A Masterly Murder

Chapter 9

BARTHOLOMEW GAZED AT ADELA IN THE DARK church, and tried to match the story she had told him to the details he had already learned about the death of Brother Patrick. He wondered whether she was trying to side-track him, to distract his attention from the fact that she had claimed an intimacy with him that did not exist. If so, it was a desperate measure.

‘So, what did you do when you saw this leg – possibly that of a corpse – that the Bene’t Fellows were evidently trying to hide from you?’ he asked.

‘What do you think I did?’ she demanded, incredulous that he should even enquire. ‘I left and rode home as fast as Horwoode could carry me. Why? What would you have done?’

‘I do not know,’ said Bartholomew with a shrug. ‘Probably tried to see whether the leg belonged to someone who might need my help.’

‘If it had been a fetlock, I might have done the same,’ said Adela. ‘But since it was a human leg, and it occurred to me that they were concealing the corpse of a person, I did what any sane woman would do – I beat a prudent and hasty retreat, and did not linger to meddle in affairs I wanted nothing to do with.’

‘And these five men were definitely from Bene’t College?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Adela. ‘I know them all, because my father is Master of one of the two guilds that founded Bene’t, remember? I recognised that haughty Heltisle, that snivelling de Walton, that gaudy Simekyn Simeon who dresses like a woman, and those two revolting porters.’

‘Osmun and Ulfo?’

‘The very same. They are an unsavoury pair. I wonder that Heltisle keeps them on. They cannot be good for his College’s reputation.’

‘And Heltisle’s henchman, Thomas Caumpes? Was he there, too?’

‘No. Caumpes tends to keep his distance from the rest of that crowd. Who can blame him?’

‘He did not keep his distance when I was rash enough to pay Bene’t a visit yesterday. He seemed very much a part of their unpleasant little community.’

‘Doubtless he strives to give the appearance of unity to outsiders. He is an intensely loyal man, and cares very much about what other people think of his College.’

‘Then he should persuade Heltisle to rid Bene’t of Ulfo and Osmun.’

‘Perhaps he has tried. My father says he is the most reasonable of the Bene’t men and that he makes fewer outrageous demands on the Guild of St Mary and the Guild of Corpus Christi than do the others. As scholars go, he is the least offensive one that I know – other than you, I suppose.’

‘And it was definitely a leg you saw poking from behind this crowd who had gathered at the altar rail?’

‘As opposed to what?’ demanded Adela archly. ‘I may be a spinster, Matthew, but I know a leg when I see one. It was thin and scrawny with pale goldish hairs on it. Not particularly attractive. I prefer legs with a bit more meat on them.’

‘You would approve of Brother Michael’s, then.’

‘Not that much meat, thank you. I like something with muscle, as well as fat.’

‘Why wait until now to tell me this?’ asked Bartholomew, hastily changing the subject before they became too bogged down in anatomical details. ‘You have seen me several times since the day that happened, and you must have known the proctors are making enquiries into Brother Patrick’s death.’

‘It did not occur to me to tell you until Matilde mentioned that you were helping Brother Michael to investigate the matter when I met her this afternoon,’ said Adela. ‘I always thought you were more concerned with the living than the dead, Matthew. You are not interested in Patrick because you want his corpse to dissect for your students, are you?’

‘It is already buried,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But Brother Michael occasionally asks me to examine bodies for him.’

‘I see,’ said Adela, regarding him doubtfully. ‘Well, each to his own, I suppose. Matilde mentioned that you sometimes delve into the unsavoury world of murder. Most distasteful, I thought. You should develop an interest in horses instead. It would be much healthier.’

‘You seem to have had quite a lengthy discussion with Matilde about this. Did you also admit to her that you and I do not have an arrangement?’

Adela’s laughter echoed around the church again. ‘An “arrangement”! What a quaint way of putting it, Matthew! You mean did I tell her that you are free to pursue her, should she desire it?’

Bartholomew was not quite sure how to reply, seeing pitfalls in every direction.

Adela sighed. ‘She already knew I have no binding claim on you, although she did ask me to confirm it. I assumed that because Edith is so busy assessing all the available spinsters and widows in the town on your behalf, you were free of such attachments. I had no idea there were women who have a hankering for you.’

‘Are there?’

She smiled at him. ‘You seem more interested in my discussion with Matilde than in my leg story. Typical man! I risk my life telling you about something I was not meant to see, and all you can do is fix your lustful sights on a lady.’

‘Do you think the Bene’t scholars might harm you because you saw this leg?’ asked Bartholomew, concerned.

Adela’s smile remained, although it became wistful. ‘So, you do harbour a little feeling for me after all. You are worried lest they try to silence me, as I suspect they silenced Brother Patrick. I imagine he saw the body they were trying to hide, and now he is dead.’

‘Have you told anyone else about this?’

‘Not a soul. When it first happened, I assumed I had walked in on one of those silly fights you scholars so love. My instincts told me to forget what I had seen, and hope the Bene’t men would assume they had been successful in concealing the body from me. Then I discovered that the murdered friar and the man who had fled from the church were one and the same, and I realised the matter was a little more serious. I saw I should remain silent no longer.’

‘Why? You did not need to put yourself in danger.’

‘You know why,’ she said, looking down the nave and refusing to meet his eyes. ‘I felt I ought to make amends for the trouble I have caused you by claiming we were betrothed. But I am sure you will be careful with my information. I do not see you as the kind of man to go straight to that band of lunatics at Bene’t proclaiming that I saw them hiding a corpse in one of the town’s churches.’

‘I will be careful,’ he promised. ‘But why did you make up the story about our “betrothal” in the first place?’

‘Exasperation and desperation,’ she said with another sigh. ‘My father will not stop talking about marriage. I have horses to tend to, and have no time to listen to him prattling about heirs and childbirth and other equally unappealing topics. So, I said I was betrothed just to shut him up. Of course, then he wanted to know who to.’

‘Why pick me?’

‘I am sorry to disillusion you, Matthew, but you were the first appropriate mate who sprang to mind. I almost said Master Lynton from Peterhouse, because he had been helping me with a sick colt that afternoon, and I only just recalled in time that he is one of those chastity-bound fellows. Then I remembered you. It worked better than I could have hoped. My father kept quiet about weddings for a good four days. But then I heard that he had been spreading the news.’

‘He certainly had,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘Edith was furious with me.’

Adela gave an apologetic grin. ‘But you and I did agree to become allies against marriage. I thought you would not mind if we put our understanding to some practical use, and was hoping we would have a long betrothal with no wedding day to mar our lives, which would leave us both free to do what we liked.’

‘Well, I suppose there is no harm done,’ said Bartholomew. He had been leaning against a pillar, and he straightened in anticipation of leaving.

‘It was blissful for a while,’ said Adela dreamily. ‘My father even bought me a new saddle, so delighted was he that he would soon have a brood of grandchildren galloping around his feet. And he was pleased to think he would have a contact with your brother-in-law, too. Good for business, he said.’

‘I must go,’ said Bartholomew, stretching. He wanted to return to the College to see whether Michael had made any headway in uncovering the killer of Runham.

‘It has been a pleasure talking with you,’ said Adela, holding out a rough, calloused hand to him. ‘I hope we will be able to do business again some day.’

‘Right,’ said Bartholomew carefully, trying not to wince at what was one of the firmest grips he had ever encountered, and recalling that the last time he had shaken her hand, he had almost ended up accepting it in marriage, too.

The following day, life at Michaelhouse seemed almost back to normal. It was Sunday, so there were no workmen hammering and crashing, although a number of them had disobeyed the rule that no work was to be done on the Sabbath, and were surreptitiously performing small, unobtrusive tasks to ensure that they did not fall behind schedule.

On the way back from the church Bartholomew saw Mayor Horwoode, dressed in his finery as he walked to morning mass. The Mayor declined to acknowledge Bartholomew, although the youngest of his three step-daughters gave the physician a friendly wave. He hoped the chubby ten-year-old was not someone Edith had approached as a prospective wife.

In the High Street, a pedlar risked a heavy fine by selling his wares on the Sabbath. Bartholomew risked the same by purchasing a piece of green ribbon and arranging to have it delivered to Matilde’s home that morning.

Almost as soon as breakfast was over, he received a summons from the itinerants who lived in skin tents near the Castle, and was delighted to be presented with an opportunity to use his new birthing forceps. While the patient’s man looked on with a white face, Bartholomew successfully extracted a healthy baby before its mother laboured so long that she bled to death. Nevertheless, he spent the rest of the day in the chilly camp, to ensure that there were no complications. By the time he returned to Michaelhouse it was dark, and cooking fires were lit all over the town, so that the air was thick with a haze of smoke and smelled of burning wood and food. He coughed as the particles suspended in the night mist tickled the back of his throat, and wondered how the damp, foggy evenings affected those of his patients with lung diseases. He was certain the thick atmosphere at this time of night was not good for them.

He knocked at Michaelhouse’s gate, and waited for some moments before he remembered that Runham had dismissed the porters and that no one would answer his hammering. Assuming that someone would have locked the gate as dusk fell, he was wondering whether he might have to scale the walls, when it occurred to him to try the handle before attempting anything so energetic. He was surprised and not very impressed to discover that not only was the wicket gate unlocked, but that the great wooden door was not barred either. Cambridge was an uneasy town, and leaving the gates open after dark was tantamount to inviting an attack. Disgusted, he made a mental note to remind Kenyngham that students would have to act as guards until more porters could be hired.

