Bartholomew 06 - A Masterly Murder

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘He has become Runham’s henchman,’ said Agatha in disapproval. ‘Personally, I do not believe the man is sane, which is why he thinks Runham is some kind of god, I suppose. Clippesby follows Runham everywhere, and runs all his errands.’

  ‘That is because Justus, his own book-bearer, died,’ said Michael. ‘Runham is too mean to pay for a servant, so he is using the pathetic, ingratiating Clippesby as his menial. Serves him right!’

  ‘Yes!’ said Agatha viciously. ‘The pair of them deserve each other.’

  ‘Have you done anything about Wymundham?’ asked Michael of Bartholomew.

  ‘Me?’ asked Bartholomew, startled by the question. ‘What should I have done?’

  Michael sighed irritably. ‘I am lying here helpless, and there are deaths that need to be investigated. There are Wymundham’s and Brother Patrick’s – and Raysoun’s, according to what you heard Wymundham claim.’

  ‘But it is not my place to look into such matters. I am not your Junior Proctor.’

  ‘Do not be so pompous, Matt,’ said Michael. ‘With me indisposed and my Junior Proctor in Ely, there is no one else I can trust. And anyway, it is Sunday and you have nothing else to do. Just go to Bene’t and ask to speak to Simekyn Simeon, who is one of the Fellows. I arrested him for drinking in taverns a few weeks back but then let him go, so he owes me a favour. He will tell you the secrets behind Bene’t College’s façade of friendship and harmony.’

  ‘Oh, Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew weakly.

  ‘And then slip across to Ovyng Hostel to enquire if anyone has more information about the death of Brother Patrick.’

  ‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly, deciding to take a stand before Michael’s demands took too much of his time. ‘I cannot take on all your work as well as my own.’

  ‘Shame on you,’ said Agatha disapprovingly. ‘These poor scholars lie murdered, and you are more interested in writing that over-long book and teaching the likes of that Rob Deynman than in seeing justice done.’

  ‘Quite,’ agreed Michael immediately. ‘So prove otherwise and do as I ask. Visit Ovyng, and see whether the Principal has any more to tell you about Brother Patrick.’

  ‘But you have your beadles,’ protested Bartholomew. ‘Send one of them.’

  Michael raised his eyes heavenward and exchanged a weary grimace with Agatha. ‘I cannot send any of those ruffians to deal with the likes of Fellows and Principals. You know that. I doubt the Principal of Ovyng or the scholars of Bene’t would even allow my rough beadles into their presence. I need another scholar – a man of standing in the University, like you.’

  Agatha gave Bartholomew a heavy tap – more of a thump – on the shoulder. ‘Do as you are told, Matthew. Poor Michael is ill, and cannot do it himself.’

  ‘You are a good woman, Agatha,’ said Michael, leaning back in his bed and closing his eyes. ‘At least there is one person in Michaelhouse I can trust to put personal convenience second to honour and justice.’

  ‘All right, all right,’ said Bartholomew wearily, feeling powerless under their dual assault on his sense of obligation and friendship. ‘I will visit Ovyng later today.’

  ‘Good,’ said Agatha approvingly, treating him to another eye-watering slap on the back. ‘Justice will be served.’

  When Agatha left, Bartholomew finished working on Michael, piling him high with bedclothes and feeding him water and potions that he hoped would break the fever. By mid-morning the monk seemed slightly better, although he claimed he was not. Reluctantly, Bartholomew left Michaelhouse to visit Ovyng Hostel, to enquire whether anything new had been discovered about the murder of Brother Patrick.

  Ovyng stood opposite Michaelhouse, at the junction of Milne Street and St Michael’s Lane. It was a large building that housed about fifteen students, all of them Franciscan friars. By the standards of most hostels it was comfortable, with a pleasant chamber on the upper floor for sleeping, and a hall on the ground floor that served as lecture room and refectory. It was located in a large garden, which was still producing scraggy end-of-season vegetables for its scholars’ meals.

