‘Put it away, Clippesby, there’s a good fellow,’ said Langelee, following Wynewyk’s gaze to where glazed eyes and a gaping mouth leered from beneath the music master’s tabard. ‘You know we do not allow animals to join us for meals.’
‘This is not an animal,’ said Clippesby, placing the thing carefully on the table. Bartholomew saw Wynewyk glance uneasily towards the door, as if wondering whether he would be able to reach it unimpeded, should it become necessary. The other scholars were merely impatient, giving the impression they wanted Clippesby to have done with his antics so they could get on with their meal.
‘Is is an animal,’ argued Father William immediately. He detested Clippesby, partly because William was not a man to waste his meagre supplies of compassion on lunatics, but mostly because Clippesby was a Dominican, and William did not like Dominicans. ‘It is a fish, so of course it is an animal. It is not a stone or a vegetable, is it?’ He leaned back and folded his arms, pleased with this incisive piece of logic.
Clippesby did not concur. ‘This is an interesting philosophical question,’ he said, turning his mad-eyed stare from the fish to the friar. ‘Is a dead fish an animal? Or, since it no longer possesses life, is it something else?’
‘Just because it is dead does not mean that it has changed,’ argued William, determined not to be bested.
‘But it has changed,’ pressed Clippesby, waving the fish in the air, oblivious to the rotten scales that fell from it. ‘A dead fish cannot be the same as a live one.’
‘I agree with Clippesby,’ said Bartholomew, earning himself a hostile glare from Michael for prolonging the debate, and an equally irate one from William for supporting his opponent. ‘If you accept Aristotle’s philosophy, you would argue that the fish has undergone what he termed “substantial change”. This can occur in all substances that are composed of matter and form in the terrestrial region and, of course, all these forms and qualities are potentially replaceable by the other forms and qualities that are their contraries. That is what has occurred in Clippesby’s fish.’
‘It is?’ asked Langelee doubtfully, clearly having forgotten his Aristotelian natural philosophy.
Bartholomew was surprised by the question. ‘Of course! While one form is actualised in matter, its contrary is said to be in privation but is capable of replacing it. Obviously, each potential form or quality must become whatever it is capable of becoming, otherwise it would remain unactualised and that would be a contradiction.’
‘Well, that shut everyone up,’ said Michael gleefully, in the bemused silence that followed. ‘Well done, Matt. Now let us say grace and eat.’
‘Oremus,’ began Langelee hastily, before someone could ask his opinion of the physician’s postulations. He professed to be a philosopher, but was invariably confounded even by that discipline’s most basic theoretical tenets. ‘Spiritum nobis Domine, tuae caritatis infunde: ut, quos sacramentis paschalibus satiasti, tua facias pietate concordes. And so on. Dominus vobiscum.’
‘About time,’ grumbled Michael, as he sat. ‘I am starving, and I am tired of all this Advent fasting and abstaining from meat. It is not natural.’
Bartholomew shot him a sidelong glance, wondering whether the monk had genuinely forgotten the meaty meals he had devoured over the past few weeks or whether his intention was merely to deceive his colleagues into believing he had been following the season’s dietary prohibitions – similar to those of Lent, although not quite so long.
‘There is only one more day for you to endure,’ said Kenyngham kindly. ‘And then it will be time for feasting, as we celebrate the birth of our Lord.’
‘Cynric told me that Philippa Abigny’s brother, Giles, is here, too,’ remarked William, somewhat out of the blue. He beamed at Bartholomew in a friendly fashion, as though he imagined the physician would be pleased to chat about the presence of his old fiancée in the town.
Bartholomew’s heart sank, and he realised that even if he managed to put Philippa from his mind, his colleagues’ interest was such that they would be constantly raising the subject. Giles Abigny, after all, had known them, too.
‘Do you remember Giles, Michael?’ the friar went on airily. ‘He was Matthew’s room-mate during the Death.’ He wrinkled his nose in disapproval. ‘I recall him very well. He was a flighty fellow with long yellow hair. I would have fined him, if I had been Junior Proctor then.’
