‘In other words, the possibilities are accident, suicide, murder or natural causes,’ concluded Michael dryly. ‘That is hardly
helpful, Matt.’
‘I cannot draw conclusions from evidence that is not there.’
‘Then we must find some,’ determined Michael. ‘I want you to inspect Wynewyk’s body again. I know pawing the corpse of a friend
will be distasteful to you, but we have no choice.’
* * *
Wynewyk had been taken to the Stanton Chapel in St Michael’s Church, where he occupied the parish coffin. The chapel, named
for the College’s founder, was a pleasant, airy place adjacent to the chancel, with delicate windows and tasteful paintings
on the walls. Niches on either side of the altar contained statues, one of the Virgin Mary and the other of St Michael. They
looked down with flat stone eyes, although Bartholomew had always thought their expressions inexplicably sad. Perhaps they
did not like the number of Michaelhouse scholars who had lain dead in front of them.
The physician forced himself to begin his examination. Obviously, there were no wounds to find, because Wynewyk had died in
a room full of witnesses and someone would have noticed if he had been injured. Even so, he went through the motions – assessing
his colleague for marks of violence and disease, trying to ascertain whether there might be something less obvious that had
brought about the sudden death of a healthy man. He spent a long time examining the mouth, even tipping the head back, to
assess the throat. It was slightly swollen.
‘Some people have aversions to specific substances,’ he said, more to himself than Michael, who was sitting on a nearby tomb
trying not to watch, ‘which cause the neck tissues to swell. This prevents air from entering the lungs, so the victim suffocates.
However, Wynewyk’s throat does not appear to be dangerously inflamed …’
‘So what are you saying?’ demanded Michael, when the physician trailed off.
‘Wynewyk knew nuts were dangerous for him, so why did he eat them? Even drunk, I cannot imagine him being so recklessly careless.’
‘So you think it was suicide?’ pressed Michael.
‘No,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Suicide means accepting that
he did something untoward – something that warranted a brisk exit from the world. And I refuse to believe that of him.’
‘So, we are left with murder, accident or natural causes. What do you make of his giggling? Would he have been able to laugh
so heartily, if he was struggling to breathe?’
Bartholomew shrugged helplessly. ‘Clearly, he
did
laugh, because you heard him. I suppose it might have been a hysterical reaction brought about by a shortness of breath.’
‘I am not sure about this nut theory,’ said Michael, after a moment of silence. ‘It smacks of deviant thinking on your part,
and I do not want attention drawn to your heterodoxy. I prefer our original diagnosis: that he died laughing – a seizure.
It will be better for everyone – including Wynewyk – if we agree on a verdict of natural causes.’
‘You mean we should lie?’ asked Bartholomew coolly.
‘I mean we keep our fears and suspicions to ourselves until we have sufficient evidence to make them public.’ Michael gazed
at their colleague’s cold, waxen face, then released an anguished cry that made the physician jump. ‘Lord Christ, Wynewyk!
How could you
do
this to us?’
When they had finished their dismal business in the church, Michael went to tackle the accounts, but Bartholomew did not feel
like going with him. Nor was he inclined to visit the conclave, which would be full of talk about Wynewyk, or his room, where
his students might ask for a medical explanation for what had happened. Normally, he encouraged his pupils’ willingness to
learn, but he was not equal to it that evening. He told the monk he was going to see a patient, and set off along the High
Street.
It was dusk, although there was not the merest glimmer of colour in the western sky, where the sun had set behind a bank of
thick clouds. It was cold, too, and people scurried along with their heads down, reluctant to be out. Traders hauled their
carts homeward, wheels squelching and hissing in the mud that formed most of Cambridge’s streets. A musician played a haunting
melody on a pipe, hoping to be tossed coins by passers-by, but Bartholomew wished he would play something a little more cheerful.
The tune was so sad that he felt his throat constrict, and he was forced to take several deep breaths when an image of Wynewyk’s
face sprang unbidden into his mind.
He glanced at King’s Hall as he passed, seized by a sudden desire to discuss his nut theory with a fellow physician – someone
who would understand what he was talking about. Medicine was not an exact science, and the longer he practised, the more he
realised he did not know, so it was always good to air new ideas with colleagues. Paxtone was not an ideal choice for debates,
because his experience was narrow and so was his mind, but he was better than Rougham of Gonville Hall. Making up his mind,
Bartholomew headed towards the College that was Paxtone’s home.
