‘What is he like?’ asked Bartholomew, seizing the opportunity to learn a little about the man who had imposed himself in Michael’s sickroom to ensure that the death of a colleague was properly investigated. ‘Is he honest?’
‘He is a courtier,’ replied Langelee matter-of-factly. ‘So, no. He is not honest. But he has good connections and is distantly related to the Earl of Suffolk.’
‘What has that to do with anything? I want to know whether he is truthful and whether what he says can be trusted.’
‘Sometimes, I imagine,’ said Langelee unhelpfully. ‘Has he been after Michael to investigate Wymundham’s death? He told me he would, because his lord, the Duke of Lancaster, will not want an unsolved murder besmirching the reputation of the College he has chosen to patronise.’
Bartholomew sighed, seeing Langelee was going to be of no use as a source of reliable information. ‘Michael has his beadles investigating the deaths of Wymundham and Raysoun.’
‘Raysoun, too?’ asked Langelee, startled. ‘Everyone believes he fell from the scaffolding, because he was a less than limber man who should not have been sipping from his wineskin while scaling the College walls.’
‘Perhaps that is true,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘But his friend Wymundham claimed he was pushed.’
‘Wymundham!’ spat Langelee in disgust. ‘He once tried to put his hand on my knee in St Bene’t’s Church. I would not believe anything he said!’
Bartholomew gazed up at the dripping eaves, not feeling energetic enough to point out that Wymundham’s penchant for other men’s legs was irrelevant to his honesty. ‘At least this rain is keeping the students from making a racket in the yard. I will be able to do some writing this afternoon.’
‘Then you should make the most of it,’ said Langelee. ‘Nowhere will be peaceful after tomorrow, because Master Runham’s building work is due to begin then.’
‘His what?’
‘His building work. I tried to tell you yesterday, but you declined to talk to me. He plans to reface the north wing – where you and Michael live – and to build a new courtyard behind the hall.’
‘But where will the money come from?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘We are always being told how desperate the College finances are.’
‘So they were,’ said Langelee. ‘But all that has changed since you have been closeted with that ungrateful monk. Runham has begged and borrowed – but I hope not stolen – enough cash for the work to start in the morning.’
‘Tomorrow?’ asked Bartholomew, his tired mind trying to come to grips with what Langelee was telling him. ‘But surely there are architects’ plans to be drawn up, and estimates of costs to be worked out before any work can begin?’
‘All done,’ said Langelee. ‘Runham is not a man to dally, it seems, and he says he wants his College to look its best. While you have been nursing your fat friend, the rest of the Fellows have had meeting after meeting, and it is all decided.’
‘But how could Runham raise the kind of money in two days needed to build a new court?’ asked Bartholomew, astounded. ‘It is not possible.’
‘It is, apparently,’ said Langelee. ‘He has taken out loans from the guilds of St Mary and Corpus Christi, and he has inveigled donations from a number of wealthy townsmen – including your brother-in-law. Oswald Stanmore gave us five marks.’
‘Oswald gave Michaelhouse five marks?’ asked Bartholomew, staggered.
Langelee nodded. ‘Plus there is the money Runham is saving from the servants’ wages now that he has dismissed them all. So, work will commence on two fronts. First, scaffolding will be erected on your building so that the stone can be renewed and a new roof put on. And second, foundations will be dug to the north of the hall for the new courtyard buildings.’
‘But—’
‘But nothing, Bartholomew,’ said Langelee. ‘The Master has spoken, and we must jump to obey his commands. Have you made your decision yet, by the way?’
‘What decision?’
‘Come on, man! You are like my undergraduates today, repeating everything I say like a baby learning its first words. The decision on whether you stay in Michaelhouse or whether you leave us.’
‘Runham cannot force me to make that choice,’ said Bartholomew, leaning against the door jamb and turning his face to the sky, feeling the rain patter on to it.
‘No, but he can make life very difficult for you if you do not,’ said Langelee. He gave a vindictive grin, and poked Bartholomew hard in the ribs with one of his powerful elbows. ‘I imagine you are already regretting not voting for me as Master, eh?’
