A Masterly Murder

Chapter 3

‘AND EACH NEW FELLOW SHALL PAY DUE RESPECT to every senior, and by senior is understood to mean any Fellow admitted before him,’ concluded Kenyngham, reading the last of the statutes with a sigh of relief.

‘Hear, hear,’ agreed Michael, banging on the table with the handle of his knife, and waking at least one bored scholar that Bartholomew could see. He wondered if it had in fact been the monk’s intention to waken Langelee, who jumped and gazed around him blearily.

‘Do you swear to observe all these rules, in the sight of God and the Holy Spirit?’ asked Kenyngham of Clippesby and Suttone, who were now standing in front of him.

The two swore, and then watched as Kenyngham took a quill and wrote their names in the great book of the Fellows of the Society of the Holy and Undivided Trinity, the Blessed Virgin Mary and St Michael. When he had finished, and the wet ink had been sprinkled with sand to dry it, Clippesby and Suttone each bent to kiss its red leather cover.

‘Now comes the unpleasant part of the ceremony,’ muttered Michael, as all the Fellows stood, and prepared to receive the kiss of peace from the newcomers. ‘The only people I will kiss all day transpire to be a red-faced Carmelite with whiskers like a donkey, and a Dominican fanatic with the eyes of a madman. It would be a good deal more enjoyable if they were women.’

‘Women will never be admitted to a Cambridge college,’ announced Father William, exercising his annoying habit of overhearing certain parts of conversations not intended for his ears. ‘It would open the door to the Devil – the sort of thing they would do at Oxford.’

‘Perhaps that is why Michael is soliciting the good graces of the Oxford men,’ suggested Runham. ‘I cannot imagine why else he should deign to associate himself with that rabble.’

‘I can see I will never be allowed to forget this,’ muttered Michael bitterly.

‘It would be nice to have women in the College,’ said Bartholomew absently, leaning forward to kiss Clippesby, who favoured him with an odd look at the comment. ‘Some of the midwives I have met are highly intelligent, and–’

‘You meet altogether too many women,’ interrupted Father William sanctimoniously. ‘And your obsession with them exceeds the bounds of normality.’

He grabbed Clippesby roughly by the front of his habit and jerked him forward to plant a heavy kiss on either cheek. Scrubbing his face in distaste, Clippesby moved on to Michael, who favoured him with the most perfunctory of welcomes before sitting down again.

‘Let the feast begin,’ announced Kenyngham, clapping his hands to attract the attention of the servants who hovered at the back of the hall.

‘Why not tell us who is to be the new Master first?’ asked Gray. His comment had been intended only for Deynman and Bulbeck, but his voice was loud enough to carry, and other students nodded their agreement. Bartholomew strongly suspected that Kenyngham had chosen to delay his announcement so that everyone could have the opportunity to enjoy themselves before the axe fell.

The out-going Master pretended not to have heard Gray, and the feast commenced, accompanied by some hastily learned songs from a reduced version of the College choir. The feast’s short notice meant that only the best singers were invited to perform, which therefore excluded most of them.

The cooks had not managed too badly, considering the lack of preparation time. First, there was a dish of hare cooked with white grease. Michael mopped up the warm lard remaining in the serving bowl with generous helpings of the soft bread baked specially for the occasion, making Bartholomew feel queasy. When he remarked that too much of the fat would make the monk sick, Michael merely replied that it was to make up for the fact that he would not be eating any of the leeks and sops in wine, on the grounds that they were green and that he did not allow green foods to pass his lips.

It was a familiar refrain, and one that Bartholomew no longer tried to argue against. When Michael had retrieved the last globules of grease from under the rim of the dish, the next course arrived, comprising whole pikes poached in ale, parsley, cinnamon and vinegar: these looked impressive, but were difficult to eat because of the bones. William, who had a penchant for fish giblets, was presented with a large dish of the pikes’ steamed entrails from a cook who believed the Franciscan would be Michaelhouse’s next Master, and was keen to curry favour. With Michael scoffing his grease-impregnated bread on the one side, and William gorging fish intestines on the other, Bartholomew began to wish he were somewhere else.

Finally, there were fried fig pastries – small rolls of light pastry filled with a mixture of minced figs, saffron, eggs, ginger and cloves cooked in a hot skillet that spat with yet more white grease. Michael ate four and then complained that his innards hurt. Bartholomew ate one, and found it heavy, sticky and overly rich.

The College’s wine cellar had been broached to ensure there was plenty of liquid with which to wash the food down. Most of it was a dark, tarry brew that Bartholomew thought tasted more like medicine than wine. The first sip made him wince, and when he had finished the whole cup his head spun and his stomach felt acidic. But the oily meal had made him thirsty, and he did not object when Cynric refilled his goblet.

The powerful drink had its customary impact on the Fellows. Kenyngham’s head began to nod as he listened to some dull monologue by Runham, and Bartholomew saw it would not be long before the gentle Gilbertine fell asleep. Michael, red-faced and sweaty, was sharing detailed knowledge of the town’s whores with a startled Suttone. To Bartholomew’s right, Father William was slapping Clippesby on the shoulders in a comradely manner and regaling him with tales of his happy days in the Inquisition. Clippesby’s expression turned from indignant to appalled, and then to hunted. Bartholomew studied the Dominican, who sat twitching uneasily under William’s heavy arm, and wondered yet again whether he was wholly in control of his wits.

The student, Sam Gray, reeled towards Bartholomew, with the dull-witted Rob Deynman, equally intoxicated, at his heels.

‘I hope it is you,’ he slurred. ‘You and Brother Michael are the only two Fellows who would make Michaelhouse any kind of Master. Any of the rest would be disastrous.’

‘Quiet, Sam!’ said Bartholomew, casting an anxious glance down the table to where his colleagues sat. ‘You will need to be a lot more prudent than that if you want a future here.’

Gray gazed at him in horror, his eyes suddenly focused and clear. ‘Do not tell me you did not stand!’ he breathed. ‘Do not tell me you would let your College go to the Devil, rather than take its reins yourself! You swore a sacred oath to do all you could for it.’

‘I think you had better sit down before you say something you might regret,’ said Bartholomew quickly, sensing Gray’s indiscreet opinions were about to land them both in trouble. ‘And take Deynman with you – he is about to pass out.’

Gray caught the staggering Deynman, and together they weaved their way back to their places. Gray dumped Deynman on the bench and sat talking in a low voice to Tom Bulbeck, who kept shooting nervous glances towards Runham, William and Langelee. Bartholomew knew they had good cause to be concerned: everyone would find Michaelhouse a different place once the lax rule of Kenyngham came to an end.

He rubbed his temples, feeling the onset of a dull headache from the wine he had consumed – not much by anyone else’s standards, but it was powerful stuff, and he was not used to it. Cynric slopped yet more of it in his master’s cup, his uncharacteristic clumsiness indicating that the servants had also availed themselves of the brew that flowed so freely from the cellars.

