A Masterly Murder

Chapter 2

LEAVING MICHAEL TO SEE RAYSOUN’S BODY TAKEN to the church and to interview the grieving Wymundham, Bartholomew left Bene’t College, and started to walk slowly back to Michaelhouse. It was a market day, and he could hear the lows of cattle, the bleats of sheep and the squeals of pigs all the way from the High Street, not to mention the frenzied yells of the stall-keepers as they vied with each other to sell their wares.

His hands were stained red with the blood of the dead scholar, so he went to rinse them in the ditch that ran down the side of the High Street. The water that made his fingers ache from its coldness was probably tainted with sewage, offal and all manner of filth, but Bartholomew considered them all preferable to the blood of what promised to be a murdered man.

‘Do I see you washing in the town’s sewers?’ came a cheerful voice from behind him. ‘That is unlike you.’

Bartholomew turned in pleasure at the sound of his sister’s voice. ‘Edith! I thought you were at home, in Trumpington.’

Edith Stanmore, like her brother, had black curly hair, although hers now had a sprinkling of silver in it. Ten years older than Bartholomew, she was as different from him as it was possible to be, despite their physical similarities. She was ebullient, unfailingly cheerful, and firmly believed the world comprised only two kinds of people – good ones and bad ones.

‘I love the peace of my husband’s country manor,’ said Edith, watching him scrubbing his hands in the murky water. ‘Usually, I prefer it to the noise and muck of the town. But Oswald spends most of his time here with his business, we have a very efficient steward to run the estate, my son is studying in Oxford, and my little brother is far too busy healing the sick to walk the two miles to visit his boring old sister.’

‘That is not true,’ protested Bartholomew. ‘You know I like to see you.’

‘Yes? Then why do you not come more often? The last time you visited me was in September – before term started.’

‘Really?’ asked Bartholomew, genuinely surprised. ‘I did not realise it had been so long.’

‘So I gathered,’ said Edith dryly. ‘But the point of my rambling explanation is that I am bored in Trumpington, and so I travel to Cambridge with Oswald most days.’

‘Most days?’ queried Bartholomew, astonished. ‘I have not seen you …’

‘But I have seen you. Running here, dashing there, always much too preoccupied to stop for a leisurely chat with the wife of a mere merchant.’

‘Never,’ said Bartholomew firmly.

‘But it is true,’ she said, laughing. ‘In fact, this is the first time I have even been able to catch up with you, you move so fast. But what are you doing, kneeling there in the filth? Preparing to wage war on the town again for the vileness of its ditches and streams?’

‘Not this time,’ he said, standing up and shaking his hands to dry them. ‘And I have had enough of medicine for today anyway.’

‘You tended the man who fell from the scaffolding and died?’ asked Edith.

Bartholomew nodded. ‘Were you there, then, among the onlookers?’

‘No, but I heard people talking about it at the Trumpington Gate. Bene’t should be forced to make that scaffolding safe. I said to Oswald only yesterday that someone was bound to injure himself on it soon. But you look as though you need a diversion from this, not a discussion of it. How is life at Michaelhouse?’

Bartholomew sighed, not certain that the change of topic was for the better. ‘Kenyngham plans to resign on Saturday, which means that we will have to elect someone else as Master. I dread to think who it will be.’

Edith agreed wholeheartedly in the blunt fashion he found so endearing. ‘Men of integrity and honour are a bit thin on the ground at Michaelhouse. Who will stand, do you think?’

‘Michael already sees himself as the victor. Meanwhile, I am sure William, Langelee and Runham intend to provide him with some stiff competition. Fortunately, I imagine Paul knows he is too old, and the two Fellows due to be admitted the day after tomorrow are too new.’

‘You would make a good Master,’ said Edith fondly.

‘I would make a terrible Master,’ said Bartholomew, smiling at her loyalty to him. ‘I would spend all our money on new cesspits, better drains and clean rushes for the floors, and have us bankrupt within a month. But I wish Kenyngham had waited. Thomas Suttone, one of the newcomers, seems a pleasant man, and may make a better Master than William, Langelee or Runham.’

‘And Michael?’ asked Edith curiously. ‘He is your closest friend. Surely you will support him?’

Bartholomew hesitated. Michael had certainly assumed so, but Michael was a man who thrived on intrigue and subterfuge, and Bartholomew had always hoped that Michaelhouse would provide him with a haven from that sort of thing. Under Michael’s Mastership, the College was likely to be the focus of more connivance and treachery than Bartholomew cared to imagine. But the alternatives offered by any of the others were almost too awful to contemplate.

‘Yes,’ he said finally. ‘I will vote for Michael.’

‘Well, I hope his other supporters are a little more enthusiastic,’ she said wryly. ‘If his dearest friend has such obvious reservations, what chance does he have of securing the confidence of those who see only his pompous and selfish exterior?’

‘He is a good man,’ said Bartholomew, immediately defensive. ‘Well, most of the time.’

‘He is not popular with everyone,’ Edith pointed out. ‘Not only that, but Oswald has heard that he has been indulging in secret meetings with scholars from the University of Oxford.’

‘I sincerely doubt it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Michael has always been very firm about his disdain for our rival university, and anyway, he has far too much to do in Cambridge to indulge in plots with Oxford. And what is wrong with Oxford, anyway? I studied there, and so does your son.’

‘I have no feelings about the place one way or the other; I am only repeating what I was told. But do not look so gloomy, Matt. At least we can be sure that no one will be stupid enough to vote for that horrible Runham.’

‘Langelee would be worse,’ said Bartholomew.

‘I am not so sure,’ said Edith. ‘But if you choose not to support Michael, you should vote for William. He will agree to anything when he is drunk – if you can bear to listen to his gruesome stories about the Inquisition – and all you will need to do, if you want something, is to ply him with wine each night. You need not even invest in a good-quality brew, because William will drink anything.’

Bartholomew laughed, enjoying his sister’s easy company. He took her arm and began to walk with her along the High Street. He could have returned to his duties in the College, but Kenyngham’s announcement had dismayed him, and he did not want to be plunged back into the intrigues that would be brewing as ambitious hopefuls lobbied their colleagues for votes. Instead, he strolled with Edith to the Market Square, where they bought hot chestnuts that they ate as they watched the antics of a knife-thrower.

‘How does he do that?’ asked Bartholomew, trying to gain a better position to see the nature of the trick he was certain was involved. ‘It is not possible to be so consistently accurate.’

‘Oh, Matt! Must you be so analytical?’ cried Edith, poking him in the ribs with an elbow. ‘Just enjoy the spectacle. And speaking of enjoyment, have you seen Matilde recently?’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘I have seen very little of her since I returned from Suffolk in June. Kenyngham gave me an additional six students this year, and I have been struggling to try to fit in all the lectures they should have. I cannot recall ever having been so busy.’

‘There were rumours that you were sent to Suffolk in the first place because of your friendship with Matilde,’ said Edith bluntly.

‘A friendship with a prostitute is not something the University encourages,’ said Bartholomew, suspecting that the stories held a grain of truth, and that his colleagues had indeed contrived to send him away from the town to allow time for his relationship with the pretty courtesan to cool. ‘It is particularly frowned on for Fellows, who are supposed to be setting a good example to the students.’

‘It seems to me that these additional six students are no accident, Matt. Your friends are trying to keep you occupied, so that you will have no time to pursue a life outside their stuffy halls.’

Bartholomew realised she was probably right, and smiled at himself for being so naïve, knowing he should have seen through his colleagues’ machinations.

‘You should marry, Matt,’ said Edith, regarding him critically. ‘Or you will turn into one of those dreary old men who are only interested in the food and drink they devour at high table.’

‘I hope not,’ said Bartholomew with a shudder. ‘Michaelhouse is not noted for the quality of its fare. I should be in a sorry state indeed if I lived only for that.’

She shot him an anxious, sidelong glance. ‘You are not thinking of taking the cowl, are you, as Michael is always trying to persuade you to do?’

‘No,’ he said, turning his attention back to the knife-thrower. ‘I would not make a good monk.’

‘Then give up this life at the University, and practise medicine in the town – with real people, not drunkards, gluttons and power-mongers, who either loathe women or like them too much. And marry! You are a handsome man, and it is a waste for you to be celibate.’

