A Masterly Murder

Chapter 8

IT 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.

Next to the strongbox were Michaelhouse’s loan chests – the College ‘hutches’ – that allowed payments to be made to needy scholars. Even from the door, Bartholomew could see that all were empty. He turned a horrified gaze on Michael. The monk nodded to his unspoken question.

‘I think you can see where Runham obtained at least some of the money for his building work, Matt. Every single one of our nine hutches is empty. There will be no loans for desperate students from Michaelhouse from now on.’

‘Runham raided the hutches for his building work?’ asked Father Paul in horror, gazing around him with his opaque eyes. ‘But the hutches are sacrosanct; they were given to us by benefactors who left money for the purpose of loans, and loans only. No one – not even a Master – has the authority to take money from the hutches for things like buildings.’

‘Nevertheless, that seems to be what Runham did,’ said Michael. ‘I even saw him carrying some of them to his room. In my ridiculous innocence, I merely assumed he was taking an inventory of their contents. It did not occur to me that he would empty them of cash for his wretched buildings.’

‘We do not know Runham took the money,’ said Kenyngham reproachfully. ‘Perhaps whoever stole from the building chest also emptied the hutches.’

Michael shook his head as he reached into Runham’s strongbox to retrieve a metal bracelet that lay at the bottom. ‘It is decent of you to be charitable, but I know this piece of jewellery was in the Illegh Hutch. As you saw, I just retrieved it from Runham’s building chest, where it had no business to be.’

‘Runham denied me a loan,’ said Suttone thoughtfully. ‘I asked him yesterday if I could have two groats from the Fellows’ hutch to buy a new alb, but he told me that the tradition of borrowing from the hutches was over, and that I should go elsewhere. I wondered what was behind all that, and now I understand.’

‘It seems there is no doubt,’ said Michael. ‘Runham found himself short of the funds he needed for his building, and so took out a loan himself – a loan that comprised all the remaining money in every one of the College hutches.’

‘We should not be concerned about money when one of our colleagues lies dead at our feet,’ said Kenyngham softly. ‘We should be praying for him. All the Fellows are present except Father William. When will he return, Paul? Does he know the news?’

‘He does, but he will not come,’ said Paul. ‘He says he has no wish to be accused of murder, given that he quarrelled so bitterly with Runham the other day.’

‘What makes you say that Runham was murdered?’ asked Suttone curiously. He nodded to the body on the floor. ‘I am no expert, but he looks to have had a fatal seizure to me.’

Everyone stared at Bartholomew, who gazed at the body in distaste. He wondered why it never seemed to occur to anyone that he did not like inspecting the bodies of people he knew, looking for clues regarding their causes of death. It was partly because their bodies reminded him uncomfortably of his own mortality, but also because he was a physician: his business was with the living, not the dead.

‘Well, Matt?’ asked Michael, when Bartholomew did not move towards Runham’s corpse. ‘Are William’s fears justified, or did Runham simply have a fatal seizure as he fondled his ill-gotten gains in the middle of the night?’

With a distinct lack of enthusiasm, Bartholomew knelt next to Runham and began a careful inspection, although he had known the answer to Michael’s question the instant he set eyes on the body. He noticed that the dead Master’s hands were slightly bloody and that the nails were ripped: Runham had struggled and fought against something. Another peculiarity was the fact that there was a small feather protruding from Runham’s mouth. Ignoring his colleagues’ exclamations of disgust, he felt under the tongue and in the cheeks to retrieve two more feathers and a ball of fluff.

‘William is right to be cautious,’ he said, sitting back and gazing down at the lifeless features of his Master. ‘Someone smothered him: Runham was murdered.’

Once Runham’s body had been removed to St Michael’s Church, and two student friars of his own Order had been commandeered into keeping a vigil over it, the Fellows met in the conclave. Kenyngham, who they unanimously agreed should resume the Mastership until another election could be organised, had gathered the students in the hall and informed them that Runham had fallen prey to a fatal attack. The ambiguous wording was Michael’s idea: he said it would not be wise to declare that Runham had been murdered until they had some idea who might be the culprit. Kenyngham concluded his brief announcement by suggesting that the scholars might like to use the remainder of what was now a free day to pray for Runham. None of them did, and Bartholomew’s students were among the noisy throng that disappeared with alacrity though the gates to enjoy themselves in the town.

‘Is that wise?’ asked Kenyngham anxiously, watching them leave from the conclave window. ‘Despite my obtuse announcement, it will not be long before word seeps out that Master Runham was murdered, and our students may start a fight over it.’

Michael shook his head as he settled himself in one of the best chairs. ‘None of them is going to fight to defend Runham’s good name, Master Kenyngham. Let them go. At least they will not be under the feet of the workmen. And all the Fellows should be here, discussing what we should do, not trying to supervise a lot of restless lads.’

‘As a mark of respect, I think the building work should stop,’ said Kenyngham, as Clippesby and Suttone, with unspoken agreement, began to light the conclave fire. ‘It is only right that we interrupt our normal affairs to show our sorrow over this tragic death.’

‘I have already tried to send the workmen away,’ said Michael, ignoring the fact that there would not be much sorrowing. ‘But thanks to Runham himself, they see any attempt by us to prevent them from working as an excuse not to pay them their bonus. They would not hear of going home, and I dare not force the issue. I have no wish to see us go up in flames for antagonising them.’

‘And that would be easy with all the scaffolding everywhere,’ said Langelee, watching Clippesby blowing on the smouldering wood in the hearth. ‘A torch touched to all that cheap timber will see the College ignite like a bonfire.’

‘Please!’ said Kenyngham with a shudder. ‘Dwelling on riots and arson is not helping us discover the killer of poor Master Runham. Are you certain someone took his life, Matthew? Are you sure you are not mistaken?’

‘I am not mistaken,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I showed you the feathers and fluff he had inhaled when the cushion was placed over his mouth, and I showed you the damage he did to his hands as he tried to claw his killer away from him.’

‘And we found the guilty cushion,’ added Michael. ‘It was that lovely one which Agatha made for her fireside chair. It was stuffed with goose feathers that matched those Matt found in Runham’s mouth, and stained with drool where it had been forced over his face.’

‘Perhaps even more incriminating,’ said Bartholomew, ‘is the fact that it lay on the opposite side of the room from the body. After the killer had used it to smother Runham, he set it down on the bench under the window. Even if Runham had suffocated himself – which I am certain he did not – he could not have placed the cushion on the bench after he had died.’

‘This is dreadful,’ said Kenyngham in a whisper. ‘Who would do such a terrible thing?’