  Bartholomew knocked at the door and asked to see the Principal. He was shown to a tiny room at the back of the house where the Principal had his office, and given a cup of the splendid malty ale that was brewed in the nearby Carmelite Friary. The Principal, a solemn, humourless man with neat white hair, sighed sadly, and told Bartholomew what he had already told Michael: that Brother Patrick’s body had been discovered the previous Friday morning in the garden, and that he had been stabbed. There were no witnesses to the murder, and no one at Ovyng had the faintest idea why anyone should have taken against Patrick.

  ‘How long had Patrick been at Ovyng?’ asked Bartholomew, sipping the ale.

  ‘Since September,’ said the Principal. ‘He was not among the most popular of our students, but he was not unduly disliked.’

  ‘Unduly?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised. ‘You mean he was disliked, then?’

  The Principal grimaced, as if annoyed with himself for the inadvertent slip. He hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. ‘Patrick was a gossip, and enjoyed spreading spiteful tales about the others. It is not a pleasant pastime, but not one that warranted his death.’

  Bartholomew rubbed his chin. Matilde had mentioned that Brother Patrick was a gossip, and had even suggested that his loose tongue was the reason for his death. ‘What kind of tales did he tell?’

  The Principal raised his eyebrows, grimly amused. ‘If I were to tell you that, I would be no better than him, would I?’

  ‘I am not asking you so that I can tell everyone I meet; I am asking you because these tales may be connected to his death.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said the Principal. ‘But the kind of thing he seemed to ferret out were matters like our Bursar’s occasional illicit visits to the Brazen George for a drink, or the fact that our philosophy tutor hides the fact that he cannot see to read these days, or that one of the students once stole a pie from a baker. His stories contained nothing very damning, but they were irritating and sometimes embarrassing for those concerned.’

  ‘Do you think it is possible that Patrick discovered something really incriminating, and was killed to ensure he did not tell anyone else?’

  The Principal gave a smile that was more sad than happy. ‘I do not think anyone at Ovyng has a secret of that magnitude. Feel free to ask all the questions you like, but remember that my scholars are all friars – not novices, but men who have taken their final vows. Ovyng is not like Michaelhouse, where the secular sits uneasily with the religious, and we do not involve ourselves in the squabbles and fights that the rest of the University seems to enjoy.’

  ‘Except the ones with the Dominicans,’ remarked Bartholomew wryly.

  The Principal’s grave smile did not falter. ‘That is different, Doctor. We are Franciscans: it is our sacred duty to expose the lies and deceits of the Dominican Order.’

  ‘Then perhaps Brother Patrick was killed by a Dominican,’ suggested Bartholomew.

  ‘It would not surprise me,’ said the Principal. ‘But if that is the case, then Patrick’s love of gossip has nothing to do with it, and his death was an act of simple savagery by a rival Order.’

  ‘You are not planning to take revenge, are you?’ asked Bartholomew, slightly anxiously.

  The Principal sighed. ‘It was a course of action we considered in the distressing moments immediately following the discovery of Patrick’s body. But we are friars, not town louts. We unanimously decided that any vengeance should be left to the Senior Proctor and his men. Instead, we have hired an additional porter to guard our gates at night and ensure all our doors are locked.’

  Bartholomew stood. ‘Thank you for your time, Father. I hope Brother Michael will find the person who killed your scholar.’

  ‘So do I,’ said the Principal sincerely. ‘But Patrick’s body lies in St Mary’s Church and will be buried tomorrow. I understand you have some skill in examining corpses. Come wit
h me now, to see if you can uncover some clue that the rest of us might have missed.’

  Bartholomew felt he could not easily refuse such a request, so he walked with the Principal to St Mary’s, where he spent some time examining the body of the young friar. The case was as straightforward as he could imagine: there was a small, circular hole in Patrick’s back, where something had been driven into it, and that was all. The wound was deep and certainly would have been almost instantly fatal, and there was no other mark on the body, suggesting that the attack had been quick and decisive, and the friar had not been given a chance to do anything to defend himself.

  The only puzzling thing was the shape of the injury. Most knife wounds were slit-shaped or ovoid, but the one in Patrick was an almost perfect circle. Bartholomew could not imagine what could have made it. He could only assume it was some kind of spike, like an awl, rather than a blade. The injury was clean, and there were no splinters or fragments of dust that Bartholomew could see, so he assumed the weapon must have been made of metal.

