A Masterly Murder (9 page)

Still chilled from his soaking, Bartholomew appreciated the stifling heat in the room, but wondered how long fires would be
allowed to burn at Michaelhouse once the new Master was in office. Langelee and William both seemed to delight in conditions
most men would consider miserable, while Runham had a streak of miserliness in him that might well lead to some radical economies.
Bartholomew’s only hope for a comfortable winter was Michael, who had no patience with the hair-shirt mentality of some of
his colleagues. Michael appreciated his creature comforts, and would never deprive anyone else of theirs merely to assert
his personal authority.

‘There you are, Matt,’ said Michael, as Bartholomew walked in. The monk had his sleeve pushed up, and was giving the arm that
had been stung by the bee an energetic scratch. ‘Where have you been? We are ready to start, and you are the last to arrive.’

‘As usual,’ muttered Runham.

Smiling apologetically, Bartholomew closed the door and looked for somewhere to sit. The chamber was equipped with an eccentric
assortment of stools and
chairs, most of them cast-offs from wealthy benefactors. Michael, Runham, William and Langelee – the most senior Fellows
– had already taken the best places near the hearth, leaving the newcomers Clippesby and Suttone to make do with stools by
the windows. Master Kenyngham stood at the door, as though contemplating a quick escape, while blind Brother Paul had been
led to his customary seat near the wall.

‘Osmun, the porter at Bene’t, claims to be Justus’s cousin,’ said Bartholomew to Runham, recalling guiltily that he had agreed
to pass on the porter’s demands the day before, but had forgotten. ‘He wants his tunic and dagger.’

‘He is welcome to them,’ said Runham. ‘He can collect them whenever he likes – and he can arrange for Justus to be buried,
too, since they are related.’

‘Have you not done that yet?’ asked Paul, sounding a little disgusted. ‘Justus died two days ago.’

‘The weather is cold, and the corpse lies in the church porch,’ said Runham dismissively. ‘There is no hurry, and I have been
preoccupied with more important matters.’

‘Regardless of Osmun’s kinship, it is still Michaelhouse’s responsibility to bury Justus,’ said Kenyngham. ‘It would not
do to have the townsfolk thinking we do not care about our servants.’

‘There are better ways to spend Michaelhouse’s funds than on funerals for suicides,’ said Ralph de Langelee. ‘If Justus has
living kin, then let them pay for his burial. If I were Master, I would not throw away College money when it could be used
on something more worthy – like improving the wine cellars.’

Bartholomew noted with dismay that it had not taken long for the Fellows to bring the discussion around to the matter currently
closest to their own hearts – who was to be the next Master.

‘I do not know why my decision to resign has caused such consternation,’ said Kenyngham in genuine bewilderment. ‘My retirement
cannot be a surprise to you. I was present when our College was founded almost thirty years ago, and I am no longer a young
man. I long to be free of administrative duties, and want nothing more than to spend my time in prayer and a little teaching.’

‘It would be better if you delayed a while,’ said Paul reasonably. ‘We are not yet ready to choose another Master.’

‘I was hoping that Roger Alcote would succeed me,’ Kenyngham went on, as if he had not heard Paul. He made the sign of the
cross and muttered a prayer for the soul of the man who had been one of Michaelhouse’s least popular members. ‘But Alcote
has gone on to better things, and you must select another.’

Michael paused in his scratching to gesture towards the two newcomers, who sat watching the proceedings with wary interest.
‘How can you expect Clippesby and Suttone to decide who would make the best Master? They do not know us.’

‘But there are only six of you to choose from,’ Kenyngham pointed out. ‘John Runham, Michael, Matthew, William, Paul, and
Ralph de Langelee – although I anticipate that not all of you will want the responsibility of the Mastership.’

‘If you put it like that,’ said Langelee, standing and puffing out his barrel chest as he leaned a brawny arm along the top
of the fireplace, ‘I feel morally obliged to offer my services to the College. I am not a man to shirk responsibility.’

‘Oh, Lord!’ groaned Michael under his breath to Bartholomew. ‘I will resign my Fellowship before I allow Michaelhouse to be
ruled by
that
ape in a scholar’s tabard.’

