A Masterly Murder (42 page)

‘Nonsense,’ said Michael, taking it back and secreting it in his scrip for later. ‘It was a very kind thought, and I would
never offend you by declining such a gift. There will be too many people around tonight, after the collapse of that scaffolding,
but tomorrow, after everyone has gone to bed, I would like you to come with me to Master Runham’s room.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew nervously.

‘Because that is where he died, and that is where we will find any clues to help us discover
who killed him. If the murderer left a single thread of evidence, you and I must find it.’

The window shutters were closed in Runham’s room, and nothing had been damaged when the scaffolding had fallen the previous
evening. The sill lay under a thick layer of dust, and there was a fine smattering of powder all across the room where it
had billowed through the gaps in the wood, but apart from that, the room was exactly as it had been when Runham’s body had
been discovered.

Runham himself lay in a fine coffin in St Michael’s Church, where students had been bribed, threatened and cajoled into taking
turns to keep a vigil. He was due to be buried in three days, and his will had stipulated that the occasion should be a suitably
grand one. When Kenyngham had read Runham’s demands for his own requiem at dinner that evening, even he had been unable to
silence the amused catcalls and derisive hoots of the students as the full glory of the ceremonies that were to take place
were unveiled.

Michael had chuckled unpleasantly, remarking several times that Runham would go to the next world as he had lived in this
one – full of sham grandeur and without a soul who genuinely liked him. Bartholomew was astonished that the dead Master had
the money to pay for
such an event, and could only suppose that handsome funerals and tombs were something for which his family had a penchant.
He was relieved that he had not been given the responsibility for arranging matters, as he had with Wilson, but was dismayed
to learn that Runham had selected himself a spot in the chancel of St Michael’s Church where his own monstrous mausoleum would
outshine even that of his cousin.

Teaching had finished early because of the workmen’s noise, and Bartholomew had spent the rest of the day with various patients.
He was even able to find a few moments to stop off at Stanmore’s business premises in Milne Street and eat one of his sister’s
excellent cakes. Edith assured him that the hunt for a suitable wife was proceeding apace, and that he should keep the following
Sunday free for socialising. She brushed aside his anxious objections, and merely informed him that it would be safer to leave
Michaelhouse as soon as he could, given the number of murders that occurred in University circles.

On his way home he had met Matilde, who told him that the case against Robin of Grantchester had been dismissed, because it
could not be proven that the surgeon had deliberately tried to kill the man whose leg he had amputated. Bartholomew was relieved,
not liking the notion that every unsuccessful outcome should end in the courts. He walked back to Michaelhouse feeling more
cheerful, particularly since he had noticed that Matilde wore a green ribbon in her hair.

He worked on his treatise until the daylight faded, then sat with the other Fellows in the conclave, enjoying the cosy warmth
of the fire. Suttone had a copy of Homer’s
Iliad
, which he read aloud to entertain the others, although the story about the Trojan horse sparked some telling opinions. Michael
thought the disaster was the Trojans’ own fault for not being properly suspicious of
a gift from nowhere; Suttone considered the Greeks’ trick unconscionable, and wondered how they ever assuaged their guilt;
Langelee was unable to move past the question of how the Trojans managed to exit from the horse to mount a surprise attack
when it would have taken them some time to descend the ladders; Clippesby suggested the Trojans should have sent someone to
talk to the horse before allowing it in their city; Kenyngham was distressed by the notion of a massacre; and Bartholomew
was concerned that the tale would give the gentle Gilbertine nightmares.

Eventually, as the embers in the fire died and the room began to chill, the other Fellows drifted away to their beds.

Michael and Bartholomew lingered in the conclave, preparing for their nocturnal foray to the murdered Runham’s chamber. While
they waited for the College to sleep, the monk described the visit he had made to Bene’t College earlier that day. Fellows
and students alike had claimed to know nothing about the death of Wymundham, even the foppish Simeon, who had been sufficiently
concerned about the matter to invade Michael’s sickroom the previous week. The Bene’t men used the Duke of Lancaster’s pronouncement
that there had been nothing untoward in the two deaths to declare Michael’s investigation closed. Knowing that to reveal what
Adela had seen might put her in danger, Michael had been unable to confront them about the incident that took place in Holy
Trinity, and so left Bene’t none the wiser but very much angrier.

