Bartholomew 06 - A Masterly Murder

by Susanna GREGORY

  So that explained Matilde’s curious behaviour, thought Bartholomew. She must have learned the news while he was at Bene’t College.

  ‘What was Yolande doing with Mayor Horwoode?’ he asked, puzzled by the curious chain of informants who had provided Matilde with the piece of gossip in the first place.

  Edith and her husband exchanged an amused glance. ‘Well, she is a prostitute, Matt,’ said Stanmore dryly. ‘So, I expect they were talking about needlework.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Bartholomew, slightly embarrassed by his slowness, and recalling that Friday was the day when Yolande claimed to have a long-standing arrangement with the Mayor. ‘I can visit Matilde and tell her it was all a misunderstanding. Then we can go back to being friends again.’

  ‘Not if you plan to leave for Paris,’ said Edith. ‘What brought you to this decision?’

  Bartholomew took a deep breath and told them all that had happened since Runham had come to power. And for good measure, he talked about the deaths at Bene’t and Ovyng, too.

  Bartholomew stopped speaking when he saw that Stanmore was white-faced with anger. ‘Now what?’ he asked, sensing he had committed another inadvertent misdemeanour.

  ‘Runham,’ said Stanmore tightly. ‘I gave him five marks.’

  ‘Five marks?’ echoed Edith. ‘But that is a fortune, Oswald! Why would you give that kind of money to the wretched man, especially given what he has done to Matt?’

  ‘But that is precisely why I did give it to him,’ said Stanmore. ‘Runham intimated that life would be more pleasant for Matt if I made a donation to the College’s building fund. He chose his words carefully, but I have had enough dealings with artful men to understand his meaning perfectly.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘That Runham threatened you into making a donation to Michaelhouse?’

  ‘He threatened you,’ said Stanmore. ‘He was as circumspect as it is possible to be, and nothing he said could be construed as directly intimidating, but the upshot of the discussion was that if I did not make a donation to Michaelhouse, your days there would be numbered. And now I hear he has forced you into a position where you feel obliged to resign – and if you resign, I am powerless to accuse him of dismissing you. Damn the man for his cunning!’

  ‘Ask for the five marks back,’ said Edith. ‘Runham reneged on the deal you made.’

  Stanmore poked the fire with unnecessary force. ‘It was a gentlemen’s agreement: I gave him five marks, and he agreed to leave you alone. Nothing was written down, and I will never be able to prove that I gave him the money only to protect Matt. That snake!’

  ‘You really gave Runham five marks for my benefit?’ asked Bartholomew, touched.

  Stanmore nodded. ‘Of course, this was before I learned about your betrothal to Adela Tangmer. I am not sure I would have been so generous had I known who you were about to inflict on me as a sister-in-law.’

  ‘Especially since such a marriage would have meant me leaving Michaelhouse anyway,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Fellows cannot marry.’

  ‘I do not like the sound of this business at Bene’t,’ said Edith, bored with Michaelhouse and its machinations. ‘Their scholars are always at each other’s throats. It would not be wise to become embroiled in their evil quarrels.’

  ‘That is good advice, Matt,’ said Stanmore. ‘You should take it. The Bene’t men are an unwholesome crowd. Heltisle is a power-monger, who cares only for his own ambition. Caumpes is fiercely loyal to Bene’t, but he has a liking for boats, which is odd for a scholar, and he dabbles in the black market.’

  ‘In what way?’ asked Bartholomew curiously. ‘The black market, I mean.’

  ‘He often has things to sell,’ said Stanmore. ‘There is no evidence that the items he peddles are stolen, it is true, but most scholars keep away from the buying and selling business – thankfully.’

