A Masterly Murder (44 page)

‘But they will have to know at some point,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We should tell them now, pay them for the work they have already
done, and send them all back to Bene’t.’

‘Never,’ declared William vehemently. ‘It would not surprise me to learn that Bene’t stole our money just to put us in a compromising
position.’

‘Killing a Master just to embarrass another College is a little extreme, Father,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Even for Bene’t.’

‘I disagree,’ said William. ‘The Bene’t men were furious that Runham poached the workmen. I would not put it past them to
have stolen the money, just to spite us.’

‘We seem to be talking about two different things here,’ said Bartholomew wearily. ‘On the one hand, we have the theft of
money, and on the other we have the murder of Runham. I was assuming they were committed at the same time by the same person
or people. Did the killer come to Runham’s room to kill him
or
to take the money? We have already decided Runham knew his killer. Did he know the Bene’t scholars?’

‘He did,’ said William. ‘I saw Langelee introducing them a few weeks ago. Langelee likes to latch on to Simekyn Simeon of
Bene’t, because Simeon knows the Duke of Lancaster. I nonchalantly passed by as Langelee
presented Runham to Simeon, but Langelee did not deign to introduce
me
to his fine friends – a mere friar is not important enough, I suppose.’

The possibility that Langelee did not want to inflict the ‘mere friar’s’ belligerent fanaticism on his fine friends had not
occurred to William. Looking at the Franciscan’s filthy habit and hair so dirty it stood up in a grimy halo around his tonsure,
Bartholomew was not so sure he would leap at the opportunity to present such an unsavoury specimen to his own acquaintances,
either.

‘Well, we need to keep an open mind about Runham’s death,’ said Michael ambiguously. ‘But, since this missing money is not
in the College, I think we should assume that it has gone for good.’

‘In that case, we
must
tell the craftsmen tomorrow that we cannot pay them,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You say we have about half of the ninety pounds
left, which is not enough to complete the buildings. We will pay them what we owe and that will be that.’

‘But of the forty-five pounds remaining, thirty has been loaned from the two guilds and is not ours anyway,’ said Michael
gloomily. ‘And if we do not complete the buildings, we will need to repay the donations that Runham collected.’

‘Why?’ demanded Father William. ‘Those people gave their money to Michaelhouse. The thirty pounds of donations is ours now.’

‘Hardly,’ said Michael. ‘It is not ethical to raise money for a new courtyard, and then decide not to build it and keep the
money instead. I think lawyers would be after us for breaching a contract if we tried that – and they would be quite right
to do so. But if we repay the loans
and
the donations, it means that we are fifteen pounds in debt – with no workmen’s wages paid – not forty-five pounds in credit.’

‘Damn that Runham!’ exclaimed William, striding back and forth furiously. ‘He has left us in a fearful mess.’

‘Yes, fancy him allowing himself to be murdered just when we need him,’ said Michael.

‘I still do not understand how he thought he could manage this,’ said Bartholomew, rubbing a hand through his hair. ‘Had he
lived to see his empire completed, he would have had massive debts. How could he have hoped not to have creditors knocking
at our gates at all hours? How did he imagine Michaelhouse could raise a sum like thirty pounds to pay back these guilds?
It is a fortune!’

‘I have no idea,’ said Michael, frowning as he bent over the documents again. ‘But I do not like the sound of these mysterious
five items that brought Runham ten pounds. Since the buyers of the other items in the hutches paid him a mere fraction of
what the goods were worth, I have a feeling Runham sold something quite valuable.’

‘Such as what?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I did not know Michaelhouse had anything valuable.’

‘Whatever it was, it is better gone,’ said William sanctimoniously. ‘Riches and worldly goods encourage avarice and envy.
I want none of them in Michaelhouse.’

‘I hope he did not sell the church silver,’ said Bartholomew.

‘The church silver?’ boomed William, outraged. ‘But those chalices left to us by our founder are generally regarded to be
the finest this side of Ely! They are priceless!’

‘They are only worldly goods, Father,’ pointed out Michael innocently. ‘But I think you are right, Matt. The church silver
is usually kept in the Stanton Chest, and that is empty, like the others.’

