‘Father Paul would never say such things,’ said Bartholomew disbelievingly.
‘I have paraphrased Paul’s words,’ said Gray, waving a hand to indicate that Bartholomew’s objection was a mere quibble. ‘But the meaning is the same.’
‘It is true,’ said Bulbeck quietly. ‘Father Paul did tell us that he failed to understand why Runham built his cousin such a handsome tomb, when they had hated each other in life.’
‘Grief afflicts people in different ways,’ said Bartholomew.
‘Perhaps Runham did not realise how much he loved Wilson, until after Wilson had died.’
‘More likely he was building a fabulous tomb to prove to Wilson that he was alive and Wilson was dead,’ said Deynman.
The others stared at him uncomprehendingly.
‘Most people do not feel the need to prove such things to the dead, Rob,’ said Bulbeck.‘Whatever we might think of him, he was not insane.’
Gray addressed Bartholomew. ‘But you are also wrong when you say Clippesby liked Runham. He did not. I heard him weeping in his room last night. Naturally, I listened outside his window to learn what the problem was, and I heard him cursing Runham, and wailing something about his no longer being considered mad.’
‘Sam!’ warned Bartholomew sternly. ‘This kind of talk could cause an innocent man a lot of trouble. Be careful what you say.’
‘There is Brother Michael,’ said Bulbeck, pointing to the fat monk, who was leaning out of Runham’s window. ‘He is beckoning to you.’
Bartholomew acknowledged Michael’s wave and strode across the yard to the north wing. He ducked under some coarse matting that had been draped across the doorway to protect its delicate tracery from falling masonry, squeezed past a huge bucket of mortar that had been left in the porch, and clattered up the wooden staircase to Runham’s room. The door was closed, so he pushed it open and stepped inside.
Michael stood with his back to the window, leaning his bulk against the sill, while he looked at the men who had gathered in the Master’s room. He appeared fit and healthy, and any weight he might have lost during his brief illness had been regained with a vengeance. To his left was Langelee, who seemed tired and dishevelled, as though he had slept badly and had only just woken. Next to him Kenyngham wrung his hands in dismay as he gazed down at the body of Runham, his lips moving quickly as he prayed for the Master’s soul. Clippesby and Suttone stood together near the fireplace, Suttone resting a hand on Clippesby’s shoulder, as though offering comfort. Finally, Father Paul was sitting at the table, turning his head this way and that to try to ascertain by sound who had just entered.
‘It is Matthew,’ said the blind friar, smiling. ‘Only you make so much noise on the stairs, running up them as though the Devil were on your tail.’
‘Except that the Devil is in here,’ muttered Langelee, turning his eyes from Bartholomew to the body on the floor.
Runham was lying on his back, with the smooth arch of his ample stomach rising towards the ceiling. His eyes were half open and his lips were apart, revealing a tongue that was bluish and swollen. To Bartholomew, the body had a stiff look about it, suggesting that Runham had been dead for several hours or more. What really caught his eye, however, was that the corpse lay on a handsome woollen rug that had been purloined from the hall.
Bartholomew turned his attention to the rest of the room. Although Runham had only recently taken it from Kenyngham, his unmistakable touch was already obvious. The walls were hung with tapestries – at least two of them from the conclave – while the wooden floor was completely covered with the best of the rugs from the hall. The pair of finely carved chairs that stood next to the table had belonged to a recently deceased scholar called Roger Alcote, and had been placed in storage to await collection by his next of kin. Runham had apparently been into the attics, and had removed the furniture for his personal use.
Bartholomew also noticed that the overstuffed cushions that lined one of the chairs were from Agatha’s old wicker throne in the kitchen.
Besides the rugs, tapestries and chairs that Runham had so skilfully looted from the College, there were the chests. Under the window – perilously close to where an enterprising workman could reach in and touch it – was the large strongbox from which Runham had intended to pay for his new building. A number of small coins and pieces of cheap jewellery lay in the bottom, but it had clearly been ransacked and the most valuable items removed.
