A Masterly Murder (32 page)

Bartholomew sat next to the empty hearth, prodding at the dead white ashes with a stick and sending a scattering of dust across
the flagstones. ‘I am surprised he dismissed Deynman. I always thought we needed his money.’

‘So did I,’ said Kenyngham. ‘I would never have accepted him had we not – no offence, Matthew, but that boy has no place in
a University.’

‘He certainly does not now,’ agreed Langelee gloomily.

‘So why is it that we do not need Deynman’s money all of a sudden?’ asked Suttone. ‘Is there a new benefactor so that we can
afford to discount our old sources of
income? I do not understand. These new buildings must be costing Michaelhouse a fortune, and it seems we should be conserving
our regular income, not doing away with it.’

‘Especially given that Runham has offered to double the builders’ wages if the work is completed within a month,’ said Bartholomew.

Suttone and Langelee gaped at him in astonishment. ‘Really?’ asked Langelee. He blew out his red-veined cheeks in a sigh of
surprise. ‘That will mean a lot of ready money.’

Kenyngham nodded. ‘But he has it – I saw it in a chest in his room. He is overly trusting to keep it in such an insecure place.
Anyone could wander in and help themselves.’

‘You mean it is in an open box?’ asked Langelee, startled. ‘Just lying there?’

Kenyngham nodded again. ‘I asked him where it came from, but he would not tell me.’

‘I do not like the sound of this at all,’ said Suttone uneasily. ‘I am a law-abiding man – a friar from a respectable Order.
I do not want to be associated with anything illegal.’

‘And we will be,’ said Langelee glumly. ‘If Runham has obtained this wealth by underhand means, we will be considered as guilty
as he is, because we are Fellows of the same College.’

‘But what can we do?’ asked Suttone, alarmed. ‘We cannot just sit idly by and let him do things that may be dishonest.’

‘We have no proof that he has been breaking the law,’ said Kenyngham reasonably. ‘Just because he will not reveal the source
of his wealth does not mean that he acquired it by criminal means.’

‘Does it not?’ said Suttone, clearly unconvinced. ‘Well,
I do not feel comfortable with his secrecy. What are we going to do about it?’

‘There is nothing we can do,’ said Kenyngham wearily. ‘We can hardly approach the man and ask him where he stole his money
from.’

‘Really?’ said Langelee harshly, standing with sudden purpose. ‘Well, I was once an agent for the Archbishop of York, and
I have dealt with all manner of criminals and traitors in my time. I have no intention of allowing my career to be cut short
by the activities of a common thief. We shall confront him with our suspicions like men, not skulk here in the dark because
we are afraid of him.’

‘Ah, my loyal colleagues,’ said Runham smoothly, as he walked into the conclave with Clippesby at his heels. Bartholomew noticed
that the door to the hall had not been properly closed, and assumed that the pair had been listening outside.

‘I want a word with you, Runham,’ began Langelee bluntly.

Bartholomew cringed. Runham was a clever man, and was not likely to yield any of his secrets or render himself amenable to
reason if Langelee went at him with all the subtlety of a bull in heat.

‘And I want a word with you, Langelee,’ countered Runham immediately. ‘It has come to my notice that you are not all you should
be.’

‘Am I not?’ asked Langelee, aggression evaporating as puzzlement took over. ‘In what way?’

‘You are married,’ said Runham, in a tone of voice that suggested wedlock was more akin to a contagious disease than a union
made holy by the blessing of God. ‘And because you are married, you have rendered yourself ineligible for a Fellowship at
Michaelhouse. You will remove yourself and all your belongings by morning. Your deceit is reprehensible.’

‘But I am not married,’ protested Langelee. ‘I was, but I am not now.’

‘Did you or did you not hold your Fellowship while you were wed to a woman called Julianna Deschalers?’ asked Runham coldly.

‘Well, yes, but I—’

‘Then you have broken one of the fundamental rules of our College, which is grounds for dismissal. And,
since you also claimed your Fellow’s stipend when you had no right to do so, I demand that you repay the entire amount by
the end of next week – a total of two marks.’

‘But I cannot pay so large a sum that soon!’ cried Langelee, aghast. ‘I spent all my money on obtaining the annulment and
in buying off Julianna.’

‘Your domestic arrangements are not my concern,’ said Runham distastefully. ‘But I will have every penny of the money you
drew fraudulently from Michaelhouse, or I shall ask the proctors to arrest you.’