‘Our silver chalices!’ cried William in abject dismay. ‘All gone, just so that Runham could raise some horrible cheap building
to glorify himself!’

‘Hush, William,’ said Bartholomew urgently. ‘You will have the whole College awake.’

‘Even so, the Stanton silver was not worth ten pounds,’ said Michael. ‘It might account for one of these “items” but not all
five. Four of them have the initials TW next to them.’

‘Thomas Wilson,’ said Bartholomew immediately. ‘Runham’s equally unscrupulous cousin. Perhaps it was something of Wilson’s
that Runham sold – something that belonged to him, and not to Michaelhouse at all.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Michael worriedly. ‘But I think you are being far too charitable. I think Runham sold something he had no
business to sell. And I also think that when we discover what it was, Michaelhouse will find itself in a lot of trouble –
and us with it.’

There was little more Bartholomew, Michael and William could do that night, so they put Runham’s room back the way they had
found it and went to bed. Michael’s chamber was still uninhabitable, and Bartholomew was not certain whether his own quarters,
directly underneath Michael’s, were safe, so they used the tiny, closet-like space in the servants’ quarters that Cynric had
shared with Walter the porter. William, secure in the knowledge that his innocence of the murder of Runham had been proved
beyond the shadow of a doubt, made a triumphant return to the room he shared with three student Franciscans, and his stentorian
tones condemning Runham’s wicked life and his killer in equal measure could be heard all over the College.

Michael chuckled softly in the darkness. ‘I do like William. He is an old bigot and a fanatic, and he has a deep distrust
of anything his narrow mind cannot grasp, but he is usually honest, always predictable and entirely without guile.’

‘Guilelessness is a rare quality in this place,’ said Bartholomew, trying to find a comfortable position on the thin straw
mattress. It was lumpy, stank of urine, and the thriving community of insects that inhabited it caused it to rustle and crackle
of its own accord. After the third time his drowsing was rudely interrupted by the painful nip of invisible jaws, Bartholomew
kicked it away in disgust, rolled himself up in a blanket, and slept on the floor.

He was awoken what felt like moments later by the tolling of a bell. It sounded different than it did in his own room, and
he sat up in confusion, not knowing where he was. Michael was at the window, throwing open the shutters to let in the dim
light of early morning.

‘You are late,’ he said. ‘It is Tuesday and your turn to help with the mass.’

Bartholomew struggled to his feet, feeling stiff, cold and tired. Michael picked strands of straw from his hair, while Bartholomew
tugged on his boots, grabbed his cloak and ran across the yard as he was – unwashed, unshaven and still rubbing the sleep
from his eyes. He raced up the lane to the church, cloak flying behind him, and shot across the grassy graveyard to the small
porch in the north wall. From inside, he could hear the thundering tones of Father William praying, sounding more as though
he were giving God an ultimatum than offering penitent supplications.

Bartholomew was fumbling with the latch on the door when he was aware of a presence behind him. Before he could turn, something
was thrown over his head and he found his arms pinioned to his sides. He felt a heavy tug at the back of his neck, and then
he was pushed forward – not roughly, but enough to make him stagger into the wall, reaching out blindly with his hands to
steady himself.

Alarmed, he struggled free of the sacking that covered his head and looked around, anticipating a mob of townspeople ready
to lynch a lone Michaelhouse scholar for its treatment of the choir, or because news had leaked out that the workmen would
not be paid. But there was no one in the churchyard except him. Heart thumping, he walked the few steps back to the High Street,
looking up and down it to see if he could spot his attacker, but it was deserted, too. It was not a market day, and no carts
or traders crammed the roads on their way to the Square. The only person he could see was Bosel the beggar, who often worked
in the High Street and sat hunched in the lee of a buttress, out of the wind.

‘Bosel!’ he called. ‘Did someone just come running past?’

Bosel gave a crafty grin and held out his only hand. ‘Maybe.’

‘I do not have any money,’ said Bartholomew, who had left his purse behind in his haste to arrive at the church.

‘Then you will not have the answer to your question,’ said Bosel, shrugging.

‘Please,’ said Bartholomew, feeling his scanty patience begin to evaporate. ‘It is important.’

