Susanna GREGORY - The Mark of a Murderer

‘Is that what you do?’ Paxtone was clearly repelled and did not wait for a reply. ‘Well, such a distasteful task was not necessary in this case, because Okehamptone looked exactly like a man who had died of a fever: bloodless around the lips and chalk-faced. Besides, there were seven people at Merton Hall, and they all told the same story: Okehamptone contracted some virulent contagion on the way to Cambridge and died the night they arrived. They have no reason to lie.’

Bartholomew was not so sure, given what had subsequently happened to Chesterfelde, but Paxtone reminded him that Okehamptone had been in his grave almost two weeks, and they could scarcely dig him up to confirm the diagnosis. There was nothing he could do to rectify Paxtone’s ineptitude, and it was none of his affair anyway. He put the matter from his mind and concentrated on the flasks. After each bottle had been re-examined and admired, Paxtone offered to show him his new clyster pipes, too, stored in a shed in the garden. He led Bartholomew into the yard, where Michael was waiting.

‘I smell smoked pork,’ said Michael as they approached.

‘We always dine well on Mondays,’ said Paxtone, a little smugly, aware that Michaelhouse fare was mediocre on a good day and downright execrable on a bad one.

Michael watched a student trot across the courtyard and begin to pull on a bell rope. Tinny clangs echoed around the College. ‘Is it not a little late for breakfast?’ he asked, rubbing his stomach in a way that declared to even the most obtuse of observers that he was peckish.

‘The bell is for our mid-morning collation – it tides the more ravenous over until noon.’ Paxtone smiled engagingly. ‘We are going to see my clyster pipes. Would you like to come?’

‘ I am ravenous,’ declared Michael, opting for brazen, now that subtle had failed. ‘And not for the sight of clyster pipes, either. I am sure there is room at your high table for a slender man like me.’

Bartholomew stifled a laugh. Michael was the last man who could be called slender, and the physician was worried that his overly ample girth meant he could no longer move at speed. It was not just friendly concern, either: he was aware that if he chased wrongdoers on Michael’s behalf, then he would be fighting them alone until the fat monk managed to waddle to his aid.

‘There is always room for friends,’ said Paxtone. ‘Would you like to eat before or after you see the clyster pipes?’

‘Before,’ said Michael, before Bartholomew could respond. The physician grimaced, knowing he would be unlikely to see Paxtone’s enema equipment that day, because once Michael had been fed, they would have to visit Dickon.

The King’s Hall refectory was a sumptuous affair, with wall hangings giving the large room a cosy but affluent feel. Since monarchs and nobles often graced it with their presence, the Warden and his Fellows were in constant readiness to receive them, with the result that they lived like kings and barons themselves most of the time. Their hall was furnished with splendid oak tables and benches, a far cry from the rough elm, which splintered easily and was a menace to fingers and clothes, that Bartholomew was used to in Michaelhouse. There was no need to scatter the floor with rushes, for the polished wood was a beauty to behold. Bowls of fresh herbs and lavender stood along the windowsills, while servants burned pine cones in the hearth; the scent of them along with the smell of bread and smoked meat was almost intoxicating.

Paxtone led his guests to a raised dais near the hearth, and gestured that they were to sit on either side of him. Several men were already there, and nodded amiably to the newcomers. Bartholomew noticed that they did not seem surprised or discomfited by their unexpected guests; at Michaelhouse it would have meant a shortage of food.

Bartholomew found himself sitting next to a man called John de Norton, who was something of a scandal, for he had been admitted to a College despite the fact that he could barely read and knew virtually no Latin. He could, however, pay handsomely for the privilege of a University education, and made no secret of the fact that he intended to use his sojourn in Cambridge to further his career at Court. He spent a good deal of time cultivating friendships with men he thought would later become similarly successful, ready for the time when they would be in a position to trade favours.

Michael’s neighbour was a man named Geoffrey Dodenho, infamous for his unbridled bragging. Short, squat Dodenho was no more scholarly than Norton, although he considered himself a veritable genius and seldom hesitated to regale folk with his various theories, most of which were either untenable or poached from more able minds.

‘I gave an excellent lecture last week,’ he announced to the table at large. Several of his colleagues struggled to stifle sighs of irritation. ‘It was on the notion that the world was created by the self-diffusion of a point of light into a spherical form. It is complex, of course, but I have the kind of mind that can assay these matters.’

‘You concur with Grosseteste, then?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised that Dodenho should lay claim to this particular theory. He was aware of smirks around the table, although it did not occur to him that his comment to Dodenho was the cause of them. ‘He first explained the Creation in terms of a diffusion of light into a specific form.’

‘Grosseteste did not pre-empt me ,’ said Dodenho indignantly. Michael sniggered, while Paxtone looked uncomfortable, and Norton’s blank expression showed he had no idea what they were talking about – that Grosseteste might be a kind of cabbage for all he knew. ‘He proposed something entirely different. Where is Powys? I am hungry, and we cannot eat until he says grace.’

The Warden was walking slowly towards the dais. He was in earnest conversation with a young, fresh-faced man who sported half a faint moustache and whose boyishly wispy beard sprouted from odd and inconvenient places, bristles springing from under his chin rather than on it. Bartholomew supposed that, like many adolescents, he was so pleased to have grown any facial hair at all that he was loath to shave a single strand. The vague aura of femininity was enhanced by his long-lashed eyes and well-manicured fingernails.

‘Grosseteste talked about his particular notion in De luce ,’ said Bartholomew, turning his attention back to Dodenho. He smiled encouragingly, waiting for Dodenho to take up the challenge in time-honoured academic fashion, but when he saw a reasoned answer was not to be forthcoming, he added, ‘We have a copy at Michaelhouse, if you would like to read it.’

‘I do not need to read it,’ cried Dodenho, offended. ‘The man’s logic will be inferior to mine in every way, and if it is the same, then he has copied from me. ’

‘I doubt it,’ said Michael dryly. ‘He has been dead for a hundred years.’

‘Well, he still cannot be compared to me,’ declared Dodenho uncompromisingly. ‘ I am a scholar of great renown, and will be remembered longer than a mere century. My writings are–’

‘Good morning, Warden,’ interrupted Paxtone, as Powys and his companion approached. ‘Brother Michael and Doctor Bartholomew have agreed to join us for our humble refection this morning.’

This was not how Bartholomew thought the invitation had been inveigled, but was grateful to Paxtone for his gracious manners.

‘They are welcome. The good brother is looking particularly undernourished this morning, so we shall have to see what we can do to put some colour into his cheeks.’ Bartholomew gazed at Powys, trying to assess whether he was making a joke, while Michael inclined his head with quiet dignity. Then Powys indicated the young scholar at his side. ‘Have you met John Wormynghalle? He has been with us since the beginning of term, and we are glad to have him. He is an excellent philosopher and is also helping with the music curriculum.’