A Masterly Murder (17 page)

‘That was our choir, Matthew!’ cried the friar, distraught. ‘They were men and boys who have enjoyed our hospitality for years,
and who have joined their voices with ours to rejoice in the glory of God.’

‘They joined their voices with ours in order to earn their bread and ale,’ said Bartholomew bluntly. ‘And it was fury at the
injustice of losing it that led them to contemplate violence. These are hungry people for whom the College provides a valued
service – not the other way around.’

‘Were they right?’ Kenyngham asked suddenly. ‘About Master Wilson, I mean. Did he really seduce the Prioress of St Radegund’s?’

‘I do not know if “seduce” is the right word,’ said Bartholomew, ‘but they had an understanding.’

‘Horrible!’ exclaimed Kenyngham, putting his hands over his face. Bartholomew could not help but agree: the notion of the
smug Master Wilson pawing any woman, religious or otherwise, was repellent. ‘And the stolen property? Is it true that the
whole town knows Wilson was a thief?’

‘I do not think so,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Wilson was not a good man, but I never heard anything to suggest that he did anything
dishonest – although it would not have surprised me if he had.’

‘Wilson was less than scrupulous with some people,’ said Kenyngham reluctantly. ‘I encountered discrepancies in his accounting
when I became Master, and a number of people approached me and asked whether various items had appeared in the College coffers
after Wilson had died.’

‘You mean Wilson
was
a thief?’ asked Bartholomew, vaguely amused.

‘I did not say that,’ said Kenyngham carefully. ‘The accounting inconsistencies were possibly honest mistakes, and he may
have had nothing to do with the missing items. It is wrong to speak ill of the dead, especially in a church, where the mortal
remains of the man we are maligning lie so close to hand.’

‘I had no idea he stole,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘I thought he was just unpleasant, vindictive and scheming.’

‘Really, Matthew,’ admonished Kenyngham. ‘The poor man may be in Purgatory at this very moment, repenting his evil deeds so
that he may move on to a happier place. Saying such dreadful things about him will not help. And anyway, to speak ill of the
dead might encourage their tortured souls to come and haunt us.’

‘Then Wilson would have been rattling his chains in the depths of the night long before this,’ said Bartholomew practically.
‘Or perhaps the problem is that so many people have spoken ill of him, he does not know whom to haunt first.’

‘Matthew!’ cried Kenyngham, genuinely distressed. ‘Enough! I would never have started this conversation had I known the way
it would end. I only wanted to know whether the town was aware of the less saintly aspects of Wilson’s character.’

‘If the townsfolk really believed Wilson was a thief, you would have heard about it long before today,’ said Bartholomew.
‘But now that Runham is Master, he will
have less time to spend venerating Wilson’s memory and the malicious rumours will soon die away. Do not worry, Father.’

Kenyngham gave a shuddering sigh. ‘I suppose you are right. But Runham’s incumbency has not started well at all. What will
Michael say when he hears the choir is no longer his? I went to break the bad news to him, but I found I could not.’

‘Where did you see him? At breakfast?’

Kenyngham shook his head. ‘He did not appear for breakfast, and I was worried. Have you noticed that Michael seldom misses
a meal?’

‘I have noticed, yes,’ said Bartholomew slowly, when Kenyngham paused, obviously expecting an answer to what was hardly an
astute observation.

‘So I went to see if he was in his room.’ ‘And?’ asked Bartholomew, when Kenyngham paused again.

‘And he is unwell,’ said Kenyngham. ‘That is why I am here. I remembered you had not joined the procession that walked back
to the College, and so I assumed you must have stayed here for some private prayer. Then, when I entered, and I saw that our
choir had turned from a heavenly throng to a band of would-be killers …’

He faltered, and Bartholomew resisted the urge to laugh. He wondered whether anyone but Kenyngham would be so other-worldly
as to see the likes of Dunstan, Aethelbald and Isnard as a heavenly throng.

‘What is wrong with Michael?’ he asked. ‘Was it the Widow’s Wine? I had four glasses, and they made me reel like a drunkard,
but he claims to have downed nine. I am surprised he even knew where his feet were, let alone used them to walk to Mayor Horwoode’s
house.’

‘It was not the wine,’ said Kenyngham. ‘He was complaining that his arm hurt, and he wanted me to fetch
you. You had better go to see him. I will stay here for a while, to contemplate on what I have learned from this experience.’

