A Masterly Murder

Chapter 5

‘MATT!’ BARTHOLOMEW TURNED AT THE sound of Michael’s peevish voice. He had been so engrossed in his writing that he had forgotten where he was sitting. It was mid-morning on Tuesday, and he was in Michael’s chamber, still enjoying a spell of blissful peace while the monk slept. ‘Matt! I feel terrible! I need a drink.’

Bartholomew filled a cup and held it to the monk’s lips. It was thrust aside indignantly.

‘That is water!’ Michael cried in dismay. ‘You have given me water! Is there no wine?’

‘You have been ill, Brother. Wine would not be good for you. Drink this first.’

‘I will not!’ said Michael, turning his head away and trying to fold his arms. He gave a howl of pain as he moved his elbow. ‘God’s blood, Matt! What have you done to me? I had a mere bee sting, and now I am in agony! Call yourself a physician?’

‘Do you have a complaint to make, Brother?’ asked Runham from the doorway. ‘Bartholomew told me at breakfast that you were feeling better today.’

‘I am not feeling better at all!’ snapped Michael churlishly. ‘There is no wine to be had and I am dying of thirst. That is what happens when you consult a physician – you start with a minor complaint and you end up on your deathbed.’

‘You were not on your deathbed, Brother …’ began Bartholomew tiredly.‘

‘I will send Bulbeck to you,’ said Runham. ‘Bartholomew should leave you alone, before he does you any more harm.’

‘Hear, hear,’ muttered Michael nastily, flexing his arm and plucking at the bandage that covered it. ‘I am ravenous. Tell Bulbeck to bring me something nice – a piece of chicken perhaps, or a tender sliver of beef. No vegetables, though. Green things are not good for the sick.’

With Michael well on the road to recovery, and even on the road to gluttony, Bartholomew instructed Bulbeck that on no account should he yield to the monk’s demand for wine that day and that the food was confined to a broth, and walked slowly down the stairs into the cool, drizzly grey of a late November morning. Runham followed him.

‘Deynman tells me you should have summoned Robin of Grantchester to amputate Brother Michael’s arm,’ he said.

At first Bartholomew thought he was joking, but the challenging expression on Runham’s face suggested otherwise. ‘Deynman is scarcely a reliable judge of such matters,’ he said, refraining from adding that anyone who listened to the opinions of a boy like Deynman should be locked away for their own safety. ‘And, as you can see, Michael has recovered perfectly well without my resorting to chopping parts of him off.’

‘That is more due to luck than anything you did,’ said Runham unpleasantly. ‘I suggest you stay away from Michael until he has fully recovered and is better able to fend off your murderous intentions.’

‘What?’ asked Bartholomew, shock making him dull-witted.

‘You heard,’ snapped Runham, striding away across the courtyard to his newly occupied Master’s rooms. As he left, he called over his shoulder: ‘And I will station Clippesby by Michael’s door to ensure that you do not disobey my orders.’

Bartholomew was too stunned to reply. The spy-turned-philosopher, Ralph de Langelee, came to stand next to him.

‘Well, well,’ he said, grimly amused. ‘Is there any truth in Runham’s accusations? Have you really been trying to do away with our favourite Benedictine while pretending to save his life?’

‘Do not be ridiculous,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Everyone is talking as though Michael was at Death’s door. He was not: he had a mild fever from an infected arm that put him off his food for two days.’

Langelee raised his eyebrows. ‘Two days is a long time for a man of Michael’s girth. But are you telling me that it has not been necessary for you to be at his bedside all this time?’

Bartholomew smiled. ‘I went out once or twice yesterday, but which would you prefer – the hall with Runham, or Michael’s peaceful chamber?’

Langelee smiled back. ‘I take your point.’

‘I met Simekyn Simeon yesterday, from Bene’t,’ said Bartholomew conversationally. ‘I understand he is an acquaintance of yours.’

‘Oh, yes, indeed,’ said Langelee proudly. ‘Simeon and I are close friends.’

‘What is he like?’ asked Bartholomew, seizing the opportunity to learn a little about the man who had imposed himself in Michael’s sickroom to ensure that the death of a colleague was properly investigated. ‘Is he honest?’

‘He is a courtier,’ replied Langelee matter-of-factly. ‘So, no. He is not honest. But he has good connections and is distantly related to the Earl of Suffolk.’

‘What has that to do with anything? I want to know whether he is truthful and whether what he says can be trusted.’

‘Sometimes, I imagine,’ said Langelee unhelpfully. ‘Has he been after Michael to investigate Wymundham’s death? He told me he would, because his lord, the Duke of Lancaster, will not want an unsolved murder besmirching the reputation of the College he has chosen to patronise.’

Bartholomew sighed, seeing Langelee was going to be of no use as a source of reliable information. ‘Michael has his beadles investigating the deaths of Wymundham and Raysoun.’

‘Raysoun, too?’ asked Langelee, startled. ‘Everyone believes he fell from the scaffolding, because he was a less than limber man who should not have been sipping from his wineskin while scaling the College walls.’

‘Perhaps that is true,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘But his friend Wymundham claimed he was pushed.’

‘Wymundham!’ spat Langelee in disgust. ‘He once tried to put his hand on my knee in St Bene’t’s Church. I would not believe anything he said!’

Bartholomew gazed up at the dripping eaves, not feeling energetic enough to point out that Wymundham’s penchant for other men’s legs was irrelevant to his honesty. ‘At least this rain is keeping the students from making a racket in the yard. I will be able to do some writing this afternoon.’

‘Then you should make the most of it,’ said Langelee. ‘Nowhere will be peaceful after tomorrow, because Master Runham’s building work is due to begin then.’

‘His what?’

‘His building work. I tried to tell you yesterday, but you declined to talk to me. He plans to reface the north wing – where you and Michael live – and to build a new courtyard behind the hall.’

‘But where will the money come from?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘We are always being told how desperate the College finances are.’

‘So they were,’ said Langelee. ‘But all that has changed since you have been closeted with that ungrateful monk. Runham has begged and borrowed – but I hope not stolen – enough cash for the work to start in the morning.’

‘Tomorrow?’ asked Bartholomew, his tired mind trying to come to grips with what Langelee was telling him. ‘But surely there are architects’ plans to be drawn up, and estimates of costs to be worked out before any work can begin?’

‘All done,’ said Langelee. ‘Runham is not a man to dally, it seems, and he says he wants his College to look its best. While you have been nursing your fat friend, the rest of the Fellows have had meeting after meeting, and it is all decided.’

‘But how could Runham raise the kind of money in two days needed to build a new court?’ asked Bartholomew, astounded. ‘It is not possible.’

‘It is, apparently,’ said Langelee. ‘He has taken out loans from the guilds of St Mary and Corpus Christi, and he has inveigled donations from a number of wealthy townsmen – including your brother-in-law. Oswald Stanmore gave us five marks.’

‘Oswald gave Michaelhouse five marks?’ asked Bartholomew, staggered.

Langelee nodded. ‘Plus there is the money Runham is saving from the servants’ wages now that he has dismissed them all. So, work will commence on two fronts. First, scaffolding will be erected on your building so that the stone can be renewed and a new roof put on. And second, foundations will be dug to the north of the hall for the new courtyard buildings.’

‘But–’

‘But nothing, Bartholomew,’ said Langelee. ‘The Master has spoken, and we must jump to obey his commands. Have you made your decision yet, by the way?’

‘What decision?’

‘Come on, man! You are like my undergraduates today, repeating everything I say like a baby learning its first words. The decision on whether you stay in Michaelhouse or whether you leave us.’

‘Runham cannot force me to make that choice,’ said Bartholomew, leaning against the door jamb and turning his face to the sky, feeling the rain patter on to it.

‘No, but he can make life very difficult for you if you do not,’ said Langelee. He gave a vindictive grin, and poked Bartholomew hard in the ribs with one of his powerful elbows. ‘I imagine you are already regretting not voting for me as Master, eh?’

‘I am regretting not voting for the Devil as Master,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You should not have brought up that business about Michael being in league with Oxford, you know. He would have made a much better Master than Runham.’

‘But not better than me,’ replied Langelee. ‘And I saw Michael as my main competitor, so I had no choice but to tell the others what I knew about him.’

‘You had a choice,’ said Bartholomew softly. ‘You were once a spy; you know perfectly well that things are not always as they seem. It was unprofessional of you to disclose Michael’s dealings with Heytesbury of Merton.’

‘Oh, I am well aware that Michael would never allow Oxford to triumph over Cambridge,’ said Langelee airily. ‘But that is irrelevant. My sole objective was to prevent Michael from pitting himself against me in my bid for the Mastership – and I was successful in that.’

‘But at what cost?’ asked Bartholomew bitterly. ‘You thwarted a good man and now we have a tyrant. All these dismissals of servants and new buildings that we cannot afford are your fault.’

‘Now just a moment,’ began Langelee angrily. ‘It is not my fault that the others voted for Runham. If they had voted for me, everything would have been all right. I am an upright and moral man.’

‘How is Julianna, by the way?’ asked Bartholomew, recalling this ‘upright and moral’ man’s dalliance with a town merchant’s niece.

Langelee gazed at him sharply. ‘Why?’

