A Masterly Murder (27 page)

At the gate, Bartholomew paused and looked back across the courtyard. The north wing was swathed in a complicated mess of
planking, most of it old and crumbling, and he assumed it comprised timbers from condemned houses that could not be used for
anything else. Workmen swarmed over it, hammering and sawing
furiously, some adding yet more levels to the already precarious structure, while others were repointing the stonework on
the windows or replacing broken tiles on the roof.

The yard was a chaos of activity, with men running here and there, carrying timber on their shoulders or staggering under
the weight of blocks of Barnack stone. Apprentices wearing the distinctive liveries of their masters darted this way and that,
ferrying tools, or performing tasks that were beneath the dignity of the qualified tradesman – sawing wood, sanding the rough
edges of stones, counting nails, and mixing mortar of lime and sand. The area of the planned new court was equally frenetic.
Shallow foundations had been dug, and the first beams that would form the skeleton of the wattle-and-daub kitchen and stables
were already in place.

‘It is impressive, is it not?’ Bartholomew jumped at the closeness of Clippesby’s voice behind him. The scholar’s eyes were
soft and dreamy, and he looked almost sane. ‘Master Runham is amazing to have organised all this so quickly. I am glad I came
to Michaelhouse and not Bene’t.’

‘You would have had an opportunity to reside in a building site had you gone to Bene’t, too,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is also
having a new wing raised.’

‘But ours will be better,’ said Clippesby. ‘Raysoun was always complaining that the progress was too slow; he thought the
masons would still be labouring on it in a hundred years’ time. Master Runham is not permitting such sluggishness.’

‘I did not know we had so many builders in Cambridge,’ said Bartholomew, regarding the milling workmen in awe. ‘I always understood
labour was short after the plague.’

‘Not if you know where to get it,’ said Clippesby smugly.

‘And the terms Runham offered are very enticing – these men will be paid double if they can complete all this within a month.
Instead of the usual three and a half pence per day, masters will earn a total of eighteen shillings for a mere four weeks’
labour.’

Bartholomew raised his eyebrows. ‘No wonder they are working so hard! And what happens if they do not finish within a month?’

‘That will not be an issue,’ said Clippesby confidently.

Bartholomew was not so sure, knowing very well that builders often
encountered unexpected problems that delayed matters. He hoped the scramble to complete on time would not result in roofs
that leaked, walls that needed buttressing, and windows that did not fit their frames.

‘Are you sure Runham has the funds to pay them?’ he asked doubtfully. ‘If they have been promised double pay, there will be
a riot if they do not get it.’

‘I am sure,’ said Clippesby, indignation on Runham’s behalf making his voice suddenly loud. ‘He has a great chest of gold
in his room – I have seen it myself.’

‘A great chest of gold in his room?’ asked one of the builders cheerily as he staggered past them bearing a heavy pole. Several
of his colleagues heard him, and exchanged acquisitive grins. ‘Now that is reassuring to hear. We were worried the old fox
might not be able to pay up.’

‘There is no question of that, Blaston,’ said Clippesby superiorly. ‘But you should get back to work if you want to see any
of it.’

The master carpenter winked at Bartholomew and continued on his way, whistling merrily as he went. He wore no shoes, Bartholomew
noticed, which was unusual for a man of his status. But Robert de Blaston was married to Yolande, the prostitute-friend of
Matilde; they had nine
children and doubtless no funds to spare on luxuries like footwear. Yolande’s own shoes were so ill-fitting that they had
caused her feet to swell, he recalled.

‘I hope this gold is securely locked away,’ said Bartholomew, turning back to Clippesby and thinking it was not wise to advertise
the fact that Michaelhouse was swimming in ready cash. Desperately poor people often resorted to desperate measures, and Michaelhouse
would not be difficult to burgle now that Runham had dismissed the porters who had guarded its gates.

Clippesby shrugged. ‘I expect it is. Runham is no fool. He is a great man who will transform this College from a cluster of
shabby hovels into the grandest institution in Cambridge.’

‘Our hall is not shabby,’ objected Bartholomew, who personally thought the main building with its oriel window and handsome
porch one of the finest in East Anglia.

Clippesby gave it a disparaging glance. ‘It is haunted by tortured souls. I hear them howling to each other sometimes.’

