A Masterly Murder (31 page)

‘They might,’ said Simeon. ‘But I would not be impressed by the quality of the completed item.’

‘A month it is, then,’ said the Duke. ‘And then they will return to Bene’t.’

‘Now just a moment,’ said Caumpes indignantly. ‘I am not prepared to stand by as Michaelhouse steals our servants and accuses
us of murdering our colleagues.’

‘You will do nothing,’ said the Duke angrily. ‘I have made my decision, and I will not have squabbling scholars giving Bene’t
a bad reputation in the town.’

‘It is not I who—’ began Caumpes furiously.

‘I said enough!’ roared the Duke. ‘You must learn some decent manners, Caumpes.
No wonder the wealthy townsfolk are loath to associate themselves with scholars. You are all a band of bickering pedants
who are more interested in rivalries with other Colleges than in learning.’

Caumpes reddened with rage. ‘Bene’t is my College. I will do anything to protect it against—’

‘Go,’ said the Duke wearily. ‘All of you. I have had more than enough of you for one day. Bring me more wine, Simeon. And
Heltisle can fetch me the College accounts to inspect. Other than that, you are all dismissed from my presence.’

Bartholomew was grateful to escape from the tense atmosphere of the hall. He almost ran across the yard, slowing only when
he saw a familiar pair of hips swinging vigorously as their owner bent over a steaming vat of laundry.

He went past the porters’ lodge without a word, ignoring their transparent attempts to provoke him into a confrontation. Runham
might have commandeered Bene’t’s builders, but Bene’t had poached a far greater prize than that from Michaelhouse – they had
Agatha the laundress.

It was almost dark when Bartholomew left Bene’t. The streets were still busy with people trying to complete their business
and return home before the light faded completely. He was tired and dispirited, and did not feel at all like going back to
the College where Runham lurked liked a spider in his web waiting for innocent flies.

He saw Matilde, bundled up against the chill of early evening in a fine green cloak, and yet still managing to look slim and
elegant among the burlier figures of the people who surged around her. He caught her eye and waved, intending to offer to
escort her home. As she gazed back, an expression of such intense hurt crossed her face that he recoiled in shock. Bewildered,
he ran after her and caught her hand, but she pulled away from him, and would not answer his repeated questions as to what
was wrong.

‘Is he bothering you?’ asked a rough voice. Bartholomew recognised the familiar dirty apron of the carpenter,
Robert de Blaston, whose wife Yolande was a friend of Matilde’s. ‘Tell me if he is, and I will see to him.’

‘He is just leaving,’ said Matilde shortly. ‘Thank you, Robert.’

‘But, Matilde,’ protested Bartholomew. ‘What is the matter? Is it one of the sisters? Is someone ill? Can I help?’

‘Nothing you do or say will help,’ she said in a voice that was simultaneously cold and unsteady. ‘Just leave me alone. And
you can take this, too!’

Before he could reply, she had turned and fled up the High Street, and Blaston’s hefty hand was on Bartholomew’s shoulder.
On the ground at his feet was a fluttering green ribbon, already smeared with mud from the road. Slowly, he bent to pick it
up, wondering what he could have done to distress her in the short time since they had last spoken. But, he thought, perhaps
it was not him at all; perhaps something else had happened. Cambridge was a small town, and if something dire had befallen
the prostitutes, he would hear about it sooner or later.

‘Lovers’ tiff?’ asked Blaston with rough sympathy.

‘Not on my part,’ said Bartholomew. He closed his eyes, disgusted at himself
for virtually admitting that he, a scholar of the University, was engaged in a romantic relationship with a prostitute. Blaston
patted his arm.

‘Never mind,’ he said consolingly. ‘She will come round; women always do. Just make her a gift of a bit of ribbon, and she
will love you dearly until the next time you do something wrong.’

‘Perhaps it was the ribbon that did it,’ said Bartholomew, looking at the green material in his hand and thinking that he
would never again take Langelee’s advice about women. ‘Maybe I should have chosen the blue one instead.’

Blaston took it from him. ‘This is a fine thing,’ he said,
rubbing it between his rough fingers and ingraining filth so deeply into it that Bartholomew wondered whether it would ever
be clean again. ‘Yolande would love something like this, but with nine children and a tenth on its way, such foolishness is
out of the question.’