In the Master’s chair, Kenyngham was sound asleep, the fingers of one hand curled around his beloved psalter, and the fingers of the other clutching an empty goblet. Bartholomew stood unsteadily and went to wake him, because no one was permitted to leave the feast before the Master, and the Master looked set to sleep until the following morning. He wanted Kenyngham to announce his successor and quit the hall, so that Bartholomew could go to bed and leave the merrymaking to those with more robust constitutions.

Kenyngham opened bleary eyes and pulled himself together. A vague hush came over the hall as he stood, although not even his announcement was sufficient to rouse Deynman from his drunken slumber.

‘And now I am sure you are all keen to know who will be your next Master,’ said Kenyngham sleepily. Gradually the murmur of voices subsided, and even the servants clattering the dishes behind the screen at the back of the hall were quiet.

‘It was not an easy decision,’ said Kenyngham. ‘We had three excellent candidates who were prepared to stand – namely Father William, Master Runham and Master Langelee. Since the statutes say that a Fellow is not permitted to vote if he is a candidate, and Thomas Suttone decided to abstain, we were left with five Fellows eligible to vote.’

He stopped speaking for a moment, and leaned down to take a gulp from his goblet of wine. He was not the only one. Scholars all around the hall fortified themselves for the bad news they sensed was coming – how could there be good news with those three candidates up for selection? The atmosphere of tense anticipation was oppressive.

‘Brother Michael and Doctor Bartholomew voted for William; Father Paul voted for Langelee; and Master Clippesby and I voted for Runham.’

‘Paul should have voted for me,’ muttered William bitterly. ‘We are brother Franciscans.’

‘The statutes say that the candidate with the fewest votes should stand down and select one of the others. So, Langelee withdrew and voted for Runham. And Paul, freed from his first choice, selected William. But that meant a deadlock, with Runham and William having three votes each, so I was compelled to insist that Suttone make his choice.’

‘Then the new Master was effectively chosen by a man who does not know either candidate from Adam?’ whispered Gray, drink making him incautious. ‘That is a bad precedent!’

‘Suttone voted for Runham,’ said Kenyngham. ‘And so I declare that John Runham is now duly elected as the next Master of Michaelhouse, effective immediately.’

In the hall of Michaelhouse, the silence continued after Kenyngham had made his announcement. There was no cheering or exchange of pleased glances. Runham was a good teacher, but he was not liked, and his arrogance and smugness had alienated almost as many people as had his cousin’s before him. Runham either did not notice or did not care. He stood as Master Kenyngham sat, and produced a sheaf of notes. Bartholomew gaped, astonished that the man could be so confident of his success that he had prepared a speech.

‘That Dominican – Clippesby – will be sorry he voted for him,’ muttered William furiously in Bartholomew’s ear. ‘He will not enjoy being in Michaelhouse under the Mastership of a lawyer.’

He would have enjoyed it even less under a Franciscan, Bartholomew thought. William did not like Dominicans, and Dominicans usually did not like him. The physician rubbed his head again as the strong wine made the room reel and tip.

‘I do not think I can stand this,’ said Michael, eyeing Runham’s bundle of papers with dismay. ‘After what Langelee did to me, being forced to listen to Runham gloating over his success is more than any mortal should be forced to bear. If I pretend to faint, will you catch me?’

‘And then Father William can carry us both out insensible,’ said Bartholomew, smiling. ‘You fainted and me crushed.’

‘Get ready then,’ said Michael, raising a hand to his forehead. With a shock, Bartholomew saw he was serious.

‘I cannot catch you, Brother,’ he whispered urgently. ‘You are far too heavy, and you will hurt yourself – and me.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Michael. ‘Here I go.’

He started to raise his ponderous bulk from his chair, clutching at his head dramatically as he did so. Runham was clearing his throat and shuffling his parchments as he prepared to make his first official speech as Master of Michaelhouse. Michael had just opened his mouth to emit a groan, when there was a commotion at the far end of the hall. A porter was gesticulating urgently towards Cynric. The book-bearer listened to his message, and then pushed his way past the rows of students to the high table. Michael sat again, waiting with interest to see what was of sufficient import for Cynric to risk incurring the wrath of a Master about to make his inaugural speech.

‘One of your beadles is here,’ the Welshman whispered to Michael.

‘Now that I am Master, there will be no interruptions of meals,’ said Runham sharply. ‘And that goes for you, too, Bartholomew. You were late twice yesterday because you put other demands above your College responsibilities. Meals at Michaelhouse will be sacrosanct from now on – they are occasions when the Bible Scholar will read to us for the good of our souls, and when we will reflect in silence on our lives and how we must strive to make them better.’

‘How tedious,’ murmured Michael. ‘I certainly would not have inflicted that upon the good men of Michaelhouse.’

‘Perhaps Runham was not such a bad choice after all,’ said William, nodding approvingly.

‘I cannot wait until after meals, if I am summoned by a patient,’ said Bartholomew, appalled. ‘The person might be dead by the time we are finished.’

‘Then you will have to reconsider your vocation,’ said Runham harshly. ‘Your choice is clear: you either live here and abide by my rules or become a town physician. You cannot do both.’

‘But–’

‘Enough!’ snapped Runham. ‘From now on, I will have no debates at high table and no one will question my decisions. What I say is final. You have a week to make up your mind whether you will choose College or your external interests – and the same choice is available to anyone else who does not like the way I plan to rule Michaelhouse.’

‘But Matthew’s treatment of the poor is good for relations with the town,’ Kenyngham pointed out. ‘That is why I have allowed him to continue. The townsfolk appreciate the fact that we can help them in this way, and are more inclined to view the University in a positive light.’

‘Rubbish,’ said Runham dismissively. ‘The town rabble hate and envy us, and Bartholomew’s sordid obsession with their diseases makes no difference one way or the other.’

‘That is not true!’ cried Father Paul, as angry as Bartholomew had ever seen him. ‘And in these times of need following the Death, we must do all we can to help the poor, not deprive them of the one man who provides them with free treatment for their ailments.’

‘Then he should follow his conscience and leave Michaelhouse,’ snapped Runham. ‘At least then he will be able to pursue all the town whores who take his fancy without fear of recrimination.’

‘That is unfair,’ argued Paul, his expressive face dark with fury. ‘Matthew has been–’

‘Since you see fit to question me within moments of my appointment, perhaps you might care to resign your Fellowship now, rather than wait until the end of term,’ said Runham icily. ‘I will have your personal effects sent to the Franciscan Friary first thing tomorrow morning.’

‘Now just a moment–’ began William, outraged that a fellow Franciscan was under attack.

‘And that goes for you, too,’ said Runham, rounding on him. ‘You are a stupid, belligerent fanatic, who has no place in a University.’

‘Even as Master, you have no authority to deprive people of their Fellowships,’ said Michael quietly. ‘It is against the statutes, because Fellows are elected in perpetuity.’

