A Masterly Murder

Chapter 7

THE DUKE OF LANCASTER HAD NO INTENTION OF standing in Bene’t’s chilly yard in the gathering gloom of dusk to discuss whether or not Michaelhouse had wronged the College into which he had ploughed a good deal of his own money. He tossed his riding gloves to Osmun, ordered Ulfo to stable his horse, and strode to the hall, where more servants flitted around him like moths around a candle.

Bartholomew, flanked by Heltisle and Caumpes, watched the Duke being made comfortable and thought about the last time he had been in Bene’t’s hall. Although only eight days before, it felt longer. He had been attending Wymundham, fetching him wine from behind the serving screen to calm him after the death of his friend Raysoun.

Had Wymundham been telling the truth about Raysoun’s last words? And had Wymundham then been killed to prevent him from telling Michael? Adela Tangmer, Matilde and the Stanmores had all told Bartholomew that Bene’t seethed with dissension. Was that why Heltisle had ordered the bodies buried before the Proctors’ office had given permission for them to be released, to prevent Bartholomew from learning the truth about the way they had died? Or was it simply because Michael’s illness had delayed matters too long, and, quite naturally, Bene’t College was reluctant to keep decomposing corpses in the church it used for its daily prayers? They would certainly be within their rights.

But if Wymundham had been murdered, then how did Mayor Horwoode fit into the plot? Was he an innocent bystander, whose garden was selected at random as a place to dump the body? Or did he and his Guild of St Mary, which had co-founded Bene’t, have something to hide? And was the Duke of Lancaster aware of or involved in the murder? Since the Duke had made his squire a Fellow of Bene’t for the express purpose of keeping an eye on the place, he clearly sensed the College was not all it should be. With a sinking heart, Bartholomew suspected he was about to be drawn into something he would rather avoid.

‘Michaelhouse must have been planning this for weeks!’ Caumpes burst out, evidently unable to restrain himself any longer. ‘It is a coincidence, is it not, that all this happens the instant Runham is elected as their new Master?’

Bartholomew wondered if that were true. It usually took many months for the concept of a building to become reality, and yet Runham had arranged for plans to be drawn up, materials to be delivered, a workforce hired and money to pay for it all within a few days. On reflection, Bartholomew decided that Caumpes’s accusation was undoubtedly true. And if that were the case, then Runham must have been anticipating Kenyngham’s resignation, too, and had been ready to spring into action the moment he, Runham, was elected.

‘It would not surprise me to learn that Michaelhouse was responsible for Raysoun’s death,’ Caumpes continued hotly. ‘It certainly seems to have benefited Michaelhouse.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘That is not true. Michaelhouse has always striven for peaceful relations with its neighbours, whether townsmen or other Colleges.’

‘That is a lie!’ Heltisle pounced immediately. ‘Michaelhouse cares nothing for peaceful relations. As a case in point, Runham recently dismissed his College choir, and almost caused a riot by refusing to pay them the bread and ale they were owed.’

Bartholomew was silent, cursing Runham for his shortsighted actions.

‘And worse, we have been subjected to an almost continual stream of unemployed singers hoping to be allowed to join the Bene’t choir,’ Heltisle went on. ‘That none of them has the slightest iota of musical talent seems irrelevant to them. They are not interested in singing, only in whether we can feed them after the Sunday mass.’

‘Why did you want to examine the bodies of our scholars?’ the Duke asked of Bartholomew curiously.

Simekyn Simeon rested his elegantly clad feet on the table, and observed the spectacle that was being played out in front of him, with half-closed eyes. That Simeon declined to acknowledge that it was he who had insisted Michael should conduct a more rigorous enquiry indicated to Bartholomew that his errand had not been on the command of his Master. Simeon, it seemed, had acted independently. Bartholomew wondered whether that was significant.

He hesitated before he replied to the Duke’s question, not sure that it was wise to mention his suspicions that the two Bene’t Fellows might have been murdered when their killer could be standing in the hall at that very moment. While Simeon might be certain that the killer was not a Bene’t man, Bartholomew wanted to reserve judgement until he knew more about the College that Michaelhouse had wronged.

‘He is reluctant to answer you, my lord,’ said Caumpes, when Bartholomew did not respond immediately. ‘Could that be because I am right, and Michaelhouse had them killed, and now it wants to hide any evidence of it?’

‘Michaelhouse is more cunning than that,’ said Heltisle. ‘I do not think it had a hand in killing Raysoun or Wymundham, but I do think it might be trying to start rumours that a Bene’t scholar had a hand in their deaths. That is the kind of subtle damage the likes of Michaelhouse men would inflict on us. Rumours are easy to start, but less easy to stop.’

The Duke of Lancaster made an impatient sound at the back of his throat. ‘Enough of this! You scholars are obsessed with petty details. If Michaelhouse had wanted Raysoun and Wymundham dead, there would be clear evidence that they had been murdered. Was there?’

‘No, my lord,’ said Heltisle immediately. ‘Raysoun fell from the scaffolding and Wymundham flung himself over the bank of the King’s Ditch in his grief.’

Bartholomew said nothing. Neither did Simeon, who had been told that Wymundham’s body showed signs of a struggle. Bartholomew wondered why the courtier kept his peace. Was it simply because he did not believe a body could yield that sort of information? Or was there another reason for his silence?

‘Well, there you are, then,’ said the Duke. ‘No one was murdered, and if no one was murdered, then no one can accuse Bene’t of anything. And that is the end of the matter, except for one thing.’

‘And what is that, my lord?’ asked Heltisle, a little nervously.

‘The fact that you did not tell me that work on my College has stopped, and yet money continues to be drawn from the funds I left for you.’

‘We were going to tell you,’ protested Heltisle, swallowing hard. ‘The money was drawn to pay a carpenter to make the scaffolding safe after the workmen looted it to take to Michaelhouse.’

‘Well, I am far from pleased,’ said the Duke. ‘I am a busy man, and have better things to do than visit Cambridge every week to rescue Bene’t from its latest disaster.’

‘It is not a disaster,’ said Caumpes stiffly. ‘It is a minor setback.’

‘You call the deaths of two Fellows a minor setback?’ asked Simeon coolly.

‘That is not what I meant,’ said Caumpes. ‘I was referring to the building. But since you mention it, I am not sorry Raysoun and Wymundham have gone. Raysoun was a drunkard who would have brought the College into disrepute at some point, while Wymundham was a malicious tale-teller. We will appoint more Fellows. There are plenty of good clerks who would be willing to accept positions at Bene’t.’

‘There will be no more clerks’ stipends until the buildings are finished,’ growled the Duke. ‘How many Fellows are there, now that you have buried two of them?’

‘Four,’ answered Heltisle, white-faced with anger. ‘Me, Caumpes, Henry de Walton, and your man – Simekyn Simeon.’

‘Simeon is a Fellow only to ensure that my money is not squandered,’ said the Duke. ‘But, in the light of recent events, I plan to leave him here until the building is finished.’

Simeon’s jaw dropped in horror, and he seemed about to object vigorously when the Duke forestalled him with a raised hand.

‘It will be an incentive for you to see that Bene’t College is completed, Simeon. The sooner it is ready, the sooner I will allow you to resign your Fellowship and return to court with me.’

‘But–’ Simeon’s handsome face was dark with outrage.

‘No buts. I want you to stay in Cambridge to see my College finished, so that when I die there will be a body of men to say prayers for my soul. A man cannot live for ever, and I must make some preparation for the next world.’

