Agatha favoured him with a coy smile. ‘You know how to flatter a woman, Master Suttone. But I buy ale from the Carmelite Friary for us servants; the College brewer provides that cloudy stuff that the scholars drink.’
‘The servants drink better ale than we do?’ asked Bartholomew, startled.
Agatha cackled. ‘You lot down anything I decide to put on the dinner table, but we servants are a little more discriminating. Only the best ale appears for our meals. Since you pay us such miserable wages, we have to reward ourselves in other ways.’
‘Clippesby told me that you attended a fatal accident at Bene’t last week,’ said Suttone to Bartholomew, as he settled himself comfortably on a stool near the hearth. ‘Is that true, or is it something he has imagined?’
‘It is true,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I wish I had not, though, because the colleague who sat with Raysoun as he died claimed he had been pushed, while everyone else seems convinced he fell. Then, two days later, this colleague also died – in circumstances that are suspicious, to say the least – and so I do not know what to believe.’
Suttone regarded him gravely. ‘You think this colleague may have been murdered because he claimed Raysoun was pushed? Lord, Matthew! That is a nasty business!’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘Bene’t does seem to have some problems.’
‘Clippesby was supposed to take a Fellowship at Bene’t,’ said Suttone thoughtfully. ‘Raysoun, the man who fell – or was pushed – from the scaffolding, had some connection with the Dominicans at Huntingdon, where Clippesby hails from. Clippesby told me that Raysoun arranged him an interview with the Master of Bene’t, but said that the meeting did not go well.’
‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.
Suttone shrugged. ‘It is difficult to say. Clippesby seems to believe that the Master took against him for some undetermined reason. Personally, I suspect that the Master had some reservations regarding Clippesby’s suitability, and so recommended he apply to Michaelhouse instead.’
Agatha gave a guffaw of laughter. ‘I must tell Brother Michael that one! The subtlety of that move by Bene’t against another College will make him smile.’
‘I do not think so,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He would only find it amusing if Michaelhouse had foisted an “unsuitable” student on Bene’t, not the other way around.’
‘Clippesby told me that he was shocked when he saw Raysoun,’ said Suttone. ‘Apparently, the man had been a cheerful sort of fellow, given to playing practical jokes on his friends. But when Clippesby met him recently, he said he had changed. He had become gloomy and listless, and drank more than he used to.’
‘Perhaps drinking and gloominess are connected,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It seems wine led poor Justus to take his own life.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Suttone. ‘Runham’s book-bearer who came from Lincoln. It is a pity he died: I would like to have met a man from my own city.’
‘Justus had Bene’t connections, too,’ put in Agatha. ‘His cousins are the two Bene’t porters, Osmun and Ulfo. Justus wanted to work at Bene’t when he first came from Lincoln a year ago, but they had no money to pay an additional porter, so he went to work for Runham instead.’
‘Langelee also seems to have an association with Bene’t,’ said Suttone. ‘If I had a penny for every time he told me he was going to visit Simekyn Simeon (the Duke of Lancaster’s man) at Bene’t, I would be a rich man.’
‘And I have Bene’t connections, do not forget,’ said Agatha. ‘I have a cousin who is a cook there, and he has been pressing me to honour Bene’t with my services.’
‘I hope you do not,’ said Bartholomew. He smiled at her. ‘Where would Suttone and I go on a cold winter’s night for good ale and entertaining company?’
Agatha puffed herself up. ‘True. Michaelhouse would not survive long without me here to oversee matters. But Bene’t is offering me twice the salary that you pay, and I get a bigger room. It knows how to treat its valued members of staff.’
‘I could have a word with Runham, and see whether we can afford to give you more,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You are right: we should pay you what you deserve.’
Agatha reached out and chucked him under the chin. ‘You are a kind man, Matthew. I will miss you most of all if I leave. But I cannot say that I relish the prospect of remaining here with that Runham at the helm. He is like a great fat spider, spinning webs to ensnare anyone unfortunate enough to cross his path. And I will never forgive him for what he did to Father William today.’