Next to the strongbox were Michaelhouse’s loan chests – the College ‘hutches’ – that allowed payments to be made to needy scholars. Even from the door, Bartholomew could see that all were empty. He turned a horrified gaze on Michael. The monk nodded to his unspoken question.
‘I think you can see where Runham obtained at least some of the money for his building work, Matt. Every single one of our nine hutches is empty. There will be no loans for desperate students from Michaelhouse from now on.’
‘Runham raided the hutches for his building work?’ asked Father Paul in horror, gazing around him with his opaque eyes. ‘But the hutches are sacrosanct; they were given to us by benefactors who left money for the purpose of loans, and loans only. No one – not even a Master – has the authority to take money from the hutches for things like buildings.’
‘Nevertheless, that seems to be what Runham did,’ said Michael. ‘I even saw him carrying some of them to his room. In my ridiculous innocence, I merely assumed he was taking an inventory of their contents. It did not occur to me that he would empty them of cash for his wretched buildings.’
‘We do not know Runham took the money,’ said Kenyngham reproachfully. ‘Perhaps whoever stole from the building chest also emptied the hutches.’
Michael shook his head as he reached into Runham’s strongbox to retrieve a metal bracelet that lay at the bottom. ‘It is decent of you to be charitable, but I know this piece of jewellery was in the Illegh Hutch. As you saw, I just retrieved it from Runham’s building chest, where it had no business to be.’
‘Runham denied me a loan,’ said Suttone thoughtfully. ‘I asked him yesterday if I could have two groats from the Fellows’ hutch to buy a new alb, but he told me that the tradition of borrowing from the hutches was over, and that I should go elsewhere. I wondered what was behind all that, and now I understand.’
‘It seems there is no doubt,’ said Michael. ‘Runham found himself short of the funds he needed for his building, and so took out a loan himself – a loan that comprised all the remaining money in every one of the College hutches.’
‘We should not be concerned about money when one of our colleagues lies dead at our feet,’ said Kenyngham softly. ‘We should be praying for him. All the Fellows are present except Father William. When will he return, Paul? Does he know the news?’
‘He does, but he will not come,’ said Paul. ‘He says he has no wish to be accused of murder, given that he quarrelled so bitterly with Runham the other day.’
‘What makes you say that Runham was murdered?’ asked Suttone curiously. He nodded to the body on the floor. ‘I am no expert, but he looks to have had a fatal seizure to me.’
Everyone stared at Bartholomew, who gazed at the body in distaste. He wondered why it never seemed to occur to anyone that he did not like inspecting the bodies of people he knew, looking for clues regarding their causes of death. It was partly because their bodies reminded him uncomfortably of his own mortality, but also because he was a physician: his business was with the living, not the dead.
‘Well, Matt?’ asked Michael, when Bartholomew did not move towards Runham’s corpse. ‘Are William’s fears justified, or did Runham simply have a fatal seizure as he fondled his ill-gotten gains in the middle of the night?’
With a distinct lack of enthusiasm, Bartholomew knelt next to Runham and began a careful inspection, although he had known the answer to Michael’s question the instant he set eyes on the body. He noticed that the dead Master’s hands were slightly bloody and that the nails were ripped
: Runham had struggled and fought against something. Another peculiarity was the fact that there was a small feather protruding from Runham’s mouth. Ignoring his colleagues’ exclamations of disgust, he felt under the tongue and in the cheeks to retrieve two more feathers and a ball of fluff.
‘William is right to be cautious,’ he said, sitting back and gazing down at the lifeless features of his Master. ‘Someone smothered him: Runham was murdered.’
Once Runham’s body had been removed to St Michael’s Church, and two student friars of his own Order had been commandeered into keeping a vigil over it, the Fellows met in the conclave. Kenyngham, who they unanimously agreed should resume the Mastership until another election could be organised, had gathered the students in the hall and informed them that Runham had fallen prey to a fatal attack. The ambiguous wording was Michael’s idea: he said it would not be wise to declare that Runham had been murdered until they had some idea who might be the culprit. Kenyngham concluded his brief announcement by suggesting that the scholars might like to use the remainder of what was now a free day to pray for Runham. None of them did, and Bartholomew’s students were among the noisy throng that disappeared with alacrity though the gates to enjoy themselves in the town.
