Bartholomew 06 - A Masterly Murder
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‘He is reluctant to answer you, my lord,’ said Caumpes, when Bartholomew did not respond immediately. ‘Could that be because I am right, and Michaelhouse had them killed, and now it wants to hide any evidence of it?’
‘Michaelhouse is more cunning than that,’ said Heltisle. ‘I do not think it had a hand in killing Raysoun or Wymundham, but I do think it might be trying to start rumours that a Bene’t scholar had a hand in their deaths. That is the kind of subtle damage the likes of Michaelhouse men would inflict on us. Rumours are easy to start, but less easy to stop.’
The Duke of Lancaster made an impatient sound at the back of his throat. ‘Enough of this! You scholars are obsessed with petty details. If Michaelhouse had wanted Raysoun and Wymundham dead, there would be clear evidence that they had been murdered. Was there?’
‘No, my lord,’ said Heltisle immediately. ‘Raysoun fell from the scaffolding and Wymundham flung himself over the bank of the King’s Ditch in his grief.’
Bartholomew said nothing. Neither did Simeon, who had been told that Wymundham’s body showed signs of a struggle. Bartholomew wondered why the courtier kept his peace. Was it simply because he did not believe a body could yield that sort of information? Or was there another reason for his silence?
‘Well, there you are, then,’ said the Duke. ‘No one was murdered, and if no one was murdered, then no one can accuse Bene’t of anything. And that is the end of the matter, except for one thing.’
‘And what is that, my lord?’ asked Heltisle, a little nervously.
‘The fact that you did not tell me that work on my College has stopped, and yet money continues to be drawn from the funds I left for you.’
‘We were going to tell you,’ protested Heltisle, swallowing hard. ‘The money was drawn to pay a carpenter to make the scaffolding safe after the workmen looted it to take to Michaelhouse.’
‘Well, I am far from pleased,’ said the Duke. ‘I am a busy man, and have better things to do than visit Cambridge every week to rescue Bene’t from its latest disaster.’
‘It is not a disaster,’ said Caumpes stiffly. ‘It is a minor setback.’
‘You call the deaths of two Fellows a minor setback?’ asked Simeon coolly.
‘That is not what I meant,’ said Caumpes. ‘I was referring to the building. But since you mention it, I am not sorry Raysoun and Wymundham have gone. Raysoun was a drunkard who would have brought the College into disrepute at some point, while Wymundham was a malicious tale-teller. We will appoint more Fellows. There are plenty of good clerks who would be willing to accept positions at Bene’t.’
‘There will be no more clerks’ stipends until the buildings are finished,’ growled the Duke. ‘How many Fellows are there, now that you have buried two of them?’
‘Four,’ answered Heltisle, white-faced with anger. ‘Me, Caumpes, Henry de Walton, and your man – Simekyn Simeon.’
‘Simeon is a Fellow only to ensure that my money is not squandered,’ said the Duke. ‘But, in the light of recent events, I plan to leave him here until the building is finished.’
Simeon’s jaw dropped in horror, and he seemed about to object vigorously when the Duke forestalled him with a raised hand.
‘It will be an incentive for you to see that Bene’t College is completed, Simeon. The sooner it is ready, the sooner I will allow you to resign your Fellowship and return to court with me.’
‘But—’ Simeon’s handsome face was dark with outrage.
‘No buts. I want you to stay in Cambridge to see my College finished, so that when I die there will be a body of men to say prayers for my soul. A man cannot live for ever, and I must make some preparation for the next world.’
The Duke and the scholars continued to argue, their voices becoming louder and more acrimonious. Heltisle claimed that he, too, had not liked Raysoun and Wymundham, while Caumpes railed that there was a plot afoot to damage Bene’t, masterminded by Michaelhouse. Simekyn Simeon, his sardonic smile gone now that he was obliged to remain at Bene’t, glared at everyone with open hostility. The students, a scruffy, disreputable crowd, shuffled restlessly, some of them shoving and pushing at each other like a group of bored children.
