A Masterly Murder

Chapter 11

FOR THE FIRST TIME IN MANY YEARS, BARTHOLOMEW was faced with a clandestine nocturnal expedition without the comforting presence of Cynric. He seriously considered asking the Welshman if he would go anyway, but knew that he had no right to make that sort of demand on their friendship. Trying to recall all that Cynric had taught him about sneaking around in the dark, he sat in the kitchen, watching Agatha mend one of his shirts.

It was good to see her familiar figure in her customary fireside chair, and to hear the creak and groan of the wicker as she rocked herself back and forth, her thick fingers deftly manipulating the tiny silver needle. Bartholomew sat on a stool to one side of the fire, poking it with a stick. When the College cat rubbed around his legs, he picked it up and put it on his lap, finding in its trusting purr a comforting respite from the twists and turns of the University’s schemes. Michael was at the kitchen table with a pile of fresh oatcakes smeared with bacon fat, happily enjoying a little light refreshment to supplement the meal of pea pudding and bread he had already devoured in the hall.

‘This is better,’ he said, beaming at Agatha and Bartholomew as he rammed another cake into his mouth. ‘The spectre of Runham is exorcised, and the College is gradually returning to normal. We have most of our staff back again, and there is food in the pantry and cool ale in the cellars.’

‘But we still have a murdered Master, a half-empty chest from which we will need to pay the workmen–’ began Bartholomew.

‘A third empty,’ corrected Michael. ‘With the gold that was returned to you, we now have fifty-seven of the original ninety pounds.’

‘–and the horrible prospect that one of our colleagues is a Master-killer.’

‘Clippesby,’ said Michael with certainty. ‘He is the only one whose alibi is patently false. The Bene’t men had nothing to do with Runham’s murder, Matt. I know we thought they had a motive – to get their workmen back – but the more I think about it, the more ludicrous that notion feels.’

‘But what about those intruders?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘They must have been people from outside Michaelhouse. If either of them had been Clippesby, there would have been no need for furtiveness.’

‘Clippesby would have been furtive if he were smuggling a woman in,’ said Michael confidently. ‘I think the intruders who have bested you twice were Clippesby and his whore.’

Bartholomew gazed at him in astonishment. ‘And how did you reach that conclusion, Brother?’

‘It is all I can think of,’ said Michael carelessly. ‘But let me tell you what I think happened: Clippesby is a man who feels the need for female company – well, who does not on occasion? – but being a Dominican friar, he needs to be a little careful. One night, Runham – who we know crept around at night, hoping to come across people he could fine – caught him. Rather than risk exposure, Clippesby smothered Runham and then raided the chest to make the murder look like robbery, rather than a crime of panic.’

‘And did he arrange for the scaffolding to fall, too?’

‘That was a coincidence, as I have been telling you all along. Clippesby just happened to be escorting his whore out of the College when the thing collapsed. I was fortunate you made such a racket when you attacked them, or I would have been sleeping in my room at the time and would have been killed for certain.’

It all seemed far too convenient to Bartholomew; he could see no evidence at all that Clippesby had a penchant for the town’s women.

‘We have forgotten about Justus, Runham’s dead book-bearer,’ he said, changing the subject.

‘That is because Justus was a suicide who dragged a wineskin over his head and killed himself. You said so yourself.’

‘But that was before I discovered that Runham and Wymundham had also died from suffocation. It is too unusual a way to die for all three deaths to be coincidental.’

‘Very well,’ said Michael irritably. ‘We will include Justus in our reasonings, if it will make you happy. But I must point out that you did not mention the presence of smothering cushions at Dame Nichol’s Hythe when you found his corpse.’

‘If someone had tied a wineskin over Justus’s head to make it appear that he had killed himself, that person would hardly have left a tell-tale cushion behind,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But perhaps the most important point here is that Justus was killed before Clippesby arrived in Cambridge: thus we cannot blame Justus’s death on Clippesby – and if not Justus’s, then also not Runham’s and Wymundham’s.’

‘No, Matt. Justus was killed the same day that Clippesby arrived,’ said Michael. ‘Perhaps that alone is significant. But you are wrong in thinking the deaths of Wymundham, Justus and Runham are connected. They are not: they cannot be. What could a gloomy servant, a gossiping Bene’t Fellow and Michaelhouse’s Master have had in common?’

‘Justus was Runham’s book-bearer,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is one connection.’

‘But not to Wymundham. I will accept that Runham’s death and Justus’s suicide may be related, but the business at Bene’t is completely separate. Clippesby killed Runham, and your logic would have him slaying Justus, too. But I do not see why he would also murder Wymundham.’

Bartholomew sighed, knowing he would not convince Michael otherwise. ‘So, what do you plan to do about Clippesby?’

‘Nothing,’ said Michael comfortably.

‘Nothing?’

‘Nothing yet. I will be watching him day and night – Walter, Agatha, William, Suttone and others will help – and when he makes a mistake, we will have him.’

‘What kind of mistake?’

Michael shrugged. ‘Spending large amounts of money, smuggling a woman into his chamber, an unhealthy fascination with cushions.’

‘That is risky,’ said Bartholomew anxiously. ‘He might harm someone before you can stop him.’

‘As I said, Matt, we will be watching him. If he makes a hostile move, we will strike.’

Bartholomew frowned, not sure that the monk’s strategy of wait-and-see was a wise one. There was no doubt in his mind that Clippesby was verging on insanity, and to allow him freedom of movement when he might be connected to the deaths of three people seemed rash, to say the least.

‘So, what will you do about Master Runham’s fine north court?’ he asked after a while. ‘Do you really intend to send all the workmen back to Bene’t, as you promised Heltisle?’

‘I think we must,’ said Michael. ‘Then we can blame the fact that they will not get their bonuses on Bene’t. That means we can use the money we have to repay the loans Runham took out with the Guilds of St Mary’s and Corpus Christi, and also return some to our generous benefactors – unless I can persuade them to wait a while. Oswald Stanmore will not mind us keeping his five marks indefinitely, I am sure. And if there is anything left over, we can refill some of the hutches.’

‘And what do we do with a half-built court and a half-repaired north wing?’

‘Leave them as they are,’ said Michael simply. ‘Remove the scaffolding and return to the shabby elegance we had before.’

‘That shabby elegance included leaking roofs and damp walls. And it may have escaped your notice, but a good part of the north wing is missing a roof and one room has been demolished.’

‘The workmen will have to make good the damage their careless scaffolding did when it collapsed,’ said Michael in a tone of voice that suggested he was bored with the conversation. ‘But tonight I am more inclined to think about the Bene’t murders than Michaelhouse. I feel certain I am close to solving those. De Walton will tell me all I need to know about that treacherous Simeon when we rescue him tonight.’

‘There is a lot that can go wrong with this plan of yours to save de Walton,’ began Bartholomew. ‘It is full of risks – not just to us, but to Walter.’

‘It will work,’ said Michael. ‘Walter will let us into Bene’t while Osmun and that vicious Ulfo are asleep; we will rescue de Walton from where he is being kept prisoner by Simeon in the hut near the King’s Ditch; and de Walton will tell us who killed Raysoun, Brother Patrick and Wymundham. Then we can concentrate on how to extricate Michaelhouse from the mess Runham left.’

