‘You do not need texts to answer that question, boy,’ growled William. ‘I can tell you. No.’
‘A most eloquent argument, Father,’ said Michael drolly. ‘Gonville must be quaking in their boots in anticipation of meeting that kind of incisive logic at the next Disputatio.’
William nodded his pleasure at the compliment, and folded his arms. ‘However, I have read that particular text, as it happens. Well, not the whole thing, I admit – I just went straight to the end and looked at the conclusion. I do not waste my time reading silly twists and turns, not when there are heretics to unveil and the University Chest to protect.’
‘I see you chose well in becoming a scholar,’ said Wynewyk, raising his eyebrows in amusement. ‘Why would a theologian bother with “silly twists and turns” in a scholarly debate?’
‘Quite,’ agreed William, the irony quite lost on him.
‘Sergeant Orwelle is here, sir,’ said Quenhyth to Bartholomew, bewildered by the exchange. His literal mind rendered him no better with irony than did William’s. ‘There has been an incident at the King’s Mill, and you are needed. He says Brother Michael should come, too, since one of the fatalities might be a scholar.’
‘One of the fatalities?’ queried Michael, reaching for his cloak. ‘I do not like the sound of this.’
CHAPTER 3
Bartholomew and Michael hurried along streets that were dark grey with dusk. It was a cold evening, and the physician could see his breath pluming in front of him as he walked. He wondered whether there would be a frost that night. The previous winter had been one of the coldest anyone could recall, when snows had choked the roads and sealed the town from the outside world for days. The river had frozen, too, and the town’s watermills had been unable to operate, because the millers were afraid the ice would damage their machinery. This had driven up the price of flour, and people had died of starvation before winter had finally loosened its frigid grip.
There was a stiff breeze that Sunday evening, which meant the smoke that rose from hundreds of fires was blown away, rather than hanging over the town in a choking pall. Bartholomew could see the first stars appearing in the dark-blue sky and, when he breathed deeply, he detected not only the sulphurous stink of the marshes that lay to the north, but the more pleasant scent of early spring. He had seen primroses near Isnard’s house earlier that day, little lemon spots on a scrubby bank.
Sergeant Orwelle led the way. He was a grizzled veteran of the French wars, who usually worked at the Trumpington Gate, where he screened any strangers who wanted access to his town. The gate was not far from the King’s Mill, so Bartholomew supposed someone had run to him for help when the ‘incident’ – whatever that was – had unfolded.
‘What happened?’ he asked as they went, with Orwelle setting a cracking pace that had the overweight Michael gasping for breath. Bartholomew wondered whether Orwelle’s haste was because casualties needed urgent medical assistance, or whether he simply wanted to be back at his familiar post and out of the cold. ‘An accident?’
‘I would not say that,’ replied Orwelle, rather obtusely. ‘But then I know little of these things.’
‘What things?’ panted Michael.
‘The dead. You know,’ said Orwelle mysteriously.
Bartholomew began to have misgivings about the whole venture. There was a good deal of heavy machinery in a mill, and he had been called to some very unpleasant crushing accidents in the past. He skidded to a standstill.
‘Are you sure I am needed? I deal with the living, not the dead. If I have a sinister reputation for performing the odd surgical operation, then that is not going to be made better by my exploring mangled bodies at this hour of the night.’
‘You are the University’s Corpse Examiner,’ pronounced Orwelle uncompromisingly. ‘Everyone knows that. You are supposed to look at their deceased. It is your job.’
‘It is not!’ exclaimed Bartholomew indignantly, appalled that the occasional helping hand he gave to Michael should be seen as an official position. ‘I am a physician!’
‘You are both,’ said Orwelle, unmoved. They had reached the Trumpington Gate. ‘This is where we part company, gentlemen. I have no desire to see that again.’
‘You are looking into the murder of Bosel the beggar,’ said Michael, dabbing his sweaty brow with a piece of white linen, as he embarked on another subject. Bartholomew was not the only one who was unwilling to see what awaited him at the King’s Mill. ‘What have you learned so far?’
‘Nothing, despite the fact that I have questioned virtually everyone in the town over the last two days.’ Orwelle sounded dispirited. ‘Sheriff Tulyet says I should investigate Thorpe and Edward Mortimer, because they are known killers.’
Bartholomew rubbed his chin. ‘It would be stupid to start murdering people as soon as they arrive, and they are not fools. Perhaps someone killed Bosel in the hope that they would be blamed.’
Orwelle was appalled. ‘But there are hundreds of folk who want that pair gone from our streets! I will never narrow it down to one suspect.’ He sighed, and became even more gloomy. ‘The Sheriff says I should look at Thomas Mortimer, too, because Bosel threatened to be a witness against him. He also suggested I probe the affairs of the madwoman – Bess – who arrived here a few weeks ago.’
‘Who is she?’ asked Michael. ‘And why did you let her into our town, if you thought she might be dangerous?’
‘She is not dangerous,’ said Orwelle with great certainty. ‘And she did not kill Bosel, either. She came mumbling something about finding a lost lover. She is clearly out of her wits, and I thought she might be able to beg a few pennies here before she moves on, poor lass. She is too addled to know about poisons. But it is cold out here, and there is a fire in the gatehouse.’ Without another word, he turned and strode away, leaving the two scholars to complete the short journey alone.
‘Orwelle is right about your duties as Corpse Examiner,’ said Michael, as they passed Peterhouse and began to walk towards the mill, which was a black mass against the darkening sky. ‘In fact, I discussed the matter with Tynkell only last week, and we have decided to make the post a permanent one, with a proper stipend.’
‘Good,’ said Bartholomew with feeling. ‘You can offer it to Rougham. He can chase after you in the dead of night looking at sights no physician ever ought to be asked to see. He may even enjoy it.’
‘I do not want Rougham,’ said Michael. ‘I want you. Rougham’s mind is too closed to allow him to be of use to me – and do not suggest Paxtone, either. He is a pleasant fellow, but he is unimaginative, and would probably faint if I showed him a corpse.’
‘I will not do it,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘It would mean I am never free to refuse you.’
‘You never refuse me anyway,’ Michael pointed out. ‘So you may as well be paid for your trouble. The Chancellor is willing to provide fourpence for every corpse examined. At that rate, it will not take you long to earn enough to buy Roger Bacon’s De erroribus medicorum. You have wanted a copy of that ever since Paxtone lent you his, and I hear Gonville intends to sell theirs.’
‘Buy me the Bacon now, and I will inspect all the corpses you like for the next year,’ said Bartholomew, after a moment’s thought. ‘Rougham disapproves of De erroribus, because Bacon uses Arabic sources. He may destroy it, just to prevent student physicians from becoming tainted with ideas that did not originate with Christians.’
‘Have you pointed out that Aristotle, Plato and Socrates were not Christians either?’ asked Michael archly. ‘And that their philosophy forms the basis of nearly all our teaching?’
‘He says they are different, although he will not explain why. You know what zealots are like, Brother. They are so convinced that they are right they cannot – or will not – accept the validity of any arguments that contradict their beliefs.’