Bartholomew 06 - A Masterly Murder

by Susanna GREGORY

  On his way home he had met Matilde, who told him that the case against Robin of Grantchester had been dismissed, because it could not be proven that the surgeon had deliberately tried to kill the man whose leg he had amputated. Bartholomew was relieved, not liking the notion that every unsuccessful outcome should end in the courts. He walked back to Michaelhouse feeling more cheerful, particularly since he had noticed that Matilde wore a green ribbon in her hair.

  He worked on his treatise until the daylight faded, then sat with the other Fellows in the conclave, enjoying the cosy warmth of the fire. Suttone had a copy of Homer’s Iliad, which he read aloud to entertain the others, although the story about the Trojan horse sparked some telling opinions. Michael thought the disaster was the Trojans’ own fault for not being properly suspicious of a gift from nowhere; Suttone considered the Greeks’ trick unconscionable, and wondered how they ever assuaged their guilt; Langelee was unable to move past the question of how the Trojans managed to exit from the horse to mount a surprise attack when it would have taken them some time to descend the ladders; Clippesby suggested the Trojans should have sent someone to talk to the horse before allowing it in their city; Kenyngham was distressed by the notion of a massacre; and Bartholomew was concerned that the tale would give the gentle Gilbertine nightmares.

  Eventually, as the embers in the fire died and the room began to chill, the other Fellows drifted away to their beds.

  Michael and Bartholomew lingered in the conclave, preparing for their nocturnal foray to the murdered Runham’s chamber. While they waited for the College to sleep, the monk described the visit he had made to Bene’t College earlier that day. Fellows and students alike had claimed to know nothing about the death of Wymundham, even the foppish Simeon, who had been sufficiently concerned about the matter to invade Michael’s sickroom the previous week. The Bene’t men used the Duke of Lancaster’s pronouncement that there had been nothing untoward in the two deaths to declare Michael’s investigation closed. Knowing that to reveal what Adela had seen might put her in danger, Michael had been unable to confront them about the incident that took place in Holy Trinity, and so left Bene’t none the wiser but very much angrier.

  Meadowman, the beadle who had infiltrated the body of builders working on Bene’t when Raysoun had died, also had nothing to report. None of the craftsmen or their apprentices seemed to know anything about the University deaths. Meadowman was heavy-eyed and weary after nights of carousing with his new-found friends, and the other beadles were in a similar state. Some had even gone so far as to ask to do something else, bored and frustrated with endless evenings in wood-smoke-filled taverns drinking cloudy ale that turned their stomachs.

  When the College was still and silent, and the last of the students’ candles had been doused, Michael led the way across the courtyard to the room in which Master Runham had been murdered. Not surprisingly, Kenyngham had been reluctant to move back into it, and had insisted on remaining in the chamber he shared with Clippesby until a permanent successor to Runham could be appointed.

  As always, when Bartholomew entered the Master’s quarters, he was reminded unpleasantly of Master Wilson’s death in them, some four years previously. When Wilson had realised that he had been infected with the plague, he had spent his dying hours burning documents and scrolls. After his death, it had been discovered that his affairs were ruthlessly in order, which suggested to Bartholomew that Wilson had given a good deal more attention to his earthly life than he had spent preparing for the one to come. As Wilson had consigned certain parchments to the flames, he had knocked over a lamp and it had set his clothes alight. Bartholomew would never forget the deathbed scene that followed.

  The Master’s chamber was a large room by College standards. At one end was a bed piled with furs and blankets, and next to it a substantial chest contained Runham’s impressive collection of robes, shoes and shirts. His cloaks and tabards hung on a row of hooks fastened to the wall above it. Under the window were a table and a chair, while the shelves to either side of them contained inks, pens, spare parchment and several blocks of a powerful-smelling soap that Bartholomew was certain Runham had never used. Nearby was the strongbox, its lid still dangling open, and the empty hutches.

  ‘It was Clippesby who found Runham’s corpse,’ said Michael conversationally, setting a candle in a holder. ‘His dismayed screeches woke the whole College.’

