A Masterly Murder (8 page)

Bartholomew liked Tulyet, a small, energetic man whose boyish appearance belied a considerable strength of character and a
rare talent for keeping law and order in the uneasy town; he found he was looking forward to paying a visit to the Sheriff’s
neat and pleasant home.

Tulyet’s son, a lively youngster of three with quick fingers and an inquisitive mind, had managed to insert a stick of his
father’s sealing wax in his nose, and it was stuck fast. While the anxious parents hovered and offered unhelpful advice and
Baby Tulyet screamed himself into a red-faced fury, Bartholomew struggled to extricate the wax in one piece.

When it was done, and the child was all smiles and false innocence in the comfort of his loving mother’s lap – although the
physician saw chubby fingers already reaching for his father’s official seal – Tulyet offered Bartholomew some refreshment
in the small room at the back of the house that he used as an office.

‘I would keep this locked, if I were you,’ said Bartholomew,
seeing in the cosy chamber an impressive array of sharp, heavy, sticky, dirty and fragile objects that would provide Baby
Tulyet with hours of dangerous delight.

‘I will, from now on,’ said Tulyet, handing Bartholomew some rich red wine in a carved crystal goblet. He prodded at the fire
that burned merrily in the hearth, and indicated for the physician to make himself comfortable. Bartholomew sat, stretching
his hands to the flickering flames.

The Sheriff gave a huge sigh, and took a substantial gulp of wine, before collapsing heavily into the chair opposite. He wiped
an unsteady hand over his face, shaken by his son’s howls of fright and pain. Evidently considering the traumas of parenthood
more terrifying than mere law enforcement, he changed the subject.

‘I hear your scholars are murdering each other again, Matt. I am glad it is Brother Michael’s task to investigate matters
involving the University and not mine. You academics seldom commit good, simple crimes – you always seem to go in for convoluted
ones.’

‘Who told you a murder was committed?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised. ‘I did not think Raysoun’s claim was common knowledge
yet. Or do you mean Justus the book-bearer? He committed suicide.’

‘I was referring to the Franciscan who was killed this morning,’ said Tulyet, eyeing him askance. ‘My God, Matt! How many
deaths have there been in that festering pit of crime and disorder that you see fit to call a place of learning?’

‘Just the two,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Well, three, I suppose, if you say a Franciscan has died.’

‘Three deaths! In less than two days!’ exclaimed Tulyet, appalled. ‘As I said, give me good, honest town criminals any day.
But have one of these “hat-cakes”. My wife bakes
them for me because she thinks I am too thin for the good of my health.’

Tulyet’s wife was an excellent cook, and her husband’s wealth meant that she could afford to use ingredients beyond the purse
of most people. The cakes were tiny hat-shaped parcels of almond pastry filled with minced pork, dates, currants and sugar,
and flavoured with a mixture of saffron, ginger, cinnamon and cloves. They were overly sweet, but Bartholomew was hungry.
He took a second.

‘So, what do you know about this Franciscan?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Are you sure his death was suspicious?’ He took a third
cake.

‘His name was Brother Patrick and he was stabbed in the grounds of his hostel, apparently. Given that he was knifed in the
back, suicide has been ruled out, although there were no witnesses.’

‘Then it might have been a townsperson who killed him – in which case, the matter is for you to investigate, as well as Michael.’

Tulyet shook his head. ‘It happened on University property to a University member. This murder is all Michael’s.’

‘Which hostel?’ asked Bartholomew, reaching for the last cake.

‘Ovyng, I believe.’

‘Ovyng belongs to Michaelhouse,’ said Bartholomew absently. ‘But speaking of Michaelhouse, I should go
unless I want to be late for this afternoon’s lectures. Let me know if there are any problems with your son’s nose, Dick,
but I do not think there will be.’

‘Good,’ said Tulyet, following Bartholomew down the stairs and across the hall to the main door. ‘We are lucky he is always
so well-behaved for you – he is terrible with Master Lynton.’

