A Masterly Murder

Chapter 1

Cambridge, November 1353

‘IF YOU DO NOT KEEP STILL, HOW CAN I PULL THE sting out?’ asked Matthew Bartholomew of Brother Michael in exasperation.

‘You are hurting me!’ howled Michael, struggling as the physician bent over him again with a small pair of tweezers. ‘You are jabbing about with those things like a woodpecker on a tree. Have you no compassion?’

‘It is only a bee sting, Brother,’ Bartholomew pointed out, bemused by the fuss the Benedictine was making. ‘And if you sit still for just a moment I can remove it, and all your terrible suffering will be over.’

Michael regarded him suspiciously. ‘I have heard of bee stings proving fatal to some people. Are you trying to tell me something in your discreet, physicianly way?’

Startled, Bartholomew laughed aloud. ‘It would take more than a mere bee to make an end of Brother Michael, the University’s Senior Proctor and valued agent of the Bishop of Ely – although I have never witnessed such drama in all my life. Even children do not squall and shriek like you do.’

‘That is probably because they do not understand what you are about to do,’ said Michael haughtily. ‘Well, come on, then; get it over with.’

Imperiously, he thrust a flabby arm at Bartholomew and turned his head away, eyes tightly closed. Once he had deigned to be co-operative, it was a simple task for the physician to pluck out the offending sting and then daub the afflicted area with a salve of goose grease and juniper berries, although the monk accompanied the operation with an unremitting monologue of complaint.

They were in Bartholomew’s medicine store at Michaelhouse, the College at the University of Cambridge where they held their Fellowships. It was a small, dimly lit chamber, more cupboard than room, that was always filled with the bitter-sour aroma of various potions and salves. Every available scrap of wall space was covered by overloaded shelves, and the workbench under the window was stained and burned where ingredients had spilled as they had been mixed.

It was a damp, gloomy November day, and clouds sagged in a lumpy grey sheet across the small town and the marshy expanse of the Fens beyond. University term was well under way, and Bartholomew could hear the stentorian tones of his colleague Father William, who was teaching in the hall across the courtyard. Bartholomew was impressed. The previous year a generous benefactor had paid for the windows in the hall and the adjoining conclave to be glazed, and for the Franciscan friar’s voice to carry through the glass to the other side of the College indicated an impressive degree of volume. Bartholomew wondered how the other masters could make themselves heard above it.

‘Right,’ he said, as he finished tending Michael’s arm. ‘That should heal nicely, if you do not scratch it.’

‘But it itches,’ protested Michael immediately. ‘It is driving me to distraction.’

‘It will itch even more if you keep fiddling with it,’ said Bartholomew unsympathetically. ‘How did you come to be stung by a bee anyway? It is the wrong time of year for bees.’

‘Apparently not for this one,’ said Michael stiffly. ‘I bought a cake from a baker in the Market Square, and the thing decided to share it with me. No amount of flapping and running seemed to deter it, and so I was reduced to swatting it when it landed. Then it had the audacity to sting me.’

‘If the bee was crushed, you had the better end of the bargain. But we have been away from our students long enough. I want mine to learn about how Galen developed the Hippocratic theory of the four humours, not about how the Devil founded the Dominican Order, which is what Father William seems to be bawling to his students – and to the world in general – this morning.’

‘Is he really?’ asked Michael, half startled and half amused. ‘I have been in such agonies with this sting that I have not even heard our Franciscan fanatic today – and that should tell you something of the suffering I have endured.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘William should be more discreet about his dislike of Dominicans. Master Kenyngham told me last night that one of our two new Fellows – due to arrive today – is a Dominican.’

‘I expect Kenyngham told William, too – hence this morning’s bit of bigotry. You know the Franciscans and the Dominicans in Cambridge loathe each other, Matt. They are always quarrelling about something they consider desperately important – usually something the rest of us neither understand nor care about.’

‘I hope William and this new Dominican will not turn Michaelhouse into a battleground,’ said Bartholomew with feeling. ‘We have managed to remain pleasantly free of squabbles between religious Orders so far, and I would like it to remain that way.’

‘It might spice things up a little,’ said Michael, green eyes gleaming as he contemplated the intrigues of such a situation.

‘It would not,’ said Bartholomew firmly, replacing the jar of salve in his bag and washing his hands. ‘William does not have the intellect to embark on the kind of clever plotting you enjoy – he is more of a fists man.’

Michael laughed. ‘You are right. But you have missed your chance to enthral your students with lurid descriptions of bile, phlegm and blood this morning, Matt, because the porter will ring the bell for the midday meal soon. Hurry up, or there will be nothing left.’

He had shot from the storeroom and was crossing the courtyard to be first at the table, before Bartholomew could reply. The physician smiled at the fat monk’s greed, finished tidying his chamber, and followed at a more sedate pace. He shivered as he walked across the yard to the hall. A bitter north wind blew, bringing with it the promise of yet more rain, and perhaps even snow. He had just reached the porch when Cynric, his book-bearer, came hurrying towards him, shouting to catch his attention.

‘You had better come with me, boy,’ said Cynric breathlessly. ‘I have just found Justus dead near Dame Nichol’s Hythe, on the river.’

‘You mean the Justus who is John Runham’s book-bearer?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. Justus had served dinner at high table only the previous evening. ‘How did he die? Did he drown?’

Cynric looked uncomfortable. ‘It is not for me to say – you are the physician. But come quickly before the poor man’s corpse attracts a crowd of gawking onlookers.’

Bartholomew followed him out of the College and down the lane to the ramshackle line of jetties that lined the river bank. They turned right along the towpath, and headed for the last pier in the row, known as Dame Nichol’s Hythe. Dame Nichol was long since dead, and the sturdy wharf she had financed was now in a sorry state. Its timber pillars were rotting and unsafe, and huge gaps in its planking threatened to deposit anyone standing on it into the sluggish brown waters of the River Cam below. The bank behind was little more than a midden, cluttered with discarded crates, broken barrels and scraps of unwanted clothing, and the fetid mud was impregnated with human and animal waste. The whole area stank of decaying, wet wood and sewage.

In the summer, the wharves – even Dame Nichol’s – were hives of activity, with barges from France and the Low Countries arriving daily, loaded with all manner of exotic goods, as well as the more mundane wool, grain and stone for building. In the winter, however, the colourful bustle of the tiny docks all but ceased, and that day only a few shabbily dressed bargemen laboured in the chill wind, slowly and listlessly removing peat faggots from a leaking flat-bottomed skiff. Two gulls watched Bartholomew and Cynric with sharp yellow eyes, waiting for them to be gone so that they could resume their scavenging for the discarded fish entrails and eel heads that lay festering and rank in the sticky muck of the towpath.

