‘Who are you?’ he demanded, hands on hips as he regarded the scholars imperiously. ‘And what are you doing here?’
Michael straightened, irked by the man’s manner. ‘Senior Proctor, investigating the murder of Roger de Chesterfelde.’
‘He smiled a lot,’ said the man, making it sound sinister. ‘And he cited a good deal of Latin – not that those stupid merchants could understand him. Unlike me. I attended the King’s School when I was a boy, and I can read.’ He drew himself up to his full height and looked as if he expected them to be impressed.
‘I imagine reading will be helpful to the man who rents this manor,’ said Michael evenly. He had surmised that the man was Merton’s tenant, Eudo of Helpryngham.
‘Actually, no,’ replied Eudo. ‘If there is any reading to be done, Boltone does it. I prefer to be outside, with the sun on my face and fresh air in my lungs.’
‘I am not surprised,’ said Michael, casting a significant glance at the squalor of the solar. ‘What do you know about Chesterfelde’s death?’
‘Nothing,’ replied Eudo. ‘I was at the King’s Head last night, and then I came here. I was drunk and heard nothing at all – not even Boltone’s infernal snoring. I probably downed seven or eight jugs of ale.’ He looked as if he was fishing for compliments, in the same way that Bartholomew’s younger undergraduates bragged about the amounts of wine they could consume without being sick. But Eudo was in his thirties, and should have grown out of such foolishness.
‘You have hurt yourself,’ said Bartholomew, pointing to a crude bandage that adorned Eudo’s left arm. ‘What happened?’
‘I probably fell over when I was staggering home last night. You are a physician, are you not? Tend it for me. It is very sore.’
Without waiting for Bartholomew’s consent, Eudo unravelled the dressing to reveal an injury on the inside of his forearm that was no more than a scratch. It was slight enough to have been caused by brambles or even a cat, and the reams of material enveloping it were far in excess of what was needed. Despite its superficial nature, Eudo grimaced and sucked in his breath when Bartholomew examined it.
‘You do not need to keep it wrapped,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I will smear it with salve, but the best thing would be to leave it open to the air. It will heal more quickly.’
‘It is a serious injury,’ declared Eudo, watching Bartholomew apply a balm of woundwort and hog’s grease. ‘Besides, I told Boltone I was too sick to work, and he will think I am malingering if he sees me without a bandage. Put it on again.’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew, replacing the salve in his bag. ‘It will not heal if you keep it covered. Besides, you are malingering if you claim it is stopping you from working.’
Eudo’s handsome face creased into a scowl as he bound the afflicted limb himself. ‘You are no good. Doctor Rougham would have ordered me to spend a week in bed and buy half an apothecary’s shop in poultices and purges, but he is away at the moment, more is the pity. Still, it has saved me money, because I am not paying you for bad advice and a smear of pig oil.’
‘So, you can tell us nothing about Chesterfelde’s murder?’ asked Michael, seeing Bartholomew about to take issue. ‘You saw and heard nothing?’
‘No,’ said Eudo proudly. ‘Not with nine jugs of ale inside me.’
‘You said seven or eight.’ Bartholomew pounced.
‘Did I?’ asked Eudo carelessly. ‘It was a lot. Probably nearer ten.’
‘I wish it had been twenty,’ muttered Bartholomew in an undertone. ‘That would have wiped the smile off your face this morning.’
Bartholomew and Michael left Merton Hall and began to walk towards their College. On the way they met Duraunt and Polmorva, who said they had been visiting Duraunt’s fellow Austin Canons at nearby Barnwell Priory. Polmorva’s expression hardened when Michael told him that he and his Corpse Examiner had re-inspected the place where Chesterfelde had died, and Bartholomew thought he detected an uneasy flicker in his eye; he wondered whether he guessed they had searched his possessions and was afraid of what might have been found. Duraunt contented himself with reciting a short prayer for Chesterfelde, then started to discuss the next University Debate. Michael fretted impatiently as the old man gabbled on about his favourite topics for such occasions, while Bartholomew listened with interest, recalling disputes on similar issues they had attended together in Oxford – an erudite, careful teacher and his eager but inexpert student.
When they eventually parted, Michael went to search the University’s records for any scholars who had been granted leave of absence to study in Oxford, and to peruse applications from Oxford students who wanted to visit Cambridge, while Bartholomew walked to the hamlet of Stourbridge, outside the town. He wanted to see Clippesby, and assess whether there was any improvement in his condition. As it was such a fine day, he strolled slowly, enjoying the sweet scent of ripening crops and the damp earthiness of fertile soil. The sun lay golden and warm across the fields, occasionally cooled when fluffy white clouds drifted across its bright face.
The hospital was a sprawling complex of buildings enclosed within a fence of woven hazel. It had originally been founded for lepers, so their disease would not contaminate others, but now it accepted patients with a variety of ailments. It comprised the Chapel of St Mary Magdalene, an ancient two-celled church with thick walls and tiny windows, and a number of huts with thatched roofs, where the inmates lived. The community had its own well, fish-ponds, fields, orchards and livestock, and its residents were seldom obliged to deal with the outside world.
The warden who cared for the eclectic collection of people who had been banished from ‘normal’ society was an amiable Austin Canon called Paul. He tended his thirty or so patients with the help of a small staff of lay-brothers, and Bartholomew considered the man little short of a saint. He was tall and sturdy, which was a useful attribute when dealing with the obstreperousness of madness and the heavy lifting required for the bedridden, and his brown hair lay thickly around his untidy tonsure. He was nearly always smiling, and it was not unusual for the compound to ring with his laughter.
There was no humour that day, however, because he was troubled. Michaelhouse’s Master of Music and Astronomy was afforded a fair degree of freedom in the hospital, and had been helping to care for some of the sicker inmates. But Clippesby had a habit of wandering away without telling anyone where he was going, and Bartholomew was disturbed to learn that he had vanished several times since he had been enrolled at Stourbridge. Most worrying was the fact that he had been gone for part of the previous night, when Chesterfelde had died.
‘I was with the ducks near the river, Matt,’ said Clippesby dreamily, when the physician asked him about it. He laughed merrily. ‘They will provide me with an alibi, should you require one.’
Bartholomew studied him intently, trying to ascertain whether the man was genuinely trying to be helpful, or was playing him for a fool. He rubbed his hand through his hair when several moments of staring into Clippesby’s clear grey eyes told him nothing at all.
‘You promised you would stay here,’ said Paul reproachfully. ‘Why did you break your word?’
‘I was needed elsewhere, Brother,’ said Clippesby with a serene smile. ‘You have duties towards your charges, so you will understand these obligations. Besides, I do not like being shut up all night. There are too many interesting things happening elsewhere.’
‘What sort of things?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.
‘Things you would not understand. Why do you want to know?’
‘A man was killed in Merton Hall last night. You should not wander around the town, Clippesby. People know you are unwell, and we do not want them to accuse you of a crime because they cannot find the real culprit and need a scapegoat. I brought you here for your own safety.’