A Masterly Murder (47 page)

The Bene’t Fellows were in their conclave, a chamber off
the hall that was larger than the one at Michaelhouse, but not nearly so pleasant. The rushes that covered the floor were
stale and needed changing, while the tapestries on the walls were of an inferior quality and the dyes in the wools had faded
in the sun. It was quite a contrast to the carved oak panelling and rich rugs that adorned the hall, and Bartholomew supposed
that the conclave had not been deemed worthy of similar attention, because meetings with important benefactors – like the
Duke of Lancaster and the guildsmen of St Mary and Corpus Christi – took place in the hall.

The hall itself housed the students, who sat in attitudes of boredom as they listened to the droning tones of their Bible
Scholar reading some dense tract from Leviticus. A fire roared in the hearth, burning logs at a rate that even the absent-minded
Kenyngham would have balked at. It was hot to the point of being uncomfortable, and Bartholomew was not surprised that several
of the scholars had fallen asleep, lulled by the heat and the dry tones of the reader.

There was a palpable atmosphere of unease and unhappiness in the College, both among those students who were still awake in
the hall and the Fellows in the conclave. Michaelhouse had its problems, but Bartholomew had never known it to simmer with
the same sense of despair and gloom that seemed to grip Bene’t. Yet again, he realised that Wymundham and others had been
right when they had claimed Bene’t was not a happy College.

‘I see you buried my cousin Justus at last,’ said Osmun as he followed Bartholomew through the hall. ‘Not before time, if
you ask me. Bene’t does not leave its members’ corpses to fester in the church for days past the time when it is decent.’

‘No; Bene’t buries its scholars with unseemly haste,’
retortedMichael. ‘Wymundham and Raysoun were underground before my appointed representative had had the opportunity to inspect
them properly.’

‘We did not think their deaths were any of your business,’ said Osmun, nettled. ‘An accident and a suicide are not matters
for the Senior Proctor to poke into.’

‘The Senior Proctor can poke into anything he likes,’ said Michael sharply.

‘You are like that Ralph de Langelee,’ said Osmun in disdain. ‘He is always hanging around Bene’t, trying to ingratiate himself
with members of a good College. He thinks he is Simekyn Simeon’s friend, and Simeon is too much a gentleman to send the man
packing.’

‘But Bene’t willingly takes our servants – Agatha and Walter,’ snapped Michael, beginning to be angered by the man’s insolence.
‘And you should watch yourself: Agatha will not tolerate your rough manners. She will soon put you in your place.’

‘It is the Michaelhouse men again,’ announced Osmun disapprovingly to the Bene’t Fellows, as he ushered Michael and Bartholomew
into the conclave. ‘I do not know what they want, but it will be something that will do us no good, you mark my words.’

He left, slamming the door behind him and making the fire in the hearth gutter and roar. Bartholomew looked at the assembled
Fellows. Simekyn Simeon sat near the fire and had apparently been dozing. Under the sober blue of his tabard, he wore his
startling striped hose and a bright red shirt, apparently to announce to the world that he was a courtier not a scholar, and
that he wore his Fellow’s uniform on sufferance.

Caumpes was reading, folded into a windowseat, where the light was better. When he set the book down, Bartholomew saw it was
a text by Plato. Heltisle sat at a table that was covered by scrolls and parchments, and
had been writing. Of the last of the four Fellows, Henry de Walton, there was no sign.

‘You come again, Brother,’ said Heltisle coolly to Michael. ‘However, honoured though we are, we would appreciate it if you
state your business and then be on your way; we are busy men.’

‘So I see,’ said Michael, glancing meaningfully towards the hall, where it was the Bible Scholar, not the Fellows, who was
doing the teaching.

‘What do you want from us?’ snapped Caumpes, nettled.

‘A cup of wine would be pleasant,’ said Michael, sitting uninvited in a chair near the fire. ‘Does Bene’t keep a decent cellar,
or will I have to return to Michaelhouse for that?’

Why the Fellows of other Colleges always yielded to Michael’s none-too-subtle ploys to be served their finest victuals, Bartholomew
could not imagine. He assumed pride always made them rise to meet the challenge, to prove that their College could afford
the best wines, serve the best food, or had the best students. Heltisle glowered, but then nodded to Simeon, who uncoiled
himself from his chair to order a servant to fetch Michael his wine.