He picked up one of the heavy bars and was manoeuvring it into place when he saw two scholars walking towards him, their hoods pulled over their heads to combat the evening chill. The hoods rendered them unrecognisable, and he assumed they were students intending to spend the night on the town. Well, they could give up that notion, he decided. While Runham might have been content to allow Michaelhouse students to frequent taverns – where they would inevitably fight with the townsfolk – by not employing porters to keep them in, Bartholomew was not prepared to risk it. As one of them reached out to open the wicket gate, Bartholomew grabbed his arm.

‘You can help me bar the gate, and then you will return to your rooms,’ he said curtly. ‘You know you are not supposed to leave the College at night.’

The pair exchanged a glance, and then one of them bent to pick up one end of the heavy wooden bar, indicating that Bartholomew should lift the other.

‘Who are you?’ asked Bartholomew, struggling with the timber. ‘I cannot see you in the dark. You had better not be Gray and Deynman.’

The bar went crashing to the ground so abruptly that Bartholomew lost his balance. Then the wicket gate was wrenched open, and the pair were away. With sudden clarity, the physician recalled another time when two scholars had emerged from Michaelhouse and disappeared into the darkness – when they had shoved him into the mud the night Runham became Master. Determined that they should not elude him a second time, he dived full length and managed to grab the cloak of the second of them. The scholar was jerked to a dead stop in his tracks as the garment tightened around his throat, and then began frantically tugging to try to free it.

Bartholomew yelled at the top of his voice, aiming to attract the attention of the other Michaelhouse Fellows. Distantly, he heard his colleagues, irritably demanding to know why someone was making such an ungodly row in the courtyard. Among them was Michael’s voice, although that stopped the instant the monk became aware that some kind of tussle was in progress, and Bartholomew could hear his footsteps thundering down the wooden stairs that led from his room.

Just when Bartholomew was confident he could maintain his precarious hold on the student’s cloak long enough to allow the others to reach him, there was a deep groan that seemed to shudder through the very ground on which he lay. The voices of his colleagues faltered and then fell silent. The scholar Bartholomew held hauled at his cloak with increasing desperation.

And then there was an almighty crash, louder than anything Bartholomew had ever heard before, and the ground shivered and shook. A great cloud of dust billowed over him the same instant that the cloaked scholar finally freed the hem of his cloak. The physician glimpsed the soles of his shoes as the student fled, and the wicket door slammed closed behind him as he made good his escape. Meanwhile, small pieces of timber and plaster began pattering down like rain, and Bartholomew instinctively covered his head with his arms.

He clambered to his feet, coughing and staggering in the swirling dust. For several moments he was completely disorientated, but then the dust began to clear and he could see that the entire mass of scaffolding which had been erected over the north wing had collapsed, tearing with it part of the roof and all the gutters.

Had it been chance that two mysterious strangers were in Michaelhouse just as the scaffolding had fallen? Were they the same pair that he had encountered the night that Runham had been elected Master? Bartholomew felt certain that they were.

‘Where is Michael?’ came Kenyngham’s worried voice from the crowd of scholars who milled about excitedly in the yard. ‘He was in his room when I last saw him.’

With growing horror, Bartholomew saw that the eastern end of the north wing – where Michael’s room was located – had been seriously damaged by the collapsing timber. And Bartholomew had quite clearly heard Michael’s distinctive footsteps on the stairs moments before the whole thing had fallen!

Bartholomew gazed aghast at the rubble of Michael’s room, his stomach churning as his disbelieving mind tried to make sense out of what had happened. Dust still swirled in hazy clouds, and somewhere there was a second crash as yet more staves and supports tumbled to the ground. Scholars raced from their chambers, the hall and the conclave and stood in the yard in shock. A few workmen, still illicitly working as the Sabbath light faded, joined them, and stood next to the scholars, white-faced at the damage and the delay it would cause.

‘What has happened?’ cried Clippesby, as he dashed into the College from the lane. ‘I heard that terrible noise all the way from the High Street! I have been visiting Master Raysoun at Bene’t.’

Suttone shot him an anxious glance. ‘Raysoun is dead,’ he said warily.

‘Yes,’ replied Clippesby, as if it were obvious. ‘But the dead like to be visited, and to be asked their opinions about this and that. It helps pass the time of Eternity for them, and I often stop at Raysoun’s tomb to hear what he has to say.’

‘Perhaps you should go and lie down,’ began Suttone nervously, evidently deciding that the College could do without a madman on the loose at that precise moment.

Clippesby waved a dismissive hand. ‘Later. What happened here? Has the whole north wing collapsed?’

‘Michael!’ whispered Bartholomew, who was still staring at the crushed shell that had been the monk’s chamber. ‘He was in the building. I heard him on the stairs.’

‘Then we need to fetch him out,’ shouted Langelee, darting forward and beginning to scramble through the wreckage.

The carpenter Robert de Blaston tried to haul him back. ‘No, not yet! It is not safe. Wait until it has settled.’

Langelee shook him off, and, oblivious to the danger to himself, continued to clamber across the dusty rubble to where the door to Michael’s staircase had been located. Finally recovering his wits, Bartholomew followed his example, grazing hands and knees in his desperation to reach the monk.

‘No!’ cried Blaston, advancing a few steps to snatch at Bartholomew’s tabard. ‘Your weight might bring more of it down. Wait until we are able to assess it properly.’

He watched helplessly as Bartholomew tugged himself free, and he and Langelee picked their way through broken spars, smashed tiles and endless tangles of rope.

‘I said you were working too fast,’ yelled Langelee furiously, casting an accusing glower over his shoulder at the carpenter. ‘And now look what has happened.’

Bartholomew stepped on a timber that was poorly balanced and it collapsed, sending him sliding down in another explosion of dust. Choking and gagging, Langelee proffered a meaty hand to haul him up.

He was not the only one coughing. From somewhere deep inside the wreckage, Bartholomew could hear Michael.

‘Brother? Where are you?’ he yelled.

‘Sitting on the stairs in the hallway,’ the monk shouted back. ‘Has the scaffolding fallen? It is pitch black in here and I cannot see a thing.’

‘Thank God!’ breathed Suttone, coming to join them. ‘For a moment, I feared the worst.’

‘Are you hurt?’ called Bartholomew.

‘No,’ said Michael. ‘I was just coming to help you with that pair of ruffians when there was a crash and everything went dark. The exit is blocked, so I will wait in my room for you to excavate it.’

‘You do not have a room, Brother,’ said Langelee. ‘The roof was smashed when the scaffolding fell. Stay where you are and wait for us to reach you.’

‘Well, just how long will that be?’ came Michael’s peeved tones. ‘I have better things to do than to sit around on dark staircases, you know.’

Bartholomew exchanged a grin of relief with Langelee and Suttone. There was nothing wrong with the monk if he was able to complain. The physician yielded to Blaston’s persistent tugs and moved away from the wreckage, allowing him and his workmate Adam de Newenham to decide the best way to untangle the mess and free Michael. While the two carpenters stood together arguing and planning in loud, important voices, Bartholomew sat on the steps to the hall and rested his arms on his knees. Across the courtyard, he could hear Kenyngham taking a roll-call, ensuring that no one but Michael was unfortunate enough to have been caught in the collapse.

He looked around the College, as if seeing it for the first time, gazing up at the black silhouettes against the sky, and at the faint golden gleams of candles and firelight that filtered through badly fitting window shutters. Langelee came to sit next to him, regarding the wreckage with a shake of his head.

‘I think your room and medical store survived, but anything you left on the windowsill will be destroyed, and there will be dust everywhere – although I see you left the shutters closed, which will help. Poor Michael’s chamber is a lost cause, though. Did he own anything valuable?’

‘Probably,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘I do not know. We did not discuss that kind of thing.’

‘You sound like Father William,’ said Langelee disapprovingly. ‘There is nothing wrong with possessing a few worldly goods to render life a little more tolerable, you know.’

‘It was good of you to risk yourself to help Michael,’ said Bartholomew, recalling the philosopher’s wild scramble through the wreckage. He wondered whether Michael would have done the same for Langelee, and quickly concluded that the answer was definitely no.

‘Guilt,’ said Langelee.

Bartholomew stared at him uncomprehendingly.

Langelee sighed. ‘You were right: I should not have mentioned the Oxford business to prevent Michael from standing as Master. Unsavoury though it is to have dealings with that place, it was unfair of me to have used it against him.’

‘I studied at Oxford,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I do not understand why everyone has taken against it so. It is bigger than Cambridge, so there are more fights, but it has an undeniable atmosphere of learning and scholarship. Some of the best minds in Christendom are there.’

It was Langelee’s turn to gaze. ‘You are an Oxford man? Well, that explains a lot about you,’ he said rudely. ‘I thought you learned your leeching in Paris.’

‘That was later. You realise that Michael will not readily forgive you for destroying his chance of becoming Master? He cannot stand even now that Runham is dead, because your accusations still hang over him.’

‘But I just saved his life,’ Langelee pointed out. ‘We are even again.’

Bartholomew was certain Michael would not agree, and was equally certain that at some point in the future, Langelee would pay dearly for his error of judgement in thwarting Michael’s ambitions.