‘Who told you about my marriage?’ asked Langelee in a whisper, his face white. ‘Was it Bartholomew?’

‘It was not,’ said Bartholomew, offended that the philosopher would believe he had betrayed a trust to a man like Runham –
even when that trust had been foisted upon him without his consent.

‘It
was
you,’ said Langelee, anger slowly replacing the dull shock in his face. ‘It must have been, because you were the only one
I told. I will kill you for this!’

Bartholomew leapt backward as the enraged Langelee dived at him with murder in his eyes. He edged behind a heavy bench, but
Langelee kicked it to one side as though it were parchment, oblivious to the horrified cries of Kenyngham. Langelee snatched
up a poker from the hearth, and only missed Bartholomew with his sweeping blow because blind fury made him clumsy.

Kenyngham seized Langelee’s sleeve in a feeble attempt to pull him away, but Langelee shook him off impatiently. Kenyngham
stumbled and fell to the floor, where Suttone quickly dragged him out of the path of Langelee’s feet. Bartholomew glanced
at Runham, expecting him to berate Langelee for his unprovoked display of violence or dart forward to prevent a brawl in his
College. But Runham remained where he was, a smug smile on his face and his hands tucked in his wide sleeves. Clippesby stood
next to him, grinning and apparently enjoying the unedifying scene as much as was Runham.

Bartholomew tore his gaze away from the Master just in time to see Langelee bring the poker down in a savage arc that was
aimed at his head. He scrambled away, hearing the crunch of smashed wood as the blow destroyed one of the carved benches.

‘Stop!’ cried Kenyngham in dismay, trying to shake off Suttone. Wisely, Suttone maintained his restraining grip, knowing that
a gentle old man like Kenyngham would be no match for the pugnacious Langelee. ‘You will hurt someone.’

‘Hurt? I am going to
kill
someone,’ Langelee howled furiously.

Bartholomew grabbed a stool and raised it to parry the next blow. The poker crashed down, iron meeting wood. His arms hurt
from the force of the impact, and then the stool fell to pieces in his hands. He gazed at it in horror, then glanced up to
see the hot hatred in Langelee’s eyes as the philosopher’s muscles bunched for another strike.

‘Langelee! Put that down!’ Michael’s imperious tones turned every head in the room, and Langelee faltered just long enough
to allow Bartholomew to snatch the poker from him.

‘
You
are up and about again, are you?’ asked Runham coolly, sounding none too pleased.

Michael shoved Clippesby to one side, and gazed around him with cold green eyes. ‘This is a discreditable little tableau,’
he said, his voice conveying disgust. ‘Is this how you plan to run Michaelhouse, Master Runham? Will you allow your Fellows
to brawl and threaten each other with lethal weapons, while you stand and watch like a blood-lusting peasant at a cockfight?’

Runham’s face hardened. ‘You forget who you are talking to, Brother. I am the Master of your College, and not a man to be
insulted. And what did you expect me to do? You saw Langelee: he was out of control. There was nothing I could do to stop
him.’

‘
I
stopped him,’ snapped Michael. ‘And if you were any kind of man, you would have done so, too. Even frail Master Kenyngham
tried – you just stood there and laughed.’

‘Well, it is over now,’ said Runham carelessly. ‘Langelee is dismissed from Michaelhouse for being a married man – although
I could equally well dismiss him for riotous behaviour – and Bartholomew is fined two shillings for brawling in the conclave.’

‘I do not think so,’ said Michael icily. ‘Matt was not brawling. He was scrambling to escape Langelee’s murderous onslaught.
Any fool could see that.’

‘Bartholomew betrayed my trust,’ whispered Langelee, his voice soft with disbelief and hurt now that the fury had drained
away. ‘How could he?’

‘It was not Matthew,’ said Kenyngham quietly. ‘It was me. I am afraid it just slipped out. It was that wretched wine that
made me loose-tongued; I shall never drink the stuff again.’

‘You told Runham I was married?’ repeated Langelee slowly. ‘
You?
’

Kenyngham nodded sadly. ‘At the feast. Master Runham wanted to know about the Fellows who would soon be
under his fatherly eye, and he asked about your dalliance with Julianna. I told him that you had married her in Grantchester
church, but that within a few weeks you had sought an annulment. I helped you to arrange it, if you recall.’