Cynric’s fears that Justus’s body would attract hordes of intrigued townsfolk were unfounded: the toiling bargemen – and even the birds – were not interested in it. Life was hard for many people following the Great Pestilence that had swept across the country, and it was not uncommon for desperate souls to end it all in the murky depths of the river. Justus lay disregarded and uncared for amid the scrubby weeds and filth, no more popular or remarkable in death than he had been in life.

Justus had been the servant of a Michaelhouse Fellow called John Runham, although Bartholomew had always been under the impression that they did not like each other. He could understand why: Runham was smug, condescending and arrogant; Justus was self-absorbed and dismal.

‘I found him when I came to buy peat for the College fires,’ explained Cynric. ‘I noticed a stray dog sniffing around, and when I came to see what it had discovered, I saw Justus. At least, I assume it is Justus. He is wearing that horrible tunic Justus always donned when he was not working.’

Cynric had a point about the corpse’s identity. The bizarrely patterned garment of which Justus had been so fond was all that could be immediately identified, because a thick leather wineskin had been pulled over the body’s head and then tied tight under the chin with twine. Bartholomew crouched down and undid it, noting it had been knotted at the front in the imperfect, haphazard way he would expect from a suicide. He drew it off, hearing Cynric’s soft intake of breath as he saw the dark, swollen features of the dead book-bearer.

‘Well, it is Justus right enough,’ said Cynric grimly. ‘I would recognise those big yellow teeth anywhere. Did he kill himself?’

‘It looks that way,’ said Bartholomew, inspecting the wineskin. It was a coarse, watertight sack, designed to hold cheap brews for those not able to afford the better wines that came in casks. Because the bag had been sealed with resin to make it leak-proof, it was also air-proof, and once the rope had been tightened around the neck, it had suffocated the wearer.

‘Justus was never a contented man,’ said Cynric, regarding his fellow book-bearer pityingly. ‘He was always complaining about something. And he envied me my happiness with Rachel.’ He gave a sudden and inappropriate grin. ‘Married life is a fine thing, boy. You should try it.’

‘Perhaps I will one day,’ said Bartholomew vaguely, unwilling to indulge in such a discussion when one of the College servants lay dead at his feet. ‘But first, I want to be certain that Justus killed himself, and that no one gave him a helping hand into the next world.’

‘But why would anyone do that?’ asked Cynric, surprised. ‘He had nothing worth stealing, because he spent all he earned on wine or ale. None of his clothes are missing as far as I can see, and here is his dagger – not a very valuable item, but one that would have been stolen had he been murdered for his possessions.’

Bartholomew inspected the dead man in more detail, checking for signs that Justus might have been involved in a struggle. He examined the man’s hands, but they were unmarked and the fingernails showed no evidence that he had clawed at an assailant. Ignoring an exclamation of disgust from Cynric, Bartholomew sniffed cautiously at Justus’s mouth, and detected the pungently sweet odour of alcohol – far stronger than he would have expected had the smell come simply from Justus having a wineskin over his head for a few hours.

The front-tied knot on the bag, plus the fact that Justus had probably been in his cups when he had died, suggested to Bartholomew that the servant had drunk himself into a state of gloom and had chosen suffocation with the wineskin as a reasonably easy death. Justus was seldom without wine to hand, so it was not inconceivable that he should choose such a method to dispatch himself. And, as Cynric had pointed out, Justus was a naturally miserable man who was given to moods of black despair.

Poor Justus, he thought, sitting back on his heels and gazing down at the contorted features that lay in the mud in front of him. Life as book-bearer to a demanding and ill-tempered master like John Runham could not have been especially pleasant, but Bartholomew had not imagined it was bad enough to drive a man to suicide. He wondered what aspect of Justus’s existence had caused him to end his life in such a pathetic way and to select as unsavoury and grimy a spot as Dame Nichol’s Hythe in which to do it.

While Cynric went to summon porters to carry Justus’s body to St Michael’s Church, and to report what had happened to Brother Michael, who as Senior Proctor would need to give a verdict on the sudden death of a University servant, Bartholomew waited, gazing down at the body that lay in front of him.

It was damp from dew, and stiff, suggesting that it had been there for some hours. Bartholomew supposed that serving dinner at Michaelhouse the evening before had been one of the last things Justus had done. He racked his brains, trying to recall whether Justus had seemed more morose than usual, but the book-bearer was so habitually sullen that Bartholomew was not sure whether he would have noticed anyway.

It was not long before Michael arrived, bustling importantly along the river bank, and more breathless than he should have been from the short walk from his College.

‘Suicide?’ he panted, scratching his bad arm. ‘I am not surprised. Justus was a morose beggar, and was always moaning about something. I have never met a more gloom-ridden man – and that includes all the Franciscans in my acquaintance! Well? When did he do it?’

‘I cannot tell specifically, but probably last night.’

‘He served us dinner last night,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘And shortly after that I saw him leave Michaelhouse with a full wineskin dangling from one hand. Could I have been the last person to see him alive?’

‘Possibly,’ replied Bartholomew, sorry that he had not been aware of the extent of Justus’s misery before it had led to such irreversible measures. The community of scholars and servants at Michaelhouse was not large, and someone should have noticed Justus’s sufferings and tried to help.

Michael glanced around at the insalubrious surroundings of Dame Nichol’s Hythe and gave a fastidious shudder. ‘He could have picked a better spot than this to spend his last moments on Earth.’

‘I imagine the quality of the scenery was not uppermost in his mind,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He probably saw this only as somewhere he would not be disturbed.’

Michael nodded. ‘Few people wander here after dark. Well, it is obvious what happened: Justus came here alone last night intending to drink himself into oblivion, became overly despondent – as he often did when he was in his cups – and decided to do away with himself.’

Bartholomew could see no reason to disagree with him. ‘The cord was fairly taut around his neck, but not so tight as to leave a mark. He must have knotted it there, and then slowly slipped into unconsciousness from lack of air. There is no damage to his hands, so he did not fight against it.’

‘And he is still in possession of his clothes and dagger, which suggests to me that he lay undisturbed until Cynric found him this morning,’ concluded Michael. ‘Poor man.’

Cynric arrived with two porters and a stretcher, and Bartholomew and Michael began to walk back to Michaelhouse while the servants followed with the body. Bartholomew noticed that the corpse had been covered as an automatic mark of respect, although a filthy horse-blanket hastily snatched from the stable had been used. There would be little mourning for the book-bearer, and Bartholomew wondered whether any of his colleagues would even bother to attend his burial.

‘Come on, Matt,’ said Michael, taking his arm, and hauling him along with surprising speed for a man who looked so flabby. ‘We can still make the midday meal if we are quick! I was only able to grab a lump of bread before you sent for me.’

‘A missed meal will do you no harm,’ said Bartholomew, eyeing the monk’s substantial girth critically. ‘It might even prove beneficial. I do not think it can be healthy to be so fat.’

