‘A man with debts,’ said Norton disapprovingly. ‘You can never trust them not to run away without making good on what they owe.’
‘Wolf will pay,’ said Wormynghalle charitably. ‘His family were tardy in forwarding an inheritance, so he has doubtless gone to collect it in person. He lives in Suffolk, no great distance. I am sure he will return laden with gold soon, and prove his doubters wrong.’
‘You should have taught him to sing,’ said Dodenho, a little spitefully. ‘Then he could have earned pennies by warbling in the Market Square.’
‘I will sing, if it means the food is served,’ offered Michael pointedly.
‘Wormynghalle might know his music, but he knows nothing of horses,’ said Norton. He grinned approvingly at the young man. ‘Still, he is a crack shot with a bow.’
‘My brother taught me,’ said Wormynghalle, to explain what was an odd skill for an academic. ‘He said a scholar, travelling between far-flung universities, should know how to protect himself.’
‘This learning game is all very well,’ Norton went on, whetting an inappropriately large knife on a stone he had removed from the pouch at his side: the blade was already sharper than most of Bartholomew’s surgical implements. ‘But it means nothing if you do not also know how to hunt and ride. If a man cannot mount a horse and canter off to shoot himself a decent supper, then all the books in the world will not prevent him from starving.’
‘“Learning game”?’ echoed Powys. ‘Is that any way for a Fellow to describe academia?’ He turned to Wormynghalle, and Bartholomew saw that the Welshman regarded the youth as his best scholar, and one who would be equally affronted by Norton’s description of their profession.
‘You have a long way to go with our tenors,’ said Dodenho. The golden newcomer was stealing attention usually afforded to him, and he did not like it. ‘They are too shrill in their upper reaches.’
‘They are supposed to be shrill up there,’ said Michael. ‘Now, the meat is getting cold, and–’
‘I am a tenor, and I am not shrill,’ interrupted Dodenho. ‘But enough of my singing. We were discussing my theories about light being the origin of the universe.’
‘Your theory sounds heretical to me, Dodenho,’ said Powys. He grinned wickedly. ‘Father William of Michaelhouse has a deep interest in heresy, and considers himself an expert on the subject. Perhaps you should take your ideas to him, and have them assessed.’
‘God forbid!’ declared Dodenho. ‘The man is a lunatic. Of course, Michaelhouse is famous for that sort of thing.’
‘Famous for what sort of thing?’ demanded Michael coldly.
‘For lunatics,’ replied Dodenho. ‘Everyone knows it. You have Father William, who is so rabidly against anything he considers anathema that he is wholly beyond reason. And then there is Clippesby, and we all know about him.’
‘What do we all know about him?’ asked Michael quietly.
‘I am very hungry,’ stated Paxtone, rising quickly to his feet when he saw the dangerous expression on the monk’s face. ‘Perhaps you could say grace, Warden.’
Powys obliged, waiting until all the scholars were standing with their heads bowed before saying the familiar Latin with a heavy Welsh inflexion that meant not all of it was readily comprehensible. Bartholomew struggled to follow him, while Norton nodded knowledgeably and muttered ‘amen’ in inappropriate places.
‘Lord!’ muttered Michael, when Powys finished and they took their seats again. ‘I am not sure your idea of eating here was a good one, Matt. It is a bizarre experience, to say the least.’
‘I hear a man was killed at Merton Hall on Saturday night,’ said Norton, as servants brought baskets of boiled eggs and dried fruit. Pats of butter were placed at regular intervals along the table, along with substantial slabs of an oily yellow cheese; the smoked pork was sliced and placed on platters, one to be shared by two Fellows.
‘News travels fast,’ said Michael, rubbing his hands in gluttonous anticipation. ‘Matt inspected the corpse, and says Chesterfelde was murdered with a knife.’
Norton nodded eagerly. ‘I heard a dagger had been planted so hard in his back, that it pinned him to the floor.’
‘Please!’ said Paxtone sharply. ‘Not at the table!’
‘You are a physician,’ said Norton, startled. ‘Surely you are used to a bit of blood and gore?’
‘Not while I am dining,’ replied Paxtone firmly. ‘We can talk about the Archbishop’s Visitation instead. He is going to sleep in King’s Hall, you know. Wormynghalle has been persuaded to give up his room, since it is huge and Hamecotes has taken himself off to Oxford.’
‘I hope Hamecotes brings back some books on philosophy,’ said Wormynghalle wistfully. ‘The last time he went, he concentrated on theology and law.’
‘He has been on book-buying missions before?’ asked Michael, reaching for the meat.
‘Twice,’ said Powys. ‘He is rather good at it, actually, because he has contacts in some of the richer Colleges – Balliol, Exeter and Queen’s.’
‘I only hope he remembers the discussion we had about spurs,’ said Norton, giving the impression that he thought a journey solely for books was a waste of time. ‘There is a smith in Oxford who makes excellent spurs. I wish he had told me his plans to travel in advance, rather than slinking off in the middle of the night. Then I could have reminded him.’
‘What happened to this corpse in Merton Hall?’ asked Dodenho, overriding Paxtone’s distaste for the subject and determined to have some gossip.
‘He died from a wound in his wrist,’ replied Michael obligingly. ‘The blood vessels had been severed, and you know how quickly a man can die from such wounds, if the bleeding is not stanched.’
‘Then the rumours that he was stabbed are wrong?’ asked Norton. ‘That will teach me to listen to scholars. They are a worthless rabble for garnering accurate information.’ He gnawed on a piece of cheese, and seemed oblivious of his colleagues’ astonished – and offended – expressions.
‘Chesterfelde was stabbed in the back,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But the fatal injury was to his arm. It was odd, because he died elsewhere, and his body must have been dumped among his companions as they slept.’
‘Chesterfelde,’ mused Norton, pondering the victim’s name. He turned to Dodenho. ‘You know a Chesterfelde, do you not? I recall you entertaining him in your room last term. You got drunk together, and he was sick on the communal stairs.’
‘It was probably a different Chesterfelde,’ said Dodenho shiftily.
Michael narrowed his eyes. ‘Bailiff Boltone told me the murdered Chesterfelde had visited Cambridge on several previous occasions.’
‘Names mean nothing,’ said Wormynghalle lightly, seeing Dodenho’s face grow dark with resentment. ‘Look at me, with the same name as a tanner. There may be more than one Chesterfelde from Oxford who regularly travels to Cambridge.’
‘This fellow was burly, with dark hair,’ offered Norton obligingly. ‘In his early twenties.’
‘That is him,’ said Michael, looking hard at Dodenho.
‘Well, perhaps I did meet him,’ admitted Dodenho reluctantly. ‘But I do not know him.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Norton. ‘You sniggered and whispered in your room like a pair of virgins.’
Dodenho saw he was cornered, and that continued denials would be futile. He sighed. ‘He was a sociable sort of fellow who liked to drink – it was the wine that made him giggle – but he was not a friend. Simply an acquaintance.’
‘Then why did you deny knowing him?’ demanded Michael.
‘Because I wanted to avoid being interrogated,’ snapped Dodenho, finally giving vent to his anger. ‘I know how you work – quizzing people who have even the most remote associations with the deceased – and I did not want you adding me to your list of suspects.’