The Mark of a Murderer (12 page)

Bartholomew’s thoughts whirled. ‘I have never recommended a sedative to him – weak or strong.’

Edith grimaced. ‘So, beware of him. But I must go, or Oswald will wonder where I am.’

She kissed Bartholomew again, and darted off down the High Street, more like a girl than a mature woman ten years Bartholomew’s
senior. He watched her go fondly, trusting she would have a safe journey along the King’s highways, and that she would not
be too distressed by what he was sure she would find when she invaded her debauched son’s domain.

‘I bought a new set of urine flasks recently,’ Paxtone said conversationally when she had gone. ‘Would you like to see them,
Matt?’

‘He is going to visit Dickon Tulyet,’ said Michael, before his friend could accept the enticing offer. ‘He should not dally.’

‘He should,’ argued Paxtone fervently. ‘Because then the brat might have expired by the time he arrives – with luck.’

‘Thomas!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, shocked. ‘Dickon is a child.’

‘So his parents claim,’ said Paxtone grimly. ‘But I think otherwise. The boy is a monster, with his hot temper and unruly
behaviour. You
should
dally, Matt. It will allow him to use up his strength by tormenting his helpless parents, so he will be more docile with
you. I would not tend him if Tulyet made me a gift of Cambridge Castle!’

Without further ado, he took Bartholomew’s arm and guided him towards the impressive edifice that comprised King’s Hall. Not
averse to Dickon expending some of his violent energy before their visit, and accepting the sense in Paxtone’s logic, Michael
followed.

Founded almost forty years earlier, King’s Hall was a
training ground for men who wanted to enter the King’s service or for those destined for exalted posts in the Church. Because
it was a royal foundation, it was never short of funds, and no expense had been spared in providing its scholars with a supremely
comfortable home. It comprised buildings gathered around a neat, clean yard, and well-tended grounds of orchards, fields and
vegetable gardens that extended to the river. As a senior Fellow, Paxtone had been allocated two stately rooms for his personal
use – an unthinkable luxury in a University where space was at a premium – both of which were elegantly furnished.

As they strolled across the scrubby grass in front of Paxtone’s window, someone hailed them. It was the Warden, a quiet Welshman
with long front teeth and a shock of lank grey hair. Thomas Powys had been in office for several years and was a popular master,
being kindly, tolerant and ready to grant his Fellows considerable freedom on the understanding that they did not break College
or University rules. He was more strict with his students, though, which Bartholomew thought was a good thing: there were
more of them in King’s Hall than in any other Cambridge institution, and the possibility of serious trouble with such a large
body of closely knit young men was very real.

‘Brother Michael,’ said Powys, baring his impressive incisors in a smile. ‘I have been meaning to report to you that we are
down two Fellows this term. You need to know for your attendance records.’

‘Robert de Wolf and Richard de Hamecotes,’ elaborated Paxtone. ‘It is highly inconvenient to be without them, actually – as
you will know yourself, Brother. I understand Michaelhouse is missing poor Clippesby at the moment. Insanity again, is it?’

‘Are they absent with your permission or without it, Warden?’ asked Michael, ignoring the impertinent query
and not revealing that he already knew about the King’s Hall truancies from his University spies.

Powys looked uncomfortable. ‘Hamecotes wrote to us saying he has gone to Oxford to purchase books for our library. We are
short of legal texts, so his journey will be of great benefit to the College.’

‘If he wrote telling you what he planned to do, then it means he asked for permission after he had gone,’ Michael surmised.
‘You did not grant him leave: he just went.’ He eyed the Warden questioningly.

‘I do not want trouble,’ said Powys softly. ‘Hamecotes had no business abandoning us during term, but he has never done anything
like this before. I confess I am surprised by his conduct, but if he returns loaded with books, then I am prepared to overlook
the lapse.’

‘What about the other Fellow?’ asked Michael. ‘Wolf. Did he just decide to slip away, too?’

Powys nodded unhappily. ‘He is in debt – expenses unpaid from last year – but we had agreed to postpone the matter for a few
weeks, because he was expecting an inheritance. I am astonished he decided to take unauthorised leave, too, and we miss him
sorely. He is an excellent teacher and a popular master.’

‘Debt?’ asked Michael. ‘How much does he owe?’