But he could make their lives so unpleasant that they would not want to stay, thought Bartholomew, eyeing the new Master with dislike.

‘I have no wish to remain in Michaelhouse, if its new Master wishes us to ignore the town’s poor and selfishly concentrate on ourselves,’ said Paul coldly. ‘I will leave tonight.’

His chair scraped on the floor as he stood and made his way towards the staircase; the other Fellows and students watched him aghast. The hall had never been so silent; even the customary rustle of rushes around the scholars’ feet was stilled. Bartholomew started to rise to protest, but Michael seized his arm and dragged him back down. The movement did not escape the attention of Runham, who glared at them with his heavily lidded eyes. Bartholomew clenched his fists. He was not normally a man moved to violence, but the sight of the smug expression on Runham’s amply jowled face made his blood boil, and he felt an almost irresistible urge to leap across the table and wrap his hands around the man’s throat.

‘What did my beadle want?’ asked Michael of Cynric in the tense silence that followed. He glanced up at Runham challengingly. ‘I assume you do not object if urgent University business occasionally encroaches on a College meal? Or shall I inform the University’s Chancellor and the Bishop of Ely that I have been forbidden to fulfil my obligations to them as long as you are eating?’

Runham glowered at him with undisguised loathing, and made no reply. While he could bully some of his Fellows, he was scarcely in a position to take on one with the backing of such powerful men as the Chancellor and the Bishop – at least, not yet.

‘The beadle has come from Mayor Horwoode’s house,’ said Cynric in a whisper, intimidated by the fact that everyone in the hall was listening to what he had to say. ‘Apparently, Horwoode has found the body of a scholar from Bene’t College in his garden.’

‘A student?’ asked Michael.

Cynric shook his head. ‘It is said to be a Fellow by the name of John Wymundham.’

The golden aura of the beadle’s lamp formed a hazy halo as Bartholomew, Michael and Paul followed it up St Michael’s Lane and turned left along the High Street. Mayor Horwoode lived near Sheriff Tulyet, and his home was a large, stone-built house set attractively between the Round Church – built to resemble the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem – and the Franciscan Friary.

Michael strode next to his beadle, scratching his stung arm in silent agitation as he considered the events of the evening. Bartholomew walked behind, with Father Paul clinging to him; a bundle of the friar’s belongings swung over his shoulder. Normally, Cynric would have been with them, too, scouting behind in the shadows of the night and enjoying the nocturnal foray. But Cynric was now a married man with other commitments, and he had returned to his own home on Milne Street as soon as his duties at the feast were over. Bartholomew felt vulnerable without the book-bearer’s comforting presence.

Shadows flickered at the edge of his vision. At least part of it was due to the strong wine but some was the speculative scrutiny of petty thieves and vagabonds, and Bartholomew was glad of the presence of the beadle and his sword. He sensed that at least one would-be robber had melted away into the shadows when he saw the glint of unsheathed metal.

Bartholomew stumbled over one of the many potholes that pitted the street, almost dragging Paul down with him. Somewhere in the silence a dog howled mournfully, answered by another in the distance. The night was cold, and a dank mist had rolled in from the Fens, filling the town with a dirty whiteness that carried in it the scent of the sea and the rich, rotting odour of the marshes.

‘You do not have to leave Michaelhouse,’ said Bartholomew to Paul. He knew his words were slightly slurred from the wine. ‘Runham does not have the authority to force you to go before you are ready.’

Paul pursed his lips. ‘I want no place in a College run by a man like Runham. To be frank, I knew that if he won the election, I would not want to remain at Michaelhouse. That was why I said I would resign before we voted – so as not to look churlish.’

‘But William might have won.’

‘He might,’ said Paul. ‘But William is not the kind of man who would rule the College with wisdom and understanding, either. The least of the three evils was Langelee – at least he can be manipulated.’

‘He can?’ asked Bartholomew uncertainly.

Paul nodded. ‘All you need to do is to make sure he believes that any suggestions you put forward originated with him – if he feels something is his own idea, he will be more than happy to see it through. But Runham is too clever for such tactics. He is vicious, arrogant and mean-spirited, and life is too short for me to want to spend any of it in his company.’

Bartholomew was surprised. He did not like Runham, but was astonished that a gentle man like Father Paul had taken against him so strongly.

‘Thank you for speaking up for me,’ he said. ‘I am sorry it ended the way it did.’

‘I am not,’ said Paul. ‘I do not want to see the College I love disintegrating under the filthy claws of that lawyer. I will be happier in the Friary.’

‘We are here,’ said Bartholomew, gazing up at the substantial walls that kept the Franciscan friars in and the town – and the Dominicans – out.

Paul hammered on the gate and then turned his milky eyes towards Bartholomew. ‘You will visit me here? You will continue to ease the pain in my eyes with that lotion you devised for me?’

‘Of course,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Assuming the Emperor lets me out, that is.’

‘In a week, that might be immaterial,’ said Paul. ‘You might not be a member of Michaelhouse by then. But you must not let him force you to do something you do not want, Matthew. Fight him.’

A grey-robed lay-brother answered the door and ushered Paul inside. When the gate had closed behind them, the rage at Runham’s cavalier behaviour towards the old Franciscan began to boil inside Bartholomew again. Michael touched him on the shoulder.

‘Will you come with me to Mayor Horwoode’s house to see about this body he found? Then I will walk back to Michaelhouse with you. There have been outlaws in the town again, and it is not safe for a man to be alone.’

‘Master Runham only gave me permission to see Paul to the Friary,’ said Bartholomew bitterly. ‘What will he say if he learns I have disobeyed his order to return to the College immediately?’

‘He can say what he likes,’ said Michael indignantly. ‘But he will not know unless you tell him.’

‘I do not think I will be much use to you tonight,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I have had too much of that strong red wine.’

‘So have I,’ admitted Michael, although he did not appear to Bartholomew to be drunk. ‘But I never let that interfere with business. Come on.’

‘How could Runham do that to Paul?’ blurted Bartholomew angrily. ‘Paul has been a loyal College member for years.’

‘I will think of some appropriate way to repay him,’ vowed Michael. ‘He will not get away with this.’

‘Such as what?’

‘I am working on it,’ said Michael vaguely. ‘I need to think of a way to avenge myself on Langelee first. But when I turn my attentions on Runham, I will hit him where it hurts – his reputation and possibly his pocket. So, keep your fists to yourself until I have had time to devise a plan. I do not want him applying to the Chancellor to have your Fellowship annulled because you have deprived him of his teeth or broken his nose – much as he might deserve it.’

‘Runham may be right, you know,’ said Bartholomew as they walked. ‘It might be better if I resigned my Fellowship and concentrated on being a physician.’

‘That is arrant nonsense,’ said Michael brusquely, again scratching his bad arm. ‘You would never survive without your Fellow’s stipend. The few patients who pay you cannot subsidise the rest of your practice, and I cannot see you abandoning the poor to do horoscopes for the wealthy. And what about your teaching? You have always said it is important to train new physicians to replace the ones who died during the pestilence.’

