Bartholomew 06 - A Masterly Murder

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘I do not believe this,’ said Heltisle miserably. ‘I have known Caumpes for years. He has never struck me as a murderer. And now he has fled, and will continue to damage my poor College from afar.’

  ‘No,’ said Simeon. ‘Caumpes will not harm Bene’t because it was his devotion to it that led him into all this in the first place. And anyway, we will catch him sooner or later.’

  He placed a stool near the fire for Bartholomew, whose clothes began to steam, and handed him a cup of mulled wine. The physician took a hearty mouthful, and then felt his stomach rebel at its powerful flavour, which even copious amounts of sugar and cloves could not disguise. Thinking it impolite to spit it on Bene’t’s fine floor, or even in the fire, he forced himself to swallow, flinching as the wine eased its fiery way down to his stomach. Simeon smiled at his reaction, as though it was a prank he had played before. Bartholomew did not find it amusing, however, and glanced at Michael, wondering whether he, too, had recognised the acidic, tarry taste of Widow’s Wine.

  The monk nodded to his unspoken question. ‘It is the same foul brew that incapacitated most of Michaelhouse on the night that Runham was elected Master.’

  Simeon’s eyes grew round with wry astonishment. ‘You used Widow’s Wine to celebrate Runham’s election? After all your claims about the fine cellars that Michaelhouse keeps? That, my dear Senior Proctor, is the most flagrant example of hypocrisy I have ever encountered!’

  ‘It was not just any Widow’s Wine,’ said Michael. ‘It was stronger – more potent.’

  ‘I did not think there was anything in Christendom stronger than Widow’s Wine,’ said Simeon, laughing openly. ‘The Duke’s cooks use it for sluicing the slop drains.’

  ‘This tastes strong and potent to me,’ said Bartholomew, setting it down on the hearth and declining to drink any more.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Michael softly. ‘While I do not make a habit of imbibing Widow’s Wine, if it can be avoided, I am familiar with its flavour. The one served at Michaelhouse that night was more concentrated than any I have tasted before – rather like this one, in fact.’

  Simeon seemed about to object to the implied accusation, but Heltisle shook himself from his gloomy reverie and replied instead.

  ‘So that is what happened to it,’ he said morosely. ‘Two hogsheads of the stuff went missing from our cellars nine or ten days ago. I wondered where they had gone – even students would have to be desperate to steal that for their revelries.’

  ‘Apprentices seem to like it well enough,’ said Michael.

  Heltisle shook his head. ‘Not this brew. You are right – it is stronger than usual. I order it that way because it is good for preserving fruit from the orchard. We do not usually drink it, though – except on rare occasions when we need something powerful to warm us.’

  ‘Like now,’ said Simeon, still smiling. ‘You can see how it drives out the chill.’

  ‘We usually disguise the flavour with sugar and cloves,’ continued Heltisle. ‘We would never drink it raw.’

  ‘Caumpes must have taken it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He just admitted to being one of the two men who tampered with the scaffolding at Michaelhouse. He must have stolen this horrible brew from Bene’t and smuggled it in to be used at our feast, so that everyone would be too drunk to notice what he was doing.’

  ‘What was he doing?’ asked Simeon.

  ‘We do not know,’ said Michael with a sigh. ‘Late on the night that Runham was elected, Matt and I encountered two people leaving Michaelhouse who were clearly up to no good. When we challenged them, they ran. We wondered from the start whether strong wine had been deliberately provided, in order to allow some dark deed to be done with no witnesses.’

  Simeon gestured to Bartholomew’s cup. ‘Are you telling me that everyone in Michaelhouse drank this stuff – that no one did what any human being with a sense of taste would do, and decline it?’

  Michael scrambled to prevent Michaelhouse from gaining the reputation of a community of drunkards who would down anything as long as it was in a goblet. ‘You must understand that our minds were concerned with more important matters. We had just elected Runham as Master.’

  ‘And you had the audacity to pretend to be a man who knew his wines when you came to visit us earlier?’ said Simeon, regarding Michael askance. ‘Yet you drank Master Heltisle’s pickling agent without demur? I can believe that of Ralph de Langelee, but I expected more of you, Brother.’

