A Masterly Murder

Chapter 6

MICHAEL CHUCKLED AS HE RECLINED ON his bed the following afternoon. The dirty plates and empty goblets scattered around the room suggested that he had regained his appetite with a vengeance, and Bartholomew suspected that the monk was rather enjoying his convalescence.

‘And Agatha threatened to do away with Runham?’ asked Michael, eyes gleaming with merriment as he listened to Bartholomew’s account of what had happened when William had bloodied Runham’s nose and Agatha the laundress had become involved in the fracas.

‘Not in so many words, but she does not like him.’

Michael chortled again. ‘Foolish man! He will never run a successful College without the acquiescence of Agatha. And if he tries to dismiss her, he is dead for certain.’

‘She has been offered a post at Bene’t College,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It provides higher pay and better living accommodation, and she is seriously thinking of taking it.’

The humour faded from Michael’s face. ‘Bene’t is poaching our servants?’

‘We do not have many left,’ said Bartholomew. ‘All the porters have gone – including Walter, which is a blessing – and all but one of the cooks, while poor Cynric was dismissed the day after the feast.’

‘We will both miss him,’ said Michael sincerely. ‘But things are getting out of hand, Matt. I am at Death’s door for a few days and I recover to find my College is a different place.’

‘You have not been at Death’s door, Brother. Did you know that Runham believes I am responsible for your illness?’

Michael regarded him incredulously and then started to laugh. ‘You? Not the bee that stung me?’

‘He said I used a poisonous salve – secretly in St Michael’s Lane – and he claims I refused to allow Robin of Grantchester to amputate your arm because I was afraid it would save your life.’

‘My God, Matt! That is venomous stuff! I suppose it was my bantering accusations a couple of days ago that put that notion in his silly head. That man has a nasty mind!’

‘It was his accusations that started the row with William,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Poor William. He might be a fanatic, but he stood up for me. Runham has effectively removed him, Paul has already gone, and he aims to be rid of me tomorrow. I wonder who will be next.’

Michael shifted restlessly. ‘This is dreadful. My College is tumbling about my ears even as I lie here – quite literally, at times. A lump of ceiling became detached by the banging of the workmen this morning and narrowly missed my chair.’

‘Teaching has all but stopped,’ continued Bartholomew. ‘It is too noisy, and it is difficult to keep the students’ attention when there are workmen tramping through the hall every few moments, whistling and singing. I took my classes in St Michael’s Church this morning – until Runham found out and told me to leave.’

‘Why did he do that?’

‘He said it was sacrilegious to teach medicine in a church. A little later, I saw that he had moved his own class there and was teaching it civil law.’

‘Civil law is far more sacrilegious than medicine,’ observed Michael. ‘One aims to promote health and the other to promote wealth – for the lawyers. But did William make good his escape from Runham’s wrath?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘I visited Father Paul last night, to tend his eyes, and he told me the Franciscan brethren have William secreted away somewhere, and will only reveal his whereabouts when they are sure Runham will not persecute him.’

‘Now William will know how those poor so-called heretics felt when he chased them all over southern France,’ said Michael grimly.

‘At least he will not be able to begin the investigation he threatened,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He was going to look into the death of that Franciscan, Brother Patrick.’

‘Was he?’ asked Michael coolly. ‘On whose authority?’

‘Yours. Since you were incapacitated, he decided to act as unofficial Proctor. I think he planned to present you with the killer as a gift to aid your recovery, and then solve your other cases, too – Raysoun and Wymundham.’

‘Thank God he did not,’ said Michael with a shudder. ‘The circumstances surrounding the deaths of Raysoun and Wymundham are complicated – far more so than the likes of William could appreciate; while poor Patrick’s case seems hopeless. My beadles are having no luck with their enquiries in the taverns, and I am beginning to fear that none of us will find whoever is responsible for that. Any suspects William produces will almost certainly be innocent.’

‘He is rather good at frightening people into making false confessions,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘And he will concentrate on the Dominicans.’

‘I am told the foundations are already dug for our new kitchen courtyard,’ said Michael as an especially violent clatter from outside reminded him of the presence of the builders.

Bartholomew nodded. ‘They are not as deep as they should be, and Runham is forcing a pace for the work that is too rapid for safety. Did you know that he has employed forty labourers? I do not know how he raised the money so quickly. I only hope he does have it, and we do not find ourselves with forty enraged workmen demanding payment when they have finished. It would be like the choir all over again, only these would be armed with hammers and saws and not a few scraps of music.’

‘The choir?’ asked Michael, sitting up abruptly. ‘What are you talking about?’

Bartholomew stared at him. ‘Has no one told you? I thought you would have heard by now.’

‘Heard what?’ demanded Michael dangerously, his voice hard and cold. ‘I do not appreciate being kept in the dark about matters that involve my choir.’

‘Runham disbanded it.’ Seeing the anger that immediately clouded the monk’s face, Bartholomew understood exactly why none of his colleagues had accepted responsibility for breaking that particular piece of news. ‘He put the Michaelhouse singers under the control of Clippesby, but he dismissed the rest.’

‘He what?’ howled Michael, outrage mounting by the moment. ‘He disbanded my choir?’ He scrambled to his feet, his face white with rage. ‘Why did you not tell me this before?’

‘I thought someone else would have told you,’ said Bartholomew, trying to wrestle him away from the door. ‘But do not confront Runham while you are in a rage. Anyway, the damage is already done; it is too late to do anything now.’

‘Let me go, Matt!’ warned Michael, his green eyes flashing with a fury that Bartholomew had seldom seen before. ‘I am going to kill that miserable snake! And then I am going to teach my choir how to sing his requiem mass – and I hope he hears it from hell!’

‘Wait until tomorrow, Brother,’ said Bartholomew breathlessly, not surprised to find that the monk was as strong as ever. But just because Michael was fit did not mean that Bartholomew should allow him to storm into Runham’s room and choke the life out of him.

‘I will not wait!’ shouted Michael furiously. ‘Do you not realise what that man has done? There are children in my choir who need their free bread and ale; there are adults who take it home where it serves as a meal for a whole family. That Devil-in-a-tabard cannot dismiss them just like that. My choir needs Michaelhouse, and Michaelhouse will need my choir, if the riots ever start again and we do not want to be ransacked and pillaged.’

‘What happened to the subtle revenge you promised when Paul was dismissed?’ gasped Bartholomew, struggling in vain to prevent the monk from reaching the stairs. ‘What happened to the plan that would strike at Runham’s reputation and leave yours intact?’

Michael stopped his relentless advance. ‘You are right. Two black eyes to go with his bleeding nose would be no kind of punishment for the likes of him. I must consider something else – something more permanent.’

