A Masterly Murder (13 page)

‘When was this?’ asked Michael.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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