‘But in order to marry, there needs to be a compliant woman, and there do not seem to be many of those around.’

‘Then I shall find you some,’ said Edith, sensing a challenge. ‘Leave it to me.’

‘No, thank you,’ said Bartholomew in alarm, knowing from past experience that the ladies Edith was likely to consider would be wholly unacceptable. It was not that he was fussy – he was an easygoing man who invariably found something to enjoy in most people’s company – but he did not want to spend his evenings in stilted conversation with someone who had nothing to discuss but the price of fish or the state of her wardrobe.

‘I can think of several,’ said Edith, ignoring his objection.

‘Please do not try to pair me off with the first available female you encounter,’ he pleaded. ‘Michaelhouse may have its disadvantages, but I am happy there. I do not want to be trapped in a loveless marriage.’

Edith pursed her lips. ‘You should put more trust in me, Matt. I know what I am doing.’

He regarded her uncertainly, not at all sure that she did.

While Bartholomew tried to distract her with some coloured ribbons being sold by a chapman, Edith began a sweeping search of the Market Square to see whether she could locate a suitable partner there and then. He saw her eyes linger briefly on the substantial figure of Adela Tangmer, the daughter of an immensely wealthy vintner, and felt his spirits flag. Adela’s consuming passion was horses, and Bartholomew, who knew little more about them other than that they had four legs and a tail, suspected he would be a bitter disappointment to her. Even discussing the price of fish held more appeal to him than endless monologues about fetlocks and foaling and the merits of deep chests.

But, with relief, he recalled that Edith did not like Adela Tangmer, and even the prospect of seeing her brother happily married would not induce her to recommend Adela to him. Edith considered Adela overbearing, and disliked her mannish ways. However, Adela had a half-sister who was very different, and Edith had extolled the virtues of Joan Tangmer on a number of occasions.

He was relieved when Edith’s gaze moved on. To his horror, though, he saw her look rather keenly at the willowy form of old Mistress Mortimer, the long since widowed mother of the town’s spice merchant, who was easily old enough to be Bartholomew’s grandmother. He saw Edith give an almost imperceptible shake of her head, although he could tell that Mistress Mortimer had by no means been permanently discounted as a prospective sister-in-law. Edith then began to assess the three young step-daughters of Mayor Horwoode, the oldest of whom was barely past puberty.

‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly, as Edith opened her mouth to speak.

‘Hello, Matthew,’ came a loud, braying voice behind them that made them both start. It was Adela Tangmer. ‘And Edith, too. What brings you from the country to the town? Rat poison?’

‘I beg your pardon?’ asked Edith suspiciously. She was not the only one to be nonplussed: Bartholomew also had no idea what Adela was talking about.

‘Rat poison,’ repeated Adela. She put her hands on her hips and regarded Edith and Bartholomew askance. ‘Do not tell me that you did not know the Franciscan friars always sell their famous rat poison on the last Thursday of the month? I thought the sale of one of the most vital commodities known to man was an event of national significance!’

‘I do not think about rats very often,’ replied Edith archly. ‘But my husband usually lays in a store of the Franciscans’ poison, and I leave such matters to him.’

‘I would never trust a man with something so important,’ declared Adela. ‘If I left the purchase of rat poison to my father, we would be overrun and eaten alive in a week! And, of course, I have the nags to think of – they do not appreciate rats in their hay at all.’ She gave them a grin full of big yellow incisors.

‘What a handsome dress,’ said Edith, looking down at the unattractive brown garment that fitted Adela’s heavy body like a sack around corn. ‘It suits you very well.’

Bartholomew held his breath, certain that Adela would know she was being insulted. Adela, however, took Edith’s words at face value.

‘Well, thank you. It is a little faded, but it is one of my favourites. It is excellent for riding, because the grease in it means the rain runs off instead of soaking through, and it is much more comfortable than the tight garments that are so fashionable these days. Do you not agree, Matthew?’

‘It has been some time since I went riding in a dress,’ said Bartholomew, ‘so I am not in a position to say.’

Adela roared with laughter and gave him a hefty slap on the shoulders that made his eyes water. ‘I heard your husband bought that new filly from Mayor Horwoode,’ she said to Edith conversationally. ‘She will be a good investment for him – she is a sweet-tempered beast.’

‘Speaking of sweet tempers,’ said Edith, ‘Matt was just saying that he felt the men at the University should see more of the town’s women.’

‘I was not,’ said Bartholomew, startled. ‘I–’

‘It is a good idea,’ continued Edith, cutting across him as though he had not spoken. ‘It would make them all less aggressive, and they would have a more rational view of life. Him included.’

‘Good breeder,’ said Adela.

Bartholomew and Edith gazed at her uncomprehendingly.

‘The filly,’ said Adela. ‘She will be a good breeder. I can always tell, you know. It is all to do with the shape of the flanks.’

‘Will you and your sister Joan be going to watch the mystery plays outside St Mary’s Guildhall next week?’ asked Edith, giving Bartholomew a none too subtle dig in the ribs, prompting him, he presumed, to display some kind of interest in accompanying Joan.

‘Lord, no!’ said Adela, hands on hips. ‘I have a foal due soon – an unusual time of the year, but there it is. No predicting nature, eh, Matthew?’

‘But Joan …’ began Edith.

‘Joan is betrothed to Stephen Morice, so I imagine he will take her,’ said Adela carelessly. ‘He is a wealthy man and a burgess, too. It is a good match, and it is about time she stopped mourning for the husband she lost to the plague.’

Edith shot Bartholomew a withering look that implied the impending marriage was his fault for not acting sooner.

‘You will miss her when she goes to live with Morice,’ said Bartholomew, who knew that Adela, Joan and their father Henry Tangmer all shared a house on Bridge Street.

‘More than you can possibly imagine,’ said Adela fervently. ‘My father has been urging us to marry for years, and now she is betrothed, I will have to bear the brunt of his complaints alone. But I suppose that is the way of families. Does Edith nag you about your reluctance to select a spouse, Matthew?’

‘She does,’ agreed Bartholomew.

‘I do not,’ said Edith, at the same time.

Adela looked from one to the other in amusement. ‘Actually, I am pleased to have run into you, Matthew,’ she went on cheerfully. ‘Do you have any tried and tested remedies for ending unwanted pregnancies?’

Once again, Bartholomew and Edith gazed at her speechlessly. Her voice had been loud, and one or two people had overheard. It was hardly a matter for bellowing across the Market Square, and abortion was not looked upon kindly by the authorities. If Bartholomew was caught dispensing that sort of treatment, losing his licence would be the least of his worries.

‘It is not for me,’ Adela bawled, giving her braying laugh when she saw what they were thinking. ‘One of my old nags is pregnant, and I do not think she will survive bearing another foal. I am fond of her, and do not want her to die.’

‘Sorry,’ said Bartholomew, keenly aware that people were still looking at them. ‘I have no idea what would end a pregnancy in a horse.’

‘Just tell me what you recommend for people, then,’ pressed Adela, undeterred. ‘I often use human remedies on my horses – and sometimes they even work. Perhaps I could give you some of my horse cures, and you could adapt them for use on your patients. That would be jolly.’

‘Not for my patients,’ said Bartholomew, edging away.

‘Do not be so narrow-minded,’ Adela admonished him. ‘But you can always let me know if you change your mind. You know where I live. Goodbye.’

She strode away, an eccentric figure in her old-fashioned wimple and unflattering dress. The handsome blue riding cloak and well-made leather shoes were the only indication that she was a woman of some wealth. When she was out of earshot, Bartholomew started to laugh.

‘Not her,’ said Edith, laughing with him. ‘I do not want a sister-in-law who will raise that sort of topic at the dinner table. Now let me see.’ She began to scan again.

‘I must go,’ said Bartholomew quickly. ‘My students …’

He faltered, looking across the Market Square to the Church of the Holy Trinity. He was considerably taller than Edith, and so she could not see what had made him stop speaking mid-sentence. She craned her neck and stood on tiptoe, hoping that a woman had smitten him with her charms at first sight.

‘What is the matter? Who can you see?’