‘So, what were you yelling about just before this happened?’ asked Langelee, changing the subject. ‘Did you see the scaffolding about to fall? I heard you howling at the top of your voice when the whole lot crumbled.’

‘There were two men in the College whom I did not recognise,’ said Bartholomew, not sure what else he could say about the mysterious cloaked figures who had fled when he challenged them.

Langelee regarded him askance. ‘It is not a crime for people to visit us, Bartholomew. I had a couple of guests myself, as it happened. They left just before the scaffolding collapsed, so it was probably them you hollered at.’

‘Really?’ asked Bartholomew, his mind whirling. ‘Who were they?’

‘Simekyn Simeon from Bene’t and one of his College’s porters – a man called Osmun. Simeon and I have known each other for years; he is in the service of the Duke of Lancaster and I met him often when I worked for the Archbishop of York. It was he who invited me to Bene’t last week, so that I could meet the Duke.’

Bartholomew stared at him. Could it be possible that the two Bene’t men had done something to make the scaffolding collapse, perhaps to spite Michaelhouse for poaching its labourers? Was it Simeon and Osmun who Bartholomew had grabbed as they tried to leave? It could have been – as far as he could tell in the dark, they were about the right size and shape.

But surely it would have been somewhat brazen, not to mention risky, for the two Bene’t men to sabotage Michaelhouse while visiting Langelee? Bartholomew rubbed his head. There was Clippesby, too: he had entered the College just after the two intruders had left, claiming to be returning from Raysoun’s grave. Had he merely thrown off his cloaked disguise and re-entered the College as himself, pretending to be as shocked by the incident as everyone else?

Or was the collapse merely an accident? Langelee was not the first to observe that the scaffolding had been thrown up in too great a hurry, while the carpenters Blaston and Newenham did not seem surprised that the whole thing had come tumbling down around their ears. Embarrassed and annoyed, but not surprised.

Bartholomew closed his eyes tiredly. At least now that Runham was dead the College should settle back into the routine of its everyday affairs, especially if Kenyngham were to be Master again, to heal with kindness and understanding the rifts and squabbles engendered by Runham.

‘Come on!’ shouted Blaston, turning to the watching scholars. ‘We can have that fat monk out in a few moments, if there are willing hands to help.’

Bartholomew and Langelee moved forward with the others, while the carpenters carefully directed the removal of each timber, so that the whole operation was conducted safely and efficiently and none of the scholars suffered so much as a splinter. Lights flickered like great fireflies as Kenyngham, Clippesby and Suttone held lamps and the only sounds were the detailed orders of the two carpenters. It was not long before the mess of wreckage was sufficiently untangled to allow Michael to climb out. Brushing dust from his habit, he stepped daintily across broken timbers and smashed tiles to the safety of the courtyard beyond.

‘I thought you were in your room when that lot came down,’ said Langelee, as he offered the monk a cup of wine to wash the dust from his throat. ‘Kenyngham told me you had gone to rest.’

‘I had,’ said Michael, drinking deeply and holding out the cup to be refilled. Langelee grimaced but did as he was bidden. ‘I was fast asleep when Matt woke me with all that yelling. I was on my way down the stairs to see what the fuss was about when the scaffolding fell.’ He gazed up at the ruins of his room and shuddered. ‘I see I would have slept all too well had I been lying in my bed when that happened.’

‘I said it was all going ahead too quickly,’ reiterated Langelee, snatching the cup from Michael before he could demand yet more wine. ‘I know about buildings – the Archbishop of York likes to raise them when he can get the money – and I told Runham this was all moving forward far too fast.’

‘I need a drink,’ said Michael with a sigh, as though the two cups provided by Langelee had never existed. ‘I cannot bear to watch my lovely College in such a state. Come on, Matt. The Brazen George awaits.’

‘We cannot go to a tavern and leave the others to do all the work,’ said Bartholomew, looking across to where students and Fellows alike still laboured over the fallen scaffolding.

‘They are stopping,’ said Michael, watching Blaston clap his hands and announce it was too late and too dark to manage anything more that night.

‘Good,’ said Langelee. ‘I will arrange some refreshment for everyone in the hall – assuming Michaelhouse has bothered to invest in optional extras, like food and wine, of course. There is still some Widow’s Wine left, but no one but William and I seem to like that.’ He strode away, hailing the cooks as he went.

‘Are you sure you are unharmed, Brother?’ asked Suttone anxiously, looking Michael up and down. ‘You are covered in dust.’

‘It will brush off,’ replied Michael. ‘And I am perfectly unharmed, thank you.’

‘Then I will go and ensure that Langelee does not turn his evening of refreshment into something that might be construed as a celebration of Runham’s death,’ said Suttone. ‘The students have been itching to do exactly that all day, and such an occasion would do Michaelhouse’s reputation no good at all.’

‘Oh, Lord!’ said Michael wearily. ‘I had not thought of that.’

‘I will enlist the help of Father William, if I can persuade him to leave his friary,’ said Suttone with a somewhat wicked grin. ‘He will not allow any unseemly debauchery.’

‘He still has not returned?’ asked Bartholomew.

Suttone shook his head. ‘According to Paul, he remains afraid of being accused of Runham’s murder. Still, perhaps the notion of students enjoying some refreshment without the benefit of his censuring eye will entice him out. I will send Deynman with a message urging him to come back.’

‘Good idea,’ said Michael.

Suttone looked concerned. ‘But you should rest, Brother, to ensure you do not suffer another bout of your recent illness. Your room is ruined, but you are welcome to use mine.’

‘You are most kind,’ said Michael, touched. ‘But the empty servants’ quarters will serve me for tonight.’ He watched Suttone hurry across the yard, calling for Deynman. ‘He is a good man, Matt. I wish there were more like him in Michaelhouse.’

‘Perhaps Paul will come back now that Runham is dead,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘And at least Kenyngham will not leave for a while yet.’

‘I do not like that Clippesby,’ said Michael, turning to look at the Dominican, who seemed to be having a discussion with a bucket of mortar. ‘I am not sure he is sane. With scholars, it is sometimes difficult to tell, since academic eccentricity is often very close to plain old lunacy. But I need time to think, away from this place. How do I look? Am I too dusty to be seen in public?’

‘It is dark, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘No one will notice.’

Michael brushed himself down. ‘Lend me one of your cloaks – the good one, not that tatty thing with the moth-holes in it. And let us go forth to see what fare is on offer at the Brazen George tonight.’

As usual, the Brazen George offered a good many things that a man of Michael’s ample girth would have been wise to avoid. There was chicken baked in goose fat, sweet pastries swimming in a sickly sauce and saffron bread served with plenty of butter. Ignoring Bartholomew’s warning that such rich food would not be good for a man so soon out of his sickbed, Michael ordered it all, and settled down comfortably to enjoy it with his knife and horn spoon held like weapons and his face wearing a beam of pure contentment.

‘All we need to make the evening complete are a couple of ladies to keep us company,’ he said, smiling at Bartholomew, who was regarding the repast with the trepidation of a man too used to plain College food. ‘Perhaps we could send for Matilde.’

‘We are breaking the University’s rules just by being in a tavern after dark,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘It would probably be prudent not to make matters worse by fraternising with prostitutes.’

‘I am the Senior Proctor,’ said Michael, taking a healthy mouthful of chicken. ‘I can fraternise with whomever I like – on University business, of course.’

They were sitting in a small chamber at the back of the tavern, which the innkeeper reserved for people who did not want to drink – or be seen drinking – with the rabble. It was a pleasant room, with its own fire. Its walls were colourfully and tastefully decorated with paintings, and there were clean, sweet-smelling rushes on the floor. Michael and Bartholomew had used it many times, and the monk did sufficient business in the Brazen George to ensure that it was his any time he requested it.

‘Well, Matt, that was an unpleasant accident,’ said Michael, taking another large mouthful of chicken and following it with a huge slurp of wine. He began to choke.

‘Eat slowly, Brother,’ said Bartholomew automatically, slapping the fat monk on the back. ‘If it was an accident. I am not so sure about that.’

‘What?’ gasped Michael, eyes watering. ‘Of course it was an accident. You heard what Langelee said. We all knew that Runham was forcing the pace of the building work too hard, and that corners were being cut. It all boils down to cheap materials, careless work and bad luck.’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘Those two scholars I almost caught sneaking out of Michaelhouse just before the collapse might have been the same two we saw the night Runham was elected. Remember what we considered then? That the Widow’s Wine may have been specially provided, so that those two could enter the College to do something while everyone was too intoxicated to notice?’

‘But we did not know what that “something” could be,’ Michael pointed out.

‘That is irrelevant,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The point is that they could be the same pair as the ones I encountered tonight. I think it is too much of a coincidence that the scaffolding collapsed the instant they were making their way out of College.’

‘Coincidences do occur, you know.’

‘But if their intentions were innocent, why did they run when I tried to speak to them?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘If they had nothing to hide, it would not have been necessary to make an escape.’

‘It depends on who they were,’ said Michael. ‘I occasionally have meetings with people who would rather their identities were not made known to the world at large. Why do you think I am so efficient at solving crimes?’

‘But you are a proctor,’ said Bartholomew. ‘People have good reason to be telling you secrets. None of the other Fellows should need to have furtive guests in their quarters. Perhaps it was Simeon and Osmun from Bene’t that I saw; Langelee said they had been to visit him shortly before the building collapsed.’

