A Masterly Murder (34 page)

‘So, you are not really betrothed to Adela?’ said Edith yet again. ‘She is mistaken?’

‘I am not, and she is,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I cannot imagine how she managed to interpret any of our conversations as a proposal
of marriage. We did discuss Mayor Horwoode’s legs, but that was about as intimate as it got.’

‘His legs are very thin,’ said Edith distastefully. ‘Most women prefer a calf with a little more shape to it.’

‘But Mayor Horwoode’s disappointing physique apart, are you sure you did not offer yourself to this woman?’ asked Stanmore.
‘She seemed very certain about the arrangement when we met her this evening, and her father is even talking about how my business
will benefit his once we are related: he wants the offcuts from my cloth as padding to protect his wine barrels when they
are transported by cart.’

‘We did discuss marriage,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘But only to acknowledge that we were both under some pressure to take spouses,
and so were in similar positions. She told me we were allies against unwanted unions.’

‘What else did she say?’ asked Edith anxiously. ‘Did she mention children? Heirs?’

‘She did, yes, but not in a way that led me to believe she expected me to provide them. She told me she was opposed to marriage
to anyone, and that she would sooner remain single.’

‘I was horrified when I heard the news,’ said Stanmore. ‘Such an arrangement would have been no good to me at all. What could
a clothier gain from an alliance to a vintner? And Henry Tangmer is master of the Guild of Corpus Christi – a band of greedy
misers, if ever there were one!’

‘I was not horrified, but hurt,’ said Edith. ‘Since you and I had discussed marriage only last week, I was upset that you
should have selected a wife without bothering to talk to me about it first.’

‘You should know me better than that,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And I thought you did not like Adela, anyway.’

‘I do not!’ said Edith vehemently. ‘She is a terrible woman – all teeth and hips, and her idea of genteel conversation revolves
around breeding horses. Did you know that she challenged that knife-thrower we watched in the Market Square to a competition?
Her behaviour is wholly inappropriate for a merchant’s daughter.’

‘Who won?’ asked Bartholomew mildly.

Edith pursed her lips. ‘She did, actually. But being able to hurl a knife better than an entertainer is not something that
would endear her to a prospective husband – or a prospective sister-in-law.’

Bartholomew laughed, and reached out to touch her hand affectionately. ‘I promise you, if I ever decide to marry Adela, you
will be the first to know.’

‘Good,’ muttered Stanmore with great feeling. ‘Then we can lock you up until you regain your wits, and save you from yourself.’

‘After our discussion last week, I have been to considerable trouble to line up some suitable candidates for you,’ said Edith.
‘Then I heard about your betrothal, and was obliged to cancel them all. It was dreadfully embarrassing.’

‘How many did you arrange?’ asked Bartholomew nervously. ‘I can only marry one.’

‘Oh, about six,’ said Edith carelessly. ‘And Matilde is furious with you, of course. She heard it this evening from Yolande
de Blaston, who was told by Mayor Horwoode, and Horwoode had it from Adela’s delighted father.’

So that explained Matilde’s curious behaviour, thought
Bartholomew. She must have learned the news while he was at Bene’t College.

‘What was Yolande doing with Mayor Horwoode?’ he asked, puzzled by the curious chain of informants who had provided Matilde
with the piece of gossip in the first place.

Edith and her husband exchanged an amused glance. ‘Well, she is a prostitute, Matt,’ said Stanmore dryly. ‘So, I expect they
were talking about needlework.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Bartholomew, slightly embarrassed by his slowness, and recalling that Friday was the day when Yolande claimed
to have a long-standing arrangement with the Mayor. ‘I can visit Matilde and tell her it was all a misunderstanding. Then
we can go back to being friends again.’

‘Not if you plan to leave for Paris,’ said Edith. ‘What brought you to this decision?’

Bartholomew took a deep breath and told them all that had happened since Runham had come to power. And for good measure, he
talked about the deaths at Bene’t and Ovyng, too.

