Susanna GREGORY - The Mark of a Murderer

‘Robert de Wolf and Richard de Hamecotes,’ elaborated Paxtone. ‘It is highly inconvenient to be without them, actually – as you will know yourself, Brother. I understand Michaelhouse is missing poor Clippesby at the moment. Insanity again, is it?’

‘Are they absent with your permission or without it, Warden?’ asked Michael, ignoring the impertinent query and not revealing that he already knew about the King’s Hall truancies from his University spies.

Powys looked uncomfortable. ‘Hamecotes wrote to us saying he has gone to Oxford to purchase books for our library. We are short of legal texts, so his journey will be of great benefit to the College.’

‘If he wrote telling you what he planned to do, then it means he asked for permission after he had gone,’ Michael surmised. ‘You did not grant him leave: he just went.’ He eyed the Warden questioningly.

‘I do not want trouble,’ said Powys softly. ‘Hamecotes had no business abandoning us during term, but he has never done anything like this before. I confess I am surprised by his conduct, but if he returns loaded with books, then I am prepared to overlook the lapse.’

‘What about the other Fellow?’ asked Michael. ‘Wolf. Did he just decide to slip away, too?’

Powys nodded unhappily. ‘He is in debt – expenses unpaid from last year – but we had agreed to postpone the matter for a few weeks, because he was expecting an inheritance. I am astonished he decided to take unauthorised leave, too, and we miss him sorely. He is an excellent teacher and a popular master.’

‘Debt?’ asked Michael. ‘How much does he owe?’

‘Quite a bit,’ admitted Powys. ‘I know scholars with serious financial troubles sometimes abscond, so they will not have to pay their dues, but I do not think Wolf is one of them.’

‘Hamecotes’s room-mate was as surprised as the rest of us when he left, but Wolf’s was not,’ said Paxtone, rather imprudently, given that he was talking to the Senior Proctor – the man who might later penalise his colleagues for breaking the University’s rules. ‘Wolf likes women, and I suspect he is enjoying himself with one and has lost track of time.’

‘For eleven days?’ asked Powys archly. ‘She must be quite a lady!’ He turned to Michael. ‘Come to my office, Brother, so I can write down their details for your records.’

‘You are very honest,’ said Michael, as he started to follow. ‘Most Colleges would have tried to conceal the matter, because Wolf and Hamecotes will certainly be fined when they return.’

‘I considered keeping quiet,’ admitted Powys. ‘But we have too many students, and we cannot trust them all not to chatter. Besides, it is always best to tell the truth.’

‘I wish everyone believed that,’ said Michael wistfully.

Bartholomew left Michael to deal with the absent Fellows, and went with Paxtone to his chambers. These overlooked the herb gardens at the back of the College, and when the window shutters were thrown open, the rooms were filled with their rich scent, fragrant in the warmth of early summer.

‘You look tired,’ said Paxtone sympathetically, as Bartholomew flopped into a large oak chair that was filled with cushions. ‘Did a patient keep you up again last night?’

‘Yes,’ replied Bartholomew shortly, wondering whether this was his colleague’s discreet way of mentioning that he, too, knew about Matilde. Since even his sister was aware of it, he supposed it was not out of the question that the Fellows of King’s Hall were, too.

‘You must learn to refuse,’ advised Paxtone, peering into Bartholomew’s face, concerned. ‘You will make yourself ill if you persist in burning the candle at both ends. A man needs his rest just as much as he needs his daily bread.’

‘There are just not enough hours in a day to do everything,’ said Bartholomew wearily. He rubbed his eyes and sat up straight, knowing he would fall asleep in Paxtone’s peaceful chamber if he allowed himself to settle too deeply into the chair.

‘I know you are overburdened,’ said Paxtone kindly. ‘So, to help you, I visited one of your patients in the hovels at All-Saints-next-the-Castle last night – a morbid obstruction of the liver. He sent for you, but your porter said you were out, so his woman came to me instead, although she had no money to pay for my services.’

‘That couple barely have enough for bread, and only ask me to visit because I forget to charge them.’

‘I “forgot”, too,’ said Paxtone, removing the first of his urine flasks from a chest for Bartholomew to admire. ‘But that is not all I have done for you recently. Michael asked me to inspect a corpse for him a couple of weeks ago. I agreed, because you are my friend and I wanted to be of use, but I shall not do that again! I am a physician, not a Corpse Examiner, and I deal with the living, not the dead.’

‘I used to think that, too,’ said Bartholomew, taking the flask and thinking nostalgically of the days when his time had been filled solely with healing and teaching. ‘But the additional income from examining bodies is very useful – it is how I provide medicines for patients like the one you saw last night. Besides, I have learned a great deal from corpses that can be applied to the quick.’

‘Anatomy,’ said Paxtone with distaste, taking the flask from Bartholomew and presenting him with another. ‘I hear they are teaching that at the Italian universities these days, but I shall have nothing to do with it. Christian men do not prod about inside the dead. That is for pagans and heretics.’

‘What I do is hardly anatomy,’ protested Bartholomew, who had never dissected a corpse in his life, although he would not have objected to doing so. He had been an observer at several dismemberments at the University in Padua, and believed much could be gained from the practice. He turned the flask over in his hands as he spoke. It really was a fine thing, made from thin glass that would allow the urine to be seen clearly through it from any angle. ‘I only assess the–’

‘I do not care,’ interrupted Paxtone firmly. ‘I did not like looking at the dead man from Oxford, and I shall not oblige you again. I told Michael as much.’

‘What did you learn from Okehamptone’s cadaver?’ Bartholomew asked absently, wondering whether there had been a wound on the body’s wrist, like the one on Chesterfelde’s.

‘Learn?’ echoed Paxtone in distaste. ‘Nothing. His companions said he had died from a fever.’

‘But you examined the body, to make sure they were telling the truth. So, what did you–?’

‘I most certainly did not,’ replied Paxtone fervently. ‘Michael left me alone with the thing, and told me to “get on with it”, to quote his eloquent phrasing. But I saw no reason to disbelieve an honest man like Warden Duraunt, so I knelt next to Okehamptone and prayed for his soul. I considered that far more valuable than poking around his person. Besides, we all know corpses harbour diseases. I do not know how you have lived so long, given your penchant for them.’ He presented another flask with a flourish. It was beautifully engraved; clearly he had saved the best for last.

‘So, the only reason you know Okehamptone died from a fever is because his companions told you so?’ asked Bartholomew, taking the object without seeing it.

‘No,’ said Paxtone shortly. ‘I knew because there was a thick blanket around his body and one of those liripipes – a combined hood and scarf – enveloping his head and neck. In short, the corpse was dressed just like any man who had been laid low with an ague in his last hours. I possess some common sense, you know.’

‘You did not strip the body, to see if there was a dent in his head or a wound under these clothes?’