‘I do not know how I became involved in this,’ said Bartholomew weakly. ‘It is not my place to creep around other Colleges in the dead of night looking for murderers.’

‘You would not let me go alone,’ said Michael complacently. ‘You know I need your help. None of my beadles would be good at this sort of thing, and anyway, Osmun has them all terrified out of their feeble wits.’

‘How?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘The beadles are supposed to be the law enforcers in the University. It is not for the likes of Osmun to terrify them.’

‘I agree. But when they arrested him for fighting with de Walton the other day, he put his time under lock and key to good use. He made all sorts of threats to my beadles and their families. Osmun is a violent, vengeful man, and they are all far too frightened to do anything that might attract his unwanted attention.’

‘And this is the man you want us to slip past at midnight?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘Maybe the beadles are right to stay out of his way.’

‘They are. But is that the kind of person you want on the streets of your town, terrorising the law enforcers, assaulting Fellows and students, and generally defying the University’s authority?’

‘No,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps we should ask for Dick Tulyet’s help – the Sheriff’s men will not be afraid of a bullying brute like Osmun.’

‘Tulyet cannot take part in a plan to break into the University in the dead of night,’ said Michael practically. ‘And it would not be fair to ask him to do so. But we will pit wits and cunning against brute strength, Matt, and by morning we will have Osmun and that plotting Simekyn Simeon – how did he ever acquire a name like that anyway? – safely secured in the proctors’ prison.’

‘You seem very sure that Simeon is responsible for the murders of Raysoun and Wymundham, but it seems to me as though the entire College is involved. De Walton himself, Caumpes, Heltisle, Osmun and Ulfo were also present in the church when Adela saw Wymundham’s leg.’

‘Adela said Caumpes was not there.’

‘Right,’ said Bartholomew wearily. ‘Do you realise that you will make an enemy of the Duke of Lancaster by proving his henchman committed murder, Brother? I understand the Duke can be a dangerous man.’

‘Not as dangerous as my Bishop,’ said Michael smugly. ‘And I sent the Bishop a letter this evening, revealing all. If the Duke tries anything nasty on me or Michaelhouse, he will find he has a very powerful churchman to contend with. But the Duke will disclaim Simeon, if de Walton’s evidence exposes him as a killer. Loyalty to one’s henchmen only goes so far.’

‘But what will you do if de Walton declines to betray his colleague?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘He may be too frightened – like your beadles.’

‘Master Lynton says de Walton has leprosy, Matt,’ said Michael, becoming exasperated. ‘He is already a dead man in the eyes of the world, and he will tell us exactly what happened that day in Holy Trinity Church when five Bene’t men lined up to prevent Adela from seeing a body behind the altar. And he will tell me which of these five followed poor, terrified Brother Patrick and stabbed him just when he had reached the safety of his hostel.’

‘How do you know Patrick was killed just as he reached his hostel?’ asked Bartholomew sceptically. ‘Adela saw these five men with the body in broad daylight, and Patrick must have been killed in the dark, or someone would have noticed his body in the grounds.’

‘Not necessarily. Ovyng Hostel’s gardens are extensive, and, unlike Mayor Horwoode, its scholars probably do not stroll there on a regular basis. But you are throwing up problems that are irrelevant. Tonight we will solve the murders of Raysoun, Wymundham and Patrick, and we will find that the culprit is Simekyn Simeon, because he is the one who is holding his colleague prisoner in the hut in Bene’t’s grounds.’

‘Well, come on then,’ said Bartholomew, standing up reluctantly. ‘We should be on our way before Walter allows his sense of self-preservation to get the better of him and he declines to allow us past the sleeping Osmun and Ulfo.’

‘He would not dare,’ said Michael comfortably. ‘I have told him that I will ensure he remains working at Bene’t for the rest of his life unless he does as I ask. Walter will not let us down.’

With the unshakeable feeling that he was about to do something very stupid and dangerous that he would later regret, Bartholomew followed Michael across the courtyard to the front gate.

Carefully, as though the merest thud would wake the entire College, Michael removed the bar from the wicket gate and eased open the door to Michaelhouse. Both he and Bartholomew were dressed in dark clothes – Michael in his black habit and matching cloak; Bartholomew in dark leggings, a brown jerkin hidden by his tabard and a short black cloak. Bartholomew was about to precede Michael outside when he heard soft voices in the lane and saw two cloaked figures moving towards him. Stomach churning, he ducked back inside again, regarding Michael in alarm.

‘It is them! The two intruders!’

Michael took Bartholomew’s arm and pulled him into the deep shadows at the side of the gate. ‘Then let us wait here for them, and unmask Clippesby and his whore once and for all.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew, trying to pull away. ‘They have bested me twice, and I have no wish to engage in a tussle with them a third time. I have had enough of this; I am going to bed – where you would go, too, if you had any sense.’

‘Matthew!’ exclaimed Kenyngham with pleasure, as he eased himself through the gate that Michael had just opened. ‘And Brother Michael, too! How thoughtful of you both to wait for Master Suttone and me to return from lauds and unlock the gate for us. I confess I was not sure how we were going to gain entry, given that we still have no night porter.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kenyngham and Suttone exchanged a mystified glance.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Break the chain,’ whispered Michael back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Who is Brother Patrick?’ wailed de Walton in terror. ‘And Raysoun was not murdered: he fell from the scaffolding, because he was drunk and the planking was unsafe. He liked to spy on the workmen, to make sure none of them slacked. He was a mean and miserly person.’

‘Mean and miserly or not, Wymundham heard him whisper with his dying breath that he had been pushed,’ said Michael. ‘What have you to say about that?’

‘Then Wymundham was lying,’ protested de Walton. ‘He was often untruthful, and you should not have believed anything he told you. He was using Raysoun’s death to fan the flames of dissent among his colleagues.’

‘Perhaps. But Wymundham himself was most definitely murdered,’ said Michael. ‘Why would he be killed if his claims regarding Raysoun’s death were false?’

De Walton was so white with fear it seemed he was almost beyond caring. ‘There are at least two very good reasons why Wymundham might have been murdered. Firstly, to prevent him from spreading lies about our College – such as that Raysoun was dispatched by one of his colleagues when he was not. And secondly, because he often pried into our personal affairs and threatened to expose us unless we paid him to keep silent.’

‘You mean Wymundham was a blackmailer? Why has no one mentioned this to me before?’ demanded Michael angrily.

‘I imagine because no one wants you to find out what we paid Wymundham to conceal,’ replied de Walton heavily. ‘Perhaps someone decided Wymundham should not be allowed to continue his life of extortion.’

‘And who is this “someone”, who decided to kill, rather than risk his nasty little secrets being made public?’ asked Michael. ‘Simeon? He seems to be that kind of man.’

De Walton pressed himself further into the corner and remained silent, tears welling in his eyes. Bartholomew suspected that even the formidable figure of the Senior Proctor was insufficient to frighten the Bene’t Fellow into telling them more, and was inclined to abandon de Walton to his dirty hut and his leprosy, and leave while he was still able. But Michael scratched his head, determined to persist.