Bartholomew, recalling the violent struggles and the
ear-splitting howls of rage and indignation, decided he did not want to see Baby Tulyet being ‘terrible’. He made his farewells
to Tulyet, and hurried back to the College, where the bell to announce the beginning of the afternoon lectures had already
stopped ringing. He clattered into the hall late, feeling sick from the number of hat-cakes he had eaten, and found it hard
to muster the enthusiasm to talk about urine inspection.

Father William had also heard about the murder of one of his Franciscan brethren in Ovyng Hostel, and was busy holding forth
about the Devil’s legion – referring to the Dominicans – who stalked the holy streets of Cambridge. Given that Tulyet had
said there were no witnesses to the murder – and certainly nothing to suggest that the Franciscan’s killer was a Dominican
– Bartholomew considered William’s comments ill-advised and dangerous. He noticed that Clippesby, the new Dominican Fellow
whose sanity seemed questionable, was listening, and did not seem at all amused to be classified as an agent of the Devil
by the ranting Franciscan.

William had an impressive voice, and his words thundered around the room, making it almost impossible for the others to teach.
Master Kenyngham asked him to moderate his tones twice, but the volume gradually crept up again as the friar worked himself
into a frenzy of moral outrage. Father Paul listened to his fellow Franciscan’s speech with growing horror.

Michael was also late for his teaching, although his small band of dedicated Benedictines and Cluniacs – who had already committed
themselves to life in the cloister – were not the kind of men to cause a riot in the hall if left unsupervised, as Bartholomew’s
secular students might. They sat in a corner near the window, reading from a tract written by St Augustine, discussing its
layered meanings in low, refined voices.

Michael stopped to mutter in Bartholomew’s ear as he passed. ‘A friar from Ovyng has been murdered. Someone stuck a knife
in his back, and his body was found in the garden this morning. Unfortunately, there are no witnesses. The killer might have
been another student, I suppose – bitter jealousies are always rife in the hostels.’

‘And the Colleges,’ added Bartholomew, thinking about the troubles Wymundham had intimated were rampant at Bene’t, not to
mention the spectre of the forthcoming election for Michaelhouse’s new Master.

‘True,’ said Michael. ‘But, I confess, I hold little hope that I will discover who killed Brother Patrick – unless someone
confesses to the crime. I could question the Dominicans, I suppose, but that would only give them an excuse to march against
the Franciscans, and then who knows what mischief might occur?’

‘Are you going to ignore it, then?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised. ‘A man has been murdered, Brother. You cannot just pretend
it did not happen.’

‘I will not pretend it did not happen,’ snapped Michael crossly. ‘But I do not see how I can proceed on the scanty evidence
I have. Brother Patrick had only been at Ovyng since the beginning of term, and no one knew him well. I imagine he allowed
himself to become embroiled in a fight with some apprentices and ended up stabbed.’

‘You should try asking questions in the taverns,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘You know the apprentices would brag if they had
killed a scholar.’

Michael gave a heavy sigh. ‘I would never presume to tell you to jab a knife into a boil to drain away the evil humours, so
you might at least do me the courtesy of assuming that I know perfectly well how to investigate a murder. I have been Proctor
for three years now.’

‘My apologies, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Of course you know what you are doing.’

‘I have beadles in taverns all over the town even as we speak,’ continued Michael testily. ‘I could have done without a murder
today, though. I wanted to concentrate on my bid for the Mastership and I have not had a moment all day to work on my plan.’

‘Brother Patrick should have been more considerate,’ said Bartholomew facetiously. ‘He should have waited until after Saturday
to get himself murdered.’

Michael glowered at him, but then relented. ‘I am sorry, Matt. Of course I am doing all I can to track down this killer, and
of course it has prior claim to my attention – that is what is making me angry. If I were a less conscientious man, I would
abandon the investigation to my beadles and set about having myself elected. But I am not, and I spent the morning looking
for a killer, instead of having words in friendly ears.’

‘Matthew!’ bellowed William irritably. ‘Do not stand there chatting with Michael while your students run wild, man! I cannot
hear myself think with all their racket.’

