A Masterly Murder (52 page)

‘Perhaps Walter will come back to us,’ said Bartholomew, relief flooding through him as he stood aside to allow his colleagues
past.

‘Matt and I are about to apprehend a killer,’ said Michael, making it sound like a pleasant excursion to a country meadow
in summertime. ‘You can help us, if you will.’

‘Us?’ asked Suttone nervously, casting an anxious glance at Kenyngham. ‘I am only a poor friar, Brother. I have no experience
in wrestling with vicious killers in the middle of the night – nor do I want to gain any, thank you very much.’

‘I am not asking for physical assistance, just for a little information,’ said Michael reassuringly. ‘The night Runham died,
you and Master Kenyngham attended compline in St Michael’s Church. It is what proved neither of you had a hand in his murder.’

‘I wish I had not gone,’ said Kenyngham sadly. ‘I wish I had stayed here, so that I might have been able to prevent such wickedness.’

‘If you had, the killer would merely have waited for another opportunity,’ said Michael practically. ‘But can you recall who
else was at compline at St Michael’s Church that night?’

Kenyngham and Suttone exchanged a mystified glance.

‘I do not remember,’ said Kenyngham, scratching his head. ‘It was days
ago, and I have attended many offices since then. They have begun to blur in my mind.’

‘Well, there was that loutish bargeman who used to sing bass in the choir,’ said Suttone, frowning thoughtfully. ‘He spent
the entire time pawing some woman in the shadows at the back. There were a couple of men from Ovyng, and a handful from Physwick
Hostel – they use St Michael’s regularly, as you know. Then there was that skinny fellow from Bene’t, and I think it was Friday
that some folk from the Market Square attended the service …’

‘Which skinny fellow from Bene’t?’ Michael pounced.

‘I do not know his name. He speaks with a Fenman’s accent and has terrible
teeth. When Master Kenyngham was at the high altar, he joined me near Wilson’s tomb and we prayed there together for some
time. We did not speak, and I do not know whether he will recall the incident or not.’

‘Why did you not mention him earlier?’ asked Michael.

Suttone shrugged. ‘I did not want you hunting this man down, and then
him claiming he did not remember me next to him. Think how it would have looked had he failed to corroborate my story. I would
have looked as guilty and suspicious as does Clippesby.’

‘I will give my full attention to Clippesby in the morning,’ said Michael grandly. ‘But first I am off to Bene’t, to catch
the villain who shoved Raysoun off the scaffolding; smothered Wymundham in Holy Trinity Church; and then stabbed Brother Patrick.’

‘Who is it?’ asked Suttone curiously. ‘It is not that vicious Osmun, is it? I have heard stories about his brutality, Brother.
Be sure to take plenty of beadles with you.’

‘Matt and I will deal with this alone,’ said Michael confidently. ‘But we should be on our way. I want to make an end of it
as quickly as possible.’

Leaving Kenyngham and Suttone to lock the gate behind them, Michael led the way up St Michael’s Lane and began to head towards
Bene’t, his thumping footsteps very loud in the still town. It was a cloudy night, and there was no gleam from the moon to
light their way. They moved slowly, wary of the water-filled potholes and of the slippery, sewage-encrusted drains that meandered
down either side of the road. There was no wind, and the stench from the ditches was thick in the still air, overlaid with
the smell of ancient animal dung, rotting waste that had been hurled from the houses into the street in the vain hope that
it would be washed away by rain, and spillages from the tannery and the potters’ workshops.

Michael stumbled in the dark, swearing viciously when he skinned his knuckles against a wall. Somewhere a dog barked furiously,
warning its owner that someone was moving down a road that should have been deserted except for the beadles and the Sheriff’s
patrols. A window shutter opened, sending a sliver of golden light slanting into the street, but was then closed quickly when
the dark shadows of Michael and Bartholomew glided by.

Eventually, they reached Bene’t, a dark edifice laced with scaffolding, as though some skeletal hand had reached down from
the sky and had seized it. Bartholomew shuddered, and tried to push such fanciful images from his mind.

‘We are early,’ whispered Michael. ‘The bells have not chimed midnight yet. We should hide in St Bene’t’s
churchyard and wait, or Walter might not be ready for us.’

