A Masterly Murder (23 page)

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.

Suttone shrugged. ‘It is difficult to say. Clippesby seems to believe that the Master took against him for some
undetermined reason. Personally, I suspect that the Master had some reservations regarding Clippesby’s suitability, and so
recommended he apply to Michaelhouse instead.’

Agatha gave a guffaw of laughter. ‘I must tell Brother Michael that one! The subtlety of that move by Bene’t against another
College will make him smile.’

‘I do not think so,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He would only find it amusing if Michaelhouse had foisted an “unsuitable” student
on Bene’t, not the other way around.’

‘Clippesby told me that he was shocked when he saw Raysoun,’ said Suttone. ‘Apparently, the man had been a cheerful sort of
fellow, given to playing practical jokes on his friends. But when Clippesby met him recently, he said he had changed. He had
become gloomy and listless, and drank more than he used to.’

‘Perhaps drinking and gloominess are connected,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It seems wine led poor Justus to take his own life.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Suttone. ‘Runham’s book-bearer who came from Lincoln. It is a pity he died: I would like to have met a man
from my own city.’

‘Justus had Bene’t connections, too,’ put in Agatha. ‘His cousins are the two Bene’t porters, Osmun and Ulfo. Justus wanted
to work at Bene’t when he first came from Lincoln a year ago, but they had no money to pay an additional porter, so he went
to work for Runham instead.’

‘Langelee also seems to have an association with Bene’t,’ said Suttone. ‘If I had a penny for every time he told me he was
going to visit Simekyn Simeon (the Duke of Lancaster’s man) at Bene’t, I would be a rich man.’

‘And I have Bene’t connections, do not forget,’ said Agatha. ‘I have a cousin who is a cook there, and he has been pressing
me to honour Bene’t with my services.’

‘I hope you do not,’ said Bartholomew. He smiled at her. ‘Where would Suttone and I go on a cold winter’s night for good ale
and entertaining company?’

Agatha puffed herself up. ‘True. Michaelhouse would not survive long without me here to oversee matters. But Bene’t is offering
me twice the salary that you pay, and I get a bigger room. It knows how to treat its valued members of staff.’

‘I could have a word with Runham, and see whether we can afford to give you more,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You are right: we should
pay you what you deserve.’

Agatha reached out and chucked him under the chin. ‘You are a kind man, Matthew. I will miss you most of all if I leave. But
I cannot say that I relish the prospect of remaining here with that Runham at the helm. He is like a great fat spider, spinning
webs to ensnare anyone unfortunate enough to cross his path. And I will never forgive him for what he did to Father William
today.’

‘That was an unedifying incident,’ agreed Suttone. ‘Father William is not an easy man to like, but he is loyal, open and I
think generous underneath all his religious bluster.’

‘Michaelhouse will not be the same without him,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘Still, perhaps it will all blow over in time. Then William
can come back and make his apologies to Runham.’

‘William can apologise all he likes,’ said Suttone. ‘But Runham will never allow him to make his peace. I saw the triumph
in Runham’s eyes when William struck him: he knew at that point that he had the excuse he needs to rid himself of the man.’

‘But why would Runham want William to leave?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘He is a reliable teacher and his students seldom cause us
any trouble.’

Suttone and Agatha exchanged a mystified glance.

‘I am surprised you need to ask that, Matthew,’ said Agatha. ‘I have heard you complain often enough that you cannot teach
while William rants and raves in the hall.’

‘And his fanatical dislike of the Dominicans may prove dangerous for Michaelhouse,’ added Suttone. ‘It is not good to harbour
men who hate another Order within our walls in as uneasy a town as Cambridge. It would not do for Michaelhouse to become the
focus of an attack by Dominicans enraged by claims of heresy by our resident Franciscan.’

‘But it is irrelevant now, anyway,’ said Agatha, staring into the dying embers of the fire. ‘William has been driven out.
Which of you will be next, I wonder?’

The following day saw the first sunshine they had experienced for days. Bartholomew woke at dawn, heartened to see the streaks
of pale blue and gold striping the banks of grey clouds. He walked with the others to mass in St Michael’s Church, watching
the windows as the first delicate strands of sunshine began to dapple the chancel floor. He was less sanguine when the same
sun caught the gilt on Wilson’s grotesque effigy and set it glittering and gleaming like some pagan idol, but tried to ignore
it and concentrate on the reading from the Old Testament.