‘Meanwhile,
I
am keen to continue my saintly cousin’s good work,’ said Runham, leaning back in his chair and inspecting his fingernails
casually. ‘You all know that I am a man of my word – when I first arrived here and discovered the paltry tomb that had been
provided to hold my noble cousin’s mortal remains, I made a vow that I would not rest until that had been rectified. I am
sure you have noticed that my efforts have come to fruition, and that the late Master Wilson now lies in a tomb fit for a
king.’

‘We certainly have noticed!’ muttered Michael to Bartholomew. ‘That vile monstrosity is the talk of the town. People come
for miles around just to smirk at the wretched thing. I have never seen such an example of bad taste in all my days.’

‘It
is
bad taste to erect a tomb for Wilson that outshines the one for our founder,’ Bartholomew replied in an undertone. ‘And all
I can say is that Runham cannot have seen his cousin for a long time, if he considers the man to have been saintly and noble.
Wilson was a nasty, greedy—’

‘What are you two whispering about?’ demanded William. ‘I was just telling everyone that it is time a
Franciscan
was elected to the Mastership. And since I am the only Franciscan here – other than Paul, that is – it should be me.’

‘A subtle election speech, Father,’ said Michael dryly. ‘Of course, I might say the same for the Benedictines: we have had
friars aplenty in the Mastership since Michaelhouse’s foundation, and it is high time there was a monk at the helm. However,
this is not the basis on which I offer my services. You should recall that I have better connections with secular and religious
authorities than anyone else here and you know I can make Michaelhouse the richest and most powerful College in the University.’

He threaded his fingers together and placed them over his ample paunch. Bartholomew smiled, considering Michael’s election
speech no more subtle than William’s.

‘All this is true,’ said Langelee, sitting down and leaning back in his chair, assuming the pose of a man who knows some secret
he is about to enjoy divulging. ‘And I would vote for you myself, all things being equal. However, certain information has
come to light that precludes me from supporting you. You, Brother Michael, have been doing things you should not have been,
and I have written evidence to prove it.’

In Michaelhouse’s conclave, everyone looked at Michael, whose eyes narrowed as he listened to Langelee’s accusation.

‘What are you talking about?’ the monk snapped testily. ‘I can assure you that there is nothing sinister or shameful in
my
past.’

‘I was not thinking of your past,’ said Langelee smoothly. ‘I was thinking of your present.’

‘What present?’ demanded Michael irritably. ‘Do not speak in riddles, man. If you want to accuse me of something, then say
what it is. However, before you make a fool of yourself, I should warn you that I am as untarnished as a sheet of driven snow.’

‘Before coming to Michaelhouse, I was an agent for the Archbishop of York,’ said Langelee smugly. ‘I have maintained the connections
I made in his service – including several at the University of Oxford. I have irrefutable evidence that you have been engaging
in clandestine dealings with scholars from Oxford with the express purpose of causing damage to Cambridge.’

‘Do not be ridiculous,’ said Bartholomew immediately. ‘Michael is the Senior Proctor, and would never do anything to harm
the University.’

But his sister had mentioned Michael’s alleged dealings with their rival university only the previous day, he recalled with
an uncomfortable feeling. He wondered what shady dealings the monk was involved in this time.

‘I said I have evidence,’ said Langelee, drawing a sheaf of parchments from the leather pouch he wore on his belt. ‘Here are
letters from Michael to William Heytesbury of Merton College, Oxford.’

‘William Heytesbury,’ said Bartholomew, impressed. ‘I have heard of him. He is a nominalist who wrote
Regulae Solvendi Sophismata
. It is mostly a lot of tedious logic, but the last chapter is devoted to physical motion, and is a fascinating—’

‘It is entirely predictable that you should find the natural philosophy more interesting than the logic, Bartholomew,’ said
Runham nastily. ‘You have an inferior mind that is unable to grasp the finer points of the arts so clings to the physical
universe.’

‘There is no need for rudeness,’ said Paul curtly. ‘I, too, found the last chapter of Heytesbury’s work the most engaging.’

‘None of you should have been reading it,’ said William frostily. ‘It is pure heresy.’

‘We were discussing Michael’s disloyal relations with Merton,’ said Langelee, seeing Paul preparing to engage William in what
might prove to be a lengthy disputation. He waved his documents aloft triumphantly. ‘Now is not the time to debate nominalism.
But now
is
the time to learn what Michael wrote to Heytesbury of Merton.’