‘That was an unedifying incident,’ agreed Suttone. ‘Father William is not an easy man to like, but he is loyal, open and I think generous underneath all his religious bluster.’
‘Michaelhouse will not be the same without him,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘Still, perhaps it will all blow over in time. Then William can come back and make his apologies to Runham.’
‘William can apologise all he likes,’ said Suttone. ‘But Runham will never allow him to make his peace. I saw the triumph in Runham’s eyes when William struck him: he knew at that point that he had the excuse he needs to rid himself of the man.’
‘But why would Runham want William to leave?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘He is a reliable teacher and his students seldom cause us any trouble.’
Suttone and Agatha exchanged a mystified glance.
‘I am surprised you need to ask that, Matthew,’ said Agatha. ‘I have heard you complain often enough that you cannot teach while William rants and raves in the hall.’
‘And his fanatical dislike of the Dominicans may prove dangerous for Michaelhouse,’ added Suttone. ‘It is not good to harbour men who hate another Order within our walls in as uneasy a town as Cambridge. It would not do for Michaelhouse to become the focus of an attack by Dominicans enraged by claims of heresy by our resident Franciscan.’
‘But it is irrelevant now, anyway,’ said Agatha, staring into the dying embers of the fire. ‘William has been driven out. Which of you will be next, I wonder?’
The following day saw the first sunshine they had experienced for days. Bartholomew woke at dawn, heartened to see the streaks of pale blue and gold striping the banks of grey clouds. He walked with the others to mass in St Michael’s Church, watching the windows as the first delicate strands of sunshine began to dapple the chancel floor. He was less sanguine when the same sun caught the gilt on Wilson’s grotesque effigy and set it glittering and gleaming like some pagan idol, but tried to ignore it and concentrate on the reading from the Old Testament.
When the mass was over, he peeled off from the end of the procession and walked across the courtyard to check on Michael. The monk was sleeping, although a number of empty dishes suggested that Agatha had already brought him his breakfast. He stirred, and muttered something about Yolande de Blaston, the prostitute. Afraid he might hear something he would rather not know, Bartholomew beat a hasty retreat and joined his colleagues in the hall.
The uninspiring meal – watery oatmeal and equally watery ale – was eaten in silence, while the Bible Scholar read about the trials and tribulations of King David. Runham’s own meal was supplemented with some raisins and a bowl of nuts from his personal supplies. Kenyngham seemed sad and distracted, barely touching his food and not even listening to the sacred words of the Bible Scholar, which suggested to Bartholomew that he was deeply unhappy. Langelee was nursing yet another of his gargantuan wine-induced headaches, and was irritable with the harried servant who single-handedly struggled to attend the Fellows – Runham had dismissed his two assistants.
Next to Runham was Clippesby, whose eyes darted around the room as though looking for hidden assassins. He ate like a bird, in jerky, pecking movements, almost as if he were afraid that if he devoted too much attention to his meal, something dreadful might happen to him. Technically, Clippesby should not have been sitting so near the Master: as one of Michaelhouse’s newest members, he was obliged to sit farthest from the seat of power. But no one else wanted Runham’s company, and when Clippesby had
defiantly selected the seat, no one cared to wrest it from him.
Suttone looked as grave as his colleagues. His jovial face was glum, and the merry twinkle in his eyes, which Bartholomew had so liked at their first meeting, was gone. As if he sensed he was the object of scrutiny, he glanced up at Bartholomew. The physician indicated with a grimace that it was time the meal was brought to an end, and Suttone gave him a quick grin of agreement. The genial sunniness returned, and Bartholomew suspected that Suttone’s sombre expression had been cultivated to suit the timbre of the meal.
Runham read the grace in unnecessarily sepulchral tones, and the meal was over. The students scraped their benches on the flagged floor as they made their escape, returning to their rooms to collect pens, parchment and as many blankets as they could carry for a morning of teaching in the chilly hall. The few remaining servants ran to clear away the dishes, and then to dismantle the trestle tables and lean them against the screen at the far end of the room. The benches were left as they were, so that the masters could move them as they were needed.