‘Is that wise?’ asked Kenyngham anxiously, watching them leave from the conclave window. ‘Despite my obtuse announcement, it will not be long before word seeps out that Master Runham was murdered, and our students may start a fight over it.’
Michael shook his head as he settled himself in one of the best chairs. ‘None of them is going to fight to defend Runham’s good name, Master Kenyngham. Let them go. At least they will not be under the feet of the workmen. And all the Fellows should be here, discussing what we should do, not trying to supervise a lot of restless lads.’
‘As a mark of respect, I think the building work should stop,’ said Kenyngham, as Clippesby and Suttone, with unspoken agreement, began to light the conclave fire. ‘It is only right that we interrupt our normal affairs to show our sorrow over this tragic death.’
‘I have already tried to send the workmen away,’ said Michael, ignoring the fact that there would not be much sorrowing. ‘But thanks to Runham himself, they see any attempt by us to prevent them from working as an excuse not to pay them their bonus. They would not hear of going home, and I dare not force the issue. I have no wish to see us go up in flames for antagonising them.’
‘And that would be easy with all the scaffolding everywhere,’ said Langelee, watching Clippesby blowing on the smouldering wood in the hearth. ‘A torch touched to all that cheap timber will see the College ignite like a bonfire.’
‘Please!’ said Kenyngham with a shudder. ‘Dwelling on riots and arson is not helping us discover the killer of poor Master Runham. Are you certain someone took his life, Matthew? Are you sure you are not mistaken?’
‘I am not mistaken,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I showed you the feathers and fluff he had inhaled when the cushion was placed over his mouth, and I showed you the damage he did to his hands as he tried to claw his killer away from him.’
‘And we found the guilty cushion,’ added Michael. ‘It was that lovely one which Agatha made for her fireside chair. It was stuffed with goose feathers that matched those Matt found in Runham’s mouth, and stained with drool where it had been forced over his face.’
‘Perhaps even more incriminating,’ said Bartholomew, ‘is the fact that it lay on the opposite side of the room from the body. After the killer had used it to smother Runham, he set it down on the bench under the window. Even if Runham had suffocated himself – which I am certain he did not – he could not have placed the cushion on the bench after he had died.’
‘This is dreadful,’ said Kenyngham in a whisper. ‘Who would do such a terrible thing?’
‘Who said it was terrible?’ muttered Langelee. ‘
We have an impressive collection of suspects,’ Michael went on. ‘First, there is Langelee.’
Bartholomew could not but help wonder whether Langelee was top of Michael’s list because Langelee had thwarted the monk’s ambition to be Master by raising the issue of his dealings with Oxford. Bartholomew knew that it was only a matter of time before Michael had his revenge, and suspected that the first step had just been taken.
‘Me?’ asked Langelee in astonishment. ‘Why should I kill Runham?’
Michael sighed. ‘Do not treat us like imbeciles. Runham dismissed you because of your marriage to Julianna. Now that he is dead, you are likely to be reinstated by a more lenient Master, not to mention the fact that the repayment of your stipend will not be forced. You have a very good reason for killing him.’
Especially if Langelee expected to be the next Master, thought Bartholomew. He recalled Langelee confiding details of his marriage so that Bartholomew would support him if Runham ever ‘conveniently died’, to use Langelee’s own words.
‘So do a lot of people,’ said Langelee angrily. ‘Father William also lost his Fellowship because of Runham – perhaps he crept out of his friary last night and shoved a cushion over Runham’s face. Why else would he refuse to join us?’
‘Because he fears exactly the accusation you have just made,’ said Michael. ‘As Paul has already told us.’
‘And what about him?’ snapped Langelee, pointing an accusing finger at Paul. ‘He lost his Fellowship because of Runham, too. And do not even think of claiming that his blindness means that he could not commit murder. It is dark at night – Paul was probably at an advantage.’
‘An interesting conjecture,’ said Michael blandly, although Bartholomew had no idea whether he had taken the suggestion seriously or was just humouring the belligerent philosopher.
