A Masterly Murder

Chapter 4

THE FOLLOWING DAY WAS COLD AND GLOOMY, and a thick pall of mist hung over the town, smothering it in a blanket of dampness that stank of the river and of the filth that lay thick along the High Street. Bartholomew woke with a start when Walter the porter’s cockerel began its croaking call directly outside his window. He threw open the shutters and hurled a glove at it, grumbling under his breath as the animal strutted away. Bartholomew would not have minded if the bird had kept its crows for morning, but it made its unholy racket at any time of the day or night, when the fancy took it.

Bartholomew’s ill temper at being so rudely awoken was not improved when he became aware that he had a thumping headache. His stomach felt empty and acidic, his throat was dry and sore, and his best cloak was clotted with muck from where he had been pushed into the mud by the fleeing scholars.

The beadle had returned with a hang-dog expression to report that he had lost his quarry, and Michael dismissed him to warn other patrols to be on the lookout for the black-cloaked pair. Angry, Michael had woken the surly porter to berate him for sleeping while people wandered in and out of the College. Walter’s sullen self-justification was mixed with a sickening sycophancy that Bartholomew found hard to fathom, until the porter revealed that Runham had already sacked a number of College staff, and Walter was afraid he would be next. With curt instructions that he might have a better chance of keeping his job if he did not sleep every night, Michael had abandoned the porter to his guilty anxiety and stalked across the yard to his room.

The monk was just climbing the stairs to his chamber on the upper floor, when a shadowy figure had emerged from the hallway to demand why it had taken Bartholomew so long to escort Father Paul to the Friary. It was Runham, checking his colleagues’ comings and goings. Bartholomew was too weary to feel indignant, and wanted only to lie down, but Michael was outraged enough for both of them. Bartholomew shoved his way past the new Master, while Michael remained in the hall, telling Runham in ringing tones that must have been audible in the Market Square what he thought of a man who lurked in dark corners in the middle of the night to spy on his Fellows. Bartholomew threw off his damp clothes, dropped on to his bed, and knew no more until his abrupt awakening by Walter’s annoying bird the following day.

It was Sunday, and Bartholomew’s turn to help officiate at the mass that took place just after dawn in the College church. When he saw that the sky had begun to lighten, he hopped across the icy stones in his bare feet to wash and shave in the cold water that Cynric left for him each night. For the first time in years, however, Cynric had forgotten, and the jug was empty. Tugging on his boots, Bartholomew splashed through the courtyard mire to draw water from the well behind the kitchen, shivering in the chill of early morning.

Teeth chattering, he doused himself with the freezing water in the dim light from the open window. He groaned when he heard an ominous tear as the clean shirt he hauled over his head stuck to his wet skin, then ripped it more when he did not take the time to dry himself. He grabbed a green woollen jerkin that his sister had given him, and that was definitely not part of the uniform Michaelhouse scholars were expected to wear, and then covered it with his black tabard. He was late by the time he had finished dressing, so he ran across the yard to the gate, skidding in the slick mud and almost falling.

Still fastening his cloak pin, he was sprinting across the High Street before he realised that Father Paul was supposed to be conducting the mass that morning – and Paul had been unceremoniously expelled from Michaelhouse the previous night. Bartholomew had taken minor orders, which meant that he could take certain services, but he was certainly not qualified to perform a full Sunday mass. He was about to run back to the College to wake Michael, when he saw that candles were already burning inside St Michael’s Church. Surprised, he pushed open the door and went inside.

John Runham knelt at the small altar he had erected near his cousin’s tomb. He was red-faced and breathless, and Bartholomew saw he had the altar pulled a little way from the tomb and was cleaning behind it with a bundle of feathers tied on a short pole. Bartholomew felt the anger rising inside him even looking at the tomb and its pompous creator but he forced down his ire as he closed the door and walked towards the high altar.

St Michael’s Church was a lovely building. It was small and intimate, and had been rebuilt especially for Michaelhouse by the College’s founder. There were fine paintings on the walls, the ceiling was picked out in blue and gold, and the stone tracery in the windows was as intricate as lace. In the midst of all this beauty was the late Master Wilson’s tomb, an edifice that Bartholomew was not alone in considering to be the nastiest creation in Christendom.

When Thomas Wilson had died during the plague four years before, he had given Bartholomew money to pay for a splendid tomb to house his mortal remains. Bartholomew had been tardy in fulfilling his promise, and by the time he had commissioned a mason to carve the grave, Wilson’s bequest had devalued dramatically. Instead of the glorious affair he had envisaged, Wilson had been incarcerated under a plain slab of black marble with a simple cross carved on the top.

Then Wilson’s cousin had come to Michaelhouse. John Runham had been appalled to discover his kinsman housed in something so stark, and immediately set about rectifying the matter. The elegant black slab was now topped by a life-sized golden effigy, and the plain stone rectangle that formed the body of the tomb was hidden by painted panels that blazed with gilt, reds, greens and blues. Unusually, Wilson’s statue was not lying on its back gazing longingly heavenward, as was the current fashion, but had been sculpted propped up on one elbow, looking towards where the scholars stood for prayers. Either Runham had modelled for it, or he had given very clear instructions to the mason, because the likeness of the carving to the dead Master Wilson was disconcertingly accurate, and more than once Bartholomew had experienced the uncomfortable sensation that Wilson was actually watching him.

In front of the tomb was a small but sumptuous altar, so that the scholars could kneel to pray for Wilson’s soul – although it was not used by anyone except Runham. Bartholomew walked past it, hoping Runham would be too engrossed in his cleaning to notice him. He had almost reached the high altar at the eastern end of the church, when the new Master spoke.

‘You are late.’

‘I know.’ There was nothing more Bartholomew could say. He had no excuse to offer, and he was not prepared to apologise to Runham – he did not want to start the day with a lie.

‘You will pay the customary fine of fourpence to me after breakfast,’ Runham went on. ‘And next time you are late, the fine will be a shilling. You have sacred duties to perform, and I will not permit idleness and irresponsibility to interfere with them.’

Bartholomew saw he would have to ask his colleagues to wake him in the future. He was a heavy sleeper, and usually only stirred when something disturbed him. He would be in desperate financial straits if he were obliged to pay Runham a shilling three times a week.

‘It will not happen again,’ said Runham softly.

His voice was vaguely threatening, and again Bartholomew did not reply. He noticed that Runham had already lit the candles, found the right place in the Bible for the daily reading, changed the holy water in the stoop, set out the psalters, and arranged the sacred vessels that were required for the mass. In fact, Runham had already done all that Bartholomew was supposed to do in his capacity as priest’s assistant.

Bartholomew glanced out of the window. It was still not fully light, and he knew he was not more than a few moments late. He could only suppose that Runham had deliberately arrived early enough to perform all Bartholomew’s chores, to drive home his point. It seemed petty, and the anger that Bartholomew had been fighting since he had first seen Runham beautifying Wilson’s tasteless little altar began to claw its way to the surface again.

‘You took advantage of my leniency last night,’ said Runham, laying down his cleaning rod and assuming a mien of religious contemplation. ‘You were told to return immediately after delivering Father Paul to his Friary, but you remained out much longer, and came back reeling and stinking of wine.’

‘I drank nothing after I left the feast,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘And I had two patients to attend – one with an injured foot and the other with swollen gums.’

‘I trust you did no harm by treating them when you were barely able to stand,’ said Runham unpleasantly. ‘It would not be the first time a physician left a patient dead because of an over-fondness for wine.’

‘They both survived my ministrations,’ said Bartholomew, determined not to allow Runham to provoke him. ‘But speaking of the dead, when do you plan to bury your book-bearer? I see poor Justus’s body still lies in the porch. It has been there since Thursday.’

‘I expect I will find a few moments to tend to that this week,’ replied Runham, patently uninterested in his book-bearer’s mortal remains. He moved to one side so that there was room for the physician to kneel next to him, and changed the subject. ‘Perhaps you would join me in a prayer for my cousin’s soul.’