  ‘And the Duke of Lancaster’s man, Simekyn Simeon, is no more a scholar than I am,’ said Edith in disdain. ‘He is a court popinjay who knows more about clothes than he does about learning.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Stanmore, suddenly interested. ‘I wonder if I might persuade him to look at a bale of silk I have just imported …’

  ‘Well, what would you expect from a man with a name like Simekyn Simeon?’ asked Edith, not to be side-tracked into a discussion about cloth. ‘Meanwhile, Henry de Walton is pathetic and spends all his time worrying about his health. Agatha the laundress told me that there is not a scholar in Bene’t who does not despise him for his weak and selfish ways. And the two who died – Wymundham and Raysoun – were no better.’ ‘Lovers,’ said Stanmore with grim satisfaction. ‘And Wymundham was especially reprehensible, according to my informant. He deliberately started rumours that would lead to strife among the others, and collected items of gossip like children collect berries on a summer’s day.’

  ‘Unlike you,’ said Bartholomew, seeing no difference between Wymundham’s alleged love of stories and Stanmore’s network of informants who were paid to do the same thing.

  Stanmore fixed him with an unpleasant look. ‘It is entirely different, Matt. I collect information because I need to know what is happening in the town to help my trade. Wymundham loved rumours for their own sake, and if there were none that suited him, he was not averse to inventing a few. I would not be surprised if someone did away with him.’

  ‘The Bene’t Fellows are a horrible crowd,’ reiterated Edith. ‘You should not allow Michael to involve you with them, Matt, especially now you have no Cynric to protect you.’

  ‘It was good of you to take him after Runham dismissed so many of our staff,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Of course, it would have been nicer if you had discussed the matter with me first.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Stanmore with a shrug. ‘Cynric is perfectly capable of making up his own mind about what he wants. It is high time he was released from all that creeping about in the night that you seem to demand of him. I have given him and Rachel Atkin a pleasant room in my property in Milne Street, where they are very happy.’

  ‘He does seem happy,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘You have always been kind to me – and are even prepared to make anonymous donations on my behalf – but I am afraid I have yet one more favour to ask of you.’

  ‘You are thinking about young Roger, the stable boy dismissed from Michaelhouse.’

  Bartholomew gazed at him in astonishment and Stanmore smiled, gratified to see his brother-in-law so impressed by the scope of his knowledge.

  ‘That was taken care of days ago,’ Stanmore continued loftily. ‘Agatha brought him to me, and said that you thought I might find a place for him. He is currently employed in the kitchen, with the promise of an apprenticeship if he proves himself to be a diligent worker.’

  Bartholomew smiled. ‘Thank you, Oswald. You are a good man.’

  ‘I am, but do not spread it around the town, or I will have all manner of people striving to take advantage of me – like that damned Runham.’

  They continued to talk until the first streaks of dawn appeared in the sky. The more he thought about his decision to make a new life in Paris, the more Bartholomew felt the choice was the right one. Edith, however, was determined to persuade him to remain in Cambridge as a physician and take one of her six hopeful ladies as a wife. Stanmore fell asleep, lulled by their voices, and only woke when a heavy-eyed servant came to rake over the cooling ashes and build a new fire.

  Bartholomew was enjoying a breakfast of coddled eggs and fresh bread with honey when there was a clatter of horse’s hooves in the courtyard. Intrigued by the urgency of the voices that rang out as the rider dismounted, he followed Stanmore outside and was startled to see Cynric holding the reins of a panting, sweating horse.

  ‘There you are, boy,’ said the Welshman breathlessly. ‘I thought I might find you here.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew, as a sense of unease began to uncoil in the pit of his stomach. ‘What has happened? Is it Michael? Is he ill again? Or is it M
atilde?’

  Cynric shook his head, resting his hands on his knees to try to bring his ragged breathing under control. ‘I went to collect the last of my belongings from Michaelhouse at dawn – Runham said he would sell them if I had not claimed them by then – and I found the College in a terrible commotion.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew again, feeling the unease turn into outright anxiety.

  ‘Runham,’ gasped Cynric, still doubled over. ‘I thought I should warn you as soon as I could. He was found dead in his room this morning. And Michael says if it was not murder, then it should have been!’