‘If they were visiting Langelee innocently – and the fact that he mentioned them to you suggests they were – they would have no reason to hide their identities from you as they walked out.’ Michael had almost finished the chicken, and all that remained was a growing heap of gnawed bones. He turned his attention to the bread and pastries.

‘I suppose so,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But I am still certain that it was no accident that the scaffolding fell.’

‘If you are right, Matt, that means one of two things. Either someone – the scholars of Bene’t, for example – wants the building work at Michaelhouse to suffer a serious setback for some reason. Or someone intended another person harm.’

‘Who would induce that kind of dislike?’ asked Bartholomew.

Michael chewed his bread thoughtfully. ‘Well, since it was my room that was demolished, I think we must suppose that I was the intended victim.’

‘You? But why?’

‘I imagine because I have a fabulous reputation for solving murders, and someone is worried that I might uncover who did away with our much-beloved Master Runham.’

‘A Michaelhouse scholar?’ asked Bartholomew, after a moment. He closed his eyes. ‘Not again, Brother! It is bad enough that someone murdered Runham, but that the killer is also prepared to strike at you so that his crime goes undetected is much worse – it is premeditated and deliberate.’

‘Do not be so ready to jump to conclusions,’ said Michael. ‘Personally, I think you are wrong about the scaffolding. I think it was coincidence that it fell just as you were wrestling a couple of visitors to the ground, and I think it was chance that my room happened to be the one that was worst affected. But I do think that the two hooded men you attacked tonight were probably up to no good, and I suspect it was somehow connected to the other pair you challenged last week.’

‘Something to do with Runham?’

‘Possibly,’ said Michael.

Bartholomew sighed. ‘Another coincidence in all this, if I am right about the scaffolding and the whole thing was an attempt on your life, is that it is odd that the last time the mysterious pair were seen emerging from the College was the night you became ill.’

Michael raised sardonic eyebrows. ‘But you said it was the insect bite that made me unwell. Are you now suggesting someone hired a bee to act as an agent to kill me? How was it paid? In honey?’

‘I am merely mentioning that I think it is odd that those two appear both times your life has been in danger recently.’

Michael selected a pastry and deigned to humour him. ‘So are you certain it was the bee sting that made me ill, and not something else – something slipped into my food or drink, perhaps?’

‘No, the infection in your arm caused the problem. It …’

With sudden clarity, Bartholomew remembered the salve he had used to relieve the intense itching in Michael’s arm – the salve that was missing from his bag by the time he needed it to heal the rat bite in the riverman’s leg a couple of days later. Had someone tampered with it, replacing the healing balm with something sinister? Was that why Michael’s wound had festered? It was too ludicrous to imagine. How could anyone know which salve Bartholomew would use on Michael? But the answer to that was clear: it was a standard cure and instructions for its use were written on the jar.

Bartholomew told Michael what he had reasoned, but the monk shook his head impatiently. ‘No, Matt. You have let Runham’s accusations about me being poisoned unsettle you. The fact is that you told me not to scratch that sting, and I did not listen. My resulting illness was my own fault – although I will never admit that to anyone else.’

He reached out and selected one of the sweet pastries, swallowing half of it in a single bite. Bartholomew was still uncertain. ‘Then what happened to the salve afterwards? Who took it?’

‘No one took it, Matt. You probably lost it – or Gray or Bulbeck borrowed it and forgot to replace it.’ He shoved the second half of the cake in his mouth. ‘This is good. You should try some.’

Absently, Bartholomew took a pastry and ate it, while he tried to think of a reason why two men might enter the College – at least twice now – and decline to allow their identities to be made known. Nothing came to mind, and he turned his thoughts to his conversation with Adela. He outlined what she had told him, adding that Matilde remained insistent there was some link between the gossiping Patrick and the equally loose-tongued Wymundham, while Michael ate the last of the food.

‘That is very interesting, Matt. It was good of Adela to put self-preservation second to seeing justice done. Her information helps me a good deal.’

‘It does?’ asked Bartholomew, sipping the mulled ale that he had allowed to grow cold.

‘It tells me that the Bene’t scholars know more than they have revealed about Wymundham’s death – it seems reasonable to assume that the leg was his – and it might even tell me who killed Brother Patrick. I feared that case might prove impossible to solve, but now I have a clue.’

‘You think Heltisle and his colleagues killed Wymundham in Holy Trinity Church? And that Brother Patrick saw the murder, and that he was stabbed to ensure his silence?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking Michael’s deductions from Adela’s revelations sounded just as far-fetched as his own musings about Michaelhouse’s two intruders.

‘That is about the size of it. It fits what we already know. Shortly after Raysoun’s death, you saw Wymundham slip into Holy Trinity Church. You said he was moving furtively, as though he did not want to be seen. I suspect one of his colleagues had lured him to that meeting, perhaps claiming to be me wanting to know what Raysoun had whispered with his dying breath.’

‘And then, when he arrived, he found a deputation from Bene’t awaiting him, and they smothered him in the church?’ asked Bartholomew uncertainly. ‘I do not know, Brother. It was a weekday, and Holy Trinity stands on the Market Square. It is scarcely a secluded spot for a murder.’

‘But Wymundham would not have gone to a secluded spot,’ argued Michael. ‘The man was not a fool, and he was already burdened with anxiety about the secrets he wanted to tell you, but did not. Holy Trinity would have been perfect – public enough to make him feel safe, but far enough from Bene’t so that he would not associate a summons there with his murdered colleague.’

‘But it was a poor choice as far as the killer was concerned,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘Both Brother Patrick and Adela probably saw what happened.’

‘The door should have been barred,’ agreed Michael. ‘But I doubt there was time to arrange a murder too carefully. Raysoun was already dead, possibly stabbed then pushed, and Wymundham was on the verge of exposing his College’s misdemeanours. You cannot expect any plan developed in so short a time to be perfect.’

‘But then what happened?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Wymundham was killed in the church, and then what? How did his body end up in Horwoode’s garden?’

‘Holy Trinity is not far from the King’s Ditch,’ said Michael. ‘In fact, all that separates the two is a patch of scrub that would be easy to traverse with a small, light body like Wymundham’s. I imagine it was then loaded on to a boat and dumped off at a conveniently isolated place.’

‘Do you think the choice of Horwoode’s garden was random, then?’ asked Bartholomew.

Michael shrugged. ‘I have no idea. It is a desolate spot – despite the fact that Horwoode said he likes to stroll there – and so would suit our killer’s purpose very well. No murderer wants to travel far with the body of his victim in a boat.’

‘But why kill Patrick and not Adela?’ asked Bartholomew, still not understanding all the twists and turns. ‘It seems to me that they saw the same thing.’

‘Perhaps Patrick caught him actually suffocating Wymundham – heard gasps and saw someone holding a pillow,’ Michael said. ‘Adela saw nothing but a leg, and the scholars probably thought that she did not even see that. Besides, it would have been easy to murder Patrick. Friars are always killing each other, especially the Franciscans and Dominicans, and the unwitnessed death of yet another in the grounds of his own hostel would not raise – has not raised – too many eyebrows.’

‘But the murder of a merchant’s daughter would attract a lot more attention.’

‘Quite. And anyway, Adela kept silent about what she had seen, so they probably assumed – wrongly as it happened – that she had witnessed nothing incriminating.’

‘And it probably was Wymundham’s body she glimpsed,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I never saw his legs, but he was a slim man with fair hair. The leg Adela says she spotted was thin and covered in goldish hairs.’

Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘That is uncommonly observant of her.’

‘She seems to like looking at legs,’ said Bartholomew. ‘A conversation with her seldom passes without a comment on some man’s limbs.’

‘Our path is clear,’ said Michael, wiping his greasy fingers on the hem of Bartholomew’s cloak. ‘Tomorrow I will visit our friends in Bene’t and see whether I can frighten them into telling me more about Wymundham’s death. And perhaps I will also ask them if they have been creeping around Michaelhouse recently wearing hooded cloaks, just to please you. But there is something I want to do first.’

‘What?’ asked Bartholomew, picking up the shabbier of his two cloaks, and swinging it round his shoulders. Something dropped from it to the floor.

‘An apple pie!’ exclaimed Michael, pouncing on it.

‘I bought it for you yesterday,’ said Bartholomew, taking the broken pastry from him. ‘But you will not be wanting it now that you have eaten. It will be stale, anyway.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Michael, taking it back and secreting it in his scrip for later. ‘It was a very kind thought, and I would never offend you by declining such a gift. There will be too many people around tonight, after the collapse of that scaffolding, but tomorrow, after everyone has gone to bed, I would like you to come with me to Master Runham’s room.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew nervously.

‘Because that is where he died, and that is where we will find any clues to help us discover who killed him. If the murderer left a single thread of evidence, you and I must find it.’

The window shutters were closed in Runham’s room, and nothing had been damaged when the scaffolding had fallen the previous evening. The sill lay under a thick layer of dust, and there was a fine smattering of powder all across the room where it had billowed through the gaps in the wood, but apart from that, the room was exactly as it had been when Runham’s body had been discovered.

