Bartholomew 06 - A Masterly Murder

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘Really?’ asked Isnard, fascinated to hear that a man with as fine a tomb as Wilson’s had been so unscrupulous in life. ‘What kind of things did he take?’

  ‘Anything, really,’ hedged Dunstan. ‘Money, jewels, clothes. Am I not right, Doctor?’

  Bartholomew swallowed. He was not aware that Wilson had been dishonest, but he had been secretive, and while Bartholomew could not see him climbing up guttering in the dead of night to burgle a house, he could certainly envisage him cheating someone, or indulging in a little creativity while doing the College accounts.

  ‘I have not … I do not …’ he began falteringly.

  ‘He does not know,’ said Aethelbald, waving a dismissive hand in Bartholomew’s direction. ‘He was out physicking the sick during the plague, and had no idea what the Master of Michaelhouse did in the privacy of his rooms. But it is common knowledge in the town that Wilson had great piles of stolen gold and silver there when he died.’

  Then common knowledge was mistaken, Bartholomew thought to himself. He had been in the room when Wilson had died, and there had been no gold and silver – stolen or otherwise – that he had seen. Like many stories about the plague, telling and retelling had resulted in ever more flagrant digressions from the truth.

  ‘I have never heard about any of this,’ said Isnard dubiously. ‘If it is common knowledge, then how come I did not know?’

  Dunstan shrugged. ‘You obviously frequent the wrong taverns. If you want to hear stories about the University, you need to be in the Brazen George, not the King’s Head.’

  ‘I shall remember that,’ said Isnard. He turned to Bartholomew and returned to his original grievance. ‘But your College cheated us. It might not be your doing, but someone will pay for it.’

  ‘Here,’ said Bartholomew, taking his purse from his side and handing it to Isnard. ‘You are right, and I am sorry. It is not much, but it is all I have, and should buy enough bread for everyone.’

  ‘But not ale,’ said Isnard, regarding the meagre contents of Bartholomew’s purse with disappointment. ‘We do not want your money, Doctor. We want to see that fat, pompous ass strung up on the walls of his own College, so that we can watch the life slowly choking out of him.’

  ‘That is dangerous talk,’ said Bartholomew, alarmed by the chorus of vehement agreement that rose around him. ‘I know you are angry, but perhaps Michael will be able to persuade Runham to reinstate you. Do not do anything that might jeopardise that.’

  ‘He is right,’ said Dunstan reluctantly. ‘We should all go home and meet again tomorrow, when we are better able to think clearly. If we march on Michaelhouse now and drag Runham from his breakfast trough to execute him, we might never be employed as choristers again.’

  With relief, Bartholomew saw the choir accept this cold logic, and they began to disperse. One or two of the smaller children were crying, and Bartholomew suspected that Dunstan would not be the only one going hungry that day.

  ‘But we will never accept that mad-looking Clippesby as our leader,’ Aethelbald called over his shoulder as he left. ‘We will only have Brother Michael.’

  ‘I will tell him,’ promised Bartholomew.

  ‘Do not tell Michael – he knows that already – tell that pig Runham,’ said Isnard. ‘It is he who needs to know.’

  Bartholomew leaned against a pillar when the door closed behind the last of them. Despite the coldness of the day, he was sweating and the back of his shirt was sodden. He took a deep breath, wondering what other evils Runham would perpetrate in his time as Master – if the man managed to survive that long.

  Bartholomew had not been sitting alone in St Michael’s Church for more than a few moments when a familiar voice spoke softly at his side. He looked up to see Master Kenyngham standing over him, his face white in the gloom. He was puzzled to see that the gentle Gilbertine was shaking, and that tears glistened on his cheeks.

  ‘Thank the Lord you are all right,’ Kenyngham whispered unsteadily. ‘I thought they were going to kill you where you stood – in God’s holy church!’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ asked Bartholomew, standing to take the friar’s arm and lead him to a bench at the back of the nave, so that the old Master might sit and compose himself.

  ‘I came to find you,’ said Kenyngham in a voice that was dull with shock. ‘I had just entered the church when I saw that mob close in on you and – God forgive me – I was too afraid for my own safety to come to your assistance. I was so paralysed with fear that I could not even find the voice to cry out to make them stop.’

