‘You cannot blame them for that,’ Bartholomew whispered back. ‘Having Fellows with the pox is not something I would tell the Senior Proctor, either.’
‘Well, it is a pack of lies anyway,’ said Michael. ‘Wolf is not at Stourbridge, or you would have told me so when he first abandoned his duties. You have been there often enough recently, to visit Clippesby.’ He glanced sideways. ‘Right?’
‘Wolf is not there now,’ replied Bartholomew vaguely. He shook his head at Michael’s exasperation. ‘It is not my business to discuss the ailments of other scholars, Brother. That would make me as bad as Weasenham, and besides, who will hire a physician if he is the kind of man to spread embarrassing stories about his patients? It would not be ethical or proper.’
Weasenham’s eyes gleamed with interest at Dodenho’s slip, while Wormynghalle regarded her colleague in disbelief at his indiscretion. Weasenham was not so rash as to press Dodenho for details while she stood glowering, so he changed the subject back to Hamecotes.
‘I asked those Oxford men about Hamecotes and his alleged visits to the Other Place,’ he said snidely. ‘And they said no self-respecting college would sell scripts to a rival university. Then Polmorva told me that Hamecotes must be using book-buying as an excuse to enjoy his lover with no questions asked. So I put two and two together and . . .’ He raised his hands, palms upwards in a shrug, to indicate there was only one conclusion.
‘And made five,’ said Wormynghalle in disgust.
‘Hamecotes and Rougham are not lovers,’ said Dodenho, rallying too late to his colleague’s defence. ‘No self-respecting scholar would choose Rougham as a paramour.’
‘Because he could have you instead?’ asked Wormynghalle archly.
‘Quite,’ said Dodenho comfortably, thus telling anyone listening that he considered himself an excellent choice as a lover for people of either sex.
Wormynghalle grimaced in distaste at the conversation, and her expression echoed Bartholomew’s own opinion. The physician started to move away, wanting to leave them to their nasty speculations. What he heard next stopped him dead in his tracks.
‘Rougham is not the only scholar to have a secret lover,’ said Dodenho, trying to make amends for his lack of loyalty by attacking someone else. ‘Bartholomew of Michaelhouse is seeing Matilde, who lives in the Jewry. He is quite flagrant about it.’
Michael’s expression hardened, and Bartholomew held his breath, wondering whether Weasenham would be able to resist the opportunity to tell what he knew. If he did, then he was certain Michael would act on his promise to ruin him.
‘I know nothing of that,’ said the stationer stiffly, after a transparent battle between desire and self-preservation. Michael grinned in satisfaction, while Bartholomew was simply relieved that he and Matilde were no longer a target for the man’s spiteful tattle. ‘They are honourable people, and I do not see him flouting University rules.’
‘How dare you malign Bartholomew!’ snarled Wormynghalle, so white-faced with rage that Dodenho jumped in alarm. ‘He is a good man.’
Michael’s eyebrows shot up and he began to cackle. ‘You have an admirer – Wormynghalle has taken a fancy to you. You should take care you are never alone with the man, or Weasenham will be spreading rumours that half the Fellows in the University are in love with each other.’
Bartholomew said nothing, but was touched that Wormynghalle had come to his defence. After a few moments, she busied herself with selecting pens, while the stationer wrapped the ones Dodenho had already chosen. Dodenho looked around, then lowered his voice conspiratorially, although it was still loud enough to be audible to the eavesdroppers. ‘Have you heard the news from the Castle?’
‘Tulyet dredged Merton Hall’s cistern,’ said Wormynghalle flatly, attempting to stall yet more idle chatter by showing she already knew the tale. ‘Looking for a corpse. But he never found one, and there are rumours that it was never there in the first place.’
‘I do not mean that,’ said Dodenho, and Bartholomew saw him fixing the stationer with very beady eyes. Weasenham shifted uncomfortably. ‘But I think you know what I am talking about, Master Stationer.’
‘But I do not,’ muttered Michael, peeved. ‘I hope they do not go all obtuse on us.’
‘I have no idea what you mean,’ said Weasenham, slapping a wrapped pen on to the table to indicate that the sale – and the discussion – was over.
Dodenho had other ideas. He leaned forward and placed his hand over pen and the fingers that held it, making sure he had Weasenham’s full attention. Wormynghalle looked from one to the other in confusion, while the stationer was visibly alarmed by the grip that pinned him to the bench.
‘When Tulyet saw there was no body in the well, he abandoned his search,’ whispered Dodenho. ‘But a small crowd had gathered to watch the proceedings, and some folk lingered, disgruntled because they were deprived of the spectacle of a bloated corpse. One hovered longer than most, and eventually approached the cistern and had a poke around for himself.’
‘You were watching me!’ exclaimed Weasenham accusingly. ‘Where were you?’
‘Nearby,’ replied Dodenho vaguely. ‘I am not a man for obvious gawking, but I have no objection to witnessing such events from a discreet distance.’
‘I do not think that is a very nice thing to-’ began Wormynghalle uncomfortably.
Dodenho ignored her. ‘I saw this onlooker fish about with a hook for some time before he snagged something of interest. He took his find – a waterlogged sack – to some bushes, where he thought he could inspect it unseen.’
‘What do you want?’ asked Weasenham wearily. ‘Half of what I found? You are welcome. Most of it comprised baubles that I shall toss into the river as soon as I have a free moment.’
‘Blackmail!’ cried Wormynghalle, looking at Dodenho in horror. He took no notice and fixed all his glittering attention on the unhappy merchant.
‘There was a little silver dog. I saw it being made for mad Master Clippesby of Michaelhouse. That was no mere bauble.’
‘It was a gift from Clippesby to Matilde,’ said Weasenham. His expression became gleeful as he saw a way to change the subject. ‘For services rendered.’
‘For her kindness to an injured cat,’ corrected Wormynghalle sharply. ‘Clippesby is besotted with animals, and she helped one that was hurt. She is a good woman and he wanted to show her his appreciation, so do not make it sound sinister, Master Weasenham, when we know it was innocent.’
Bartholomew warmed to her even more, admiring her for speaking out in defence of two people whose reputations were currently compromised in the unforgiving little town.
‘The dog was stolen from Matilde,’ said Dodenho. ‘There are rumours that Eudo took it, but the Sheriff found no trace of the thing when he searched Merton Hall. Now we know why. Eudo – aided by Boltone – kept his stolen goods submerged in the cistern, where no one would ever think to look. Tulyet’s men missed them, because they were looking for a body, not a sack of treasure. But you did not.’
‘I see,’ murmured Bartholomew. ‘Eudo and Boltone did not attack us because they were concealing a murdered corpse, but because they were protecting stolen goods. They had been working on the pulley when we confronted them, either because they wanted it mended so they could retrieve the sack, or because they had acquired new treasures that needed to be hidden.’
‘Interesting,’ mused Michael. ‘So, the bailiff and his tenant had nothing to do with the dead man. That particular corpse simply had the misfortune to be stored in the same place as Eudo’s loot.’
Bartholomew reconsidered. ‘Although we should not discount the possibility that they killed him because he discovered their hoard. Also, we should not forget that Chesterfelde probably died near the cistern – of a cut wrist. And Eudo also has a damaged arm.’