‘Because you were once close,’ said Bartholomew casually. ‘I was almost a witness at your wedding ceremony, if you recall.’

‘That was a long time ago,’ said Langelee shortly. ‘We seldom see each other now.’

‘Not even in Grantchester church?’ asked Bartholomew wickedly, recalling a rumour Michael had mentioned that summer, that Langelee had wed the lively Julianna in the seclusion of a small parish church a mile or so from the town. Fellows were not permitted to marry, and Langelee had been faced with an agonising choice of his own – wife and family, or a career in Michaelhouse. It seemed he had been unable to make up his mind, and, like a child offered two types of cake, reached out with greedy fingers and grabbed both.

‘That is none of your affair,’ snapped Langelee. He took Bartholomew’s arm in a painful pinch and bundled him into the medicine store, where they would not be overheard. ‘What have you heard about this?’

‘Nothing recently,’ said Bartholomew. He was not inclined to begin an argument with the loutish philosopher – especially since Langelee liked to settle debates with his ham-sized fists – and he regretted his incaution in mentioning Langelee’s secret marriage.

Langelee’s grip intensified, and the physician winced. Immediately, Langelee released him.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I forget sometimes that I am a strong man, and I occasionally bruise people when I intend no harm.’

‘Then you should learn not to go around grabbing them,’ said Bartholomew, rubbing his arm. Langelee was right – he was a strong man, and his vicelike grip hurt.

‘Can I share a secret with you?’ Langelee asked, out of the blue. He closed the door and furtively looked both ways out of the window before fastening the shutters securely.

‘No!’ said Bartholomew in alarm. ‘I do not want to be let into secrets that necessitate locked doors and closed windows. Please keep whatever it is to yourself.’

‘I did marry Julianna at Grantchester church,’ said Langelee, ignoring the physician’s appeal. ‘But once we had the opportunity to get to know each other, we found we were incompatible.’

‘I told you that before you married,’ said Bartholomew, recalling the arrogant, thick-skinned Julianna and wondering what had attracted Langelee to her in the first place. Or her to him.

‘So you did, but it is not helpful to mention it now, is it? Anyway, there I was with a pregnant wife I did not want on one hand, and a glorious future ahead of me as a University scholar on the other. I could hardly let the likes of Julianna spoil my chances for a successful career, could I?’

‘I suppose not,’ said Bartholomew, heartily wishing he were somewhere else. ‘Look, Langelee, if you are about to confess that you did away with her, I do not want to know.’

‘Of course I did not do away with her,’ said Langelee indignantly. ‘What kind of man do you take me for?’

Bartholomew did not reply.

‘The agreement we made was mutual – and it did not involve anyone being done away with. I gave her nearly all the money we had, including a nice little manor up near Peterborough. She is there now, ruling the roost with a rod of iron, I imagine.’

‘But you are married,’ said Bartholomew. ‘So you cannot be a Fellow of Michaelhouse.’

‘You sound like Runham the lawyer,’ said Langelee distastefully. ‘But I am not married actually, because we had the arrangement annulled. It cost a fortune, I can tell you! So, everything is all right; it was not all right for a while, but it is now.’

‘I am glad to hear it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But why did you tell me? It is the kind of thing you would be better revealing to nobody.’

‘It is good to speak to someone about it,’ said Langelee. ‘Now we share something personal. You can confide something in return, if you like.’

‘I am sorry, but I have no secrets that come anywhere close to the magnitude of yours.’

‘How very dull,’ said Langelee, disappointed. ‘Are you sure? Is there nothing you can dredge up? You must have done something interesting in your life. Did you ever deliberately kill a patient you did not like? Or what about your affair with that whore – Matilde? Is there nothing salacious to tell me about that?’

‘There is not,’ said Bartholomew shortly. ‘And I swore an oath to save lives, not help people into their graves, so I have nothing to confess to you along those lines. But why do you want to know such things?’

‘Shared confidences make people friends, like you and Brother Michael. If you were my friend, you would vote for me as Master, as you were going to vote for Michael.’

Bartholomew was not too tired to be amused by Langelee’s contorted logic. ‘But we have a Master,’ was all he said. ‘His name is John Runham, remember?’

‘I know that,’ said Langelee testily. ‘But what I am saying is that if Runham dies conveniently, I want you to vote for me as his replacement.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew. He rubbed a hand through his hair. ‘This has been a sensational week at Michaelhouse: Kenyngham resigns, Runham takes over, I am given an ultimatum to choose between my teaching or my medicine, Cynric is dismissed, and you are already preparing to step into Runham’s shoes.’

‘I am merely readying myself, in case he has an accident or something.’

Bartholomew gazed at him in the gloom. ‘I hope you are not planning to arrange one for him.’

Langelee sighed. ‘I would, if I could be sure I would get away with it, but it is too risky. I shall put my faith in God instead.’

‘I do not want to hear any more of this,’ said Bartholomew, trying to push past Langelee to the door. Langelee blocked his way, and with a resigned sigh, knowing he would never manage to best the philosopher in a shoving contest, Bartholomew retreated and sat on the edge of one of the benches that lined the walls.

‘I know what is making you so irritable,’ said Langelee, with sudden inspiration. ‘It is Matilde! She is angry because you never bother to visit her. But do not worry – she will come round. Take her a bit of ribbon or something. Then she will fly into your arms, and it will be you confessing to me about an annulled marriage.’

The door snapped open suddenly, making them both jump. Bartholomew had been sitting on the workbench with Langelee standing next to him. At the crash of the door, they leapt apart. Runham stood there, regarding them suspiciously.

‘What are you two up to?’ he demanded. ‘It had better not have been any improper behaviour.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Langelee, puzzled.

‘I mean lustful behaviour,’ elaborated Runham.

‘But there are no women in here,’ said Langelee, frowning in bemusement. He suddenly realised what Runham was implying and his jaw dropped in shock. Bartholomew looked from the gaping philosopher to the stern, prissy features of the new Master, and began to laugh.

The following day, the College was filled with the sounds of frantic activity. Scaffolding was being erected around the north wing, and foundations were being dug for the buildings that would form the new court. Hammers pounded on wood and nails, saws scratched, metal clinked and rang, and workmen called and yelled in casually jovial voices. It was almost impossible to teach in the hall – not only was the noise distracting, but the students were far more interested in what was happening outside than in their lessons.

Bartholomew persisted until mid-morning, but when Langelee, Kenyngham and Runham gave up, and their students’ delighted voices joined the racket outside, he was forced to concede defeat. Even William, whose stentorian tones usually rose energetically to such a challenge, threw up his hands in resignation and allowed his small group of novices to escape with the others. Only Michael’s Benedictines persisted, retreating to the abandoned servants’ chambers to discuss St Augustine’s Sermones in low, reverent voices. Although Bartholomew had recommended that his own students study specific sections of Galen’s De Regimine Acutorum, he knew very well that none of them had the slightest intention of doing so.

Runham had made his presence felt in other aspects of College life, besides disrupting the teaching routine. He had decided that fires in the hall and conclave were a sinful waste of money, and had decreed that scholars could only light them if they were prepared to buy the fuel themselves. Since Runham himself was virtually the only one able to afford such an extravagance, Bartholomew and his colleagues found themselves teaching rows of unhappy faces bundled inside blankets, rugs, and even wall hangings as the students tried to keep themselves warm. Bartholomew’s own hands and feet were so cold that he could barely feel them, and he was not looking forward to the rest of the winter, when wet clothes would take days to dry and there would be nowhere to go to escape the chill. He decided he might have to visit his sister and Matilde more often – both were wealthy enough to have a cheerful fire in the hearth.

‘How is Michael?’ asked William pleasantly, as they watched the activity in the yard together from the window in the conclave.

‘Better.’

‘But he keeps to his bed,’ observed William. ‘Is he malingering, then?’

‘Of course not,’ said Bartholomew, not entirely truthfully, given that there was no reason at all why the monk should still be in bed. But since Bartholomew had also taken advantage of Michael’s illness to avoid meals in College, he felt he was not in a position to be critical. ‘It is best that he recovers completely before resuming his duties.’

‘His duties,’ mused William, a predatory gleam in his eye. ‘I was planning to discuss those with you.’ Bartholomew regarded him warily. ‘Now that Brother Michael is incapacitated, I wondered whether I should act as Senior Proctor in his stead. I–’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew hastily. ‘Michael has beadles doing that.’

‘But there are a number of suspicious deaths that need to be investigated,’ pressed William. ‘There are those deaths at Bene’t College – Raysoun and Wymundham. At least one of them was murdered, and the case needs a man like me to get to the bottom of the matter.’

‘Michael has already started his own enquiries,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You should not initiate an investigation of your own, because you might interfere with his.’

‘Then I will concentrate on the brutal slaying of that blameless Franciscan novice – Brother Patrick from Ovyng Hostel,’ said William. ‘It seems no one has the courage to admit to being a witness, and I know Michael has no idea how to begin to solve that crime. I will do it for him.’

Bartholomew sensed that Michael would have to prise himself from his sickbed if he did not want William agitating the uneasy relationship between the Franciscans and the Dominicans. There was nothing Bartholomew could say that would encourage the friar to leave well alone, and he hoped he would not be obliged to accompany William on Michael’s behalf, to ensure the friar did not cause too much trouble.