When the mass was over, he peeled off from the end of the procession and walked across the courtyard to check on Michael.
The monk was sleeping, although a number of empty dishes suggested that Agatha had already brought him his breakfast. He stirred,
and muttered something about Yolande de Blaston, the prostitute. Afraid he might hear something he would rather not know,
Bartholomew beat a hasty retreat and joined his colleagues in the hall.

The uninspiring meal – watery oatmeal and equally
watery ale – was eaten in silence, while the Bible Scholar read about the trials and tribulations of King David. Runham’s
own meal was supplemented with some raisins and a bowl of nuts from his personal supplies. Kenyngham seemed sad and distracted,
barely touching his food and not even listening to the sacred words of the Bible Scholar, which suggested to Bartholomew that
he was deeply unhappy. Langelee was nursing yet another of his gargantuan wine-induced headaches, and was irritable with the
harried servant who single-handedly struggled to attend the Fellows – Runham had dismissed his two assistants.

Next to Runham was Clippesby, whose eyes darted around the room as though looking for hidden assassins. He ate like a bird,
in jerky, pecking movements, almost as if he were afraid that if he devoted too much attention to his meal, something dreadful
might happen to him. Technically, Clippesby should not have been sitting so near the Master: as one of Michaelhouse’s newest
members, he was obliged to sit farthest from the seat of power. But no one else wanted Runham’s company, and when Clippesby
had defiantly selected the seat, no one cared to wrest it from him.

Suttone looked as grave as his colleagues. His jovial face was glum, and the merry twinkle in his eyes, which Bartholomew
had so liked at their first meeting, was gone. As if he sensed he was the object of scrutiny, he glanced up at Bartholomew.
The physician indicated with a grimace that it was time the meal was brought to an end, and Suttone gave him a quick grin
of agreement. The genial sunniness returned, and Bartholomew suspected that Suttone’s sombre expression had been cultivated
to suit the timbre of the meal.

Runham read the grace in unnecessarily sepulchral tones, and the meal was over. The students scraped their
benches on the flagged floor as they made their escape, returning to their rooms to collect pens, parchment and as many blankets
as they could carry for a morning of teaching in the chilly hall. The few remaining servants ran to clear away the dishes,
and then to dismantle the trestle tables and lean them against the screen at the far end of the room. The benches were left
as they were, so that the masters could move them as they were needed.

‘My Carmelite brethren warned me that life as a scholar might be grim,’ said Suttone, walking across the yard with Bartholomew
as they went to collect the books they would need that morning. ‘But I told him I was not going to some poor hostel with a
dormitory-cum-refectory-cum-lecture-room-cum-laundry. I told them I was going to Michaelhouse, one of the greatest houses
of learning in the country, where scholars live a life of respectable comfort, and where education is placed above all else.’

Bartholomew laughed.

‘I do not think teaching is among Runham’s principal objectives,’ Suttone continued. ‘I think his main
aim is to create a glorious temple, where scholars can sit in neat little rows and shiver together, wishing they were somewhere
else.’

‘I hope he changes his mind about the fires when it snows,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Everyone will succumb to fevers and chills
if there is nowhere to dry wet clothes and nowhere warm to sit.’

‘We will be losing our students to the more congenial atmosphere of the taverns,’ agreed Suttone. ‘But perhaps Runham will
loosen his stranglehold when he learns he does not need to prove his power to us at every turn.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘But Michaelhouse still has many advantages over the hostels. We have some faithful
servants – Harold, Ned …’

‘All dismissed,’ interrupted Suttone. ‘What else?’

‘Well, not the food,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And our wines leave something to be desired.’

‘They certainly do,’ laughed Suttone. ‘I did not think that any respectable establishment would stoop to provide Widow’s Wine
for its members. When I first tasted it, I thought someone was playing a practical joke on us newcomers. But then I saw the
rest of you drinking it, and I felt obliged to follow suit. Nasty stuff, that. My priory in Lincoln keeps it for cleaning
the drains.’

‘That bad, is it?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I thought it was just rough wine.’