Bartholomew could hardly decline – no matter what he thought about Runham’s kinsman – so he dropped to his knees and clasped his hands in front of him, hoping that a prayerful attitude would serve to convince Runham to leave him alone. He felt the other man watching him, so he closed his eyes and pretended to be lost in his meditations.

There was a powerful, sickly-sweet scent around the tomb that made Bartholomew want to avoid inhaling too deeply. He had noticed it before, and Michael claimed that proximity to Wilson’s private altar always made him sneeze. Runham often placed flowers nearby, and Bartholomew could only assume that the new Master invariably chose the ones with the strongest scents.

‘You did not like my cousin, did you,’ said Runham, so quietly that Bartholomew thought he might have misheard. He opened his eyes to look at the Master in surprise.

‘I built his tomb,’ he said levelly.

‘That is what I mean. The tomb you raised was a disgrace, and unfit for a man of my cousin’s mettle. He would have liked the one I provided much more.’

‘I am sure you are right,’ said Bartholomew, knowing that the hideous structure Runham designed would certainly have appealed more to Wilson’s inflated sense of self-importance. He closed his eyes. ‘And now that you have rectified matters, there is nothing more to be said.’

‘Have you made your decision?’ asked Runham, still in the same soft voice.

Bartholomew opened his eyes again. ‘What decision?’

‘About whether to become a full-time physician for the town. I am sure that life as a layman will suit you much better than life as a scholar. And anyway, I find medicine sits oddly with the other subjects we teach – law, philosophy and theology.’

‘But a good deal of medicine is natural philosophy,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And it also overlaps with astrology, mathematics and geometry.’

‘But you do not teach your students astrology, do you?’ pounced Runham. ‘You claim that reading your patients’ stars is a waste of time, and your students would do better to tell their clients to wash their hands before eating, and not to drink water from the river.’

‘I did once,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘But I have learned that if a physician provides what his patients expect from him, they are more likely to be cured. I suppose the mind has a powerful influence over the body in some people, and belief in a remedy’s efficacy will aid recovery.’

‘That sounds like heresy to me,’ said Runham, eyes narrowing. ‘Notions like that do Michaelhouse no good at all. I do not want you in my College, Bartholomew, and I do not want you near my saintly cousin’s tomb.’

‘You asked me to kneel here,’ said Bartholomew indignantly. He fought down the urge to retort that he did not want to be near Wilson’s revolting tomb, but contented himself with nodding curtly to the new Master and heading for the high altar, to try to expunge some of the murderous impulses he felt towards Runham. When he had gone, Clippesby emerged from behind a pillar.

‘You see, Clippesby?’ asked Runham, looking up at the wild-eyed Dominican. ‘Bartholomew is a dangerous man, and his heretical ideas will pollute the minds of our more impressionable students.’

Clippesby nodded quickly, his gaze darting here and there as though he suspected he were not the only one skulking in the shadows and eavesdropping.

‘I heard what he said, Master Runham. I distinctly recall him claiming that he deliberately created a paltry tomb for the martyred Wilson, and he gleefully admitted to teaching his students how to heal using the Devil’s wiles.’

‘Well, he did not go quite that far,’ said Runham, regarding the Dominican uneasily. ‘But you seem to have the right idea. Remember what you heard, Clippesby – I might need your testimony one day. And now our scholars are arriving, and I must ready myself to take my first mass as Master of Michaelhouse.’

As he watched Runham preparing himself for the service, Bartholomew wondered why the lawyer had suddenly turned so hostile. Although they had never liked each other, they had always been polite, and Bartholomew had even treated Runham free of charge on a number of occasions for the unpleasant flaking of the skin that seemed to run in his family. Wilson had been similarly afflicted. But now he was Master, Runham had dispensed with his veneer of civility, and had become openly antagonistic. Was his rudeness simply a ploy to induce Bartholomew to resign his Fellowship, so that Michaelhouse would no longer offer the study of medicine to its students? Or did Runham hold a genuine grudge against Bartholomew for not creating his cousin a suitably monstrous tomb?

The physician sighed and looked up at the ceiling, just beginning to glitter as the early morning light started to catch the gilt. He had the distinct feeling that his existence was about to change dramatically, and he knew he was powerless to do anything about it.

Still immersed in his reverie, it was halfway through the mass when Bartholomew realised that Michael was not in the church. He was not unduly worried, because the monk often missed services when he was engaged in University business, although he hoped there had not been yet another death to claim the Senior Proctor’s attention. There were already four corpses for him to provide verdicts on: Raysoun, who had tumbled from the Bene’t scaffolding; his friend Wymundham, whose death so soon after Raysoun’s was an uncanny coincidence; Brother Patrick, stabbed in his hostel’s garden; and Justus, still lying in a rough parish coffin as he awaited the burial it was Runham’s duty to provide.

Bartholomew glanced to the porch where Justus’s body lay covered by a piece of coarse brown sackcloth. As a suicide, Justus would not be buried in the churchyard, but would be relegated to unconsecrated land. Since the plague, the number of suicides among the poor had risen: many preferred to kill themselves quickly than suffer a lingering death by starvation. In fact, there were so many of them that a plot had been provided near the Barnwell Causeway. It was a desolate place hemmed in by scrubby marshland vegetation, and was prone to attack by wild animals. Unless Runham used his influence, it would be Justus’s final resting place, too.

Whatever Bartholomew might think about Runham as a man, he had to admit that his masses were impressive. The lawyer injected a note of grandeur into his phrases, accentuated by the natural pomposity of his voice, so that the words seemed to take on a new and deeper meaning. And he had brought beautiful patens and chalices with him when he had first been admitted to Michaelhouse, along with a dazzlingly white altar cloth and some scented candles.

Not all Michaelhouse Fellows were in a state to admire Runham’s exquisite performance, however. Some of them clutched their stomachs, and most were white-faced, suggesting that Bartholomew had not been the only one to have imbibed too much Widow’s Wine the previous night. William looked particularly grim; his heavy face was unshaven and there were red rims around his watery eyes. Even Kenyngham, seldom a man to over-indulge, seemed subdued and pasty-faced.

Michael’s choir – minus their leader – was a sorry affair. Missed cues, flat notes and indistinct words were the least of their problems. Knowing they had performed poorly, they shuffled their feet and hung their heads as the mass came to an end.

Michael was fiercely devoted to his singers, who afforded him moments of great pleasure and spells of agonised embarrassment in more or less equal measure. It was the largest assembly of musicians in Cambridge, and owed its size entirely to the fact that the College was in the habit of recompensing participants with bread and ale each Sunday. It comprised local men and boys with a smattering of co-opted scholars that justified it being called the Michaelhouse Choir. Master Kenyngham had possessed the good sense to understand that the choir helped to promote peaceful relations between the College and the town, and that the variable and unpredictable quality of the music was something that just had to be endured for the sake of concord. A glance at Runham’s grim face, however, told Bartholomew that the new Master did not intend to follow Kenyngham’s example of leniency and tolerance.

‘Your performance today was a disgrace,’ he announced to the assembled singers, once the mass was over. ‘I have never heard such a miserable sound purporting to be music. From now on, your services are not required. Those of you who are Michaelhouse scholars will be under the leadership of Clippesby – the new Fellow of music and astrology.’

Clippesby stepped forward amidst gasps of disbelief. Michael had been master of the choir for more than a decade, and had devoted a huge amount of his spare time to making it what it was – a good deal better than it might have been.

‘These people have served the College faithfully for many years,’ said Kenyngham with quiet reason, taking Runham by the arm. ‘We cannot dismiss them now.’

Angrily, Runham shook himself free. ‘You are no longer Master, and in future please keep your opinions to yourself. I have made my decision: the choir is disbanded.’

‘But Brother Michael has been teaching us a Te Deum,’ objected old Dunstan the riverman, his jaws working rhythmically over his toothless gums. ‘We have been practising for weeks, so that we will be ready to sing it at Christmas.’

‘Then you should have considered that before you embarrassed the College with your dismal racket today,’ snapped Runham.

‘But it was only because Brother Michael was not here,’ protested Isnard, the burly bargeman who liked to think he sang bass. ‘We are better when he conducts us.’