William gestured to the building work in the yard below with a sweep of one of his powerful arms. ‘I do not like this,’ he boomed in a confidential bellow. ‘It is all happening too fast.’

‘You must have been at the meetings that have been held over the past couple of days to discuss it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You should have made your point then.’

‘Meetings!’ spat William in disgust. ‘That is what Runham calls them, is it? To me, “meetings” implies an exchange of views, where people listen to each other. These were not meetings: they were sessions where Runham told us what would happen. And it is not good to plunge the College into this kind of disorder so abruptly. In my experience, it is better to go more slowly.’

‘It is better to act quickly, while we have the money to hand,’ said Runham, suddenly appearing behind them and making them both jump. ‘Why wait months for the work to be completed when we can have a splendid new College finished within weeks?’

Bartholomew rubbed a hand through his hair and turned away. Personally, he felt William was right, and that time should be allowed for foundations to settle and for timbers to weather. The speed at which the building work was to be completed seemed an ostentatious and unnecessary display of Runham’s new authority.

‘This morning I noticed that Justus’s body is still in the porch,’ he said, partly because the fact that the book-bearer’s continued presence in the church was beginning to be a problem, and partly to prevent William from arguing with Runham. ‘When do you intend to have his requiem?’

‘Justus was a suicide,’ replied Runham. ‘He will not have a requiem.’

Bartholomew was not surprised that Runham had followed the traditional line of the Church, although he felt the judgement was overly harsh. ‘But regardless, he needs to be buried. We cannot keep him in the church indefinitely. It will not be much longer before he poses a threat to the health and well-being of St Michael’s parishioners.’

‘A threat to health!’ spat Runham in disdain. ‘The dead cannot harm us. All that nonsense about dangerous miasmas rising from corpses is just an excuse for physicians to demand high fees for remedies and consultations.’

‘But Justus is beginning to reek,’ declared William. ‘And I, for one, would rather pray without a festering corpse for company. Is that why you have those powerfully scented flowers on Wilson’s grave – to disguise the stench emanating from the dead who cry out to be placed in the ground?’

‘It is his kinsmen’s responsibility to bury him,’ hedged Runham. ‘Osmun and Ulfo of Bene’t.’

‘It is ours,’ stated William uncompromisingly. ‘He was Michaelhouse’s servant, and Michaelhouse is morally bound to deal with his corpse.’

‘Brother Michael is asking for you, Bartholomew,’ said Runham, unable to keep the disapproval from his voice as he changed a subject that was becoming uncomfortable. ‘I cannot imagine why, after you almost killed him with your dangerous ministrations. The man must be weak in his wits.’

‘Matthew would never harm another Michaelhouse man,’ announced William, not at all truthfully; Bartholomew was feeling very much like harming Runham at that precise moment. ‘He takes his oath of allegiance to the College seriously – as do I.’

‘Does he now?’ asked Runham, regarding Bartholomew through his hooded eyes with an expression that Bartholomew could not fathom. ‘We will see about that when he makes his choice whether to continue to grace the College with his unseemly presence, or whether to do the honourable thing and leave us.’

‘You cannot force him to resign,’ came an unfamiliar voice. They turned in surprise to see that the cheery Suttone had been listening to their conversation from across the room. He came to stand with them at the window. ‘I paid attention to the statutes that were read to Clippesby and me the other night. The Master cannot make a Fellow leave, if he does not want to go.’

‘He can if that Fellow brings the College into disrepute,’ snapped Runham, not pleased to be lectured about the statutes by the College’s most recent member. ‘And how I deal with my senior Fellows is none of your concern.’

‘But Matthew has not brought the College into disrepute,’ objected William.

‘He has!’ snarled Runham. ‘He attempted to kill Brother Michael with his poisonous salves.’

‘What?’ cried Bartholomew, scarcely believing his ears. ‘How did you–’

‘How did I know?’ interrupted Runham furiously. ‘Because Michael told me himself. It happened the night of my election, when you defied my wishes and stayed out in the town after I had expressly ordered you to return to the College as soon as you had escorted Father Paul to the Friary.’

‘And that was another evil deed,’ muttered William. ‘Paul’s treatment.’

Runham ignored him, his attention still on Bartholomew. ‘When you did deign to return to Michaelhouse that night, you immediately slunk off to your bed, but Michael talked to me for a while.’

Runham and Michael had been arguing, Bartholomew recalled, remembering their angry voices in the hall outside his room as he had been undressing for bed. Runham had tried to tell Michael that he could no longer leave the College for his proctorial duties, and Michael had informed Runham exactly what he had thought about such a preposterous suggestion.

‘Michael told me then that you had put a salve on his injured arm to prevent itching – not in the comfort of the College, but outside in the street, where no one would see you.’

‘Is this true?’ asked Suttone, regarding Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘Did you treat Brother Michael’s arm in the street, rather than in your room?’

‘No!’ said Bartholomew. ‘I mean, yes, but it was not–’

‘And this salve contained a poison that all but took the poor man’s life,’ Runham forged on. ‘And then Bartholomew tried to kill Michael by refusing to allow Robin of Grantchester to amputate his arm. Deynman told me so.’

‘I neither have the time nor the inclination to listen to such nonsense,’ said William haughtily. ‘You have taken leave of your senses! Matthew is not the type to commit murder. I have a feel for these things.’

He made to leave, considering the conversation over, but Runham caught his arm. Angrily, the friar pulled away. William was a strong man, and righteous indignation made him careless. As he tried to haul his arm from the Master’s fingers and the Master suddenly released it, William’s hand shot up and caught Runham a blow under the nose.

With a yowl of pain, Runham danced backward, his eyes streaming with tears and blood flowing freely from his nose. His new henchman, the Dominican Clippesby, heard his cry and raced into the conclave to see what was happening. When he saw Runham’s blood-splattered face, he stopped dead and glared accusingly at the others.

‘What have you done?’ he demanded, his wild eyes boring into each of them in turn. ‘Which one of you struck the Master of your College?’

‘William! And he did it deliberately!’ raged Runham.

‘It was an accident,’ said Bartholomew, rummaging in his bag for a piece of cloth to hold to Runham’s nose. ‘Sit down and put your head between your knees. William will fetch some water.’

‘It was no accident!’ stormed Runham, his voice muffled by the cloth Bartholomew pressed against his face to stem the bleeding. ‘William deliberately struck me.’

‘Easy,’ said Bartholomew soothingly, noting the deep redness that suffused the man’s face. ‘You will give yourself a seizure if you do not calm down.’

‘You will give me a seizure, you mean,’ stormed Runham, snatching the cloth from him and flinging it to the floor. ‘What is that? A rag infused with poison, so that I will die when it is put to my face?’

‘Do not be ridiculous!’ snapped William irritably. ‘Do you think Matthew carries poisoned cloths around with him, waiting for an opportunity like this? Quite frankly, I do not think you worth the effort.’

‘Insolence on top of assault,’ screeched Runham, verging on the hysterical. The great veins in his neck and face were thick with tension and rage, and his colour was far from healthy. ‘That is it! That is it!’

‘That is what?’ asked Clippesby, clearly itching to do something to rectify the great wrong that had been inflicted on the Master, but not sure what.

‘That is the last straw. William is suspended!’

‘Suspended from what?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Even the Master of a College cannot prevent a friar from carrying out his religious duties. Only his prior can do that.’

‘He is suspended from his Fellowship,’ howled Runham, small flecks of spittle flying from his mouth as he spoke. ‘Look at me! I am marred for life, because he struck me with murder in his heart. I will not have him loose in my College. Clippesby, Bartholomew, Suttone – I order you to escort him to his room and lock him in.’

‘You cannot do that,’ said William furiously, fending off Clippesby as the Dominican rashly surged forward to do his Master’s bidding. ‘The statutes say–’

‘You personally signed a new set of statutes two days ago which stipulated that the Master has the final say in disciplinary matters,’ shouted Runham. His eyes glittered with smug satisfaction when he saw William blanch. ‘Hah! You see? You do remember!’

‘I did not sign any new statutes,’ said Bartholomew. ‘When was this?’

William’s mouth was working stupidly, although no sound came out. Suttone regarded Runham nervously, clearly uncomfortable at having witnessed the scene that had been played out in the conclave. But Clippesby, like Runham, wore an expression of grim satisfaction.

‘Your signature on these new statutes was not required, Bartholomew,’ said Runham, wiping his nose with his hand and leaving a vivid smear of red across one cheek. ‘You were trying to dispatch Brother Michael at the time, and declined to attend a meeting of the Fellows. There are eight of us, and I needed five signatures for a majority – me, William, Clippesby, Suttone and Langelee.’

‘But what did these statutes say?’ asked Bartholomew, looking from Runham to William with the distinct impression that he would not like what he was about to hear.

‘For a start, they give me the authority to lock that dangerous fanatic where he will do no harm,’ said Runham, eyeing William with naked hatred. ‘So, you had better do as I say, or you will be joining him.’

‘There is no need for them to accompany me,’ said William coldly, sensing defeat and deciding to leave with dignity. ‘I will take myself to my room, thank you.’