Bartholomew’s gaze was fixed on a figure in a blue tabard who slunk along the back of the church, weaving between the grassy grave mounds. John Wymundham, Fellow of Bene’t College and friend of the lately deceased Raysoun, looked around him carefully, before opening the church door and disappearing inside.

‘That is odd,’ said Bartholomew. ‘That was Wymundham. His friend has just died – murdered, he says – and he was supposed to be talking to Michael about it.’

‘Oh no, Matt!’ cried Edith in dismay. ‘Not murder again! Now you will never have time to meet the ladies I select for you.’

‘Every cloud has a silver lining,’ he said, grinning. ‘But I am not involved in this – all I did was tend Raysoun as he lay dying. Solving the crime is Michael’s work, not mine.’

‘So, why were you staring at Wymundham with such intense interest?’ asked Edith, unconvinced.

‘Wymundham said he would wait for Michael in Bene’t College, but here he is, wandering around the town.’ Bartholomew shrugged. ‘I suppose it means nothing. Perhaps Michael was too busy to see Wymundham today, and agreed to interview him another time.’

But it seemed strange that Michael would not want to discover from Wymundham who Raysoun claimed had killed him. Bartholomew glanced up at the sky. More time had passed than he had realised since he had met Edith. Perhaps Wymundham had already spoken to Michael, and felt the urge to sample the calming effects of a few prayers.

However, Edith was right – the affair had nothing to do with him, and he should not waste his time thinking about it. She had already dismissed Wymundham and his dead friend from her mind, and was pulling her brother’s arm, leading him to where a fire-eater was entertaining an entranced crowd. Bartholomew forgot Wymundham and Raysoun, yielded to her insistent tugs, and spent the next hour trying to ascertain why the fire-eater was not covered in burns.

The following day was typically busy for Bartholomew. He rose long before dawn to spend some time on his treatise on fevers, working quickly and concisely in the silence of the night, using the light from a cheap tallow candle that smoked and made his eyes water. At dawn, he walked with the other scholars to St Michael’s Church, and then ate a hasty breakfast before being summoned to the hovels where the riverfolk lived, to tend a case of the sweating sickness.

After that, he dashed back to the College to start teaching in the hall, ignoring the admonishing glare shot at him by Runham for being late for his lecture. His younger students were restless and unable to concentrate on their lessons, obviously far more interested in speculating on which of the Fellows might succeed the gentle Kenyngham as Master.

His older students were not much better, and he could see their attention was wandering from the set commentary on Galen’s De Urinis. Bartholomew was not particularly interested in contemplating the ins and outs of urine on a cold winter morning, either, but it had to be endured if the scruffy lads assembled in front of him ever wanted to be successful physicians.

When the bell rang for the midday meal, Cynric came to tell him that he was needed at the home of Sam Saddler, a man afflicted with a rotting leg. Bartholomew had recommended amputation two weeks before, but Saddler had steadfastly refused. Robin of Grantchester had finally relieved him of the festering limb the previous day, and Bartholomew was astonished that Saddler had survived the surgeon’s filthy instruments and clumsy stitching. Saddler’s hold on life was tenacious, but Bartholomew knew it was a battle Death would soon win. The flesh around the sutures was swollen and weeping, and angry red lines of infection darted up the stump of leg.

Bartholomew always carried a plaster of betony for infected wounds, but Saddler’s state was beyond the efficacy of any remedy that Bartholomew knew about, although he spent some time trying to help. He prescribed a syrup to dull the pain, and warned Saddler’s two daughters to be ready to send for a priest within the next two days.

On his way back to Michaelhouse, he saw Adela Tangmer, arm in arm with her father, although who was leading whom was difficult to say. Adela strode along in her customary jaunty style, but the vintner walked stiffly, every step suggesting that something had deeply angered him. Bartholomew tried to slip past unnoticed, but Adela was having none of that.

‘Hello, Matthew,’ she boomed across the High Street, making several people jump. ‘We have just been to a meeting of my father’s guild, Corpus Christi. What a dreadful gaggle of people – all arguing and bickering. They need to get out more – do a bit of riding and see the world.’

‘Bene’t College is at the heart of it,’ muttered Tangmer furiously. ‘I wish to God the Guild of St Mary’s had never persuaded us to become involved in that venture.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.

‘We were doing perfectly well in establishing a modest little house of learning, but that was not good enough for the worthy people of the Guild of St Mary,’ said Tangmer bitterly.

‘They brought in the Duke of Lancaster as a patron,’ explained Adela. ‘He donated some money, but we have just learned that there are strings attached.’

‘You mean like a certain number of masses to be said for his soul?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Similar conditions were imposed by Michaelhouse’s founder, Hervey de Stanton. We are obliged to say daily prayers for him.’

‘I wish that were all!’ muttered Tangmer. ‘Prayers cost nothing, especially if someone else is saying them.’

‘The Duke wants Bene’t to rival King’s Hall and the Hall of Valence Marie for splendour,’ said Adela. ‘The only problem is that his donation will not cover all the costs, and so the guilds of Corpus Christi and St Mary are obliged to provide the difference. And money spent on Bene’t would be better spent on good horseflesh.’

‘Do you think of nothing but horses, woman?’ asked Tangmer in weary exasperation. ‘You should marry – that would concentrate your mind on other matters.’

‘I do not want to marry,’ said Adela with the same weary exasperation. ‘I like my life the way it is.’

‘What about you, Bartholomew?’ asked Tangmer, eyeing the physician up and down speculatively. ‘You are not betrothed, are you? Adela would make a fine wife for a physician.’

Adela closed her eyes, although whether from embarrassment or because the topic of conversation was tiresome to her, Bartholomew could not tell.

‘She certainly knows her remedies for equine ailments,’ he agreed carefully. ‘But Fellows are not permitted to marry, Sir Henry. I regret to inform you that I am not available.’

‘Pity,’ said Tangmer. ‘I shall have to think of someone else.’

‘Do not trouble yourself, father,’ said Adela. ‘If I decide I want a man, I am quite capable of grabbing him for myself.’

Bartholomew was sure she was. He made his farewells, and resumed his walk to Michaelhouse. As he approached it, a thickset figure uncoiled itself from where it had been leaning against the wall. It was Osmun, the surly porter from Bene’t College.

‘I have been waiting for you,’ he said, moving towards Bartholomew in a manner that was vaguely threatening. The physician took two steps backward, and wondered whether his book-bearer would hear him from inside Michaelhouse if he shouted for help.

‘What do you want?’ he asked uneasily. ‘Is someone ill?’

‘If they were, I would not send for you to help,’ replied Osmun nastily. ‘I would rather call on Robin of Grantchester.’

‘I do not have time for this,’ said Bartholomew, trying to edge past the man. He recoiled at the stench of old garlic and onions on Osmun’s breath as the porter suddenly moved forward and grabbed a fistful of Bartholomew’s tabard.

‘Runham’s servant Justus was my cousin,’ he hissed. ‘He was my uncle’s son, and he came to Cambridge from Lincoln because I said there were opportunities to be had here. But now he is dead. He killed himself with a wineskin.’

‘I am sorry,’ said Bartholomew, shrugging Osmun’s dirty hand from his clothes. ‘I did not know you were related.’ He refrained from suggesting that a little family support might not have gone amiss when Justus was in some of his more gloomy moods.

‘I want his personal effects,’ Osmun went on. ‘He had a nice tunic and a dagger. He spent all his money on wine, but I will have his clothes and that knife he always carried.’

‘I will inform Runham,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We did not know he had any kinsmen in the town.’

‘We did not see much of each other,’ said Osmun, almost defiantly. ‘But as his closest living relative, I am entitled to his things. Make sure they are sent to me.’

‘Very well.’ Bartholomew paused, his hand on the latch to the wicket gate. ‘As Justus’s next of kin, you may find yourself responsible for his burial, as well as his personal effects. I am sure Runham will be delighted to be relieved of that particular duty.’

‘Oh, no,’ said Osmun confidently. ‘I checked all that before I came here. Justus’s burial is Michaelhouse’s responsibility, because he was Runham’s servant. You just make sure that fat lawyer understands that. I know my rights.’

