A Masterly Murder (21 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘What do you mean?’ asked Langelee, puzzled. ‘I mean lustful behaviour,’ elaborated Runham.

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

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

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

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

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

‘Better.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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