‘I am sure you would,’ muttered Bartholomew. He did not know how the Franciscan dared to be so strict with others, given his own appearance. William’s habit was so stiff with filth that it was virtually rigid, while there were circles of ancient dirt under his cracked, yellow fingernails. He was too mean to pay a barber to shave his tonsure and opted to do it himself, which resulted in an irregular oval that sprouted hairs in varying stages of growth. The spiky curls that surrounded the tonsure were brown and thick with grease.
‘Short of stature,’ added Michael, recollecting Giles Abigny, as he reached for the ale jug. ‘But with the same fair complexion and blue eyes as his beautiful sister. You were a fool to let her go, Matt. You should have married her while you had the chance.’
‘She married someone else,’ said Bartholomew tartly. ‘I had little say in the matter.’
Michael scratched his head as memories floated back to him, most more than slightly distorted by time. ‘Philippa went to London after the Death, because she was restless in Cambridge and Giles was no longer here to look after her.’
‘He did not look after her, anyway,’ said William pedantically. ‘She was at St Radegund’s Convent, under the watchful eye of the abbess. I recall that there was some pressure on her to take holy vows and become a nun, so that the convent could keep her dowry.’
‘That was not going to happen as long as Matt was courting her,’ Michael pointed out. ‘But, fortunately for Philippa, parents and abbess died during the plague, and Giles left her free to choose her own destiny. She followed him to London, doubtless anticipating that Matt would not be long in joining her. What happened to Giles, Matt? He was never a very committed scholar.’
‘I have no idea,’ said Bartholomew stiffly. He had tried to put his entire association with the Abigny family behind him. He had liked the flighty and unreliable Giles, but Philippa’s defection to another man had not encouraged him to maintain a correspondence with her brother.
‘He became a law clerk,’ said Michael, snapping his fingers as fragments of memory drifted back to him. ‘Although the post was not an especially prestigious one.’
‘Why did you not marry Philippa, Matthew?’ asked William bluntly. ‘I was under the impression it was a sound match.’
‘The problem arose with Philippa herself,’ said Michael, carelessly dispensing the details of Bartholomew’s failed love affair as he might give a public lecture. ‘Once she had sampled the delights of London, she realised she could not bear to spend her life as the wife of an impoverished physician, so she married a wealthy merchant instead. And that was the end of Matt’s hopes for wedded bliss – with her, at least.’
‘You are better off here, with us,’ said William, in what was meant to be a consoling tone, but served to make Bartholomew wonder where he had gone wrong.
He pictured Philippa’s merry eyes and grace. He could have been celebrating Christmas with her that year, surrounded by their children. But even as the cosy image entered his mind, he knew the reality would have been different. Michael was right: Philippa had set certain standards for her life, and Bartholomew’s haphazard way of collecting fees from his patients would never have met them. He would have made her miserable with poverty, while she would have nagged him to spend time with wealthy clients who needed an astrologer rather than a physician. Abruptly, the image faded to a chamber with a meagre fire, occupied by a discontented wife and dissatisfied children. He supposed he should be happy with what he had: his teaching, Michaelhouse, his poor patients with their interesting diseases, and Matilde. The thought of Matilde coaxed a smile to his f
ace.
He tried to analyse his thoughts rationally, to determine why Philippa’s presence in the town should matter to him. Logically, he knew he should not care, but illogically, the prospect of encountering her filled him with dread, and he seriously considered visiting a friend in some nearby village until she had gone. But he enjoyed Christmas, with its feasts, games and entertainment. And he liked the chaos that ensued when the students elected their Lord of Misrule, who would dictate what happened in Michaelhouse over the Twelve Days. It would be a pity to miss that, just because a woman he had once loved happened to be passing through.
Or would it? Michael would drag him into Norbert’s murder investigation, while Gray was almost certain to be elected Lord of Misrule. Because Gray was Bartholomew’s student, he suspected that he might be held responsible for some of the lad’s wilder schemes – and Gray could be very wild indeed. Perhaps it would be a good time to renew friendships with folk who lived somewhere other than Cambridge. But then hard pellets of snow pattered against the hall’s glass windows, and he was reminded that it was no time to be considering journeys into the country.