He turned and strode away, leaving Bartholomew alone. The physician had only just closed the gate, when Cynric came to greet him, telling him he had been asked to visit Sheriff Tulyet’s home as soon as possible.

Abandoning hope of getting anything to eat, he trudged back through the muck of the High Street to the handsome house on Bridge Street where Richard Tulyet lived with his wife and child.

Bartholomew liked Tulyet, a small, energetic man whose boyish appearance belied a considerable strength of character and a rare talent for keeping law and order in the uneasy town; he found he was looking forward to paying a visit to the Sheriff’s neat and pleasant home.

Tulyet’s son, a lively youngster of three with quick fingers and an inquisitive mind, had managed to insert a stick of his father’s sealing wax in his nose, and it was stuck fast. While the anxious parents hovered and offered unhelpful advice and Baby Tulyet screamed himself into a red-faced fury, Bartholomew struggled to extricate the wax in one piece.

When it was done, and the child was all smiles and false innocence in the comfort of his loving mother’s lap – although the physician saw chubby fingers already reaching for his father’s official seal – Tulyet offered Bartholomew some refreshment in the small room at the back of the house that he used as an office.

‘I would keep this locked, if I were you,’ said Bartholomew, seeing in the cosy chamber an impressive array of sharp, heavy, sticky, dirty and fragile objects that would provide Baby Tulyet with hours of dangerous delight.

‘I will, from now on,’ said Tulyet, handing Bartholomew some rich red wine in a carved crystal goblet. He prodded at the fire that burned merrily in the hearth, and indicated for the physician to make himself comfortable. Bartholomew sat, stretching his hands to the flickering flames.

The Sheriff gave a huge sigh, and took a substantial gulp of wine, before collapsing heavily into the chair opposite. He wiped an unsteady hand over his face, shaken by his son’s howls of fright and pain. Evidently considering the traumas of parenthood more terrifying than mere law enforcement, he changed the subject.

‘I hear your scholars are murdering each other again, Matt. I am glad it is Brother Michael’s task to investigate matters involving the University and not mine. You academics seldom commit good, simple crimes – you always seem to go in for convoluted ones.’

‘Who told you a murder was committed?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised. ‘I did not think Raysoun’s claim was common knowledge yet. Or do you mean Justus the book-bearer? He committed suicide.’

‘I was referring to the Franciscan who was killed this morning,’ said Tulyet, eyeing him askance. ‘My God, Matt! How many deaths have there been in that festering pit of crime and disorder that you see fit to call a place of learning?’

‘Just the two,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Well, three, I suppose, if you say a Franciscan has died.’

‘Three deaths! In less than two days!’ exclaimed Tulyet, appalled. ‘As I said, give me good, honest town criminals any day. But have one of these “hat-cakes”. My wife bakes them for me because she thinks I am too thin for the good of my health.’

Tulyet’s wife was an excellent cook, and her husband’s wealth meant that she could afford to use ingredients beyond the purse of most people. The cakes were tiny hat-shaped parcels of almond pastry filled with minced pork, dates, currants and sugar, and flavoured with a mixture of saffron, ginger, cinnamon and cloves. They were overly sweet, but Bartholomew was hungry. He took a second.

‘So, what do you know about this Franciscan?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Are you sure his death was suspicious?’ He took a third cake.

‘His name was Brother Patrick and he was stabbed in the grounds of his hostel, apparently. Given that he was knifed in the back, suicide has been ruled out, although there were no witnesses.’

‘Then it might have been a townsperson who killed him – in which case, the matter is for you to investigate, as well as Michael.’

Tulyet shook his head. ‘It happened on University property to a University member. This murder is all Michael’s.’

‘Which hostel?’ asked Bartholomew, reaching for the last cake.

‘Ovyng, I believe.’

‘Ovyng belongs to Michaelhouse,’ said Bartholomew absently. ‘But speaking of Michaelhouse, I should go unless I want to be late for this afternoon’s lectures. Let me know if there are any problems with your son’s nose, Dick, but I do not think there will be.’

‘Good,’ said Tulyet, following Bartholomew down the stairs and across the hall to the main door. ‘We are lucky he is always so well-behaved for you – he is terrible with Master Lynton.’

Bartholomew, recalling the violent struggles and the ear-splitting howls of rage and indignation, decided he did not want to see Baby Tulyet being ‘terrible’. He made his farewells to Tulyet, and hurried back to the College, where the bell to announce the beginning of the afternoon lectures had already stopped ringing. He clattered into the hall late, feeling sick from the number of hat-cakes he had eaten, and found it hard to muster the enthusiasm to talk about urine inspection.

Father William had also heard about the murder of one of his Franciscan brethren in Ovyng Hostel, and was busy holding forth about the Devil’s legion – referring to the Dominicans – who stalked the holy streets of Cambridge. Given that Tulyet had said there were no witnesses to the murder – and certainly nothing to suggest that the Franciscan’s killer was a Dominican – Bartholomew considered William’s comments ill-advised and dangerous. He noticed that Clippesby, the new Dominican Fellow whose sanity seemed questionable, was listening, and did not seem at all amused to be classified as an agent of the Devil by the ranting Franciscan.

William had an impressive voice, and his words thundered around the room, making it almost impossible for the others to teach. Master Kenyngham asked him to moderate his tones twice, but the volume gradually crept up again as the friar worked himself into a frenzy of moral outrage. Father Paul listened to his fellow Franciscan’s speech with growing horror.

Michael was also late for his teaching, although his small band of dedicated Benedictines and Cluniacs – who had already committed themselves to life in the cloister – were not the kind of men to cause a riot in the hall if left unsupervised, as Bartholomew’s secular students might. They sat in a corner near the window, reading from a tract written by St Augustine, discussing its layered meanings in low, refined voices.

Michael stopped to mutter in Bartholomew’s ear as he passed. ‘A friar from Ovyng has been murdered. Someone stuck a knife in his back, and his body was found in the garden this morning. Unfortunately, there are no witnesses. The killer might have been another student, I suppose – bitter jealousies are always rife in the hostels.’

‘And the Colleges,’ added Bartholomew, thinking about the troubles Wymundham had intimated were rampant at Bene’t, not to mention the spectre of the forthcoming election for Michaelhouse’s new Master.

‘True,’ said Michael. ‘But, I confess, I hold little hope that I will discover who killed Brother Patrick – unless someone confesses to the crime. I could question the Dominicans, I suppose, but that would only give them an excuse to march against the Franciscans, and then who knows what mischief might occur?’

‘Are you going to ignore it, then?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised. ‘A man has been murdered, Brother. You cannot just pretend it did not happen.’

‘I will not pretend it did not happen,’ snapped Michael crossly. ‘But I do not see how I can proceed on the scanty evidence I have. Brother Patrick had only been at Ovyng since the beginning of term, and no one knew him well. I imagine he allowed himself to become embroiled in a fight with some apprentices and ended up stabbed.’

‘You should try asking questions in the taverns,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘You know the apprentices would brag if they had killed a scholar.’

Michael gave a heavy sigh. ‘I would never presume to tell you to jab a knife into a boil to drain away the evil humours, so you might at least do me the courtesy of assuming that I know perfectly well how to investigate a murder. I have been Proctor for three years now.’

‘My apologies, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Of course you know what you are doing.’

‘I have beadles in taverns all over the town even as we speak,’ continued Michael testily. ‘I could have done without a murder today, though. I wanted to concentrate on my bid for the Mastership and I have not had a moment all day to work on my plan.’

‘Brother Patrick should have been more considerate,’ said Bartholomew facetiously. ‘He should have waited until after Saturday to get himself murdered.’

Michael glowered at him, but then relented. ‘I am sorry, Matt. Of course I am doing all I can to track down this killer, and of course it has prior claim to my attention – that is what is making me angry. If I were a less conscientious man, I would abandon the investigation to my beadles and set about having myself elected. But I am not, and I spent the morning looking for a killer, instead of having words in friendly ears.’

‘Matthew!’ bellowed William irritably. ‘Do not stand there chatting with Michael while your students run wild, man! I cannot hear myself think with all their racket.’

