‘And Duraunt,’ suggested Langelee. ‘Do not omit him from your enquiries just because Matt says he was pleasant, kind and abstemious twenty years ago.’
That night, Bartholomew lay on his bed and watched the stars through the open window, thinking about Chesterfelde, Gonerby and the body in the cistern. Were the three deaths connected, or were they independent examples of human violence? He considered the various questions that had arisen since he had inspected Chesterfelde.
First, and most disturbing, was Duraunt and his relationship to Polmorva. When Bartholomew had been a student, Duraunt had defended him many times against his rival, but now Duraunt and Polmorva were friends – or, if not friends, then allies – and Duraunt was happy to allow him to stay in Merton property. Why? Was Polmorva blackmailing Duraunt, perhaps about his drinking or weakness for soporifics? Or was there genuine affection between the two that had flourished after Bartholomew had left? And what was Polmorva’s purpose in visiting Cambridge? To escape Oxford’s unrest, as he claimed, or because he was witness to the very murder the merchants had come to solve? If the latter was true, then did it mean Duraunt was also involved in Gonerby’s death, and his decision to confront Boltone about dishonest accounting was incidental?
Mention of the bailiff brought other questions surging into his mind. The fact that Boltone and Eudo had been working near a cistern that contained a corpse was an odd coincidence, and Bartholomew was fairly sure, from the amount of blood at the pit, that Chesterfelde had died there. The stains had not come from the unidentified body, because that had been dead for much longer, and recent rains would have washed away any remaining spillage. There was also the curious fact that Chesterfelde and Eudo both had wounds on their arms. Eudo attributed his to staggering home from a tavern, while Chesterfelde was alleged to have been drunk. Did that hold any significance, or did it just mean a lot of powerful drink had been imbibed that night?
Bartholomew considered Chesterfelde further. He and Spryngheuse were accredited with starting the St Scholastica’s Day riot, although Spryngheuse denied the charge. Was it possible the unrest had been deliberately engineered, to create an opportunity for Gonerby to be bitten? But then why had the affair come to Cambridge? Were the merchants right, and the killer was a Cambridge scholar? Or was he an Oxford man who had fled to Cambridge to escape the hue and cry after Gonerby’s murder? Or was he from neither university, and his intention was to strike at both institutions? Not everyone thought scholarship was a good thing, and some folk believed it had been academic probing of matters best left to God that had encouraged Him to send the plague.
Bites. Bartholomew closed his eyes and hoped with all his heart that what Abergavenny had told Cynric was wrong. He recalled the gaping wound in the throat of the corpse in the cistern and knew it could have been caused by something tearing at it – including teeth. He wished he could have confided in Michael, but he had sworn to keep his silence, and so was condemned to struggle with his fears alone; he dared not even discuss them with Matilde. He thought about her, and smiled despite his agitation, then eased quietly off the bed, hoping his colleagues were asleep so he could leave without awkward interrogations. Lights burned in the chamber where William lived, so he forced himself to wait until they were doused. Of all the Fellows, William would be the one to issue a direct challenge if he caught someone leaving in the middle of the night, and the physician was far too tired to prevaricate convincingly.
Eventually, all candles were extinguished, and he left with the liripipe wrapped inexpertly around his head in the hope that the ruse devised by his sister would work. It was drizzling and, since his own cloak was being laundered, he donned Spryngheuse’s instead, hoping the Merton man would not mind. He crept through the sleeping College and slipped out through the orchard door, careful to leave it unlocked, although he predicted he would find it barred from the inside by the time he returned.
He trotted along the empty streets to the Jewry, ducking into doorways in a feeble attempt at stealth. He saw no one watching him, but was painfully aware that his wits were dulled from exhaustion. His best hope was that the hated liripipe would do its work. It was scratchy, restrictive and uncomfortable, and he determined that if anyone recognised him that night he would never wear the thing again.
At last he reached Matilde’s house, where he knocked softly. The door opened almost immediately, indicating she had been waiting for him. He stepped inside, then saw who was sitting on the bench near the hearth.