‘I do not understand any of this. You say Raysoun’s death was as it initially appeared – an accident. Can you prove it?’

‘Ask the workmen,’ said de Walton in a small, tired voice, evidently sensing that the Senior Proctor was not a man to be easily deterred when in interrogation mode.

‘They will tell you that Raysoun was a drunkard and that the scaffolding was unstable. It was only a matter of time before he missed his footing and plunged to his death.’

‘Let us be logical about this,’ said Michael, infuriatingly pedantic. Both Bartholomew and de Walton glanced nervously at the door, anticipating some enraged killer plunging in from the dark while Michael calmly tried to clarify the twists and turns of de Walton’s information in his mind. ‘You say Raysoun’s death was an accident, so we will dispense with that for now. But someone definitely killed Wymundham, and my suspects are you, Heltisle, Caumpes, Simeon and the two porters, Osmun and Ulfo.’

De Walton laughed bitterly. ‘Me? If only I could! Do you think a leper could overcome a healthy man like Wymundham and smother him?’

Michael and Bartholomew exchanged a glance. The fact that de Walton was aware that Wymundham had been smothered suggested that he knew more about the death than an innocent man should have done. Yet Bartholomew believed that he was right about his physical limitations: Wymundham had been small, but certainly not weak, and it was obvious that de Walton was a very sick, frail man.

‘And Osmun and Ulfo were busy with College duties the night Wymundham disappeared,’ de Walton continued. ‘Ask any of the students. I would love to see Osmun and Ulfo hang for murder, but Wymundham did not meet his death by their hands.’

‘Whose then?’ pressed Michael.

‘Ask the others,’ pleaded de Walton. ‘Leave me alone! I do not want to be accused of telling tales and punished for it. Just go away and leave me be!’

‘We will question the others,’ said Michael with quiet determination. ‘But now I am speaking to you. I am left with Caumpes, Heltisle and Simeon. One of them is the killer.’

‘Simeon brought me here for safety,’ said de Walton. ‘He did not smother Wymundham.’

‘Then it must be Heltisle,’ reasoned Bartholomew, ‘because Adela Tangmer told me that Caumpes was not present when she saw Wymundham’s corpse in Holy Trinity Church. Caumpes was not one of the five who tried to conceal Wymundham’s leg from her.’

De Walton gazed at him aghast. ‘What?’ he cried, shaking his head and almost weeping in his agitation. ‘You think that Wymundham died in Holy Trinity? Thank God I did not leave this hiding place when you demanded! You know nothing, and I would be no more safe with you than I would in an open field!’

‘Explain what happened in the church, then,’ ordered Michael tersely.

De Walton swallowed hard. ‘I thought we had succeeded in hiding Wymundham when Adela Tangmer burst in on us unexpectedly. But it was no corpse she saw in the church that day: what she saw was Wymundham drunk.’

‘She saw a leg–’ began Michael.

‘She very well may have done,’ interrupted de Walton. ‘The man was in a terrible state – clothes dishevelled, wine spilled all over himself, and virtually insensible.’

‘And what had driven him to make such a spectacle of himself?’ asked Michael, unconvinced.

De Walton gave what was almost a smile. ‘Heltisle. He had just paid Wymundham a handsome fee to encourage him to tell the truth about Raysoun’s death – that the man had fallen. Wymundham took the money and bought himself enough wine to float a ship. Simeon spotted him going into Holy Trinity Church, and ran to fetch the rest of us before he could shame the College with his disgraceful behaviour.’

Bartholomew realised that de Walton was telling the truth. He knew that it was possible to buy cheap wine in Holy Trinity – he had been offered some there himself. Wymundham must have consumed his wine in the church, away from the disapproving stares of his Bene’t colleagues.

‘And what did you do?’ asked Michael. ‘Smother Wymundham while he lay insensible?’

De Walton sighed. ‘Of course not. We bundled him up in a cloak and carried him home, telling anyone who asked that he was faint with grief for Raysoun. I do not think many believed us, given the terrible stench of wine that wafted from him. It was all very embarrassing.’

‘But if Wymundham did not die in the church, where was he killed?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘And who stabbed Brother Patrick?’

‘I know of no Brother Patrick, but I know where Wymundham met his end.’ De Walton reached out and tossed a filthy cushion at Michael. ‘That is what killed him. He died here, in this shed, just as I will, if you do not leave!’

Bartholomew took the cushion and inspected it in the candlelight. It was stained with something that might have been saliva, and there was a small tear surrounded by a brownish mark. He poked at it, and felt something hard embedded in the filling. More prodding with his surgical knife produced a small square of ivory. It was a broken tooth. He gazed from it to de Walton, and then flung tooth and cushion from him in revulsion. He recalled telling Michael that whoever had smothered Wymundham had pressed down so hard that one of the front teeth had snapped. It seemed de Walton was telling the truth.

‘Were you present when this vile deed was done?’ demanded Michael.

De Walton shuddered. ‘No! But Simeon and I examined this shed when we realised it was the last place any of us had seen Wymundham alive – he used it as a venue to meet with the people he was going to blackmail. Simeon and I saw him wandering with feigned nonchalance – the way he always walked when he knew he had some hapless victim awaiting his extortions here – down the path the day before his body was found.’

‘And?’ pressed Michael, when de Walton paused.

‘And the evidence of his death was here: the stains on the cushion, broken pots that suggested a struggle, and Wymundham’s ring left on the floor. And now I have told you all I know, so please leave me alone. Your blundering investigations have not revealed my hiding place to the killer yet, so go, before it is too late.’

‘Do you really feel safe here?’ asked Bartholomew, glancing around uneasily, noting that some of the smashed pots still lay on the ground. ‘What if the killer returns to the scene of his crime?’

De Walton shook his head with utter conviction. ‘It will be the last place he will look. He will want to stay as far away from here as possible. Now go.’

‘But you have not yet told us what we most want to know,’ said Michael. ‘Is Wymundham’s killer Heltisle or Caumpes?’

‘Work it out yourselves,’ whispered de Walton. ‘I do not want to be slain for betraying him.’

‘Caumpes,’ said Bartholomew suddenly, as something clicked in his mind. ‘Both Robin of Grantchester and my brother-in-law told me that Caumpes likes boats, and whoever killed Wymundham would have needed a boat to take the body from here to Mayor Horwoode’s garden.’

De Walton glared defiantly at him, and for a moment Bartholomew thought he would not confirm his reasoning. Then the Bene’t Fellow nodded, lowering his head to look at the lumpy, leprous patches on his hands. ‘Caumpes is the only one of us able to row a boat. Like you, Simeon and I surmised that he took the body downriver and dumped it on Horwoode’s land.’

‘Why there?’ asked Michael.

‘Because it was dark and secluded, I imagine,’ said de Walton. ‘You do not want to row further than needful when you have a corpse in your boat.’

‘And so it is Caumpes you fear,’ said Michael. ‘Not Simeon or those cursed porters?’

