The Habit of Murder: The Twenty Third Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew Book 23)

by Susanna Gregory

  Then Badew was taken ill with indigestion – no surprise there, thought Bartholomew, as he prepared a soothing remedy – forcing everyone to wait until the pain had subsided. A muttered remark about gluttony by Pulham sparked yet another ill-tempered tiff, this time between Clare Hall and Swinescroft.

  And finally, there was a fractious debate when a pack of farmers demanded a substantial and illegal fee for the privilege of riding through their village. Donwich wanted to pay it, on the grounds that a detour would take them too far out of their way, but Langelee refused. He claimed it was on principle, although Bartholomew and Michael knew it was to conserve their scant funds. He capitulated only when an exasperated Donwich offered to pay the whole amount himself.

  They rode on, the three Michaelhouse men watching anxiously as daylight began to fade. Dark clouds massed overhead, promising an early dusk and rain before morning. Langelee urged his pony into a trot, but although the others matched his pace, nightfall came when they still had at least another five miles to go. Then they saw lights gleaming in the gloom ahead.

  ‘That is Kedyngton,’ said Donwich. ‘It would be folly to press on tonight, so we shall stay there and continue in the morning.’

  ‘But the funeral,’ argued Langelee worriedly. ‘It will—’

  ‘I cannot see it starting before midday,’ interrupted Roos, ‘so we shall arrive in plenty of time. The White Horse here will accommodate us. I have stayed there before, and it is a lovely place.’

  The White Horse was an upmarket establishment that cost considerably more than Langelee was willing to spend. It was busy, and there were only two rooms left, which Clare Hall and Swinescroft quickly bagged for themselves. The landlord was acutely embarrassed that he was unable to accommodate all the scholars from the famous University, and declared himself much relieved when Langelee graciously agreed to accept three straw pallets in the hayloft free of charge.

  ‘I wish we had come alone,’ said Michael, eyeing the makeshift beds in distaste before choosing the one he thought would be the most comfortable. ‘We would have been there by now.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Langelee, watching a servant bring water, so they could rinse away the dust of travel; it was cold, so Bartholomew was the only one who bothered. ‘Or maybe we would be lying in a ditch without our ears. I sensed eyes on us a mile back – Simon Freburn’s, no doubt. He would have chanced his hand if we had been three rather than eight.’

  Bartholomew was astonished to hear it. ‘You think it was our companions who struck fear into the hearts of these hardened robbers? Three elderly men and two prancing monkeys?’

  ‘Swinescroft and Clare Hall are no warriors,’ agreed Langelee. ‘But neither is Freburn, and he was loath to risk a skirmish in which he would be quite so heavily outnumbered.’

  Michael murmured a prayer of thanks for their deliverance. ‘I wish Cynric could have come,’ he said, referring to Bartholomew’s book-bearer, who was almost as formidable a fighter as the Master. ‘It is a pity he is away visiting kin in Wales.’

  ‘We shall be safe enough if the eight of us stick together,’ averred Langelee. ‘But I shall be glad to be home again, even so.’

  ‘Yes, we shall attend the funeral, collect our inheritance, and hurry home with it as soon as we can,’ determined Michael. ‘Fortunately, none of our party can dally in Clare, given that term starts next week. We all need to be back.’

  ‘But we three have the strongest reasons not to linger,’ sighed Langelee. ‘You left our University in the dubious hands of Chancellor Suttone, while I had to appoint Father William as Acting Master. Neither can be trusted alone for long.’ He glanced at Bartholomew. ‘And you have a wedding to arrange.’

  Bartholomew experienced a familiar stab of unease as he contemplated the changes that were about to occur in his life. The University did not allow scholars to marry, so he would have to resign from Michaelhouse and move into the little house that his betrothed, Matilde, had bought. He would no longer be able to teach, and he knew he would miss the intellectual stimulation of the debating chamber. To take his mind off it, he turned the discussion to Clare.

  ‘I still do not understand why you think the Lady left us something in her will. Perhaps she did like us, but she also liked other foundations, including several nunneries, her local community of Austin friars and Clare Hall – the place that named itself after her. They are far more likely to be remembered than us.’