‘I hate this,’ complained Bartholomew as he followed Michael through the long, wet grass of the cemetery. ‘It is not normal
for two respectable Fellows to be skulking among graves in the middle of the night.’

‘It is no good leaving it until tomorrow,’ said Michael. ‘By then, Simeon may have killed de Walton, and I am not sure if
we can rely on Walter to help us again. It is now or never. And do not tell me you would rather it was never. Do you not want
to see the killer of Raysoun, Wymundham and Brother Patrick brought to justice?’

Bartholomew sighed. ‘There is the midnight bell. Let us get this over with, so that we can go home and solve the murder in
our own College.’

They walked stealthily back to Bene’t’s main gate and tapped softly on the wicket wood. Immediately Walter’s white face peered
out.

‘I do not like this at all,’ he whispered fearfully.

‘You are not alone,’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘So, where is this hut in
which Simeon is supposed to have de Walton secreted away? We need to release him, and take him back to Michaelhouse as quickly
as possible.’

‘But he has leprosy,’ objected Walter in horror. ‘You cannot take lepers to Michaelhouse! He will kill everyone he sets eyes
on!’

‘Leprosy does not spread quite like that,’ said Bartholomew. ‘As far as I can tell, it is passed—’

‘Nevertheless, Walter is right,’ interrupted Michael quickly, before the physician could deliver a lecture. He rubbed his
chin, making a soft rasping sound in the darkness. ‘We cannot take a leper back to Michaelhouse.’

‘Why did you not think of this before?’ asked Bartholomew in exasperation. ‘You have been considering this plan all evening.’

‘I cannot think of everything,’ snapped Michael. ‘You are the physician – you should have raised the point.’

‘We will take him to the hospital near the Barnwell Priory,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But let us get on with this business before
my nerve fails me and I go home.’

‘Come on, then,’ said Walter, pulling them inside and closing the door. He led the way through the gatehouse, and peered carefully
all around the courtyard before turning back to them. ‘You must cut across to the south-east door – I made sure it is open
– and then take the path that runs through the vegetable garden to the orchard. Right at the bottom of the orchard, surrounded
by nettles, is an old lean-to that is used for storing apples. De Walton is in there.’

‘Will you not show us the way?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘No fear!’ said Walter. ‘That was not part of the arrangement. I will leave
the main gate open so that you will be able to get out, but I am off right now. I will spend the rest of the night in Michaelhouse,
thank you.’

He was gone before either scholar could object, scurrying out through the gate at an impressive pace and with evident terror.

‘Come on, Matt,’ whispered Michael. ‘Follow me. We will keep to the shadows at the edge of the court – that is what Cynric
would have done.’

‘I wish he were here,’ muttered Bartholomew, trying to walk softly as they moved across the slippery cobbles. A rat scuttled
in front of him and he took a sharp intake of breath that made Michael regard him in weary exasperation.

The gate that led to the grounds behind the College was ajar, as Walter had promised. Wincing at the croaking squeak that
sounded very loud in the silence, Michael eased it further open and stepped through, waiting for Bartholomew to follow. Once
away from the half-finished
buildings where the scholars slept, Bartholomew began to relax a little, thinking that he and Michael could always run to
the end of the garden and scramble over the wall to Luthburne Lane should they be followed and challenged. It was also not
so necessary to remain quiet, and they were well concealed from any sleepless Bene’t scholar by the trees and fruit bushes
that lined the path.

‘There it is,’ whispered Michael, pointing to a dark shape that huddled against the back wall. ‘That is the hut Walter described.’

He started to move forward, but Bartholomew pulled him back, listening intently to ensure that they had not been led into
a trap. There was nothing. Cautiously, he edged towards the hut, wincing as nettles stung his hand. A sturdy bar had been
placed across the door; Bartholomew removed it quickly and pressed his ear to the wood. There was no sound, and he began to
wonder whether the leprous de Walton was not secured inside it at all. He pulled at the door, but it would not budge.

‘It is locked,’ he whispered to Michael, pointing to the chain that had been looped through two iron rungs. The metal shone
dimly, and Bartholomew supposed it had been placed there relatively recently.

‘Break the chain,’ whispered Michael back.

‘How?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I would need an axe, and we are trying to be quiet.’

Michael gave an impatient sigh. ‘Give me those birthing forceps you have in your bag.’

‘No,’ whispered Bartholomew angrily. ‘My forceps are delicate, and you will damage them.’

