A Masterly Murder (16 page)

The physician sighed and looked up at the ceiling, just beginning to glitter as the early morning light started to catch the
gilt. He had the distinct feeling that his existence was about to change dramatically, and he knew he was powerless to do
anything about it.

Still immersed in his reverie, it was halfway through the mass when Bartholomew realised that Michael was not in the church.
He was not unduly worried, because the monk often missed services when he was engaged in University business, although he
hoped there had not been yet another death to claim the Senior Proctor’s attention. There were already four corpses for him
to provide verdicts on: Raysoun, who had tumbled from the Bene’t scaffolding; his friend Wymundham, whose death so soon after
Raysoun’s was an uncanny coincidence; Brother Patrick, stabbed in his hostel’s garden; and Justus, still lying in a rough
parish coffin as he awaited the burial it was Runham’s duty to provide.

Bartholomew glanced to the porch where Justus’s body lay covered by a piece of coarse brown sackcloth. As a suicide, Justus
would not be buried in the churchyard, but would be relegated to unconsecrated land. Since the plague, the number of suicides
among the poor had risen: many preferred to kill themselves quickly than suffer a lingering death by starvation. In fact,
there were so many of them that a plot had been provided near the Barnwell Causeway. It was a desolate place hemmed in by
scrubby
marshland vegetation, and was prone to attack by wild animals. Unless Runham used his influence, it would be Justus’s final
resting place, too.

Whatever Bartholomew might think about Runham as a man, he had to admit that his masses were impressive. The lawyer injected
a note of grandeur into his phrases, accentuated by the natural pomposity of his voice, so that the words seemed to take on
a new and deeper meaning. And he had brought beautiful patens and chalices with him when he had first been admitted to Michaelhouse,
along with a dazzlingly white altar cloth and some scented candles.

Not all Michaelhouse Fellows were in a state to admire Runham’s exquisite performance, however. Some of them clutched their
stomachs, and most were white-faced, suggesting that Bartholomew had not been the only one to have imbibed too much Widow’s
Wine the previous night. William looked particularly grim; his heavy face was unshaven and there were red rims around his
watery eyes. Even Kenyngham, seldom a man to over-indulge, seemed subdued and pasty-faced.

Michael’s choir – minus their leader – was a sorry affair. Missed cues, flat notes and indistinct words were the least of
their problems. Knowing they had performed poorly, they shuffled their feet and hung their heads as the mass came to an end.

Michael was fiercely devoted to his singers, who afforded him moments of great pleasure and spells of agonised embarrassment
in more or less equal measure. It was the largest assembly of musicians in Cambridge, and owed its size entirely to the fact
that the College was in the habit of recompensing participants with bread and ale each Sunday. It comprised local men and
boys with a smattering of co-opted scholars that justified it being called the Michaelhouse Choir. Master Kenyngham had possessed
the good sense to understand that the choir helped to promote peaceful relations between the College and the town, and that
the variable and unpredictable quality of the music was something that just had to be endured for the sake of concord. A glance
at Runham’s grim face, however, told Bartholomew that the new Master did not intend to follow Kenyngham’s example of leniency
and tolerance.

‘Your performance today was a disgrace,’ he announced to the assembled singers, once the mass was over. ‘I have never heard
such a miserable sound purporting to be music. From now on, your services are not required. Those of you who are Michaelhouse
scholars will be under the leadership of Clippesby – the new Fellow of music and astrology.’

Clippesby stepped forward amidst gasps of disbelief. Michael had been master of the choir for more than a decade, and had
devoted a huge amount of his spare time to making it what it was – a good deal better than it might have been.

‘These people have served the College faithfully for many years,’ said Kenyngham with quiet reason, taking Runham by the arm.
‘We cannot dismiss them now.’

Angrily, Runham shook himself free. ‘You are no longer Master, and in future please keep your opinions to yourself. I have
made my decision: the choir is disbanded.’

‘But Brother Michael has been teaching us a
Te Deum
,’ objected old Dunstan the riverman, his jaws working rhythmically over his toothless gums. ‘We have been practising for
weeks, so that we will be ready to sing it at Christmas.’

‘Then you should have considered that before you embarrassed the College with your dismal racket today,’ snapped Runham.

