Bartholomew turned from the High Street to Luthburne Lane, a dark, muddy street that ran along the back of Bene’t College, where a sign that dangled on a single hinge told that the run-down building to which it was attached was the Lilypot, an insalubrious inn with a reputation as a haunt for criminals and practising lawyers. Bartholomew was about to enter, when he saw a familiar figure drop lightly from the wall that ran along the rear of Bene’t, brush himself down and then walk jauntily in the direction of the King’s Ditch. It was Simekyn Simeon, and the Bene’t Fellow had not noticed Bartholomew standing in the gloomy portals of the Lilypot.
Curious as to what should induce the elegant courtier to jump over walls instead of using the front gate, like most law-abiding men, Bartholomew started to follow him, taking care to keep some distance between him and his quarry as Cynric had taught him to do. Simeon moved quickly and stealthily, casting quick, furtive glances behind him as he went. Bartholomew began to wonder whether any Fellow at Bene’t was able to walk around the town in a normal manner, given that he had personally observed Wymundham, Caumpes and now Simeon stealing about the streets.
Between Luthburne Lane and the King’s Ditch was a small area of pasture that the townsfolk used for grazing their cattle during the summer months. During the winter, it was a weed-infested wilderness lined with mature trees on one side, and the sturdy grey walls of the Hall of Valence Marie on the other. Simeon hurried to a small coppice of hawthorn trees, lifting his tabard so that it would not trail in the long grass. Bartholomew hoped the courtier had not worn his exquisite calfskin shoes, since generations of cows had browsed the area. An eloquent string of expletives and a slackening of pace as Simeon inspected his foot indicated that he had.
When he reached the prickly haven of the hawthorns, the Bene’t man glanced around him and, apparently satisfied that he had not been observed, lowered himself carefully on to a fallen tree-trunk and began to scrape at his shoe with a stick. Since Bartholomew was sure the fashionable Simeon had not forged his way through the foliage for some pleasurable exercise and that he was likely to be meeting someone, he skirted the thicket and climbed up the steep bank of the Ditch behind. Lying on his stomach, he found he could look down on Simeon but Simeon was unlikely to see Bartholomew unless he happened to glance up. He slipped his medicine bag off his shoulder, laid it on the grass next to him, and settled down to see what would happen.
Fortunately, he did not have long to wait, which was a blessing. Not only was it cold lying in wet grass under a dark sky that promised rain, but the noxious stench of the Ditch was making him feel sick. Another person was moving across the scrub, looking every bit as furtive as had Simeon. At first, Bartholomew assumed Simeon’s liaison was no more sinister than a clandestine meeting with a woman, for the figure that inched its way across the pasture was elfin, protected from the weather by a thick cloak that hid everything except some brown shoes. But then the newcomer reached up to push back the hood, and Bartholomew saw that it was no woman whom Simeon greeted in the manner of an old friend.
‘I was waylaid,’ the newcomer explained, perching on the tree trunk and pulling his cloak more tightly around him. ‘That dreadful Ralph de Langelee spotted me, and I was obliged to pass the time of day with him in a place called the King’s Head. Are Cambridge scholars allowed the freedom to carouse in the town’s inns? We certainly do not permit that sort of thing at Oxford.’
‘Langelee allowed himself to be seen in a tavern with an Oxford man?’ asked Simeon, amused. ‘He is a confident fellow! Rumour has it that he plans to be Master of Michaelhouse now that the old one is dead. He will not win the votes of that gaggle of old women and bigots by fraternising with William Heytesbury of Merton College in an establishment like the King’s Head!’
Heytesbury! thought Bartholomew, suddenly recognising from his own days at Oxford the delicate features of the famed nominalist. It was the discovery of Michael’s letters to him that had destroyed the monk’s ambitions to succeed Kenyngham as Master of Michaelhouse. And now it appeared that Michael was not the only one with Oxford connections: it seemed Langelee had his own association with the Merton man. Bartholomew had seen them himself in the King’s Head together only a few moments earlier.
‘The tavern was full of townsmen,’ Heytesbury went on with a shudder. ‘At one point, a University doctor had the temerity to enter wearing his tabard, and, judging from the hostile reaction of the inn’s patrons, I suspect he was lucky to leave alive.’
