A Masterly Murder (7 page)

Adela roared with laughter and gave him a hefty slap on the shoulders that made his eyes water. ‘I heard your husband bought
that new filly from Mayor Horwoode,’ she said to Edith conversationally. ‘She will be a good investment for him – she is a
sweet-tempered beast.’

‘Speaking of sweet tempers,’ said Edith, ‘Matt was just saying that he felt the men at the University should see more of the
town’s women.’

‘I was not,’ said Bartholomew, startled. ‘I—’

‘It is a good idea,’ continued Edith, cutting across him as though he had not
spoken. ‘It would make them all less aggressive, and they would have a more rational view of life. Him included.’

‘Good breeder,’ said Adela.

Bartholomew and Edith gazed at her uncomprehendingly.

‘The filly,’ said Adela. ‘She will be a good breeder. I can always tell, you know. It is all to do with the shape of the flanks.’

‘Will you and your sister Joan be going to watch the mystery plays outside St Mary’s Guildhall next week?’ asked Edith, giving
Bartholomew a none too subtle dig in the ribs, prompting him, he presumed, to display some kind of interest in accompanying
Joan.

‘Lord, no!’ said Adela, hands on hips. ‘I have a foal due soon – an unusual time of the year, but there it is. No predicting
nature, eh, Matthew?’

‘But Joan …’ began Edith.

‘Joan is betrothed to Stephen Morice, so I imagine he will take her,’ said Adela carelessly.
‘He is a wealthy man and a burgess, too. It is a good match, and it is about time she stopped mourning for the husband she
lost to the plague.’

Edith shot Bartholomew a withering look that implied the impending marriage was his fault for not acting sooner.

‘You will miss her when she goes to live with Morice,’ said Bartholomew, who knew that Adela, Joan and their father Henry
Tangmer all shared a house on Bridge Street.

‘More than you can possibly imagine,’ said Adela fervently. ‘My father has been urging us to marry for years, and now she
is betrothed, I will have to bear the brunt of his complaints alone. But I suppose that is the way of families. Does Edith
nag you about your reluctance to select a spouse, Matthew?’

‘She does,’ agreed Bartholomew.

‘I do not,’ said Edith, at the same time.

Adela looked from one to the other in amusement.
‘Actually, I am pleased to have run into you, Matthew,’ she went on cheerfully. ‘Do you have any tried and tested remedies
for ending unwanted pregnancies?’

Once again, Bartholomew and Edith gazed at her speechlessly. Her voice had been loud, and one or two people had overheard.
It was hardly a matter for bellowing across the Market Square, and abortion was not looked upon kindly by the authorities.
If Bartholomew was caught dispensing that sort of treatment, losing his licence would be the least of his worries.

‘It is not for me,’ Adela bawled, giving her braying laugh when she saw what they were thinking. ‘One of my old nags is pregnant,
and I do not think she will survive
bearing another foal. I am fond of her, and do not want her to die.’

‘Sorry,’ said Bartholomew, keenly aware that people were still looking at them. ‘I have no idea what would end a pregnancy
in a horse.’

‘Just tell me what you recommend for people, then,’ pressed Adela, undeterred. ‘I often use human remedies on my horses –
and sometimes they even work. Perhaps I could give you some of my horse cures, and you could adapt them for use on your patients.
That would be jolly.’

‘Not for my patients,’ said Bartholomew, edging away.

‘Do not be so narrow-minded,’ Adela admonished him. ‘But you can always
let me know if you change your mind. You know where I live. Goodbye.’

She strode away, an eccentric figure in her old-fashioned wimple and unflattering dress. The handsome blue riding cloak and
well-made leather shoes were the only indication that she was a woman of some wealth. When she was out of earshot, Bartholomew
started to laugh.

‘Not her,’ said Edith, laughing with him. ‘I do not want a sister-in-law who will raise that sort of topic at the dinner table.
Now let me see.’ She began to scan again.

‘I must go,’ said Bartholomew quickly. ‘My students …’

He faltered, looking across the Market Square to the Church of
the Holy Trinity. He was considerably taller than Edith, and so she could not see what had made him stop speaking mid-sentence.
She craned her neck and stood on tiptoe, hoping that a woman had smitten him with her charms at first sight.

‘What is the matter? Who can you see?’

