A Masterly Murder (22 page)

‘William! And he did it deliberately!’ raged Runham.

‘It was an accident,’ said Bartholomew, rummaging in his bag for a piece
of cloth to hold to Runham’s nose. ‘Sit down and put your head between your knees. William will fetch some water.’

‘It was no accident!’ stormed Runham, his voice muffled by the cloth Bartholomew pressed against his face to stem the bleeding.
‘William deliberately struck me.’

‘Easy,’ said Bartholomew soothingly, noting the deep
redness that suffused the man’s face. ‘You will give yourself a seizure if you do not calm down.’

‘You will give me a seizure, you mean,’ stormed Runham, snatching the cloth from him and flinging it to the floor. ‘What is
that? A rag infused with poison, so that I will die when it is put to my face?’

‘Do not be ridiculous!’ snapped William irritably. ‘Do you think Matthew carries poisoned cloths around with him, waiting
for an opportunity like this? Quite frankly, I do not think you worth the effort.’

‘Insolence on top of assault,’ screeched Runham, verging on the hysterical. The great veins in his neck and face were thick
with tension and rage, and his colour was far from healthy. ‘That is it! That is it!’

‘That is what?’ asked Clippesby, clearly itching to do something to rectify the great wrong that had been inflicted on the
Master, but not sure what.

‘That is the last straw. William is suspended!’

‘Suspended from what?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Even the Master of a College cannot
prevent a friar from carrying out his religious duties. Only his prior can do that.’

‘He is suspended from his Fellowship,’ howled Runham, small flecks of spittle flying from his mouth as he spoke. ‘Look at
me! I am marred for life, because he struck me with murder in his heart. I will not have him loose in my College. Clippesby,
Bartholomew, Suttone – I order you to escort him to his room and lock him in.’

‘You cannot do that,’ said William furiously, fending off Clippesby as the Dominican rashly surged forward to do his Master’s
bidding. ‘The statutes say—’

‘You personally signed a new set of statutes two days ago which stipulated that the Master has the final say in disciplinary
matters,’ shouted Runham. His eyes glittered with smug satisfaction when he saw William blanch. ‘Hah! You see? You do remember!’

‘I did not sign any new statutes,’ said Bartholomew. ‘When was this?’

William’s mouth was working stupidly, although no sound came out. Suttone regarded Runham nervously, clearly uncomfortable
at having witnessed the scene that had been played out in the conclave. But Clippesby, like Runham, wore an expression of
grim satisfaction.

‘Your signature on these new statutes was not required, Bartholomew,’ said Runham, wiping his nose with his hand and leaving
a vivid smear of red across one cheek. ‘You were trying to dispatch Brother Michael at the time, and declined to attend a
meeting of the Fellows. There are eight of us, and I needed five signatures for a majority – me, William, Clippesby, Suttone
and Langelee.’

‘But what did these statutes say?’ asked Bartholomew, looking from Runham to William with the distinct impression that he
would not like what he was about to hear.

‘For a start, they give me the authority to lock that dangerous fanatic where he will do no harm,’ said Runham, eyeing William
with naked hatred. ‘So, you had better do as I say, or you will be joining him.’

‘There is no need for them to accompany me,’ said William coldly, sensing defeat and deciding to leave with dignity. ‘I will
take myself to my room, thank you.’

He turned on his heel and stalked out. Runham nodded to Clippesby, who ran after the friar. With a sense of foreboding, Bartholomew
started after them, certain that if anything could rekindle the Franciscan’s fiery temper, it would be the thought of a Dominican
checking to see if he kept his word. He was not mistaken.

William became aware that he was being followed down the stairs, and that it was Clippesby who dared to question his honour.
He gave a roar of anger. Clippesby shrieked in horror as the Franciscan’s powerful hands
fastened around his throat; the noise quickly became a strangled gurgling as William’s fingers began to tighten.

‘William! Let him go!’ yelled Bartholomew, struggling to pull the friar away from Clippesby. In the confines of the spiral
staircase Bartholomew could not find a good position from which to intervene. ‘For God’s sake, William! You will kill him!’

‘He is the Devil’s spawn!’ howled William in a frenzy, squeezing tighter still. ‘He has been doing Runham’s dirty work for
him ever since he set foot in Michaelhouse. He is not fit to tread the same floors as good and honest men.’

