A Masterly Murder (14 page)

‘Right,’ said the monk, favouring Matilde with a contented beam as the two women giggled. ‘Do you have any of that good Italian
wine you shared with me last time I was here?’

Bartholomew regarded him suspiciously. ‘And when was that?’

Michael flapped a dismissive hand. ‘I do not recall precisely. But as it happens, Matilde, you are right – there is a case
that you might be able to help us with.’

‘I thought there might be,’ she said, leaving to fetch the wine from the small parlour at the back of the house. ‘That is
the only reason
he
would visit me these days.’

‘You seem to be out of favour, Matt,’ said Michael once she had gone.

‘Small wonder,’ said Yolande, treating Bartholomew to an unpleasant look. ‘He only ever comes to see her when he wants something.
She was telling us only last night that he had not visited her in almost two months, and now he turns up only to see whether
she knows anything about some horrible University crime. But, since he is here, I have a swollen foot that he can look at.’

‘And I have painful gums,’ added Una. ‘It is good he came tonight – now I will not have to rise early in the morning to go
to see him.’

‘You want me to examine you now?’ asked Bartholomew unenthusiastically, wishing they would not talk about him as though he
were not there. And anyway, with the room revolving around him in a way that was making him feel sick, he did not feel he
should be doctoring anyone.

‘You are a physician and here are two charming ladies who need physicking,’ said Michael contentedly. ‘Where lies the problem?
Get on with it, man!’

Bartholomew was kneeling on the floor with Yolande’s
foot in his hands when Matilde entered with the wine. He glanced up, then grabbed at Yolande’s knee as the sudden movement
upset his precarious balance.

‘You have had more than enough wine already, Matthew,’ she remarked, as she handed Michael his cup. ‘You are drunk!’

‘He has imbibed four cups of Widow’s Wine,’ explained Michael.

‘That is an apprentices’ brew!’ said Matilde incredulously. ‘Why would a perfectly sane adult who values his health drink
Widow’s Wine? Was he trying to do away with himself?’

‘Do not be so hard on it,’ said Una. ‘I like a drop of Widow’s Wine myself on occasion.’

‘The occasion must be when you are too drunk to know what is good for you,’ said Matilde, unimpressed. ‘Personally, I would
never touch the stuff. I have heard that it is brewed with pine resin to give it its strength, and that a dead fox is added
to the vats to improve its flavour.’

Bartholomew felt more sick than ever.

‘That is why it is popular with young men,’ said Yolande. ‘My husband’s apprentices
love it. It is cheap, strong and, after the first cup, its taste does not matter. Were you two out on the town, then, indulging
in a little debauchery to break the monotony of all those books you read?’

‘We elected two new Fellows tonight,’ said Bartholomew. ‘After the ceremony, we had a feast.’

‘With Widow’s Wine?’ asked Matilde, laughing in amused horror. ‘Is that how Michaelhouse scholars choose to celebrate?’

‘I cannot imagine what Master Kenyngham was thinking of,’ agreed Michael. ‘I suppose he was offered a few barrels cheaply,
and did not know its reputation. It is
powerful stuff. I, too, feel a little more merry than I would usually do after a mere nine cups.’

‘So, which is the latest murder you are investigating?’ asked Yolande, as she watched Bartholomew bend carefully to resume
his examination of her foot. She snapped her fingers. ‘It must be the one where the Franciscan was stabbed in the grounds
of Ovyng Hostel.’

‘That is one of them,’ said Michael. ‘I do not suppose any of the sisterhood saw someone fleeing the scene of that little
crime, did they?’

The three women shook their heads.

‘But it was probably another scholar,’ suggested Una helpfully. ‘It has all the hallmarks
of an internal killing.’

‘Really?’ asked Michael drolly. ‘And what would those be, pray?’

Matilde made an impatient sound at the back of her throat. ‘You know very well, Michael. When townsmen kill a scholar, it
is nearly always in the heat of the moment, during or after a brawl. But this friar was killed silently and quickly, with
no witnesses. It was clearly no spontaneous attack, but a carefully planned murder – an academic murder.’

Michael looked thoughtful. ‘You may be right. But I have absolutely nowhere to start with this one – Brother Patrick was fairly
new to Ovyng Hostel, and had no time to make serious enemies. And he came from a tiny friary in a part of Norfolk that no
one has ever heard of, so I doubt a quarrel could have followed him here.’