Bartholomew stopped speaking when he saw that Stanmore was white-faced with anger. ‘Now what?’ he asked, sensing he had committed
another inadvertent misdemeanour.

‘Runham,’ said Stanmore tightly. ‘I gave him five marks.’

‘Five marks?’ echoed Edith. ‘But that is a fortune, Oswald! Why would you give that kind of money to the wretched man, especially
given what he has done to Matt?’

‘But that is precisely why I
did
give it to him,’ said Stanmore. ‘Runham intimated that life would be more pleasant for Matt if I made a donation to the College’s
building fund. He chose his words carefully, but I have
had enough dealings with artful men to understand his meaning perfectly.’

‘What are you saying?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘That Runham threatened you into making a donation to Michaelhouse?’

‘He threatened
you
,’ said Stanmore. ‘He was as circumspect as it is possible to be, and nothing he said could be construed as directly intimidating,
but the upshot of the discussion was that if I did not make a donation to Michaelhouse, your days there would be numbered.
And now I hear he has forced you into a position where you feel obliged to resign – and if you resign, I am powerless to accuse
him of dismissing you. Damn the man for his cunning!’

‘Ask for the five marks back,’ said Edith. ‘Runham reneged on the deal you made.’

Stanmore poked the fire with unnecessary force. ‘It was a gentlemen’s agreement: I gave him five marks, and he agreed to leave
you alone. Nothing was written down, and I will never be able to prove that I gave him the money only to protect Matt. That
snake!’

‘You really gave Runham five marks for my benefit?’ asked Bartholomew, touched.

Stanmore nodded. ‘Of course, this was before I learned about your betrothal to Adela Tangmer. I am not sure I would have been
so generous had I known who you were about to inflict on me as a sister-in-law.’

‘Especially since such a marriage would have meant me leaving Michaelhouse anyway,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Fellows cannot marry.’

‘I do not like the sound of this business at Bene’t,’ said Edith, bored with Michaelhouse and its machinations. ‘Their scholars
are always at each other’s throats. It would not be wise to become embroiled in their evil quarrels.’

‘That is good advice, Matt,’ said Stanmore. ‘You should
take it. The Bene’t men are an unwholesome crowd. Heltisle is a power-monger, who cares only for his own ambition. Caumpes
is fiercely loyal to Bene’t, but he has a liking for boats, which is odd for a scholar, and he dabbles in the black market.’

‘In what way?’ asked Bartholomew curiously. ‘The black market, I mean.’

‘He often has things to sell,’ said Stanmore. ‘There is no evidence that the items he peddles are stolen, it is true, but
most scholars keep away from the buying and selling business – thankfully.’

‘And the Duke of Lancaster’s man, Simekyn Simeon, is no more a scholar than I am,’ said Edith in disdain. ‘He is a court popinjay
who knows more about clothes than he does about learning.’

‘Really?’ asked Stanmore, suddenly interested. ‘I wonder if I might persuade him to look at a bale of silk I have just imported
…’

‘Well, what would you expect from a man with a name like Simekyn Simeon?’ asked Edith, not to be side-tracked into a discussion
about cloth. ‘Meanwhile, Henry de Walton is pathetic and spends all his time worrying about his health. Agatha the laundress
told me that there is not a scholar in Bene’t who does not despise him for his weak and selfish ways. And the two who died
– Wymundham and Raysoun – were no better.’ ‘Lovers,’ said Stanmore with grim satisfaction. ‘And Wymundham was especially reprehensible,
according to my informant. He deliberately started rumours that would lead to strife among the others, and collected items
of gossip like children collect berries on a summer’s day.’

‘Unlike you,’ said Bartholomew, seeing no difference between Wymundham’s alleged love of stories and Stanmore’s network of
informants who were paid to do the same thing.