Bartholomew’s gaze was fixed on a figure in a blue tabard who slunk along the back of the church, weaving between the grassy
grave mounds. John Wymundham, Fellow of Bene’t College and friend of the lately deceased
Raysoun, looked around him carefully, before opening the church door and disappearing inside.

‘That is odd,’ said Bartholomew. ‘That was Wymundham. His friend has just died – murdered, he says – and he was supposed to
be talking to Michael about it.’

‘Oh no, Matt!’ cried Edith in dismay. ‘Not murder again! Now you will never have time to meet the ladies I select for you.’

‘Every cloud has a silver lining,’ he said, grinning. ‘But I am not involved in this – all I did was tend Raysoun as he lay
dying. Solving the crime is Michael’s work, not mine.’

‘So, why were you staring at Wymundham with such intense interest?’ asked Edith, unconvinced.

‘Wymundham said he would wait for Michael in Bene’t College, but here he is, wandering around the town.’ Bartholomew shrugged.
‘I suppose it means nothing. Perhaps Michael was too busy to see Wymundham today, and agreed to interview him another time.’

But it seemed strange that Michael would not want to discover from Wymundham who Raysoun claimed had killed him. Bartholomew
glanced up at the sky. More time had passed than he had realised since he had met Edith. Perhaps Wymundham had already spoken
to Michael, and felt the urge to sample the calming effects of a few prayers.

However, Edith was right – the affair had nothing to do with him, and he should not waste his time thinking about it. She
had already dismissed Wymundham and his dead friend from her mind, and was pulling her brother’s arm, leading him to where
a fire-eater was entertaining an entranced crowd. Bartholomew forgot Wymundham and Raysoun, yielded to her insistent tugs,
and spent the next hour trying to ascertain why the fire-eater was not covered in burns.

* * *

The following day was typically busy for Bartholomew. He rose long before dawn to spend some time on his treatise on fevers,
working quickly and concisely in the silence of the night, using the light from a cheap tallow candle that smoked and made
his eyes water. At dawn, he walked with the other scholars to St Michael’s Church, and then ate a hasty breakfast before being
summoned to the hovels where the riverfolk lived, to tend a case of the sweating sickness.

After that, he dashed back to the College to start teaching in the hall, ignoring the admonishing glare shot at him by Runham
for being late for his lecture. His younger students were restless and unable to concentrate on their lessons, obviously far
more interested in speculating on which of the Fellows might succeed the gentle Kenyngham as Master.

His older students were not much better, and he could see their attention was wandering from the set commentary on Galen’s
De Urinis
. Bartholomew was not particularly interested in contemplating the ins and outs of urine on a cold winter morning, either,
but it had to be endured if the scruffy lads assembled in front of him ever wanted to be successful physicians.

When the bell rang for the midday meal, Cynric came to tell him that he was needed at the home of Sam Saddler, a man afflicted
with a rotting leg. Bartholomew had recommended amputation two weeks before, but Saddler had steadfastly refused. Robin of
Grantchester had finally relieved him of the festering limb the previous day, and Bartholomew was astonished that Saddler
had survived the surgeon’s filthy instruments and clumsy stitching. Saddler’s hold on life was tenacious, but Bartholomew
knew it was a battle Death would soon win. The flesh around the sutures was swollen and weeping, and angry red lines of infection
darted up the stump of leg.

Bartholomew always carried a plaster of betony for infected wounds, but Saddler’s state was beyond the efficacy of any remedy
that Bartholomew knew about, although he spent some time trying to help. He prescribed a syrup to dull the pain, and warned
Saddler’s two daughters to be ready to send for a priest within the next two days.

On his way back to Michaelhouse, he saw Adela Tangmer, arm in arm with her father, although who was leading whom was difficult
to say. Adela strode along in her customary jaunty style, but the vintner walked stiffly, every step suggesting that something
had deeply angered him. Bartholomew tried to slip past unnoticed, but Adela was having none of that.

‘Hello, Matthew,’ she boomed across the High Street, making several people jump. ‘We have just been to a meeting of my father’s
guild, Corpus Christi. What a dreadful gaggle of people – all arguing and bickering. They need to get out more – do a bit
of riding and see the world.’

‘Bene’t College is at the heart of it,’ muttered Tangmer furiously. ‘I wish to God the Guild of St Mary’s had never persuaded
us to become involved in that venture.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.

