It was only just evening, but darkness fell early in November. The trackway stretched ahead of him as he walked, black as ink, so that once or twice he felt the soft wetness of dew-laden grass under his feet rather than the stony mud of the path. He knew very well it was not wise to be out alone on one of the main roads, but he was angry and despondent enough not to care. He had a small knife in his medicine bag, which he pulled out and carried in his hand, and there were always the heavy childbirth forceps that Matilde had given him – a well-placed blow from those would make most would-be robbers think again.
He rubbed a hand through his hair as he walked, wondering how long Runham had harboured such deep hatred towards his colleagues. He could not imagine what the man had against the mild and gentle Kenyngham, although he understood his dislike of Langelee well enough. And it had been a cheap trick to use some ancient accusation against Suttone and make a weapon of Clippesby’s past illness to ensure their co-operation. Runham was despicable, he thought, kicking viciously at a weed by the roadside.
His mind returned to the disturbing deaths of the scholars that Michael had charged him to investigate. Of Brother Patrick’s murder, Bartholomew had learned nothing: the man had been stabbed and no one had seen what had happened. He hoped Michael was right, and that someone would start to brag about the crime he had committed, and patience would bring the killer to justice.
Of the Bene’t deaths, Bartholomew had discovered little that he and Michael did not already know or had not already guessed: it seemed Raysoun and his intimate Wymundham were disliked by their colleagues, and there was an undeniable atmosphere of unpleasantness in the small community. Had the Master or his henchman Caumpes killed them? Was that why they were so determined that no investigation should take place? And what of the courtly Simeon? Why had he visited Michael to encourage a more rigorous investigation without the knowledge of his Master? Did he suspect his colleagues were involved in the killings? He had intimated to Michael that he suspected a workman, and had urged Michael to look in that direction. But was that to divert attention from himself?
Bartholomew found himself unable to concentrate on the Bene’t murders, when his own College played on his mind. Where had Runham’s sudden wealth come from? Had he acquired it dishonestly, as Suttone feared? Was Michael right, and Runham had somehow tampered with the Widow’s Wine so that the whole College would be either drunk or incapacitated, thus allowing him to do something unseen? Bartholomew frowned. Runham had been waiting for them when he and Michael had arrived back at Michaelhouse after seeing Wymundham’s body. If Runham had not been one of the pair of intruders, was that evidence that he knew them and their secret business?
And there was another thing. The morning after the feast, Runham had arrived very early at the church to complete Bartholomew’s chores before he arrived. Had he been up all night doing something connected to the sudden influx of money? Bartholomew racked his brains to recall whether Runham had also drunk the Widow’s Wine, but could not remember. Runham had certainly not been drunk when he had loomed out of the shadows to accuse Bartholomew and Michael of being late.
The wind blew keenly, and Bartholomew shivered in the damp chill, sensing there would be rain before too long. He pulled his cloak tighter around him and fumbled in his bag for his gloves, groaning when he realised he had lost one. A new pair would cost sixpence, and he did not have sixpence to spare because Runham kept fining him. And that reminded him of another problem. The following day, he would have to tell Runham whether he was to resign his Fellowship. At that precise moment he wanted to tell Runham exactly where to put it, but knew that was just what the lawyer wanted. Bartholomew had no intention of doing anything that would please Runham.
At the same time, he did not relish the notion of life at College with Runham at the helm. Michael’s connections with Bishop and Chancellor seemed to give him a certain influence over Runham, and he perhaps would be able to control some of the smug Master’s wilder schemes, but would Michael be able to bring about a reconciliation between William and Runham? And what of Paul and Kenyngham? Was there any hope that they might be reinstated? Michaelhouse would be a poorer place without their gentleness and patience.
So engrossed was Bartholomew in his thoughts that he was surprised to find he had walked far enough to see the warm twinkle of the lights of Trumpington beckoning to him through the darkness. He continued towards them, and stopped outside the house where his sister and her husband had their country home. The great gates that led to the cobbled yard were closed for the night, but he could see candles burning in the house itself when he peered through a crack in the wood. He thought he could hear the sound of a lute being played very softly, accompanied by a woman singing. He smiled to himself, recalling many nights when he had been a child, listening to Stanmore playing and Edith singing the latest romantic ballads or the more ancient poems of the troubadours.
