‘I am sorry that Satan stabbed Chancellor Tynkell,’ he said conversationally, reaching for one of his talismans and kissing it three times. ‘Poor man.’
‘He was killed by a person,’ Bartholomew told him firmly. ‘The Devil had nothing to do with it.’
‘Oh, yes, he did,’ argued Cynric. ‘We all saw that battle on the tower, and I watched him fly away afterwards.’
‘You saw the wind catch Tynkell’s cloak,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘That is all.’
‘Oh, yes?’ challenged Cynric. ‘Then why did Brother Michael’s beadles fail to find it? I know for a fact that he had them looking all afternoon. The answer is that it was not a cloak, but Satan, who took off from the tower and soared over to the Barnwell Fields.’
‘And why would he go there?’ asked Bartholomew archly. ‘To talk to the sheep?’
‘His ways are not for us to question,’ said Cynric darkly, then grew thoughtful. ‘I imagine he used one of his claws to inflict the fatal wound. You did say it was not a knife.’
‘Yes, but that does not mean it was a claw. It was more likely to have been a long nail or some other kind of thin spike.’
‘I imagine Satan has plenty of those,’ put in Deynman, who had been listening with avid interest. ‘He probably carries them in his purse, along with his coins and nose-cloths.’
He and Cynric began a debate about what else the Devil might keep in his scrip, so Bartholomew left them to it and walked into the yard, where his colleagues were gathering, ready to process to church for their morning devotions. While he waited, he looked around at the College that had been his home for longer than he cared to remember.
It was dominated by its hall, a handsome building with an oriel window, and a beautiful mural along one wall, which depicted Michaelhouse’s scholars listening to four great thinkers: Aristotle, Aquinas, Plato and Galen. Its shutters were closed, and would remain so all day, given that none of its windows had glass, although a light gleaming underneath one showed that the students who slept in that part of it were astir.
While the scholars were at church, the servants would stack away the mattresses, and set out benches and tables for breakfast. When the meal was over, the tables would be folded away, and the hall converted into a lecture room. Langelee and his Fellows would sit in their assigned places, and struggle to keep their own class’s attention over the competing racket from their colleagues.
Below the hall were the kitchens and a series of pantries, while adjacent to it was the conclave, a cosy parlour that was the undisputed domain of the Fellows, a place where they could escape from their charges and relax. At right angles to the hall were the twin accommodation wings, two storeys high and with four doors apiece. Each door led to a little vestibule with rooms on either side, and stairs leading to the upper floor. Bartholomew lived in the older, more dilapidated northern one.
‘I did not sleep a wink,’ grumbled Michael, coming to stand next to him. His breath plumed as he spoke. ‘I could not stop thinking about Tynkell.’
‘It kept me awake, too,’ confessed Bartholomew. ‘We saw the killer with our own eyes, as did half the town, yet we have nothing to help us identify him.’
Michael grimaced. ‘He thinks he is so clever, and it makes me even more determined to catch him. Especially after what happened to Moleyns.’
Bartholomew blinked. ‘Surely you are not suggesting a connection between the two? How can there be? One was a respectable scholar, the other a criminal; one was stabbed on a tower, the other fell off his horse; one died “fighting the Devil”, the other chatting in the street–’
‘Two well-known men and two sudden deaths in public places,’ countered Michael. ‘I want you to examine Moleyns properly this morning, Matt. No, do not argue – I need the truth. Then we shall combine forces with Dick Tulyet to find the culprit.’
‘Linking Moleyns and Tynkell might lead you astray,’ warned Bartholomew.
‘Then you will just have to keep me on the right path. We begin today, as soon as we have been to church and eaten breakfast. And do not say it is term time, and you cannot spare the time, because you have him.’
He nodded to Bartholomew’s senior student, John Aungel, who had taken on the task of minding his master’s classes when Bartholomew was busy with patients – which was greatly appreciated, as all Cambridge’s medici were currently inundated with work arising from the continued cold snap – congested lungs, chills, injuries resulting from falls, and frost-nipped fingers, toes, ears and noses.
Aungel hurried over when he saw they were talking about him. ‘I imagine you want me to teach while you find Chancellor Tynkell’s killer,’ he said, and beamed. ‘I do not mind, sir. I know Galen’s Prognostica backwards, and I would love to help.’
‘You would?’ asked Bartholomew suspiciously, wondering what mischief was brewing. Students did not volunteer for extra work out of the goodness of their hearts.
‘Oh, yes! Master Langelee has offered to make me a Fellow if I prove my worth, so I am delighted that you will be otherwise engaged for a while. It will give me a chance to show off my talents.’
Bartholomew was astonished. He was so used to his pupils racing away to earn lots of money by physicking the wealthy that it had never occurred to him that one might like a career in academia. Then he realised why Langelee was so keen to acquire another medicus.
‘Matilde,’ he said heavily. ‘He thinks I will resign when she returns to Cambridge, and he wants you as my replacement.’
Matilde was the love of his life, who had left Cambridge four and a half years ago in the mistaken belief that her affection for him was not reciprocated. The misunderstanding had since been set to rights, and a week earlier, a letter had arrived announcing that she was on her way back to him. But so much time had passed that he feared they could not just pick up where they had left off, and so he was unsure what to think about her imminent return, other than that it was seriously disturbing his peace of mind.
Aungel shrugged. ‘He could do worse. But you should marry and leave the College if she asks you to wed her, sir. You have been here too long, and a change will do you good.’
‘Out of the mouths of babes and those with agendas,’ murmured Michael, amused, as Aungel swaggered away.
‘I cannot decide what to do about Matilde,’ Bartholomew confided unhappily. ‘It has been a long time since we last met, and we are both different people now. It may be too late for–’
‘Nonsense,’ interrupted Michael. ‘Not a day has passed that you have not missed her, and her recent letter made it perfectly clear that her feelings for you are unchanged.’
‘Perhaps they are, but she cannot abandon me without a word, then expect to march in as though nothing has happened. If she really wanted a life with me, she would not have disappeared in the first place.’
‘She went because she wanted a life with you – and she thought she was not going to get one. Personally, I am all admiration for her: the moment she learned that the door was still open, she set about securing enough money to keep you both from starving once you exchange your University stipend for wedded bliss.’
‘Money should not matter,’ persisted Bartholomew stubbornly. ‘If she truly loved me, she would have come back at once. Instead, she dallied in York, meddling about with investments.’
‘Sentimental claptrap! You cannot blame her for declining to live in a hovel while you squander all your earnings on medicine for the poor. You should give her a chance when she arrives, because I believe she can make you happy.’