‘If you keep aggravating your arm like that, you will end up with an infection,’ said Bartholomew, watching as the monk’s scratching became more and more furious. ‘Let me see.’

‘No,’ said Michael, pulling his arm away impatiently. ‘Here we are: Horwoode’s house.’

Horwoode’s home was one of the finest buildings in the town, with a red-tiled roof and a near-perfect plaster-wash of saffron yellow. It was surrounded by a large walled garden, the far end of which was bordered by the King’s Ditch. The walls were almost twice as high as Bartholomew stood tall, and he imagined it would not be an easy matter to climb over them.

‘This is a terrible shock,’ said Mayor Horwoode, as they waited for a servant to kindle a lamp. His mammoth wife, Gerta, was with him, and she put one of her substantial arms around his shoulders to warm him as he shivered in the chill of the night.

He was a man in early middle years, whose prematurely balding head was fringed with a circlet of bushy grey hair. As Mayor, he was reasonably successful, because he had a talent for delaying decisions for so long that they no longer needed to be made. But while people were grateful that plans to extend the Castle at the town’s expense had been shelved, they were concerned about delayed repairs to the Great Bridge and the postponement of dredging the festering open sewers in the High Street.

‘First Raysoun and now Wymundham,’ said Horwoode. ‘I still cannot believe it.’

‘You know them?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised that the town’s Mayor should stoop to a friendship with mere scholars.

‘We were acquainted,’ corrected Horwoode. ‘Besides being Mayor, I am also master of the Guild of St Mary, one of the two societies that founded Bene’t College. Raysoun and Wymundham were Fellows of Bene’t.’

‘How did Wymundham come to be in your garden?’ asked Michael. ‘Did you invite him there?’

‘I most certainly did not,’ said Horwoode indignantly. ‘I do not want scholars in my home. They are a slovenly, dirty brood – it must be from reading all those books.’

His wife cleared her throat meaningfully, and Horwoode seemed to realise that he was addressing two of the ‘slovenly, dirty brood’. He smiled, revealing a set of small white teeth, and did not seem to be in the slightest discomfited by his gaffe.

‘Here we are,’ he said cheerfully, as his servant finally managed to ignite the pitch on the torch. ‘Now I can show you Wymundham’s body.’

He took the light, and began to lead the way along narrow stone paths that wound between vegetable plots. At the beginning of winter they were mostly empty, with the exception of a few scraggly cabbages. The herb garden was full, though, brimming with sage, rosemary and mint, their rich scents mingling with the earthy aroma of a nearby compost heap.

Horwoode walked deeper into his domain, until Bartholomew began to wonder whether they were going to meet the King’s Ditch – the filthy, stinking canal that swung around the eastern side of the town in a great arc and formed part of its defences. No sooner had the thought passed through his mind when something loomed up out of the darkness in front of them. It was the great bank of the Ditch itself, heavily leveed to prevent flooding.

‘Here,’ said Horwoode, stopping at a shape on the ground. ‘This is him – John Wymundham.’

Bartholomew knelt beside the limp form, and saw that it was indeed the scholar who had been so distressed at the death of his colleague two days before. The body was damp from the evening dew, and the eyes were open and glassy. The mouth was agape, the tongue slightly swollen and dark, and a slight cut on one lip showed where a tooth had been broken. There was no other wound that Bartholomew could see – no stab marks or crushed skull or signs that Wymundham had been strangled – and he was not wet enough to have drowned.

‘How did you come to find him?’ asked Michael of Horwoode, while Bartholomew examined the body. ‘He is a long way from your house, and no rational man chooses to wander about in gardens after dark.’

Horwoode regarded him oddly. ‘Well, I do, as a matter of fact. I like the peace of these grounds and the solitude they offer – no step-children whining at my heels or townsmen wanting favours. I met Henry Tangmer, the Guildmaster of Corpus Christi, earlier today. He is refusing to donate more funds for Bene’t’s buildings, and it was not a congenial encounter. I walked down here after he had left, to let the peace of the garden soothe my ragged temper.’

‘When was this?’ asked Michael.

‘Perhaps an hour ago,’ said Horwoode. ‘I sent for your beadles immediately. Wymundham is a scholar and so his death is the concern of the proctors, rather than the Sheriff. It gave me quite a fright stumbling over a corpse in the dark, I can tell you!’

‘When was the last time you came to the bottom of the garden?’ enquired Michael. ‘I ask only so I can ascertain how long the body has been lying here.’

‘About three days ago,’ said Horwoode. ‘No one else in my household uses the garden in the winter, so questioning them is unlikely to help you, although you are welcome to try.’

There was something puzzling about the body in front of him, and Bartholomew struggled to control his wine-befuddled wits to concentrate. He was sure Wymundham had died because he had been unable to breathe – the blueness of his face and the swollen tongue attested to that. The physician climbed unsteadily to the top of the bank and looked around. There was no evidence of a struggle, and there was nothing there that Wymundham could have used to suffocate himself.

‘So, you are saying that Wymundham’s body might have been here for as long as three days,’ Michael was asking, as Bartholomew skidded down again.

‘No,’ said Horwoode impatiently. ‘He could not have been here before Raysoun’s death, because I hear he was present when Raysoun fell. His colleagues were concerned when he did not appear for the meal that night – the Duke of Lancaster was guest of honour, you see.’

‘I do not see,’ said Bartholomew, puzzled. ‘What does that have to do with it?’

‘No Fellow wanting advancement in the University fails to capitalise on an opportunity to mingle with royalty,’ explained Horwoode, clearly surprised that Bartholomew did not know this. ‘The Fellows had been looking forward to the visit, and that Wymundham missed it did not bode well for his safety.’

‘But he had just seen his friend die,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘Not everyone feels like attending a feast after a shock like that.’

‘I do not see why that should have prevented him from making the most of the occasion,’ said Horwoode. ‘Indeed, the incident might have worked in his favour, because he would have had an interesting tale to attract the Duke’s attention.’

‘How did Wymundham’s body get here, do you think?’ Michael asked, seeing Bartholomew about to argue. Just because the physician might have balked at a good night out after the sudden death of a colleague, did not mean that others would have done the same – especially given that the event in question was an opportunity to meet the Duke of Lancaster.

Horwoode shrugged. ‘I really have no idea. Since he lies near the Ditch, I assume he came via the water. My walls are high and difficult to scale. I suppose he was on the bank, and he lost his balance and fell.’

‘What makes you think he fell?’ asked Bartholomew, looking up from the body. His head swam at the sudden movement, and he felt himself topple slightly.

Horwoode regarded his lurch with disapproval. ‘I am only offering a suggestion.’

‘Did you look at the body when you found it?’ asked Bartholomew.

