‘You mean Simekyn Simeon?’ he asked. ‘He told us he was the Duke’s squire.’
‘Well, he is, and his task is to watch the place and report its nasty secrets to the Duke.’
To Bartholomew, her assertions sounded the kind of rumours that the townsfolk loved to circulate about the University, and they contrasted sharply with what Simeon had claimed about Bene’t being a harmonious College where Fellows enjoyed each other’s company. Yet Michael had also detected something strained about the atmosphere at Bene’t, and only that morning, Robin of Grantchester had told Bartholomew that the porter Osmun had been making the peculiar claim that Wymundham had stabbed Raysoun himself.
‘What kind of thing is the Duke afraid will happen?’ he asked.
She shrugged carelessly. ‘I have no idea. That feeble Henry de Walton is bleating about foul play, but no one takes any notice of him.’
‘Who is Henry de Walton?’ Before she could answer, Bartholomew recalled that Robin of Grantchester had mentioned a Henry de Walton who had an inappropriate fondness for the Mayor’s wife. Simeon had described him as a sickly soul with a list of ailments.
‘One of the Fellows,’ replied Adela. ‘A snivelling little man who is always complaining about the state of his digestion – not an attractive subject, you must admit.’
Adela was not the person to be criticising others about their choice of suitable conversational gambits, since her own included ending unwanted pregnancies in horses and equine breeding habits.
‘Do you know the Bene’t Fellows well?’ asked Bartholomew, intrigued by the contrast between the picture Adela presented and the one Simeon would have them believe.
‘I most certainly do not,’ said Adela, offended. ‘Scholars are an unsavoury brood, to be avoided at all costs – present company excepted, of course. Caumpes of Bene’t is nice, but he is a Fenman, and so is better than all these foreigners from Hertfordshire, Yorkshire and other distant lands. My father and I would never willingly socialise with the Bene’t scholars, although we are forced to deal with them when we discuss their College’s finances.’
Mayor Horwoode had also been offended by the notion that he hobnobbed with scholars, Bartholomew recalled. He had claimed that he would never invite one to his house.
‘That pathetic de Walton is not fit to be called a man,’ Adela continued. ‘Raysoun and Wymundham murdered indeed! What arrant nonsense!’
‘Why do you say that?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.
Adela regarded him with a puzzlement that equalled his own. ‘You would not ask that if you knew the man. All he thinks about is his health, and he sees danger at every turn. Would you believe that he refuses to mount a horse in case he falls off and bruises himself?’
Bartholomew, who detested riding, did not consider de Walton’s refusal to clamber on to a snorting, prancing animal that was much bigger than himself to be the final word in cowardice. He thought Adela was being overly harsh.
‘I cannot imagine how de Walton came to the conclusion that his colleagues were murdered,’ Adela went on. ‘The workmen at Bene’t say that Raysoun fell while he was drunk, while Wymundham is said to have thrown himself from the King’s Ditch – remorse for having made Raysoun’s last few months on Earth so miserable with his sharp tongue.’
Bartholomew supposed he could tell her what Wymundham had claimed to have heard Raysoun declare with his dying breath, but his gossiping with her would only serve to fan the flames of rumour and untruth. Anyway, it seemed she had already made up her own mind about what she thought had happened, and he did not see why he should convince her otherwise. It would do no one any good, and might even cause harm.
‘I should go,’ she said. ‘If I leave my father for too long, there is always a danger that he will have found me a husband by the time I return. I expect your sister is the same. I know she would like to see you married.’
Bartholomew smiled. ‘She is determined to see me with a wife,’ he admitted. ‘But then I would have to give up my teaching, and I do not want to do that yet.’
‘Quite right,’ said Adela. ‘The country needs as many trained physicians as you can give it. Master Lynton is so overwhelmed by summonses from his human patients these days that he can seldom spare the time to see my horses when I need him. He was never too busy before the Death.’
