Susanna GREGORY - The Mark of a Murderer

‘Another murder!’ boomed William as he entered. ‘These Oxford men certainly know how to dispatch each other! How many is that now? Three? Four? All I can say is that I hope the Archbishop does not get wind of it and decide not to come. I have just paid to have my habit cleaned, and I would not like to think I have wasted my money.’

Leaving William to his sacred duties with Spryngheuse’s remains, Bartholomew and Michael returned to Michaelhouse and ate a meal of salted herrings and barley soup. Michael complained bitterly about the fact that it was a fish day, and sparked off a debate between Suttone and Wynewyk about whether it was right to abstain from meat at specific times during the week. Suttone maintained that the men who gorged on flesh on Fridays were the same folk who had provoked God to send the plague. Wynewyk declared that the definition of ‘meat’ was so vague – animal entrails, for example, were not considered as such, although muscle was – that He probably thought it was irrelevant. The argument was still in full swing when the hall was cleared of tables for the afternoon’s lectures.

Bartholomew checked his students were on schedule with their reading, then left to visit his patient in St John’s Hospital. Michael went with him, because the dying man was a Benedictine called Brother Thomas, who had been kind to him as a naïve and homesick novice many years before.

‘You are fatter than ever,’ said Thomas, when Michael followed the physician into the hall.

‘Good afternoon to you, too,’ said Michael irritably.

‘If you continue to grow, you will be too big to fit through doors,’ Thomas went on mercilessly.

‘I am not fat,’ replied Michael with a cross sigh. ‘I just have big bones. Tell him, Matt.’

‘You are fat,’ said Bartholomew baldly. ‘And it is not good for your health. You puff and groan when you walk up Castle Hill, and you can no longer chase criminals.’

‘I do not want to chase criminals,’ objected Michael, while the old monk made a wheezing sound to indicate he was chortling his appreciation at the physician’s blunt tongue. ‘That is why I have beadles. Besides, it is inappropriate for a Senior Proctor to scamper through the streets of Cambridge like a March hare. I have a position of authority, and must move in a stately manner.’

‘Like an overloaded cart pulled by a straining nag,’ said Thomas brutally. ‘Matthew is right: you do not look well with so much flesh on your heavy bones, and you are eating yourself into an early grave. And there is another thing: you often put your friend in dangerous situations. Imagine how you would feel if he needed your help and you could not move fast enough to save him.’

‘Quite,’ said Bartholomew. ‘So, no dinner for you tonight, Brother.’

Thomas grimaced. ‘I am serious, so listen to me! I am an old man and I know what I am talking about. Michael is obese, and such men often die before their time. I do not want that to happen to him, and I do not want you killed in some fracas, screaming for him while he waddles too slowly to your aid. Heed my words. I will meet God today, and you cannot refuse a dying man’s last request.’

Bartholomew was silent, unnerved by the old man’s gloomy warnings, while Michael busied himself by fussing with the bed-covers. They waited until he slept, and then left. Bartholomew knew he was unlikely to wake again, and that the frail muscles in his chest would soon simply fail to fill his lungs with air. Michael was pale when they emerged into the sunlight, and the physician saw Thomas’s words had struck hard. They walked without speaking until they met Paxtone outside King’s Hall, where Michael’s expression went from troubled to angry. Bartholomew sensed the monk was about to say something he might later regret, just because he wanted to vent his spleen.

‘No, Brother,’ he said quietly. ‘Attacking Paxtone for being a poor Corpse Examiner will achieve nothing. He will not understand what he has done wrong, and you will offend a man who is a friend.’

‘Perhaps I should include him on my list of suspects,’ said Michael bitterly. ‘He, too, visits Oxford with gay abandon, and may have his own reasons for disguising a murder.’

‘If that were the case, then I doubt he would have confessed to performing an inadequate examination. He would have let us assume he was thorough.’

He greeted Paxtone amiably before Michael could reply, and told him about the mass arranged for Chesterfelde and Spryngheuse later that afternoon. Paxtone said he was saddened to hear about the deaths, and offered to attend the requiem with some of his colleagues.

‘Why?’ asked Michael, unnecessarily abrupt. ‘Did you know them?’

‘No,’ replied Paxtone, startled by the monk’s hostility. ‘But they were fellow scholars, and it is the least we can do. Weasenham told me today that the St Scholastica’s Day riots were started deliberately, and that someone intends to do the same here. We academics need to stick together, to show the town that we stand solidly with our Oxford colleagues.’

‘Where did Weasenham hear this?’ demanded Michael furiously.

Paxtone took a step back, unnerved by his temper. ‘He did not say. Why? Do you think he made it up? It would not be the first time he invented tales when he found himself short of real stories.’

‘Come with me to see him now,’ ordered Michael. ‘I want to know if there is a factual basis to his rumour-mongering, or whether he is speaking out of spite. In either case, he will desist immediately. I will not have him giving people ideas, and starting trouble when Islip is about to arrive.’

‘You are right,’ said Paxtone, starting to walk in the direction of the stationer’s domain. Bartholomew followed, and could not help but notice that Michael was not the only large man who waddled. ‘These tales that Oxford was ripped to pieces by townsfolk angered me , and I am a mild-tempered fellow. I cannot imagine what will happen if lads like Lee of Gonville or – I am sorry Matt, but it is true – Deynman and Falmeresham come to hear them.’

Michael stormed into Weasenham’s shop. It was busy, with at least twenty students and Fellows inspecting the merchandise. Alyce was demonstrating a new kind of ink that dried more quickly than traditional ones, while Weasenham was deep in conversation with several scholars, all of whom were listening avidly to every whispered word. Bartholomew’s heart sank when he caught the word ‘Scholastica’ among the muted diatribe, and it plunged even deeper when he saw that the eager ears belonged to Gonville’s feisty students, including Lee. Michael surged up to them.

‘Brother Michael,’ said Weasenham, beaming falsely when he saw the monk’s furious expression. ‘Have you used all that parchment already? Do you want me to send you more?’

‘What has he been telling you?’ demanded Michael of Lee.

‘Nothing about a certain physician’s visits to a Frail Sister,’ squeaked Weasenham in alarm, when he misunderstood what Michael was asking. ‘I swear I have said nothing to anyone about that.’

‘What physician?’ snapped Lee. ‘You had better not be gossiping about Doctor Rougham’s meetings with Yolande de Blaston on the first Monday of the month, or you will have me to contend with.’

‘Does he?’ asked Weasenham encouragingly, eager for more details.

Bartholomew felt sorry for Rougham. It was the second time he had heard people refer to the dalliance, and, although he had been unaware of the man’s penchant for Yolande, it was clearly no secret. Rougham could have gone to his College after the attack, and not imposed himself on Matilde, after all. He reconsidered: but then he would have told people about Clippesby, and the tale that a Michaelhouse Fellow had bitten a Gonville man would have resulted in trouble for certain.