  ‘Of course. I had forgotten Langelee was a familiar of yours,’ said Michael.

  ‘Hardly that,’ said Simeon distastefully. ‘But we have known each other for a long time, and he invited me to Michaelhouse last Sunday to take a cup of wine in his chamber, although he certainly did not give me Widow’s Wine. I would have objected most strenuously.’

  ‘Is that all you were there for?’ asked Michael. ‘Wine and some none too intelligent conversation?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Simeon, genuinely surprised by the question. ‘Why else would I be there?’

  ‘The end of your visit coincided with some collapsing scaffolding,’ said Michael pointedly.

  ‘I heard about that,’ replied Simeon. ‘But I can assure you that it had nothing to do with me.’

  ‘Caumpes has just admitted to doing that,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘Simeon and Osmun’s visit was no more than a coincidence.’

  ‘If you think I would sully my hands by tampering with timber, nails and other dirty objects, then you have been drinking too much Widow’s Wine,’ said Simeon.

  ‘I do not make a habit of drinking the stuff,’ Michael objected stiffly.

  ‘We can debate wines another time,’ said Bartholomew, sitting as close to the fire as he could. ‘What we need to discuss is what to do about Caumpes.’

  ‘There is nothing we can do tonight,’ said Simeon practically. ‘We will search for him tomorrow. He will not be far. He has lived in this town all his life, and he will not know where else to go.’

  ‘Are you sure it was Caumpes who killed Raysoun, Wymundham and Brother Patrick?’ asked Bartholomew of Michael. ‘Only he denied it, you see.’

  ‘Well, he would, Matt,’ said Michael, wearily. ‘Perhaps he knows he will be caught sooner or later, and is already planning his defence.’

  ‘Caumpes did not kill Raysoun,’ said Simeon. ‘He fell from the scaffolding while drunk.’

  Bartholomew sighed. ‘Wymundham said Raysoun whispered with his dying breath that he had been pushed.’

  ‘Any of the workmen will tell you that there was no one anywhere near Raysoun when he fell,’ replied Simeon. ‘Almost before Raysoun had breathed his last, Wymundham had started rumours that he had been murdered, but they were lies, intended to create disharmony and suspicion among the Fellowship.’

  ‘While in prison, Osmun told Robin of Grantchester that Wymundham had stabbed Raysoun,’ said Bartholomew, trying to sit even closer to the fire.

  ‘Osmun would believe anything of Wymundham,’ said the Duke’s man. ‘They hated each other. But I saw Wymundham arrive at Raysoun’s side, and the builder’s awl was already sticking out of him. And much as I would like a neat end to all this, and have Raysoun’s death blamed on that scheming weasel, I know it is not true. Raysoun fell and the awl pierced him as he landed.’

  ‘But why would Wymundham want his colleagues accused of murder?’ asked Bartholomew.

  ‘Wymundham was not a pleasant man,’ said Heltisle. ‘He was bitter and twisted, and resented anyone else’s good fortune. As I told you before, I was not sorry to hear that he had died, although I did not wish him murdered.’

  ‘We knew Wymundham’s lies about Raysoun’s death would be damaging to Bene’t,’ said Simeon. ‘Even though the workmen were prepared to swear it was just a tragic accident, you know how people are – they would much rather hear about a murder than a boring accident.’

  He glanced significantly at Bartholomew, who realised that despite the claims of honest men, like the carpenter Robert de
Blaston, he had been more inclined to believe the unsubstantiated claims of Wymundham. And all the time, evidence that Raysoun had been drinking had been staring him in the face: he himself had smelled wine on Raysoun, and he had seen the wineskin that Raysoun had dropped when he had fallen.

  ‘And even though there was a crowd of people around Raysoun as he died, it is curious that only Wymundham heard these last words, is it not?’ Heltisle pointed out.

  ‘I certainly did not, and I was kneeling next to him, giving him last rites,’ added Michael.

  Bartholomew recalled his surprise that Raysoun had spoken, given the extent of his injuries. Now it seemed that Raysoun’s broken back had indeed robbed him of consciousness. Wymundham had been lying.

  ‘So, the remaining Fellows had a meeting, to decide what to do about Wymundham’s behaviour,’ said Simeon. ‘I suggested we pay him to tell the truth. Buying men off usually works at court.’