‘Good evening, Matt,’ said Michael, sipping from a goblet of wine. His eyes were irresistibly drawn upwards. ‘Nice hat.’
* * *
‘You could have trusted me,’ said Michael reproachfully, as he sat with Bartholomew and Matilde in her tiny house later that night. They had spent at least three hours talking softly, ironing out all the misunderstandings that had accrued over the last fortnight. Bartholomew was indescribably relieved, and felt as if a great burden was lifted from his shoulders. Some of his tiredness began to dissipate, too, and he realised his nocturnal duties had placed him under more strain than he had appreciated.
‘It was not my decision to make,’ he replied, sipping the wine Matilde had poured him. It was sweet and pale, and he felt it warming him through to the stomach.
‘It was bad enough placing Matthew in such an awkward position,’ explained Matilde. ‘I could not justify doing it to you, as well. You are a monk, and it would do your reputation no good at all to be seen coming out of my house at questionable hours.’
‘It has not done much for his, either,’ Michael pointed out. ‘I bullied the Weasenhams into silence, but it is like using a twig to dam a river. The rumours are rife, and his refusal to deny them has made tongues wag all the harder.’
‘We shall have to concoct an explanation that will restore our good names when this is over,’ said Matilde unhappily. ‘Folk respect Matthew, and will not believe ill of him for long.’
‘People are fickle,’ countered Michael. ‘They may well like him, but that will not stop them from turning on him like wild animals, if properly incited.’ He saw his friends wince at his choice of similes, and spread his hands in apology.
‘How is our patient?’ asked Matilde, indicating the upper chamber of her house with a nod of her head. ‘You said last night that you thought he might be on the mend, Matthew.’
‘His fever has lessened, and the wound does not burn so fiercely. I think he will survive now.’
Matilde heaved a sigh of relief. ‘Thank God! I do not know what we would have done if he had died. We would have gone to the gallows.’
‘You took a great risk,’ agreed Michael. ‘Especially to help someone like Doctor Rougham. He would not have done the same for you, Matt. On the contrary: he would have used the situation as an excuse to cause you as much damage as possible.’
‘I am not doing it for him,’ said Bartholomew. He looked at Matilde and his bleak expression softened with affection. She smiled back, but sadly, and it did not touch her eyes. Michael watched the exchange with frank curiosity, but kept his thoughts to himself.
‘How did you guess what was going on?’ Matilde asked the monk, twisting her empty goblet through restless fingers. ‘Why did you not believe Matthew was enjoying the company of a harlot every night, as everyone else seems to have done?’ Her voice was bitter.
‘You cannot blame them,’ said Michael reasonably. ‘You must see how it looks for a man to slink away in the dark and visit you – Mistress of the Guild of Frail Sisters – night after night.’
Matilde shook her head, and the monk was startled to see the sparkle of tears. She was exhausted, and the relief of sharing her burden was almost too much to bear. Her voice was angry as she embarked on a sudden and uncharacteristic outburst. ‘It is not fair! I was awarded my dubious reputation the moment I set foot in this town, although I did little to deserve it. I admit, I accepted the occasional man into my chambers at first – if he could afford my fees – but they were infr
equent. Do you know that no man has secured my favours for more than two years now? I am as chaste as you are, Brother.’
Bartholomew stared into the fire, thinking that she might have chosen a better example of chastity than the fat monk. However, he was certain she was telling the truth about her own situation; she had mentioned several times of late that her days of frolicking with wealthy patrons were over.
‘They jump to those conclusions because of your association with whores,’ said Michael gently. ‘You cannot stand up for their rights and expect not to be connected with what they do.’
Matilde was distressed. ‘When I first came here, I thought it was amusing to be the subject of such exotic tales. But those things are for younger women, and now I am older, I crave respectability – I want an end to all this merry chatter. But this business with Rougham has done damage I fear will prove irreparable.’