De Walton shook his head miserably. ‘Caumpes is fiercely loyal to Bene’t, and will do anything to protect it. I sympathise with him to a point: it was horrible to see the likes of Wymundham giving us a reputation for quarrelling and slyness, but I cannot condone murder for it.’

‘Why did you not tell us this when Wymundham’s body was found?’ demanded Michael irritably. ‘It would have saved a good deal of time – and a good deal of agitation on your part.’

‘I was afraid. I hope to God you are able to prove all this and arrest Caumpes, because I am a dead man if you do not.’

‘Who else knows he is the culprit?’ asked Michael.

‘Only Simeon. He said he would pay Osmun to help me leave Bene’t safely, and then he would seek out more evidence that will confirm Caumpes’s guilt before passing the matter to you. It was he who said that Caumpes will not think to look for me here.’

‘Then Simeon was wrong!’ came a sudden yell from outside. There was a crash and a thump, and with horror Bartholomew saw that the door had been slammed shut. He leapt towards it and thudded into it with his shoulder, but the bar had been replaced and all he did was bruise his arm.

‘I told you to leave!’ screamed de Walton in terror. ‘Now he will kill us all!’

‘He will not kill us,’ snapped Michael impatiently, refusing to yield to the panic that had seized de Walton. ‘If we make enough noise, someone will come and let us out.’

‘But they might be too late, Brother,’ said Bartholomew in a soft voice, looking upwards: smoke had began to seep through the loose planks of the roof.

Suddenly, there was a dull roar, as the pitch that had been used to render the roof watertight caught alight. Bartholomew ducked as burning cinders began to rain down on his head. Then, faster than he would have imagined possible, the whole ceiling was alive with yellow, flickering flames and the air was sharp with the acrid smell of burning.

‘We are trapped!’ shrieked de Walton. ‘We are all going to be burned alive!’

Bartholomew coughed as swirling smoke seared the back of his throat. It billowed downward relentlessly, bathing everything in a dull grey so that he could not even see the candle Michael held in his hand. A burning timber smashed to the ground, just missing him, and immediately the floor began to smoulder. Flames flickered this way and that, running up the tinder-dry walls and licking at the pile of blankets that had covered de Walton.

De Walton began to scream, so that Bartholomew thought the flames were already consuming him. He snatched up a blanket and groped his way forward, but it was only terror that was making the Bene’t scholar shriek; he crouched in his corner like a hunted animal, wailing and howling. Another timber crashed from the roof with a terrific tearing sound, and de Walton’s yowls of fright grew louder still. Bartholomew groped around the walls, trying to find something he might use to smash open the door.

‘Out of the way,’ ordered Michael, hauling him back with a powerful hand. He took a deep breath, crouched down with his shoulder hunched into his side, and ran at one of the walls like an enraged bull. The wooden side of an ancient lean-to provided no obstacle for a man of Michael’s strength, and he was through it and powering out into the fresh air beyond almost as though it did not exist. Bartholomew followed, dragging the hysterical de Walton after him by the scruff of his neck.

‘That was impressive!’ gasped Bartholomew, eyes smarting as he glanced back at the hole in the wall, now surrounded by a halo of flames.

‘I recognised that voice,’ shouted Michael furiously, gazing around him while Bartholomew bent over de Walton, who sobbed and retched in the grass. ‘It was Caumpes!’ He clutched Bartholomew’s arm and pointed into the darkness. ‘And there he is! After him!’

Peering through the gloom with watering eyes, Bartholomew could just make out dark shadows moving through the trees on the path that led to the College. Michael was after them in an instant, dragging Bartholomew with him. They ran blindly, barely able to see where they were putting their feet. Bartholomew stumbled over woody cabbages when he strayed from the path, then fell heavily when he lost his footing over the gnarled root of a pear tree.

‘Got you!’ he heard Michael yell in triumph.

He scrambled to his feet, his haste to help Michael making him more clumsy than ever. Someone grabbed him and he struck out, trying to dislodge the grip on his tabard.

‘Bartholomew, stop!’ he heard someone yell. ‘It is me! Simekyn Simeon! Stop this flailing before one of us is hurt!’

Bartholomew could just make out the soft features of the Duke of Lancaster’s squire peering at him. The man Michael had seized with such glee was Heltisle, who was gazing around him in confusion, not understanding why two Michaelhouse men should be attacking him in his own gardens.

‘Damn! I thought you were Caumpes,’ panted Michael, releasing the Bene’t Master impatiently and scanning the surrounding trees.

‘Caumpes is over there!’ shouted Simeon, pointing to a shadow that was moving quickly and purposefully towards the opposite end of the grounds. ‘And he is escaping!’

‘I thought it was Caumpes I saw skulking in the trees,’ snapped Michael, regarding him accusingly. ‘But it was you.’

‘We were not skulking,’ objected Heltisle indignantly. ‘This is my College. If anyone was skulking, it was you!’

‘We have no time for this,’ said Michael, leaning against a tree with a hand to his heaving chest. ‘Caumpes is getting away. Chase him, Matt, or he will elude us.’

Wondering why Michael could not pursue his own villains, Bartholomew set off at a run across the grassy swath towards Luthburne Lane, the narrow alley that ran along the back of Bene’t College. The shadow bobbed ahead of him, moving fast because he was on familiar ground.

Aware of footsteps behind him, Bartholomew glanced round to see Simeon on his heels. He slowed, uneasy with the Duke’s henchman at his back, and certainly not keen on the notion of a knife between his shoulder blades. Caumpes may have ferried Wymundham’s body to Horwoode’s garden, but Bartholomew felt he had no cause to trust any of the Bene’t men yet. The fact that it had been Simeon who had visited Langelee in Michaelhouse before the scaffolding had collapsed and almost killed Michael made Bartholomew far from certain that Caumpes was the only Bene’t man with murderous inclinations.

Simeon shoved him forward. ‘Do not stop! We can catch him. Quick, climb over the wall.’

He formed a stirrup of his hands, and Bartholomew found himself projected upward, so that he could grasp the top of the wall that surrounded the College. It was not as high as the one that protected Michaelhouse, nor as thick. He straddled the top, and leaned down to offer Simeon his hand. The courtier grasped it, and scaled the wall in a way that suggested he had not spent all his time playing lutes and writing poetry for the Duchess’s ladies-in-waiting.

‘We have lost him,’ said Bartholomew, looking up and down a lane that was still and silent. ‘I cannot see him any more.’

‘There!’ yelled Simeon, grabbing Bartholomew’s arm so violently that the physician almost lost his balance. ‘He is heading for the river. Come on!’

He leapt from the top of the wall and began to run. Reluctantly, Bartholomew followed.

‘He will not be able to pass through the town gate,’ he gasped, breathless from the chase. ‘The soldiers will stop him.’

‘He will use his boat,’ yelled Simeon. ‘We must prevent him from reaching it. Hurry!’

The foppish, effeminate scribe suddenly seemed a good deal more energetic than Bartholomew. He led the way along the path that ran parallel to the King’s Ditch, towards where it passed one of the three main entrances to the town – the Trumpington Gate. Ahead, Bartholomew saw a shadowy figure climb the leveed bank of the Ditch and drop down the other side.

