Bartholomew 06 - A Masterly Murder

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘We did not think their deaths were any of your business,’ said Osmun, nettled. ‘An accident and a suicide are not matters for the Senior Proctor to poke into.’

  ‘The Senior Proctor can poke into anything he likes,’ said Michael sharply.

  ‘You are like that Ralph de Langelee,’ said Osmun in disdain. ‘He is always hanging around Bene’t, trying to ingratiate himself with members of a good College. He thinks he is Simekyn Simeon’s friend, and Simeon is too much a gentleman to send the man packing.’

  ‘But Bene’t willingly takes our servants – Agatha and Walter,’ snapped Michael, beginning to be angered by the man’s insolence. ‘And you should watch yourself: Agatha will not tolerate your rough manners. She will soon put you in your place.’

  ‘It is the Michaelhouse men again,’ announced Osmun disapprovingly to the Bene’t Fellows, as he ushered Michael and Bartholomew into the conclave. ‘I do not know what they want, but it will be something that will do us no good, you mark my words.’

  He left, slamming the door behind him and making the fire in the hearth gutter and roar. Bartholomew looked at the assembled Fellows. Simekyn Simeon sat near the fire and had apparently been dozing. Under the sober blue of his tabard, he wore his startling striped hose and a bright red shirt, apparently to announce to the world that he was a courtier not a scholar, and that he wore his Fellow’s uniform on sufferance.

  Caumpes was reading, folded into a windowseat, where the light was better. When he set the book down, Bartholomew saw it was a text by Plato. Heltisle sat at a table that was covered by scrolls and parchments, and had been writing. Of the last of the four Fellows, Henry de Walton, there was no sign.

  ‘You come again, Brother,’ said Heltisle coolly to Michael. ‘However, honoured though we are, we would appreciate it if you state your business and then be on your way; we are busy men.’

  ‘So I see,’ said Michael, glancing meaningfully towards the hall, where it was the Bible Scholar, not the Fellows, who was doing the teaching.

  ‘What do you want from us?’ snapped Caumpes, nettled.

  ‘A cup of wine would be pleasant,’ said Michael, sitting uninvited in a chair near the fire. ‘Does Bene’t keep a decent cellar, or will I have to return to Michaelhouse for that?’

  Why the Fellows of other Colleges always yielded to Michael’s none-too-subtle ploys to be served their finest victuals, Bartholomew could not imagine. He assumed pride always made them rise to meet the challenge, to prove that their College could afford the best wines, serve the best food, or had the best students. Heltisle glowered, but then nodded to Simeon, who uncoiled himself from his chair to order a servant to fetch Michael his wine.

  Moments later it arrived, a light white in which the grapes of southern France could still be tasted. It was served in handsome crystal goblets, which, Bartholomew had to admit, were more pleasant to drink from than Michaelhouse’s pewter.

  ‘Very good,’ said Michael approvingly, lifting his glass to the light so that the sun caught the pale gold liquid and made it gleam. ‘Almost as good as the brew I was served in the Hall of Valence Marie the other day. Now Master Thorpe of Valence Marie is a man who knows his wines.’

  ‘Why did you come today, Brother?’ asked Caumpes icily. ‘Other than to insult our cellars, that is?’

  ‘I have come, as Senior Proctor, to assure you that I will do all I can to protect Bene’t College’s reputation from the vicious rumours that are rife in the town,’ said Michael silkily.

  Caumpes stiffened. ‘What rumours? What have people been saying about Bene’t?’

  ‘Have you not heard?’ asked Michael innocently. ‘You surprise me, Master Caumpes. I am referring to the tales that Raysoun and Wymundham were murdered. We have discussed the issue at length on more than one occasion.’

  ‘So you have come to interrogate us again,’ said Heltisle flatly. ‘I thought we had answered all your questions about the deaths of our unfortunate colleagues.’

  ‘It is a Michaelhouse plot to discredit us,’ said Caumpes bitterly. He pointed accusingly at Bartholomew. ‘His feeble attempt to pretend that Michaelhouse means Bene’t no harm may have convinced the Duke of Lancaster, but it did not fool us. We know Michaelhouse is jealous of the patronage of the Guilds of St Mary and Corpus Christi and wants to steal it away.’

