A Masterly Murder (60 page)

To prove her point, another of the silver missiles appeared in her hand, and her arm came up as she prepared to throw. A furious
yell from the mob unnerved Horwoode. Hooves flailed and Bartholomew took the opportunity to dash to the back of the bucking
horse. It did not like the sensation that someone was behind it, and began to prance and rear even more frantically. Despite
her skills as a horsewoman, Adela was having difficulty in controlling it. Meanwhile, Caumpes had reached the High Street,
and was clinging to the churchyard gate for support.

Bartholomew dodged this way and that, trying to get close enough to knock Adela from her saddle. Horwoode became more agitated,
and a sudden sideways skip made the horse collide with Bartholomew, causing him to drop the forceps to the ground. The metallic
clatter and the sight of something shiny under its feet was the last straw. Horwoode bolted.

At that precise moment, Caumpes released his grip on the wall that supported him and began to lurch forward, following some
final desire to make his way back to the College he had loved. Startled by another movement under its front legs, the horse
jolted backward, rolling its eyes in terror, and then fell.

Caumpes was crushed under the falling body, while Adela lost her grip on the saddle and slid to the ground. She recovered
herself quickly and maintained her grip of the horse’s reins, but the horse was on its side with its hooves flailing wildly.
There was a sickening crack as one of them caught her on the side of her head. She stood immobile for a moment, and then crumpled
to lie twitching on the ground. The horse scrambled to its feet and darted off along the High Street.

Bartholomew dashed forward and knelt next to her, but he could see she was beyond anything he could do. The hoof had cracked
the skull at the temple, and crushed the brain inside. Despite her convulsive struggles, her eyes already had the glassy look
of death in them.

‘The horse killed her,’ whispered Cynric, coming to stand next to Bartholomew. ‘She was killed by one of the animals she loved.’

Adela’s uncontrolled shuddering ceased as the brain relinquished its damaged grip on her body.

‘The horse has killed Caumpes, too,’ said Michael, who crouched next to the scholar from Bene’t. ‘He is dead.’

‘This is no place for us,’ said Cynric urgently, grabbing Bartholomew’s tabard and hauling him to his feet as an ear-splitting
howl echoed through the churchyard. ‘The mob is here.’

Dragging Bartholomew behind him, and with Michael following with uncharacteristic speed, Cynric darted to the back of the
graveyard and hid among the tangle of
bushes and small trees that grew there. They had been wrong when they had assumed the mob would go straight to Michaelhouse.
The gaggle of workmen and singers had known perfectly well that they would be unlikely to make an impression on a sturdy foundation
like the College, and had marched instead on that most prominent piece of Michaelhouse property – St Michael’s Church.

From his frighteningly inadequate hiding place, Bartholomew watched the rioters pour into the churchyard. At the head of them
was Osmun. He faltered as he saw Caumpes’s body, and his pugilistic features hardened. He jumped on a tombstone to address
his followers.

‘This is the body of Master Caumpes of Bene’t College!’ he howled in fury. ‘Caumpes was a good and honest man, and it is obvious
who killed him – Michaelhouse men!’

‘Why is that obvious?’ piped up old Dunstan the riverman from the front of the crowd. The question was not put in such a way
as to question Osmun’s authority, but in a manner that suggested the old riverman merely wanted the information.

‘Because his murdered body lies in the graveyard of the church Michaelhouse owns,’ yelled Osmun, spittle flying from his mouth
in his fury. ‘Use your wits, old man!’

‘I do not see that proves anything,’ said Aethelbald, Dunstan’s brother, scratching his head in genuine puzzlement. ‘Anyone
could have killed your Master Caumpes and left the body here.’

‘Michaelhouse hates Bene’t scholars,’ fumed Osmun. ‘Poor Caumpes was killed only because he wore the blue tabard of the College
I serve.’

‘In that case, why is Adela Tangmer also dead?’ asked Robert de Blaston the carpenter. ‘She was not a scholar from Bene’t.’

‘And anyway, those Michaelhouse men are a cunning brood,’ said his friend Newenham knowledgeably. ‘They
would not leave the bodies of people they killed on their own property.’

Osmun was not stupid. He could see that the crowd’s fury was fading as he argued with them. He gave a warlike whoop and waved
a long, gnarled stick in the air. There were some answering cries and a few weapons were rattled, although it all seemed rather
feeble to Bartholomew.