Moments later it arrived, a light white in which the grapes of southern France could still be tasted. It was served in handsome
crystal goblets, which, Bartholomew had to admit, were more pleasant to drink from than Michaelhouse’s pewter.

‘Very good,’ said Michael approvingly, lifting his glass to the light so that the sun caught the pale gold liquid and made
it gleam. ‘Almost as good as the brew I was served in the Hall of Valence Marie the other day. Now Master Thorpe of Valence
Marie is a man who knows his wines.’

‘Why did you come today, Brother?’ asked Caumpes icily. ‘Other than to insult our cellars, that is?’

‘I have come, as Senior Proctor, to assure you that I will do all I can to protect Bene’t College’s reputation from the vicious
rumours that are rife in the town,’ said Michael silkily.

Caumpes stiffened. ‘What rumours? What have people been saying about Bene’t?’

‘Have you not heard?’ asked Michael innocently. ‘You surprise me, Master Caumpes. I am referring to the tales that Raysoun
and Wymundham were murdered. We have discussed the issue at length on more than one occasion.’

‘So you have come to interrogate us again,’ said Heltisle flatly. ‘I thought we had answered all your questions about the
deaths of our unfortunate colleagues.’

‘It is a Michaelhouse plot to discredit us,’ said Caumpes bitterly. He pointed accusingly at Bartholomew. ‘His feeble attempt to pretend that Michaelhouse
means Bene’t no harm may have convinced the Duke of Lancaster, but it did not fool us. We know Michaelhouse is jealous of
the patronage of the Guilds of St Mary and Corpus Christi and wants to steal it away.’

‘I can assure you that is not true,’ said Michael, genuinely offended. ‘Michaelhouse wants no town money, thank you very much.’

‘Did Runham know that?’ demanded Heltisle. ‘Your tone suggests that there is something unwholesome about town money, but Runham
held no such scruples when he was making a nuisance of himself among all the town’s merchants, demanding money for his new
courtyard.’

‘Master Runham is no longer with us,’ said Michael smoothly, ‘as I am sure you are aware. And Bene’t and Michaelhouse have
always coexisted peacefully in the past, so I do not see why our relationship should not continue as it was before.’

‘Very well, then,’ said Heltisle. ‘Prove your good intentions by sending us back our workmen.’

‘I will discuss the matter with Master Kenyngham,’ said Michael. ‘He is very keen for us to resolve our differences, and I
am sure he will agree to your request.’

Bartholomew was as startled as Heltisle. Then it occurred to him that if the workmen could be discharged the following day
on the grounds that Bene’t had demanded their return, Michael would have scored a double victory: first, Michaelhouse would
not be obliged to pay the workmen the wages Runham had promised; and second, he would ensure that they would hold Bene’t –
not Michaelhouse – responsible for losing them their bonus. It was a clever, if somewhat shabby, move, and given Blaston’s
warning, it was also well timed.

‘That is very kind of you, Brother,’ said Caumpes quickly, sensing perhaps that Heltisle’s astonishment at Michael’s unexpected
capitulation might lead him to say something to disturb the fragile truce. ‘We appreciate – and accept – your gesture of reconciliation.’

‘But that does not mean that we will consider impertinent questions about the unfortunate accidents that killed Raysoun and
Wymundham,’ said Heltisle. ‘They are buried in St Bene’t’s churchyard, and I want them to rest in peace.’

Michael inclined his head. ‘Very well. But I have a favour to ask in return for my generosity in returning your workmen to
you. There was a theft at Michaelhouse on Friday. We have the culprit under lock and key, and we are certain of his guilt.
He is a pathetic fellow, who is spinning all manner of lies to wriggle off the hook he has impaled himself upon. He even accused
Matt of giving him medicine that made him do things he did not want to do.’

‘Do you have any of it left?’ asked Caumpes of
Bartholomew dryly. ‘There are one or two students I would not mind dosing with such a substance.’

Bartholomew smiled nervously, wondering where the fat monk’s untruths were leading.

‘This thief has had the audacity to claim that he was with a Fellow of Bene’t on Friday night.’ Michael raised his hand to
quell the indignant objections that arose. ‘We do not believe him for an instant, of course. But I would like to be able to
return to him and say that each one of you has accounted for his movements, and that our thief was not included in them.’

‘I do not see why we should play this game …’ began Heltisle.