‘
Very
rough wine,’ corrected Suttone.

Bartholomew continued with his list of Michaelhouse’s virtues, not wanting the genial Suttone to leave the College and allow
Runham to appoint a man of his own choosing in his place. ‘We have a fine collection of grammar and rhetoric texts, and there
will be plenty of opportunity for academic debate when things have settled down.’

‘Who with?’

‘Well, there is Langelee,’ began Bartholomew. He saw the dubious expression on Suttone’s face and hurried on.
‘Runham is a clever lawyer who argues brilliantly when the mood takes him; Kenyngham understands the scriptures better than
anyone else I know, and will certainly give you cause for contemplation; Father Paul—’

‘Paul is dismissed.’

‘Right. Michael’s logic is flawless, and he is an entertaining sparring partner.’

‘And there is you,’ said Suttone, smiling again. ‘I would like to hear more of the theories that everyone seems to believe
are so heretical. In my experience, heretical notions often need only a little tweaking here and there to render them acceptable
to the general populace. Perhaps I will stay a while, even if only to learn from
you how simple water can cause so many diseases and how horoscopes are irrelevant to a person’s well-being.’

Bartholomew smiled back. ‘And since Brother Michael often accuses me of having a poor grasp of logic, perhaps I can learn
from your lectures on the subject, too.’

Suttone clapped him on the back. ‘Once Master Runham sits a little more easily in the saddle of power, Michaelhouse will
be a better place to live, and then you and I shall spend many happy hours discussing medicine and logic.’

Bartholomew sincerely hoped Suttone’s gentle optimism was not misplaced.

During the morning’s teaching, Bartholomew was summoned by a patient with a badly crushed hand; the injury was so severe that
it necessitated the removal of two fingers. He was surprised to see the surgeon, Robin of Grantchester, already there, lurking
in the shadows with his terrifying array of black-stained implements. Physicians were not supposed to practise surgery, and
amputations were Robin’s domain, although Bartholomew personally would rather have died before allowing the surgeon anywhere
near an injury of his own. Surprisingly, Robin demurred and watched silently while Bartholomew deftly removed the useless
digits from the howling man and sutured the stumps. When the patient had been bandaged and dosed with a pain-killing draught,
Bartholomew and Robin left the house together.

‘Why did
you
not operate?’ asked Bartholomew as they walked along the High Street. ‘It was a straightforward case. Was it because he could
not pay you?’

‘I was paid,’ said Robin, showing him six pennies. ‘That is why they had no money left for you.’

‘But you did not treat the man, so why did you take his money?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.

‘I charge for consultations,’ said Robin loftily. ‘I asked for sixpence and then advised him to contact you. I am banned from
surgery until this wretched Saddler case is resolved, you see.’

‘You were arrested because he died after you amputated his leg,’ Bartholomew recalled. ‘But most people die after you cut
off their limbs. Why is this one different?’

‘His family are wealthier than most,’ said Robin mournfully, not in the slightest offended by Bartholomew’s brutal summary
of his medical skills. ‘I spent three nights in Sheriff Tulyet’s prison with criminals for company – including one with that
ruffian Osmun, the porter from Bene’t College.’

‘What was he doing there?’

‘He was arrested for fighting in the King’s Head. Vile man! I spent the whole time awake clutching
my cutting knives in anticipation of being robbed by him.’

Bartholomew glanced at the surgeon’s clothes, stiff with ancient blood, and decided that even Osmun would have balked at searching
Robin for hidden riches. Politely, he said nothing.

‘And he talked all night,’ continued Robin. ‘He was drunk and was blathering all sorts of nonsense. He told me that he believed
one Bene’t Fellow named Wymundham had stabbed another called Raysoun with an awl after he had fallen from the scaffolding.
Do you know anything about this? I was busy with Saddler at the time, God help me.’

‘Wymundham did not kill Raysoun,’ said Bartholomew, confused. ‘He was kneeling next to Raysoun when he died. I saw him holding
the man’s hand and exhorting him to stand up.’

‘Osmun did not say Wymundham killed Raysoun,’ said Robin pedantically. ‘He said Wymundham stabbed Raysoun after he had fallen.
He claimed that Wymundham was the
kind of man to stab a corpse to make an accident look like murder.’