The Duke and the scholars continued to argue, their voices becoming louder and more acrimonious. Heltisle claimed that he, too, had not liked Raysoun and Wymundham, while Caumpes railed that there was a plot afoot to damage Bene’t, masterminded by Michaelhouse. Simekyn Simeon, his sardonic smile gone now that he was obliged to remain at Bene’t, glared at everyone with open hostility. The students, a scruffy, disreputable crowd, shuffled restlessly, some of them shoving and pushing at each other like a group of bored children.

The man who Bartholomew assumed was the last of the four Fellows, Henry de Walton, said nothing. He stood near the wall, a pallid, fox-faced man who looked unwell. On one cheek was a dark bruise, and Bartholomew remembered Michael’s beadle telling him that Osmun had been arrested for brawling with one of the Bene’t Fellows. The skinny little man, whose nervousness was apparent in every flutter of his hands and twitch of his face, would have been no match for the brawny porter, and Bartholomew suspected it was not de Walton who had started the fight.

So, had one of these four Fellows pressed something over Wymundham’s face to silence him before he could pass what he knew to the Senior Proctor? Had Wymundham actually been fleeing from the murderer when Bartholomew had seen him slipping so furtively into Holy Trinity Church the afternoon Raysoun had died? And had the same murdering Fellow also stabbed Raysoun and then pushed him from the scaffolding?

‘I am sure you have found our discussion most entertaining,’ said the Duke, becoming aware that Bartholomew was a witness to the unseemly quarrel. ‘You now know that there is more to life at Bene’t than squandering my money.’

‘What shall we do with him?’ asked Caumpes. ‘We cannot let him return to Michaelhouse to tell lies about us.’

‘He says he is here on the instructions of the Senior Proctor,’ said the Duke. ‘The poor man is only trying to do his job, and even you must admit that the deaths of two scholars within a couple of days might appear a little peculiar to outsiders.’

‘I disagree,’ said Heltisle. ‘Things like that happen all the time in the University.’

‘You should watch your back, then, Simeon,’ said the Duke wryly. ‘I want my College completed under your watchful eye, but I would like you alive at the end of it.’

‘I am touched by your concern,’ said Simeon sullenly.

Heltisle fixed Bartholomew with a cold stare. ‘I do not want to confide in you, but I see I have little choice. What I am about to tell you is for the Senior Proctor’s ears only. I do not want this to become an amusing story for Michaelhouse’s high table.’

‘Do not tell him!’ exclaimed Caumpes in horror. ‘He will make us a laughing stock in the University.’

‘I see nothing amusing about it,’ said Heltisle. ‘You see, physician, Wymundham preferred the company of men to women.’

‘Really,’ said Bartholomew flatly, recalling Wymundham’s brazenly effeminate manners, and the way the man had rested his hand on Bartholomew’s leg.

Heltisle glanced at him sharply, but then went on. ‘Raysoun and Wymundham were more than friends. So, you see, there is nothing odd in the fact that Raysoun died in Wymundham’s arms, or that Wymundham subsequently killed himself from grief.’

Bartholomew gazed down at the floor. Grief-stricken though he might have been, Wymundham had certainly not asphyxiated himself. Suicide by smothering was not easy to achieve, and anyway, there had been nothing at the scene of his death for him to have suffocated himself with. The nature of Wymundham’s relationship with Raysoun did not alter the fact that he had been murdered.

‘Did you know about Wymundham’s preferences?’ asked the Duke of Simeon, surprised.

Simeon tried hard not to regard the Duke in disbelief, and only partly succeeded. ‘It was very obvious, my lord.’

Heltisle agreed. ‘It is not unusual in places like this, where women are forbidden and scholars spend hours in each other’s company. I imagine Michaelhouse is no different.’

‘Is that true?’ asked the Duke salaciously.

‘I have never thought about it,’ said Bartholomew vaguely, unwilling to satisfy the Duke’s odd fascination with the subject. ‘I do not like to pry into my colleagues’ personal affairs.’

‘Then I cannot see that anything more can be gained from this discussion,’ said the Duke, sounding disappointed. ‘You are free to go, physician. Make your report to the Senior Proctor, and we will lay these two sad souls to rest for ever.’

‘What report?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I have nothing to tell him now that Raysoun and Wymundham are buried.’

‘I doubt there was more to be learned from their bodies anyway,’ said Simeon, pulling himself, with some reluctance, from his fit of pique. ‘The Senior Proctor has his beadles making enquiries in the taverns, to see if any townsmen are bragging about the murders. That is far more likely to be successful than poking about with corpses.’

‘There are no murders,’ said Heltisle in exasperation. ‘How many more times do I have to repeat myself?’

Simeon said nothing.

‘Heltisle is right,’ said the Duke. ‘There is no evidence that either of these men were murdered, but a good deal to suggest that one had an accident and the other killed himself with grief. That is what you can report to the Senior Proctor, physician. Meanwhile, you can tell your Master Runham that I am not pleased he has poached my workmen to build his own College, but I suppose as long as they do not work, I will not have to pay. How long do you plan to keep them?’

‘A month, apparently.’

‘A month?’ exclaimed Caumpes in disbelief. ‘But that is impossible! The workmen will never reface the whole of the north wing and raise a whole new courtyard in that time.’

‘They might,’ said Simeon. ‘But I would not be impressed by the quality of the completed item.’

‘A month it is, then,’ said the Duke. ‘And then they will return to Bene’t.’

‘Now just a moment,’ said Caumpes indignantly. ‘I am not prepared to stand by as Michaelhouse steals our servants and accuses us of murdering our colleagues.’

‘You will do nothing,’ said the Duke angrily. ‘I have made my decision, and I will not have squabbling scholars giving Bene’t a bad reputation in the town.’

‘It is not I who–’ began Caumpes furiously.

‘I said enough!’ roared the Duke. ‘You must learn some decent manners, Caumpes. No wonder the wealthy townsfolk are loath to associate themselves with scholars. You are all a band of bickering pedants who are more interested in rivalries with other Colleges than in learning.’

Caumpes reddened with rage. ‘Bene’t is my College. I will do anything to protect it against–’

‘Go,’ said the Duke wearily. ‘All of you. I have had more than enough of you for one day. Bring me more wine, Simeon. And Heltisle can fetch me the College accounts to inspect. Other than that, you are all dismissed from my presence.’

Bartholomew was grateful to escape from the tense atmosphere of the hall. He almost ran across the yard, slowing only when he saw a familiar pair of hips swinging vigorously as their owner bent over a steaming vat of laundry.

He went past the porters’ lodge without a word, ignoring their transparent attempts to provoke him into a confrontation. Runham might have commandeered Bene’t’s builders, but Bene’t had poached a far greater prize than that from Michaelhouse – they had Agatha the laundress.

It was almost dark when Bartholomew left Bene’t. The streets were still busy with people trying to complete their business and return home before the light faded completely. He was tired and dispirited, and did not feel at all like going back to the College where Runham lurked liked a spider in his web waiting for innocent flies.

He saw Matilde, bundled up against the chill of early evening in a fine green cloak, and yet still managing to look slim and elegant among the burlier figures of the people who surged around her. He caught her eye and waved, intending to offer to escort her home. As she gazed back, an expression of such intense hurt crossed her face that he recoiled in shock. Bewildered, he ran after her and caught her hand, but she pulled away from him, and would not answer his repeated questions as to what was wrong.

‘Is he bothering you?’ asked a rough voice. Bartholomew recognised the familiar dirty apron of the carpenter, Robert de Blaston, whose wife Yolande was a friend of Matilde’s. ‘Tell me if he is, and I will see to him.’