‘That is where we keep the boat,’ shouted Simeon, running faster. Bartholomew struggled to keep up with him, his heart pounding and the blood roaring in his ears. He scrambled up the bank, feeling his leather-soled shoes slip and slide on the wet grass. He reached the top and saw a dark shape moving into the middle of the canal. Caumpes had found his boat and was about to escape by rowing past the gate to the river beyond.

‘I will alert the guards,’ said Bartholomew, tugging on Simeon’s sleeve. ‘They will stop him.’

‘They will not listen to you,’ said Simeon. ‘But they know I am the Duke’s man; I will go. You follow him along the canal bank, and grab the boat if it comes close enough.’

Bartholomew gazed at him in the darkness. ‘I do not think that is very likely …’ he began.

Simeon gave him a shove that all but sent him into the murky, sluggish waters of the Ditch, then tore off towards the guardhouse, yelling at the top of his lungs. Bartholomew regained his balance and began to trot along the top of the slippery bank, keeping his eyes glued on the dark shape that was being propelled steadily away from him.

‘You cannot escape, Caumpes!’ he shouted, knowing that Caumpes was very likely to escape if he reached the river before Simeon roused the guards.

‘Damn you, Bartholomew!’ yelled Caumpes, rowing furiously. ‘Everything was beginning to come right until you and that fat monk interfered.’

‘Stop!’ yelled Bartholomew. ‘You are a killer and you will not go free.’

Caumpes’s bitter laughter verged on the hysterical. ‘I am not the man you seek. I have killed no one.’

‘But you tried,’ shouted Bartholomew, thinking that if he could engage Caumpes in conversation, the man would have less breath for rowing. He could see Caumpes quite clearly in his boat, which was moving at a brisk walking pace along the still waters of the Ditch. It was only a few feet away from him, and if Bartholomew had not known about the treacherous currents that seethed in the seemingly sluggish waters and of the sucking mud and clinging weeds that lined its bottom, he might have considered leaping in and grabbing the skiff to prevent Caumpes’s escape. ‘That fire almost killed three people.’

In the faint glow of the lamps from the gatehouse, Bartholomew could see Caumpes close his eyes in an agony of despair. ‘Stupid!’ he muttered. ‘It was a stupid thing to do.’

‘Where will you go?’ called Bartholomew, frantically searching for a topic that would slow Caumpes’s relentless advance towards the freedom of the river. ‘Your whole life is at Bene’t.’

For a moment, Caumpes faltered, and the rhythmic pull of oars in the water was interrupted.

‘Everything I have done was for the good of Bene’t,’ he said, his voice so low as to be all but indiscernible. ‘Tampering with the Michaelhouse scaffolding was for the good of Bene’t, so that the workmen would return to us and not waste their time on Runham’s cheap courtyard. And I became embroiled in all this just so that I could raise the money for our own buildings to be completed.’

‘Is that what all this is about?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Money for buildings?’

‘Do not judge me, Bartholomew,’ cried Caumpes, agitated. ‘I love my College. I swore a vow of allegiance to it, and if that entails using my skills as a buyer and a seller of goods to greedy town merchants, then so be it.’

‘How can killing your colleagues be good for Bene’t?’

‘You are wrong about that,’ said Caumpes. ‘You will have to look elsewhere for your murderer.’

‘I do not believe you,’ said Bartholomew, but something in Caumpes’s quiet conviction disturbed him. He felt as though all the answers he and Michael had reasoned out were slipping away from him, and that there was a darker, more ruthless plan than Caumpes’s desperate attempts to protect a College whose petty rivalries and quarrels were tearing it apart.

They had almost reached the Trumpington Gate, and Bartholomew could hear Simeon’s exasperated yells as he argued with soldiers loath to leave their warm guardhouse on some wild-goose chase thought up by scholars. Bartholomew saw that Caumpes was going to slip past them, and that would be that. Once he was on the river, he would be free: he could head north to the mysterious, impenetrable wilderness of the Fens, or he could travel south towards London. Or he could just disappear into the myriad ancient ditches and waterways that surrounded the town and lie low for a day or two until the hue and cry had died down.

Bartholomew gazed at the little skiff with a feeling of helplessness. He glanced around quickly, to see if there were another boat he could use to give chase. There was nothing except a length of rope that lay coiled on the bank. He snatched it up and, keeping a grip on one end, hurled the other as hard as he could towards Caumpes. It landed squarely on the Bene’t man’s head before slithering harmlessly to the bottom of the boat. Contemptuously, Caumpes shoved it away from him, and then began rowing for all he was worth.

He was already past the guardhouse, and the infuriatingly slow figures that walked sedately towards the bridge would never stop him. Bartholomew hurled the rope a second time, feeling it catch on something. He heard Caumpes swear and scramble about to try to disentangle it. Bartholomew hauled with all his might, then stumbled backward as Caumpes managed to free it. Bartholomew threw it a third time, putting every last fibre of strength into hurling it as hard as he could, while the little boat bobbed farther and farther away from him.

Caumpes was ready, and caught the rope as it snaked towards him. Then, while Bartholomew was still off balance from the force of the throw, he jerked hard on his end, and the physician went tumbling down the bank and into the fetid waters of the Ditch below.

Bartholomew heard the exploding splash and felt the agonising chill of the Ditch as it soaked through his clothes. He spat the vile-tasting water from his mouth in disgust, kicking and struggling against the clinging mud and weeds that closed around his feet and legs. In the distance, he saw Caumpes’s boat move a little faster as it neared the stronger current of the river, and then it was gone.

‘Take my hand,’ instructed Simeon, slithering down the bank of the King’s Ditch to Bartholomew, who floundered and flapped like a landed fish. ‘Do not struggle, or we will never get you out. I saw a sheep drown here only last week.’

Bartholomew stopped struggling and reached out to grab Simeon’s hand, trying not to snatch at it and pull the Duke’s man into the water with him. The mincing courtier had surprising strength, and it was not long before Bartholomew was extricated from the weeds and mud of the King’s Ditch to stand dripping on the bank. For the second time that day, Bartholomew stank like a sewer.

‘When I said you should stop Caumpes, I did not mean you to dive in after him,’ said Simeon dryly. ‘He is not that important.’

‘He is a killer,’ said Bartholomew, teeth chattering uncontrollably.

‘Yes, he probably is,’ agreed Simeon. ‘But even so, it was foolish of you to jump into the water to stop him. I will track him down anyway.’

Bartholomew spat again, trying to clear his mouth of the revolting taste of sewage and refuse. He wondered whether he would fall victim to the intestinal diseases that plagued those of his patients who drank from it. The sulphurous taste made him think that people who preferred it to walking a short distance to one of the town’s wells were probably insane, and beyond anything he could do for them.

‘We should go back to Bene’t before you take a chill,’ said Simeon, unfastening his cloak and draping it around Bartholomew’s shoulders. ‘Come on. A brisk walk should warm you.’

He led the way at a cracking pace along the High Street to Bene’t College. Osmun answered his hammering, furious because the new porter Walter was nowhere to be found.