‘We should not be discussing this lady here,’ said Kenyngham sympathetically, breaking into his thoughts. ‘It is never wise to dwell on matters that were once painful.’
‘True,’ agreed Michael, as though he had many jilted fiancées of his own to consider. ‘Now, what were you saying earlier about unactualised forms and qualities, Matt?’
‘I do not hold with talking at the table,’ said William, who did not want to resume a debate that he would probably lose. ‘The season for chatter at mealtimes is not yet upon us, so summon the Bible Scholar, Master, and let us consider some religious text.’
Langelee snapped his fingers, and the student who received a free education in return for reading from the scriptures during meals stepped up to the lectern. The lad opened the book and rested his elbows on the edge of the stand, then gave a howl of alarm as the whole thing toppled to the ground with a resounding crash. After the initial shock, the other students started to laugh.
‘God’s blood!’ swore Langelee. ‘What happened?’
‘Someone has taken a saw to it,’ said Bartholomew, who could see the tell-tale striations in the wood from where he sat. He found himself looking at Gray, whose face revealed nothing, and Deynman, whose expression bespoke abject guilt. ‘I suppose this was one of the tricks planned for the Season of Misrule.’
‘William will have to do without his Bible today,’ said Langelee. ‘And if the lectern is mended, I may be prepared to overlook this sorry incident.’
Deynman puffed out his cheeks in a sigh of relief, although, predictably, there was still no reaction from Gray. Bartholomew thought Gray should choose his accomplices with more care; Deynman had given them away almost at once. But it would not matter for much longer, because Gray planned to leave Michaelhouse soon, to take up a prestigious post in Suffolk. Bartholomew was certain he would be successful – the lad was too sly and manipulative to do otherwise.
‘What have you been doing to produce such a healthy appetite?’ said Langelee of Michael, watching the monk peel three hard-boiled eggs and eat them whole, one after the other. ‘Another murder? You have not had one of those for a year now – although I suppose you solved some in Ely last summer.’
‘Tulyet’s cousin,’ replied Michael, selecting the largest piece of bread in the basket. ‘He was found murdered in St Michael’s Lane.’
‘I heard,’ said Langelee. ‘That is too close to Michaelhouse for my liking. I hope you catch this killer quickly.’
‘Then there is the puzzling case of the body in the church,’ Michael continued. He leaned back to allow a servant to ladle a quantity of oatmeal into the bowl in front of him. ‘Go on, man! Fill it! A dribble is no good for a man of my stature.’
The butler’s face was expressionless as he spooned the thick porridge into Michael’s bowl until there was a glutinous meniscus across the top. Only then did the monk incline his head to acknowledge that it was sufficient.
‘Eat slowly, Brother,’ admonished Bartholomew automatically, as the monk fell on the food like a starving peasant. ‘There is enough for everyone, and this is not a race.’
‘Huh!’ muttered Michael, not bothering to hide his contempt for the physician’s advice, since he knew perfectly well that Michaelhouse occasionally ran out of food before everyone had been served. And the fastest eaters were invariably the ones who secured seconds.
‘Norbert’s case will not be difficult to solve,’ declared William, giving his horn spoon – still stained from his previous meal – a cursory wipe on the sleeve of his filthy habit. ‘He was a vile lad, and Ovyng is well rid of him, although Ailred will miss the fees. But what about this other case – the body in the church? I have not heard about that. Is this another murder? You have not mentioned it to me – your Junior Proctor.’
‘Matt said it was natural,’ replied Michael, ignoring the reproachful tone of William’s voice.
‘I did not,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘I said he probably died from the cold. That is not the same thing.’
‘So, he could have been frozen deliberately,’ mused William with relish. ‘That would be murder in my book. I shall set about making enquiries immediately.’
‘Lord!’ muttered Michael, alarmed by the prospect of the Franciscan on the loose, accusing all and sundry of a murder that had never happened. ‘We must find out who he was first. Will you do that? He was a beggar, who perhaps sought sanctuary from the weather in our church, and—’
‘In our church?’ interrupted Langelee in horror. ‘You mean St Michael’s?’