‘Perhaps he saw something he should not have done, and was killed in order to ensure his silence,’ suggested Una.

‘But you just said the killing bore the hallmarks of a carefully planned execution,’ said Michael. ‘That does not tally with
Patrick seeing something and an assailant
deciding he should not live to tell the tale. Saw what, anyway?’

‘It is more likely that he
heard
something,’ said Matilde thoughtfully.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Michael. ‘Did you know Brother Patrick?’

‘Only by reputation,’ said Matilde carefully.

‘But he had only recently arrived at Ovyng Hostel,’ said Michael. ‘How could he have a reputation?’

‘It does not take long to establish one,’ Matilde pointed out. ‘One of the sisters entertained him on several occasions and
was astonished at the amount of gossip he knew, even though he had only been in the town for a few weeks.’

‘Patrick was a gossip?’ asked Michael.

‘Quite a shameless one,’ said Matilde. ‘From what I could tell, he and our sister spent
most of their time together engaged in a scurrilous exchange of information. That is why I suggested that he may have been
killed because he had heard something someone did not want him to know.’

‘But gossips seldom know secrets worth much,’ said Michael. ‘Because they
are
gossips, people do not tend to confide in them, and they only have access to information that is common knowledge. I do not
think his loose tongue would have been sufficient reason to kill him.’

‘My experience tells me otherwise,’ argued Matilde. ‘No one likes a gossip – especially if his tale-telling harms you or your
loved ones.’

‘What is the other case you have?’ asked Una, watching Bartholomew manipulate Yolande’s foot with the exaggerated care of
the intoxicated. ‘You said the friar’s death was one of the ones you were working on – what is the other?’

‘Is it the one where the baker killed the potter in the
King’s Head?’ asked Yolande. ‘Or the one where the surgeon Robin of Grantchester is accused of murdering Master Saddler by
chopping off his leg on Thursday afternoon?’

‘Neither of those,’ said Michael.

‘Robin has been charged with Saddler’s murder?’ asked Bartholomew, looking up in horror.
‘But Saddler was ill anyway. His leg should have been amputated weeks ago, but he refused to allow anyone to do it.’

‘You medical men always stick together,’ said Una in disgust.

‘You will not have to amputate my leg, will you?’ asked Yolande nervously.

‘Hardly,’ said Bartholomew. ‘All that is wrong with you is that your shoes are too tight – you need to buy a larger pair.’

‘Oh, very practical!’ said Matilde crossly, her hands on her hips as Bartholomew stood up. ‘And where is she supposed to find
the money to buy new shoes with nine children to feed?’

‘Slit them,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The shoes, I mean, not the children. Give them to me; I will do it for you.’

‘You will not,’ said Matilde, snatching the shoe away from him. ‘You are drunk and I do not want you wielding knives in my
house. Her husband will do it for her tomorrow.’

‘So, which murder are you investigating?’ asked Una, opening her mouth so that Bartholomew could inspect her sore gums. Resting
a hand on the wall, he leaned over her, hoping he would not slip and end up in her lap.

‘It is not murder,’ said Michael. ‘At least, I do not think so. A scholar fell from the scaffolding surrounding Bene’t College
two days ago.’

‘Oh, that,’ said Yolande, disappointed. ‘My husband told me about it – he is one of the carpenters who is
working on Bene’t. He told me that Raysoun was so miserly that he was always climbing up the scaffolding to make sure that
none of the workmen were slacking. Because Raysoun was no longer young, and because he liked a drink or two – just like you,
Doctor Bartholomew – my Robert said it was only a matter of time before he fell.’

‘Really?’ asked Michael.

Yolande gave a grin, revealing yellowed stumps of teeth. ‘Have I helped you, then?’

‘You may have done,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘His friend, Wymundham, has just been found dead near the King’s Ditch – in
Mayor Horwoode’s garden, to be precise.’

‘I am sure the Mayor had nothing to do with it,’ said Yolande immediately. ‘I have visited him every Friday for years and
know him well. He is too indecisive to kill anyone.’

Michael laughed. ‘I have never heard that used as a defence before, but I will bear it in mind. But no more of murder, ladies.
It is delightful to sit and enjoy some congenial companionship. I was saying only tonight that Michaelhouse would benefit
from a little female company now and again.’

