Murder by the Book by Susanna Gregory Page A

would certainly have made for a more peaceful life.
    He was not feeling much better when dawn came and the bell rang to tell Michaelhouse’s scholars that it was time to attend their morning devotions. He trudged wearily into the yard.
    ‘What is the matter?’ asked Father William, a grimy Franciscan whose habit was generally considered to be the filthiest garment in Christendom. He also possessed some deeply repellent beliefs, and although Bartholomew had grown used to his ways and had learned to ignore them, the newer Fellows found him difficult to take. ‘You look terrible.’
    ‘You do,’ agreed Thelnetham, one of the more recent arrivals. ‘Very wan.’
    He was a Gilbertine canon and a celebrated scholar of law. He was also brazenly effeminate, and was known for livening up the plain habit of his Order with flamboyant accessories. That morning, there was a purple bow tied around his waist in place of a simple rope cingulum. He and William could not have been more different, and had become bitter and implacable enemies the moment they had set eyes on each other.
    ‘Shall I fetch you some wine, Matt?’ offered Ayera, a tall, intelligent geometrician who liked horses, dogs and outdoor pursuits. Other than a deep and – to Bartholomew’s mind, at least – irrational aversion to anatomy, he was easy and congenial company, and the physician liked his ready wit, wry humour and dedication to his students.
    ‘Will your indisposition prevent you from teaching today?’ asked Suttone, the College’s only Carmelite, when Bartholomew shook his head to the offer of strong drink so early in the day. He was a plump man in a creamy whitehabit. ‘If so, I decline to mind your class in your absence. The last time I obliged you, they rioted.’
    ‘Only because you told them the plague would return within the year,’ objected Bartholomew defensively. ‘They tend to believe what senior scholars say, and were worried. When I came back, I was hard pressed to prevent them from leaving Cambridge to warn their loved ones immediately.’
    ‘But it
will
return within the year,’ declared Suttone. ‘I know I have been saying that for a decade, but this time I am right. I feel it in my bones.’
    ‘Then let us hope your bones are wrong,’ said Michael fervently. ‘I remember spending the entire time being extremely frightened.’
    ‘You were right to be,’ declared William loftily. ‘It was God’s judgement on the wicked. I shall survive if it returns, naturally, because I am saintly. However, the same cannot be said for the rest of you miserable sinners.’
    He shot a disparaging glance at Thelnetham’s purple bow, then treated every other Fellow to a similarly haughty glare. Except Bartholomew. He had publicly accused the physician of being a warlock the previous summer, and had later been sorry. Guilt and a determination to make amends meant the physician could do no wrong. It would not last, but Bartholomew was finding it pleasant while it did.
    ‘I am sorry about the men who died yesterday,’ said Clippesby, the last of Michaelhouse’s seven Fellows currently in residence; the eighth was spending the summer at Waltham Abbey. Clippesby was a Dominican, whose penchant for talking to animals, and claiming they talked back, led most people to assume he was mad. That morning, he was cuddling what looked suspiciously like a rat. ‘Vale, Northwood and the London brothers were kind and good.’
    ‘They were not,’ argued Thelnetham immediately. ‘They were scoundrels.’
    ‘You disliked Northwood?’ asked Bartholomew in surprise. ‘But he was a talented scholar.’
    ‘Being a talented scholar did not make him a decent person,’ retorted Thelnetham. ‘Moreover, I heard he was not always honest when dealing with tradesmen. And he was obliged to treat with lots, because his duties included buying supplies for the Carmelites’ scriptorium.’
    ‘Did you hear that from Weasenham?’ asked Bartholomew. His feelings