Bartholomew 06 - A Masterly Murder

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘Did you look at the body when you found it?’ asked Bartholomew.

  Horwoode sighed. ‘Of course I looked at it. I wanted to be certain the man was dead before I went for help.’

  ‘What do you mean by you “wanted to be certain the man was dead”?’ pressed Bartholomew curiously, tipsy enough to be incautious.

  Horwoode fixed him with a hostile glare. ‘Why are you questioning me? I sent for the Proctor, not you. And you are drunk! I can smell wine on your breath and you can barely stand without reeling.’

  ‘I am not drunk …’ began Bartholomew, although he knew he was not exactly sober.

  Horwoode overrode him. ‘I have been more than patient. You can carry Wymundham’s body back to Bene’t and that will be an end to the matter as far as I am concerned. The University can make enquiries if it likes, but they will not involve me. It is neither my fault nor my responsibility that this silly man chose my garden in which to die.’

  He snapped his fingers to his servant, who took Wymundham’s legs, leaving the beadle to struggle with the torso. Horwoode strode away.

  ‘You have done an admirable job of making enemies for yourself tonight, Matt,’ said Michael mildly. ‘First you anger the new Master of your College, and then you antagonise the Mayor of your town. If Runham manages to prise you out of Michaelhouse, you will need to stay on Horwoode’s good side if you want to practise medicine in Cambridge.’

  Bartholomew sighed and grabbed at the monk as he tripped over a root in the dark. ‘I should not have come. I told you I had drunk too much wine.’

  ‘So, what did your examination of the body reveal?’ asked Michael. ‘And do not say that you cannot know for certain until you have looked more closely, or that your wine-sodden mind could make no sense of what you saw. I want to know your suspicions now.’

  ‘I do not think he fell from the Ditch’s bank. I think someone held something over his face and smothered him until he was dead, pushing so hard that a tooth was snapped in the process.’

  They stumbled through the dark garden and took their leave of the Mayor. Horwoode held open the gate for them, and slammed it shut after they left, making a sound like a clap of thunder that started several dogs barking.

  ‘I wonder what the truth behind this is,’ mused Michael as they walked. ‘What was Wymundham doing at the bottom of Horwoode’s garden in the dead of night?’

  ‘He may not have been there in the dead of night,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘He was not at the Duke’s feast on Thursday – the day that Raysoun died – and so it is possible that the body could have been in the garden since then.’

  ‘It seems an odd place for Wymundham to go, though,’ said Michael. ‘Horwoode suggested that he does not encourage familiarity with the scholars of the College he helped to found, and it did not sound as though visiting Fellows would be made welcome. I do not understand why Wymundham should be found dead there of all places.’

  ‘Perhaps Horwoode is lying,’ said Bartholomew with a shrug that made him stagger. ‘Perhaps he asked Wymundham to meet him in his garden, so that he could prevent Wymundham from telling anyone what Raysoun said with his dying breath.’

  ‘But that implies Horwoode had something to do with Raysoun’s accident,’ said Michael. ‘And I think that highly unlikely. The Mayor, of all people, should know that good relations between the town and the University are vital for all concerned.’

  ‘Then I wish he would pass that on to Runham,’ said Bartholomew gloomily.

  ‘Forget Runham. But are you certain Wymundham was murdered? Are you sure you are not looking for evidence of a crime because you believe Wymundham was carrying some sordid secret, whispered to him by Raysoun – a secret I did not hear him reveal, I might add?’

  ‘It was dark by the Ditch and I could barely see, but I think I am right in saying Wymundham was smothered. But for now all I want to do is return to my damp little chamber in Michaelhouse and dream up ways to pay back Runham for what he did to Father Paul.’

  Michael shook his arm, unused to seeing his friend so bitter. ‘Do not dwell on that, Matt. I assure you I am quite capable of thinking up a way to extract revenge that will leave us untainted. If you had your way, you would have us both hanging from the Castle walls as Master-killers.’

  Bartholomew sighed. ‘So what do we do now? Is it too late to go to Bene’t to make enquiries about Wymundham?’