Bartholomew regarded him uncertainly, wondering whether he was jesting. ‘You do?’ he asked cautiously.

Clippesby nodded casually. ‘It is not a pleasant sound. It keeps me awake at night. Have you never heard it?’ He turned eyes
that were not quite focused on the physician.

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘I cannot say that I have.’

‘Then how about the voices of the dead stable boys that mutter in the south wing?’ Clippesby gave a sigh. ‘But you live in
the north wing, so I suppose you would not know about them.’

Bartholomew nodded noncommittally, and escaped from the unstable Dominican with some relief. While
religieux
regularly claimed to hear voices, the context of their messages was usually saintly, not the gabble of dead groomsmen. He
wondered whether he should take Clippesby to the Hospital of St John, where the Prior knew a good deal more about the various
forms of insanity than did Bartholomew. But, he supposed, as long as Clippesby did not pose a risk to himself or others, there
was not much to be done. He was sure at least half the masters of the Cambridge colleges were more lunatic than sane anyway,
and Clippesby was no odder than many of them.

His encounter with Clippesby, and the nagging worry that Michaelhouse might have demanded more than it could pay for, meant
that he was not in the right frame of mind for visiting St Bene’t Church to inspect the bodies of Raysoun and Wymundham. He
knew he should do it sooner rather than later, but doubted that a second examination would reveal more than he knew already.
He appreciated Michael’s desire to leave no stone unturned but he was weary of the University and its scheming, plotting scholars.

In the High Street he hesitated, wondering whether Edith might be in town. Ignoring the fact that if he were not inspecting
corpses for Michael he should be supervising his students’ reading, working on his treatise on fevers or revisiting the riverman
with the rat bite, he strode towards Milne Street, suddenly yearning for the uncomplicated and spontaneous cheerfulness of
his sister’s company.

A light drizzle fell as Bartholomew walked the short distance to the row of grand houses and storerooms on Milne Street, where
the town’s richest and most successful merchants resided. As always, the road was full of apprentices in brightly coloured
liveries bustling here
and there, and ponies and carts delivered and collected loads of every size and shape. The air rang with shouts, curses and
the impatient stamp and whinny of horses in their traces, and was thick with the odour of manure, the yeasty smell of grain,
the filth of the gutters and the brighter tang of spices.

Oswald Stanmore’s property, one of the largest and most impressive, boasted a cobbled yard and several sheds piled high with
bales of cloth. Multicoloured strands of wool were caught in the rough wood of doors and windows, pasted into the mud on the
ground and entangled in the thatching of the roof.

Stanmore’s own apprentices were busy unloading a cart carrying silk and wool that had just arrived from London. The guards,
who had protected the precious cargo from the outlaws who plagued the roads between the two cities, were pulling off leather
helmets and hauberks, and Cynric was pouring them cups of mulled ale to wash away the dust of the journey. When the ex-book-bearer
had finished, he came to stand next to Bartholomew.

‘How is life at the College from Hell?’ he asked conversationally, watching the mercenaries with proprietary eyes.

‘Growing worse by the hour,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘How is life as a merchant’s man?’

Cynric rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘It has its moments, but I admit I miss my friends – you, Brother Michael, Agatha and
even Walter. And I miss our night forays to catch killers, thieves and other ne’er-do-wells.’

‘I have not done that for months, thank God,’ said Bartholomew fervently. ‘Not since we were in Suffolk.’

‘What about when you went to find the body of Wymundham?’ asked Cynric. ‘That was at night. I was still your book-bearer,
but I was tucked up in bed with my wife. You should have asked me to go with you.’

‘I missed you,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We had one of Michael’s beadles, but it was not the same.’

Cynric grinned and slapped him on the shoulder. ‘We had some good times, you and me. Visit me some evening, and we will reminisce
over a jug of good wine. I can afford good wines on the salary Master Stanmore pays me – not like what I had to drink at Michaelhouse.’

He wandered away to stand with his soldiers, refilling their cups and listening to their reports about the journey. Just as
Bartholomew was about to climb the stairs to Stanmore’s office, the merchant emerged with Edith close on his heels.

‘Matt!’ Edith cried in delight. ‘You have come to visit us!’