Runham himself lay in a fine coffin in St Michael’s Church, where students had been bribed, threatened and cajoled into taking turns to keep a vigil. He was due to be buried in three days, and his will had stipulated that the occasion should be a suitably grand one. When Kenyngham had read Runham’s demands for his own requiem at dinner that evening, even he had been unable to silence the amused catcalls and derisive hoots of the students as the full glory of the ceremonies that were to take place were unveiled.

Michael had chuckled unpleasantly, remarking several times that Runham would go to the next world as he had lived in this one – full of sham grandeur and without a soul who genuinely liked him. Bartholomew was astonished that the dead Master had the money to pay for such an event, and could only suppose that handsome funerals and tombs were something for which his family had a penchant. He was relieved that he had not been given the responsibility for arranging matters, as he had with Wilson, but was dismayed to learn that Runham had selected himself a spot in the chancel of St Michael’s Church where his own monstrous mausoleum would outshine even that of his cousin.

Teaching had finished early because of the workmen’s noise, and Bartholomew had spent the rest of the day with various patients. He was even able to find a few moments to stop off at Stanmore’s business premises in Milne Street and eat one of his sister’s excellent cakes. Edith assured him that the hunt for a suitable wife was proceeding apace, and that he should keep the following Sunday free for socialising. She brushed aside his anxious objections, and merely informed him that it would be safer to leave Michaelhouse as soon as he could, given the number of murders that occurred in University circles.

On his way home he had met Matilde, who told him that the case against Robin of Grantchester had been dismissed, because it could not be proven that the surgeon had deliberately tried to kill the man whose leg he had amputated. Bartholomew was relieved, not liking the notion that every unsuccessful outcome should end in the courts. He walked back to Michaelhouse feeling more cheerful, particularly since he had noticed that Matilde wore a green ribbon in her hair.

He worked on his treatise until the daylight faded, then sat with the other Fellows in the conclave, enjoying the cosy warmth of the fire. Suttone had a copy of Homer’s Iliad, which he read aloud to entertain the others, although the story about the Trojan horse sparked some telling opinions. Michael thought the disaster was the Trojans’ own fault for not being properly suspicious of a gift from nowhere; Suttone considered the Greeks’ trick unconscionable, and wondered how they ever assuaged their guilt; Langelee was unable to move past the question of how the Trojans managed to exit from the horse to mount a surprise attack when it would have taken them some time to descend the ladders; Clippesby suggested the Trojans should have sent someone to talk to the horse before allowing it in their city; Kenyngham was distressed by the notion of a massacre; and Bartholomew was concerned that the tale would give the gentle Gilbertine nightmares.

Eventually, as the embers in the fire died and the room began to chill, the other Fellows drifted away to their beds.

Michael and Bartholomew lingered in the conclave, preparing for their nocturnal foray to the murdered Runham’s chamber. While they waited for the College to sleep, the monk described the visit he had made to Bene’t College earlier that day. Fellows and students alike had claimed to know nothing about the death of Wymundham, even the foppish Simeon, who had been sufficiently concerned about the matter to invade Michael’s sickroom the previous week. The Bene’t men used the Duke of Lancaster’s pronouncement that there had been nothing untoward in the two deaths to declare Michael’s investigation closed. Knowing that to reveal what Adela had seen might put her in danger, Michael had been unable to confront them about the incident that took place in Holy Trinity, and so left Bene’t none the wiser but very much angrier.

Meadowman, the beadle who had infiltrated the body of builders working on Bene’t when Raysoun had died, also had nothing to report. None of the craftsmen or their apprentices seemed to know anything about the University deaths. Meadowman was heavy-eyed and weary after nights of carousing with his new-found friends, and the other beadles were in a similar state. Some had even gone so far as to ask to do something else, bored and frustrated with endless evenings in wood-smoke-filled taverns drinking cloudy ale that turned their stomachs.

When the College was still and silent, and the last of the students’ candles had been doused, Michael led the way across the courtyard to the room in which Master Runham had been murdered. Not surprisingly, Kenyngham had been reluctant to move back into it, and had insisted on remaining in the chamber he shared with Clippesby until a permanent successor to Runham could be appointed.

As always, when Bartholomew entered the Master’s quarters, he was reminded unpleasantly of Master Wilson’s death in them, some four years previously. When Wilson had realised that he had been infected with the plague, he had spent his dying hours burning documents and scrolls. After his death, it had been discovered that his affairs were ruthlessly in order, which suggested to Bartholomew that Wilson had given a good deal more attention to his earthly life than he had spent preparing for the one to come. As Wilson had consigned certain parchments to the flames, he had knocked over a lamp and it had set his clothes alight. Bartholomew would never forget the deathbed scene that followed.

The Master’s chamber was a large room by College standards. At one end was a bed piled with furs and blankets, and next to it a substantial chest contained Runham’s impressive collection of robes, shoes and shirts. His cloaks and tabards hung on a row of hooks fastened to the wall above it. Under the window were a table and a chair, while the shelves to either side of them contained inks, pens, spare parchment and several blocks of a powerful-smelling soap that Bartholomew was certain Runham had never used. Nearby was the strongbox, its lid still dangling open, and the empty hutches.

‘It was Clippesby who found Runham’s corpse,’ said Michael conversationally, setting a candle in a holder. ‘His dismayed screeches woke the whole College.’

‘What time?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘An hour or so before first light. Cynric arrived shortly after and decided you were probably at Trumpington, so rode off to fetch you. I miss that man, Matt. Is there any way we could persuade him to come back?’

‘I think he is happier with Rachel than he ever was here. She does not ask him to go out at night chasing villains and scoundrels.’

‘I thought he enjoyed that – a lot more than you do. Anyway, Clippesby woke us with his unholy racket, and we all arrived to see Runham just as you saw him later, with his great paunch facing the ceiling and his smug face blue and lifeless.’

Michael was not a man who had cause to comment on the great paunches of others, and Bartholomew smothered a smile. He looked around him, not sure what the monk hoped to achieve by rummaging through the Master’s chamber when their colleagues were in bed.

‘What was Clippesby doing here so early?’ he asked, sitting on a bench near the hearth. It was a handsome piece of furniture, and Bartholomew recognised it as a gift from Kenyngham for the conclave. Yet again, he was astounded by Runham’s selfish audacity.

‘Clippesby said he and Runham usually met at dawn to discuss business,’ said Michael. ‘And I think that is true. Gray, Deynman and Suttone all saw Clippesby coming here on a number of occasions to plan their evil deeds for the forthcoming day. He was Runham’s lickspittle.’

‘To smother a man, the killer would need to come relatively close without alarming his victim,’ said Bartholomew slowly. ‘Runham would be unlikely to let a stranger that near.’

‘So, you conclude Runham’s killer was someone he knew?’ asked Michael. ‘That is not a great help, Matt. We know that – we have a splendid list of suspects, remember?’

‘Smothering is an unusual way to kill,’ Bartholomew went on. ‘It requires premeditation: you need a convenient implement and you need to be prepared to hold your victim for several minutes until he dies. It is odd, do you not think, that both Runham and Wymundham died from smothering?’

‘What are you saying?’ asked Michael. ‘That they were both killed by the same person?’

‘It is possible. I have seldom come across cases of suffocation like this, and now there are two within a few days of each other.’

‘But that would mean Runham’s killer was one of the Bene’t men,’ objected Michael, ‘since we already have evidence to suggest that a Bene’t Fellow killed Wymundham. And I do not think so, Matt. It is just another of those coincidences that happen in real life, but that you are always trying to read something into.’

‘I suppose you are right,’ said Bartholomew reluctantly. ‘But there is something else that has been nagging at the back of my mind – Justus.’

‘Justus? Runham’s book-bearer, who killed himself by shoving his head in a wineskin?’

‘What if he did not suffocate in the wineskin? What if he were smothered, and the wineskin tied over his head later?’

‘You did not say Justus had been smothered at the time. You said he had suffocated himself.’

‘I made a series of assumptions. First, I assumed that because the wineskin was tied over Justus’s head, that was how he died. Second, I assumed that he had tied it there himself. Third, I assumed he drank himself into a state of depression, and became suicidal.’

‘Yes,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘All that sounds reasonable.’

‘But the other servants said Justus was in an unusually good mood the night he died, because he had found some money on the High Street. That evening, of all evenings, he was not unhappy.’

‘But he used that money to buy wine, Matt. Men often start drinking merrily enough, but then end weeping for their mothers. His mood earlier that day tells us nothing.’

‘But I think he was suffocated,’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘And so were Runham and Wymundham.’

Michael sighed. ‘Very well. Let us consider this rationally. You think Justus’s death might be connected to Runham’s – that perhaps Justus knew something about Runham’s affairs that someone wanted kept quiet?’

‘I do not know,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I am only saying it is possible that the instrument of Justus’s death was not the wineskin, as I assumed, but a cushion. And if that is the case, then we have three deaths where the killer used the same, rather unusual, method: Justus, Wymundham and now Runham.’

‘I am not sure about this, Matt,’ warned Michael. ‘Apart from the fact that all three died because they could not breathe, I do not see the connection.’

‘Runham fought like the Devil before he died. Remember the torn fingernails? We should check your “splendid list of suspects” for scratches – and that includes the Bene’t men.’