He hammered on the gate and was admitted by Tobias the porter. As he was being escorted across the yard, they were intercepted
by a thin, mouse-like man wearing King’s Hall’s blue tabard. As usual, it took Bartholomew a moment to recall Shropham’s name,
for the diffident lawyer never did or said anything to make it stick in his mind.
‘I shall conduct our visitor to Paxtone’s quarters,’ Shropham said to Tobias. ‘Gosse was loitering around earlier, and I would
rather you stayed by the gate.’
‘You think he might burgle King’s Hall?’ asked
Bartholomew, as Shropham led the way to the handsome suite of rooms on the top floor where Paxtone lived. It did not sound
very likely: not only was the College built like a fortress, but many of its scholars were the sons of nobles, who had been
trained to wield swords and shoot arrows. Gosse would have to be insane to risk an invasion.
‘Probably not, but you cannot be too careful. I am sorry about Wynewyk, by the way. I saw your book-bearer carrying his corpse
to the church and he told me the news. Your poor College is not having much luck this term; first you lose Kelyng the Bible
Scholar, and now Wynewyk.’
‘Kelyng is not dead,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘He just decided not to return for his final year because it would have meant
paying a massive debt for past fees.’
‘I see,’ said Shropham. He smiled sadly. ‘But I shall miss Wynewyk. He was a fellow lawyer, and was always laughing at something.’
Bartholomew glanced at him sharply. ‘Laughing?’
His tone startled Shropham, who backed away with his hands in the air, apologetic for having said something out of turn. ‘I
only meant that he was a cheery sort of fellow, but if you say I am mistaken, then that is fair enough. I am sure he was perfectly
sombre.’
‘He was not sombre, either,’ snapped Bartholomew. He disliked sycophants, and recalled with distaste Shropham’s habit of never
contradicting anyone. It was a curious trait for a scholar: they had been trained to argue, and were usually delighted to
do so.
Shropham was becoming flustered. ‘Perhaps he was both – merry sometimes, and grave the rest of the time. A man of contrasts.
Yes, that must be it.’
‘Actually, he was very even tempered,’ countered Bartholomew, a little testily.
‘Yes, he was that, too,’ gushed Shropham, somewhat desperately. ‘Very even tempered.’
Bartholomew smothered his irritation, knowing Shropham was only trying to make conversation; he was just not very good at
it, and had chosen a subject that was too raw for idle chatter.
‘You teach law?’ he asked, deciding they might do better if they discussed something else.
‘Yes,’ replied Shropham. ‘Except when I teach the Trivium – grammar, logic and rhetoric.’
‘I know what the Trivium is,’ said Bartholomew. He grimaced at his abrupt tone and wondered what it was about Shropham that
seemed to be bringing out the worst in him. He struggled to make amends, forcing himself to smile. ‘Which parts of it do you
teach?’
‘All of it,’ replied Shropham. ‘The other masters ask me to take their classes, and I do not like to disappoint – you know
how senior scholars hate wasting their time with basics.’
‘But
you
are a senior scholar,’ Bartholomew pointed out, bemused. ‘You have been here for years – before me, and long before Paxtone.
You should not be saddled with the Trivium.’
‘Perhaps I should not,’ said Shropham, blushing furiously. ‘But when friends approach me for assistance it seems churlish
to refuse.’
‘Right,’ said Bartholomew, suspecting he was abominably abused by his so-called friends.
‘Here we are,’ said Shropham, opening Paxtone’s door with obvious relief.
Paxtone’s two light, airy chambers – one for teaching and the other for private use – overlooked the water meadows, and saw
some spectacular sunsets. That day, however, the shutters were closed, and a fire was blazing
in the hearth, filling the private room with a warm, amber glow. The floor was of wood, but woollen rugs were scattered across
it, and the walls had matching hangings, all selected with impeccable taste. Unlike Michaelhouse, not all King’s Hall Fellows
were obliged to share their accommodation with students, and Paxtone paid a hefty rent to ensure his continued privacy.