He hesitated, not wanting to walk any further, but reluctant to foist himself on Edith and Oswald when they were enjoying an evening in each other’s company. And he did not much feel like companionship, preferring to wrap himself in the dark with his own thoughts.
He strolled to the village church. It was locked and no lights shone from the priest’s house, suggesting that the man had retired to his bed once darkness had fallen. Bartholomew found a spot on the west wall that was out of the wind and sat in the grass, pulling his cloak around him for warmth. He thought about Michaelhouse, and the people he had considered friends as well as colleagues, and about his students. Could he really abandon the teaching to which he had committed himself? He supposed he could take one or two of the more senior undergraduates and train them as he worked; other practising physicians did so.
He thought long and hard about his decision, carefully weighing up the advantages and disadvantages of each option – to his students and patients as well as to himself. And then he made up his mind. He would leave Cambridge and travel to Paris, where the Arab physician who had taught him his medicine still lived. Ibn Ibrahim would be delighted to see him, and would undoubtedly be able to secure him a teaching post at the University. With the exception of Edith, who was happily married and scarcely required any financial support from him, he had no family, while Michael was a resourceful man who would be able to find himself another tame physician to assist him in his enquiries. Cynric had already gone, and there was no one else who needed him. He was a free agent – alone.
He sat for so long amid the waving grass of the churchyard, careless of the light drizzle that began to fall, that by the time he dragged his mind away from his thoughts he was soaking wet and chilled to the bone. He had no idea what the time might be, although no lights burned in any of the village houses, so it must be very late. He wondered if it were too late to call on his sister.
He walked briskly to where the gates of Stanmore’s manor house abutted on to the road. Peering through the split timber, he saw that a light still gleamed in the upper window he knew was Edith’s. Not wanting to rouse the whole household, he skirted the retaining wall to an old tree that leaned its crusty branches against the stone. Bartholomew had spent his childhood with Edith and Oswald Stanmore, and knew very well how to slip undetected in and out of their house at night.
The tree was older and more brittle, and Bartholomew was heavier and less lithe than thirty years before, so it took some scrambling before he had eased himself over the uneven wall. He landed with a bone-jarring thump in some rhubarb, and heard something rip on his tabard. Brushing the tree bark from his hands, he walked across the vegetable plots towards the light that still glowed in Edith’s bedchamber. He picked up a small clod of moss and hurled it upward, hoping to attract her attention. Nothing happened, so after a moment he tried again with a larger piece.
There was a sharp splinter of cracked glass and several dogs started barking. Lamps began to gleam all over the house and within a few moments, the front door opened and Stanmore’s steward came out, carrying a bow with an
arrow already nocked. Bartholomew called out to him, uncomfortably aware of a black dog snarling and slavering around his knees.
Stanmore poked a cautious head out of the door. ‘Matt?’ he called suspiciously. ‘Is that you? Come out where I can see you.’
Bartholomew walked into the halo of light cast by the lamp one of the servants held, hands above his head in the hope that the wary steward would not shoot him.
‘What are you doing?’ demanded Stanmore, once he had recognised his brother-in-law. ‘How did you get in? The gates have been locked since dusk.’ His faced hardened. ‘The apple tree by the rhubarb patch! I thought you had grown out of that sort of thing years ago.’
‘Sorry,’ said Bartholomew, moving forward slowly and wishing Stanmore would call off the dog. ‘Is Edith in?’
‘Is Edith in?’ echoed Stanmore in disbelief. ‘Of course she is in! It is almost midnight, man! Where did you think she would be?’
Bartholomew advanced a little further, and felt the dog’s teeth suddenly take hold of the hem of his cloak and pull furiously.
‘Are you alone?’ asked Stanmore, trying to see him in the dim light and the haze of drizzle. ‘Is Michael with you? Or your woman, perhaps?’
