Bartholomew 06 - A Masterly Murder

by Susanna GREGORY

  Adela was late, and Bartholomew gazed without much interest at the poorly executed wall paintings and at some graffiti that claimed in a bold hand that the Death would come again to claim all those who did not renounce their evil lives immediately. The sun set, and dusk settled in deeply, so that the shadows became impenetrably dark and Bartholomew could barely see the ground at his feet. He was about to give up and leave when the door crashed open, and Adela arrived. She slammed the door behind her, causing enough of a draught to douse the eternal flame.

  ‘I am glad you came, Matthew,’ she announced without preamble, grinning at Bartholomew with her long teeth. She either did not notice or did not care about the outraged scowls of the three Cluniacs who hastened to relight the altar candle. ‘I have something to tell you.’

  ‘Is it anything to do with the fact that you have determined upon plans for my future?’ he asked, raising his eyebrows but not smiling back at her.

  She waved a dismissive hand. ‘Oh, forget that silly nonsense. I have something much more interesting to tell you than stupid marriage stories.’ She put her hands on her hips and took a deep breath. ‘I am quite winded, Matthew! Do you have any idea how difficult it is to find somewhere to tether a horse in Cambridge? I swear the streets are growing more crowded in this town. Soon it will be impossible to move at all, and we shall be stuck nose to tail in a solid line from dawn to nightfall.’

  ‘Then perhaps you should forgo horses and travel on foot,’ he suggested.

  She regarded him as though he were insane. ‘The rumours are right about you – you do have peculiar opinions! A decent woman cannot be seen without a horse, and neither should a decent man. You should invest in a mount, Matthew. It would improve your standing as a physician in the town. I am sure your patients would be reassured to see you arrive at their sickbeds on a splendid filly, rather than crawling along the gutters in filthy boots.’

  ‘And I am sure they do not care one way or the other. Anyway, if they are in their sickbeds, they will not see me arrive at all.’

  ‘Do not quibble. The point remains the same: it is not fitting for a man of your station to be walking.’

  ‘But I do not like horses,’ he objected. ‘They smell of manure and rotten straw. And I am not keen on the way they slobber on your hands when you try to feed them.’

  She gazed at him before releasing a raucous peal of laughter. The monks’ indignation increased, and they marched down the nave towards the west door. The vagrant snored on, and the clerk finished packing away the meagre tools of his trade and followed the monks, smiling at the unrestrained guffaws that echoed around the church. Bartholomew was not sure what Adela found so amusing.

  ‘They do smell,’ she said, when she had finally brought her mirth under control. ‘But so do people. And as for slobbering, all I can say is that you must have met some damned strange nags in your time. But I did not come to talk to you about horses, pleasant though that would be. I came to tell you about the dead friar at Ovyng Hostel. Matilde told me you were looking into it.’

  ‘Matilde?’ asked Bartholomew curiously. ‘How do you know her?’

  ‘Irrelevant,’ said Adela. ‘But the day Brother Patrick died—’

  ‘You are not one of the sisters, are you?’ he asked, unable to see many men wanting to romp with the energetic, mannish Adela, but knowing there was no accounting for taste.

  She laughed again, hard and long, wiping the tears from her eyes as she did so. Bartholomew had not meant to be so outspoken, and was glad she had not taken offence at his blunt and impertinent question. He was tired, and knew he needed to pull himself together if he did not want inadvertently to insult someone else.

  ‘Really, Matthew!’ she gasped when she could speak.

  ‘Do you really think my father would allow me to run with the women of the night? He is a town burgess and the Master of the Guild of Corpus Christi – a respectable and influential man. I know he is more lenient with me than most parents would be, but there are limits.’

  ‘So how do you know Matilde, then?’

  ‘You do her an injustice if you think the “sisters” are her only interest.’

  ‘The birthing forceps,’ said Bartholomew, aware of their reassuring weight in his medical bag. ‘She said you helped her to design them.’