‘Take it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I do not want it.’

Blaston gazed at him. ‘No,’ he said with clear reluctance. ‘I could not take
something so fine from you – you are almost as poor as we are.’

Bartholomew tried not to show he was amused. If impecunious men like Robert de Blaston thought him impoverished, then it was
small wonder that influential dignitaries like Mayor Horwoode did not want to be seen with him. ‘Please take the thing. Matilde
told me that Yolande was not overjoyed to learn about this tenth child. A ribbon might cheer her.’

‘It would!’ agreed Blaston. ‘And a nice bit of ribbon like this might enable her to attract a better class of customer until
she becomes too incapacitated to work.’

Bartholomew could not but help wonder how many of Yolande de Blaston’s expanding brood were the result of her occupation.
He brushed aside the carpenter’s effusive thanks and walked briskly back to the College. Michael was sitting at the table
in his room, writing a letter by candlelight. He professed himself disheartened by his lack of progress in discovering the
identities of the cloaked intruders they had encountered leaving Michaelhouse the night Runham was elected. He grew even more
dispirited when he had heard what had transpired at Bene’t, although his eyes narrowed in suspicion when he learned that the
Bene’t Fellows were determined to dismiss Wymundham’s death as accidental.

‘I thought we told Simeon about your findings from the corpse,’ he said.

‘We did, but perhaps he did not believe us. He certainly appeared to be sceptical.’

‘Or perhaps he has his own reasons for dismissing them.’ Michael sighed. ‘My only hope is that Beadle Meadowman will learn
something from the workmen. The one good thing to come out of Runham’s disgraceful “borrowing” of Bene’t labourers is that
Meadowman is now here, in Michaelhouse, and so better able to keep me informed of his progress.’

‘What about the other beadles?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Have they learned anything yet?’

Michael shook his head. ‘Not so much as a whisper. It is very frustrating. I would dearly love to go myself, but, as I said
before, the men likely to yield the information we need are not the sort I would be able to intimidate, bribe or cajole. We
will just have to be patient, and hope that sooner or later the killer finds he is unable to resist boasting about what he
has done, and then I will have him.’

Bartholomew left him listening to Meadowman apologising for having nothing to report, and went to check that his students
had completed the reading he had set them. He was surprised to learn that the senior undergraduates had obeyed his instructions
to the letter, and that one of them had even donated a candle, because they had not finished their task when dusk fell.

They were frowning in concentration as Bulbeck ploughed his way through Averroēs’
Colliget
, a difficult text that Bartholomew insisted they understand completely before they began their fourth year of study. Bartholomew
stayed with them for a while, answering questions and enjoying the atmosphere of enthusiasm and scholarship that Bulbeck had
managed to generate, despite the noise of the builders and the bitter chill of the chamber.

The junior students were in the room Sam Gray shared
with Rob Deynman. Deynman was wealthy and could afford to buy fuel for the fire in his room, so that flames cast a welcoming
orange glow on the whitewashed ceiling and walls. But despite the pleasantly warm chamber, any pretence at debate and learning
was absent. Deynman glanced around guiltily when Bartholomew entered, and something fell from his hand.

‘What in God’s name are you doing?’ whispered Bartholomew, gazing at the chipped plaster and stained walls in horror. ‘Runham
will be furious when he sees this, Rob!’

‘Runham has dismissed him,’ said Gray bitterly. The other students muttered resentfully. There was a strong smell of wine
in the room, and Bartholomew knew that the students had been drinking.

‘What are you talking about?’ he asked impatiently. ‘And get rid of that wine. You know you are not supposed to drink during
lessons.’

‘Runham dismissed Rob,’ repeated Gray. ‘He said that Rob “is not of the intellectual calibre that Michaelhouse requires”.’

His imitation of the pompous stuffiness of Runham’s voice was rather good, and Bartholomew might have laughed under other
circumstances. It was true Deynman was no Aristotle, but it was Bartholomew’s understanding that Michaelhouse needed the unusually
high fees it charged Deynman’s wealthy father, and that Deynman’s position was probably more secure than anyone else’s for
that reason alone. Bartholomew was astonished that Runham would relinquish such an easy source of cash so casually.

