Dodenho seemed to consider his options. ‘A little,’ he replied eventually. ‘I met them once or twice through my friend . . . through my slight acquaintance, Chesterfelde. But they did not steal my astrolabe. That was students.’ His face took on a grim, stubborn look.
‘Misleading the Senior Proctor is a serious matter,’ said Michael sternly. ‘You would not be lying, would you, Dodenho?’
‘Of course not,’ bleated Dodenho. ‘Why would I do such a thing?’ He gave one of the falsest smiles Michael had ever seen and changed the subject. ‘Now, where is this ink, Wormynghalle?’
He pushed past the younger man and opened the door to an airy chamber where two desks were placed in the windows, to make best use of the light. Bartholomew looked around and saw a neat, functional room, obviously occupied by two people dedicated to academic pursuits. Shelves contained books and scrolls, all carefully stacked, while ink and pens were kept on a windowsill, to avoid accidental spillage that might damage the precious tomes. It was a clean place; Bartholomew could not see so much as a speck of dust anywhere.
Wormynghalle placed a tray on one of the tables and fetched a scrap of parchment. Bartholomew dipped his pen in the inkwell, and was amused when the first word he wrote came out bright green.
‘Sorry,’ said Wormynghalle, hurriedly supplying another pot. ‘That is Hamecotes’s. He has a liking for this particular colour, because he says it does not fade as readily as black.’
‘He is a verdant kind of man,’ said Dodenho, not entirely pleasantly. ‘He wears a green hood on Sundays, and dons emerald hose under his tabard. And he likes vegetables, especially cabbage.’
‘And folk think Clippesby is insane,’ muttered Michael.
Bartholomew wrote out the prescription, ignoring Dodenho’s insistence that wine and poppy juice would work better without the unnecessary addition of charcoal. Michael followed Dodenho when he went to find a servant to carry the recipe to the apothecary, to see if he could shake loose any more details about the mysterious movements of the astrolabe, while Bartholomew remained with Wormynghalle, who showed him a scroll containing quotations from the Arabic scholar al-Razi. The physician was pleasantly surprised when Wormynghalle listened attentively to his explanation about why Western medicine could benefit from the wisdom of the East, and even more pleased when he offered a number of intelligent comments. Wormynghalle was single-minded, perhaps a little fanatical, about learning, but Bartholomew preferred him to the shallow Dodenho.
All too soon, Michael returned, and Wormynghalle reluctantly relinquished his guest. He walked with them to the gate, clasping and unclasping his hands as he expounded a theory he had devised based around Grosseteste’s precepts of geometry. While he listened, Bartholomew noticed again Wormynghalle’s downy moustache and the few bristles that sprouted from the underside of his chin, and supposed he left them there to make himself appear older. He understood why, recalling the frustration he had experienced himself when mature scholars had dismissed his ideas, simply because he was young.
When they reached the road, Michael found it hard to prise the two men apart. Each time he tried to draw their discussion to a close, one would think of another point he wanted to raise. The monk was about to leave them to it, when his attention was caught by three people walking down the High Street together.
‘What are they doing out, when I expressly forbade them to stray from their lodgings?’
Wormynghalle dragged his attention away from Bartholomew’s analysis of radiant lines, and followed the line of the monk’s pointing finger. ‘It is the tanner – the one from Oxford who has the same name as me. But, Bartholomew, have you considered the pro contra abstraction, which-’
‘Well?’ demanded Eu imperiously, directing his question at Michael and cutting across the King’s Hall scholar’s erudite exposition. ‘What have you learned about Gonerby’s murder?’
‘Gonerby?’ asked Wormynghalle the scholar in puzzlement. ‘I thought you said the dead man from Merton Hall was called Chesterfelde.’
‘Gonerby was an Oxford merchant,’ explained Abergavenny politely. ‘He died during the St Scholastica’s Day riots, and Brother Michael has agreed to look into the matter for us.’
‘Only because he is afraid our questions will spark off civil unrest,’ said Eu nastily. ‘He does not want a war in progress when the Archbishop is here.’
‘Of course he does not,’ said Wormynghalle the scholar sharply. ‘Only a fool would.’
Eu regarded him coldly. ‘You must be a fool yourself, for approaching my colleague here in the hope of discovering some common kinship. He is a tanner, for God’s sake!’
The scholar’s eyebrows rose in surprise at the crude insult, but he clearly did not want to become embroiled in a row between merchants. Before his namesake could frame a suitable response to the jibe, he made a tight bow, turned on his heel and marched back inside King’s Hall, giving the impression that he had better things to do than to squabble with burgesses.
‘Are you sure you two are not kin?’ asked Eu archly. ‘You both have poor manners.’
‘I will kill any man who suggests I have ties to that ruffian!’ snarled Wormynghalle. ‘He wants to claim an association with me, so he can demand a donation towards his studies. He probably assumed my name for that express purpose, but I will not be taken in by charlatans.’
‘He is not poor,’ said Bartholomew. Wormynghalle’s chamber was an expensive one shared only with one other man, and with a private garderobe. In Michaelhouse such a large room would have been used as a dormitory for at least six.
‘Never mind him,’ said Eu impatiently. ‘I want to know about Gonerby.’
‘We have narrowed our list of suspects,’ replied Michael. ‘So, it is only a matter of time before we have your man.’
‘Good,’ said Eu, beginning to move away. ‘As we agreed, you have until the Visitation. If you do not have our culprit by then we shall follow Wormynghalle’s advice and take this physician to Oxford for hanging.’
Michael glowered at their departing backs, although Abergavenny shot the Michaelhouse men an apologetic smile as he left. ‘Eu is a nasty piece of work. Perhaps Dick was right, and he is the one in that unholy trio we should watch. But I still have a hunch about Abergavenny. Did you see the way he leered at us just now?’
‘Not really,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Were you honest in the reply you gave them? Have you narrowed your list of suspects? Men who were in Oxford in February, and who are now here?’
‘Yes,’ said Michael. ‘That was the absolute truth. However, I have eliminated so many of them with conclusive and incontestable alibis, that I now have a very short list indeed.’
‘How many are left on it?’
‘None,’ replied Michael. He shot his friend a rueful grin. ‘I told you it was short.’
Bartholomew was worried that Michael had no suspects for Gonerby’s murder, since he thought that Eu might be as good as his word, and try to abduct him if the real culprit was not produced. There was also a nagging anxiety that Langelee might just let it happen, on the grounds that it would rid Michaelhouse of the embarrassing situation involving his relationship with Matilde.
‘He will not,’ said Michael, when he voiced his concerns. ‘As I said before, he is fond of you. Besides, I shall soon have their man and, if worse comes to worst, I intend to fob them off with a tale about their culprit fleeing to London – send them chasing phantoms while Islip is here.’
‘And what if they catch someone innocent? They will execute him.’
‘Perhaps, but there is no point worrying about that yet, since we have several days to uncover the truth.’ Michael was silent for a moment, thinking. ‘I have the feeling that Abergavenny was right when he mooted the possibility that the murders of Gonerby and Chesterfelde might be related.’