‘Michael is unreliable and too wrapped up in his other interests,’ said Runham. ‘That is why I am absolving him of the responsibility and conferring it on Clippesby. Michael is not a musician in any case – he is a monk with a smattering of theology, who spends most of his time politicking with the Chancellor and the Bishop, and meddling in affairs that do not concern him – even to the extent of fraternising with Oxford scholars, if Langelee is to be believed. Where is he this morning, anyway?’

No one knew, and Runham, raising an imperious hand to quell the cacophony of questions and recriminations that rang through the nave from the dismissed choir, prepared to lead his black-garbed scholars back to Michaelhouse for breakfast. Bartholomew did not join them. He wanted to remain in the church for a while, to let the silence and solitude calm his temper before he was obliged to spend more time in the company of the new Master. There was also the fact that Runham would be expecting Bartholomew’s fine of fourpence and the physician was determined to make him wait for it.

‘But what about our bread and ale for today?’ cried Dunstan in a quivery, distressed voice. ‘It is all I will get – my daughter cannot spare me food on Sundays, when all her children are home.’

‘I cannot, in all conscience, squander College resources by paying for inferior services,’ said Runham pompously, processing out of the church with his scholars streaming behind him. His voice came back distantly. ‘There will be no bread and ale for you today – or ever again.’

Pandemonium erupted as the outraged choristers began to argue among themselves, voices raised in accusation and recrimination. Then Isnard became aware of Bartholomew, still standing in the chancel.

‘Your College cheated us!’ he declared furiously, advancing on the physician. ‘You let us sing today, knowing that we would not be given our bread and ale.’

Bartholomew thought that was possibly true as far as Runham was concerned, although the choir had done themselves no favours with the diabolical quality of their singing. He did not know how to answer.

Isnard strode forward and grabbed him by the front of his tabard, while his angry friends gathered around in a tight circle. Too late, Bartholomew realised he should not have stayed in the church and that the choir would not care whether he condoned the Master’s actions or not. He would be battered to a pulp because he wore a black tabard, and only later, when tempers had cooled, would the singers question whether he had really been party to Runham’s decision. He struggled, but the press of people was too great, and Isnard’s grip too tight. He closed his eyes tightly, waiting for the first blow to fall.

‘Leave him be, Isnard,’ came Dunstan’s reedy voice, miraculously cutting in over the others’. ‘That is no cur of Runham’s. That is Doctor Bartholomew, who set your leg for you last year.’

Isnard hauled Bartholomew to one side, so that he could see his face in the pale light that filtered in through the east window. ‘So it is!’ the bargeman exclaimed, releasing the physician so abruptly that he stumbled. Helpful hands stretched out to steady him. ‘Sorry, Doctor, but all you scholars look the same in those black uniforms – especially in the gloom of this godforsaken place.’

‘I have never liked this church,’ agreed Aethelbald, Dunstan’s equally ancient brother, looking around him in distaste. ‘It is cold and dark and sinister – as though devils lurk in its shadows.’

‘Especially now that one is buried here,’ said Dunstan, pointing with a wizened finger at the glittering monstrosity of Wilson’s tomb.

As one, the choir crossed themselves vigorously and gazed around, as if they imagined Wilson himself might emerge from his grave and drag them all down to the depths of Hell.

‘Wilson was a sinful, wicked man,’ said Aethelbald. ‘During the plague, he lurked in his room by day to avoid contamination, but at night he slipped out to meet his lover.’

‘Did he?’ asked Isnard, interested in this piece of gossip. ‘Was she a whore, then?’

‘She was,’ said Aethelbald with conviction. ‘She was also Prioress of St Radegund’s Convent, God rot her black soul.’

‘And he stole from people,’ added Dunstan, not wanting Aethelbald to have all the attention.

‘Really?’ asked Isnard, fascinated to hear that a man with as fine a tomb as Wilson’s had been so unscrupulous in life. ‘What kind of things did he take?’

‘Anything, really,’ hedged Dunstan. ‘Money, jewels, clothes. Am I not right, Doctor?’

Bartholomew swallowed. He was not aware that Wilson had been dishonest, but he had been secretive, and while Bartholomew could not see him climbing up guttering in the dead of night to burgle a house, he could certainly envisage him cheating someone, or indulging in a little creativity while doing the College accounts.

‘I have not … I do not …’ he began falteringly.

‘He does not know,’ said Aethelbald, waving a dismissive hand in Bartholomew’s direction. ‘He was out physicking the sick during the plague, and had no idea what the Master of Michaelhouse did in the privacy of his rooms. But it is common knowledge in the town that Wilson had great piles of stolen gold and silver there when he died.’

Then common knowledge was mistaken, Bartholomew thought to himself. He had been in the room when Wilson had died, and there had been no gold and silver – stolen or otherwise – that he had seen. Like many stories about the plague, telling and retelling had resulted in ever more flagrant digressions from the truth.

‘I have never heard about any of this,’ said Isnard dubiously. ‘If it is common knowledge, then how come I did not know?’

Dunstan shrugged. ‘You obviously frequent the wrong taverns. If you want to hear stories about the University, you need to be in the Brazen George, not the King’s Head.’

‘I shall remember that,’ said Isnard. He turned to Bartholomew and returned to his original grievance. ‘But your College cheated us. It might not be your doing, but someone will pay for it.’

‘Here,’ said Bartholomew, taking his purse from his side and handing it to Isnard. ‘You are right, and I am sorry. It is not much, but it is all I have, and should buy enough bread for everyone.’

‘But not ale,’ said Isnard, regarding the meagre contents of Bartholomew’s purse with disappointment. ‘We do not want your money, Doctor. We want to see that fat, pompous ass strung up on the walls of his own College, so that we can watch the life slowly choking out of him.’

‘That is dangerous talk,’ said Bartholomew, alarmed by the chorus of vehement agreement that rose around him. ‘I know you are angry, but perhaps Michael will be able to persuade Runham to reinstate you. Do not do anything that might jeopardise that.’

‘He is right,’ said Dunstan reluctantly. ‘We should all go home and meet again tomorrow, when we are better able to think clearly. If we march on Michaelhouse now and drag Runham from his breakfast trough to execute him, we might never be employed as choristers again.’

With relief, Bartholomew saw the choir accept this cold logic, and they began to disperse. One or two of the smaller children were crying, and Bartholomew suspected that Dunstan would not be the only one going hungry that day.

‘But we will never accept that mad-looking Clippesby as our leader,’ Aethelbald called over his shoulder as he left. ‘We will only have Brother Michael.’

‘I will tell him,’ promised Bartholomew.

‘Do not tell Michael – he knows that already – tell that pig Runham,’ said Isnard. ‘It is he who needs to know.’

Bartholomew leaned against a pillar when the door closed behind the last of them. Despite the coldness of the day, he was sweating and the back of his shirt was sodden. He took a deep breath, wondering what other evils Runham would perpetrate in his time as Master – if the man managed to survive that long.

Bartholomew had not been sitting alone in St Michael’s Church for more than a few moments when a familiar voice spoke softly at his side. He looked up to see Master Kenyngham standing over him, his face white in the gloom. He was puzzled to see that the gentle Gilbertine was shaking, and that tears glistened on his cheeks.

‘Thank the Lord you are all right,’ Kenyngham whispered unsteadily. ‘I thought they were going to kill you where you stood – in God’s holy church!’

‘What are you doing here?’ asked Bartholomew, standing to take the friar’s arm and lead him to a bench at the back of the nave, so that the old Master might sit and compose himself.

‘I came to find you,’ said Kenyngham in a voice that was dull with shock. ‘I had just entered the church when I saw that mob close in on you and – God forgive me – I was too afraid for my own safety to come to your assistance. I was so paralysed with fear that I could not even find the voice to cry out to make them stop.’

‘But you are not well,’ said Bartholomew kindly, recalling that Kenyngham had been as pallid and unhealthy as the rest of the scholars in the church that morning. Kenyngham was also unused to the violent effects of the infamous Widow’s Wine. ‘You are pale.’