  ‘We should have left him behind,’ said Langelee to Michael. ‘His attitude is entirely wrong. We must give the impression that she definitely promised us a legacy, so if it transpires that she did not, we can claim it was an oversight and demand one anyway.’

  ‘There is no need to explain it to me,’ said Michael irritably. ‘I have been browbeating awkward executors for years. Matt is the one who needs priming.’

  ‘We must approach—’ began Langelee.

  ‘I know what to do,’ interrupted Bartholomew impatiently. ‘And I shall do my best, although you should have brought someone else. I am not very good at this sort of thing.’

  ‘Unfortunately, we had no choice,’ replied Langelee. ‘The other Fellows either had duties that kept them in Cambridge, or they would have been even worse at it than you. And do not say Michael and I could have come alone – we had to send a bigger deputation than Clare Hall, so it will look as though we care more about honouring her.’

  A series of unwise investments and poor financial decisions meant that Michaelhouse had been teetering on the brink of fiscal ruin for years, but every time the Master and his Fellows managed to remedy the situation, something happened to put them back to square one again. For example, a handsome donation from York had been eaten up by urgent repairs to the roof, while the generous gift of a pier, which should have brought in a steady income, had been lost to fire – not once but twice. The second inferno had been especially disheartening, and Bartholomew was not the only one who was beginning to wonder if they were cursed.

  ‘We should sleep,’ said Langelee, and snuffed out the candle before his Fellows could demur. ‘All that quarrelling was very tiring, and I am exhausted.’

  ‘I hope we are mentioned in the will,’ muttered Michael, groping about in the dark for a blanket. ‘It will be much easier than persuading her executors that we should have been.’

  ‘If only she had chosen to finance us fourteen years ago,’ sighed Langelee. ‘Donwich and Pulham do not have to fret about how much Clare Hall has been left.’

  ‘Do not be so sure,’ countered Michael. ‘Relations between them have been strained these past few years, because she insisted on meddling in their affairs. She wanted to control every aspect of their lives – who should have which room, how much ale they drink, what entertainment should be provided at Christmas …’

  ‘Then they are petulant fools,’ declared Langelee. ‘I would have swallowed however much ale she stipulated in return for sixty pounds a year.’

  ‘Why do you think Swinescroft really wanted to come?’ asked Bartholomew, after a while. ‘I do not believe it is to gloat over her death. Not even they are that spiteful.’

  ‘Never underestimate the power of malice, Matt,’ warned Michael. ‘Especially from that trio. I recommend that we watch them very closely while we are in Clare, because we do not want their vindictiveness to turn the executors against all scholarly foundations.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Langelee drowsily. ‘So let us hope they behave themselves, because I am loath to use my sword on such elderly colleagues.’

  Bartholomew hoped the Master was speaking metaphorically; Michael knew he was not.

  Bartholomew had wanted to visit Clare ever since he had heard a description of it several years earlier, so he had been pleased when Langelee had ordered him to accompany him and Michael, despite his misgivings about hoodwinking the Lady’s executors. But he had not imagined that the journey would be plagued by such a gamut of emotions.

  When he had first become intrigued by the place, it
was because he had liked the sound of its setting on the River Stour and its wealth of handsome houses. However, he had since learned that Matilde had lived there after the misunderstanding that had caused her to leave him – he had been slow in asking her to be his wife, which she had interpreted as a disinclination to give up teaching for a life of wedded bliss. He had hunted for her for months afterwards, travelling as far afield as France, and had later been stunned to discover that she had been in Clare – virtually on his doorstep – the whole time.

  Once she had learned that a future with him was still possible, Matilde had set about earning a fortune in venture capital, aware that Bartholomew would not be able to keep her in the style to which she was accustomed – most of his patients were paupers, who were not only unable to pay for his services, but who needed him to buy their medicines into the bargain. When she felt she had accumulated enough, she had returned to Cambridge and waited for him to renew his courtship.