‘My Carmelite brethren warned me that life as a scholar might be grim,’ said Suttone, walking across the yard with Bartholomew as they went to collect the books they would need that morning. ‘But I told him I was not going to some poor hostel with a dormitory-cum-refectory-cum-lecture-room-cum-laundry. I told them I was going to Michaelhouse, one of the greatest houses of learning in the country, where scholars live a life of respectable comfort, and where education is placed above all else.’
Bartholomew laughed.
‘I do not think teaching is among Runham’s principal objectives,’ Suttone continued. ‘I think his main aim is to create a glorious temple, where scholars can sit in neat little rows and shiver together, wishing they were somewhere else.’
‘I hope he changes his mind about the fires when it snows,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Everyone will succumb to fevers and chills if there is nowhere to dry wet clothes and nowhere warm to sit.’
‘We will be losing our students to the more congenial atmosphere of the taverns,’ agreed Suttone. ‘But perhaps Runham will loosen his stranglehold when he learns he does not need to prove his power to us at every turn.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘But Michaelhouse still has many advantages over the hostels. We have some faithful servants – Harold, Ned …’
‘All dismissed,’ interrupted Suttone. ‘What else?’
‘Well, not the food,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And our wines leave something to be desired.’
‘They certainly do,’ laughed Suttone. ‘I did not think that any respectable establishment would stoop to provide Widow’s Wine for its members. When I first tasted it, I thought someone was playing a practical joke on us newcomers. But then I saw the rest of you drinking it, and I felt obliged to follow suit. Nasty stuff, that. My priory in Lincoln keeps it for cleaning the drains.’
‘That bad, is it?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I thought it was just rough wine.’
‘Very rough wine,’ corrected Suttone.
Bartholomew continued with his list of Michaelhouse’s virtues, not wanting the genial Suttone to leave the College and allow Runham to appoint a man of his own choosing in his place. ‘We have a fine collection of grammar and rhetoric texts, and there will be plenty of opportunity for academic debate when things have settled down.’
‘Who with?’
‘Well, there is Langelee,’ began Bartholomew. He saw the dubious expression on Suttone’s face and hurried on. ‘Runham is a clever lawyer who argues brilliantly when the mood takes him; Kenyngham understands the scriptures better than anyone else I know, and will certainly give you cause for contemplation; Father Paul—’
‘Paul is dismissed.’
‘Right. Michael’s logic is flawless, and he is an entertaining sparring partner.’
‘And there is you,’ said Suttone, smiling again. ‘I would like to hear more of the theories that everyone seems to believe are so heretical. In my experience, heretical notions often need only a little tweaking here and there to render them acceptable to the general populace. Perhaps I will stay a while, even if only to learn from you how simple water can cause so many diseases and how horoscopes are irrelevant to a person’s well-being.’
Bartholomew smiled back. ‘And since Brother Michael often accuses me of having a poor grasp of logic, perhaps I can learn from your lectures on the subject, too.’
Suttone clapped him on the back. ‘Once Master Runham sits a little more easily in the saddle of power, Michaelhouse will be a better place to live, and then you and I shall spend many happy hours discussing medicine and logic.’
Bartholomew sincerely hoped Suttone’s gentle optimism was not misplaced.
During the morning’s teaching, Bartholomew was summoned by a patient with a badly crushed hand; the injury was so severe that it necessitated the removal of two fingers. He was surprised to see the surgeon, Robin of Grantchester, already there, lurking in the shadows with his terrifying array of black-stained implements. Physicians were not supposed to practise surgery, and amputations were Robin’s domain, although Bartholomew personally would rather have died before allowing the surgeon anywhere near an injury of his own. Surprisingly, Robin demurred and watched silently while Bartholomew deftly removed the useless digits from the howling man and sutured the stumps. When the patient had been bandaged and dosed with a pain-killing draught, Bartholomew and Robin left the house together.
‘Why did you not operate?’ asked Bartholomew as they walked along the High Street. ‘It was a straightforward case. Was it because he could not pay you?’
‘I was paid,’ said Robin, showing him six pennies. ‘That is why they had no money left for you.’
‘But you did not treat the man, so why did you take his money?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.
