupers? Or make his donation anonymous?’
‘True,’ acknowledged Walter. ‘Someone else then …’
‘Have you heard any rumours about who killed Elsham?’
‘None,’ replied Walter. ‘Although no one mourns him, least of all Clare Hall. Well, other than its Master. Oh, before I forget, Mayor Morys wants you to call, because his wife has the flux. When you visit, overcharge him. He cheats everyone else, so it will serve him right to be on the other end for a change.’
Bartholomew glanced at the dye-pits on his way to Morys’s house, and saw that while two had been carefully filled in, nothing had been done to the others. Naturally, the ones that remained were the largest and deepest. He heard people talking about Chaumbre as he passed them, and it seemed the dyer’s near-drowning had granted him a reprieve – he was popular, and folk were so glad that he had survived his dip in the Cam that they were willing to forgive him almost anything.