‘I asked those questions because I have been unwell for so long,’ replied Tynkell stiffly. ‘Bishop Bateman was also ill for some time, and it occurred to me that someone might be feeding me a noxious, slow-acting substance to bring about my death.’
‘In that case, you should eat only from dishes shared by your colleagues, and never accept gifts of food and wine,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘I wish you had mentioned this on Saturday. Our discussion gave Rougham entirely the wrong impression.’
Tynkell was not interested in the damage he might have done to Bartholomew’s reputation. ‘You are the University’s Senior Physician, so of course I consulted you about my concerns. Who else should I ask?’
‘I do not think anyone is poisoning you,’ said Bartholomew, although it crossed his mind that the Chancellor might well be poisoning himself – with his powerful personal odours. ‘But you should discuss this with your own physician, not me.’
‘I do not know what to do about these gripes,’ Tynkell went on, ignoring the advice. ‘I summoned Rougham first, then Paxtone, and they were both very thorough. Rougham composed a horoscope, and Paxtone wrote out details of a dietary regime involving beet juice that he said would have me better within a week. But I am not better, and I prefer your unorthodox treatments to their conventional ones: your cures work, and theirs do not.’
Bartholomew hid a smile. ‘So, are you abandoning them to return to me?’
‘I have not been well since I defected,’ admitted Tynkell. He hesitated, never a man to be decisive. ‘But perhaps I could keep all three of you. What do you think of that?’
‘I think you will find yourself given a lot of contradictory advice,’ replied Bartholomew, amused by the proposition. ‘You will compromise, and take the most appealing cures from each of us, and you will probably end up feeling worse.’
‘I thought you would say that,’ said Tynkell. ‘But I know how to resolve this conundrum. I shall have my horoscope from Rougham, my eating plan from Paxtone, and my medicine from you. Then I shall offend no one – Gonville, King’s Hall or Michaelhouse.’ He beamed, and Bartholomew saw that compromise and an unwillingness to offend was probably the root of his success as Chancellor – along with the fact that Michael made the real decisions.
‘We did not ask you here for a consultation,’ said Michael. He pushed a parcel across the table, an oblong shape wrapped in cloth. ‘This is for you, on the understanding that you accept the official post as Corpse Examiner for the next year, as you agreed last night.’
Bartholomew gaped at him. ‘You did not waste any time!’
‘I believe in striking while the iron is hot,’ replied Michael smugly. ‘Purchasing Bacon’s De erroribus medicorum from Gonville was the first thing Chancellor Tynkell did this morning, and drawing up an official document to seal our pact was the second. Sign here.’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew, reluctantly pushing the book away. ‘I had better take the fourpence per corpse instead. I realised this morning that I need the money more than a book.’
‘I suppose you want it to buy medicines,’ said Michael, regarding his friend astutely. ‘And since most of your rich patients have abandoned you in favour of Paxtone and Rougham, you find yourself short of funds, and your patients are without the benefit of your generosity. I wondered how long it would take before you discovered that the wealthy have their uses.’
‘I have no choice but to opt for the fourpence,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘I waste my time if I recommend medicines that cannot be purchased. I may as well not bother to visit the sick at all.’
‘But this Bacon cost ten marks,’ said Tynkell, aggrieved. ‘Now you say you do not want it?’
‘I did not say I do not want it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I said I needed the coins more.’
‘Take the book,’ said Tynkell, thrusting it so hard across the table that Bartholomew had to leap forward to catch it before it fell. ‘You can consider it a long-term loan from the University to Michaelhouse – as payment for services already rendered. And you shall have your fourpence per corpse, too. You had better submit an invoice monthly, because if you send me one every time a body is discovered, I will be doing nothing other than processing your demands.’
Bartholomew regarded him suspiciously. The University was not noted for its largess, and he did not want to accept something that would later come to cost a good deal more. ‘A loan? Why?’
‘To ensure we keep you,’ said Tynkell. ‘You are not the only one who wants this newly created post: Rougham is also interested in fourpence per corpse. But Brother Michael would rather have you. In fact, he organised the whole thing specifically for your benefit.’
‘He did?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. He saw Michael scowl at the Chancellor, but Tynkell was not to be silenced.
‘You should not hide your good deeds, Brother. It will do your reputation no harm for folk to know you occasionally act with compassion. Your friend has lost his wealthy patients, so you decided to help him with his predicament. I thought twopence per corpse was ample, but you insisted on more.’
‘It is a business arrangement,’ said Michael stiffly, disliking the notion that he should be seen as someone who acted out of the goodness of his heart. He preferred to be seen as a cunning and ruthless manipulator. ‘Nothing more, nothing less.’
‘Thank you, Michael,’ said Bartholomew sincerely.
‘Sign here,’ snapped Michael. Bartholomew took the pen and wrote his name, feeling as though he were making a pact with the Devil. Michael smiled in grim satisfaction. ‘Good. Now you are legally bound to inspect any corpse I discover for the next year.’
‘The first thing we must do is visit Gonville and ask why Bottisham was in the King’s Mill last night,’ said Michael, as they left the Chancellor’s office. Both took deep breaths, grateful to be away from the aromatic presence. ‘Then we will go to Deschalers’s house and see whether his apprentices or servants have anything more meaningful to tell us than recipes for rat custard and stoat soup.’
‘I agreed to examine corpses for you, Brother,’ said Bartholomew warningly. ‘But that does not mean I am at your beck and call to help with all your murder investigations from now on.’
Michael slapped his friend on the shoulder. ‘That is better, Matt. I was beginning to think there was something seriously amiss when you agreed so readily to become my Corpse Examiner. No terms, no conditions – it was most unlike you. But here you are, complaining as usual, and I see all is well. However, you did offer to help me with Bottisham’s investigation.’
‘I will,’ promised Bartholomew, not sure what he could do on that front, much as he had liked the Gonville lawyer. It was depressing to have no encouraging leads. ‘But first, I must visit Isnard, and then I promised to show my students how to mix a potion for Una. She has a sore stomach again.’
‘It is all the claret she drinks,’ remarked Michael. ‘It is too little like wine and too much like vinegar. That is what ails her.’
‘I imagine she would not be able to carry out her professional duties if she did not have some strong drink inside her – and then she would starve for certain. Come with me. She likes you.’
‘They all do,’ said Michael, leaving Bartholomew wondering who was meant by ‘all’ and how the monk had interpreted ‘likes’. ‘But not if Quenhyth is going, too. He is the least likeable student in the University, and I do not know why you are so patient with him.’
‘Because he may make a good physician one day. He works hard and, although he will never be a popular healer, he may become an effective one, and that is all that really matters.’
‘If you say so. We are beset by unpleasant young men these days: Thorpe, Mortimer, Quenhyth. Damn! I should have held my tongue. All three of them are suddenly coming our way.’
Bartholomew saw he was right. Thorpe and Edward Mortimer were striding along the High Street from the direction of the Great Bridge, while Quenhyth and Redmeadow were making their way up St Michael’s Lane from the College. Bartholomew was tempted to duck into the nearest church and avoid them all, but Michael was not so squeamish. He bared his small yellow teeth in a grin of false welcome as the two felons drew level, watching them exchange nudges and glances, and clearly intent on aggravation. The students reached them at the same time, and stood behind Bartholomew, expressing silent solidarity.