‘Precisely,’ said Michael. ‘They were not drunk, and I told you at the time that they were no mere students sneaking out for a night in the taverns. I think that Michaelhouse was provided with extra-strong or doctored wine so that this pair could complete whatever it was that they were doing.’
‘That seems a little far-fetched,’ said Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘Perhaps not everyone drank as much as we did. They are not all gluttons.’
‘They are students, Matt. Wine pigs. Of course they are all gluttons! I am certain that something odd was going on in Michaelhouse that night – and you and I almost stumbled on it.’
‘I think you are reading too much into this, but I agree that the wine was unusually strong. Most of our colleagues looked awful the next morning, even Kenyngham. He was also uncharacteristically tearful.’
‘Tearful?’ asked Michael in surprise.
Bartholomew told him about Kenyngham’s remorse because he had not intervened when the choir had almost attacked him after they had been dismissed.
‘Runham again,’ said Michael harshly. ‘It seems to me that he was one of the few people who did not fall victim to this powerful wine. Was he one of the two who pushed you over in the lane, do you think?’
‘Impossible. He was lurking in our staircase when we got back to our rooms, remember? He could not have run off down the lane with a beadle in hot pursuit and been hiding on the stairs at the same time.’
‘True,’ admitted Michael. ‘But someone was up to no good in the College that night. I will do a little investigating here this afternoon, while you can assist me with the Bene’t deaths. My beadles are doing all they can, but I have decided I need your assistance in the matter of Wymundham and his claim that Raysoun was pushed.’
‘But surely the Junior Proctor is looking into that? He must be back from Ely by now.’
Michael shook his head. ‘He is still away. Will you go to St Bene’t’s Church and have another look at the bodies of Raysoun and Wymundham, as you promised? Go to Bene’t College first, and ask permission from Master Heltisle, just to be polite.’
‘But I have teaching to do …’
‘You have just been complaining that teaching is impossible. From what Gray tells me, you and Runham – who has bagged himself the comfort of the church – are the only two Fellows still trying to teach in all this racket anyway.’
‘But–’
‘You promised you would do it,’ pressed Michael. ‘And Agatha heard you. Shall we summon her and have her repeat what she heard you agree to do?’
‘That will not be necessary,’ said Bartholomew hastily. ‘I will do it.’
‘Good.’
‘I might not be teaching much longer at Michaelhouse in any case,’ said Bartholomew, thinking that running Michael’s nasty errands was not something he would miss if he were forced to resign his Fellowship. ‘Runham is expecting me to choose between Michaelhouse and medicine tomorrow.’
‘Then we have a day to prove Runham doctored the Widow’s Wine and had two cronies illicitly in the College that night,’ said Michael, rubbing his hands together. ‘Because I, for one, do not want you to make that choice.’
Bartholomew did not feel at all inclined to inspect bodies that afternoon, but the banging and crashing had reached such a crescendo that he could barely hear himself think, let alone write his treatise. He unlocked the chained medical books from the hall – books were a valuable commodity, and most libraries kept their tomes under lock and key – and distributed them among the students with strict instructions as to what they should read. They were resentful, aware that most of the others had been given leave to watch the building progress, but Bartholomew was grimly determined that Runham’s ambition to make Michaelhouse one of the grandest edifices in the town would not interfere with the College’s academic responsibilities.
At the gate, Bartholomew paused and looked back across the courtyard. The north wing was swathed in a complicated mess of planking, most of it old and crumbling, and he assumed it comprised timbers from condemned houses that could not be used for anything else. Workmen swarmed over it, hammering and sawing furiously, some adding yet more levels to the already precarious structure, while others were repointing the stonework on the windows or replacing broken tiles on the roof.
The yard was a chaos of activity, with men running here and there, carrying timber on their shoulders or staggering under the weight of blocks of Barnack stone. Apprentices wearing the distinctive liveries of their masters darted this way and that, ferrying tools, or performing tasks that were beneath the dignity of the qualified tradesman – sawing wood, sanding the rough edges of stones, counting nails, and mixing mortar of lime and sand. The area of the planned new court was equally frenetic. Shallow foundations had been dug, and the first beams that would form the skeleton of the wattle-and-daub kitchen and stables were already in place.