The hall erupted into a chaos of catcalls and cheers, as the students expressed their view of William’s comment. Their masters, who without exception found the friar’s loud diatribes disruptive, grinned at each other, and made no attempt to silence the din. William stood with his big red hands dangling at his sides and looked around him in genuine bewilderment.

Michael wiped away tears of laughter with his sleeve, his bad temper forgotten. ‘That man is priceless, Matt! I would not be without him for the world. It has been a long time since I have had anything to laugh about.’

Bartholomew, thinking about the murdered friar at Ovyng, the killing of Raysoun from Bene’t College, the suicide of Justus, and the impending battle with William, Runham and Langelee for the Mastership of Michaelhouse, imagined it might be a while before an opportunity arose for Michael to laugh again.

The following day was equally busy. Teaching finished early on Saturdays, but Bartholomew had no time to enjoy a free afternoon with his colleagues in the conclave – nor did he have any desire to do so, with those Fellows who intended to make a play for the Mastership being uncharacteristically affable. Even Runham, who usually made no secret of the fact that he disapproved of Bartholomew’s work with the poor, was politely interested in it, and went so far as to present him with a basket of eggs to aid the recovery of the riverman with sweating sickness. Runham had never shown such generosity or compassion before and his transparent motives did not make Bartholomew any more inclined to vote for him.

Bartholomew spent most of the afternoon pulling the teeth of a man with an inflamed jaw, and then was called to the Castle, where one of Sheriff Tulyet’s soldiers had suffered a deep cut during sword practice. It was almost dusk by the time he had finished, but Cynric was waiting with yet another summons from a patient when he returned. He set off in the fading light, nodding to people he knew as he went, and shivering as the chill wind cut through his clothes. The air held the promise of rain, and it was not long before it was falling in misty sheets.

The patient was called Rosa Layne, and she was dying because there were too few trained midwives in Cambridge to deal with the number of pregnancies. Some unscrupulous women took advantage of this and claimed qualifications and experience they did not have; one of them had tended Rosa. By the time the charlatan had acknowledged her incompetence and suggested that a physician should be summoned, it was too late for Rosa. Before Bartholomew arrived, the bogus midwife had vanished into the darkness.

There was little Bartholomew could do. The baby had twisted in the womb, but had needed only to be turned and then helped out. The self-appointed midwife had dallied so long that the baby had died, and then had dallied more while the mother slowly bled to death. It was not the first time Bartholomew had been called to try to save a dying woman after other people had all but killed her, and he always experienced a wrenching frustration that they had not contacted him earlier. It was not common for a male physician to be called to what was considered the domain of women, but Bartholomew was earning something of a reputation as the next best thing to a midwife, and delivering babies was something he rather enjoyed, although he would have been regarded as peculiar had he admitted so.

He gave Rosa a sense-dulling potion and sent one of her children to fetch a priest. It was not long before her shallow breathing faltered to nothing, and all that could be heard was the appalling Latin of the parish priest, the hacking cough of one of her watching children, and the contented snuffles of the pig that seemed to occupy the best half of the house.

Dispirited, he trudged through the rain to Michaelhouse, and arrived sodden and bedraggled just as the bell rang to call the Fellows to their meeting in the conclave. Hastily, he dragged off his wet clothes and donned dry ones, kicking his leaking boots into one corner and pulling on some shoes that would make him look a little more respectable for the ceremony after the meeting that would admit Michaelhouse’s two new Fellows. Cynric had already laid out the red gown Fellows were obliged to wear on special occasions, along with the impractical floppy hat that went with it. Bartholomew tugged them on, polished his shoes on the backs of his hose, and ran across the courtyard, his splashing footsteps splattering mud up his legs and on the robe Cynric had cleaned with so much care.

The other Fellows were waiting for him. The conclave was a pleasant chamber, and the new glass in the windows meant that light still flooded in, while the bitter breezes of winter were kept out. Because nights came early in November, the shutters were closed and a huge fire blazed in the hearth, sending flickering yellow lights across the ceiling. One of the students with a talent for art had painted the walls with scenes from the Bible, and someone had even provided a tapestry to hang above the fireplace.

Still chilled from his soaking, Bartholomew appreciated the stifling heat in the room, but wondered how long fires would be allowed to burn at Michaelhouse once the new Master was in office. Langelee and William both seemed to delight in conditions most men would consider miserable, while Runham had a streak of miserliness in him that might well lead to some radical economies. Bartholomew’s only hope for a comfortable winter was Michael, who had no patience with the hair-shirt mentality of some of his colleagues. Michael appreciated his creature comforts, and would never deprive anyone else of theirs merely to assert his personal authority.

‘There you are, Matt,’ said Michael, as Bartholomew walked in. The monk had his sleeve pushed up, and was giving the arm that had been stung by the bee an energetic scratch. ‘Where have you been? We are ready to start, and you are the last to arrive.’

‘As usual,’ muttered Runham.

Smiling apologetically, Bartholomew closed the door and looked for somewhere to sit. The chamber was equipped with an eccentric assortment of stools and chairs, most of them cast-offs from wealthy benefactors. Michael, Runham, William and Langelee – the most senior Fellows – had already taken the best places near the hearth, leaving the newcomers Clippesby and Suttone to make do with stools by the windows. Master Kenyngham stood at the door, as though contemplating a quick escape, while blind Brother Paul had been led to his customary seat near the wall.

‘Osmun, the porter at Bene’t, claims to be Justus’s cousin,’ said Bartholomew to Runham, recalling guiltily that he had agreed to pass on the porter’s demands the day before, but had forgotten. ‘He wants his tunic and dagger.’

‘He is welcome to them,’ said Runham. ‘He can collect them whenever he likes – and he can arrange for Justus to be buried, too, since they are related.’

‘Have you not done that yet?’ asked Paul, sounding a little disgusted. ‘Justus died two days ago.’

‘The weather is cold, and the corpse lies in the church porch,’ said Runham dismissively. ‘There is no hurry, and I have been preoccupied with more important matters.’

‘Regardless of Osmun’s kinship, it is still Michaelhouse’s responsibility to bury Justus,’ said Kenyngham. ‘It would not do to have the townsfolk thinking we do not care about our servants.’

‘There are better ways to spend Michaelhouse’s funds than on funerals for suicides,’ said Ralph de Langelee. ‘If Justus has living kin, then let them pay for his burial. If I were Master, I would not throw away College money when it could be used on something more worthy – like improving the wine cellars.’

Bartholomew noted with dismay that it had not taken long for the Fellows to bring the discussion around to the matter currently closest to their own hearts – who was to be the next Master.

‘I do not know why my decision to resign has caused such consternation,’ said Kenyngham in genuine bewilderment. ‘My retirement cannot be a surprise to you. I was present when our College was founded almost thirty years ago, and I am no longer a young man. I long to be free of administrative duties, and want nothing more than to spend my time in prayer and a little teaching.’

‘It would be better if you delayed a while,’ said Paul reasonably. ‘We are not yet ready to choose another Master.’

‘I was hoping that Roger Alcote would succeed me,’ Kenyngham went on, as if he had not heard Paul. He made the sign of the cross and muttered a prayer for the soul of the man who had been one of Michaelhouse’s least popular members. ‘But Alcote has gone on to better things, and you must select another.’

Michael paused in his scratching to gesture towards the two newcomers, who sat watching the proceedings with wary interest. ‘How can you expect Clippesby and Suttone to decide who would make the best Master? They do not know us.’

‘But there are only six of you to choose from,’ Kenyngham pointed out. ‘John Runham, Michael, Matthew, William, Paul, and Ralph de Langelee – although I anticipate that not all of you will want the responsibility of the Mastership.’

‘If you put it like that,’ said Langelee, standing and puffing out his barrel chest as he leaned a brawny arm along the top of the fireplace, ‘I feel morally obliged to offer my services to the College. I am not a man to shirk responsibility.’

‘Oh, Lord!’ groaned Michael under his breath to Bartholomew. ‘I will resign my Fellowship before I allow Michaelhouse to be ruled by that ape in a scholar’s tabard.’