  ‘But you are not well,’ said Bartholomew kindly, recalling that Kenyngham had been as pallid and unhealthy as the rest of the scholars in the church that morning. Kenyngham was also unused to the violent effects of the infamous Widow’s Wine. ‘You are pale.’

  ‘That was our choir, Matthew!’ cried the friar, distraught. ‘They were men and boys who have enjoyed our hospitality for years, and who have joined their voices with ours to rejoice in the glory of God.’

  ‘They joined their voices with ours in order to earn their bread and ale,’ said Bartholomew bluntly. ‘And it was fury at the injustice of losing it that led them to contemplate violence. These are hungry people for whom the College provides a valued service – not the other way around.’

  ‘Were they right?’ Kenyngham asked suddenly. ‘About Master Wilson, I mean. Did he really seduce the Prioress of St Radegund’s?’

  ‘I do not know if “seduce” is the right word,’ said Bartholomew, ‘but they had an understanding.’

  ‘Horrible!’ exclaimed Kenyngham, putting his hands over his face. Bartholomew could not help but agree: the notion of the smug Master Wilson pawing any woman, religious or otherwise, was repellent. ‘And the stolen property? Is it true that the whole town knows Wilson was a thief?’

  ‘I do not think so,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Wilson was not a good man, but I never heard anything to suggest that he did anything dishonest – although it would not have surprised me if he had.’

  ‘Wilson was less than scrupulous with some people,’ said Kenyngham reluctantly. ‘I encountered discrepancies in his accounting when I became Master, and a number of people approached me and asked whether various items had appeared in the College coffers after Wilson had died.’

  ‘You mean Wilson was a thief?’ asked Bartholomew, vaguely amused.

  ‘I did not say that,’ said Kenyngham carefully. ‘The accounting inconsistencies were possibly honest mistakes, and he may have had nothing to do with the missing items. It is wrong to speak ill of the dead, especially in a church, where the mortal remains of the man we are maligning lie so close to hand.’

  ‘I had no idea he stole,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘I thought he was just unpleasant, vindictive and scheming.’

  ‘Really, Matthew,’ admonished Kenyngham. ‘The poor man may be in Purgatory at this very moment, repenting his evil deeds so that he may move on to a happier place. Saying such dreadful things about him will not help. And anyway, to speak ill of the dead might encourage their tortured souls to come and haunt us.’

  ‘Then Wilson would have been rattling his chains in the depths of the night long before this,’ said Bartholomew practically. ‘Or perhaps the problem is that so many people have spoken ill of him, he does not know whom to haunt first.’

  ‘Matthew!’ cried Kenyngham, genuinely distressed. ‘Enough! I would never have started this conversation had I known the way it would end. I only wanted to know whether the town was aware of the less saintly aspects of Wilson’s character.’

  ‘If the townsfolk really believed Wilson was a thief, you would have heard about it long before today,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But now that Runham is Master, he will have less time to spend venerating Wilson’s memory and the malicious rumours will soon die away. Do not worry, Father.’

  Kenyngham gave a shuddering sigh. ‘I suppose you are right. But Runham’s incumbency has not started well at all. What will Michael say when he hears t
he choir is no longer his? I went to break the bad news to him, but I found I could not.’

  ‘Where did you see him? At breakfast?’

  Kenyngham shook his head. ‘He did not appear for breakfast, and I was worried. Have you noticed that Michael seldom misses a meal?’

  ‘I have noticed, yes,’ said Bartholomew slowly, when Kenyngham paused, obviously expecting an answer to what was hardly an astute observation.

  ‘So I went to see if he was in his room.’ ‘And?’ asked Bartholomew, when Kenyngham paused again.

  ‘And he is unwell,’ said Kenyngham. ‘That is why I am here. I remembered you had not joined the procession that walked back to the College, and so I assumed you must have stayed here for some private prayer. Then, when I entered, and I saw that our choir had turned from a heavenly throng to a band of would-be killers …’

  He faltered, and Bartholomew resisted the urge to laugh. He wondered whether anyone but Kenyngham would be so other-worldly as to see the likes of Dunstan, Aethelbald and Isnard as a heavenly throng.