‘It is impressive, is it not?’ Bartholomew jumped at the closeness of Clippesby’s voice behind him. The scholar’s eyes were soft and dreamy, and he looked almost sane. ‘Master Runham is amazing to have organised all this so quickly. I am glad I came to Michaelhouse and not Bene’t.’
‘You would have had an opportunity to reside in a building site had you gone to Bene’t, too,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is also having a new wing raised.’
‘But ours will be better,’ said Clippesby. ‘Raysoun was always complaining that the progress was too slow; he thought the masons would still be labouring on it in a hundred years’ time. Master Runham is not permitting such sluggishness.’
‘I did not know we had so many builders in Cambridge,’ said Bartholomew, regarding the milling workmen in awe. ‘I always understood labour was short after the plague.’
‘Not if you know where to get it,’ said Clippesby smugly.
‘And the terms Runham offered are very enticing – these men will be paid double if they can complete all this within a month. Instead of the usual three and a half pence per day, masters will earn a total of eighteen shillings for a mere four weeks’ labour.’
Bartholomew raised his eyebrows. ‘No wonder they are working so hard! And what happens if they do not finish within a month?’
‘That will not be an issue,’ said Clippesby confidently.
Bartholomew was not so sure, knowing very well that builders often encountered unexpected problems that delayed matters. He hoped the scramble to complete on time would not result in roofs that leaked, walls that needed buttressing, and windows that did not fit their frames.
‘Are you sure Runham has the funds to pay them?’ he asked doubtfully. ‘If they have been promised double pay, there will be a riot if they do not get it.’
‘I am sure,’ said Clippesby, indignation on Runham’s behalf making his voice suddenly loud. ‘He has a great chest of gold in his room – I have seen it myself.’
‘A great chest of gold in his room?’ asked one of the builders cheerily as he staggered past them bearing a heavy pole. Several of his colleagues heard him, and exchanged acquisitive grins. ‘Now that is reassuring to hear. We were worried the old fox might not be able to pay up.’
‘There is no question of that, Blaston,’ said Clippesby superiorly. ‘But you should get back to work if you want to see any of it.’
The master carpenter winked at Bartholomew and continued on his way, whistling merrily as he went. He wore no shoes, Bartholomew noticed, which was unusual for a man of his status. But Robert de Blaston was married to Yolande, the prostitute-friend of Matilde; they had nine children and doubtless no funds to spare on luxuries like footwear. Yolande’s own shoes were so ill-fitting that they had caused her feet to swell, he recalled.
‘I hope this gold is securely locked away,’ said Bartholomew, turning back to Clippesby and thinking it was not wise to advertise the fact that Michaelhouse was swimming in ready cash. Desperately poor people often resorted to desperate measures, and Michaelhouse would not be difficult to burgle now that Runham had dismissed the po
rters who had guarded its gates.
Clippesby shrugged. ‘I expect it is. Runham is no fool. He is a great man who will transform this College from a cluster of shabby hovels into the grandest institution in Cambridge.’
‘Our hall is not shabby,’ objected Bartholomew, who personally thought the main building with its oriel window and handsome porch one of the finest in East Anglia.
Clippesby gave it a disparaging glance. ‘It is haunted by tortured souls. I hear them howling to each other sometimes.’
Bartholomew regarded him uncertainly, wondering whether he was jesting. ‘You do?’ he asked cautiously.
Clippesby nodded casually. ‘It is not a pleasant sound. It keeps me awake at night. Have you never heard it?’ He turned eyes that were not quite focused on the physician.
Bartholomew shook his head. ‘I cannot say that I have.’
‘Then how about the voices of the dead stable boys that mutter in the south wing?’ Clippesby gave a sigh. ‘But you live in the north wing, so I suppose you would not know about them.’