‘Meanwhile, I am keen to continue my saintly cousin’s good work,’ said Runham, leaning back in his chair and inspecting his fingernails casually. ‘You all know that I am a man of my word – when I first arrived here and discovered the paltry tomb that had been provided to hold my noble cousin’s mortal remains, I made a vow that I would not rest until that had been rectified. I am sure you have noticed that my efforts have come to fruition, and that the late Master Wilson now lies in a tomb fit for a king.’

‘We certainly have noticed!’ muttered Michael to Bartholomew. ‘That vile monstrosity is the talk of the town. People come for miles around just to smirk at the wretched thing. I have never seen such an example of bad taste in all my days.’

‘It is bad taste to erect a tomb for Wilson that outshines the one for our founder,’ Bartholomew replied in an undertone. ‘And all I can say is that Runham cannot have seen his cousin for a long time, if he considers the man to have been saintly and noble. Wilson was a nasty, greedy–’

‘What are you two whispering about?’ demanded William. ‘I was just telling everyone that it is time a Franciscan was elected to the Mastership. And since I am the only Franciscan here – other than Paul, that is – it should be me.’

‘A subtle election speech, Father,’ said Michael dryly. ‘Of course, I might say the same for the Benedictines: we have had friars aplenty in the Mastership since Michaelhouse’s foundation, and it is high time there was a monk at the helm. However, this is not the basis on which I offer my services. You should recall that I have better connections with secular and religious authorities than anyone else here and you know I can make Michaelhouse the richest and most powerful College in the University.’

He threaded his fingers together and placed them over his ample paunch. Bartholomew smiled, considering Michael’s election speech no more subtle than William’s.

‘All this is true,’ said Langelee, sitting down and leaning back in his chair, assuming the pose of a man who knows some secret he is about to enjoy divulging. ‘And I would vote for you myself, all things being equal. However, certain information has come to light that precludes me from supporting you. You, Brother Michael, have been doing things you should not have been, and I have written evidence to prove it.’

In Michaelhouse’s conclave, everyone looked at Michael, whose eyes narrowed as he listened to Langelee’s accusation.

‘What are you talking about?’ the monk snapped testily. ‘I can assure you that there is nothing sinister or shameful in my past.’

‘I was not thinking of your past,’ said Langelee smoothly. ‘I was thinking of your present.’

‘What present?’ demanded Michael irritably. ‘Do not speak in riddles, man. If you want to accuse me of something, then say what it is. However, before you make a fool of yourself, I should warn you that I am as untarnished as a sheet of driven snow.’

‘Before coming to Michaelhouse, I was an agent for the Archbishop of York,’ said Langelee smugly. ‘I have maintained the connections I made in his service – including several at the University of Oxford. I have irrefutable evidence that you have been engaging in clandestine dealings with scholars from Oxford with the express purpose of causing damage to Cambridge.’

‘Do not be ridiculous,’ said Bartholomew immediately. ‘Michael is the Senior Proctor, and would never do anything to harm the University.’

But his sister had mentioned Michael’s alleged dealings with their rival university only the previous day, he recalled with an uncomfortable feeling. He wondered what shady dealings the monk was involved in this time.

‘I said I have evidence,’ said Langelee, drawing a sheaf of parchments from the leather pouch he wore on his belt. ‘Here are letters from Michael to William Heytesbury of Merton College, Oxford.’

‘William Heytesbury,’ said Bartholomew, impressed. ‘I have heard of him. He is a nominalist who wrote Regulae Solvendi Sophismata. It is mostly a lot of tedious logic, but the last chapter is devoted to physical motion, and is a fascinating–’

‘It is entirely predictable that you should find the natural philosophy more interesting than the logic, Bartholomew,’ said Runham nastily. ‘You have an inferior mind that is unable to grasp the finer points of the arts so clings to the physical universe.’

‘There is no need for rudeness,’ said Paul curtly. ‘I, too, found the last chapter of Heytesbury’s work the most engaging.’

‘None of you should have been reading it,’ said William frostily. ‘It is pure heresy.’

‘We were discussing Michael’s disloyal relations with Merton,’ said Langelee, seeing Paul preparing to engage William in what might prove to be a lengthy disputation. He waved his documents aloft triumphantly. ‘Now is not the time to debate nominalism. But now is the time to learn what Michael wrote to Heytesbury of Merton.’

‘How did you get those?’ demanded Michael, gazing at the documents aghast and evidently recognising their authenticity.

Langelee gave a pained smile, although his eyes were victorious. ‘A friend discovered them in the possession of a messenger bound for Oxford. He was actually looking for something relating to my Archbishop, but he passed these to me when he saw they were from a scholar at Michaelhouse.’

‘I am sure there is nothing in them to prevent Michael from standing as Master,’ said Kenyngham gently. ‘Put them away, Ralph. We do not want to pry into Michael’s personal affairs.’

‘Then you should,’ said Langelee. ‘They discuss giving our University’s property to Oxford.’

‘But not Michaelhouse property,’ objected Michael. His face was pale, and Bartholomew saw that Langelee’s revelation had badly shaken him. Michael was usually able to bluff his way out of uncomfortable situations with bluster and sheer force of personality, but the physician could sense that his friend had already lost this battle.

‘Will you not deny Langelee’s accusations, Brother?’ asked Paul, astonished. ‘I did not believe him. I thought he had fabricated the story to discredit you.’

Langelee thrust the documents at him with a gloating smile. ‘Look for yourself, Father. Michael’s writing is unmistakable.’

‘Paul is blind, you oaf,’ snapped Runham impatiently, leaning forward to snatch the scrolls from Langelee. ‘Give them to me.’ His eyebrows went up as he inspected the parchments. ‘Well, well. This is indeed Brother Michael’s distinctive roundhand.’

‘This is not how it seems …’ began Michael, although his voice lacked conviction.

Langelee raised a thick, heavy hand. ‘No excuses. It is here – in ink – that you plot with Oxford men to deprive Cambridge of valuable assets. You are not the kind of man we want as Master of Michaelhouse, Brother.’

‘Perhaps it would be better if you withdrew your name, in the light of these discoveries,’ suggested Kenyngham warily, gazing at the offending documents Runham passed to him. ‘I am sure you will prove your innocence in time, and there will be other opportunities for the Mastership in the future.’

Michael said nothing, and assumed a nonchalant pose, although Bartholomew could see the anger that seethed in him. He wondered why the monk had not made a convincing denial, or at least had tried to vindicate himself. Despite Langelee’s ‘evidence’, Bartholomew was certain Michael would do nothing to harm the University he so loved.

Kenyngham passed the documents to Bartholomew. They were unquestionably written by Michael, and offered the Oxford nominalist several properties that belonged to Cambridge in exchange for certain information that was carefully unspecified, although the letter made it clear that both parties knew exactly what was on offer.

Bartholomew gazed at Michael uncertainly. Michael refused to meet his eyes, something that almost certainly indicated guilt. Sulkily, Michael snatched the missives from Bartholomew and thrust them into the fire. Langelee gasped, and tried to retrieve them, but the flames were already turning creamy parchment to black, and there was nothing he could do but watch them turn to cinders. But, as far as Michael was concerned, the damage had been done.

‘So, we have Langelee, Runham and William who have offered to stand for the Mastership,’ said Kenyngham in the silence that followed. ‘Michael is disqualified. What about you others? Paul?’

‘I do not wish to be considered,’ said Paul, his opaque blue eyes gazing sightlessly around the room. ‘Not because I could not do it – my blindness gives me an advantage over the rest of you in that I hear and notice things you do not – but because I have decided to return to my Franciscan brethren in the Friary.’

‘You cannot do that!’ shouted William, leaping to his feet in outrage. ‘That will leave me as the only Franciscan here. I will be outvoted in everything, and the College will become a pit of debauchery and vice!’

‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ breathed Langelee.

Paul smiled at William. ‘I doubt that will happen, Father. But I, like Master Kenyngham, am old, and I long to spend my days in contemplation and prayer – not teaching bored youngsters about grammar and rhetoric when they would rather be doing something else. So, at the end of term, I shall vacate my room and leave you.’

‘Eight Fellows plus a Master was too many anyway,’ said Langelee breezily. ‘Seven is better.’

‘That man has all the charm of a pile of cow dung,’ muttered Michael to Bartholomew, eyeing Langelee with intense dislike. ‘Paul is the best of us. The College will be a poorer place without him, and the students will miss his kindly patience.’