‘Good,’ said Bartholomew wearily, leaning against the wall and wiping his forehead with his sleeve. ‘Just be discreet about it.’

Michael frowned. ‘You seem very frail these days, Matt. First you allow Father William to push you down the stairs, and now you are unable to prevent a sick man rising from his bed.’

‘You are not sick,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You are fitter than I am. All this rest and good food has made you one of the healthiest men in Cambridge.’

‘I do feel well,’ admitted Michael. ‘And it has been pleasant to be the centre of so much loving attention over the past few days. Still, I suppose all good things must come to an end. But what about you? Are you ill?’

‘Just tired,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And I think the effects of that powerful wine we had at the feast still linger on.’

Michael’s frown deepened. ‘Really? Bulbeck and Gray claimed the same thing. Agatha sent me some of it yesterday – left over from Saturday’s débâcle – and Bulbeck advised me not to drink it.’

Bartholomew smiled. ‘Langelee is in charge of laying in the College wine. For all his pretensions to being courtly and well-connected, he does not know a decent vintage from a bad one.’

Michael shook his head slowly. ‘I have been thinking about that feast. Most members of the College – including me – are used to sampling the nectar of the gods in considerable quantities, and yet virtually everyone I have spoken to claims to have been the worse for drink that night. Even you – abstemious to the point of being tedious – were reeling and lurching like a drunkard.’

‘But it was Widow’s Wine. You told me the stuff is deliberately brewed to be strong and nasty.’

‘But not this strong and nasty,’ said Michael. ‘I wonder whether someone tampered with it.’

‘I do not think so, Brother. It was probably just a bad brew.’

‘You are wrong, Matt,’ said Michael. ‘Think back to other College feasts. They sometimes continue until morning, and no one – no one – would consider leaving while there was still wine to be had. But there was wine left from this feast, because Agatha sent me some only yesterday.’

‘But there was no great cause for celebration, if you recall,’ said Bartholomew dryly. ‘We had just elected our new Master.’

‘The students would drink anyway,’ said Michael. ‘Yet when we returned from Matilde’s house, the whole College was silent and still, and everyone was sleeping.’

‘It was late.’

‘Not too late for student carousing, Matt. I think someone did something unspeakable to the Widow’s Wine – or gave us an especially powerful batch – so that we would all have a comparatively early night. And, of course, with Widow’s Wine, no one would notice: the flavour is so damned unpleasant that you could add the most noxious substances known to man and they would do nothing but improve the taste.’

‘But why would anyone do such a thing? And anyway, at least two scholars were not sleeping – the pair who pushed me over in St Michael’s Lane.’

‘Precisely,’ said Michael. ‘They were not drunk, and I told you at the time that they were no mere students sneaking out for a night in the taverns. I think that Michaelhouse was provided with extra-strong or doctored wine so that this pair could complete whatever it was that they were doing.’

‘That seems a little far-fetched,’ said Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘Perhaps not everyone drank as much as we did. They are not all gluttons.’

‘They are students, Matt. Wine pigs. Of course they are all gluttons! I am certain that something odd was going on in Michaelhouse that night – and you and I almost stumbled on it.’

‘I think you are reading too much into this, but I agree that the wine was unusually strong. Most of our colleagues looked awful the next morning, even Kenyngham. He was also uncharacteristically tearful.’

‘Tearful?’ asked Michael in surprise.

Bartholomew told him about Kenyngham’s remorse because he had not intervened when the choir had almost attacked him after they had been dismissed.

‘Runham again,’ said Michael harshly. ‘It seems to me that he was one of the few people who did not fall victim to this powerful wine. Was he one of the two who pushed you over in the lane, do you think?’

‘Impossible. He was lurking in our staircase when we got back to our rooms, remember? He could not have run off down the lane with a beadle in hot pursuit and been hiding on the stairs at the same time.’

‘True,’ admitted Michael. ‘But someone was up to no good in the College that night. I will do a little investigating here this afternoon, while you can assist me with the Bene’t deaths. My beadles are doing all they can, but I have decided I need your assistance in the matter of Wymundham and his claim that Raysoun was pushed.’

‘But surely the Junior Proctor is looking into that? He must be back from Ely by now.’

Michael shook his head. ‘He is still away. Will you go to St Bene’t’s Church and have another look at the bodies of Raysoun and Wymundham, as you promised? Go to Bene’t College first, and ask permission from Master Heltisle, just to be polite.’

‘But I have teaching to do …’

‘You have just been complaining that teaching is impossible. From what Gray tells me, you and Runham – who has bagged himself the comfort of the church – are the only two Fellows still trying to teach in all this racket anyway.’

‘But–’

‘You promised you would do it,’ pressed Michael. ‘And Agatha heard you. Shall we summon her and have her repeat what she heard you agree to do?’

‘That will not be necessary,’ said Bartholomew hastily. ‘I will do it.’

‘Good.’

‘I might not be teaching much longer at Michaelhouse in any case,’ said Bartholomew, thinking that running Michael’s nasty errands was not something he would miss if he were forced to resign his Fellowship. ‘Runham is expecting me to choose between Michaelhouse and medicine tomorrow.’

‘Then we have a day to prove Runham doctored the Widow’s Wine and had two cronies illicitly in the College that night,’ said Michael, rubbing his hands together. ‘Because I, for one, do not want you to make that choice.’

Bartholomew did not feel at all inclined to inspect bodies that afternoon, but the banging and crashing had reached such a crescendo that he could barely hear himself think, let alone write his treatise. He unlocked the chained medical books from the hall – books were a valuable commodity, and most libraries kept their tomes under lock and key – and distributed them among the students with strict instructions as to what they should read. They were resentful, aware that most of the others had been given leave to watch the building progress, but Bartholomew was grimly determined that Runham’s ambition to make Michaelhouse one of the grandest edifices in the town would not interfere with the College’s academic responsibilities.

At the gate, Bartholomew paused and looked back across the courtyard. The north wing was swathed in a complicated mess of planking, most of it old and crumbling, and he assumed it comprised timbers from condemned houses that could not be used for anything else. Workmen swarmed over it, hammering and sawing furiously, some adding yet more levels to the already precarious structure, while others were repointing the stonework on the windows or replacing broken tiles on the roof.

The yard was a chaos of activity, with men running here and there, carrying timber on their shoulders or staggering under the weight of blocks of Barnack stone. Apprentices wearing the distinctive liveries of their masters darted this way and that, ferrying tools, or performing tasks that were beneath the dignity of the qualified tradesman – sawing wood, sanding the rough edges of stones, counting nails, and mixing mortar of lime and sand. The area of the planned new court was equally frenetic. Shallow foundations had been dug, and the first beams that would form the skeleton of the wattle-and-daub kitchen and stables were already in place.

