A Masterly Murder

Chapter 10

‘TWELVE POUNDS, TWO SHILLINGS AND FOURPENCE,’ said Michael, sitting back at last, the coins set in neat piles in front of him. ‘And it is definitely part of the money stolen from Michaelhouse, because I was very familiar with the coins in the Illegh Hutch – I was its manager – and I recognise the distinctive way that several of the pieces have been clipped.’

The Fellows – Michael, Bartholomew, William, Kenyngham, Langelee, Clippesby and Suttone – were in the conclave, sitting in the thin winter sun that streamed in through the glass windows. Ignoring some of his colleagues’ anxieties that belts would need to be tightened and economies made if Michaelhouse wanted to repay its debts, Kenyngham had ordered that fires must continue to be lit in the hall and conclave, and had given the cooks leave to buy their regular supplies. Bartholomew agreed wholeheartedly, thinking that a cold College with no food was not going to present itself as something worth fighting for. So, a small fire flickered gaily in the conclave, while the furniture, rugs and cushions pillaged by Runham for his personal use were back in their rightful places.

‘And someone just gave this to you?’ asked Clippesby again, disbelief etched into every line of his face. ‘Someone handed it over, just like that?’

‘Basically,’ said Bartholomew.

Clippesby continued to regard Bartholomew with such rank suspicion that the physician began to wonder whether the man considered him responsible for the theft from Runham’s room. Bartholomew thought Clippesby himself seemed ill at ease and anxious that morning: his hair stood up in peculiar clumps all over his head, as though he had been tearing at it, and his wild eyes were redrimmed and more glassy than usual. Bartholomew could not decide whether the Dominican’s odd appearance was the result of grief over Runham, guilt because he was the murderer, or merely the incipient madness that evidently clawed at the edges of his consciousness.

‘Recovering this money is very fortunate,’ said Langelee cheerfully. ‘Perhaps we should send Bartholomew to mass every morning, to see how much more we can retrieve.’

‘I do not like it,’ said Kenyngham. ‘I do not like the notion that the killer of poor Master Runham approached Matthew so brazenly and handed him this gold.’

‘How do you know it was the killer?’ asked Langelee, taking a gulp from a goblet of wine he had somehow contrived to have with him. He did not sound unduly concerned that a murderer was at large, no doubt because he was confident he could best any would-be attacker, unlike his weaker and less able colleagues.

‘Because it is obvious that whoever stole the money also murdered Runham,’ said William, regarding the philosopher and his wine with a glower that was partly disapproval and partly envy.

‘It is not obvious at all,’ said Suttone with quiet reason. ‘It is likely, but it is also possible that someone smothered Runham and fled, and then a second person took the gold when he saw it had been left unguarded.’

William said nothing, but stared ahead of him with the stony expression on his face that he always wore when he knew someone else was right and he was not prepared to admit it.

Kenyngham sighed. ‘This is all very distasteful, but we must review where we were precisely at eight o’clock on Friday night. William and Paul were at compline at the Franciscan Friary, while Master Suttone and I were doing the same at St Michael’s Church.’

‘I was with the Chancellor,’ said Michael. ‘Which leaves only Matt, Langelee and Clippesby.’

‘I was at Trumpington,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I went to visit my sister.’

‘But it was raining on Friday,’ pounced Langelee. ‘Why did you walk so far in the wet?’

‘The guards on the town gate confirm that Matt left around sunset and that he did not return until the following day,’ said Michael. ‘He was not in Cambridge when Runham was murdered.’

Bartholomew gazed at him uncertainly, fairly sure that the guards had not observed him leaving – their attention had been on a family of tinkers who had been trying to enter the city. But Michael spoke with such authority that no one asked why he had not mentioned such an important fact before.

‘What about you, Ralph?’ asked Kenyngham of Langelee. ‘Tell us again what happened to you that night.’

‘I walked,’ said Langelee with a careless shrug. ‘I went to the wharves, where I stood on Dame Nichol’s Hythe for a long time and watched the river flow past.’

‘In the rain?’ asked Michael, using the same point that Langelee had raised against Bartholomew.

‘I was in the watchman’s shelter,’ said Langelee. ‘He was not there because there were no barges to guard that night. And when I grew restless, I went into the town.’ He glared defiantly at William. ‘I visited a whore.’

‘Which one?’ asked Michael before William could respond. ‘And what time?’

‘I have no idea of the time,’ said Langelee. ‘But the whore’s name was Yolande de Blaston.’

‘Yolande de Blaston?’ echoed Kenyngham, deeply shocked. ‘But she is the wife of one of the carpenters! Are you saying that you compounded the sin of lust with that of adultery?’

‘I am one of her regulars,’ said Langelee, in the tone of a man who did not know what the fuss was about. ‘And Blaston is more than happy to see her earnings support their ever growing brood. They have at least nine children.’

‘You seduced the mother of nine children?’ whispered Kenyngham, his faced flushed with dismay. He crossed himself vigorously, clasped his hands, and began to pray.

‘I hate it when he does that,’ muttered Langelee, finally discomfited by Kenyngham’s horror. ‘Yolande is always more than happy with what I pay her and, being a prostitute, she is fair game for a lonely man. But Kenyngham always makes me feel as though I have done something sordid and dirty.’

‘Perhaps he is right,’ boomed William. ‘And what do you mean by “always”? Is this kind of thing a regular occurrence?’

‘What time did you leave Yolande?’ asked Michael quickly. ‘Was it later than midnight?’

‘We fell asleep,’ said Langelee. ‘I was tired – drained by my unpleasant confrontation with Runham – and we both slept until dawn, after we had–’

‘And you, Clippesby?’ asked Michael hurriedly, seeing Kenyngham’s eyes snap open in alarm at the prospect of more lustful revelations. ‘Tell us what you did.’

‘I went to vespers,’ said Clippesby. ‘That was around sunset. Then I wandered around the Market Square, watching the traders pack away their goods.’

‘So that is what Dominicans do for a good time, is it?’ asked William, coolly judgemental. ‘They watch merchants pore over their worldly goods and their filthy gold.’

‘And then?’ asked Michael, ignoring William.

‘And then I heard the bell ring for compline, but I did not feel like attending another office.’

‘You “did not feel like” worshipping God?’ exploded William in outrage.

Clippesby fixed him with a glower of his own, and the full brunt of a gaze from his mad eyes was sufficient to silence the Franciscan. ‘No, I did not. I lingered near the Market Square, watching the mystery plays by candlelight outside St Mary’s Guildhall. I was there for hours, and I do not think I was in the College before nine. So, it could not have been me who killed Master Runham,’ he concluded triumphantly.

‘Which mystery play did you see?’ asked Michael.

Clippesby shrugged. ‘I do not recall.’

‘Did you speak to anyone there who might be able to corroborate your story?’

Clippesby thought for a moment and then shook his head. ‘Not that I remember.’

‘No one?’ pressed Michael.

Clippesby frowned. ‘I spoke to a woman – that merchant’s daughter who looks like a horse. She was there, I think.’

‘This is taking us nowhere,’ said Kenyngham, rising from his seat near the fire. ‘All you are doing is raising accusations against your fellow scholars – accusations that are based on suspicion and assumptions. This meeting is closed. I will take the money that God has seen fit to restore to us, and put it in a secure place. The rest of you should go to the church and pray for forgiveness for harbouring such uncharitable thoughts against each other.’

The Fellows began to drift out of the conclave to the yard below. As he returned from his room with a bible, and prepared to inflict himself on the students who had gathered in the hall, William announced in a loud, hoarse whisper to Michael that he would enquire after Gray and Deynman’s whereabouts on the night of Runham’s murder.

‘Is that wise?’ asked Suttone doubtfully, watching the Franciscan stride purposefully towards the hall, scattering students reckless enough to be in his path. ‘Only the good Father is not very subtle, and Gray seems a clever sort of lad. I do not know that William has the necessary skills for cunning interrogation.’

‘Gray and Deynman could not have killed Runham,’ said Bartholomew. ‘They were up all night scribing a copy of Corpus Juris Civilis for Runham, and the fifteen students who were helping them are prepared to vouch for their whereabouts the whole time.’

‘I think I had better accompany William,’ said Suttone, clearly believing that innocence or guilt had nothing to do with the ethics of allowing the Franciscan fanatic loose on the students.

He hurried away, and Michael took Bartholomew’s arm to lead him across the yard towards the gate. ‘Deynman would have let something slip by now, had he had anything to do with the crime. He does not have the guile to keep his guilt hidden.’

‘That is certainly true,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Tell me, Brother, did the guards really see me leave the town the night Runham was killed?’

Michael grinned. ‘Of course not. They are so notoriously unobservant that I did not even bother to ask. But we know you are not the killer, and I did not want to waste time by having the others muse that most innocent men do not walk along outlaw-infested highways on dark, rainy nights and then sit thinking in graveyards until they rouse their sister’s households at the witching hour.’

Bartholomew glanced up at the hall, where William could be heard shouting for Gray and Deynman. ‘I do not like the thought of letting him question my students. He will have some of the younger ones confessing to all sorts of things they did not do.’

‘Questioning them will keep him busy today,’ said Michael, opening the gate and ushering Bartholomew into the lane. ‘And better busy than trying to “help” by launching some enquiry of his own that may damage our chances of catching the killer. Suttone is there, anyway. He will not let William harm anyone.’