Langelee’s shoulders slumped and he left the conclave without a word. Runham regarded the remaining scholars with cool disdain.

‘I will not tolerate disobedience among my Fellows. You four – Bartholomew, Clippesby, Michael and Suttone – will be all who
are left once Kenyngham goes. I shall expect total loyalty to me and the College, and if I find you lacking, I shall dismiss
you, too. The new statutes that you signed yourselves give me the right to rid myself of anyone committing acts of dissension.’

Michael glowered, but said nothing, knowing there was no point. Bartholomew also remained silent, feeling too drained of emotion
to argue. Kenyngham’s eyes brimmed with tears when he saw the sorry way his College was going, while Clippesby stood behind
Runham and grinned and nodded like a half-wit.

‘But Langelee was loyal to you,’ Suttone pointed out reasonably. ‘He was doing his best to support you in what you wanted.
It is unjust of you to send him away.’

‘The man is a lout,’ said Runham in distaste. ‘And do not preach to me about injustice, Suttone. I know all about you – about
the missing gold from your friary in Lincoln, and who everyone believed stole it.’

Suttone gaped at him. ‘How in God’s name did you learn about that?’

‘Your name was cleared only because no one could prove you were guilty,’ said Runham. ‘And I know about Clippesby’s strange
ailments, too – hearing voices in empty rooms and imagining himself to be an angel.’

‘What is this?’ asked Michael, startled.

‘No!’ cried Clippesby, his grin evaporating like rain on hot metal.

‘I had words with your Prior before you came here,’ said Runham spitefully, watching Clippesby’s face fall with dismay. ‘You
have a vivid imagination, it seems, and spent some time being treated for madness.’

‘But not recently,’ said Clippesby in a small voice, shooting agitated glances at the other Fellows. ‘I am well now. Ask Master
Raysoun of Bene’t. He knows.’

‘But Raysoun is dead, Clippesby,’ said Runham softly. ‘We do not possess your abilities to commune with those in the next
world.’

‘That is not what I meant,’ cried Clippesby in agitation. ‘I forgot Raysoun was dead. It had slipped my mind. I am not a lunatic!’

‘Of course you are not,’ said Suttone kindly, shooting Runham a warning glance. Clippesby seemed to be on the verge of tears.
‘Come and sit next to the fire. It is all right.’

‘I am well now,’ said Clippesby again, sounding pathetically bewildered.

‘So you are,’ said Runham, patting his shoulder paternally, his abrupt change of behaviour leading Bartholomew to wonder whether
Clippesby was the only one who had been assessed for the state of his wits. Runham beamed suddenly. ‘Well, the day is wearing
on, and I have many things to do if I want to make Michaelhouse a College to be proud of. I shall be in my chambers.’

With that, he turned abruptly, and strode out.

Michael had been alerted to the trouble by Bulbeck, who had heard Langelee yelling in the conclave, and although Michael was
keen to discuss the matter in the privacy of their rooms, Bartholomew was too disillusioned and dismayed. He felt sick with
Runham’s machinations and
spiteful revelations, and knew he would be unable to concentrate on his treatise on fevers if he tried to work. With nothing
else to do in Michaelhouse, he strode across the yard and hauled open the gate, intending to escape the College for a while.
He walked briskly up the High Street, slipped through the Trumpington Gate while the guards were busy with a family of tinkers
who wanted access to the town, and started to stride along the road that led to the village where his sister lived. He wanted
only to be away from the town and the tense, accusing atmosphere of his College.

It was only just evening, but darkness fell early in November. The trackway stretched ahead of him as he walked, black as
ink, so that once or twice he felt the soft wetness of dew-laden grass under his feet rather than the stony mud of the path.
He knew very well it was not wise to be out alone on one of the main roads, but he was angry and despondent enough not to
care. He had a small knife in his medicine bag, which he pulled out and carried in his hand, and there were always the heavy
childbirth forceps that Matilde had given him – a well-placed blow from those would make most would-be robbers think again.

He rubbed a hand through his hair as he walked, wondering how long Runham had harboured such deep hatred towards his colleagues.
He could not imagine what the man had against the mild and gentle Kenyngham, although he understood his dislike of Langelee
well enough. And it had been a cheap trick to use some ancient accusation against Suttone and make a weapon of Clippesby’s
past illness to ensure their co-operation. Runham was despicable, he thought, kicking viciously at a weed by the roadside.