‘Quite a bit,’ admitted Powys. ‘I know scholars with serious financial troubles sometimes abscond, so they will not have to
pay their dues, but I do not think Wolf is one of them.’

‘Hamecotes’s room-mate was as surprised as the rest of us when
he
left, but Wolf’s was not,’ said Paxtone, rather imprudently, given that he was talking to the Senior Proctor – the man who
might later penalise his colleagues for breaking the University’s rules. ‘Wolf likes women, and I suspect he is enjoying himself
with one and has lost track of time.’

‘For eleven days?’ asked Powys archly. ‘She must be quite a lady!’ He turned to Michael. ‘Come to my office, Brother, so I
can write down their details for your records.’

‘You are very honest,’ said Michael, as he started to follow. ‘Most Colleges would have tried to conceal the matter, because
Wolf and Hamecotes will certainly be fined when they return.’

‘I considered keeping quiet,’ admitted Powys. ‘But we have too many students, and we cannot trust them all not to chatter.
Besides, it is always best to tell the truth.’

‘I wish everyone believed that,’ said Michael wistfully.

Bartholomew left Michael to deal with the absent Fellows, and went with Paxtone to his chambers. These overlooked the herb
gardens at the back of the College, and when the window shutters were thrown open, the rooms were filled with their rich scent,
fragrant in the warmth of early summer.

‘You look tired,’ said Paxtone sympathetically, as Bartholomew flopped into a large oak chair that was filled with cushions.
‘Did a patient keep you up again last night?’

‘Yes,’ replied Bartholomew shortly, wondering whether this was his colleague’s discreet way of mentioning that he, too, knew
about Matilde. Since even his sister was aware of it, he supposed it was not out of the question that the Fellows of King’s
Hall were, too.

‘You must learn to refuse,’ advised Paxtone, peering into Bartholomew’s face, concerned. ‘You will make yourself ill if you
persist in burning the candle at both ends. A man needs his rest just as much as he needs his daily bread.’

‘There are just not enough hours in a day to do everything,’ said Bartholomew wearily. He rubbed his eyes and sat up straight,
knowing he would fall asleep in Paxtone’s peaceful chamber if he allowed himself to settle too deeply into the chair.

‘I know you are overburdened,’ said Paxtone kindly. ‘So, to help you, I visited one of your patients in the hovels at All-Saints-next-the-Castle
last night – a morbid obstruction of the liver. He sent for you, but your porter said you were out, so his woman came to me
instead, although she had no money to pay for my services.’

‘That couple barely have enough for bread, and only ask me to visit because I forget to charge them.’

‘I “forgot”, too,’ said Paxtone, removing the first of his urine flasks from a chest for Bartholomew to admire. ‘But that
is not all I have done for you recently. Michael asked me to inspect a corpse for him a couple of weeks ago. I agreed, because
you are my friend and I wanted to be of use, but I shall not do
that
again! I am a physician, not a Corpse Examiner, and I deal with the living, not the dead.’

‘I used to think that, too,’ said Bartholomew, taking the flask and thinking nostalgically of the days when his time had been
filled solely with healing and teaching. ‘But the additional income from examining bodies is very useful – it is how I provide
medicines for patients like the one you saw last night. Besides, I have learned a great deal from corpses that can be applied
to the quick.’

‘Anatomy,’ said Paxtone with distaste, taking the flask from Bartholomew and presenting him with another. ‘I hear they are
teaching that at the Italian universities these days, but I shall have nothing to do with it. Christian men do not prod about
inside the dead. That is for pagans and heretics.’

‘What I do is hardly anatomy,’ protested Bartholomew, who had never dissected a corpse in his life, although he would not
have objected to doing so. He had been an observer at several dismemberments at the University in Padua, and believed much
could be gained from the practice. He turned the flask over in his hands as he spoke. It really was a fine thing, made from
thin glass that would
allow the urine to be seen clearly through it from any angle. ‘I only assess the—’

‘I do not care,’ interrupted Paxtone firmly. ‘I did not like looking at the dead man from Oxford, and I shall not oblige you
again. I told Michael as much.’

‘What did you learn from Okehamptone’s cadaver?’ Bartholomew asked absently, wondering whether there had been a wound on the
body’s wrist, like the one on Chesterfelde’s.