‘True. If everyone were as rational and compassionate as Suttone, Michaelhouse would be a much nicer place to live in.’

‘But also a much more dull one,’ said Michael, pulling on Bartholomew’s arm. ‘Being Master of the College of saintly friars will be no fun for me at all.’

‘You intend to stand, then, when Kenyngham resigns again?’

‘Of course,’ replied Michael, opening the gate. ‘As I am sure you know I am the best Michaelhouse has to offer. It would be remiss of me not to do my moral duty.’

‘Where are we going?’ asked Bartholomew, not liking the way he was being steered in the direction Michael wanted him to go.

‘To catch our killer,’ said Michael cheerfully. ‘And we will not do it by lurking in Michaelhouse all day. We have people to see.’

The first person on Michael’s list was Cynric, dismissed so callously from Michaelhouse after many years of faithful service. While Bartholomew knew the Welshman well enough to be sure he would not stoop to smothering Runham, there was no denying that he had the skills to enter the College undetected, commit the crime and leave again with no one the wiser, not to mention the fact that his life as a soldier – before he had become Bartholomew’s book-bearer – meant he had killed more men than the physician liked to contemplate.

Cynric was just returning from the market, arm in arm with his new wife Rachel. He beamed with pleasure when he saw Bartholomew, although Rachel did not seem quite so delighted.

‘Have you come to ask him to help you tackle all these University deaths?’ she demanded immediately. ‘Because if so, I would rather you invited someone else. I do not want my husband chasing killers on your behalf.’

Cynric looked disappointed. ‘But they need me–’

‘No,’ said Rachel firmly. ‘You are too old for the fighting and subterfuge Doctor Bartholomew likes. He is much younger than you, and he has no wife at home, grieving and worrying.’

‘I do not like fighting and subterfuge,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘Quite the contrary; I would far rather live a quiet and uneventful life.’

‘Then I hope you have not come to accuse my Cynric of Runham’s murder,’ said Rachel bluntly, her hand tightening possessively on her husband’s arm. ‘If so, you are wasting your time. Cynric has finished with all that creeping around in the dark; he stays in with me at nights now, by the fire.’

‘We do not know that anyone killed Runham,’ said Michael smoothly.

Cynric regarded the monk with patent disbelief. ‘He just had a fatal seizure, then, did he?’ he asked with a knowing wink.

Michael’s lips compressed in a tight line, displeased that people had seen through the ambiguous story he had instructed Kenyngham to tell the students.

‘Which of the Fellows did it?’ asked Rachel baldly. ‘Langelee seems a violent kind of man, while Suttone has a history of theft, and that Kenyngham seems too saintly to be true.’

‘It might not have been a Fellow,’ temporised Michael.

Rachel glared. ‘I hope you are not implying that it was one of the servants.’

‘They would never accuse me of killing Runham,’ said Cynric, patting her arm comfortably. ‘Mind you, I have to say that the old devil deserved what was coming to him.’

‘So, what did you want, if not to ask for Cynric’s help?’ asked Rachel.

‘Why should we want anything?’ asked Michael glibly, conveniently forgetting that he had sought Cynric out with the express purpose of learning whether he had an alibi for the night of Runham’s death. ‘As a matter of fact, we came to give, not take. We thought you might like this, to adorn the new room Oswald Stanmore says he has given you.’

He rummaged in his scrip and produced a tiny crystal bowl of the kind that would hold lavender to scent a room. It was a pretty thing, intricately carved so that it glittered like diamonds.

‘It is lovely,’ said Rachel, taking it and inspecting it with pleasure. ‘So delicate and fine.’

‘You are welcome,’ said Michael. ‘And now we must be on our way, if you will excuse us.’

Leaving Cynric and Rachel admiring their new possession, Michael led the way up the High Street towards Bene’t, deciding that another proctorial visit to the scholars who had probably murdered Wymundham in Holy Trinity Church and then dumped the body in Mayor Horwoode’s garden would not go amiss. And this time, he also intended to ask where they had been at eight o’clock on Friday evening.

‘That little bowl belonged to Runham,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I saw it in his room when we were searching it.’

‘Actually, it was mine,’ said Michael. ‘Or at least, it had been. I mislaid it some years ago, and had given up all hope of seeing it again.’

‘If you have not seen it for years, then it may not have been yours at all,’ reasoned Bartholomew. ‘It might be another that looks similar. I do not think it is wise to remove Runham’s possessions without the permission of his executors. You might find yourself accused of stealing the College’s lost gold – or even of killing Runham for it.’

‘That was my bowl,’ said Michael firmly. ‘My grandmother gave it to me, and she engraved a message on the bottom. That message was still there. To be honest, I always suspected Wilson of stealing it from me during the Death – I noticed his covetous eyes on it several times – but then he died, and there was no way to confront him about it.’

‘Wilson stole from you?’ asked Bartholomew, shocked. ‘But he was the Master of our College.’

‘So was Runham,’ said Michael, ‘and it did not make him a saint. Wilson stole my bowl and Runham must have inherited it from him. I was quite startled last night to see it boldly displayed on the windowsill, as if Runham had a legal right to it.’

‘If he inherited it, he probably thought he did.’

‘What he thought does not matter to me. The bowl was mine, and I do not want Runham’s heirs to have it. However, I do not want it for myself, because it is tainted by Wilson’s thieving hands. I gave it to Cynric because it will go some way to compensate him for the shabby way he was treated by Runham. It is quite valuable, and he will be able to sell it if he ever finds himself in need.’

Bartholomew regarded him affectionately. ‘You are a strange man, Brother; you have a peculiar sense of justice.’

‘No more peculiar than yours,’ said Michael. ‘I heard about you offering your own purse to my choir to try to make up for Runham’s wickedness. But, look! Here comes your bride-to-be!’

Bartholomew glanced up from where he was negotiating his way around one of the High Street’s more crater-like potholes, to see the cheerfully formidable bulk of Adela Tangmer, mounted on a spirited bay and riding at the side of her father.

‘Matthew!’ she cried in her friendly way. ‘There you are again, ploughing your way through the filth of the streets when a horse would raise you above it all.’

‘All you ever think about is horses,’ muttered her father resentfully. ‘You should be thinking about children and marriage before it is too late.’

‘Have you tried any of the scholars at Bene’t College? Some of them might appreciate a wealthy wife,’ suggested Michael.

‘The scholars at Bene’t are a gaggle of argumentative bores with scrawny legs – like chickens,’ muttered Adela. ‘I will have none of them!’

‘Speaking of scrawny legs, do you know Master Clippesby of Michaelhouse?’ asked Michael, seeing an opportunity to test the Dominican’s feeble alibi for the night of Runham’s death. ‘He says he spoke to you on Friday evening, while you were watching the mystery plays outside St Mary’s Guildhall.’

‘She did not go to the mystery plays,’ said Tangmer, giving his daughter a nasty look. ‘I suggested she should, but she was busy with some horse or other and was in the stables all night. Why? Is this Clippesby looking for a wife?’

‘Friday,’ repeated Michael, looking hard at Adela. ‘Are you sure you did not meet Clippesby on Friday evening?’

‘Positive,’ said Adela. ‘My father is right: I was with a horse about to foal from sunset on Friday until dawn on Saturday. I have told you that already, Matthew. When your sister asked whether I was planning to attend the mystery plays a week or more ago – the day I challenged that knife-thrower in the Market Square – I informed her that I had a horse to see to, and would have no time to waste on such foolery.

‘I saw him on Thursday evening, though, wandering around the Market Square,’ Adela continued thoughtfully. ‘He was talking to himself and gesticulating wildly. He was frightening some of the traders’ children, so I told him to return to Michaelhouse and see Matthew – although I do not know whether madness is curable. Of course, horses can be wild and unpredictable, but they do not lose their wits like people.’

Bartholomew and Michael exchanged a glance. So, Clippesby’s alibi could be dismissed, and Bartholomew did recall that Adela had told Edith she would not be going to the plays. He had been remiss not to have remembered that when Clippesby had made his claim.

‘Well then, Clippesby was lying,’ said Michael as they walked away. ‘I have never trusted him, Matt. He is unstable enough to commit murder and then forget all about it. Or is he clever enough to use his madness to conceal the fact that he is a ruthless killer with a grudge to settle?’

‘I thought Clippesby liked Runham. He was certainly prepared to spy for him, and he would probably have done very well at Michaelhouse as Runham’s henchman.’

‘But Runham revealed details about the illness Clippesby wanted to conceal,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘And who knows what may have passed between the pair of them during these secret meetings they had at dawn? Who found the body, Matt? It was Clippesby – and in my experience, the person who “discovers” a corpse is often the person who has created it.’

He stopped suddenly, glaring ahead of him. Bartholomew glanced up from the muck of the High Street and saw that Michael’s gaze was fixed on two people who stood outside Bene’t College, examining the partly demolished scaffolding. They were the carpenter, Robert de Blaston, and his wife Yolande. Blaston turned his head this way and that as he assessed the spars and planks, while Yolande sighed and fidgeted with boredom.

‘What is he doing there?’ muttered Michael. ‘He is supposed to be working on Michaelhouse. I hope the story of the theft from Runham’s room is not out.’

‘We have already discussed this,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I thought we had decided to be honest and send them all back to Bene’t. It is better to have Bene’t men gloating over us, than to see Michaelhouse torn apart by workmen who want the wages we cannot pay. Blaston cannot blame us because a thief stole the money Runham had raised.’