  ‘It was a dreadful idea,’ said Heltisle mournfully. ‘It gave Wymundham the means to indulge in a drinking spree. As soon as the coins had left my hands, he went to Holy Trinity Church to buy some cheap wine.’

  And that explained why Wymundham had appeared furtive when entering the church, thought Bartholomew: he was about to embark on a binge that the University would condemn, because he had known about Holy Trinity’s wine-seller who offered cheap drink that had been illegally exempted from the King’s taxes.

  ‘I spotted Wymundham staggering around the church and went to fetch the others,’ continued Simeon. ‘When Caumpes saw Wymundham lying in a drunken stupor wearing his Bene’t tabard, proclaiming to the world which College he was from, he was livid.’

  ‘I had to order Caumpes back to the College while the rest of us dealt with Wymundham,’ added Heltisle. He gave a grim smile. ‘Actually, he was ready to rid us of Wymundham long before that day. In September, he and I overheard him with that Brother Patrick of Ovyng, exchanging nasty snippets of gossip as they strolled in the water meadows one Sunday afternoon. Caumpes was furious, and almost had his dagger out then, too.’

  ‘Well, he had his wish,’ said Simeon. ‘Caumpes killed Wymundham in the hut you just saw burned to the ground. And then he must have rowed the body to Horwoode’s land and dumped it there because it is the most isolated spot on the King’s Ditch.’

  ‘Why did you not tell me this before?’ asked Michael. ‘It would have saved a lot of trouble.’

  Simeon sighed. ‘We had been to some trouble to protect the College from Wymundham. Why would we reveal to you what we had been to some pains to hide?’

  ‘But it is out now anyway,’ said Michael, slightly gloating. ‘And all your subterfuge has been in vain. I am not the gluttonous buffoon that you believe me to be, Master Simeon.’

  Simeon gaped at him and then began to laugh. ‘So that was you eavesdropping on me near the King’s Ditch earlier? I would not have thought you agile enough to scale it! But as it happens, that is not what I think of you at all. I have listened to stories of your previous successes, and I know you have a formidable mind. But I swore an oath of allegiance to Bene’t, a Cambridge College. Do you think I would not take advantage of Oxford by spinning Master Heytesbury a few misguided opinions?’

  Michael’s fat face slowly broke into a wide grin. ‘I like that. And I am beginning to like you!’

  ‘What are you two talking about?’ demanded Heltisle impatiently. ‘Whatever it is, we would be better discussing Caumpes and his wicked deeds.’

  ‘Caumpes must have killed Brother Patrick, too,’ said Michael, reluctantly dragging his thoughts back to the more mundane matter of murder.

  Simeon looked puzzled. ‘Who is this Brother Patrick that everyone keeps mentioning?’

  ‘I do not know why Caumpes should kill Patrick,’ said Heltisle. ‘I know Wymundham and Patrick liked to gossip together, but with Wymundham dead, Patrick was irrelevant.’

  ‘Brother Patrick was seen running from Holy Trinity Church, having observed all of you standing around what we thought was Wymundham’s corpse,’ explained Michael to Simeon.

  ‘Oh him!’ said the Duke’s man in sudden understanding. ‘That was Patrick, was it?’

  ‘Do you know him?’ asked Michael.

  ‘He ran errands for Wymundham – including collecting money that Wymundham had extorted from people. Patrick was not a nice man, either. If he was seen running away from the church, it was probably because he did not want to be caught with his drunken comrade.’

  ‘I suppose Caumpes killed him after he had dispatched Wymundham, to ensure that the secrets Wymundham had discovered remained secrets,’ said Michael, in the tones of a man who felt he had resolved the last of the mystery.

  ‘If you knew Caumpes was a killer, why did you do nothing to stop him?’ asked Bartholomew of Simeon. ‘Why did you let him remain at large where he might have posed a threat to de Walton – among others?’

  ‘Because we had only just reasoned it out,’ said Simeon. ‘Heltisle, de Walton and I each knew a little, but none of us had the whole story. And although we suspected a Fellow had put an end to Wymundham, none of us knew which one. Needless to say no one was inclined to risk his own life by confiding his suspicions to a possible killer. It was only when I took the risk of approaching de Walton that we began to suspect Caumpes.’

