A Masterly Murder (36 page)

‘Especially Agatha,’ said Langelee. ‘After all, her cushion was the murder weapon.’

‘I am sure she sewed every stitch with Runham’s demise in mind,’ said Bartholomew facetiously, unable to see Agatha as a smotherer,
and disliking the way unfounded suspicions were being bandied about. Langelee gazed at him uncertainly.

‘How awful this is,’ said Kenyngham in a small voice. ‘So much hatred and bitterness.’

‘So, what we must do is consider our oath of loyalty to the College,’ said Michael. ‘There is only one way we can fulfil that:
we must find a way out of this unfortunate affair without compromising Michaelhouse.’

Bartholomew almost laughed when the full import of the monk’s words sank in. ‘You mean we should hatch a plot that will cover
up Runham’s murder, and pass it off as suicide or death by natural causes?’

‘Suicide would be better,’ said Langelee reflectively. ‘Then we will not have his vile corpse cluttering up our cemetery.’

‘Then he can lie next to his poor book-bearer, Justus,’ said Suttone. ‘Runham consigned Justus to a grave in that desolate
spot – although I understand he had not planned to consign him to a grave at all, if it would cost him money – and so it is
fitting that Runham’s own body suffer a similar fate.’

‘I am not suggesting we “hatch a plot”,’ said Michael, fixing Bartholomew with offended eyes. ‘I am merely pointing out that
nothing will be gained from rumours running around the town that one of us murdered his unpopular Master. The students have
already been told that Runham died of a fatal seizure and we do not need to worry about the servants, because there are virtually
none left.’

‘We must not overlook the fact that Runham’s murder might have been a case of opportunism,’ said Paul. ‘You say this chest
of money was next to the window. Perhaps one of the workmen saw it and decided to help himself. Then, when Runham caught him,
he thrust the pillow over Runham’s face to quieten his accusations, and, once he had started, he realised that he would have
to finish.’

‘Perhaps we can eliminate some of the suspects by looking at
when
Runham died,’ said Suttone practically. ‘I last saw him when he left the conclave after dismissing Langelee – just before
dusk last night.’

‘I did not see him after that, either,’ said Langelee quickly.

‘Did anyone see him later?’ asked Michael. He looked around: all shook their heads. ‘He announced to us all that he was going
to his chamber to work, so I imagine we can assume he went there. That means he was killed some time between sunset and … when, Matt?’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘The body is a little stiff, but the room is cold. It is almost impossible to tell. All I can say for
certain is that he died some time between sunset
when he was last seen alive, and at dawn when he was found.’

‘Are you sure you cannot be more specific?’ asked Michael, a little irritably. ‘You see, the University’s Chancellor came
to see me just after sunset, and he stayed very late – until ten or so. He may provide my alibi.’

‘Were you discussing the affair with your Oxford collaborators?’ asked Langelee unpleasantly. ‘Does the Chancellor know you
correspond regularly with William Heytesbury of Merton College?’

Michael gave him a venomous glare. ‘That is none of your affair, Langelee. But, since you seem to be so obsessed by my private
activities, I can tell you that the Chancellor knows exactly what I am doing and that I have his blessing.’

‘I do not believe you,’ said Langelee immediately. ‘Why would the Chancellor allow you to squander valuable University property
just to get scraps of worthless information from Oxford men?’

‘For reasons that are too complex for you to understand,’ snapped Michael. ‘But we are not here to chat about my duties as
Senior Proctor; we are here to discuss Runham’s murder. And as I was saying, if he died before ten o’clock last night, the
Chancellor is my alibi.’

‘I cannot help you, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is no way for me to tell what time Runham died. Perhaps he was killed
at sunset, while it was still light enough for the workmen to be around. Or perhaps it happened later – perhaps a few moments
before he was found dead. I really cannot say.’

‘I was stalking around Cambridge in a rage,’ said Langelee. ‘But no one saw me.’

‘I went to Trumpington and sat near the church, thinking about whether to leave Michaelhouse,’ said Bartholomew.

‘I was also alone part of the evening,’ said Suttone. ‘I was in St Michael’s Church, praying for the patience to deal with
Runham. Several people were in and out – including Clippesby and Kenyngham – but no one can vouch for me the whole time. I
attended compline, at seven o’clock, and I stayed later to pray – probably until ten.’