Stanmore’s smile of welcome faded suddenly. ‘You are not in trouble, are you?’ he asked anxiously. ‘You only come to see us
these days if there is something wrong.’

‘There is nothing wrong,’ said Bartholomew guiltily, knowing that Stanmore had a point. ‘I had some free time and I felt like
spending it with my family.’

Edith gave such a beam of pleasure that Bartholomew’s guilt increased tenfold. ‘How is Brother Michael?’ she asked. ‘We heard
he has been ill.’

‘He is well,’ said Bartholomew, ‘and eating enough to plunge the College into debt with all the grocers and bakers in Cambridge.’

Edith laughed. ‘Poor Michael. You should not tease him about his appetite, Matt. He is happy when he is eating, and unhappy
when he is hungry. Which of the two conditions do you think is better for his health?’

‘True. But I did not come to talk about Michael, I came to see you.’

‘Do you want to come in?’ asked Stanmore, gesturing to the door. ‘We were about to visit Mayor Horwoode, but it will not matter
if we are a little late.’

‘I will walk with you,’ said Bartholomew, taking Edith’s arm and escorting her across the courtyard. ‘Is this meeting with
Horwoode business or pleasure?’

‘Business,’ said Edith promptly, casting a disapproving glance at her husband.

‘Pleasure,’ said Stanmore at the same time.

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He has invited you both to his house to spend a pleasant
evening with him, but will probably mention some matter of town politics at the same time?’

‘Not politics, exactly,’ said Stanmore. ‘I suspect he wants me to join his guild. Corpus Christi is one of the two organisations
that founded Bene’t College, and rumour has it that the venture is turning out to be expensive. The old members are weary
of the continual drain on their purses, and are busy recruiting new ones.’

‘Will you join?’ asked Bartholomew.

Stanmore smiled. ‘I shall eat Horwoode’s food, drink his wine and listen to what he has to say. But I can think of worthier
places to squander my finances than Bene’t.’

‘It is a dreadful place, by all accounts,’ agreed Edith. ‘Its Fellows are always squabbling, and its students constantly try
to goad our apprentices into fights.’

‘So what makes it different from any other College?’ asked Bartholomew. He did not intend the question to be humorous, but
Stanmore and Edith laughed.

‘Nothing, really,’ said Stanmore. ‘But Michaelhouse does not let outsiders know about its internal rows and unseemly behaviour.
Michaelhouse men take their oaths of loyalty seriously; Bene’t men do not seem to care who knows about their nasty quarrels.’

‘It is more than that,’ said Edith. ‘Bene’t has those dreadful porters – the rudest and most vicious I have ever encountered.
One of them – Osmun – bumped into me as I was walking down the High Street the other day.
I dropped my basket and spilled apples all over the road, but he just sneered and declined to apologise or even to help me
pick them up.’

‘Perhaps I should join the Guild of Corpus Christi after all,’ mused Stanmore. ‘Then I could use my influence to have the
man dismissed from his post. That will teach him to learn some manners.’

‘There is Adela Tangmer,’ said Edith urgently, pointing to the robust daughter of the town’s vintner who was riding towards
them. ‘Quick! Duck in here before she sees us.’

Before her brother or husband could react, they found themselves bundled inside the workshop of Jonas the Poisoner. The apothecary
glanced up from his work in surprise as three people suddenly exploded into his domain.

‘What?’ he demanded of Bartholomew nervously. ‘Has the Death returned? Is there fever in the city? Is Robin of Grantchester
amputating limbs again?’

‘No, no,’ said Bartholomew hurriedly, embarrassed at having burst into Jonas’s property uninvited. ‘But I need more of your
plaster of betony. I seem to have lost mine.’

‘I do deliver, you know,’ said Jonas, standing to select the salve from the shelf. ‘There is no need for you to come in person,
or to drag your family here with you.’

‘We made it,’ breathed Edith, her eye to the gap in the door. ‘She did not see us.’

‘And what is wrong with meeting Adela Tangmer?’ asked Stanmore, watching as the untidily confident figure rode past. ‘If it
were her father you were seeking to avoid, I would understand – the man is a disreputable villain who waters the wine he sells.’

‘Does he?’ asked Jonas, handing Bartholomew the jar.

‘I thought the last cask I bought from him tasted weaker than usual. Crafty old dog!’