‘They behaved then exactly as they have done since: Duraunt with wounded saintliness, Polmorva with smug superiority, Wormynghalle with aggression, Eu with indifference, and Abergavenny with tact. And Chesterfelde grinned and doffed his cap like a lunatic. Did he kill Okehamptone and Gonerby, do you think, and then someone dispatched him?’
‘We have two distinct methods of execution: Okehamptone and Gonerby died from wounds to their throats; Chesterfelde bled to death from a cut to his arm. There could be more than one killer.’
‘But they both involve incisions and bleeding,’ mused Michael. ‘Perhaps the murderer was aiming for Chesterfelde’s throat but got his arm instead. I know you said a knife caused the wound, but perhaps he did not have time to use teeth, so resorted to his dagger instead.’
Bartholomew shook his head. ‘That does not sound likely. However, with this latest death, our list of suspects is down to Polmorva, Wormynghalle, Eu and Abergavenny.’
‘I note you do not include Duraunt, even though he has lied to us. But these are not the only ones with Oxford connections. We have Hamecotes, gone to Merton to buy books, and who sends messages about his purchases to his room-mate Wormynghalle, who has also studied in Oxford.’
‘Duraunt said Merton would never sell a book, even though Hamecotes cited a specific volume by Heytesbury. Do you remember Heytesbury, Brother? He visited us himself not long ago.’
Michael nodded, but preferred to continue his analysis of the current case, rather than wallow in memories of past ones. ‘We also have Dodenho, present in Merton during the riots, and who knew Chesterfelde well enough to invite him to his room. And there is Norton, who has stayed at Oxford Castle, and who knows so little Latin that you have to wonder why he is here.’
‘Wolf, too,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He also spent time at Oxford.’
‘And we do not know where he is now,’ mused Michael. ‘The three explanations we have been given are the pox, his debts and a lover. You saw him at Stourbridge – where another of our suspects currently resides, by the way – so you must have noticed whether he was covered in lesions.’
‘Not really,’ said Bartholomew, reluctant to disclose a man’s personal medical details.
Michael regarded him irritably. ‘Do not be coy with me, Matt, not when we are trying to solve murders. Tell me what was wrong with him and I promise the information will go no further.’
Bartholomew considered: Wolf had given no indication that he craved secrecy, and the truth was not especially awkward or embarrassing. ‘He had a mild ague – the kind most of us ignore. To be frank, I thought he was malingering, and assumed he just wanted a respite from teaching. I am surprised he is still away, because medically, there is no reason why he should not have returned.’
‘Perhaps he has been too busy killing old enemies from Oxford,’ suggested Michael, going to unbar the door before someone demanded to know what they were doing. ‘I do not like scholars disappearing without permission. Why do you think I tightened the rules about that sort of thing? It was so I would know where every clerk should be at any given time.’
‘Was it?’ asked Bartholomew, amused. ‘You told everyone else it was so arrangements could be made to cover their classes before they left. I did not realise it was all part of the Senior Proctor’s plan to create an empire in which he controls every man’s movements.’
‘Well, you do now,’ said Michael, unrepentant. ‘But here is William, come to pray for Spryngheuse. Do not tell him we have a suicide, Matt, or he will have the carcass tossed into the street.’
‘Another murder!’ boomed William as he entered. ‘These Oxford men certainly know how to dispatch each other! How many is that now? Three? Four? All I can say is that I hope the Archbishop does not get wind of it and decide not to come. I have just paid to have my habit cleaned, and I would not like to think I have wasted my money.’
CHAPTER 9
Leaving William to his sacred duties with Spryngheuse’s remains, Bartholomew and Michael returned to Michaelhouse and ate a meal of salted herrings and barley soup. Michael complained bitterly about the fact that it was a fish day, and sparked off a debate between Suttone and Wynewyk about whether it was right to abstain from meat at specific times during the week. Suttone maintained that the men who gorged on flesh on Fridays were the same folk who had provoked God to send the plague. Wynewyk declared that the definition of ‘meat’ was so vague – animal entrails, for example, were not considered as such, although muscle was – that He probably thought it was irrelevant. The argument was still in full swing when the hall was cleared of tables for the afternoon’s lectures.
Bartholomew checked his students were on schedule with their reading, then left to visit his patient in St John’s Hospital. Michael went with him, because the dying man was a Benedictine called Brother Thomas, who had been kind to him as a naïve and homesick novice many years before.
‘You are fatter than ever,’ said Thomas, when Michael followed the physician into the hall.
‘Good afternoon to you, too,’ said Michael irritably.
‘If you continue to grow, you will be too big to fit through doors,’ Thomas went on mercilessly.
‘I am not fat,’ replied Michael with a cross sigh. ‘I just have big bones. Tell him, Matt.’
‘You are fat,’ said Bartholomew baldly. ‘And it is not good for your health. You puff and groan when you walk up Castle Hill, and you can no longer chase criminals.’
‘I do not want to chase criminals,’ objected Michael, while the old monk made a wheezing sound to indicate he was chortling his appreciation at the physician’s blunt tongue. ‘That is why I have beadles. Besides, it is inappropriate for a Senior Proctor to scamper through the streets of Cambridge like a March hare. I have a position of authority, and must move in a stately manner.’
‘Like an overloaded cart pulled by a straining nag,’ said Thomas brutally. ‘Matthew is right: you do not look well with so much flesh on your heavy bones, and you are eating yourself into an early grave. And there is another thing: you often put your friend in dangerous situations. Imagine how you would feel if he needed your help and you could not move fast enough to save him.’
‘Quite,’ said Bartholomew. ‘So, no dinner for you tonight, Brother.’
Thomas grimaced. ‘I am serious, so listen to me! I am an old man and I know what I am talking about. Michael is obese, and such men often die before their time. I do not want that to happen to him, and I do not want you killed in some fracas, screaming for him while he waddles too slowly to your aid. Heed my words. I will meet God today, and you cannot refuse a dying man’s last request.’
Bartholomew was silent, unnerved by the old man’s gloomy warnings, while Michael busied himself by fussing with the bed-covers. They waited until he slept, and then left. Bartholomew knew he was unlikely to wake again, and that the frail muscles in his chest would soon simply fail to fill his lungs with air. Michael was pale when they emerged into the sunlight, and the physician saw Thomas’s words had struck hard. They walked without speaking until they met Paxtone outside King’s Hall, where Michael’s expression went from troubled to angry. Bartholomew sensed the monk was about to say something he might later regret, just because he wanted to vent his spleen.
‘No, Brother,’ he said quietly. ‘Attacking Paxtone for being a poor Corpse Examiner will achieve nothing. He will not understand what he has done wrong, and you will offend a man who is a friend.’
‘Perhaps I should include him on my list of suspects,’ said Michael bitterly. ‘He, too, visits Oxford with gay abandon, and may have his own reasons for disguising a murder.’
‘If that were the case, then I doubt he would have confessed to performing an inadequate examination. He would have let us assume he was thorough.’