‘It is good to see you, Heytesbury,’ said Simeon warmly. ‘You are a bright spark of culture and decency in this den of louts. Would you believe that I am obliged to remain here until Bene’t is completed? It might take months, at which point I shall be too ancient to be of use to anyone.’
‘You will never be too old for fun,’ said Heytesbury, smiling and clapping his friend on the back. ‘But it is a pity your Duke chose this godforsaken hole into which to plough his money. He should have given it to Oxford.’
‘I did my best to tell him that,’ said Simeon. ‘He declined to listen to a mere squire. But what did Langelee want with you? I am also acquainted with him, for my sins. I have been obliged to waste several evenings in his company, because I am too polite to tell him to go to the Devil.’
Heytesbury sighed. ‘He wanted to know about my dealings with Brother Michael. The stupid man apparently used Michael’s association with me to prevent the monk from becoming Master of Michaelhouse. From my personal impression of that good Brother, I imagine that Langelee is headed for a serious fall.’
Simeon raised his eyebrows. ‘Are you serious? You think that fat glutton can best a man like Langelee, with his years of experience as the Archbishop’s spy?’
‘Should I trust Michael then?’ asked Heytesbury thoughtfully. ‘Should I go ahead with this arrangement that will make Oxford richer by two churches and a farm in exchange for some information that is neither here nor there to us?’
‘Why not?’ asked Simeon. ‘It sounds to me as if you cannot lose.’
‘That is what worries me,’ said Heytesbury, frowning. ‘It seems like an offer made in Heaven, where we gain and Cambridge loses. That is why I came in person to see Michael, and that is why I asked you to meet me, so that you can give me your impressions of the man. He claims he plans to use the information only to secure himself the Chancellorship next year, but I remain sceptical.’
‘I think you credit him with too much cunning,’ said Simeon dismissively. ‘Brother Michael is a bumbling Benedictine who cannot even explain the deaths that have occurred in Bene’t College. I doubt he will raise his eyes from the dinner table long enough to be a threat to you.’
That Simeon had so badly misread Michael suggested that Langelee was not the only one in line for a hard fall. Bartholomew knew Michael well enough to be convinced that if Heytesbury and the monk struck some kind of deal, then Heytesbury would not be the one to leave with the better half of the bargain. He shifted slightly in his hiding place, growing chilled and stiff from lying still. He bumped against his medicine bag, which clinked softly as the birthing forceps inside it knocked against a glass phial. Fortunately, the two men below did not hear.
‘Now,’ said Simeon, shivering slightly as a gust of wind brought the first spots of rain. ‘I have fulfilled my part of our arrangement by informing you that you need not fear Brother Michael. What do you have for me?’
Heytesbury rummaged under his cloak and produced a leather bag. ‘New shoes, cut in the latest court fashion with toes that curl; a ham from the Duke’s kitchen; and a silk sheet, so that you will not have to endure Bene’t’s rough blankets.’
Simeon grinned, and took the bag from him. ‘Excellent. I will—’
When Bartholomew had bumped into his medicine bag, it had been nudged towards the edge of the bank, where it very slowly began to slide. Before he could stop it, it had gathered momentum on the slick grass, assisted by the weight of the heavy birthing forceps inside, and tumbled away down th
e bank to land with a heavy thud at Simeon’s feet. For one horror-stricken moment, Bartholomew was not sure whether to run away or to confront the two men. Although the rational part of his mind told him that he had done nothing to warrant flight, there was always the possibility that the mincing courtier was a murderer, who had already killed two of his colleagues and who would be quite happy to dispatch Bartholomew, too.
But the matter was decided for him. Without waiting to establish the identity of the bag’s owner, Heytesbury was away, bounding through the long grass towards the High Street at an impressive pace. Meanwhile, Simeon raced off in the direction of Luthburne Lane and the rear of his College. Bartholomew leapt to his feet, a vague notion of pursuing Simeon forming in his mind, although he was not sure to what purpose. The sudden movement was ill-advised, and his leather-soled boots skidded on the slick grass. He lost his balance, and fell flat on his back in a patch of grey-green slime just above the Ditch’s waterline.
