A Masterly Murder (15 page)

‘Working for Runham would lead me to kill myself, too,’ muttered the beadle fervently, as he stepped ahead to light the way
over a particularly treacherous section of the road.

Finally they reached Foul Lane, the muddy runnel on which Michaelhouse’s main gate stood. Bartholomew’s head was pounding,
and he wished he had never set eyes on the Widow’s Wine. Michael also did not look well; Bartholomew could see that his face
was pale in the dim light of the beadle’s lamp.

‘This damned arm,’ muttered Michael, giving it another vigorous scratch. ‘It is driving me insane. I shall be as mad as Clippesby
if it does not cease this infernal itching.’

‘Let me see,’ said Bartholomew, stopping to pull up the monk’s sleeve. He staggered slightly as he tried to focus in the feeble
glow from the light.

‘Are you sure you are capable?’ asked Michael, stretching out his good arm to steady the physician. ‘I have never seen you
so intoxicated.’

‘Look what you have done!’ cried Bartholomew in dismay, when he saw the red mess the monk had created with his eager fingernails.

‘You should have given me something to alleviate the itching,’ retorted Michael irritably, tugging his arm away. ‘I am not
made of marble. No normal man would be able to resist such an agony of itches.’

‘If you had let it be, it would not have irritated you so,’ said Bartholomew. He rummaged in his medicine bag for a salve.
‘Let me put this on it – it should help.’

‘Will you treat me here, in the street?’ asked Michael in amusement. ‘We are only a few steps away from the College gate.’

‘I can apply ointment on self-inflicted sores just as easily here as I can in Michaelhouse,’ said Bartholomew tartly, slapping
a healthy daub of the soothing plaster of betony on to the inflamed skin.

‘What is that?’ asked Michael, stiffening suddenly. Instinctively, he pulled Bartholomew away from the middle of the lane
to the scrubby bushes that grew along the College’s east wall. The beadle quickly doused his lamp.

At first Bartholomew could see nothing. The familiar lane with its tall wall and great gate seemed deserted, and the town
was absolutely silent. And then he saw what Michael had spotted. Someone was very slowly and carefully opening the wicket
door in Michaelhouse’s front gate from the inside. A curfew was imposed by the University on its scholars, and students were
not supposed to be out after dark. Needless to say many of them found inventive ways to avoid being incarcerated for the night,
and it seemed Bartholomew and Michael were about to witness one such bid for freedom.

‘We are not the only ones who do not want to be in Runham’s new domain tonight,’ whispered Michael, smiling mischievously.
‘Let us hide here and see who it
is. Then I will have my beadle pounce on him, and give him the fright of his life!’

There was not one escaping scholar, but two – dark-cloaked figures bundled up against the rain, who moved silently and furtively
as they closed the door behind them.

‘Walter must be on duty tonight,’ remarked Bartholomew. ‘He is the one who sleeps, and the students know they can come and
go as they please.’

‘Who are they, can you see?’ asked Michael, peering down the lane and chuckling to himself.

Bartholomew could not. His vision was too unsteady, the night was too dark, and all Michaelhouse scholars tended to look the
same in black tabards and cloaks with hoods that covered their heads and faces. He shivered, feeling the rain soak through
his clothes to form cold patches on his shoulders.

‘Come on,’ he whispered. ‘It is freezing here, and I am tired.’

‘Wait,’ instructed Michael, narrowing his eyes as he squinted in the darkness. ‘I want to see who it is.’

‘Well, I do not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You are being unfair, Brother. No scholar in his right mind will want to spend time in
Michaelhouse while Runham is still revelling in his new-found power. Those two are only doing what we have done – looking
for a way to be elsewhere.’

‘But, Matt—’ whispered Michael urgently.

Bartholomew ignored him and pushed his way out of the bushes, walking openly towards
the two figures. When they saw him, they started in alarm, but did not make any attempt to run away. Knowing that they would
not be able to recognise him, he pushed back his hood so that they could see his face.

‘I have just returned from seeing Father Paul to the—’ he began.

What happened next was a blur. As soon as he began to speak, one of the figures rushed at him and gave him a hefty shove in
the chest that sent him staggering backward, then raced on down the lane before turning towards the river. Startled and indignant
that a student should dare to strike a master, Bartholomew grabbed the second man as he made to run past, determined that
he should not escape. But the student was stronger than he anticipated, and Bartholomew was uncoordinated. A second shove
sent him crashing to the ground. All he could hear were the sounds of running footsteps in the distance.

