The Mark of a Murderer Read Online Free PDF Page B

treated
     the stationer out of compassion, and yet it was probably Weasenham who had been spreading the rumours about him and Matilde.
    ‘I did not need you anyway,’ Michael went on airily. ‘I met Paxtone of King’s Hall on the way, and he agreed to do the examination
     in your stead. He confirmed what Okehamptone’s friends said about a fever.’
    Bartholomew frowned. ‘And now there is a second death at Merton Hall. Are you sure you cannot pass this to the Sheriff, on
     the grounds that these scholars are aliens in our town? If Chesterfelde has been murdered, then any investigation is likely
     to be time consuming.’ He was uneasywith the notion that helping Michael solve an unlawful killing might impinge on his understanding with Matilde.
    ‘Dick Tulyet is busy at the moment, supervising arrangements for the prelatical Visitation.’
    ‘You are busy, too,’ Bartholomew pointed out.
    Michael was one of the most powerful men in the University, and holding on to such authority entailed a good deal of work;
     it was generally known that the monk made the most important decisions and that Chancellor Tynkell just did what he was told.
     Michael also had students to teach and, like Bartholomew, had been obliged to undertake extra classes because of Clippesby’s
     indisposition. In addition, he was heavily involved with preparations for the Archbishop’s Visitation – it fell to him to
     ensure that England’s highest-ranking churchman would be impressed by what he saw of Cambridge’s
studium generale
. Since there were rumours claiming that Islip intended to found a new College at one of the two universities, impressing
     him was particularly important.
    Michael grinned in a predatory manner. ‘This will provide a challenging diversion from my usual routines – Tynkell is so malleable
     that he is no fun to manipulate any longer, while my students virtually teach themselves – and it will be interesting to probe
     the affairs of our sister University.’
    ‘What about the challenge associated with teaching Clippesby’s musicians?’
    Michael did not dignify the question with an answer. He was resentful that he had been saddled with the class; although he
     was proud of his achievements with the Michaelhouse choir, being able to sing was a long way from understanding the discipline’s
     theoretical framework, and he was hopelessly out of his depth. Clippesby’s astronomers had been inflicted on Bartholomew,
     because physicians were obliged to maintain a working knowledge of the celestialbodies in order to treat their patients, but at least the field was not a complete mystery to him, as academic music was to
     Michael.
    The two scholars turned on to Bridge Street. The sun shed a golden glow across the fields behind St John’s Hospital, catching
     in the thin mist that rose from the river. The air was balmy and smelled of new crops, with only a slight odour from the marshes
     that lay to the north, and the sky was light blue with a delicate membrane of high-scattered clouds. Birds sang loud and shrill
     and, in the distance, sheep bleated in water meadows that were carpeted with buttercups.
    Bridge Street was busy, as people made their way to and from their Sunday devotions. There were orderly processions of scholars
     led by the masters of the Colleges and halls, there were friars in black, white or grey habits and cloaks, and there were
     townsfolk in their best clothes. Bells rang in a jubilant jangle, with the bass of St Mary the Great providing a rumbling
     accompaniment to the clanking trebles of Holy Trinity and All-Saints-in-the-Jewry.
    Bartholomew and Michael reached the Great Bridge and started to cross it. Bartholomew gripped the handrail uneasily; the bridge
     was notoriously unstable, and comprised a gravity-defying mess of teetering stone arches, rotting wooden spars and a good
     deal of scaffolding. Funds were desperately needed for its repair – or, better still, for its complete