‘A Mayor would say that,’ declared Michael disparagingly. ‘I heard the whole thing began with a quarrel over claret, too, but it was townsmen who took it to its bloody conclusion.’
‘There was a sinister set of coincidences in the chain of events that led to the trouble,’ mused Bartholomew, thinking about what Michael had told him. ‘First, weapons were readily available – for scholars and townsfolk alike. And second, alarm bells sounded very quickly after the initial squabble in the Swindlestock Tavern. It was almost as if someone was fanning the spark of an insignificant incident, to ensure it caught and ignited the rest of the city.’
‘Do you think it had something to do with the death of Gonerby?’ asked Tulyet. ‘It would explain why these merchants are so determined to have his killer. The fellow also left their town in ashes.’
‘If that is true, then you are putting yourself in considerable danger,’ said Bartholomew to Michael. ‘Eu capitulated very quickly when you refused him permission to investigate: he was glad to see someone else take the risks.’
Michael waved a dismissive hand. ‘I am more than a match for anyone from Oxford. However, the real reason Eu gave way so readily was that he and his cronies have no intention of obeying my orders. They plan to make their enquiries, regardless. I read it in the Welshman’s eyes.’
Tulyet agreed. ‘I will set a sergeant to follow them, and ensure they do not cause trouble. I would just as soon lock them up until the Archbishop has gone, but I do not think we can get away with it – not with prosperous merchants. Our own burgesses would claim I had overstepped my authority, and they would be right. But we may be worrying over nothing: there are hundreds of scholars in Cambridge, and any one of them could be this killer. Our merchants will never identify their man.’
‘Not so,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘Most of our students were here on the tenth day of February, keeping University term. There will not be many who were away.’
‘That is easy to find out,’ said Michael. ‘Any scholar wanting to leave during term must apply in writing for permission, so his request will be documented. Of course, the murderer may be an Oxford man who is visiting us for a few weeks – but we have lists of those, too. So if Gonerby’s killer really is an academic who was in Oxford in February, and who then came here, he will not be difficult to identify.’
Tulyet began to tell Michael about the arrangements the town was making to entertain the Archbishop, and Bartholomew listened with half his attention; the rest was engaged in a sluggish contemplation of the lurid pink wash that adorned the home of the town’s surgeon. The guilds had united to organise a splendid feast, Tulyet was saying, while public buildings and the Market Square were being cleaned. The Sheriff pointed out the parallel drains that ran along the High Street, and declared proudly that they had never been so empty. Bartholomew knew this perfectly welclass="underline" he had been summoned to tend several people who had been taken unawares by the sudden appearance of deep trenches in Cambridge’s main thoroughfares, and had fallen down them. Tulyet had also raised funds to pay for additional dung collections, and the High Street was oddly bereft of the odorous piles that usually graced it. People with horses had been ordered to remove what their animals left behind, and the public latrine pits had been emptied. Bartholomew thought it a pity the improvements would last only as long as the Visitation was under way. As soon as Islip departed, business would be back to normal, and Cambridge would revert to its usual vile, stinking state.
‘And I do not want any lepers hanging around,’ Tulyet said sternly to Bartholomew, as if the physician was in a position to oblige. ‘They are invited to a special service in St Clement’s Church, where they will receive Islip’s blessing, but then they will make themselves scarce.’
‘Right,’ said Bartholomew, tiredness making him uncharacteristically caustic. ‘We do not want sloughed fingers and noses littering our clean streets, do we?’
‘No, we do not,’ agreed Tulyet, equally tart. He turned to Michael. ‘And you can make sure he has a good night’s sleep. I do not want him snapping at Islip, because he is overly weary.’
‘He will not listen to me,’ said Michael. ‘Nor am I bold enough to prise my way between a man and his paramour.’
‘Now, just a moment,’ began Bartholomew indignantly. ‘I do not–’
Tulyet cut across him. ‘Rougham is away in Norfolk, so you must be ready should the Archbishop require a physician. I know you are busy, with Clippesby indisposed, but it cannot be helped. You are better than Lynton of Peterhouse and Paxtone of King’s Hall, and I want you to tend Islip, should the occasion arise. It is our duty to ensure he has the absolute best we can offer – of everything.’
‘I am surprised Rougham has chosen now to leave for a family reunion,’ said Michael conversationally. ‘He is an ambitious man, and I would have thought he would be here, showing off to important people. Still, he has a nasty habit of polishing his teeth on his sleeve after formal dinners – presumably to improve the quality of his smile – so perhaps it is just as well he is gone.’
‘Teeth polishing will not bother Islip,’ said Tulyet disapprovingly. ‘He does it himself. How is Clippesby, by the way? Still ailing?’
‘I plan to visit him today,’ replied Bartholomew, ‘and hope to find him a little recovered.’
‘You had better find him more than “a little recovered”,’ said Michael testily. ‘I cannot imagine why you have so suddenly decided he is unfit to teach. He has always been insane, and it has never bothered you before. I do not know how much longer I can teach his classes – I know nothing of musical theory and I am not interested in learning. So, either declare him well and reinstate him, or declare him irrecoverably mad, so we can hire someone in his place.’
‘Soon,’ promised Bartholomew. ‘Give him time. He has been gone only a few days.’
‘Since Ascension Day,’ said Michael, aggrieved. ‘Ten days. I know, because that was when Langelee so blithely ordered me to teach a subject I have never studied. Does he think we are King’s Hall, with no standards?’
‘King’s Hall?’ asked Tulyet. ‘You criticise their teaching practices? I thought most of its scholars were men destined for high ranks within the Church or the King’s Court.’
‘Quite,’ muttered Michael venomously. ‘I met one Fellow last week who knew no Latin. None at all! I was obliged to speak to him in French, for God’s sake! And there are others who do not know the most rudimentary aspects of the Trivium. It must be like teaching children!’
Tulyet bade them farewell when he reached his house. Even from the street, Bartholomew could hear the excited screeches of his son Dickon as he played some boisterous – and probably violent – game with the Sheriff’s long-suffering servants, and did not miss Tulyet’s grimace of anticipation as he knocked on the door to be allowed in. It could not be left open for people to come and go as they pleased, because Dickon would be out in a trice, and his parents were afraid he would come to harm. From what Bartholomew had seen of Dickon’s developing personality over the past few months, he was not entirely sure it would be a tragedy. Michael grinned as they walked on alone.
‘Poor Dick! That is the only child he will ever sire – within his marriage, at least – and the boy is a monster. How did it happen, do you think? William believes the Devil slipped into his bedchamber and fathered the brat. Dickon is so unlike his parents that I cannot help but think he may be right.’
An ear-shattering scream of delight followed them as Dickon greeted his father. Several people jumped in alarm, while those who knew Dickon shook their heads in mute disgust. Bartholomew walked a little more quickly, in case the boy spotted him through a window and demanded a visit, setting a pace that had Michael gasping for breath. They crossed the Great Bridge, where there was no sign of anyone thinking of self-murder, and turned along Merton Lane. For the second time that day, Michael hammered on the door. As before, it was answered by the pale-headed bailiff.