putting a wizened apple into Paul’s hand before passing the bowl to Michael, who took three.
‘Not at all,’ said Michael, his mouth full. ‘Such a plot is still the most plausible explanation for all this.’
‘I suppose you think these bottles have been retrieved so that they can be used again?’ asked Bartholomew flippantly. ‘So all we need to do next time is to lay a trap for whoever comes to get them back.’
Michael gave him a withering glance. ‘At least I have a theory,’ he said irritably. ‘You have nothing more than a collection of conflicting ideas – you think Grene’s death is too convenient to be coincidence and suspect Bingham in playing a role, yet at the same time, you do not believe Bingham is competent to carry out such an attack. You say the wine in the bottle at Gonville brought Philius to the brink of death, burned Isaac’s hand and killed a rat, yet you say you saw that sot of a cat drink its fill with no ill effects at all.’
‘The cat!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, ignoring Michael’s peevishness. ‘Colton said it prowls the College looking for wine and ale and smashes things. The cat must have smashed the bottle! It can scarcely uncork them for itself, and has probably learned that the best way into a bottle is to break it.’
‘That would explain why the killers could not find it,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘It lay smashed under the bench. Perhaps they asked Isaac for it, and killed him when he could not tell them. Since in talking to them they had revealed their identities, Isaac was murdered to ensure he could not tell us who was so interested in obtaining poisoned wine.’
It was possible, Bartholomew supposed. They had certainly threatened Walter with death if he tried to escape from his bonds before dawn, even if they had not harmed Bartholomew when the opportunity presented itself.
The discussion was cut short when Ralph de Langelee slammed his goblet down on the table in a sudden display of temper. Bartholomew almost jumped out of his skin, and the babble of conversation in the hall died away abruptly.
‘That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard!’ Langelee exclaimed furiously. ‘Of course the Earth is not irregularly shaped: it is a perfect sphere!’
‘It is not!’ shouted Alcote, equally angry. ‘So there!’ he added, as if that clinched the debate.
‘Gentlemen, gentlemen,’ admonished Kenyngham soothingly. ‘There is no need for such rage while debating philosophical questions.’
‘The shape in which God created the Earth is a religious question, not a philosophical one,’ put in William quickly, determined not to lose the opportunity to utter a little dogma.
‘Religion and philosophy reach a point where they become one and the same,’ said Alcote.
There was a brief silence as the others digested this bit of profundity from such an unexpected quarter.
‘Heretic!’ yelled William after a moment, stabbing a finger at Alcote’s puny chest. ‘Theology is the noblest of all subjects and should never be mistaken for any of the lesser disciplines.’
‘You are trying to sidetrack me,’ snapped Langelee accusingly. ‘I was just telling Alcote that the Earth was a perfect sphere and–’
‘One does not “tell” another scholar something like that,’ said Michael pompously. ‘One raises the matter as a question, and there follows a stimulating and mutually beneficial exchange of views, during which each listens to the other, offering evidence for support or refute as appropriate.’
‘Not if the other’s point of view is the intellectual equivalent of horse dung,’ retorted Langelee. ‘I do not have time to listen to drivel!’
‘I would stay out of this, if I were you, Brother,’ cautioned Bartholomew in an undertone. ‘You will not make them accept the validity of your statements, and Langelee looks as if he might resort to physical persuasion to me.’
‘How can the Earth be a perfect sphere?’ asked Runham with affected weariness. ‘There would be nothing to prevent the sea invading the land, and there would be water everywhere.’
‘And what about mountains?’ asked Bartholomew, aware of Michael’s grin of amusement that he was unable to follow his own advice.
‘And where, pray, do you see mountains?’ demanded Langelee icily. He gestured out of the window. ‘Show me a mountain and I will concede your point.’
‘Obviously there are none in East Anglia,’ said Bartholomew, wondering, not for the first time, how Langelee had inveigled an appointment at Michaelhouse. ‘But there are hills in the north of England and mountains in Italy, France and Spain.’
‘You are lying,’ said Langelee dismissively. ‘There are no mountains in York.’
In the body of the hall, the students were enjoying the dissension between the Fellows with unconcealed delight, much of their gleeful amusement directed against the unpopular Langelee.
‘I visited York once,’ said Kenyngham, smiling wistfully. ‘What a charming place! The Minster is a fabulous thing, all delicate tracery and soaring windows.’
‘But did you see mountains?’ asked Alcote, reluctant to allow the Master to change the subject to something less contentious.
‘Castle Hill is a mountain,’ said Runham. ‘Or it is mountain enough to prove Matthew’s point. If the Earth were a perfect sphere, Castle Hill would not exist.’
‘That is a foolish argument!’ spat Langelee. ‘If Castle Hill did not exist, there would be nowhere to put the castle!’
The others regarded him uncertainly, none of them sure how he had arrived at such a conclusion or how to refute it. Before the debate could begin anew, Kenyngham wisely took advantage of the momentary silence to stand to say grace. The others scrambled to their feet and bowed their heads as the Gilbertine’s words echoed around the hall. As soon as he had finished, the students clattered noisily down the stairs and across the courtyard, some to read in their rooms, others to escape the College and indulge in something better than enduring Michaelhouse’s petty restrictions on the one day they were free from their studies.
Michael and Bartholomew made a hasty exit, too, neither wanting to become embroiled in a debate with the others, particularly Langelee. Bartholomew shook his head in disbelief as he overheard the philosopher informing William that the Earth was a perfect sphere because it was created by God, and God could create nothing imperfect. Langelee, however, was preaching to the converted, and William agreed with him that all mountains and hills were therefore an abomination and should be levelled. Raising his eyes heavenwards, Michael went to the kitchens to scavenge leftovers, while Bartholomew escorted Father Paul to the room he shared with William.
‘When a man loses a sense, such as sight, the body compensates,’ announced Paul, somewhat out of the blue.
‘I have heard that,’ said Bartholomew, steering him around a puddle. ‘I knew a deaf man once who was able to tell from shadows and smell when there was someone behind him.’
‘I hear exceptionally well,’ continued Paul, ‘and although you and Michael took care to keep your voices low before that silly debate started, I heard what was said. I also have an excellent sense of smell. Should you recover these bottles, I would be happy to see if I can detect similarities or differences in this poison for you.’
‘Thank you,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But this substance is foul, and I would not like anyone to smell it, in case they inhale noxious fumes. Presumably, the stuff is odourless anyway, or Armel and Grene would not have drunk it.’
‘True,’ said Paul. ‘Although my offer remains should you need it. But, regardless, take care, Matthew. Brother Michael is an ambitious man, and little will stop him attaining the power and influence he craves. He will not hesitate to enlist your help to gain it.’
Bartholomew stared at him. It was true that Michael, as Senior Proctor, regularly called on his medical knowledge to help him solve mysteries concerning violent deaths. But would Michael involve him in something dangerous to secure his own advancement? Bartholomew would like to believe not, but he knew Paul’s observation held more than a grain of truth. Michael’s ambition must be strong indeed for him to forgo the opportunity to be Master of a wealthy institution like Valence Marie on the strength of some unspecified promise for the future made by a Bishop whose own empire might crumble in the shifting grounds of political alliances at any moment.
Although Bartholomew could attest that Michael really had been unwell on the day of the Chancellor’s election, he had put up little resistance when Bartholomew had advised him to stay in bed. Bartholomew also knew the monk well enough to see that he had not been surprised in the slightest at the suggestion that the voting