‘And him.’ Langelee swung his accusing finger around to point at Kenyngham. ‘He lost a Fellowship of almost thirty years’ duration to Runham. You cannot tell me that he did not have good cause for wanting the man dead.’
‘Are you referring to me?’ asked Kenyngham, genuinely startled. ‘But I have never killed anyone in my life!’
‘Every murderer has to start somewhere,’ said Michael drolly.
Bartholomew shook his head, not liking the way the scholars were already turning on each other in the search for a culprit. He hoped their meeting would not turn into a witch hunt. But regardless, of all the Michaelhouse scholars, Bartholomew thought Kenyngham the one least likely to murder someone – especially in such a cold and deliberate a way. Suffocation required that the killer press hard against his victim, forced to hear the gasps and entreaties for mercy, and obliged to watch the helpless drumming of heels on the floor and the scrabbling of ever-weakening hands. It was not like a swift knife under the ribs, which might happen in the heat of the moment; suffocation took longer and there was less chance that it could be accidental.
‘And Paul, Kenyngham and William are not alone in having reasons to strike Runham dead,’ continued Langelee. ‘What about Clippesby and Suttone? They fell victim to Runham’s charming temperament, too.’
‘That is unfair,’ said Suttone quietly. ‘We have only just arrived in Cambridge, and have not had time to make an enemy of Runham.’
‘But he has had time to make an enemy of you,’ Langelee pressed on relentlessly. ‘I recall quite clearly Runham telling us that you had been accused of theft at your friary in Lincoln.’
‘Why would that be cause for me to kill him?’ asked Suttone. ‘He had already announced to the entire Fellowship that a long time ago I was accused of a theft of which I was later found to be innocent. What would be the point of killing him when the “secret” was already out?’
‘Then what about him?’ snarled Langelee, casting a venomous glower at Clippesby. ‘Runham accused him of being insane, and so he had motive enough to silence his tormentor once and for all. He has worked hard to ingratiate himself with Runham by spying for him on the other Fellows, but Runham turned on him after all his labours.’
Clippesby’s face was like wax, and his eyes were hollow and haunte
d. ‘I did not spy,’ he whispered.
‘You did,’ said Suttone tiredly. ‘Do not lie, Clippesby. It is better to be honest. I saw you on a number of occasions hovering near the rooms of other scholars, hoping to hear something seditious that you could pass to Runham.’
‘I heard you loitering outside doors, too,’ said Paul quietly. ‘And I overheard you with Runham, plotting to trick Matthew into making incriminating remarks about his teaching that could be used to bring about his resignation.’
‘What?’ asked Bartholomew, horrified.‘When was this?’
‘In the church the day after Runham was elected,’ said Clippesby miserably. His chin came up in a feeble gesture of defiance. ‘But Master Runham was right in his concerns: you did confess to him that you used the Devil’s wiles to heal your patients.’
‘I can assure you that I did not,’ said Bartholomew in disgust. ‘If you want to be a spy, you should at least make sure you listen carefully and that your memory of conversations is accurate.’
‘And what about you as a suspect for Runham’s murder?’ demanded Langelee, rounding on Bartholomew. ‘You would have lost your Fellowship today, because Runham had driven you into a corner. You have as good a motive for killing Runham as anyone.’
‘He would not have lost his Fellowship,’ said Michael confidently. ‘Matt would rather give up practising medicine than forsake his teaching.’
‘Actually, I—’ began Bartholomew.
‘Even so, Runham would have made life so uncomfortable that you would not have stayed long,’ Langelee continued, cutting across Bartholomew’s words. He turned to Michael. ‘And that goes for you, too. Were you aware that he had plans to ration the food? That would have driven you out pretty quickly.’
‘When was this?’ asked Michael in surprise. ‘I have not heard about such a harsh measure.’
‘It happened at one of the meetings held when the only Fellows present were those not strong enough to object,’ said Suttone bitterly. ‘Runham was cunning – he passed all manner of statutes and ordinances when the more senior of you were absent.’
Bartholomew 06 - A Masterly Murder Page 29