  Chapter 8

  IT WAS SATURDAY, AND THE ROAD THAT LED INTO Cambridge was already busy with traffic heading for the town market. Huge, lumbering carts pulled by plodding oxen and laden with firewood, bundles of reed for thatching and faggots of peat cut from the Fens clogged the middle of the path, while impatient horsemen and pedestrians jostled for space at the sides. There were chapmen with their packs filled with ribbons, buttons, needles and toys; there were pardoners wearing wide-brimmed black hats and carrying scrolls that gave the buyer absolution of all manner of sins; there were shepherds and drovers and geese boys, all driving their livestock to the market in squawking, braying, lowing, bleating herds; and there were soldiers, weary from a night of patrolling, with the mud of their travels splattered on their cloaks and boots.

  The faster Bartholomew tried to ride, the slower was his progress. Although it was only just past dawn, the crowds heading for the market did not want to waste a precious moment of the winter daylight, and Bartholomew was not the only one in a hurry. A man with several braces of pheasants slung over his shoulder gave Bartholomew a venomous glower when the physician’s horse bumped him, but backed away when he saw Cynric’s hand resting lightly on his short Welsh sword.

  By the time Bartholomew reached the Trumpington Gate, the bells were ringing for prime, and the streets were filled with dark-garbed scholars heading for the churches. Friars, monks and students bustled along the muddy roads, some sporting the distinctive uniforms of their College or hostel, and others wearing the habits of their Order. Bells rang all over the town. The tinny clatter of St Botolph’s, the flat clank of St Edward’s and the shrill ding of St John Zachary’s vied for attention above the great bass toll of St Mary’s.

  He saw the scholars of Bene’t heading for their church in an orderly line. Heltisle and Caumpes seemed to be discussing their partly completed building, and gazed up at its abandoned scaffolding as they walked, their thoughts clearly on temporal matters rather than on mass. Simekyn Simeon, his colourful clothes exchanged for the sober blue of his College, slouched after them, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and making it evident that he was unused to being woken at such an ungodly hour.

  Behind him, and moving in a way that Bartholomew could only describe as a slink, was the fourth Fellow – Henry de Walton – the man whom no one seemed to like because of his obsession with the state of his health.

  Osmun the porter brought up the rear of the procession, wielding a hefty stick that he seemed prepared to use if any students broke ranks or moved too slowly. He saw Bartholomew, and his face creased into an ugly snarl. Bartholomew was surprised to see Walter, the dismissed night porter from Michaelhouse, walking next to him, and assumed that Walter had inveigled himself a post at Bene’t. When Walter spotted Bartholomew, he gave what almost passed for a smile. Bartholomew could only suppose that it had been Walter’s legendary surliness that had enticed Bene’t to give him a position.

  Scholars and traders were not the only ones awake that morning. Sitting astride a splendid grey was Adela Tangmer, riding briskly down the centre of the High Street, showing off her equestrian skills by weaving expertly between the carts and academic processions that jammed the road.

  ‘I think you and I need to have a chat, Matthew,’ she said when they drew level. He saw that she at least had the grace to appear sheepish.

  ‘We most certainly do,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘But not now. I must get to Michaelhouse.’

  He tried to ride on, but his way was blocked by a baker who was selling sticky cakes from a greasy tray that he carried on his head. Adela watched Bartholomew critically as he tried unsuccessfully to direct his horse around the obstruction.

  ‘You ride like a peasant,’ she said bluntly. ‘Sit straight. And do not wave your hands in front of you like a magician. Keep them still and low.’

  ‘I do not have time for this,’ he said, digging his heels in his horse’s flanks. It snickered at him and twisted its head around to favour him with a look of pure malevolence. ‘Runham is dead, and I need to return to College as soon as possible.’

  ‘Then perhaps you will allow me to help you,’ she said, leaning down and snatching the reins from his hands. ‘It is the least I can do.’

  She turned her horse, and then they were off along the High Street, moving more quickly than Bartholomew felt was safe. But they reached Michaelhouse without mishap, and he slid off the horse and handed the reins to Cynric.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, addressing both Cynric and Adela.

  ‘Send for me if you want me, boy,’ said Cynric, still hovering anxiously. ‘I know I no longer have a post at Michaelhouse, but I will come if you need me.’

  ‘Thank you, Cynric. But you have a wife to think about now. You should not be offering to embroil yourself in University troubles.’