The hall erupted into a chaos of catcalls and cheers, as the students expressed their view of William’s comment. Their masters,
who without exception found the friar’s loud diatribes disruptive, grinned at each other, and made no attempt to silence the
din. William stood with his big red hands dangling at his sides and looked around him in genuine bewilderment.

Michael wiped away tears of laughter with his sleeve, his bad temper forgotten. ‘That man is priceless, Matt! I would not
be without him for the world. It has been a long time since I have had anything to laugh about.’

Bartholomew, thinking about the murdered friar at Ovyng, the killing of Raysoun from Bene’t College, the suicide of Justus,
and the impending battle with
William, Runham and Langelee for the Mastership of Michaelhouse, imagined it might be a while before an opportunity arose
for Michael to laugh again.

The following day was equally busy. Teaching finished early on Saturdays, but Bartholomew had no time to enjoy a free afternoon
with his colleagues in the conclave – nor did he have any desire to do so, with those Fellows who intended to make a play
for the Mastership being uncharacteristically affable. Even Runham, who usually made no secret of the fact that he disapproved
of Bartholomew’s work with the poor, was politely interested in it, and went so far as to present him with a basket of eggs
to aid the recovery of the riverman with sweating sickness. Runham had never shown such generosity or compassion before and
his transparent motives did not make Bartholomew any more inclined to vote for him.

Bartholomew spent most of the afternoon pulling the teeth of a man with an inflamed jaw, and then was called to the Castle,
where one of Sheriff Tulyet’s soldiers had suffered a deep cut during sword practice. It was almost dusk by the time he had
finished, but Cynric was waiting with yet another summons from a patient when he returned. He set off in the fading light,
nodding to people he knew as he went, and shivering as the chill wind cut through his clothes. The air held the promise of
rain, and it was not long before it was falling in misty sheets.

The patient was called Rosa Layne, and she was dying because there were too few trained midwives in Cambridge to deal with
the number of pregnancies. Some unscrupulous women took advantage of this and claimed qualifications and experience they did
not have; one of them had tended Rosa. By the time the charlatan had acknowledged her incompetence and suggested that a physician
should be summoned, it was too late for
Rosa. Before Bartholomew arrived, the bogus midwife had vanished into the darkness.

There was little Bartholomew could do. The baby had twisted in the womb, but had needed only to be turned and then helped
out. The self-appointed midwife had dallied so long that the baby had died, and then had dallied more while the mother slowly
bled to death. It was not the first time Bartholomew had been called to try to save a dying woman after other people had all
but killed her, and he always experienced a wrenching frustration that they had not contacted him earlier. It was not common
for a male physician to be called to what was considered the domain of women, but Bartholomew was earning something of a reputation
as the next best thing to a midwife, and delivering babies was something he rather enjoyed, although he would have been regarded
as peculiar had he admitted so.

He gave Rosa a sense-dulling potion and sent one of her children to fetch a priest. It was not long before her shallow breathing
faltered to nothing, and all that could be heard was the appalling Latin of the parish priest, the hacking cough of one of
her watching children, and the contented snuffles of the pig that seemed to occupy the best half of the house.

Dispirited, he trudged through the rain to Michaelhouse, and arrived sodden and bedraggled just as the bell rang to call
the Fellows to their meeting in the conclave. Hastily, he dragged off his wet clothes and donned dry ones, kicking his leaking
boots into one corner and pulling on some shoes that would make him look a little more respectable for the ceremony after
the meeting that would admit Michaelhouse’s two new Fellows. Cynric had already laid out the red gown Fellows were obliged
to wear on special occasions, along with the impractical floppy hat that went with it. Bartholomew tugged them
on, polished his shoes on the backs of his hose, and ran across the courtyard, his splashing footsteps splattering mud up
his legs and on the robe Cynric had cleaned with so much care.

The other Fellows were waiting for him. The conclave was a pleasant chamber, and the new glass in the windows meant that light
still flooded in, while the bitter breezes of winter were kept out. Because nights came early in November, the shutters were
closed and a huge fire blazed in the hearth, sending flickering yellow lights across the ceiling. One of the students with
a talent for art had painted the walls with scenes from the Bible, and someone had even provided a tapestry to hang above
the fireplace.