‘He is just leaving,’ said Matilde shortly. ‘Thank you, Robert.’

‘But, Matilde,’ protested Bartholomew. ‘What is the matter? Is it one of the sisters? Is someone ill? Can I help?’

‘Nothing you do or say will help,’ she said in a voice that was simultaneously cold and unsteady. ‘Just leave me alone. And you can take this, too!’

Before he could reply, she had turned and fled up the High Street, and Blaston’s hefty hand was on Bartholomew’s shoulder. On the ground at his feet was a fluttering green ribbon, already smeared with mud from the road. Slowly, he bent to pick it up, wondering what he could have done to distress her in the short time since they had last spoken. But, he thought, perhaps it was not him at all; perhaps something else had happened. Cambridge was a small town, and if something dire had befallen the prostitutes, he would hear about it sooner or later.

‘Lovers’ tiff?’ asked Blaston with rough sympathy.

‘Not on my part,’ said Bartholomew. He closed his eyes, disgusted at himself for virtually admitting that he, a scholar of the University, was engaged in a romantic relationship with a prostitute. Blaston patted his arm.

‘Never mind,’ he said consolingly. ‘She will come round; women always do. Just make her a gift of a bit of ribbon, and she will love you dearly until the next time you do something wrong.’

‘Perhaps it was the ribbon that did it,’ said Bartholomew, looking at the green material in his hand and thinking that he would never again take Langelee’s advice about women. ‘Maybe I should have chosen the blue one instead.’

Blaston took it from him. ‘This is a fine thing,’ he said, rubbing it between his rough fingers and ingraining filth so deeply into it that Bartholomew wondered whether it would ever be clean again. ‘Yolande would love something like this, but with nine children and a tenth on its way, such foolishness is out of the question.’

‘Take it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I do not want it.’

Blaston gazed at him. ‘No,’ he said with clear reluctance. ‘I could not take something so fine from you – you are almost as poor as we are.’

Bartholomew tried not to show he was amused. If impecunious men like Robert de Blaston thought him impoverished, then it was small wonder that influential dignitaries like Mayor Horwoode did not want to be seen with him. ‘Please take the thing. Matilde told me that Yolande was not overjoyed to learn about this tenth child. A ribbon might cheer her.’

‘It would!’ agreed Blaston. ‘And a nice bit of ribbon like this might enable her to attract a better class of customer until she becomes too incapacitated to work.’

Bartholomew could not but help wonder how many of Yolande de Blaston’s expanding brood were the result of her occupation. He brushed aside the carpenter’s effusive thanks and walked briskly back to the College. Michael was sitting at the table in his room, writing a letter by candlelight. He professed himself disheartened by his lack of progress in discovering the identities of the cloaked intruders they had encountered leaving Michaelhouse the night Runham was elected. He grew even more dispirited when he had heard what had transpired at Bene’t, although his eyes narrowed in suspicion when he learned that the Bene’t Fellows were determined to dismiss Wymundham’s death as accidental.

‘I thought we told Simeon about your findings from the corpse,’ he said.

‘We did, but perhaps he did not believe us. He certainly appeared to be sceptical.’

‘Or perhaps he has his own reasons for dismissing them.’ Michael sighed. ‘My only hope is that Beadle Meadowman will learn something from the workmen. The one good thing to come out of Runham’s disgraceful “borrowing” of Bene’t labourers is that Meadowman is now here, in Michaelhouse, and so better able to keep me informed of his progress.’

‘What about the other beadles?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Have they learned anything yet?’

Michael shook his head. ‘Not so much as a whisper. It is very frustrating. I would dearly love to go myself, but, as I said before, the men likely to yield the information we need are not the sort I would be able to intimidate, bribe or cajole. We will just have to be patient, and hope that sooner or later the killer finds he is unable to resist boasting about what he has done, and then I will have him.’

Bartholomew left him listening to Meadowman apologising for having nothing to report, and went to check that his students had completed the reading he had set them. He was surprised to learn that the senior undergraduates had obeyed his instructions to the letter, and that one of them had even donated a candle, because they had not finished their task when dusk fell.

They were frowning in concentration as Bulbeck ploughed his way through Averroës’ Colliget, a difficult text that Bartholomew insisted they understand completely before they began their fourth year of study. Bartholomew stayed with them for a while, answering questions and enjoying the atmosphere of enthusiasm and scholarship that Bulbeck had managed to generate, despite the noise of the builders and the bitter chill of the chamber.

The junior students were in the room Sam Gray shared with Rob Deynman. Deynman was wealthy and could afford to buy fuel for the fire in his room, so that flames cast a welcoming orange glow on the whitewashed ceiling and walls. But despite the pleasantly warm chamber, any pretence at debate and learning was absent. Deynman glanced around guiltily when Bartholomew entered, and something fell from his hand.

‘What in God’s name are you doing?’ whispered Bartholomew, gazing at the chipped plaster and stained walls in horror. ‘Runham will be furious when he sees this, Rob!’

‘Runham has dismissed him,’ said Gray bitterly. The other students muttered resentfully. There was a strong smell of wine in the room, and Bartholomew knew that the students had been drinking.

‘What are you talking about?’ he asked impatiently. ‘And get rid of that wine. You know you are not supposed to drink during lessons.’

‘Runham dismissed Rob,’ repeated Gray. ‘He said that Rob “is not of the intellectual calibre that Michaelhouse requires”.’

His imitation of the pompous stuffiness of Runham’s voice was rather good, and Bartholomew might have laughed under other circumstances. It was true Deynman was no Aristotle, but it was Bartholomew’s understanding that Michaelhouse needed the unusually high fees it charged Deynman’s wealthy father, and that Deynman’s position was probably more secure than anyone else’s for that reason alone. Bartholomew was astonished that Runham would relinquish such an easy source of cash so casually.

‘Is that why you are merrily destroying your room?’ he asked of Deynman, nodding to the knife that lay at the lad’s feet, and the wine that had been splashed across the walls.

‘It serves Runham right,’ said Deynman in a muffled voice, not looking at Bartholomew.

‘But Gray will have to live here after you have gone,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘It is not just Runham you are punishing with this wanton act of loutishness.’

‘He will not be here long enough to care,’ mumbled Deynman.

Bartholomew regarded Gray warily. ‘Why? Did Runham catch you dicing again?’

‘Stealing ink,’ supplied Deynman. ‘We all do it – masters and students alike. But Runham said if Sam does not copy out the entire first part of Corpus Juris Civilis by this time tomorrow, then he will be dismissed, too.’

‘Corpus Juris Civilis is a legal text,’ said Bartholomew thoughtfully. ‘Is he using you as a scribe to improve his personal library, then?’

‘No,’ said Gray bitterly. ‘Because I cannot do it. It is so long that even if I worked all night, I would never be able to finish it. Runham set me a task that he knows is impossible, and he did it because he wants me gone – like Father Paul, Rob and Master Kenyngham.’

‘Kenyngham?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘He has not gone anywhere.’

‘He will soon, though,’ said Gray. ‘Runham suggested that Kenyngham might find it difficult to see his College under a new Master after managing it so long himself. Kenyngham, like a meek little lamb, agreed. He leaves on Sunday.’

Bartholomew’s thoughts began to whirl. It was clear that Runham intended to dismiss anyone he thought he might not be able to manipulate, and that he intended to fill his College with scholars who would not oppose anything he tried to do. He stared at the resentful students who sat in huddles in front of him. Deynman, filled a new with anger and grief, snatched up the knife and raked a deep gouge down the wall.