Bartholomew watched the flames devour a log, destroying it slowly but inexorably, just as the town’s gossip was doing to Matilde’s chances of earning respect. She would never have it, no matter how long she remained in Cambridge, playing the role of an upright and moral woman. It was simply more interesting for people to believe otherwise, and he knew they would do so for the rest of her life. Her only recourse was to move away, but he hoped she would not. However, if she did want to leave, he decided to go with her, prepared to give up his life as a scholar for the woman he loved so deeply. He felt an urge to ask her to marry him there and then, but an uncomfortable shyness suddenly assailed him, and he knew he could not broach the subject when Michael was present.
‘How did you guess, Brother?’ he asked instead, dragging his thoughts away from a future with Matilde, and grateful that at least he would not have to lie to Michael any more. The monk was astute, and it had been difficult trying to mislead him.
‘Through a few clues here and there, and a good deal of cleverness,’ said Michael, pleased with himself. ‘But I put the last pieces of the puzzle together when Cynric told that outrageous story about Gonerby being killed by a bite. You were appalled, but not surprised. While I argued with Cynric that it is impossible to die in such a manner, you remained suspiciously silent. And you are not usually mute about such matters.’
‘You mean on methods of killing?’ asked Matilde, regarding Bartholomew uneasily.
‘On anything to do with physiology. I had to ask him direct questions about these bites, whereas normally he would have volunteered the information in tedious detail. Also, he had mentioned a throat wound in the body in the cistern, but it was left to me to make the connection between that and Gonerby. He is not often slow to see such associations, and his reaction sent me a clear message: he had encountered such an injury before.’
‘But how did you go from that to me?’ asked Matilde.
Michael shrugged. ‘It was obvious once I thought about it. I have been nagging him about his visits here for days, and I sensed there was more to them than romping in your attic. Nor is he a man to put personal enjoyment before the reputation of a lady, especially one he adores. Therefore, I reasoned that it was not you he was here to see, but someone else. A patient.’
‘How did you guess it was Rougham?’ asked Bartholomew, acutely aware of Matilde’s flush of pleasure that accompanied Michael’s words.
Michael smiled ruefully. ‘I did not. He was the last person I expected to discover! But tell me again what happened.’ He raised a hand when Bartholomew started to object. ‘I know you swore never to reveal his secret, but I already know the essence of this tale, so it cannot harm to fill in the details. And I may be able to help. You two have aroused so much suspicion that you will be hard-pressed to remove him from this house without being seen. You will need my assistance.’
‘He will not like it,’ warned Matilde. ‘He almost died before I persuaded him to summon Matthew, and he made us both swear, on our lives, that we would keep his story secret.’
‘I do not care,’ said Michael harshly. ‘The man has been responsible for harming – perhaps permanently – two of my friends. I do not care what he likes or dislikes. And, what is more important, he is lucky I do not storm up to his sickbed and fine him for dallying with loose women.’
A weak knock sounded through the ceiling. ‘There he is again,’ said Matilde wearily. ‘I thought you said he was better.’
‘He is – and that will be the problem from now on,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘He is well enough to make demands. The sooner we take him to Gonville the better. Then his colleagues can tend him.’
‘I am exhausted,’ said Matilde, leaning against the wall and closing her eyes. ‘You see to him, Matthew. I shall need all my strength to deal with him again tomorrow.’
‘Now I understand why you refused to let me visit her,’ said Michael softly. ‘You knew she would either be sleeping or wrestling with Rougham’s care.’
‘His illness has been severe, and he has needed someone with him almost every moment for the past two weeks. We agreed that Matilde would tend him from dawn until I was able to escape at night, and I would care for him during the hours of darkness – I could not come during the day, not without affecting my teaching and other patients. And there was you to consider: you would have been suspicious, had I started to visit her at the expense of my other duties.’
‘True,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But this affair has worn both of you to the bone.’
Bartholomew grinned wryly. ‘Weasenham and other like-minded men have assumed our exhaustion is due to energy expended on each other, but the truth is that we have been so weary that we can barely exchange greetings. Frolicking in any form has been out of the question.’
‘Damn Rougham,’ snapped Michael angrily. ‘He does not know what he has done.’