Stanmore fixed him with an unpleasant look. ‘It is entirely different, Matt. I collect information because I need to know
what is happening in the town to help my trade. Wymundham loved rumours for their own sake, and if there were none that suited
him, he was not averse to inventing a few. I would not be surprised if someone did away with him.’

‘The Bene’t Fellows are a horrible crowd,’ reiterated Edith. ‘You should not allow Michael to involve you with them, Matt,
especially now you have no Cynric to protect you.’

‘It was good of you to take him after Runham dismissed so many of our staff,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Of course, it would have
been nicer if you had discussed the matter with me first.’

‘Why?’ asked Stanmore with a shrug. ‘Cynric is perfectly capable of making up his own mind about what he wants. It is high
time he was released from all that creeping about in the night that you seem to demand of him. I have given him and Rachel
Atkin a pleasant room in my property in Milne Street, where they are very happy.’

‘He does seem happy,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘You have always been kind to me – and are even prepared to make anonymous donations
on my behalf – but I am afraid I have yet one more favour to ask of you.’

‘You are thinking about young Roger, the stable boy dismissed from Michaelhouse.’

Bartholomew gazed at him in astonishment and Stanmore smiled, gratified to see his brother-in-law so impressed by the scope
of his knowledge.

‘That was taken care of days ago,’ Stanmore continued loftily. ‘Agatha brought him to me, and said that you thought I might
find a place for him. He is currently employed in the kitchen, with the promise of
an apprenticeship if he proves himself to be a diligent worker.’

Bartholomew smiled. ‘Thank you, Oswald. You are a good man.’

‘I am, but do not spread it around the town, or I will have all manner of people striving to take advantage of me – like that
damned Runham.’

They continued to talk until the first streaks of dawn appeared in the sky. The more he thought about his decision to make
a new life in Paris, the more Bartholomew felt the choice was the right one. Edith, however, was determined to persuade him
to remain in Cambridge as a physician and take one of her six hopeful ladies as a wife. Stanmore fell asleep, lulled by their
voices, and only woke when a heavy-eyed servant came to rake over the cooling ashes and build a new fire.

Bartholomew was enjoying a breakfast of coddled eggs and fresh bread with honey when there was a clatter of horse’s hooves
in the courtyard. Intrigued by the urgency of the voices that rang out as the rider dismounted, he followed Stanmore outside
and was startled to see Cynric holding the reins of a panting, sweating horse.

‘There you are, boy,’ said the Welshman breathlessly. ‘I thought I might find you here.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew, as a sense of unease began to uncoil in the pit of his stomach. ‘What has happened? Is it Michael?
Is he ill again? Or is it Matilde?’

Cynric shook his head, resting his hands on his knees to try to bring his ragged breathing under control. ‘I went to collect
the last of my belongings from Michaelhouse at dawn – Runham said he would sell them if I had not claimed them by then – and
I found the College in a terrible commotion.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew again, feeling the unease turn into outright anxiety.

‘Runham,’ gasped Cynric, still doubled over. ‘I thought I should warn you as soon as I could. He was found dead in his room
this morning. And Michael says if it was not murder, then it should have been!’

I
T WAS SATURDAY, AND THE ROAD THAT LED INTO
Cambridge was already busy with traffic heading for the town market. Huge, lumbering carts pulled by plodding oxen and laden
with firewood, bundles of reed for thatching and faggots of peat cut from the Fens clogged the middle of the path, while impatient
horsemen and pedestrians jostled for space at the sides. There were chapmen with their packs filled with ribbons, buttons,
needles and toys; there were pardoners wearing wide-brimmed black hats and carrying scrolls that gave the buyer absolution
of all manner of sins; there were shepherds and drovers and geese boys, all driving their livestock to the market in squawking,
braying, lowing, bleating herds; and there were soldiers, weary from a night of patrolling, with the mud of their travels
splattered on their cloaks and boots.