‘I have already examined our own scholars, but have seen no inexplicable marks,’ said Michael. ‘I have earned myself a reputation as an ogler around the latrines and the lavatorium, eyeing up our colleagues as they wash themselves. And then I had a good look at the Bene’t men when I went there today. None of them is marred by scratches. But I suspect that all my efforts have been for nothing anyway: sit at the table, and I will show you something.’

‘Show me what?’ asked Bartholomew nervously, not liking the gleam of intent in the monk’s eyes.

‘I have given Runham’s death a good deal of thought, and I know how the murderer prevented him from screaming for help. Sit at the table, like Runham used to do when he counted his gold.’

Bartholomew sat, glancing uneasily over his shoulder as Michael moved about behind him.

‘Do not cheat,’ said Michael, taking up a cushion. ‘You are Runham, engrossed in the business of transferring silver from the College hutches to your building chest, and I am a colleague – a man you know well and whom you have no cause to fear.’

‘Runham was not stupid, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, turning to face him. ‘He knew he had alienated his colleagues, and I do not think it likely that he would have turned his back on the likes of William or Langelee. He knew they both have vile tempers.’

‘But Runham did not anticipate that someone would murder him,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘If he had, he would have taken precautions: he would have hired a bodyguard or kept his door locked – which he did not.’

‘All right,’ Bartholomew sighed, turning around and placing both hands on the table. ‘So, Runham is sitting like this when his killer comes in. Then what?’

‘The killer makes gentle conversation,’ said Michael. ‘He moves around, looking at the plunder Runham has stolen from the College’s common rooms for his own use, including Agatha’s cushion. He picks it up, pretending to admire the embroidery, and then …’

With a single step, Michael bounded across the room and had the cushion slapped across the physician’s face before he could utter a sound. Then he wrapped both arms around cushion and head together, holding them in a firm embrace. Startled, Bartholomew began to struggle, but found he was able to move very little, and the lower half of his body was trapped between the chair and the table. When the pressure of Michael’s grip increased, Bartholomew felt a surge of panic. He reached backward with his hands but could not reach the monk’s face; he could only claw ineffectually at the thick arms that held him.

Deprived of air, he felt his senses begin to reel. He struggled more violently, but the monk’s grip was too secure to be shaken or prised away. He tried to call out, to tell Michael to stop, but he could not draw the air into his lungs and the only sound he made was a muffled gasp. He attempted to twist to one side, to break the grip, but Michael merely moved with him. When he leaned down, to jab an elbow or a hand into Michael’s stomach or ribs to startle him into loosening his hold, he found the chair was in the way.

Just when he thought his lungs were about to explode and felt on the verge of fainting, the pressure was released, and Michael stood back. Bartholomew staggered out of the chair and backed quickly away from the monk, gasping for breath and leaning on the wall for support.

‘Simple,’ said Michael, raising his hands, palms up. ‘That was how it was done. And afterwards, Runham was laid on the floor, exactly how we found him. Are you all right, Matt?’

The physician shook his head, eyeing Michael in disbelief. ‘God’s teeth, Brother! I thought we were on the same side. You nearly killed me!’

‘I did not,’ said Michael dismissively. ‘I held you only for a few moments. If I had let you loose too soon, I would not have proved to you that Runham’s broken fingernails need not necessarily have resulted in his killer being scratched. You clawed at the table, the chair and at me, but I am not marked in the slightest.’

He raised the loose sleeves of his habit to reveal a pair of flabby white arms, one still bandaged from his encounter with the bee, but otherwise unscathed.

‘You could just touch my arms and hands, but you could not reach my face,’ Michael amplified. ‘And you were in such an awkward position that you were unable to put any force into your attempts to harm me. Runham must have been killed in the way I have just demonstrated, otherwise it would mean him meekly lying on the floor, while allowing his murderer to place the cushion over his head.’

‘Look under the table,’ said Bartholomew, still breathless. ‘See if you can tell whether Runham kicked it in his death throes.’

Michael knelt. ‘Yes! Here! I should have thought of this sooner. There are a couple of sizeable dents and some scratches. Come and look.’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘I am never going to turn my back on you again. From now on, I will stay where I can see you.’

Michael made an impatient sound. ‘I barely touched you. I did not squeeze nearly as hard as I could have done. Do not be so feeble, Matt!’

‘Let me try it on you,’ said Bartholomew, snatching up the cushion and advancing on the monk. Michael stood quickly and moved away.

‘Why? So you can smother me to within an inch of my life and claim tit-for-tat? Really, Matt. I had not understood you to be a vindictive man.’

‘Because I want to test what you just said,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘You said you did not exert as much pressure as you could have done, and yet you still could have killed me. What I want to know is how strong do you have to be to smother someone like that?’

‘Are you sure you know what you are doing?’ asked Michael, regarding him doubtfully.

‘I am a physician,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Of course I know what I am doing.’

He placed the cushion over the monk’s face and wrapped his arms around Michael’s head, just as the monk had done. Unlike Michael, however, he did not deprive his subject of air, and instead experimented with various different grips. He discovered that by pulling upward, he could make it even more difficult for his victim to struggle. He was just concluding his investigations by leaning forward, so that Michael was trapped between him and the desk, when the door opened.

‘Matthew!’ came the shocked, hushed tones of Father William. ‘So it was you all along!’

With the door firmly closed against curious ears, and William ordered to keep his voice down on pain of death, the three Fellows stood in the centre of Master Runham’s room and looked around them.

‘I am sorry for accusing you of so vile a crime, Matthew,’ said William, yet again. ‘I really thought you were smothering Michael. It was clever of you to experiment like that. I wish I had thought to do it myself.’

‘We need to go through everything in this room to see whether we can find any clue that will help us discover the identity of Runham’s killer,’ said Michael, trying to bring the friar’s mind back to the task in hand. ‘All of us are potential suspects, so our very lives may depend on being thorough – even though we are all innocent.’

‘Why are you so sure of my innocence?’ asked William curiously. ‘I am innocent, of course, but in this den of suspicion and intrigue, I am surprised you believe me. I was so afraid I would be blamed for Runham’s murder that I have been loath to abandon the safety of the friary walls.’

‘So, why choose now to leave?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘It is dark. And I came to look for clues that might help me prove it was not I who did the world this great favour. But I do not have to convince you, it seems.’

‘Any man is capable of murder, and so my belief in your innocence does not stem from trust in your innate morality,’ said Michael pompously. ‘But although you are certainly strong enough to have overpowered Runham, you are not the kind of man to use smothering as a means to an end. Fists, certainly; a blunt instrument, yes; a dagger, very possibly. But I cannot see you slowly and deliberately squeezing the life out of anyone.’

‘Then you know me less well than you think,’ said William bluntly. ‘I think I would have gained a great deal of pleasure from squeezing the life out of Runham.’

‘You should learn to take a compliment, Father,’ said Michael dryly. ‘But, very well, if you must know the truth, several of your brethren told me that the snores emanating from your cell kept them awake half the night. They are prepared to swear that you are accounted for from sunset, when you attended compline, until the morning, when the news came that Runham was no more.’

‘You asked my fellow friars about me?’ asked William indignantly.

‘Yes,’ said Michael. ‘But it worked to your advantage. You are virtually the only one of us with a sound alibi, and who definitely did not commit this crime.’

William puffed himself up. ‘My money is on the culprit being that Dominican – Clippesby. I have never liked him. He is treacherous and duplicitous.’

‘Let us not jump to conclusions before we have the evidence,’ said Michael. ‘But we should start if we do not want to be here all night. You take the table and the aumbry, William; Matt can search under the benches, rugs and chairs; and I will see what we have left in the chests.’

‘Our poor hutches,’ said William, shaking his head as he began to rifle through the contents of Runham’s wall cupboard. ‘How will the College survive with no loan chests?’

They were silent, each concentrating on his work. Bartholomew found a list of payments and dates hidden in the lining of a rug, and passed it to Michael, understanding nothing of the figures that were scrawled there, but suspecting they were significant. William discovered an hour candle that had fallen underneath the desk.

‘Can I have this?’ he asked, secreting it in his grimy habit. ‘Runham will not be needing it again.’

‘Wait,’ said Bartholomew, reaching for it. ‘Why did we not think of this before? Now we know when Runham was murdered – exactly!’

‘The hour candle fell over during the struggle!’ exclaimed Michael. ‘So, when was he killed?’

‘About eight o’clock,’ said Bartholomew, studying the stump. ‘That would be four hours or so after sunset, and about two hours after dinner.’

‘Well, that excludes Kenyngham, then,’ said Michael. ‘And Suttone. Both of them were at compline at that time, and I know they lingered at the church afterwards. And it vindicates me, too, because the Chancellor was visiting me on University business from sunset until almost ten.’

‘I have no idea where I was,’ said Bartholomew gloomily. ‘Somewhere on the Trumpington road, alone and in the dark.’

‘I can vouch for Paul being with me at compline between seven and nine, but we still have Clippesby unaccounted for,’ said William with relish.

‘And Langelee,’ added Michael. ‘All the workmen had gone by then – they do not work as late as eight, so that eliminates opportunistic robbery as a motive. And there are the servants – Cynric, Agatha, Walter and so on.’

‘Not Cynric,’ said Bartholomew immediately. ‘Rachel Atkin will not let him out after dark. He would not have been at liberty at eight o’clock.’