‘Lynton physicks your horses?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘But that is what blacksmiths do.’
‘Physicians are better,’ said Adela. ‘They are more careful, and they consult the stars before suggesting a course of treatment.’
Bartholomew laughed in disbelief. ‘So, all these years that Lynton has been berating me for dabbling in surgery, he has been poaching the blacksmiths’ trade?’
‘Horses are sensitive animals, Matthew,’ protested Adela. ‘Not to mention expensive. I do not want any grubby old tradesman tampering with them. But, as I just said, Lynton is invariably too busy for me these days.’ She regarded Bartholomew speculatively. ‘I do not suppose you would be interested in helping on occasion, would you? I pay well.’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘I know nothing about horses.’
‘Pity,’ said Adela with genuine regret. ‘That will reduce your value as a potential husband.’
‘Will it?’ asked Bartholomew, bewildered by the peculiar twists and turns the conversation took with the eccentric Adela Tangmer. ‘No one has mentioned this before.’
‘No woman wants a man who does not look good in his saddle,’ declared Adela with conviction. ‘It would be like having a mate who does not know how to hunt.’
As a boy, Bartholomew had been given a basic training in such manly skills by his brother-in-law, but suspected that if he ever needed to catch his own food he would quickly starve. He supposed that to Adela, he would be about as poor a catch as she could imagine.
Adela grimaced and continued. ‘My father has become quite tedious about the subject of marriage. I do not want a husband chasing me morning, noon and night to demand his conjugal rights. I have better things to do with my time.’
Adela’s age and appearance made it unlikely that she would be the object of such desperately amorous attentions, although Bartholomew was too polite to say so.
He shrugged. ‘Your father probably wants an heir for his business.’
‘He does, but I am not some old nag to be bred to suit his needs. When I decide to couple with a man, it will be on my terms and in my own time. Do not let your sister grind you down over this, Matthew. You and I should draw strength from each other to fight these match-makers, or you will end up with some empty-headed imbecile and I will be provided with some man who knows nothing about horses and who has skinny legs into the bargain.’
‘Heaven forbid,’ said Bartholomew.
‘Allies, then?’ asked Adela, leaning down to extend a powerful, calloused hand for Bartholomew to shake. ‘Shall you and I stand together against unsuitable matches?’
‘Why not?’ said Bartholomew, taking the proffered hand with a smile. He wondered what his sister would say if she ever learned he had formed such an alliance.
Chapter 6
MICHAEL CHUCKLED AS HE RECLINED ON his bed the following afternoon. The dirty plates and empty goblets scattered around the room suggested that he had regained his appetite with a vengeance, and Bartholomew suspected that the monk was rather enjoying his convalescence.
‘And Agatha threatened to do away with Runham?’ asked Michael, eyes gleaming with merriment as he listened to Bartholomew’s account of what had happened when William had bloodied Runham’s nose and Agatha the laundress had become involved in the fracas.
‘Not in so many words, but she does not like him.’
Michael chortled again. ‘Foolish man! He will never run a successful College without the acquiescence of Agatha. And if he tries to dismiss her, he is dead for certain.’
‘She has been offered a post at Bene’t College,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It provides higher pay and better livi
ng accommodation, and she is seriously thinking of taking it.’
The humour faded from Michael’s face. ‘Bene’t is poaching our servants?’
‘We do not have many left,’ said Bartholomew. ‘All the porters have gone – including Walter, which is a blessing – and all but one of the cooks, while poor Cynric was dismissed the day after the feast.’
‘We will both miss him,’ said Michael sincerely. ‘But things are getting out of hand, Matt. I am at Death’s door for a few days and I recover to find my College is a different place.’
‘You have not been at Death’s door, Brother. Did you know that Runham believes I am responsible for your illness?’
Michael regarded him incredulously and then started to laugh. ‘You? Not the bee that stung me?’
‘He said I used a poisonous salve – secretly in St Michael’s Lane – and he claims I refused to allow Robin of Grantchester to amputate your arm because I was afraid it would save your life.’