‘Come with me,’ said Bartholomew, when he saw Matilde was sleeping. Tenderly, he covered her with a blanket, and led the way upstairs. ‘Rougham can tell you his tale himself.’
Michael followed him to the upper room in Matilde’s attractive home. A bed filled most of the chamber, loaded with furs and cushions. A man lay among them, his eyes bright with ill health and his face flushed. His breathing was shallow and rapid, but he seemed alert enough. To Bartholomew, he was dramatically improved; there had been times when he had been certain that his fellow physician would die. Now the fever was receding, and all he needed was to regain his strength with rest and a carefully designed diet.
‘There you are,’ said Rougham peevishly. ‘I have been knocking for hours. You promised there would be someone with me every minute of the day.’
‘You no longer need that degree of attention,’ said Bartholomew, sitting on the edge of the bed, and holding the man’s wrist to assess the rate of his pulse. ‘You are on the road to recovery and will be able to go home soon.’
‘No!’ breathed Rougham. For a moment, Bartholomew thought he was objecting to leaving Matilde, and was about to say that he had imposed himself on her for quite long enough, when he glanced up to see Rougham’s eyes fixed on Michael. ‘You promised to keep my secret! You have broken your word!’
‘He did nothing of the kind,’ said Michael sharply. ‘And you owe him a good deal. Do you have any idea what coming here every night has cost him? And Matilde, who has been obliged to look after you all day while he teaches, tends his patients, examines corpses for me, and tries to maintain the illusion that nothing is amiss?’
‘I will pay them,’ said Rougham angrily. ‘I am a wealthy man, and reward people for good service and discretion.’ He glared at Bartholomew in a way that indicated he felt he had not been given either.
‘Gold is not everything,’ said Michael sternly. ‘And before you abuse the two people who saved your life, let me inform you that they have kept their promise. I guessed Matt was coming here to nurse a patient, although I confess I was surprised when I learned it was you – I thought it would be one of the Frail Sisters. How in God’s name did you allow yourself to be seduced by a whore?’
There was a pau
se, during which Rougham regarded Michael in disbelief, scarcely crediting that one man should ask such a question of another. Eventually, he answered. ‘Surely even a monk must understand that normal males need women to rebalance their humours? I rebalance mine with Yolande de Blaston every first Monday in the month. It helps to be regular. That is a medical fact.’
‘Is it?’ Michael asked Bartholomew. The physician shrugged that he did not know, so Michael went back to regarding Rougham with distaste. ‘You visit Yolande in her house? Where she lives with her husband and children?’
‘Well, I can hardly invite her to Gonville, can I?’ snapped Rougham. ‘Besides, her family are very accommodating, and I always take marchpanes for the brats. Her husband, meanwhile, is grateful for any money that can go towards feeding them all.’
‘That is true,’ said Bartholomew, who had known about the Blastons’ peculiar marital arrangements for years. Personally, he believed the family would have been a good deal smaller if Yolande’s nocturnal enterprises had been curtailed, and was certain very few of her offspring were fathered by the carpenter. But every child was deeply loved, regardless of the fact that several bore uncanny resemblances to prominent townsmen and high-ranking members of the University.
‘I always hire her late at night, and tell my colleagues that I am going to see a patient,’ Rougham went on. ‘It is not unusual for physicians to be called out at odd times, so they never question me.’
‘So, did Yolande or one of her family hurt you?’ asked Michael, indicating the bandages that swathed the man’s shoulder.
‘Of course not! I am trying to tell you what happened, but you keep interrupting.’ Rougham snapped his fingers at Bartholomew to indicate he was thirsty, and only continued with his tale when watered wine had been brought. ‘I was approaching her house for our usual liaison, when I sensed something amiss. Someone was watching me. I could not shake off the feeling, but I had paid Yolande in advance and I was loath to waste my money by going home again; and there was my medical need to consider. I decided to continue with my …physic. I knocked on her door, and it was then that the attack occurred. I recall very little about it, other than that it was quick and very vicious.’
Bartholomew 11 - The Mark Of A Murderer Page 19