‘We were doing perfectly well in establishing a modest little house of learning, but that
was not good enough for the worthy people of the Guild of St Mary,’ said Tangmer bitterly.

‘They brought in the Duke of Lancaster as a patron,’ explained Adela. ‘He donated some money, but we have just learned that
there are strings attached.’

‘You mean like a certain number of masses to be said for his soul?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Similar conditions were imposed by
Michaelhouse’s founder, Hervey de Stanton. We are obliged to say daily prayers for him.’

‘I wish that were all!’ muttered Tangmer. ‘Prayers cost nothing, especially if someone else is saying them.’

‘The Duke wants Bene’t to rival King’s Hall and the Hall of Valence Marie for splendour,’ said Adela. ‘The only problem is
that his donation will not cover all the costs, and so the guilds of Corpus Christi and St Mary are obliged to provide the
difference. And money spent on Bene’t would be better spent on good horseflesh.’

‘Do you think of nothing but horses, woman?’ asked Tangmer in weary exasperation. ‘You should marry – that would concentrate
your mind on other matters.’

‘I do not want to marry,’ said Adela with the same weary exasperation. ‘I like my life the way it is.’

‘What about you, Bartholomew?’ asked Tangmer, eyeing the physician up and down speculatively. ‘You are not betrothed, are
you? Adela would make a fine wife for a physician.’

Adela closed her eyes, although whether from embarrassment or because the topic of conversation was tiresome to her, Bartholomew
could not tell.

‘She certainly knows her remedies for equine ailments,’ he agreed carefully. ‘But Fellows are not permitted to marry, Sir
Henry. I regret to inform you that I am not available.’

‘Pity,’ said Tangmer. ‘I shall have to think of someone else.’

‘Do not trouble yourself, father,’ said Adela. ‘If I decide I want a man, I am quite capable of grabbing him for myself.’

Bartholomew was sure she was. He made his farewells, and resumed his walk to Michaelhouse. As he approached it, a thickset
figure uncoiled itself from where it had been leaning against the wall. It was Osmun, the surly porter from Bene’t College.

‘I have been waiting for you,’ he said, moving towards
Bartholomew in a manner that was vaguely threatening. The physician took two steps backward, and wondered whether his book-bearer
would hear him from inside Michaelhouse if he shouted for help.

‘What do you want?’ he asked uneasily. ‘Is someone ill?’

‘If they were, I would not send for you to help,’ replied Osmun nastily. ‘I would rather call on Robin of Grantchester.’

‘I do not have time for this,’ said Bartholomew, trying to edge past the man. He recoiled at the stench of old garlic and
onions on Osmun’s breath as the porter suddenly moved forward and grabbed a fistful of Bartholomew’s tabard.

‘Runham’s servant Justus was my cousin,’ he hissed. ‘He was my uncle’s son, and he came to Cambridge from Lincoln because
I said there were opportunities to be had here. But now he is dead. He killed himself with a wineskin.’

‘I am sorry,’ said Bartholomew, shrugging Osmun’s dirty hand from his clothes. ‘I did not know you were related.’ He refrained
from suggesting that a little family support might not have gone amiss when Justus was in some of his more gloomy moods.

‘I want his personal effects,’ Osmun went on. ‘He had a nice tunic and a dagger. He spent all his money on wine, but I will
have his clothes and that knife he always carried.’

‘I will inform Runham,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We did not know he had any kinsmen in the town.’

‘We did not see much of each other,’ said Osmun, almost defiantly. ‘But as his closest living relative, I am entitled to his
things. Make sure they are sent to me.’

‘Very well.’ Bartholomew paused, his hand on the latch to the wicket gate. ‘As Justus’s next of kin, you may find
yourself responsible for his burial, as well as his personal effects. I am sure Runham will be delighted to be relieved of
that particular duty.’

‘Oh, no,’ said Osmun confidently. ‘I checked all that before I came here. Justus’s burial is Michaelhouse’s responsibility,
because he was Runham’s servant. You just make sure that fat lawyer understands that. I know my rights.’

He turned and strode away, leaving Bartholomew alone. The physician had only just closed the gate, when Cynric came to greet
him, telling him he had been asked to visit Sheriff Tulyet’s home as soon as possible.

Abandoning hope of getting anything to eat, he trudged back through the muck of the High Street to the handsome house on Bridge
Street where Richard Tulyet lived with his wife and child.