‘My God, Matt! That is venomous stuff! I suppose it was my bantering accusations a couple of days ago that put that notion in his silly head. That man has a nasty mind!’
‘It was his accusations that started the row with William,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Poor William. He might be a fanatic, but he stood up for me. Runham has effectively removed him, Paul has already gone, and he aims to be rid of me tomorrow. I wonder who will be next.’
Michael shifted restlessly. ‘This is dreadful. My College is tumbling about my ears even as I lie here – quite literally, at times. A lump of ceiling became detached by the banging of the workmen this morning and narrowly missed my chair.’
‘Teaching has all but stopped,’ continued Bartholomew. ‘It is too noisy, and it is difficult to keep the students’ attention when there are workmen tramping through the hall every few moments, whistling and singing. I took my classes in St Michael’s Church this morning – until Runham found out and told me to leave.’
‘Why did he do that?’
‘He said it was sacrilegious to teach medicine in a church. A little later, I saw that he had moved his own class there and was teaching it civil law.’
‘Civil law is far more sacrilegious than medicine,’ observed Michael. ‘One aims to promote health and the other to promote wealth – for the lawyers. But did William make good his escape from Runham’s wrath?’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘I visited Father Paul last night, to tend his eyes, and he told me the Franciscan brethren have William secreted away somewhere, and will only reveal his whereabouts when they are sure Runham will not persecute him.’
‘Now William will know how those poor so-called heretics felt when he chased them all over southern France,’ said Michael grimly.
‘At least he will not be able to begin the investigation he threatened,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He was going to look into the death of that Franciscan, Brother Patrick.’
‘Was he?’ asked Michael coolly. ‘On whose authority?’
‘Yours. Since you were incapacitated, he decided to act as unofficial Proctor. I think he planned to present you with the killer as a gift to aid your recovery, and then solve your other cases, too – Raysoun and Wymundham.’
‘Thank God he did not,’ said Michael with a shudder. ‘The circumstances surrounding the deaths of Raysoun and Wymundham are complicated – far more so than the likes of William could appreciate; while poor Patrick’s case seems hopeless. My beadles are having no luck with their enquiries in the taverns, and I am beginning to fear that none of us will find whoever is responsible for that. Any suspects William produces will almost certainly be innocent.’
‘He is rather good at frightening people into making false confessions,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘And he will concentrate on the Dominicans.’
‘I am told the foundations are already dug for our new kitchen courtyard,’ said Michael as an especially violent clatter from outside reminded him of the presence of the builders.
Bartholomew nodded. ‘They are not as deep as they should be, and Runham is forcing a pace for the work that is too rapid for safety. Did you know that he has employed forty labourers? I do not know how he raised the money so quickly. I only hope he does have it, and we do not find ourselves with forty enraged workmen demanding payment when they have finished. It would be like the choir all over again, only these would be armed with hammers and saws and not a few scraps of music.’
‘The choir?’ asked Michael, sitting up abruptly. ‘What are you talking about?’
Bartholomew stared at him. ‘Has no one told you? I thought you would have heard by now.’
‘Heard what?’ demanded Michael dangerously, his voice hard and cold. ‘I do not appreciate being kept in the dark about matters that involve my choir.’
‘Runham disbanded it.’ Seeing the anger that immediately clouded the monk’s face, Bartholomew understood exactly why none of his colleagues had accepted responsibility for breaking that particular piece of news. ‘He put the Michaelhouse singers under the control of Clippesby, but he dismissed the rest.’
‘He what?’ howled Michael, outrage mounting by the moment. ‘He disbanded my choir?’ He scrambled to his feet, his face white with rage. ‘Why did you not tell me this before?’
‘I thought someone else would have told you,’ said Bartholomew, trying to wrestle him away from the door. ‘But do not confront Runham while you are in a rage. Anyway, the damage is already done; it is too late to do anything now.’