‘He is teaching,’ whispered Shropham, pointing through the door that linked the two chambers; three lads could be seen sitting
on stools at Paxtone’s feet. They were listening to his analysis of Galen’s views on almonds as an astringent. ‘He is one
of the most inspired tutors in the College. Do you lecture on Galen, Doctor Bartholomew?’
‘Of course,’ replied Bartholomew, startled by the question – and by the notion that the staid Paxtone should be considered
inspired. ‘It would be impossible not to, because his theories are cornerstones of traditional medicine.’
‘Then I must come to hear you some time. I am sure you will be equally good.’
Bartholomew frowned as Shropham fussed around him, ensuring his cloak was hung up neatly and that he was satisfied with the
state of the fire. The lawyer was so determined that Paxtone’s guest should sit in the chair by the hearth that he gave him
a rather enthusiastic shove that saw him topple into it. Bartholomew winced when something dug into his leg.
‘Is it yours?’ asked Shropham, watching him pull a small knife from under his thigh. ‘It fell out of your bag as you sat?’
‘As I was pushed,’ muttered Bartholomew. Shropham’s obsequiousness was grating on his nerves. He took a deep breath and forced
himself to be gracious. ‘It looks like one of mine, but it is actually Paxtone’s. We both use these plain steel blades, because
they are easy to clean.’
‘Perhaps he left it there to sharpen it – pointing north, so it will hone itself.’ Shropham took it from him and set in on
a shelf. ‘Is this true north, do you think?’
‘Move it to the left a little.’ Bartholomew had all but forgotten the curious debate Paxtone had been airing with his colleagues
earlier that day, and experienced an acute stab of grief when he recalled Wynewyk’s amusement. He swallowed hard, and pursued
the subject of knives in an effort to push the memory from his mind. ‘Paxtone and I buy them from the same forge. They are
the perfect size for delicate surgery and—’
‘Paxtone would never demean himself by doing surgery,’ interrupted Shropham indignantly. Then he blushed when he saw he had
been insulting, and began to gabble in an effort to make amends. ‘Not that surgery is degrading, of course, but he uses
his
blades for more lofty purposes.’
‘Such as what?’ asked Bartholomew innocently. The question was a little wicked, because Paxtone was forced into ‘surgery’
because Robin of Grantchester was no longer available to do it for him. It was likely therefore that the King’s Hall physician
did
use his knives for cautery.
Shropham swallowed uneasily. ‘Such as peeling fruit and paring his nails. Not sharpening quills, of course, because I do that
for him.’
‘Really? And what do his students do, while you perform these lowly tasks?’ Bartholomew had not meant to sound rude, but the
words were out before he could stop them. And he genuinely wanted an answer, bemused as to why a scholar of Shropham’s seniority
should act as servant to his equals.
But Shropham did not take the question amiss. ‘I would not trust that rabble to see to his needs. And it is a great pleasure
to serve a fine man like Paxtone.’
‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, deciding he had better not pursue the subject any further. It was too bewildering, and he had had
a long and distressing day.
‘He will not be long,’ said Shropham, leaning forward to pat a cushion into place. ‘Here is a psalter to occupy you while
you wait. Unless you would rather I kept you company? There is nothing more important than ensuring Paxtone’s acquaintances
are properly looked after.’
‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, wondering whether Paxtone had acquired himself a jealous lover. But Paxtone had always seemed rather
asexual, and on the few occasions when he had mentioned a preference, it was usually for Yolande de Blaston. ‘I will read,
thank you.’
Shropham bowed his way out of the room, and his footsteps clattered down the stairs.
‘Christ!’ breathed Bartholomew, when the man had gone. ‘He is stranger than Clippesby!’
Bartholomew listened to Paxtone’s lecture through the door for a while, but it was a basic one, delivered at a very early
stage in his students’ studies, and he knew he would learn nothing from it. He was not in the mood for perusing psalters,
either, so he went to the books in Paxtone’s private library, intending to read what Galen had written about nuts – and about
men who laughed themselves to death.
The tomes were stored in a wall-cupboard, and Bartholomew had been told in the past that he could browse through them whenever
he liked. He opened the door and began to read the titles, impressed by the extent of his friend’s collection: books were
hideously expensive.