‘But it was only because Brother Michael was not here,’ protested Isnard, the burly bargeman who liked to think he sang bass.
‘We are better when he conducts us.’

‘Michael is unreliable and too wrapped up in his other interests,’ said Runham. ‘That is why I am absolving him of the responsibility
and conferring it on Clippesby. Michael is not a musician in any case – he is a monk with a smattering of theology, who spends
most of his time politicking with the Chancellor and the Bishop, and meddling in affairs that do not concern him – even to
the extent of fraternising with Oxford scholars, if Langelee is to be believed. Where is he this morning, anyway?’

No one knew, and Runham, raising an imperious hand to quell the cacophony of questions and recriminations that rang through
the nave from the dismissed choir, prepared to lead his black-garbed scholars back to Michaelhouse for breakfast. Bartholomew
did not join them. He wanted to remain in the church for a while, to let the silence and solitude calm his temper before he
was obliged to spend more time in the company of the new Master. There was also the fact that Runham would be expecting Bartholomew’s
fine of fourpence and the physician was determined to make him wait for it.

‘But what about our bread and ale for today?’ cried Dunstan in a quivery, distressed voice. ‘It is all I will get – my daughter
cannot spare me food on Sundays, when all her children are home.’

‘I cannot, in all conscience, squander College resources by paying for inferior services,’ said Runham pompously, processing
out of the church with his scholars streaming behind him. His voice came back distantly. ‘There will be no bread and ale for
you today – or ever again.’

Pandemonium erupted as the outraged choristers began to argue among themselves, voices raised in accusation and
recrimination. Then Isnard became aware of Bartholomew, still standing in the chancel.

‘Your College cheated us!’ he declared furiously, advancing on the physician. ‘You let us sing today, knowing that we would
not be given our bread and ale.’

Bartholomew thought that was possibly true as far as Runham was concerned, although the choir had done themselves no favours
with the diabolical quality of their singing. He did not know how to answer.

Isnard strode forward and grabbed him by the front of his tabard, while his angry friends gathered around in a tight circle.
Too late, Bartholomew realised he should not have stayed in the church and that the choir would not care whether he condoned
the Master’s actions or not. He would be battered to a pulp because he wore a black tabard, and only later, when tempers had
cooled, would the singers question whether he had really been party to Runham’s decision. He struggled, but the press of people
was too great, and Isnard’s grip too tight. He closed his eyes tightly, waiting for the first blow to fall.

‘Leave him be, Isnard,’ came Dunstan’s reedy voice, miraculously cutting in over the others’. ‘That is no cur of Runham’s.
That is Doctor Bartholomew, who set your leg for you last year.’

Isnard hauled Bartholomew to one side, so that he could see his face in the pale light that filtered in through the east window.
‘So it is!’ the bargeman exclaimed, releasing the physician so abruptly that he stumbled. Helpful hands stretched out to steady
him. ‘Sorry, Doctor, but all you scholars look the same in those black uniforms – especially in the gloom of this godforsaken
place.’

‘I have never liked this church,’ agreed Aethelbald, Dunstan’s equally ancient brother, looking around him in distaste. ‘It
is cold and dark and sinister – as though devils lurk in its shadows.’

‘Especially now that one is buried here,’ said Dunstan, pointing with a wizened finger at the glittering monstrosity of Wilson’s
tomb.

As one, the choir crossed themselves vigorously and gazed around, as if they imagined Wilson himself might emerge from his
grave and drag them all down to the depths of Hell.

‘Wilson was a sinful, wicked man,’ said Aethelbald. ‘During the plague, he lurked in his room by day to avoid contamination,
but at night he slipped out to meet his lover.’

‘Did he?’ asked Isnard, interested in this piece of gossip. ‘Was she a whore, then?’

‘She was,’ said Aethelbald with conviction. ‘She was also Prioress of St Radegund’s Convent, God rot her black soul.’

‘And he stole from people,’ added Dunstan, not wanting Aethelbald to have all the attention.

‘Really?’ asked Isnard, fascinated to hear that a man with as fine a tomb as Wilson’s had been so unscrupulous in life. ‘What
kind of things did he take?’

‘Anything, really,’ hedged Dunstan. ‘Money, jewels, clothes. Am I not right, Doctor?’