‘It is impressive, is it not?’ Bartholomew jumped at the closeness of Clippesby’s voice behind him. The scholar’s eyes were soft and dreamy, and he looked almost sane. ‘Master Runham is amazing to have organised all this so quickly. I am glad I came to Michaelhouse and not Bene’t.’

‘You would have had an opportunity to reside in a building site had you gone to Bene’t, too,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is also having a new wing raised.’

‘But ours will be better,’ said Clippesby. ‘Raysoun was always complaining that the progress was too slow; he thought the masons would still be labouring on it in a hundred years’ time. Master Runham is not permitting such sluggishness.’

‘I did not know we had so many builders in Cambridge,’ said Bartholomew, regarding the milling workmen in awe. ‘I always understood labour was short after the plague.’

‘Not if you know where to get it,’ said Clippesby smugly.

‘And the terms Runham offered are very enticing – these men will be paid double if they can complete all this within a month. Instead of the usual three and a half pence per day, masters will earn a total of eighteen shillings for a mere four weeks’ labour.’

Bartholomew raised his eyebrows. ‘No wonder they are working so hard! And what happens if they do not finish within a month?’

‘That will not be an issue,’ said Clippesby confidently.

Bartholomew was not so sure, knowing very well that builders often encountered unexpected problems that delayed matters. He hoped the scramble to complete on time would not result in roofs that leaked, walls that needed buttressing, and windows that did not fit their frames.

‘Are you sure Runham has the funds to pay them?’ he asked doubtfully. ‘If they have been promised double pay, there will be a riot if they do not get it.’

‘I am sure,’ said Clippesby, indignation on Runham’s behalf making his voice suddenly loud. ‘He has a great chest of gold in his room – I have seen it myself.’

‘A great chest of gold in his room?’ asked one of the builders cheerily as he staggered past them bearing a heavy pole. Several of his colleagues heard him, and exchanged acquisitive grins. ‘Now that is reassuring to hear. We were worried the old fox might not be able to pay up.’

‘There is no question of that, Blaston,’ said Clippesby superiorly. ‘But you should get back to work if you want to see any of it.’

The master carpenter winked at Bartholomew and continued on his way, whistling merrily as he went. He wore no shoes, Bartholomew noticed, which was unusual for a man of his status. But Robert de Blaston was married to Yolande, the prostitute-friend of Matilde; they had nine children and doubtless no funds to spare on luxuries like footwear. Yolande’s own shoes were so ill-fitting that they had caused her feet to swell, he recalled.

‘I hope this gold is securely locked away,’ said Bartholomew, turning back to Clippesby and thinking it was not wise to advertise the fact that Michaelhouse was swimming in ready cash. Desperately poor people often resorted to desperate measures, and Michaelhouse would not be difficult to burgle now that Runham had dismissed the porters who had guarded its gates.

Clippesby shrugged. ‘I expect it is. Runham is no fool. He is a great man who will transform this College from a cluster of shabby hovels into the grandest institution in Cambridge.’

‘Our hall is not shabby,’ objected Bartholomew, who personally thought the main building with its oriel window and handsome porch one of the finest in East Anglia.

Clippesby gave it a disparaging glance. ‘It is haunted by tortured souls. I hear them howling to each other sometimes.’

Bartholomew regarded him uncertainly, wondering whether he was jesting. ‘You do?’ he asked cautiously.

Clippesby nodded casually. ‘It is not a pleasant sound. It keeps me awake at night. Have you never heard it?’ He turned eyes that were not quite focused on the physician.

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘I cannot say that I have.’

‘Then how about the voices of the dead stable boys that mutter in the south wing?’ Clippesby gave a sigh. ‘But you live in the north wing, so I suppose you would not know about them.’

Bartholomew nodded noncommittally, and escaped from the unstable Dominican with some relief. While religieux regularly claimed to hear voices, the context of their messages was usually saintly, not the gabble of dead groomsmen. He wondered whether he should take Clippesby to the Hospital of St John, where the Prior knew a good deal more about the various forms of insanity than did Bartholomew. But, he supposed, as long as Clippesby did not pose a risk to himself or others, there was not much to be done. He was sure at least half the masters of the Cambridge colleges were more lunatic than sane anyway, and Clippesby was no odder than many of them.

His encounter with Clippesby, and the nagging worry that Michaelhouse might have demanded more than it could pay for, meant that he was not in the right frame of mind for visiting St Bene’t Church to inspect the bodies of Raysoun and Wymundham. He knew he should do it sooner rather than later, but doubted that a second examination would reveal more than he knew already. He appreciated Michael’s desire to leave no stone unturned but he was weary of the University and its scheming, plotting scholars.

In the High Street he hesitated, wondering whether Edith might be in town. Ignoring the fact that if he were not inspecting corpses for Michael he should be supervising his students’ reading, working on his treatise on fevers or revisiting the riverman with the rat bite, he strode towards Milne Street, suddenly yearning for the uncomplicated and spontaneous cheerfulness of his sister’s company.

A light drizzle fell as Bartholomew walked the short distance to the row of grand houses and storerooms on Milne Street, where the town’s richest and most successful merchants resided. As always, the road was full of apprentices in brightly coloured liveries bustling here and there, and ponies and carts delivered and collected loads of every size and shape. The air rang with shouts, curses and the impatient stamp and whinny of horses in their traces, and was thick with the odour of manure, the yeasty smell of grain, the filth of the gutters and the brighter tang of spices.

Oswald Stanmore’s property, one of the largest and most impressive, boasted a cobbled yard and several sheds piled high with bales of cloth. Multicoloured strands of wool were caught in the rough wood of doors and windows, pasted into the mud on the ground and entangled in the thatching of the roof.

Stanmore’s own apprentices were busy unloading a cart carrying silk and wool that had just arrived from London. The guards, who had protected the precious cargo from the outlaws who plagued the roads between the two cities, were pulling off leather helmets and hauberks, and Cynric was pouring them cups of mulled ale to wash away the dust of the journey. When the ex-book-bearer had finished, he came to stand next to Bartholomew.

‘How is life at the College from Hell?’ he asked conversationally, watching the mercenaries with proprietary eyes.

‘Growing worse by the hour,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘How is life as a merchant’s man?’

Cynric rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘It has its moments, but I admit I miss my friends – you, Brother Michael, Agatha and even Walter. And I miss our night forays to catch killers, thieves and other ne’er-do-wells.’

‘I have not done that for months, thank God,’ said Bartholomew fervently. ‘Not since we were in Suffolk.’

