Bartholomew had no wish to return to Michaelhouse, and was more than happy to sit in Paxtone’s peaceful chamber. He did as his friend suggested, scanning Aristotle in search of any report of a man dying of laughter. He was on the verge of falling asleep when there was a knock on the door and Tobias entered again, this time with Cynric at his heels.
‘I thought you might be here,’ said the book-bearer. He sounded relieved. ‘Brother Michael needs you. There has been a fight, and one of the brawlers is dead. You are needed to tend the wounded.’
CHAPTER 4
Bartholomew knew from experience that people injured in fights often fared better if he reached them before anyone else attempted to ‘help’. It was frustrating to see a man die because he had been given all manner of potions to drink, but no one had bothered to stem the flow of blood. He ran down the stairs, and met Paxtone halfway up. The King’s Hall physician was wiping his hands on a rag.
‘Messy business, phlebotomy,’ he said sheepishly. ‘Thank God I wore an apron. What are you—’
‘Brawl,’ replied Bartholomew tersely. ‘Will you come?’
He did not wait for a reply, but was aware of Paxtone turning to follow and was grateful; another pair of hands was invariably useful on such occasions. However, the portly physician could not hope to keep up with the rapid pace set by Cynric, and soon fell behind.
The book-bearer led the way to the Market Square. Night had fallen, bringing with it a drenching drizzle that seeped through cloaks and trickled down the backs of necks. It was miserable weather, and Bartholomew wished he was home in front of the fire. Others did not feel the same way, though, and a sizeable circle of onlookers had gathered at the scene of the incident.
Near the front, with the best view of what was happening, were a man and a woman. There was a space between them and the rest of the crowd, as if no one wanted to get too close. Idly, the physician wondered why – both were well dressed, covered in jewellery and looked respectable – until he recognised Idoma.
‘Osa Gosse and his sister,’ muttered Cynric, nodding towards them. ‘I suspect most of their finery belongs to someone else – not that their victims would dare complain, of course.’
Bartholomew regarded Gosse without much interest as he passed, more concerned with reaching the injured. A brief glance told him that the man causing such consternation was short and compact, quite unlike his hefty sibling. However, he shared her dead, shark-fish eyes and malign demeanour, and there was something in his confident, arrogant stance that indicated he was a cut above the average villain. Bartholomew was not amused when the fellow grabbed his arm, jerking him to an abrupt standstill. Cynric tried to come to his rescue, but was blocked by Idoma’s substantial bulk.
‘Your University has something I want,’ said Gosse. He spoke softly, so no one else would hear. ‘And I shall have it, no matter what it takes. It will be easier for everyone if you just give it to me.’
Bartholomew wrenched free. He had no idea what the man was talking about, but he was not about to engage in a discussion when there were people who needed his help. He took a step away, but a heavy hand fell on his shoulder and spun him around. This time, it was Idoma manhandling him.
‘How dare you walk away!’ Her eyes were cold and hard, and Bartholomew did not think he had ever seen a more malevolent expression. ‘My brother is talking, so you will listen.’
‘Tell your colleagues,’ ordered Gosse, leaning close and treating the physician to a waft of bad breath, ‘I will have what is rightfully mine, or the streets of your fine town will run with blood.’
More irritated than intimidated, Bartholomew pushed Gosse away from him. The man’s eyebrows shot up in astonishment that someone should dare fight back. Then Cynric managed to dodge around Idoma and stood next to his master, hand on the hilt of his long Welsh hunting knife. Idoma started to reach for Bartholomew again, but stopped when Cynric’s blade began to emerge from its scabbard.
‘I do not like you, physician,’ she whispered, pointing a finger at Bartholomew in a way he supposed was meant to be menacing. Then she turned and began to shoulder a path through the onlookers. Most people moved before she reached them.
‘That is unfortunate for you,’ said Gosse with a sneer, before turning to follow her. ‘Because bad things happen to people my sister does not like.’
‘You want to watch that scum, boy,’ said Cynric uneasily, once the pair had gone. ‘She is a witch, while he is a vicious devil, who would think nothing of slipping a dagger between your ribs.’