‘What nonsense you speak sometimes,’ said Michael scathingly. ‘Being a Master of Theology, the Senior Proctor, an adviser to the Bishop of Ely …’

‘Spy for the Bishop of Ely,’ corrected Bartholomew.

‘… and a Fellow of Michaelhouse is a tiring business, and I need all the sustenance I can lay my hands on. Anyway, how did you come by this ridiculous notion that well-built men are unhealthy? Even a half-wit can see that the people who are ill most frequently are those who do not have enough to eat. Nearly all your patients are skinny people with appetites like sparrows.’

‘But most of my patients are poor. The poor tend to be thinner than the rich, because they cannot afford the luxury of gluttony.’

‘Well, there you are then,’ said Michael triumphantly. ‘Everyone knows the poor are subject to more diseases than the rich, and you have just acknowledged that poor people are thin. Ergo, being thin makes you susceptible to a greater number of illnesses. You are a strange sort of physician, Matt, always flying in the face of logic to form your own peculiar theories. No wonder your medical colleagues are convinced you are a heretic.’

‘I do not have many medical colleagues left,’ said Bartholomew dismally. ‘Those who survived the plague have either died or moved on to more lucrative positions. Only Master Lynton from Peterhouse and Robin of Grantchester remain.’

‘You should not claim Robin of Grantchester as a colleague,’ advised Michael. ‘First, he is a surgeon, not a physician. And second, he kills more people than he saves. I hear he is going to amputate Master Saddler’s leg today, even though Saddler will gain more from a priest than a surgeon, from what I am told.’

‘Robin plans to operate?’ said Bartholomew, surprised. ‘Saddler will not survive if he does. Amputation might have saved him two weeks ago, but not now. Robin is a fool to try.’

‘He is a fool with three shillings in his pocket,’ said Michael. ‘He always collects payment in advance – if he did the honourable thing and only charged patients who lived, he would starve. And speaking of starving, there is the bell for the midday meal.’ He beamed happily, Justus and the unsavoury image of Cambridge’s surgeon firmly pushed from his mind as he anticipated happier things. ‘We are just in time.’

Leaving the monk to hurry to his meal, Bartholomew went to wash in the basin of water that always stood on the floor of his room. It was a peculiarity of his that he always rinsed his hands after touching corpses, much to the disdainful amusement of his less fastidious colleagues. As he scrubbed them dry with a piece of sacking, he gazed out of his window.

In the dull, metallic light of November, the College looked stark and comfortless. With the exception of the hall and conclave, none of the windows had glass, and the scholars were faced with two choices: to close the shutters and have a room that was cold and dark, or leave them open for one that was very cold but light enough to see in. To compound the problem, Michaelhouse only provided fuel for fires in the communal rooms, not for individual chambers. Some scholars could afford to buy their own wood, but Bartholomew, with nothing but his Fellow’s salary of four marks a year, could not. His training as a physician might have made him rich, but he found it more satisfying to treat the diseases and ailments of the poor, than to dispense purges and astrological advice to the wealthy. The fees paid by the few who could recompense him for his services only just covered the expenses incurred in providing for his less affluent clients.

He finished drying his hands and walked outside to the courtyard. The College was looking decidedly shabbier than it had done a year before, and parts were in desperate need of maintenance. Michaelhouse’s founder had originally intended the yard to be cobbled, but somehow this had never transpired, and the rectangular patch of land enclosed by the hall, conclave and kitchens at one end, the porters’ lodge and a sturdy wall at the other, and flanked by two opposing ranges of rooms where the scholars lived, was little more than a square of churned-up mud, the treacherous slickness of which was legendary throughout the town.

The hall itself was a handsome building, and had once been the home of a wealthy merchant called Roger Buttetourte. Buttetourte had used only the best materials, and his mansion had been built to last. The same was not true of the accommodation ranges, however. Michael’s room, which was above Bartholomew’s, had such a large hole in the roof that his students complained the moon shone through it and kept them awake. Bartholomew’s own chamber had walls that ran dark with mildew, while the plaster fell away in rotten clumps, exposing the damp stones underneath.

Bartholomew picked his way across the quagmire of the yard, and climbed the steep spiral staircase that led to the hall. It had been a long time since breakfast, and, like Michael, the other scholars were hungry, so Bartholomew found he was the last to arrive. The high table, where the Fellows sat, was on a dais at the south end of the hall, while at right angles to it were two long trestle tables for the students and commoners. Every scholar was already at his place, standing behind the benches with his hands clasped in front of him as he waited for Master Kenyngham to say grace.

Beaming benignly, the Master waited until the physician reached his seat, while Michael sighed impatiently, his eyes fixed on the freshly baked bread. Bartholomew’s students nudged each other and grinned; their teacher’s absent-mindedness when he was engaged in medical matters often meant he was late for meals and it had become something of a joke with them.

As Bartholomew came to stand between Michael and Father William, he saw that two seats, which had been empty since a pair of Fellows had left to take up posts in Westminster Abbey, were occupied. He realised that the newcomers must be their successors, and studied them with interest.

One was the Dominican friar whom Master Kenyngham had mentioned the previous evening. He had a pale face and hair that stood up in a peculiar comb around the edge of his tonsure, and there was a fanatical gleam in his eyes. Bartholomew felt his heart sink. Here was no compliant cleric who would turn a deaf ear to the insults hurled at him and his Order by the belligerent Franciscan Father William, and the physician sensed that it would not be long before the two men found something to argue about.

The other newcomer wore the white robes of a Carmelite, and Bartholomew’s spirits sank even further. Even if the Dominican and the Franciscan managed a truce, one of them would be bound to initiate some kind of dispute with the Carmelite. There were several Orders of mendicant friars in Cambridge, each of which loathed the others, and Michaelhouse had now managed to appoint representatives from three of them. He supposed he should be grateful that Kenyngham, who was a Gilbertine, and Michael, who was a Benedictine monk, usually remained aloof from the unseemly rows in which the others engaged with such fervour.

But the Carmelite, unlike the Dominican, did not look like the kind of man who enjoyed dissent. He was short and round, with a cheery red face that was creased with laughter lines. He smiled at Bartholomew when he saw he was being assessed, and Bartholomew smiled back, liking the merry twinkle in the man’s eyes and the fact that he was not too overawed by Michaelhouse’s formality to acknowledge a new colleague with a gesture of friendliness.

While Kenyngham flicked lovingly through his psalter to select the reading of the day, Bartholomew leaned around Father William and tapped the lawyer, John Runham, on the arm.

‘I have some bad news,’ he whispered. ‘Your book-bearer is dead.’

‘Dead?’ asked Runham, startled. ‘I do not think so! Justus served my dinner last night.’

‘He died after that. Cynric found his body near Dame Nichol’s Hythe this morning.’

‘Damn!’ muttered Runham, gazing at him irritably. ‘What did he do? Jump in the river?’