He turned on his heel and stalked out. Runham nodded to Clippesby, who ran after the friar. With a sense of foreboding, Bartholomew started after them, certain that if anything could rekindle the Franciscan’s fiery temper, it would be the thought of a Dominican checking to see if he kept his word. He was not mistaken.

William became aware that he was being followed down the stairs, and that it was Clippesby who dared to question his honour. He gave a roar of anger. Clippesby shrieked in horror as the Franciscan’s powerful hands fastened around his throat; the noise quickly became a strangled gurgling as William’s fingers began to tighten.

‘William! Let him go!’ yelled Bartholomew, struggling to pull the friar away from Clippesby. In the confines of the spiral staircase Bartholomew could not find a good position from which to intervene. ‘For God’s sake, William! You will kill him!’

‘He is the Devil’s spawn!’ howled William in a frenzy, squeezing tighter still. ‘He has been doing Runham’s dirty work for him ever since he set foot in Michaelhouse. He is not fit to tread the same floors as good and honest men.’

‘Then he is not worth hanging for. Let him go.’

Bartholomew managed to insert himself between the struggling men, and used the wall as a brace to lever William away. The Franciscan lost his grip, and Clippesby began to take great rasping breaths as he tottered sideways, holding his bruised neck.

Seeing William’s temper was still far from spent, Bartholomew grabbed his arm to prevent him from renewing the attack. With a howl of frustration and anger, William gave Bartholomew a hefty shove. Unprepared for the sudden move, Bartholomew lost his balance and tumbled head over heels down the stairs to land in a helpless sprawl of arms and legs at the feet of Agatha, who happened to be walking through the porch towards the kitchens.

Agatha gazed at him in astonishment, then stood over him, waving her meaty fists protectively. William, whose anger had dissipated the instant Bartholomew had disappeared down the steps, was horrified. But when he dashed after the physician, he found himself faced with an enraged laundress – a sight at which the bravest of men balked. William took several steps backwards.

‘I am sorry, Matthew,’ he said in an unsteady voice. ‘I did not mean …’

‘It was you who pushed him, was it?’ demanded Agatha dangerously. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself, Father! Brawling like some ale-sodden apprentice! And do not hover there thinking you will get a second chance. Come near Matthew, and I will tear you limb from limb.’

No one who knew Agatha doubted that she meant every word, and, not wanting William’s attack on Clippesby to become Agatha’s attack on William, Bartholomew scrambled quickly to his feet, to place himself between them. He heard the furious voice of Runham in the stairs as he tried to squeeze his way past the prostrate Clippesby.

‘William, run!’ said Bartholomew urgently.

‘What?’ The Franciscan, his ponderous mind bewildered by the rapid sequence of events, was slow to understand.

‘Go to your friary and stay there until all the fuss has died down. I will send you word when the time is right for you to make your peace here.’

‘I do not deserve your kindness,’ said William, hoarse with emotion. ‘I did not mean–’

‘He is coming!’ said Bartholomew, hearing footsteps as Clippesby was manoeuvred out of the way. ‘Go, quickly, before it is too late. Runham will not settle for locking you in your room now – he will have you arrested and charged with assault.’

William gave him a hunted look, edged warily past the angry Agatha, and raced across the courtyard. He had just reached the gate when Runham emerged from the stairwell.

‘After him!’ the new Master yelled, his face suffused with red fury. ‘He is escaping! Do not just stand there, Bartholomew! Give chase!’

Frustrated almost beyond words when he saw his quarry haul open the gate and escape into the lane, Runham gave Bartholomew a shove to encourage him to pursue the friar, but backed off quickly when Agatha advanced purposefully.

‘Call her off!’ he screeched in a voice thick with panic. ‘She has the look of madness about her.’

‘I am not some wild animal to be “called off”,’ snarled Agatha, although with her fierce teeth and ferocious glare, even Bartholomew was sceptical. ‘Do not think you can treat me like dirt, as you have everyone else in the College. I am Agatha, one of God’s chosen.’

‘What?’ whispered Runham, scarcely believing his ears.

‘I was chosen by God to survive the Death, because He has plans for me. Only evil men – like your cousin – were taken by the pestilence.’

‘That is heresy!’ howled Runham, using the bewildered Clippesby as a barrier between him and the laundress. Foolishly imagining that the frail body of a Dominican afforded him protection from Agatha, he became rash. ‘I will have you dismissed for saying that!’

‘Will you now,’ said Agatha in a voice that, although low, dripped with menace. She batted Clippesby out of the way as if he were no more than a fly, and began to advance on Runham with an expression of pure loathing on her face.

‘Help me, Bartholomew!’ shrieked Runham, realising that Suttone was standing at the foot of the stairs, blocking his escape. He was trapped, and Agatha clearly meant business. ‘Tell her I was joking! Of course I would not dismiss her.’

Bartholomew was tempted to stand back and let Agatha have her wicked way with the Master, but he did not want to see Agatha in the proctors’ gaol any more than he had William, so he stepped forward and took her gently but firmly by the arm.

‘Leave him, Agatha,’ he said softly. ‘There has been more than enough violence in Michaelhouse for one day.’

‘As long as he lives to walk in our halls and eat our food, there has not been enough violence,’ snapped Agatha, before turning and striding towards the kitchens, her skirts swinging purposefully around her substantial hips.

That evening, the atmosphere in the College was tense. The Fellows gathered in the conclave, where Suttone did his best to keep a conversation going, and the students in the hall were unusually subdued. Runham sat in the conclave’s best chair, with his hands folded over his paunch, and regarded Suttone’s increasingly desperate attempts to initiate a civilised discussion with an amused disdain.

Eventually, no longer able to bear the sneering presence of the Master or Suttone’s painful determination not to sit in morose silence, Bartholomew wished his colleagues goodnight, and escaped with relief into the chill, damp evening air. He stretched and yawned, but it was too early to go to sleep. He wondered what he could do. He had used all his candles, and so could not work on his treatise on fevers or read. He saw Beadle Meadowman walking across the yard, to make his report on the investigation into the Bene’t deaths to Michael, but did not like to interrupt them just because he was at a loose end and wanted someone to talk to.

He turned when he sensed someone else emerging from the hall, having also escaped the oppressive atmosphere of the conclave. It was Suttone.

‘I found I could not take any more of that,’ said the Carmelite friar with a grin. ‘Once you left, I realised that no one else was even listening to me. Langelee has drunk so much that he is sound asleep; Kenyngham is praying; Clippesby is having a conversation with himself in a corner; and Runham was doing nothing but enjoying my discomfort.’

‘Clippesby was talking to himself?’ asked Bartholomew warily.

Suttone nodded. ‘He does it a lot. I am surprised you have never noticed. The worrying thing is that he answers himself, too, as if he thinks he is more than one person.’

‘Lots of scholars do that,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is the best way to make sure you never lose a disputation.’

Suttone laughed. ‘Can I interest you in a cup of ale in the kitchen? Agatha told me she would have a pan of it mulling for when Runham drove me away with his unpleasant company. I thought she was being unkind, but it seems to me that Agatha is a very astute woman.’

Bartholomew followed the Carmelite into the College kitchens, where Agatha sat in a great wicker chair near the embers of the fire. The room was warm, and smelled of baking bread, wood-smoke and the old fat that had splattered from roasting meat into the hearth. The College cat was curled in her lap, and she stroked it gently with her rough, thick-fingered hands. She smiled when the two scholars entered, and gestured that they were to help themselves to the ale that simmered over the glowing remains of the fire.

‘I knew it would not be long before you joined me,’ she said. ‘I am only surprised the rest of the Fellows are not here, too, leaving that fat old slug to his own devices.’

‘I do hope you are not referring to our noble Master,’ said Suttone mildly. He took a deep draught of the ale, and then refilled his cup. ‘This is good, Agatha. Did you brew it yourself?’

Agatha favoured him with a coy smile. ‘You know how to flatter a woman, Master Suttone. But I buy ale from the Carmelite Friary for us servants; the College brewer provides that cloudy stuff that the scholars drink.’

‘The servants drink better ale than we do?’ asked Bartholomew, startled.

Agatha cackled. ‘You lot down anything I decide to put on the dinner table, but we servants are a little more discriminating. Only the best ale appears for our meals. Since you pay us such miserable wages, we have to reward ourselves in other ways.’

‘Clippesby told me that you attended a fatal accident at Bene’t last week,’ said Suttone to Bartholomew, as he settled himself comfortably on a stool near the hearth. ‘Is that true, or is it something he has imagined?’

‘It is true,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I wish I had not, though, because the colleague who sat with Raysoun as he died claimed he had been pushed, while everyone else seems convinced he fell. Then, two days later, this colleague also died – in circumstances that are suspicious, to say the least – and so I do not know what to believe.’

Suttone regarded him gravely. ‘You think this colleague may have been murdered because he claimed Raysoun was pushed? Lord, Matthew! That is a nasty business!’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘Bene’t does seem to have some problems.’

‘Clippesby was supposed to take a Fellowship at Bene’t,’ said Suttone thoughtfully. ‘Raysoun, the man who fell – or was pushed – from the scaffolding, had some connection with the Dominicans at Huntingdon, where Clippesby hails from. Clippesby told me that Raysoun arranged him an interview with the Master of Bene’t, but said that the meeting did not go well.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.