‘Let me go, Matt!’ warned Michael, his green eyes flashing with a fury that Bartholomew had seldom seen before. ‘I am going to kill that miserable snake! And then I am going to teach my choir how to sing his requiem mass – and I hope he hears it from hell!’
‘Wait until tomorrow, Brother,’ said Bartholomew breathlessly, not surprised to find that the monk was as strong as ever. But just because Michael was fit did not mean that Bartholomew should allow him to storm into Runham’s room and choke the life out of him.
‘I will not wait!’ shouted Michael furiously. ‘Do you not realise what that man has done? There are children in my choir who need their free bread and ale; there are adults who take it home where it serves as a meal for a whole family. That Devil-in-a-tabard cannot dismiss them just like that. My choir needs Michaelhouse, and Michaelhouse will need my choir, if the riots ever start again and we do not want to be ransacked and pillaged.’
‘What happened to the subtle revenge you promised when Paul was dismissed?’ gasped Bartholomew, struggling in vain to prevent the monk from reaching the stairs. ‘What happened to the plan that would strike at Runham’s reputation and leave yours intact?’
Michael stopped his relentless advance. ‘You are right. Two black eyes to go with his bleeding nose would be no kind of punishment for the likes of him. I must consider something else – something more permanent.’
‘Good,’ said Bartholomew wearily, leaning against the wall and wiping his forehead with his sleeve. ‘Just be discreet about it.’
Michael frowned. ‘You seem very frail these days, Matt. First you allow Father William to push you down the stairs, and now you are unable to prevent a sick man rising from his bed.’
‘You are not sick,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You are fitter than I am. All this rest and good food has made you one of the healthiest men in Cambridge.’
‘I do feel well,’ admitted Michael. ‘And it has been pleasant to be the centre of so much loving attention over the past few days. Still, I suppose all good things must come to an end. But what about you? Are you ill?’
‘Just tired,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And I think the effects of that powerful wine we had at the feast still linger on.’
Michael’s frown deepened. ‘Really? Bulbeck and Gray claimed the same thing. Agatha sent me some of it yesterday – left over from Saturday’s débâcle – and Bulbeck advised me not to drink it.’
Bartholomew smiled. ‘Langelee is in charge of laying in the College wine. For all his pretensions to being courtly and well
-connected, he does not know a decent vintage from a bad one.’
Michael shook his head slowly. ‘I have been thinking about that feast. Most members of the College – including me – are used to sampling the nectar of the gods in considerable quantities, and yet virtually everyone I have spoken to claims to have been the worse for drink that night. Even you – abstemious to the point of being tedious – were reeling and lurching like a drunkard.’
‘But it was Widow’s Wine. You told me the stuff is deliberately brewed to be strong and nasty.’
‘But not this strong and nasty,’ said Michael. ‘I wonder whether someone tampered with it.’
‘I do not think so, Brother. It was probably just a bad brew.’
‘You are wrong, Matt,’ said Michael. ‘Think back to other College feasts. They sometimes continue until morning, and no one – no one – would consider leaving while there was still wine to be had. But there was wine left from this feast, because Agatha sent me some only yesterday.’
‘But there was no great cause for celebration, if you recall,’ said Bartholomew dryly. ‘We had just elected our new Master.’
‘The students would drink anyway,’ said Michael. ‘Yet when we returned from Matilde’s house, the whole College was silent and still, and everyone was sleeping.’
‘It was late.’
‘Not too late for student carousing, Matt. I think someone did something unspeakable to the Widow’s Wine – or gave us an especially powerful batch – so that we would all have a comparatively early night. And, of course, with Widow’s Wine, no one would notice: the flavour is so damned unpleasant that you could add the most noxious substances known to man and they would do nothing but improve the taste.’
‘But why would anyone do such a thing? And anyway, at least two scholars were not sleeping – the pair who pushed me over in St Michael’s Lane.’
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