‘He tied a wineskin over his head,’ said Bartholomew, feeling sorry for Justus in having a master who cared so little for him. Bartholomew would not have taken news of Cynric’s demise with such casual indifference. ‘He suffocated.’

Runham gave a mirthless smile. ‘That sounds like Justus. If he had to take his own life, wine would have been involved somehow. Curse the man! Now I will have to find a replacement and I am busy this week. What a wretched inconvenience!’

‘Especially for Justus,’ retorted Bartholomew before he could stop himself. How Runham received the news of his book-bearer’s death was none of his affair, and it was not for him to be judging his colleagues’ relationships with their servants.

‘Especially for me!’ hissed Runham vehemently. ‘You know how difficult it is to find reliable staff these days – we have the Death to thank for that, carrying off so many peasants. Justus could not have chosen a worse time to abandon me. I am willing to wager he did it deliberately.’

Shaking his head crossly, he turned to face the front, leaving the physician repelled by such brazen self-interest. He hoped Runham would remember that it was his responsibility to bury his dead servant, and that he would not leave the corpse to fester in the church for days until he decided he had sufficient time to undertake the necessary arrangements.

‘Are we ready?’ asked Kenyngham, cocking his head questioningly at Bartholomew, who realised that he had not assumed the attitude of prayerful contemplation usually required when the Master intoned the reading of the day. He bowed his head, and Kenyngham began to read, pausing at random moments to reflect on the sacred words in a way that had Michael sighing in hungry impatience. When Kenyngham had finally finished – or had paused sufficiently long to make his listeners suppose he had – there was a scraping of chairs and benches on the rush-strewn floor as the Fellows and students took their seats.

Kenyngham, however, remained standing, his psalter still open in his hands. For several confusing moments, no one spoke or moved. The servants were loath to begin bringing the food to the tables if their saintly Master were still in the throes of his prayers, while the scholars, who knew Kenyngham might continue to read until he had completed the entire book unless stopped, shot each other uneasy glances. Michael was the only one hungry enough – or irreligious enough – to remind the Master that he was not alone in an ecstasy of religious contemplation, but in his hall with the entire College waiting for its dinner.

‘The food is getting cold,’ he stated baldly.

Startled, Kenyngham glanced up from his psalter and regarded Michael in surprise, clearly having forgotten entirely where he was. He gazed around the hall at the watching scholars.

‘Ah, yes,’ he said, recollecting himself. ‘I have an announcement to make.’

Another long pause ensued as his eyes slid downward to the hallowed words of the psalter, which were apparently more demanding of his immediate attention than his six Fellows, eight commoners and forty or so students.

Blind Father Paul smiled indulgently. ‘That man is a saint,’ he whispered in admiration. ‘His whole existence is taken up with spiritual matters.’

‘He is short of a few wits,’ murmured Runham unpleasantly. ‘I swear he barely knows where he is most of the time – unless it is in a church. It is not good for the Master of a College to be so …’ He hesitated, deliberating what word would best describe the eccentric Master of Michaelhouse.

‘Unworldly,’ suggested Bartholomew.

‘Holy,’ countered Paul.

‘Odd,’ stated the loutish Ralph de Langelee flatly, a man who had decided to become a scholar because his duties as spymaster for the Archbishop of York were not sufficiently exciting. He entertained high hopes that the scheming and intrigues in the University might furnish him with the adventure and exhilaration he craved. For the most part, he had not been disappointed.

‘Unsuitable,’ finished Runham firmly.

‘What did you want to tell us, Master Kenyngham?’ prompted Michael, eyeing the food on the platters near the screen at the far end of the hall.

Kenyngham cleared his throat, then beamed paternally at the assembled scholars. Before his mind could wander again, William almost snatched the psalter from him. Closing it, he laid it on the table. Kenyngham patted him on the head, as an adult might do to a child, much to the friar’s consternation and the students’ amusement.

‘You may have noticed that we have two new faces at the high table,’ said Kenyngham, gesturing to the Dominican and the Carmelite who sat on his left.

‘Welcome, welcome,’ said Michael, waving a hand that was more dismissive than friendly. When Cynric placed a basket of bread in front of him, he immediately selected the piece that was significantly larger than the rest. His colleagues, however, were more interested in the newcomers than in the rough bread baked from the cheapest flour the College could buy, or the thin bean stew that was now being distributed in greasy pewter bowls by the servants.

‘Master Thomas Suttone,’ Kenyngham continued, indicating the Carmelite, ‘comes to us from Lincoln, where he has been vicar of one of the parish churches. He will teach the trivium – grammar, rhetoric and logic.’

‘Good,’ said William with feeling. ‘I have been forced to teach the trivium since Alcote met his untimely demise in the summer, and I am heartily sick of it. Now Suttone can take over, and I can concentrate on what I am best at.’

‘And what, pray, is that?’ asked Langelee archly. ‘Unmasking warlocks among the Dominicans?’

‘When I was with the Inquisition …’ began William hotly.

‘We are pleased to have you at Michaelhouse, Master Suttone,’ said Bartholomew quickly, before William could start down that track. The friar’s tales of his ruthless persecution of ‘heretics’ in France were enough to put even Michael off his food, and Bartholomew did not want the new Fellows to wonder what they had let themselves in for on their first day.

‘I am delighted to be here,’ said Suttone, his red face breaking into a happy smile. ‘As parish priest in Lincoln, my duties included teaching the city’s children, who were lively and curious, but I missed the maturity and depth of adult minds, and I am looking forward to many hours of academic debate and disputation at Michaelhouse.’

‘Lord help us!’ whispered Langelee in alarm. ‘He sounds like one of those thinking types.’

‘This is a University,’ replied Michael under his breath. ‘We are supposed to harbour “thinking types” in our Colleges.’

‘Lincoln,’ mused William, regarding Suttone with suspicion. ‘That is a heathen place, I hear.’

‘It cannot be heathen,’ said Bartholomew, smiling. ‘It has a magnificent cathedral.’

‘So does Paris,’ replied William, pursing his lips as if no more needed to be said on that matter. He turned his attention back to Suttone. ‘Runham’s book-bearer comes from Lincoln. You may find you have mutual acquaintances.’

‘Excellent!’ began Suttone. ‘I will …’

‘I hardly think that my wine-loving book-bearer and a Carmelite friar would have enjoyed the same company,’ said Runham dryly.

‘Especially not now,’ muttered Michael, exchanging a glance with Bartholomew as they both thought about the sorry figure found dead on the river bank.

‘Actually, Justus is–’ began Bartholomew.

‘Runham is right. Justus is a man more fond of taverns than churches,’ said Langelee, reaching for his own cup, as if in sympathy. ‘So, unless you like your ale, Suttone, I doubt you will have come across each other.’

