‘You must look out for Rougham, too,’ said Michael. ‘Do not confide in him, because he is fiery, and outrage may lead him to confront Arderne, which will help no one.’
‘I shall be discreet,’ vowed Paxtone. He paled suddenly. ‘I have noticed someone watching me several times recently. Lord! It might have been an assassin hired by Arderne.’
‘Watching you how?’ asked Bartholomew.
Paxtone raised his hands. ‘Sometimes he is in the street opposite our gatehouse, sometimes I see him at the apothecary’s shop, and he was at Kenyngham’s funeral. I mentioned him to Rougham, and he said the fellow had been dogging him, too. Have you noticed anyone following you?’
Bartholomew shook his head. ‘I am usually accompanied by Michael, Cynric or students. They would have noticed something amiss, even if I did not.’
‘We did notice something amiss,’ said Michael. ‘You chased a hooded figure who was lurking outside Peterhouse, but lost him in the woods nearby.’ He turned to Paxtone. ‘Can you describe this person?’
Paxtone shook his head. ‘He is always bundled up in his cloak, and I have never seen his face. Neither has Rougham.’
Michael was concerned. ‘You must be on your guard.’
Paxtone’s malaise seemed to have evaporated now he had something more serious to worry about. He stood and headed for the door, tottering slightly on his tiny feet. ‘I shall walk to Gonville Hall now, and make sure Rougham is in one piece. Poor Lynton! Did I tell you we had a disagreement last week?’
Michael followed him down the stairs. ‘What about?’
‘The mean speed theorem. He made an assumption that I considered erroneous.’
‘In what way?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘The basis of the theory is that a body will traverse a specific distance in a given amount of time. However, I see no evidence that the speed should be constant, and I disagreed with him about his mathematical assumptions.’
‘I see your point,’ said Bartholomew. ‘However, if that same body were to move during the same interval of time with a uniform velocity equal to the instantaneous speed acquired at the middle instant of its uniform acceleration, it would traverse a predictable distance. Would it not?’
Paxtone paused at the bottom of the stairs to catch his breath. ‘He kept varying his definition of “uniform”, which meant his deductions were difficult to predict. I was right more often than not, but a man of my standing does not like to be proven wrong. All this happened in his Dispensary.’
Bartholomew was surprised Paxtone had taken the matter so much to heart. Being wrong was part of the learning process, and anyone who minded having his conclusions questioned had no right to be a scholar. ‘You visited his Dispensary? I did not even know he had one until yesterday, although it is like no Dispensary I have ever seen – there is nothing in it to dispense, for a start.’
‘Just wine,’ said Paxtone, leading the way across the yard. He looked a little furtive. ‘Lynton liked to give wine to the patients who visited him. It was a very popular habit.’
‘I am sure it was,’ said Bartholomew.
Michael lowered his voice when they reached King’s Hall’s mighty gatehouse. ‘While I am in the mood for confidences, I have received a letter saying that Kenyngham was poisoned. And there was another note offering me twenty marks for bringing the culprit to justice.’
Paxtone regarded him uncertainly. ‘Kenyngham was old. I imagine he died of natural causes, and the writer of these letters – I assume they are one and the same – is playing a nasty game with you.’
‘That is what I have been telling him,’ said Bartholomew.
‘I am unwilling to take the chance,’ said Michael. ‘So, I shall take the matter seriously until a proper examination of Kenyngham tells me otherwise. Besides, these missives cannot have been written by the same man. He is hardly likely to offer me a reward for his own capture, is he?’
‘But Kenyngham is buried,’ said Paxtone. ‘How can you examine him? Unless … surely, you cannot mean to exhume him?’ He rounded on Bartholomew. ‘Are you party to this outrage?’
‘No. Michael intends to ask Rougham to help him.’
‘Rougham will have nothing to do with it – and rightly so. I strongly urge you reconsider, Brother.’
Michael watched him waddle away, a frown creasing his fat features. ‘Perhaps he killed Kenyngham. He certainly objected very strongly to my determination to learn the truth.’
‘He objected to you digging up a dead colleague,’ said Bartholomew quietly. ‘As do I.’
As Bartholomew and Michael walked home to Michaelhouse, they met Father William. He was talking to the Warden of the town’s Franciscan Friary, an austere, unsmiling man named Pechem. Pechem was one of Bartholomew’s patients, and regularly consulted him about the poor state of his digestion. He usually blamed his discomfort on a bad alignment of stars, although the physician was more inclined to think a penchant for pickled rhubarb might have something to do with it.
‘The Grey Friars will stand with you at the Convocation next Monday, Brother,’ said Pechem, as they approached. ‘William has been telling me how it is your attempt to avert trouble, so we shall support your proposal to change the Statutes.’
‘Thank you,’ said Michael, pleased.
‘The Dominicans are being awkward, though,’ said William gloomily. ‘I went to see them today, but Prior Morden said he intended to vote for whatever I voted against.’
‘Damn!’ muttered Michael. ‘I shall have to visit Morden later, then.’
‘Do not bother,’ said Pechem. ‘The Black Friars have eighteen Regents, but we have nineteen. As we cannot possibly be expected to vote for the same side, you are better accepting our pledge.’
Michael sighed crossly. ‘Surely you can put your differences aside, just this once?’
‘We have been happily opposing Dominicans on everything for nigh on two hundred years,’ said Pechem indignantly. ‘Why should we change now?’
‘That stupid Honynge says the Dominicans are right about Blood Relics,’ said William to Pechem, oblivious to the monk’s exasperated disapproval of the Warden’s stance. ‘Can you credit it? The man is an ass! However, I have had my revenge.’
‘What have you done?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. William was not a subtle person, and his vengeance was likely to be something crude that would cause another quarrel.
‘As Junior Fellow, he is obliged to manage the Illeigh Hutch,’ said William. He explained to Pechem. ‘Hutches are chests containing money that can be borrowed by our students. In return for coins, they leave something of equal or greater value – a book, a piece of jewellery, and so on.’
‘And?’ asked Michael warily. ‘What did you do? Remove all the money, so he will look foolish when a student asks for some and he finds it is empty?’
William’s face fell. ‘How did you guess?’
Bartholomew was disgusted. ‘He will know someone is playing tricks, and may reciprocate with something vicious. I doubt he is the kind of man to take a joke.’
Michael’s expression was crafty. ‘I think we can salvage something from the idea, though. Go and put it all back, Father, but include the gold coronet from the Stanton Hutch, too. Honynge will conduct an inventory, and discover an addition. Then we shall see how honest he is.’
‘We shall declare it stolen,’ crowed William, delighted. ‘And then it will be found in his room!’