‘Cynric is right,’ gasped Paxtone, who had finally caught up. ‘They are not folk you should have as enemies, Matthew. It would have been better to give them whatever it was they wanted.’
‘But I do not know what they wanted. Other than for me to be frightened of them – which I am not.’
‘Really?’ asked Paxtone, impressed. ‘Because they terrify me. However, if you go out on errands of mercy during the night from now on, I recommend you carry a sword. It is common knowledge that you are a skilled and deadly warrior, so you should be able to fend them off.’
Bartholomew gaped at him, not liking the notion that he, a man of healing, should have acquired a reputation for the military arts. He had certainly done nothing to warrant it. ‘I am not a—’
‘He was not very good before we went to France last year,’ said Cynric, pleased by what he saw as a compliment. ‘But then we fought in the battle of Poitiers, and he got a lot of practice.’
‘Matt!’ came Michael’s urgent voice. ‘What are you doing? I need you here.’
Bartholomew broke away from Paxtone and Cynric, and hurried to where Michael was waiting. The monk’s latest deputy, Junior Proctor Cleydon, was there, too, a competent but nervous man who was anxiously counting the days until his term of office expired. He had told Bartholomew on several occasions that he did not think he would survive that long, given that the post was dangerous – and the arrival of Gosse and his formidable sister had done nothing to quell his unease.
It took Bartholomew no more than a moment to assess what had happened: a knife fight between two men. One lay on the ground with the weapon still embedded in his middle, while the other perched uncomfortably on an upturned crate and clutched his left arm with his right hand. Blood flowed between his fingers. Seeing immediately that the prone man was more in need of a priest than a physician, Bartholomew went to the one who was sitting. Michael’s beadles – the men who kept order in the University – seemed to be more interested in the corpse than the survivor, so the body was well lit, but the injured man sat in shadows.
‘I need a torch,’ Bartholomew said, cutting away the victim’s sleeve. When the lamp arrived, he focused on his work, aware that he needed to stem the bleeding as quickly as possible.
Meanwhile, Paxtone crouched next to the second victim, although his examination was confined to what he could see: he disliked handling corpses, and went to considerable lengths to avoid doing it. His aversion was based on the superstitious notion that touching bodies enabled poisonous miasmas to pass from the dead to the living. The belief reminded Bartholomew of the ‘healing stones’ in Paxtone’s room, and his colleague’s strange insistence that knives sharpened magically when they were left pointing north. Still, he supposed, what else could he expect from a man who thought the movements of remote planets had an impact on the health of an individual?
‘There is nothing I can do here,’ Paxtone announced after a moment. ‘The fellow is quite dead, and there can be no dispute about the cause: a dagger in the stomach.’
‘In the liver,’ muttered Bartholomew, wishing anatomy was not forbidden in England. He was sure even Paxtone would benefit from knowing the precise locations of various organs.
‘It is Carbo,’ said Michael.
Bartholomew spared a brief glance at the body, and saw it was indeed the half-mad Dominican friar.
‘Did you speak to Prior Morden about him?’ he asked, not surprised Carbo had met an unti
mely end. He had seemed incapable of looking after himself, and the fact that he had seen Langelee attacked attested to the fact that he wandered about after the curfew had sounded.
‘Morden was out when I visited the Dominican Friary,’ said Michael. Then his voice became bitter. ‘I was supposed to go back there this evening, but I let other matters distract me.’
Bartholomew could only surmise that the monk had not enjoyed his time with the College accounts.
‘It hurts,’ whispered the injured man weakly. Bartholomew looked up sharply, because the voice was familiar. As usual, it took him a moment to recognise the nondescript features, but his astonishment at the man’s identity was nothing compared to Paxtone’s.
‘Shropham?’ gasped the King’s Hall physician. ‘What in God’s name are you doing here?’
‘He is here murdering Dominican priests,’ replied Cleydon when Shropham made no reply. ‘He stabbed Carbo.’