‘How did you get those?’ demanded Michael, gazing at the documents aghast and evidently recognising their authenticity.

Langelee gave a pained smile, although his eyes were victorious. ‘A friend discovered them in the possession of a messenger
bound for Oxford. He was actually looking
for something relating to my Archbishop, but he passed these to me when he saw they were from a scholar at Michaelhouse.’

‘I am sure there is nothing in them to prevent Michael from standing as Master,’ said Kenyngham gently. ‘Put them away, Ralph.
We do not want to pry into Michael’s personal affairs.’

‘Then you should,’ said Langelee. ‘They discuss giving our University’s property to Oxford.’

‘But not Michaelhouse property,’ objected Michael. His face was pale, and Bartholomew saw that Langelee’s revelation had badly
shaken him. Michael was usually able to bluff his way out of uncomfortable situations with bluster and sheer force of personality,
but the physician could sense that his friend had already lost this battle.

‘Will you not deny Langelee’s accusations, Brother?’ asked Paul, astonished. ‘I did not believe him. I thought he had fabricated
the story to discredit you.’

Langelee thrust the documents at him with a gloating smile. ‘Look for yourself, Father. Michael’s writing is unmistakable.’

‘Paul is blind, you oaf,’ snapped Runham impatiently, leaning forward to snatch the scrolls from Langelee. ‘Give them to me.’
His eyebrows went up as he inspected the parchments. ‘Well, well. This is indeed Brother Michael’s distinctive roundhand.’

‘This is not how it seems …’ began Michael, although his voice lacked conviction.

Langelee raised a thick, heavy hand. ‘No excuses. It is here – in ink – that you plot with Oxford men to deprive Cambridge
of valuable assets. You are not the kind of man we want as Master of Michaelhouse, Brother.’

‘Perhaps it would be better if you withdrew your name,
in the light of these discoveries,’ suggested Kenyngham warily, gazing at the offending documents Runham passed to him. ‘I
am sure you will prove your innocence in time, and there will be other opportunities for the Mastership in the future.’

Michael said nothing, and assumed a nonchalant pose, although Bartholomew could see the anger that seethed in him. He wondered
why the monk had not made a convincing denial, or at least had tried to vindicate himself. Despite Langelee’s ‘evidence’,
Bartholomew was certain Michael would do nothing to harm the University he so loved.

Kenyngham passed the documents to Bartholomew. They were unquestionably written by Michael, and offered the Oxford nominalist
several properties that belonged to Cambridge in exchange for certain information that was carefully unspecified, although
the letter made it clear that both parties knew exactly what was on offer.

Bartholomew gazed at Michael uncertainly. Michael refused to meet his eyes, something that almost certainly indicated guilt.
Sulkily, Michael snatched the missives from Bartholomew and thrust them into the fire. Langelee gasped, and tried to retrieve
them, but the flames were already turning creamy parchment to black, and there was nothing he could do but watch them turn
to cinders. But, as far as Michael was concerned, the damage had been done.

‘So, we have Langelee, Runham and William who have offered to stand for the Mastership,’ said Kenyngham in the silence that
followed. ‘Michael is disqualified. What about you others? Paul?’

‘I do not wish to be considered,’ said Paul, his opaque blue eyes gazing sightlessly around the room. ‘Not because I could
not do it – my blindness gives me an advantage over the rest of you in that I hear and notice things you
do not – but because I have decided to return to my Franciscan brethren in the Friary.’

‘You cannot do that!’ shouted William, leaping to his feet in outrage. ‘That will leave me as the only Franciscan here. I
will be outvoted in everything, and the College will become a pit of debauchery and vice!’

‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ breathed Langelee.

Paul smiled at William. ‘I doubt that will happen, Father. But I, like
Master Kenyngham, am old, and I long to spend my days in contemplation and prayer – not teaching bored youngsters about grammar
and rhetoric when they would rather be doing something else. So, at the end of term, I shall vacate my room and leave you.’

‘Eight Fellows plus a Master was too many anyway,’ said Langelee breezily. ‘Seven is better.’

‘That man has all the charm of a pile of cow dung,’ muttered Michael to Bartholomew, eyeing Langelee with intense dislike.
‘Paul is the best of us. The College will be a poorer place without him, and the students will miss his kindly patience.’