Horwoode sighed. ‘Of course I looked at it. I wanted to be certain the man was dead before I went for help.’

‘What do you mean by you “wanted to be certain the man was dead”?’ pressed Bartholomew curiously, tipsy enough to be incautious.

Horwoode fixed him with a hostile glare. ‘Why are you questioning me? I sent for the Proctor, not you. And you are drunk! I can smell wine on your breath and you can barely stand without reeling.’

‘I am not drunk …’ began Bartholomew, although he knew he was not exactly sober.

Horwoode overrode him. ‘I have been more than patient. You can carry Wymundham’s body back to Bene’t and that will be an end to the matter as far as I am concerned. The University can make enquiries if it likes, but they will not involve me. It is neither my fault nor my responsibility that this silly man chose my garden in which to die.’

He snapped his fingers to his servant, who took Wymundham’s legs, leaving the beadle to struggle with the torso. Horwoode strode away.

‘You have done an admirable job of making enemies for yourself tonight, Matt,’ said Michael mildly. ‘First you anger the new Master of your College, and then you antagonise the Mayor of your town. If Runham manages to prise you out of Michaelhouse, you will need to stay on Horwoode’s good side if you want to practise medicine in Cambridge.’

Bartholomew sighed and grabbed at the monk as he tripped over a root in the dark. ‘I should not have come. I told you I had drunk too much wine.’

‘So, what did your examination of the body reveal?’ asked Michael. ‘And do not say that you cannot know for certain until you have looked more closely, or that your wine-sodden mind could make no sense of what you saw. I want to know your suspicions now.’

‘I do not think he fell from the Ditch’s bank. I think someone held something over his face and smothered him until he was dead, pushing so hard that a tooth was snapped in the process.’

They stumbled through the dark garden and took their leave of the Mayor. Horwoode held open the gate for them, and slammed it shut after they left, making a sound like a clap of thunder that started several dogs barking.

‘I wonder what the truth behind this is,’ mused Michael as they walked. ‘What was Wymundham doing at the bottom of Horwoode’s garden in the dead of night?’

‘He may not have been there in the dead of night,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘He was not at the Duke’s feast on Thursday – the day that Raysoun died – and so it is possible that the body could have been in the garden since then.’

‘It seems an odd place for Wymundham to go, though,’ said Michael. ‘Horwoode suggested that he does not encourage familiarity with the scholars of the College he helped to found, and it did not sound as though visiting Fellows would be made welcome. I do not understand why Wymundham should be found dead there of all places.’

‘Perhaps Horwoode is lying,’ said Bartholomew with a shrug that made him stagger. ‘Perhaps he asked Wymundham to meet him in his garden, so that he could prevent Wymundham from telling anyone what Raysoun said with his dying breath.’

‘But that implies Horwoode had something to do with Raysoun’s accident,’ said Michael. ‘And I think that highly unlikely. The Mayor, of all people, should know that good relations between the town and the University are vital for all concerned.’

‘Then I wish he would pass that on to Runham,’ said Bartholomew gloomily.

‘Forget Runham. But are you certain Wymundham was murdered? Are you sure you are not looking for evidence of a crime because you believe Wymundham was carrying some sordid secret, whispered to him by Raysoun – a secret I did not hear him reveal, I might add?’

‘It was dark by the Ditch and I could barely see, but I think I am right in saying Wymundham was smothered. But for now all I want to do is return to my damp little chamber in Michaelhouse and dream up ways to pay back Runham for what he did to Father Paul.’

Michael shook his arm, unused to seeing his friend so bitter. ‘Do not dwell on that, Matt. I assure you I am quite capable of thinking up a way to extract revenge that will leave us untainted. If you had your way, you would have us both hanging from the Castle walls as Master-killers.’

Bartholomew sighed. ‘So what do we do now? Is it too late to go to Bene’t to make enquiries about Wymundham?’

Michael laughed softly. ‘Are you offering to help me? How unusual! I am invariably obliged to beg, bully or wheedle your assistance in matters of this nature. But, much as I would like to take advantage of you, there is little we can do tonight. I would rather talk to the Bene’t men in the cold light of day.’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘I suppose I will be better at that when I am sober, too.’

‘Good. If Wymundham was murdered, then we cannot afford to make mistakes because you should have exercised more self-control with the College’s wine. Actually, there was enough of it to ensure the “celebrations” continue for at least half the night. Do you want to return to take part in them?’

‘I do not,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘Aside from the fact that I see nothing to be joyous about, that wine was overly strong.’

‘That gruesome brew is known to the student fraternity as “Widow’s Wine”,’ said Michael. ‘Surely, you have heard of it? It is the cheapest, strongest and nastiest drink money can buy – guaranteed to render you insensible after five glasses and probably dead after ten.’

‘I had four,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Are there any taverns open?’

Michael laughed softly. ‘You are drunk, my friend! I have never before known you to suggest that we break the University’s rules and go carousing in the town’s inns.’

‘I do not want to carouse; I just want to sit somewhere warm and forget about Michaelhouse.’ He became aware of Michael’s hand moving rhythmically in the darkness. ‘Do not scratch, Brother. You have already made your arm worse.’

‘It itches like the Devil,’ complained Michael. ‘I thought it would ease once you had extracted the sting, but it did not.’

‘I will give you a salve to relieve it,’ said Bartholomew. He glanced up, aware that the sky was tipping and swirling unpleasantly. ‘Look, there is Matilde’s house with the candles lit.’

‘That means she is awake, then,’ said Michael gleefully. ‘Come on, Matt. I have not enjoyed a drink with her for a while, and she serves a better brew than you will find in any tavern.’

‘We cannot visit her now,’ said Bartholomew, horrified. ‘It must be nearing midnight.’

‘So?’ asked Michael. ‘Neither of us wants to return to Michaelhouse yet, and I often drop in on Matilde at the witching hour. She will not be surprised to see me.’

‘You do?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘You live dangerously, Brother! What would your Bishop say if word was leaked to him that his best agent was frequenting the houses of prostitutes in the middle of the night?’

‘He would probably assume I was there on his business,’ said Michael. ‘Matilde is an excellent source of information with her network of whores.’

‘And would he be right to assume such a thing?’

Michael laughed and gave him a soft jab in the ribs. ‘Do I detect a note of jealousy, Matt? You had your chance – the woman is far more fond of you than you deserve, and yet you will not take the plunge and give her what she wants.’

‘I hope you do not …’ Bartholomew faltered, uncertain how to put his question.

Michael laughed and poked him again. ‘I am a monk who has sworn a vow of celibacy.’ He gave a leering wink that was at odds with his claim, and, before Bartholomew could stop him, was across the road and down the dark alley in The Jewry to where Matilde’s house stood. He knocked on the door and waited. Low voices that had been murmuring within stopped abruptly.

‘She has company,’ said Bartholomew, backing away. ‘We should not have come.’

