paying you for bad advice and a smear of pig oil.’
‘So, you can tell us nothing about Chesterfelde’s murder?’ asked Michael, seeing Bartholomew about to take issue. ‘You saw
and heard nothing?’
‘No,’ said Eudo proudly. ‘Not with nine jugs of ale inside me.’
‘You said seven or eight.’ Bartholomew pounced.
‘Did I?’ asked Eudo carelessly. ‘It was a lot. Probably nearer ten.’
‘I wish it had been twenty,’ muttered Bartholomew in an undertone. ‘That would have wiped the smile off your face this morning.’
Bartholomew and Michael left Merton Hall and began to walk towards their College. On the way they met Duraunt and Polmorva,
who said they had been visiting Duraunt’s fellow Austin Canons at nearby Barnwell Priory. Polmorva’s expression hardened when
Michael told him that he and his Corpse Examiner had re-inspected the place where Chesterfelde had died, and Bartholomew thought
he detected an uneasy flicker in his eye; he wondered whether he guessed they had searched his possessions and was afraid
of what might have been found. Duraunt contented himself with reciting a short prayer for Chesterfelde, then started to discuss
the next University Debate. Michael fretted impatiently as the old man gabbled on about his favourite topics for such occasions,
while Bartholomew listened with interest, recalling disputes on similar issues they had attended together in Oxford – an erudite,
careful teacher and his eager but inexpert student.
When they eventually parted, Michael went to search the University’s records for any scholars who had been granted leave of
absence to study in Oxford, and to peruse applications from Oxford students who wanted to visit Cambridge, while Bartholomew
walked to the hamlet of Stourbridge, outside the town. He wanted to see Clippesby, and assess whether there was any improvement
in his condition. As it was such a fine day, he strolled slowly, enjoying the sweet scent of ripening crops and the damp earthiness
of fertile soil. The sun lay golden and warm across the fields, occasionally cooled when fluffy white clouds drifted across
its bright face.
The hospital was a sprawling complex of buildings enclosed within a fence of woven hazel. It had originally been founded for
lepers, so their disease would not contaminate others, but now it accepted patients with a variety of ailments. It comprised
the Chapel of St Mary Magdalene, an ancient two-celled church with thick walls and tiny windows, and a number of huts with
thatched roofs, where the inmates lived. The community had its own well, fish-ponds, fields, orchards and livestock, and its
residents were seldom obliged to deal with the outside world.
The warden who cared for the eclectic collection of people who had been banished from ‘normal’ society was an amiable Austin
Canon called Paul. He tended his thirty or so patients with the help of a small staff of lay-brothers, and Bartholomew considered
the man little short of a saint. He was tall and sturdy, which was a useful attribute when dealing with the obstreperousness
of madness and the heavy lifting required for the bedridden, and his brown hair lay thickly around his untidy tonsure. He
was nearly always smiling, and it was not unusual for the compound to ring with his laughter.
There was no humour that day, however, because he was troubled. Michaelhouse’s Master of Music and Astronomy was afforded
a fair degree of freedom in the hospital, and had been helping to care for some of the sicker inmates. But Clippesby had a
habit of wandering away without telling anyone where he was going, and Bartholomew was disturbed to learn that he had vanished
several times since he had been enrolled at Stourbridge. Most worrying was the fact that he had been gone for part of the
previous night, when Chesterfelde had died.
‘I was with the ducks near the river, Matt,’ said Clippesby dreamily, when the physician
‘So, you can tell us nothing about Chesterfelde’s murder?’ asked Michael, seeing Bartholomew about to take issue. ‘You saw
and heard nothing?’
‘No,’ said Eudo proudly. ‘Not with nine jugs of ale inside me.’
‘You said seven or eight.’ Bartholomew pounced.
‘Did I?’ asked Eudo carelessly. ‘It was a lot. Probably nearer ten.’
‘I wish it had been twenty,’ muttered Bartholomew in an undertone. ‘That would have wiped the smile off your face this morning.’
Bartholomew and Michael left Merton Hall and began to walk towards their College. On the way they met Duraunt and Polmorva,
who said they had been visiting Duraunt’s fellow Austin Canons at nearby Barnwell Priory. Polmorva’s expression hardened when
Michael told him that he and his Corpse Examiner had re-inspected the place where Chesterfelde had died, and Bartholomew thought
he detected an uneasy flicker in his eye; he wondered whether he guessed they had searched his possessions and was afraid
of what might have been found. Duraunt contented himself with reciting a short prayer for Chesterfelde, then started to discuss
the next University Debate. Michael fretted impatiently as the old man gabbled on about his favourite topics for such occasions,
while Bartholomew listened with interest, recalling disputes on similar issues they had attended together in Oxford – an erudite,
careful teacher and his eager but inexpert student.
When they eventually parted, Michael went to search the University’s records for any scholars who had been granted leave of
absence to study in Oxford, and to peruse applications from Oxford students who wanted to visit Cambridge, while Bartholomew
walked to the hamlet of Stourbridge, outside the town. He wanted to see Clippesby, and assess whether there was any improvement
in his condition. As it was such a fine day, he strolled slowly, enjoying the sweet scent of ripening crops and the damp earthiness
of fertile soil. The sun lay golden and warm across the fields, occasionally cooled when fluffy white clouds drifted across
its bright face.
The hospital was a sprawling complex of buildings enclosed within a fence of woven hazel. It had originally been founded for
lepers, so their disease would not contaminate others, but now it accepted patients with a variety of ailments. It comprised
the Chapel of St Mary Magdalene, an ancient two-celled church with thick walls and tiny windows, and a number of huts with
thatched roofs, where the inmates lived. The community had its own well, fish-ponds, fields, orchards and livestock, and its
residents were seldom obliged to deal with the outside world.
The warden who cared for the eclectic collection of people who had been banished from ‘normal’ society was an amiable Austin
Canon called Paul. He tended his thirty or so patients with the help of a small staff of lay-brothers, and Bartholomew considered
the man little short of a saint. He was tall and sturdy, which was a useful attribute when dealing with the obstreperousness
of madness and the heavy lifting required for the bedridden, and his brown hair lay thickly around his untidy tonsure. He
was nearly always smiling, and it was not unusual for the compound to ring with his laughter.
There was no humour that day, however, because he was troubled. Michaelhouse’s Master of Music and Astronomy was afforded
a fair degree of freedom in the hospital, and had been helping to care for some of the sicker inmates. But Clippesby had a
habit of wandering away without telling anyone where he was going, and Bartholomew was disturbed to learn that he had vanished
several times since he had been enrolled at Stourbridge. Most worrying was the fact that he had been gone for part of the
previous night, when Chesterfelde had died.
‘I was with the ducks near the river, Matt,’ said Clippesby dreamily, when the physician
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