Bartholomew nodded noncommittally, and escaped from the unstable Dominican with some relief. While religieux regularly claimed to hear voices, the context of their messages was usually saintly, not the gabble of dead groomsmen. He wondered whether he should take Clippesby to the Hospital of St John, where the Prior knew a good deal more about the various forms of insanity than did Bartholomew. But, he supposed, as long as Clippesby did not pose a risk to himself or others, there was not much to be done. He was sure at least half the masters of the Cambridge colleges were more lunatic than sane anyway, and Clippesby was no odder than many of them.
His encounter with Clippesby, and the nagging worry that Michaelhouse might have demanded more than it could pay for, meant that he was not in the right frame of mind for visiting St Bene’t Church to inspect the bodies of Raysoun and Wymundham. He knew he should do it sooner rather than later, but doubted that a second examination would reveal more than he knew already. He appreciated Michael’s desire to leave no stone unturned but he was weary of the University and its scheming, plotting scholars.
In the High Street he hesitated, wondering whether Edith might be in town. Ignoring the fact that if he were not inspecting corpses for Michael he should be supervising his students’ reading, working on his treatise on fevers or revisiting the riverman with the rat bite, he strode towards Milne Street, suddenly yearning for the uncomplicated and spontaneous cheerfulness of his sister’s company.
A light drizzle fell as Bartholomew walked the short distance to the row of grand houses and storerooms on Milne Street, where the town’s richest and most successful merchants resided. As always, the road was full of apprentices in brightly coloured liveries bustling here and there, and ponies and carts delivered and collected loads of every size and shape. The air rang with shouts, curses and the impatient stamp and whinny of horses in their traces, and was thick with the odour of manure, the yeasty smell of grain, the filth of the gutters and the brighter tang of spices.
Oswald Stanmore’s property, one of the largest and most impressive, boasted a cobbled yard and several sheds piled high with bales of cloth. Multicoloured strands of wool were caught in the rough wood of doors and windows, pasted into the mud on the ground and entangled in the thatching of the roof.
Stanmore’s own apprentices were busy unloading a cart carrying silk and wool that had just arrived from London. The guards, who had protected the precious cargo from the outlaws who plagued the roads between the two cities, were pulling off leather helmets and hauberks, and Cynric was pouring them cups of mulled ale to wash away the dust of the journey. When the ex-book-bearer had finished, he came to stand next to Bartholomew.
‘How is life at the College from Hell?’ he asked conversationally, watching the mercenaries with proprietary eyes.
‘Growing worse by the hour,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘How is life as a merchant’s man?’
Cynric rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘It has its moments, but I admit I miss my friends – you, Brother Michael, Agatha and even Walter. And I miss our night forays to catch killers, thieves and other ne’er-do-wells.’
‘I have not done that for months, thank God,’ said Bartholomew fervently. ‘Not since we were in Suffolk.’
‘What about when you went to find the body of Wymundham?’ asked Cynric. ‘That was at night. I was still your book-bearer, but I was tucked up in bed with my wife. You should have asked me to go with you.’
‘I missed you,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We had one of Michael’s beadles, but it was not the same.’
Cynric grinned and slapped him on the shoulder. ‘We had some good times, you and me. Visit me some evening, and we will reminisce over a jug of good wine. I can afford good wines on the salary Master Stanmore pays me – not like what I had to drink at Michaelhouse.’
He wandered away to stand with his soldiers, refilling their cups and listening to their reports about the journey. Just as Bartholomew was about to climb the stairs to Stanmore’s office, the merchant emerged with Edith close on his heels.
‘Matt!’ Edith cried in delight. ‘You have come to visit us!’
Stanmore’s smile of welcome faded suddenly. ‘You are not in trouble, are you?’ he asked anxiously. ‘You only come to see us these days if there is something wrong.’
‘There is nothing wrong,’ said Bartholomew guiltily, knowing that Stanmore had a point. ‘I had some free time and I felt like spending it with my family.’
Edith gave such a beam of pleasure that Bartholomew’s guilt increased tenfold. ‘How is Brother Michael?’ she asked. ‘We heard he has been ill.’