‘Stop that,’ said Bartholomew sharply. ‘And clear all these wine cups away. You have some writing to do.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Gray suspiciously.

‘You might not be able to copy out the whole text yourself, but there are fifteen of you here. Start with a page each – and remember to use a similar style of handwriting.’

‘What is the point?’ asked Gray sullenly. ‘He will only find another excuse to be rid of me.’

‘Just start scribing,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And we will face the next problem when it comes.’

‘What about me?’ asked Deynman hopefully. ‘Will you tell Runham that he was mistaken, and that I am all that Michaelhouse could ask for in a scholar?’

There were limits, Bartholomew thought. ‘I will see what I can do. Hang a rug over that mess on the wall before anyone sees it.’

He left the students hunting around for parchment and ink and made his way to the hall. Runham’s actions seemed to be methodical and premeditated – a neat pruning of unwanted parts like a gardener hoeing weeds – and Bartholomew guessed that the pompous lawyer had been planning exactly how he wanted his College for a long while. He felt unwarranted anger at Kenyngham for resigning and leaving them in this mess, but it had only been a matter of time before Kenyngham had become too old to continue, and then Runham would have made his move anyway.

He ran up the stairs to the hall, hoping to find some of his colleagues with whom he could discuss the issue of Deynman. The room was deserted, and a draught from the open door had scattered parchments across the floor, so that it had a desolate, abandoned feel to it. It was also cold with no fire, and Bartholomew’s breath plumed in front of him as he looked around. There was something different about it, and at first he could not pinpoint what. Then he noticed that some of the best wall-hangings, which had lent the hall its cosy feel, had been removed, leaving the bare stone exposed. Because the tapestries would go well with the cream walls in Runham’s new quarters, Bartholomew guessed exactly where they had gone.

Kenyngham was sitting in the fireless conclave with Langelee and Suttone. The gentle Gilbertine was pale, but his face wore a serene expression, as though he had accepted Runham’s curt dismissal of a Fellowship spanning almost thirty years, and was already thinking of other matters.

‘We were just talking about you, Bartholomew,’ said Langelee. His voice lacked its usual ebullient quality. Like Kenyngham, he was wan; his heavy jowls were dark with stubble and there was a pink sheen to the whites of his eyes. Bartholomew suspected that Deynman and Gray were not the only ones who had spent the afternoon drowning their sorrows. ‘You will have no students left if Runham sends down any more.’

Bartholomew sat next to the empty hearth, prodding at the dead white ashes with a stick and sending a scattering of dust across the flagstones. ‘I am surprised he dismissed Deynman. I always thought we needed his money.’

‘So did I,’ said Kenyngham. ‘I would never have accepted him had we not – no offence, Matthew, but that boy has no place in a University.’

‘He certainly does not now,’ agreed Langelee gloomily.

‘So why is it that we do not need Deynman’s money all of a sudden?’ asked Suttone. ‘Is there a new benefactor so that we can afford to discount our old sources of income? I do not understand. These new buildings must be costing Michaelhouse a fortune, and it seems we should be conserving our regular income, not doing away with it.’

‘Especially given that Runham has offered to double the builders’ wages if the work is completed within a month,’ said Bartholomew.

Suttone and Langelee gaped at him in astonishment. ‘Really?’ asked Langelee. He blew out his red-veined cheeks in a sigh of surprise. ‘That will mean a lot of ready money.’

Kenyngham nodded. ‘But he has it – I saw it in a chest in his room. He is overly trusting to keep it in such an insecure place. Anyone could wander in and help themselves.’

‘You mean it is in an open box?’ asked Langelee, startled. ‘Just lying there?’

Kenyngham nodded again. ‘I asked him where it came from, but he would not tell me.’

‘I do not like the sound of this at all,’ said Suttone uneasily. ‘I am a law-abiding man – a friar from a respectable Order. I do not want to be associated with anything illegal.’

‘And we will be,’ said Langelee glumly. ‘If Runham has obtained this wealth by underhand means, we will be considered as guilty as he is, because we are Fellows of the same College.’

‘But what can we do?’ asked Suttone, alarmed. ‘We cannot just sit idly by and let him do things that may be dishonest.’

‘We have no proof that he has been breaking the law,’ said Kenyngham reasonably. ‘Just because he will not reveal the source of his wealth does not mean that he acquired it by criminal means.’

‘Does it not?’ said Suttone, clearly unconvinced. ‘Well, I do not feel comfortable with his secrecy. What are we going to do about it?’

‘There is nothing we can do,’ said Kenyngham wearily. ‘We can hardly approach the man and ask him where he stole his money from.’

‘Really?’ said Langelee harshly, standing with sudden purpose. ‘Well, I was once an agent for the Archbishop of York, and I have dealt with all manner of criminals and traitors in my time. I have no intention of allowing my career to be cut short by the activities of a common thief. We shall confront him with our suspicions like men, not skulk here in the dark because we are afraid of him.’

‘Ah, my loyal colleagues,’ said Runham smoothly, as he walked into the conclave with Clippesby at his heels. Bartholomew noticed that the door to the hall had not been properly closed, and assumed that the pair had been listening outside.

‘I want a word with you, Runham,’ began Langelee bluntly.

Bartholomew cringed. Runham was a clever man, and was not likely to yield any of his secrets or render himself amenable to reason if Langelee went at him with all the subtlety of a bull in heat.

‘And I want a word with you, Langelee,’ countered Runham immediately. ‘It has come to my notice that you are not all you should be.’

‘Am I not?’ asked Langelee, aggression evaporating as puzzlement took over. ‘In what way?’

‘You are married,’ said Runham, in a tone of voice that suggested wedlock was more akin to a contagious disease than a union made holy by the blessing of God. ‘And because you are married, you have rendered yourself ineligible for a Fellowship at Michaelhouse. You will remove yourself and all your belongings by morning. Your deceit is reprehensible.’

‘But I am not married,’ protested Langelee. ‘I was, but I am not now.’

‘Did you or did you not hold your Fellowship while you were wed to a woman called Julianna Deschalers?’ asked Runham coldly.

‘Well, yes, but I–’

‘Then you have broken one of the fundamental rules of our College, which is grounds for dismissal. And, since you also claimed your Fellow’s stipend when you had no right to do so, I demand that you repay the entire amount by the end of next week – a total of two marks.’

‘But I cannot pay so large a sum that soon!’ cried Langelee, aghast. ‘I spent all my money on obtaining the annulment and in buying off Julianna.’

‘Your domestic arrangements are not my concern,’ said Runham distastefully. ‘But I will have every penny of the money you drew fraudulently from Michaelhouse, or I shall ask the proctors to arrest you.’

‘Who told you about my marriage?’ asked Langelee in a whisper, his face white. ‘Was it Bartholomew?’

‘It was not,’ said Bartholomew, offended that the philosopher would believe he had betrayed a trust to a man like Runham – even when that trust had been foisted upon him without his consent.

‘It was you,’ said Langelee, anger slowly replacing the dull shock in his face. ‘It must have been, because you were the only one I told. I will kill you for this!’

Bartholomew leapt backward as the enraged Langelee dived at him with murder in his eyes. He edged behind a heavy bench, but Langelee kicked it to one side as though it were parchment, oblivious to the horrified cries of Kenyngham. Langelee snatched up a poker from the hearth, and only missed Bartholomew with his sweeping blow because blind fury made him clumsy.

