‘I saved you a journey, then,’ said Simeon jauntily. ‘Tell me, is Brother Michael’s illness such that we should avoid him for fear of contamination, or can I loiter at his sickbed with no ill effects?’
‘He does not have a contagion,’ said Bartholomew curtly, not impressed by the man’s brazen self-interest.
‘Good,’ said Simeon. ‘I mean no disrespect, Bartholomew, but I will discuss this matter with him, not you. I am aware of his reputation for solving mysteries in the University, but you I do not know. Is this the way to his room?’
He had ducked past Bartholomew and was up the stairs to Michael’s chamber before the physician could do anything to stop him. Irritated at being so summarily dismissed by a man who wore green and yellow hose, Bartholomew followed him, intending to prevent him from disturbing the ailing monk, but Simeon had moved quickly and was through Michael’s door before Bartholomew had reached the top of the stairs. Michael regarded the intruder in astonishment, hauling his blanket up under his chin like a maiden caught in bed by a knight intent on mischief.
‘Did I waken you?’ Simeon asked, not sounding especially contrite. ‘I do apologise. However, one of my colleagues died on Saturday night, and I feel that is a matter of sufficient import to raise the Senior Proctor from his slumbers. I expected you to visit us yesterday.’
‘I am unwell,’ said Michael peevishly. ‘I sent Matt to see you in my stead.’
Simeon sat on the chamber’s only chair and gave a disarming smile. ‘But now I am here, we can speak directly to each other. There is no need to communicate through one of your lackeys.’
‘I am ill,’ repeated Michael. To make sure Simeon understood the true gravity of his condition he added, ‘I have eaten nothing all day!’
That seemed to convince Simeon. He leaned forward and gazed at Michael’s pale face and red-rimmed eyes.
‘I am sorry, Brother. I see now that you are not malingering; you do have something of the appearance of a corpse three days dead. You must understand, though, that the sudden death of one of our members – two, if you count Raysoun’s fall on Thursday – has been a blow, and I wanted to know what you are doing about it. But I appreciate the fact that you are unwell, and so I suppose I shall have to leave you in peace for now.’
‘You are here now, so you may as well stay,’ said Michael ungraciously. ‘You have heard, I take it, that Wymundham was found dead in Mayor Horwoode’s garden?’
Simeon nodded. ‘Of course. We are not that uninformed. One of your beadles told me that you had the body examined, and the verdict was that someone had smothered him. Are you certain of that? Are you sure he did not drown himself?’
Michael waved a feeble hand, indicating that Bartholomew was to answer.
The physician nodded. ‘Wymundham’s body was not wet, and, as far as I could tell, there was no water in his lungs to suggest drowning. His blue face and swollen tongue, along with damaged nails and a broken tooth, indicated that he had been smothered, and that he had fought hard against his killer.’
Simeon regarded him sceptically, as if he did not consider such details convincing. ‘So, do you have any idea who might have done this?’
‘None. Yet,’ said Michael. ‘I was hoping you might be able to help. Did Wymundham have any enemies in Bene’t, or other people who might wish him harm?’
Simeon frowned slightly. ‘Not that I can think of. Bene’t is a small College and there are only four Fellows now that Wymundham and Raysoun are dead. We all liked each other well enough.’
‘That is not what Wymundham said after he had watched Raysoun die,’ said Bartholomew bluntly. ‘He told me that Raysoun had claimed with his dying breath that he had been pushed.’
Simeon’s expression was unreadable. ‘Are you suggesting that there have been two murders – not one – in Bene’t?’
‘Wymundham believed Raysoun was murdered, and then he was murdered himself,’ said Bartholomew. ‘What does that imply to you?’
Simeon crossed one striped leg over the other and leaned back in his chair. ‘I believe someone has made a mistake. Either Wymundham misheard or misunderstood Raysoun’s dying words, or someone is guilty of gross fabrication – making up stories about our dead scholars because they are not in a position to confirm or deny them.’
‘Wymundham told me what Raysoun said,’ replied Bartholomew coolly. ‘I can assure you that I did not invent it.’
‘Then did Wymundham tell you who Raysoun said had pushed him?’ asked Simeon, raising his eyebrows questioningly.