‘What about when you went to find the body of Wymundham?’ asked Cynric. ‘That was at night. I was still your book-bearer, but I was tucked up in bed with my wife. You should have asked me to go with you.’

‘I missed you,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We had one of Michael’s beadles, but it was not the same.’

Cynric grinned and slapped him on the shoulder. ‘We had some good times, you and me. Visit me some evening, and we will reminisce over a jug of good wine. I can afford good wines on the salary Master Stanmore pays me – not like what I had to drink at Michaelhouse.’

He wandered away to stand with his soldiers, refilling their cups and listening to their reports about the journey. Just as Bartholomew was about to climb the stairs to Stanmore’s office, the merchant emerged with Edith close on his heels.

‘Matt!’ Edith cried in delight. ‘You have come to visit us!’

Stanmore’s smile of welcome faded suddenly. ‘You are not in trouble, are you?’ he asked anxiously. ‘You only come to see us these days if there is something wrong.’

‘There is nothing wrong,’ said Bartholomew guiltily, knowing that Stanmore had a point. ‘I had some free time and I felt like spending it with my family.’

Edith gave such a beam of pleasure that Bartholomew’s guilt increased tenfold. ‘How is Brother Michael?’ she asked. ‘We heard he has been ill.’

‘He is well,’ said Bartholomew, ‘and eating enough to plunge the College into debt with all the grocers and bakers in Cambridge.’

Edith laughed. ‘Poor Michael. You should not tease him about his appetite, Matt. He is happy when he is eating, and unhappy when he is hungry. Which of the two conditions do you think is better for his health?’

‘True. But I did not come to talk about Michael, I came to see you.’

‘Do you want to come in?’ asked Stanmore, gesturing to the door. ‘We were about to visit Mayor Horwoode, but it will not matter if we are a little late.’

‘I will walk with you,’ said Bartholomew, taking Edith’s arm and escorting her across the courtyard. ‘Is this meeting with Horwoode business or pleasure?’

‘Business,’ said Edith promptly, casting a disapproving glance at her husband.

‘Pleasure,’ said Stanmore at the same time.

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He has invited you both to his house to spend a pleasant evening with him, but will probably mention some matter of town politics at the same time?’

‘Not politics, exactly,’ said Stanmore. ‘I suspect he wants me to join his guild. Corpus Christi is one of the two organisations that founded Bene’t College, and rumour has it that the venture is turning out to be expensive. The old members are weary of the continual drain on their purses, and are busy recruiting new ones.’

‘Will you join?’ asked Bartholomew.

Stanmore smiled. ‘I shall eat Horwoode’s food, drink his wine and listen to what he has to say. But I can think of worthier places to squander my finances than Bene’t.’

‘It is a dreadful place, by all accounts,’ agreed Edith. ‘Its Fellows are always squabbling, and its students constantly try to goad our apprentices into fights.’

‘So what makes it different from any other College?’ asked Bartholomew. He did not intend the question to be humorous, but Stanmore and Edith laughed.

‘Nothing, really,’ said Stanmore. ‘But Michaelhouse does not let outsiders know about its internal rows and unseemly behaviour. Michaelhouse men take their oaths of loyalty seriously; Bene’t men do not seem to care who knows about their nasty quarrels.’

‘It is more than that,’ said Edith. ‘Bene’t has those dreadful porters – the rudest and most vicious I have ever encountered. One of them – Osmun – bumped into me as I was walking down the High Street the other day. I dropped my basket and spilled apples all over the road, but he just sneered and declined to apologise or even to help me pick them up.’

‘Perhaps I should join the Guild of Corpus Christi after all,’ mused Stanmore. ‘Then I could use my influence to have the man dismissed from his post. That will teach him to learn some manners.’

‘There is Adela Tangmer,’ said Edith urgently, pointing to the robust daughter of the town’s vintner who was riding towards them. ‘Quick! Duck in here before she sees us.’

Before her brother or husband could react, they found themselves bundled inside the workshop of Jonas the Poisoner. The apothecary glanced up from his work in surprise as three people suddenly exploded into his domain.

‘What?’ he demanded of Bartholomew nervously. ‘Has the Death returned? Is there fever in the city? Is Robin of Grantchester amputating limbs again?’

‘No, no,’ said Bartholomew hurriedly, embarrassed at having burst into Jonas’s property uninvited. ‘But I need more of your plaster of betony. I seem to have lost mine.’

‘I do deliver, you know,’ said Jonas, standing to select the salve from the shelf. ‘There is no need for you to come in person, or to drag your family here with you.’

‘We made it,’ breathed Edith, her eye to the gap in the door. ‘She did not see us.’

‘And what is wrong with meeting Adela Tangmer?’ asked Stanmore, watching as the untidily confident figure rode past. ‘If it were her father you were seeking to avoid, I would understand – the man is a disreputable villain who waters the wine he sells.’

‘Does he?’ asked Jonas, handing Bartholomew the jar.

‘I thought the last cask I bought from him tasted weaker than usual. Crafty old dog!’

‘She is a dreadful woman,’ said Edith, her eye still fastened to the crack. ‘She came bustling up to me in the Market Square yesterday, when I was in the middle of a conversation with the Prioress of St Radegund’s, and, without any kind of preamble, demanded to know which pardoner sells absolutions for the sin of lust.’

Bartholomew started to laugh, amused by Adela’s question, the fact that she had chosen Edith as someone who might be able to answer it, and Edith’s indignation that Adela had asked such a thing in the august presence of the Prioress of St Radegund’s Convent.

Edith regarded him coolly. ‘It is not funny, Matt. It left me completely speechless. She has all the social graces of a carthorse, and she looks like one, too!’

‘Well, she has gone now, and we should leave poor Jonas in peace,’ said Stanmore, opening the door and stepping outside. He glanced back and gave a longsuffering sigh. ‘Are you sure you have enough money to pay for that salve, Matt?’

Bartholomew had emptied the contents of his purse on to one of Jonas’s workbenches, and the apothecary was helping him to count out the mass of small change.

‘Penny and a half short,’ said Jonas eventually, looking hopefully at Stanmore.

‘I do not carry pennies,’ said Stanmore loftily. ‘I am not a peasant. Here is a shilling. Give Matt back his farthings, Jonas. From what I hear, he needs a regular supply of base coins to pay fines every time he is late for church.’

‘Who told you that?’ asked Bartholomew.

Stanmore tapped his nose and assumed a smug expression. ‘I have a very good network of informants in Cambridge, Matt.’

‘Did Runham tell you?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘When did you meet him?’