‘There is no place for reason between a man and his money,’ said Michael. ‘You should know that, Matt. If the workmen learn that we cannot pay the fabulous wages Runham promised, they will not shrug and happily accept that it is just one of those things. They will riot.’

Yolande spotted them, and came to bid them good morning, swinging her hips provocatively as she revealed her poor teeth in what would have passed for an alluring smile in the dark. She wore a rather grimy green ribbon in her lustreless hair, which she fingered shyly to acknowledge Bartholomew’s generosity.

‘Would you mind if I asked you an impertinent question?’ asked Michael, in the tone of voice that suggested he would ask it whether she minded or not. He gave her a smile that was more flirtatious than monastic. ‘It concerns last Friday evening.’

‘I was working,’ she said immediately. ‘I always work Fridays, if I can.’

‘Why Fridays?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.

‘It is a fish day,’ she explained. ‘If men cannot have their meat at dinner, they like to have it another way after dark. Trade is always good on Fridays.’

Leaving Bartholomew speculating with interest on whether there was an anatomical explanation for her discovery, Michael continued to question the prostitute about her customers the night Runham had been killed.

‘You may consider my question indelicate, but did you see Ralph de Langelee then? He claims he was with you at that time.’

‘No,’ she said sharply. ‘He was not. Ralph who?’

‘It is all right, Yolande,’ said Michael gently. ‘I am not asking to make trouble for him, but I need to know the truth.’

She sighed and then grinned, reaching out to chuck the monk under the chin. Bartholomew looked both ways in alarm, lest anyone should have seen the intimate gesture, while Michael favoured the prostitute with a wicked leer.

‘Since it is you, Brother, I will tell the truth. Ralph de Langelee often pays me a visit on a Friday night – it is he who claims fish makes him more desirous of a woman.’ The fact that it was a theory of Langelee’s that had prompted Yolande’s intriguing claim meant that Bartholomew’s medical speculations ceased abruptly. ‘He came about an hour after sunset. Rob!’

Her husband tore his gaze from the Bene’t scaffolding and came towards them. ‘What?’ he asked, a little irritably. ‘I am busy.’

‘Busy doing what?’ asked Michael suspiciously.

‘Busy looking to see how the remaining scaffolding is holding up,’ replied Blaston. ‘We will have to work on that at some point, and I want to ensure it is not falling to pieces.’

‘Not until you have finished your work at Michaelhouse,’ said Michael.

‘Right,’ said Blaston vaguely. ‘A word of warning, though. We plan to ask for a week’s wages tomorrow. Runham said he would pay the whole amount after we had finished everything, but now that he is dead we would like a bit up front, just so that we all know where we stand.’

They know, thought Bartholomew, trying not to cast an anxious glance at Michael. They have heard rumours that Runham’s chest was robbed, and they are worried that they will not be paid.

‘Fair enough,’ said Michael airily. ‘Bring Newenham with you to see me tomorrow and we will see what we can do. But I was discussing another matter with your lady wife.’

‘My wife,’ corrected Blaston. ‘Yes?’

‘What time did Ralph de Langelee arrive, Rob?’ asked Yolande. ‘It was some time after sunset, but I cannot recall exactly when.’

Blaston rubbed his bristly chin. ‘Now, let me think. It was still just light, because little Yolande lost a shoe in the garden, and I had to go out and look for it. I was just able to see without a candle – which was a blessing, because we do not have any.’

‘That is right,’ said Yolande, remembering. ‘So, Ralph and I went upstairs, while you saw to the children. Did you find that shoe, by the way? We cannot afford to buy her another.’

‘Under the cabbages,’ replied Blaston. ‘Ralph de Langelee stayed an unusually long time that night, I recall. In fact, he stayed with you right through until dawn. I remember, because he and I walked to Michaelhouse together – me to work and him to go to mass in the church.’

It seemed a curious arrangement for a married couple, but Bartholomew was not in the habit of judging the lives of his fellow men, particularly after the plague when times were hard and people would do anything to put food on the table and a roof over their heads. Blaston should have been earning a decent wage as a carpenter, but with nine children to support, his income would not go far. The fact that he was willing to work under the dangerous conditions imposed by Runham told its own story, although if he ever had an accident, the Blaston family would be in serious trouble.

Thanking them for their help, Michael steered Bartholomew towards Bene’t College’s front gate. The physician wondered how the family would manage when Yolande was unable to work on Friday nights. He glanced back at them. They were good people – hard-working and honest – and he hoped they would not find life too difficult.

‘They are telling the truth, Matt,’ said Michael. ‘Langelee is lucky: he believed he was out on the wharves thinking a lot longer than he really was – which just goes to show that a lengthy thinking session means something very different to Langelee than it does to us! He was probably out for no more than an hour, and he arrived at the Blaston house at twilight. That means he arrived some time between five and six, and that at eight o’clock, when Runham was being cushioned to death, Langelee was merrily bouncing between the sheets with the mother of nine children.’

‘That means there are only two Michaelhouse Fellows unaccounted for that night,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Clippesby and me.’

‘So, assuming that none of the students or servants killed Runham, we are left with Clippesby,’ said Michael thoughtfully.

Bartholomew smiled. ‘You have no doubts about my innocence at all?’

‘None,’ said Michael firmly. ‘You strike me as more of a poisons man than a smotherer. But let us see what these Bene’t Fellows have to say for themselves. Let me do the talking, Matt. From what they told me yesterday, you did a poor job of interviewing them the last time you were there.’

Their knock at the gate was answered immediately by Osmun, the ill-tempered porter. His brother Ulfo lounged near a crackling fire in the lodge, picking his teeth with a knife that looked sharp enough to sever his tongue if he made a false move. Sitting apart in a corner, sporting a blackened eye and looking very sorry for himself, was Walter, lately night porter at Michaelhouse. Osmun followed Bartholomew’s startled gaze.

‘Caught him sleeping on duty,’ said Osmun with a sour smile. ‘We do not pay people to sleep, do we, Walter?’

Walter shook his head, looking more miserable than Bartholomew had ever seen him, which was a considerable feat. Despite the fact that Bartholomew considered Walter a lazy good-for-nothing, he felt sorry for the man in his blood-splattered shirt and bruised face. Walter saw his sympathetic expression and tried to stand. Ulfo kicked out viciously, and Walter sank back to the floor and hid his face in his hands, a picture of despair.

The Bene’t Fellows were in their conclave, a chamber off the hall that was larger than the one at Michaelhouse, but not nearly so pleasant. The rushes that covered the floor were stale and needed changing, while the tapestries on the walls were of an inferior quality and the dyes in the wools had faded in the sun. It was quite a contrast to the carved oak panelling and rich rugs that adorned the hall, and Bartholomew supposed that the conclave had not been deemed worthy of similar attention, because meetings with important benefactors – like the Duke of Lancaster and the guildsmen of St Mary and Corpus Christi – took place in the hall.

The hall itself housed the students, who sat in attitudes of boredom as they listened to the droning tones of their Bible Scholar reading some dense tract from Leviticus. A fire roared in the hearth, burning logs at a rate that even the absent-minded Kenyngham would have balked at. It was hot to the point of being uncomfortable, and Bartholomew was not surprised that several of the scholars had fallen asleep, lulled by the heat and the dry tones of the reader.

There was a palpable atmosphere of unease and unhappiness in the College, both among those students who were still awake in the hall and the Fellows in the conclave. Michaelhouse had its problems, but Bartholomew had never known it to simmer with the same sense of despair and gloom that seemed to grip Bene’t. Yet again, he realised that Wymundham and others had been right when they had claimed Bene’t was not a happy College.

‘I see you buried my cousin Justus at last,’ said Osmun as he followed Bartholomew through the hall. ‘Not before time, if you ask me. Bene’t does not leave its members’ corpses to fester in the church for days past the time when it is decent.’

‘No; Bene’t buries its scholars with unseemly haste,’ retorted Michael. ‘Wymundham and Raysoun were underground before my appointed representative had had the opportunity to inspect them properly.’

‘We did not think their deaths were any of your business,’ said Osmun, nettled. ‘An accident and a suicide are not matters for the Senior Proctor to poke into.’

‘The Senior Proctor can poke into anything he likes,’ said Michael sharply.

‘You are like that Ralph de Langelee,’ said Osmun in disdain. ‘He is always hanging around Bene’t, trying to ingratiate himself with members of a good College. He thinks he is Simekyn Simeon’s friend, and Simeon is too much a gentleman to send the man packing.’

‘But Bene’t willingly takes our servants – Agatha and Walter,’ snapped Michael, beginning to be angered by the man’s insolence. ‘And you should watch yourself: Agatha will not tolerate your rough manners. She will soon put you in your place.’

‘It is the Michaelhouse men again,’ announced Osmun disapprovingly to the Bene’t Fellows, as he ushered Michael and Bartholomew into the conclave. ‘I do not know what they want, but it will be something that will do us no good, you mark my words.’

He left, slamming the door behind him and making the fire in the hearth gutter and roar. Bartholomew looked at the assembled Fellows. Simekyn Simeon sat near the fire and had apparently been dozing. Under the sober blue of his tabard, he wore his startling striped hose and a bright red shirt, apparently to announce to the world that he was a courtier not a scholar, and that he wore his Fellow’s uniform on sufferance.