  ‘I did,’ said Adela. ‘I showed her the pair I use to ease foals from their mothers on occasion. But I also know her because she distributes food to the poor every Thursday afternoon, and I sometimes help with the odd donation of bread or meat.’

  ‘I did not know she did that,’ said Bartholomew.

  ‘There is a lot you do not know about her,’ replied Adela. ‘But unless you shut up and listen, you will not know what I have to tell you, either.’

  ‘Very well. Go on, then.’

  ‘It is about the death of that Franciscan – Brother Patrick. What I have to tell you occurred on the same day that I met you and Edith in the Market Square, when your sister told me she liked my favourite brown dress. Do you remember?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew warily, recalling that he had been concerned that Adela would know that a compliment was not what Edith had intended.

  ‘I waited for a while – the friars always drop the price of their rat poison at sunset – and then I went to collect my horse, which I had tethered outside this church. I had to leave him here, because there was absolutely nowhere else. I told you finding somewhere to leave a horse is such a problem in Cambridge—’

  ‘Brother Patrick?’ prompted Bartholomew.

  ‘Well, I was just walking through the churchyard to collect the nag – it was Horwoode, if you remember him, the beast with the thin legs? – when I saw a Franciscan friar come racing from the church all white-faced and shocked-looking. He was running so blindly that he collided with me, and all but took a tumble in the mud.’

  Bartholomew found it amusing and not entirely surprising that Adela seemed to have weathered the impact far better than had the friar: it had been he who had almost fallen, not her.

  She put her hands on her hips and looked disgusted. ‘He ran off up Shoemaker Lane without uttering the most basic of apologies, as if the Devil himself were on his heels. Naturally, I was curious to know what had provoked such a reaction.’

  ‘Naturally,’ said Bartholomew. ‘So, what did you do?’

  ‘I came in here, to see what had frightened him. Men can be a bit feeble at times, and so I was anticipating that he had seen a spider or a mouse or some such thing, and had taken flight. But instead I saw a group of scholars standing at the high altar.’

  She seized his arm in a grip that had tamed the wildest of horses, and hauled him to the spot where the gathering of scholars had allegedly taken place. Bartholomew was not sure where her involved tale was leading.

  ‘Some people would claim that insects and small rodents have a lot in common with scholars,’ he said, rubbing his arm where her fingers had pinched.

  ‘Very true,’ she agreed with a wheezy chuckle, positioning him at the low rail that separated the sanctuary from the main body of the church. ‘These scholars stood in a line along this bar, as you and I are standing now.’

  ‘But why should this friar – whom I assume you think was Patrick – find a group of scholars so terrifying?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘He was a scholar himself. He would not feel the need to flee from them.’

  ‘When I entered the church – in none too good a temper, I can tell you – they immediately started all that Latin muttering that they think passes for praying. And they quickly closed ranks, standing so that I would be unable to see past them.’

  ‘Is that it?’ asked Bartholomew, not sure why she considered that her tale would be of interest to him. ‘And how do you know this friar was Patrick anyway, and not someone else?’

  ‘Because I went and had a look at his body after he died,’ said Adela promptly. ‘He was laid out in St Mary’s Church, as though his colleagues at Ovyng Hostel grieved for him, although I am
sure they do not.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Matilde has already told you that he had a reputation as a gossip. No one likes a tale-teller.’

  ‘But what induced you to go inspecting corpses in the first place?’

  She sighed. ‘I wanted to make sure Ovyng’s murdered friar and the man who collided with me were one and the same before I passed along my intelligence to you.’

  ‘Well, thank you,’ said Bartholomew politely.

  She gave him a vigorous slap on the shoulder that made him wince. ‘But I have not finished my story yet. I am saving the best part for last.’

  ‘Then what is it?’ asked Bartholomew, massaging his shoulder, and wondering how many more thumps and pinches he would have to endure before her tale was told.

  ‘These scholars all closed ranks at the rail, thinking that they would obscure my view of the altar. There were five of them, and they were all from that Devil’s den – Bene’t College.’