‘I will talk to your students – Gray and Deynman – who fell foul of Runham the afternoon he died, and see if they can tell me where they were at eight o’clock,’ said William importantly. ‘I have considerable experience of investigating murders, and now I have been absolved of suspicion, I will devote myself to the task in hand.’

‘And I will have discreet words with Langelee and Clippesby, to see what they can tell me about eight o’clock on that fateful day,’ said Michael.

‘I will help,’ offered William eagerly. ‘I would love to interrogate that Clippesby.’

‘I said discreet,’ said Michael. ‘If the killer is a scholar, then he is not going to be stupid – unless it is Langelee – and I do not want to frighten him into caution. I want him to be relaxed and to make a fatal slip.’

They were silent again, completing their methodical search of Runham’s room. The only sounds were occasional footsteps in the courtyard, and the increasingly frequent exclamations of understanding and indignation as Michael came to grips with the documents in Runham’s chests.

‘This is really outrageous,’ he said, waving the piece of parchment Bartholomew had discovered under the rug. ‘I am horrified!’

‘What is it?’ asked William, crawling on his hands and knees to inspect the area behind the table.

‘It is a list showing how Runham raised the money for his new building work,’ said Michael. ‘He estimated that he would need ninety pounds for raising a new court and for refacing the north wing, using the cheapest materials available. He raised thirty pounds in donations, including five marks from your brother-in-law, Matt. That was generous.’

‘I know,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But he regrets parting with it.’

‘He is a true merchant,’ said Michael. ‘But despite his best efforts, Runham was still sixty pounds short. He arranged to borrow thirty pounds from the guilds of Corpus Christi and St Mary – to be repaid with interest within the year. God’s blood! Thirty pounds plus interest! That is going to be a millstone around our necks.’

‘If he had thirty from donations and thirty from loans, where did he find the remaining twenty?’ asked William, proving that he had not paid attention during his arithmetic lessons.

‘It seems he raided the College hutches,’ said Michael. ‘It is all written down here. He took all the available money – which amounted to a total of ten pounds and two shillings – and he sold unredeemed pledges worth another three pounds and eight shillings. Foolish man – he sold that Aristotle of Deynman’s for two shillings, and it was worth at least twice that.’

‘So that explains why he went about dismissing his Fellows,’ said William. ‘He did not want us to notice that he was raiding the hutches.’

‘You are right,’ said Michael. ‘He had rid himself of you, Paul, Kenyngham and Langelee, and was working on Matt. And he was also interfering with the cooks, so that I would leave, too. Thus he would have disposed of anyone who knew how much was in the hutches. With us gone, the hutch money was his to use as he pleased.’

‘And he sent down Gray and Deynman,’ added Bartholomew. ‘They regularly used the hutches when they were short of money – far more frequently than any of the other students – and so would know what was in them.’

‘Of course,’ said Michael. ‘I begin to understand. Runham was not indulging himself in a series of personal vendettas, but had a carefully formulated plan to make Michaelhouse’s money disappear with no questions asked.’

‘But even with the loans, the funds from the merchants and the contents of the hutches, Runham was still short of sixteen pounds and ten shillings to make up his ninety,’ said Bartholomew.

‘I know,’ said Michael, frustrated. ‘He has been selling something, but this list does not specify what. He sold five items for which he received about ten pounds in total. I imagine the rest came from the fact that he did not pay the grocer and that he saved money on the choir’s bread and ale allowance.’

‘And by dismissing the servants,’ said Bartholomew. ‘So, how much of this ninety pounds do we have left? How much of it was stolen?’

‘We still have about half of it,’ said Michael promptly. ‘I counted it all with Kenyngham when we found Runham dead. Because of the piecemeal way in which Runham raised his funds, it came in all sorts of ways – gold and silver coins, jewels valued at specific amounts, promissory notes. A lot of it would have been too heavy to carry unnoticed from the College, while the promissory notes would obviously be worthless to a thief. Oswald Stanmore is not going to pay a thief five marks for presenting this piece of paper to him.’

‘But someone has the other half of our ninety pounds even as we speak,’ said William angrily. ‘We must search the College immediately, and see who has his room stuffed with stolen money.’

‘Already done,’ said Michael. ‘Kenyngham and Suttone undertook that unpleasant task, and found nothing. I told them to pretend to be looking for a missing book. If the builders discover that we do not have the cash to pay them, they might riot.’

‘But they will have to know at some point,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We should tell them now, pay them for the work they have already done, and send them all back to Bene’t.’

‘Never,’ declared William vehemently. ‘It would not surprise me to learn that Bene’t stole our money just to put us in a compromising position.’

‘Killing a Master just to embarrass another College is a little extreme, Father,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Even for Bene’t.’

‘I disagree,’ said William. ‘The Bene’t men were furious that Runham poached the workmen. I would not put it past them to have stolen the money, just to spite us.’

‘We seem to be talking about two different things here,’ said Bartholomew wearily. ‘On the one hand, we have the theft of money, and on the other we have the murder of Runham. I was assuming they were committed at the same time by the same person or people. Did the killer come to Runham’s room to kill him or to take the money? We have already decided Runham knew his killer. Did he know the Bene’t scholars?’

‘He did,’ said William. ‘I saw Langelee introducing them a few weeks ago. Langelee likes to latch on to Simekyn Simeon of Bene’t, because Simeon knows the Duke of Lancaster. I nonchalantly passed by as Langelee presented Runham to Simeon, but Langelee did not deign to introduce me to his fine friends – a mere friar is not important enough, I suppose.’

The possibility that Langelee did not want to inflict the ‘mere friar’s’ belligerent fanaticism on his fine friends had not occurred to William. Looking at the Franciscan’s filthy habit and hair so dirty it stood up in a grimy halo around his tonsure, Bartholomew was not so sure he would leap at the opportunity to present such an unsavoury specimen to his own acquaintances, either.

‘Well, we need to keep an open mind about Runham’s death,’ said Michael ambiguously. ‘But, since this missing money is not in the College, I think we should assume that it has gone for good.’

‘In that case, we must tell the craftsmen tomorrow that we cannot pay them,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You say we have about half of the ninety pounds left, which is not enough to complete the buildings. We will pay them what we owe and that will be that.’

‘But of the forty-five pounds remaining, thirty has been loaned from the two guilds and is not ours anyway,’ said Michael gloomily. ‘And if we do not complete the buildings, we will need to repay the donations that Runham collected.’

‘Why?’ demanded Father William. ‘Those people gave their money to Michaelhouse. The thirty pounds of donations is ours now.’

‘Hardly,’ said Michael. ‘It is not ethical to raise money for a new courtyard, and then decide not to build it and keep the money instead. I think lawyers would be after us for breaching a contract if we tried that – and they would be quite right to do so. But if we repay the loans and the donations, it means that we are fifteen pounds in debt – with no workmen’s wages paid – not forty-five pounds in credit.’

‘Damn that Runham!’ exclaimed William, striding back and forth furiously. ‘He has left us in a fearful mess.’

‘Yes, fancy him allowing himself to be murdered just when we need him,’ said Michael.

‘I still do not understand how he thought he could manage this,’ said Bartholomew, rubbing a hand through his hair. ‘Had he lived to see his empire completed, he would have had massive debts. How could he have hoped not to have creditors knocking at our gates at all hours? How did he imagine Michaelhouse could raise a sum like thirty pounds to pay back these guilds? It is a fortune!’

‘I have no idea,’ said Michael, frowning as he bent over the documents again. ‘But I do not like the sound of these mysterious five items that brought Runham ten pounds. Since the buyers of the other items in the hutches paid him a mere fraction of what the goods were worth, I have a feeling Runham sold something quite valuable.’

‘Such as what?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I did not know Michaelhouse had anything valuable.’

‘Whatever it was, it is better gone,’ said William sanctimoniously. ‘Riches and worldly goods encourage avarice and envy. I want none of them in Michaelhouse.’

‘I hope he did not sell the church silver,’ said Bartholomew.

‘The church silver?’ boomed William, outraged. ‘But those chalices left to us by our founder are generally regarded to be the finest this side of Ely! They are priceless!’

‘They are only worldly goods, Father,’ pointed out Michael innocently. ‘But I think you are right, Matt. The church silver is usually kept in the Stanton Chest, and that is empty, like the others.’

‘Our silver chalices!’ cried William in abject dismay. ‘All gone, just so that Runham could raise some horrible cheap building to glorify himself!’

‘Hush, William,’ said Bartholomew urgently. ‘You will have the whole College awake.’

‘Even so, the Stanton silver was not worth ten pounds,’ said Michael. ‘It might account for one of these “items” but not all five. Four of them have the initials TW next to them.’

‘Thomas Wilson,’ said Bartholomew immediately. ‘Runham’s equally unscrupulous cousin. Perhaps it was something of Wilson’s that Runham sold – something that belonged to him, and not to Michaelhouse at all.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Michael worriedly. ‘But I think you are being far too charitable. I think Runham sold something he had no business to sell. And I also think that when we discover what it was, Michaelhouse will find itself in a lot of trouble – and us with it.’

There was little more Bartholomew, Michael and William could do that night, so they put Runham’s room back the way they had found it and went to bed. Michael’s chamber was still uninhabitable, and Bartholomew was not certain whether his own quarters, directly underneath Michael’s, were safe, so they used the tiny, closet-like space in the servants’ quarters that Cynric had shared with Walter the porter. William, secure in the knowledge that his innocence of the murder of Runham had been proved beyond the shadow of a doubt, made a triumphant return to the room he shared with three student Franciscans, and his stentorian tones condemning Runham’s wicked life and his killer in equal measure could be heard all over the College.

