A Masterly Murder хмб-6

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘So put the knife down,’ said Bartholomew. ‘If you are not evil, you will not be committing any more murders, and especially not in a church.’

  There was a sudden crash at the back of the nave, and Cynric appeared with his weapon at the ready. Stanmore and Father William were at his heels, along with a white-haired Carmelite friar. Cynric faltered when he saw the knife Suttone held.

  ‘More murders?’ asked Suttone, as though the thought had not crossed his mind. He looked from Cynric to the dagger he held in his hand, and then gave a slow, sad smile. ‘You misunderstand me, even now. It is not you I came here to kill, my friends. It is me.’

  And he took the knife and drew it in a quick slashing motion across his neck.

  Bartholomew dived towards Suttone as the friar collapsed slowly on the floor next to Wilson’s altar, tugging the knife from the inert fingers and flinging it away in disgust. He rammed the sleeve of the man’s tabard against the pumping wound in his neck, but he knew it would do no good. Even pressing as hard as he could, the blood dripped and spurted beneath his hands, and the rosiness gradually faded from Suttone’s face to be replaced by the waxy whiteness of death. Just as the feeble pulse began to flutter into stillness, Suttone turned his head and gazed at the sheeted form of Runham’s corpse, regarding it with a weary resignation, as though he considered that neither of them had won.

  Michael had dropped to his knees to begin intoning prayers for the dead. The white-haired Carmelite, who had entered the church with Cynric, Stanmore and William, hesitated, but then joined him. William did nothing but turn his bewildered gaze from the blood that flowed in a shiny red puddle across the chancel tiles to the damaged remains of Wilson’s altar.

  ‘What has Suttone done?’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘It is a dreadful sin to take the life God granted him in God’s own house, but to desecrate His altars, too? He is hell-bound for certain!’

  ‘Just pray,’ snapped Michael, taking a handful of William’s unsavoury habit and jerking the friar down to kneel next to him. ‘Suttone was a man who allowed friendship and loyalty to those he loved to cloud his judgement. He deserves our pity, not our condemnation.’

  ‘He is bound for the fierce fires and boiling brimstones of the Devil’s domain …’ began William, who relished voicing his extraordinarily vivid predictions of the nature of Hell.

  ‘Pray, Father, or I will see you join him there,’ hissed Michael venomously.

  Unused to such naked hostility from the equable monk, William quickly bent his head and began reciting the offices for the dead, taking a small phial of holy oil from his scrip to anoint Suttone.

  Bartholomew stepped away from the clerics, and walked outside, breathing deeply of the cool morning air with its scent of wet grass and the richer aroma of river. He was wiping his bloodstained hands on some moss when Stanmore came to join him, Cynric at his heels.

  ‘How did you know where we were?’ Bartholomew asked, recalling their timely entry.

  ‘We thought you were in dreadful danger, Matt,’ said Stanmore unsteadily. ‘Cynric and I were riding into town after making a delivery of cloth to Barnwell Priory, when that Carmelite asked us the way to Michaelhouse. We fell to talking as we went and he told us that he had been delayed in taking up a new appointment in your College by an accident.’

  Bartholomew looked up at him in dull resignation. ‘And I suppose his name is Thomas Suttone? The Carmelite friar who was due to be admitted as a Fellow of Michaelhouse at the same time as Clippesby?’

  Cynric nodded. ‘He was attacked as he journeyed south from Lincoln, and his arm was injured. He was obliged to wait for it to heal.’

  ‘Lincoln,’ said Bartholomew flatly. ‘Justus came from Lincoln.’

  ‘What of it?’ asked Stanmore. ‘So do a number of people, I should imagine.’

  ‘But not the man who has just slit his own throat,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He had probably never been to Lincoln, which is why Justus had to die. He could not risk Justus asking him awkward questions, and Justus might even know the real Suttone. Lincoln is not a very big place.’

  ‘Justus was murdered?’ asked Cynric. ‘I thought he had killed himself with his wine and his morose reminiscences.’

  ‘That is what we were supposed to think,’ said Bartholomew, looking down at the reddened moss at his feet, where he had wiped Suttone’s blood from his hands. ‘So who was Suttone? The false Suttone, I mean, not the real one.’