‘I expect Matthew’s duties as a physician will preclude him from standing for the Mastership,’ said William hopefully.

Bartholomew was about to agree, when Michael spoke.

‘Nonsense. Matt has students who are now sufficiently trained to relieve him of some of his work, and he has been at Michaelhouse for ten years. He knows the College and is all a Master should be. We will have him, if I cannot stand.’

Bartholomew was too astonished to object.

‘I agree,’ said Kenyngham, smiling at the physician. ‘Matthew would make an excellent Master – firm, but not inflexible, and his dedication to his teaching and his writing will ensure that Michaelhouse continues its tradition of academic excellence. He would be my choice, certainly.’

‘It is true he would be a fair and thoughtful Master,’ said William reluctantly. ‘And I would rather have him than someone from a rival Order. Matthew is my choice, too.’

‘I am not from a rival Order,’ Langelee pointed out, a little angrily. He was red-faced, and Bartholomew wondered whether he had been drinking, preparing with false courage for the meeting that might make him a powerful man. ‘What about me?’

‘But I do not like you,’ said William baldly. Michael’s snort of spiteful laughter was loud in the otherwise quiet room. ‘I do like Matthew, however – well, most of the time. I do not approve of his dealings with harlots, but he seems to have forsaken them these days.’

‘But I do not want to be Master,’ said Bartholomew, as soon as he could find a gap in the conversation that seemed to be taking place as though he were not present. ‘William was right – my duties as physician claim too much of my time. And if anyone thinks I can leave my patients to the ministrations of students like Rob Deynman, he only need look at Agatha the laundress’s teeth to see that I cannot.’

‘True,’ agreed Kenyngham, shaking his head in compassion. ‘Poor woman.’

Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘You have three votes out of a necessary five to make you Master, Matt. Consider very carefully before you decline.’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘Thank you, but no. I was given additional students this year, and, since Father Philius’s death last winter, I have had more patients than ever to see. And there is my treatise on fevers – I will never finish it if I take on extra College duties.’

‘I knew you would not agree, but it was worth a try,’ said Michael softly. ‘You would not have been as good as me, but I could have guided you along the right paths.’

‘You mean you could have ruled Michaelhouse by telling Bartholomew what to do,’ said Runham, overhearing. ‘Bartholomew’s election would have made you Master in all but name.’

Michael gave him a contemptuous glare.

‘So,’ said Langelee with satisfaction. ‘To summarise: Michael, Paul and Bartholomew have declined to stand, which leaves William, Runham and me. It is clear which one of us is the outstanding candidate.’

‘Is it?’ murmured Michael in Bartholomew’s ear. ‘Who will you choose, Matt? The bigoted friar who would have us all burned for heresy for holding beliefs that do not directly reflect his own; the cunning lawyer whose most memorable characteristic is his smug pomposity; or the Archbishop of York’s spy-turned-academic, who is more lout than scholar, and who stoops to using cheap tricks to eliminate the best man for the task?’

‘Michaelhouse will not thrive under the Mastership of any of them,’ Bartholomew whispered back. ‘It is a case of selecting the least of three evils.’

‘I suggest we make our decision now, and then announce it after the admissions ceremony,’ said Kenyngham. ‘We are all present, and I am sure we all know which candidate we want to elect.’

‘It is not my place to speak when I am not yet a Fellow,’ said Suttone, his red, cheery face serious. ‘But I feel I am not in a position to make a decision of such importance to the College. If you will excuse me, I must abstain.’

‘Well, I will not abstain,’ said Clippesby, glaring at Suttone as though the Carmelite had tried to cheat him of something rightfully his. ‘And it is obvious to me whom we should choose.’

‘Oh, Lord, Matt,’ groaned Michael under his breath. ‘Another opinionated bigot! Why do they all have to come to Michaelhouse?’

‘Suttone seems a decent man,’ said Bartholomew.

‘He does,’ agreed Michael in a whisper. ‘But I do not like Clippesby!’

Clippesby glared around at the assembled Fellows, his oddly intense gaze lingering on the muttering Michael. ‘I do not want a disgusting Franciscan as Master and I do not approve of men who smell of strong drink at breakfast – as Langelee did this morning. So, I choose the lawyer.’

‘Well!’ drawled Michael, as an embarrassed silence greeted Clippesby’s statement. ‘You are a man who does not mince his words.’

‘Are all Fellows’ meetings this acrimonious?’ asked Suttone nervously. ‘Only I was led to believe that the hallowed halls of the University of Cambridge were places of learned debate and enlightenment.’

‘Where on God’s Earth did you hear that?’ asked Langelee. His eyes narrowed. ‘I know! Oxford! Our rival scholars are trying to make us sound tedious and dull! “Learned debate and enlightenment” indeed!’

The Michaelhouse Fellows processed into the hall in order of seniority. Master Kenyngham led the way, followed by Michael and William, and then Bartholomew with Father Paul clinging to his arm. Langelee and Runham walked together, while Clippesby and Suttone brought up the rear. The students were already standing at their places, waiting in tense anticipation to learn which of the Fellows would be their new Master.

The inauguration of new Fellows was a special event, and an extravagant number of candles had been lit, so the hall was filled with a golden glow. The fire blazed and crackled, sending flickering shadows across the painted ceiling. The usually bare wooden tables were covered in cloths – old, yellowed and stained ones, but cloths nevertheless – and the College silver was displayed on the high table. To mark the occasion, some of the students had even washed and donned clean gowns. The atmosphere of tense expectation and muted excitement reminded Bartholomew of Christmas. He wondered whether the students would look quite so cheerful when they learned who had been elected Master. He suspected they would not.

‘We have gathered this evening to witness the swearing in of two new Fellows,’ intoned Kenyngham mechanically, gesturing for everyone to sit. ‘I will read the founder’s statutes and the newcomers will be asked to obey these rules, and to defend zealously the honour and usefulness of the house.’

Michael gave a huge, bored yawn, and reached out to take a handful of nuts from the silver cup that had been placed in front of him. Langelee had somehow contrived to have his goblet filled with wine before anyone else, and was gulping it noisily. Bartholomew saw his students, Gray and Bulbeck, exchange a look of amusement at Langelee’s tavern-style manners, while Deynman had to look away to prevent himself from laughing out loud.

‘The new Fellows must listen carefully to the statutes and ordinances made over time by the Masters and scholars,’ said Kenyngham, reciting the familiar words without much interest.

‘I am sorry Langelee did what he did,’ said Bartholomew softly to Michael.

‘So am I,’ said Michael. ‘I was looking forward to being Master of Michaelhouse. Unfortunately, Kenyngham’s announcement was sudden, and I did not have the opportunity to prepare myself properly. Langelee acted before I could put my own plan into action.’

‘And what plan was that?’ asked Bartholomew warily.

Michael puffed out his cheeks, noting the uneasiness in his friend’s face. ‘Nothing as underhand as the trick Langelee played on me. I was merely going to suggest the election be postponed for a month, to allow Clippesby and Suttone to make their decisions with the benefit of knowing each of the candidates.’

‘And during the interim, you would have ensured that only one candidate was able to stand?’ asked Bartholomew.

Michael nodded, unabashed. ‘It would have been done with discretion and cunning – not like Langelee, who has all the subtlety of a mallet in the groin – and no one would have known that it was I who started the rumours that besmirched the reputations of the others.’

‘Then you made a grave error of judgement, Brother. You assumed that your rivals would be equally subtle in their strategies, but you should have known Langelee and William better than that. Runham did: he is a clever man, but he saw such tactics would not work, and he engaged in the same kind of brazenness employed by Langelee and William.’

‘All right, all right. You do not have to rub it in,’ said Michael irritably. ‘I admit I was ill-prepared. This is all Kenyngham’s fault. He could not have resigned at a worse time, when I have the Bene’t death and Brother Patrick’s murder to investigate. My Junior Proctor is in Ely, and I am overwhelmed with work.’

‘What is this business with Master Heytesbury of Merton?’ asked Bartholomew curiously. ‘Offering Oxford something at Cambridge’s expense does not sound like something you would do, but that letter was definitely in your handwriting.’