Kenyngham seized Langelee’s sleeve in a feeble attempt to pull him away, but Langelee shook him off impatiently. Kenyngham stumbled and fell to the floor, where Suttone quickly dragged him out of the path of Langelee’s feet. Bartholomew glanced at Runham, expecting him to berate Langelee for his unprovoked display of violence or dart forward to prevent a brawl in his College. But Runham remained where he was, a smug smile on his face and his hands tucked in his wide sleeves. Clippesby stood next to him, grinning and apparently enjoying the unedifying scene as much as was Runham.

Bartholomew tore his gaze away from the Master just in time to see Langelee bring the poker down in a savage arc that was aimed at his head. He scrambled away, hearing the crunch of smashed wood as the blow destroyed one of the carved benches.

‘Stop!’ cried Kenyngham in dismay, trying to shake off Suttone. Wisely, Suttone maintained his restraining grip, knowing that a gentle old man like Kenyngham would be no match for the pugnacious Langelee. ‘You will hurt someone.’

‘Hurt? I am going to kill someone,’ Langelee howled furiously.

Bartholomew grabbed a stool and raised it to parry the next blow. The poker crashed down, iron meeting wood. His arms hurt from the force of the impact, and then the stool fell to pieces in his hands. He gazed at it in horror, then glanced up to see the hot hatred in Langelee’s eyes as the philosopher’s muscles bunched for another strike.

‘Langelee! Put that down!’ Michael’s imperious tones turned every head in the room, and Langelee faltered just long enough to allow Bartholomew to snatch the poker from him.

‘You are up and about again, are you?’ asked Runham coolly, sounding none too pleased.

Michael shoved Clippesby to one side, and gazed around him with cold green eyes. ‘This is a discreditable little tableau,’ he said, his voice conveying disgust. ‘Is this how you plan to run Michaelhouse, Master Runham? Will you allow your Fellows to brawl and threaten each other with lethal weapons, while you stand and watch like a blood-lusting peasant at a cockfight?’

Runham’s face hardened. ‘You forget who you are talking to, Brother. I am the Master of your College, and not a man to be insulted. And what did you expect me to do? You saw Langelee: he was out of control. There was nothing I could do to stop him.’

‘I stopped him,’ snapped Michael. ‘And if you were any kind of man, you would have done so, too. Even frail Master Kenyngham tried – you just stood there and laughed.’

‘Well, it is over now,’ said Runham carelessly. ‘Langelee is dismissed from Michaelhouse for being a married man – although I could equally well dismiss him for riotous behaviour – and Bartholomew is fined two shillings for brawling in the conclave.’

‘I do not think so,’ said Michael icily. ‘Matt was not brawling. He was scrambling to escape Langelee’s murderous onslaught. Any fool could see that.’

‘Bartholomew betrayed my trust,’ whispered Langelee, his voice soft with disbelief and hurt now that the fury had drained away. ‘How could he?’

‘It was not Matthew,’ said Kenyngham quietly. ‘It was me. I am afraid it just slipped out. It was that wretched wine that made me loose-tongued; I shall never drink the stuff again.’

‘You told Runham I was married?’ repeated Langelee slowly. ‘You?’

Kenyngham nodded sadly. ‘At the feast. Master Runham wanted to know about the Fellows who would soon be under his fatherly eye, and he asked about your dalliance with Julianna. I told him that you had married her in Grantchester church, but that within a few weeks you had sought an annulment. I helped you to arrange it, if you recall.’

Langelee’s shoulders slumped and he left the conclave without a word. Runham regarded the remaining scholars with cool disdain.

‘I will not tolerate disobedience among my Fellows. You four – Bartholomew, Clippesby, Michael and Suttone – will be all who are left once Kenyngham goes. I shall expect total loyalty to me and the College, and if I find you lacking, I shall dismiss you, too. The new statutes that you signed yourselves give me the right to rid myself of anyone committing acts of dissension.’

Michael glowered, but said nothing, knowing there was no point. Bartholomew also remained silent, feeling too drained of emotion to argue. Kenyngham’s eyes brimmed with tears when he saw the sorry way his College was going, while Clippesby stood behind Runham and grinned and nodded like a half-wit.

‘But Langelee was loyal to you,’ Suttone pointed out reasonably. ‘He was doing his best to support you in what you wanted. It is unjust of you to send him away.’

‘The man is a lout,’ said Runham in distaste. ‘And do not preach to me about injustice, Suttone. I know all about you – about the missing gold from your friary in Lincoln, and who everyone believed stole it.’

Suttone gaped at him. ‘How in God’s name did you learn about that?’

‘Your name was cleared only because no one could prove you were guilty,’ said Runham. ‘And I know about Clippesby’s strange ailments, too – hearing voices in empty rooms and imagining himself to be an angel.’

‘What is this?’ asked Michael, startled.

‘No!’ cried Clippesby, his grin evaporating like rain on hot metal.

‘I had words with your Prior before you came here,’ said Runham spitefully, watching Clippesby’s face fall with dismay. ‘You have a vivid imagination, it seems, and spent some time being treated for madness.’

‘But not recently,’ said Clippesby in a small voice, shooting agitated glances at the other Fellows. ‘I am well now. Ask Master Raysoun of Bene’t. He knows.’

‘But Raysoun is dead, Clippesby,’ said Runham softly. ‘We do not possess your abilities to commune with those in the next world.’

‘That is not what I meant,’ cried Clippesby in agitation. ‘I forgot Raysoun was dead. It had slipped my mind. I am not a lunatic!’

‘Of course you are not,’ said Suttone kindly, shooting Runham a warning glance. Clippesby seemed to be on the verge of tears. ‘Come and sit next to the fire. It is all right.’

‘I am well now,’ said Clippesby again, sounding pathetically bewildered.

‘So you are,’ said Runham, patting his shoulder paternally, his abrupt change of behaviour leading Bartholomew to wonder whether Clippesby was the only one who had been assessed for the state of his wits. Runham beamed suddenly. ‘Well, the day is wearing on, and I have many things to do if I want to make Michaelhouse a College to be proud of. I shall be in my chambers.’

With that, he turned abruptly, and strode out.

Michael had been alerted to the trouble by Bulbeck, who had heard Langelee yelling in the conclave, and although Michael was keen to discuss the matter in the privacy of their rooms, Bartholomew was too disillusioned and dismayed. He felt sick with Runham’s machinations and spiteful revelations, and knew he would be unable to concentrate on his treatise on fevers if he tried to work. With nothing else to do in Michaelhouse, he strode across the yard and hauled open the gate, intending to escape the College for a while. He walked briskly up the High Street, slipped through the Trumpington Gate while the guards were busy with a family of tinkers who wanted access to the town, and started to stride along the road that led to the village where his sister lived. He wanted only to be away from the town and the tense, accusing atmosphere of his College.

It was only just evening, but darkness fell early in November. The trackway stretched ahead of him as he walked, black as ink, so that once or twice he felt the soft wetness of dew-laden grass under his feet rather than the stony mud of the path. He knew very well it was not wise to be out alone on one of the main roads, but he was angry and despondent enough not to care. He had a small knife in his medicine bag, which he pulled out and carried in his hand, and there were always the heavy childbirth forceps that Matilde had given him – a well-placed blow from those would make most would-be robbers think again.

He rubbed a hand through his hair as he walked, wondering how long Runham had harboured such deep hatred towards his colleagues. He could not imagine what the man had against the mild and gentle Kenyngham, although he understood his dislike of Langelee well enough. And it had been a cheap trick to use some ancient accusation against Suttone and make a weapon of Clippesby’s past illness to ensure their co-operation. Runham was despicable, he thought, kicking viciously at a weed by the roadside.