  ‘A man prepared to injure an innocent friar in order to take on his identity and conduct nasty business in Michaelhouse,’ said Stanmore angrily. ‘We saw the false Suttone – and he saw us – as we rushed into the College to tell you about him. By the time we had found William and he suggested you might be in the church, we realised that was probably where this impostor had headed, too, knowing his game was over.’

  ‘I thought we might be too late, boy,’ said Cynric unsteadily. ‘And you did not have me watching out for you in the shadows as usual.’

  ‘Suttone never intended to harm us,’ said Bartholomew wearily. ‘Michael sensed that – it was why he would not let me try to wrest the knife from him. I saw only a murderer, but Michael saw a tortured soul.’

  ‘He was a tortured soul who made an end to Master Runham, by the sound of it,’ said Stanmore unsympathetically. ‘Well, at least it is all over now. I heard this morning that you identified Caumpes as the man who killed the Bene’t scholars, and now you have the culprit for the Michaelhouse murders. It is over, Matt. Finished.’

  ‘I do not think so,’ said Bartholomew with a sigh. ‘We have Suttone’s confession that he smothered Justus, Wymundham and then Runham; and it seems that Raysoun’s fall from the scaffolding was exactly that – an accident. But Suttone claims he did not kill Brother Patrick or de Walton, and Caumpes says he did not either.’

  ‘As I have told you before,’ said Michael, emerging from the church and coming to stand with them, ‘murderers do not make for reliable witnesses, Matt. Suttone and Caumpes were lying.’

  ‘Suttone smothered his victims,’ said Bartholomew, leaning against one of the church’s buttresses. ‘But both Patrick and de Walton were stabbed.’

  ‘Then stabbing was probably what Caumpes did well,’ said Michael in exasperation. ‘Caumpes was certainly in the vegetable garden when de Walton died – and he almost turned you and me into human torches while he was at it.’

  ‘What about this wronged relative of Suttone’s?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps he stabbed Patrick and de Walton.’

  ‘Listening to Suttone’s confession has unsettled you, Matt,’ said Michael. ‘Let it go.’

  ‘Why were you so sure Suttone would not kill us?’ asked Bartholomew of the monk. ‘You would not even let me try to disarm him.’

  ‘I wish I had now,’ said Michael. ‘I did not think he would kill himself, either. I sensed he had come to confess, but I did not anticipate it would be a dying declaration.’

  ‘There are still some things I do not understand,’ said Bartholomew. ‘For example …’

  Michael tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Leave it, Matt. What we need to do now is to try to think where Runham might have hidden the rest of his treasure. If we can find it and show it to those workmen today, we might yet save Michaelhouse from harm.’

  ‘I think it is too late for that, boy,’ said Cynric nervously. ‘A mob has been massing in the Market Square since dawn. And it means to tear down Michaelhouse stone by stone.’

  While Stanmore hurried back to his business premises to make certain the rioters did not shift their attentions to the wealthy merchants’ properties on Milne Street, Bartholomew, Michael and Cynric, with William and the new Carmelite trailing behind, ran back to Michaelhouse with the cart full of soap.

  The atmosphere of the town had changed since Bartholomew and Michael had hurried through the darkened streets to the church earlier that morning. Then, the city had slept, silent and peaceful. Now, distant voices could be heard on the wind, angry and demanding. S
ensing that Cambridge was about to degenerate into one of its frequent spells of anarchy, people had closed the shutters on their windows, and their doors were locked and barred against attack. The High Street, which usually thronged with traders and travellers, was virtually deserted: its residents were either barricaded inside their homes to wait out the chaos that was to come, or had joined the crowd in the Market Square.

  ‘Oh, Lord, Matt!’ groaned Michael, as a sudden roar of furious voices reverberated around the empty streets from the Square. ‘We should not have wasted time listening to Suttone’s confession. Now we are too late to prevent this riot – and it is Michaelhouse’s fault!’

  ‘It is,’ agreed Cynric uncompromisingly. ‘You should not have dismissed the choir and the servants or tried to cheat the builders.’

