Bartholomew was about to remark on it to Suttone, when he saw the Carmelite doing the same thing. In fact, he thought, looking around, all his colleagues seemed to have fortified themselves from supplies in their rooms, and he was the only one destined to be hungry all morning. He was about to feel sorry for himself when Thelnetham pressed something into his hand.
‘Seedcake,’ he whispered. ‘Made by a certain young baker I like. Eat it quickly. Teaching is due to start in a few moments, and I cannot pontificate when you have that half-starved look about you.’
Somewhat startled that a self-absorbed man like Thelnetham should deign to notice a colleague’s discomfort, Bartholomew did as he was told. The cake was cloyingly sweet, and he felt slightly sick when he had finished it. There was also a curious flavour that he could not quite place, and that was not entirely pleasant. He wondered, ungraciously, whether it was past its best, and that was why Thelnetham was willing to share.
Unusually, there were no summonses from patients that morning, and as Michael was busy briefing the new Seneschal – and so unable to pursue his investigation into the killer-thief – Bartholomew was able to teach uninterrupted until noon. Again, he put his students through their paces, although he relented somewhat when the youngest one burst into tears. When the bell rang to announce the end of the morning’s teaching, he found himself suddenly dizzy, and was obliged to sit on a bench until the feeling passed.
‘What is the matter?’ asked Michael, back from his proctorial duties and regarding him in concern. ‘You are very pale. Shall I send for Rougham?’
‘Christ, no!’ Bartholomew saw Michael’s disapproving expression – the monk rarely cursed. ‘Sorry. I must have inhaled some toxic fumes in Meryfeld’s house yesterday.’
‘Or perhaps Dickon poisoned the tip of his sword before he stabbed you,’ suggested Thelnetham. Bartholomew jumped – he had not known the Gilbertine was there. ‘Shall I fetch you some wine?’
Bartholomew stood. ‘Thank you, no. Cynric is beckoning, so there will be patients to see.’
‘Now?’ asked Michael in dismay. ‘I hoped we might make some headway with our enquiries.’
‘You cannot do that, Brother,’ said Cynric, overhearing as he approached. ‘Part of York Hostel is ablaze, and they are claiming arson by the Colleges. Beadle Meadowman says it is nothing of the kind, but the victims will take some convincing.’
‘Damn this ridiculous feud!’ snapped Michael, beginning to stamp towards the door. ‘Am I to have no time for important business?’
Bartholomew felt better once he was out in the fresh air, although there was still an unpleasant ache in his innards. He wondered what he could have eaten to unsettle them, and supposed it was the seedcake – the other Fellows might be used to rich foods, but he was not, and should have known better than to wolf down so much of it in one go.
He visited Chancellor Tynkell, and was sympathetic when the man complained of a roiling stomach, then trudged to the hovels in the north of the town, where three old people were dying of falling sicknesses. There was nothing he could do for any of them, and he left feeling as though he had let them down. Next, he went to his sister’s house on Milne Street, where one of the apprentices had caught a cold. He felt even more of a failure when he was obliged to say he could not cure that, either, and the ailment would have to run its course.
‘What is wrong?’ asked Edith, when he had finished. ‘Are you despondent because Drax is to be buried this afternoon, and he was one of Michaelhouse’s benefactors?’
‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew, disgusted with himself for forgetting. ‘Langelee wants Thelnetham and me to attend that, to represent Michaelhouse.’
And, he recalled, Michael had asked him to observe the congregation, with a view to assessing whether Drax’s killer might be in attendance. The monk had wanted to be there, too, to judge the situation for himself, but the fire at York Hostel meant he would probably miss it, so it was down to his Corpse Examiner to take advantage of the occasion.
‘I am going, too,’ said Edith, reaching for her cloak, a fine, warm garment of dark red. ‘So we shall stand together. I cannot say I like Celia, but she may appreciate my support.’
‘Do you know her well, then?’ asked Bartholomew.
Edith shook her head. ‘She married Drax shortly after he lost his fingers in an accident, and I suspect she was attracted by the compensation he was paid by Yffi. It is difficult to admire such a woman, and I confess I have not tried very hard to befriend her.’
‘I heard they argued a lot,’ said Bartholomew, wondering if she would confirm Dickon’s claim.
Edith laughed. ‘What married couple does not? Do not look dubious, Matt! If you had wed Matilde, you would know it is true.’
Bartholomew doubted it, but wished he had been granted the chance to find out.
No one at All Saints Church seemed particularly distressed by Drax’s demise, and few mourners gave more than a fleeting glance at the coffin as they greeted each other cheerfully and loudly. Bartholomew was under the distinct impression that the taverner would not be missed.
‘I suspected you might forget so I thought I had better come, too,’ said Langelee to Bartholomew, arriving with Thelnetham at his heels. ‘Drax was a benefactor, and it would not do for our College to be under-represented.’
‘Not a very generous benefactor,’ said Thelnetham, fastidiously rearranging the puce bow that prevented his hood from flying up in the wind. ‘He gave us a few candles in exchange for a princely number of masses. The man certainly knew how to drive a bargain.’
‘I should not have bothered to come,’ said Edith unhappily. ‘I detest these occasions, and Celia does not look as though she needs the comfort of acquaintances.’
Bartholomew looked to where she pointed. Celia was composed and vibrant, clearly enjoying the attention that was being lavished on her. Odelina was at her side, simpering at any man who was young and handsome, and evidently thinking that a funeral was as good a place as any to hunt a beau idéal. Emma was there, too, with Heslarton, so Bartholomew excused himself and went to talk to them, intending to pose a few questions on Michael’s behalf.
‘Have you found the yellow-headed thief yet?’ he asked.
Heslarton scowled. ‘No, although not from want of trying. Still, he cannot elude me for ever. Stealing my mother’s box was a vile crime, but harming my daughter…’
‘And killing Alice,’ added Emma, almost as an afterthought. ‘But we shall have him. Such a man cannot be allowed to walk the streets with decent, honest folk. We shall ensure he faces justice.’
‘He is committing other crimes, too,’ said Heslarton. ‘Just last night, a man matching his description collided with Celia. When he had gone, she found her pilgrim badge missing.’
‘He made her stumble, and stole it while he pretended to steady her,’ explained Emma. ‘My new physician has lost a token, too. Well, he told me he dropped it, but I imagine it was stolen.’
Bartholomew was about to question them further, when a rustle of cloth made him turn around. It was Celia, all smug smiles and expensive new clothes. He did not think he had ever seen her look so radiant. Heslarton apparently thought so, too, because he gazed admiringly at her.
‘I have decided not to blame your College for its role in my husband’s demise,’ she said to Bartholomew. ‘So you and your colleagues can leave if you like.’
‘That is not why we came,’ said Bartholomew, a little indignant. ‘We are here to pray for Drax.’