Suttone shrugged. ‘It is difficult to say. Clippesby seems to believe that the Master took against him for some undetermined reason. Personally, I suspect that the Master had some reservations regarding Clippesby’s suitability, and so recommended he apply to Michaelhouse instead.’

Agatha gave a guffaw of laughter. ‘I must tell Brother Michael that one! The subtlety of that move by Bene’t against another College will make him smile.’

‘I do not think so,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He would only find it amusing if Michaelhouse had foisted an “unsuitable” student on Bene’t, not the other way around.’

‘Clippesby told me that he was shocked when he saw Raysoun,’ said Suttone. ‘Apparently, the man had been a cheerful sort of fellow, given to playing practical jokes on his friends. But when Clippesby met him recently, he said he had changed. He had become gloomy and listless, and drank more than he used to.’

‘Perhaps drinking and gloominess are connected,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It seems wine led poor Justus to take his own life.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Suttone. ‘Runham’s book-bearer who came from Lincoln. It is a pity he died: I would like to have met a man from my own city.’

‘Justus had Bene’t connections, too,’ put in Agatha. ‘His cousins are the two Bene’t porters, Osmun and Ulfo. Justus wanted to work at Bene’t when he first came from Lincoln a year ago, but they had no money to pay an additional porter, so he went to work for Runham instead.’

‘Langelee also seems to have an association with Bene’t,’ said Suttone. ‘If I had a penny for every time he told me he was going to visit Simekyn Simeon (the Duke of Lancaster’s man) at Bene’t, I would be a rich man.’

‘And I have Bene’t connections, do not forget,’ said Agatha. ‘I have a cousin who is a cook there, and he has been pressing me to honour Bene’t with my services.’

‘I hope you do not,’ said Bartholomew. He smiled at her. ‘Where would Suttone and I go on a cold winter’s night for good ale and entertaining company?’

Agatha puffed herself up. ‘True. Michaelhouse would not survive long without me here to oversee matters. But Bene’t is offering me twice the salary that you pay, and I get a bigger room. It knows how to treat its valued members of staff.’

‘I could have a word with Runham, and see whether we can afford to give you more,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You are right: we should pay you what you deserve.’

Agatha reached out and chucked him under the chin. ‘You are a kind man, Matthew. I will miss you most of all if I leave. But I cannot say that I relish the prospect of remaining here with that Runham at the helm. He is like a great fat spider, spinning webs to ensnare anyone unfortunate enough to cross his path. And I will never forgive him for what he did to Father William today.’

‘That was an unedifying incident,’ agreed Suttone. ‘Father William is not an easy man to like, but he is loyal, open and I think generous underneath all his religious bluster.’

‘Michaelhouse will not be the same without him,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘Still, perhaps it will all blow over in time. Then William can come back and make his apologies to Runham.’

‘William can apologise all he likes,’ said Suttone. ‘But Runham will never allow him to make his peace. I saw the triumph in Runham’s eyes when William struck him: he knew at that point that he had the excuse he needs to rid himself of the man.’

‘But why would Runham want William to leave?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘He is a reliable teacher and his students seldom cause us any trouble.’

Suttone and Agatha exchanged a mystified glance.

‘I am surprised you need to ask that, Matthew,’ said Agatha. ‘I have heard you complain often enough that you cannot teach while William rants and raves in the hall.’

‘And his fanatical dislike of the Dominicans may prove dangerous for Michaelhouse,’ added Suttone. ‘It is not good to harbour men who hate another Order within our walls in as uneasy a town as Cambridge. It would not do for Michaelhouse to become the focus of an attack by Dominicans enraged by claims of heresy by our resident Franciscan.’

‘But it is irrelevant now, anyway,’ said Agatha, staring into the dying embers of the fire. ‘William has been driven out. Which of you will be next, I wonder?’

The following day saw the first sunshine they had experienced for days. Bartholomew woke at dawn, heartened to see the streaks of pale blue and gold striping the banks of grey clouds. He walked with the others to mass in St Michael’s Church, watching the windows as the first delicate strands of sunshine began to dapple the chancel floor. He was less sanguine when the same sun caught the gilt on Wilson’s grotesque effigy and set it glittering and gleaming like some pagan idol, but tried to ignore it and concentrate on the reading from the Old Testament.

When the mass was over, he peeled off from the end of the procession and walked across the courtyard to check on Michael. The monk was sleeping, although a number of empty dishes suggested that Agatha had already brought him his breakfast. He stirred, and muttered something about Yolande de Blaston, the prostitute. Afraid he might hear something he would rather not know, Bartholomew beat a hasty retreat and joined his colleagues in the hall.

The uninspiring meal – watery oatmeal and equally watery ale – was eaten in silence, while the Bible Scholar read about the trials and tribulations of King David. Runham’s own meal was supplemented with some raisins and a bowl of nuts from his personal supplies. Kenyngham seemed sad and distracted, barely touching his food and not even listening to the sacred words of the Bible Scholar, which suggested to Bartholomew that he was deeply unhappy. Langelee was nursing yet another of his gargantuan wine-induced headaches, and was irritable with the harried servant who single-handedly struggled to attend the Fellows – Runham had dismissed his two assistants.

Next to Runham was Clippesby, whose eyes darted around the room as though looking for hidden assassins. He ate like a bird, in jerky, pecking movements, almost as if he were afraid that if he devoted too much attention to his meal, something dreadful might happen to him. Technically, Clippesby should not have been sitting so near the Master: as one of Michaelhouse’s newest members, he was obliged to sit farthest from the seat of power. But no one else wanted Runham’s company, and when Clippesby had defiantly selected the seat, no one cared to wrest it from him.

Suttone looked as grave as his colleagues. His jovial face was glum, and the merry twinkle in his eyes, which Bartholomew had so liked at their first meeting, was gone. As if he sensed he was the object of scrutiny, he glanced up at Bartholomew. The physician indicated with a grimace that it was time the meal was brought to an end, and Suttone gave him a quick grin of agreement. The genial sunniness returned, and Bartholomew suspected that Suttone’s sombre expression had been cultivated to suit the timbre of the meal.

Runham read the grace in unnecessarily sepulchral tones, and the meal was over. The students scraped their benches on the flagged floor as they made their escape, returning to their rooms to collect pens, parchment and as many blankets as they could carry for a morning of teaching in the chilly hall. The few remaining servants ran to clear away the dishes, and then to dismantle the trestle tables and lean them against the screen at the far end of the room. The benches were left as they were, so that the masters could move them as they were needed.

‘My Carmelite brethren warned me that life as a scholar might be grim,’ said Suttone, walking across the yard with Bartholomew as they went to collect the books they would need that morning. ‘But I told him I was not going to some poor hostel with a dormitory-cum-refectory-cum-lecture-room-cum-laundry. I told them I was going to Michaelhouse, one of the greatest houses of learning in the country, where scholars live a life of respectable comfort, and where education is placed above all else.’

Bartholomew laughed.

‘I do not think teaching is among Runham’s principal objectives,’ Suttone continued. ‘I think his main aim is to create a glorious temple, where scholars can sit in neat little rows and shiver together, wishing they were somewhere else.’

‘I hope he changes his mind about the fires when it snows,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Everyone will succumb to fevers and chills if there is nowhere to dry wet clothes and nowhere warm to sit.’

‘We will be losing our students to the more congenial atmosphere of the taverns,’ agreed Suttone. ‘But perhaps Runham will loosen his stranglehold when he learns he does not need to prove his power to us at every turn.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘But Michaelhouse still has many advantages over the hostels. We have some faithful servants – Harold, Ned …’

‘All dismissed,’ interrupted Suttone. ‘What else?’

‘Well, not the food,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And our wines leave something to be desired.’

‘They certainly do,’ laughed Suttone. ‘I did not think that any respectable establishment would stoop to provide Widow’s Wine for its members. When I first tasted it, I thought someone was playing a practical joke on us newcomers. But then I saw the rest of you drinking it, and I felt obliged to follow suit. Nasty stuff, that. My priory in Lincoln keeps it for cleaning the drains.’

‘That bad, is it?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I thought it was just rough wine.’

‘Very rough wine,’ corrected Suttone.

Bartholomew continued with his list of Michaelhouse’s virtues, not wanting the genial Suttone to leave the College and allow Runham to appoint a man of his own choosing in his place. ‘We have a fine collection of grammar and rhetoric texts, and there will be plenty of opportunity for academic debate when things have settled down.’

‘Who with?’

‘Well, there is Langelee,’ began Bartholomew. He saw the dubious expression on Suttone’s face and hurried on. ‘Runham is a clever lawyer who argues brilliantly when the mood takes him; Kenyngham understands the scriptures better than anyone else I know, and will certainly give you cause for contemplation; Father Paul–’

‘Paul is dismissed.’

‘Right. Michael’s logic is flawless, and he is an entertaining sparring partner.’

‘And there is you,’ said Suttone, smiling again. ‘I would like to hear more of the theories that everyone seems to believe are so heretical. In my experience, heretical notions often need only a little tweaking here and there to render them acceptable to the general populace. Perhaps I will stay a while, even if only to learn from you how simple water can cause so many diseases and how horoscopes are irrelevant to a person’s well-being.’