‘I charge for consultations,’ said Robin loftily. ‘I asked for sixpence and then advised him to contact you. I am banned from surgery until this wretched Saddler case is resolved, you see.’
‘You were arrested because he died after you amputated his leg,’ Bartholomew recalled. ‘But most people die after you cut off their limbs. Why is this one different?’
‘His family are wealthier than most,’ said Robin mournfully, not in the slightest offended by Bartholomew’s brutal summary of his medical skills. ‘I spent three nights in Sheriff Tulyet’s prison with criminals for company – including one with that ruffian Osmun, the porter from Bene’t College.’
‘What was he doing there?’
‘He was arrested for fighting in the King’s Head. Vile man! I spent the whole time awake clutching my cutting knives in anticipation of being robbed by him.’
Bartholomew glanced at the surgeon’s clothes, stiff with ancient blood, and decided that even Osmun would have balked at searching Robin for hidden riches. Politely, he said nothing.
‘And he talked all night,’ continued Robin. ‘He was drunk and was blathering all sorts of nonsense. He told me that he believed one Bene’t Fellow named Wymundham had stabbed another called Raysoun with an awl after he had fallen from the scaffolding. Do you know anything about this? I was busy with Saddler at the time, God help me.’
‘Wymundham did not kill Raysoun,’ said Bartholomew, confused. ‘He was kneeling next to Raysoun when he died. I saw him holding the man’s hand and exhorting him to stand up.’
‘Osmun did not say Wymundham killed Raysoun,’ said Robin pedantically. ‘He said Wymundham stabbed Raysoun after he had fallen. He claimed that Wymundham was the kind of man to stab a corpse to make an accident look like murder.’
‘I do not think so,’ said Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘Wymundham could not have stabbed Raysoun with half the town watching, and anyway, Raysoun was not a corpse when Master Lynton pulled the awl out of him.’
‘Well, the Fellows of Bene’t are altogether odd,’ said Robin firmly. ‘The Master, Heltisle, is too ambitious for his own good; his second-in-command Caumpes likes to pla
y with boats in his spare time, because he comes from the Fens; while de Walton has a fancy for Mayor Horwoode’s massive wife. And the last of them, Simekyn Simeon, is the Duke of Lancaster’s spy!’
‘Did Osmun tell you all this?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.
‘Lord, no!’ said Robin. ‘He is too fond of that foul place to utter seditious thoughts about it. What I tell you about the Fellows of Bene’t is general town knowledge.’
Bartholomew realised that Osmun was merely trying to shift any suspicion on to Wymundham, who was hardly in a position to defend himself, because he was dead. Perhaps Osmun had been the murderer, climbing the scaffolding to shove Raysoun to his death. And in that case, Osmun must have killed Wymundham, too, to silence him regarding the identity of Raysoun’s killer. Bartholomew decided he should pass the gossip to Michael, so that the Senior Proctor could decide what was truth and what was lies in the mess of charge and counter-charge. He was thankful that the affair was not his to solve.
Bartholomew was with his students in the conclave later that morning, in the midst of a long and involved explanation about a diagram of a neck in Mondino dei Liuzzi’s illustrated Anatomy, when there was a colossal crash. Anatomy forgotten, students and master rushed to the window to see that a pulley hauling slates to the roof had snapped, littering the yard below with smashed tiles.
For several moments there was a shocked silence, both in the hall and in the courtyard, and then the workmen began shouting in alarm. Afraid that someone might have been crushed, Bartholomew ran outside, pushing through the gathering crowd to see if there was anyone who needed his expertise.
They had been lucky: no one had been standing underneath the pulley when it had broken. With relief, Bartholomew heard the workmen’s shouts of alarm give way to laughter and bantering; evidently they considered the fall more of a matter for humour than anger or recrimination, although it seemed to Bartholomew that they were working too fast, and were abandoning safety for speed. He sprinted up the stairs to Michael’s room to find the monk standing at the window watching the chaotic scene below in disapproval. He shook his head as Bartholomew entered.
Bartholomew 06 - A Masterly Murder Page 19