The faster Bartholomew tried to ride, the slower was his progress. Although it was only just past dawn, the crowds heading
for the market did not want to waste a precious moment of the winter daylight, and Bartholomew was not the only one in a hurry.
A man with several braces of pheasants slung over his shoulder gave Bartholomew a venomous glower when the physician’s horse
bumped him, but backed away when he saw Cynric’s hand resting lightly on his short Welsh sword.

By the time Bartholomew reached the Trumpington Gate, the bells were ringing for prime, and the streets were filled with dark-garbed
scholars heading for the
churches. Friars, monks and students bustled along the muddy roads, some sporting the distinctive uniforms of their College
or hostel, and others wearing the habits of their Order. Bells rang all over the town. The tinny clatter of St Botolph’s,
the flat clank of St Edward’s and the shrill ding of St John Zachary’s vied for attention above the great bass toll of St
Mary’s.

He saw the scholars of Bene’t heading for their church in an orderly line. Heltisle and Caumpes seemed to be discussing their
partly completed building, and gazed up at its abandoned scaffolding as they walked, their thoughts clearly on temporal matters
rather than on mass. Simekyn Simeon, his colourful clothes exchanged for the sober blue of his College, slouched after them,
rubbing the sleep from his eyes and making it evident that he was unused to being woken at such an ungodly hour.

Behind him, and moving in a way that Bartholomew could only describe as a slink, was the fourth Fellow – Henry de Walton –
the man whom no one seemed to like because of his obsession with the state of his health.

Osmun the porter brought up the rear of the procession, wielding a hefty stick that he seemed prepared to use if any students
broke ranks or moved too slowly. He saw Bartholomew, and his face creased into an ugly snarl. Bartholomew was surprised to
see Walter, the dismissed night porter from Michaelhouse, walking next to him, and assumed that Walter had inveigled himself
a post at Bene’t. When Walter spotted Bartholomew, he gave what almost passed for a smile. Bartholomew could only suppose
that it had been Walter’s legendary surliness that had enticed Bene’t to give him a position.

Scholars and traders were not the only ones awake that morning. Sitting astride a splendid grey was Adela Tangmer, riding
briskly down the centre of the High Street, showing off her equestrian skills by weaving
expertly between the carts and academic processions that jammed the road.

‘I think you and I need to have a chat, Matthew,’ she said when they drew level. He saw that she at least had the grace to
appear sheepish.

‘We most certainly do,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘But not now. I must get to Michaelhouse.’

He tried to ride on, but his way was blocked by a baker who was selling sticky cakes from a greasy tray that he carried on
his head. Adela watched Bartholomew critically as he tried unsuccessfully to direct his horse around the obstruction.

‘You ride like a peasant,’ she said bluntly. ‘Sit straight. And do not wave your hands in front of you like a magician. Keep
them still and low.’

‘I do not have time for this,’ he said, digging his heels in his horse’s flanks. It snickered at him and twisted its head
around to favour him with a look of pure malevolence. ‘Runham is dead, and I need to return to College as soon as possible.’

‘Then perhaps you will allow me to help you,’ she said, leaning down and snatching the reins from his hands. ‘It is the least
I can do.’

She turned her horse, and then they were off along the High Street, moving more quickly than Bartholomew felt was safe. But
they reached Michaelhouse without mishap, and he slid off the horse and handed the reins to Cynric.

‘Thank you,’ he said, addressing both Cynric and Adela.

‘Send for me if you want me, boy,’ said Cynric, still hovering anxiously. ‘I know I no longer have a post at Michaelhouse,
but I will come if you need me.’

‘Thank you, Cynric. But you have a wife to think about now. You should not be offering to embroil yourself in University troubles.’

‘I am not offering because I feel the urge to dabble in scholarly politics,’ said Cynric, a little impatiently. ‘I am offering
because I am worried you may come to harm in this den of thieves and murderers without me to protect you.’

‘This is my home,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I will be fine.’

Cynric gave Michaelhouse’s sturdy gates a disparaging glance. ‘The
University was home to Wymundham, Brother Patrick and Raysoun, too, and look what happened to them. You would be safer with
me here to watch your back. Remember that, boy.’