  Michael laughed softly. ‘Are you offering to help me? How unusual! I am invariably obliged to beg, bully or wheedle your assistance in matters of this nature. But, much as I would like to take advantage of you, there is little we can do tonight. I would rather talk to the Bene’t men in the cold light of day.’

  Bartholomew nodded. ‘I suppose I will be better at that when I am sober, too.’

  ‘Good. If Wymundham was murdered, then we cannot afford to make mistakes because you should have exercised more self-control with the College’s wine. Actually, there was enough of it to ensure the “celebrations” continue for at least half the night. Do you want to return to take part in them?’

  ‘I do not,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘Aside from the fact that I see nothing to be joyous about, that wine was overly strong.’

  ‘That gruesome brew is known to the student fraternity as “Widow’s Wine”,’ said Michael. ‘Surely, you have heard of it? It is the cheapest, strongest and nastiest drink money can buy – guaranteed to render you insensible after five glasses and probably dead after ten.’

  ‘I had four,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Are there any taverns open?’

  Michael laughed softly. ‘You are drunk, my friend! I have never before known you to suggest that we break the University’s rules and go carousing in the town’s inns.’

  ‘I do not want to carouse; I just want to sit somewhere warm and forget about Michaelhouse.’ He became aware of Michael’s hand moving rhythmically in the darkness. ‘Do not scratch, Brother. You have already made your arm worse.’

  ‘It itches like the Devil,’ complained Michael. ‘I thought it would ease once you had extracted the sting, but it did not.’

  ‘I will give you a salve to relieve it,’ said Bartholomew. He glanced up, aware that the sky was tipping and swirling unpleasantly. ‘Look, there is Matilde’s house with the candles lit.’

  ‘That means she is awake, then,’ said Michael gleefully. ‘Come on, Matt. I have not enjoyed a drink with her for a while, and she serves a better brew than you will find in any tavern.’

  ‘We cannot visit her now,’ said Bartholomew, horrified. ‘It must be nearing midnight.’

  ‘So?’ asked Michael. ‘Neither of us wants to return to Michaelhouse yet, and I often drop in on Matilde at the witching hour. She will not be surprised to see me.’

  ‘You do?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘You live dangerously, Brother! What would your Bishop say if word was leaked to him that his best agent was frequenting the houses of prostitutes in the middle of the night?’

  ‘He would probably assume I was there on his business,’ said Michael. ‘Matilde is an excellent source of information with her network of whores.’

  ‘And would he be right to assume such a thing?’

  Michael laughed and gave him a soft jab in the ribs. ‘Do I detect a note of jealousy, Matt? You had your chance – the woman is far more fond of you than you deserve, and yet you will not take the plunge and give her what she wants.’

  ‘I hope you do not …’ Bartholomew faltered, uncertain how to put his question.

  Michael laughed and poked him again. ‘I am a monk who has sworn a vow of celibacy.’ He gave a leering wink that was at odds with his claim, and, before Bartholomew could stop him, was across the road and down the dark alley in The Jewry to where Matilde’s house stood. He knocked on the door and waited. Low voices that had been murmuring within stopped abruptly.

  ‘She has company,’ said Bartholomew, backing away. ‘We should not have come.’

  When Matilde answered the door, he was al
ready halfway back up the alley, chagrined that they might be interrupting the town’s loveliest prostitute while she was entertaining clients. His feelings towards Matilde were ambiguous. While he considered her the most attractive woman he had ever set eyes on, her profession made any serious relationship with her difficult. Still, she was a good friend, and he had missed their long, intelligent discussions and shared confidences since his extra students and his ever-expanding treatise on fevers had claimed most of his spare moments.

  He heard Matilde’s exclamation of pleasure when she recognised Michael, and saw the monk ushered inside her house. Before she could close the door, Michael poked his head around it and called to the shadows.

  ‘It is safe for you to come in, Matt. Matilde’s visitors are only some of her sisters.’

  Bartholomew smiled sheepishly; the town’s prostitutes usually referred to themselves as sisters, much as members of the town’s guilds referred to themselves as brethren. Like a reluctant schoolboy on his way to lessons, he slowly retraced his footsteps down the alley and entered Matilde’s pleasant home.