‘No,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He said it would be better if I did not know.’
‘Really,’ said Simeon flatly. ‘How very inconvenient.’
‘Matt has no reason to lie,’ said Michael. ‘If he says Wymundham claimed Raysoun had been pushed, then Wymundham claimed Raysoun was pushed. So, the question we must now ask is: was Wymundham himself lying or was he speaking the truth? Let us assume first that he was lying: why would he want people to believe Raysoun had been murdered if his death were an accident?’
‘Perhaps he was not lying in the true sense of the word,’ suggested Simeon. ‘Perhaps the shock of Raysoun’s accident unhinged him, and he said things he did not mean.’
‘It is a possibility,’ said Michael. ‘But then, two days later, Wymundham is found dead, which makes me inclined to believe there was some truth to his claim. In which case, we must ask who would kill Raysoun and then murder Wymundham to ensure he told no one what Raysoun murmured with his dying breath?’
Simeon sighed and shook his head. ‘Certainly no one at Bene’t. The Fellows keep their distance from the students – unlike Michaelhouse, which I hear encourages friendships between masters and their charges – and we would never stoop to fraternising with servants, again unlike Michaelhouse.’
‘How dare you make such comparisons,’ snapped Michael, offended. ‘You have never been to Michaelhouse!’
‘Actually, I have been here on a number of occasions. For my sins, I am acquainted with your Ralph de Langelee, who pursues me relentlessly because of my court connections. Langelee tells me all sorts of scandalous stories about Michaelhouse.’
‘Such as what?’ demanded Michael, peeved.
‘Such as Bartholomew’s friendship with his book-bearer,’ said Simeon with a grimace of distaste. ‘Langelee informs me that Bartholomew treats that dirty little man like a brother. I certainly would not trust my life to a common man!’
‘With an attitude like that, you would be wise not to,’ retorted Bartholomew, angry that the foppish scholar should insult the loyal Cynric.
‘And then there is the Michaelhouse choir,’ continued Simeon, ignoring him. ‘Those who are not thieves or beggars are engaged in lowly trades like ditch-clearing and barging, and yet Brother Michael quite happily spends every Sunday afternoon in their company.’
‘They are good people,’ said Michael coldly. ‘It is not their fault that greedy landowners have forced them into such poverty that they are forced to steal to feed themselves.’
‘That sounds seditious,’ said Simeon, regarding Michael in amusement. ‘You are not one of those modern thinkers who believes peasants should have rights, are you?’
‘My personal opinions are none of your affair,’ said Michael. ‘And they certainly have nothing to do with discovering who killed your colleagues.’
‘True,’ admitted Simeon. ‘My apologies, Brother. Blunt speaking is all the fashion at court these days, and I forget you University men prefer good old-fashioned ambiguity and obtuseness. But, as I was saying, I do not think you will find your killer in Bene’t. You will have to look elsewhere for him.’
‘Who are the other Fellows?’ asked Michael, not liking Simeon’s transparent determination to steer the investigation away from his own College. ‘And what were you doing when Raysoun fell?’
Simeon shook the luxurious curls that cascaded to his shoulders – locks that Father William would have had shorn had Simeon been a member of Michaelhouse. ‘I w
as not in Cambridge when that happened. I am the Duke of Lancaster’s squire when not engaged in College affairs, and I was with him. I have at least a dozen highly respectable witnesses who will vouch for me.’
‘And the other Bene’t Fellows?’ demanded Michael, sounding disappointed that Simeon appeared to have a sound alibi. ‘Where were they?’
‘Master Heltisle and his good friend Caumpes were buying rat poison from the Franciscans in the Market Square. We have a rodent problem at Bene’t, you see.’
Bartholomew was sure they had, and one rat had shoved poor Raysoun to his death, then smothered Wymundham.
Simeon continued. ‘And lastly, there is Henry de Walton. I am surprised you do not know him, Bartholomew. I imagined he would be intimate with every physician in Cambridge, given that he is always complaining about some ailment or other.’
‘And you still claim that all Bene’t fellows liked each other?’ Michael pounced.