When Matilde answered the door, he was already halfway back up the alley, chagrined that they might be interrupting the town’s loveliest prostitute while she was entertaining clients. His feelings towards Matilde were ambiguous. While he considered her the most attractive woman he had ever set eyes on, her profession made any serious relationship with her difficult. Still, she was a good friend, and he had missed their long, intelligent discussions and shared confidences since his extra students and his ever-expanding treatise on fevers had claimed most of his spare moments.

He heard Matilde’s exclamation of pleasure when she recognised Michael, and saw the monk ushered inside her house. Before she could close the door, Michael poked his head around it and called to the shadows.

‘It is safe for you to come in, Matt. Matilde’s visitors are only some of her sisters.’

Bartholomew smiled sheepishly; the town’s prostitutes usually referred to themselves as sisters, much as members of the town’s guilds referred to themselves as brethren. Like a reluctant schoolboy on his way to lessons, he slowly retraced his footsteps down the alley and entered Matilde’s pleasant home.

Matilde’s home in The Jewry had changed since Bartholomew had last seen it. The walls had been painted in an attractive diamond pattern of red and yellow, and there were matching tiles on the floor, partly covered by thick wool rugs. She had a new table, too, a handsome piece carved from pale oak, and there was a delicately wrought bowl of spun silver standing on it. Bartholomew wondered whether they were gifts from grateful clients.

Matilde stood in the middle of the room holding a jug of wine. Yet again, Bartholomew was struck by her beauty. She had long, straight hair that shone with health and cleanness, and her simple dress of cornflower blue accentuated the exquisite curves of her slender body. Unlike others in her trade, she used no paints on the delicate pale skin of her face, and her complexion was smooth, soft and unblemished.

She was entertaining two other women, both of whom Bartholomew had treated for various illnesses in the past. One was Una, the daughter of a sergeant at the Castle, and the other was Yolande de Blaston, the wife of one of the town carpenters who knew all about his wife’s nocturnal activities and felt nothing but grateful appreciation for the extra money she could earn to help support their nine children.

Matilde was surprised to see Bartholomew. She froze in the act of pouring Yolande a drink when he stepped across her threshold, and regarded him with arched eyebrows.

‘And to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?’ she asked. ‘Do you want me to supply information about the latest murder you are investigating? Or do you need me to arrange support for digging a new town rubbish pit or cleaning the wells?’

Bartholomew was taken aback by the coolness in her voice, and wondered what he had done to offend her. Meanwhile, Michael squeezed between Yolande and Una on a cushioned bench that was barely large enough for two, and settled himself comfortably, fat legs thrown out in front of him, and his arms stretched along the back of the seat, almost, but not quite, touching the shoulders of the two women.

‘Right,’ said the monk, favouring Matilde with a contented beam as the two women giggled. ‘Do you have any of that good Italian wine you shared with me last time I was here?’

Bartholomew regarded him suspiciously. ‘And when was that?’

Michael flapped a dismissive hand. ‘I do not recall precisely. But as it happens, Matilde, you are right – there is a case that you might be able to help us with.’

‘I thought there might be,’ she said, leaving to fetch the wine from the small parlour at the back of the house. ‘That is the only reason he would visit me these days.’

‘You seem to be out of favour, Matt,’ said Michael once she had gone.

‘Small wonder,’ said Yolande, treating Bartholomew to an unpleasant look. ‘He only ever comes to see her when he wants something. She was telling us only last night that he had not visited her in almost two months, and now he turns up only to see whether she knows anything about some horrible University crime. But, since he is here, I have a swollen foot that he can look at.’

‘And I have painful gums,’ added Una. ‘It is good he came tonight – now I will not have to rise early in the morning to go to see him.’

‘You want me to examine you now?’ asked Bartholomew unenthusiastically, wishing they would not talk about him as though he were not there. And anyway, with the room revolving around him in a way that was making him feel sick, he did not feel he should be doctoring anyone.

‘You are a physician and here are two charming ladies who need physicking,’ said Michael contentedly. ‘Where lies the problem? Get on with it, man!’

Bartholomew was kneeling on the floor with Yolande’s foot in his hands when Matilde entered with the wine. He glanced up, then grabbed at Yolande’s knee as the sudden movement upset his precarious balance.

‘You have had more than enough wine already, Matthew,’ she remarked, as she handed Michael his cup. ‘You are drunk!’

‘He has imbibed four cups of Widow’s Wine,’ explained Michael.

‘That is an apprentices’ brew!’ said Matilde incredulously. ‘Why would a perfectly sane adult who values his health drink Widow’s Wine? Was he trying to do away with himself?’

‘Do not be so hard on it,’ said Una. ‘I like a drop of Widow’s Wine myself on occasion.’

‘The occasion must be when you are too drunk to know what is good for you,’ said Matilde, unimpressed. ‘Personally, I would never touch the stuff. I have heard that it is brewed with pine resin to give it its strength, and that a dead fox is added to the vats to improve its flavour.’

Bartholomew felt more sick than ever.

‘That is why it is popular with young men,’ said Yolande. ‘My husband’s apprentices love it. It is cheap, strong and, after the first cup, its taste does not matter. Were you two out on the town, then, indulging in a little debauchery to break the monotony of all those books you read?’

‘We elected two new Fellows tonight,’ said Bartholomew. ‘After the ceremony, we had a feast.’

‘With Widow’s Wine?’ asked Matilde, laughing in amused horror. ‘Is that how Michaelhouse scholars choose to celebrate?’

‘I cannot imagine what Master Kenyngham was thinking of,’ agreed Michael. ‘I suppose he was offered a few barrels cheaply, and did not know its reputation. It is powerful stuff. I, too, feel a little more merry than I would usually do after a mere nine cups.’

‘So, which is the latest murder you are investigating?’ asked Yolande, as she watched Bartholomew bend carefully to resume his examination of her foot. She snapped her fingers. ‘It must be the one where the Franciscan was stabbed in the grounds of Ovyng Hostel.’

‘That is one of them,’ said Michael. ‘I do not suppose any of the sisterhood saw someone fleeing the scene of that little crime, did they?’

The three women shook their heads.

‘But it was probably another scholar,’ suggested Una helpfully. ‘It has all the hallmarks of an internal killing.’

‘Really?’ asked Michael drolly. ‘And what would those be, pray?’

Matilde made an impatient sound at the back of her throat. ‘You know very well, Michael. When townsmen kill a scholar, it is nearly always in the heat of the moment, during or after a brawl. But this friar was killed silently and quickly, with no witnesses. It was clearly no spontaneous attack, but a carefully planned murder – an academic murder.’

Michael looked thoughtful. ‘You may be right. But I have absolutely nowhere to start with this one – Brother Patrick was fairly new to Ovyng Hostel, and had no time to make serious enemies. And he came from a tiny friary in a part of Norfolk that no one has ever heard of, so I doubt a quarrel could have followed him here.’

‘Perhaps he saw something he should not have done, and was killed in order to ensure his silence,’ suggested Una.