‘I am regretting not voting for the Devil as Master,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You should not have brought up that business about Michael being in league with Oxford, you know. He would have made a much better Master than Runham.’
‘But not better than me,’ replied Langelee. ‘And I saw Michael as my main competitor, so I had no choice but to tell the others what I knew about him.’
‘You had a choice,’ said Bartholomew softly. ‘You were once a spy; you know perfectly well that things are not always as they seem. It was unprofessional of you to disclose Michael’s dealings with Heytesbury of Merton.’
‘Oh, I am well aware that Michael would never allow Oxford to triumph over Cambridge,’ said Langelee airily. ‘But that is irrelevant. My sole objective was to prevent Michael from pitting himself against me in my bid for the Mastership – and I was successful in that.’
‘But at what cost?’ asked Bartholomew bitterly. ‘You thwarted a good man and now we have a tyrant. All these dismissals of servants and new buildings that we cannot afford are your fault.’
‘Now just a moment,’ began Langelee angrily. ‘It is not my fault that the others voted for Runham. If they had voted for me, everything would have been all right. I am an upright and moral man.’
‘How is Julianna, by the way?’ asked Bartholomew, recalling this ‘upright and moral’ man’s dalliance with a town merchant’s niece.
Langelee gazed at him sharply. ‘Why?’
‘Because you were once close,’ said Bartholomew casually. ‘I was almost a witness at your wedding ceremony, if you recall.’
‘That was a long time ago,’ said Langelee shortly. ‘We seldom see each other now.’
‘Not even in Grantchester church?’ asked Bartholomew wickedly, recalling a rumour Michael had mentioned that summer, that Langelee had wed the lively Julianna in the seclusion of a small parish church a mile or so from the town. Fellows were not permitted to marry, and Langelee had been faced with an agonising choice of his own – wife and family, or a career in Michaelhouse. It seemed he had been unable to make up his mind, and, like a child offered two types of cake, reached out with greedy fingers and grabbed both.
‘That is none of your affair,’ snapped Langelee. He took Bartholomew’s arm in a painful pinch and bundled him into the medicine store, where they would not be overheard. ‘What have you heard about this?’
‘Nothing recently,’ said Bartholomew. He was not inclined to begin an argument with the loutish philosopher – especially since Langelee liked to settle debates with his ham-sized fists – and he regretted his incaution in mentioning Langelee’s secret marriage.
Langelee’s grip intensified, and the physician winced. Immediately, Langelee released him.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I forget sometimes that I am a strong man, and I occasionally bruise people when I intend no harm.’
‘Then you should learn not to go around grabbing them,’ said Bartholomew, rubbing his arm. Langelee was right – he was a strong man, and his vicelike grip hurt.
‘Can I share a secret with you?’ Langelee asked, out of the blue. He closed the door and furtively looked both ways out of the window before fastening the shutters securely.
‘No!’ said Bartholomew in alarm. ‘I do not want to be let into secrets that necessitate locked doors and closed windows. Please keep whatever it is to yourself.’
‘I did marry Julianna at Grantchester church,’ said Langelee, ignoring the physician’s appeal. ‘But once we had the opportunity to get to know each other, we found we were incompatible.’
‘I told you that before you married,’ said Bartholomew, recalling the arrogant, thick-skinned Julianna and wondering what had attracted Langelee to her in the first place. Or her to him.
‘So you did, but it is not helpful to mention it now, is it? Anyway, there I was with a pregnant wife I did not want on one hand, and a glorious future ahead of me as a University scholar on the other. I could hardly let the likes of Julianna spoil my chances for a successful career, could I?’
‘I suppose not,’ said Bartholomew, heartily wishing he were somewhere else. ‘Look, Langelee, if you are about to confess that you did away with her, I do not want to know.’
‘Of course I did not do away with her,’ said Langelee indignantly. ‘What kind of man do you take me for?’
Bartholomew did not reply.