Michael chuckled softly in the darkness. ‘I do like William. He is an old bigot and a fanatic, and he has a deep distrust of anything his narrow mind cannot grasp, but he is usually honest, always predictable and entirely without guile.’

‘Guilelessness is a rare quality in this place,’ said Bartholomew, trying to find a comfortable position on the thin straw mattress. It was lumpy, stank of urine, and the thriving community of insects that inhabited it caused it to rustle and crackle of its own accord. After the third time his drowsing was rudely interrupted by the painful nip of invisible jaws, Bartholomew kicked it away in disgust, rolled himself up in a blanket, and slept on the floor.

He was awoken what felt like moments later by the tolling of a bell. It sounded different than it did in his own room, and he sat up in confusion, not knowing where he was. Michael was at the window, throwing open the shutters to let in the dim light of early morning.

‘You are late,’ he said. ‘It is Tuesday and your turn to help with the mass.’

Bartholomew struggled to his feet, feeling stiff, cold and tired. Michael picked strands of straw from his hair, while Bartholomew tugged on his boots, grabbed his cloak and ran across the yard as he was – unwashed, unshaven and still rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He raced up the lane to the church, cloak flying behind him, and shot across the grassy graveyard to the small porch in the north wall. From inside, he could hear the thundering tones of Father William praying, sounding more as though he were giving God an ultimatum than offering penitent supplications.

Bartholomew was fumbling with the latch on the door when he was aware of a presence behind him. Before he could turn, something was thrown over his head and he found his arms pinioned to his sides. He felt a heavy tug at the back of his neck, and then he was pushed forward – not roughly, but enough to make him stagger into the wall, reaching out blindly with his hands to steady himself.

Alarmed, he struggled free of the sacking that covered his head and looked around, anticipating a mob of townspeople ready to lynch a lone Michaelhouse scholar for its treatment of the choir, or because news had leaked out that the workmen would not be paid. But there was no one in the churchyard except him. Heart thumping, he walked the few steps back to the High Street, looking up and down it to see if he could spot his attacker, but it was deserted, too. It was not a market day, and no carts or traders crammed the roads on their way to the Square. The only person he could see was Bosel the beggar, who often worked in the High Street and sat hunched in the lee of a buttress, out of the wind.

‘Bosel!’ he called. ‘Did someone just come running past?’

Bosel gave a crafty grin and held out his only hand. ‘Maybe.’

‘I do not have any money,’ said Bartholomew, who had left his purse behind in his haste to arrive at the church.

‘Then you will not have the answer to your question,’ said Bosel, shrugging.

‘Please,’ said Bartholomew, feeling his scanty patience begin to evaporate. ‘It is important.’

‘Oh, it is always important,’ sneered Bosel. ‘Everything is important these days – except the likes of me, left to starve in the gutter after I served the King so loyally in his wars in France. I lose my arm defending England from the French devils, and the only reward I get is kicks and curses and wealthy people like you pretending to have no money.’

‘You lost your hand for stealing, not fighting in France,’ retorted Bartholomew. ‘For breaking into the Guildhall of St Mary and relieving them of their silver, if I recall correctly. Now, will you tell me or not?’

‘I will tell you for a penny,’ said Bosel stubbornly. ‘Give.’

‘I do not have a penny,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But you can have breakfast at Michaelhouse after the mass.’

Bosel tipped his head back and regarded Bartholomew down his long, filthy nose, as if calculating the chances of the physician cheating him. ‘All right, then.’

‘Well? Did someone run from the churchyard just now?’

‘No,’ said Bosel.

Bartholomew gazed at him. ‘Is that it?’

‘That is the truth,’ said Bosel. ‘I will lie for you, to make a more interesting story, if you like. But the truth is that no one came from the churchyard except you.’

Bartholomew slumped in defeat. Because of Bosel’s negotiations for payment, it was too late to give chase anyway.

‘I saw you run in and then run out moments later,’ Bosel clarified. ‘And Father William has been yelling his head off inside the church since before first light. But I did hear someone moving about in the churchyard – other than you, that is.’

‘Who?’ asked Bartholomew.

Bosel made an impatient sound. ‘I do not know! I did not see the person, I only heard him. And the reason I did not see him come from the churchyard was because I heard him scramble over the wall at the back and head off down those alleys instead. You will never catch him now. Did he rob you of your purse, then? Is that why you cannot give me a penny?’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew shortly. ‘He just gave me a nasty fright.’

‘I will see you after mass, then,’ called Bosel, as he left.

Still holding the sacking that had been tossed over his head, Bartholomew opened the door to the church and walked inside. William had already laid out the sacred vessels, lit the candles and opened the great bible to the correct reading of the day. Bartholomew was suddenly horribly reminded of the week before, when Runham had come to the church to do the physician’s duties and fine him for being late.

‘Well, I do not have a shilling to pay any fine,’ he said irritably to William, as he walked towards the altar. ‘I did not even have a penny to give to Bosel.’

‘Do you want to borrow one?’ asked William, puzzled by the hostile greeting. He rummaged in his scrip. ‘I have a couple in here somewhere that I can lend you. As a friar, I have little need for worldly wealth. When can you pay me back?’

Bartholomew tossed the sacking on to a bench, thinking that Bosel had probably been right, and that the attack had been an attempt by a thief to make off with the heavy purses all scholars were thought to possess. It had been a perfect opportunity: Bartholomew had been alone and the churchyard was free of possible witnesses. The only thing wrong with the plan was that they had picked a scholar who had forgotten his purse, and there would have been very little in it anyway.

As the sacking hit the wooden bench, there was a heavy thump. Bartholomew gave it an angry glare, recalling that something had tugged at the back of his neck – probably a weighted rope that would hold the sacking in place long enough to allow the robber to make his escape. The physician had been lucky. In the desperate days following the plague, when food was scarce and people starved in the streets, many hungry people considered a knife under the ribs the best way to rob a victim and leave no witnesses to identify them later.

‘Do not leave those rags there,’ said William peevishly. ‘I came here early this morning to give the church a good clean, and I do not want bits of sacking lying all over the place.’

‘It looks nice,’ said Bartholomew, glancing around him and noticing that the floor had been swept, the spilled wax from the candles scraped away and the holders polished, and the desiccated flies and spiders brushed from the windowsills.

William smiled, pleased by the compliment. The complacent grin faded when his gaze came to rest on the shrouded corpse that reclined near Wilson’s glittering tomb. ‘I only wish I could have swept that rubbish from our holy church, too.’

‘That is not a very friarly attitude,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But did you hear that Master Kenyngham thinks we should not have a second grisly tomb in our chancel, as Runham stipulated in his will? He says a tomb like the one Runham wants will not leave enough space for us to pray, and instead he proposes to place Runham in Wilson’s tomb – on top of his cousin.’

William chuckled nastily. ‘I have heard that Wilson did not like Runham at all, so they will make uneasy bedfellows. Or should I say grave-fellows? That tomb is hideous – it is only right that Runham should spend eternity in the thing.’

‘The requiem is to be on Thursday,’ said Bartholomew. ‘At dawn.’

‘I hope you will not be assisting the celebrant,’ said William. ‘You will be late, and Runham will spend more time above ground than is his right.’

‘I am sorry about that,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It was the combination of our activities in Runham’s chambers and sleeping on the floor in Cynric’s old room.’

William gave a reluctant smile. ‘Well, I guessed you would be late this morning anyway, because Walter took his cockerel with him when he was dismissed.’

‘That thing is more unreliable than I am. It is just as likely to oversleep as I am.’

‘And even more likely to crow half the night just for the fun of it,’ agreed William. ‘I am surprised it has not ended up in the pot before now. But I have done your chores for you already. All you need to do, Matthew, is kneel with me and pray that we catch the killer of Runham without too much inconvenience to the College. But first, you can fold up that sacking that is cluttering my clean church. What is it anyway? Where did it come from?’

Bartholomew told him what had happened, and then spent some time persuading the friar that there was no point in waking every household in the wretched runnels and alleyways behind the church until a culprit confessed to his ignoble act.

‘It is good-quality stuff,’ said William, reaching out a hand to touch the cloth. ‘That poor robber did worse than leave empty-handed; he abandoned a decent piece of sacking. It would make a nice short cloak, Matthew – the kind of cloak a poor Franciscan friar might wear in the summer months to ward off evening chills.’

‘Would you like it?’

‘Me?’ asked William, as though the notion had never crossed his mind. ‘What a kind thought! I will ask Agatha to sew me …’ He faltered. Agatha had gone from Michaelhouse. ‘Well, it will make a good cloak anyway.’

He shook the material out and something fell to the floor – a rough, shapeless bundle tied with the loop of rope that had been dropped over Bartholomew’s head. Bartholomew leaned down to retrieve it and was startled to hear the clink of metal. Curious, he untied the thin rope that held the neck of the bag and gazed in surprise at the coins that gleamed inside.

William snatched the bundle from him and strode across to Wilson’s tomb, where the small altar provided a flat surface. He upended the bag, and he and Bartholomew gaped in astonishment at the heap of gold that glittered on the white cloth.