Simeon gave a rueful smile. ‘Yes, generally. I admit I find de Walton’s claims of continual poor health a little tiresome, but he is a good enough fellow. He works hard and is patient with our less able students.’
‘What were Raysoun and Wymundham like as Fellows?’ asked Michael. ‘Were they hard-working and patient with inferior students?’
Simeon glanced sharply at him. ‘Raysoun was a gentle man, although he did have a penchant for wine. He was worried that the building of Bene’t was taking too long, and was afraid that we would run out of funds before it was finished, and so the workmen considered him something of a nuisance because he checked their progress regularly. But the students liked him well enough.’
‘And Wymundham?’ asked Bartholomew when Simeon paused, wondering whether Simeon’s failure to cite Wymundham’s virtues without prompting was significant.
‘Wymundham was a man who enjoyed life,’ said Simeon carefully. ‘He had a quick mind, and was sometimes frustrated by the restrictions afforded by College life. I empathise entirely.’
Looking at the way Simeon had adapted his drab College uniform to include a gold hat and striped hose, Bartholomew was sure he did.
‘It is difficult to know how to proceed with this,’ said Michael. He was beginning to look tired, and Bartholomew stood, intending to ask – or order, if need be – Simeon to leave. ‘From what you say, enquiries within Bene’t will lead nowhere, so I suppose we must look elsewhere.’
‘I wish I could tell you where,’ said Simeon. He sounded sincere.
Michael nodded agreement. ‘The most obvious solution is that one of the men working on the building gave Raysoun a shove, and then killed Wymundham to keep his identity concealed. One of my beadles, Tom Meadowman—’
‘I know him,’ interrupted Bartholomew. ‘He was steward at David’s Hostel before it …’ He hesitated, not sure how to describe the end of the foundation for Scottish students that had harboured more than scholars under its roof.
‘I made him a beadle when he found himself without employment after David’s was destroyed,’ said Michael. ‘His sister is married to Robert de Blaston, one of the carpenters working at Bene’t. I will set him to discover what he can.’
‘Very well,’ said Simeon approvingly. ‘That is a good start.’
‘And meanwhile, I will instruct my beadles to listen harder in the taverns. The death of a scholar is invariably cause for celebration in the town, and perhaps some reckless boasting might bring this killer to light. My men are already on the alert for rumours about Brother Patrick of Ovyng Hostel, so they can add Raysoun and Wymundham to their list of enquiries.’
Simeon uncoiled his elegant limbs and stood. ‘Thank you, Brother. I knew you would not fail us. I can see you will have this killer under lock and key in no time.’
‘I will,’ vowed Michael in a way that suggested to Bartholomew that he was prepared to follow any clues that came his way, even if they led back to Simeon. ‘Matt will visit my office in St Mary’s Church, and instruct my beadles accordingly. But I am tired. I will sleep a little before considering further the evidence I have. Good morning, Master Simeon.’
He was dozing almost before Bartholomew had ushered the Bene’t man through the door. Simeon walked with Bartholomew to St Mary’s Church, where the beadles gathered for their daily instructions. Meadowman smiled warmly at the physician, recalling the peculiar business that had drawn them together in the summer of 1352. He readily agreed to do what Michael had asked, and hurried away immediately to speak to his brother-in-law the carpenter. Meanwhile, the other beadles were delighted that their duties entailed additional business in the taverns, and exchanged eager grins of pleasure.
Simeon seemed satisfied that an adequate investigation was under way, and left Bartholomew to return to his own College. With a feeling of disquiet, Bartholomew walked back to Michaelhouse, nodding absently to people he knew and oblivious to his sister’s frown of annoyance when he failed to return her cheerful wave.
He spent the rest of the day in Michael’s room, unashamedly using the monk’s convalescence as an excuse to avoid the soulless meals in the hall and the repressive atmosphere that prevailed during lectures. Langelee came to visit them and tried to discuss some College matter, but Bartholomew cut him off, not wanting Michaelhouse’s bitter politics to intrude on his small, temporary haven of peace.
Michael slept well that night, far better than did Bartholomew on his lumpy straw mattress. When Walter’s cockerel announced the beginning of a new day – which was still some hours off, according to the hour candle – Michael turned over and slept again, so Bartholomew used the silence and the Benedictine’s candle stub to work uninterrupted on his ever-growing treatise on fevers. When dawn finally broke, he set down his pen, clipped the lid back on the ink bottle and leaned back in his chair, wondering what the next day would bring.