‘And John Clippesby, our second new Fellow, hails from Huntingdon,’ said Kenyngham, speaking quickly before the conversation ran away from his introductions completely. ‘He will teach astronomy and music.’

‘Music?’ queried William in disapprobation, making it sound like some disgusting vice. ‘We have never had anyone teaching music at Michaelhouse before.’

‘Then it is about time someone started,’ said Father Paul, smiling sightlessly to where he thought the Dominican might be located. ‘Music can be a wonderful thing.’

The other Fellows said nothing, but none of them looked at Michael, whose choir had managed to put most of them off that most noble of arts. The students murmured their own greetings to the two newcomers, to which Suttone responded with a friendly smile and Clippesby’s intense face assumed the kind of expression he might have used had someone accused him of molesting his mother. Bartholomew wondered whether he was entirely sane – it would not be the first time that a madman had been foisted on the University by an Order that did not know what else to do with him. Needless to say, Kenyngham did not notice Clippesby’s strange reaction to the students’ affable greetings, and continued with his announcement.

‘Masters Suttone and Clippesby will be formally admitted to the Society of the Holy and Undivided Trinity, the Blessed Virgin Mary and St Michael – to give us our official name – on Saturday evening. That is in two days … no three days …’ He frowned in thought.

‘It is the day after tomorrow, Master,’ said William irritably. ‘Today is Thursday.’

Kenyngham nodded his thanks. ‘And we will celebrate the occasion with a feast.’

Michael almost choked. ‘A feast? You cannot just snap your fingers and have a feast! It takes planning and preparation to arrange a decent feast. All we will have on Saturday will be more of this miserable bread and a double helping of this even more miserable stew. We need at least a week to organise something worthwhile.’

‘And I should like to take this opportunity to give you a little more news,’ Kenyngham went on, oblivious to Michael’s displeasure. ‘I propose to resign as Master of Michaelhouse on Saturday. Our two new members can join our other Fellows – Brother Michael, Fathers William and Paul, Doctor Bartholomew, and Masters Runham and Langelee – in selecting one of their number to become our next Master.’

Predictably, the gentle, unassuming Kenyngham was surprised and dismayed by the chaos that erupted following his announcement, and was bewildered by the raised voices and objections to his proposed retirement. It took some time to restore order, at which point – in a moment of rare common sense – he hastily signalled to the Bible Scholar to begin reading, effectively preventing any further discussion during the meal.

When the last remnants of the food had been consumed by a scowling Michael, Kenyngham rose to say another grace, but was prevented from leaving the hall by the vicelike fingers of Father William, who seemed about to embark on an argument there and then, with all the students watching the dissension between their seniors with open interest.

‘I suggest we Fellows adjourn to the conclave for an emergency meeting,’ said Runham, before the friar could begin a diatribe. He turned to the two bemused newcomers. ‘Perhaps you might care to join us. You will, after all, be expected to vote for the next candidate for the Mastership, so you had better see for yourselves what is on offer.’

He gave them a smile that was far from genuine, and Bartholomew immediately saw that the vain and pompous Runham intended to have his own name put forward as Kenyngham’s successor. The physician grimaced: it was not an attractive proposition. Runham’s cousin, Thomas Wilson, had been Master of Michaelhouse during the black days of the plague, and he had not been a popular Head of House. The similarity between the two men was such that Bartholomew could not imagine Runham would be any better.

He was about to follow the other Fellows into the conclave when Cynric arrived, breathing hard from a sprint across the courtyard. Since his marriage to a local seamstress at the end of the summer, contentment had added a ring of fat to the Welshman’s waist, and he was now considerably less agile. He was also happier than Bartholomew had ever seen him, and he and Rachel Atkin were settling down to a life of domestic bliss that delighted them both.

‘There has been an accident,’ Cynric gasped. ‘Someone has fallen from the scaffolding at Bene’t College and hurt himself. One of their porters has come to ask if you will go. He is waiting for you at the gate.’

‘I will come with you,’ said Michael, following the physician towards the spiral stairs.

‘There is no need,’ said Bartholomew, giving the monk an admonishing look as he gave his bad arm a vigorous massage.

‘There is every need,’ muttered Michael, scratching his arm a second time just to prove he was master of his own itches. ‘I do not want to spend the afternoon locked in the conclave with the likes of William, Langelee and Runham, all telling me to vote for them as our next Master.’

‘You will have to do it eventually,’ said Bartholomew. ‘If not this afternoon, then later.’

‘Later is better,’ said Michael. ‘By then, they will have aired their views – several times, I would imagine – and I will have escaped the worst of it. And anyway, I need a little time to consider my own campaign before I lock horns with the others.’

‘You intend to stand, then?’ asked Bartholomew, not at all surprised that an ambitious man like Michael should consider the Mastership of Michaelhouse a suitable prize for his talents.

Michael nodded. ‘Of course. I am easily the best person for the task, and I do not want to lose just for the want of a little preparation.’

‘What do you mean by “preparation”?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily, suspecting that Michael’s strategy might well involve some less than honest tactics.

‘You will see,’ said Michael enigmatically. ‘But I should come with you anyway. A person injured or killed on University property is the business of the Senior Proctor, as I am sure you know by now.’

‘I most certainly do,’ said Bartholomew, not without rancour, for he had been dragged into all kinds of intrigue and murder by virtue of being the Senior Proctor’s close friend.

‘What about our meeting?’ called Langelee indignantly, as they left the hall. ‘What about discussing this decision of Master Kenyngham’s?’

‘We will have to gather later,’ said Runham, casting predatory eyes over the newcomers, so that Bartholomew sensed he intended to make good use of the delay by winning their support for himself. ‘We cannot discuss such a significant issue with a quarter of our membership absent.’

‘When, then?’ demanded William belligerently. ‘This is important. We cannot postpone our discussion until Matthew decides he has no more pressing visits to patients.’

‘Then how about after dinner tonight?’ suggested Father Paul. ‘William is right – we should meet as soon as possible to talk about this.’

‘I am busy this evening,’ announced Langelee importantly. ‘I told you last week that I have been invited to dine with the Duke of Lancaster at Bene’t College.’

‘You certainly did,’ muttered Michael nastily. ‘At least six times that I recall.’

‘I was invited – by the Duke himself, actually – because of my powerful and prestigious connections,’ Langelee explained to Clippesby and Suttone, apparently deciding that Runham should not be the only one to start an immediate election campaign. ‘You see, before I decided to make a name for myself as a scholar at Michaelhouse, I was in the service of the Archbishop of York. I know all kinds of influential people.’

‘What Langelee is saying,’ said Michael, noticing Suttone’s bemusement at this unasked-for confidence, ‘is that he is on intimate terms with archbishops and dukes, and that you should bear this in mind when you come to vote for our next Master. Essentially, he is soliciting your support, although in the hallowed halls of Cambridge, this is usually conducted with a little more subtlety.’