Michael gave a grim smile. ‘Of course I am doing nothing that would damage Cambridge – quite the contrary, in fact. Say nothing to anyone else, but my Bishop and I devised a scheme whereby we would sacrifice a few small properties in exchange for some information that will gain us a good deal more.’

‘Now that does sound like you.’

Michael sighed. ‘Thank you. But Langelee’s interference may have destroyed all hopes of a successful outcome, not to mention the fact that the delicate nature of the arrangements meant that I could not justify why I was dealing with Heytesbury at all. But in time my plan will become known, and then he will be revealed as the fool he is. Meanwhile, I must suffer in silence. But I will have my revenge on Langelee, never you fear.’

Bartholomew knew perfectly well that Michael would not readily forgive Langelee for thwarting him in his ambitions, and that Langelee would pay dearly. He just hoped he would not have to play a part in it – wittingly or otherwise. Contemplating the ways in which Langelee would be forced to pay the price for his actions seemed to put Michael in a better mood, and he even began to enjoy himself.

‘The new Fellows shall also swear not to intrigue or promote litigation contrary to the utility of the house,’ droned Kenyngham, reading from the dog-eared copy of the statutes and ordinances.

‘That is my favourite one,’ whispered Michael to Bartholomew. ‘It says that intriguing and promoting litigation are perfectly acceptable, just as long as they are not to the detriment of the College. Our founder was blessed with a stroke of a genius when he wrote that.’

Bartholomew wondered how the founder had managed to produce such dry and antiquated phrases. Perhaps it was because he had been a lawyer.

‘They shall swear not to reveal the privy plans of the Fellowship to anyone outside,’ Kenyngham went on, with a casual, but unmistakable, glance at the hour candle that stood above the hearth.

‘We do not have any privy plans,’ muttered Michael somewhat grumpily. ‘More is the pity. I could have seen to that, had Langelee not interfered. The only business we have discussed recently is whether we should borrow two marks from the endowment to have the latrines cleaned. I hardly think the outside world will be falling over itself to hear about that kind of decision – even though it took us most of the afternoon to reach, thanks to you.’

‘It was important,’ whispered Bartholomew defensively. ‘Clean latrines are essential for the students’ good health – and ours.’

‘You do have some odd ideas, Matt,’ said Michael, taking another handful of nuts with one hand and scratching his arm with the other. ‘No wonder half the scholars in Cambridge think you are mad. We do not eat in the latrines, you know, or sleep in them. In fact, most of us spend as little time as possible in them, given their state.’

‘Then my point is proven. And do not scratch, Brother. You will give yourself an infection.’

‘If you think our latrines are bad, you should see the ones at Bene’t!’ said Michael, ignoring the advice. ‘I was obliged to pay a visit there the day before yesterday, while I was dealing with the Fellow who fell from the scaffolding – Raysoun.’

‘Speaking of Bene’t …’

‘I thought we were speaking of latrines,’ said Michael with a snigger. ‘Or do you consider them one and the same? That porter who came to fetch you – Osmun – is a nasty piece of work. I remember the student who complained he had been assaulted. The case against Osmun was dropped, but I am sure he was guilty.’

‘The Bene’t porters are notorious for being rough,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I think they pride themselves on being the surliest, rudest, most belligerent men in Cambridge. But did you discover who killed Raysoun? His friend, Wymundham, did not tell me.’

Michael gazed at him in surprise. ‘No one killed Raysoun, Matt. He fell off the scaffolding: his death was an accident.’

‘Was it?’ asked Bartholomew, startled in his turn. ‘But what about his dying words? What about Wymundham’s claim that Bene’t is an unhappy College with bad feeling among the Fellows?’

‘Where did you hear this?’ demanded Michael. ‘The Master of Bene’t told me that the Fellows are all good friends who rub along extremely well.’

‘Perhaps Wymundham was confused,’ said Bartholomew, growing confused himself. ‘He was deeply shocked by the death of his friend; it may have unbalanced him and made him say things that are not true.’

‘Or perhaps Master Heltisle was lying to me,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘I suspected there was something odd going on in that place – there was an atmosphere of goodwill and cheer that struck me as forced and painful. So, what exactly did Wymundham tell you?’

William gave a hearty sigh to register his disapproval of the muttered discussion that was taking place during the reading of the statutes. None of the other Fellows seemed to care. Father Paul and Runham were engaged in a discussion of their own, while Langelee seemed well on the way to drinking himself into oblivion. Clippesby and Suttone were listening intently, but after all it was the first time they had heard the statutes read.

‘Did Wymundham tell you nothing about Raysoun’s last words?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘What last words? I was kneeling next to him, giving him last rites, and I heard no last words. I saw Wymundham leaning over him, but although Raysoun’s eyes were open, he did not look aware to me.’

‘But did you speak to Wymundham?’ pressed Bartholomew.

Michael shook his head. ‘It took rather a long time to have the body removed from the High Street because the parish coffin had been loaned to St Botolph’s Church, and we had to wait for it to be retrieved. By the time I was ready to interview Wymundham, the man had disappeared. Rather than wait indefinitely for him to return, I decided to see him later.’

‘So, did you?’

‘No. I have been too busy. The stabbed friar in Ovyng Hostel – which is a murder – has taken all my time. I thought Raysoun’s death was accidental, and so did not consider its investigation urgent.’

‘I saw Wymundham going into Holy Trinity Church on Thursday afternoon,’ said Bartholomew thoughtfully. ‘It was not long after I had left him at Bene’t, and he was looking quite furtive – furtive enough to make me notice him.’

‘So, was he furtive because he had lied to you about these so-called dying words of Raysoun’s?’ mused Michael, resuming his scratching. ‘Or because he really does have a secret to tell, and he is afraid someone might not like it?’

‘You two might at least make a pretence at paying attention to the ceremony,’ hissed Father William in a voice loud enough to carry to the other end of the hall. Bartholomew saw Deynman’s shoulders quaking with laughter.

‘Sorry,’ he said.

‘Are you talking about the Bene’t Fellow who fell off his College scaffolding the day before yesterday?’ William asked, apparently not objecting to the discussion if he were included. ‘I ask because I know the Junior Proctor is in Ely this week, and I thought you might need a little help during his absence. I have a good deal of experience of these matters, following the events in Suffolk earlier this year.’

‘Your help with that was very much appreciated,’ said Michael smoothly. ‘We would never have managed without you.’

‘I know,’ said William. ‘So, did you tell the Chancellor about me? I hope you said I would make a splendid Junior Proctor. I know a vacancy will arise soon, and I would like to be considered.’

‘I told him everything,’ said Michael, favouring the friar with an ambiguous wink.

‘Did you?’ asked William, not certain whether this was a good thing or a bad. ‘But of course, if you do not need me to assist you with this affair at Bene’t, perhaps I can look into the terrible crime that was perpetrated at Ovyng yesterday – the vicious, wicked murder of an innocent Franciscan by Dominican devils.’

‘No,’ said Michael firmly. ‘Leave that well alone, please. I do not want you charging into the Dominican Friary and accusing people of murder.’

‘But I would be justified in doing so,’ argued William hotly.

‘Very possibly, but we have no evidence to support such a claim, and I do not want any more friars murdered in tit-for-tat killings – including you, Father.’

William grumbled to himself as Michael turned his back on the friar and gave his attention to Bartholomew. ‘So what else did Wymundham say to you?’

‘Just that Raysoun whispered with his dying breath that someone had stabbed him with an awl and then pushed him from the scaffolding, and that Bene’t’s Fellows fight among themselves.’

‘Really?’ mused Michael. He tapped his knife thoughtfully on the table, drawing an irritable glance from Runham. ‘I will speak to Wymundham first thing tomorrow morning – it is too late to go tonight. And I will want you to look at Raysoun’s body for me, too. Now that you have raised suspicions about the nature of his death, we need to know whether Raysoun fell on this metal spike as Lynton claimed, or whether he was stabbed, as Wymundham believes.’

‘I will not be able to tell you that,’ said Bartholomew in alarm. ‘How can I? A stab wound looks the same whether it was inflicted by a person or whether it was the result of falling on a sharp implement.’

‘You will find a way,’ said Michael complacently.