  ‘What time?’ asked Bartholomew.

  ‘An hour or so before first light. Cynric arrived shortly after and decided you were probably at Trumpington, so rode off to fetch you. I miss that man, Matt. Is there any way we could persuade him to come back?’

  ‘I think he is happier with Rachel than he ever was here. She does not ask him to go out at night chasing villains and scoundrels.’

  ‘I thought he enjoyed that – a lot more than you do. Anyway, Clippesby woke us with his unholy racket, and we all arrived to see Runham just as you saw him later, with his great paunch facing the ceiling and his smug face blue and lifeless.’

  Michael was not a man who had cause to comment on the great paunches of others, and Bartholomew smothered a smile. He looked around him, not sure what the monk hoped to achieve by rummaging through the Master’s chamber when their colleagues were in bed.

  ‘What was Clippesby doing here so early?’ he asked, sitting on a bench near the hearth. It was a handsome piece of furniture, and Bartholomew recognised it as a gift from Kenyngham for the conclave. Yet again, he was astounded by Runham’s selfish audacity.

  ‘Clippesby said he and Runham usually met at dawn to discuss business,’ said Michael. ‘And I think that is true. Gray, Deynman and Suttone all saw Clippesby coming here on a number of occasions to plan their evil deeds for the forthcoming day. He was Runham’s lickspittle.’

  ‘To smother a man, the killer would need to come relatively close without alarming his victim,’ said Bartholomew slowly. ‘Runham would be unlikely to let a stranger that near.’

  ‘So, you conclude Runham’s killer was someone he knew?’ asked Michael. ‘That is not a great help, Matt. We know that – we have a splendid list of suspects, remember?’

  ‘Smothering is an unusual way to kill,’ Bartholomew went on. ‘It requires premeditation: you need a convenient implement and you need to be prepared to hold your victim for several minutes until he dies. It is odd, do you not think, that both Runham and Wymundham died from smothering?’

  ‘What are you saying?’ asked Michael. ‘That they were both killed by the same person?’

  ‘It is possible. I have seldom come across cases of suffocation like this, and now there are two within a few days of each other.’

  ‘But that would mean Runham’s killer was one of the Bene’t men,’ objected Michael, ‘since we already have evidence to suggest that a Bene’t Fellow killed Wymundham. And I do not think so, Matt. It is just another of those coincidences that happen in real life, but that you are always trying to read something into.’

  ‘I suppose you are right,’ said Bartholomew reluctantly. ‘But there is something else that has been nagging at the back of my mind – Justus.’

  ‘Justus? Runham’s book-bearer, who killed himself by shoving his head in a wineskin?’

  ‘What if he did not suffocate in the wineskin? What if he were smothered, and the wineskin tied over his head later?’

  ‘You did not say Justus had been smothered at the time. You said he had suffocated himself.’

  ‘I made a series of assumptions. First, I assumed that because the wineskin was tied over Justus’s head, that was how he died. Second, I assumed that he had tied it there himself. Third, I assumed he drank himself into a state of depression, and became suicidal.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘All that sounds reasonable.’

  ‘But the other servants said Justus was in an unusually good mood the night he died, because he had found some money on the High Street. That evening, of all evenings, he was not unhappy.’

&nb
sp; ‘But he used that money to buy wine, Matt. Men often start drinking merrily enough, but then end weeping for their mothers. His mood earlier that day tells us nothing.’

  ‘But I think he was suffocated,’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘And so were Runham and Wymundham.’

  Michael sighed. ‘Very well. Let us consider this rationally. You think Justus’s death might be connected to Runham’s – that perhaps Justus knew something about Runham’s affairs that someone wanted kept quiet?’

  ‘I do not know,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I am only saying it is possible that the instrument of Justus’s death was not the wineskin, as I assumed, but a cushion. And if that is the case, then we have three deaths where the killer used the same, rather unusual, method: Justus, Wymundham and now Runham.’