Bartholomew smiled back. ‘And since Brother Michael often accuses me of having a poor grasp of logic, perhaps I can learn from your lectures on the subject, too.’

Suttone clapped him on the back. ‘Once Master Runham sits a little more easily in the saddle of power, Michaelhouse will be a better place to live, and then you and I shall spend many happy hours discussing medicine and logic.’

Bartholomew sincerely hoped Suttone’s gentle optimism was not misplaced.

During the morning’s teaching, Bartholomew was summoned by a patient with a badly crushed hand; the injury was so severe that it necessitated the removal of two fingers. He was surprised to see the surgeon, Robin of Grantchester, already there, lurking in the shadows with his terrifying array of black-stained implements. Physicians were not supposed to practise surgery, and amputations were Robin’s domain, although Bartholomew personally would rather have died before allowing the surgeon anywhere near an injury of his own. Surprisingly, Robin demurred and watched silently while Bartholomew deftly removed the useless digits from the howling man and sutured the stumps. When the patient had been bandaged and dosed with a pain-killing draught, Bartholomew and Robin left the house together.

‘Why did you not operate?’ asked Bartholomew as they walked along the High Street. ‘It was a straightforward case. Was it because he could not pay you?’

‘I was paid,’ said Robin, showing him six pennies. ‘That is why they had no money left for you.’

‘But you did not treat the man, so why did you take his money?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.

‘I charge for consultations,’ said Robin loftily. ‘I asked for sixpence and then advised him to contact you. I am banned from surgery until this wretched Saddler case is resolved, you see.’

‘You were arrested because he died after you amputated his leg,’ Bartholomew recalled. ‘But most people die after you cut off their limbs. Why is this one different?’

‘His family are wealthier than most,’ said Robin mournfully, not in the slightest offended by Bartholomew’s brutal summary of his medical skills. ‘I spent three nights in Sheriff Tulyet’s prison with criminals for company – including one with that ruffian Osmun, the porter from Bene’t College.’

‘What was he doing there?’

‘He was arrested for fighting in the King’s Head. Vile man! I spent the whole time awake clutching my cutting knives in anticipation of being robbed by him.’

Bartholomew glanced at the surgeon’s clothes, stiff with ancient blood, and decided that even Osmun would have balked at searching Robin for hidden riches. Politely, he said nothing.

‘And he talked all night,’ continued Robin. ‘He was drunk and was blathering all sorts of nonsense. He told me that he believed one Bene’t Fellow named Wymundham had stabbed another called Raysoun with an awl after he had fallen from the scaffolding. Do you know anything about this? I was busy with Saddler at the time, God help me.’

‘Wymundham did not kill Raysoun,’ said Bartholomew, confused. ‘He was kneeling next to Raysoun when he died. I saw him holding the man’s hand and exhorting him to stand up.’

‘Osmun did not say Wymundham killed Raysoun,’ said Robin pedantically. ‘He said Wymundham stabbed Raysoun after he had fallen. He claimed that Wymundham was the kind of man to stab a corpse to make an accident look like murder.’

‘I do not think so,’ said Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘Wymundham could not have stabbed Raysoun with half the town watching, and anyway, Raysoun was not a corpse when Master Lynton pulled the awl out of him.’

‘Well, the Fellows of Bene’t are altogether odd,’ said Robin firmly. ‘The Master, Heltisle, is too ambitious for his own good; his second-in-command Caumpes likes to play with boats in his spare time, because he comes from the Fens; while de Walton has a fancy for Mayor Horwoode’s massive wife. And the last of them, Simekyn Simeon, is the Duke of Lancaster’s spy!’

‘Did Osmun tell you all this?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.

‘Lord, no!’ said Robin. ‘He is too fond of that foul place to utter seditious thoughts about it. What I tell you about the Fellows of Bene’t is general town knowledge.’

Bartholomew realised that Osmun was merely trying to shift any suspicion on to Wymundham, who was hardly in a position to defend himself, because he was dead. Perhaps Osmun had been the murderer, climbing the scaffolding to shove Raysoun to his death. And in that case, Osmun must have killed Wymundham, too, to silence him regarding the identity of Raysoun’s killer. Bartholomew decided he should pass the gossip to Michael, so that the Senior Proctor could decide what was truth and what was lies in the mess of charge and counter-charge. He was thankful that the affair was not his to solve.

Bartholomew was with his students in the conclave later that morning, in the midst of a long and involved explanation about a diagram of a neck in Mondino dei Liuzzi’s illustrated Anatomy, when there was a colossal crash. Anatomy forgotten, students and master rushed to the window to see that a pulley hauling slates to the roof had snapped, littering the yard below with smashed tiles.

For several moments there was a shocked silence, both in the hall and in the courtyard, and then the workmen began shouting in alarm. Afraid that someone might have been crushed, Bartholomew ran outside, pushing through the gathering crowd to see if there was anyone who needed his expertise.

They had been lucky: no one had been standing underneath the pulley when it had broken. With relief, Bartholomew heard the workmen’s shouts of alarm give way to laughter and bantering; evidently they considered the fall more of a matter for humour than anger or recrimination, although it seemed to Bartholomew that they were working too fast, and were abandoning safety for speed. He sprinted up the stairs to Michael’s room to find the monk standing at the window watching the chaotic scene below in disapproval. He shook his head as Bartholomew entered.

‘That could have killed someone. What is the hurry with this building? Why are the workmen so desperate to finish a task they have barely begun? Is it the prospect of being under Runham’s direction that makes them so keen to have the job done?’

‘If so, then I cannot blame them,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘Are you feeling better? You look better.’

Michael nodded. ‘I feel dizzy if I stand too long and I tire easily, but I am well enough.’ He gestured at his table, which was piled high with scrolls and parchments. ‘I am making good use of the fact that I am confined to my room, though. I have resumed my dealings with Master Heytesbury of Merton College in Oxford, and I have been sifting through the reports from my beadles about these murders.’

‘Have they learned anything?’

Michael shook his head gloomily, and not even the fragments of gossip from Robin of Grantchester and Suttone seemed to lessen his despondency about the slow pace of the investigation. Bartholomew left him sitting at his table, muttering obscenities about the fact that the reports his beadles dictated to the University’s scribes in St Mary’s Church were so ambiguous that he was obliged to send for most of them anyway, so that they could clarify what they had intended to say.

By the time Bartholomew quit Michael’s chamber he had lost his students, who were enjoying the spectacle of the workmen picking through the smashed tiles, and it was almost time for teaching to end anyway. He returned to the hall where he carefully secured the colourfully illustrated anatomy book to its chain in the wall, straightened the benches, and replaced the ink stands, spare parchment and pens in the aumbry in the corner of the conclave. When he had finished, Suttone came to stand next to him at the window, staring into the yard below.

‘That is what happens when corners are cut,’ he said, looking down at the mess with a resigned sigh. ‘Master Runham is forcing the pace of this building work to the point where it is dangerous.’

‘Then tell him,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘We do not want someone injured because Runham wants a new College instantly.’

‘He will not listen. He does not care if a workman is killed, anyway. I reminded him that Master Raysoun of Bene’t College died because he fell from unstable scaffolding, but Runham merely thanked me for my advice, and assured me that he would take care not to climb on any of ours.’

‘He said that?’ asked Bartholomew, not sure whether to be indignant or amused by the Master’s brazen self-interest.

Suttone frowned. ‘There he is. What is he doing now?’

Runham was staggering under the weight of a small chest. It was one of the College ‘hutches’ – a box containing money that benefactors had provided so that scholars could borrow from it if they found themselves short of cash. The Master would give the student money, while the student exchanged a caucio or pledge of comparable value. So, for example, when Gray had needed two marks to pay for his tuition fees, he had deposited a gold ring in the chest that he would redeem as soon as he had saved enough money. Similarly, Deynman had left his beautiful copy of Galen’s Tegni in the chest when he wanted money for pens and ink. If Gray or Deynman were unable or unwilling to repay their loan, the College would then be the proud owner of a gold ring and a book for the library. The College’s hutches, containing varying amounts of money, were stored in a heavily barred room in a cellar under the hall.

‘He must be going to do an inventory of the contents,’ said Bartholomew, watching Runham sweating under his load. ‘Some of our hutches contain a lot of money – or its equivalent.’

‘Are all the hutches for the students’ use?’ asked Suttone.

‘No. Some of our eight or nine hutches are for Fellows, too. They are useful if we need money to pay some fine or other.’

‘I owe no fines,’ said Suttone. He gave a sudden, wicked grin. ‘Although I might well be fined for being insubordinate to Runham before too long. But I do need money to buy the alb I will need to conduct masses in the church. I shall see Runham about it this morning.’

He wandered away, and Bartholomew went to visit a patient near the river before the bell announced the midday meal. His patient had been bitten by a rat, so Bartholomew cleaned the wound and then rummaged in his bag for the betony plaster that would help prevent festering. It was missing and he suspected it had been borrowed by Gray, who had then forgotten to replace it. He remembered that the last time he used it was when he had treated Michael in the lane the night Runham had been elected. He paid an urchin a penny to fetch some more from the apothecary, and talked with the man’s family while he waited.