Appalled by the notion that he might slide further and end up in the fetid black waters that slunk by in a foul, glassy-smooth curl, Bartholomew twisted on to his stomach and snatched at some weeds. Moments later, he was on firm ground again, although to his dismay he found he was heavily coated in the repulsive ooze from the Ditch’s muddy banks. Revolted by the sulphurous stench that already emanated from his clothes, he retrieved his bag and returned to Michaelhouse, earning some curious glances from passers-by as he went.
To his chagrin, one of the people he met was Matilde. She looked him up and down and seemed uncertain whether to express concern or be amused. She tried the former, but seeing he was unharmed, her natural good humour quickly bubbled to the surface and she started to laugh.
‘You look like a ditcher,’ she said, walking around behind him to appreciate the full scale of the mess he was in. ‘How did you manage to end up in such a state?’
‘I was listening to a conversation about Michael between Simekyn Simeon and a scholar from Oxford and I slipped. It must have been divine retribution for spying.’
‘Ah, you mean William Heytesbury of Merton,’ said Matilde immediately. ‘He is in Cambridge to learn whether Michael is a blustering fool who wants certain information simply to secure the Chancellorship of the University next year, or a cunning negotiator who will use the information to promote Cambridge’s interests over those of Oxford.’
Bartholomew gaped at her. ‘How do you know that?’
Matilde smiled at his astonishment. ‘Through the sisters, of course. Langelee feels guilty for his shameful tactics during the last election for the Master of Michaelhouse, and so will recommend that Heytesbury does what Michael suggests. And then, perhaps not next year, or even the year after, Michael will use Heytesbury’s information to steal away from Oxford the patronage of some wealthy and powerful people.’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘I gathered as much. But I thought his negotiations were secret. He certainly has told me very little about them.’
‘But Heytesbury is not as discreet as Michael,’ said Matilde. ‘He had already unburdened himself to Yolande de Blaston. Michael is a clever man. Heytesbury should be careful.’
‘Where are you going?’ asked Bartholomew, suddenly feeling a strong desire to spend some time alone with her. ‘Will you come with me to the Brazen George for a while? Now?’
‘I certainly will not,’ she said, beginning to laugh again. ‘The landlord would not allow you in all covered in mud, and I have my reputation to consider.’ She sensed his disappointment and leaned forward to touch his arm with a slender forefinger. ‘But when you are clean and dry, I would welcome your company in my house. Will you come tomorrow evening?’
Bartholomew smiled. ‘There is nothing I would like more.’
Michael’s green eyes grew large and round when he saw the state of his friend but he said nothing. He followed the physician into his room, which still lay under a thick coat of dust from the collapse of the scaffolding, and Bartholomew felt a pang of regret when he realised that Cynric would not be in to help him clean it, or to leave fresh water in the jug on the floor by the table. He fetched his own, and went to the lavatorium, trying to sluice away the stench of the Ditch.
When he had finished, Michael was waiting, but the monk wrinkled his nose in disgust and went to fetch some of the coarse-grained scented soap they had seen in Master Runham’s room. It was not pleasant standing on the cold flagstone floor of the lavatorium while Michael threw jug after jug of water over him, and the soap was rough on Bartholomew’s skin. But it smelled powerfully of lavender, and he imagined most people would consider it an improvement on the rank stench of the Ditch. He rubbed the soap in his hair, revolted by the brown sludge that washed out as Michael tipped water over his head.
Between deluges, he told Michael about the meeting between Heytesbury and Simeon. The monk was delighted that Simeon had underestimated him, and began speculating on the advantages Heytesbury’s information would hold for Cambridge at Oxford’s expense. He was especially gratified to learn that Langelee also had Oxford connections, and swore that the philosopher’s hypocrisy would be exposed at some future time, when it would be most damaging.
‘I will be Master of Michaelhouse yet, and Langelee will be sorry he ever crossed me,’ he vowed, pulling a face when he saw that the filth of the Ditch still clung to Bartholomew’s skin. ‘This is going to take for ever. What were you doing, anyway? Making mud pies? And I am not sure that this reeking soap of Runham’s is any improvement. You will smell like a whore, and Father William will think you have been rubbing up against Matilde.’