  Matilde’s home in The Jewry had changed since Bartholomew had last seen it. The walls had been painted in an attractive diamond pattern of red and yellow, and there were matching tiles on the floor, partly covered by thick wool rugs. She had a new table, too, a handsome piece carved from pale oak, and there was a delicately wrought bowl of spun silver standing on it. Bartholomew wondered whether they were gifts from grateful clients.

  Matilde stood in the middle of the room holding a jug of wine. Yet again, Bartholomew was struck by her beauty. She had long, straight hair that shone with health and cleanness, and her simple dress of cornflower blue accentuated the exquisite curves of her slender body. Unlike others in her trade, she used no paints on the delicate pale skin of her face, and her complexion was smooth, soft and unblemished.

  She was entertaining two other women, both of whom Bartholomew had treated for various illnesses in the past. One was Una, the daughter of a sergeant at the Castle, and the other was Yolande de Blaston, the wife of one of the town carpenters who knew all about his wife’s nocturnal activities and felt nothing but grateful appreciation for the extra money she could earn to help support their nine children.

  Matilde was surprised to see Bartholomew. She froze in the act of pouring Yolande a drink when he stepped across her threshold, and regarded him with arched eyebrows.

  ‘And to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?’ she asked. ‘Do you want me to supply information about the latest murder you are investigating? Or do you need me to arrange support for digging a new town rubbish pit or cleaning the wells?’

  Bartholomew was taken aback by the coolness in her voice, and wondered what he had done to offend her. Meanwhile, Michael squeezed between Yolande and Una on a cushioned bench that was barely large enough for two, and settled himself comfortably, fat legs thrown out in front of him, and his arms stretched along the back of the seat, almost, but not quite, touching the shoulders of the two women.

  ‘Right,’ said the monk, favouring Matilde with a contented beam as the two women giggled. ‘Do you have any of that good Italian wine you shared with me last time I was here?’

  Bartholomew regarded him suspiciously. ‘And when was that?’

  Michael flapped a dismissive hand. ‘I do not recall precisely. But as it happens, Matilde, you are right – there is a case that you might be able to help us with.’

  ‘I thought there might be,’ she said, leaving to fetch the wine from the small parlour at the back of the house. ‘That is the only reason he would visit me these days.’

  ‘You seem to be out of favour, Matt,’ said Michael once she had gone.

  ‘Small wonder,’ said Yolande, treating Bartholomew to an unpleasant look. ‘He only ever comes to see her when he wants something. She was telling us only last night that he had not visited her in almost two months, and now he turns up only to see whether she knows anything about some horrible University crime. But, since he is here, I have a swollen foot that he can look at.’

  ‘And I have painful gums,’ added Una. ‘It is good he came tonight – now I will not have to rise early in the morning to go to see him.’

  ‘You want me to examine you now?’ asked Bartholomew unenthusiastically, wishing they would not talk about him as though he were not there. And anyway, with the room revolving around him in a way that was making him feel sick, he did not feel he should be doctoring anyone.

  ‘You are a physician and here are two charming ladies who need physicking,’ said Michael contentedly. ‘Where lies the problem? Get on with it, man!’

  Bartholomew was kneeling on the floor with Yolande’s foot in his hands when Matilde entered with the wine. He glanced up, then grabbed at Yolande’s knee as the sudden movement upset his precarious balance.

  ‘You have had more than enough wine already, Matthew,’ she remarked, as she handed Michael his cup. ‘You are drunk!’

  ‘He has imbibed four cups of Widow’s Wine,’ explained Michael.

  ‘That is an apprentices’ brew!’ said Matilde incredulously. ‘Why would a perfectly sane adult who values his health drink Widow’s Wine? Was he trying to do away with himself?’

  ‘Do not be so hard on it,’ said Una. ‘I like a drop of Widow’s Wine myself on occasion.’

  ‘The occasion must be when you are too drunk to know what is good for you,’ said Matilde, unimpressed. ‘Personally, I would never touch the stuff. I have heard that it is brewed with pine resin to give it its strength, and that a dead fox is added to the vats to improve its flavour.’

  Bartholomew felt more sick than ever.