Bartholomew swallowed. He was not aware that Wilson had been dishonest, but he had been secretive, and while Bartholomew could
not see him climbing up guttering in the dead of night to burgle a house, he could certainly envisage him cheating someone,
or indulging in a little creativity while doing the College accounts.

‘I have not … I do not …’ he began falteringly.

‘He does not know,’ said Aethelbald, waving a dismissive hand in Bartholomew’s
direction. ‘He was out physicking the sick during the plague, and had no idea what the Master of Michaelhouse did in the privacy
of his rooms. But it is common knowledge in the town that
Wilson had great piles of stolen gold and silver there when he died.’

Then common knowledge was mistaken, Bartholomew thought to himself. He had been in the room when Wilson had died, and there
had been no gold and silver – stolen or otherwise – that he had seen. Like many stories about the plague, telling and retelling
had resulted in ever more flagrant digressions from the truth.

‘I have never heard about any of this,’ said Isnard dubiously. ‘If it is common knowledge, then how come I did not know?’

Dunstan shrugged. ‘You obviously frequent the wrong taverns. If you want to hear stories about the University, you need to
be in the Brazen George, not the King’s Head.’

‘I shall remember that,’ said Isnard. He turned to Bartholomew and returned to his original grievance. ‘But your College cheated
us. It might not be your doing, but someone will pay for it.’

‘Here,’ said Bartholomew, taking his purse from his side and handing it to Isnard. ‘You are right, and I am sorry. It is not
much, but it is all I have, and should buy enough bread for everyone.’

‘But not ale,’ said Isnard, regarding the meagre contents of Bartholomew’s purse with disappointment. ‘We do not want your
money, Doctor. We want to see that fat, pompous ass strung up on the walls of his own College, so that we can watch the life
slowly choking out of him.’

‘That is dangerous talk,’ said Bartholomew, alarmed by the chorus of vehement agreement that rose around him. ‘I know you
are angry, but perhaps Michael will be able to persuade Runham to reinstate you. Do not do anything that might jeopardise
that.’

‘He is right,’ said Dunstan reluctantly. ‘We should all go home and meet again tomorrow, when we are better
able to think clearly. If we march on Michaelhouse now and drag Runham from his breakfast trough to execute him, we might
never be employed as choristers again.’

With relief, Bartholomew saw the choir accept this cold logic, and they began to disperse. One or two of the smaller children
were crying, and Bartholomew suspected that Dunstan would not be the only one going hungry that day.

‘But we will never accept that mad-looking Clippesby as our leader,’ Aethelbald called over his shoulder as he left. ‘We will
only have Brother Michael.’

‘I will tell him,’ promised Bartholomew.

‘Do not tell Michael – he knows that already – tell that pig Runham,’ said Isnard.
‘It is
he
who needs to know.’

Bartholomew leaned against a pillar when the door closed behind the last of them. Despite the coldness of the day, he was
sweating and the back of his shirt was sodden. He took a deep breath, wondering what other evils Runham would perpetrate in
his time as Master – if the man managed to survive that long.

Bartholomew had not been sitting alone in St Michael’s Church for more than a few moments when a familiar voice spoke softly
at his side. He looked up to see Master Kenyngham standing over him, his face white in the gloom. He was puzzled to see that
the gentle Gilbertine was shaking, and that tears glistened on his cheeks.

‘Thank the Lord you are all right,’ Kenyngham whispered unsteadily. ‘I thought they were going to kill you where you stood
– in God’s holy church!’

‘What are you doing here?’ asked Bartholomew, standing to take the friar’s arm and lead him to a bench at the back of the
nave, so that the old Master might sit and compose himself.

‘I came to find you,’ said Kenyngham in a voice that
was dull with shock. ‘I had just entered the church when I saw that mob close in on you and – God forgive me – I was too
afraid for my own safety to come to your assistance. I was so paralysed with fear that I could not even find the voice to
cry out to make them stop.’

‘But you are not well,’ said Bartholomew kindly, recalling that Kenyngham had been as pallid and unhealthy as the rest of
the scholars in the church that morning. Kenyngham was also unused to the violent effects of the infamous Widow’s Wine. ‘You
are pale.’