‘They arrived almost two weeks ago,’ said Boltone, in a way that suggested he wished they had not. ‘There were riots in Oxford, so these brave souls decided it was time to inspect “some of the more distant outposts”, as they describe this fine manor. The reality is that they were too frightened to stay in their own city.’
‘What can you tell me about Chesterfelde?’ asked Michael, since the garrulous bailiff seemed to be in the mood for chatter. ‘Do you have any idea who slipped a knife into his back last night?’
‘Not specifically,’ said Boltone, standing aside to allow them inside. The door opened into a stone-vaulted entrance chamber packed with storage barrels and an eclectic assortment of agricultural implements. Merton Hall evidently placed a greater emphasis on accommodating its farming needs than on appearances, since the chaotic jumble could hardly be said to provide an attractive welcome to visitors. A spiral staircase in one corner led to the hall and solar above. ‘He was a happy sort of man – although he had a temper – and he has been here before. I think he liked Cambridge.’
‘Anything else?’
Boltone shrugged. ‘He was more cheerful than that miserable lot upstairs, so perhaps his gaiety led them to dispatch him. Not everyone likes a smiling face in the mornings.’
Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘You think he was killed because he was a morning person? That does not sound like much of a motive.’
‘Do not be so sure,’ said Boltone sagely. ‘I imagine it would be very annoying, day after day. As I said, the others are a morose rabble who seldom laugh about anything. But you took so long to answer their summons that some grew tired of waiting and have wandered off.’
‘I was delayed because I am busy,’ said Michael stiffly, not liking the censure in the bailiff’s tone. ‘I cannot drop important business the moment anyone snaps his fingers.’
Boltone shot him an unpleasant glance, offended by the implication that events at Merton Hall were insignificant. He sniffed, then his eyes took on a spiteful gleam. ‘The scholars refused to eat their breakfast with a body in the room, and insisted on moving it to the solar – I told them they should leave it where it was until you arrived, but they ignored me. Still, it is obvious what killed Chesterfelde. All you need do is work out which of his so-called friends did it.’
Michael and Bartholomew were about to follow Boltone upstairs to the hall, when the door clanked and someone else entered the vestibule. While Michael introduced himself, Bartholomew, feeling sluggish again, wondered whether he could manage to snatch an hour of sleep that afternoon or whether he would have to spend the time preparing lessons for Clippesby’s astronomers.
‘My God!’ breathed the newcomer. The shocked tone of his voice dragged the physician out of his reverie. ‘Matthew Bartholomew! I heard you had settled in Cambridge, but I did not believe it. I thought even you had more taste than to come here.’
Boltone was affronted. ‘Hey! This is a nice place, not like Oxford, which has riots every week.’
It took a few moments for Bartholomew to identify the face that was gazing imperiously at him, not because it had been forgotten, but because it was not one he had ever expected to see again.
‘William de Polmorva,’ he said, startled. It was not a pleasant surprise. He and Polmorva had not been on good terms when they had been undergraduates together at Oxford, and had come to blows on several occasions. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘You two know each other?’ asked Michael, looking from one to the other.
‘Obviously,’ drawled Polmorva, employing the aggravating sarcasm Bartholomew recalled so vividly.
‘Why are you here?’ asked Bartholomew, before Michael could formulate a suitably cutting retort. He had barely given Polmorva a thought in the twenty years since he had left Oxford, but memories started to crowd unbidden into his mind now, most of them centred around the fellow’s arrogance and condescension.
Polmorva shrugged. ‘Oxford is dangerous at the moment, and a man like me cannot be too careful.’
‘A man like you?’ echoed Michael, arching his eyebrows. The tone of his voice indicated that the comment could be taken in one of several ways and that he was busily sorting through them for the worst. Bartholomew had known Michael long enough to see he had taken a dislike to Polmorva.
‘Wealthy and erudite,’ elaborated Polmorva with a wolfish grin. ‘However, this squalid little village is every bit as dangerous as Oxford, and a good deal less charming. I arrived here eleven days ago, and two of my party have died already – one of them murdered.’
‘It will be three dead if he insults Cambridge again,’ hissed Boltone, addressing Michael. ‘I will not stand here and see my lovely town maligned by the likes of him.’
‘Go about your business,’ ordered Polmorva icily. ‘You should not be here, listening to your betters. Be off with you!’
‘You see?’ said Boltone to Michael. ‘Rude and miserable. That is what these Oxford scholars are – and one of them killed Chesterfelde.’ He turned on his heel and stalked out, slamming the door behind him.
‘You will not find Chesterfelde’s killer among Oxford’s scholars,’ said Polmorva in the ensuing silence. ‘But townsmen like him should be worth a long, hard look. And now, let me look at you.’
He walked around Bartholomew as if he was inspecting a prize bull. The physician forced himself not to show his irritation, knowing perfectly well that his old nemesis would be delighted if he succeeded in irking him. The physician saw time had not mellowed the man, and that he was just as spiteful and rebarbative as he had been in his youth.
Polmorva had always taken pride in immaculate grooming and he was perfectly attired now. His hair was fashionably cut, his gipon – a padded, above-the-knee tunic – fitted snugly around his waist, and he wore a sword-belt that aped the recent fashion among knights. The cloth of his cloak was expensive, while his soft-leather shoes were modelled into impractical points in the style popular among those who were not obliged to walk very far. In his patched and faded garments, still rumpled from his time with Matilde, Bartholomew felt grubby and impoverished. But for all his finery, Polmorva was unable to disguise the fact that his hair was thinning and there were puffy pouches under his eyes. By contrast, Bartholomew’s complexion was unblemished, resulting from plenty of exercise and the fact that his College rarely provided him with enough wine to allow debauchery. His hair was still mostly black, and he lacked the paunch that Polmorva’s expensive clothes could not disguise. He stood a little taller under the scrutiny, feeling that the years had been kinder to him than they had to his rival, and that he cut a finer figure, despite the disparity in the quality of their costumes.
‘Well,’ drawled Polmorva, reverting to spoken insults. ‘I see you have not used your education to earn your fortune. How have you managed to fall on such hard times?’ He reached for the pouch that hung at his belt, and his voice dripped with contempt. ‘Perhaps I can oblige with a loan? At least you could buy a decent tabard.’
‘Who is this cockerel?’ demanded Michael of Bartholomew, affronted on his friend’s behalf.
Polmorva gave one of his infuriating smiles. ‘I see you are a forgetful man, Brother. We were introduced last week, when you examined Okehamptone’s corpse.’
‘I do not recall you,’ said Michael with calculated insouciance. ‘As Senior Proctor, I meet many important men, and tend to dismiss lesser mortals from my mind.’
Polmorva gave another of his nasty sneers. ‘I am William de Polmorva, formerly Chancellor of the University of Oxford, and now Fellow of Queen’s College.’
Bartholomew could not stop himself from gaping. ‘They elected you Chancellor?’
Polmorva preened himself. ‘A two-year appointment.’