A Masterly Murder хмб-6

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘I do not like fighting and subterfuge,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘Quite the contrary; I would far rather live a quiet and uneventful life.’

  ‘Then I hope you have not come to accuse my Cynric of Runham’s murder,’ said Rachel bluntly, her hand tightening possessively on her husband’s arm. ‘If so, you are wasting your time. Cynric has finished with all that creeping around in the dark; he stays in with me at nights now, by the fire.’

  ‘We do not know that anyone killed Runham,’ said Michael smoothly.

  Cynric regarded the monk with patent disbelief. ‘He just had a fatal seizure, then, did he?’ he asked with a knowing wink.

  Michael’s lips compressed in a tight line, displeased that people had seen through the ambiguous story he had instructed Kenyngham to tell the students.

  ‘Which of the Fellows did it?’ asked Rachel baldly. ‘Langelee seems a violent kind of man, while Suttone has a history of theft, and that Kenyngham seems too saintly to be true.’

  ‘It might not have been a Fellow,’ temporised Michael.

  Rachel glared. ‘I hope you are not implying that it was one of the servants.’

  ‘They would never accuse me of killing Runham,’ said Cynric, patting her arm comfortably. ‘Mind you, I have to say that the old devil deserved what was coming to him.’

  ‘So, what did you want, if not to ask for Cynric’s help?’ asked Rachel.

  ‘Why should we want anything?’ asked Michael glibly, conveniently forgetting that he had sought Cynric out with the express purpose of learning whether he had an alibi for the night of Runham’s death. ‘As a matter of fact, we came to give, not take. We thought you might like this, to adorn the new room Oswald Stanmore says he has given you.’

  He rummaged in his scrip and produced a tiny crystal bowl of the kind that would hold lavender to scent a room. It was a pretty thing, intricately carved so that it glittered like diamonds.

  ‘It is lovely,’ said Rachel, taking it and inspecting it with pleasure. ‘So delicate and fine.’

  ‘You are welcome,’ said Michael. ‘And now we must be on our way, if you will excuse us.’

  Leaving Cynric and Rachel admiring their new possession, Michael led the way up the High Street towards Bene’t, deciding that another proctorial visit to the scholars who had probably murdered Wymundham in Holy Trinity Church and then dumped the body in Mayor Horwoode’s garden would not go amiss. And this time, he also intended to ask where they had been at eight o’clock on Friday evening.

  ‘That little bowl belonged to Runham,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I saw it in his room when we were searching it.’

  ‘Actually, it was mine,’ said Michael. ‘Or at least, it had been. I mislaid it some years ago, and had given up all hope of seeing it again.’

  ‘If you have not seen it for years, then it may not have been yours at all,’ reasoned Bartholomew. ‘It might be another that looks similar. I do not think it is wise to remove Runham’s possessions without the permission of his executors. You might find yourself accused of stealing the College’s lost gold – or even of killing Runham for it.’

  ‘That was my bowl,’ said Michael firmly. ‘My grandmother gave it to me, and she engraved a message on the bottom. That message was still there. To be honest, I always suspected Wilson of stealing it from me during the Death – I noticed his covetous eyes on it several times – but then he died, and there was no way to confront him about it.’

  ‘Wilson stole from you?’ asked Bartholomew, shocked. ‘But he was the Master of our College.’

  ‘So was Runham,’ said Michael, ‘and it did not make him a saint. Wilson stole my bowl and Runham must have inherited it from him. I was quite startled last night to see it boldly displayed on the windowsill, as if Runham had a legal right to it.’

  ‘If he inherited it, he probably thought he did.’

  ‘What he thought does not matter to me. The bowl was mine, and I do not want Runham’s heirs to have it. However, I do not want it for myself, because it is tainted by Wilson’s thieving hands. I gave it to Cynric because it will go some way to compensate him for the shabby way he was treated by Runham. It is quite valuable, and he will be able to sell it if he ever finds himself in need.’

  Bartholomew regarded him affectionately. ‘You are a strange man, Brother; you have a peculiar sense of justice.’