  ‘I can assure you that is not true,’ said Michael, genuinely offended. ‘Michaelhouse wants no town money, thank you very much.’

  ‘Did Runham know that?’ demanded Heltisle. ‘Your tone suggests that there is something unwholesome about town money, but Runham held no such scruples when he was making a nuisance of himself among all the town’s merchants, demanding money for his new courtyard.’

  ‘Master Runham is no longer with us,’ said Michael smoothly, ‘as I am sure you are aware. And Bene’t and Michaelhouse have always coexisted peacefully in the past, so I do not see why our relationship should not continue as it was before.’

  ‘Very well, then,’ said Heltisle. ‘Prove your good intentions by sending us back our workmen.’

  ‘I will discuss the matter with Master Kenyngham,’ said Michael. ‘He is very keen for us to resolve our differences, and I am sure he will agree to your request.’

  Bartholomew was as startled as Heltisle. Then it occurred to him that if the workmen could be discharged the following day on the grounds that Bene’t had demanded their return, Michael would have scored a double victory: first, Michaelhouse would not be obliged to pay the workmen the wages Runham had promised; and second, he would ensure that they would hold Bene’t – not Michaelhouse – responsible for losing them their bonus. It was a clever, if somewhat shabby, move, and given Blaston’s warning, it was also well timed.

  ‘That is very kind of you, Brother,’ said Caumpes quickly, sensing perhaps that Heltisle’s astonishment at Michael’s unexpected capitulation might lead him to say something to disturb the fragile truce. ‘We appreciate – and accept – your gesture of reconciliation.’

  ‘But that does not mean that we will consider impertinent questions about the unfortunate accidents that killed Raysoun and Wymundham,’ said Heltisle. ‘They are buried in St Bene’t’s churchyard, and I want them to rest in peace.’

  Michael inclined his head. ‘Very well. But I have a favour to ask in return for my generosity in returning your workmen to you. There was a theft at Michaelhouse on Friday. We have the culprit under lock and key, and we are certain of his guilt. He is a pathetic fellow, who is spinning all manner of lies to wriggle off the hook he has impaled himself upon. He even accused Matt of giving him medicine that made him do things he did not want to do.’

  ‘Do you have any of it left?’ asked Caumpes of Bartholomew dryly. ‘There are one or two students I would not mind dosing with such a substance.’

  Bartholomew smiled nervously, wondering where the fat monk’s untruths were leading.

  ‘This thief has had the audacity to claim that he was with a Fellow of Bene’t on Friday night.’ Michael raised his hand to quell the indignant objections that arose. ‘We do not believe him for an instant, of course. But I would like to be able to return to him and say that each one of you has accounted for his movements, and that our thief was not included in them.’

  ‘I do not see why we should play this game …’ began Heltisle.

  ‘Where lies the harm, Master Heltisle?’ asked Simeon with a shrug. ‘Brother Michael is not accusing us of anything: he is merely asking us to help him trap a thief. What was stolen, Brother?’

  ‘Some rings and gold coins,’ said Michael vaguely. ‘I appreciate your help in this matter, because I would not like this villain to go free and prey on some other unsuspecting College.’ He gazed around him meaningfully.

  Michael really was clever, Bartholomew thought admiringly. He would learn the whereabouts of the Bene’t scholars without an unpleasant confrontation – unless one of them was the killer of Runham, of course, in which case the culprit would know exactly why Micha
el wanted to know where they were at eight o’clock on Friday evening. The monk was also cunning in appealing to their instincts for self-preservation, intimating that if his fictitious criminal were to go free, Bene’t might be the next victim.

  ‘I attended compline in St Botolph’s Church,’ said Heltisle. ‘I always insist that the students come with me on Fridays – Friday is usually the night that students attempt to slip their leashes and escape to the town to romp with the prostitutes.’

  Bartholomew realised that Heltisle’s alibi was not a good one. Compline at St Botolph’s was earlier than at St Michael’s, and a fleet-footed man could have attended St Botolph’s and still run to Michaelhouse to kill Runham at eight o’clock. And bearing in mind that hour candles were often not accurate – especially the cheap ones favoured by Runham – the killer might have even had a few additional moments to complete his grisly task. Of course, Bartholomew thought, if Runham’s candle had burned faster than normal, Heltisle would be in the clear.