It was not long before they were joined by the old brothers Dunstan and Aethelbald, who always came to see what was happening if a stranger visited the row of hovels that crouched near the seedy wharves on the river where they had lived all their lives.

‘We are going to Bene’t College today,’ announced Dunstan without preamble. ‘Now that Wymundham and Raysoun are dead, their choir is depleted, so we thought we would offer our services.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, wondering whether Bene’t knew what it was letting itself in for if it accepted the rivermen’s reedy tenors.

‘They will have to give us bread and ale, though,’ added Aethelbald. ‘We do not sing for nothing.’

‘Isnard the bargeman tried to join the Peterhouse choir,’ said Dunstan. ‘Peterhouse gives its singers wine after each mass, you see. But the music master told Isnard he should take pity on the world and swear a sacred oath that he would never utter another note as long as he lived. Now why should the man say a rude thing like that, Doctor?’

‘I cannot imagine,’ said Bartholomew, deliberately not looking at the old man, who sounded genuinely surprised.

‘Bene’t will be glad to have us,’ said Aethelbald with conviction. ‘And when Michaelhouse hears us singing like angels, it will be sorry that it allowed us to leave.’

‘You could be right,’ said Bartholomew, sure he was not.

‘We heard one of your lot came to a nasty end,’ said Dunstan suddenly, with inappropriate salaciousness.

‘Who?’ asked Bartholomew absently, thinking about Raysoun, Wymundham and Brother Patrick.

‘One of your lot – that miserable Justus, Runham’s book-bearer. His body is in St Michael’s Church porch.’

Bartholomew sighed. It was already a week since the book-bearer’s body had been found, and it was clear that Runham had no intention of arranging a burial. Bartholomew saw he would have to do it himself if he did not want the corpse to remain in the church until it decomposed completely.

He was angry: Justus had served Runham for almost a year, and paying a few pennies for a shroud should not have been an insurmountable problem, even to a miser like Runham. Compared to the efforts Runham had made to beautify the tomb of his loathsome cousin, Bartholomew found the new Master’s attitude to the dead perplexing and inconsistent. Justus had not been a likeable man, but that was no reason to treat his body with such disrespect.

‘It is disgraceful,’ added Aethelbald gleefully. ‘Still, given what Runham did to our choir, I cannot say I am surprised. And then there was Brother Patrick – another victim of that University.’

‘I know,’ said Dunstan, shaking his head. ‘Stabbed through the heart, I heard.’

‘Stabbed in the back,’ corrected Aethelbald. ‘A coward’s blow.’

‘Who told you all this?’ asked Bartholomew, amazed at the speed at which gossip seemed to rip through the town.

‘Everyone knows,’ said Aethelbald dismissively. ‘It is no secret. And everyone knows who killed this Brother Patrick, too.’

‘They do?’ asked Bartholomew hopefully.

Dunstan nodded vehemently. ‘Another scholar. It could not have been a townsman because it was on University property.’

‘That does not necessarily follow,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is not unknown for townsmen to trespass on University land.’

‘I would like to trespass on Michaelhouse,’ said Aethelbald with feeling. ‘No offence, Doctor, but I would like to see it burn to the ground for what it did to our choir. And I would like to see every one of its fat, grasping scholars strung up like the common criminals they are – not you, of course, Doctor, and not that sainted Brother Michael.’

‘If I were twenty years younger, I would do it,’ announced Dunstan.

‘Forty years younger might see you in with a chance,’ cackled Aethelbald. ‘I tell you, Doctor, that College is destined for a great fall. And when it comes, not a soul in the town will raise a finger to save it.’

For some unaccountable reason, their words unnerved Bartholomew. When the betony plaster arrived, he slapped it on his patient’s leg with almost indecent haste, and strode quickly back up the lane, his head bowed in thought, wondering what he could do to prevent the ever-widening rift between his College and the townsfolk.

Since it was a lenten day, fried herring giblets were on the menu at Michaelhouse. Bartholomew thought about William as he toyed with the unappetising mess, because any kind of fish organs were a favourite with the friar. Bartholomew hoped William would be getting his share of them in the Franciscan Friary.

The entrails were served on thick slabs of stale bread made from rye flour, which served as platters. Although scholars were not usually expected to consume their trenchers, Bartholomew ate most of his that day because he was hungry and he did not fancy the oily, fishy guts that were heaped in front of him. Glancing down the table, he saw that none of the other Fellows were devouring them with much enthusiasm, either, and Runham had gone so far as to hire a personal cook to provide him with something else.

As well as giblets and stale bread, there was a thick, brown-green paste made from dried peas. It was bland and contained some crunchy parts that Bartholomew imagined it was better not to try to examine too carefully. The last time he had investigated a foreign body in his food it had transpired to be a toenail, although none of the cooks would admit to being its owner. The Bible Scholar droned on, skimming through the text quickly and without any indication that he had the slightest understanding of what he read.

When Runham rose to say grace, Bartholomew escaped with relief from the oppressive atmosphere of the hall and went to his own room. The College was still in a chaos of noise following the collapse of scaffolding, and Runham had announced that the rest of the day’s lectures were cancelled. The students were delighted although Bartholomew fretted that so much lost time would mean poor results at the end-of-year disputations.

He was about to go inside when he saw Beadle Meadowman hurrying across the yard towards him, and so escorted him to Michael’s room. In tones of barely concealed pride, Meadowman informed the monk that he had persuaded his brother-in-law, Robert de Blaston the carpenter, to hire him to work alongside the men who had been building Bene’t College the day Raysoun had died. Meadowman hoped to gain the confidence of his fellow workmen, and see whether he could ascertain if any of them had given Raysoun a timely shove.

Meadowman also reported that the other beadles had been diligent in their enquiries around the taverns, but although the townsmen professed to be delighted by the deaths of scholars of the much-hated University, no one seemed to be taking the credit for killing them. Michael instructed him to ensure the enquiries continued, and then sent him away to begin mixing mortar with his new colleagues.

‘This is a bad business,’ said Michael gloomily. ‘I have all my beadles on the alert for information regarding the deaths of Patrick, Raysoun and Wymundham, but they have heard nothing. It is unusual, because there is nearly always some rumour or accusation passed on over a jug of ale that I can act upon, but in these deaths, there is nothing.’

‘You are essentially better, so why do you not leave your room and take control over these investigations?’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Meadowman will do his best, but he is not you.’

‘I wish it were that easy, Matt. But my talents lie in dealing with scholars, and I suspect our victims were killed by townsfolk. The kind of mean, vicious fellows who would stab a friar in the back, shove an ageing academic from a roof, or smother a man with a cushion and leave his body in the Mayor’s garden are unlikely to open their hearts to the Senior Proctor – whether the ale is flowing or not. But they might tell my beadles, who are townsfolk themselves. I may do more harm than good if I interfere.’

Bartholomew left him and went to his own room, where he threw open the window shutters and sat at the table to begin work on his treatise. The section on infection reminded him of the riverman with the rat bite, and from there he thought about the conversation he had had with Dunstan and Aethelbald. Although the old rivermen were a pair of shameless gossips, their stories often carried an element of truth, and he was concerned by their assertion that the town was resentful that Michaelhouse had left the book-bearer’s body unattended and forgotten in St Michael’s Church for a week.

He considered mentioning the matter to Runham again, but suspected it would be a waste of time. With some reluctance, he laid down his pen, swung his cloak around his shoulders, and left the College to walk to St Michael’s Church. Justus’s body was still there, shut into the porch and draped carelessly with a dirty sheet. Bartholomew lifted the corner and peered underneath. Justus’s face had darkened, and the corpse released an unpleasant, sickly odour: it was not as bad as the stench from the butchers’ stalls because the cold weather had slowed putrefaction, but it would not be long before it was providing some impressive competition.

He returned to Michaelhouse, asked Agatha for a sheet to use as a shroud, and then set off with it across the yard. On the way back to the church he met Suttone, and the Lincoln-born friar immediately agreed to conduct a funeral for a man who had hailed from the same city. Together, they wrapped the body in the sheet and then prepared it for burial, lighting candles, anointing it with chrism, and sprinkling scented oil over it to mask the smell as it was brought from the porch to the chancel.

Because Justus was a suicide, the verger would not allow him to be buried in the churchyard, so Bartholomew hired a cart to take the body to the desolate spot near the Barnwell Causeway that had been set aside for people who had taken their own lives. As Suttone said his prayers, Bartholomew stood at the side of the shallow grave and shivered, his cloak billowing around him in the wind. The scrubby bushes that shielded the burial ground from the yellow stone buildings of the nearby Austin priory whispered and hissed when the breeze cut through them, and small, stinging dashes of rain spat at Bartholomew and Suttone as they completed their mournful task.

The grave-diggers, who had decided it was too cold to wait for the Carmelite to finish his benedictions, were nowhere to be found after he and Bartholomew had rolled Justus’s floppy remains into the wet hole in the ground. Not liking to leave the grave open, Bartholomew took a spade and filled in the gaping maw himself, while Suttone continued to pray. When they had finished, they stood in silence for a few moments, gazing down at the soggy pile of earth until wind and rain forced them to hurry back along the Causeway and into the town. Suttone returned to St Michael’s Church for more prayers, while Bartholomew walked back to the College, feeling cold and dirty. As he went, he grew increasingly angry with Runham, despising the man for having so little concern for others that he had consigned Justus to the paltry ceremony Suttone had just conducted.