‘I will wring his neck when I find him,’ Osmun vowed, his face a dark mask of fury. ‘He was paid a week in advance, and he still owes us two nights. I will kill him!’

Bartholomew made a mental note to tell Walter to repay the outstanding sum unless he wanted Osmun to claim it back in blood and broken bones. Simeon shot the enraged porter a cool glance of dislike before taking Bartholomew across the courtyard to where Michael and Heltisle waited in the hall.

‘Caumpes escaped, then?’ said Michael, eyeing Bartholomew’s wet clothes. His evident disappointment was tempered by amusement that the physician had once again muddied himself in the King’s Ditch, although he could scarcely reveal to Simeon that it was Bartholomew who had overheard his conversation with Heytesbury earlier that day.

‘It was the fault of those soldiers,’ muttered Simeon angrily. ‘It was like trying to rouse the dead. They were so agonisingly sluggish – putting on their helmets and buckling their swords before they would leave the comfort of their little guardhouse – that by the time they reached the bridge, all we could see was Caumpes rounding the corner on his way to freedom. I will have words with the Sheriff about that band of worthless ne’er-do-wells.’

‘I do not believe this,’ said Heltisle miserably. ‘I have known Caumpes for years. He has never struck me as a murderer. And now he has fled, and will continue to damage my poor College from afar.’

‘No,’ said Simeon. ‘Caumpes will not harm Bene’t because it was his devotion to it that led him into all this in the first place. And anyway, we will catch him sooner or later.’

He placed a stool near the fire for Bartholomew, whose clothes began to steam, and handed him a cup of mulled wine. The physician took a hearty mouthful, and then felt his stomach rebel at its powerful flavour, which even copious amounts of sugar and cloves could not disguise. Thinking it impolite to spit it on Bene’t’s fine floor, or even in the fire, he forced himself to swallow, flinching as the wine eased its fiery way down to his stomach. Simeon smiled at his reaction, as though it was a prank he had played before. Bartholomew did not find it amusing, however, and glanced at Michael, wondering whether he, too, had recognised the acidic, tarry taste of Widow’s Wine.

The monk nodded to his unspoken question. ‘It is the same foul brew that incapacitated most of Michaelhouse on the night that Runham was elected Master.’

Simeon’s eyes grew round with wry astonishment. ‘You used Widow’s Wine to celebrate Runham’s election? After all your claims about the fine cellars that Michaelhouse keeps? That, my dear Senior Proctor, is the most flagrant example of hypocrisy I have ever encountered!’

‘It was not just any Widow’s Wine,’ said Michael. ‘It was stronger – more potent.’

‘I did not think there was anything in Christendom stronger than Widow’s Wine,’ said Simeon, laughing openly. ‘The Duke’s cooks use it for sluicing the slop drains.’

‘This tastes strong and potent to me,’ said Bartholomew, setting it down on the hearth and declining to drink any more.

‘Exactly,’ said Michael softly. ‘While I do not make a habit of imbibing Widow’s Wine, if it can be avoided, I am familiar with its flavour. The one served at Michaelhouse that night was more concentrated than any I have tasted before – rather like this one, in fact.’

Simeon seemed about to object to the implied accusation, but Heltisle shook himself from his gloomy reverie and replied instead.

‘So that is what happened to it,’ he said morosely. ‘Two hogsheads of the stuff went missing from our cellars nine or ten days ago. I wondered where they had gone – even students would have to be desperate to steal that for their revelries.’

‘Apprentices seem to like it well enough,’ said Michael.

Heltisle shook his head. ‘Not this brew. You are right – it is stronger than usual. I order it that way because it is good for preserving fruit from the orchard. We do not usually drink it, though – except on rare occasions when we need something powerful to warm us.’

‘Like now,’ said Simeon, still smiling. ‘You can see how it drives out the chill.’

‘We usually disguise the flavour with sugar and cloves,’ continued Heltisle. ‘We would never drink it raw.’

‘Caumpes must have taken it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He just admitted to being one of the two men who tampered with the scaffolding at Michaelhouse. He must have stolen this horrible brew from Bene’t and smuggled it in to be used at our feast, so that everyone would be too drunk to notice what he was doing.’

‘What was he doing?’ asked Simeon.

‘We do not know,’ said Michael with a sigh. ‘Late on the night that Runham was elected, Matt and I encountered two people leaving Michaelhouse who were clearly up to no good. When we challenged them, they ran. We wondered from the start whether strong wine had been deliberately provided, in order to allow some dark deed to be done with no witnesses.’

Simeon gestured to Bartholomew’s cup. ‘Are you telling me that everyone in Michaelhouse drank this stuff – that no one did what any human being with a sense of taste would do, and decline it?’

Michael scrambled to prevent Michaelhouse from gaining the reputation of a community of drunkards who would down anything as long as it was in a goblet. ‘You must understand that our minds were concerned with more important matters. We had just elected Runham as Master.’

‘And you had the audacity to pretend to be a man who knew his wines when you came to visit us earlier?’ said Simeon, regarding Michael askance. ‘Yet you drank Master Heltisle’s pickling agent without demur? I can believe that of Ralph de Langelee, but I expected more of you, Brother.’

‘Of course. I had forgotten Langelee was a familiar of yours,’ said Michael.

‘Hardly that,’ said Simeon distastefully. ‘But we have known each other for a long time, and he invited me to Michaelhouse last Sunday to take a cup of wine in his chamber, although he certainly did not give me Widow’s Wine. I would have objected most strenuously.’

‘Is that all you were there for?’ asked Michael. ‘Wine and some none too intelligent conversation?’

‘Yes,’ said Simeon, genuinely surprised by the question. ‘Why else would I be there?’

‘The end of your visit coincided with some collapsing scaffolding,’ said Michael pointedly.

‘I heard about that,’ replied Simeon. ‘But I can assure you that it had nothing to do with me.’

‘Caumpes has just admitted to doing that,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘Simeon and Osmun’s visit was no more than a coincidence.’

‘If you think I would sully my hands by tampering with timber, nails and other dirty objects, then you have been drinking too much Widow’s Wine,’ said Simeon.

‘I do not make a habit of drinking the stuff,’ Michael objected stiffly.

‘We can debate wines another time,’ said Bartholomew, sitting as close to the fire as he could. ‘What we need to discuss is what to do about Caumpes.’

‘There is nothing we can do tonight,’ said Simeon practically. ‘We will search for him tomorrow. He will not be far. He has lived in this town all his life, and he will not know where else to go.’

‘Are you sure it was Caumpes who killed Raysoun, Wymundham and Brother Patrick?’ asked Bartholomew of Michael. ‘Only he denied it, you see.’

‘Well, he would, Matt,’ said Michael, wearily. ‘Perhaps he knows he will be caught sooner or later, and is already planning his defence.’

‘Caumpes did not kill Raysoun,’ said Simeon. ‘He fell from the scaffolding while drunk.’

Bartholomew sighed. ‘Wymundham said Raysoun whispered with his dying breath that he had been pushed.’