  ‘After we returned from compline, I retired to my room and studied the College accounts,’ Heltisle continued. ‘I was alone, but you can hardly expect me to have kept company with a thief. Anyway, you can check with Osmun the porter; he will tell you that no visitors came for me that evening. And now, if you will excuse me, I am busy, and have no time to waste sorting out the problems of other Colleges.’ He gathered up his parchments and swept from the room.

  ‘I have a confession to make,’ said Caumpes, giving a wan smile that revealed his bad teeth. Bartholomew saw Michael look interested. ‘I am a simple man and I do not like arguments. Life at Bene’t is not always as tranquil as I would like, and there was an altercation on Friday afternoon. I felt I could not attend compline in such an angry atmosphere, and so I went to the one in St Michael’s Church instead.’

  ‘Is that it?’ asked Michael, acutely disappointed.

  Caumpes nodded. ‘I know it is unusual to patronise the church of another College, but I hope you will forgive me. I asked Master Kenyngham if I might join him and your new man – Suttone, I believe he is called – and he readily agreed. If you speak to them, they will confirm my story. But I encountered no thief, as far as I know.’

  So, that discounted Caumpes as a potential killer, thought Bartholomew. If Bartholomew could choose anyone to give him an alibi, he would select Kenyngham, because the gentle Gilbertine was more honest than any man he had ever encountered. Kenyngham would never lie. And the fact that Suttone had been present, too, meant that Caumpes’s alibi was unshakeable. Kenyngham could be a little vague when he was praying, but Suttone was a sensible and practical man, and would remember whom he had met and when.

  ‘I cannot help you, I am afraid,’ said the foppish Simeon, looking as though he cared little one way or the other. ‘I spent an hour or two in the King’s Head – fine me, if you will, Senior Proctor, I offer no defence – and then I went looking for women. I did not see any that took my fancy. Ralph de Langelee had already engaged the only one worth romping with, while the lovely Matilde bestows her favours on no man these days, so I returned here and went to bed alone.’

  ‘Where is the fourth Fellow – Henry de Walton?’ asked Michael. ‘Could the thief have met him?’

  ‘I sincerely doubt it, Brother,’ said Simeon laconically. ‘No sensible thief would keep company with our Master de Walton.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Michael. ‘What is wrong with him?’

  ‘Leprosy,’ replied Simeon, amused by the shock on Michael’s face. ‘It was diagnosed by Master Lynton of Peterhouse two days ago, and de Walton is on his way to a lazar house even as we speak.’

  ‘Which one?’ asked Bartholomew, with the interest of a professional.

  ‘Since I have no intention of paying him a comradely visit, I did not think to find out,’ said Simeon with a shrug. ‘Somewhere to the north. But it is time for a walk before I take another nap. Good morning, gentlemen.’

  He wandered out, leaving Caumpes to see them across the courtyard to the gate.

  ‘Simeon is lying,’ said Caumpes as they walked, shaking his head in puzzlement. ‘He knows which lazar hospital de Walton will be in, because it was he who arranged it – St Giles in Norwich.’

  ‘When did de Walton leave?’ asked Bartholomew.

  ‘Yesterday,’ said Caumpes. ‘I cannot imagine why Simeon did not tell you. It is not a secret, and there is nothing shameful in sending a sick colleague somewhere he will be properly cared for. All the Fellows came to see the poor man on his way yesterday, and I at least have promised to travel to Norwich to see him soon.’

  ‘You will not be allowed in,’ said Michael. ‘Lazar hospitals do not encourage visitors.’

  ‘De Walton is my friend,’ said Caumpes simply. ‘So I will try.’ He stopped at the gate and waited for Osmun to open it. ‘Goodbye, Brother, Doctor. I hope you convict your thief.’

  ‘So do I,’ said Michael fervently.

  He and Bartholomew had barely started the walk back to Michaelhouse, when they heard a yell. It was Walter, the lazy ex-Michaelhouse porter, racing down the street after them as though he were being pursued by the hounds of hell. Agatha the laundress was not far behind. Walter grabbed Michael’s arm and began demanding back his old job in piteous, wheedling tones.

  ‘Please take me home to Michaelhouse. I promise I will never sleep on duty again.’