‘That was our choir, Matthew!’ cried the friar, distraught. ‘They were men and boys who have enjoyed our hospitality for years, and who have joined their voices with ours to rejoice in the glory of God.’

‘They joined their voices with ours in order to earn their bread and ale,’ said Bartholomew bluntly. ‘And it was fury at the injustice of losing it that led them to contemplate violence. These are hungry people for whom the College provides a valued service – not the other way around.’

‘Were they right?’ Kenyngham asked suddenly. ‘About Master Wilson, I mean. Did he really seduce the Prioress of St Radegund’s?’

‘I do not know if “seduce” is the right word,’ said Bartholomew, ‘but they had an understanding.’

‘Horrible!’ exclaimed Kenyngham, putting his hands over his face. Bartholomew could not help but agree: the notion of the smug Master Wilson pawing any woman, religious or otherwise, was repellent. ‘And the stolen property? Is it true that the whole town knows Wilson was a thief?’

‘I do not think so,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Wilson was not a good man, but I never heard anything to suggest that he did anything dishonest – although it would not have surprised me if he had.’

‘Wilson was less than scrupulous with some people,’ said Kenyngham reluctantly. ‘I encountered discrepancies in his accounting when I became Master, and a number of people approached me and asked whether various items had appeared in the College coffers after Wilson had died.’

‘You mean Wilson was a thief?’ asked Bartholomew, vaguely amused.

‘I did not say that,’ said Kenyngham carefully. ‘The accounting inconsistencies were possibly honest mistakes, and he may have had nothing to do with the missing items. It is wrong to speak ill of the dead, especially in a church, where the mortal remains of the man we are maligning lie so close to hand.’

‘I had no idea he stole,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘I thought he was just unpleasant, vindictive and scheming.’

‘Really, Matthew,’ admonished Kenyngham. ‘The poor man may be in Purgatory at this very moment, repenting his evil deeds so that he may move on to a happier place. Saying such dreadful things about him will not help. And anyway, to speak ill of the dead might encourage their tortured souls to come and haunt us.’

‘Then Wilson would have been rattling his chains in the depths of the night long before this,’ said Bartholomew practically. ‘Or perhaps the problem is that so many people have spoken ill of him, he does not know whom to haunt first.’

‘Matthew!’ cried Kenyngham, genuinely distressed. ‘Enough! I would never have started this conversation had I known the way it would end. I only wanted to know whether the town was aware of the less saintly aspects of Wilson’s character.’

‘If the townsfolk really believed Wilson was a thief, you would have heard about it long before today,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But now that Runham is Master, he will have less time to spend venerating Wilson’s memory and the malicious rumours will soon die away. Do not worry, Father.’

Kenyngham gave a shuddering sigh. ‘I suppose you are right. But Runham’s incumbency has not started well at all. What will Michael say when he hears the choir is no longer his? I went to break the bad news to him, but I found I could not.’

‘Where did you see him? At breakfast?’

Kenyngham shook his head. ‘He did not appear for breakfast, and I was worried. Have you noticed that Michael seldom misses a meal?’

‘I have noticed, yes,’ said Bartholomew slowly, when Kenyngham paused, obviously expecting an answer to what was hardly an astute observation.

‘So I went to see if he was in his room.’

‘And?’ asked Bartholomew, when Kenyngham paused again.

‘And he is unwell,’ said Kenyngham. ‘That is why I am here. I remembered you had not joined the procession that walked back to the College, and so I assumed you must have stayed here for some private prayer. Then, when I entered, and I saw that our choir had turned from a heavenly throng to a band of would-be killers …’

He faltered, and Bartholomew resisted the urge to laugh. He wondered whether anyone but Kenyngham would be so other-worldly as to see the likes of Dunstan, Aethelbald and Isnard as a heavenly throng.

‘What is wrong with Michael?’ he asked. ‘Was it the Widow’s Wine? I had four glasses, and they made me reel like a drunkard, but he claims to have downed nine. I am surprised he even knew where his feet were, let alone used them to walk to Mayor Horwoode’s house.’

‘It was not the wine,’ said Kenyngham. ‘He was complaining that his arm hurt, and he wanted me to fetch you. You had better go to see him. I will stay here for a while, to contemplate on what I have learned from this experience.’

He took a deep breath and clasped his hands in front of him, his eyes fixed on the Great Bible that sat on the lectern in the sanctuary.

‘Have you learned that you would have done better to vote for Father William?’ asked Bartholomew, smiling in an attempt to lighten the Gilbertine’s gloom. ‘Or better still, that we should have ignored Langelee’s accusations and elected Michael?’

Kenyngham did not smile back. ‘I have learned that I should never have resigned in the first place,’ he said. Tears began to flow again. ‘God forgive me! What have I done?’

When Bartholomew arrived back at Michaelhouse, Cynric was just leaving, and his face was as black as thunder. Everyone else was at breakfast, summoned by the shrill little bell that hung near the porters’ lodge. Usually, there was someone scurrying late to the hall, but no one dared to take that kind of liberty with Runham in charge, and the courtyard was empty.

‘Where are you going?’ asked Bartholomew in surprise, seeing his book-bearer cloaked, gloved and carrying a bundle over his shoulder. ‘I thought you were on breakfast duty today.’

‘I was, boy,’ said Cynric in a muffled voice. ‘But Master Runham has just informed me that he no longer needs my services and I have been dismissed from Michaelhouse.’

‘What?’ exclaimed Bartholomew, aghast. ‘But he cannot do that! He–’

‘Whether he can or cannot, he has, and that is an end to it,’ said Cynric, pushing past the physician and heading for the lane.

‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘Even a Master cannot dismiss a servant without the other Fellows’ consent. You are not dismissed, Cynric.’

‘He had their consent,’ said Cynric bitterly. ‘Langelee and Clippesby agreed to support Runham in his “economies”, although at least William tried to prevent me from being thrown out like a dirty rag.’

‘But Langelee and Clippesby alone are not enough,’ protested Bartholomew. ‘Runham needs the votes of the majority of Fellows to pass a decision like that.’

‘Father Paul, you, Brother Michael and Master Kenyngham were absent at the breakfast meeting, and that newcomer – Suttone – abstained again on the grounds that he does not know enough of the College to decide such matters, although I could see he was uncomfortable with the notion of throwing loyal men out on to the streets. But with Clippesby and Langelee voting with Runham, your fine new Master had his majority.’

‘But you cannot just go,’ said Bartholomew in horror, grabbing his servant’s arm. ‘Come with me to see Runham now. We will sort this out–’

‘The decision has been made,’ said Cynric, looking away. ‘You are too late, boy.’

‘But you have been here for years – as long as I have,’ protested Bartholomew, still holding Cynric’s arm.

‘Right,’ said Cynric, giving him a rueful smile. ‘It was you who brought me here and got me this position, and I am grateful. It has been a comfortable life, all told, and I came to meet my wife through you. But it is probably time I went on to different things. Rachel wants me at home more, and your brother-in-law – Rachel is his seamstress, as you know – has offered me a position as captain of the mercenaries he hires to protect his goods.’

‘Oswald is trying to steal my book-bearer?’ asked Bartholomew, stunned that Edith’s husband would encourage Cynric to leave him without discussing it first.

Cynric gave a reluctant grin. ‘I suppose he is.’ He became serious. ‘That business you dragged me into in Suffolk this summer was a nasty experience, and my Rachel has been urging me to leave you in case something similar happens again. You do seem to attract that kind of trouble.’

‘Cynric, I am so sorry,’ said Bartholomew, appalled that the events in a remote country village should have had such a traumatic effect on his book-bearer and immediately feeling responsible.

‘It was not your fault I fell under that curse, and you did risk your life to have it lifted. But Rachel is right: it is time I settled down and got a real job.’

‘But how will we manage without you?’

Cynric smiled again. ‘It is for the best, lad. I did not relish the prospect of working for Runham. None of the servants like him – especially after what he did to Father Paul last night. Even Agatha the laundress is thinking of taking a position she was offered at Bene’t College.’