Caumpes was reading, folded into a windowseat, where the light was better. When he set the book down, Bartholomew saw it was a text by Plato. Heltisle sat at a table that was covered by scrolls and parchments, and had been writing. Of the last of the four Fellows, Henry de Walton, there was no sign.

‘You come again, Brother,’ said Heltisle coolly to Michael. ‘However, honoured though we are, we would appreciate it if you state your business and then be on your way; we are busy men.’

‘So I see,’ said Michael, glancing meaningfully towards the hall, where it was the Bible Scholar, not the Fellows, who was doing the teaching.

‘What do you want from us?’ snapped Caumpes, nettled.

‘A cup of wine would be pleasant,’ said Michael, sitting uninvited in a chair near the fire. ‘Does Bene’t keep a decent cellar, or will I have to return to Michaelhouse for that?’

Why the Fellows of other Colleges always yielded to Michael’s none-too-subtle ploys to be served their finest victuals, Bartholomew could not imagine. He assumed pride always made them rise to meet the challenge, to prove that their College could afford the best wines, serve the best food, or had the best students. Heltisle glowered, but then nodded to Simeon, who uncoiled himself from his chair to order a servant to fetch Michael his wine.

Moments later it arrived, a light white in which the grapes of southern France could still be tasted. It was served in handsome crystal goblets, which, Bartholomew had to admit, were more pleasant to drink from than Michaelhouse’s pewter.

‘Very good,’ said Michael approvingly, lifting his glass to the light so that the sun caught the pale gold liquid and made it gleam. ‘Almost as good as the brew I was served in the Hall of Valence Marie the other day. Now Master Thorpe of Valence Marie is a man who knows his wines.’

‘Why did you come today, Brother?’ asked Caumpes icily. ‘Other than to insult our cellars, that is?’

‘I have come, as Senior Proctor, to assure you that I will do all I can to protect Bene’t College’s reputation from the vicious rumours that are rife in the town,’ said Michael silkily.

Caumpes stiffened. ‘What rumours? What have people been saying about Bene’t?’

‘Have you not heard?’ asked Michael innocently. ‘You surprise me, Master Caumpes. I am referring to the tales that Raysoun and Wymundham were murdered. We have discussed the issue at length on more than one occasion.’

‘So you have come to interrogate us again,’ said Heltisle flatly. ‘I thought we had answered all your questions about the deaths of our unfortunate colleagues.’

‘It is a Michaelhouse plot to discredit us,’ said Caumpes bitterly. He pointed accusingly at Bartholomew. ‘His feeble attempt to pretend that Michaelhouse means Bene’t no harm may have convinced the Duke of Lancaster, but it did not fool us. We know Michaelhouse is jealous of the patronage of the Guilds of St Mary and Corpus Christi and wants to steal it away.’

‘I can assure you that is not true,’ said Michael, genuinely offended. ‘Michaelhouse wants no town money, thank you very much.’

‘Did Runham know that?’ demanded Heltisle. ‘Your tone suggests that there is something unwholesome about town money, but Runham held no such scruples when he was making a nuisance of himself among all the town’s merchants, demanding money for his new courtyard.’

‘Master Runham is no longer with us,’ said Michael smoothly, ‘as I am sure you are aware. And Bene’t and Michaelhouse have always coexisted peacefully in the past, so I do not see why our relationship should not continue as it was before.’

‘Very well, then,’ said Heltisle. ‘Prove your good intentions by sending us back our workmen.’

‘I will discuss the matter with Master Kenyngham,’ said Michael. ‘He is very keen for us to resolve our differences, and I am sure he will agree to your request.’

Bartholomew was as startled as Heltisle. Then it occurred to him that if the workmen could be discharged the following day on the grounds that Bene’t had demanded their return, Michael would have scored a double victory: first, Michaelhouse would not be obliged to pay the workmen the wages Runham had promised; and second, he would ensure that they would hold Bene’t – not Michaelhouse – responsible for losing them their bonus. It was a clever, if somewhat shabby, move, and given Blaston’s warning, it was also well timed.

‘That is very kind of you, Brother,’ said Caumpes quickly, sensing perhaps that Heltisle’s astonishment at Michael’s unexpected capitulation might lead him to say something to disturb the fragile truce. ‘We appreciate – and accept – your gesture of reconciliation.’

‘But that does not mean that we will consider impertinent questions about the unfortunate accidents that killed Raysoun and Wymundham,’ said Heltisle. ‘They are buried in St Bene’t’s churchyard, and I want them to rest in peace.’

Michael inclined his head. ‘Very well. But I have a favour to ask in return for my generosity in returning your workmen to you. There was a theft at Michaelhouse on Friday. We have the culprit under lock and key, and we are certain of his guilt. He is a pathetic fellow, who is spinning all manner of lies to wriggle off the hook he has impaled himself upon. He even accused Matt of giving him medicine that made him do things he did not want to do.’

‘Do you have any of it left?’ asked Caumpes of Bartholomew dryly. ‘There are one or two students I would not mind dosing with such a substance.’

Bartholomew smiled nervously, wondering where the fat monk’s untruths were leading.

‘This thief has had the audacity to claim that he was with a Fellow of Bene’t on Friday night.’ Michael raised his hand to quell the indignant objections that arose. ‘We do not believe him for an instant, of course. But I would like to be able to return to him and say that each one of you has accounted for his movements, and that our thief was not included in them.’

‘I do not see why we should play this game …’ began Heltisle.

‘Where lies the harm, Master Heltisle?’ asked Simeon with a shrug. ‘Brother Michael is not accusing us of anything: he is merely asking us to help him trap a thief. What was stolen, Brother?’

‘Some rings and gold coins,’ said Michael vaguely. ‘I appreciate your help in this matter, because I would not like this villain to go free and prey on some other unsuspecting College.’ He gazed around him meaningfully.

Michael really was clever, Bartholomew thought admiringly. He would learn the whereabouts of the Bene’t scholars without an unpleasant confrontation – unless one of them was the killer of Runham, of course, in which case the culprit would know exactly why Michael wanted to know where they were at eight o’clock on Friday evening. The monk was also cunning in appealing to their instincts for self-preservation, intimating that if his fictitious criminal were to go free, Bene’t might be the next victim.

‘I attended compline in St Botolph’s Church,’ said Heltisle. ‘I always insist that the students come with me on Fridays – Friday is usually the night that students attempt to slip their leashes and escape to the town to romp with the prostitutes.’

Bartholomew realised that Heltisle’s alibi was not a good one. Compline at St Botolph’s was earlier than at St Michael’s, and a fleet-footed man could have attended St Botolph’s and still run to Michaelhouse to kill Runham at eight o’clock. And bearing in mind that hour candles were often not accurate – especially the cheap ones favoured by Runham – the killer might have even had a few additional moments to complete his grisly task. Of course, Bartholomew thought, if Runham’s candle had burned faster than normal, Heltisle would be in the clear.

‘After we returned from compline, I retired to my room and studied the College accounts,’ Heltisle continued. ‘I was alone, but you can hardly expect me to have kept company with a thief. Anyway, you can check with Osmun the porter; he will tell you that no visitors came for me that evening. And now, if you will excuse me, I am busy, and have no time to waste sorting out the problems of other Colleges.’ He gathered up his parchments and swept from the room.

‘I have a confession to make,’ said Caumpes, giving a wan smile that revealed his bad teeth. Bartholomew saw Michael look interested. ‘I am a simple man and I do not like arguments. Life at Bene’t is not always as tranquil as I would like, and there was an altercation on Friday afternoon. I felt I could not attend compline in such an angry atmosphere, and so I went to the one in St Michael’s Church instead.’

‘Is that it?’ asked Michael, acutely disappointed.

Caumpes nodded. ‘I know it is unusual to patronise the church of another College, but I hope you will forgive me. I asked Master Kenyngham if I might join him and your new man – Suttone, I believe he is called – and he readily agreed. If you speak to them, they will confirm my story. But I encountered no thief, as far as I know.’

So, that discounted Caumpes as a potential killer, thought Bartholomew. If Bartholomew could choose anyone to give him an alibi, he would select Kenyngham, because the gentle Gilbertine was more honest than any man he had ever encountered. Kenyngham would never lie. And the fact that Suttone had been present, too, meant that Caumpes’s alibi was unshakeable. Kenyngham could be a little vague when he was praying, but Suttone was a sensible and practical man, and would remember whom he had met and when.

‘I cannot help you, I am afraid,’ said the foppish Simeon, looking as though he cared little one way or the other. ‘I spent an hour or two in the King’s Head – fine me, if you will, Senior Proctor, I offer no defence – and then I went looking for women. I did not see any that took my fancy. Ralph de Langelee had already engaged the only one worth romping with, while the lovely Matilde bestows her favours on no man these days, so I returned here and went to bed alone.’

‘Where is the fourth Fellow – Henry de Walton?’ asked Michael. ‘Could the thief have met him?’

‘I sincerely doubt it, Brother,’ said Simeon laconically. ‘No sensible thief would keep company with our Master de Walton.’

‘Why not?’ asked Michael. ‘What is wrong with him?’

‘Leprosy,’ replied Simeon, amused by the shock on Michael’s face. ‘It was diagnosed by Master Lynton of Peterhouse two days ago, and de Walton is on his way to a lazar house even as we speak.’

‘Which one?’ asked Bartholomew, with the interest of a professional.

‘Since I have no intention of paying him a comradely visit, I did not think to find out,’ said Simeon with a shrug. ‘Somewhere to the north. But it is time for a walk before I take another nap. Good morning, gentlemen.’