He took a deep breath and clasped his hands in front of him, his eyes fixed on the Great Bible that sat on the lectern in
the sanctuary.

‘Have you learned that you would have done better to vote for Father William?’ asked Bartholomew, smiling in an attempt to
lighten the Gilbertine’s gloom. ‘Or better still, that we should have ignored Langelee’s accusations and elected Michael?’

Kenyngham did not smile back. ‘I have learned that I should never have resigned in the first place,’ he said. Tears began
to flow again. ‘God forgive me! What have I done?’

When Bartholomew arrived back at Michaelhouse, Cynric was just leaving, and his face was as black as thunder. Everyone else
was at breakfast, summoned by the shrill little bell that hung near the porters’ lodge. Usually, there was someone scurrying
late to the hall, but no one dared to take that kind of liberty with Runham in charge, and the courtyard was empty.

‘Where are you going?’ asked Bartholomew in surprise, seeing his book-bearer cloaked, gloved and carrying a bundle over his
shoulder. ‘I thought you were on breakfast duty today.’

‘I was, boy,’ said Cynric in a muffled voice. ‘But Master Runham has just informed me that he no longer needs my services
and I have been dismissed from Michaelhouse.’

‘What?’ exclaimed Bartholomew, aghast. ‘But he cannot do that! He—’

‘Whether he can or cannot, he has, and that is an end to it,’ said Cynric, pushing past the physician and heading for the
lane.

‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘Even a Master cannot dismiss a servant without the other Fellows’ consent. You are not dismissed,
Cynric.’

‘He had their consent,’ said Cynric bitterly. ‘Langelee and Clippesby agreed to support Runham in his “economies”, although
at least William tried to prevent me from being thrown out like a dirty rag.’

‘But Langelee and Clippesby alone are not enough,’ protested Bartholomew. ‘Runham needs the votes of the majority of Fellows
to pass a decision like that.’

‘Father Paul, you, Brother Michael and Master Kenyngham were absent at the breakfast meeting, and that newcomer – Suttone
– abstained again on the grounds that he does not know enough of the College to decide such matters, although I could see
he was uncomfortable with the notion of throwing loyal men out on to the streets. But with Clippesby and Langelee voting with
Runham, your fine new Master had his majority.’

‘But you cannot just go,’ said Bartholomew in horror, grabbing his servant’s arm. ‘Come with me to see Runham now. We will
sort this out—’

‘The decision has been made,’ said Cynric, looking away. ‘You are too late, boy.’

‘But you have been here for years – as long as I have,’ protested Bartholomew, still holding Cynric’s arm.

‘Right,’ said Cynric, giving him a rueful smile. ‘It was you who brought me here and got me this position, and I am grateful.
It has been a comfortable life, all told, and I came to meet my wife through you. But it is probably time I went on to different
things. Rachel wants me at home more, and your brother-in-law – Rachel is his seamstress, as you know – has offered me a
position as captain of the mercenaries he hires to protect his goods.’

‘Oswald is trying to steal my book-bearer?’ asked Bartholomew, stunned that Edith’s husband would
encourage Cynric to leave him without discussing it first.

Cynric gave a reluctant grin. ‘I suppose he is.’ He became serious. ‘That business you dragged me into in Suffolk this summer
was a nasty experience, and my Rachel has been urging me to leave you in case something similar happens again. You do seem
to attract that kind of trouble.’

‘Cynric, I am so sorry,’ said Bartholomew, appalled that the events in a remote country village should have had such a traumatic
effect on his book-bearer and immediately feeling responsible.

‘It was not your fault I fell under that curse, and you did risk your life to have it lifted. But Rachel is right: it is time
I settled down and got a real job.’

‘But how will we manage without you?’

Cynric smiled again. ‘It is for the best, lad. I did not relish the prospect of working for Runham. None of the servants like
him – especially after what he did to Father Paul last night. Even Agatha the laundress is thinking of taking a position she
was offered at Bene’t College.’

‘Not Agatha!’ groaned Bartholomew. ‘But wait, Cynric, you cannot just leave like this …’

‘I am only going around the corner,’ said Cynric, squeezing his arm in a rare gesture of affection. ‘And I will come if you
need me – remember that if Runham plagues you too much.’