‘He paid me a visit,’ said Stanmore vaguely. He made a moue of disapproval. ‘I do not like that man, and I certainly do not want to be seen having scholars calling on me. What would my neighbours say?’

‘I take it that does not apply to me,’ said Bartholomew.

Stanmore clicked his tongue impatiently. ‘You are different – family. But I do not appreciate scholars like Runham visiting me in broad daylight, when anyone might see him.’

‘What did he want?’

‘Five marks for his new buildings,’ said Stanmore. ‘But here we are, at Horwoode’s house.’

Mayor Horwoode answered his door to Stanmore’s knock before Bartholomew could ask why his brother-in-law had parted with his money to a man like Runham. Five marks was a fortune – more than a year’s salary for Bartholomew.

The Mayor did not look pleased to see Bartholomew. He gazed coolly at the physician’s muddy cloak and patched tabard, and then glanced quickly up and down the street to see whether anyone had observed that a man as important as the Mayor of Cambridge should be visited by such a low fellow.

‘Have you resolved that matter of Wymundham’s death?’ he asked frostily, having apparently decided that no one was looking and that he could afford to indulge his curiosity. He did not, however, invite Bartholomew inside his home.

‘Not yet,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But Brother Michael’s investigation is continuing.’

‘He will discover nothing amiss,’ said Horwoode with great conviction. ‘Whatever you may have thought when you poked at the corpse the other night. I am certain the poor man flung himself to his death in despair after witnessing Raysoun’s fall.’

‘I am on my way to look at his body again,’ said Bartholomew.

‘Then you might like to know that St Bene’t’s Church lies in the south of the town, and you seem to be walking north. Is Michaelhouse still in its cups, celebrating the election of Runham as Master?’

‘It certainly is not,’ said Bartholomew, with more feeling than he intended to show.

‘Then I shall not detain you,’ said Horwoode. ‘Go and inspect your corpses. You will find that I am right, and that Wymundham committed suicide.’

‘I will bear it in mind,’ said Bartholomew noncommittally, wondering why so many people were determined to have poor Wymundham condemned to a suicide’s grave. Could Horwoode be involved in his murder? Bartholomew could not see how, although the Mayor’s insistence that his findings were wrong had the effect of making Bartholomew more determined than ever to uncover the truth behind the Bene’t man’s death.

‘Good,’ said Horwoode flatly. ‘In that case, I will bid you good afternoon.’

‘He came with–’ began Edith, indignant that the Mayor should dismiss her brother so rudely.

‘There is Matilde,’ said Bartholomew quickly, not wanting Edith to inveigle an invitation from a man who clearly did not want to extend his hospitality to scholars. ‘I must pay my respects.’

‘A whore?’ asked Horwoode disapprovingly. ‘Is the University in league with harlots these days?’

‘Not on Fridays,’ retorted Bartholomew, recalling Matilde’s friend telling him about her weekly visits to the Mayor’s house. ‘The prostitutes have civic engagements on Friday nights.’

Leaving Horwoode scarlet with mortification and outrage, Bartholomew bowed to Edith and Stanmore and took his leave.

Matilde was inspecting some brightly coloured ribbons on a pedlar’s cart, stretching long, elegant fingers to touch each one and assess its quality. Bartholomew remembered Langelee telling him that he should buy her some ribbons, although he could not imagine that the loutish philosopher had any advice about women that was worth following; after all, he had just extricated himself from a disastrous marriage.

‘Matthew,’ said Matilde, turning to smile at him as he approached. ‘What are you doing here? Surely Mayor Horwoode would not admit a mere scholar into his home? Or is someone ill?’

‘I did not know there was such a strong dislike of scholars among the great and the good of the town,’ said Bartholomew, still bemused.

‘Then you must be blind,’ said Matilde bluntly. ‘Important men like the Mayor, the burgesses and the merchants no more want poor scholars in their homes than they do the sisters. To both of us, their doors are only open when they think no one else will see.’

‘I am sure it never used to be this bad. Sheriff Tulyet is important, but he is never hostile to me or Michael.’

‘Dick Tulyet is a good man, and your role as physician and your family connections make you less objectionable than most. But you are right – relations between town and University are less friendly since Michaelhouse disbanded the choir. It was an ill-considered act on Runham’s part.’

‘I know.’

Matilde smiled at him. ‘But let us not talk about such things. Which of these ribbons do you prefer? The green or the blue?’

‘Green,’ he said, barely glancing at them. Even in the dull light of a grey November afternoon, Matilde was lovely. Her hair shone with health, and her skin was clean and unblemished. In her cloak of dark blue wool she looked as respectable and affluent as any of the wealthy merchants.

‘Green it is, then,’ she said, holding the ribbon out to the pedlar to fold. She smiled when Bartholomew paid the threepence. ‘Thank you. I seldom carry pennies – they are always so dirty, not to mention heavy. Where are you going now? Home to Michaelhouse?’

‘To Bene’t College, to ask the Master if he will allow me to inspect the bodies of those two scholars again.’

‘I know Raysoun fell from the scaffolding,’ said Matilde, ‘and the word is that Wymundham flung himself from the bank of the King’s Ditch in sorrow at losing his only friend.’

‘That is what Mayor Horwoode thinks, certainly.’

‘Mayor Horwoode,’ mused Matilde. ‘You said it was his garden in which the body was found, so I suppose he would want a verdict of suicide.’

‘Would he?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Why?’

‘Well, no one wants their home to be the scene of a gruesome crime,’ said Matilde. ‘And no one wants their home to be open to the interested scrutiny of the Senior Proctor, whose task it is to investigate the murders of scholars. Also, if it were proven that a scholar was killed on his property, Horwoode might have enraged students storming his house, seeking revenge.’

‘That is true,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But all this suggests that Horwoode suspected that Wymundham was murdered – or even that he had a hand in it – and that he deliberately set out to make Michael believe the death was not suspicious.’

‘It does indeed,’ said Matilde. ‘Although I think you will find that Horwoode is more likely to be guilty of concealing a crime than of committing one. If he had killed Wymundham himself, he would have removed the body from his own property. But what did you think when you examined the corpse that night? Did it look as though Wymundham had killed himself in a fit of grief?’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I was a little drunk at the time …’

Matilde laughed. ‘A little? You were reeling like an apprentice with his first wine!’

‘… but it looked to me as though he had been suffocated in some way. There was no injury to his head and I do not think his neck was broken, but the blueness of the face and the damaged fingers suggested that he was prevented from breathing.’

Matilde shuddered, her amusement fading. ‘What nasty business this is, Matt. You should be careful. If Horwoode did try to make Wymundham’s murder appear suicide – perhaps even by calling you in the depths of the night, so that it would be too dark for you to see properly – then he will not take kindly to you investigating it too closely.’