‘Who said it was terrible?’ muttered Langelee.

‘We have an impressive collection of suspects,’ Michael went on. ‘First, there is Langelee.’

Bartholomew could not but help wonder whether Langelee was top of Michael’s list because Langelee had thwarted the monk’s ambition to be Master by raising the issue of his dealings with Oxford. Bartholomew knew that it was only a matter of time before Michael had his revenge, and suspected that the first step had just been taken.

‘Me?’ asked Langelee in astonishment. ‘Why should I kill Runham?’

Michael sighed. ‘Do not treat us like imbeciles. Runham dismissed you because of your marriage to Julianna. Now that he is dead, you are likely to be reinstated by a more lenient Master, not to mention the fact that the repayment of your stipend will not be forced. You have a very good reason for killing him.’

Especially if Langelee expected to be the next Master, thought Bartholomew. He recalled Langelee confiding details of his marriage so that Bartholomew would support him if Runham ever ‘conveniently died’, to use Langelee’s own words.

‘So do a lot of people,’ said Langelee angrily. ‘Father William also lost his Fellowship because of Runham – perhaps he crept out of his friary last night and shoved a cushion over Runham’s face. Why else would he refuse to join us?’

‘Because he fears exactly the accusation you have just made,’ said Michael. ‘As Paul has already told us.’

‘And what about him?’ snapped Langelee, pointing an accusing finger at Paul. ‘He lost his Fellowship because of Runham, too. And do not even think of claiming that his blindness means that he could not commit murder. It is dark at night – Paul was probably at an advantage.’

‘An interesting conjecture,’ said Michael blandly, although Bartholomew had no idea whether he had taken the suggestion seriously or was just humouring the belligerent philosopher.

‘And him.’ Langelee swung his accusing finger around to point at Kenyngham. ‘He lost a Fellowship of almost thirty years’ duration to Runham. You cannot tell me that he did not have good cause for wanting the man dead.’

‘Are you referring to me?’ asked Kenyngham, genuinely startled. ‘But I have never killed anyone in my life!’

‘Every murderer has to start somewhere,’ said Michael drolly.

Bartholomew shook his head, not liking the way the scholars were already turning on each other in the search for a culprit. He hoped their meeting would not turn into a witch hunt. But regardless, of all the Michaelhouse scholars, Bartholomew thought Kenyngham the one least likely to murder someone – especially in such a cold and deliberate a way. Suffocation required that the killer press hard against his victim, forced to hear the gasps and entreaties for mercy, and obliged to watch the helpless drumming of heels on the floor and the scrabbling of ever-weakening hands. It was not like a swift knife under the ribs, which might happen in the heat of the moment; suffocation took longer and there was less chance that it could be accidental.

‘And Paul, Kenyngham and William are not alone in having reasons to strike Runham dead,’ continued Langelee. ‘What about Clippesby and Suttone? They fell victim to Runham’s charming temperament, too.’

‘That is unfair,’ said Suttone quietly. ‘We have only just arrived in Cambridge, and have not had time to make an enemy of Runham.’

‘But he has had time to make an enemy of you,’ Langelee pressed on relentlessly. ‘I recall quite clearly Runham telling us that you had been accused of theft at your friary in Lincoln.’

‘Why would that be cause for me to kill him?’ asked Suttone. ‘He had already announced to the entire Fellowship that a long time ago I was accused of a theft of which I was later found to be innocent. What would be the point of killing him when the “secret” was already out?’

‘Then what about him?’ snarled Langelee, casting a venomous glower at Clippesby. ‘Runham accused him of being insane, and so he had motive enough to silence his tormentor once and for all. He has worked hard to ingratiate himself with Runham by spying for him on the other Fellows, but Runham turned on him after all his labours.’

Clippesby’s face was like wax, and his eyes were hollow and haunted. ‘I did not spy,’ he whispered.

‘You did,’ said Suttone tiredly. ‘Do not lie, Clippesby. It is better to be honest. I saw you on a number of occasions hovering near the rooms of other scholars, hoping to hear something seditious that you could pass to Runham.’

‘I heard you loitering outside doors, too,’ said Paul quietly. ‘And I overheard you with Runham, plotting to trick Matthew into making incriminating remarks about his teaching that could be used to bring about his resignation.’

‘What?’ asked Bartholomew, horrified.‘When was this?’

‘In the church the day after Runham was elected,’ said Clippesby miserably. His chin came up in a feeble gesture of defiance. ‘But Master Runham was right in his concerns: you did confess to him that you used the Devil’s wiles to heal your patients.’

‘I can assure you that I did not,’ said Bartholomew in disgust. ‘If you want to be a spy, you should at least make sure you listen carefully and that your memory of conversations is accurate.’

‘And what about you as a suspect for Runham’s murder?’ demanded Langelee, rounding on Bartholomew. ‘You would have lost your Fellowship today, because Runham had driven you into a corner. You have as good a motive for killing Runham as anyone.’

‘He would not have lost his Fellowship,’ said Michael confidently. ‘Matt would rather give up practising medicine than forsake his teaching.’

‘Actually, I–’ began Bartholomew.

‘Even so, Runham would have made life so uncomfortable that you would not have stayed long,’ Langelee continued, cutting across Bartholomew’s words. He turned to Michael. ‘And that goes for you, too. Were you aware that he had plans to ration the food? That would have driven you out pretty quickly.’

‘When was this?’ asked Michael in surprise. ‘I have not heard about such a harsh measure.’

‘It happened at one of the meetings held when the only Fellows present were those not strong enough to object,’ said Suttone bitterly. ‘Runham was cunning – he passed all manner of statutes and ordinances when the more senior of you were absent.’

‘So,’ said Michael, ‘we are left with two unpleasant facts: first, we have a dead Master; and second, every one of his Fellows had a reason to wish him harm. And there are students and servants, too, who had run foul of him and were dismissed – like Rob Deynman, Sam Gray, Cynric, Walter and Agatha.’

‘Especially Agatha,’ said Langelee. ‘After all, her cushion was the murder weapon.’

‘I am sure she sewed every stitch with Runham’s demise in mind,’ said Bartholomew facetiously, unable to see Agatha as a smotherer, and disliking the way unfounded suspicions were being bandied about. Langelee gazed at him uncertainly.

‘How awful this is,’ said Kenyngham in a small voice. ‘So much hatred and bitterness.’

‘So, what we must do is consider our oath of loyalty to the College,’ said Michael. ‘There is only one way we can fulfil that: we must find a way out of this unfortunate affair without compromising Michaelhouse.’

