‘With them, I was fairly sure I would find distinctive lesions,’ he hedged. ‘That is not the case with Letia. Besides, Shirwynk would never allow it.’
‘No,’ agreed Langelee. ‘And I would rather you did not ask. He is a burgess, and we cannot have him carrying tales of your ghoulish habits to men who may give us money. There must be another way to unearth the truth.’
‘We shall have to rely on our interrogative skills, then,’ sighed Michael. ‘And afterwards, I shall inform Chancellor Tynkell that if he cannot bring Zachary Hostel to heel because he is afraid of what Morys might say to his mother, then he should resign now, not next term.’
‘Quite right, Brother,’ nodded Langelee. ‘That place’s unscholarly antics will put benefactors off the whole University. Go with him, Bartholomew. He will need help if he is to catch a killer and restore peace between us and the town. Do not worry about your classes – I will take them.’
‘No, thank you,’ gulped Bartholomew, knowing that the Master would not read the set texts, but would hold forth about camp-ball, his favourite sport. And what lively young man would not rather discuss fixtures and ratings than learning lists of herbs and their virtues?
Langelee waved a dismissive hand. ‘Do not fret. Being a scholar is not all about reading books, hearing lectures and learning how to argue, you know.’
‘No?’ asked Bartholomew warily. ‘What else is it, then?’
Langelee smiled enigmatically and ignored the question. ‘You have my permission to miss meals and church until Frenge’s killer is caught – except for this evening and tomorrow, when you will be needed to help with the preparations for the disceptatio.’
He strode away, leaving Bartholomew staring after him unhappily, hating the loss of valuable teaching time. There was so much he wanted his students to know, and he was struggling to cram it all in already. Michael tugged on his sleeve, murmuring that the quicker they started, the sooner they would finish.
They walked through the gate and on to Milne Street, along which was evidence that the previous night’s festivities had been wild. Pie crusts, apple cores and other half-eaten foods were strewn everywhere, along with discarded clothing and smashed pottery. Principal Irby from Zachary was picking his way through it. As usual, he was wearing his uniform grey and cream cloak, the colours of which matched his pale face and the bags under his eyes. He was drinking from a flask, and the smile he gave was wan.
‘What a night! I swear people were still carousing until an hour ago – and that includes Michaelhouse. I could hear your celebrations from my bedchamber.’
‘We did do ourselves proud,’ said Michael, smiling at the memory. ‘But you must have enjoyed yourself, too: you look decidedly delicate this morning.’
‘Because I am ill,’ said Irby coolly. He brandished his flask so vigorously that some splashed on Bartholomew, who tasted its cloying sweetness as he wiped it off his face. ‘But a sip of this will put me right. It is Shirwynk’s apple wine.’
‘Is there sucura in it?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering why it was so sickly.
‘Certainly not! The Sheriff has deemed that illegal, and I would never break the law.’
‘It is a pity your students and masters do not think as you do,’ retorted Michael sourly. ‘Not one of them sees fit to wear his uniform these days.’
Irby suddenly looked very old and tired. ‘I know, Brother, but Morys says his kinship with the Chancellor exempts him from the rules. And where he goes, the others follow.’
‘He most certainly is not exempt,’ declared Michael firmly. ‘And you had better find a way to claw back control or he will be Principal and you will be ousted.’ Irby nodded miserably, so the monk changed the subject. ‘When will the consilium decide the topic for tomorrow’s debate?’
Irby turned to Bartholomew. ‘Nigellus is wrong to insist on nemo dat – it will be tedious, and there are far more interesting issues to debate. A medical question, for example.’
‘We had better not,’ said Bartholomew, recalling what was currently happening in Michaelhouse. ‘Besides, the last time I discussed medicine with a layman, I was accused of heresy.’
‘By Kellawe, I suppose,’ sighed Irby. ‘Who believes that the soul resides in a pouch in the heart. He is wrong, of course. It is much more likely to be a pouch in the head. But a debate with a medical theme will be best, and I shall continue to ponder until the right subject comes to mind.’
‘Good,’ said Michael. ‘Although you might want to run it past your Senior Proctor first. These occasions can be contentious, and we do not want trouble.’
‘You want to know so that Michaelhouse’s students will have time to prepare,’ said Irby, wagging an admonishing finger. ‘But I am afraid you will have to hear it at the same time as everyone else, because no one on the committee will break his silence.’
‘He will not,’ murmured Michael resentfully, watching him go. ‘Nor will you, Prior Joliet or Wauter. But Nigellus will cheat for certain. He is that kind of man.’
As they continued along Milne Street, they met the Austins from the convent. Almoner Robert was struggling to carry the large and very heavy book that he needed for a lecture on Augustine’s Sermones, long white hair undulating in the breeze, while hulking Hamo toted pigments, brushes and boards as though they were made of feathers. Prior Joliet was empty-handed and sombre.
‘I cannot stop, Brother,’ he said, as Michael made to intercept him. ‘I am summoned to Will Lenne’s deathbed, so I dare not linger.’
‘The furrier?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised. Lenne had hacked horribly the previous evening, but he had not appeared to be on his deathbed.
Joliet nodded. ‘He is Nigellus’s patient – his ailment has something to do with metal, apparently, although I am not sure what. Nigellus’s message said that death was imminent, so you must excuse me – I promised to be with Lenne at the end, and I have a feeling that the lad Nigellus hired was not the quickest. I may already be too late.’
He hurried away, while Bartholomew recalled Nigellus claiming that his failure to arrive on time at Michaelhouse was due to a dying patient. Bartholomew was unimpressed: Lenne should not have been abandoned by his medicus at such a time. It was unprofessional.
‘Did your novices read that extract I set them yesterday, Brother?’ asked Robert, grimacing when his pectoral cross caught on a corner of the book, pulling it tight around his neck. He nodded his thanks when Michael pulled it free for him. ‘Or shall I give my lecture tomorrow instead? I imagine you were all busy preparing for the feast.’
‘We were,’ nodded Michael. ‘However, you cannot teach at Michaelhouse today – or paint, for that matter – because the University’s medici are in our hall, showing everyone how to conduct a disputation.’
Robert regarded him uncertainly. ‘You mean Rougham and Nigellus? You let them loose on your students? Heavens! You are brave.’
Michael laughed. ‘It will keep them occupied while we try to find out what happened to Frenge. And speaking of Frenge, we should inspect the place where he died in daylight. May we visit you later?’
‘Of course,’ replied Robert. ‘Come at noon and share our dinner. It is nothing like the sumptuous fare at Michaelhouse, of course, but it is wholesome and plentiful.’
‘Very well,’ said Michael, never one to refuse free victuals. Then he scowled. ‘Here come those Zachary men, and not one is wearing his academic tabard. It seems my threats of further fines have gone unheeded.’