‘I can be subtle,’ objected Langelee indignantly. ‘But I can also be direct, which is what this College needs. No one likes all this underhandedness and subterfuge …’

‘I do,’ said Michael.

‘… and what we need is a Master who will be honest, candid and sincere,’ Langelee continued.

‘That should narrow the choices then,’ mumbled Father Paul, uncharacteristically facetious.

‘And that man is me,’ concluded Langelee, favouring his colleagues with a blazing grin. ‘I would make you a splendid Master.’

‘It is refreshing to hear such confidence in one’s own abilities,’ said Runham dryly. ‘But we need to arrange a meeting to elect a successor first. Since you are dining with royalty tonight, can I suggest that we meet after breakfast tomorrow morning?’

‘I have business with my Prior then,’ said William grandly. ‘Business of a religious nature,’ he elaborated, glancing meaningfully at Clippesby and Suttone to make sure they understood that while Langelee might have royal connections, his own influence lay where it really mattered – with the Prior of one of the most powerful Orders in Cambridge, not to mention God.

‘I heard he has been summoned by his Prior to be reprimanded for fanning the flames of hostility between the Franciscans and the Dominicans again,’ whispered Michael to Bartholomew, his eyes glittering with amusement. ‘If William decides to stand for Master, you will have the opportunity to elect yourself an experienced and competent rabble-rouser.’

‘Then I suggest the best time to meet is before the admissions ceremony on Saturday,’ said Runham smoothly. ‘I cannot see that the election of a new Master will take long, and I do not think we will delay the beginning of the feast unduly.’ He smiled graciously at Suttone and Clippesby. ‘But before then, perhaps I can show you around our College? And then I will answer any questions you might have over a cup of wine in my room.’

‘Oh no, you do not!’ protested Langelee, outraged. ‘I know what you are trying to do! You are attempting to win the votes of these two, so that you will be elected Master!’

Runham looked hurt, and Michael gave a vicious snigger as he watched the exchange.

‘Take one each,’ he called, as he followed Bartholomew down the stairs. ‘Then you will be even.’ He chuckled as he walked across the yard. ‘I feel almost sorry for Runham and Langelee. They are already entertaining high hopes that they will be elected. How can they even begin to imagine they have a chance when I intend to be Michaelhouse’s next Master?’

‘Do you indeed?’ said Bartholomew. ‘And what makes you think that those few – very few – of us Fellows who do not intend to make a bid for power ourselves will vote for you?’

‘Voting!’ exclaimed Michael disdainfully. ‘This election will not be decided by voting.’

‘It will, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘That is how we elect Masters at Michaelhouse – by each Fellow writing the name of his preferred candidate–’

Michael made a dismissive sound. ‘And I accused Langelee of being unsubtle! The Mastership of Michaelhouse is far too important to leave to that sort of chance. And the issue will not be decided on Saturday, either. That is far too soon. I must see what can be done to delay matters.’

‘I do not want to hear this,’ began Bartholomew.

‘No,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘It is better that you do not know my plans in detail. I do not want you revealing them to the opposition.’

‘You mean you do not trust me?’ asked Bartholomew, startled and rather hurt.

Michael sighed. ‘I trust you in most things – more than I trust myself sometimes. But you do not have a clear grasp of University politics, and there is too much at stake to risk you inadvertently telling someone something he should not hear. But while we stand here, your patient is waiting. We should go before you dally so long that he needs my services rather than yours.’

As Bartholomew opened the door to his storeroom to collect his medicine bag, he saw three of his students in the courtyard and told them to read specific sections from Galen’s Prognostica to the others, ignoring their obvious disappointment at losing what they had anticipated would be a free afternoon following Kenyngham’s unexpected announcement.

‘None of the other masters are making their students work today,’ said Sam Gray sullenly, shoving his hands in his belt when Bartholomew tried to hand him the book.

‘None of the other masters have students who have failed their disputations as many times as you have,’ replied Bartholomew tartly. ‘And, as I have told you before, there are plenty of students who will willingly take your place should you fail again.’

Gray said nothing, knowing that the shortage of physicians following the plague meant that newly qualified medics could pick and choose from the lucrative opportunities available, and that if he wanted to make his fortune, he would do well to stay with Bartholomew.

‘He will read to the fourth-years, and I will read to the others,’ said Tom Bulbeck, one of Michaelhouse’s brightest scholars, who would soon be leaving to take up a position as house physician to the powerful Bigod family in the city of Norwich – a prestigious appointment that made Sam Gray green with envy.

‘Or, if you like, I could show them how to dissect a rat – like you did last year,’ offered Rob Deynman, Bartholomew’s least gifted student. ‘I remember how to do it exactly. You take a rat and a sharp knife, then cut through the stringy stuff to reach the purple bits–’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew hastily. ‘Just listen to the Galen. And if any of my patients come, please fetch me – do not try to deal with them yourself.’

‘Yes,’ said Gray with spiteful glee. ‘Look what happened last time – Agatha the laundress’s teeth have been the talk of the town since you laid hands on them.’

Leaving them before that discussion could begin in earnest, Bartholomew hurried across the courtyard to the gate, where the Bene’t College porter was waiting for him. Michael, having donned a handsome fur-lined black cloak against the winter chill, was not far behind.

‘You took your time,’ grumbled the porter, who had been slouching against the wall. ‘Had to finish your meal, did you, while a man lies dying?’

‘We will have none of that insolence, thank you very much,’ said Michael sharply. He glared at the man, inspecting him closely as they walked up St Michael’s Lane towards the High Street, where Bene’t College was located. ‘I know you. Our swords have crossed before.’

The man looked shifty. ‘You probably met my brother, Ulfo. People say there is an uncanny resemblance between us.’

But Michael was not an easy man to fool. ‘No, it is you I have encountered before.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘I remember now! You pummelled a student half to death last winter, and he made an official complaint against you for grievous assault.’

‘I did not lay a finger on him,’ snarled the porter angrily. ‘He lied!’

‘So your College said,’ concurred Michael. ‘The case was dropped, if I recall correctly.’

‘Justice was done,’ said the porter unpleasantly, so that Bartholomew had the impression that justice had not been done at all – at least, as far as the battered student had been concerned.

Michael scratched his arm thoughtfully. ‘Osmun,’ he said. ‘That is your name.’

‘So?’ demanded Osmun aggressively. ‘What of it? What has my name to do with you?’

‘Let us hope it has nothing to do with me,’ said Michael coolly. ‘I do not want the likes of you warranting the attention of the Senior Proctor and his beadles again.’

His tone held a warning that Osmun was not so stupid as to ignore. He glowered at the monk, and began to walk more quickly as they neared Bene’t College, effectively ending all further conversation.

