Bartholomew 06 - A Masterly Murder

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘Let us not jump to conclusions before we have the evidence,’ said Michael. ‘But we should start if we do not want to be here all night. You take the table and the aumbry, William; Matt can search under the benches, rugs and chairs; and I will see what we have left in the chests.’

  ‘Our poor hutches,’ said William, shaking his head as he began to rifle through the contents of Runham’s wall cupboard. ‘How will the College survive with no loan chests?’

  They were silent, each concentrating on his work. Bartholomew found a list of payments and dates hidden in the lining of a rug, and passed it to Michael, understanding nothing of the figures that were scrawled there, but suspecting they were significant. William discovered an hour candle that had fallen underneath the desk.

  ‘Can I have this?’ he asked, secreting it in his grimy habit. ‘Runham will not be needing it again.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Bartholomew, reaching for it. ‘Why did we not think of this before? Now we know when Runham was murdered – exactly!’

  ‘The hour candle fell over during the struggle!’ exclaimed Michael. ‘So, when was he killed?’

  ‘About eight o’clock,’ said Bartholomew, studying the stump. ‘That would be four hours or so after sunset, and about two hours after dinner.’

  ‘Well, that excludes Kenyngham, then,’ said Michael. ‘And Suttone. Both of them were at compline at that time, and I know they lingered at the church afterwards. And it vindicates me, too, because the Chancellor was visiting me on University business from sunset until almost ten.’

  ‘I have no idea where I was,’ said Bartholomew gloomily. ‘Somewhere on the Trumpington road, alone and in the dark.’

  ‘I can vouch for Paul being with me at compline between seven and nine, but we still have Clippesby unaccounted for,’ said William with relish.

  ‘And Langelee,’ added Michael. ‘All the workmen had gone by then – they do not work as late as eight, so that eliminates opportunistic robbery as a motive. And there are the servants – Cynric, Agatha, Walter and so on.’

  ‘Not Cynric,’ said Bartholomew immediately. ‘Rachel Atkin will not let him out after dark. He would not have been at liberty at eight o’clock.’

  ‘I will talk to your students – Gray and Deynman – who fell foul of Runham the afternoon he died, and see if they can tell me where they were at eight o’clock,’ said William importantly. ‘I have considerable experience of investigating murders, and now I have been absolved of suspicion, I will devote myself to the task in hand.’

  ‘And I will have discreet words with Langelee and Clippesby, to see what they can tell me about eight o’clock on that fateful day,’ said Michael.

  ‘I will help,’ offered William eagerly. ‘I would love to interrogate that Clippesby.’

  ‘I said discreet,’ said Michael. ‘If the killer is a scholar, then he is not going to be stupid – unless it is Langelee – and I do not want to frighten him into caution. I want him to be relaxed and to make a fatal slip.’

  They were silent again, completing their methodical search of Runham’s room. The only sounds were occasional footsteps in the courtyard, and the increasingly frequent exclamations of understanding and indignation as Michael came to grips with the documents in Runham’s chests.

  ‘This is really outrageous,’ he said, waving the piece of parchment Bartholomew had discovered under the rug. ‘I am horrified!’

  ‘What is it?’ asked William, crawling on his hands and knees to inspect the area behind the table.

  ‘It is a list showing how Runham raised the money for his new building work,’ said Michael. ‘He estimated that he would need ninety pounds for raising a new court and for refacing the north wing, using the cheapest materials available. He raised thirty pounds in donations, including five marks from your brother-in-law, Matt. That was generous.’

  ‘I know,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But he regrets parting with it.’

  ‘He is a true merchant,’ said Michael. ‘But despite his best efforts, Runham was still sixty pounds short. He arranged to borrow thirty pounds from the guilds of Corpus Christi and St Mary – to be repaid with interest within the year. God’s blood! Thirty pounds plus interest! That is going to be a millstone around our necks.’

  ‘If he had thirty from donations and thirty from loans, where did he find the remaining twenty?’ asked William, proving that he had not paid attention during his arithmetic lessons.