The man who Bartholomew assumed was the last of the four Fellows, Henry de Walton, said nothing. He stood near the wall, a pallid, fox-faced man who looked unwell. On one cheek was a dark bruise, and Bartholomew remembered Michael’s beadle telling him that Osmun had been arrested for brawling with one of the Bene’t Fellows. The skinny little man, whose nervousness was apparent in every flutter of his hands and twitch of his face, would have been no match for the brawny porter, and Bartholomew suspected it was not de Walton who had started the fight.
So, had one of these four Fellows pressed something over Wymundham’s face to silence him before he could pass what he knew to the Senior Proctor? Had Wymundham actually been fleeing from the murderer when Bartholomew had seen him slipping so furtively into Holy Trinity Church the afternoon Raysoun had died? And had the same murdering Fellow also stabbed Raysoun and then pushed him from the scaffolding?
‘I am sure you have found our discussion most entertaining,’ said the Duke, becoming aware that Bartholomew was a witness to the unseemly quarrel. ‘You now know that there is more to life at Bene’t than squandering my money.’
‘What shall we do with him?’ asked Caumpes. ‘We cannot let him return to Michaelhouse to tell lies about us.’
‘He says he is here on the instructions of the Senior Proctor,’ said the Duke. ‘The poor man is only trying to do his job, and even you must admit that the deaths of two scholars within a couple of days might appear a little peculiar to outsiders.’
‘I disagree,’ said Heltisle. ‘Things like that happen all the time in the University.’
‘You should watch your back, then, Simeon,’ said the Duke wryly. ‘I want my College completed under your watchful eye, but I would like you alive at the end of it.’
‘I am touched by your concern,’ said Simeon sullenly.
Heltisle fixed Bartholomew with a cold stare. ‘I do not want to confide in you, but I see I have little choice. What I am about to tell you is for the Senior Proctor’s ears only. I do not want this to become an amusing story for Michaelhouse’s high table.’
‘Do not tell him!’ exclaimed Caumpes in horror. ‘He will make us a laughing stock in the University.’
‘I see nothing amusing about it,’ said Heltisle. ‘You see, physician, Wymundham preferred the company of men to women.’
‘Really,’ said Bartholomew flatly, recalling Wymundham’s brazenly effeminate manners, and the way the man had rested his hand on Bartholomew’s leg.
Heltisle glanced at him sharply, but then went on. ‘Raysoun and Wymundham were more than friends. So, you see, there is nothing odd in the fact that Raysoun died in Wymundham’s arms, or that Wymundham subsequently killed himself from grief.’
Bartholomew gazed down at the floor. Grief-stricken though he might have been, Wymundham had certainly not asphyxiated himself. Suicide by smothering was not easy to achieve, and anyway, there had been nothing at the scene of his death for him to have suffocated himself with. The nature of Wymundham’s relationship with Raysoun did not alter the fact that he had been murdered.
‘Did you know about Wymundham’s preferences?’ asked the Duke of Simeon, surprised.
Simeon tried hard not to regard the Duke in disbelief, and only partly succeeded. ‘It was very obvious, my lord.’
Heltisle agreed. ‘It is not unusual in places like this, where women are forbidden and scholars spend hours in each other’s company. I imagine Michaelhouse is no different.’
‘Is that true?’ asked the Duke salaciously.
‘I have never thought about it,’ said Bartholomew vaguely, unwilling to satisfy the Duke’s odd fascination with the subject. ‘I do not like to pry into my colleagues’ personal affairs.’
‘Then I cannot see that anything more can be gained from this discussion,�
�� said the Duke, sounding disappointed. ‘You are free to go, physician. Make your report to the Senior Proctor, and we will lay these two sad souls to rest for ever.’
‘What report?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I have nothing to tell him now that Raysoun and Wymundham are buried.’
‘I doubt there was more to be learned from their bodies anyway,’ said Simeon, pulling himself, with some reluctance, from his fit of pique. ‘The Senior Proctor has his beadles making enquiries in the taverns, to see if any townsmen are bragging about the murders. That is far more likely to be successful than poking about with corpses.’