‘Woman? Why would a woman be here with me at this time of night?’ asked Bartholomew, startled by the peculiar question. With annoyance, he heard a sharp rip as the dog won the encounter with his cloak. ‘And which woman do you mean?’
‘You tell me,’ said Stanmore, putting his hands on his hips and regarding Bartholomew as if he had just dropped from the sky. ‘You are a changed man these days, Matt. Full of secrets and nasty surprises. So, is she with you, or are you skulking in my garden in the dead of night and distressing my dog all by yourself?’
‘I am alone,’ said Bartholomew, wondering who was the mysterious ‘she’ that Stanmore seemed to think might be lurking nearby. The chance would be a fine thing, he thought wryly; he could not imagine any woman being prepared to accept an impoverished physician who was about to forsake Cambridge for the dubious delights of Paris.
‘Well come in, then,’ snapped Stanmore. ‘It is cold with the door open, and it is raining, too. And put your arms down, man. You know perfectly well that Hugh will not shoot you.’
Noting the gleam of suspicion that lit the steward’s eyes, Bartholomew was not so sure. Hugh made no move to step aside for him, and he was obliged to edge around the man more closely than was comfortable. He considered giving the steward a shove as he passed, but Hugh was armed with a bow and wore a wicked-looking dagger at his belt, and Bartholomew knew when prudence was more sensible than futile displays of manly pride.
Inside, he was immediately aware of the familiar smells of Edith’s home – wood-smoke scented with pine needles, baking bread and the herbs she hung to dry in the rafters of the kitchen. It was an aroma that whisked him back many years, to a time when life had been happy and far less complicated.
The house was a simple hall-type structure, with a large ground-floor chamber, and several smaller rooms above. It was timber-framed and cosy, with rich woollen tapestries hanging from the walls and dark polished wooden floors. The embers of the hearth that stood in the centre of the hall still glowed red, and Bartholomew moved towards them, stretching his chilled hands to their feeble warmth. Stanmore dismissed the curious servants and the disapproving Hugh, and bustled about lighting candles and throwing an extra log on the fire. When the room was flooded with a pleasant amber glow, he turned to face his brother-in-law.
‘What have you been doing?’ he asked in amazement, seeing for the first time Bartholomew’s bedraggled state. ‘You are soaking wet, filthy with grass stains and slime from the tree, and your clothes are ripped. Really, Matt! You are supposed to be a respectable citizen, but you arrive at my house in the middle of the night looking like a vagrant and offer me no explanation.’
‘You have not given me the chance,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘And I did not realise it was so late, or I would not have disturbed you. I saw a light and assumed you were still awake.’
‘We were talking,’ said Stanmore vaguely. ‘About you, as it happened. But what were you doing, roaming the dark countryside so that you do not even know what time it is?’
‘I was thinking,’ began Bartholomew.
‘I imagined academics thought all the time,’ said Stanmore, regarding him more curiously than ever. ‘And most of them do not end up looking like you do! You have been doing more than thinking, my lad!’
‘I am going to Paris,’ said Bartholomew. ‘On Sunday, probably.’
Stanmore gazed at him in stupefaction. ‘What for? Paris is full of Frenchmen.’
‘I have no choice – no real choice. Can I speak to Edith?’
‘I do not think so,’ said Stanmore. ‘You have done more than enough to distress her for one night. You can see her tomorrow.’
It was Bartholomew’s turn to gaze. ‘What are you talking about? What have I done? Why can I not see her? She is awake – you told me you were talking before I arrived.’
Stanmore sighed. ‘You really are obtuse, Matt. But very well. Since you insist, I will ask her to leave her warm bed and come downstairs so that you can pay her a visit at a time when all honest men are sleeping. Wait here a moment, and I will see whether she wants to see you.’
Bartholomew caught his arm as he made to leave. ‘I do not understand. What am I supposed to have done?’
‘How can you even ask such a thing?’ said Stanmore reproachfully. ‘Edith was very upset by what you did. In fact, her dismay over you is the reason we were still awake – we were trying to think about what we might do to rectify matters.’
