Susanna GREGORY: The Mark of a Murderer

‘It will not be long before the whole town knows. I thought you liked life at Michaelhouse, but if you are caught defying the University’s prohibition against women you will lose your Fellowship and your students. You will be reduced to practising medicine in the town and nothing else.’

‘That would not be so bad,’ replied Bartholomew, thinking about the mountain of academic work that loomed ahead of him until term ended. His third-year students had not finished Galen’s De criticis diebus , while he was still dissatisfied with the lectures his postgraduates intended to deliver on Hippocrates’ Liber aphorismorum for their inceptions. The Regent Master who would examine them was his arch-rival Doctor Rougham, who would not grant them their degrees unless they were perfect.

‘You would starve,’ said Michael brutally. ‘Your Fellowship provides you with a roof over your head, regular meals and funds to squander at the apothecary’s shop. Most of your patients are too poor to pay for their own medicines, and without Michaelhouse you would not be able to help them. So, think of them as you brazenly stride away each night to frolic with Matilde.’

Bartholomew thought of the care he had taken on his nocturnal forays. ‘I am not brazen…’

Michael gave a snort of laughter. ‘Your students know what you do and they are beginning to follow your example. I caught Deynman and Falmeresham with a whore two nights ago. I have told you before: enjoy Matilde if you must, but do it with at least a modicum of discretion.’

‘I have never–’

‘Do not argue, Matt: you know I am right. And if you do not care about yourself or your patients, then think of me. I am the Senior Proctor. Imagine how it looks for me to have a Corpse Examiner who flouts the rules night after night, and I do nothing about it.’

Bartholomew rubbed his forehead tiredly. ‘But what can I do? She needs me.’

‘I am sure she does,’ replied Michael primly. ‘But that is beside the point. I am giving you some friendly advice, and you would do well to listen. Practise discretion.’

‘I will bear it in mind,’ replied Bartholomew, thinking that if sneaking out quietly when no one was awake, always waiting for total darkness, and making sure no one watched when he entered the Jewry was not discreet, then he was defeated. He had been as careful as he could, and was horrified that so many people seemed to know what he had been about.

‘We are going to Merton Hall,’ said Michael, changing the subject. He saw Bartholomew’s blank expression, and added in exasperation, ‘To see this corpse we have been asked to inspect, man!’

‘Oh,’ said Bartholomew without much interest. ‘That.’

‘My beadles say the victim is a visiting scholar from Oxford.’ Michael glanced at his friend when he received no response. ‘Matilde must be wearing you out, because you have not asked a single question about the body and the circumstances of the man’s death, and you are normally full of them.’

‘Merton Hall,’ mused Bartholomew, trying to make an effort. ‘That is the house over the river, which is owned by the College I once attended in Oxford.’

‘I forgot you have connections to the Other Place,’ said Michael, not entirely approvingly. England had two universities – in Cambridge and Oxford – which were rivals for students and benefactors. Cambridge was newer and smaller, and its scholars invariably regarded its larger, more influential sister with rank distrust. ‘Merton is one of its biggest and richest Colleges, I understand?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘Its founder, Walter de Merton, was afraid his scholars might eventually be driven out of Oxford by rioting townsfolk, so he purchased a house and several parcels of land in Cambridge for them – a refuge should they ever be obliged to flee.’

‘Well, they have flown,’ said Michael. He saw Bartholomew’s puzzled expression, and elaborated. ‘Surely you remember the news? On St Scholastica’s Day – four months ago now – there were violent disturbances in their city that ended in the murder of sixty scholars. Several Oxford men have arrived here recently, although one evidently learned last night that we are not the safe haven he anticipated.’

‘A Merton man is dead?’ asked Bartholomew, feigning an interest he did not feel. His years as an undergraduate in Oxford seemed a long time ago, especially that morning, after his tenth night of interrupted sleep.

‘Not Merton. Balliol. Perhaps you knew him: his name is Roger de Chesterfelde.’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘I studied there two decades ago, and my contemporaries will have moved on to other things by now.’

‘Then what about Henry Okehamptone?’ asked Michael. ‘Is that name familiar?’

Bartholomew shook his head again. ‘Why?’

‘Because Chesterfelde is not the first Oxford man to have died in Cambridge recently. That honour went to Okehamptone, who passed away ten days ago – on Ascension Day – the morning after this large party from Oxford arrived. His friends said he had been unwell the previous night, probably from drinking bad water along the way, and he perished in his sleep. These things happen, and catching a contagion is just one of the many dangers associated with gratuitous travel.’

Bartholomew smiled. Michael disliked lengthy journeys, and always believed he took his life in his hands when he embarked on one. However, he had a point about the perils of drinking in strange places: it was not unknown for travellers to arrive and immediately fall prey to some ailment they had contracted en route . As a physician, Bartholomew encountered such cases regularly.

‘Was Okehamptone old?’ he asked. ‘Frail and more susceptible than his companions?’

‘He was a young man. I saw his corpse myself.’

‘Did you?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised he had not been summoned, too.

Michael shot him a nasty look. ‘I wanted you to do it, but you were nowhere to be found. You have become very elusive over the last two weeks.’

Bartholomew ignored the comment. ‘Why were you called? Merton Hall is not our University’s property, and Oxford scholars do not come under your jurisdiction.’

‘I beg to differ – they can hardly be investigated by the secular authority invested in the Sheriff, so of course they fall to me. However, there was nothing to suggest Okehamptone’s companions were lying about his fever.’ Michael cast Bartholomew another resentful glance. ‘My Corpse Examiner should have confirmed their diagnosis, but he was mysteriously unavailable.’

‘Ascension Day,’ mused Bartholomew, refusing to acknowledge the barrage of recriminations. The festival was a favourite of Michael’s and, after a solemn mass, the monk had furnished plenty of food and wine so that Michaelhouse could celebrate in style. Bartholomew recalled the occasion clearly, unlike some of his less abstemious colleagues. ‘I was obliged to tend Master Weasenham that morning. For a toothache.’

‘Then it is no wonder I could not find you,’ remarked Michael testily. ‘I did not think to look for you at Weasenham’s house, because he is not your patient: he is Doctor Rougham’s. You should take care, Matt. The University stationer is a rich man, and Rougham will not approve of you poaching one of his best sources of income.’

‘Rougham was unavailable, and Weasenham said he could not wait,’ replied Bartholomew, thinking it was ironic that he had treated the stationer out of compassion, and yet it was probably Weasenham who had been spreading the rumours about him and Matilde.

‘I did not need you anyway,’ Michael went on airily. ‘I met Paxtone of King’s Hall on the way, and he agreed to do the examination in your stead. He confirmed what Okehamptone’s friends said about a fever.’