‘Then he is not worth hanging for. Let him go.’

Bartholomew managed to insert himself between the struggling men, and used
the wall as a brace to lever William away. The Franciscan lost his grip, and Clippesby began to take great rasping breaths
as he tottered sideways, holding his bruised neck.

Seeing William’s temper was still far from spent, Bartholomew grabbed his arm to prevent him from renewing the attack. With
a howl of frustration and anger, William gave Bartholomew a hefty shove. Unprepared for the sudden move, Bartholomew lost
his balance and tumbled head over heels down the stairs to land in a helpless sprawl of arms and legs at the feet of Agatha,
who happened to be walking through the porch towards the kitchens.

Agatha gazed at him in astonishment, then stood over him, waving her meaty fists protectively. William, whose anger had dissipated
the instant Bartholomew had disappeared down the steps, was horrified. But when he dashed after the physician, he found himself
faced with an enraged laundress – a sight at which the bravest of men balked. William took several steps backwards.

‘I am sorry, Matthew,’ he said in an unsteady voice. ‘I did not mean …’

‘It was you who pushed him, was it?’ demanded Agatha dangerously. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself, Father! Brawling like
some ale-sodden apprentice! And do not hover there thinking you will get a second chance. Come near Matthew, and I will tear
you limb from limb.’

No one who knew Agatha doubted that she meant every word, and, not wanting William’s attack on Clippesby to become Agatha’s
attack on William, Bartholomew scrambled quickly to his feet, to place himself between them. He heard the furious voice of
Runham in the stairs as he tried to squeeze his way past the prostrate Clippesby.

‘William, run!’ said Bartholomew urgently.

‘What?’ The Franciscan, his ponderous mind bewildered by the rapid sequence of
events, was slow to understand.

‘Go to your friary and stay there until all the fuss has died down. I will send you word when the time is right for you to
make your peace here.’

‘I do not deserve your kindness,’ said William, hoarse with emotion. ‘I did not mean—’

‘He is coming!’ said Bartholomew, hearing footsteps as Clippesby was manoeuvred out of the way. ‘Go, quickly, before it is
too late. Runham will not settle for locking you in your room now – he will have you arrested and charged with assault.’

William gave him a hunted look, edged warily past the angry Agatha, and raced across the courtyard. He had just reached the
gate when Runham emerged from the stairwell.

‘After him!’ the new Master yelled, his face suffused with red fury. ‘He is escaping! Do not just stand there, Bartholomew!
Give chase!’

Frustrated almost beyond words when he saw his quarry
haul open the gate and escape into the lane, Runham gave Bartholomew a shove to encourage him to pursue the friar, but backed
off quickly when Agatha advanced purposefully.

‘Call her off!’ he screeched in a voice thick with panic. ‘She has the look of madness about her.’

‘I am not some wild animal to be “called off”,’ snarled Agatha, although with her fierce teeth and ferocious glare, even Bartholomew
was sceptical. ‘Do not think you can treat me like dirt, as you have everyone else in the College. I am Agatha, one of God’s
chosen.’

‘What?’ whispered Runham, scarcely believing his ears.

‘I was chosen by God to survive the Death, because He has plans for
me. Only evil men – like your cousin – were taken by the pestilence.’

‘That is heresy!’ howled Runham, using the bewildered Clippesby as a barrier between him and the laundress. Foolishly imagining
that the frail body of a Dominican afforded him protection from Agatha, he became rash. ‘I will have you dismissed for saying
that!’

‘Will you now,’ said Agatha in a voice that, although low, dripped with menace. She batted Clippesby out of the way as if
he were no more than a fly, and began to advance on Runham with an expression of pure loathing on her face.

‘Help me, Bartholomew!’ shrieked Runham, realising that Suttone was standing at the foot of the stairs, blocking his escape.
He was trapped, and Agatha clearly meant business. ‘Tell her I was joking! Of course I would not dismiss her.’

Bartholomew was tempted to stand back and let Agatha have her wicked way with the Master, but he did not want to see Agatha
in the proctors’ gaol any more than he had William, so he stepped forward and took her gently but firmly by the arm.

‘Leave him, Agatha,’ he said softly. ‘There has been more than enough violence in Michaelhouse for one day.’