  ‘That is why it is popular with young men,’ said Yolande. ‘My husband’s apprentices love it. It is cheap, strong and, after the first cup, its taste does not matter. Were you two out on the town, then, indulging in a little debauchery to break the monotony of all those books you read?’

  ‘We elected two new Fellows tonight,’ said Bartholomew. ‘After the ceremony, we had a feast.’

  ‘With Widow’s Wine?’ asked Matilde, laughing in amused horror. ‘Is that how Michaelhouse scholars choose to celebrate?’

  ‘I cannot imagine what Master Kenyngham was thinking of,’ agreed Michael. ‘I suppose he was offered a few barrels cheaply, and did not know its reputation. It is powerful stuff. I, too, feel a little more merry than I would usually do after a mere nine cups.’

  ‘So, which is the latest murder you are investigating?’ asked Yolande, as she watched Bartholomew bend carefully to resume his examination of her foot. She snapped her fingers. ‘It must be the one where the Franciscan was stabbed in the grounds of Ovyng Hostel.’

  ‘That is one of them,’ said Michael. ‘I do not suppose any of the sisterhood saw someone fleeing the scene of that little crime, did they?’

  The three women shook their heads.

  ‘But it was probably another scholar,’ suggested Una helpfully. ‘It has all the hallmarks of an internal killing.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Michael drolly. ‘And what would those be, pray?’

  Matilde made an impatient sound at the back of her throat. ‘You know very well, Michael. When townsmen kill a scholar, it is nearly always in the heat of the moment, during or after a brawl. But this friar was killed silently and quickly, with no witnesses. It was clearly no spontaneous attack, but a carefully planned murder – an academic murder.’

  Michael looked thoughtful. ‘You may be right. But I have absolutely nowhere to start with this one – Brother Patrick was fairly new to Ovyng Hostel, and had no time to make serious enemies. And he came from a tiny friary in a part of Norfolk that no one has ever heard of, so I doubt a quarrel could have followed him here.’

  ‘Perhaps he saw something he should not have done, and was killed in order to ensure his silence,’ suggested Una.

  ‘But you just said the killing bore the hallmarks of a carefully planned execution,’ said Michael. ‘That does not tally with
Patrick seeing something and an assailant deciding he should not live to tell the tale. Saw what, anyway?’

  ‘It is more likely that he heard something,’ said Matilde thoughtfully.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Michael. ‘Did you know Brother Patrick?’

  ‘Only by reputation,’ said Matilde carefully.

  ‘But he had only recently arrived at Ovyng Hostel,’ said Michael. ‘How could he have a reputation?’

  ‘It does not take long to establish one,’ Matilde pointed out. ‘One of the sisters entertained him on several occasions and was astonished at the amount of gossip he knew, even though he had only been in the town for a few weeks.’

  ‘Patrick was a gossip?’ asked Michael.

  ‘Quite a shameless one,’ said Matilde. ‘From what I could tell, he and our sister spent most of their time together engaged in a scurrilous exchange of information. That is why I suggested that he may have been killed because he had heard something someone did not want him to know.’

  ‘But gossips seldom know secrets worth much,’ said Michael. ‘Because they are gossips, people do not tend to confide in them, and they only have access to information that is common knowledge. I do not think his loose tongue would have been sufficient reason to kill him.’

  ‘My experience tells me otherwise,’ argued Matilde. ‘No one likes a gossip – especially if his tale-telling harms you or your loved ones.’

  ‘What is the other case you have?’ asked Una, watching Bartholomew manipulate Yolande’s foot with the exaggerated care of the intoxicated. ‘You said the friar’s death was one of the ones you were working on – what is the other?’

  ‘Is it the one where the baker killed the potter in the King’s Head?’ asked Yolande. ‘Or the one where the surgeon Robin of Grantchester is accused of murdering Master Saddler by chopping off his leg on Thursday afternoon?’

  ‘Neither of those,’ said Michael.

  ‘Robin has been charged with Saddler’s murder?’ asked Bartholomew, looking up in horror. ‘But Saddler was ill anyway. His leg should have been amputated weeks ago, but he refused to allow anyone to do it.’