His mind returned to the disturbing deaths of the scholars that Michael had charged him to investigate. Of Brother Patrick’s murder, Bartholomew had learned nothing: the man had been stabbed and no one had seen what had happened. He hoped Michael was right, and that someone would start to brag about the crime he had committed, and patience would bring the killer to justice.

Of the Bene’t deaths, Bartholomew had discovered little that he and Michael did not already know or had not already guessed: it seemed Raysoun and his intimate Wymundham were disliked by their colleagues, and there was an undeniable atmosphere of unpleasantness in the small community. Had the Master or his henchman Caumpes killed them? Was that why they were so determined that no investigation should take place? And what of the courtly Simeon? Why had he visited Michael to encourage a more rigorous investigation without the knowledge of his Master? Did he suspect his colleagues were involved in the killings? He had intimated to Michael that he suspected a workman, and had urged Michael to look in that direction. But was that to divert attention from himself?

Bartholomew found himself unable to concentrate on the Bene’t murders, when his own College played on his mind. Where had Runham’s sudden wealth come from? Had he acquired it dishonestly, as Suttone feared? Was Michael right, and Runham had somehow tampered with the Widow’s Wine so that the whole College would be either drunk or incapacitated, thus allowing him to do something unseen? Bartholomew frowned. Runham had been waiting for them when he and Michael had arrived back at Michaelhouse after seeing Wymundham’s body. If Runham had not been one of the pair of intruders, was that evidence that he knew them and their secret business?

And there was another thing. The morning after the feast, Runham had arrived very early at the church to complete Bartholomew’s chores before he arrived. Had he been up all night doing something connected to the sudden influx of money? Bartholomew racked his brains to recall whether Runham had also drunk the Widow’s Wine, but could not remember. Runham had certainly not been drunk when he had loomed out of the shadows to accuse Bartholomew and Michael of being late.

The wind blew keenly, and Bartholomew shivered in the damp chill, sensing there would be rain before too long. He pulled his cloak tighter around him and fumbled in his bag for his gloves, groaning when he realised he had lost one. A new pair would cost sixpence, and he did not have sixpence to spare because Runham kept fining him. And that reminded him of another problem. The following day, he would have to tell Runham whether he was to resign his Fellowship. At that precise moment he wanted to tell Runham exactly where to put it, but knew that was just what the lawyer wanted. Bartholomew had no intention of doing anything that would please Runham.

At the same time, he did not relish the notion of life at College with Runham at the helm. Michael’s connections with Bishop and Chancellor seemed to give him a certain influence over Runham, and he perhaps would be able to control some of the smug Master’s wilder schemes, but would Michael be able to bring about a reconciliation between William and Runham? And what of Paul and Kenyngham? Was there any hope that they might be reinstated? Michaelhouse would be a poorer place without their gentleness and patience.

So engrossed was Bartholomew in his thoughts that he was surprised to find he had walked far enough to see the warm twinkle of the lights of Trumpington beckoning to him through the darkness. He continued towards them, and stopped outside the house where his sister and her husband had their country home. The great gates that led to the cobbled yard were closed for the night, but he could see candles burning in the house itself when he peered through a crack in the wood. He thought he could hear the sound of a lute being played very softly, accompanied by a woman singing. He smiled to himself, recalling many nights when he had been a child, listening to Stanmore playing and Edith singing the latest romantic ballads or the more ancient poems of the troubadours.

He hesitated, not wanting to walk any further, but reluctant to foist himself on Edith and Oswald when they were enjoying an evening in each other’s company. And he did not much feel like companionship, preferring to wrap himself in the dark with his own thoughts.

He strolled to the village church. It was locked and no lights shone from the priest’s house, suggesting that the man had retired to his bed once darkness had fallen. Bartholomew found a spot on the west wall that was out of the wind and sat in the grass, pulling his cloak around him for warmth. He thought about Michaelhouse, and the people he had considered friends as well as colleagues, and about his students. Could he really abandon the teaching to which he had committed himself? He supposed he could take one or two of the more senior undergraduates and train them as he worked; other practising physicians did so.

He thought long and hard about his decision, carefully weighing up the advantages and disadvantages of each option – to his students and patients as well as to himself. And then he made up his mind. He would leave Cambridge and travel to Paris, where the Arab physician who had taught him his medicine still lived. Ibn Ibrahim would be delighted to see him, and would undoubtedly be able to secure him a teaching post at the University. With the exception of Edith, who was happily married and scarcely required any financial support from him, he had no family, while Michael was a resourceful man who would be able to find himself another tame physician to assist him in his enquiries. Cynric had already gone, and there was no one else who needed him. He was a free agent – alone.

He sat for so long amid the waving grass of the churchyard, careless of the light drizzle that began to fall, that by the time he dragged his mind away from his thoughts he was soaking wet and chilled to the bone. He had no idea what the time might be, although no lights burned in any of the village houses, so it must be very late. He wondered if it were too late to call on his sister.

He walked briskly to where the gates of Stanmore’s manor house abutted on to the road. Peering through the split timber, he saw that a light still gleamed in the upper window he knew was Edith’s. Not wanting to rouse the whole household, he skirted the retaining wall to an old tree that leaned its crusty branches against the stone. Bartholomew had spent his childhood with Edith and Oswald Stanmore, and knew very well how to slip undetected in and out of their house at night.

The tree was older and more brittle, and Bartholomew was heavier and less lithe than thirty years before, so it took some scrambling before he had eased himself over the uneven wall. He landed with a bone-jarring thump in some rhubarb, and heard something rip on his tabard. Brushing the tree bark from his hands, he walked across the vegetable plots towards the light that still glowed in Edith’s bedchamber. He picked up a small clod of moss and hurled it upward, hoping to attract her attention. Nothing happened, so after a moment he tried again with a larger piece.

There was a sharp splinter of cracked glass and several dogs started barking. Lamps began to gleam all over the house and within a few moments, the front door opened and Stanmore’s steward came out, carrying a bow with an arrow already nocked. Bartholomew called out to him, uncomfortably aware of a black dog snarling and slavering around his knees.

Stanmore poked a cautious head out of the door. ‘Matt?’ he called suspiciously. ‘Is that you? Come out where I can see you.’

Bartholomew walked into the halo of light cast by the lamp one of the servants held, hands above his head in the hope that the wary steward would not shoot him.

‘What are you doing?’ demanded Stanmore, once he had recognised his brother-in-law. ‘How did you get in? The gates have been locked since dusk.’ His faced hardened. ‘The apple tree by the rhubarb patch! I thought you had grown out of that sort of thing years ago.’

‘Sorry,’ said Bartholomew, moving forward slowly and wishing Stanmore would call off the dog. ‘Is Edith in?’

‘Is Edith in?’ echoed Stanmore in disbelief. ‘Of course she is in! It is almost midnight, man! Where did you think she would be?’

Bartholomew advanced a little further, and felt the dog’s teeth suddenly take hold of the hem of his cloak and pull furiously.

‘Are you alone?’ asked Stanmore, trying to see him in the dim light and the haze of drizzle. ‘Is Michael with you? Or your woman, perhaps?’

‘Woman? Why would a woman be here with me at this time of night?’ asked Bartholomew, startled by the peculiar question. With annoyance, he heard a sharp rip as the dog won the encounter with his cloak. ‘And which woman do you mean?’

‘You tell me,’ said Stanmore, putting his hands on his hips and regarding Bartholomew as if he had just dropped from the sky. ‘You are a changed man these days, Matt. Full of secrets and nasty surprises. So, is she with you, or are you skulking in my garden in the dead of night and distressing my dog all by yourself?’