‘Matt!’ Michael’s anxious face hovered above him. ‘Are you hurt?’

‘Damn!’ said Bartholomew, sitting up and feeling the thick mud – and worse – that clung to his cloak. ‘I only had this cleaned
last week. Did you see who they were?’

‘My beadle has gone after them,’ said Michael. ‘But I would not hold out too much hope of an arrest, if I were you. They are
young and fast, and he is old and slow.’

‘Did you see their faces?’ asked Bartholomew, clinging to Michael for support as he climbed to his feet. ‘They were not Gray
and Deynman, I hope.’

‘Of course they were not,’ said Michael scornfully. ‘Do you think either of that pair would push you over? But I did not see
their faces – I do not even know if they were our students.’

‘They were wearing tabards and cloaks,’ said Bartholomew.

‘So do lots of men,’ said Michael. He gave a sigh of exasperation. ‘Why did you not wait, as I told you? I had a feeling that
they were not merely a couple of disgruntled students sneaking out for a night on the town. They did not have the demeanour
of lads playing truant, and I had the distinct impression that
their business was more important than a jug of ale in the King’s Head.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘What I say,’ said Michael. ‘That there was mischief afoot tonight, and you blundered into it before we
could see what it was.’

T
HE FOLLOWING DAY WAS COLD AND GLOOMY
, and a thick pall of mist hung over the town, smothering it in a blanket of dampness that stank of the river and of the filth
that lay thick along the High Street. Bartholomew woke with a start when Walter the porter’s cockerel began its croaking call
directly outside his window. He threw open the shutters and hurled a glove at it, grumbling under his breath as the animal
strutted away. Bartholomew would not have minded if the bird had kept its crows for morning, but it made its unholy racket
at any time of the day or night, when the fancy took it.

Bartholomew’s ill temper at being so rudely awoken was not improved when he became aware that he had a thumping headache.
His stomach felt empty and acidic, his throat was dry and sore, and his best cloak was clotted with muck from where he had
been pushed into the mud by the fleeing scholars.

The beadle had returned with a hang-dog expression to report that he had lost his quarry, and Michael dismissed him to warn
other patrols to be on the lookout for the black-cloaked pair. Angry, Michael had woken the surly porter to berate him for
sleeping while people wandered in and out of the College. Walter’s sullen self-justification was mixed with a sickening sycophancy
that Bartholomew found hard to fathom, until the porter revealed that Runham had already sacked a number of College staff,
and Walter was afraid he would be
next. With curt instructions that he might have a better chance of keeping his job if he did not sleep every night, Michael
had abandoned the porter to his guilty anxiety and stalked across the yard to his room.

The monk was just climbing the stairs to his chamber on the upper floor, when a shadowy figure had emerged from the hallway
to demand why it had taken Bartholomew so long to escort Father Paul to the Friary. It was Runham, checking his colleagues’
comings and goings. Bartholomew was too weary to feel indignant, and wanted only to lie down, but Michael was outraged enough
for both of them. Bartholomew shoved his way past the new Master, while Michael remained in the hall, telling Runham in ringing
tones that must have been audible in the Market Square what he thought of a man who lurked in dark corners in the middle of
the night to spy on his Fellows. Bartholomew threw off his damp clothes, dropped on to his bed, and knew no more until his
abrupt awakening by Walter’s annoying bird the following day.

It was Sunday, and Bartholomew’s turn to help officiate at the mass that took place just after dawn in the College church.
When he saw that the sky had begun to lighten, he hopped across the icy stones in his bare feet to wash and shave in the cold
water that Cynric left for him each night. For the first time in years, however, Cynric had forgotten, and the jug was empty.
Tugging on his boots, Bartholomew splashed through the courtyard mire to draw water from the well behind the kitchen, shivering
in the chill of early morning.

Teeth chattering, he doused himself with the freezing water in the dim light from the open window. He groaned when he heard
an ominous tear as the clean shirt he hauled over his head stuck to his wet skin, then ripped it more when he did not take
the time to dry himself. He grabbed a green woollen jerkin that his sister had
given him, and that was definitely not part of the uniform Michaelhouse scholars were expected to wear, and then covered
it with his black tabard. He was late by the time he had finished dressing, so he ran across the yard to the gate, skidding
in the slick mud and almost falling.

Still fastening his cloak pin, he was sprinting across the High Street before he realised that Father Paul was supposed to
be conducting the mass that morning – and Paul had been unceremoniously expelled from Michaelhouse the previous night. Bartholomew
had taken minor orders, which meant that he could take certain services, but he was certainly not qualified to perform a full
Sunday mass. He was about to run back to the College to wake Michael, when he saw that candles were already burning inside
St Michael’s Church. Surprised, he pushed open the door and went inside.