  Eventually he straightened up, put Patrick back the way he had found him, and made his farewells to the Principal, knowing that he had found nothing that would help uncover the killer of the gossiping friar; he had probably wasted the Principal’s time as well as his own. As always when he encountered violent and futile death, he was aware of an odd combination of helplessness and gloomy resignation, and did not feel at all like teaching. Instead, he sat in Michael’s room while the monk slept, thinking about what little he had learned from Brother Patrick’s death.

  In the late afternoon Runham came, wanting to see for himself why two of his Fellows had missed all three meals that day after he had expressly ruled that attendance was no longer optional. He relented when he saw Michael’s illness was genuine, but stated that Bartholomew would not be excused the following day. Bartholomew agreed, just to be rid of the man, although he had no intention of leaving Michael’s side if the fever became worse.

  ‘My fourpence, please,’ said Runham, thrusting out his hand.

  Bartholomew gazed blankly at him.

  ‘My fourpence,’ repeated Runham impatiently. ‘If you recall, I fined you for your unwarranted lateness at church this morning. I told you to pay it after breakfast, but you defied me in that, so I will have it now.’

  ‘Will you fine me, too?’ demanded Michael hoarsely from the bed. ‘I missed mass totally.’

  ‘You had an excuse,’ said Runham, although the tone of his voice suggested that he considered it a poor one. ‘But Bartholomew did not. Give me the fourpence now, or I shall be obliged to fine you an additional fourpence for late payment of a forfeit.’

  Bartholomew found the correct change. ‘Wash it before you handle it too much,’ he advised, as he slapped the coins into the Master’s upturned palm. ‘It came from a patient with a fatal contagion, and I would not like to see the disease strike you, too.’

  He was maliciously gratified to see Runham blanch and hastily drop the money into his hat. The new Master scrubbed his fingers vigorously on the side of his tabard as he left, and through the window Bartholomew saw him running to the lavatorium once he reached the yard.

  ‘That must be one of the first times he has ever voluntarily washed his hands,’ said Bartholomew, turning to grin at Michael.

  ‘Was it true?’ asked Michael. ‘Did the coins really come from a patient with a contagion?’

  Bartholomew shook his head. ‘If I thought a contagion might be carried on them, I would hardly keep them in my purse. I am not keen to have Runham as Master, but I am not ready to kill myself over it.’

  Michael gave a weak grin. ‘Either you have been practising your lie-telling, or I am more ill than you are letting on. You had me convinced!’

  Bartholomew smiled, and gazed across the brown mud of the courtyard below.

  In the evening, Gray came to ask Bartholomew to tend a sick stable boy in Agatha’s quarters. The lad was afflicted with an ailment that Gray claimed he could not diagnose. The physician sat on the straw mattress and took the boy’s hand in his, noting that the pulse was strong and steady and the skin cool and dry, even though he appeared to be insensible. There was a small bruise on one leg, presumably from some childish game of rough and tumble, but nothing else seemed amiss. Bartholomew sat back, and stared thoughtfully at the thin face with its tightly closed eyes.

  ‘It is all right, Roger,’ he said kindly. ‘You will not be thrown out of Michaelhouse with nowhere to go like the other servants. I will have a word with my brother-in-law and I am sure he will find you something.’

  Roger’s eyes flickered open. ‘Do you promise?’

  Bartholomew nodded, and left him to the relieved ministrations of Agatha, who bared her terrifying teeth to indicate pleasure. Where a normal mortal might have quailed at the sight of the fangs honed to a primeval sharpness bearing down on him, Roger just smiled with a child’s easy acceptance of the peculiar.

  When Agatha had agreed to undergo some beauty treatment at Deynman’s hands earlier that summer, she had been lucky that Bartholomew had discovered what was in progress and had prevented matters going further. And Deynman was lucky to be alive, given Agatha’s fury when a mirror revealed that the painful scrapings and grindings had not given her the pearly white smile she had been promised, but the uneven fangs of a demon. Deynman had still not been forgiven for his crime, and even his slow wits sensed he needed to avoid unnecessary meetings with the laundress if he wanted to survive to become a physician.