‘But you just said the killing bore the hallmarks of a carefully planned execution,’ said Michael. ‘That does not tally with Patrick seeing something and an assailant deciding he should not live to tell the tale. Saw what, anyway?’

‘It is more likely that he heard something,’ said Matilde thoughtfully.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Michael. ‘Did you know Brother Patrick?’

‘Only by reputation,’ said Matilde carefully.

‘But he had only recently arrived at Ovyng Hostel,’ said Michael. ‘How could he have a reputation?’

‘It does not take long to establish one,’ Matilde pointed out. ‘One of the sisters entertained him on several occasions and was astonished at the amount of gossip he knew, even though he had only been in the town for a few weeks.’

‘Patrick was a gossip?’ asked Michael.

‘Quite a shameless one,’ said Matilde. ‘From what I could tell, he and our sister spent most of their time together engaged in a scurrilous exchange of information. That is why I suggested that he may have been killed because he had heard something someone did not want him to know.’

‘But gossips seldom know secrets worth much,’ said Michael. ‘Because they are gossips, people do not tend to confide in them, and they only have access to information that is common knowledge. I do not think his loose tongue would have been sufficient reason to kill him.’

‘My experience tells me otherwise,’ argued Matilde. ‘No one likes a gossip – especially if his tale-telling harms you or your loved ones.’

‘What is the other case you have?’ asked Una, watching Bartholomew manipulate Yolande’s foot with the exaggerated care of the intoxicated. ‘You said the friar’s death was one of the ones you were working on – what is the other?’

‘Is it the one where the baker killed the potter in the King’s Head?’ asked Yolande. ‘Or the one where the surgeon Robin of Grantchester is accused of murdering Master Saddler by chopping off his leg on Thursday afternoon?’

‘Neither of those,’ said Michael.

‘Robin has been charged with Saddler’s murder?’ asked Bartholomew, looking up in horror. ‘But Saddler was ill anyway. His leg should have been amputated weeks ago, but he refused to allow anyone to do it.’

‘You medical men always stick together,’ said Una in disgust.

‘You will not have to amputate my leg, will you?’ asked Yolande nervously.

‘Hardly,’ said Bartholomew. ‘All that is wrong with you is that your shoes are too tight – you need to buy a larger pair.’

‘Oh, very practical!’ said Matilde crossly, her hands on her hips as Bartholomew stood up. ‘And where is she supposed to find the money to buy new shoes with nine children to feed?’

‘Slit them,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The shoes, I mean, not the children. Give them to me; I will do it for you.’

‘You will not,’ said Matilde, snatching the shoe away from him. ‘You are drunk and I do not want you wielding knives in my house. Her husband will do it for her tomorrow.’

‘So, which murder are you investigating?’ asked Una, opening her mouth so that Bartholomew could inspect her sore gums. Resting a hand on the wall, he leaned over her, hoping he would not slip and end up in her lap.

‘It is not murder,’ said Michael. ‘At least, I do not think so. A scholar fell from the scaffolding surrounding Bene’t College two days ago.’

‘Oh, that,’ said Yolande, disappointed. ‘My husband told me about it – he is one of the carpenters who is working on Bene’t. He told me that Raysoun was so miserly that he was always climbing up the scaffolding to make sure that none of the workmen were slacking. Because Raysoun was no longer young, and because he liked a drink or two – just like you, Doctor Bartholomew – my Robert said it was only a matter of time before he fell.’

‘Really?’ asked Michael.

Yolande gave a grin, revealing yellowed stumps of teeth. ‘Have I helped you, then?’

‘You may have done,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘His friend, Wymundham, has just been found dead near the King’s Ditch – in Mayor Horwoode’s garden, to be precise.’

‘I am sure the Mayor had nothing to do with it,’ said Yolande immediately. ‘I have visited him every Friday for years and know him well. He is too indecisive to kill anyone.’

Michael laughed. ‘I have never heard that used as a defence before, but I will bear it in mind. But no more of murder, ladies. It is delightful to sit and enjoy some congenial companionship. I was saying only tonight that Michaelhouse would benefit from a little female company now and again.’

‘It certainly would,’ said Matilde fervently. ‘I have seldom seen such an unprepossessing array of people – especially that revolting Runham.’

‘Do not speak ill of him,’ said Michael, in tones that suggested they should. ‘Runham was elected Michaelhouse’s new Master this evening. Kenyngham has retired.’

Matilde regarded Bartholomew in dismay, as though he were responsible for electing Runham single-handed. ‘What possessed you to select a man like that, Matthew? He will be a tyrant.’

‘I did not select him,’ said Bartholomew tiredly, straightening up from his inspection of the inflamed gums. ‘Una, there is a rotten tooth that needs to be pulled. Robin of Grantchester specialises in pulling teeth, or I can come to your house and do it tomorrow. You decide.’

‘She will think about it,’ said Matilde, before Una could reply.

‘She means we will see whether you are sober tomorrow,’ translated Yolande mischievously. ‘But we have a lot of business to discuss, so if you two have finished your wine, perhaps you would allow us to get on with it, or we will be here all night.’

Matilde opened the door and waited for Michael to extricate himself from the women on the bench. As soon as Michael had levered his bulk into the street and Bartholomew had followed on unsteady legs, she closed the door, plunging them into darkness.

Michael and Bartholomew began the short walk along the High Street, towards their College. Michael hailed one of his beadles, patrolling to prevent students from causing mischief in the town, to light their way with his lantern. It was raining and the streets gleamed in the faint glow of the lamp. Bartholomew raised his face to the cooling drizzle and wondered when he had last been so drunk. The thick-bellied clouds that slouched overhead seemed to roll and froth before his eyes, and the ground tipped and swayed. He promised himself that he would never touch Widow’s Wine again: it was no good for men used to watered ale.

‘You are not in Matilde’s good books,’ said Michael. ‘That will teach you to be remiss in visiting your friends. They do not like to feel that they are second best to spotty students and lancing boils.’

Michael’s beadle walked next to them, holding his lantern high so that the scholars would not trip in the treacherous potholes and fissures of the High Street.

‘All is quiet tonight,’ the beadle reported conversationally to Michael. ‘We had to pay a visit to Bene’t College earlier, though.’

‘Bene’t?’ echoed Michael immediately. ‘Why? Not another death, I hope?’

‘It might have been,’ said the beadle. ‘But we got there in time. Osmun the porter was fighting with one of the Fellows. We have him in our prison.’

‘Osmun!’ said Michael, shaking his head as they turned into St Michael’s Lane. ‘If Bene’t has any sense, they will dismiss the man before he does anything else to disgrace them. He is a lout.’

The beadle agreed. ‘None of us like him – he drinks in the King’s Head, and is always causing trouble. He is not the kind of man any respectable College would employ.’

‘It is difficult to get good staff these days,’ said Michael. ‘Labour has been scarce since the Death took so many people. I suppose Bene’t feels itself lucky to have porters at all.’