  ‘So, Bene’t scholars frightened Brother Patrick the day he died?’ asked Bartholomew.

  ‘Yes they did, but I still have not told you the best bit. You will keep interrupting, Matthew! They closed ranks, as I said, but I am a tall woman, and I was able to see over them. What I saw was a leg – the leg of a man who lay on the ground. Perhaps a dead man’s leg.’

  Chapter 9

  BARTHOLOMEW GAZED AT ADELA IN THE DARK church, and tried to match the story she had told him to the details he had already learned about the death of Brother Patrick. He wondered whether she was trying to side-track him, to distract his attention from the fact that she had claimed an intimacy with him that did not exist. If so, it was a desperate measure.

  ‘So, what did you do when you saw this leg – possibly that of a corpse – that the Bene’t Fellows were evidently trying to hide from you?’ he asked.

  ‘What do you think I did?’ she demanded, incredulous that he should even enquire. ‘I left and rode home as fast as Horwoode could carry me. Why? What would you have done?’

  ‘I do not know,’ said Bartholomew with a shrug. ‘Probably tried to see whether the leg belonged to someone who might need my help.’

  ‘If it had been a fetlock, I might have done the same,’ said Adela. ‘But since it was a human leg, and it occurred to me that they were concealing the corpse of a person, I did what any sane woman would do – I beat a prudent and hasty retreat, and did not linger to meddle in affairs I wanted nothing to do with.’

  ‘And these five men were definitely from Bene’t College?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Adela. ‘I know them all, because my father is Master of one of the two guilds that founded Bene’t, remember? I recognised that haughty Heltisle, that snivelling de Walton, that gaudy Simekyn Simeon who dresses like a woman, and those two revolting porters.’

  ‘Osmun and Ulfo?’

  ‘The very same. They are an unsavoury pair. I wonder that Heltisle keeps them on. They cannot be good for his College’s reputation.’

  ‘And Heltisle’s henchman, Thomas Caumpes? Was he there, too?’

  ‘No. Caumpes tends to keep his distance from the rest of that crowd. Who can blame him?’

  ‘He did not keep his distance when I was rash enough to pay Bene’t a visit yesterday. He seemed very much a part of their unpleasant little community.’

  ‘Doubtless he strives to give the appearance of unity to outsiders. He is an intensely loyal man, and cares very much about what other people think of his College.’

  ‘Then he should persuade Heltisle to rid Bene’t of Ulfo and Osmun.’

  ‘Perhaps he has tried. My father says he is the most reasonable of the Bene’t men and that he makes fewer outrageous demands on the Guild of St Mary and the Guild of Corpus Christi than do the others. As scholars go, he is the least offensive one that I know – other than you, I suppose.’

  ‘And it was definitely a leg you saw poking from behind this crowd who had gathered at the altar rail?’

  ‘As opposed to what?’ demanded Adela archly. ‘I may be a spinster, Matthew, but I know a leg when I see one. It was thin and scrawny with pale goldish hairs on it. Not particularly attractive. I prefer legs with a bit more meat on them.’

  ‘You would approve of Brother Michael’s, then.’

  ‘Not that much meat, thank you. I like something with muscle, as well as fat.’

  ‘Why wait until now to tell me this?’ asked Bartholomew, hastily changing the subject before they became too bogged down in anatomical details. ‘You have seen me several times since the day that happened, and you must have known the proctors are making enquiries into Brother Patrick’s death.’

  ‘It did not occur to me to tell you until Matilde mentioned that you were helping Brother Michael to investigate the matter when I met her this afternoon,’ said Adela. ‘I always thought you were more concerned with the living than the dead, Matthew. You are not interested in Patrick because you want his corpse to dissect for your students, are you?’

  ‘It is already buried,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But Brother Michael occasionally asks me to examine bodies for him.’