Bartholomew almost laughed when the full import of the monk’s words sank in. ‘You mean we should hatch a plot that will cover up Runham’s murder, and pass it off as suicide or death by natural causes?’

‘Suicide would be better,’ said Langelee reflectively. ‘Then we will not have his vile corpse cluttering up our cemetery.’

‘Then he can lie next to his poor book-bearer, Justus,’ said Suttone. ‘Runham consigned Justus to a grave in that desolate spot – although I understand he had not planned to consign him to a grave at all, if it would cost him money – and so it is fitting that Runham’s own body suffer a similar fate.’

‘I am not suggesting we “hatch a plot”,’ said Michael, fixing Bartholomew with offended eyes. ‘I am merely pointing out that nothing will be gained from rumours running around the town that one of us murdered his unpopular Master. The students have already been told that Runham died of a fatal seizure and we do not need to worry about the servants, because there are virtually none left.’

‘We must not overlook the fact that Runham’s murder might have been a case of opportunism,’ said Paul. ‘You say this chest of money was next to the window. Perhaps one of the workmen saw it and decided to help himself. Then, when Runham caught him, he thrust the pillow over Runham’s face to quieten his accusations, and, once he had started, he realised that he would have to finish.’

‘Perhaps we can eliminate some of the suspects by looking at when Runham died,’ said Suttone practically. ‘I last saw him when he left the conclave after dismissing Langelee – just before dusk last night.’

‘I did not see him after that, either,’ said Langelee quickly.

‘Did anyone see him later?’ asked Michael. He looked around: all shook their heads. ‘He announced to us all that he was going to his chamber to work, so I imagine we can assume he went there. That means he was killed some time between sunset and … when, Matt?’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘The body is a little stiff, but the room is cold. It is almost impossible to tell. All I can say for certain is that he died some time between sunset when he was last seen alive, and at dawn when he was found.’

‘Are you sure you cannot be more specific?’ asked Michael, a little irritably. ‘You see, the University’s Chancellor came to see me just after sunset, and he stayed very late – until ten or so. He may provide my alibi.’

‘Were you discussing the affair with your Oxford collaborators?’ asked Langelee unpleasantly. ‘Does the Chancellor know you correspond regularly with William Heytesbury of Merton College?’

Michael gave him a venomous glare. ‘That is none of your affair, Langelee. But, since you seem to be so obsessed by my private activities, I can tell you that the Chancellor knows exactly what I am doing and that I have his blessing.’

‘I do not believe you,’ said Langelee immediately. ‘Why would the Chancellor allow you to squander valuable University property just to get scraps of worthless information from Oxford men?’

‘For reasons that are too complex for you to understand,’ snapped Michael. ‘But we are not here to chat about my duties as Senior Proctor; we are here to discuss Runham’s murder. And as I was saying, if he died before ten o’clock last night, the Chancellor is my alibi.’

‘I cannot help you, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is no way for me to tell what time Runham died. Perhaps he was killed at sunset, while it was still light enough for the workmen to be around. Or perhaps it happened later – perhaps a few moments before he was found dead. I really cannot say.’

‘I was stalking around Cambridge in a rage,’ said Langelee. ‘But no one saw me.’

‘I went to Trumpington and sat near the church, thinking about whether to leave Michaelhouse,’ said Bartholomew.

‘I was also alone part of the evening,’ said Suttone. ‘I was in St Michael’s Church, praying for the patience to deal with Runham. Several people were in and out – including Clippesby and Kenyngham – but no one can vouch for me the whole time. I attended compline, at seven o’clock, and I stayed later to pray – probably until ten.’

‘I do not even recall where I was myself, let alone expect anyone else to do it,’ said Kenyngham, to no one’s surprise.

‘You were at compline,’ Suttone reminded him. ‘And after, we both lingered. You were at the high altar and I was at the prie-dieu near Wilson’s tomb.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Kenyngham, frowning. ‘After that, I think I returned here.’

‘I was at the friary,’ said Paul. ‘After compline, I went to sleep in my cell. Since we do not share cells at the Franciscan Friary, I have no one to vouch for me, and neither will William.’

‘I was in my room,’ said Clippesby in a hushed voice. ‘I share it with three students, but they were all in Sam Gray’s chamber engaged in some kind of scribing exercise. So, I spent the night on my own.’

‘What a mess!’ said Michael gloomily. He scratched a flabby cheek with a dirty fingernail. ‘I confess, I do not know how to proceed with this, but I do know we should all agree to say that Runham had a fatal seizure. Now, I tire easily after my recent brush with death, and so will consider this matter in more detail after I have rested. Do nothing. Act normally – well, as normally as you usually do – and I will try to think of the best way to deal with it. Any questions?’

There were none. One by one, the Fellows of Michaelhouse filed from the conclave, wondering which of them, if any, was the murderer.

‘I thought you said you were tired, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, watching as Michael paced back and forth in the chamber he shared with his fellow Benedictines. It was mid-morning, and Bartholomew had just returned from seeing a patient who lived near the Castle. Since he was nearby, he had knocked at Matilde’s door, to tell her that Adela Tangmer had made some unwarranted assumptions, but either Matilde was out or she did not want to see him, because there was no answer.

He went to the nearby church of All Saints, and borrowed a pen and a scrap of parchment from a scribe to write her a note. It took him a long time to compose a message that did not sound as though he was trying to exonerate himself at Adela’s expense, but in the end he felt he had achieved the right flavour. He tapped on Matilde’s door a second time, then slid the parchment underneath it when there was still no reply. He returned to Michaelhouse feeling more cheerful. At the back of his mind was the thought that Langelee had been right, and that now that Runham was dead, Bartholomew would not have to leave Cambridge for Paris after all.

He reclined on the bed in Michael’s room, feeling the thick-headed lethargy of a night without sleep creep over him, and wondered whether life at Michaelhouse would ever return to its hectic but predictable routine of teaching and learning. He hoped with all his heart that Kenyngham would agree to resume his duties as Master until Suttone and Clippesby had settled in, so that they would know for certain which candidate would make the best Master instead of being obliged to vote for people they barely knew. Bartholomew had reservations about the peculiar Clippesby, but he liked Suttone, who seemed a kind-hearted man. Bartholomew was grateful for his assistance in burying Justus, and appreciated the fact that the Carmelite had not just muttered a few prayers, but had helped with the preparation of the body and had tried to imbue the mean little ceremony with some dignity.