John Runham knelt at the small altar he had erected near his cousin’s tomb. He was red-faced and breathless, and Bartholomew
saw he had the altar pulled a little way from the tomb and was cleaning behind it with a bundle of feathers tied on a short
pole. Bartholomew felt the anger rising inside him even looking at the tomb and its pompous creator but he forced down his
ire as he closed the door and walked towards the high altar.

St Michael’s Church was a lovely building. It was small and intimate, and had been rebuilt especially for Michaelhouse by
the College’s founder. There were fine paintings on the walls, the ceiling was picked out in blue and gold, and the stone
tracery in the windows was as intricate as lace. In the midst of all this beauty was the late Master Wilson’s tomb, an edifice
that Bartholomew was not alone in considering to be the nastiest creation in Christendom.

When Thomas Wilson had died during the plague
four years before, he had given Bartholomew money to pay for a splendid tomb to house his mortal remains. Bartholomew had
been tardy in fulfilling his promise, and by the time he had commissioned a mason to carve the grave, Wilson’s bequest had
devalued dramatically. Instead of the glorious affair he had envisaged, Wilson had been incarcerated under a plain slab of
black marble with a simple cross carved on the top.

Then Wilson’s cousin had come to Michaelhouse. John Runham had been appalled to discover his kinsman housed in something so
stark, and immediately set about rectifying the matter. The elegant black slab was now topped by a life-sized golden effigy,
and the plain stone rectangle that formed the body of the tomb was hidden by painted panels that blazed with gilt, reds, greens
and blues. Unusually, Wilson’s statue was not lying on its back gazing longingly heavenward, as was the current fashion, but
had been sculpted propped up on one elbow, looking towards where the scholars stood for prayers. Either Runham had modelled
for it, or he had given very clear instructions to the mason, because the likeness of the carving to the dead Master Wilson
was disconcertingly accurate, and more than once Bartholomew had experienced the uncomfortable sensation that Wilson was actually
watching him.

In front of the tomb was a small but sumptuous altar, so that the scholars could kneel to pray for Wilson’s soul – although
it was not used by anyone except Runham. Bartholomew walked past it, hoping Runham would be too engrossed in his cleaning
to notice him. He had almost reached the high altar at the eastern end of the church, when the new Master spoke.

‘You are late.’

‘I know.’ There was nothing more Bartholomew could say. He had no excuse to offer, and he was not prepared
to apologise to Runham – he did not want to start the day with a lie.

‘You will pay the customary fine of fourpence to me after breakfast,’ Runham went on. ‘And next time you are late, the fine
will be a shilling. You have sacred duties to perform, and I will not permit idleness and irresponsibility to interfere with
them.’

Bartholomew saw he would have to ask his colleagues to wake him in the future. He was a heavy sleeper, and usually only stirred
when something disturbed him. He would be in desperate financial straits if he were obliged to pay Runham a shilling three
times a week.

‘It will not happen again,’ said Runham softly.

His voice was vaguely threatening, and again Bartholomew did not reply. He
noticed that Runham had already lit the candles, found the right place in the Bible for the daily reading, changed the holy
water in the stoop, set out the psalters, and arranged the sacred vessels that were required for the mass. In fact, Runham
had already done all that Bartholomew was supposed to do in his capacity as priest’s assistant.

Bartholomew glanced out of the window. It was still not fully light, and he knew he was not more than a few moments late.
He could only suppose that Runham had deliberately arrived early enough to perform all Bartholomew’s chores, to drive home
his point. It seemed petty, and the anger that Bartholomew had been fighting since he had first seen Runham beautifying Wilson’s
tasteless little altar began to claw its way to the surface again.

‘You took advantage of my leniency last night,’ said Runham, laying down his cleaning rod and assuming a mien of religious
contemplation. ‘You were told to return immediately after delivering Father Paul to his Friary, but you remained out much
longer, and came back reeling and stinking of wine.’

‘I drank nothing after I left the feast,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘And I had two patients to attend – one with an injured foot
and the other with swollen gums.’

‘I trust you did no harm by treating them when you were barely able to stand,’ said Runham unpleasantly. ‘It would not be
the first time a physician left a patient dead because of an over-fondness for wine.’