  ‘It seems he raided the College hutches,’ said Michael. ‘It is all written down here. He took all the available money – which amounted to a total of ten pounds and two shillings – and he sold unredeemed pledges worth another three pounds and eight shillings. Foolish man – he sold that Aristotle of Deynman’s for two shillings, and it was worth at least twice that.’

  ‘So that explains why he went about dismissing his Fellows,’ said William. ‘He did not want us to notice that he was raiding the hutches.’

  ‘You are right,’ said Michael. ‘He had rid himself of you, Paul, Kenyngham and Langelee, and was working on Matt. And he was also interfering with the cooks, so that I would leave, too. Thus he would have disposed of anyone who knew how much was in the hutches. With us gone, the hutch money was his to use as he pleased.’

  ‘And he sent down Gray and Deynman,’ added Bartholomew. ‘They regularly used the hutches when they were short of money – far more frequently than any of the other students – and so would know what was in them.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Michael. ‘I begin to understand. Runham was not indulging himself in a series of personal vendettas, but had a carefully formulated plan to make Michaelhouse’s money disappear with no questions asked.’

  ‘But even with the loans, the funds from the merchants and the contents of the hutches, Runham was still short of sixteen pounds and ten shillings to make up his ninety,’ said Bartholomew.

  ‘I know,’ said Michael, frustrated. ‘He has been selling something, but this list does not specify what. He sold five items for which he received about ten pounds in total. I imagine the rest came from the fact that he did not pay the grocer and that he saved money on the choir’s bread and ale allowance.’

  ‘And by dismissing the servants,’ said Bartholomew. ‘So, how much of this ninety pounds do we have left? How much of it was stolen?’

  ‘We still have about half of it,’ said Michael promptly. ‘I counted it all with Kenyngham when we found Runham dead. Because of the piecemeal way in which Runham raised his funds, it came in all sorts of ways – gold and silver coins, jewels valued at specific amounts, promissory notes. A lot of it would have been too heavy to carry unnoticed from the College, while the promissory notes would obviously be worthless to a thief. Oswald Stanmore is not going to pay a thief five marks for presenting this piece of paper to him.’

  ‘But someone has the other half of our ninety pounds even as we speak,’ said William angrily. ‘We must search the College immediately, and see who has his room stuffed with stolen money.’

  ‘Already done,’ said Michael. ‘Kenyngham and Suttone undertook that unpleasant task, and found nothing. I told them to pretend to be looking for a missing book. If the builders discover that we do not have the cash to pay them, they might riot.’

  ‘But they will have to know at some point,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We should tell them now, pay them for the work they have already done, and send them all back to Bene’t.’

  ‘Never,’ declared William vehemently. ‘It would not surprise me to learn that Bene’t stole our money just to put us in a compromising position.’

  ‘Killing a Master just to embarrass another College is a little extreme, Father,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Even for Bene’t.’

  ‘I disagree,’ said William. ‘The Bene’t men were furious that Runham poached the workmen. I would not put it past them to have stolen the money, just to spite us.’

  ‘We seem to be talking about two different things here,’ said Bartholomew wearily. ‘On the one hand, we have the th
eft of money, and on the other we have the murder of Runham. I was assuming they were committed at the same time by the same person or people. Did the killer come to Runham’s room to kill him or to take the money? We have already decided Runham knew his killer. Did he know the Bene’t scholars?’

  ‘He did,’ said William. ‘I saw Langelee introducing them a few weeks ago. Langelee likes to latch on to Simekyn Simeon of Bene’t, because Simeon knows the Duke of Lancaster. I nonchalantly passed by as Langelee presented Runham to Simeon, but Langelee did not deign to introduce me to his fine friends – a mere friar is not important enough, I suppose.’

  The possibility that Langelee did not want to inflict the ‘mere friar’s’ belligerent fanaticism on his fine friends had not occurred to William. Looking at the Franciscan’s filthy habit and hair so dirty it stood up in a grimy halo around his tonsure, Bartholomew was not so sure he would leap at the opportunity to present such an unsavoury specimen to his own acquaintances, either.