Leading Bartholomew’s horse, he began to ride back to Stanmore’s premises. As Bartholomew turned to squeeze through the wicket
gate, Adela leaned down and gripped his shoulder with a surprisingly firm hand.

‘We do need to talk, Matthew,’ she said. ‘Meet me this afternoon, just before sunset, in Holy Trinity Church.’

‘If I can,’ said Bartholomew noncommittally, wriggling free of her and ducking through the door. He was uncertain what the
day would hold for him, and did not want to commit to assignations with Adela until he had ascertained what was happening
at Michaelhouse.

Aware that Adela was still watching, he closed the gate and looked around Michaelhouse’s courtyard. Students stood in small
groups, looking up at the shuttered windows of Runham’s room and talking in low voices. Near the hall, the three remaining
servants – who now cooked and cleaned as well as dealing with the horses, the laundry and the extensive vegetable gardens
– stood wiping their hands on their grimy aprons. They appeared exhausted, and Bartholomew imagined they had probably been
threatened with dismissal if they found themselves unable to carry out the workload normally shared by eight or nine people.

All along the north wing the refacing project was
continuing apace, and the hammering, thumping and scraping was not in the least muted by the presence of sudden and unexpected
death. Apprentices still whistled and sang as they mixed mortar and sawed planks, and their masters still called in cheerfully
jaunty voices. It was not their concern that a scholar had died, and they certainly were not prepared to stop their work and
risk losing their bonus if they did not complete the project in the allotted time. Bartholomew hoped their confidence that
they would still be paid now that Runham was dead was not misplaced.

He walked past the builders to the groups of watching students. The atmosphere among them was more akin to eager anticipation
than grieved silence, and Deynman gave him an inappropriately delighted grin as Bartholomew went to stand with his own undergraduates.

‘Runham is dead,’ Deynman announced with great satisfaction, as if he imagined Bartholomew might not know. The physician sensed
that the other students were on the verge of giving a heartfelt cheer. ‘He was found in his chamber this morning.’

‘So Cynric told me,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Do you know what happened?’

Deynman shook his head. ‘I expect this means I can stay,’ he said gleefully, thumping Gray and Bulbeck on the shoulders in
unrestrained delight. ‘It was only Runham who wanted me to leave. Everyone else wants me to stay and become a physician.’

One would not necessarily lead to the other, Bartholomew thought, as he gazed at the happy smile of his student. While he
was sure that Michaelhouse would be relieved to accept Deynman’s fees back into the fold, he knew the lad could study until
he was as old as Methuselah, but still would not pass his examinations.

‘We should wait a while before we think about the future,’ said Bartholomew, reluctant to begin discussing which of Runham’s
many unpopular decisions would be rescinded now that the tyrant was dead.

‘The rumour is that someone killed him,’ said Gray, as ecstatic at the turn of events as was Deynman. ‘And not before time,
I say!’

‘Enough, Sam!’ said Bartholomew sharply. ‘Keep those sorts of thoughts to yourself. If these rumours are true, then
the proctors and their beadles will be listening very carefully to people who profess themselves pleased by Runham’s death.’

‘Then they will be doing a lot of listening,’ said Gray, unruffled by his teacher’s reprimand. ‘Not a single person in this
College – you included, Doctor – liked the man.’

‘Clippesby,’ said Bartholomew, after a moment’s thought. ‘Clippesby liked him. And so, probably, did the late Master Wilson.’

‘Wilson is dead,’ said Gray dismissively. ‘And anyway, I happen to know that Wilson did not like his cousin any better than
the rest of us did. Father Paul, who knew their family’s house priest, says that Wilson detested Runham, and that Runham was
always using Wilson as a means to better himself, because of his own mediocre ability.’

‘Father Paul would never say such things,’ said Bartholomew disbelievingly.