Meadowman, the beadle who had infiltrated the body of builders working on Bene’t when Raysoun had died, also had nothing to
report. None of the craftsmen or their apprentices seemed to know anything about the University deaths. Meadowman was heavy-eyed
and weary
after nights of carousing with his new-found friends, and the other beadles were in a similar state. Some had even gone so
far as to ask to do something else, bored and frustrated with endless evenings in wood-smoke-filled taverns drinking cloudy
ale that turned their stomachs.

When the College was still and silent, and the last of the students’ candles had been doused, Michael led the way across the
courtyard to the room in which Master Runham had been murdered. Not surprisingly, Kenyngham had been reluctant to move back
into it, and had insisted on remaining in the chamber he shared with Clippesby until a permanent successor to Runham could
be appointed.

As always, when Bartholomew entered the Master’s quarters, he was reminded unpleasantly of Master Wilson’s death in them,
some four years previously. When Wilson had realised that he had been infected with the plague, he had spent his dying hours
burning documents and scrolls. After his death, it had been discovered that his affairs were ruthlessly in order, which suggested
to Bartholomew that Wilson had given a good deal more attention to his earthly life than he had spent preparing for the one
to come. As Wilson had consigned certain parchments to the flames, he had knocked over a lamp and it had set his clothes alight.
Bartholomew would never forget the deathbed scene that followed.

The Master’s chamber was a large room by College standards. At one end was a bed piled with furs and blankets, and next to
it a substantial chest contained Runham’s impressive collection of robes, shoes and shirts. His cloaks and tabards hung on
a row of hooks fastened to the wall above it. Under the window were a table and a chair, while the shelves to either side
of them contained inks, pens, spare parchment and several blocks of a powerful-smelling soap that Bartholomew was certain
Runham had never used. Nearby was the
strongbox, its lid still dangling open, and the empty hutches.

‘It was Clippesby who found Runham’s corpse,’ said Michael conversationally, setting a candle in a holder. ‘His dismayed screeches
woke the whole College.’

‘What time?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘An hour or so before first light. Cynric arrived shortly after and decided you were probably at Trumpington, so rode off
to fetch you. I miss that man, Matt. Is there any way we could persuade him to come back?’

‘I think he is happier with Rachel than he ever was here. She does not ask him to go out at night chasing villains and scoundrels.’

‘I thought he enjoyed that – a lot more than you do. Anyway, Clippesby woke us with his unholy racket, and we all arrived
to see Runham just as you saw him later, with his great paunch facing the ceiling and his smug face blue and lifeless.’

Michael was not a man who had cause to comment on the great paunches of others, and Bartholomew smothered a smile. He looked
around him, not sure what the monk hoped to achieve by rummaging through the Master’s chamber when their colleagues were in
bed.

‘What was Clippesby doing here so early?’ he asked, sitting on a bench near the hearth. It was a handsome piece of furniture,
and Bartholomew recognised it as a gift from Kenyngham for the conclave. Yet again, he was astounded by Runham’s selfish audacity.

‘Clippesby said he and Runham usually met at dawn to discuss business,’ said Michael. ‘And I think that is true. Gray, Deynman
and Suttone all saw Clippesby coming here on a number of occasions to plan their evil deeds for the forthcoming day. He was
Runham’s lickspittle.’

‘To smother a man, the killer would need to come relatively close without alarming his victim,’ said Bartholomew
slowly. ‘Runham would be unlikely to let a stranger that near.’

‘So, you conclude Runham’s killer was someone he knew?’ asked Michael. ‘That is not a great help, Matt. We know that – we
have a splendid list of suspects, remember?’

‘Smothering is an unusual way to kill,’ Bartholomew went on. ‘It requires premeditation: you need a convenient implement and
you need to be prepared to hold your victim for several minutes until he dies. It is odd, do you not think, that both Runham
and Wymundham died from smothering?’