  ‘No more peculiar than yours,’ said Michael. ‘I heard about you offering your own purse to my choir to try to make up for Runham’s wickedness. But, look! Here comes your bride-to-be!’

  Bartholomew glanced up from where he was negotiating his way around one of the High Street’s more crater-like potholes, to see the cheerfully formidable bulk of Adela Tangmer, mounted on a spirited bay and riding at the side of her father.

  ‘Matthew!’ she cried in her friendly way. ‘There you are again, ploughing your way through the filth of the streets when a horse would raise you above it all.’

  ‘All you ever think about is horses,’ muttered her father resentfully. ‘You should be thinking about children and marriage before it is too late.’

  ‘Have you tried any of the scholars at Bene’t College? Some of them might appreciate a wealthy wife,’ suggested Michael.

  ‘The scholars at Bene’t are a gaggle of argumentative bores with scrawny legs – like chickens,’ muttered Adela. ‘I will have none of them!’

  ‘Speaking of scrawny legs, do you know Master Clippesby of Michaelhouse?’ asked Michael, seeing an opportunity to test the Dominican’s feeble alibi for the night of Runham’s death. ‘He says he spoke to you on Friday evening, while you were watching the mystery plays outside St Mary’s Guildhall.’

  ‘She did not go to the mystery plays,’ said Tangmer, giving his daughter a nasty look. ‘I suggested she should, but she was busy with some horse or other and was in the stables all night. Why? Is this Clippesby looking for a wife?’

  ‘Friday,’ repeated Michael, looking hard at Adela. ‘Are you sure you did not meet Clippesby on Friday evening?’

  ‘Positive,’ said Adela. ‘My father is right: I was with a horse about to foal from sunset on Friday until dawn on Saturday. I have told you that already, Matthew. When your sister asked whether I was planning to attend the mystery plays a week or more ago – the day I challenged that knife-thrower in the Market Square – I informed her that I had a horse to see to, and would have no time to waste on such foolery.

  ‘I saw him on Thursday evening, though, wandering around the Market Square,’ Adela continued thoughtfully. ‘He was talking to himself and gesticulating wildly. He was frightening some of the traders’ children, so I told him to return to Michaelhouse and see Matthew – although I do not know whether madness is curable. Of course, horses can be wild and unpredictable, but they do not lose their wits like people.’

  Bartholomew and Michael exchanged a glance. So, Clippesby’s alibi could be dismissed, and Bartholomew did recall that Adela had told Edith she would not be going to the plays. He had been remiss not to have remembered that when Clippesby had made his claim.

  ‘Well then, Clippesby was lying,’ said Michael as they walked away. ‘I have never trusted him, Matt. He is unstable enough to commit murder and then forget all about it. Or is he clever enough to use his madness to conceal the fact that he is a ruthless killer with a grudge to settle?’

  ‘I thought Clippesby liked Runham. He was certainly prepared to spy for him, and he would probably have done very well at Michaelhouse as Runham’s henchman.’

  ‘But Runham revealed details about the illness Clippesby wanted to conceal,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘And who knows what may have passed between the pair of them during these secret meetings they had at dawn? Who found the body, Matt? It was Clippesby – and in my experience, the person who “discovers” a corpse is often the person who has created it.’

  He stopped suddenly, glaring ahead of him. Bartholomew glanced up from the muck of the High Street and saw that Michael’s gaze was fixed on two people who
stood outside Bene’t College, examining the partly demolished scaffolding. They were the carpenter, Robert de Blaston, and his wife Yolande. Blaston turned his head this way and that as he assessed the spars and planks, while Yolande sighed and fidgeted with boredom.

  ‘What is he doing there?’ muttered Michael. ‘He is supposed to be working on Michaelhouse. I hope the story of the theft from Runham’s room is not out.’

  ‘We have already discussed this,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I thought we had decided to be honest and send them all back to Bene’t. It is better to have Bene’t men gloating over us, than to see Michaelhouse torn apart by workmen who want the wages we cannot pay. Blaston cannot blame us because a thief stole the money Runham had raised.’