‘The agreement we made was mutual – and it did not involve anyone being done away with. I gave her nearly all the money we had, including a nice little manor up near Peterborough. She is there now, ruling the roost with a rod of iron, I imagine.’
‘But you are married,’ said Bartholomew. ‘So you cannot be a Fellow of Michaelhouse.’
‘You sound like Runham the lawyer,’ said Langelee distastefully. ‘But I am not married actually, because we had the arrangement annulled. It cost a fortune, I can tell you! So, everything is all right; it was not all right for a while, but it is now.’
‘I am glad to hear it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But why did you tell me? It is the kind of thing you would be better revealing to nobody.’
‘It is good to speak to someone about it,’ said Langelee. ‘Now we share something personal. You can confide something in return, if you like.’
‘I am sorry, but I have no secrets that come anywhere close to the magnitude of yours.’
‘How very dull,’ said Langelee, disappointed. ‘Are you sure? Is there nothing you can dredge up? You must have done something interesting in your life. Did you ever deliberately kill a patient you did not like? Or what about your affair with that whore – Matilde? Is there nothing salacious to tell me about that?’
‘There is not,’ said Bartholomew shortly. ‘And I swore an oath to save lives, not help people into their graves, so I have nothing to confess to you along those lines. But why do you want to know such things?’
‘Shared confidences make people friends, like you and Brother Michael. If you were my friend, you would vote for me as Master, as you were going to vote for Michael.’
Bartholomew was not too tired to be amused by Langelee’s contorted logic. ‘But we have a Master,’ was all he said. ‘His name is John Runham, remember?’
‘I know that,’ said Langelee testily. ‘But what I am saying is that if Runham dies conveniently, I want you to vote for me as his replacement.’
‘I see,’ said Bartholomew. He rubbed a hand through his hair. ‘This has been a sensational week at Michaelhouse: Kenyngham resigns, Runham takes over, I am given an ultimatum to choose between my teaching or my medicine, Cynric is dismissed, and you are already preparing to step into Runham’s shoes.’
‘I am merely readying myself, in case he has an accident or something.’
Bartholomew gazed at him in the gloom. ‘I hope you are not planning to arrange one for him.’
Langelee sighed. ‘I would, if I could be sure I would get away with it, but it is too risky. I shall put my faith in God instead.’
‘I do not want to hear any more of this,’ said Bartholomew, trying to push past Langelee to the door. Langelee blocked his way, and with a resigned sigh, knowing he would never manage to best the philosopher in a shoving contest, Bartholomew retreated and sat on the edge of one of the benches that lined the walls.
‘I know what is making you so irritable,’ said Langelee, with sudden inspiration. ‘It is Matilde! She is angry because you never bother to visit her. But do not worry – she will come round. Take her a bit of ribbon or something. Then she will fly into your arms, and it will be you confessing to me about an annulled marriage.’
The door snapped open suddenly, making them both jump. Bartholomew had been sitting on the workbench with Langelee standing next to him. At the crash of the door, they leapt apart. Runham stood there, regarding them suspiciously.
‘What are you two up to?’ he demanded. ‘It had better not have been any improper behaviour.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Langelee, puzzled. ‘I mean lustful behaviour,’ elaborated Runham.
‘But there are no women in here,’ said Langelee, frowning in bemusement. He suddenly realised what Runham was implying and his jaw dropped in shock. Bartholomew looked from the gaping philosopher to the stern, prissy features of the new Master, and began to laugh.
The following day, the College was filled with the sounds of frantic activity. Scaffolding was being erected around the north wing, and foundations were being dug for the buildings that would form the new court. Hammers pounded on wood and nails, saws scratched, metal clinked and rang, and workmen called and yelled in casually jovial voices. It was almost impossible to teach in the hall – not only was the noise distracting, but the students were far more interested in what was happening outside than in their lessons.