‘It should not feel itself lucky to be hampered with those porters,’ said the beadle with feeling. ‘They are the most offensive gatekeepers in the town, and no one can match them for rudeness or their love of brawling. But they are loyal, I will grant them that. They challenge anyone who utters the merest criticism of Bene’t. I heard Osmun claimed to be Justus the book-bearer’s cousin. Is that true?’

‘Why should it not be?’ asked Bartholomew.

The beadle peered at him, as if trying to tell whether the question had been asked seriously. He apparently decided it had, and his tone was condescending when he replied. ‘So that he could get Justus’s tunic and dagger. Why else?’

‘That would be a risky thing to do,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘He might be given a used tunic and a blunt dagger, but he also might have found himself obliged to bury Justus – and that would cost more than anything he was likely to inherit.’

‘Michaelhouse is obliged to do that,’ said the beadle promptly.

‘And Osmun’s claim is true anyway,’ said Michael. ‘I checked with the Master of Bene’t, who told me that Osmun brought Justus to him a year ago and asked if he might become a porter.’

‘I expect they refused because Justus was not rude enough,’ said the beadle with a chortle.

‘Bene’t did not have the funds to take on more staff, according to the Master,’ said Michael. ‘So Justus went to work for Runham at Michaelhouse instead.’

‘Working for Runham would lead me to kill myself, too,’ muttered the beadle fervently, as he stepped ahead to light the way over a particularly treacherous section of the road.

Finally they reached Foul Lane, the muddy runnel on which Michaelhouse’s main gate stood. Bartholomew’s head was pounding, and he wished he had never set eyes on the Widow’s Wine. Michael also did not look well; Bartholomew could see that his face was pale in the dim light of the beadle’s lamp.

‘This damned arm,’ muttered Michael, giving it another vigorous scratch. ‘It is driving me insane. I shall be as mad as Clippesby if it does not cease this infernal itching.’

‘Let me see,’ said Bartholomew, stopping to pull up the monk’s sleeve. He staggered slightly as he tried to focus in the feeble glow from the light.

‘Are you sure you are capable?’ asked Michael, stretching out his good arm to steady the physician. ‘I have never seen you so intoxicated.’

‘Look what you have done!’ cried Bartholomew in dismay, when he saw the red mess the monk had created with his eager fingernails.

‘You should have given me something to alleviate the itching,’ retorted Michael irritably, tugging his arm away. ‘I am not made of marble. No normal man would be able to resist such an agony of itches.’

‘If you had let it be, it would not have irritated you so,’ said Bartholomew. He rummaged in his medicine bag for a salve. ‘Let me put this on it – it should help.’

‘Will you treat me here, in the street?’ asked Michael in amusement. ‘We are only a few steps away from the College gate.’

‘I can apply ointment on self-inflicted sores just as easily here as I can in Michaelhouse,’ said Bartholomew tartly, slapping a healthy daub of the soothing plaster of betony on to the inflamed skin.

‘What is that?’ asked Michael, stiffening suddenly. Instinctively, he pulled Bartholomew away from the middle of the lane to the scrubby bushes that grew along the College’s east wall. The beadle quickly doused his lamp.

At first Bartholomew could see nothing. The familiar lane with its tall wall and great gate seemed deserted, and the town was absolutely silent. And then he saw what Michael had spotted. Someone was very slowly and carefully opening the wicket door in Michaelhouse’s front gate from the inside. A curfew was imposed by the University on its scholars, and students were not supposed to be out after dark. Needless to say many of them found inventive ways to avoid being incarcerated for the night, and it seemed Bartholomew and Michael were about to witness one such bid for freedom.

‘We are not the only ones who do not want to be in Runham’s new domain tonight,’ whispered Michael, smiling mischievously. ‘Let us hide here and see who it is. Then I will have my beadle pounce on him, and give him the fright of his life!’

There was not one escaping scholar, but two – dark-cloaked figures bundled up against the rain, who moved silently and furtively as they closed the door behind them.

‘Walter must be on duty tonight,’ remarked Bartholomew. ‘He is the one who sleeps, and the students know they can come and go as they please.’

‘Who are they, can you see?’ asked Michael, peering down the lane and chuckling to himself.

Bartholomew could not. His vision was too unsteady, the night was too dark, and all Michaelhouse scholars tended to look the same in black tabards and cloaks with hoods that covered their heads and faces. He shivered, feeling the rain soak through his clothes to form cold patches on his shoulders.

‘Come on,’ he whispered. ‘It is freezing here, and I am tired.’

‘Wait,’ instructed Michael, narrowing his eyes as he squinted in the darkness. ‘I want to see who it is.’

‘Well, I do not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You are being unfair, Brother. No scholar in his right mind will want to spend time in Michaelhouse while Runham is still revelling in his new-found power. Those two are only doing what we have done – looking for a way to be elsewhere.’

‘But, Matt–’ whispered Michael urgently.

Bartholomew ignored him and pushed his way out of the bushes, walking openly towards the two figures. When they saw him, they started in alarm, but did not make any attempt to run away. Knowing that they would not be able to recognise him, he pushed back his hood so that they could see his face.

‘I have just returned from seeing Father Paul to the–’ he began.

What happened next was a blur. As soon as he began to speak, one of the figures rushed at him and gave him a hefty shove in the chest that sent him staggering backward, then raced on down the lane before turning towards the river. Startled and indignant that a student should dare to strike a master, Bartholomew grabbed the second man as he made to run past, determined that he should not escape. But the student was stronger than he anticipated, and Bartholomew was uncoordinated. A second shove sent him crashing to the ground. All he could hear were the sounds of running footsteps in the distance.

‘Matt!’ Michael’s anxious face hovered above him. ‘Are you hurt?’

‘Damn!’ said Bartholomew, sitting up and feeling the thick mud – and worse – that clung to his cloak. ‘I only had this cleaned last week. Did you see who they were?’

‘My beadle has gone after them,’ said Michael. ‘But I would not hold out too much hope of an arrest, if I were you. They are young and fast, and he is old and slow.’

‘Did you see their faces?’ asked Bartholomew, clinging to Michael for support as he climbed to his feet. ‘They were not Gray and Deynman, I hope.’

‘Of course they were not,’ said Michael scornfully. ‘Do you think either of that pair would push you over? But I did not see their faces – I do not even know if they were our students.’

‘They were wearing tabards and cloaks,’ said Bartholomew.

‘So do lots of men,’ said Michael. He gave a sigh of exasperation. ‘Why did you not wait, as I told you? I had a feeling that they were not merely a couple of disgruntled students sneaking out for a night on the town. They did not have the demeanour of lads playing truant, and I had the distinct impression that their business was more important than a jug of ale in the King’s Head.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘What I say,’ said Michael. ‘That there was mischief afoot tonight, and you blundered into it before we could see what it was.’