Bene’t was the newest of the University’s colleges, and had been founded the previous year by wealthy townsmen in the guilds of Corpus Christi and St Mary. Its official name was the College of Corpus Christi and the Blessed Virgin Mary, but most people called it Bene’t College because it stood on land that adjoined St Bene’t’s – or Benedict’s – Church.

The two guilds intended their foundation to rival splendid Colleges like the Hall of Valence Marie and King’s Hall, and masons and carpenters were busily erecting fine new buildings for the Master of Bene’t and his scholars. A hall and one wing had already been completed, but the range that bordered the High Street was still under construction, and comprised a precarious shell of four walls clad in a jumble of scaffolding, ropes, pulleys and platforms. Seeing its haphazard nature and its proximity to the road, Bartholomew was surprised that there had not been an accident before.

‘Bartholomew!’ came an urgent voice from a group of people who stood in a tight huddle at one corner of the unfinished building. ‘Here! Quickly.’

Bartholomew hurried forward when he recognised Master Lynton, the physician from Peterhouse. Lynton was a kindly man, with a halo of fluffy white hair that always reminded Bartholomew of a dandelion clock. He had done well for himself in his profession, and his patients were invariably the wealthiest and most influential people in the town – Lynton would never consider doctoring anyone unable to pay. His ideas on medicine, however, were conventional in the extreme, and he and Bartholomew seldom agreed on treatments or diagnoses. Bartholomew would have liked Lynton better had he been anything but a physician.

Bartholomew pushed his way through the fascinated onlookers, and crouched next to Lynton, who was trying without success to stanch the bleeding from a wound in the chest of a man who lay in the mud. Bartholomew took one look at the rapid, shallow breathing, the bluish lips and white face, and the awkward angle of the man’s legs that indicated a broken back, and knew Lynton’s efforts were futile.

Although there was nothing he could do to save the man who lay in a distorted heap at the base of the scaffolding that surrounded Bene’t College, Bartholomew tried to make his last moments on Earth as comfortable as possible. He dribbled a concoction of poppy juice and laudanum between the blue lips, and took a clean compress from his medicine bag – always carried looped over his shoulder – to stem the bleeding from the chest wound.

Lynton sat back with a sigh of relief. ‘Thank you, Bartholomew,’ he said, flexing his bloodstained fingers and wiping them on his tabard. ‘Now we should set about bleeding this poor fellow.’

‘I think he has lost more than enough blood already,’ replied Bartholomew, wondering how Lynton could possibly imagine that bleeding could hold any benefits for the dying man – other than perhaps to hasten his end.

‘Will he live?’ asked one of the spectators unsteadily, fixing Bartholomew with anguished eyes. Like the man who lay dying, he wore the distinctive blue tabard that marked him as a Fellow of Bene’t College. He crouched next to his colleague, helplessly rubbing one of the cold, limp hands.

‘If we make an incision in the foot, the blood will drain down and will lessen the flow from the chest,’ said Lynton with great conviction. He pushed Bartholomew’s hands away from the compress and applied the required pressure himself. ‘I will stem the bleeding here, while you make the cut. You are the one who dabbles in cautery, not me.’

‘But I do not practise phlebotomy,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And it will make no difference to this man anyway. A priest will be able to do more for him than physicians.’

‘But we must save him,’ protested Lynton. He glanced at the dying man, and then leaned towards Bartholomew confidentially, keeping his voice low. ‘His name is Raysoun, and his friend is John Wymundham, both Fellows of Bene’t. They are two of my most lucrative patients.’

‘I am sorry,’ said Bartholomew, also in a whisper. ‘But there is nothing we can do. Raysoun’s back is broken, he has already lost too much blood, and he is having difficulty breathing.’

‘But I cannot afford to lose him,’ said Lynton insistently. ‘You must do something.’

Bartholomew could think of nothing to say, and instead glanced up to indicate to Michael that he should prepare to give Raysoun last rites. As the monk readied himself, the man’s colleague – Wymundham – grabbed Bartholomew’s shoulder in a grip that was unexpectedly strong for a man who gave an initial impression of being somewhat effete.

‘You cannot give up on him!’ he cried desperately. ‘Look! His eyes are opening! He lives!’

Raysoun was gazing blankly at the sky, but his eyes were unfocused and Bartholomew thought him too badly injured to be aware of his surroundings. Wymundham bent close to him, gripping the hand he held so fiercely that Bartholomew was certain Raysoun would have objected, had he been able to feel it.

‘Everything will be all right,’ Wymundham whispered comfortingly. ‘You had a fall, but you will live to make theologians of our students yet.’

‘You must bleed him before it is too late, Bartholomew,’ said Lynton, although with less fervour than before. ‘I sent for the surgeon – Robin of Grantchester – but he is busy amputating a leg and cannot be disturbed. You must do it.’

‘But Raysoun is dying,’ said Bartholomew softly. ‘Nothing we can do will save him, and if we bleed him, all we will do is risk causing him pain.’

Lynton gazed down at his patient, and Bartholomew thought he was going to argue. But the older physician merely nodded – as though he had known the futility of any treatment, but was just going through the motions – and then climbed to his feet and moved away, leaving Raysoun to Michael. Bartholomew went to stand next to him.

‘What happened?’ he asked, while Michael began intoning prayers for the dying. The injured man’s friend seemed about to shove the monk away, but instead began exhorting Raysoun to stand up and walk back inside the College with him.

‘Apparently, he fell from the scaffolding,’ said Lynton. ‘No one saw it happen, but the carpenters say he was clambering about up near the roof shortly before a passer-by found him lying in the road.’

‘If he fell from the scaffolding, then why is he bleeding from his chest?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘It looks to me as though he landed on his back, not his front.’

Lynton pointed to a bloodied metal tool that lay on the ground. ‘This was embedded in him when I arrived. I imagine he must have impaled himself on it as he fell.’

‘But how?’ asked Bartholomew, puzzled.

‘I do not know,’ said Lynton, a little impatiently. ‘But look around you. The builders have scattered their implements very carelessly – I can see at least two more of those pointed things from here.’

‘Awls,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Carpenters use them for making holes in wood.’

‘Whatever,’ said Lynton, uninterested. ‘But the workmen should be forced to take more care. I will have a word with the Sheriff about this when I finish here – that half-finished building is dangerous. It is only a matter of time before someone is hurt by falling scaffolding.’

‘You are right,’ said Bartholomew, glancing up at the ramshackle array of planks that sheathed the growing College. ‘Perhaps part of the road should be closed until the work is completed.’

‘I will see what I can do,’ said Lynton with a sigh. ‘But it is a shame such precautions are too late for poor Raysoun.’

On the ground, Wymundham seemed to be having some kind of conversation with the dying man, putting his ear close to his lips. Michael lowered his own voice, aware that Raysoun might be making a confession that could mean a shorter sojourn in Purgatory. Bartholomew was surprised that Raysoun was even conscious, but supposed that a few moments of clarity before death were not impossible.