‘Not Agatha!’ groaned Bartholomew. ‘But wait, Cynric, you cannot just leave like this …’

‘I am only going around the corner,’ said Cynric, squeezing his arm in a rare gesture of affection. ‘And I will come if you need me – remember that if Runham plagues you too much.’

Bartholomew was torn. On the one hand, Rachel had a point, and it was unfair of Bartholomew to oblige Cynric to take part in some of the adventures Michael foisted upon him, although Bartholomew had always been under the impression that Cynric had enjoyed them. On the other hand, Bartholomew could not imagine life without Cynric’s loyal, comforting presence.

‘I will visit you,’ he promised the book-bearer, taking his hand and clasping it warmly.

Cynric gave a lopsided smile. ‘You will not. Mistress Matilde and your sister both claim you are an unreliable and infrequent guest. But I will seek you out and we will spend time in each other’s company. I will see to that.’

With another brief smile, Cynric was gone, making his way up the lane to Milne Street, where Bartholomew’s brother-in-law had his substantial cloth business. With a heavy heart, Bartholomew climbed the stairs next to his room, which led to the chamber Michael shared with two Benedictine students. The door was ajar, and he walked in after tapping gently.

Michael was pale and sweat beaded his face. The root of the problem was the sting in his arm, which had been scratched raw by the monk’s ragged, dirty fingernails. Pale red lines ran from the wound to his shoulder, showing where the infection had spread.

‘You took your time,’ said Michael feebly, as Bartholomew knelt next to him and felt the monk’s forehead with the back of his hand. ‘I asked Kenyngham to fetch you hours ago.’

‘There was trouble at the church,’ said Bartholomew vaguely. Michael looked curious, but Bartholomew started to ask questions about his illness, not wanting to tell him about the choir’s revolt or that his services as music master had been dispensed with by the odious Runham while he was unwell.

He was surprised by the speed at which the infection had taken hold of Michael; the wound had not seemed so serious the night before. He sincerely hoped his drunkenness had not prevented him from making an accurate diagnosis.

He clattered down the stairs to his storeroom, to gather the necessary potions and salves. He reached for the water that Cynric always left for him, but the jug was empty and Cynric was no longer in the College. Cursing, he walked across the courtyard to collect some of the near-boiling water from the great cauldron that always steamed over the kitchen fire. Agatha the laundress levered her bulk from her wicker chair by the hearth and came to help him.

‘I will bring this,’ she said, hoisting the heavy bucket in one meaty hand, as if it contained nothing but air. ‘You cannot manage it with all you are already carrying, and anyway, it is weighty.’

‘Let me take it, then,’ offered Bartholomew. ‘You carry the medicines.’

Agatha eyed him up and down critically, and apparently decided that she was the stronger of the two. Without a word, she set off across the courtyard at a cracking pace that had him concerned that she would slip in the mud and scald herself. But they arrived at Michael’s chamber unscathed, and she lingered in the doorway, watching him work.

‘That Runham has dismissed virtually all the College staff except for me,’ she said, folding her formidable arms across her equally formidable chest. ‘He dares not get rid of me, because he values his manhood.’

‘Pity,’ said Michael from the bed. ‘I would like to see him lose it.’

Agatha gave a screech of raucous laughter that echoed across the yard and that Bartholomew was certain would be audible in the hall, where the scholars would be sitting in silence as they ate their breakfast.

‘He has ordered Kenyngham out of the Master’s chambers this morning, so that he can move in,’ she said, sobering slightly.

‘God’s blood!’ exclaimed Michael, horrified. ‘He is not wasting any time, is he!’

‘You both need to be careful of Runham,’ Agatha advised. ‘He is a dangerous man. He wants to dismiss all the old Fellows, then fill the vacancies with his own lickspittle – like that Clippesby.’

‘Clippesby?’ asked Bartholomew, quickly making a small incision in Michael’s arm to drain away the infection while the monk’s attention was on Agatha. Michael yelped in pain, and shot Bartholomew an accusing look.

‘He has become Runham’s henchman,’ said Agatha in disapproval. ‘Personally, I do not believe the man is sane, which is why he thinks Runham is some kind of god, I suppose. Clippesby follows Runham everywhere, and runs all his errands.’

‘That is because Justus, his own book-bearer, died,’ said Michael. ‘Runham is too mean to pay for a servant, so he is using the pathetic, ingratiating Clippesby as his menial. Serves him right!’

‘Yes!’ said Agatha viciously. ‘The pair of them deserve each other.’

‘Have you done anything about Wymundham?’ asked Michael of Bartholomew.

‘Me?’ asked Bartholomew, startled by the question. ‘What should I have done?’

Michael sighed irritably. ‘I am lying here helpless, and there are deaths that need to be investigated. There are Wymundham’s and Brother Patrick’s – and Raysoun’s, according to what you heard Wymundham claim.’

‘But it is not my place to look into such matters. I am not your Junior Proctor.’

‘Do not be so pompous, Matt,’ said Michael. ‘With me indisposed and my Junior Proctor in Ely, there is no one else I can trust. And anyway, it is Sunday and you have nothing else to do. Just go to Bene’t and ask to speak to Simekyn Simeon, who is one of the Fellows. I arrested him for drinking in taverns a few weeks back but then let him go, so he owes me a favour. He will tell you the secrets behind Bene’t College’s façade of friendship and harmony.’

‘Oh, Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew weakly.

‘And then slip across to Ovyng Hostel to enquire if anyone has more information about the death of Brother Patrick.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly, deciding to take a stand before Michael’s demands took too much of his time. ‘I cannot take on all your work as well as my own.’

‘Shame on you,’ said Agatha disapprovingly. ‘These poor scholars lie murdered, and you are more interested in writing that over-long book and teaching the likes of that Rob Deynman than in seeing justice done.’

‘Quite,’ agreed Michael immediately. ‘So prove otherwise and do as I ask. Visit Ovyng, and see whether the Principal has any more to tell you about Brother Patrick.’

‘But you have your beadles,’ protested Bartholomew. ‘Send one of them.’

Michael raised his eyes heavenward and exchanged a weary grimace with Agatha. ‘I cannot send any of those ruffians to deal with the likes of Fellows and Principals. You know that. I doubt the Principal of Ovyng or the scholars of Bene’t would even allow my rough beadles into their presence. I need another scholar – a man of standing in the University, like you.’

Agatha gave Bartholomew a heavy tap – more of a thump – on the shoulder. ‘Do as you are told, Matthew. Poor Michael is ill, and cannot do it himself.’

‘You are a good woman, Agatha,’ said Michael, leaning back in his bed and closing his eyes. ‘At least there is one person in Michaelhouse I can trust to put personal convenience second to honour and justice.’

‘All right, all right,’ said Bartholomew wearily, feeling powerless under their dual assault on his sense of obligation and friendship. ‘I will visit Ovyng later today.’

‘Good,’ said Agatha approvingly, treating him to another eye-watering slap on the back. ‘Justice will be served.’

When Agatha left, Bartholomew finished working on Michael, piling him high with bedclothes and feeding him water and potions that he hoped would break the fever. By mid-morning the monk seemed slightly better, although he claimed he was not. Reluctantly, Bartholomew left Michaelhouse to visit Ovyng Hostel, to enquire whether anything new had been discovered about the murder of Brother Patrick.

Ovyng stood opposite Michaelhouse, at the junction of Milne Street and St Michael’s Lane. It was a large building that housed about fifteen students, all of them Franciscan friars. By the standards of most hostels it was comfortable, with a pleasant chamber on the upper floor for sleeping, and a hall on the ground floor that served as lecture room and refectory. It was located in a large garden, which was still producing scraggy end-of-season vegetables for its scholars’ meals.

Bartholomew knocked at the door and asked to see the Principal. He was shown to a tiny room at the back of the house where the Principal had his office, and given a cup of the splendid malty ale that was brewed in the nearby Carmelite Friary. The Principal, a solemn, humourless man with neat white hair, sighed sadly, and told Bartholomew what he had already told Michael: that Brother Patrick’s body had been discovered the previous Friday morning in the garden, and that he had been stabbed. There were no witnesses to the murder, and no one at Ovyng had the faintest idea why anyone should have taken against Patrick.