‘I am not tired at all,’ said Michael, continuing to pace. The wooden floor creaked and groaned under his weight, and Bartholomew was grateful he was not in his own chamber below, trying to concentrate on his treatise. ‘Unlike you, it seems – you look as though you are about to fall asleep. When I claimed fatigue in the conclave earlier, I was merely bringing that uncomfortable session to a close. In fact, the little puzzle surrounding Runham’s demise is most invigorating, and I am beginning to feel much more like my old self.’

‘I am sure Runham would be delighted to hear that he is the cause of your miraculous recovery,’ said Bartholomew dryly.

‘He would,’ agreed Michael comfortably. ‘Because then he could rest happily in Hell knowing that I will track down his killer and bring him to justice. You are sure there is a killer, are you? Only I would hate to expend my energy, time and talent on this, only to learn later that no crime has been committed after all. I am relying wholly on your say-so that Runham was murdered.’

‘Runham was definitely murdered,’ said Bartholomew drowsily, linking his hands behind his head. ‘But I do not see how you will solve this, Brother. You have more suspects than you know what to do with – and those are just the ones you know about. I am sure Runham had enemies in all sorts of places, about whom we know nothing.’

‘Meaning?’ asked Michael.

‘Meaning that there are the Fellows of Bene’t, for a start. None of them were exactly delighted to learn that their labourers had been poached by Runham to work for Michaelhouse. To pay us back, they even went as far as enticing Agatha from us. They may regret doing that. Fond though I am of her, she is not exactly what you would call a pliant and dutiful servant.’

‘Very true,’ said Michael complacently. ‘And that is why I encouraged her to accept the Bene’t post. I do not like that superior Heltisle, or his conniving henchman Caumpes. Having Agatha in their fold will serve them right. She will put Osmun in his place, too: he will not be bullying the students with her around.’

‘Is there anything connected to the University that is beyond your influence?’ asked Bartholomew in disbelief.

‘No,’ said Michael, pleased by the recognition of his meddling skills. ‘But my talent for managing University affairs is not what we should be talking about. We need to wrap our minds around the few facts we have regarding the saintly Master Runham’s exit from this world.’

‘Must we?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I am sure we will not like what we discover.’

‘Ignorance is bliss, eh?’ asked Michael. He gave his friend a wicked grin. ‘Runham did not leave you a purse of gold to build him a fine tomb, as did his cousin, did he?’

‘If he had, then we would need it to pay all these workmen,’ said Bartholomew. ‘How are we going to do that now? Michaelhouse is virtually penniless.’

‘We will face that problem when it arises,’ said Michael. ‘We should not waste time by fretting over it now.’

‘It may arise sooner than you think,’ said Bartholomew worriedly.

‘Not for another twenty-six days. The builders agreed to work for a month, and they have only been going since Wednesday.’

‘I made the decision to leave for Paris tomorrow,’ said Bartholomew, almost absently. ‘If the killer had struck at Runham then instead of last night, I would not have been caught up in this.’

‘Paris?’ asked Michael. His jaw dropped. ‘No, Matt! I do not believe you! You were going to yield to Runham and leave Michaelhouse, just as he wanted you to do?’

‘I was,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I still might.’

‘I was certain the fact that Runham wanted you to leave would be sufficient to make you want to stay,’ said Michael, astonished. ‘It goes to show that you should never take for granted the people you think you know, and that they can still give you the odd surprise. We would be as well to remember that as we investigate this murder, Matt.’

‘We?’ asked Bartholomew weakly.

‘I need you,’ said Michael in the kind of tone that made it final. ‘And you cannot slink off to Paris now, anyway. It would look as if you killed Runham.’ He gave Bartholomew a sidelong glance. ‘You did not, did you?’

‘No. And you know me better than to ask that,’ said Bartholomew, irritably.

Michael smiled. ‘Yes, I do. But it does no harm to ask. You had the motive: he threatened everything you hold dear – your teaching and your medicine. And you had the opportunity, given that you have no one to vouch for your whereabouts at the salient time.’

‘Neither does anyone else. Including you.’

‘True.’

Bartholomew sighed. ‘I know you did not kill him, Brother. You are more likely to create some colossal scandal to bring him down, not murder him by stealth in the middle of the night. You are no cushion-over-the-face man.’

‘Nicely put,’ said Michael. ‘Lord, I am hungry! Will you walk with me to the Brazen George?’

‘Not now,’ said Bartholomew, closing his eyes. ‘Fetch something from the kitchen.’

Michael pulled a face of disgust. ‘There is nothing in the kitchen! Runham decided not to pay the grocer, and so there is not a scrap to eat. Of course, there is always that plum cake you were given by the Saddler family, which has been sitting alone and forgotten on your windowsill.’

‘Not forgotten, it seems,’ said Bartholomew, astonished by the things the monk seemed to notice.

Within moments, Michael had collected the cake and was back in his room, cutting generous slices with the slim knife he used for sharpening his pens. He handed Bartholomew a piece that was about half the size of the one he took for himself, and then settled himself in a chair.

‘I have never before encountered a case like this, Matt,’ he said conversationally as he ate. ‘Usually, once you have a man with a motive, it is only a case of establishing that he had the means and the opportunity. Given that Runham died some time between sunset and dawn, then virtually all our suspects – Fellows, students, servants and workmen – had the opportunity, and the means was nothing more sinister than a pretty cushion. And most of Cambridge had a motive to kill the man.’

‘I cannot imagine how you will proceed.’

‘It certainly poses a challenge! And I need a challenge like this to put me on the road to recovery.’

‘There is nothing wrong with you, Brother,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘You are quite well enough to outwit the killer of Runham.’

Michael sighed. ‘I know. But I must admit I have enjoyed the last few days. I should be ill more often: people have been kind, I have been provided with better food than the slop I am normally expected to live on, and everyone keeps telling me how much I am missed. My week away from the University has proven to everyone what I have always known: that I am indispensable.’

Bartholomew had reached an interesting part in his treatise on fevers, and was able to distance himself from the clatter of the workmen outside. He worked until the bell should have sounded for the midday meal, but was told by the cook that the scholars had not been summoned because Michaelhouse had no food. Langelee had been correct when he had claimed Runham had declined to pay the College’s bills, and an infuriated grocer had arrived that morning to claim any unused stock he could lay hands on. There were some flat, hard loaves baked with flour and water, but the absence of fat or salt made them unpalatable on their own – like chewing on parchment.