‘No, the other one,’ mumbled Michael facetiously. He spoke more loudly. ‘He was hidden among the rotten albs, Master, although Matt thinks he had wrapped himself up for warmth. I was going to tell you about it yesterday, but it slipped my mind.’
‘You must discover the identity of this man immediately,’ said Langelee, alarmed. ‘I cannot have unnamed corpses appearing in my church. And just before Christmas, too. I shall have to have it resanctified.’
‘I shall do that – after I discover the killer,’ offered William generously. ‘Do not worry, Master. I shall have the whole matter resolved by nightfall. I shall begin by asking the Dominicans what they know about the matter.’
‘You will spend your time discovering this beggar’s name,’ ordered Michael sternly. It would not be the first time the Franciscan used a crime to indulge his hatred of Dominicans, and Michael could not afford wild and unfounded accusations to damage the fragile truce between the Orders.
‘We cannot sit here and chatter all day,’ said Langelee abruptly, standing to say the final grace. He was a fast eater, and disliked sitting for longer than necessary when a busy day lay ahead of him. ‘We all have work to do. Pax vobiscum.’
Several students looked at their full bowls in dismay, realising too late that they should have eaten instead of eavesdropped on the lively conversation at the high table. Michael’s spoon made a harsh scraping sound as he reached the bottom of his dish – he was not a man to fall victim to Langelee’s disconcerting habit of cutting mealtimes short – while Bartholomew and the others hastily drained theirs. Langelee dismissed the assembled scholars, marching purposefully from the hall in order to begin the many tasks that fell daily to the Master of a Cambridge College. Wynewyk hurried after him, muttering officiously about documents that needed to be signed if the scholars wanted food, drink and fuel for the Christmas season.
Michael reached for another piece of bread before the servants cleared the tables. ‘I am glad I did not listen to your advice about how to eat, or I would be facing a morning without breakfast.’
‘Gobbling is not good for you,’ said Bartholomew stubbornly. ‘It unbalances the humours and gives rise to pains in the stomach.’
‘Christmas is a wonderful time for men with healthy appetites,’ said Michael, thinking fondly of the gobbling that was to come. ‘Twe
lve days with no teaching and plentiful food and wine.’
‘But then come January and February,’ said Bartholomew gloomily. ‘I dislike those months, They are dark and cold, and it is painful to lose patients from afflictions of the lungs – like Dunstan the riverman. He will not see Easter.’
Michael was silent. Dunstan had been a loyal, if toneless, member of his choir for many years, and he was fond of the old man. It was hard for him to see Dunstan’s suffering and be powerless to help.
‘These are strange times,’ announced Suttone, walking out of the hall with them. ‘The Devil stalks the land, and God and His angels weep at what they see. Sinful men fornicate in holy places and debauchery, lust and greed are all around us. The river freezing in November is a testament to the fact that the end of the world is nigh. Things were different when I was a boy.’
‘People always think the past was better than the present,’ said Bartholomew, who had grown used to the Carmelite’s grim predictions. ‘But I do not think they are very different now – except for the Death, of course.’
‘The Death,’ pronounced the Carmelite in a booming voice that was sufficiently sepulchral to send a shiver of unease down Bartholomew’s spine. ‘It will come again. You mark my words.’
‘But not before Christmas,’ said Michael comfortably. ‘We shall at least have a good feast before we die.’
Bartholomew found he could not dismiss Philippa from his thoughts, and barely heard Suttone regaling Michael with details of the plague’s return as he walked across the yard to his room. He recalled how she had admired the fine oriel window in the hall, but had thought Bartholomew’s chamber cold and gloomy. He remembered walking with her through the herb garden, when the summer sun warmed the plants and sweetened the air with their fragrance. And he was reminded of the times he had climbed over the College walls like an undergraduate after the gates had been locked, because assignations with her had made him late.
Bartholomew 09 - A Killer in Winter Page 7
