He sat and stretched his legs in front of him, hoping Edith had reached London safely, and that her son was as delighted to see her as she expected. He thought about Matilde, and recalled her laughing at something he had said; he wondered whether she was smiling now, finding Rougham equally amusing. He considered visiting her, to ask the question that had been on his lips so many times that week, but was still not in the mood to propose in front of an audience. However, even the prospect of married life with Matilde could not take his mind off Clippesby, and his thoughts soon returned to dwell on the dull hopelessness he had seen in the Dominican’s eyes.
He decided solitude was not what he needed, so went to the kitchens instead. These were off limits to scholars, because they were the domain of the formidable Agatha; but Agatha liked Bartholomew, and seldom ordered him to leave if he wanted company, or if he simply wanted to sit in the College’s warmest room. He was surprised when he entered the steamy, fat- and yeast-scented chamber to find not only Michael, but Langelee, too. Agatha was in her great wicker throne by the hearth, sewing in the fading light that filtered through the windows. The Master reclined on a bench, playing with his new astrolabe, while Michael perched on a stool by the fire. Bartholomew was not impressed to see him devouring oatcakes thickly smeared with salted lard.
‘I was hungry,’ said the monk defensively when he saw the physician’s disapproving gaze. ‘And anyway, these are only oatcakes. They will not make me fat.’
‘The white grease will, though,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Especially in that kind of quantity.’
‘We were talking about Clippesby,’ said Michael, changing the subject as he rammed one of the oatcakes defiantly into his mouth. ‘I confided all our suspicions to Langelee and Agatha – along with what your medical colleague in Norfolk has agreed to do for us.’ He looked hard at his friend, to tell him that Rougham’s role in the affair had not been revealed.
‘I cannot believe Clippesby would do such terrible things,’ said Agatha unhappily. ‘He is a gentle man, not a killer. Tell them, Matthew.’
‘I have,’ said Bartholomew, flopping on a stool next to Michael and taking one of the oatcakes. The fat was so generously applied that he thought he might be sick, and put it back half eaten. ‘But no one will listen to me.’
‘The evidence is there, plain for all to see,’ said Michael patiently. ‘I know this is an unpleasant – and even a painful – business, but we must be realistic. Occasionally, people change – they turn into something nasty, and Clippesby is a case in point. He has always been strange, and we have always been wary of him. We believed he was involved in something sinister during his first term at Michaelhouse – remember, Matt? – so we should not be surprised to learn now that his madness has transmuted itself into something dangerous with the passing of time.’
‘You will find you are wrong,’ warned Agatha. Bartholomew was surprised to see tears glittering in her small, pig-like eyes. He knew she was protective of all Michaelhouse’s scholars, but he had not appreciated how deeply she cared for the quiet Clippesby.
‘I do not see how,’ said Langelee. ‘There are too many arrows of circumstance pointing in his direction. If it were a case of one or two, I would be loath to send him away, too, but it is not. Some of our students are little more than children, Agatha, and we cannot risk their lives just because we want to believe in Clippesby’s innocence. It is our duty to protect them.’
‘We are lucky Matt has the contacts to arrange this solution,’ added Michael. ‘It is not unknown for Colleges to rid themselves of unwanted Fellows by murdering them, you know. I have investigated more than one case where a man has been killed because his colleagues did not like his scholarship, his religious ideas or his personality.’
‘It would be a lot less expensive,’ mused Langelee, looking as if he might consider such an option himself, should the need arise. Bartholomew was grateful Rougham had ensured it would not.
‘He will die if you lock him away from his animals,’ said Agatha tearfully.
Langelee frowned, and then looked at Michael. ‘She is right. Are you sure there is no other way?’
‘None I can think of, but I am willing to entertain any ideas you have. You need to come up with something quickly, though, because he leaves first thing tomorrow morning. It is better that way.’
‘Better for whom?’ demanded Agatha. ‘For the Archbishop of Canterbury, so a lunatic will not assail his priestly eyes? For the University, because we can allow nothing to interfere with our plans to impress Islip, and risk him founding his new College elsewhere? For Michaelhouse, because we do not want the embarrassment of a Fellow who is unlike the rest of us? It is certainly not better for poor Clippesby, banished to the barren wastes of a foul and dangerous county.’
‘It is Norfolk, Agatha, not Armageddon,’ said Michael. ‘Norfolk.’
‘That is what I was talking about,’ snapped Agatha. ‘I know what that place is like. It is full of lunatics, lepers and heretics.’
‘Clippesby should feel at home, then,’ said Langelee, ignoring Michael’s indignant splutter. The monk, like many Cambridge scholars, hailed from Norfolk.
‘We will never know, will we?’ said Agatha in a voice that dripped with hostility. She stood, snatched the oatcakes from Michael, and took them to the pantry, her large hips swaying purposefully. The monk watched his repast disappear with dismay. Her voice echoed from the cool room that was used to store perishable foods. ‘After you have exiled him, we will never hear whether he is happy or sad, alive or dead.’
‘I will make enquiries,’ promised Bartholomew.
‘You had better,’ she said coldly, coming to re-occupy her chair. ‘Because I can make life very uncomfortable for scholars who do not please me.’ She gazed significantly at a pile of laundry, on the top of which sat Langelee’s cloak.
‘At last!’ the Master exclaimed. ‘I thought you had lost it, you kept it so long.’
‘Perhaps it is ready now, but perhaps it is not,’ retorted Agatha belligerently. She turned on Michael. ‘And do not come here expecting edible treats, either. There will be no more of those until you convince me that Clippesby is content and thriving. And I may decline to do the laundry for a while, too. That will bring you to your senses.’
‘The whole College will stink if no one has clean clothes,’ objected Langelee. ‘Within a month we will all smell like the Chancellor.’
‘You are lucky to have me,’ said Agatha sullenly. ‘I am the best laundress in Cambridge, and every Michaelhouse scholar clamours for my services. It is not like that at King’s Hall, where half of them do their own, lest their precious garments are ruined.’
‘They manage their own washing because of cost,’ corrected Michael. ‘The King’s Hall laundress is outrageously expensive.’
‘Dodenho pays Wolf to do his, while Norton prefers to hire me,’ Agatha went on. ‘I charge him princely fees, but he makes no complaint. Meanwhile, Wormynghalle does his own, down by the wharves. I have seen him. He should not use the river for cleaning his clothes, though. It will make him reek.’
‘Wormynghalle does not reek,’ said Michael, starting to edge casually towards the pantry.
‘That is because you are used to Chancellor Tynkell,’ said Agatha. ‘He makes a cesspool smell like spring flowers.’
‘Wormynghalle probably does not want to hurt the laundress’s feelings by employing another washer-woman,’ Bartholomew said, in an attempt to explain the scholar’s odd behaviour in a way the others would understand, and so prevent rumours circulating about her. ‘He rinses his clothes somewhere that is not overlooked, so she will not see him and be offended.’