‘He is well,’ said Bartholomew, ‘and eating enough to plunge the College into debt with all the grocers and bakers in Cambridge.’
Edith laughed. ‘Poor Michael. You should not tease him about his appetite, Matt. He is happy when he is eating, and unhappy when he is hungry. Which of the two conditions do you think is better for his health?’
‘True. But I did not come to talk about Michael, I came to see you.’
‘Do you want to come in?’ asked Stanmore, gesturing to the door. ‘We were about to visit Mayor Horwoode, but it will not matter if we are a little late.’
‘I will walk with you,’ said Bartholomew, taking Edith’s arm and escorting her across the courtyard. ‘Is this meeting with Horwoode business or pleasure?’
‘Business,’ said Edith promptly, casting a disapproving glance at her husband.
‘Pleasure,’ said Stanmore at the same time.
‘I see,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He has invited you both to his house to spend a pleasant evening with him, but will probably mention some matter of town politics at the same time?’
‘Not politics, exactly,’ said Stanmore. ‘I suspect he wants me to join his guild. Corpus Christi is one of the two organisations that founded Bene’t College, and rumour has it that the venture is turning out to be expensive. The old members are weary of the continual drain on their purses, and are busy recruiting new ones.’
‘Will you join?’ asked Bartholomew.
Stanmore smiled. ‘I shall eat Horwoode’s food, drink his wine and listen to what he has to say. But I can think of worthier places to squander my finances than Bene’t.’
‘It is a dreadful place, by all accounts,’ agreed Edith. ‘Its Fellows are always squabbling, and its students constantly try to goad our apprentices into fights.’
‘So what makes it different from any other College?’ asked Bartholomew. He did not intend the question to be humorous, but Stanmore and Edith laughed.
‘Nothing, really,’ said Stanmore. ‘But Michaelhouse does not let outsiders know about its internal rows and unseemly behaviour. Michaelhouse men take their oaths of loyalty seriously; Bene’t men do not seem to care who knows about their nasty quarrels.’
‘It is more than that,’ said Edith. ‘Bene’t has those dreadful porters – the rudest and most vicious I have ever encountered. One of them – O
smun – bumped into me as I was walking down the High Street the other day. I dropped my basket and spilled apples all over the road, but he just sneered and declined to apologise or even to help me pick them up.’
‘Perhaps I should join the Guild of Corpus Christi after all,’ mused Stanmore. ‘Then I could use my influence to have the man dismissed from his post. That will teach him to learn some manners.’
‘There is Adela Tangmer,’ said Edith urgently, pointing to the robust daughter of the town’s vintner who was riding towards them. ‘Quick! Duck in here before she sees us.’
Before her brother or husband could react, they found themselves bundled inside the workshop of Jonas the Poisoner. The apothecary glanced up from his work in surprise as three people suddenly exploded into his domain.
‘What?’ he demanded of Bartholomew nervously. ‘Has the Death returned? Is there fever in the city? Is Robin of Grantchester amputating limbs again?’
‘No, no,’ said Bartholomew hurriedly, embarrassed at having burst into Jonas’s property uninvited. ‘But I need more of your plaster of betony. I seem to have lost mine.’
‘I do deliver, you know,’ said Jonas, standing to select the salve from the shelf. ‘There is no need for you to come in person, or to drag your family here with you.’
‘We made it,’ breathed Edith, her eye to the gap in the door. ‘She did not see us.’
‘And what is wrong with meeting Adela Tangmer?’ asked Stanmore, watching as the untidily confident figure rode past. ‘If it were her father you were seeking to avoid, I would understand – the man is a disreputable villain who waters the wine he sells.’
‘Does he?’ asked Jonas, handing Bartholomew the jar.
‘I thought the last cask I bought from him tasted weaker than usual. Crafty old dog!’
‘She is a dreadful woman,’ said Edith, her eye still fastened to the crack. ‘She came bustling up to me in the Market Square yesterday, when I was in the middle of a conversation with the Prioress of St Radegund’s, and, without any kind of preamble, demanded to know which pardoner sells absolutions for the sin of lust.’
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