William wrinkled his nose. ‘It certainly stinks. I can smell it from here.’
Bartholomew could also smell something, but suspected it was the friar’s mucky robe.
‘Could this stench be the miasma that causes the summer flux?’ William asked uneasily. ‘I know you have seen more cases than you can count these last few days.’
Bartholomew did not want to explain his rejection of the miasma theory to a man who was incapable of accepting new ideas, so he kept his answer vague. ‘This outbreak is like no other that I have seen. Usually, I can blame a specific well or stream, but this time, the victims appear to be random – small clusters with no or little connection to each other.’
William stole a glance at the students walking behind. ‘Stasy and Hawick have vowed to cure the flux when they start their own practice. I hope they fail. They are arrogant now, but if they cure an ailment that confounds you, we shall never hear the end of it.’
‘They will not succeed,’ said Bartholomew, aware that producing an effective remedy would require a considerable outlay of money and a lot of hard work. His students did not have the first, and were unlikely to bother with the second.
‘You should order Morys to open the sluices,’ said William. ‘Then all the Cam’s filth will be washed away and we shall be stench- and miasma-free once more.’
‘That will take more than the contents of the Mill Pond,’ sighed Bartholomew. ‘Too much filth has accumulated in the river, and the only thing that will help us now is rain. Lots of rain.’
William was silent for a while, then asked, somewhat out of the blue, ‘What do you think of your new brother-in-law? I was astonished when Edith remarried last month, as I assumed she would remain a widow for the rest of her life.’
He could not have been more astonished than Bartholomew. Although his sister’s first marriage had been an arranged one, it had been very happy, and she had always maintained that no one could ever take Oswald’s place. Philip Chaumbre seemed pleasant enough, but there was nothing remarkable or special about him, and Bartholomew failed to understand why he, of all men, should have caused Edith to change her mind.
‘I assume it is a match of convenience,’ William went on. ‘Oswald left her a cloth business and Chaumbre is a dyer, so the association will benefit them both. Indeed, I would say it has put them among the wealthiest families in the shire.’
‘I hope that was not why she accepted him,’ said Bartholomew, alarmed by the notion. He loved his sister dearly, and her happiness was important to him.
‘Not everyone has the good fortune to wed for love, Matt,’ said William, very sagely for a man who would never marry at all. ‘Count yourself lucky.’
Since Brother Michael had been elected Master, the College had developed in leaps and bounds. First, he had persuaded wealthy benefactors to pay for repairs and improvements, so the roofs no longer leaked and there was real glass in all the windows. This meant that in inclement weather, scholars were no longer obliged to choose between light and warmth – having the shutters open so they could see what they were doing, or closed so they did not freeze.
Second, he had arranged for the Michaelhouse pier to be upgraded. As it was very conveniently located for the market square, merchants paid handsomely to use it for the goods they transported up and down the river. Thus it now provided the College with a princely and reliable income, most of which was spent on food, so sawdust-filled bread and watery pottage had become distant memories.
And finally, he had elevated Michaelhouse’s academic standing by encouraging its Fellows to publish their ideas and send copies to Avignon for papal endorsement. Under his rule, the College’s future looked both secure and promising.
He led the way into the hall and took his place on the dais at the far end. He waited until his Fellows and students were standing at their designated places, and had stopped chatting, fussing and fidgeting. Then he intoned a grace in his perfect Latin, before sitting down and indicating that the servants were to serve breakfast.
That day, all the windows were open in the hope of catching a breeze, although with scant success. For some inexplicable reason, breakfast comprised a stodgy pease pudding and roasted meat, which Bartholomew considered unsuitable fare for a sweltering summer morning. Michael disagreed, and set to with gusto.
‘How are your wedding preparations coming along, Matt?’ the monk asked conversationally, loading his platter with beef.
He was Bartholomew’s closest friend, although too busy for his own good as he juggled the duties of Master and Senior Proctor with his teaching obligations. He was a large man, tall as well as plump, and was of the opinion that a princely girth was a sign of healthy living, not because he ate too much.
Bartholomew winced. The wedding was a sore point, as he would have liked a small, private ceremony, as befitted two people well past the first flush of youth, but Matilde had waited a long time to snag the man she loved, and she wanted it done properly. She had asked a friend named Lucy Brampton – a lady of firm opinions and a flair for organisation – to help, and Lucy was determined to provide Matilde with a day to remember. They gaily ignored his pleas for restraint, which meant he had given up being horrified by the growing grandiosity of the occasion, and had settled into a kind of nervous resignation.
‘I would rather spend the money on medicine for the poor,’ he said, hating the thought of funds squandered on things he deemed unimportant, such as garlands, fine table linen, and the purchase of new-fangled implements from the Italian Peninsula called ‘forkes’ – although as these were used to spear food, thus obviating the need for filthy fingers plunging in and out of the common bowl, he supposed they had their advantages.
‘Do not be such a misery!’ chided Michael. ‘Your guests deserve to have the time of their lives. And so do you.’
‘Have you heard any news about those two missing scholars?’ asked Bartholomew, changing the subject because he knew they would never agree; Lucy Brampton was not the only one who liked a party. ‘Huntyngdon from King’s Hall and his friend Martyn?’
It was Michael’s turn to wince. ‘None – their whereabouts remain a mystery.’
‘They are my patients,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I do not know them well, but neither strikes me as a man to jaunt off without telling anyone.’
Michael agreed. ‘Huntyngdon is the illegitimate but much-loved son of an earl, while Martyn is destined for the Bishop’s retinue. Both have promising futures, and their disappearance is out of character. I fear something terrible has happened to them.’
‘You think they are dead?’
Michael nodded slowly. ‘Although there is no reason to suspect foul play. They are popular with their colleagues, and we have been at peace with the town for weeks now. There have been no brawls since that Spital business back in May.’
‘So, what will you do about them?’
‘There is no more I can do. I have explored every avenue of enquiry imaginable, but learned nothing of use. However, it will not be my concern after today, because I am delegating the matter to my Junior Proctor.’
‘Thomas Brampton?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. Brampton, the brother of Matilde’s friend Lucy, was more politician than investigator, and was unlikely to succeed where Michael had failed. Ergo, by passing the responsibility to him, Michael was effectively giving up on Huntyngdon and Martyn. ‘Really?’
‘I have no choice,’ said Michael, so heavily that Bartholomew saw it had not been an easy decision. ‘Besides, the case needs fresh eyes.’