He wandered out, leaving Caumpes to see them across the courtyard to the gate.

‘Simeon is lying,’ said Caumpes as they walked, shaking his head in puzzlement. ‘He knows which lazar hospital de Walton will be in, because it was he who arranged it – St Giles in Norwich.’

‘When did de Walton leave?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Yesterday,’ said Caumpes. ‘I cannot imagine why Simeon did not tell you. It is not a secret, and there is nothing shameful in sending a sick colleague somewhere he will be properly cared for. All the Fellows came to see the poor man on his way yesterday, and I at least have promised to travel to Norwich to see him soon.’

‘You will not be allowed in,’ said Michael. ‘Lazar hospitals do not encourage visitors.’

‘De Walton is my friend,’ said Caumpes simply. ‘So I will try.’ He stopped at the gate and waited for Osmun to open it. ‘Goodbye, Brother, Doctor. I hope you convict your thief.’

‘So do I,’ said Michael fervently.

He and Bartholomew had barely started the walk back to Michaelhouse, when they heard a yell. It was Walter, the lazy ex-Michaelhouse porter, racing down the street after them as though he were being pursued by the hounds of hell. Agatha the laundress was not far behind. Walter grabbed Michael’s arm and began demanding back his old job in piteous, wheedling tones.

‘Please take me home to Michaelhouse. I promise I will never sleep on duty again.’

‘We will see,’ said Michael, firmly disengaging his arm and attempting to walk on.

‘I am returning to Michaelhouse myself,’ announced Agatha, with every confidence that she would be welcomed back, and that any laundress appointed in her absence would be summarily dismissed. ‘I will move into my old quarters immediately. I do not know who killed Raysoun and Wymundham, Brother, but these Bene’t men are trying my patience to the limits.’

‘Have you learned anything at all?’ asked Michael, although the flatness of his voice suggested that he predicted that she had not.

She sighed, and Bartholomew saw that her own lack of success was as disheartening to her as it was to Michael. ‘Nothing. And you should not have asked me to go there, Brother. Those Bene’t scoundrels are followers of the Devil.’

‘Really?’ asked Michael with quickened interest. ‘What makes you say that?’

‘Because, as God’s chosen, I should have been able to recognise the guilty man immediately, but they called on the Devil to hide him from me. Still, I did my best. And now I am going home to Michaelhouse. Good wages and a big room are no compensation for bad company and lazy underlings.’

She began to move majestically along the High Street, tossing a bundle of belongings to Walter, who was obliged to carry it for her.

‘If she is being reinstated, you can take me, too,’ Walter whined, oblivious to the fact that a porter who slept on duty was not in the same league as a laundress who ran the domestic side of the College with ruthless efficiency. ‘Please! That Osmun is a brute. He will kill me if I stay at Bene’t!’

‘Osmun is an animal,’ agreed Agatha, walking next to Bartholomew. ‘He and Simeon dreamed up such a vile story about poor de Walton. And Caumpes and Heltisle believed every word of it.’

‘What are you talking about?’ asked Michael. ‘De Walton has leprosy, and is currently on his way to a lazar hospital in Norwich.’

‘Well, maybe he does have leprosy,’ said Agatha. ‘I thought he looked a bit peaky. But he is no more travelling to Norwich than you are. That is a story fabricated by the Duke of Lancaster’s henchman, so that Heltisle and Caumpes will not be able to see him any more.’

‘So, where is de Walton?’ asked Michael, trying not to show his bewilderment at Agatha’s annoyingly piecemeal story. ‘And why should Simeon want to keep him from the others?’

‘Simeon wants de Walton away from the others, because Bene’t is full of bitterness and rivalry,’ said Agatha knowledgeably. ‘It is really no different from Michaelhouse. And he has the poor man imprisoned in one of the outbuildings down by the King’s Ditch. I saw Simeon taking him there yesterday, after de Walton was supposed to have gone to Norwich.’

‘Will you tell us how to find it?’ asked Michael.

‘Now?’ asked Agatha calmly, preparing to make her mighty bulk change direction.

‘We will go when it is dark,’ said Michael. ‘Tonight.’

It was only noon, and there was a long time to go before Michael’s midnight raid on the shed in Bene’t College’s grounds. Michael went to question his beadles yet again about their nightly intelligence-gathering in the taverns. Meanwhile, Bartholomew was anxious about the amount of time that had been squandered by the building work and Runham’s death, and was keen to remedy the matter by organising a debate for his undergraduates. But none of his students were anywhere to be found in Michaelhouse, and with no Cynric to round them up, Bartholomew was obliged to hunt them down himself. With ill grace, feeling that trawling the taverns for his truants was a waste of an afternoon, he set out.

His first port of call was the King’s Head, a busy establishment near the Ditch with a reputation for brawls. The deafening roar of drunken voices stopped the instant he entered, and he realised that he had forgotten to remove the tabard that marked him as a scholar. While scholars regularly patronised the King’s Head, they never did so wearing uniforms that proclaimed their academic calling. Eyes that glittered in the firelight regarded him with such hostile intent that he backed out quickly; to linger would mean an attack for certain.

As the door closed behind him, the bellow of conversation resumed, and he berated himself for being so careless. He took off his tabard, shoved it into the medicine bag he always wore looped over his shoulder, and began to walk towards the next inn on his list. He smiled to himself as he went: even the short spell he had spent inside the King’s Head told him that his students were not there, and that the reason they were not enjoying its dubious hospitality was probably because Ralph de Langelee was there. The burly philosopher had been sitting at a table at the far end of the tavern, drinking a jug of ale with a slim, neat man who looked as if he wished he were elsewhere.

Bartholomew turned from the High Street to Luthburne Lane, a dark, muddy street that ran along the back of Bene’t College, where a sign that dangled on a single hinge told that the run-down building to which it was attached was the Lilypot, an insalubrious inn with a reputation as a haunt for criminals and practising lawyers. Bartholomew was about to enter, when he saw a familiar figure drop lightly from the wall that ran along the rear of Bene’t, brush himself down and then walk jauntily in the direction of the King’s Ditch. It was Simekyn Simeon, and the Bene’t Fellow had not noticed Bartholomew standing in the gloomy portals of the Lilypot.

Curious as to what should induce the elegant courtier to jump over walls instead of using the front gate, like most law-abiding men, Bartholomew started to follow him, taking care to keep some distance between him and his quarry as Cynric had taught him to do. Simeon moved quickly and stealthily, casting quick, furtive glances behind him as he went. Bartholomew began to wonder whether any Fellow at Bene’t was able to walk around the town in a normal manner, given that he had personally observed Wymundham, Caumpes and now Simeon stealing about the streets.

Between Luthburne Lane and the King’s Ditch was a small area of pasture that the townsfolk used for grazing their cattle during the summer months. During the winter, it was a weed-infested wilderness lined with mature trees on one side, and the sturdy grey walls of the Hall of Valence Marie on the other. Simeon hurried to a small coppice of hawthorn trees, lifting his tabard so that it would not trail in the long grass. Bartholomew hoped the courtier had not worn his exquisite calfskin shoes, since generations of cows had browsed the area. An eloquent string of expletives and a slackening of pace as Simeon inspected his foot indicated that he had.

When he reached the prickly haven of the hawthorns, the Bene’t man glanced around him and, apparently satisfied that he had not been observed, lowered himself carefully on to a fallen tree-trunk and began to scrape at his shoe with a stick. Since Bartholomew was sure the fashionable Simeon had not forged his way through the foliage for some pleasurable exercise and that he was likely to be meeting someone, he skirted the thicket and climbed up the steep bank of the Ditch behind. Lying on his stomach, he found he could look down on Simeon but Simeon was unlikely to see Bartholomew unless he happened to glance up. He slipped his medicine bag off his shoulder, laid it on the grass next to him, and settled down to see what would happen.

Fortunately, he did not have long to wait, which was a blessing. Not only was it cold lying in wet grass under a dark sky that promised rain, but the noxious stench of the Ditch was making him feel sick. Another person was moving across the scrub, looking every bit as furtive as had Simeon. At first, Bartholomew assumed Simeon’s liaison was no more sinister than a clandestine meeting with a woman, for the figure that inched its way across the pasture was elfin, protected from the weather by a thick cloak that hid everything except some brown shoes. But then the newcomer reached up to push back the hood, and Bartholomew saw that it was no woman whom Simeon greeted in the manner of an old friend.

‘I was waylaid,’ the newcomer explained, perching on the tree trunk and pulling his cloak more tightly around him. ‘That dreadful Ralph de Langelee spotted me, and I was obliged to pass the time of day with him in a place called the King’s Head. Are Cambridge scholars allowed the freedom to carouse in the town’s inns? We certainly do not permit that sort of thing at Oxford.’

‘Langelee allowed himself to be seen in a tavern with an Oxford man?’ asked Simeon, amused. ‘He is a confident fellow! Rumour has it that he plans to be Master of Michaelhouse now that the old one is dead. He will not win the votes of that gaggle of old women and bigots by fraternising with William Heytesbury of Merton College in an establishment like the King’s Head!’

Heytesbury! thought Bartholomew, suddenly recognising from his own days at Oxford the delicate features of the famed nominalist. It was the discovery of Michael’s letters to him that had destroyed the monk’s ambitions to succeed Kenyngham as Master of Michaelhouse. And now it appeared that Michael was not the only one with Oxford connections: it seemed Langelee had his own association with the Merton man. Bartholomew had seen them himself in the King’s Head together only a few moments earlier.