‘Is that why you are merrily destroying your room?’ he asked of Deynman, nodding to the knife that lay at the lad’s feet,
and the wine that had been splashed across the walls.

‘It serves Runham right,’ said Deynman in a muffled voice, not looking at Bartholomew.

‘But Gray will have to live here after you have gone,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘It is not just Runham you are punishing with
this wanton act of loutishness.’

‘He will not be here long enough to care,’ mumbled Deynman.

Bartholomew regarded Gray warily. ‘Why? Did Runham catch you dicing again?’

‘Stealing ink,’ supplied Deynman. ‘We all do it – masters and students alike. But Runham said if Sam does not copy out the
entire first part of
Corpus Juris Civilis
by this time tomorrow, then he will be dismissed, too.’

‘
Corpus Juris Civilis
is a legal text,’ said Bartholomew thoughtfully. ‘Is he using you as a scribe to improve his personal library, then?’

‘No,’ said Gray bitterly. ‘Because I cannot do it. It is so long that even if I worked all night, I would never be able to
finish it. Runham set me a task that he knows is impossible, and he did it because he wants me gone – like Father Paul, Rob
and Master Kenyngham.’

‘Kenyngham?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘He has not gone anywhere.’

‘He will soon, though,’ said Gray. ‘Runham suggested that Kenyngham might find it difficult to see his College under a new
Master after managing it so long himself. Kenyngham, like a meek little lamb, agreed. He leaves on Sunday.’

Bartholomew’s thoughts began to whirl. It was clear that Runham intended to dismiss anyone he thought he might not be able
to manipulate, and that he intended to fill his College with scholars who would not oppose anything he tried to do. He stared
at the resentful students who sat in huddles in front of him. Deynman, filled a new
with anger and grief, snatched up the knife and raked a deep gouge down the wall.

‘Stop that,’ said Bartholomew sharply. ‘And clear all these wine cups away. You have some writing to do.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Gray suspiciously.

‘You might not be able to copy out the whole text yourself, but there are fifteen
of you here. Start with a page each – and remember to use a similar style of handwriting.’

‘What is the point?’ asked Gray sullenly. ‘He will only find another excuse to be rid of me.’

‘Just start scribing,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And we will face the next problem when it comes.’

‘What about me?’ asked Deynman hopefully. ‘Will you tell Runham that he was mistaken, and that I am all that Michaelhouse
could ask for in a scholar?’

There were limits, Bartholomew thought. ‘I will see what I can do. Hang a rug over that mess on the wall before anyone sees
it.’

He left the students hunting around for parchment and ink and made his way to the hall. Runham’s actions seemed to be methodical
and premeditated – a neat pruning of unwanted parts like a gardener hoeing weeds – and Bartholomew guessed that the pompous
lawyer had been planning exactly how he wanted his College for a long while. He felt unwarranted anger at Kenyngham for resigning
and leaving them in this mess, but it had only been a matter of time before Kenyngham had become too old to continue, and
then Runham would have made his move anyway.

He ran up the stairs to the hall, hoping to find some of his colleagues with whom he could discuss the issue of Deynman. The
room was deserted, and a draught from the open door had scattered parchments across the floor, so that it had a desolate,
abandoned feel
to it. It was also cold with no fire, and Bartholomew’s breath plumed in front of him as he looked around. There was something
different about it, and at first he could not pinpoint what. Then he noticed that some of the best wall-hangings, which had
lent the hall its cosy feel, had been removed, leaving the bare stone exposed. Because the tapestries would go well with the
cream walls in Runham’s new quarters, Bartholomew guessed exactly where they had gone.

Kenyngham was sitting in the fireless conclave with Langelee and Suttone. The gentle Gilbertine was pale, but his face wore
a serene expression, as though he had accepted Runham’s curt dismissal of a Fellowship spanning almost thirty years, and was
already thinking of other matters.

‘We were just talking about you, Bartholomew,’ said Langelee. His voice lacked its usual ebullient quality. Like Kenyngham,
he was wan; his heavy jowls were dark with stubble and there was a pink sheen to the whites of his eyes. Bartholomew suspected
that Deynman and Gray were not the only ones who had spent the afternoon drowning their sorrows. ‘You will have no students
left if Runham sends down any more.’