‘I know,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And the Mayor is a powerful man in Cambridge. If ever I need to apply for a licence to practise medicine in the town, I would need his good favour.’

‘Are you thinking of leaving Michaelhouse, then?’ asked Matilde in astonishment. ‘But you cannot, Matthew! You love your teaching too much! You would be unhappy!’

Would he? Bartholomew wondered. If he were no longer affiliated with Michaelhouse, then there would be nothing to stop him from pursuing Matilde in any way he pleased. And, he thought, spending long winter evenings in the presence of so lively and intelligent a mind, not to mention a lovely body, was infinitely more appealing than shivering over candle stubs in the rising damp of his Michaelhouse cell.

‘What about Ovyng Hostel’s Brother Patrick?’ asked Matilde, changing the subject quickly, as if embarrassed by her outburst. ‘Did you learn anything about him? I told you one of the sisters had denounced him as an inveterate gossip. Did you check that? Was she right?’

‘His Principal certainly thought so,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But he also said that Patrick was not privy to the kind of secrets that would warrant someone killing him.’

‘It is quite astonishing what some people object to, and the trouble they take to conceal things,’ said Matilde. ‘You should not dismiss Patrick’s gossiping too lightly as a motive for his murder. But I have a present for you. It has been ready for some days now, but you have not visited me, and so I have been unable to give it to you.’

Bartholomew experienced a resurgence of the guilt he had felt when Edith had accused him of being lax in his brotherly attentions. ‘You should not give–’ he began.

Matilde brushed his objections aside. ‘Actually, it is not really for you, and it is not really from me. But it is waiting to be collected from the blacksmith’s forge.’

‘The blacksmith?’ asked Bartholomew nervously, sincerely hoping it was not a horse.

Matilde smiled mysteriously and slipped her arm through his. They walked briskly to the smelly, filthy, fiery hole in which the blacksmith and his two soot-blackened assistants laboured in the hiss and roar of flames and the deafening clang of metal against metal. The smith glanced up as Matilde entered, then went to fetch something.

Rifling through an assortment of weapons, horse shoes, and pieces of armour, he found what he was looking for and presented Matilde with a bundle of greasy black sacking. She declined to sully her hands with it, and indicated that it was for Bartholomew.

Curiously, the physician peeled away the material to reveal a pair of shiny forceps, equipped with a pair of jaws that opened to the size of a small head. Bewildered, he gazed at them and then at her.

‘They are the tool that midwives use for drawing forth babies from their mothers,’ she explained.

‘I know what they are,’ said Bartholomew, as he turned them over in his hands. They were beautifully crafted, with wide ends that would allow the pressure to be spread across a wider area of the skull and so lessen the chance of damage to the baby’s brain, and the metal had been polished smooth, so that rough edges would not harm the mother. ‘But why are you giving them to me?’

‘Rosa Layne,’ said Matilde in a soft voice. ‘Do you remember her?’

‘Yes, of course. She died in childbirth last week. Her family had hired a charlatan midwife, who killed the poor woman. A real midwife, armed with a pair of these forceps, would have saved her.’

‘She was a sister,’ said Matilde quietly. ‘A prostitute. In fact, she was the sister who told me that your murdered Brother Patrick was such a gossip.’

‘A friend of yours, then,’ said Bartholomew sympathetically. ‘I am sorry, Matilde. I was called too late, and there was nothing I could do to save her.’

‘I know that,’ said Matilde. ‘But a group of us were discussing the problem penniless women now face in securing qualified midwives for difficult births. We know you occasionally attend such women, so we decided you should be properly equipped for the task. The gift is to be used to honour the memory of Rosa Layne.’

Bartholomew did not know what to say. ‘There are good midwives in Cambridge–’

‘Two. But they are expensive to hire, and they do not deign to attend whores when they could be hovering at the scented bedsides of merchants’ wives. We need someone who does not condemn us, and who knows what he is doing. We would prefer a woman, of course, but you are the next-best thing.’

‘Thank you,’ said Bartholomew, supposing it was meant to be a compliment.

‘We did quite a bit of investigating before we settled on this design,’ Matilde continued, looking down at the instrument in Bartholomew’s hands. ‘The person who helped us most was Adela Tangmer. She told us all about a pair she had devised for assisting the birth of foals, and so we modelled ours on hers, although smaller, of course.’

‘They are perfect,’ he said, performing a few trial grabs with them, and making the blacksmith and his assistants wince. ‘They could well save a woman’s life.’

‘Good,’ said Matilde warmly. ‘That is what we hoped. And we are friends again now – I was angry with you but it is impossible to be cross with you for long. But I should go. Poor Yolande de Blaston had just learned that she is to bear her tenth child, and she is all but overwhelmed with the first nine. She is in sore need of a little cheerful company and a lot of practical advice about managing household expenses.’

‘You might do better telling her how to avoid unwanted pregnancies in the first place,’ said Bartholomew, before he could stop himself.

‘Really, Matthew!’ exclaimed Matilde, and Bartholomew could see that not all her shock at his blunt suggestion was feigned. ‘What a dreadful thing to say to a respectable woman!’

‘Sorry,’ muttered Bartholomew, mortified.

‘I should think so,’ she said. ‘You should not believe all you hear, you know.’

And with that enigmatic statement, she was gone, weaving in and out of the late afternoon crowds and clutching a piece of bright green ribbon in her slender fingers.

When Bartholomew felt he had outstayed his welcome at the forge, brandishing and snapping his new forceps, he carefully wrapped them in some clean cloth and slipped them inside his medicine bag, where they all but doubled its weight. He supposed he should leave them in his storeroom, to be collected whenever he was summoned to a childbirth, but was too pleased to abandon them just yet. Somewhat guiltily, he began to make a list in his mind of all the pregnant women he knew, in anticipation of putting his latest acquisition to practical use.

He realised that he had delayed his visit to St Bene’t’s Church for far too long, and left the forge to set off down the High Street. But he needed the permission of the Master of Bene’t College to examine the bodies: he did not want to be caught tampering with the corpses of another College’s scholars without first obtaining the blessing of their Master. Physicians in Italian universities had a sinister reputation for using dead human bodies to teach anatomy, and Bartholomew did not want to be accused of prospecting for potential subjects.

When he reached the part of Bene’t College that faced the High Street, he saw that his medical colleague, Master Lynton, must have done as he had threatened and complained to the Sheriff about the unsafe state of the scaffolding. Parts of it had been dismantled, and the incessant clatter that had driven Bartholomew to distraction at Michaelhouse was refreshingly absent.

