‘Could it be anything to do with the College–hostel dispute?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘It would represent a rather horrible turn in the rivalry, but having a murdered taverner on our property will certainly not endear us to the town. It may even encourage them to attack us.’
‘I cannot believe that is the answer,’ said Michael, although with more hope than conviction. ‘Because it would represent a rather horrible turn – one that is not in keeping with carts on roofs, cunningly balanced boats, or filling halls with roosting chickens. We shall bear it in mind, but I feel certain you are wrong.’ He sighed tiredly. ‘You had better inspect Drax’s corpse again now.’
‘Why?’ Bartholomew wanted to return to his teaching. ‘I have already told you all I can.’
‘I doubt you conducted a thorough examination with Ayera and Thelnetham snorting their disapproval behind you,’ said Michael tartly. ‘So you will go to St Michael’s Church and do it properly. And if you refuse, I shall withhold the fee you will be paid as my Corpse Examiner.’
The threat was both unfair and unkind. As Corpse Examiner, Bartholomew was paid three pennies for every cadaver he assessed, and he needed the money badly, because prices had risen sharply since the beginning of winter. Michael knew he was struggling to buy the medicines necessary for those of his patients who could not afford their own.
‘I will not be able to tell you anything else,’ he grumbled, as they walked up St Michael’s Lane. ‘And you should think of Drax’s wife. It would be dreadful if someone like Yffi got there with the news first, because I doubt he has a gentle way with words.’
‘I know,’ replied Michael. ‘So you can paw the cadaver, while I visit the widow.’
‘We saw her earlier today,’ said Bartholomew, sorry for the unpleasant shock she was about to receive. ‘She is a friend of Emma’s granddaughter – Odelina – and was at Emma’s house.’
‘So she was.’ Michael’s eyes narrowed. ‘So I had better ask whether she stayed there all morning. It would not be the first time a wife dispatched an unloved husband, after all.’
‘You cannot investigate this case,’ said Bartholomew, seeing the monk had the bit between his teeth. ‘Drax was not a scholar, and there is nothing to indicate he died on University property, either. Ergo, his death falls under Dick Tulyet’s jurisdiction. He is the Sheriff.’
‘Dick will have far more important business to attend,’ predicted Michael. ‘Besides, Drax was found in my College, so I have a right to find out what happened to him.’
‘Actually, Dick told me only last week that there is not much to do these days, because Emma has frightened all the petty criminals away. He spends all his time on administration, and he is bored. You may find he is less willing to relinquish the matter than you think.’
‘Then we shall have to work together. However, I would rather work with you than him, and–’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘I do not have time, especially with Emma summoning me every time she feels a twinge in her jaws.’
‘You cannot be that busy,’ argued Michael. ‘Two new physicians arrived in Cambridge a few weeks ago and relieved you of some of your patients. You should have plenty of spare time.’
‘It is a bad winter, Brother. Even with Gyseburne and Meryfeld here, we can barely keep up with the demand for consultations.’
‘You can find the time to help me. You must, because this concerns your College – your home. But here we are at the High Street, where you turn right to the church, and I turn left for the Drax mansion. I shall expect your report later.’
St Michael’s was a pretty building with a low, squat tower and a huge chancel. It was a peaceful place, because its thick walls muted the din of the busy street outside, and the only sound was the coo of roosting pigeons. Bartholomew aimed for the little Stanton Chapel, named for the wealthy lawyer who had founded Michaelhouse and rebuilt the church more than thirty years before.
When he arrived, he stared at Drax for a moment, then began to remove the taverner’s blood-soaked clothing. It did not take long to confirm his initial findings: that the wound in Drax’s stomach would have been almost instantly fatal, while the stiff jaws indicated it had happened hours before. The location and angle of the injury made suicide unlikely.
As he replaced the clothes, he thought about Drax. He had not known him well, although he had met him when Drax had made much-needed donations to the College. The taverner had not been particularly generous, but every little helped, and Michaelhouse was grateful for his kindness. In return, the College’s priests had said masses for his soul. Langelee was scrupulous about ensuring this was done, which was why people like Drax and Emma were willing to do business with him.
Bartholomew recalled seeing Drax earlier that day, quarrelling with Kendale. It had been just after dawn, and although estimating time of death was an imprecise business, he suspected the taverner had died not long afterwards. Had the argument escalated once Kendale had pulled Drax down the alley? But if so, why would Kendale dump his victim’s corpse in Michaelhouse? Why not just tip it in the river, or stow it in a cart, to take to some remote spot in the Fens?
Feeling he had learned all he could, Bartholomew lifted Drax into the parish coffin – it did not seem decent to leave his tile-crushed face on display – and he was just fastening the lid when he heard footsteps. It was Celia. Odelina was with her, still crammed into her unflatteringly tight dress. She was breathless – she was not as fit as the older woman – and Celia had clearly set a rapid pace from her Bridge Street home. Behind them, struggling to keep up, was Michael.
‘Where is my husband?’ demanded Celia. Her imperious gaze settled on the coffin. ‘You have not shoved him in there, have you?’
‘Well, yes,’ said Bartholomew uncomfortably. ‘I am sorry. It did not–’
‘No matter,’ Celia interrupted briskly. ‘But show me his face. It may not be John, and I do not want to invest in mourning apparel if you have the wrong man.’
‘Perhaps you might inspect his hand instead,’ Bartholomew suggested tactfully.
‘Why?’ asked Celia coldly. ‘Have you performed some dark magic that has changed his appearance? Your fondness for witchery is why I am no longer your patient, if you recall.’
‘Your husband’s fingers,’ whispered Odelina, before Bartholomew could reply. ‘Robin the surgeon chopped them off after that accident with Yffi, and Doctor Bartholomew obviously thinks that identifying them will be less distressing than looking on his poor dead face.’ She looked away quickly. ‘This is all very horrible!’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Celia, relenting. ‘I had forgotten his missing digits. Yffi’s blood money allowed us to buy the Griffin tavern. Then we used its profits to buy more inns, so we now have seven. And three lovely houses, including the big one we lease to Kendale – he calls it Chestre Hostel.’
‘The Griffin,’ mused Bartholomew, recalling it was where the yellow-headed man had fled after stealing Emma’s box. It seemed a strange coincidence.
But Celia was becoming impatient, so he reached under the lid and extracted the pertinent limb, thinking she seemed more annoyed than distressed by her spouse’s demise. Odelina was pale and shaking, but her grandmother and father were protective of her, and he doubted she had encountered many corpses. He saw her look studiously the other way as Celia bent to examine Drax’s hand.
‘I always thought it odd that these two women should be such great friends,’ whispered Michael, as the two scholars stepped away to give them privacy. ‘But then Langelee explained it to me: the beautiful Celia is the heroine in the romantic ballads that Odelina so adores.’