‘There are no murders,’ said Heltisle in exasperation. ‘How many more times do I have to repeat myself?’
Simeon said nothing.
‘Heltisle is right,’ said the Duke. ‘There is no evidence that either of these men were murdered, but a good deal to suggest that one had an accident and the other killed himself with grief. That is what you can report to the Senior Proctor, physician. Meanwhile, you can tell your Master Runham that I am not pleased he has poached my workmen to build his own College, but I suppose as long as they do not work, I will not have to pay. How long do you plan to keep them?’
‘A month, apparently.’
‘A month?’ exclaimed Caumpes in disbelief. ‘But that is impossible! The workmen will never reface the whole of the north wing and raise a whole new courtyard in that time.’
‘They might,’ said Simeon. ‘But I would not be impressed by the quality of the completed item.’
‘A month it is, then,’ said the Duke. ‘And then they will return to Bene’t.’
‘Now just a moment,’ said Caumpes indignantly. ‘I am not prepared to stand by as Michaelhouse steals our servants and accuses us of murdering our colleagues.’
‘You will do nothing,’ said the Duke angrily. ‘I have made my decision, and I will not have squabbling scholars giving Bene’t a bad reputation in the town.’
‘It is not I who—’ began Caumpes furiously.
‘I said enough!’ roared the Duke. ‘You must learn some decent manners, Caumpes. No wonder the wealthy townsfolk are loath to associate themselves with scholars. You are all a band of bickering pedants who are more interested in rivalries with other Colleges than in learning.’
Caumpes reddened with rage. ‘Bene’t is my College. I will do anything to protect it against—’
‘Go,’ said the Duke wearily. ‘All of you. I have had more than enough of you for one day. Bring me more wine, Simeon. And Heltisle can fetch me the College accounts to inspect. Other than that, you are all dismissed from my presence.’
Bartholomew was grateful to escape from the tense atmosphere of the hall. He almost ran across the yard, slowing only when he saw a familiar pair of hips swinging vigorously as their owner bent over a steaming vat of laundry.
He went past the porters’ lodge without a word, ignoring their transparent attempts to provoke him into a confrontation. Runham might have commandeered Bene’t’s builders, but Bene’t had poached a far greater prize than that from Michaelhouse – they had Agatha the laundress.
It was almost dark when Bartholomew left Bene’t. The streets were still busy with people trying to complete their business and return home before the light faded completely. He was tired and dispirited, and did not feel at all like going back to the College where Runham lurked liked a spider in his web waiting for innocent flies.
He saw Matilde, bundled up against the chill of early evening in a fine green cloak, and yet still managing to look slim and elegant among the burlier figures of the people who surged around her. He caught her eye and waved, intending to offer to escort her home. As she gazed back, an expression of such intense hurt crossed her face that he recoiled in shock. Bewildered, he ran after her and caught her hand, but she pulled away from him, and would not answer his repeated questions as to what was wrong.
‘Is he bothering you?’ asked a rough voice. Bartholomew recognised the familiar dirty apron of the carpenter, Robert de Blaston, whose wife Yolande was a friend of Matilde’s. ‘Tell me if he is, and I will see to him.’
‘He is just leaving,’ said Matilde shortly. ‘Thank you, Robert.’
‘But, Matilde,’ protested Bartholomew. ‘What is the matter? Is it one of the sisters? Is someone ill? Can I help?’
‘Nothing you do or say will help,’ she said in a voice that was simultaneously cold and unsteady. ‘Just leave me alone. And you can take this, too!’
Before he could reply, she had turned and fled up the High Street, and Blaston’s hefty hand was on Bartholomew’s shoulder. On the ground at his feet was a fluttering green ribbon, already smeared with mud from the road. Slowly, he bent to pick it up, wondering what he could have done to distress her in the short time since they had last spoken. But, he thought, perhaps it was not him at all; perhaps something else had happened. Cambridge was a small town, and if something dire had befallen the prostitutes, he would hear about it sooner or later.
‘Lovers’ tiff?’ asked Blaston with rough sympathy.