‘To Michaelhouse!’ shouted Osmun. ‘We will tear it stone from stone to its foundations!’

‘We have been thinking about that,’ said Dunstan uneasily. ‘If we destroy Michaelhouse, we will never be invited to sing in
a choir again – none of the other colleges would have us.’

‘Will you let music interfere with justice?’ yelled Osmun, outraged. ‘To Michaelhouse, lads, and all its ill-gotten wealth
will be ours!’

‘But that is the problem,’ Blaston pointed out. ‘It does not have any ill-gotten wealth. If it did, we would not be here now,
using the tools of our trade as weapons. We would be working on their north court. Michaelhouse is destitute.’

‘Hardly that,’ muttered Michael indignantly. Cynric jabbed him hard in the ribs to silence him before he gave them away.

‘To Michaelhouse!’ yelled Osmun, ignoring the carpenter.

‘It is all that Runham’s fault,’ said Dunstan, climbing unsteadily on another tombstone, using his brother as a prop. ‘
He
dismissed the choir and
he
made the deal with the craftsmen that he knew he could not fulfil. It is not the fault of the other scholars – only him.’

‘Where is Runham?’ screamed Isnard the bargeman from the back of the crowd. ‘It is him we will tear apart! And then we will
march on Michaelhouse and demand our bread and ale.’

‘He is in the church, God rot his wicked soul,’ said Dunstan, addressing the crowd from his little pulpit, just as Osmun had
been doing. ‘He is lying under a lovely piece of silk – unlike his own book-bearer, whom he left to rot for days. Justus would
still be there now if Doctor Bartholomew had not arranged his burial.’

‘When was that, then?’ asked Isnard conversationally. ‘I would have attended Justus’s requiem mass had I known when it was
going to happen. I like a good funeral.’

‘Justus was my cousin,’ yelled Osmun. ‘I had to plead and beg on bended knees for Michaelhouse to honour his poor remains
and do its duty. Bene’t would never have left a man unburied for more than a week.’

‘Why did you not bury Justus, then?’ asked Dunstan. ‘If he was your cousin—’

‘March on Michaelhouse now, and demand all they have!’ shrieked Osmun, sensing he was losing control of his small crowd to
the old man. ‘We will have their silver and gold, and their rich cloaks and fine food.’

‘Michaelhouse does not have fine food,’ said Isnard. ‘You are thinking of Peterhouse. Michaelhouse is the College with the
worst food in Cambridge.’

‘I think you will find that honour goes to Gonville Hall,’ muttered Michael indignantly. Cynric prodded him again.

‘And the food has got worse since Runham was made Master,’ shouted Dunstan, although there was no reason why he should be
privy to such facts, now that he no longer earned his Sunday bread and ale. ‘And it was bad food that made Brother Michael
ill. Runham tried to starve him to death!’

There was an ominous, angry rumble from the members of the choir, although the craftsmen appeared sceptical, and Bartholomew
buried his face in his hands so that Michael would not see him smile. He wondered whether
any of the crowd would question why Michael should be made ill with bad food, if Runham was starving him. None did.

‘And Runham was going to stop Doctor Bartholomew coming to visit the sick,’ continued Dunstan, now enjoying his role as spokesman
for the underclasses. ‘How can we afford the high fees of Master Lynton when we are ill? We need Doctor Bartholomew, and Runham
was trying to take him from us.’

The angry rumble increased in volume. Dunstan had succeeded where the aggressive Osmun had failed.

‘And Doctor Bartholomew gave my Yolande a green ribbon, too,’ added Blaston, drawing the bemused glances of several of the
choir. ‘He is a kind man who is fond of his patients – us.’

‘To Michaelhouse then,’ shouted Osmun, waving his stave, ‘to avenge all these wrongs.’

‘No!’ wailed Dunstan in his reedy tenor. ‘To St Michael’s Church to where that vile Runham’s corpse lies. We will string it
up.’

This time, the yell of approval from the crowd was distinctly more enthusiastic.

‘What for?’ demanded Osmun, startled. ‘Hanging a corpse will do you no good. Looting the College will bring you fortunes beyond
your wildest dreams.’

‘How many more times do we have to tell you?’ demanded Blaston, shoving the porter out of his way. ‘Michaelhouse does not
have
this great fortune you keep talking about. And it is Runham we want. Runham is responsible for all our troubles.’

‘Wait!’ shouted Osmun, as the crowd surged forward and elbowed their way into the church.