‘How long had Patrick been at Ovyng?’ asked Bartholomew, sipping the ale.

‘Since September,’ said the Principal. ‘He was not among the most popular of our students, but he was not unduly disliked.’

‘Unduly?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised. ‘You mean he was disliked, then?’

The Principal grimaced, as if annoyed with himself for the inadvertent slip. He hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. ‘Patrick was a gossip, and enjoyed spreading spiteful tales about the others. It is not a pleasant pastime, but not one that warranted his death.’

Bartholomew rubbed his chin. Matilde had mentioned that Brother Patrick was a gossip, and had even suggested that his loose tongue was the reason for his death. ‘What kind of tales did he tell?’

The Principal raised his eyebrows, grimly amused. ‘If I were to tell you that, I would be no better than him, would I?’

‘I am not asking you so that I can tell everyone I meet; I am asking you because these tales may be connected to his death.’

‘I doubt it,’ said the Principal. ‘But the kind of thing he seemed to ferret out were matters like our Bursar’s occasional illicit visits to the Brazen George for a drink, or the fact that our philosophy tutor hides the fact that he cannot see to read these days, or that one of the students once stole a pie from a baker. His stories contained nothing very damning, but they were irritating and sometimes embarrassing for those concerned.’

‘Do you think it is possible that Patrick discovered something really incriminating, and was killed to ensure he did not tell anyone else?’

The Principal gave a smile that was more sad than happy. ‘I do not think anyone at Ovyng has a secret of that magnitude. Feel free to ask all the questions you like, but remember that my scholars are all friars – not novices, but men who have taken their final vows. Ovyng is not like Michaelhouse, where the secular sits uneasily with the religious, and we do not involve ourselves in the squabbles and fights that the rest of the University seems to enjoy.’

‘Except the ones with the Dominicans,’ remarked Bartholomew wryly.

The Principal’s grave smile did not falter. ‘That is different, Doctor. We are Franciscans: it is our sacred duty to expose the lies and deceits of the Dominican Order.’

‘Then perhaps Brother Patrick was killed by a Dominican,’ suggested Bartholomew.

‘It would not surprise me,’ said the Principal. ‘But if that is the case, then Patrick’s love of gossip has nothing to do with it, and his death was an act of simple savagery by a rival Order.’

‘You are not planning to take revenge, are you?’ asked Bartholomew, slightly anxiously.

The Principal sighed. ‘It was a course of action we considered in the distressing moments immediately following the discovery of Patrick’s body. But we are friars, not town louts. We unanimously decided that any vengeance should be left to the Senior Proctor and his men. Instead, we have hired an additional porter to guard our gates at night and ensure all our doors are locked.’

Bartholomew stood. ‘Thank you for your time, Father. I hope Brother Michael will find the person who killed your scholar.’

‘So do I,’ said the Principal sincerely. ‘But Patrick’s body lies in St Mary’s Church and will be buried tomorrow. I understand you have some skill in examining corpses. Come with me now, to see if you can uncover some clue that the rest of us might have missed.’

Bartholomew felt he could not easily refuse such a request, so he walked with the Principal to St Mary’s, where he spent some time examining the body of the young friar. The case was as straightforward as he could imagine: there was a small, circular hole in Patrick’s back, where something had been driven into it, and that was all. The wound was deep and certainly would have been almost instantly fatal, and there was no other mark on the body, suggesting that the attack had been quick and decisive, and the friar had not been given a chance to do anything to defend himself.

The only puzzling thing was the shape of the injury. Most knife wounds were slit-shaped or ovoid, but the one in Patrick was an almost perfect circle. Bartholomew could not imagine what could have made it. He could only assume it was some kind of spike, like an awl, rather than a blade. The injury was clean, and there were no splinters or fragments of dust that Bartholomew could see, so he assumed the weapon must have been made of metal.

Eventually he straightened up, put Patrick back the way he had found him, and made his farewells to the Principal, knowing that he had found nothing that would help uncover the killer of the gossiping friar; he had probably wasted the Principal’s time as well as his own. As always when he encountered violent and futile death, he was aware of an odd combination of helplessness and gloomy resignation, and did not feel at all like teaching. Instead, he sat in Michael’s room while the monk slept, thinking about what little he had learned from Brother Patrick’s death.

In the late afternoon Runham came, wanting to see for himself why two of his Fellows had missed all three meals that day after he had expressly ruled that attendance was no longer optional. He relented when he saw Michael’s illness was genuine, but stated that Bartholomew would not be excused the following day. Bartholomew agreed, just to be rid of the man, although he had no intention of leaving Michael’s side if the fever became worse.

‘My fourpence, please,’ said Runham, thrusting out his hand.

Bartholomew gazed blankly at him.

‘My fourpence,’ repeated Runham impatiently. ‘If you recall, I fined you for your unwarranted lateness at church this morning. I told you to pay it after breakfast, but you defied me in that, so I will have it now.’

‘Will you fine me, too?’ demanded Michael hoarsely from the bed. ‘I missed mass totally.’

‘You had an excuse,’ said Runham, although the tone of his voice suggested that he considered it a poor one. ‘But Bartholomew did not. Give me the fourpence now, or I shall be obliged to fine you an additional fourpence for late payment of a forfeit.’

Bartholomew found the correct change. ‘Wash it before you handle it too much,’ he advised, as he slapped the coins into the Master’s upturned palm. ‘It came from a patient with a fatal contagion, and I would not like to see the disease strike you, too.’

He was maliciously gratified to see Runham blanch and hastily drop the money into his hat. The new Master scrubbed his fingers vigorously on the side of his tabard as he left, and through the window Bartholomew saw him running to the lavatorium once he reached the yard.

‘That must be one of the first times he has ever voluntarily washed his hands,’ said Bartholomew, turning to grin at Michael.

‘Was it true?’ asked Michael. ‘Did the coins really come from a patient with a contagion?’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘If I thought a contagion might be carried on them, I would hardly keep them in my purse. I am not keen to have Runham as Master, but I am not ready to kill myself over it.’

Michael gave a weak grin. ‘Either you have been practising your lie-telling, or I am more ill than you are letting on. You had me convinced!’

Bartholomew smiled, and gazed across the brown mud of the courtyard below.

In the evening, Gray came to ask Bartholomew to tend a sick stable boy in Agatha’s quarters. The lad was afflicted with an ailment that Gray claimed he could not diagnose. The physician sat on the straw mattress and took the boy’s hand in his, noting that the pulse was strong and steady and the skin cool and dry, even though he appeared to be insensible. There was a small bruise on one leg, presumably from some childish game of rough and tumble, but nothing else seemed amiss. Bartholomew sat back, and stared thoughtfully at the thin face with its tightly closed eyes.

‘It is all right, Roger,’ he said kindly. ‘You will not be thrown out of Michaelhouse with nowhere to go like the other servants. I will have a word with my brother-in-law and I am sure he will find you something.’

Roger’s eyes flickered open. ‘Do you promise?’

Bartholomew nodded, and left him to the relieved ministrations of Agatha, who bared her terrifying teeth to indicate pleasure. Where a normal mortal might have quailed at the sight of the fangs honed to a primeval sharpness bearing down on him, Roger just smiled with a child’s easy acceptance of the peculiar.

When Agatha had agreed to undergo some beauty treatment at Deynman’s hands earlier that summer, she had been lucky that Bartholomew had discovered what was in progress and had prevented matters going further. And Deynman was lucky to be alive, given Agatha’s fury when a mirror revealed that the painful scrapings and grindings had not given her the pearly white smile she had been promised, but the uneven fangs of a demon. Deynman had still not been forgiven for his crime, and even his slow wits sensed he needed to avoid unnecessary meetings with the laundress if he wanted to survive to become a physician.

Gray followed Bartholomew into the yard. ‘Runham told us Roger would be dead by this evening. He was wrong.’

‘Runham is not a physician,’ said Bartholomew tartly. ‘And neither will you be if you listen to men like him telling you about your own profession. Roger knew that as long as he pretended to be ill, Michaelhouse would not cast him into the streets. It did not take much to work that out.’