‘They both survived my ministrations,’ said Bartholomew, determined not to allow Runham to provoke him. ‘But speaking of the
dead, when do you plan to bury your book-bearer? I see poor Justus’s body still lies in the porch. It has been there since
Thursday.’

‘I expect I will find a few moments to tend to that this week,’ replied Runham, patently uninterested in his book-bearer’s
mortal remains. He moved to one side so that there was room for the physician to kneel next to him, and changed the subject.
‘Perhaps you would join me in a prayer for my cousin’s soul.’

Bartholomew could hardly decline – no matter what he thought about Runham’s kinsman – so he dropped to his knees and clasped
his hands in front of him, hoping that a prayerful attitude would serve to convince Runham to leave him alone. He felt the
other man watching him, so he closed his eyes and pretended to be lost in his meditations.

There was a powerful, sickly-sweet scent around the tomb that made Bartholomew want to avoid inhaling too deeply. He had noticed
it before, and Michael claimed that proximity to Wilson’s private altar always made him sneeze. Runham often placed flowers
nearby, and Bartholomew could only assume that the new Master invariably chose the ones with the strongest scents.

‘You did not like my cousin, did you,’ said Runham, so quietly that Bartholomew thought he might have
misheard. He opened his eyes to look at the Master in surprise.

‘I built his tomb,’ he said levelly.

‘That is what I mean. The tomb you raised was a disgrace, and unfit for a man of my cousin’s
mettle. He would have liked the one I provided much more.’

‘I am sure you are right,’ said Bartholomew, knowing that the hideous structure Runham designed would certainly have appealed
more to Wilson’s inflated sense of self-importance. He closed his eyes. ‘And now that you have rectified matters, there is
nothing more to be said.’

‘Have you made your decision?’ asked Runham, still in the same soft voice.

Bartholomew opened his eyes again. ‘What decision?’

‘About whether to become a full-time physician for the town. I am sure
that life as a layman will suit you much better than life as a scholar. And anyway, I find medicine sits oddly with the other
subjects we teach – law, philosophy and theology.’

‘But a good deal of medicine
is
natural philosophy,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And it also overlaps with astrology, mathematics and geometry.’

‘But you do not teach your students astrology, do you?’ pounced Runham. ‘You claim that reading your patients’ stars is a
waste of time, and your students would do better to tell their clients to wash their hands before eating, and not to drink
water from the river.’

‘I did once,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘But I have learned that if a physician provides what his patients expect from him, they
are more likely to be cured. I suppose the mind has a powerful influence over the body in some people, and belief in a remedy’s
efficacy will aid recovery.’

‘That sounds like heresy to me,’ said Runham, eyes narrowing. ‘Notions like that do Michaelhouse no good
at all. I do not want you in my College, Bartholomew, and I do not want you near my saintly cousin’s tomb.’

‘You asked me to kneel here,’ said Bartholomew indignantly. He fought down the urge to retort that he did not want to be near
Wilson’s revolting tomb, but contented himself with nodding curtly to the new Master and heading for the high altar, to try
to expunge some of the murderous impulses he felt towards Runham. When he had gone, Clippesby emerged from behind a pillar.

‘You see, Clippesby?’ asked Runham, looking up at the wild-eyed Dominican. ‘Bartholomew is a dangerous man, and his heretical
ideas will pollute the minds of our more impressionable students.’

Clippesby nodded quickly, his gaze darting here and there as though he suspected he were not the only one skulking in the
shadows and eavesdropping.

‘I heard what he said, Master Runham. I distinctly recall him claiming that he deliberately created a paltry tomb for the
martyred Wilson, and he gleefully admitted to teaching his students how to heal using the Devil’s wiles.’

‘Well, he did not go quite that far,’ said Runham, regarding the Dominican uneasily. ‘But you seem to have the right idea.
Remember what you heard, Clippesby – I might need your testimony one day. And now our scholars are arriving, and I must ready
myself to take my first mass as Master of Michaelhouse.’

As he watched Runham preparing himself for the service, Bartholomew wondered why the lawyer had suddenly turned so hostile.
Although they had never liked each other, they had always been polite, and Bartholomew had even treated Runham free of charge
on a number of occasions for the unpleasant flaking of the skin that seemed to run in his family. Wilson had been similarly
afflicted. But now he was Master,
Runham had dispensed with his veneer of civility, and had become openly antagonistic. Was his rudeness simply a ploy to induce
Bartholomew to resign his Fellowship, so that Michaelhouse would no longer offer the study of medicine to its students? Or
did Runham hold a genuine grudge against Bartholomew for not creating his cousin a suitably monstrous tomb?