There was a stunned silence when Cleydon made his announcement, the only sound being the crackle of torches and the low-voiced grumbles of onlookers as they tried to resist being moved on by beadles. The reek of burnt pitch filled the air, along with the stench of rotting vegetables from a nearby costermongery. The rain carried its own aroma, too, of fallen leaves, frost-touched grass and the swollen river; it reminded Bartholomew that winter was approaching with all its inherent miseries – cold feet, leaking roofs, ice in the latrines, and the kind of fevers that claimed the old and the weak.
‘No!’ exclaimed Paxtone, when he had recovered from his shock. ‘Fellows of King’s Hall do not go around murdering Dominican priests or anyone else.’
‘I thought it was—’ began Shropham. He swayed, and Bartholomew indicated that Paxtone and Cynric were to support him.
Fortunately, the injury was clean, and should heal quickly; Shropham would experience some pain and stiffness, but the prognosis was good. Then he glanced at the man’s haunted face, and wondered whether it would matter. Shropham, like all scholars, had taken religious orders that would protect him from the full rigours of secular law, but the murder of a priest was a serious matter, and the Dominicans might call for him to be hanged.
‘You had better tell me what happened, Shropham,’ said Michael, when he saw Bartholomew had finished suturing, and only bandaging remained. ‘If you feel well enough.’
‘He does not,’ said Paxtone immediately. ‘He needs to go home, where he can recover from this dreadful ordeal. It cannot have been easy, watching a priest slaughtered.’
‘No,’ agreed Shropham weakly.
‘Are you saying you did not kill him?’ asked Michael. ‘That someone else is responsible?’
‘That is not possible, Shropham,’ said Cleydon quietly. ‘You and Carbo were the only ones here when we happened across you. And you cannot deny that the knife poking from his belly is yours: you have none, and he holds his own in his dead hand.’
‘I am not sure …’ began Shropham. He swallowed. ‘Perhaps he had two – and killed himself.’
Bartholomew regarded him uncertainly. The explanation was feeble, to say the least.
‘Come, Shropham,’ cried Paxtone, equally appalled. ‘You must have more to say for yourself than that! Someone else was here, someone Cleydon missed in all this dark and rain. You were coming to this priest’s aid because you saw him being attacked by ruffians.’
‘Gosse,’ suggested Cynric helpfully. ‘He was here a few moments ago.’
‘I cannot remember,’ said Shropham dully. ‘Perhaps Carbo fell on the knife by mistake.’
‘Not from that angle,’ said Bartholomew, who had seen enough wounds to be able to distinguish the more obviously deliberate from the accidental.
‘Self-defence, then,’ said Paxtone, sounding desperate as he appealed to his colleague to save himself. ‘The Dominican was deranged, and did not know what he was doing. Priests often become unhinged if they spend too long fasting. It is a medical fact.’
‘He has a point,’ said Bartholomew to Michael. ‘Carbo was not rational when we met him. He did not seem dangerous, but ailments of the mind often take unpredictable courses.’
‘I do not know whether the Dominican was the type to starve himself for prayers,’ said Shropham. ‘I am not saying you are wrong, Paxtone – indeed, you are never wrong – only that I cannot verify it.’
‘So, the priest was a stranger to you,’ said Paxtone, refusing to give up. ‘He approached you without saying who he was, and you struck out to protect yourself. It was an accident.’
‘I am not sure,’ said Shropham tiredly. ‘Did you see those quills I left for you, Paxtone? They are the best out of the whole batch I sharpened today.’
Paxtone regarded him in disbelief. ‘How can you be thinking about such matters now? Do you not see the seriousness of the situation? You are accused of murder!’
Shropham hung his head, and tears slid down his cheeks. Michael and Cleydon pressed him with more questions, but he refused to answer.
‘Is there any reason why he should not be incarcerated, Matt?’ asked Michael eventually, exasperated by the lack of co-operation. Like Bartholomew, he had been ready to give Shropham the benefit of the doubt, but the evidence of his guilt was overwhelming, and his bewildering silence was doing nothing to help. ‘This wound will not kill him?’
‘Let me take him home,’ begged Paxtone. ‘I promise he will not escape.’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew, not liking the notion of Shropham roaming free. He had read of cases where someone had committed murder then remembered nothing about it, and did not want Paxtone to be Shropham’s next victim. ‘Michael can lock him in the documents room in St Mary the Great. It is warm and dry, but secure.’