As far as Bartholomew could tell, virtually every other scholar was out – either in the church praying for Runham, like Kenyngham, or celebrating their unexpected release from tyranny, like everyone else. Bartholomew was unable to concentrate on writing when his stomach was growling for food, and so he decided to walk to the Market Square to buy something from one of the bakers.

He wandered down Shoemaker Row, his mind still on the relationship between the nearby marshes and the sweating sicknesses that sometimes crippled the town, absently nodding greetings to people he knew. He met Isnard the bargeman, who demanded to know whether Michaelhouse had plans to reinstate the choir now that Runham was dead. Bartholomew promised to mention it to Master Kenyngham, and Isnard suggested he made sure he did.

Next, he was hailed by Agatha, who was striding through the Market Square with a string of dead rabbits swinging from one hand.

‘Would you like one?’ she asked generously, waving the little corpses uncomfortably close to Bartholomew’s face. ‘Cynric gave them to me. He has been practising his archery in the water meadows near Newnham. I do not see why those Bene’t scoundrels should benefit from his skills and enjoy rabbit stew tonight while you eat nothing but dry bread.’

‘Why did you leave us?’ Bartholomew asked. ‘Did Runham put pressure on you to go?’

Agatha regarded him as if he were insane. ‘Do you think I would have gone if he had? God’s chosen do not pander to the whims of men like him.’

‘Oh, yes. I forgot about that,’ said Bartholomew weakly.

‘I went to Bene’t because Master Caumpes offered to pay me a respectable wage. And, of course, because Brother Michael suggested I could do God’s work better at Bene’t than at Michaelhouse for the moment. He has instructed me to watch those nasty Bene’t Fellows to see whether I can learn which of them killed Raysoun and Wymundham. Those of us who were spared the Death by God to make the Earth a better place do not approve of murder.’

‘None of us do.’

‘Wrong,’ declared Agatha. ‘Some people approve of it very much, and are skilled at it. But they will not best the likes of me and Brother Michael. And when I have brought this killer to justice, I shall return to Michaelhouse. The better pay at Bene’t is very nice, but I do not like working with that Osmun. I can see I will have to box his ears before too long, to teach him the lesson he is always trying to inflict on others.’

She stalked away, leaving Bartholomew the reluctant owner of a dead rabbit. He thought Michael must be growing desperate indeed, to use the unsubtle Agatha to spy on Bene’t.

‘I did not take you for a hunting man, Matthew,’ came Suttone’s amused voice at his side, as he gestured to the rabbit. ‘Or is that how your patients pay you these days?’

Bartholomew smiled. ‘Agatha gave it to me.’

‘I miss her,’ said Suttone. He saw Bartholomew’s doubtful expression and gave a grin. ‘I do. Your University is full of intriguers and liars, and her blunt honesty is a refreshing change.’

‘Well, perhaps she will return now that Runham has gone,’ said Bartholomew vaguely.

‘Are you really certain that Runham was murdered?’ asked Suttone, suddenly earnest. ‘So many people wanted him dead that it seems inevitable that one of them should have succeeded in killing him. But that logic worries me. Are you certain you are not jumping to conclusions? Perhaps he died naturally. He almost gave himself a seizure the other day when he became so enraged with William. Maybe he did the same again.’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘There is no doubt.’

Suttone sighed. ‘What a pity. But we must set about rectifying some of the wrongs he perpetrated over the last week – it may help his soul escape from Purgatory that much sooner. We should set about reinstating the choir as soon as possible. Brother Michael tells me that the bread and ale are important to those folk.’

‘We must see whether we can pay for it first. And we must ensure we have enough for the workmen.’

‘There were some coins and a few scraps of jewellery left in the chest. Use that.’

‘We cannot give away our resources while we have debts,’ said Bartholomew reasonably. While he sympathised with Suttone’s point of view, he did not think the builders would be happy to see Michaelhouse feeding the poor while refusing to pay their wages. They would have the townsfolk up in arms in an instant, and Michaelhouse would be attacked. And that would do no one any good.

‘I suppose you are right,’ said Suttone reluctantly. ‘What a vile mess that man has left us to sort out!’

After Suttone had returned to Michaelhouse, Bartholomew wandered around the Market Square, thinking about the disbanded choir and the death of Runham. As he was buying a pie from a baker with some of the blackest and most rotten teeth Bartholomew had ever seen – which the physician hoped had not resulted from consuming his own wares – he spotted Caumpes. The Fellow of Bene’t College was striding briskly towards the goldsmith’s premises, which stood in an alleyway behind St Mary’s Church. Bartholomew watched him stop outside the home of Harold of Haslingfield, glance around in a way that made it perfectly clear he did not want anyone to see him, and slip inside. Bartholomew sat on the low wall that marked the boundary of St Mary’s churchyard and ate his pie, his attention half on Michaelhouse’s financial travails and half on Caumpes’s suspicious behaviour.

He was just brushing the crumbs from his hands when Caumpes emerged from the goldsmith’s shop, first poking his head around the door to peer up and down the alleyway to see whether anyone was watching. Bartholomew pretended to be looking up at the church tower, and Caumpes, apparently satisfied that he was unobserved, walked quickly across the Market Square in the direction of Bene’t College.

Harold of Haslingfield was one of Bartholomew’s patients, treated regularly for a wheeziness in the lungs that the physician thought might be caused by years of inhaling the fine dust that tended to accompany working with hot metals. Bartholomew had recently acquired some myrrh from a pedlar, and had developed a balsam with Jonas the Poisoner that they hoped would ease shortness of breath in people with Harold’s complaint. He decided to visit Harold, to tell him about the new medicine and to see whether he could ascertain what Caumpes had been doing so furtively.

He pushed open the sturdy wooden door and stepped into the dim, acrid-smelling shop. Harold was stoking up a small furnace that produced waves of heat so intense that Bartholomew’s eyes watered, and was busy setting up the equipment he used for melting gold. Lying on the bench next to him were two bracelets of a heavy Celtic design.

‘Those are pretty,’ said Bartholomew, wondering whether Caumpes’s visit and the bracelets were connected. He recalled Stanmore mentioning that Caumpes dabbled in the black market, and that he often sold things to the town’s merchants. ‘May I see them?’

Carelessly, Harold picked up one of the pieces and tossed it to him. ‘Actually, they are rather ugly. There is not much call for Celtic work these days, and I will never be able to sell them as they are. I am about to melt them down and use the metal to make something more appealing.’

Other merchants might have seen Bartholomew as a potential customer, but Harold had known him for a long time and was aware that the physician did not have the resources to buy gold bracelets.