  ‘I am not sure about this, Matt,’ warned Michael. ‘Apart from the fact that all three died because they could not breathe, I do not see the connection.’

  ‘Runham fought like the Devil before he died. Remember the torn fingernails? We should check your “splendid list of suspects” for scratches – and that includes the Bene’t men.’

  ‘I have already examined our own scholars, but have seen no inexplicable marks,’ said Michael. ‘I have earned myself a reputation as an ogler around the latrines and the lavatorium, eyeing up our colleagues as they wash themselves. And then I had a good look at the Bene’t men when I went there today. None of them is marred by scratches. But I suspect that all my efforts have been for nothing anyway: sit at the table, and I will show you something.’

  ‘Show me what?’ asked Bartholomew nervously, not liking the gleam of intent in the monk’s eyes.

  ‘I have given Runham’s death a good deal of thought, and I know how the murderer prevented him from screaming for help. Sit at the table, like Runham used to do when he counted his gold.’

  Bartholomew sat, glancing uneasily over his shoulder as Michael moved about behind him.

  ‘Do not cheat,’ said Michael, taking up a cushion. ‘You are Runham, engrossed in the business of transferring silver from the College hutches to your building chest, and I am a colleague – a man you know well and whom you have no cause to fear.’

  ‘Runham was not stupid, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, turning to face him. ‘He knew he had alienated his colleagues, and I do not think it likely that he would have turned his back on the likes of William or Langelee. He knew they both have vile tempers.’

  ‘But Runham did not anticipate that someone would murder him,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘If he had, he would have taken precautions: he would have hired a bodyguard or kept his door locked – which he did not.’

  ‘All right,’ Bartholomew sighed, turning around and placing both hands on the table. ‘So, Runham is sitting like this when his killer comes in. Then what?’

  ‘The killer makes gentle conversation,’ said Michael. ‘He moves around, looking at the plunder Runham has stolen from the College’s common rooms for his own use, including Agatha’s cushion. He picks it up, pretending to admire the embroidery, and then …’

  With a single step, Michael bounded across the room and had the cushion slapped across the physician’s face before he could utter a sound. Then he wrapped both arms around cushion and head together, holding them in a firm embrace. Startled, Bartholomew began to struggle, but found he was able to move very little, and the lower half of his body was trapped between the chair and the table. When the pressure of Michael’s grip increased, Bartholomew felt a surge of panic. He reached backward with his hands but could not reach the monk’s face; he could only claw ineffectually at the thick arms that held him.

  Deprived of air, he felt his senses begin to reel. He struggled more violently, but the monk’s grip was too secure to be shaken or prised away. He tried to call out, to tell Michael to stop, but he could not draw the air into his lungs and the only sound he made was a muffled gasp. He attempted to twist to one side, to break the grip, but Michael merely moved with him. When he leaned down, to jab an elbow or a hand into Michael’s stomach or ribs to startle him into loosening his hold, he found the chair was in the way.

  Just when he thought his lungs were about to explode and felt on the verge of fainting, the pressure was released, and Michael stood back. Bartholomew staggered out of the chair and backed quickly away from the monk, gasping for breath and leaning on the wall for support.

  ‘Simple,’ said Michael, raising his hands, palms up. ‘That was how it was done. And afterwards, Runham was laid on the floor, exactly how we found him. Are you all right, Matt?’

  The physician shook his head, eyeing Michael in disbelief. ‘God’s teeth, Brother! I thought we were on the same side. You nearly killed me!’

  ‘I did not,’ said Michael dismissively. ‘I held you only for a few moments. If I had let you loose too soon, I would not have proved to you that Runham’s broken fingernails need not necessarily have resulted in his killer being scratched. You clawed at the table, the chair and at me, but I am not marked in the slightest.’

  He raised the loose sleeves of his habit to reveal a pair of flabby white arms, one still bandaged from his encounter with the bee, but otherwise unscathed.

  ‘You could just touch my arms and hands, but you could not reach my face,’ Michael amplified. ‘And you were in such an awkward position that you were unable to put any force into your attempts to harm me. Runham must have been killed in the way I have just demonstrated, otherwise it would mean him meekly lying on the floor, while allowing his murderer to place the cushion over his head.’

