‘I cannot, Brother. He is a physician and knows how to read the state of his own health.’
‘Then you will have to bring about a relapse,’ said Michael seriously.
Bartholomew regarded him in disbelief. ‘There are laws against that kind of thing, not to mention issues of professional misconduct. I will not make a patient ill.’
‘Then you may find you have even more victims to tend,’ warned Michael. ‘I sense we are on the verge of civil unrest that may see the University and its scholars gone from this town for ever. Look at Oxford. Do you want us under interdict, too? You may pray for Rougham’s recovery, but I shall put in a request for a lingering convalescence!’
CHAPTER 6
Despite Michael’s prayers, Rougham slept well that night. Bartholomew knew his colleague would remain weak for a day or two, and Matilde agreed to tend him for a while longer, although it was clear the prospect did not appeal in the slightest. She was relieved that Bartholomew was no longer obliged to spend his nights nursing the man, but was still concerned for his reputation and her own. Bartholomew thought it was far too late to worry – the damage had been done – and only hoped Clippesby was innocent, because he did not like to think he had squandered his good name to protect a guilty man.
Bartholomew and Michael took turns to watch Rougham, so both could rest at least part of the night, and left her house two hours before dawn. Then the physician had the satisfaction of entering Michaelhouse respectably, through the front gate and in company with the Senior Proctor. As if to announce the occasion to the rest of the College, the porter’s peacock released several piercing shrieks that had a number of scholars peering through their windows to see what was amiss. Before he retired to his chamber. Bartholomew made a brief detour to the orchard, Michael in tow, and was not surprised to discover the small gate securely barred.
‘Who keeps doing this?’ he demanded, as he stumbled back through the dark garden towards his room. ‘Someone who knows what I am doing for Clippesby, and who wants me to fail?’
‘William, perhaps?’ pondered Michael. ‘Clippesby is a hated Dominican, after all.’
‘Or Langelee, because he thinks a student is leaving it open? Or Wynewyk, because he dislikes the notion of any man having dealings with women? Or Suttone, because he believes crimes like fornication will bring back the plague?’
Michael sighed. ‘It could even be the porters, doing their duty properly for once, and walking around the College to ensure it is locked. We could wait here one night, I suppose, and catch him. There is no other way to find out, because asking will beg the question of how we know it was left open in the first place.’
‘As soon as I have organised my students for the day, I will examine Chesterfelde’s body,’ said Bartholomew, opening the door to his chamber and rummaging for candle and tinderbox. ‘Did you ask Matilde about Eudo and Boltone, by the way? William said they had stolen something from her.’
‘We spoke when you were changing the dressing on Rougham’s shoulder,’ replied Michael, plumping himself down on a stool that creaked under the weight. ‘Eudo visited her several days ago, claiming his wife had female pains, and could she spare medicine to ease them. After he had gone, she noticed Clippesby’s silver dog was missing, but she says she cannot be sure he was the thief, and declines to make an official complaint.’
‘He is not married, although there is no reason for her to know that,’ said Bartholomew, speaking softly, so he did not disturb those sleeping in the nearby rooms. ‘Do you think he knew Rougham was upstairs, and wanted to learn more about the nature of his injury?’
‘You think he has something to do with the murders,’ surmised Michael. ‘He and Boltone must be involved in something nasty, or they would not have tried to kill us for asking questions. Of course, Eudo may well have a lover, and really did need Matilde’s medicine. Men do ask her to help with that sort of thing, you know. Those two missing scholars at King’s Hall – Hamecotes and Wolf – are just two of many who rely on her for cures for their secret women. She told me so herself.’
Bartholomew grabbed Spryngheuse’s cloak, not pleased to hear that the lady he intended to marry was the focus of so much male attention, and made for the door. ‘I am restless and need to walk.’
Michael gave a startled laugh. ‘You cannot go out now; it is pitch black outside! I do not want it said that Michaelhouse has two insane Fellows – you and Clippesby, both wanderers in the dark.’
‘It is too hard to talk here. I am afraid our voices will wake the students sleeping upstairs.’
‘You could sleep yourself,’ suggested Michael. ‘God knows, you need some.’
‘My mind is too full of questions. Will you come with me?’
‘I will not! Sit down, Matt.’
‘I cannot stay here,’ insisted Bartholomew, pacing in agitation. An idea occurred to him. ‘I will visit St Giles’s Church and inspect Chesterfelde. I have a great deal to do today, and it will help if I do not have to find time to examine him, too.’
‘In the dead of night?’ asked Michael uneasily. ‘People will wonder what you are up to.’
‘I have done it before – at your instigation, I might add. Besides, I am less likely to be seen now than if I go during daylight. Churches are very public places.’
‘Not this one,’ said Michael soberly. ‘Chesterfelde is not in St Giles’s, because its vicar objected over this interdict business. He lies in All-Saints-next-the-Castle.’
‘But that has no roof,’ said Bartholomew, startled. ‘And it has no priest and no parishioners, either – not since the plague took them. Worse, it is sometimes used by folk who think God and His saints abandoned them during the pestilence – witches and the Devil’s disciples.’
‘I know,’ said Michael grimly. ‘But St Giles’s vicar claimed there would be a display of divine fury if the corpse touched hallowed ground before the issues regarding the interdict are resolved.’
Bartholomew was uncomfortable. ‘But that might take months. We shall have to ask the Archbishop for a decision, or Chesterfelde may still be waiting for his grave this time next year.’
‘The Archbishop,’ said Michael gloomily, following him to the door. ‘He is due to arrive in five days, and I am still no closer to catching this killer. My confidence was sadly misplaced, I fear.’
The town was silent in the hour before dawn, always a time of day the physician found unsettling. It was when he lost many dying patients, and when everything seemed unreal – either because he had been up all night, or because he had been forced awake earlier than his body was ready. That morning was no different, and he felt slightly light-headed as he walked.
Michael chattered next to him, trying to establish links between recent events. He said he understood why Clippesby might have attacked Rougham, but saw no reason for him to have killed Chesterfelde and the man in the cistern. He determined that when he next visited Clippesby, he would ask whether the Dominican knew Eudo and Boltone; he was sure they were involved in the mystery, but uncertain as to how.
‘And we cannot forget Abergavenny and his associates,’ he added. ‘If Gonerby did indeed die from a bite, then there is a connection there, too.’
Bartholomew was too tired to fit the facts into a logical pattern, and almost at the point where he did not care. He crossed the deserted Great Bridge and began to stride up Castle Hill, Michael wheezing at his side. It was a steep incline for Cambridge, topped by the brooding mass of the Norman fortress. This was a formidable structure, with a stone tower standing atop a sizeable motte, and sturdy curtain walls that defended its bailey. All Saints stood near its main gate. The church had once been impressive, and had served as castle chapel before a purpose-built one had been raised inside. Then All Saints had been relegated to parish church for those who lived in the nearby hovels. Poverty and dismal living conditions had conspired against these people when the plague had struck, and most had died. With no congregation and no priest, the building had crumbled from neglect. Now, when people referred to All Saints, most folk thought of the grander All-Saints-in-the-Jewry.