‘Did Thomas Caumpes sell them to you?’ asked Bartholomew, deciding to take a blunt approach.

Harold regarded him warily. ‘Yes, why? I hope you are not going to tell me they are stolen. I bought them from Master Caumpes in good faith, and he has never sold me anything illegal before.’

‘He sells items like this to you regularly?’

‘Yes,’ said Harold. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘No reason,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I just saw him coming out of your shop a few moments ago, and I wondered what scholar could afford to buy jewellery from the best goldsmith in the town.’

Harold smiled. ‘You would be surprised, Doctor. Not all your colleagues are as penniless as you. But Caumpes brings me items to sell or to melt down occasionally, and has done for years. I admit I was wary at first – we gold merchants are often offered pilfered goods, and I would lose my licence if my Guild thought I was doing anything illicit. I took what he had offered me to Sheriff Tulyet and to other members of the Guild, but nothing was identifiable as stolen.’

‘Does that mean they are not?’

Harold smiled again at Bartholomew’s forthright question. ‘No, but I told Caumpes exactly what I was going to do, and he was quite happy for me to check them before making my purchase. Had they been dishonestly obtained, he would have demanded them back and approached another merchant.’

‘How much gold has he offered you?’

‘I do not think I should tell you Caumpes’s secrets, Doctor,’ said Harold. ‘But I have been doing business with him for years – since he decided to abandon his own career as a merchant and become a scholar instead. You know that the University does not pay well, and its scholars need something more than their stipends to keep body and soul together. Caumpes comes to me when and if he has items he thinks I might want. He trades spices to Master Mortimer the baker, too.’

‘Spices?’

Harold shrugged. ‘Pepper, cinnamon, saffron and so on. But over the last few days, it has been gold and pieces of jewellery that he has had to sell.’

Bartholomew was puzzled. How did Caumpes have access to such items? Had they belonged to Wymundham or Raysoun, and Bene’t was selling them and keeping the profits, rather than passing the dead scholars’ possessions to their next of kin? Unlike Harold, Bartholomew was certain Caumpes’s business could not be entirely honest, because of the furtive way he had approached and left the shop. Bartholomew decided he would pass the information to Michael, and then they could discuss how it fitted in with the Bene’t scholars’ deaths – if indeed it did.

He told Harold about the new medicine for his lungs, left him to his gold fumes, and started to walk back to Michaelhouse to resume work on his treatise on fevers. On the way, he met Matilde, who smiled shyly at him.

‘Did you read my message?’ he asked anxiously. ‘For some reason known only to herself, Adela Tangmer has announced that we are to marry, even though she did not see fit to ask me first.’

‘And I take it you would not have accepted her offer, if she had?’ asked Matilde.

Bartholomew laughed. ‘I do not think so! And I suspect she would not take me anyway. I do not know enough about horses to interest her.’

‘Well, I am glad. I confess I was shocked when I heard the news.’ She hesitated. ‘I do not suppose you still have my green ribbon, do you? It was extremely rude of me to hurl it at you after you had given it to me. I am sorry, and I would like it back.’

‘I gave it to Robert de Blaston for Yolande,’ said Bartholomew apologetically. ‘He said it would cheer her.’

‘It would,’ agreed Matilde, although disappointment was clear in her face. ‘Never mind. How are your various investigations proceeding: Brother Patrick of Ovyng Hostel, Wymundham and Raysoun of Bene’t College, and now Runham of Michaelhouse?’

‘Put like that, they form quite a list,’ he said. ‘And they are Brother Michael’s cases, not mine.’

‘But you always help him in such matters. He would not be nearly so successful without your help, despite the high opinion he holds of his own abilities.’

‘You have heard about Runham’s death, then?’ he asked.

She nodded. ‘How did he die? There are rumours that he died by his own hand, that he was so delighted with his ever-growing coffers that he had a fatal seizure, and that one of the scholars did away with him. Which is true?’

‘We do not know,’ he said, looking down at his feet so that she would not see he was lying.

‘Murdered, then,’ she said immediately.

‘We think so,’ he admitted reluctantly. ‘But please do not feed that into your information network just yet – at least not until we can narrow our list of suspects from virtually every man, woman and child in Cambridge.’

‘Runham was just as unpopular as his nasty cousin, Master Wilson,’ observed Matilde. ‘Did you know that during the Death, Wilson used to sneak out of Michaelhouse every night to visit his mistress, the Prioress of St Radegund’s Convent?’

‘I did know,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It was how he came to catch the plague in the first place. During the day he stayed in his room and refused to see anyone, but at night he must have believed the sickness lost some of its potency, because he visited the Prioress regularly.’

‘He was a strange man,’ said Matilde. ‘One night, I remember coming back very late from sitting with one of the sisters who was ill, and I saw him gliding through the streets like the Grim Reaper. Someone cried out to him, begging him to give last rites – Wilson was an ordained priest and he was wearing his priest’s habit.’

‘But he ignored the plea and continued on his way to his lover?’ asked Bartholomew, knowing Wilson to have been a man devoid of compassion, particularly where it posed a risk to himself.

To his surprise, Matilde shook her head. ‘The dying man was a rich merchant, who had been abandoned by his terrified family. He said Wilson could have all he could carry from the house, if he would grant absolution.’

‘And Wilson agreed?’ asked Bartholomew in astonishment. ‘After skulking in his room all day to avoid contamination, he then went into the house of a sick man who offered him money?’

Matilde nodded. ‘I was intrigued, and so I hid in the shadows to watch. Moments later – Wilson must have furnished a very fast absolution – he came out, so loaded down with silver plates and gold cups that he could barely walk. Then he staggered off in the direction of Michaelhouse.’

Bartholomew shook his head in disbelief. ‘I have always wondered how Wilson managed to contract the disease. I assumed he would have run through the streets to reach the convent, and declined contact with anyone. So now I know.’

‘According to the sisters, that was not the only time. You know what it was like – people were terrified of dying unabsolved, and were prepared to give a willing priest all they owned in this world to help them safely into the next. By all accounts, Wilson made a tidy profit from the sick, because he helped people like Adela Tangmer’s mother, Sheriff Tulyet’s sisters, and Mayor Horwoode’s first wife, who were all wealthy citizens.’

‘And Wilson then gave it to me to pay for his own tomb,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘How ironic!’

‘But enough of Wilson,’ said Matilde with a shudder. ‘Even now I find him a repellent character. What about these more recent deaths?’

‘Wymundham and Raysoun are buried, and although I know Wymundham’s death was no accident, I have no idea whether the same was true of Raysoun’s. Michael’s beadles have been visiting taverns every night to see what they might learn – about Patrick as well as the Bene’t men – but they have heard nothing.’