  ‘Will the town really attack us?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Is there no way to prevent it?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Cynric. ‘You can give the workmen their due. Nothing less will spare Michaelhouse from being stormed by a good part of the town. They mean business, and I am not sure that even your strong walls will protect you this time.’

  They arrived at the College to find that Langelee had not been idle. He had barricaded the back gate and set a guard of servants to watch it, and had soldiers from the Castle lined up along the front wall with bows and arrows at the ready. The students were prepared to defend themselves and their College, too. They were armed with a vicious assortment of sharpened sticks, short swords and even a mace. Deynman and Bulbeck, directed by Clippesby, were dragging parts of the scaffolding to pile against the main gate, while Gray lined up the others like some kind of military parade.

  While Michael briefly outlined to the other Fellows what had happened to Suttone and about the treasure Wilson stole and Runham sold, Kenyngham scuttled back and forth in dismay, appalled that once again his College was to be the scene of violence. The new Carmelite – the real Suttone – took one look at the preparations that were underway and promptly fled, claiming he had left something at the friary on Milne Street. William watched him go with considerable disapproval.

  ‘Typical!’ he spat in disdain. ‘Carmelites are always far more interested in saving their own skins than in doing their duty. If he had not been so feeble over his injured arm, we would have known that the other Suttone was an impostor a good deal earlier. And then Runham might still be alive.’

  ‘Then thank the good Lord he is a malingerer,’ said Langelee fervently. ‘It was a black day for Michaelhouse when that evil tyrant was elected Master. If everyone had voted for me, then none of this would have happened.’

  ‘Never mind that,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘What we should be thinking about now is how to protect Michaelhouse.’

  ‘Michaelhouse will come to no harm,’ said Langelee confidently, laying a thick, calloused hand fondly on the creamy yellow stones of the front wall. ‘The rabble of builders and music-makers who plan to attack us will not make much headway against this.’

  ‘Music-makers?’ asked Kenyngham, startled, looking up from where he knelt among the pile of soap parings and recovered jewellery.

  ‘Forgive me, Master Kenyngham,’ said Langelee. ‘I had forgotten that the word “music” is not one that is usually associated with that gaggle of caterwaulers who like to be known as the choir.’

  ‘They are improving,’ said Michael, offended. ‘But I am sure my choir is not part of this mob.’

  ‘They are, Brother,’ said Cynric. ‘You have not reinstated them as they expected, and they are only too willing to vent their ire against Michaelhouse.’

  ‘We must find the rest of that treasure hidden by Wilson and Runham,’ said Michael urgently. ‘If we can show the mob that we do indeed possess ninety pounds, then they might disperse before any fighting begins. How much can we lay our hands on now?’

  ‘Probably about seventy pounds with the soap jewellery,’ said Langelee.

  ‘It is not enough,’ said Kenyngham. ‘These are not stupid men – they will know we are short.’

  ‘Ask Agatha to clean these baubles off,’ said Langelee, glancing down at the soapy bracelets and necklaces that lay on the ground. ‘If we pile them in the chest, the workmen may think we have more than we do.’

  Kenyngham shook his head. ‘They will want to see irrefutable evidence that we have the entire amount in cash – not a few pounds and a heap of trinkets.’

  ‘True,’ said William, picking up one of the pieces and inspecting it briefly with an experienced eye. ‘Many of these items are of little value – gilt and coloured glass.’

  ‘Then we must find where Runham stored the rest of his treasure,’ said Michael. ‘The only problem is, I do not know where to start.’

  ‘His room, of course,’ said William. ‘That is where Wilson hid a lot of it, you say. I will take a couple of students and start looking there right now.’

  ‘I will come with you,’ said Langelee, running after him. ‘The Master’s room is the finest chamber in the College, and I would not like to see it destroyed because you are impatient or unable to see that some of the furnishings are delicate. Kenyngham says he will resign again soon. The new Master will have to live in that room – and it might be me.’

  ‘Over my dead body,’ muttered Michael, as he left.

  ‘I suspect that Runham has removed anything easily recoverable from his room already,’ said Clippesby hesitantly. His hair, greasy and unkempt, stood in a spiky circle, so that with his staring eyes he had the look of a frightened cat. ‘And then he put them in the church, just as you told us. So, I think it would be better to look elsewhere for the rest.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Michael, barely looking at him as he desperately tried to think of ways to convince a furious mob that Michaelhouse was not twenty pounds short. ‘Where did you have in mind?’