  ‘Look under the table,’ said Bartholomew, still breathless. ‘See if you can tell whether Runham kicked it in his death throes.’

  Michael knelt. ‘Yes! Here! I should have thought of this sooner. There are a couple of sizeable dents and some scratches. Come and look.’

  Bartholomew shook his head. ‘I am never going to turn my back on you again. From now on, I will stay where I can see you.’

  Michael made an impatient sound. ‘I barely touched you. I did not squeeze nearly as hard as I could have done. Do not be so feeble, Matt!’

  ‘Let me try it on you,’ said Bartholomew, snatching up the cushion and advancing on the monk. Michael stood quickly and moved away.

  ‘Why? So you can smother me to within an inch of my life and claim tit-for-tat? Really, Matt. I had not understood you to be a vindictive man.’

  ‘Because I want to test what you just said,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘You said you did not exert as much pressure as you could have done, and yet you still could have killed me. What I want to know is how strong do you have to be to smother someone like that?’

  ‘Are you sure you know what you are doing?’ asked Michael, regarding him doubtfully.

  ‘I am a physician,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Of course I know what I am doing.’

  He placed the cushion over the monk’s face and wrapped his arms around Michael’s head, just as the monk had done. Unlike Michael, however, he did not deprive his subject of air, and instead experimented with various different grips. He discovered that by pulling upward, he could make it even more difficult for his victim to struggle. He was just concluding his investigations by leaning forward, so that Michael was trapped between him and the desk, when the door opened.

  ‘Matthew!’ came the shocked, hushed tones of Father William. ‘So it was you all along!’

  With the door firmly closed against curious ears, and William ordered to keep his voice down on pain of death, the three Fellows stood in the centre of Master Runham’s room and looked around them.

  ‘I am sorry for accusing you of so vile a crime, Matthew,’ said William, yet again. ‘I really thought you were smothering Michael. It was clever of you to experiment like that. I wish I had thought to do it myself.’

  ‘We need to go through everything in this room to see whether we can find any clue that will help us discover the identity of Runham’s killer,’ said Michael, trying to bring the friar’s mind back to the task in hand. ‘All o
f us are potential suspects, so our very lives may depend on being thorough – even though we are all innocent.’

  ‘Why are you so sure of my innocence?’ asked William curiously. ‘I am innocent, of course, but in this den of suspicion and intrigue, I am surprised you believe me. I was so afraid I would be blamed for Runham’s murder that I have been loath to abandon the safety of the friary walls.’

  ‘So, why choose now to leave?’ asked Bartholomew.

  ‘It is dark. And I came to look for clues that might help me prove it was not I who did the world this great favour. But I do not have to convince you, it seems.’

  ‘Any man is capable of murder, and so my belief in your innocence does not stem from trust in your innate morality,’ said Michael pompously. ‘But although you are certainly strong enough to have overpowered Runham, you are not the kind of man to use smothering as a means to an end. Fists, certainly; a blunt instrument, yes; a dagger, very possibly. But I cannot see you slowly and deliberately squeezing the life out of anyone.’

  ‘Then you know me less well than you think,’ said William bluntly. ‘I think I would have gained a great deal of pleasure from squeezing the life out of Runham.’

  ‘You should learn to take a compliment, Father,’ said Michael dryly. ‘But, very well, if you must know the truth, several of your brethren told me that the snores emanating from your cell kept them awake half the night. They are prepared to swear that you are accounted for from sunset, when you attended compline, until the morning, when the news came that Runham was no more.’

  ‘You asked my fellow friars about me?’ asked William indignantly.

  ‘Yes,’ said Michael. ‘But it worked to your advantage. You are virtually the only one of us with a sound alibi, and who definitely did not commit this crime.’

  William puffed himself up. ‘My money is on the culprit being that Dominican – Clippesby. I have never liked him. He is treacherous and duplicitous.’