‘But I told you Patrick was a shameless gossip. You should investigate the people he gossiped about,’ suggested Matilde.

‘I tried doing that at his hostel,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But it led nowhere. Perhaps the beadles will have better luck.’

‘Are these dead scholars associated in any way?’ asked Matilde. ‘Both Wymundham and Patrick were men who loved to tell tales and peddle information. Perhaps they were killed to ensure their silence regarding the same rumour.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The only connection, as far as I can see, is that they were University men. There is doubtless a link between the murder of Wymundham and the death of Raysoun – who were at the same College – but not with Patrick.’

‘Are you certain?’ pressed Matilde.

Bartholomew regarded her curiously. ‘As certain as I can be, given that we have very little information about them. Why? Do you know differently?’

‘No,’ said Matilde. ‘I have had the sisters asking questions in all sorts of places to see what they might discover for you, but they have revealed nothing useful, other than what I have already passed on.’

‘It is good of you to be going to so much effort,’ said Bartholomew sincerely.

She smiled and touched his cheek affectionately. ‘It is because I am concerned for you. I do not like the way Brother Michael drags you into these affairs.’

‘Neither do I,’ said Bartholomew vehemently. ‘I would rather concentrate on my teaching and visiting my patients.’

‘And seeing your friends?’ asked Matilde softly. ‘Is that important to you, too?’

‘You know it is,’ said Bartholomew, a little confused by her question.

She stood on tiptoe, quickly kissed his cheek and then was gone, stepping lightly over the muddy ruts of the High Street as she walked towards her home. He smiled suddenly, and thought that Michaelhouse, Bene’t and their various troubles were not so important after all. Briskly he walked back to the College, where he wrote an inspired description of the symptoms of quartan fever before falling asleep on the table.

The dull ache of cold feet woke him two hours later. He glanced out of the window to see that it was late afternoon, and that candles already burned in some scholars’ rooms. He straightened, wincing at his stiff shoulders and back, and rubbed his face, trying to dispel the peculiar light-headed sensation that he always experienced when woken from a deep sleep in the middle of the day. He was about to walk to the conclave to see whether anyone had lit the fire so that he could doze in front of it, when he recalled that he had an assignation with his self-proclaimed fiancée at sunset.

He seriously considered not going to meet Adela in the Church of the Holy Trinity, but suspected that it would be wiser to thrust his head into the lion’s mouth and address the issue of her rumour-spreading directly.

In the back of his mind was the uneasy suspicion that unless he confronted her soon about her decision to marry him, she might very well assume his compliance and take matters a stage further by inviting people to their nuptial celebrations.

Still fastening his cloak, he set off up St Michael’s Lane, crossed the High Street and walked down Shoemaker Row to the church Adela had selected for their rendezvous. The sun was low in the sky, huddled behind a band of clouds, and the market people were beginning to pack away their wares as the shadows lengthened and the afternoon dulled. The air rang with the increasingly strident yells of vendors wanting to sell the last of their perishable goods, while horses and carts cluttered the streets as the others began to make their way home. Bartholomew bought an apple pie from a baker at a ridiculously low price. It was surprisingly good, so he bought one for Michael, too.

The Church of the Holy Trinity on the edge of the Market Square was a honey-coloured stone building with fine traceried windows. Bartholomew pushed open the great wooden door and stepped inside, feeling the temperature immediately drop and the air become chill and damp. It was also gloomy. The sun was too low to provide much light, and there were no candles lit except for the one on the altar, which was kept burning day and night as a symbol of the perpetual presence of God.

Three Cluniac monks knelt in the chancel, and their low voices whispered through the darkness as they recited their offices. At the back of the nave, a scruffy clerk yawned as he packed away his pens and parchment, while in one of the aisles a vagrant snored and snuffled on a wall bench as he slept off an afternoon of drinking. The church smelled rather strongly of cat, which all but masked the perfume of cheap incense, and Bartholomew saw at least six amber eyes gleaming at him from the shadows.

The effects of a night without sleep were beginning to tell, and as soon as he sat on one of the benches near the wall, his eyes began to close. From nowhere, a voice hissed at his elbow.

‘Want to buy some wine?’

‘I beg your pardon?’ asked Bartholomew. The man who had spoken was a scruffy individual with a heavily whiskered face and the kind of purple nose that suggested he liked a drop to drink himself. He sighed impatiently. ‘Are you here for wine?’

‘No, of course not,’ said Bartholomew, puzzled. ‘Why would I come to a church for wine?’

The man looked hurt. ‘Because it is known all over town that I sell the cheapest wine in Cambridge, and that I can usually be found here late of an afternoon. I thought all scholars were aware of that.’

The selling of smuggled goods was not uncommon in Cambridge. Its location on the edge of the Fens meant it was easy to spirit contraband down the myriad of ditches and waterways without paying the heavy taxes imposed by the King to finance his wars with France. But Bartholomew had not been aware that Holy Trinity Church was the place to come for wines. He assured the man that he wanted nothing to drink, and watched him melt away into the shadows.

Adela was late, and Bartholomew gazed without much interest at the poorly executed wall paintings and at some graffiti that claimed in a bold hand that the Death would come again to claim all those who did not renounce their evil lives immediately. The sun set, and dusk settled in deeply, so that the shadows became impenetrably dark and Bartholomew could barely see the ground at his feet. He was about to give up and leave when the door crashed open, and Adela arrived. She slammed the door behind her, causing enough of a draught to douse the eternal flame.

‘I am glad you came, Matthew,’ she announced without preamble, grinning at Bartholomew with her long teeth. She either did not notice or did not care about the outraged scowls of the three Cluniacs who hastened to relight the altar candle. ‘I have something to tell you.’

‘Is it anything to do with the fact that you have determined upon plans for my future?’ he asked, raising his eyebrows but not smiling back at her.

She waved a dismissive hand. ‘Oh, forget that silly nonsense. I have something much more interesting to tell you than stupid marriage stories.’ She put her hands on her hips and took a deep breath. ‘I am quite winded, Matthew! Do you have any idea how difficult it is to find somewhere to tether a horse in Cambridge? I swear the streets are growing more crowded in this town. Soon it will be impossible to move at all, and we shall be stuck nose to tail in a solid line from dawn to nightfall.’

‘Then perhaps you should forgo horses and travel on foot,’ he suggested.