‘What are you saying?’ asked Michael. ‘That they were both killed by the same person?’

‘It is possible. I have seldom come across cases of suffocation like this, and now there are two within a few days of each
other.’

‘But that would mean Runham’s killer was one of the Bene’t men,’ objected Michael, ‘since we already have evidence to suggest
that a Bene’t Fellow killed Wymundham. And I do not think so, Matt. It is just another of those coincidences that happen in
real life, but that you are always trying to read something into.’

‘I suppose you are right,’ said Bartholomew reluctantly. ‘But there is something else that has been nagging at the back of
my mind – Justus.’

‘Justus? Runham’s book-bearer, who killed himself by shoving his head in a wineskin?’

‘What if he did not suffocate in the wineskin? What if he were smothered, and the wineskin tied over his head later?’

‘You did not say Justus had been smothered at the time. You said he had suffocated himself.’

‘I made a series of assumptions. First, I assumed that because the wineskin was tied over Justus’s head, that
was how he died. Second, I assumed that he had tied it there himself. Third, I assumed he drank himself into a state of depression,
and became suicidal.’

‘Yes,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘All that sounds reasonable.’

‘But the other servants said Justus was in an unusually good mood the night he died, because he had found some money on the
High Street. That evening, of all evenings, he was not unhappy.’

‘But he used that money to buy wine, Matt. Men often start drinking merrily enough, but then end weeping for their mothers.
His mood earlier that day tells us nothing.’

‘But I think he was suffocated,’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘And so were Runham and Wymundham.’

Michael sighed. ‘Very well. Let us consider this rationally. You think Justus’s death might be connected to Runham’s – that
perhaps Justus knew something about Runham’s affairs that someone wanted kept quiet?’

‘I do not know,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I am only saying it is possible that the instrument of Justus’s death was not the wineskin,
as I assumed, but a cushion. And if that is the case, then we have three deaths where the killer used the same, rather unusual,
method: Justus, Wymundham and now Runham.’

‘I am not sure about this, Matt,’ warned Michael. ‘Apart from the fact that all three died because they could not breathe,
I do not see the connection.’

‘Runham fought like the Devil before he died. Remember the torn fingernails? We should check your “splendid list of suspects”
for scratches – and that includes the Bene’t men.’

‘I have already examined our own scholars, but have seen no inexplicable marks,’ said Michael. ‘I have earned myself a reputation
as an ogler around the latrines and the lavatorium, eyeing up our colleagues as they wash
themselves. And then I had a good look at the Bene’t men when I went there today. None of them is marred by scratches. But
I suspect that all my efforts have been for nothing anyway: sit at the table, and I will show you something.’

‘Show me what?’ asked Bartholomew nervously, not liking the gleam of intent in the monk’s eyes.

‘I have given Runham’s death a good deal of thought, and I know how the murderer prevented him from screaming for help. Sit
at the table, like Runham used to do when he counted his gold.’

Bartholomew sat, glancing uneasily over his shoulder as Michael moved about behind him.

‘Do not cheat,’ said Michael, taking up a cushion. ‘You are Runham, engrossed in the business of transferring silver from
the College hutches to your building chest, and I am a colleague – a man you know well and whom you have no cause to fear.’

‘Runham was not stupid, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, turning to face him. ‘He knew he had alienated his colleagues, and I do
not think it likely that he would have turned his back on the likes of William or Langelee. He knew they both have vile tempers.’

‘But Runham did not anticipate that someone would murder him,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘If he had, he would have taken precautions:
he would have hired a bodyguard or kept his door locked – which he did not.’

‘All right,’ Bartholomew sighed, turning around and placing both hands on the table. ‘So, Runham is sitting like this when
his killer comes in. Then what?’

‘The killer makes gentle conversation,’ said Michael. ‘He moves around, looking at the plunder Runham has stolen from the
College’s common rooms for his own use, including Agatha’s cushion. He picks it up, pretending to admire the embroidery, and
then …’