‘I am alone,’ said Bartholomew, wondering who was the mysterious ‘she’ that Stanmore seemed to think might be lurking nearby. The chance would be a fine thing, he thought wryly; he could not imagine any woman being prepared to accept an impoverished physician who was about to forsake Cambridge for the dubious delights of Paris.

‘Well come in, then,’ snapped Stanmore. ‘It is cold with the door open, and it is raining, too. And put your arms down, man. You know perfectly well that Hugh will not shoot you.’

Noting the gleam of suspicion that lit the steward’s eyes, Bartholomew was not so sure. Hugh made no move to step aside for him, and he was obliged to edge around the man more closely than was comfortable. He considered giving the steward a shove as he passed, but Hugh was armed with a bow and wore a wicked-looking dagger at his belt, and Bartholomew knew when prudence was more sensible than futile displays of manly pride.

Inside, he was immediately aware of the familiar smells of Edith’s home – wood-smoke scented with pine needles, baking bread and the herbs she hung to dry in the rafters of the kitchen. It was an aroma that whisked him back many years, to a time when life had been happy and far less complicated.

The house was a simple hall-type structure, with a large ground-floor chamber, and several smaller rooms above. It was timber-framed and cosy, with rich woollen tapestries hanging from the walls and dark polished wooden floors. The embers of the hearth that stood in the centre of the hall still glowed red, and Bartholomew moved towards them, stretching his chilled hands to their feeble warmth. Stanmore dismissed the curious servants and the disapproving Hugh, and bustled about lighting candles and throwing an extra log on the fire. When the room was flooded with a pleasant amber glow, he turned to face his brother-in-law.

‘What have you been doing?’ he asked in amazement, seeing for the first time Bartholomew’s bedraggled state. ‘You are soaking wet, filthy with grass stains and slime from the tree, and your clothes are ripped. Really, Matt! You are supposed to be a respectable citizen, but you arrive at my house in the middle of the night looking like a vagrant and offer me no explanation.’

‘You have not given me the chance,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘And I did not realise it was so late, or I would not have disturbed you. I saw a light and assumed you were still awake.’

‘We were talking,’ said Stanmore vaguely. ‘About you, as it happened. But what were you doing, roaming the dark countryside so that you do not even know what time it is?’

‘I was thinking,’ began Bartholomew.

‘I imagined academics thought all the time,’ said Stanmore, regarding him more curiously than ever. ‘And most of them do not end up looking like you do! You have been doing more than thinking, my lad!’

‘I am going to Paris,’ said Bartholomew. ‘On Sunday, probably.’

Stanmore gazed at him in stupefaction. ‘What for? Paris is full of Frenchmen.’

‘I have no choice – no real choice. Can I speak to Edith?’

‘I do not think so,’ said Stanmore. ‘You have done more than enough to distress her for one night. You can see her tomorrow.’

It was Bartholomew’s turn to gaze. ‘What are you talking about? What have I done? Why can I not see her? She is awake – you told me you were talking before I arrived.’

Stanmore sighed. ‘You really are obtuse, Matt. But very well. Since you insist, I will ask her to leave her warm bed and come downstairs so that you can pay her a visit at a time when all honest men are sleeping. Wait here a moment, and I will see whether she wants to see you.’

Bartholomew caught his arm as he made to leave. ‘I do not understand. What am I supposed to have done?’

‘How can you even ask such a thing?’ said Stanmore reproachfully. ‘Edith was very upset by what you did. In fact, her dismay over you is the reason we were still awake – we were trying to think about what we might do to rectify matters.’

Bartholomew frowned in confusion, racking his brains to think of something he might have said or done to provoke such a strong reaction from the sister who was generally tolerant of his occasionally eccentric behaviour.

Stanmore sighed. ‘You are incorrigible, Matt. Which of your various actions do you think would be the one to upset your only sister? It is your betrothal to that dreadful Adela Tangmer.’

Wearing a dry shirt and hose of Stanmore’s, and with a cup of warm ale in his hands, Bartholomew began to feel comfortably drowsy. Edith was curled up on the cushioned bench next to him, a thick blanket around her shoulders, while Stanmore leaned towards the hearth and poked with an ornate iron poker at the merry flames that blazed there. Except for the cosy snap and crackle of burning wood, the room was silent, and the ceiling and walls flickered orange. Bartholomew realised it was the first time he had been really warm since Runham had become Master of Michaelhouse and had banned the unseemly wastage of fuel in the hall and conclave.

‘So, you are not really betrothed to Adela?’ said Edith yet again. ‘She is mistaken?’

‘I am not, and she is,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I cannot imagine how she managed to interpret any of our conversations as a proposal of marriage. We did discuss Mayor Horwoode’s legs, but that was about as intimate as it got.’

‘His legs are very thin,’ said Edith distastefully. ‘Most women prefer a calf with a little more shape to it.’

‘But Mayor Horwoode’s disappointing physique apart, are you sure you did not offer yourself to this woman?’ asked Stanmore. ‘She seemed very certain about the arrangement when we met her this evening, and her father is even talking about how my business will benefit his once we are related: he wants the offcuts from my cloth as padding to protect his wine barrels when they are transported by cart.’

‘We did discuss marriage,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘But only to acknowledge that we were both under some pressure to take spouses, and so were in similar positions. She told me we were allies against unwanted unions.’

‘What else did she say?’ asked Edith anxiously. ‘Did she mention children? Heirs?’

‘She did, yes, but not in a way that led me to believe she expected me to provide them. She told me she was opposed to marriage to anyone, and that she would sooner remain single.’

‘I was horrified when I heard the news,’ said Stanmore. ‘Such an arrangement would have been no good to me at all. What could a clothier gain from an alliance to a vintner? And Henry Tangmer is master of the Guild of Corpus Christi – a band of greedy misers, if ever there were one!’

‘I was not horrified, but hurt,’ said Edith. ‘Since you and I had discussed marriage only last week, I was upset that you should have selected a wife without bothering to talk to me about it first.’

‘You should know me better than that,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And I thought you did not like Adela, anyway.’

‘I do not!’ said Edith vehemently. ‘She is a terrible woman – all teeth and hips, and her idea of genteel conversation revolves around breeding horses. Did you know that she challenged that knife-thrower we watched in the Market Square to a competition? Her behaviour is wholly inappropriate for a merchant’s daughter.’

‘Who won?’ asked Bartholomew mildly.

Edith pursed her lips. ‘She did, actually. But being able to hurl a knife better than an entertainer is not something that would endear her to a prospective husband – or a prospective sister-in-law.’

Bartholomew laughed, and reached out to touch her hand affectionately. ‘I promise you, if I ever decide to marry Adela, you will be the first to know.’

‘Good,’ muttered Stanmore with great feeling. ‘Then we can lock you up until you regain your wits, and save you from yourself.’

‘After our discussion last week, I have been to considerable trouble to line up some suitable candidates for you,’ said Edith. ‘Then I heard about your betrothal, and was obliged to cancel them all. It was dreadfully embarrassing.’

‘How many did you arrange?’ asked Bartholomew nervously. ‘I can only marry one.’

‘Oh, about six,’ said Edith carelessly. ‘And Matilde is furious with you, of course. She heard it this evening from Yolande de Blaston, who was told by Mayor Horwoode, and Horwoode had it from Adela’s delighted father.’

So that explained Matilde’s curious behaviour, thought Bartholomew. She must have learned the news while he was at Bene’t College.

