‘I would rather you stayed away from her, Matt,’ murmured Stanmore. ‘She is looking for a husband, and I do not want my family associated with Emma’s. It will be bad for trade.’
‘You need have no worries on that score,’ said Bartholomew firmly.
‘I bought my mother three general pardons,’ Odelina announced as she approached. ‘I do not believe they will shorten her stay in Purgatory, but my father does, and I like to make him happy.’
‘You are fond of him,’ said Edith. Bartholomew winced when he saw the puzzled expression on her face, indicating she could not imagine why.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Odelina, nodding fervently. ‘He is the gentlest, sweetest man in the world. And if he wants pardons for my mother’s soul, then pardons he shall have.’
‘She might do better with your prayers,’ said Michael piously. ‘Genuine ones.’
But Odelina was not very interested in talking to him. She fixed her gaze on Bartholomew. ‘I knew you would come today,’ she simpered. ‘For me.’
‘You should go to your grandmother,’ he said, unwilling to waste time repelling her when he should be concentrating on catching a killer. ‘She looks unwell.’
‘Her tooth is paining her,’ explained Odelina. ‘It is a pity, because she was looking forward to today. She loves funerals.’
‘Oh.’ Bartholomew blinked. ‘Ask Meryfeld to tend her. He is standing by the church door.’
Reluctantly, Odelina went to do as she was told. The moment she had gone, Thelnetham joined them. Unusually, his habit was plain, and bore none of the flagrant accessories he normally sported.
‘Your medical students are hatching a plot to disrupt this afternoon’s lectures,’ he said, pursing his lips. ‘They plan to infest the hall with rats – and no hall, no teaching.’
Bartholomew groaned. ‘If it is not one problem, it is another.’
‘Go,’ said Thelnetham. ‘I will help Michael eavesdrop on the mourners. I want these thefts and murders solved as much as the next man.’
It was an odd offer, but Bartholomew nodded his thanks and strode quickly to Michaelhouse, where he arrived just in time to see Valence lifting a large rodent from a box. The student dropped it when his master marched into the hall, and it made an immediate bid for escape, heading unerringly for the spiral staircase that led to the yard. Bartholomew folded his arms and raised his eyebrows.
‘It was to test a remedy,’ said Valence defensively. ‘A new one we have devised to … to reverse the course of miscarriage in women.’
‘That is not possible,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And even if it were, you would not prove your case by testing it on that particular rat – it was male. But as you are all here, we may as well start work early. It will give me more time to test you on what you have learned afterwards.’
He saw alarmed looks being exchanged, and grinned to himself, thinking it served the rascals right. He threw himself into the exercise with all the energy at his command, and by mid-afternoon – and he stopped only because Langelee told him the bell had rung a long time before and the servants were still waiting to serve dinner – he felt as though progress had been made.
‘Christ’s blood!’ muttered Valence, watching him head for the high table to join the rest of the Fellows. ‘I have never been worked so hard in my life! Perhaps we should all forget about being physicians, and become lawyers, instead.’
Chapter 10
Because his students’ performance had been better than he had expected, Bartholomew gave them the rest of the afternoon off, an announcement that was greeted with a spontaneous cheer. He had been going to suggest they spent the time reading Theophilus’s De urinis, but their reaction made him wonder whether Michael was right, and he had been pushing them too hard. But there was a desperate need for qualified physicians, and he felt it was his duty to train as many as he could.
He was still thinking about teaching when Michael approached. The monk was dressed in his best habit, and his lank brown hair had been carefully brushed around his tonsure. He had shaved, too, so his plump face was pink and clean, although his expression was anxious.
‘We are going to Celia Drax’s celebration,’ he announced. ‘All our suspects are likely to be there, and we must catch this killer-thief before the camp-ball game.’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘And if we can make enough fuss about our success, it may even distract the hostels and Colleges from fighting, too.’
‘Quite,’ agreed Michael. ‘It is imperative we uncover some clues this evening. So change that torn tabard, don a clean shirt and let us be off. Incidentally, did your students tell you that the Colleges have replied to the trebuchet incident? Or are they too frightened of you to indulge in idle chatter these days?’
Bartholomew did not like to admit that he had not given them the chance. ‘I hope it was nothing to worsen the trouble,’ he said nervously. ‘Cynric told me that Gib and Jolye, now official martyrs for hostels and Colleges respectively, are being used as figureheads to rally support. It is becoming increasingly difficult for the peaceful scholars to remain neutral.’
‘The trick is very clever, and has Welfry’s hand all over it – amusing without being vicious or dangerous. I could have kissed him when members of both factions stood together to laugh.’
‘What did he do?’
‘I am not sure how, but he built a mountain of eggs and set Agatha in a large throne on top of them. Both laundress and chair are extremely heavy, and I cannot imagine how the whole thing does not collapse. But not one egg is so much as cracked.’
Bartholomew regarded him uneasily; only lunatics crossed Agatha. ‘Does she mind?’
‘She is having the time of her life. People are flocking to admire the spectacle – and admire her, too. I wish you could see it, but your duty lies at Celia Drax’s home, which represents a vital opportunity to see what can be learned about these thefts and murders.’
‘Does that mean you had no luck at Alice’s funeral?’ asked Bartholomew unhappily.
Michael winced. ‘None at all. It was a waste of time – and time is something we do not have. By this hour tomorrow, the camp-ball game will be over, and who knows what might be left?’
Worriedly, Bartholomew trailed after him to Celia’s house. When they arrived, it was to find every room packed with guests. An impromptu band of musicians had gathered and was belting out popular tunes, although the thudding beat of the drum drowned out the other instruments. People were dancing, too, in a heaving, gyrating mass. Whoops, cries, cheers and laughter abounded, and there was a rank smell of spilled wine and sweaty bodies.
‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘I have not been to one of these since I was a student.’
Michael looked around with narrowed eyes. ‘We shall start by having a word with Fen and his nuns. They are by the window, talking to Prior Leccheworth.’
They started to ease their way through the jigging dancers, but were intercepted by Celia, resplendent in yet another new gown.
‘All manner of vermin accepted my invitation, I see,’ she said unpleasantly, yelling to make herself heard over the racket. ‘Whores, impoverished students, warlocks, venal monks–’
‘Is this any way to honour your husband?’ demanded Michael, gesturing around him in distaste. ‘He is barely cold in his grave.’
‘It is what is called a wake,’ bawled Celia. ‘A celebration of his life. If you do not like it, leave.’
She turned and flounced away before Michael could respond. Bartholomew was tempted to do as she suggested, because he was not in the mood for rowdy parties, but the desperate hope that they might learn something to avert a crisis the following day kept him there.