  ‘There is no place for reason between a man and his money,’ said Michael. ‘You should know that, Matt. If the workmen learn that we cannot pay the fabulous wages Runham promised, they will not shrug and happily accept that it is just one of those things. They will riot.’

  Yolande spotted them, and came to bid them good morning, swinging her hips provocatively as she revealed her poor teeth in what would have passed for an alluring smile in the dark. She wore a rather grimy green ribbon in her lustreless hair, which she fingered shyly to acknowledge Bartholomew’s generosity.

  ‘Would you mind if I asked you an impertinent question?’ asked Michael, in the tone of voice that suggested he would ask it whether she minded or not. He gave her a smile that was more flirtatious than monastic. ‘It concerns last Friday evening.’

  ‘I was working,’ she said immediately. ‘I always work Fridays, if I can.’

  ‘Why Fridays?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.

  ‘It is a fish day,’ she explained. ‘If men cannot have their meat at dinner, they like to have it another way after dark. Trade is always good on Fridays.’

  Leaving Bartholomew speculating with interest on whether there was an anatomical explanation for her discovery, Michael continued to question the prostitute about her customers the night Runham had been killed.

  ‘You may consider my question indelicate, but did you see Ralph de Langelee then? He claims he was with you at that time.’

  ‘No,’ she said sharply. ‘He was not. Ralph who?’

  ‘It is all right, Yolande,’ said Michael gently. ‘I am not asking to make trouble for him, but I need to know the truth.’

  She sighed and then grinned, reaching out to chuck the monk under the chin. Bartholomew looked both ways in alarm, lest anyone should have seen the intimate gesture, while Michael favoured the prostitute with a wicked leer.

  ‘Since it is you, Brother, I will tell the truth. Ralph de Langelee often pays me a visit on a Friday night – it is he who claims fish makes him more desirous of a woman.’ The fact that it was a theory of Langelee’s that had prompted Yolande’s intriguing claim meant that Bartholomew’s medical speculations ceased abruptly. ‘He came about an hour after sunset. Rob!’

  Her husband tore his gaze from the Bene’t scaffolding and came towards them. ‘What?’ he asked, a little irritably. ‘I am busy.’

  ‘Busy doing what?’ asked Michael suspiciously.

  ‘Busy looking to see how the remaining scaffolding is holding up,’ replied Blaston. ‘We will have to work on that at some point, and I want to ensure it is not falling to pieces.’

  ‘Not until you have finished your work at Michaelhouse,’ said Michael.

  ‘Right,’ said Blaston vaguely. ‘A word of warning, though. We plan to ask for a week’s wages tomorrow. Runham said he would pay the whole amount after we had finished everything, but now that he is dead we would like a bit up front, just so that we all know where we stand.’

  They know, thought Bartholomew, trying not to cast an anxious glance at Michael. They have heard rumours that Runham’s chest was robbed, and they are worried that they will not be paid.

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Michael airily. ‘Bring Newenham with you to see me tomorrow and we will see what we can do. But I was discussing another matter with your lady wife.’

  ‘My wife,’ corrected Blaston. ‘Yes?’

  ‘What time did Ralph de Langelee arrive, Rob?’ asked Yolande. ‘It was some time after sunset, but I cannot recall exactly when.’

  Blaston rubbed his bristly chin. ‘Now, let me think. It was still just light, because little Yolande lost a shoe in the garden, and I had to go out and look for it. I was just able to see without a candle – which was a blessing, because we do not have any.’

  ‘That is right,’ said Yolande, remembering. ‘So, Ralph and I went upstairs, while you saw to the children. Did you find that shoe, by the way? We cannot afford to buy her another.’

  ‘Under the cabbages,’ replied Blaston. ‘Ralph de Langelee stayed an unusually long time that night, I recall. In fact, he stayed with you right through until dawn. I remember, because he and I walked to Michaelhouse together – me to work and him to go to mass in the church.’

  It seemed a curious arrangement for a married couple, but Bartholomew was not in the habit of judging the lives of his fellow men, particularly after the plague when times were hard and people would do anything to put food on the table and a roof over their heads. Blaston should have been earning a decent wage as a carpenter, but with nine children to support, his income would not go far. The fact that he was willing to work under the dangerous conditions imposed by Runham told its own story, although if he ever had an accident, the Blaston family would be in serious trouble.