‘I do not even recall where I was myself, let alone expect anyone else to do it,’ said Kenyngham, to no one’s surprise.

‘You were at compline,’ Suttone reminded him. ‘And after, we both lingered. You were at the high altar and I was at the prie-dieu
near Wilson’s tomb.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Kenyngham, frowning. ‘After that, I think I returned here.’

‘I was at the friary,’ said Paul. ‘After compline, I went to sleep in my cell. Since we do not share cells at the Franciscan
Friary, I have no one to vouch for me, and neither will William.’

‘I was in my room,’ said Clippesby in a hushed voice. ‘I share it with three students, but they were all in Sam Gray’s chamber
engaged in some kind of scribing exercise. So, I spent the night on my own.’

‘What a mess!’ said Michael gloomily. He scratched a flabby cheek with a dirty fingernail. ‘I confess, I do not know how to
proceed with this, but I do know we should all agree to say that Runham had a fatal seizure. Now, I tire easily after my recent
brush with death, and so will consider this matter in more detail after I have rested. Do nothing. Act normally – well, as
normally as you usually do – and I will try to think of the best way to deal with it. Any questions?’

There were none. One by one, the Fellows of Michaelhouse filed from the conclave, wondering which of them, if any, was the
murderer.

*   *   *

‘I thought you said you were tired, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, watching as Michael paced back and forth in the chamber he
shared with his fellow Benedictines. It was mid-morning, and Bartholomew had just returned from seeing a patient who lived
near the Castle. Since he was nearby, he had knocked at Matilde’s door, to tell her that Adela Tangmer had made some unwarranted
assumptions, but either Matilde was out or she did not want to see him, because there was no answer.

He went to the nearby church of All Saints, and borrowed a pen and a scrap of parchment from a scribe to write her a note.
It took him a long time to compose a message that did not sound as though he was trying to exonerate himself at Adela’s expense,
but in the end he felt he had achieved the right flavour. He tapped on Matilde’s door a second time, then slid the parchment
underneath it when there was still no reply. He returned to Michaelhouse feeling more cheerful. At the back of his mind was
the thought that Langelee had been right, and that now that Runham was dead, Bartholomew would not have to leave Cambridge
for Paris after all.

He reclined on the bed in Michael’s room, feeling the thick-headed lethargy of a night without sleep creep over him, and wondered
whether life at Michaelhouse would ever return to its hectic but predictable routine of teaching and learning. He hoped with
all his heart that Kenyngham would agree to resume his duties as Master until Suttone and Clippesby had settled in, so that
they would know for certain which candidate would make the best Master instead of being obliged to vote for people they barely
knew. Bartholomew had reservations about the peculiar Clippesby, but he liked Suttone, who seemed a kind-hearted man. Bartholomew
was grateful for his assistance in burying Justus, and appreciated the fact that the Carmelite had not just muttered a few
prayers,
but had helped with the preparation of the body and had tried to imbue the mean little ceremony with some dignity.

‘I am not tired at all,’ said Michael, continuing to pace. The wooden floor creaked and groaned under his weight, and Bartholomew
was grateful he was not in his own chamber below, trying to concentrate on his treatise. ‘Unlike you, it seems – you look
as though you are about to fall asleep. When I claimed fatigue in the conclave earlier, I was merely bringing that uncomfortable
session to a close. In fact, the little puzzle surrounding Runham’s demise is most invigorating, and I am beginning to feel
much more like my old self.’

‘I am sure Runham would be delighted to hear that he is the cause of your miraculous recovery,’ said Bartholomew dryly.

‘He would,’ agreed Michael comfortably. ‘Because then he could rest happily in Hell knowing that I will track down his killer
and bring him to justice. You are
sure
there is a killer, are you? Only I would hate to expend my energy, time and talent on this, only to learn later that no crime
has been committed after all. I am relying wholly on your say-so that Runham was murdered.’

‘Runham was definitely murdered,’ said Bartholomew drowsily, linking his hands behind his head. ‘But I do not see how you
will solve this, Brother. You have more suspects than you know what to do with – and those are just the ones you know about.
I am sure Runham had enemies in all sorts of places, about whom we know nothing.’

‘Meaning?’ asked Michael.