‘Delicate!’ spat Michael. ‘They are about the sturdiest weapon I have ever seen. I will be more likely to damage the door
than to put so much as a scratch on them. Give them to me, Matt. There may be a sick man inside this hut, and it is your duty
as a physician to help him.’

Feeling as though Michael had scored a cheap hit, Bartholomew handed him the heavy instrument, and watched him insert one
of its arms through the rung and begin to twist. With a sharp snap, the rung popped loose, and Michael removed the chain that
secured the door. Carefully, he pushed it open and peered into the darkness within.

The inside of the hut was pitch black, and Bartholomew could make out nothing other than one or two rotten apples that lay
on the floor near his foot. To one side, he heard the scrape of tinder as Michael lit a candle. Careful to shield the light
from draughts with his cupped hands, the monk stepped into the shed.

A man lay on the rough wooden planking of the floor, heaped with blankets and with an unnatural pallor to his face. At first,
Bartholomew thought that de Walton was already dead, but the man’s eyelids flickered open. Bartholomew moved forward reassuringly,
but the man struggled away from the blankets and regarded the dark shapes that stood over him with naked terror.

‘No!’ he shrieked loudly, making Bartholomew leap out of his skin and startling some roosting birds so that their agitated
flapping added to the sudden disturbance. ‘No! I will not tell!’

‘Quiet!’ hissed Michael urgently. ‘I am the Senior Proctor, and I am here to rescue you.’

‘Rescue me?’ squeaked de Walton, in an unsteady, confused voice. He tried to stand, and Bartholomew could see the fading bruise
on his face that Osmun had inflicted.

‘Can you walk?’ asked Bartholomew gently. ‘I do not think we should stay here any longer than we have to.’

‘No,’ agreed Michael sardonically. ‘Especially after that
unholy screech. He has probably woken the entire town.’

‘But I do not want to leave,’ whispered de Walton in alarm. ‘I want to stay here, where I am safe.’

‘You are not safe here,’ Michael pointed out impatiently. ‘You are in a freezing shack, locked in by a man who means you harm.’

‘I will not go with you,’ sobbed de Walton, leaning back against the wall and hugging his blankets to him. ‘You cannot make
me.’

‘Is his illness making him deranged?’ asked Michael curtly of Bartholomew. ‘Give him something to make him see sense, Matt.
We do not have time to argue.’

Bartholomew slipped an arm under de Walton’s shoulders and tried to pull him to his feet, but de Walton gave another screech
and began to pummel the physician with his puny fists.

‘I have leprosy!’ he wailed. ‘Touch me and you will catch it, too.’

Bartholomew, like Master Lynton before him, had observed the faint lumps and blemishes that characterised the disease’s early
onset, but knew that leprosy was not as contagious as was popularly believed, especially the type that afflicted de Walton.
‘Let me take you to the hospital near Barnwell Priory,’ he said kindly. ‘You will be well looked after there.’

‘But I will not be safe,’ said de Walton, trying to push Bartholomew away. ‘I do not want to go.’

Exasperated, Bartholomew released him. ‘But why? Simeon and Osmun have imprisoned you here against your will. Why will you
not let us help you to escape?’

De Walton gazed at him. ‘They did not imprison me; they put me here with my consent, so that I would be safe from the rest
of them.’

‘The rest of who?’ asked Michael, confused and impatient. He went to the door and peered out into
the darkness to check that no Osmun was bearing down on them. ‘Who are you afraid of?’

‘Go away,’ said de Walton desperately. ‘You reveal by your questions that you know nothing about what is happening in my College,
and your meddling will only make things worse.’

‘If I do not understand what is going on, it is only because your colleagues have spun me such a web of lies that I am unable
to see the truth,’ snapped Michael. ‘Tell me what is happening, and then I will decide whether to leave you alone or whether
to remove you to the proctors’ prison.’

De Walton began to shake. ‘Prison? But you said you would take me to Barnwell.’

‘That,’ said Michael harshly, ‘depends on how cooperative you are.’

‘Then ask Simeon,’ said de Walton, casting an anguished glance towards the door. ‘He understands the details better than I
do.’

‘Details?’ demanded Michael. ‘Is that how you describe the murders of Raysoun, Wymundham and poor Brother Patrick?’