  Thanking them for their help, Michael steered Bartholomew towards Bene’t College’s front gate. The physician wondered how the family would manage when Yolande was unable to work on Friday nights. He glanced back at them. They were good people – hard-working and honest – and he hoped they would not find life too difficult.

  ‘They are telling the truth, Matt,’ said Michael. ‘Langelee is lucky: he believed he was out on the wharves thinking a lot longer than he really was – which just goes to show that a lengthy thinking session means something very different to Langelee than it does to us! He was probably out for no more than an hour, and he arrived at the Blaston house at twilight. That means he arrived some time between five and six, and that at eight o’clock, when Runham was being cushioned to death, Langelee was merrily bouncing between the sheets with the mother of nine children.’

  ‘That means there are only two Michaelhouse Fellows unaccounted for that night,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Clippesby and me.’

  ‘So, assuming that none of the students or servants killed Runham, we are left with Clippesby,’ said Michael thoughtfully.

  Bartholomew smiled. ‘You have no doubts about my innocence at all?’

  ‘None,’ said Michael firmly. ‘You strike me as more of a poisons man than a smotherer. But let us see what these Bene’t Fellows have to say for themselves. Let me do the talking, Matt. From what they told me yesterday, you did a poor job of interviewing them the last time you were there.’

  Their knock at the gate was answered immediately by Osmun, the ill-tempered porter. His brother Ulfo lounged near a crackling fire in the lodge, picking his teeth with a knife that looked sharp enough to sever his tongue if he made a false move. Sitting apart in a corner, sporting a blackened eye and looking very sorry for himself, was Walter, lately night porter at Michaelhouse. Osmun followed Bartholomew’s startled gaze.

  ‘Caught him sleeping on duty,’ said Osmun with a sour smile. ‘We do not pay people to sleep, do we, Walter?’

  Walter shook his head, looking more miserable than Bartholomew had ever seen him, which was a considerable feat. Despite the fact that Bartholomew considered Walter a lazy good-for-nothing, he felt sorry for the man in his blood-splattered shirt and bruised face. Walter saw his sympathetic expression and tried to stand. Ulfo kicked out viciously, and Walter sank back to the floor and hid his face in his hands, a picture of despair.

  The Bene’t Fellows were in their conclave, a chamber off the hall that was larger than the one at Michaelhouse, but
not nearly so pleasant. The rushes that covered the floor were stale and needed changing, while the tapestries on the walls were of an inferior quality and the dyes in the wools had faded in the sun. It was quite a contrast to the carved oak panelling and rich rugs that adorned the hall, and Bartholomew supposed that the conclave had not been deemed worthy of similar attention, because meetings with important benefactors – like the Duke of Lancaster and the guildsmen of St Mary and Corpus Christi – took place in the hall.

  The hall itself housed the students, who sat in attitudes of boredom as they listened to the droning tones of their Bible Scholar reading some dense tract from Leviticus. A fire roared in the hearth, burning logs at a rate that even the absent-minded Kenyngham would have balked at. It was hot to the point of being uncomfortable, and Bartholomew was not surprised that several of the scholars had fallen asleep, lulled by the heat and the dry tones of the reader.

  There was a palpable atmosphere of unease and unhappiness in the College, both among those students who were still awake in the hall and the Fellows in the conclave. Michaelhouse had its problems, but Bartholomew had never known it to simmer with the same sense of despair and gloom that seemed to grip Bene’t. Yet again, he realised that Wymundham and others had been right when they had claimed Bene’t was not a happy College.

  ‘I see you buried my cousin Justus at last,’ said Osmun as he followed Bartholomew through the hall. ‘Not before time, if you ask me. Bene’t does not leave its members’ corpses to fester in the church for days past the time when it is decent.’

  ‘No; Bene’t buries its scholars with unseemly haste,’ retorted Michael. ‘Wymundham and Raysoun were underground before my appointed representative had had the opportunity to inspect them properly.’

  ‘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.’