Like all the Cambridge Colleges, Bene’t was being built to repel invaders. There was a substantial gatehouse, which comprised a stocky tower with an entrance large enough to allow a cart through it, some chambers on the upper floors, and a dim little hole in which the porters lurked. Since the door was usually kept closed, anyone wanting to enter or leave the College was obliged to pass the porters first.

Bartholomew tapped on the gate and waited to be admitted. He knew the porters were in their lodge, because he could hear the click of bone against bone as dice were rolled and the muted sniggers of one player as he won a game. He knocked again, a little louder.

‘Go away,’ came an irritable voice from within. Bartholomew recognised it as that of Osmun. ‘Bene’t College is closed to visitors.’

‘I have come to see Master Heltisle,’ called Bartholomew. ‘I have business with him on behalf of the Senior Proctor.’

‘That is too bad,’ came the reply. ‘Shove off.’

Although Bartholomew knew of the Bene’t College porters’ reputation for rudeness, he had never experienced it first hand. He considered doing as they suggested, unwilling to become embroiled in a physical confrontation. But he was a doctor of the University and one of its most senior Fellows, and he did not see why he should be sent away by a mere porter, especially given that his purpose for entering the College was to try to solve the murders of Bene’t’s own scholars.

‘Tell Master Heltisle I am here to see him,’ he snapped. ‘At once.’

‘He is busy,’ growled Osmun, and a clatter from within suggested that the dice were being rolled again. ‘Shove off, or I will break your arms.’

Bartholomew gazed at the closed door for a moment, debating what to do. He stepped forward and put his hand to the wicket door. It was unlocked, so he pushed it open, stepped across the threshold and started to walk across the courtyard towards the hall, hoping to find a student who would tell him where the Master’s rooms were located.

‘Hey, you!’ bellowed Osmun in disbelief, tearing open the door to the porters’ lodge and pounding after him. ‘I told you the College was closed. Now get out, before you regret it.’

‘You cannot just close a College,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And I am on University business.’

‘I do not care what you want or who you are,’ snarled Osmun, grabbing a handful of Bartholomew’s cloak and beginning to haul him towards the gate. ‘You cannot come in.’

Before he could be throttled, Bartholomew quickly undid the clasp and slipped out of his cloak, leaving the startled porter with a handful of cloth. More determinedly than ever, he began to walk towards the hall again, aware that several students had emerged from their rooms and were watching the scene in the courtyard with nervous interest.

‘I have come to see Master Heltisle,’ he shouted to them. ‘Please fetch him.’

Osmun lunged, and Bartholomew deftly side-stepped him, so that the burly porter staggered and all but lost his balance. Seeing his comrade in difficulties, a second porter emerged from the lodge. Like Osmun, he was thickset and heavy featured, and wore the ugly striped hose and ridiculous blue cap that were the uniform of the Bene’t servants. Osmun had supplemented his with the peculiarly patterned tunic in which his cousin Justus had died, while at his waist hung Justus’s blunt dagger – although even that could cause a serious injury. The physician began to have second thoughts about his moral stand as the pair of them began to advance on him.

‘The Senior Proctor will not be pleased to hear that you laid hands on his agent,’ he blustered, backing away.

‘You are on Bene’t property,’ snarled Osmun, snatching at Bartholomew and missing again. ‘What I do to you here is none of the Senior Proctor’s business.’

‘And this is how you represent your College, is it?’ demanded Bartholomew. ‘By attacking Fellows of the University and disregarding the authority of the Senior Proctor?’

‘The Senior Proctor is not here, is he?’ said Osmun with a cold smile. ‘And the authority in Bene’t is me. What I say goes, and those who do not believe me must learn the hard way.’

‘Like the Fellow you fought last Saturday?’ asked Bartholomew, recalling Michael’s beadle telling of Osmun’s arrest for riotous behaviour. ‘Is that what you were doing? Teaching him a lesson?’

‘Maybe,’ said Osmun. ‘I spent a night in the proctors’ prison, but that miserable Henry de Walton learned something of College rules, so it was worthwhile.’

Bartholomew recalled that it was Henry de Walton whom Adela had described as a ‘snivelling little man’ who complained about the state of his health. The foppish Simeon had not liked him much either.

None of the students who ringed the courtyard had gone to fetch Heltisle, and Bartholomew realised he had been foolish to enter Bene’t College alone, when it was apparent that at least two of their number had met ends that were far from natural.

‘De Walton now does what he is told,’ said the second porter, circling Bartholomew like a dog with a cornered rat. ‘We do not tolerate Fellows who are critical, and who do not put their loyalty to the College above all else.’

The notion that Fellows at Bene’t were not permitted to express themselves freely sounded sinister to Bartholomew. Was that how Michaelhouse would be under Runham? Would Clippesby be the equivalent of Osmun, listening at doors to see whether his colleagues were voicing discontent, and meting out physical punishment to those who spoke out against him?

His thoughts had distracted him, and he did not move quickly enough to avoid Osmun’s sudden lunge. With an expression of intense satisfaction, the porter found himself in possession of a handful of the physician’s tabard. Bartholomew tried to struggle free, but Osmun was not about to let him go a second time.

‘I have him, Ulfo!’ he shouted, as the second porter darted to his assistance. ‘It does not take two Bene’t porters to rid the College of a worm like this.’

‘Osmun! What is all this unseemly skirmishing in our courtyard?’

With relief, Bartholomew glanced behind him to see the Master of Bene’t College standing there. Heltisle was a tall, handsome scholar with the easy confidence of a man born to power and wealth. He had been a clerk on the King’s Bench before he had forsaken law for academia, and was apparently a man destined for great things in the University, and perhaps beyond. One of his Fellows, a small, sharp-eyed man with stained teeth and a blotched complexion, hovered at his side, watching the spectacle in front of him with disapproval.

‘This man was trying to break into our College,’ said Osmun sullenly, before Bartholomew could reply. ‘Me and Ulfo were just throwing him out.’

‘His tabard suggests he is a Fellow from Michaelhouse,’ said the Fellow who stood with Heltisle. His voice had the soft burr of a local man. ‘You are right, Osmun: we want none of that filth in Bene’t. Get rid of him.’

With malicious vindictiveness, Osmun and Ulfo began hauling Bartholomew towards the gate. Bartholomew was not aware of particular ill-feeling between the two Colleges – other than the usual suspicion and rivalry that characterised any relationship between most academic institutions – and did not understand why the mention of Michaelhouse should evoke such a hostile reaction.