‘The tavern was full of townsmen,’ Heytesbury went on with a shudder. ‘At one point, a University doctor had the temerity to enter wearing his tabard, and, judging from the hostile reaction of the inn’s patrons, I suspect he was lucky to leave alive.’

‘It is good to see you, Heytesbury,’ said Simeon warmly. ‘You are a bright spark of culture and decency in this den of louts. Would you believe that I am obliged to remain here until Bene’t is completed? It might take months, at which point I shall be too ancient to be of use to anyone.’

‘You will never be too old for fun,’ said Heytesbury, smiling and clapping his friend on the back. ‘But it is a pity your Duke chose this godforsaken hole into which to plough his money. He should have given it to Oxford.’

‘I did my best to tell him that,’ said Simeon. ‘He declined to listen to a mere squire. But what did Langelee want with you? I am also acquainted with him, for my sins. I have been obliged to waste several evenings in his company, because I am too polite to tell him to go to the Devil.’

Heytesbury sighed. ‘He wanted to know about my dealings with Brother Michael. The stupid man apparently used Michael’s association with me to prevent the monk from becoming Master of Michaelhouse. From my personal impression of that good Brother, I imagine that Langelee is headed for a serious fall.’

Simeon raised his eyebrows. ‘Are you serious? You think that fat glutton can best a man like Langelee, with his years of experience as the Archbishop’s spy?’

‘Should I trust Michael then?’ asked Heytesbury thoughtfully. ‘Should I go ahead with this arrangement that will make Oxford richer by two churches and a farm in exchange for some information that is neither here nor there to us?’

‘Why not?’ asked Simeon. ‘It sounds to me as if you cannot lose.’

‘That is what worries me,’ said Heytesbury, frowning. ‘It seems like an offer made in Heaven, where we gain and Cambridge loses. That is why I came in person to see Michael, and that is why I asked you to meet me, so that you can give me your impressions of the man. He claims he plans to use the information only to secure himself the Chancellorship next year, but I remain sceptical.’

‘I think you credit him with too much cunning,’ said Simeon dismissively. ‘Brother Michael is a bumbling Benedictine who cannot even explain the deaths that have occurred in Bene’t College. I doubt he will raise his eyes from the dinner table long enough to be a threat to you.’

That Simeon had so badly misread Michael suggested that Langelee was not the only one in line for a hard fall. Bartholomew knew Michael well enough to be convinced that if Heytesbury and the monk struck some kind of deal, then Heytesbury would not be the one to leave with the better half of the bargain. He shifted slightly in his hiding place, growing chilled and stiff from lying still. He bumped against his medicine bag, which clinked softly as the birthing forceps inside it knocked against a glass phial. Fortunately, the two men below did not hear.

‘Now,’ said Simeon, shivering slightly as a gust of wind brought the first spots of rain. ‘I have fulfilled my part of our arrangement by informing you that you need not fear Brother Michael. What do you have for me?’

Heytesbury rummaged under his cloak and produced a leather bag. ‘New shoes, cut in the latest court fashion with toes that curl; a ham from the Duke’s kitchen; and a silk sheet, so that you will not have to endure Bene’t’s rough blankets.’

Simeon grinned, and took the bag from him. ‘Excellent. I will–’

When Bartholomew had bumped into his medicine bag, it had been nudged towards the edge of the bank, where it very slowly began to slide. Before he could stop it, it had gathered momentum on the slick grass, assisted by the weight of the heavy birthing forceps inside, and tumbled away down the bank to land with a heavy thud at Simeon’s feet. For one horror-stricken moment, Bartholomew was not sure whether to run away or to confront the two men. Although the rational part of his mind told him that he had done nothing to warrant flight, there was always the possibility that the mincing courtier was a murderer, who had already killed two of his colleagues and who would be quite happy to dispatch Bartholomew, too.

But the matter was decided for him. Without waiting to establish the identity of the bag’s owner, Heytesbury was away, bounding through the long grass towards the High Street at an impressive pace. Meanwhile, Simeon raced off in the direction of Luthburne Lane and the rear of his College. Bartholomew leapt to his feet, a vague notion of pursuing Simeon forming in his mind, although he was not sure to what purpose. The sudden movement was ill-advised, and his leather-soled boots skidded on the slick grass. He lost his balance, and fell flat on his back in a patch of grey-green slime just above the Ditch’s waterline.

Appalled by the notion that he might slide further and end up in the fetid black waters that slunk by in a foul, glassy-smooth curl, Bartholomew twisted on to his stomach and snatched at some weeds. Moments later, he was on firm ground again, although to his dismay he found he was heavily coated in the repulsive ooze from the Ditch’s muddy banks. Revolted by the sulphurous stench that already emanated from his clothes, he retrieved his bag and returned to Michaelhouse, earning some curious glances from passers-by as he went.

To his chagrin, one of the people he met was Matilde. She looked him up and down and seemed uncertain whether to express concern or be amused. She tried the former, but seeing he was unharmed, her natural good humour quickly bubbled to the surface and she started to laugh.

‘You look like a ditcher,’ she said, walking around behind him to appreciate the full scale of the mess he was in. ‘How did you manage to end up in such a state?’

‘I was listening to a conversation about Michael between Simekyn Simeon and a scholar from Oxford and I slipped. It must have been divine retribution for spying.’

‘Ah, you mean William Heytesbury of Merton,’ said Matilde immediately. ‘He is in Cambridge to learn whether Michael is a blustering fool who wants certain information simply to secure the Chancellorship of the University next year, or a cunning negotiator who will use the information to promote Cambridge’s interests over those of Oxford.’

Bartholomew gaped at her. ‘How do you know that?’

Matilde smiled at his astonishment. ‘Through the sisters, of course. Langelee feels guilty for his shameful tactics during the last election for the Master of Michaelhouse, and so will recommend that Heytesbury does what Michael suggests. And then, perhaps not next year, or even the year after, Michael will use Heytesbury’s information to steal away from Oxford the patronage of some wealthy and powerful people.’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘I gathered as much. But I thought his negotiations were secret. He certainly has told me very little about them.’

‘But Heytesbury is not as discreet as Michael,’ said Matilde. ‘He had already unburdened himself to Yolande de Blaston. Michael is a clever man. Heytesbury should be careful.’

‘Where are you going?’ asked Bartholomew, suddenly feeling a strong desire to spend some time alone with her. ‘Will you come with me to the Brazen George for a while? Now?’

‘I certainly will not,’ she said, beginning to laugh again. ‘The landlord would not allow you in all covered in mud, and I have my reputation to consider.’ She sensed his disappointment and leaned forward to touch his arm with a slender forefinger. ‘But when you are clean and dry, I would welcome your company in my house. Will you come tomorrow evening?’

Bartholomew smiled. ‘There is nothing I would like more.’

Michael’s green eyes grew large and round when he saw the state of his friend but he said nothing. He followed the physician into his room, which still lay under a thick coat of dust from the collapse of the scaffolding, and Bartholomew felt a pang of regret when he realised that Cynric would not be in to help him clean it, or to leave fresh water in the jug on the floor by the table. He fetched his own, and went to the lavatorium, trying to sluice away the stench of the Ditch.

When he had finished, Michael was waiting, but the monk wrinkled his nose in disgust and went to fetch some of the coarse-grained scented soap they had seen in Master Runham’s room. It was not pleasant standing on the cold flagstone floor of the lavatorium while Michael threw jug after jug of water over him, and the soap was rough on Bartholomew’s skin. But it smelled powerfully of lavender, and he imagined most people would consider it an improvement on the rank stench of the Ditch. He rubbed the soap in his hair, revolted by the brown sludge that washed out as Michael tipped water over his head.

Between deluges, he told Michael about the meeting between Heytesbury and Simeon. The monk was delighted that Simeon had underestimated him, and began speculating on the advantages Heytesbury’s information would hold for Cambridge at Oxford’s expense. He was especially gratified to learn that Langelee also had Oxford connections, and swore that the philosopher’s hypocrisy would be exposed at some future time, when it would be most damaging.

‘I will be Master of Michaelhouse yet, and Langelee will be sorry he ever crossed me,’ he vowed, pulling a face when he saw that the filth of the Ditch still clung to Bartholomew’s skin. ‘This is going to take for ever. What were you doing, anyway? Making mud pies? And I am not sure that this reeking soap of Runham’s is any improvement. You will smell like a whore, and Father William will think you have been rubbing up against Matilde.’

Bartholomew ignored him. ‘Runham was not a man who seemed especially interested in hygiene. I wonder why he kept so much soap in his room.’

‘He took it to Wilson’s tomb,’ said Michael.

Bartholomew regarded him uncertainly through his dripping hair. ‘Like a votive offering, you mean? That sounds rather pagan.’

‘That is what I thought, but I saw him doing it at least twice. If you look behind that altar, you will see it is packed with the stuff. It is the strong odour of this soap that always made me sneeze if I went too close – a good excuse for not praying there, I always thought.’

‘So that is why Wilson’s tomb always smells like a brothel. Sometimes the scent was so powerful that I could barely breathe – like when Runham demanded that I knelt next to him there the morning after the feast. What an odd thing for him to do.’