Chapter 5
‘MATT!’ BARTHOLOMEW TURNED AT THE sound of Michael’s peevish voice. He had been so engrossed in his writing that he had forgotten where he was sitting. It was mid-morning on Tuesday, and he was in Michael’s chamber, still enjoying a spell of blissful peace while the monk slept. ‘Matt! I feel terrible! I need a drink.’
Bartholomew filled a cup and held it to the monk’s lips. It was thrust aside indignantly.
‘That is water!’ Michael cried in dismay. ‘You have given me water! Is there no wine?’
‘You have been ill, Brother. Wine would not be good for you. Drink this first.’
‘I will not!’ said Michael, turning his head away and trying to fold his arms. He gave a howl of pain as he moved his elbow. ‘God’s blood, Matt! What have you done to me? I had a mere bee sting, and now I am in agony! Call yourself a physician?’
‘Do you have a complaint to make, Brother?’ asked Runham from the doorway. ‘Bartholomew told me at breakfast that you were feeling better today.’
‘I am not feeling better at all!’ snapped Michael churlishly. ‘There is no wine to be had and I am dying of thirst. That is what happens when you consult a physician – you start with a minor complaint and you end up on your deathbed.’
‘You were not on your deathbed, Brother …’ began Bartholomew tiredly.‘
‘I will send Bulbeck to you,’ said Runham. ‘Bartholomew should leave you alone, before he does you any more harm.’
‘Hear, hear,’ muttered Michael nastily, flexing his arm and plucking at the bandage that covered it. ‘I am ravenous. Tell Bulbeck to bring me something nice – a piece of chicken perhaps, or a tender sliver of beef. No vegetables, though. Green things are not good for the sick.’
With Michael well on the road to recovery, and even on the road to gluttony, Bartholomew instructed Bulbeck that on no account should he yield to the monk’s demand for wine that day and that the food was confined to a broth, and walked slowly down the stairs into the cool, drizzly grey of a late November morning. Runham followed him.
‘Deynman tells me you should have summoned Robin of Grantchester to amputate Brother Michael’s arm,’ h
e said.
At first Bartholomew thought he was joking, but the challenging expression on Runham’s face suggested otherwise. ‘Deynman is scarcely a reliable judge of such matters,’ he said, refraining from adding that anyone who listened to the opinions of a boy like Deynman should be locked away for their own safety. ‘And, as you can see, Michael has recovered perfectly well without my resorting to chopping parts of him off.’
‘That is more due to luck than anything you did,’ said Runham unpleasantly. ‘I suggest you stay away from Michael until he has fully recovered and is better able to fend off your murderous intentions.’
‘What?’ asked Bartholomew, shock making him dull-witted.
‘You heard,’ snapped Runham, striding away across the courtyard to his newly occupied Master’s rooms. As he left, he called over his shoulder: ‘And I will station Clippesby by Michael’s door to ensure that you do not disobey my orders.’
Bartholomew was too stunned to reply. The spy-turned-philosopher, Ralph de Langelee, came to stand next to him.
‘Well, well,’ he said, grimly amused. ‘Is there any truth in Runham’s accusations? Have you really been trying to do away with our favourite Benedictine while pretending to save his life?’
‘Do not be ridiculous,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Everyone is talking as though Michael was at Death’s door. He was not: he had a mild fever from an infected arm that put him off his food for two days.’
Langelee raised his eyebrows. ‘Two days is a long time for a man of Michael’s girth. But are you telling me that it has not been necessary for you to be at his bedside all this time?’
Bartholomew smiled. ‘I went out once or twice yesterday, but which would you prefer – the hall with Runham, or Michael’s peaceful chamber?’
Langelee smiled back. ‘I take your point.’
‘I met Simekyn Simeon yesterday, from Bene’t,’ said Bartholomew conversationally. ‘I understand he is an acquaintance of yours.’
‘Oh, yes, indeed,’ said Langelee proudly. ‘Simeon and I are close friends.’
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