‘How is Brother Michael? asked Gray, deftly changing the subject away from his misdiagnosis. ‘I hope you have managed to keep Runham away from him!’

‘I certainly have,’ said Bartholomew fervently.

‘Will he live? Brother Michael, I mean.’

‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew, surprised by the question. ‘He is not that ill.’

‘I thought his condition must be serious, because you have spent so long with him today,’ said Gray. His eyes grew round with feigned innocence. ‘I do not suppose it is providing you with an excuse to miss the misery of meals in the hall under the eagle eyes of Runham, is it?’

Bartholomew wondered whether it was as obvious to Runham himself. ‘Michael does have a fever,’ he said vaguely. ‘And I confess I am surprised by the speed at which the infection has spread.’

‘Fat men succumb easier to fevers than thin ones,’ said Gray wisely. ‘Master Saddler was fat, and look what happened to him. His leg rotted, and even Robin of Grantchester’s delicate surgery could not save him.’

Amused by Gray’s statement of ‘fact’, Bartholomew trudged back across the sticky morass of the yard to Michael’s room. The two sombre Benedictines who shared the room had moved to the now-vacant servants’ quarters, and had prepared a straw mattress so that the physician could sleep next to his patient. Thoughtfully, one of them even left a candle stub, so that Bartholomew would be able to see what he was doing if Michael needed help during the night.

Outside, the sounds of evening gradually faded to sounds of night. The lively chatter of students in the yard was replaced by the soft murmur of scholars in their rooms, and the clank and clatter from the kitchens was eventually stilled to the occasional sharp crack as the fire spat. Bartholomew lit the candle and tried to work on his treatise on fevers, until he fell asleep at the table.

By the following day, Michael was essentially better, but slept most of the time and had lost his appetite. To Bartholomew’s surprise, he even declined some of his favourite delicacies from the kitchen. He was not too ill to remind Bartholomew of his promise to visit Simekyn Simeon at Bene’t College, however, and insisted that the physician went there that morning. Bartholomew did not want to become embroiled in the insalubrious affairs of another College, recalling that the murdered Wymundham had told him he would be better not knowing what they were, and he took his time readying himself to go out.

At last he could delay no longer, and began to walk slowly across the yard to the gate. He had taken no more than a few steps when he saw a man wearing the distinctive blue tabard of a Bene’t scholar striding towards him. From under the tabard protruded a pair of shapely legs clad in striking yellow and green striped hose. Bartholomew knew very well that neither they, nor the bright gold-coloured hat that sat at a jaunty angle on the man’s head, were part of the prescribed uniform of Bene’t, and was astonished that the Master allowed one of his Fellows to flaunt the rules so flagrantly.

The man greeted him cheerfully. He was younger than Bartholomew, and wore his long dark hair in elaborate ringlets of the kind currently in favour at the King’s court. He was rather more plump than a man of his age should have been, indicating that he had not been eating College fare for very long, and he had the kind of glowing complexion that more likely resulted from a carefree existence of hunting and falconry than of a life spent in study.

‘My name is Simekyn Simeon, Fellow of Bene’t College,’ he said, favouring Bartholomew with an impressively courtly bow. ‘I know it is an unlikely appellation, but it is the one with which my parents saw fit to encumber me.’

‘Matthew Bartholomew,’ said Bartholomew, grateful that he did not have to go through life with a name better suited to a court jester.

‘I have come to see the Senior Proctor about the sad demise of John Wymundham, lately Fellow of Bene’t College,’ Simeon continued. ‘Is he in his room?’

‘He is ill, but he asked me to visit you. I was just on my way.’

‘I saved you a journey, then,’ said Simeon jauntily. ‘Tell me, is Brother Michael’s illness such that we should avoid him for fear of contamination, or can I loiter at his sickbed with no ill effects?’

‘He does not have a contagion,’ said Bartholomew curtly, not impressed by the man’s brazen self-interest.

‘Good,’ said Simeon. ‘I mean no disrespect, Bartholomew, but I will discuss this matter with him, not you. I am aware of his reputation for solving mysteries in the University, but you I do not know. Is this the way to his room?’

He had ducked past Bartholomew and was up the stairs to Michael’s chamber before the physician could do anything to stop him. Irritated at being so summarily dismissed by a man who wore green and yellow hose, Bartholomew followed him, intending to prevent him from disturbing the ailing monk, but Simeon had moved quickly and was through Michael’s door before Bartholomew had reached the top of the stairs. Michael regarded the intruder in astonishment, hauling his blanket up under his chin like a maiden caught in bed by a knight intent on mischief.

‘Did I waken you?’ Simeon asked, not sounding especially contrite. ‘I do apologise. However, one of my colleagues died on Saturday night, and I feel that is a matter of sufficient import to raise the Senior Proctor from his slumbers. I expected you to visit us yesterday.’

‘I am unwell,’ said Michael peevishly. ‘I sent Matt to see you in my stead.’

Simeon sat on the chamber’s only chair and gave a disarming smile. ‘But now I am here, we can speak directly to each other. There is no need to communicate through one of your lackeys.’

‘I am ill,’ repeated Michael. To make sure Simeon understood the true gravity of his condition he added, ‘I have eaten nothing all day!’

That seemed to convince Simeon. He leaned forward and gazed at Michael’s pale face and red-rimmed eyes.

‘I am sorry, Brother. I see now that you are not malingering; you do have something of the appearance of a corpse three days dead. You must understand, though, that the sudden death of one of our members – two, if you count Raysoun’s fall on Thursday – has been a blow, and I wanted to know what you are doing about it. But I appreciate the fact that you are unwell, and so I suppose I shall have to leave you in peace for now.’

‘You are here now, so you may as well stay,’ said Michael ungraciously. ‘You have heard, I take it, that Wymundham was found dead in Mayor Horwoode’s garden?’

Simeon nodded. ‘Of course. We are not that uninformed. One of your beadles told me that you had the body examined, and the verdict was that someone had smothered him. Are you certain of that? Are you sure he did not drown himself?’

Michael waved a feeble hand, indicating that Bartholomew was to answer.

The physician nodded. ‘Wymundham’s body was not wet, and, as far as I could tell, there was no water in his lungs to suggest drowning. His blue face and swollen tongue, along with damaged nails and a broken tooth, indicated that he had been smothered, and that he had fought hard against his killer.’

Simeon regarded him sceptically, as if he did not consider such details convincing. ‘So, do you have any idea who might have done this?’

‘None. Yet,’ said Michael. ‘I was hoping you might be able to help. Did Wymundham have any enemies in Bene’t, or other people who might wish him harm?’

Simeon frowned slightly. ‘Not that I can think of. Bene’t is a small College and there are only four Fellows now that Wymundham and Raysoun are dead. We all liked each other well enough.’

‘That is not what Wymundham said after he had watched Raysoun die,’ said Bartholomew bluntly. ‘He told me that Raysoun had claimed with his dying breath that he had been pushed.’

Simeon’s expression was unreadable. ‘Are you suggesting that there have been two murders – not one – in Bene’t?’

‘Wymundham believed Raysoun was murdered, and then he was murdered himself,’ said Bartholomew. ‘What does that imply to you?’

Simeon crossed one striped leg over the other and leaned back in his chair. ‘I believe someone has made a mistake. Either Wymundham misheard or misunderstood Raysoun’s dying words, or someone is guilty of gross fabrication – making up stories about our dead scholars because they are not in a position to confirm or deny them.’

‘Wymundham told me what Raysoun said,’ replied Bartholomew coolly. ‘I can assure you that I did not invent it.’

‘Then did Wymundham tell you who Raysoun said had pushed him?’ asked Simeon, raising his eyebrows questioningly.

‘No,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He said it would be better if I did not know.’

‘Really,’ said Simeon flatly. ‘How very inconvenient.’

‘Matt has no reason to lie,’ said Michael. ‘If he says Wymundham claimed Raysoun had been pushed, then Wymundham claimed Raysoun was pushed. So, the question we must now ask is: was Wymundham himself lying or was he speaking the truth? Let us assume first that he was lying: why would he want people to believe Raysoun had been murdered if his death were an accident?’