‘I will miss him,’ said Lynton, crossing himself as Michael smeared chrism on the dying man’s forehead and mouth. ‘I prescribed a weekly purge that was temperate in the first degree – very expensive.’

‘Why?’

‘To soothe his liver after he had over-indulged his penchant for wines.’

‘He drank heavily?’ Bartholomew had certainly noticed the smell of drink on the dying man as he had administered the medicine, and the half-empty wineskin that lay nearby had not escaped his attention, either.

Lynton made a curious gesture – half nod, half shrug. ‘Recently he did. It did not agree with him, which is why he was obliged to summon me so often. But regardless of what he meant to me financially, it is hard to watch a man die knowing I am powerless to save him. It reminds me of the Death, which claimed so many of our patients, when all our years of training and experience as physicians were worse than useless.’

Bartholomew did not reply, because, for once, he understood Lynton’s sentiment completely.

Raysoun took a deep, rasping breath before a rattle in the back of his throat told the silent onlookers that he had breathed his last. Wymundham stared down at him in disbelief, then released a blood-chilling howl of grief. Sensing that he might become hysterical, Bartholomew took his arm and quickly guided him back inside his College, intending to deliver him into the hands of colleagues who would look after him. Michael and Lynton could deal with the body of Raysoun. He looked around for the porters, but they had joined the crowd outside, and so he walked with Wymundham across the courtyard to the building that was clearly the hall.

Bartholomew had never been inside Bene’t before, and was impressed by the sumptuousness of those buildings that had been completed. The walls were made of good-quality stone purchased from the quarries at Barnack near Peterborough, and were a pleasing amber hue. Inside, the floors of the hall were polished wood – not just flagstones strewn with dried rushes like Michaelhouse’s – and were liberally scattered with fine wool rugs. Large chests with handsome iron bindings stood at one end of the room, while the tables at which the scholars ate and which they used for lessons were carved from oak that had been buffed to an impressive sheen.

Wymundham slumped in a chair at the high table and put his head in his hands, sobbing loudly. Bene’t was deserted, so Bartholomew went behind the serving screen, and found a jug of wine and some cups. He filled one and took it back to Wymundham, urging him to drink. Eventually, the man’s weeping subsided, and he rubbed away his tears with a hand stained with his friend’s blood. Bartholomew saw a basin filled with water on one of the windowsills, dipped a napkin in it, and gave it to the scholar so that he could clean his face. At Bartholomew’s silent kindness, Wymundham began to weep afresh. The physician sat with him, waiting for him to compose himself.

Wymundham was not an attractive man. His narrow face had a rather vulpine look about it, and his small eyes were bright and beady. His mannerisms were fussy and effeminate, and under his scholar’s tabard he wore hose of soft blue wool, so that his legs reminded Bartholomew of those of an elderly nun.

‘I am sorry,’ said Wymundham, wiping his nose on the napkin. ‘It was the shock.’

‘It is all right,’ said Bartholomew gently. ‘Is there anyone I can fetch to be with you? One of the other Fellows, perhaps?’

Wymundham shook his head. ‘That will not be necessary, thank you. I am perfectly recovered now. As I said, it was the shock of seeing poor Raysoun die that distressed me. We were good friends. We were the first Fellows to be admitted to the College last year, you see.’

‘If it is any consolation, I do not think he felt much,’ said Bartholomew. ‘In fact, it is likely that he did not even know what had happened to him.’

‘Oh, he knew,’ said Wymundham with sudden bitterness. ‘He told me. Just before he died.’

‘Told you what?’ asked Bartholomew, confused. ‘That he knew he had fallen?’

‘That someone had killed him,’ said Wymundham harshly. ‘That is what shocked me, even more than seeing him lying there in all that blood.’

‘You mean he told you that someone had murdered him?’ asked Bartholomew, bewildered. ‘But Master Lynton said he fell–’

‘Someone stabbed him with one of those builders’ spikes, and then shoved him off the scaffolding,’ interrupted Wymundham, pursing his lips and regarding Bartholomew with bird-like eyes. ‘That is what he told me as he died.’

‘He may have been rambling,’ said Bartholomew, wondering whether grief had turned Wymundham’s mind. ‘I had given him a powerful medicine to dull any pain he might have felt.’

‘He was not rambling,’ said Wymundham firmly. ‘He sounded perfectly clear to me.’

‘Then who pushed him?’ asked Bartholomew, still doubtful. ‘And why?’

Wymundham shrugged his thin shoulders. ‘Our College is not a happy place, and the Fellows are always quarrelling and fighting.’

‘You think one of the Fellows pushed Raysoun to his death?’ asked Bartholomew, startled.

‘That is what he told me,’ said Wymundham, raising one of his fluttering hands to his face. ‘And it is dreadful. Quite dreadful.’

‘Did he say which Fellow?’

Wymundham gave a pained smile. ‘Oh, yes. But when I became a member of Bene’t College I swore an oath of allegiance, and I take it seriously. I will tell the Senior Proctor what Raysoun whispered with his dying breath, because I will be legally obliged to do so, but I should not gossip about it to anyone else.’

‘Then shall I fetch Brother Michael for you?’ asked Bartholomew.

Wymundham shook his head. ‘I am not ready to face him yet. And I expect I look perfectly hideous. I will sit here quietly for a while and compose myself. Brother Michael will come to me when he has seen poor Raysoun’s body removed to the church.’

Bartholomew refilled the cup, noting that Wymundham had regained some of his colour and that his hands were now steadier.

‘You have been kind to me,’ said the Bene’t man, giving Bartholomew a weary smile. ‘And you seem a sensible sort of fellow. I would very much like to confide in you, but it is better if I do not burden you with our unsavoury secrets – better for you, that is.’

‘Brother Michael will be here soon,’ said Bartholomew, thinking Wymundham was absolutely right: he had no desire to be drawn into the murderous politics of another College and he certainly did not want to know who had killed Raysoun. ‘You can tell him, then.’

‘A divided College is a dreadful thing,’ said Wymundham, almost to himself. ‘You have no idea what it is like.’

‘No, but I think I may be about to find out,’ said Bartholomew, thinking about Kenyngham’s resignation and the repercussions it would have. ‘But if one of your Fellows has been murdered, then the whole town will know about it before long. It will be impossible to keep something like that quiet – you saw the crowd that had gathered around Raysoun’s body.’

‘You underestimate the power of the University,’ said Wymundham, laying a hand on Bartholomew’s knee and squeezing it gently. ‘But I am sure you will learn.’

Bartholomew was only too aware of what the University could do in the town, probably far more so than the mincing, effeminate creature who sat opposite him dabbing at his eyes with the napkin with one hand, and with the other firmly clasped on the physician’s knee.

‘But you should go back to your students,’ said Wymundham, releasing him abruptly. ‘And I must prepare myself for the interrogation of the Senior Proctor.’