‘Wait,’ commanded Heltisle, striding forward to inspect Bartholomew as though he were a pig in a market. ‘Do you not recognise this man, Caumpes? He is Matthew Bartholomew, one of the two physicians who attended Raysoun when he fell from the scaffolding …’

‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew, trying to pull free of the porters. ‘Osmun summoned me on the advice of Master Lynton. I am sorry I was unable to do anything to save Raysoun.’

Heltisle regarded him curiously. ‘I am sure you did your best on that score. But you did not allow me to finish what I was going to say. After Raysoun died, both you physicians registered complaints with the Sheriff about the state of our scaffolding. You told him it was dangerous.’

Lynton had said he would do just that, Bartholomew recalled, and the fact that some of the scaffolding had already been dismantled suggested that Sheriff Tulyet had acted on it. If Heltisle had been informed that two physicians had voiced objections, then Lynton must have added Bartholomew’s name to strengthen his cause.

‘At the time, we thought the complaint was made out of concern for us and for public safety,’ Heltisle went on coldly. ‘But now we know the truth, and it has nothing to do with the well-being of anyone except the scholars of Michaelhouse.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘The only reason you complained to the Sheriff was so that you could poach our builders to work for you instead,’ answered Caumpes bitterly.

‘What?’ exclaimed Bartholomew, horrified. ‘I have poached no builders …’ But Runham might well have done, he realised suddenly. With a shock, he guessed exactly where some of the dismantled scaffolding had been re-erected, and why Michaelhouse’s had such a used look about it. It also explained why Runham was able to recruit so many workmen in such a short period of time – he had simply gone to an existing building site and offered the men wages that they could not afford to decline.

With a sinking heart, Bartholomew saw he should have guessed how Michaelhouse’s army of builders had been raised. There was Robert de Blaston, the carpenter, for a start. Bartholomew had known he was working for Bene’t, because at Matilde’s house Yolande had related how her husband said Raysoun was a drunk, given to clambering on the Bene’t scaffolding to seek out shirkers. And then Bartholomew had seen Robert de Blaston at Michaelhouse: it was he who had overheard Clippesby mention the big chest of gold Runham had gathered to pay the workmen’s wages. Blaston had been working at Bene’t, and Michaelhouse had poached him, just as Heltisle and Caumpes were claiming.

‘You have no answer, do you?’ asked Heltisle softly, as he hesitated. ‘You know you have done Bene’t a grave disservice, and you have no excuse to make.’

‘It was clever of you,’ added Caumpes. ‘First you urge the Sheriff to impose new safety measures on our workforce, hampering the speed of their progress, and irritating and frustrating them so that they are ripe for rebellion; and then you offer them new jobs at higher wages.’

‘But I did not speak to the Sheriff about your scaffolding,’ protested Bartholomew. ‘It was dangerous, but I did not mention it to the Sheriff.’

‘But you went to his house the very next day,’ said Caumpes. ‘You were not man enough to visit him openly in the Castle, so you sneaked to his home. I saw you myself, shaking the man’s hand on his doorstep.’

‘I had been summoned to physick his son,’ said Bartholomew, not liking the way his movements had been watched. ‘Not that it is any business of yours.’

‘So, what do you want here?’ asked Heltisle icily. ‘Have you come to offer us compensation for what your College has done to mine?’

‘The Senior Proctor asked me to come,’ he said, wishing he had never agreed to become Michael’s menial. ‘He wants me to examine the bodies of Wymundham and Raysoun, to ascertain the precise causes of their deaths.’

‘I am sure he does,’ said Caumpes nastily. ‘The Senior Proctor – a Michaelhouse man to the core – is trying to use the deaths of those two unfortunates to bring our College to the brink of ruin.’

‘Quite,’ agreed Heltisle. ‘He wants to start rumours that their accidental deaths were actually murders, so that he can bring Bene’t into disrepute.’

‘I can assure you that is not true,’ protested Bartholomew, hoping sincerely that it was not. Michael loved University politics, and would be quite happy to see another College fall from grace if it promoted his own.

He was wondering how he could extricate himself without acknowledging that Michaelhouse had acted somewhat shabbily – despite his personal opinion of Runham, he did not want to be openly disloyal to his own College – when the sound of horses’ hooves clattering on the cobbles drew attention away from him.

He was released abruptly, and Bartholomew saw that porters, Fellows and students were all busy bowing so deeply and obsequiously that a good many blue uniforms trailed in the mud. He glanced at the new arrivals, and immediately recognised the portly figure of the Duke of Lancaster.

The Duke was one of Bene’t College’s most noteworthy benefactors, and was often seen in the town, inspecting progress on the foundation that was costing him a small fortune. Riding with him was his squire, the elegant Simekyn Simeon, who sported hose and tunic of scarlet and a cloak of an impractical corn yellow. His shoes were made of an exquisite soft calfskin that would not last a day in Cambridge’s filthy streets.

The Duke himself cut a dowdy figure. He wore a mud-brown cloak trimmed with fur that was spiky and stained with rain, and his hose and tunic were a dull moss green. Bartholomew looked from his dour, uncompromising features to the sardonic, amused face of Simeon, and suspected that their arrival would not make his awkward position any easier.

‘My lord,’ said Heltisle, and Bartholomew was impressed to see him bow so low that he was bent almost double. ‘It is an honour to have you within our walls once more. May I offer you wine?’

‘You may,’ said Lancaster coolly. ‘But I am not here to exchange pleasantries, Heltisle. Simeon informs me that Wymundham and Raysoun are dead. Is this true? And why are there no builders at work and the scaffolding dismantled? My coffers are not bottomless, you know; if Bene’t’s new hall is not completed soon, you will have to look elsewhere for a gullible benefactor.’

‘It is not our fault,’ protested Heltisle in alarm. ‘It was all going excellently: the upper floor was almost completed and Raysoun spent most of his time supervising the workers and making sure no one shirked. Then he fell and was killed, and Michaelhouse stole all our labourers. If you want someone to blame for this setback, look to Michaelhouse.’

As one, every Bene’t scholar’s gaze went from the Duke to Bartholomew, who suspected he cut a sorry figure with his darned and patched tabard and clothes dishevelled from his tussle with the porters.

‘This is one of them,’ explained Caumpes to the Duke. ‘He complained to the Sheriff that our scaffolding posed a danger to the public, and then enticed away our labourers while the matter was rectified.’

‘Well?’ demanded the Duke, regarding Bartholomew coldly. ‘Have you come to demand money before our craftsmen are reinstated? Speak up!’

‘Of course not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I did not even know the men working on Michaelhouse were from Bene’t. I am a physician and I came here at the request of the University’s Senior Proctor to examine the bodies of the two Fellows who died.’

‘Well, you are far too late for that,’ said Heltisle with grim satisfaction. ‘They were buried days ago.’