‘Perhaps he was not lying in the true sense of the word,’ suggested Simeon. ‘Perhaps the shock of Raysoun’s accident unhinged him, and he said things he did not mean.’

‘It is a possibility,’ said Michael. ‘But then, two days later, Wymundham is found dead, which makes me inclined to believe there was some truth to his claim. In which case, we must ask who would kill Raysoun and then murder Wymundham to ensure he told no one what Raysoun murmured with his dying breath?’

Simeon sighed and shook his head. ‘Certainly no one at Bene’t. The Fellows keep their distance from the students – unlike Michaelhouse, which I hear encourages friendships between masters and their charges – and we would never stoop to fraternising with servants, again unlike Michaelhouse.’

‘How dare you make such comparisons,’ snapped Michael, offended. ‘You have never been to Michaelhouse!’

‘Actually, I have been here on a number of occasions. For my sins, I am acquainted with your Ralph de Langelee, who pursues me relentlessly because of my court connections. Langelee tells me all sorts of scandalous stories about Michaelhouse.’

‘Such as what?’ demanded Michael, peeved.

‘Such as Bartholomew’s friendship with his book-bearer,’ said Simeon with a grimace of distaste. ‘Langelee informs me that Bartholomew treats that dirty little man like a brother. I certainly would not trust my life to a common man!’

‘With an attitude like that, you would be wise not to,’ retorted Bartholomew, angry that the foppish scholar should insult the loyal Cynric.

‘And then there is the Michaelhouse choir,’ continued Simeon, ignoring him. ‘Those who are not thieves or beggars are engaged in lowly trades like ditch-clearing and barging, and yet Brother Michael quite happily spends every Sunday afternoon in their company.’

‘They are good people,’ said Michael coldly. ‘It is not their fault that greedy landowners have forced them into such poverty that they are forced to steal to feed themselves.’

‘That sounds seditious,’ said Simeon, regarding Michael in amusement. ‘You are not one of those modern thinkers who believes peasants should have rights, are you?’

‘My personal opinions are none of your affair,’ said Michael. ‘And they certainly have nothing to do with discovering who killed your colleagues.’

‘True,’ admitted Simeon. ‘My apologies, Brother. Blunt speaking is all the fashion at court these days, and I forget you University men prefer good old-fashioned ambiguity and obtuseness. But, as I was saying, I do not think you will find your killer in Bene’t. You will have to look elsewhere for him.’

‘Who are the other Fellows?’ asked Michael, not liking Simeon’s transparent determination to steer the investigation away from his own College. ‘And what were you doing when Raysoun fell?’

Simeon shook the luxurious curls that cascaded to his shoulders – locks that Father William would have had shorn had Simeon been a member of Michaelhouse. ‘I was not in Cambridge when that happened. I am the Duke of Lancaster’s squire when not engaged in College affairs, and I was with him. I have at least a dozen highly respectable witnesses who will vouch for me.’

‘And the other Bene’t Fellows?’ demanded Michael, sounding disappointed that Simeon appeared to have a sound alibi. ‘Where were they?’

‘Master Heltisle and his good friend Caumpes were buying rat poison from the Franciscans in the Market Square. We have a rodent problem at Bene’t, you see.’

Bartholomew was sure they had, and one rat had shoved poor Raysoun to his death, then smothered Wymundham.

Simeon continued. ‘And lastly, there is Henry de Walton. I am surprised you do not know him, Bartholomew. I imagined he would be intimate with every physician in Cambridge, given that he is always complaining about some ailment or other.’

‘And you still claim that all Bene’t fellows liked each other?’ Michael pounced.

Simeon gave a rueful smile. ‘Yes, generally. I admit I find de Walton’s claims of continual poor health a little tiresome, but he is a good enough fellow. He works hard and is patient with our less able students.’

‘What were Raysoun and Wymundham like as Fellows?’ asked Michael. ‘Were they hard-working and patient with inferior students?’

Simeon glanced sharply at him. ‘Raysoun was a gentle man, although he did have a penchant for wine. He was worried that the building of Bene’t was taking too long, and was afraid that we would run out of funds before it was finished, and so the workmen considered him something of a nuisance because he checked their progress regularly. But the students liked him well enough.’

‘And Wymundham?’ asked Bartholomew when Simeon paused, wondering whether Simeon’s failure to cite Wymundham’s virtues without prompting was significant.

‘Wymundham was a man who enjoyed life,’ said Simeon carefully. ‘He had a quick mind, and was sometimes frustrated by the restrictions afforded by College life. I empathise entirely.’

Looking at the way Simeon had adapted his drab College uniform to include a gold hat and striped hose, Bartholomew was sure he did.

‘It is difficult to know how to proceed with this,’ said Michael. He was beginning to look tired, and Bartholomew stood, intending to ask – or order, if need be – Simeon to leave. ‘From what you say, enquiries within Bene’t will lead nowhere, so I suppose we must look elsewhere.’

‘I wish I could tell you where,’ said Simeon. He sounded sincere.

Michael nodded agreement. ‘The most obvious solution is that one of the men working on the building gave Raysoun a shove, and then killed Wymundham to keep his identity concealed. One of my beadles, Tom Meadowman–’

‘I know him,’ interrupted Bartholomew. ‘He was steward at David’s Hostel before it …’ He hesitated, not sure how to describe the end of the foundation for Scottish students that had harboured more than scholars under its roof.

‘I made him a beadle when he found himself without employment after David’s was destroyed,’ said Michael. ‘His sister is married to Robert de Blaston, one of the carpenters working at Bene’t. I will set him to discover what he can.’

‘Very well,’ said Simeon approvingly. ‘That is a good start.’

‘And meanwhile, I will instruct my beadles to listen harder in the taverns. The death of a scholar is invariably cause for celebration in the town, and perhaps some reckless boasting might bring this killer to light. My men are already on the alert for rumours about Brother Patrick of Ovyng Hostel, so they can add Raysoun and Wymundham to their list of enquiries.’

Simeon uncoiled his elegant limbs and stood. ‘Thank you, Brother. I knew you would not fail us. I can see you will have this killer under lock and key in no time.’

‘I will,’ vowed Michael in a way that suggested to Bartholomew that he was prepared to follow any clues that came his way, even if they led back to Simeon. ‘Matt will visit my office in St Mary’s Church, and instruct my beadles accordingly. But I am tired. I will sleep a little before considering further the evidence I have. Good morning, Master Simeon.’

He was dozing almost before Bartholomew had ushered the Bene’t man through the door. Simeon walked with Bartholomew to St Mary’s Church, where the beadles gathered for their daily instructions. Meadowman smiled warmly at the physician, recalling the peculiar business that had drawn them together in the summer of 1352. He readily agreed to do what Michael had asked, and hurried away immediately to speak to his brother-in-law the carpenter. Meanwhile, the other beadles were delighted that their duties entailed additional business in the taverns, and exchanged eager grins of pleasure.

Simeon seemed satisfied that an adequate investigation was under way, and left Bartholomew to return to his own College. With a feeling of disquiet, Bartholomew walked back to Michaelhouse, nodding absently to people he knew and oblivious to his sister’s frown of annoyance when he failed to return her cheerful wave.

He spent the rest of the day in Michael’s room, unashamedly using the monk’s convalescence as an excuse to avoid the soulless meals in the hall and the repressive atmosphere that prevailed during lectures. Langelee came to visit them and tried to discuss some College matter, but Bartholomew cut him off, not wanting Michaelhouse’s bitter politics to intrude on his small, temporary haven of peace.

Michael slept well that night, far better than did Bartholomew on his lumpy straw mattress. When Walter’s cockerel announced the beginning of a new day – which was still some hours off, according to the hour candle – Michael turned over and slept again, so Bartholomew used the silence and the Benedictine’s candle stub to work uninterrupted on his ever-growing treatise on fevers. When dawn finally broke, he set down his pen, clipped the lid back on the ink bottle and leaned back in his chair, wondering what the next day would bring.