  ‘What is wrong with Michael?’ he asked. ‘Was it the Widow’s Wine? I had four glasses, and they made me reel like a drunkard, but he claims to have downed nine. I am surprised he even knew where his feet were, let alone used them to walk to Mayor Horwoode’s house.’

  ‘It was not the wine,’ said Kenyngham. ‘He was complaining that his arm hurt, and he wanted me to fetch you. You had better go to see him. I will stay here for a while, to contemplate on what I have learned from this experience.’

  He took a deep breath and clasped his hands in front of him, his eyes fixed on the Great Bible that sat on the lectern in the sanctuary.

  ‘Have you learned that you would have done better to vote for Father William?’ asked Bartholomew, smiling in an attempt to lighten the Gilbertine’s gloom. ‘Or better still, that we should have ignored Langelee’s accusations and elected Michael?’

  Kenyngham did not smile back. ‘I have learned that I should never have resigned in the first place,’ he said. Tears began to flow again. ‘God forgive me! What have I done?’

  When Bartholomew arrived back at Michaelhouse, Cynric was just leaving, and his face was as black as thunder. Everyone else was at breakfast, summoned by the shrill little bell that hung near the porters’ lodge. Usually, there was someone scurrying late to the hall, but no one dared to take that kind of liberty with Runham in charge, and the courtyard was empty.

  ‘Where are you going?’ asked Bartholomew in surprise, seeing his book-bearer cloaked, gloved and carrying a bundle over his shoulder. ‘I thought you were on breakfast duty today.’

  ‘I was, boy,’ said Cynric in a muffled voice. ‘But Master Runham has just informed me that he no longer needs my services and I have been dismissed from Michaelhouse.’

  ‘What?’ exclaimed Bartholomew, aghast. ‘But he cannot do that! He—’

  ‘Whether he can or cannot, he has, and that is an end to it,’ said Cynric, pushing past the physician and heading for the lane.

  ‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘Even a Master cannot dismiss a servant without the other Fellows’ consent. You are not dismissed, Cynric.’

  ‘He had their consent,’ said Cynric bitterly. ‘Langelee and Clippesby agreed to support Runham in his “economies”, although at least William tried to prevent me from being thrown out like a dirty rag.’

  ‘But Langelee and Clippesby alone are not enough,’ protested Bartholomew. ‘Runham needs the votes of the majority of Fellows to pass a decision like that.’

  ‘Father Paul, you, Brother Michael and Master Kenyngham were absent at the breakfast meeting, and that newcomer – Suttone – abstained again on the grounds that he does not know enough of the College to decide such matters, although I could see he was uncomfortable with the notion of throwing loyal men out on to the streets. But with Clippesby and Langelee voting with Runham, your fine new Master had his majority.’

  ‘But you cannot just go,’ said Bartholomew in horror, grabbing his servant’s arm. ‘Come with me to see Runham now. We will sort this out—’

  ‘The decision has been made,’ said Cynric, looking away. ‘You are too late, boy.’

  ‘But you have been here for years – as long as I have,’ protested Bartholomew, still holding Cynric’s arm.

  ‘Right,’ said Cynric, giving him a rueful smile. ‘It was you who brought me here and got me this position, and I am grateful. It has been a comfortable life, all told, and I came to meet my wife through you. But it is probably time I went on to different things. Rachel wants me at home more, and your brother-in-law – Rachel is his seamstress, as you know – has offered me a position as captain of the mercenaries he hires to protect his goods.’

  ‘Oswald is trying to steal my book-bearer?’ asked Bartholomew, stunned that Edith’s husband would encourage Cynric to leave him without discussing it first.

  Cynric gave a reluctant grin. ‘I suppose he is.’ He became serious. ‘That business you dragged me into in Suffolk this summer was a nasty experience, and my Rachel has been urging me to leave you in case something similar happens again. You do seem to attract that kind of trouble.’

  ‘Cynric, I am so sorry,’ said Bartholomew, appalled that the events in a remote country village should have had such a traumatic effect on his book-bearer and immediately feeling responsible.

  ‘It was not your fault I fell under that curse, and you did risk your life to have it lifted. But Rachel is right: it is time I settled down and got a real job.’

  ‘But how will we manage without you?’