He was so engrossed in his thoughts that he almost collided with a horse being ridden down the High Street at a healthy clip, and was only saved from injury by some very skilled horsemanship on the part of its rider. He backed up against a wall in alarm, and watched Adela Tangmer, the vintner’s daughter, control her panicky mount.

‘You should watch where you are going, Matthew,’ she called when the horse had been calmed. He was relieved that she did not seem cross at his carelessness; the tone of her words bore more sisterly concern than censure. She grinned down at him, and he was amused to note that she still wore her comfortable brown dress, set off by a pair of rather manly riding boots and a belt from which hung a no-nonsense dagger.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I was thinking about something else.’

‘You should be more careful. You would have been trampled had I not been such an accomplished horsewoman. Worse yet, you might have done Horwoode an injury.’

‘Horwoode?’ asked Bartholomew in confusion. ‘The town Mayor?’

Adela gave a guffaw. ‘I call this horse Horwoode, because he is skittish, weak, rather stupid and has overly thin legs.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, startled by such a bald, if astute, summary of the Mayor’s most prominent attributes. ‘I have never noticed Mayor Horwoode’s legs, personally.’

‘Well, you are not a woman, are you?’ Adela pointed out. ‘But I do not like that man.’

Neither did Bartholomew, but he was not so imprudent as to be bawling his opinions in one of the town’s main thoroughfares.

‘Horwoode is Master of the Guild of St Mary, you know,’ Adela went on. ‘His advice to my father’s guild, Corpus Christi, to invest in Bene’t College was bad. That horrible College is turning out to be a lot more expensive than my father was given leave to expect. And a couple of their scholars have been put down in the last few days, which does not reflect well on my father’s guild.’

‘Put down?’ asked Bartholomew, not sure what she meant.

She waved an impatient hand. ‘Killed. Put out of their misery. Or rather, put out of ours. That drunken Raysoun and his friend Wymundham have already gone to meet their maker, and the rest of the rabble are bickering about who was responsible.’

‘What are you talking about?’ asked Bartholomew, confused by her diatribe.

‘Bene’t College is a nasty place, Matthew. Its porters are a gang of uncontrollable louts, its students are worse than some of the town’s apprentices for wild behaviour, and the Fellows are always fighting and squabbling.’

‘It sounds just like any other University institution to me,’ said Bartholomew. ‘What is it that singles Bene’t out as particularly disreputable – other than the fact that you do not approve of your father’s money being spent on it?’

She gave him a hard stare, and then broke into one of her toothy smiles. ‘You are an astute man, Matthew. I do resent the money my father is always ploughing into the place. But Bene’t is more than just a waste of gold: it seethes with secrets and plots. One of its patrons is the Duke of Lancaster, and he is so worried about what might happen in the College with which he is associated, that he has made one of his squires a Fellow there, just to keep an eye on it.’

‘You mean Simekyn Simeon?’ he asked. ‘He told us he was the Duke’s squire.’

‘Well, he is, and his task is to watch the place and report its nasty secrets to the Duke.’

To Bartholomew, her assertions sounded the kind of rumours that the townsfolk loved to circulate about the University, and they contrasted sharply with what Simeon had claimed about Bene’t being a harmonious College where Fellows enjoyed each other’s company. Yet Michael had also detected something strained about the atmosphere at Bene’t, and only that morning, Robin of Grantchester had told Bartholomew that the porter Osmun had been making the peculiar claim that Wymundham had stabbed Raysoun himself.

‘What kind of thing is the Duke afraid will happen?’ he asked.

She shrugged carelessly. ‘I have no idea. That feeble Henry de Walton is bleating about foul play, but no one takes any notice of him.’

‘Who is Henry de Walton?’ Before she could answer, Bartholomew recalled that Robin of Grantchester had mentioned a Henry de Walton who had an inappropriate fondness for the Mayor’s wife. Simeon had described him as a sickly soul with a list of ailments.

‘One of the Fellows,’ replied Adela. ‘A snivelling little man who is always complaining about the state of his digestion – not an attractive subject, you must admit.’

Adela was not the person to be criticising others about their choice of suitable conversational gambits, since her own included ending unwanted pregnancies in horses and equine breeding habits.

‘Do you know the Bene’t Fellows well?’ asked Bartholomew, intrigued by the contrast between the picture Adela presented and the one Simeon would have them believe.

‘I most certainly do not,’ said Adela, offended. ‘Scholars are an unsavoury brood, to be avoided at all costs – present company excepted, of course. Caumpes of Bene’t is nice, but he is a Fenman, and so is better than all these foreigners from Hertfordshire, Yorkshire and other distant lands. My father and I would never willingly socialise with the Bene’t scholars, although we are forced to deal with them when we discuss their College’s finances.’

Mayor Horwoode had also been offended by the notion that he hobnobbed with scholars, Bartholomew recalled. He had claimed that he would never invite one to his house.

‘That pathetic de Walton is not fit to be called a man,’ Adela continued. ‘Raysoun and Wymundham murdered indeed! What arrant nonsense!’

‘Why do you say that?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.

Adela regarded him with a puzzlement that equalled his own. ‘You would not ask that if you knew the man. All he thinks about is his health, and he sees danger at every turn. Would you believe that he refuses to mount a horse in case he falls off and bruises himself?’

Bartholomew, who detested riding, did not consider de Walton’s refusal to clamber on to a snorting, prancing animal that was much bigger than himself to be the final word in cowardice. He thought Adela was being overly harsh.

‘I cannot imagine how de Walton came to the conclusion that his colleagues were murdered,’ Adela went on. ‘The workmen at Bene’t say that Raysoun fell while he was drunk, while Wymundham is said to have thrown himself from the King’s Ditch – remorse for having made Raysoun’s last few months on Earth so miserable with his sharp tongue.’

Bartholomew supposed he could tell her what Wymundham had claimed to have heard Raysoun declare with his dying breath, but his gossiping with her would only serve to fan the flames of rumour and untruth. Anyway, it seemed she had already made up her own mind about what she thought had happened, and he did not see why he should convince her otherwise. It would do no one any good, and might even cause harm.

‘I should go,’ she said. ‘If I leave my father for too long, there is always a danger that he will have found me a husband by the time I return. I expect your sister is the same. I know she would like to see you married.’

Bartholomew smiled. ‘She is determined to see me with a wife,’ he admitted. ‘But then I would have to give up my teaching, and I do not want to do that yet.’

‘Quite right,’ said Adela. ‘The country needs as many trained physicians as you can give it. Master Lynton is so overwhelmed by summonses from his human patients these days that he can seldom spare the time to see my horses when I need him. He was never too busy before the Death.’

‘Lynton physicks your horses?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘But that is what blacksmiths do.’

‘Physicians are better,’ said Adela. ‘They are more careful, and they consult the stars before suggesting a course of treatment.’

Bartholomew laughed in disbelief. ‘So, all these years that Lynton has been berating me for dabbling in surgery, he has been poaching the blacksmiths’ trade?’

‘Horses are sensitive animals, Matthew,’ protested Adela. ‘Not to mention expensive. I do not want any grubby old tradesman tampering with them. But, as I just said, Lynton is invariably too busy for me these days.’ She regarded Bartholomew speculatively. ‘I do not suppose you would be interested in helping on occasion, would you? I pay well.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘I know nothing about horses.’

‘Pity,’ said Adela with genuine regret. ‘That will reduce your value as a potential husband.’

‘Will it?’ asked Bartholomew, bewildered by the peculiar twists and turns the conversation took with the eccentric Adela Tangmer. ‘No one has mentioned this before.’

‘No woman wants a man who does not look good in his saddle,’ declared Adela with conviction. ‘It would be like having a mate who does not know how to hunt.’

As a boy, Bartholomew had been given a basic training in such manly skills by his brother-in-law, but suspected that if he ever needed to catch his own food he would quickly starve. He supposed that to Adela, he would be about as poor a catch as she could imagine.

Adela grimaced and continued. ‘My father has become quite tedious about the subject of marriage. I do not want a husband chasing me morning, noon and night to demand his conjugal rights. I have better things to do with my time.’

Adela’s age and appearance made it unlikely that she would be the object of such desperately amorous attentions, although Bartholomew was too polite to say so.

He shrugged. ‘Your father probably wants an heir for his business.’

‘He does, but I am not some old nag to be bred to suit his needs. When I decide to couple with a man, it will be on my terms and in my own time. Do not let your sister grind you down over this, Matthew. You and I should draw strength from each other to fight these match-makers, or you will end up with some empty-headed imbecile and I will be provided with some man who knows nothing about horses and who has skinny legs into the bargain.’

‘Heaven forbid,’ said Bartholomew.

‘Allies, then?’ asked Adela, leaning down to extend a powerful, calloused hand for Bartholomew to shake. ‘Shall you and I stand together against unsuitable matches?’

‘Why not?’ said Bartholomew, taking the proffered hand with a smile. He wondered what his sister would say if she ever learned he had formed such an alliance.