‘Any of the workmen will tell you that there was no one anywhere near Raysoun when he fell,’ replied Simeon. ‘Almost before Raysoun had breathed his last, Wymundham had started rumours that he had been murdered, but they were lies, intended to create disharmony and suspicion among the Fellowship.’

‘While in prison, Osmun told Robin of Grantchester that Wymundham had stabbed Raysoun,’ said Bartholomew, trying to sit even closer to the fire.

‘Osmun would believe anything of Wymundham,’ said the Duke’s man. ‘They hated each other. But I saw Wymundham arrive at Raysoun’s side, and the builder’s awl was already sticking out of him. And much as I would like a neat end to all this, and have Raysoun’s death blamed on that scheming weasel, I know it is not true. Raysoun fell and the awl pierced him as he landed.’

‘But why would Wymundham want his colleagues accused of murder?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Wymundham was not a pleasant man,’ said Heltisle. ‘He was bitter and twisted, and resented anyone else’s good fortune. As I told you before, I was not sorry to hear that he had died, although I did not wish him murdered.’

‘We knew Wymundham’s lies about Raysoun’s death would be damaging to Bene’t,’ said Simeon. ‘Even though the workmen were prepared to swear it was just a tragic accident, you know how people are – they would much rather hear about a murder than a boring accident.’

He glanced significantly at Bartholomew, who realised that despite the claims of honest men, like the carpenter Robert de Blaston, he had been more inclined to believe the unsubstantiated claims of Wymundham. And all the time, evidence that Raysoun had been drinking had been staring him in the face: he himself had smelled wine on Raysoun, and he had seen the wineskin that Raysoun had dropped when he had fallen.

‘And even though there was a crowd of people around Raysoun as he died, it is curious that only Wymundham heard these last words, is it not?’ Heltisle pointed out.

‘I certainly did not, and I was kneeling next to him, giving him last rites,’ added Michael.

Bartholomew recalled his surprise that Raysoun had spoken, given the extent of his injuries. Now it seemed that Raysoun’s broken back had indeed robbed him of consciousness. Wymundham had been lying.

‘So, the remaining Fellows had a meeting, to decide what to do about Wymundham’s behaviour,’ said Simeon. ‘I suggested we pay him to tell the truth. Buying men off usually works at court.’

‘It was a dreadful idea,’ said Heltisle mournfully. ‘It gave Wymundham the means to indulge in a drinking spree. As soon as the coins had left my hands, he went to Holy Trinity Church to buy some cheap wine.’

And that explained why Wymundham had appeared furtive when entering the church, thought Bartholomew: he was about to embark on a binge that the University would condemn, because he had known about Holy Trinity’s wine-seller who offered cheap drink that had been illegally exempted from the King’s taxes.

‘I spotted Wymundham staggering around the church and went to fetch the others,’ continued Simeon. ‘When Caumpes saw Wymundham lying in a drunken stupor wearing his Bene’t tabard, proclaiming to the world which College he was from, he was livid.’

‘I had to order Caumpes back to the College while the rest of us dealt with Wymundham,’ added Heltisle. He gave a grim smile. ‘Actually, he was ready to rid us of Wymundham long before that day. In September, he and I overheard him with that Brother Patrick of Ovyng, exchanging nasty snippets of gossip as they strolled in the water meadows one Sunday afternoon. Caumpes was furious, and almost had his dagger out then, too.’

‘Well, he had his wish,’ said Simeon. ‘Caumpes killed Wymundham in the hut you just saw burned to the ground. And then he must have rowed the body to Horwoode’s land and dumped it there because it is the most isolated spot on the King’s Ditch.’

‘Why did you not tell me this before?’ asked Michael. ‘It would have saved a lot of trouble.’

Simeon sighed. ‘We had been to some trouble to protect the College from Wymundham. Why would we reveal to you what we had been to some pains to hide?’

‘But it is out now anyway,’ said Michael, slightly gloating. ‘And all your subterfuge has been in vain. I am not the gluttonous buffoon that you believe me to be, Master Simeon.’

Simeon gaped at him and then began to laugh. ‘So that was you eavesdropping on me near the King’s Ditch earlier? I would not have thought you agile enough to scale it! But as it happens, that is not what I think of you at all. I have listened to stories of your previous successes, and I know you have a formidable mind. But I swore an oath of allegiance to Bene’t, a Cambridge College. Do you think I would not take advantage of Oxford by spinning Master Heytesbury a few misguided opinions?’

Michael’s fat face slowly broke into a wide grin. ‘I like that. And I am beginning to like you!’

‘What are you two talking about?’ demanded Heltisle impatiently. ‘Whatever it is, we would be better discussing Caumpes and his wicked deeds.’

‘Caumpes must have killed Brother Patrick, too,’ said Michael, reluctantly dragging his thoughts back to the more mundane matter of murder.

Simeon looked puzzled. ‘Who is this Brother Patrick that everyone keeps mentioning?’

‘I do not know why Caumpes should kill Patrick,’ said Heltisle. ‘I know Wymundham and Patrick liked to gossip together, but with Wymundham dead, Patrick was irrelevant.’

‘Brother Patrick was seen running from Holy Trinity Church, having observed all of you standing around what we thought was Wymundham’s corpse,’ explained Michael to Simeon.

‘Oh him!’ said the Duke’s man in sudden understanding. ‘That was Patrick, was it?’

‘Do you know him?’ asked Michael.

‘He ran errands for Wymundham – including collecting money that Wymundham had extorted from people. Patrick was not a nice man, either. If he was seen running away from the church, it was probably because he did not want to be caught with his drunken comrade.’

‘I suppose Caumpes killed him after he had dispatched Wymundham, to ensure that the secrets Wymundham had discovered remained secrets,’ said Michael, in the tones of a man who felt he had resolved the last of the mystery.

‘If you knew Caumpes was a killer, why did you do nothing to stop him?’ asked Bartholomew of Simeon. ‘Why did you let him remain at large where he might have posed a threat to de Walton – among others?’

‘Because we had only just reasoned it out,’ said Simeon. ‘Heltisle, de Walton and I each knew a little, but none of us had the whole story. And although we suspected a Fellow had put an end to Wymundham, none of us knew which one. Needless to say no one was inclined to risk his own life by confiding his suspicions to a possible killer. It was only when I took the risk of approaching de Walton that we began to suspect Caumpes.’

Heltisle sighed. ‘Caumpes was thorough, I will say that.’

‘He was,’ agreed Michael. ‘And cool. It takes some nerve to linger where you have just tried to incinerate three people, and then wait for two of them to leave so that you can deal with the third.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Bartholomew, confused. ‘What did Caumpes do to de Walton?’

‘He stabbed him, while we were chasing shadows,’ said Michael. ‘De Walton is dead.’

It was almost dawn before Bartholomew and Michael left Bene’t College. Bartholomew’s clothes had dried by the fire, but they had a stinking, pungent aroma to them that made him feel grubby and tainted. He felt even more unclean when he thought about Caumpes and the College he loved so much that he was prepared to go to any lengths to serve it – even committing murder. While Simeon went to the Castle to organise a search for Caumpes, Bartholomew and Michael trudged back to Michaelhouse.