‘Meaning that there are the Fellows of Bene’t, for a start. None of them were exactly delighted to learn that their labourers
had been poached by Runham to work for Michaelhouse. To pay us back, they even went as
far as enticing Agatha from us. They may regret doing that. Fond though I am of her, she is not exactly what you would call
a pliant and dutiful servant.’

‘Very true,’ said Michael complacently. ‘And that is why I encouraged her to accept the Bene’t post. I do not like that superior
Heltisle, or his conniving henchman Caumpes. Having Agatha in their fold will serve them right. She will put Osmun in his
place, too: he will not be bullying the students with her around.’

‘Is there anything connected to the University that is beyond your influence?’ asked Bartholomew in disbelief.

‘No,’ said Michael, pleased by the recognition of his meddling skills. ‘But my talent for managing University affairs is not
what we should be talking about. We need to wrap our minds around the few facts we have regarding the saintly Master Runham’s
exit from this world.’

‘Must we?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I am sure we will not like what we discover.’

‘Ignorance is bliss, eh?’ asked Michael. He gave his friend a wicked grin. ‘Runham did not leave you a purse of gold to build
him a fine tomb, as did his cousin, did he?’

‘If he had, then we would need it to pay all these workmen,’ said Bartholomew. ‘How are we going to do that now? Michaelhouse
is virtually penniless.’

‘We will face that problem when it arises,’ said Michael. ‘We should not waste time by fretting over it now.’

‘It may arise sooner than you think,’ said Bartholomew worriedly.

‘Not for another twenty-six days. The builders agreed to work for a month, and they have only been going since Wednesday.’

‘I made the decision to leave for Paris tomorrow,’ said Bartholomew, almost absently. ‘If the killer had struck at
Runham then instead of last night, I would not have been caught up in this.’

‘Paris?’ asked Michael. His jaw dropped. ‘No, Matt! I do not believe you! You were going to yield to Runham and leave Michaelhouse,
just as he wanted you to do?’

‘I was,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I still might.’

‘I was certain the fact that Runham wanted you to leave would be sufficient to make you want to stay,’ said Michael, astonished.
‘It goes to show that you should never take for granted the people you think you know, and that they can still give you the
odd surprise. We would be as well to remember that as we investigate this murder, Matt.’

‘We?’ asked Bartholomew weakly.

‘I need you,’ said Michael in the kind of tone that made it final. ‘And you cannot slink off to Paris now, anyway. It would
look as if
you
killed Runham.’ He gave Bartholomew a sidelong glance. ‘You did not, did you?’

‘No. And you know me better than to ask that,’ said Bartholomew, irritably.

Michael smiled. ‘Yes, I do. But it does no harm to ask. You had the motive: he threatened everything you hold dear – your
teaching and your medicine. And you had the opportunity, given that you have no one to vouch for your whereabouts at the salient
time.’

‘Neither does anyone else. Including you.’

‘True.’

Bartholomew sighed. ‘I know
you
did not kill him, Brother. You are more likely to create some colossal scandal to bring him down, not murder him by stealth
in the middle of the night. You are no cushion-over-the-face man.’

‘Nicely put,’ said Michael. ‘Lord, I am hungry! Will you walk with me to the Brazen George?’

‘Not now,’ said Bartholomew, closing his eyes. ‘Fetch something from the kitchen.’

Michael pulled a face of disgust. ‘There is nothing in the kitchen! Runham decided not to pay the grocer, and so there is
not a scrap to eat. Of course, there is always that plum cake you were given by the Saddler family, which has been sitting
alone and forgotten on your windowsill.’

‘Not forgotten, it seems,’ said Bartholomew, astonished by the things the monk seemed to notice.

Within moments, Michael had collected the cake and was back in his room, cutting generous slices with the slim knife he used
for sharpening his pens. He handed Bartholomew a piece that was about half the size of the one he took for himself, and then
settled himself in a chair.

‘I have never before encountered a case like this, Matt,’ he said conversationally as he ate. ‘Usually, once you have a man
with a motive, it is only a case of establishing that he had the means and the opportunity. Given that Runham died some time
between sunset and dawn, then virtually all our suspects – Fellows, students, servants and workmen – had the
opportunity
, and the
means
was nothing more sinister than a pretty cushion. And most of Cambridge had a
motive
to kill the man.’