Susanna GREGORY: The Mark of a Murderer

‘I do not mingle with such folk,’ said William loftily – and wholly untruthfully, since meeting the poor was unavoidable in a small town like Cambridge, and William was not a callous man, despite his pretensions of grandeur. ‘They are beneath the dignity of the Keeper of the University Chest and Cambridge’s best theologian.’ Smugly proud of himself, he turned his attention to his devotions.

‘That is not how I would describe him,’ muttered Brother Michael, who had been listening. ‘Well, he is the Keeper of the University Chest, but he is no more a theologian than is Matilde.’

Bartholomew glanced sharply at him, and could tell from the sly gleam in the monk’s eyes that more was known about his nocturnal forays than he would have liked. The obese Benedictine held the post of the University’s Senior Proctor, and was responsible for maintaining law and order among the scholars and a good deal more besides. He had a legion of beadles who patrolled the streets, hunting out students who broke the University’s strict rules – and any academic caught in a tavern or fraternising with women could expect a hefty fine. Bartholomew supposed that one of the beadles had spotted him visiting Matilde, and had reported the transgression to Michael.

Bartholomew was not only Michael’s closest friend, but also his Corpse Examiner, which meant he was paid a fee to investigate any sudden or unexpected deaths among members of the University or on University property. These occurred with distressing frequency, because life in Cambridge – as in any town across the country – was fraught with danger. People were killed in brawls; they had accidents with carts, horses and unstable buildings; they died from diseases, injuries and vagaries of the weather; and sometimes they took their own lives. Bartholomew and Michael explored them all, which meant that although any beadle would think twice about arresting Bartholomew for visiting a woman, he would certainly not hesitate to tell the Senior Proctor about the event.

‘You should be careful, Matt,’ whispered Michael. ‘Cambridge is a small town and very little happens that someone does not notice – even when you are being cautious.’

‘I know,’ said Bartholomew, closing his eyes prayerfully to indicate the conversation was over.

Michael was not so easily silenced. ‘I needed you earlier, and you were nowhere to be found. Then I discovered the orchard door unbarred – for the tenth night in a row.’

Bartholomew opened his eyes and regarded the fat monk accusingly. ‘Did you close it?’

Michael pursed his lips, offended. ‘Knowing you planned to use it later? Of course not! What sort of friend do you think I am?’

‘I am sorry,’ muttered Bartholomew. He rubbed his eyes again, and wished he felt more alert; Michael was the last man to lock him out, no matter what rules he was breaking. He changed the subject. ‘Why did you need me? Were you ill?’

‘There was a murder.’

‘How do you know it was murder?’

‘I am told there is a dagger embedded in the corpse’s back,’ replied Michael tartly. ‘And even a lowly proctor knows a man cannot do that to himself.’

Despite the fact that there was a body awaiting Michael’s inspection, and that he and his Corpse Examiner had been summoned before dawn – almost two hours earlier – the monk refused to attend his duties until he had had his breakfast. Personally, Bartholomew felt the fat monk could do with missing the occasional repast, and encouraged him to forgo the egg-mess, pickled herrings and rich meat pottage provided as part of the Pentecost celebrations, but his advice fell on stony ground. Michael intended to make the most of all the meals on offer that day, and no cadaver was going to lie in his way. When he had first been appointed proctor, Michael had chased recalcitrant students all over the town with considerable vigour, but he had since trained his beadles to do that sort of thing, and the only exercise now required was the short walk between College and his office in St Mary the Great. Over the past year, Bartholomew had noticed that the monk now waddled rather than walked, and that even a short burst of activity left him red-faced and breathless.

Langelee led his scholars back to Michaelhouse, where a bell rang to announce that breakfast was ready. Since it was Sunday, and the religious observations were always longer and later in starting, the scholars were peckish, so there was a concerted dash for the stairs that led to the handsome hall on the upper floor. The chamber’s window shutters had been thrown open, filling the room with light, and a gentle breeze wafted through the glassless openings, bringing with it the scent of summer. Benches and trestle tables had been set up, and loaves of bread, hacked into lumps, awaited the scholars’ consumption.

Michael charged to the high table, where the Fellows ate, and shuffled in agitated impatience while Langelee waited for the others to take their places, so he could say grace. Some masters used grace as an opportunity to hold forth to a helplessly captive audience, but Langelee was a practical man with plenty to do – little of which included studying – and his prayers were invariably short and to the point. He spoke one or two insincere words in a loud, confident voice, and was sitting down with his knife in his hand before most scholars even realised he had started. In view of the special occasion, he decreed that conversation was permitted that day, and dismissed the Bible Scholar, who usually read aloud during meals.

As soon as he had finished speaking, servants began to bring the food, which was served in ‘messes’ – large ones to be shared by four in the body of the hall, and smaller ones for two at the high table. Bartholomew was grateful he was not obliged to share with Michael, knowing it would be an unequal contest and that he would almost certainly go hungry. The monk reached for the largest piece of bread, then leaned back so that pottage, heavily laced with diced meat, could be ladled into the dish in front of him, demanding more when the servant stopped before it was fully loaded.

‘I see one of us does not miss Clippesby,’ said a morose Carmelite friar called Suttone, as he watched Michael’s gluttony with rank disapproval. ‘He is your mess-mate, and the fact that he is ill means you do not have to give him half.’ He glanced at Langelee, who shared his own dishes, and added pointedly, ‘Clippesby is considerate, and always divides the best parts evenly.’

Langelee responded by eating more quickly, and Bartholomew thought Suttone would be better fed if he did not waste time on futile recriminations: Langelee rarely spoke until he had finished feeding, and Suttone needed to do the same if he wanted an equal division of spoils. Bartholomew’s own mess-mate was William, who also ate more than his own allocation, but at least he usually asked whether the physician minded.

Michael was unashamedly gleeful that he could enjoy his food without competition. ‘I dislike teaching his music classes, but I do not miss him at meals.’ He released a sudden exclamation of horror and recoiled from his dish as though it had bitten him. ‘There is cabbage in this!’

‘Only a little,’ said Bartholomew. It was such a minute shred that he could barely see it. ‘It will not kill you.’

‘It might,’ countered Michael vehemently. ‘I do not eat food that is popular with caterpillars. I am always afraid that one of them might still be on it.’

‘Then it will be meat,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘And you have no objection to that.’

‘But caterpillars are green, and nothing green shall pass my lips,’ said Michael firmly, picking out the offending sliver and flinging it away with considerable force. It landed on William, who did not notice. Then the monk took an enormous horn spoon from his pouch, and began shovelling pottage into his mouth as if it might be the last food he would ever enjoy.