  ‘Well, we need to keep an open mind about Runham’s death,’ said Michael ambiguously. ‘But, since this missing money is not in the College, I think we should assume that it has gone for good.’

  ‘In that case, we must tell the craftsmen tomorrow that we cannot pay them,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You say we have about half of the ninety pounds left, which is not enough to complete the buildings. We will pay them what we owe and that will be that.’

  ‘But of the forty-five pounds remaining, thirty has been loaned from the two guilds and is not ours anyway,’ said Michael gloomily. ‘And if we do not complete the buildings, we will need to repay the donations that Runham collected.’

  ‘Why?’ demanded Father William. ‘Those people gave their money to Michaelhouse. The thirty pounds of donations is ours now.’

  ‘Hardly,’ said Michael. ‘It is not ethical to raise money for a new courtyard, and then decide not to build it and keep the money instead. I think lawyers would be after us for breaching a contract if we tried that – and they would be quite right to do so. But if we repay the loans and the donations, it means that we are fifteen pounds in debt – with no workmen’s wages paid – not forty-five pounds in credit.’

  ‘Damn that Runham!’ exclaimed William, striding back and forth furiously. ‘He has left us in a fearful mess.’

  ‘Yes, fancy him allowing himself to be murdered just when we need him,’ said Michael.

  ‘I still do not understand how he thought he could manage this,’ said Bartholomew, rubbing a hand through his hair. ‘Had he lived to see his empire completed, he would have had massive debts. How could he have hoped not to have creditors knocking at our gates at all hours? How did he imagine Michaelhouse could raise a sum like thirty pounds to pay back these guilds? It is a fortune!’

  ‘I have no idea,’ said Michael, frowning as he bent over the documents again. ‘But I do not like the sound of these mysterious five items that brought Runham ten pounds. Since the buyers of the other items in the hutches paid him a mere fraction of what the goods were worth, I have a feeling Runham sold something quite valuable.’

  ‘Such as what?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I did not know Michaelhouse had anything valuable.’

  ‘Whatever it was, it is better gone,’ said William sanctimoniously. ‘Riches and worldly goods encourage avarice and envy. I want none of them in Michaelhouse.’

  ‘I hope he did not sell the church silver,’ said Bartholomew.

  ‘The church silver?’ boomed William, outraged. ‘But those chalices left to us by our founder are generally regarded to be the finest this side of Ely! They are priceless!’

  ‘They are only worldly goods, Father,’ pointed out Michael innocently. ‘But I think you are right, Matt. The church silver is usually kept in the Stanton Chest, and that is empty, like the others.’

  ‘Our silver chalices!’ cried William in abject dismay. ‘All gone, just so that Runham could raise some horrible cheap building to glorify himself!’

  ‘Hush, William,’ said Bartholomew urgently. ‘You will have the whole College awake.’

  ‘Even so, the Stanton silver was not worth ten pounds,’ said Michael. ‘It might account for one of these “items” but not all five. Four of them have the initials TW next to them.’

  ‘Thomas Wilson,’ said Bartholomew immediately. ‘Runham’s equally unscrupulous cousin. Perhaps it was something of Wilson’s that Runham sold – something that belonged to him, and not to Michaelhouse at all.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Michael worriedly. ‘But I think you are being far too charitable. I think Runham sold something he had no business to sell. And I also think that when we discover what it was, Michaelhouse will find itself in a lot of trouble – and us with it.’

  There was little more Bartholomew, Michael and William could do that night, so they put Runham’s room back the way they had found it and went to bed. Michael’s chamber was still uninhabitable, and Bartholomew was not certain whether his own quarters, directly underneath Michael’s, were safe, so they used the tiny, closet-like space in the servants’ quarters that Cynric had shared with Walter the porter. William, secure in the knowledge that his innocence of the murder of Runham had been proved beyond the shadow of a doubt, made a triumphant return to the room he shared with three student Franciscans, and his stentorian tones condemning Runham’s wicked life and his killer in equal measure could be heard all over the College.