Bartholomew was torn. On the one hand, Rachel had a point, and it was unfair of Bartholomew to oblige Cynric to take part
in some of the adventures Michael foisted upon him, although Bartholomew had always been under the impression that Cynric
had enjoyed them. On the other hand, Bartholomew could not imagine life without Cynric’s loyal, comforting presence.

‘I will visit you,’ he promised the book-bearer, taking his hand and clasping it warmly.

Cynric gave a lopsided smile. ‘You will not. Mistress Matilde and your sister both claim you are an unreliable and infrequent
guest. But I will seek you out and we will spend time in each other’s company. I will see to that.’

With another brief smile, Cynric was gone, making his way up the lane to Milne Street, where Bartholomew’s brother-in-law
had his substantial cloth business. With a heavy heart, Bartholomew climbed the stairs next to his room, which led to the
chamber Michael shared with two Benedictine students. The door was ajar, and he walked in after tapping gently.

Michael was pale and sweat beaded his face. The root of the problem was the sting in his arm, which had been scratched raw
by the monk’s ragged, dirty fingernails. Pale red lines ran from the wound to his shoulder, showing where the infection had
spread.

‘You took your time,’ said Michael feebly, as Bartholomew knelt next to him and felt the monk’s forehead with the back of
his hand. ‘I asked Kenyngham to fetch you hours ago.’

‘There was trouble at the church,’ said Bartholomew vaguely. Michael looked curious, but Bartholomew started to ask questions
about his illness, not wanting to tell him about the choir’s revolt or that his services as music master had been dispensed
with by the odious Runham while he was unwell.

He was surprised by the speed at which the infection had taken hold of Michael; the wound had not seemed so serious the night
before. He sincerely hoped his drunkenness had not prevented him from making an accurate diagnosis.

He clattered down the stairs to his storeroom, to gather the necessary potions and salves. He reached for the
water that Cynric always left for him, but the jug was empty and Cynric was no longer in the College. Cursing, he walked
across the courtyard to collect some of the near-boiling water from the great cauldron that always steamed over the kitchen
fire. Agatha the laundress levered her bulk from her wicker chair by the hearth and came to help him.

‘I will bring this,’ she said, hoisting the heavy bucket in one meaty hand, as if it contained nothing but air. ‘You cannot
manage it with all you are already carrying, and anyway, it is weighty.’

‘Let me take it, then,’ offered Bartholomew. ‘You carry the medicines.’

Agatha eyed him up and down critically, and apparently decided that she was the stronger of the two. Without a word, she set
off across the courtyard at a cracking pace that had him concerned that she would slip in the mud and scald herself. But they
arrived at Michael’s chamber unscathed, and she lingered in the doorway, watching him work.

‘That Runham has dismissed virtually all the College staff except for me,’ she said, folding her formidable arms across her
equally formidable chest. ‘He dares not get rid of me, because he values his manhood.’

‘Pity,’ said Michael from the bed. ‘I would like to see him lose it.’

Agatha gave a screech of raucous laughter that echoed across the yard and that Bartholomew was certain would be audible in
the hall, where the scholars would be sitting in silence as they ate their breakfast.

‘He has ordered Kenyngham out of the Master’s chambers this morning, so that he can move in,’ she said, sobering slightly.

‘God’s blood!’ exclaimed Michael, horrified. ‘He is not wasting any time, is he!’

‘You both need to be careful of Runham,’ Agatha advised. ‘He is a dangerous man. He wants to dismiss all the old Fellows,
then fill the vacancies with his own lickspittle – like that Clippesby.’

‘Clippesby?’ asked Bartholomew, quickly making a small incision in Michael’s arm to drain away the infection while the monk’s
attention was on Agatha. Michael yelped in pain, and shot Bartholomew an accusing look.

‘He has become Runham’s henchman,’ said Agatha in disapproval. ‘Personally, I do not believe the man is sane, which is why
he thinks Runham is some kind of god, I suppose. Clippesby follows Runham everywhere, and runs all his errands.’

‘That is because Justus, his own book-bearer, died,’ said Michael. ‘Runham is too mean to pay for a servant, so he is using
the pathetic, ingratiating Clippesby as his menial. Serves him right!’

‘Yes!’ said Agatha viciously. ‘The pair of them deserve each other.’

‘Have you done anything about Wymundham?’ asked Michael of Bartholomew.