Bartholomew persisted until mid-morning, but when Langelee, Kenyngham and Runham gave up, and their students’ delighted voices joined the racket outside, he was forced to concede defeat. Even William, whose stentorian tones usually rose energetically to such a challenge, threw up his hands in resignation and allowed his small group of novices to escape with the others. Only Michael’s Benedictines persisted, retreating to the abandoned servants’ chambers to discuss St Augustine’s Sermones in low, reverent voices. Although Bartholomew had recommended that his own students study specific sections of Galen’s De Regimine Acutorum, he knew very well that none of them had the slightest intention of doing so.
Runham had made his presence felt in other aspects of College life, besides disrupting the teaching routine. He had decided that fires in the hall and conclave were a sinful waste of money, and had decreed that scholars could only light them if they were prepared to buy the fuel themselves. Since Runham himself was virtually the only one able to afford such an extravagance, Bartholomew and his colleagues found themselves teaching rows of unhappy faces bundled inside blankets, rugs, and even wall hangings as the students tried to keep themselves warm. Bartholomew’s own hands and feet were so cold that he could barely feel them, and he was not looking forward to the rest of the winter, when wet clothes would take days to dry and there would be nowhere to go to escape the chill. He decided he might have to visit his sister and Matilde more often – both were wealthy enough to have a cheerful fire in the hearth.
‘How is Michael?’ asked William pleasantly, as they watched the activity in the yard together from the window in the conclave.
‘Better.’
‘But he keeps to his bed,’ observed William. ‘Is he malingering, then?’
‘Of course not,’ said Bartholomew, not entirely truthfully, given that there was no reason at all why the monk should still be in bed. But since Bartholomew had also taken advantage of Michael’s illness to avoid meals in College, he felt he was not in a position to be critical. ‘It is best that he recovers completely before resuming his duties.’
‘His duties,’ mused William, a predatory gleam in his eye. ‘I was planning to discuss those with you.’ Bartholomew regarded him warily. ‘Now that Brother Michael is incapacitated, I wondered whether I should act as Senior Proctor in his stead. I—’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew hastily. ‘Michael has beadles doing that.’
‘But there are a number of suspicious deaths that need to be investigated,’ pressed William. ‘There are those deaths at Bene’t College – Raysoun and Wymundham. At least one of them was murdered, and the
case needs a man like me to get to the bottom of the matter.’
‘Michael has already started his own enquiries,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You should not initiate an investigation of your own, because you might interfere with his.’
‘Then I will concentrate on the brutal slaying of that blameless Franciscan novice – Brother Patrick from Ovyng Hostel,’ said William. ‘It seems no one has the courage to admit to being a witness, and I know Michael has no idea how to begin to solve that crime. I will do it for him.’
Bartholomew sensed that Michael would have to prise himself from his sickbed if he did not want William agitating the uneasy relationship between the Franciscans and the Dominicans. There was nothing Bartholomew could say that would encourage the friar to leave well alone, and he hoped he would not be obliged to accompany William on Michael’s behalf, to ensure the friar did not cause too much trouble.
William gestured to the building work in the yard below with a sweep of one of his powerful arms. ‘I do not like this,’ he boomed in a confidential bellow. ‘It is all happening too fast.’
‘You must have been at the meetings that have been held over the past couple of days to discuss it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You should have made your point then.’
‘Meetings!’ spat William in disgust. ‘That is what Runham calls them, is it? To me, “meetings” implies an exchange of views, where people listen to each other. These were not meetings: they were sessions where Runham told us what would happen. And it is not good to plunge the College into this kind of disorder so abruptly. In my experience, it is better to go more slowly.’
‘It is better to act quickly, while we have the money to hand,’ said Runham, suddenly appearing behind them and making them both jump. ‘Why wait months for the work to be completed when we can have a splendid new College finished within weeks?’
Bartholomew rubbed a hand through his hair and turned away. Personally, he felt William was right, and that time should be allowed for foundations to settle and for timbers to weather. The speed at which the building work was to be completed seemed an ostentatious and unnecessary display of Runham’s new authority.
Bartholomew 06 - A Masterly Murder Page 17