  Michael chuckled softly in the darkness. ‘I do like William. He is an old bigot and a fanatic, and he has a deep distrust of anything his narrow mind cannot grasp, but he is usually honest, always predictable and entirely without guile.’

  ‘Guilelessness is a rare quality in this place,’ said Bartholomew, trying to find a comfortable position on the thin straw mattress. It was lumpy, stank of urine, and the thriving community of insects that inhabited it caused it to rustle and crackle of its own accord. After the third time his drowsing was rudely interrupted by the painful nip of invisible jaws, Bartholomew kicked it away in disgust, rolled himself up in a blanket, and slept on the floor.

  He was awoken what felt like moments later by the tolling of a bell. It sounded different than it did in his own room, and he sat up in confusion, not knowing where he was. Michael was at the window, throwing open the shutters to let in the dim light of early morning.

  ‘You are late,’ he said. ‘It is Tuesday and your turn to help with the mass.’

  Bartholomew struggled to his feet, feeling stiff, cold and tired. Michael picked strands of straw from his hair, while Bartholomew tugged on his boots, grabbed his cloak and ran across the yard as he was – unwashed, unshaven and still rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He raced up the lane to the church, cloak flying behind him, and shot across the grassy graveyard to the small porch in the north wall. From inside, he could hear the thundering tones of Father William praying, sounding more as though he were giving God an ultimatum than offering penitent supplications.

  Bartholomew was fumbling with the latch on the door when he was aware of a presence behind him. Before he could turn, something was thrown over his head and he found his arms pinioned to his sides. He felt a heavy tug at the back of his neck, and then he was pushed forward – not roughly, but enough to make him stagger into the wall, reaching out blindly with his hands to steady himself.

  Alarmed, he struggled free of the sacking that covered his head and looked around, anticipating a mob of townspeople ready to lynch a lone Michaelhouse scholar for its treatment of the choir, or because news had leaked out that the workmen would not be paid. But there was no one in the churchyard except him. Heart thumping, he walked the few steps back to the High Street, looking up and down it to see if he could spot his attacker, but it was deserted, too. It was not a market day, and no carts or traders crammed the roads on their way to the Square. The only person he could see was Bosel the beggar, who often worked in the High Street and sat hunched in the lee of a buttress, out of the wind.

  ‘Bosel!’ he called. ‘Did someone
just come running past?’

  Bosel gave a crafty grin and held out his only hand. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘I do not have any money,’ said Bartholomew, who had left his purse behind in his haste to arrive at the church.

  ‘Then you will not have the answer to your question,’ said Bosel, shrugging.

  ‘Please,’ said Bartholomew, feeling his scanty patience begin to evaporate. ‘It is important.’

  ‘Oh, it is always important,’ sneered Bosel. ‘Everything is important these days – except the likes of me, left to starve in the gutter after I served the King so loyally in his wars in France. I lose my arm defending England from the French devils, and the only reward I get is kicks and curses and wealthy people like you pretending to have no money.’

  ‘You lost your hand for stealing, not fighting in France,’ retorted Bartholomew. ‘For breaking into the Guildhall of St Mary and relieving them of their silver, if I recall correctly. Now, will you tell me or not?’

  ‘I will tell you for a penny,’ said Bosel stubbornly. ‘Give.’

  ‘I do not have a penny,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But you can have breakfast at Michaelhouse after the mass.’

  Bosel tipped his head back and regarded Bartholomew down his long, filthy nose, as if calculating the chances of the physician cheating him. ‘All right, then.’

  ‘Well? Did someone run from the churchyard just now?’

  ‘No,’ said Bosel.

  Bartholomew gazed at him. ‘Is that it?’

  ‘That is the truth,’ said Bosel. ‘I will lie for you, to make a more interesting story, if you like. But the truth is that no one came from the churchyard except you.’

  Bartholomew slumped in defeat. Because of Bosel’s negotiations for payment, it was too late to give chase anyway.

  ‘I saw you run in and then run out moments later,’ Bosel clarified. ‘And Father William has been yelling his head off inside the church since before first light. But I did hear someone moving about in the churchyard – other than you, that is.’

  ‘Who?’ asked Bartholomew.