‘It certainly would,’ said Matilde fervently. ‘I have seldom seen such an unprepossessing array of people – especially that
revolting Runham.’

‘Do not speak ill of him,’ said Michael, in tones that suggested they should. ‘Runham was elected Michaelhouse’s new Master
this evening. Kenyngham has retired.’

Matilde regarded Bartholomew in dismay, as though he were responsible for electing Runham single-handed. ‘What possessed you
to select a man like that, Matthew? He will be a tyrant.’

‘I did not select him,’ said Bartholomew tiredly,
straightening up from his inspection of the inflamed gums. ‘Una, there is a rotten tooth that needs to be pulled. Robin of
Grantchester specialises in pulling teeth, or I can come to your house and do it tomorrow. You decide.’

‘She will think about it,’ said Matilde, before Una could reply.

‘She means we will see whether you are sober tomorrow,’ translated Yolande mischievously. ‘But we have a lot of business to
discuss, so if you two have finished your wine, perhaps you would allow us to get on with it, or we will be here all night.’

Matilde opened the door and waited for Michael to extricate himself from the women on the bench. As soon as Michael had levered
his bulk into the street and Bartholomew had followed on unsteady legs, she closed the door, plunging them into darkness.

Michael and Bartholomew began the short walk along the High Street, towards their College. Michael hailed one of his beadles,
patrolling to prevent students from causing mischief in the town, to light their way with his lantern. It was raining and
the streets gleamed in the faint glow of the lamp. Bartholomew raised his face to the cooling drizzle and wondered when he
had last been so drunk. The thick-bellied clouds that slouched overhead seemed to roll and froth before his eyes, and the
ground tipped and swayed. He promised himself that he would never touch Widow’s Wine again: it was no good for men used to
watered ale.

‘You are not in Matilde’s good books,’ said Michael. ‘That will teach you to be remiss in visiting your friends. They do not
like to feel that they are second best to spotty students and lancing boils.’

Michael’s beadle walked next to them, holding his
lantern high so that the scholars would not trip in the treacherous potholes and fissures of the High Street.

‘All is quiet tonight,’ the beadle reported conversationally to Michael. ‘We had to pay a visit to Bene’t College earlier,
though.’

‘Bene’t?’ echoed Michael immediately. ‘Why? Not another death, I hope?’

‘It might have been,’ said the beadle. ‘But we got there in time. Osmun the porter was fighting with one of the Fellows. We
have him in our prison.’

‘Osmun!’ said Michael, shaking his head as they turned into St Michael’s Lane. ‘If Bene’t has any sense, they will dismiss
the man before he does anything else to disgrace them. He is a lout.’

The beadle agreed. ‘None of us like him – he drinks in the King’s Head, and is always causing trouble. He is not the kind
of man any respectable College would employ.’

‘It is difficult to get good staff these days,’ said Michael. ‘Labour has been scarce since the Death took so many people.
I suppose Bene’t feels itself lucky to have porters at all.’

‘It should not feel itself lucky to be hampered with
those
porters,’ said the beadle with feeling. ‘They are the most offensive gatekeepers in the town, and no one can match them for
rudeness or their love of brawling. But they are loyal, I will grant them that. They challenge anyone who utters the merest
criticism of Bene’t. I heard Osmun claimed to be Justus the book-bearer’s cousin. Is that true?’

‘Why should it not be?’ asked Bartholomew.

The beadle peered at him, as if trying to tell whether the question had been asked
seriously. He apparently decided it had, and his tone was condescending when he replied. ‘So that he could get Justus’s tunic
and dagger. Why else?’

‘That would be a risky thing to do,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘He might be given a used tunic and a blunt dagger, but he also
might have found himself obliged to bury Justus – and that would cost more than anything he was likely to inherit.’

‘Michaelhouse is obliged to do that,’ said the beadle promptly.

‘And Osmun’s claim is true anyway,’ said Michael. ‘I checked with the Master of Bene’t, who told me that Osmun brought Justus
to him a year ago and asked if he might become a porter.’

‘I expect they refused because Justus was not rude enough,’ said the beadle with a chortle.

‘Bene’t did not have the funds to take on more staff, according to the Master,’ said Michael. ‘So Justus went to work for
Runham at Michaelhouse instead.’