‘What was Yolande doing with Mayor Horwoode?’ he asked, puzzled by the curious chain of informants who had provided Matilde with the piece of gossip in the first place.

Edith and her husband exchanged an amused glance. ‘Well, she is a prostitute, Matt,’ said Stanmore dryly. ‘So, I expect they were talking about needlework.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Bartholomew, slightly embarrassed by his slowness, and recalling that Friday was the day when Yolande claimed to have a long-standing arrangement with the Mayor. ‘I can visit Matilde and tell her it was all a misunderstanding. Then we can go back to being friends again.’

‘Not if you plan to leave for Paris,’ said Edith. ‘What brought you to this decision?’

Bartholomew took a deep breath and told them all that had happened since Runham had come to power. And for good measure, he talked about the deaths at Bene’t and Ovyng, too.

Bartholomew stopped speaking when he saw that Stanmore was white-faced with anger. ‘Now what?’ he asked, sensing he had committed another inadvertent misdemeanour.

‘Runham,’ said Stanmore tightly. ‘I gave him five marks.’

‘Five marks?’ echoed Edith. ‘But that is a fortune, Oswald! Why would you give that kind of money to the wretched man, especially given what he has done to Matt?’

‘But that is precisely why I did give it to him,’ said Stanmore. ‘Runham intimated that life would be more pleasant for Matt if I made a donation to the College’s building fund. He chose his words carefully, but I have had enough dealings with artful men to understand his meaning perfectly.’

‘What are you saying?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘That Runham threatened you into making a donation to Michaelhouse?’

‘He threatened you,’ said Stanmore. ‘He was as circumspect as it is possible to be, and nothing he said could be construed as directly intimidating, but the upshot of the discussion was that if I did not make a donation to Michaelhouse, your days there would be numbered. And now I hear he has forced you into a position where you feel obliged to resign – and if you resign, I am powerless to accuse him of dismissing you. Damn the man for his cunning!’

‘Ask for the five marks back,’ said Edith. ‘Runham reneged on the deal you made.’

Stanmore poked the fire with unnecessary force. ‘It was a gentlemen’s agreement: I gave him five marks, and he agreed to leave you alone. Nothing was written down, and I will never be able to prove that I gave him the money only to protect Matt. That snake!’

‘You really gave Runham five marks for my benefit?’ asked Bartholomew, touched.

Stanmore nodded. ‘Of course, this was before I learned about your betrothal to Adela Tangmer. I am not sure I would have been so generous had I known who you were about to inflict on me as a sister-in-law.’

‘Especially since such a marriage would have meant me leaving Michaelhouse anyway,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Fellows cannot marry.’

‘I do not like the sound of this business at Bene’t,’ said Edith, bored with Michaelhouse and its machinations. ‘Their scholars are always at each other’s throats. It would not be wise to become embroiled in their evil quarrels.’

‘That is good advice, Matt,’ said Stanmore. ‘You should take it. The Bene’t men are an unwholesome crowd. Heltisle is a power-monger, who cares only for his own ambition. Caumpes is fiercely loyal to Bene’t, but he has a liking for boats, which is odd for a scholar, and he dabbles in the black market.’

‘In what way?’ asked Bartholomew curiously. ‘The black market, I mean.’

‘He often has things to sell,’ said Stanmore. ‘There is no evidence that the items he peddles are stolen, it is true, but most scholars keep away from the buying and selling business – thankfully.’

‘And the Duke of Lancaster’s man, Simekyn Simeon, is no more a scholar than I am,’ said Edith in disdain. ‘He is a court popinjay who knows more about clothes than he does about learning.’

‘Really?’ asked Stanmore, suddenly interested. ‘I wonder if I might persuade him to look at a bale of silk I have just imported …’

‘Well, what would you expect from a man with a name like Simekyn Simeon?’ asked Edith, not to be side-tracked into a discussion about cloth. ‘Meanwhile, Henry de Walton is pathetic and spends all his time worrying about his health. Agatha the laundress told me that there is not a scholar in Bene’t who does not despise him for his weak and selfish ways. And the two who died – Wymundham and Raysoun – were no better.’

‘Lovers,’ said Stanmore with grim satisfaction. ‘And Wymundham was especially reprehensible, according to my informant. He deliberately started rumours that would lead to strife among the others, and collected items of gossip like children collect berries on a summer’s day.’

‘Unlike you,’ said Bartholomew, seeing no difference between Wymundham’s alleged love of stories and Stanmore’s network of informants who were paid to do the same thing.

Stanmore fixed him with an unpleasant look. ‘It is entirely different, Matt. I collect information because I need to know what is happening in the town to help my trade. Wymundham loved rumours for their own sake, and if there were none that suited him, he was not averse to inventing a few. I would not be surprised if someone did away with him.’

‘The Bene’t Fellows are a horrible crowd,’ reiterated Edith. ‘You should not allow Michael to involve you with them, Matt, especially now you have no Cynric to protect you.’

‘It was good of you to take him after Runham dismissed so many of our staff,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Of course, it would have been nicer if you had discussed the matter with me first.’

‘Why?’ asked Stanmore with a shrug. ‘Cynric is perfectly capable of making up his own mind about what he wants. It is high time he was released from all that creeping about in the night that you seem to demand of him. I have given him and Rachel Atkin a pleasant room in my property in Milne Street, where they are very happy.’

‘He does seem happy,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘You have always been kind to me – and are even prepared to make anonymous donations on my behalf – but I am afraid I have yet one more favour to ask of you.’

‘You are thinking about young Roger, the stable boy dismissed from Michaelhouse.’

Bartholomew gazed at him in astonishment and Stanmore smiled, gratified to see his brother-in-law so impressed by the scope of his knowledge.

‘That was taken care of days ago,’ Stanmore continued loftily. ‘Agatha brought him to me, and said that you thought I might find a place for him. He is currently employed in the kitchen, with the promise of an apprenticeship if he proves himself to be a diligent worker.’

Bartholomew smiled. ‘Thank you, Oswald. You are a good man.’

‘I am, but do not spread it around the town, or I will have all manner of people striving to take advantage of me – like that damned Runham.’

They continued to talk until the first streaks of dawn appeared in the sky. The more he thought about his decision to make a new life in Paris, the more Bartholomew felt the choice was the right one. Edith, however, was determined to persuade him to remain in Cambridge as a physician and take one of her six hopeful ladies as a wife. Stanmore fell asleep, lulled by their voices, and only woke when a heavy-eyed servant came to rake over the cooling ashes and build a new fire.

Bartholomew was enjoying a breakfast of coddled eggs and fresh bread with honey when there was a clatter of horse’s hooves in the courtyard. Intrigued by the urgency of the voices that rang out as the rider dismounted, he followed Stanmore outside and was startled to see Cynric holding the reins of a panting, sweating horse.

‘There you are, boy,’ said the Welshman breathlessly. ‘I thought I might find you here.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew, as a sense of unease began to uncoil in the pit of his stomach. ‘What has happened? Is it Michael? Is he ill again? Or is it Matilde?’

Cynric shook his head, resting his hands on his knees to try to bring his ragged breathing under control. ‘I went to collect the last of my belongings from Michaelhouse at dawn – Runham said he would sell them if I had not claimed them by then – and I found the College in a terrible commotion.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew again, feeling the unease turn into outright anxiety.

‘Runham,’ gasped Cynric, still doubled over. ‘I thought I should warn you as soon as I could. He was found dead in his room this morning. And Michael says if it was not murder, then it should have been!’