‘Hurry up,’ said Michael, pouring more water over the physician’s head. ‘Or we will miss our meal. And do not be shy with the soap. Runham will not be needing it to make his cousin’s tomb smell pretty now.’

Bartholomew scrubbed vigorously, noting with distaste the amount of dirt that swirled around his feet. Suddenly he dropped the soap with a yelp of pain, clutching his arm.

‘What now?’ asked Michael impatiently, dashing the last of the water at Bartholomew as the physician inspected his arm. ‘Never mind. That will do. Get dressed quickly before the bell rings. Agatha promised to make a mess of eggs and bacon fat today, to celebrate her return.’

‘So that is the hurry, is it?’ asked Bartholomew, shivering as he rubbed himself dry with a piece of sacking. He reached for a clean shirt. ‘Runham’s soap might be generous on scent, but it is as coarse as stone. That hurt.’

Michael picked it up from the floor, and was about to toss it in the empty water jug when he saw the faint glitter of metal.

‘No wonder you howled,’ he said. ‘There is something in it.’

He rummaged in Bartholomew’s medicine bag for a surgical knife, and poked about with it while the physician finished dressing. Eventually, he had prised an object free of the waxy substance, and spent a few moments paring the excess soap away so that he could be certain of what he held.

‘I do not understand this,’ he said, bewildered, as he inspected a small crucifix. ‘This is part of the College’s silver.’

‘The silver that Runham sold to raise funds for his buildings?’ asked Bartholomew, equally bemused. ‘But what is it doing in his soap?’

‘I think when we know the answer to that, we will understand why he died,’ said Michael grimly.

‘What about your eggs in bacon fat?’ asked Bartholomew, as the monk started to stride across the courtyard towards the gate.

Michael faltered, then changed direction abruptly. ‘You are right. I am a lot better at grave-robbing when I have a full stomach.’

‘Grave-robbing?’ asked Bartholomew in alarm. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘I am talking about retrieving the rest of the soap from Wilson’s altar and seeing what else it contains,’ said Michael. ‘But first things first. I have not tasted Agatha’s egg mess for ages, and you look as if you could do with a good meal. You are unnaturally thin these days.’

The bell had started to ring, so they made their way to the hall and ate a hasty meal, while Father William reported in great detail the lack of success of his own investigations into Master Runham’s murder. Kenyngham, occupying the Master’s seat again, did not pay the friar any attention, and gazed beatifically at one of the stained-glass windows, evidently reflecting on some religious matter that was uplifting to his soul.

Clippesby sat alone, barely eating and wearing the expression of a man hunted. Bartholomew wondered whether William or Suttone had been indiscreet in their surveillance of him, and that the Dominican knew he was under suspicion of murdering his Master. Bartholomew also wondered whether Clippesby could shed light on why Runham saw fit to keep the College silver in his soap. Was Clippesby Runham’s seller – the man who took the purloined goods from their hiding place in the church and passed them to the blithely innocent, or to the less innocent who did not care as long as a profit could be made? Clippesby might not be entirely sane, but he was also cunning in his own way. He certainly had the intelligence to fence stolen goods.

Between Clippesby and William sat Suttone, trying not to let William’s strident voice distract him as he read a psalter. His grimaces as he tried to concentrate suggested he was having serious doubts about whether Michaelhouse was the right place for him. Bartholomew sincerely hoped he would not leave, and made a mental note to try to spend some time with him, to convince him that Michaelhouse had a lot to offer.

Langelee sat at the end of the table, his nose buried in a cup that Bartholomew was fairly sure did not contain the customary small ale, but something a little stronger. As soon as he could, Michael made his apologies to Kenyngham and asked to be excused, leaving the other Fellows curious as to what could be so important as to make the monk rise from the table while there was still bread to be eaten and the egg-mess bowl to be scraped.

‘We will go to St Michael’s Church immediately,’ said Michael, as Bartholomew followed him down the spiral stairs and into the yard. ‘We will look behind this altar of Runham’s, and bring any soap we find back to the College. And then we will decide what to do next.’

They were about to open the front gate when Walter came hurrying out from the porter’s lodge, his gloomy face anxious. He was working days at Michaelhouse in the hope he would be reappointed. ‘I would not open that, if I were you, Brother,’ he advised. ‘Some of your choir are outside.’

‘So?’ asked Michael irritably. ‘What do you think they might do? Sing to me?’

‘That would be a good enough reason to stay behind locked gates in itself,’ said Walter without the flicker of a smile. ‘But I do not think they have come to sing: I think they have come to fight.’

‘Fight?’ asked Michael. ‘Why would they want to fight? I plan to reinstate them as soon as I have resolved this business with Runham. I should have done it before, but first I was ill, and then I was busy.’

‘They do not know that, do they?’ Walter pointed out. ‘But they are outside, and they look as though music is the farthest thing from their minds.’

A flight of steep, narrow steps led to the top of the wall that separated the College from Foul Lane. Bartholomew climbed it quickly, and was startled to see that Walter was right: there was a large gathering of townsfolk outside the College gates. None of them carried weapons as far as he could see, and he supposed that they had only come to beg for the reinstatement that Michael proposed to arrange anyway. They did not seem to be the menacing throng that Walter had claimed.

‘You should talk to them,’ he said to Michael, climbing down again. ‘Tell them that the next practice will be at the usual time, and I imagine they will disperse quite peacefully.’

‘Very well,’ said Michael, striding towards the gate. Before he could reach it, there was a tremendous hammering. He stopped and gazed at Bartholomew in surprise.

‘Michaelhouse!’ came a loud voice from the other side of the wall. ‘Open up.’

‘Who is it?’ demanded Walter in an unsteady voice. Standing well to one side, he eased open the small grille in the door that would allow him to see out.

‘It is me and Adam de Newenham,’ came Robert de Blaston’s voice. ‘And a few others who are prepared to stand by us and see justice done. We want our money for working on your buildings.’

‘You said tomorrow,’ said Michael, aggrieved. ‘Then we will have a week’s wages for every man at the rate agreed by Master Runham.’

‘But we want all of it,’ shouted Blaston. ‘We want the entire month’s pay in advance – today, not tomorrow.’

‘Michaelhouse will pay you for a week,’ said Michael firmly. ‘That is already twice what you would have earned from Bene’t.’

‘We have heard rumours – put about by your own servants – that Michaelhouse was robbed when Runham died,’ shouted Blaston. ‘We do not trust you to pay us later. We want all our money now.’

Walter immediately started to inspect his fingernails, while one of the cooks who had been listening to the exchange seemed to be similarly guilt-stricken. Bartholomew did not blame either of them: they had been summarily dismissed after years of service, and it was only human nature to gossip and gripe about it in the taverns – and to speculate that the College did not have the money to pay for the services it had requested.

‘It is not common practice to pay everything in advance,’ argued Michael. ‘We will pay you for the week of work that you have already done, and then you can return to Bene’t. The scholars there are keen for you to complete their building first. You can finish ours later.’

‘The rumours were right!’ cried Newenham in disbelief. ‘You do not have the funds to pay us what we are due.’

‘I will not shriek out this matter with you like the constable of a besieged castle,’ snapped Michael irritably. ‘I will open the door, and you and Blaston can enter. We will discuss this like civilised men, not like vendors at a fish market.’

Reluctantly, Walter opened the gate to admit Blaston and Newenham, flinching as though he anticipated the horde outside might come crashing in. Michael’s beadle, Meadowman, was with them, white-faced and tense as he contemplated the widening rift between the University that paid his wages and the town in which he lived.

Curious scholars had gathered in the yard, and they ringed Michael and the two carpenters, watching the exchange with interest. The other Fellows arrived, too, Langelee in a foul enough mood to join in any fight going, and Clippesby and Suttone, unused to the occasional spats between town and University, looking nervous. William was gripping a heavy bible like a lethal weapon, and Bartholomew had the unnerving impression that he was either about to pronounce the start of a holy war or hurl the book at someone and brain them with it.

‘Oh, hello, Doctor,’ said Blaston amiably to Bartholomew as he spotted the physician. ‘Did I tell you that my Yolande was very pleased with her ribbon?’

‘What is this?’ demanded William, glaring challengingly at Bartholomew. ‘You gave Yolande de Blaston a gift? I thought she was a whore.’

‘Only on certain nights of the week,’ objected Blaston, offended.

‘Then what is that smell?’ demanded William, gazing around him with the glare of a fanatic. ‘I detect the unmistakable odour of brothel!’

Bartholomew moved away from him.

‘And how would you know, Father?’ asked Langelee archly. ‘You have some personal experience of brothels, do you? Perhaps you can recommend me a couple.’

‘Come into our hall,’ said Kenyngham quickly to the craftsmen, sensing a confrontation in the making that had nothing to do with wages and broken contracts. ‘Share some wine with us, and we will discuss this in a dignified way.’

‘No, thank you,’ said Newenham hastily. ‘We hear that Michaelhouse has laid in a supply of Widow’s Wine. I would not drink that stuff if I were dying of thirst in a desert.’

‘It is a splendid brew,’ said William indignantly. ‘It is a good, honest man’s drink, not this weak and watery rubbish that I hear is served in other Colleges. I must see about ordering more of it.’

‘We did not come here to talk about wine,’ said Newenham impatiently. ‘We came because we want our money. We want the ninety pounds right now – for the supplies that we will have to buy and for our labour over the next three weeks, as well as what we are already owed.’