‘Not on my part,’ said Bartholomew. He closed his eyes, disgusted at himself for virtually admitting that he, a scholar of the University, was engaged in a romantic relationship with a prostitute. Blaston patted his arm.
‘Never mind,’ he said consolingly. ‘She will come round; women always do. Just make her a gift of a bit of ribbon, and she will love you dearly until the next time you do something wrong.’
‘Perhaps it was the ribbon that did it,’ said Bartholomew, looking at the green material in his hand and thinking that he would never again take Langelee’s advice about women. ‘Maybe I should have chosen the blue one instead.’
Blaston took it from him. ‘This is a fine thing,’ he said, rubbing it between his rough fingers and ingraining filth so deeply into it that Bartholomew wondered whether it would ever be clean again. ‘Yolande would love something like this, but with nine children and a tenth on its way, such foolishness is out of the question.’
‘Take it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I do not want it.’
Blaston gazed at him. ‘No,’ he said with clear reluctance. ‘I could not take something so fine from you – you are almost as poor as we are.’
Bartholomew tried not to show he was amused. If impecunious men like Robert de Blaston thought him impoverished, then it was small wonder that influential dignitaries like Mayor Horwoode did not want to be seen with him. ‘Please take the thing. Matilde told me that Yolande was not overjoyed to learn about this tenth child. A ribbon might cheer her.’
‘It would!’ agreed Blaston. ‘And a nice bit of ribbon like this might enable her to attract a better class of customer until she becomes too incapacitated to work.’
Bartholomew could not but help wonder how many of Yolande de Blaston’s expanding brood were the result of her occupation. He brushed aside the carpenter’s effusive thanks and walked briskly back to the College. Michael was sitting at the table in his room, writing a letter by candlelight. He professed himself disheartened by his lack of progress in discovering the identities of the cloaked intruders they had encountered leaving Michaelhouse the night Runham was elected. He grew even more dispirited when he had heard what had transpired at Bene’t, although his eyes narrowed in suspicion when he learned that the Bene’t Fellows were determined to dismiss Wymundham’s death as accidental.
‘I thought we told Simeon about your findings from the corpse,’ he said.
‘We did, but perhaps he did not believe us. He certainly appeared to be sceptical.’
‘Or perhaps he has his own reasons for dismissing them.’ Michael sighed. ‘My only hope is that Beadle Meadowman will learn something from the workmen. The one good thing to come out of Runham’s disgraceful “borrowing” of Bene’t labourers is that Meadowman is now here, in Michaelhouse, and so better able to keep me informed of his progress.’
‘What about the other beadles?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Have they learned anything yet?’
Bartholomew left him listening to Meadowman apologising for having nothing to report, and went to check that his students had completed the reading he had set them. He was surprised to learn that the senior undergraduates had obeyed his instructions to the letter, and that one of them had even donated a candle, because they had not finished their task when dusk fell.
They were frowning in concentration as Bulbeck ploughed his way through Averroēs’ Colliget, a difficult text that Bartholomew insisted they understand completely before they began their fourth year of study. Bartholomew stayed with them for a while, answering questions and enjoying the atmosphere of enthusiasm and scholarship that Bulbeck had managed to generate, despite the noise of the builders and the bitter chill of the chamber.
The junior students were in the room Sam Gray shared with Rob Deynman. Deynman was wealthy and could afford to buy fuel for the fire in his room, so that flames cast a welcoming orange glow on the whitewashed ceiling and walls. But despite the pleasantly warm chamber, any pretence at debate and learning was absent. Deynman glanced around guiltily when Bartholomew entered, and something fell from his hand.
‘What in God’s name are you doing?’ whispered Bartholomew, gazing at the chipped plaster and stained walls in horror. ‘Runham will be furious when he sees this, Rob!’
‘Runham has dismissed him,’ said Gray bitterly. The other students muttered resentfully. There was a strong smell of wine in the room, and Bartholomew knew that the students had been drinking.
‘What are you talking about?’ he asked impatiently. ‘And get rid of that wine. You know you are not supposed to drink during lessons.’