‘Were they,’ said Bartholomew. The Dominican’s nocturnal wanderings meant he was often a witness to criminal activities, and he had provided Michael with valuable clues in the past. The difficulty, however, lay in deciding what was true and what was fancy.
‘They were,’ asserted Clippesby. ‘Tell Michael not to forget Okehamptone. It will please the geese to know they have a Senior Proctor who takes all deaths seriously. Can you see that lark, Matt? High in the clouds? I have just heard her say she saw you leaving Matilde’s house at dawn again this morning. You must be more discreet when you visit her, my friend, or you will tarnish her good name.’
‘Matilde the courtesan?’ asked Paul, regarding Bartholomew askance. ‘You visit her during the night? This lark is right, man! You should show some discretion. Leave while it is still dark, not once the sun has started to rise.’
‘I will bear it in mind,’ said Bartholomew shortly. ‘Although the lark should mind her own damned business, and keep her gossip to herself.’
He spent the rest of the day with his ailing colleague, but even after several hours still had no idea whether the Dominican was improving. It was frustrating, and he walked home helpless and angry, wishing there were not so many ailments that his medical training could not cure. He was light-headed from tiredness, but when he flopped on to his bed at Michaelhouse, intending to doze until it was time to meet Matilde, sleep would not come. Images of Clippesby, Polmorva and Duraunt rattled around his mind, along with Chesterfelde and the knife embedded in his back. He sensed he was about to embark on an investigation where nothing would be what it seemed, and that would take all his wits to solve. The unsettling part was that he did not think his wits were up to the task.
CHAPTER 3
The following morning heralded another glorious day, clear and blue. Michael told Bartholomew that he had been reviewing the evidence surrounding Chesterfelde’s death and had eliminated none of the suspects from his enquiries. He had visited the King’s Head tavern and ascertained that Eudo had indeed consumed copious quantities of ale on the night in question, but pointed out that being drunk did not preclude anyone from committing murder. He also distrusted Boltone, and thought Polmorva might well be right to accuse him of the crime on the basis of mistaken identity in the dark. But he distrusted Polmorva more, and considered him exactly the kind of man to kill and confuse the evidence by thrusting knives into dead men’s backs. The result was a wealth of suspects.
‘But not Duraunt,’ said Bartholomew as they walked up the High Street, Michael to ask yet more questions of his potential culprits, and Bartholomew to answer a summons from Sheriff Tulyet. Tulyet’s son had stabbed himself with one of his toy arrows, and his anxious parents wanted to ensure the injury was not serious. Bartholomew regarded the prospect of a session with Dickon without enthusiasm, sensing the nagging ache behind his eyes that had been plaguing him all night was likely to become worse once Dickon’s enraged screeches had soared around it.
‘Duraunt seems kindly,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But do not forget that phial we found in his bag – and the fact that we suspect everyone was fed a soporific before Chesterfelde was killed.’
‘It probably belongs to Polmorva,’ insisted Bartholomew doggedly. ‘Besides, the merchants or the scholar we have not yet met – Spryngheuse – might have killed Chesterfelde.’
‘That is why I want to question Duraunt about the poppy juice and why I want to meet Spryngheuse – so I can at least try to eliminate some of them from my investigation. I will keep you company while you tend Dickon, and then you can help me. I would like you to watch Polmorva and assess his reaction when we produce that vial.’ He gave Bartholomew a sidelong glance. ‘And I assure you that you have the better half of the bargain: a few moments with Dickon is far more dangerous than an entire week with murderers from Oxford.’
‘What about our teaching?’ asked Bartholomew with arched eyebrows. ‘It is Monday, and we have lectures all day. I paid Falmeresham to read De criticis diebus aloud for an hour while I tend Dickon, but he cannot do it all morning.’
‘He can,’ said Michael. Bartholomew saw a crafty look in the monk’s eye. ‘I anticipated we might be assisting each other, so I slipped him a little extra. Galen’s De criticis diebus is a lengthy work, and Falmeresham has promised to keep your students enthralled with it until noon – or at least, occupied so they do not wander around the hall and make a nuisance of themselves. I cannot imagine anyone being interested in a medical view of diet. Food is not for the cold analysis of science.’
‘What about Clippesby’s astronomers? Galen’s thoughts on vegetables are not relevant to their studies, and they are my responsibility now he is indisposed.’
‘You have only yourself to blame for that,’ said Michael haughtily. ‘You went to see him yesterday; you should have pronounced him fit and brought him home. But, as it happens, you can set your mind at rest over the astronomers, too. Young Rob Deynman has agreed to supervise them while they calculate every movable feast in the ecclesiastical year for the next decade.’
‘Deynman?’ spluttered Bartholomew in appalled disbelief. ‘Deynman? He can barely calculate the time of day when he hears the dinner bell ring! He is not capable of helping other students.’
‘He is not going to teach them,’ said Michael, unmoved by his objections. ‘He will just make sure they do not make too much noise or escape early. And at least he can read, which is more than can be said for the scholars of some Colleges.’
He glanced meaningfully to the other side of the street, where Thomas Paxtone, the Master of Medicine from King’s Hall, was passing the time of day with Bartholomew’s sister. Paxtone was a rosy-cheeked, smiling man from a village near Huntingdon and, unlike the other two physicians in the town – Lynton of Peterhouse and Rougham of Gonville Hall – he was willing to tend the poor, as well as those who could afford to pay for his services. His charity meant that some of the burden was lifted from Bartholomew, who was grateful.
‘Mistress Edith is telling me that she and her husband are about to embark on a journey,’ said Paxtone, nodding a friendly greeting as Bartholomew and Michael approached. ‘The weather is fine, so they will leave for London today.’
Edith kissed her brother, her face flushed with excitement at the prospect of an adventure. ‘Oswald is packing the last of our belongings and the horses are saddled. It is a week earlier than we anticipated, but our son will not mind.’
‘He might,’ warned Bartholomew, suspecting his nephew would be appalled by the unannounced arrival of his parents. Richard was a lawyer, and youth and a high income had combined to render him wild. Bartholomew trusted he would outgrow his dissolute lifestyle in time, but the lad had not shown any indication of encroaching sobriety so far. He hoped Edith would not find her beloved son entwined in the arms of a prostitute, or drunk and insensible – or both – because it would hurt her.
Edith waved away his concerns with the happy optimism he had always envied, then became serious and pulled him to one side, so Michael and Paxtone could not hear. The two scholars immediately began a rather strained discussion about whether the Archbishop should spend more time at King’s Hall, which was one of the University’s richest foundations, or Michaelhouse, which had a reputation for academic excellence. The decision would depend on whether the University wanted Islip impressed by Cambridge’s scholarship or its capacity for lavish entertainment.
‘You know I am fond of Matilde,’ Edith whispered to her brother, ‘and I think she would make you a good wife. But your nightly visits are damaging her reputation and yours.’