  Clippesby looked blank for a moment, but then brightened. ‘He may have buried it in the orchard. I will go there.’

  ‘The orchard is a large place,’ said Bartholomew, regarding him uncertainly. ‘How will you know where to look?’

  ‘Voices,’ said Clippesby mysteriously. ‘I hear voices. They will tell me.’

  He strode away towards the small gate that led to the gardens. Bartholomew gazed after him, wondering whether to fetch him back.

  ‘That man is not sane, Matt,’ said Michael. ‘Voices indeed! Who does he think he is? The Virgin Mary?’

  ‘Remember what Runham said about him?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘That he was ill before he came to us? I imagine that the stresses and uncertainties of these past few days have unbalanced him, and that we have made the poor man ill again with our accusations and suspicions.’

  ‘Is it safe to allow him in the orchard, do you think?’ asked Kenyngham, wringing his hands in despair as he saw yet one more problem to contend with. ‘Are you sure he will not ram a spade through the skull of one of the students?’

  ‘I do not think so,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is best to leave him to his own devices. We will only distress him if we try to prevent him from doing what he wants.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Kenyngham unhappily. He pushed Clippesby from his mind, and turned his attention to the matter of the hidden gold. ‘I will look in the attics in the south wing.’

  ‘Take Deynman with you,’ suggested Bartholomew, his immediate thought to put his slow-witted student in a place where he might be safe if the mob attacked. ‘Gray and Bulbeck will stay here and ring the bell if the mob starts to mass outside.’

  ‘I do not think this treasure is in the College, boy,’ said Cynric in a low voice to Bartholomew.

  ‘Where is it, then?’ demanded Michael, overhearing and coming towards the Welshman. Cynric seldom ventured an opinion about such matters that was not worth hearing.

  ‘Do you remember giving me a document to look after when we were in Suffolk this summer? I hid it in a place where I said you would not think to look.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Michael, peeved. ‘I had to give you a shil
ling when I lost a bet that I would be able to guess where it was. And you have never told me where you put it.’

  ‘I put it under Master Alcote’s corpse,’ said Cynric. ‘In his coffin.’

  Bartholomew and Michael stared at him.

  ‘What are you suggesting?’ asked Michael uneasily. ‘That Runham hid the treasure in St Michael’s parish coffin?’

  ‘Not in the parish coffin,’ said Cynric. ‘In Master Wilson’s coffin – inside his tomb.’

  ‘But he would not dare!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, revolted. ‘Wilson died of the plague. Even a greedy man like Runham would not open the grave of a man taken by the pestilence.’

  ‘Are you sure about that?’ asked Cynric.

  Michael scratched his face, fingernails rasping on his bristles. ‘You may be right. Runham was certainly prepared to use the space in the altar to hide his ill-gotten gains. What was to stop him from storing the rest inside the tomb itself? It would certainly explain his unhealthy fascination with it.’

  ‘And the strong-smelling soap served not only to smuggle riches out of the College and into the church, but to disguise the stench from the open tomb,’ said Bartholomew.

  ‘That is an unpleasant suggestion, Matt,’ said Michael, wrinkling his nose in disgust. ‘But you are probably correct. And when Runham was kneeling at that grave, pretending to pray for his cousin, he was hiding his treasure for Caumpes to collect.’

  ‘When any of us saw him at the tomb, our immediate reaction was to avoid him,’ said Bartholomew. ‘None of us wanted to be invited to join him at his prayers, and I think we were all made uncomfortable by the devotion with which he revered Wilson’s memory.’

  He recalled Runham kneeling at the tomb the morning after his election, when he had fined the physician for being late. Bartholomew’s assumption that Runham had arrived early to catch him was wrong: Runham had arrived early to place some of the treasure in the church for Caumpes. He had not been cleaning when Bartholomew had arrived, but hiding his loot.

  ‘And Wilson and Runham did not even like each other,’ said Cynric. ‘Father Paul said that they had always been rivals, and that he was surprised Runham should be so determined to build a tomb for a man he hated.’