  ‘I see,’ said Adela, regarding him doubtfully. ‘Well, each to his own, I suppose. Matilde mentioned that you sometimes delve into the unsavoury world of murder. Most distasteful, I thought. You should develop an interest in horses instead. It would be much healthier.’

  ‘You seem to have had quite a lengthy discussion with Matilde about this. Did you also admit to her that you and I do not have an arrangement?’

  Adela’s laughter echoed around the church again. ‘An “arrangement”! What a quaint way of putting it, Matthew! You mean did I tell her that you are free to pursue her, should she desire it?’

  Bartholomew was not quite sure how to reply, seeing pitfalls in every direction.

  Adela sighed. ‘She already knew I have no binding claim on you, although she did ask me to confirm it. I assumed that because Edith is so busy assessing all the available spinsters and widows in the town on your behalf, you were free of such attachments. I had no idea there were women who have a hankering for you.’

  ‘Are there?’

  She smiled at him. ‘You seem more interested in my discussion with Matilde than in my leg story. Typical man! I risk my life telling you about something I was not meant to see, and all you can do is fix your lustful sights on a lady.’

  ‘Do you think the Bene’t scholars might harm you because you saw this leg?’ asked Bartholomew, concerned.

  Adela’s smile remained, although it became wistful. ‘So, you do harbour a little feeling for me after all. You are worried lest they try to silence me, as I suspect they silenced Brother Patrick. I imagine he saw the body they were trying to hide, and now he is dead.’

  ‘Have you told anyone else about this?’

  ‘Not a soul. When it first happened, I assumed I had walked in on one of those silly fights you scholars so love. My instincts told me to forget what I had seen, and hope the Bene’t men would assume they had been successful in concealing the body from me. Then I discovered that the murdered friar and the man who had fled from the church were one and the same, and I realised the matter was a little more serious. I saw I should remain silent no longer.’

  ‘Why? You did not need to put yourself in danger.’

  ‘You know why,’ she said, looking down the nave and refusing to meet his eyes. ‘I felt I ought to make amends for the trouble I have caused you by claiming we were betrothed. But I am sure you will be careful with my information. I do not see you as the kind of man to go straight to that band of lunatics at Bene’t proclaiming that I saw them hiding a corpse in one of the town’s churches.’

  ‘I will be careful,’ he promised. ‘But why did you make up the story about our “betrothal” in the first place?’

  ‘Exasperation and desperation,’ she said with another sigh. ‘My father will not stop talking about marriage. I have horses to tend to, and have no time to listen to him prattling about heirs and
childbirth and other equally unappealing topics. So, I said I was betrothed just to shut him up. Of course, then he wanted to know who to.’

  ‘Why pick me?’

  ‘I am sorry to disillusion you, Matthew, but you were the first appropriate mate who sprang to mind. I almost said Master Lynton from Peterhouse, because he had been helping me with a sick colt that afternoon, and I only just recalled in time that he is one of those chastity-bound fellows. Then I remembered you. It worked better than I could have hoped. My father kept quiet about weddings for a good four days. But then I heard that he had been spreading the news.’

  ‘He certainly had,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘Edith was furious with me.’

  Adela gave an apologetic grin. ‘But you and I did agree to become allies against marriage. I thought you would not mind if we put our understanding to some practical use, and was hoping we would have a long betrothal with no wedding day to mar our lives, which would leave us both free to do what we liked.’

  ‘Well, I suppose there is no harm done,’ said Bartholomew. He had been leaning against a pillar, and he straightened in anticipation of leaving.

  ‘It was blissful for a while,’ said Adela dreamily. ‘My father even bought me a new saddle, so delighted was he that he would soon have a brood of grandchildren galloping around his feet. And he was pleased to think he would have a contact with your brother-in-law, too. Good for business, he said.’

  ‘I must go,’ said Bartholomew, stretching. He wanted to return to the College to see whether Michael had made any headway in uncovering the killer of Runham.

  ‘It has been a pleasure talking with you,’ said Adela, holding out a rough, calloused hand to him. ‘I hope we will be able to do business again some day.’