  Cynric smiled again. ‘It is for the best, lad. I did not relish the prospect of working for Runham. None of the servants like him – especially after what he did to Father Paul last night. Even Agatha the laundress is thinking of taking a position she was offered at Bene’t College.’

  ‘Not Agatha!’ groaned Bartholomew. ‘But wait, Cynric, you cannot just leave like this …’

  ‘I am only going around the corner,’ said Cynric, squeezing his arm in a rare gesture of affection. ‘And I will come if you need me – remember that if Runham plagues you too much.’

  Bartholomew was torn. On the one hand, Rachel had a point, and it was unfair of Bartholomew to oblige Cynric to take part in some of the adventures Michael foisted upon him, although Bartholomew had always been under the impression that Cynric had enjoyed them. On the other hand, Bartholomew could not imagine life without Cynric’s loyal, comforting presence.

  ‘I will visit you,’ he promised the book-bearer, taking his hand and clasping it warmly.

  Cynric gave a lopsided smile. ‘You will not. Mistress Matilde and your sister both claim you are an unreliable and infrequent guest. But I will seek you out and we will spend time in each other’s company. I will see to that.’

  With another brief smile, Cynric was gone, making his way up the lane to Milne Street, where Bartholomew’s brother-in-law had his substantial cloth business. With a heavy heart, Bartholomew climbed the stairs next to his room, which led to the chamber Michael shared with two Benedictine students. The door was ajar, and he walked in after tapping gently.

  Michael was pale and sweat beaded his face. The root of the problem was the sting in his arm, which had been scratched raw by the monk’s ragged, dirty fingernails. Pale red lines ran from the wound to his shoulder, showing where the infection had spread.

  ‘You took your time,’ said Michael feebly, as Bartholomew knelt next to him and felt the monk’s forehead with the back of his hand. ‘I asked Kenyngham to fetch you hours ago.’

  ‘There was trouble at the church,’ said Bartholomew vaguely. Michael looked curious, but Bartholomew started to ask questions about his illness, not wanting to tell him about the choir’s revolt or that his services as music master had been dispensed with by the odious Runham while he was unwell.

  He was surprised by the speed at which the infection had taken hold of Michael; the wound had not seemed so serious the night before. He sincerely hoped h
is drunkenness had not prevented him from making an accurate diagnosis.

  He clattered down the stairs to his storeroom, to gather the necessary potions and salves. He reached for the water that Cynric always left for him, but the jug was empty and Cynric was no longer in the College. Cursing, he walked across the courtyard to collect some of the near-boiling water from the great cauldron that always steamed over the kitchen fire. Agatha the laundress levered her bulk from her wicker chair by the hearth and came to help him.

  ‘I will bring this,’ she said, hoisting the heavy bucket in one meaty hand, as if it contained nothing but air. ‘You cannot manage it with all you are already carrying, and anyway, it is weighty.’

  ‘Let me take it, then,’ offered Bartholomew. ‘You carry the medicines.’

  Agatha eyed him up and down critically, and apparently decided that she was the stronger of the two. Without a word, she set off across the courtyard at a cracking pace that had him concerned that she would slip in the mud and scald herself. But they arrived at Michael’s chamber unscathed, and she lingered in the doorway, watching him work.

  ‘That Runham has dismissed virtually all the College staff except for me,’ she said, folding her formidable arms across her equally formidable chest. ‘He dares not get rid of me, because he values his manhood.’

  ‘Pity,’ said Michael from the bed. ‘I would like to see him lose it.’

  Agatha gave a screech of raucous laughter that echoed across the yard and that Bartholomew was certain would be audible in the hall, where the scholars would be sitting in silence as they ate their breakfast.

  ‘He has ordered Kenyngham out of the Master’s chambers this morning, so that he can move in,’ she said, sobering slightly.

  ‘God’s blood!’ exclaimed Michael, horrified. ‘He is not wasting any time, is he!’

  ‘You both need to be careful of Runham,’ Agatha advised. ‘He is a dangerous man. He wants to dismiss all the old Fellows, then fill the vacancies with his own lickspittle – like that Clippesby.’

  ‘Clippesby?’ asked Bartholomew, quickly making a small incision in Michael’s arm to drain away the infection while the monk’s attention was on Agatha. Michael yelped in pain, and shot Bartholomew an accusing look.