‘I have paraphrased Paul’s words,’ said Gray, waving a hand to indicate that Bartholomew’s objection was a mere quibble. ‘But
the meaning is the same.’

‘It is true,’ said Bulbeck quietly. ‘Father Paul did tell us that he failed to understand why Runham built his cousin such
a handsome tomb, when they had hated each other in life.’

‘Grief afflicts people in different ways,’ said Bartholomew.

‘Perhaps Runham did not realise how much he loved Wilson, until after Wilson had died.’

‘More likely he was building a fabulous tomb to prove to Wilson that he was alive and Wilson was dead,’ said Deynman.

The others stared at him uncomprehendingly.

‘Most people do not feel the need to prove such things to the dead, Rob,’ said
Bulbeck.‘Whatever we might think of him, he was not insane.’

Gray addressed Bartholomew. ‘But you are also wrong when you say Clippesby liked Runham. He did not. I heard him weeping in
his room last night. Naturally, I listened outside his window to learn what the problem was, and I heard him cursing Runham,
and wailing something about his no longer being considered mad.’

‘Sam!’ warned Bartholomew sternly. ‘This kind of talk could cause an innocent man a lot of trouble. Be careful what you say.’

‘There is Brother Michael,’ said Bulbeck, pointing to the fat monk, who was leaning out of Runham’s window. ‘He is beckoning
to you.’

Bartholomew acknowledged Michael’s wave and strode across the yard to the north wing. He ducked under some coarse matting
that had been draped across the doorway to protect its delicate tracery from falling masonry, squeezed past a huge bucket
of mortar that had been left in the porch, and clattered up the wooden staircase to Runham’s room. The door was closed, so
he pushed it open and stepped inside.

Michael stood with his back to the window, leaning his bulk against the sill, while he looked at the men who had gathered
in the Master’s room. He appeared fit and healthy, and any weight he might have lost during his brief illness had been regained
with a vengeance. To his
left was Langelee, who seemed tired and dishevelled, as though he had slept badly and had only just woken. Next to him Kenyngham
wrung his hands in dismay as he gazed down at the body of Runham, his lips moving quickly as he prayed for the Master’s soul.
Clippesby and Suttone stood together near the fireplace, Suttone resting a hand on Clippesby’s shoulder, as though offering
comfort. Finally, Father Paul was sitting at the table, turning his head this way and that to try to ascertain by sound who
had just entered.

‘It is Matthew,’ said the blind friar, smiling. ‘Only you make so much noise on the stairs, running up them as though the
Devil were on your tail.’

‘Except that the Devil is in here,’ muttered Langelee, turning his eyes from Bartholomew to the body on the floor.

Runham was lying on his back, with the smooth arch of his ample stomach rising towards the ceiling. His eyes were half open
and his lips were apart, revealing a tongue that was bluish and swollen. To Bartholomew, the body had a stiff look about it,
suggesting that Runham had been dead for several hours or more. What really caught his eye, however, was that the corpse lay
on a handsome woollen rug that had been purloined from the hall.

Bartholomew turned his attention to the rest of the room. Although Runham had only recently taken it from Kenyngham, his unmistakable
touch was already obvious. The walls were hung with tapestries – at least two of them from the conclave – while the wooden
floor was completely covered with the best of the rugs from the hall. The pair of finely carved chairs that stood next to
the table had belonged to a recently deceased scholar called Roger Alcote, and had been placed in storage to await collection
by his next of kin. Runham had apparently been into the attics, and had removed the furniture for his personal use.

Bartholomew also noticed that the overstuffed cushions that lined one of the chairs were from Agatha’s old wicker throne in
the kitchen.

Besides the rugs, tapestries and chairs that Runham had so skilfully looted from the College, there were the chests. Under
the window – perilously close to where an enterprising workman could reach in and touch it – was the large strongbox from
which Runham had intended to pay for his new building. A number of small coins and pieces of cheap jewellery lay in the bottom,
but it had clearly been ransacked and the most valuable items removed.