Paxtone was dismayed, and barely listened to Michael telling him the crime was as straightforward as any he had seen: Shropham’s weapon was embedded in Carbo, and the Junior Proctor himself was able to say there was no one else in the Market Square when the victim was attacked. Shropham would almost certainly be found guilty of murder.
‘I refuse to believe it,’ said Paxtone, white-faced with horror as Cleydon led the prisoner away. ‘Shropham has been in Cambridge for decades and has never shown any propensity for violence before. Why should he start now?’
‘I wonder why he would not talk to us,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘It is almost as if he wants us to think he is guilty.’
‘He was a soldier once,’ said Cynric, who had been listening to the discussion from the shadows. When he spoke, everyone jumped, because they had forgotten he was there. Bartholomew knew he should not be surprised: since the year they had spent travelling overseas together, the Welshman had grown bold about offering his opinions where he thought they were needed. ‘He fought in Scotland. Afterwards, he came here and became a lawyer.’
‘Being a warrior does not make him a killer,’ said Paxtone, while Bartholomew wondered whether King’s Hall would have kept Shropham’s military past quiet, had Cynric not revealed it.
‘Of course it does,’ countered Michael. ‘That is what warriors do: they kill people. But why do you think he resisted your attempts to exonerate him?’
‘Because he is injured,’ snapped Paxtone. ‘And shock has robbed him of his wits. When he recovers, he will provide you with an explanation that will make you sorry you doubted him.’
‘Your loyalty commends you,’ said Michael quietly. ‘Did you ever meet this Dominican? Carbo?’
‘Of course not,’ replied Paxtone, turning to look at the dead man with distaste. ‘I do not fraternise with hedge-priests. However, look at the cuffs on his sleeves – the Cambridge Black Friars do not wear theirs like that. Ergo, he is a visitor, which means Shropham has no reason to harm him. Fellows of the University do not go around stabbing strangers.’
‘My experience as Senior Proctor tells me otherwise,’ said Michael sombrely. ‘I do not suppose you can throw any light on the matter, can you, Matt?’
Bartholomew crouched next to Carbo, grateful the beadl
es had finally ousted the ghouls, so he no longer had an audience. Carbo was no cleaner than he had been when they had met him in St Mary the Great, and his face was thin to the point of being skeletal. The physician was not surprised Paxtone assumed he had been fasting, and wondered if he was right.
‘He died of a single knife wound that penetrated his liver,’ he said, rinsing his hands in a rain-puddle before standing. They felt oily from touching the priest’s habit, and he would have to scrub them before he went to bed. ‘It would have killed him fairly quickly.’
‘I had better go and tell Warden Powys what has happened,’ said Paxtone. He sounded near tears. ‘He will doubtless want to talk to you about keeping Shropham in King’s Hall until we prove his innocence – which I am sure we will.’
‘He cannot imagine a colleague being capable of murder,’ said Michael, watching Paxtone waddle away. ‘But Cleydon virtually watched the whole thing happen, and he has no reason to lie.’
* * *
Bartholomew woke later than usual the following day, because his students were aware that he had been out late and had taken care not to disturb him when they rose. He was a heavy sleeper at the best of times, and might not have stirred until noon had Michael not taken it upon himself to do the honours by hurling open the window shutters and clapping his hands.
‘Shropham had a comfortable night,’ the monk reported, sitting at the desk while Bartholomew tried to rally his sluggish wits. He cocked his head as a bell began to chime. ‘Langelee is almost ready to lead us to church for Sunday prayers, so you had better get up or you will be late.’
The physician clambered out of bed, hopping across the icy flagstones on bare feet as he made for the bowl of water Cynric left him each night. He washed and dressed quickly, listening to Michael describe all he had done that morning. The monk made it sound as though he had been up for hours while his friend had been sleeping the day away.
‘Is Shropham showing any sign of fever?’ he asked, straightening his tabard as he followed Michael across the yard. They were the last to arrive, and Langelee immediately led his neat phalanx of scholars through the gate and up St Michael’s Lane.
A Vein Of Deceit: The Fifteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 12
