A Masterly Murder (20 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Langelee smiled back. ‘I take your point.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘His what?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘But—’

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

‘What decision?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Langelee gazed at him sharply. ‘Why?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bartholomew did not reply.

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

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

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

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

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