‘It is not customary to pay for work before it is completed,’ argued Michael again. ‘I can assure you that our College–’

‘Show us, then,’ interrupted Blaston. Michael regarded him uncertainly. ‘Give us our week’s wages now, and show us the rest. We heard it was all in a large coffer in Master Runham’s room. Show us this coffer, and we will be back within the hour with our tools to complete the work we started. We only want to make sure we will not be cheated.’

‘Michaelhouse does not cheat people,’ began William, offended. Kenyngham put a cautionary hand on his shoulder to quieten him.

‘Please,’ said Suttone, stepping forward and raising his hands in a placatory gesture. ‘Michaelhouse scholars are honest men, and none of us has any intention of cheating you.’

‘No?’ demanded Blaston. ‘Then show us the gold.’

‘We are clerics,’ continued Suttone, in the same reasonable tones. ‘Friars and monks. I promise you we are honourable men who will see you are paid what you agreed with Runham. Even if I have to work as a common scribe in St Mary’s Church for the rest of my life, I assure you that Michaelhouse will make good its debts.’

Blaston gazed at him, aware of the sincerity in the Carmelite’s voice. ‘Then show us the gold, Father. Prove to us that you have it. That is all we are asking.’

‘When Master Runham died, we thought it was unsafe to have so much money in one place,’ said Michael smoothly, ‘so we deposited it with various people around the town. We cannot show it to you, because it is no longer here.’

‘Lies!’ spat Newenham. He turned to Blaston. ‘The rumours were true: Michaelhouse will not pay us at the rate we were promised. They want to give us a week’s money, when we were promised four times as much. I am not standing here to have my intelligence insulted!’

He stamped towards the gate, which Walter hastily fumbled open. After a moment, Blaston followed. Before he left, he turned and addressed the assembled scholars.

‘You will regret this, Michaelhouse. You are trying to cheat honest workmen. You will regret it.’

‘No!’ cried Suttone, distressed. ‘Please wait! There is no need for violence that may lead to bloodshed. Come back, so that we can talk about this.’

But although Blaston may have believed that Suttone did not intend to cheat him, he was clearly not convinced of the honesty of the other Michaelhouse men. With an apologetic shrug to the Carmelite, he turned and stalked away. Beadle Meadowman grabbed Michael’s sleeve and muttered in his ear before following.

‘He means what he says, Brother. Michaelhouse had better show them what they want, or you can expect every working man in the town to fall in behind them to see justice done.’

‘I hope you are not threatening us,’ said William coldly.

Meadowman shook his head. ‘I have been with these men for a week now, and I know what they think. I am only warning you that they mean what they say: pay up or face the consequences.’

He turned to run after Blaston before Walter locked the gate. Bartholomew climbed to the top of the wall and was relieved to see that the people assembled in the lane were dispersing. He was about to descend when Blaston turned and howled at the top of his voice.

‘You have trouble coming your way, Michaelhouse!’

Bartholomew knelt next to the small altar near Wilson’s tomb and tugged with all his might. Next to him, Michael was casting anxious glances up the nave, as though he anticipated that a horde of furious townspeople would descend on him at any moment. Not far away, and covered by a sheet of silk, was the body of Runham, lying in its own coffin – not the parish one that served everyone else – and looking as smug and complacent in death as it had in life.

‘I keep thinking he is watching me,’ said Bartholomew, glancing over at the body as he pushed and pulled at the portable altar. ‘It is not a pleasant sensation.’

‘Do not be fanciful, Matt. And hurry up! I do not feel safe here.’

‘No one will attack the church,’ said Bartholomew reasonably. ‘It is Michaelhouse they want, and that has withstood attacks before – far more violent ones than a few masons, carpenters and out-of-work singers will manage.’

‘Do not be so sure,’ said Michael. ‘You know how the apprentices love to join in any kind of rioting and looting. They will willingly add their numbers and their belligerence to the mob.’

‘Then stop it before it starts,’ said Bartholomew, easing himself into a better position and trying again. ‘You have already warned the Sheriff’s men and your beadles to be ready, but perhaps you need to call a curfew or close off St Michael’s Lane.’

‘I know how to attempt to prevent a riot,’ said Michael stiffly. ‘I am the Senior Proctor and have far more experience of this sort of thing than you do.’

‘Well, stop fretting about it, then,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Come and help me with this. I think it must be mortared into place. I cannot budge the thing.’

Michael elbowed him out of the way and lent his considerable strength to prising the small altar from Wilson’s tomb. With a snapping of ripped wood, it came free and they peered behind it. It was stuffed to the gills with blocks of soap, the scent so powerful that Michael backed away and immediately started to sneeze. Bartholomew removed one and began to pare the soap away with one of his knives. Concealed within it was a ring.

‘That is the gold ring Sam Gray placed as a pledge in one of our hutches,’ said Michael, taking it from him and wiping his running nose on a piece of linen.

Bartholomew gazed at him in confusion. ‘I do not understand. I thought Runham had sold all those things. That list we found in his room told us how much he had been paid for each item.’

‘We were wrong, Matt,’ said Michael tiredly. ‘In the light of what we have just discovered, I suggest that the list was not Runham itemising how much he had been paid, it was predicting how much he thought he was going to be paid.’

‘But that means the chest in his room never contained ninety pounds at all,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It must have contained the thirty he borrowed from the guilds, the thirty he begged from benefactors, and some undetermined amount.’

‘Do you think he planned to abscond with it?’ asked Michael, turning the ring over in his fingers. ‘It is possible, you know. Runham was very partial to money, as was his thieving cousin.’

Bartholomew sat back on his heels and considered. ‘I wonder if the fact that the bowl of yours that Wilson stole later made an appearance in Runham’s room suggests that Runham knew his cousin was a thief and came to Michaelhouse specifically to claim these ill-gotten gains.’

‘I wonder,’ said Michael thoughtfully, sitting on the damaged altar. ‘It makes sense.’

‘Does it?’ asked Bartholomew, not absolutely certain he was right.

Michael nodded slowly. ‘Runham came to Michaelhouse a year ago, and it seemed to me as though he always intended to make a bid for the position of Master when it became vacant.’

‘But Roger Alcote, who died this summer, was generally considered Kenyngham’s successor.’

‘No one liked Alcote,’ said Michael. ‘I am not sure I would have voted for him, and I am very sure you would not.’

‘True. But I would not – did not – vote for Runham, either.’

‘But you might have done if the alternative was Alcote. We all knew Runham was smug and superior, but none of us knew how truly dreadful he was until he was in a position of power. He must have been hiding his real character all this time.’

‘So, he presented us the charming side of his personality – his arrogance and condescension – for a year, and then made a bid for the Mastership?’ said Bartholomew.

Michael nodded again. ‘And all that time, the unworldly Kenyngham was residing in the Master’s quarters. Stolen treasure could be dripping from the walls and Kenyngham would not notice. Do you remember Runham ordering Kenyngham out of his room as soon as he was elected Master?’

‘He did occupy the Master’s quarters with unseemly haste,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘Usually, the outgoing Master shows a little respect for his predecessor by allowing him a few weeks’ grace, but Runham wanted Kenyngham gone within a day.’

‘And the reason was that he could not wait to search it, to see if he could find the treasure he knew Wilson had stolen. We assumed he was flexing his new muscles of power, but it was because he was desperate to get his greedy fingers on Wilson’s room.’

‘But the only evidence we have that Wilson was a thief is your little bowl,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I hardly think a man like Runham is going to bide his time for a year on the off-chance that a few crystal bowls might be hidden up the chimney.’

‘You are wrong, Matt,’ said Michael. ‘There were other pieces I suspected Wilson had pilfered. Alcote lost some silver spoons, while the Oliver brothers – remember that dreadful pair, who were students during the Death? – had a purse of gold stolen. Wilson was seen near both rooms just before these items went missing, although this was insufficient evidence to confront him with.’

‘Dunstan and Aethelbald, the rivermen, told me that there was a rumour in the town that Wilson’s room was stuffed full of stolen gold and silver when he died,’ said Bartholomew thoughtfully, recalling what had been said when the choir had been dismissed.

Michael shrugged. ‘There is often a grain of truth in some of these tales.’

‘And then there were the last rites Matilde told me about,’ said Bartholomew. ‘She said Wilson absolved rich people who died during the plague, and then relieved them of as many of their worldly goods as he could carry.’

‘Did he indeed?’ breathed Michael, his eyes bright with interest. ‘No wonder he caught the disease, if he went rummaging about in the houses of the sick looking for their treasure.’

Bartholomew recalled vividly the night Wilson had died – how he had been burning papers and leaving his business affairs in the way he wanted them found. He had probably been hiding things, too, secreting them away behind weak plaster or old wall hangings, perhaps even imagining that he might return from the hereafter to retrieve them.

‘And then Runham must have started to spirit Wilson’s goods out of the College to sell,’ said Michael. ‘He hid them in the soap so that he would not be caught red-handed. But it is already dusk. We should leave these items here – they have been quite safe so far, and I do not want to carry them back to the College in the dark – and prepare ourselves for our foray to Bene’t tonight.’

Bartholomew sighed. ‘I am not sure we are within our rights to–’

‘We are perfectly within our rights,’ interrupted Michael. ‘We are doing well, Matt. We have found part of Michaelhouse’s missing treasure, and by tomorrow we will have the Bene’t murderer in the proctors’ cells. And then all we need to do is to discover which of us killed Master Runham.’