‘Learn?’ echoed Paxtone in distaste. ‘Nothing. His companions said he had died from a fever.’

‘But you examined the body, to make sure they were telling the truth. So, what did you—?’

‘I most certainly did not,’ replied Paxtone fervently. ‘Michael left me alone with the thing, and told me to “get on with
it”, to quote his eloquent phrasing. But I saw no reason to disbelieve an honest man like Warden Duraunt, so I knelt next
to Okehamptone and prayed for his soul. I considered that far more valuable than poking around his person. Besides, we all
know corpses harbour diseases. I do not know how you have lived so long, given your penchant for them.’ He presented another
flask with a flourish. It was beautifully engraved; clearly he had saved the best for last.

‘So, the only reason you know Okehamptone died from a fever is because his companions told you so?’ asked Bartholomew, taking
the object without seeing it.

‘No,’ said Paxtone shortly. ‘I knew because there was a thick blanket around his body and one of those liripipes – a combined
hood and scarf – enveloping his head and neck. In short, the corpse was dressed just like any man who had been laid low with
an ague in his last hours. I possess some common sense, you know.’

‘You did not strip the body, to see if there was a dent in his head or a wound under these clothes?’

‘Is that what you do?’ Paxtone was clearly repelled and did not wait for a reply. ‘Well, such a distasteful task was not necessary
in this case, because Okehamptone looked
exactly
like a man who had died of a fever: bloodless around the lips and chalk-faced. Besides, there were seven people at Merton
Hall, and they all told the same story: Okehamptone contracted some virulent contagion on the way to Cambridge and died the
night they arrived. They have no reason to lie.’

Bartholomew was not so sure, given what had subsequently happened to Chesterfelde, but Paxtone reminded him that Okehamptone
had been in his grave almost two weeks, and they could scarcely dig him up to confirm the diagnosis. There was nothing he
could do to rectify Paxtone’s ineptitude, and it was none of his affair anyway. He put the matter from his mind and concentrated
on the flasks. After each bottle had been re-examined and admired, Paxtone offered to show him his new clyster pipes, too,
stored in a shed in the garden. He led Bartholomew into the yard, where Michael was waiting.

‘I smell smoked pork,’ said Michael as they approached.

‘We always dine well on Mondays,’ said Paxtone, a little smugly, aware that Michaelhouse fare was mediocre on a good day and
downright execrable on a bad one.

Michael watched a student trot across the courtyard and begin to pull on a bell rope. Tinny clangs echoed around the College.
‘Is it not a little late for breakfast?’ he asked, rubbing his stomach in a way that declared to even the most obtuse of observers
that he was peckish.

‘The bell is for our mid-morning collation – it tides the more ravenous over until noon.’ Paxtone smiled engagingly. ‘We are
going to see my clyster pipes. Would you like to come?’

‘
I
am ravenous,’ declared Michael, opting for brazen, now that subtle had failed. ‘And not for the sight of clyster
pipes, either. I am sure there is room at your high table for a slender man like me.’

Bartholomew stifled a laugh. Michael was the last man who could be called slender, and the physician was worried that his
overly ample girth meant he could no longer move at speed. It was not just friendly concern, either: he was aware that if
he chased wrongdoers on Michael’s behalf, then he would be fighting them alone until the fat monk managed to waddle to his
aid.

‘There is always room for friends,’ said Paxtone. ‘Would you like to eat before or after you see the clyster pipes.’

‘Before,’ said Michael, before Bartholomew could respond. The physician grimaced, knowing he would be unlikely to see Paxtone’s
enema equipment that day, because once Michael had been fed, they would have to visit Dickon.

The King’s Hall refectory was a sumptuous affair, with wall hangings giving the large room a cosy but affluent feel. Since
monarchs and nobles often graced it with their presence, the Warden and his Fellows were in constant readiness to receive
them, with the result that they lived like kings and barons themselves most of the time. Their hall was furnished with splendid
oak tables and benches, a far cry from the rough elm, which splintered easily and was a menace to fingers and clothes, that
Bartholomew was used to in Michaelhouse. There was no need to scatter the floor with rushes, for the polished wood was a beauty
to behold. Bowls of fresh herbs and lavender stood along the windowsills, while servants burned pine cones in the hearth;
the scent of them along with the smell of bread and smoked meat was almost intoxicating.