‘Where lies the harm, Master Heltisle?’ asked Simeon with a shrug. ‘Brother Michael is not accusing us of anything: he is
merely asking us to help him trap a thief. What was stolen, Brother?’

‘Some rings and gold coins,’ said Michael vaguely. ‘I appreciate your help in this matter, because I would not like this villain
to go free and prey on some other unsuspecting College.’ He gazed around him meaningfully.

Michael really was clever, Bartholomew thought admiringly. He would learn the whereabouts of the Bene’t scholars without an
unpleasant confrontation – unless one of them was the killer of Runham, of course, in which case the culprit would know exactly
why Michael wanted to know where they were at eight o’clock on Friday evening. The monk was also cunning in appealing to their
instincts for self-preservation, intimating that if his fictitious criminal were to go free, Bene’t might be the next victim.

‘I attended compline in St Botolph’s Church,’ said Heltisle. ‘I always insist that the students come with me on Fridays –
Friday is usually the night that students
attempt to slip their leashes and escape to the town to romp with the prostitutes.’

Bartholomew realised that Heltisle’s alibi was not a good one. Compline at St Botolph’s was earlier than at St Michael’s,
and a fleet-footed man could have attended St Botolph’s and still run to Michaelhouse to kill Runham at eight o’clock. And
bearing in mind that hour candles were often not accurate – especially the cheap ones favoured by Runham – the killer might
have even had a few additional moments to complete his grisly task. Of course, Bartholomew thought, if Runham’s candle had
burned faster than normal, Heltisle would be in the clear.

‘After we returned from compline, I retired to my room and studied the College accounts,’ Heltisle continued. ‘I was alone,
but you can hardly expect me to have kept company with a thief. Anyway, you can check with Osmun the porter; he will tell
you that no visitors came for me that evening. And now, if you will excuse me, I am busy, and have no time to waste sorting
out the problems of other Colleges.’ He gathered up his parchments and swept from the room.

‘I have a confession to make,’ said Caumpes, giving a wan smile that revealed his bad teeth. Bartholomew saw Michael look
interested. ‘I am a simple man and I do not like arguments. Life at Bene’t is not always as tranquil as I would like, and
there was an altercation on Friday afternoon. I felt I could not attend compline in such an angry atmosphere, and so I went
to the one in St Michael’s Church instead.’

‘Is that it?’ asked Michael, acutely disappointed.

Caumpes nodded. ‘I know it is unusual to patronise the church of another
College, but I hope you will forgive me. I asked Master Kenyngham if I might join him and your new man – Suttone, I believe
he is called – and he readily
agreed. If you speak to them, they will confirm my story. But I encountered no thief, as far as I know.’

So, that discounted Caumpes as a potential killer, thought Bartholomew. If Bartholomew could choose anyone to give him an
alibi, he would select Kenyngham, because the gentle Gilbertine was more honest than any man he had ever encountered. Kenyngham
would never lie. And the fact that Suttone had been present, too, meant that Caumpes’s alibi was unshakeable. Kenyngham could
be a little vague when he was praying, but Suttone was a sensible and practical man, and would remember whom he had met and
when.

‘I cannot help you, I am afraid,’ said the foppish Simeon, looking as though he cared little one way or the other. ‘I spent
an hour or two in the King’s Head – fine me, if you will, Senior Proctor, I offer no defence – and then I went looking for
women. I did not see any that took my fancy. Ralph de Langelee had already engaged the only one worth romping with, while
the lovely Matilde bestows her favours on no man these days, so I returned here and went to bed alone.’

‘Where is the fourth Fellow – Henry de Walton?’ asked Michael. ‘Could the thief have met him?’

‘I sincerely doubt it, Brother,’ said Simeon laconically. ‘No sensible thief would keep company with our Master de Walton.’

‘Why not?’ asked Michael. ‘What is wrong with him?’

‘Leprosy,’ replied Simeon, amused by the shock on Michael’s face. ‘It
was diagnosed by Master Lynton of Peterhouse two days ago, and de Walton is on his way to a lazar house even as we speak.’

‘Which one?’ asked Bartholomew, with the interest of a professional.

‘Since I have no intention of paying him a comradely visit, I did not think to find out,’ said Simeon with a shrug.
‘Somewhere to the north. But it is time for a walk before I take another nap. Good morning, gentlemen.’

He wandered out, leaving Caumpes to see them across the courtyard to the gate.