‘Oh, it is always important,’ sneered Bosel. ‘Everything is important these days – except the likes of me, left to starve
in the gutter after I served the King so loyally in his wars in France. I lose my arm defending England from the French devils,
and the only reward I get is kicks and curses and wealthy people like you pretending to have no money.’

‘You lost your hand for stealing, not fighting in France,’ retorted Bartholomew. ‘For breaking into the Guildhall of St Mary
and relieving them of their silver, if I recall correctly. Now, will you tell me or not?’

‘I will tell you for a penny,’ said Bosel stubbornly. ‘Give.’

‘I do not
have
a penny,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But you can have breakfast at Michaelhouse after the mass.’

Bosel tipped his head back and regarded Bartholomew down his long, filthy nose, as if calculating the chances of the physician
cheating him. ‘All right, then.’

‘Well? Did someone run from the churchyard just now?’

‘No,’ said Bosel.

Bartholomew gazed at him. ‘Is that it?’

‘That is the truth,’ said Bosel. ‘I will lie for you, to make a more interesting story,
if you like. But the truth is that no one came from the churchyard except you.’

Bartholomew slumped in defeat. Because of Bosel’s negotiations for payment, it was too late to give chase anyway.

‘I saw you run in and then run out moments later,’ Bosel clarified. ‘And Father William has been yelling his head off inside
the church since before first light. But I did hear someone moving about in the churchyard – other than you, that is.’

‘Who?’ asked Bartholomew.

Bosel made an impatient sound. ‘I do not know! I did not see the person, I only heard him. And the reason I did not see him
come from the churchyard was because I heard him scramble over the wall at the back and head off down those alleys instead.
You will never catch him now. Did he rob you of your purse, then? Is that why you cannot give me a penny?’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew shortly. ‘He just gave me a nasty fright.’

‘I will see you after mass, then,’ called Bosel, as he left.

Still holding the sacking that had been tossed over his
head, Bartholomew opened the door to the church and walked inside. William had already laid out the sacred vessels, lit the
candles and opened the great bible to the correct reading of the day. Bartholomew was suddenly horribly reminded of the week
before, when Runham had come to the church to do the physician’s duties and fine him for being late.

‘Well, I do not have a shilling to pay any fine,’ he said irritably to William, as he walked towards the altar. ‘I did not
even have a penny to give to Bosel.’

‘Do you want to borrow one?’ asked William, puzzled by the hostile greeting. He rummaged in his scrip. ‘I have a couple in
here somewhere that I can lend you. As a friar, I have little need for worldly wealth. When can you pay me back?’

Bartholomew tossed the sacking on to a bench, thinking that Bosel had probably been right, and that the attack had been an
attempt by a thief to make off with the heavy purses all scholars were thought to possess. It had been a perfect opportunity:
Bartholomew had been alone and the churchyard was free of possible witnesses. The only thing wrong with the plan was that
they had picked a scholar who had forgotten his purse, and there would have been very little in it anyway.

As the sacking hit the wooden bench, there was a heavy thump. Bartholomew gave it an angry glare, recalling that something
had tugged at the back of his neck – probably a weighted rope that would hold the sacking in place long enough to allow the
robber to make his escape. The physician had been lucky. In the desperate days following the plague, when food was scarce
and people starved in the streets, many hungry people considered a knife under the ribs the best way to rob a victim and leave
no witnesses to identify them later.

‘Do not leave those rags there,’ said William peevishly.
‘I came here early this morning to give the church a good clean, and I do not want bits of sacking lying all over the place.’

‘It looks nice,’ said Bartholomew, glancing around him and noticing that the floor had been swept, the spilled wax from the
candles scraped away and the holders polished, and the desiccated flies and spiders brushed from the windowsills.

William smiled, pleased by the compliment. The complacent grin faded when his gaze came to rest on the shrouded corpse that
reclined near Wilson’s glittering tomb. ‘I only wish I could have swept that rubbish from our holy church, too.’

‘That is not a very friarly attitude,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But did you hear that Master Kenyngham thinks we should not have
a second grisly tomb in our chancel, as Runham stipulated in his will? He says a tomb like the one Runham wants will not leave
enough space for us to pray, and instead he proposes to place Runham in Wilson’s tomb – on top of his cousin.’