  Heltisle sighed. ‘Caumpes was thorough, I will say that.’

  ‘He was,’ agreed Michael. ‘And cool. It takes some nerve to linger where you have just tried to incinerate three people, and then wait for two of them to leave so that you can deal with the third.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Bartholomew, confused. ‘What did Caumpes do to de Walton?’

  ‘He stabbed him, while we were chasing shadows,’ said Michael. ‘De Walton is dead.’

  It was almost dawn before Bartholomew and Michael left Bene’t College. Bartholomew’s clothes had dried by the fire, but they had a stinking, pungent aroma to them that made him feel grubby and tainted. He felt even more unclean when he thought about Caumpes and the College he loved so much that he was prepared to go to any lengths to serve it – even committing murder. While Simeon went to the Castle to organise a search for Caumpes, Bartholomew and Michael trudged back to Michaelhouse.

  ‘What a filthy business,’ said Bartholomew gloomily. ‘It was Wymundham who tore that College apart, driving wedges between his colleagues and using the sordid secrets his nosiness uncovered to cause bitterness and dissent.’

  ‘And Matilde and her sisters were right about Patrick,’ said Michael. ‘He was a vicious gossip who became involved with another like-minded man – and died for it.’

  ‘And now we are returning to our own College where matters are not much better,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘We also have a murderer in our midst.’

  ‘Look on the bright side, Matt,’ said Michael. ‘We will be back in time for breakfast, although I would ask that you change your clothes before you sit next to me. You smell of the Ditch.’

  Bartholomew glanced nervously up at the repaired scaffolding before ducking into his room. Blaston and his apprentices had been at work to render it safe, but Bartholomew knew he would never trust scaffolding again.

  For the second time in less than a day, he scrubbed himself with Runham’s soap, while Michael fetched pail after pail of lukewarm water from the kitchens. The soap reminded him of Runham’s hoard, awaiting collection in St Michael’s Church and, still shivering, he followed Michael up the lane pushing a small handcart borrowed from the vegetable garden to retrieve it while most of the town still slept.

  He sat at the base of a pillar, and watched Michael haul the altar away from the wall and begin to toss the soap blocks into the cart.

  ‘I suppose Runham must have used accomplices to help him with this,’ said the monk conversationally as he worked. ‘I do not think he would have known how to sell these things on his own. The answer must lie in the cloaked intruders we keep almost catching in the College.’

  ‘No,�
� said Bartholomew. ‘Caumpes admitted to tampering with the scaffolding, which accounts for one of those times. But … ’ He paused as certain things became clear in his mind.

  ‘But what?’ asked Michael impatiently.

  ‘Caumpes,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It was Caumpes who sold the treasure that Runham recovered.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Michael uncertainly. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Two reasons. First, I saw him. One afternoon, I watched him visit Harold of Haslingfield, the goldsmith. Later, Harold told me that Caumpes had provided him with a number of items recently, although he said none were stolen – he checked with his Guild and with Dick Tulyet.’

  Michael scratched his chin thoughtfully. ‘Yes, but if Wilson garnered his ill-gotten gains during the Death, then there are a couple of points we should remember: dead people cannot identify their own property or register it as stolen; and we are talking about thefts committed five years ago. It is not surprising that the goldsmiths and Dick did not recognise these items as stolen.’

  ‘And the second reason I know Caumpes must have been Runham’s accomplice is that Oswald informed me that Caumpes dabbles with the black market. Harold told me, too, and, come to that, so did Caumpes himself – he made money for Bene’t by buying and selling things.’

  ‘So, Runham commissioned Caumpes to sell items that belonged to Michaelhouse, such as the contents of our hutches and the College silver, along with the valuables he recovered from Wilson’s hoard,’ said Michael, frowning in thought. ‘Runham hid them in the soap for Caumpes to collect and dispose of at his leisure, and the memorandum we found in Runham’s room was a listing of the amounts Caumpes told Runham to expect for each item.’

  Bartholomew nodded. ‘The only problem I can see in all this is that Caumpes hated Michaelhouse for poaching Bene’t’s workmen. Why should he then act as Runham’s agent?’