  ‘We will see,’ said Michael, firmly disengaging his arm and attempting to walk on.

  ‘I am returning to Michaelhouse myself,’ announced Agatha, with every confidence that she would be welcomed back, and that any laundress appointed in her absence would be summarily dismissed. ‘I will move into my old quarters immediately. I do not know who killed Raysoun and Wymundham, Brother, but these Bene’t men are trying my patience to the limits.’

  ‘Have you learned anything at all?’ asked Michael, although the flatness of his voice suggested that he predicted that she had not.

  She sighed, and Bartholomew saw that her own lack of success was as disheartening to her as it was to Michael. ‘Nothing. And you should not have asked me to go there, Brother. Those Bene’t scoundrels are followers of the Devil.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Michael with quickened interest. ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Because, as God’s chosen, I should have been able to recognise the guilty man immediately, but they called on the Devil to hide him from me. Still, I did my best. And now I am going home to Michaelhouse. Good wages and a big room are no compensation for bad company and lazy underlings.’

  She began to move majestically along the High Street, tossing a bundle of belongings to Walter, who was obliged to carry it for her.

  ‘If she is being reinstated, you can take me, too,’ Walter whined, oblivious to the fact that a porter who slept on duty was not in the same league as a laundress who ran the domestic side of the College with ruthless efficiency. ‘Please! That Osmun is a brute. He will kill me if I stay at Bene’t!’

  ‘Osmun is an animal,’ agreed Agatha, walking next to Bartholomew. ‘He and Simeon dreamed up such a vile story about poor de Walton. And Caumpes and Heltisle believed every word of it.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ asked Michael. ‘De Walton has leprosy, and is currently on his way to a lazar hospital in Norwich.’

  ‘Well, maybe he does have leprosy,’ said Agatha. ‘I thought he looked a bit peaky. But he is no more travelling to Norwich than you are. That is a story fabricated by the Duke of Lancaster’s henchman, so that Heltisle and Caumpes will not be able to see him any more.’

  ‘So, where is de Walton?’ asked Michael, trying not to show his bewilderment at Agatha’s annoyingly piecemeal story. ‘And why should Simeon want to keep him from the others?’

  ‘Simeon wants de Walton away from the others, because Bene’t is full of bitterness and rivalry,’ said Agatha knowledgeably. ‘It is really no different from Michaelhouse. And he has the poor man imprisoned in one of the outbuildings down by the King’s
Ditch. I saw Simeon taking him there yesterday, after de Walton was supposed to have gone to Norwich.’

  ‘Will you tell us how to find it?’ asked Michael.

  ‘Now?’ asked Agatha calmly, preparing to make her mighty bulk change direction.

  ‘We will go when it is dark,’ said Michael. ‘Tonight.’

  It was only noon, and there was a long time to go before Michael’s midnight raid on the shed in Bene’t College’s grounds. Michael went to question his beadles yet again about their nightly intelligence-gathering in the taverns. Meanwhile, Bartholomew was anxious about the amount of time that had been squandered by the building work and Runham’s death, and was keen to remedy the matter by organising a debate for his undergraduates. But none of his students were anywhere to be found in Michaelhouse, and with no Cynric to round them up, Bartholomew was obliged to hunt them down himself. With ill grace, feeling that trawling the taverns for his truants was a waste of an afternoon, he set out.

  His first port of call was the King’s Head, a busy establishment near the Ditch with a reputation for brawls. The deafening roar of drunken voices stopped the instant he entered, and he realised that he had forgotten to remove the tabard that marked him as a scholar. While scholars regularly patronised the King’s Head, they never did so wearing uniforms that proclaimed their academic calling. Eyes that glittered in the firelight regarded him with such hostile intent that he backed out quickly; to linger would mean an attack for certain.

  As the door closed behind him, the bellow of conversation resumed, and he berated himself for being so careless. He took off his tabard, shoved it into the medicine bag he always wore looped over his shoulder, and began to walk towards the next inn on his list. He smiled to himself as he went: even the short spell he had spent inside the King’s Head told him that his students were not there, and that the reason they were not enjoying its dubious hospitality was probably because Ralph de Langelee was there. The burly philosopher had been sitting at a table at the far end of the tavern, drinking a jug of ale with a slim, neat man who looked as if he wished he were elsewhere.