She regarded him as though he were insane. ‘The rumours are right about you – you do have peculiar opinions! A decent woman cannot be seen without a horse, and neither should a decent man. You should invest in a mount, Matthew. It would improve your standing as a physician in the town. I am sure your patients would be reassured to see you arrive at their sickbeds on a splendid filly, rather than crawling along the gutters in filthy boots.’

‘And I am sure they do not care one way or the other. Anyway, if they are in their sickbeds, they will not see me arrive at all.’

‘Do not quibble. The point remains the same: it is not fitting for a man of your station to be walking.’

‘But I do not like horses,’ he objected. ‘They smell of manure and rotten straw. And I am not keen on the way they slobber on your hands when you try to feed them.’

She gazed at him before releasing a raucous peal of laughter. The monks’ indignation increased, and they marched down the nave towards the west door. The vagrant snored on, and the clerk finished packing away the meagre tools of his trade and followed the monks, smiling at the unrestrained guffaws that echoed around the church. Bartholomew was not sure what Adela found so amusing.

‘They do smell,’ she said, when she had finally brought her mirth under control. ‘But so do people. And as for slobbering, all I can say is that you must have met some damned strange nags in your time. But I did not come to talk to you about horses, pleasant though that would be. I came to tell you about the dead friar at Ovyng Hostel. Matilde told me you were looking into it.’

‘Matilde?’ asked Bartholomew curiously. ‘How do you know her?’

‘Irrelevant,’ said Adela. ‘But the day Brother Patrick died–’

‘You are not one of the sisters, are you?’ he asked, unable to see many men wanting to romp with the energetic, mannish Adela, but knowing there was no accounting for taste.

She laughed again, hard and long, wiping the tears from her eyes as she did so. Bartholomew had not meant to be so outspoken, and was glad she had not taken offence at his blunt and impertinent question. He was tired, and knew he needed to pull himself together if he did not want inadvertently to insult someone else.

‘Really, Matthew!’ she gasped when she could speak.

‘Do you really think my father would allow me to run with the women of the night? He is a town burgess and the Master of the Guild of Corpus Christi – a respectable and influential man. I know he is more lenient with me than most parents would be, but there are limits.’

‘So how do you know Matilde, then?’

‘You do her an injustice if you think the “sisters” are her only interest.’

‘The birthing forceps,’ said Bartholomew, aware of their reassuring weight in his medical bag. ‘She said you helped her to design them.’

‘I did,’ said Adela. ‘I showed her the pair I use to ease foals from their mothers on occasion. But I also know her because she distributes food to the poor every Thursday afternoon, and I sometimes help with the odd donation of bread or meat.’

‘I did not know she did that,’ said Bartholomew.

‘There is a lot you do not know about her,’ replied Adela. ‘But unless you shut up and listen, you will not know what I have to tell you, either.’

‘Very well. Go on, then.’

‘It is about the death of that Franciscan – Brother Patrick. What I have to tell you occurred on the same day that I met you and Edith in the Market Square, when your sister told me she liked my favourite brown dress. Do you remember?’

‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew warily, recalling that he had been concerned that Adela would know that a compliment was not what Edith had intended.

‘I waited for a while – the friars always drop the price of their rat poison at sunset – and then I went to collect my horse, which I had tethered outside this church. I had to leave him here, because there was absolutely nowhere else. I told you finding somewhere to leave a horse is such a problem in Cambridge–’

‘Brother Patrick?’ prompted Bartholomew.

‘Well, I was just walking through the churchyard to collect the nag – it was Horwoode, if you remember him, the beast with the thin legs? – when I saw a Franciscan friar come racing from the church all white-faced and shocked-looking. He was running so blindly that he collided with me, and all but took a tumble in the mud.’

Bartholomew found it amusing and not entirely surprising that Adela seemed to have weathered the impact far better than had the friar: it had been he who had almost fallen, not her.

She put her hands on her hips and looked disgusted. ‘He ran off up Shoemaker Lane without uttering the most basic of apologies, as if the Devil himself were on his heels. Naturally, I was curious to know what had provoked such a reaction.’

‘Naturally,’ said Bartholomew. ‘So, what did you do?’

‘I came in here, to see what had frightened him. Men can be a bit feeble at times, and so I was anticipating that he had seen a spider or a mouse or some such thing, and had taken flight. But instead I saw a group of scholars standing at the high altar.’

She seized his arm in a grip that had tamed the wildest of horses, and hauled him to the spot where the gathering of scholars had allegedly taken place. Bartholomew was not sure where her involved tale was leading.

‘Some people would claim that insects and small rodents have a lot in common with scholars,’ he said, rubbing his arm where her fingers had pinched.

‘Very true,’ she agreed with a wheezy chuckle, positioning him at the low rail that separated the sanctuary from the main body of the church. ‘These scholars stood in a line along this bar, as you and I are standing now.’

‘But why should this friar – whom I assume you think was Patrick – find a group of scholars so terrifying?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘He was a scholar himself. He would not feel the need to flee from them.’

‘When I entered the church – in none too good a temper, I can tell you – they immediately started all that Latin muttering that they think passes for praying. And they quickly closed ranks, standing so that I would be unable to see past them.’

‘Is that it?’ asked Bartholomew, not sure why she considered that her tale would be of interest to him. ‘And how do you know this friar was Patrick anyway, and not someone else?’

‘Because I went and had a look at his body after he died,’ said Adela promptly. ‘He was laid out in St Mary’s Church, as though his colleagues at Ovyng Hostel grieved for him, although I am sure they do not.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Matilde has already told you that he had a reputation as a gossip. No one likes a tale-teller.’

‘But what induced you to go inspecting corpses in the first place?’

She sighed. ‘I wanted to make sure Ovyng’s murdered friar and the man who collided with me were one and the same before I passed along my intelligence to you.’

‘Well, thank you,’ said Bartholomew politely.

She gave him a vigorous slap on the shoulder that made him wince. ‘But I have not finished my story yet. I am saving the best part for last.’

‘Then what is it?’ asked Bartholomew, massaging his shoulder, and wondering how many more thumps and pinches he would have to endure before her tale was told.

‘These scholars all closed ranks at the rail, thinking that they would obscure my view of the altar. There were five of them, and they were all from that Devil’s den – Bene’t College.’

‘So, Bene’t scholars frightened Brother Patrick the day he died?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Yes they did, but I still have not told you the best bit. You will keep interrupting, Matthew! They closed ranks, as I said, but I am a tall woman, and I was able to see over them. What I saw was a leg – the leg of a man who lay on the ground. Perhaps a dead man’s leg.’