  It had not been easy to accept her back into his life again. Both had changed in the years they had been apart, and while he still loved her deeply, all was not harmonious perfection. They argued more than they had, and neither remembered the other as being quite so stubborn. Or was it simply that they were now thrust together a lot more? One of the reasons Bartholomew had been glad to visit Clare was that it provided them both with an opportunity to step back and reflect on their relationship and decision to marry.

  ‘I hate Suffolk,’ grumbled Michael, breaking into his thoughts, as they rode along side by side the following morning. ‘Every time I step over its borders, it rains. It was sunny in Cambridge.’

  The weather had indeed taken a turn for the worse overnight. There was a persistent and drenching downpour that looked set to continue for the rest of the day, the sky was a solid, unbroken grey, and everything dripped. There was new growth in the hedgerows they passed, and celandines and primroses dappled the banks, but their bright colours were dulled by the sullen light.

  The rain soon turned the track slick with mud, so progress was both slow and uncomfortable. Thus no one minded very much when Badew declared himself to be too tired to continue, and demanded that they stop at a wayside inn for refreshments. Clare Hall and Swinescroft then proceeded to order themselves handsome repasts of roasted meat and bread, but Langelee shook his head in alarm when Michael started to do the same. The monk, however, was not a man to let a small thing like money stand between him and his stomach.

  ‘My colleague can cure that painful knee of yours,’ he informed the landlord confidently. ‘Of course, you could never afford the fees of a famous University physician, but I am in a generous mood, so we shall allow you to provide us with a meal instead.’

  ‘I wish you would not do that, Brother,’ whispered Bartholomew crossly, once the grateful patient had hobbled away clutching a pot of salve. ‘What would have happened if he had been suffering from something I could not help him with? Would you have returned his food?’

  ‘I doubt he would want it now,’ retorted Michael, wiping grease from his chin. ‘But you did heal him, so where lies the problem?’

  Bartholomew knew there was no point in arguing. He glanced to the other side of the room, where Donwich, Badew and Roos had embarked on an ill-natured debate over whether Clare was a large village or a small town. It should not have been a subject that provoked high passions, but it was not long before they were screeching at each other. Wincing at the racket, Harweden came to join the Michaelhouse men, and without a by-your-leave, began to pick at their food. Michael and Langelee were naturally indignant, so soon a second spat was under way.

  Unwilling to be dragged into it, Bartholomew went to sit with Pulham, who was reading by the fire. To be civil, he politely asked if the book was from Clare Hall’s library, brought on the journey lest the ceiling leaked again.

  ‘No, it belongs to me,’ Pulham replied, laying an affectionate hand on its exquisitely crafted cover – soft red leather with letters picked out in gold. ‘It is my most cherished possession, and far too valuable to leave in a place where some grubby undergraduate might get hold of it.’

  Bartholomew blinked his incomprehension at the sentiment. He was always delighted when a student expressed an interest in reading one of his books, as it meant the lad wanted to know what was inside – and education was the reason they were all there, after all.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘A legal text?’

  ‘A Book of Hours. It was crafted by John de Weste, who is cofferer at Clare Priory and also one of the country’s finest illustrators. I am sure you have heard of him.’

  Bartholomew shook his head apologetically. Books of Hours were devotional tracts, filled with prayers and psalms. He barely had time to study the medical tomes he was obliged to teach, so religious books were a luxury with which he was wholly unfamiliar.

  ‘It cost a fortune,’ Pulham went on. ‘But the moment I saw it, I knew I had to make it my own. Just look at the pictures – each one is a work of art.’

  Bartholomew leaned forward to see an intricate pastoral scene, showing a blue-frocked shepherd tending his flock in attractively rolling countryside. Birds fluttered overhead and the sun shone. Yet darkness lurked, because Satan was watching from behind a tree. The Devil was depicted peculiarly – he had a tail and cloven hoofs, but his head was that of a man with a mane of white hair and snowy whiskers. Something about the face was vaguely familiar, although Bartholomew could not have said why.

  ‘It is beautiful,’ he acknowledged. ‘But surely you could have left it with a trusted colleague? What happens if it gets rained on? Or lost?’

  ‘I brought it with me because I have discovered a flaw,’ explained Pulham. ‘In that picture, as a matter of fact. I want Weste to put it right.’