  ‘I am not offering because I feel the urge to dabble in scholarly politics,’ said Cynric, a little impatiently. ‘I am offering because I am worried you may come to harm in this den of thieves and murderers without me to protect you.’

  ‘This is my home,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I will be fine.’

  Cynric gave Michaelhouse’s sturdy gates a disparaging glance. ‘The University was home to Wymundham, Brother Patrick and Raysoun, too, and look what happened to them. You would be safer with me here to watch your back. Remember that, boy.’

  Leading Bartholomew’s horse, he began to ride back to Stanmore’s premises. As Bartholomew turned to squeeze through the wicket gate, Adela leaned down and gripped his shoulder with a surprisingly firm hand.

  ‘We do need to talk, Matthew,’ she said. ‘Meet me this afternoon, just before sunset, in Holy Trinity Church.’

  ‘If I can,’ said Bartholomew noncommittally, wriggling free of her and ducking through the door. He was uncertain what the day would hold for him, and did not want to commit to assignations with Adela until he had ascertained what was happening at Michaelhouse.

  Aware that Adela was still watching, he closed the gate and looked around Michaelhouse’s courtyard. Students stood in small groups, looking up at the shuttered windows of Runham’s room and talking in low voices. Near the hall, the three remaining servants – who now cooked and cleaned as well as dealing with the horses, the laundry and the extensive vegetable gardens – stood wiping their hands on their grimy aprons. They appeared exhausted, and Bartholomew imagined they had probably been threatened with dismissal if they found themselves unable to carry out the workload normally shared by eight or nine people.

  All along the north wing the refacing project was continuing apace, and the hammering, thumping and scraping was not in the least muted by the presence of sudden and unexpected death. Apprentices still whistled and sang as they mixed mortar and sawed planks, and their masters still called in cheerfully jaunty voices. It was not their concern that a scholar had died, and they certainly were not prepared to stop their work and risk losing their bonus if they did not complete the project in the allotted time. Bartholomew hoped their confidence that they would still be paid now that Runham was dead was not misplaced.

  He walked past the builders to the groups of watching students. The atmosphere among them was more akin to eager anticipation than grieved silence, and Deynman gave him an inappropriately delighted grin as Bartholomew went to stand with his own undergraduates.

  ‘Runham is dead,’ Deynman announced with great satisfaction, as if
he imagined Bartholomew might not know. The physician sensed that the other students were on the verge of giving a heartfelt cheer. ‘He was found in his chamber this morning.’

  ‘So Cynric told me,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Do you know what happened?’

  Deynman shook his head. ‘I expect this means I can stay,’ he said gleefully, thumping Gray and Bulbeck on the shoulders in unrestrained delight. ‘It was only Runham who wanted me to leave. Everyone else wants me to stay and become a physician.’

  One would not necessarily lead to the other, Bartholomew thought, as he gazed at the happy smile of his student. While he was sure that Michaelhouse would be relieved to accept Deynman’s fees back into the fold, he knew the lad could study until he was as old as Methuselah, but still would not pass his examinations.

  ‘We should wait a while before we think about the future,’ said Bartholomew, reluctant to begin discussing which of Runham’s many unpopular decisions would be rescinded now that the tyrant was dead.

  ‘The rumour is that someone killed him,’ said Gray, as ecstatic at the turn of events as was Deynman. ‘And not before time, I say!’

  ‘Enough, Sam!’ said Bartholomew sharply. ‘Keep those sorts of thoughts to yourself. If these rumours are true, then the proctors and their beadles will be listening very carefully to people who profess themselves pleased by Runham’s death.’

  ‘Then they will be doing a lot of listening,’ said Gray, unruffled by his teacher’s reprimand. ‘Not a single person in this College – you included, Doctor – liked the man.’

  ‘Clippesby,’ said Bartholomew, after a moment’s thought. ‘Clippesby liked him. And so, probably, did the late Master Wilson.’

  ‘Wilson is dead,’ said Gray dismissively. ‘And anyway, I happen to know that Wilson did not like his cousin any better than the rest of us did. Father Paul, who knew their family’s house priest, says that Wilson detested Runham, and that Runham was always using Wilson as a means to better himself, because of his own mediocre ability.’