Bartholomew ignored him. ‘Runham was not a man who seemed especially interested in hygiene. I wonder why he kept so much soap in his room.’
‘He took it to Wilson’s tomb,’ said Michael.
Bartholomew regarded him uncertainly through his dripping hair. ‘Like a votive offering, you mean? That sounds rather pagan.’
‘That is what I thought, but I saw him doing it at least twice. If you look behind that altar, you will see it is packed with the stuff. It is the strong odour of this soap that always made me sneeze if I went too close – a good excuse for not praying there, I always thought.’
‘So that is why Wilson’s tomb always smells like a brothel. Sometimes the scent was so powerful that I could barely breathe – like when Runham demanded that I knelt next to him there the morning after the feast. What an odd thing for him to do.’
‘Hurry up,’ said Michael, pouring more water over the physician’s head. ‘Or we will miss our meal. And do not be shy with the soap. Runham will not be needing it to make his cousin’s tomb smell pretty now.’
Bartholomew scrubbed vigorously, noting with distaste the amount of dirt that swirled around his feet. Suddenly he dropped the soap with a yelp of pain, clutching his arm.
‘What now?’ asked Michael impatiently, dashing the last of the water at Bartholomew as the physician inspected his arm. ‘Never mind. That will do. Get dressed quickly before the bell rings. Agatha promised to make a mess of eggs and bacon fat today, to celebrate her return.’
‘So that is the hurry, is it?’ asked Bartholomew, shivering as he rubbed himself dry with a piece of sacking. He reached for a clean shirt. ‘Runham’s soap might be generous on scent, but it is as coarse as stone. That hurt.’
Michael picked it up from the floor, and was about to toss it in the empty water jug when he saw the faint glitter of metal.
‘No wonder you howled,’ he said. ‘There is something in it.’
He rummaged in Bartholomew’s medicine bag for a surgical knife, and poked about with it while the physician finished dressing. Eventually, he had prised an object free of the waxy substance, and spent a few moments paring the excess soap away so that he could be certain of what he held.
‘I do not understand this,’ he said, bewildered, as he inspected a small crucifix. ‘This is part of the College’s silver.’
‘The silver that Runham sold to raise funds for his bu
ildings?’ asked Bartholomew, equally bemused. ‘But what is it doing in his soap?’
‘I think when we know the answer to that, we will understand why he died,’ said Michael grimly.
‘What about your eggs in bacon fat?’ asked Bartholomew, as the monk started to stride across the courtyard towards the gate.
Michael faltered, then changed direction abruptly. ‘You are right. I am a lot better at grave-robbing when I have a full stomach.’
‘Grave-robbing?’ asked Bartholomew in alarm. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘I am talking about retrieving the rest of the soap from Wilson’s altar and seeing what else it contains,’ said Michael. ‘But first things first. I have not tasted Agatha’s egg mess for ages, and you look as if you could do with a good meal. You are unnaturally thin these days.’
The bell had started to ring, so they made their way to the hall and ate a hasty meal, while Father William reported in great detail the lack of success of his own investigations into Master Runham’s murder. Kenyngham, occupying the Master’s seat again, did not pay the friar any attention, and gazed beatifically at one of the stained-glass windows, evidently reflecting on some religious matter that was uplifting to his soul.
Clippesby sat alone, barely eating and wearing the expression of a man hunted. Bartholomew wondered whether William or Suttone had been indiscreet in their surveillance of him, and that the Dominican knew he was under suspicion of murdering his Master. Bartholomew also wondered whether Clippesby could shed light on why Runham saw fit to keep the College silver in his soap. Was Clippesby Runham’s seller – the man who took the purloined goods from their hiding place in the church and passed them to the blithely innocent, or to the less innocent who did not care as long as a profit could be made? Clippesby might not be entirely sane, but he was also cunning in his own way. He certainly had the intelligence to fence stolen goods.
Bartholomew 06 - A Masterly Murder Page 40