  ‘What flaw?’ asked Bartholomew, studying the page again. ‘The fact that lambs tend not to be born in high summer, which is what seems to be happening in the left-hand corner?’

  ‘Is it?’ Pulham peered at it. ‘Lord, so it is! I had not noticed, but I am not a farmer, so it does not matter. No, I refer to Satan, who is far too human-looking for my liking. He should—’

  He stopped abruptly when the tome was ripped from his hand by Roos, who peered at the picture briefly, then flung the whole thing into the fire. Pulham gave a shriek of dismay and leapt to rescue it, but Roos grabbed his belt and held him back. Equally appalled – he had never approved of book-burning – Bartholomew darted forward and managed to pluck the volume from the flames. The pastoral illustration was gone, but the other pages were mostly unscathed.

  ‘What is wrong with you?’ Pulham howled at Roos, snatching the book from Bartholomew and cradling it to his breast. ‘Are you mad?’

  ‘It is a vile piece of heresy,’ snarled Roos, lunging for it again, ‘and the fire is the only place for it. Give it to me, or I shall tell everyone that you are a warlock.’

  ‘Roos, stop,’ ordered Bartholomew sharply, thinking this was unacceptable behaviour even by Swinescroft standards. ‘It is a Book of Hours – it contains prayers and psalms. There is nothing untoward about it. Show him, Pulham.’

  ‘Yes, look at it!’ screeched Pulham, waving the damaged bit at Roos as tears started from his eyes. ‘Look at what you have done to an exquisite piece of art, you damned lunatic!’

  Roos peered briefly at it, then turned and stalked away. ‘Just keep it away from me,’ he snapped over his shoulder as he went.

  Bartholomew could only suppose that breaking off the altercation so abruptly was Roos’s way of acknowledging that he had made a mistake. Clearly, an apology was not going to be forthcoming.

  ‘The man is insane,’ sobbed Pulham, hugging the book to him again. ‘I feel like clouting him over the head with it, and continue bashing until his brains fall out.’

  Bartholomew started to reply, but was distracted by raised voices from the other side of the room. Badew was ill again, which was small wonder given the amount of food he had just managed to pack away. Unfortunately
, he was more inclined to blame his discomfort on someone else rather than admit his greed, and had accused Donwich of poisoning him.

  ‘You do not want me to go to Clare,’ the old man was declaring, eyes flashing hotly, ‘because you are afraid of what I might tell people there.’

  ‘I assure you,’ drawled Donwich, with the kind of arrogance that was sure to rankle, ‘nothing you say could matter less to me. You are an irrelevance.’

  ‘Is that so?’ snarled Badew. ‘Well, you can think again, because I know things – secrets that will put the Lady’s executors in a flutter.’

  ‘What secrets?’ asked Michael curiously.

  Badew smirked tauntingly. ‘You will have to wait and see. Come, Roos, Harweden. The company here has begun to stink, and I can stand it no longer.’

  ‘Thank God we are nearly there,’ muttered Langelee, as they stepped into the teeming rain for the last leg of their journey. ‘I do not think I can take much more of this bickering – they are worse than fractious children.’

  As soon as he saw it, Bartholomew understood exactly why Elizabeth de Burgh had chosen to make Clare her seat of power. It was a jewel of a place, even in the rain with water sluicing down its roofs and tumbling along its gutters. It was dominated by the castle, a vast fortress that occupied a sizeable tract of land, all protected by curtain walls, ditches, ramparts and towers. However, the inner bailey buildings had plenty of large windows, suggesting it was as much a palace as a military garrison. Outside the walls, but still within the encircling moat, were gardens, orchards and vineyards.

  The town itself was just as splendid, and Bartholomew looked around with interest as he rode, admiring the decorative plasterwork on the houses of those who had grown rich from Clare’s strategic position on the River Stour and the great castle on its doorstep. There was an atmosphere of conceited well-being among the people he passed, but no indication that the Lady’s death was cause for sorrow. Perhaps they were glad to see the back of her, he thought, recalling her as a domineering woman with firmly held opinions.