‘What a filthy business,’ said Bartholomew gloomily. ‘It was Wymundham who tore that College apart, driving wedges between his colleagues and using the sordid secrets his nosiness uncovered to cause bitterness and dissent.’

‘And Matilde and her sisters were right about Patrick,’ said Michael. ‘He was a vicious gossip who became involved with another like-minded man – and died for it.’

‘And now we are returning to our own College where matters are not much better,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘We also have a murderer in our midst.’

‘Look on the bright side, Matt,’ said Michael. ‘We will be back in time for breakfast, although I would ask that you change your clothes before you sit next to me. You smell of the Ditch.’

Bartholomew glanced nervously up at the repaired scaffolding before ducking into his room. Blaston and his apprentices had been at work to render it safe, but Bartholomew knew he would never trust scaffolding again.

For the second time in less than a day, he scrubbed himself with Runham’s soap, while Michael fetched pail after pail of lukewarm water from the kitchens. The soap reminded him of Runham’s hoard, awaiting collection in St Michael’s Church and, still shivering, he followed Michael up the lane pushing a small handcart borrowed from the vegetable garden to retrieve it while most of the town still slept.

He sat at the base of a pillar, and watched Michael haul the altar away from the wall and begin to toss the soap blocks into the cart.

‘I suppose Runham must have used accomplices to help him with this,’ said the monk conversationally as he worked. ‘I do not think he would have known how to sell these things on his own. The answer must lie in the cloaked intruders we keep almost catching in the College.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Caumpes admitted to tampering with the scaffolding, which accounts for one of those times. But … ’ He paused as certain things became clear in his mind.

‘But what?’ asked Michael impatiently.

‘Caumpes,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It was Caumpes who sold the treasure that Runham recovered.’

‘Really?’ asked Michael uncertainly. ‘How do you know?’

‘Two reasons. First, I saw him. One afternoon, I watched him visit Harold of Haslingfield, the goldsmith. Later, Harold told me that Caumpes had provided him with a number of items recently, although he said none were stolen – he checked with his Guild and with Dick Tulyet.’

Michael scratched his chin thoughtfully. ‘Yes, but if Wilson garnered his ill-gotten gains during the Death, then there are a couple of points we should remember: dead people cannot identify their own property or register it as stolen; and we are talking about thefts committed five years ago. It is not surprising that the goldsmiths and Dick did not recognise these items as stolen.’

‘And the second reason I know Caumpes must have been Runham’s accomplice is that Oswald informed me that Caumpes dabbles with the black market. Harold told me, too, and, come to that, so did Caumpes himself – he made money for Bene’t by buying and selling things.’

‘So, Runham commissioned Caumpes to sell items that belonged to Michaelhouse, such as the contents of our hutches and the College silver, along with the valuables he recovered from Wilson’s hoard,’ said Michael, frowning in thought. ‘Runham hid them in the soap for Caumpes to collect and dispose of at his leisure, and the memorandum we found in Runham’s room was a listing of the amounts Caumpes told Runham to expect for each item.’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘The only problem I can see in all this is that Caumpes hated Michaelhouse for poaching Bene’t’s workmen. Why should he then act as Runham’s agent?’

‘The building work started last Wednesday, and two days later, Runham was dead. The answer is simple: as you have said all along, smothering is an unusual way to kill someone. Wymundham was smothered, and we know Caumpes killed Wymundham. Runham was also smothered. Quod erat demonstrandum.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Bartholomew uncertainly. ‘But Caumpes said he did not kill Wymundham.’

‘Murderers do not make honest witnesses, Matt, and you should never believe what they say. Anyway, Caumpes would do anything for his College, so we have reason to assume that he would swallow his dislike of Runham in order to raise money for Bene’t’s buildings. We know Bene’t was having financial problems, with the Duke tightening his purse strings and the guilds less generous than they had been.’

‘So, we were right last night when we surmised that very little was stolen from Runham’s chest?’ asked Bartholomew, turning his attention back to the soap-stuffed altar. ‘We assumed that about forty-five pounds was missing, but we were wrong because Runham’s chest never contained the ninety pounds he needed for the building.’

‘Right,’ said Michael. ‘Runham must have assumed that Caumpes would be able to raise the outstanding amount by the time the builders were to be paid. But Runham’s list mentions books, chalices and other items too large to be concealed in soap. He must have those hidden elsewhere. And then we must not forget the twelve pounds that was so kindly returned to you the other morning. Now there is something I do not understand.’

‘Nor me,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is unlikely to have been Caumpes.’

‘Clippesby!’ exclaimed Michael suddenly. ‘I knew he would be involved. There is your second cloaked intruder – Caumpes and Clippesby, both wandering Michaelhouse at night, breaking our scaffolding and murdering our Master.’

‘But Clippesby had no reason to creep around in the dark,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Michaelhouse is his College, and he has every right to be in it.’

‘Michaelhouse is his new College,’ corrected Michael. ‘He probably did not feel confident to demolish scaffolding and murder his Master without donning some sort of disguise. Matt, someone is coming! Quick, put this piece of soap in your bag, while I hide the rest.’

Michael was still heaving at the broken altar when Suttone walked up the aisle. The Carmelite smiled benignly at them, his red face friendly.

‘It is my turn to say the daily prayer for the soul of our founder,’ he explained. He saw the damaged altar and the redness drained from his face, leaving it white and shocked. ‘What are you doing? That is sacrilege! You have damaged a sacred altar!’

‘It needed some repairs,’ said Michael smoothly, leaning against it so that Suttone could not look too closely.

‘It did not!’ cried Suttone, aghast. ‘What have I let myself in for at Michaelhouse? It is a College of murderers and desecrators!’

Michael sighed, then moved away from the altar so that Suttone could see it. ‘I am sick of secrecy, and you will know everything soon anyway.’

‘Know everything?’ echoed Suttone in alarm. ‘I am not sure I like the sound of that.’

‘We have discovered who is behind all this,’ said Michael. A previous Master called Wilson was a thief, and Runham was his cousin. Wilson hid stolen goods in his room, and when Runham was elected Master, he set about seeing which of his kinsman’s ill-gotten gains were still there.’

‘What sort of ill-gotten gains?’ asked Suttone anxiously.

‘Items stolen from his colleagues and from people who paid him for last rites during the Death. Runham then started to move the property out of Michaelhouse to sell, using tablets of soap, so that he would not be caught with the goods on his person.’

‘You are not on mass duty this week, Suttone,’ said Bartholomew, puzzled. ‘I am.’

‘Runham had an accomplice,’ Michael went on. ‘We have reasoned that it is Clippesby, who with the assistance of Caumpes, helped to murder Runham because their game started to go wrong.’

‘Clippesby?’ asked Suttone quietly.

‘I imagine that unholy trinity – Runham, Clippesby and Caumpes – intended to make themselves rich on Wilson’s stolen treasure. The other two killed Runham when he disagreed with them over some matter.’

‘No, Brother,’ said Suttone softly, drawing a long, wicked knife from his sleeve. ‘You have this all wrong. All terribly wrong.’