But no one paid him any heed, and there was no more for him to do than to pick up the body of Caumpes, sling it over his shoulder,
and be on his way. Smashing
sounds came from inside the church. Bartholomew leapt to his feet and tried to move forward, but Cynric held him back.

‘Are you mad, boy?’ he hissed. ‘They will see a Michaelhouse tabard and turn their rage on you.’

That was certainly true, thought Bartholomew, easing back into the cover of the trees. He had almost been the victim of the
choir once before in St Michael’s Church.

‘But they will destroy it,’ he whispered. ‘And they will take the church silver.’

‘I have that here,’ said Michael, holding up Adela’s saddlebag. ‘And there is nothing else to steal. The only thing of any
value in that poor church is the silk sheet that is draped over Runham’s corpse – and they are welcome to that.’

‘But they are smashing things. I can hear them.’

‘Only the vase that contains the flowers Runham left for Wilson,’ said Michael.
‘And that has been empty this past week.’

There was some angry shouting, and the crowd began to emerge from the church, carrying Runham’s coffin with them. Dunstan,
wearing the silk sheet around his thin shoulders, led the strange procession like some bizarre priest. Behind him, Runham
shuddered and bumped as he was carried head-high along the High Street, willing hands reaching up to be part of the grisly
celebration. Not far behind, the gilt effigy of Wilson was being given similar treatment, joggling in grabbing hands as it
was borne away towards the Market Square.

It was not long before the church was empty. Fearful for it, Bartholomew darted from his hiding place and through the door.
But Michael had been right, and the only thing that had been smashed was Runham’s clay vase. He started in alarm when the
door clanked open.

‘Where have they gone now?’ asked Sheriff Tulyet
wearily. ‘I thought that by showing them all my soldiers, armed and willing to use force, I had convinced them to go home
peacefully. They were perfectly calm when I left them, and then I heard the whole thing had started again.’

‘Osmun from Bene’t was whipping them into a frenzy,’ said Michael. ‘Or was trying to. They do not seem a particularly frenzied
mob to me – just people who have been badly treated.’

‘So where are they?’ said Tulyet. ‘I have better things to do than chase around after frustrated choristers. I will have that
Osmun in my gaol for his role in this.’

‘Quite right, too,’ agreed Michael. ‘And then he can enjoy a spell in the proctors’ prison – that will cure his riotous fervour
for a while. But the mob snatched Runham’s corpse and Wilson’s effigy and were heading off to the Market Square with them.’

‘Oh, horrible!’ exclaimed Tulyet in distaste. ‘What do they plan to do? Have a spit roast?’

‘There would be plenty of lard to baste the meat if they did,’ said Michael, unaware that he was not in a position to criticise
the fat of others. ‘I think they intend to lynch him.’

‘Lynch a corpse?’ asked Tulyet uncertainly. ‘Oh well, it is better than lynching a live person, I suppose. Come on. Let us
put a stop to all this madness before any real harm is done.’

He made as if to inspect the crumpled figure of Adela as he passed, but Bartholomew took his arm and hurried him on, thinking
the Sheriff’s duties lay with the living first; he could deal with the dead later. Michael and Cynric followed them the short
distance along the High Street to the Market Square.

‘That was Adela Tangmer,’ said Tulyet as they ran. ‘What happened to her?’

‘She fell off her horse,’ replied Michael tersely. ‘I will tell you the details later. Right now, it is more important to
deal with these rioters.’

‘We can only deal with them if we know what they are doing,’ said Tulyet, skidding to a halt as they reached the Market Square.
‘And I have no idea what they plan to do.’

He was not the only one. Standing next to him, Bartholomew regarded the scene warily. The crowd, having reached the Square
with their intended victim, was suddenly at a loss at what to do. Without the yells and encouragement of Osmun – and Dunstan
was too old to have kept up with the main body of the mob and was still huffing his way from the church – they milled around
like lost sheep. The body of Runham in its fine coffin was set down gently near the fishmonger’s stall, while the effigy was
propped nonchalantly against the water pump that stood in the centre of the Square.

‘I think the answer to your question is simple,’ said Bartholomew. ‘These people do not know what they are going to do, either.
Tell them all to go home, Dick.’

‘Michaelhouse will not press charges over this?’ asked Tulyet. ‘You would be within your rights to do so. Snatching the corpses
of scholars is not generally regarded as good civic behaviour.’