Bartholomew frowned in confusion, racking his brains to think of something he might have said or done to provoke such a strong reaction from the sister who was generally tolerant of his occasionally eccentric behaviour.
Stanmore sighed. ‘You are incorrigible, Matt. Which of your various actions do you think would be the one to upset your only sister? It is your betrothal to that dreadful Adela Tangmer.’
Wearing a dry shirt and hose of Stanmore’s, and with a cup of warm ale in his hands, Bartholomew began to feel comfortably drowsy. Edith was curled up on the cushioned bench next to him, a thick blanket around her shoulders, while Stanmore leaned towards the hearth and poked with an ornate iron poker at the merry flames that blazed there. Except for the cosy snap and crackle of burning wood, the room was silent, and the ceiling and walls flickered orange. Bartholomew realised it was the first time he had been really warm since Runham had become Master of Michaelhouse and had banned the unseemly wastage of fuel in the hall and conclave.
‘So, you are not really betrothed to Adela?’ said Edith yet again. ‘She is mistaken?’
‘I am not, and she is,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I cannot imagine how she managed to interpret any of our conversations as a proposal of marriage. We did discuss Mayor Horwoode’s legs, but that was about as intimate as it got.’
‘His legs are very thin,’ said Edith distastefully. ‘Most women prefer a calf with a little more shape to it.’
‘But Mayor Horwoode’s disappointing physique apart, are you sure you did not offer yourself to this woman?’ asked Stanmore. ‘She seemed very certain about the arrangement when we met her this evening, and her father is even talking about how my business will benefit his once we are related: he wants the offcuts from my cloth as padding to protect his wine barrels when they are transported by cart.’
‘We did discuss marriage,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘But only to acknowledge that we were both under some pressure to take spouses, and so were in similar positions. She told me we were allies against unwanted unions.’
‘What else did she say?’ asked Edith anxiously. ‘Did she mention children? Heirs?’
‘She did, yes, but not in a way that led me to believe she expected me to provide them. She told me she was opposed to marriage to anyone, and that she would sooner remain single.’
‘I was horrified when I heard the news,’ said Stanmore. ‘Such an arrangement would have been no good to me at all. What could a clothier gain from an alliance to a vintner? And Henry Tangmer is master of the Guild of Corpus Christi – a band of greedy misers, if ever there were one!’
‘I was not horrified, but hurt,’ said Edith. ‘Since you and I had discussed marriage only last week, I was upset that you should have selected a wife without bothering to talk to me about it first.’
‘You should know me better than that,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And I thought you did not like Adela, anyway.’
‘I do not!’ said Edith vehemently. ‘She is a terrible woman – all teeth and hips, and her idea of genteel conversation revolves around breeding horses. Did you know that she challenged that knife-thrower we watched in the Market Square to a competition? Her behaviour is wholly inappropriate for a merchant’s daughter.’
‘Who won?’ asked Bartholomew mildly.
Edith pursed her lips. ‘She did, actually. But being able to hurl a knife better than an entertainer is not something that would endear her to a prospective husband – or a prospective sister-in-law.’
Bartholomew laughed, and reached out to touch her hand affectionately. ‘I promise you, if I ever decide to marry Adela, you will be the first to know.’
‘Good,’ muttered Stanmore with great feeling. ‘Then we can lock you up until you regain your wits, and save you from yourself.’
‘After our discussion last week, I have been to considerable trouble to line up some suitable candidates for you,’ said Edith. ‘Then I heard about your betrothal, and was obliged to cancel them all. It was dreadfully embarrassing.’
‘How many did you arrange?’ asked Bartholomew nervously. ‘I can only marry one.’
‘Oh, about six,’ said Edith carelessly. ‘And Matilde is furious with you, of course. She heard it this evening from Yolande de Blaston, who was told by Mayor Horwoode, and Horwoode had it from Adela’s delighted father.’
Bartholomew 06 - A Masterly Murder Page 27