  Gray followed Bartholomew into the yard. ‘Runham told us Roger would be dead by this evening. He was wrong.’

  ‘Runham is not a physician,’ said Bartholomew tartly. ‘And neither will you be if you listen to men like him telling you about your own profession. Roger knew that as long as he pretended to be ill, Michaelhouse would not cast him into the streets. It did not take much to work that out.’

  ‘How is Brother Michael? asked Gray, deftly changing the subject away from his misdiagnosis. ‘I hope you have managed to keep Runham away from him!’

  ‘I certainly have,’ said Bartholomew fervently.

  ‘Will he live? Brother Michael, I mean.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew, surprised by the question. ‘He is not that ill.’

  ‘I thought his condition must be serious, because you have spent so long with him today,’ said Gray. His eyes grew round with feigned innocence. ‘I do not suppose it is providing you with an excuse to miss the misery of meals in the hall under the eagle eyes of Runham, is it?’

  Bartholomew wondered whether it was as obvious to Runham himself. ‘Michael does have a fever,’ he said vaguely. ‘And I confess I am surprised by the speed at which the infection has spread.’

  ‘Fat men succumb easier to fevers than thin ones,’ said Gray wisely. ‘Master Saddler was fat, and look what happened to him. His leg rotted, and even Robin of Grantchester’s delicate surgery could not save him.’

  Amused by Gray’s statement of ‘fact’, Bartholomew trudged back across the sticky morass of the yard to Michael’s room. The two sombre Benedictines who shared the room had moved to the now-vacant servants’ quarters, and had prepared a straw mattress so that the physician could sleep next to his patient. Thoughtfully, one of them even left a candle stub, so that Bartholomew would be able to see what he was doing if Michael needed help during the night.

  Outside, the sounds of evening gradually faded to sounds of night. The lively chatter of students in the yard was replaced by the soft murmur of scholars in their rooms, and the clank and clatter from the kitchens was eventually stilled to the occasional sharp crack as the fire spat. Bartholomew lit the candle and tried to work on his treatise on fevers, until he fell asleep at the table.

  By the following day, Michael was essentially better, but slept most of the time and had lost his appetite. To Bartholomew’s surprise, he even declined some of his favourite delicacies from the kitchen. He was not too ill to remind Bartholomew of his promise to vi
sit Simekyn Simeon at Bene’t College, however, and insisted that the physician went there that morning. Bartholomew did not want to become embroiled in the insalubrious affairs of another College, recalling that the murdered Wymundham had told him he would be better not knowing what they were, and he took his time readying himself to go out.

  At last he could delay no longer, and began to walk slowly across the yard to the gate. He had taken no more than a few steps when he saw a man wearing the distinctive blue tabard of a Bene’t scholar striding towards him. From under the tabard protruded a pair of shapely legs clad in striking yellow and green striped hose. Bartholomew knew very well that neither they, nor the bright gold-coloured hat that sat at a jaunty angle on the man’s head, were part of the prescribed uniform of Bene’t, and was astonished that the Master allowed one of his Fellows to flaunt the rules so flagrantly.

  The man greeted him cheerfully. He was younger than Bartholomew, and wore his long dark hair in elaborate ringlets of the kind currently in favour at the King’s court. He was rather more plump than a man of his age should have been, indicating that he had not been eating College fare for very long, and he had the kind of glowing complexion that more likely resulted from a carefree existence of hunting and falconry than of a life spent in study.

  ‘My name is Simekyn Simeon, Fellow of Bene’t College,’ he said, favouring Bartholomew with an impressively courtly bow. ‘I know it is an unlikely appellation, but it is the one with which my parents saw fit to encumber me.’

  ‘Matthew Bartholomew,’ said Bartholomew, grateful that he did not have to go through life with a name better suited to a court jester.

  ‘I have come to see the Senior Proctor about the sad demise of John Wymundham, lately Fellow of Bene’t College,’ Simeon continued. ‘Is he in his room?’

  ‘He is ill, but he asked me to visit you. I was just on my way.’