‘As long as
he
lives to walk in our halls and eat our food, there has not been enough violence,’ snapped Agatha, before turning and striding
towards the kitchens, her skirts swinging purposefully around her substantial hips.

That evening, the atmosphere in the College was tense. The Fellows gathered in the conclave, where Suttone did his best to
keep a conversation going, and the students in the hall were unusually subdued. Runham sat in the conclave’s best chair, with
his hands folded over his paunch, and regarded Suttone’s increasingly desperate attempts to initiate a civilised discussion
with an amused disdain.

Eventually, no longer able to bear the sneering presence of the Master or Suttone’s painful determination not to sit in morose
silence, Bartholomew wished his colleagues goodnight, and escaped with relief into the chill, damp evening air. He stretched
and yawned, but it was too early to go to sleep. He wondered what he could do. He had used all his candles, and so could not
work on his treatise on fevers or read. He saw Beadle Meadowman walking across the yard, to make his report on the investigation
into the Bene’t deaths to Michael, but did not like to interrupt them just because he was at a loose end and wanted someone
to talk to.

He turned when he sensed someone else emerging from the hall, having also escaped the oppressive atmosphere of the conclave.
It was Suttone.

‘I found I could not take any more of that,’ said the Carmelite friar with a grin. ‘Once you left, I realised that no one
else was even listening to me. Langelee has drunk so much that he is sound asleep; Kenyngham is
praying; Clippesby is having a conversation with himself in a corner; and Runham was doing nothing but enjoying my discomfort.’

‘Clippesby was talking to himself?’ asked Bartholomew warily.

Suttone nodded. ‘He does it a lot. I am surprised you have never noticed. The worrying thing is that he answers himself, too,
as if he thinks he is more than one person.’

‘Lots of scholars do that,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is the best way to make sure you never lose a disputation.’

Suttone laughed. ‘Can I interest you in a cup of ale in the kitchen? Agatha told me she would have a pan of it mulling for
when Runham drove me away with his unpleasant company. I thought she was being unkind, but it seems to me that Agatha is a
very astute woman.’

Bartholomew followed the Carmelite into the College kitchens, where Agatha sat in a great wicker chair near the embers of
the fire. The room was warm, and smelled of baking bread, wood-smoke and the old fat that had splattered from roasting meat
into the hearth. The College cat was curled in her lap, and she stroked it gently with her rough, thick-fingered hands. She
smiled when the two scholars entered, and gestured that they were to help themselves to the ale that simmered over the glowing
remains of the fire.

‘I knew it would not be long before you joined me,’ she said. ‘I am only surprised the rest of the Fellows are not here, too,
leaving that fat old slug to his own devices.’

‘I do hope you are not referring to our noble Master,’ said Suttone mildly. He took a deep draught of the ale, and then refilled
his cup. ‘This is good, Agatha. Did you brew it yourself?’

Agatha favoured him with a coy smile. ‘You know how to flatter a woman, Master Suttone. But I buy ale from
the Carmelite Friary for us servants; the College brewer provides that cloudy stuff that the scholars drink.’

‘The servants drink better ale than we do?’ asked Bartholomew, startled.

Agatha cackled. ‘You lot down anything I decide to put on the dinner table, but we servants are a little more discriminating.
Only the best ale appears for our meals. Since you pay us such miserable wages, we have to reward ourselves in other ways.’

‘Clippesby told me that you attended a fatal accident at Bene’t last week,’ said Suttone to Bartholomew, as he settled himself
comfortably on a stool near the hearth. ‘Is that true, or is it something he has imagined?’

‘It is true,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I wish I had not, though, because the colleague who sat with Raysoun as he died claimed he
had been pushed, while everyone else seems convinced he fell. Then, two days later, this colleague also died – in circumstances
that are suspicious, to say the least – and so I do not know what to believe.’

Suttone regarded him gravely. ‘You think this colleague may have been murdered because he claimed Raysoun was pushed? Lord,
Matthew! That is a nasty business!’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘Bene’t does seem to have some problems.’

‘Clippesby was supposed to take a Fellowship at Bene’t,’ said Suttone thoughtfully. ‘Raysoun, the man who fell – or was pushed
– from the scaffolding, had some connection with the Dominicans at Huntingdon, where Clippesby hails from. Clippesby told
me that Raysoun arranged him an interview with the Master of Bene’t, but said that the meeting did not go well.’