A Masterly Murder (30 page)

‘Quite,’ agreed Heltisle. ‘He wants to start rumours that their accidental deaths were actually murders, so that he can bring
Bene’t into disrepute.’

‘I can assure you that is not true,’ protested Bartholomew, hoping sincerely that it was not. Michael loved University politics,
and would be quite happy to see another College fall from grace if it promoted his own.

He was wondering how he could extricate himself without acknowledging that Michaelhouse had acted somewhat shabbily – despite
his personal opinion of Runham, he did not want to be openly disloyal to his own College – when the sound of horses’ hooves
clattering on the cobbles drew attention away from him.

He was released abruptly, and Bartholomew saw that porters, Fellows and students were all busy bowing so deeply and obsequiously
that a good many blue uniforms trailed in the mud. He glanced at the new arrivals, and immediately recognised the portly figure
of the Duke of Lancaster.

The Duke was one of Bene’t College’s most noteworthy benefactors, and was often seen in the town, inspecting progress on the
foundation that was costing him a small fortune. Riding with him was his squire, the elegant Simekyn Simeon, who sported hose
and tunic of scarlet and a cloak of an impractical corn yellow. His shoes were made of an exquisite soft calfskin that would
not last a day in Cambridge’s filthy streets.

The Duke himself cut a dowdy figure. He wore a mud-brown cloak trimmed with fur that was spiky and stained with rain, and
his hose and tunic were a dull moss green. Bartholomew looked from his dour, uncompromising features to the sardonic, amused
face of Simeon, and suspected that their arrival would not make his awkward position any easier.

‘My lord,’ said Heltisle, and Bartholomew was impressed to see him bow so low that he was bent almost double. ‘It is an honour
to have you within our walls once more. May I offer you wine?’

‘You may,’ said Lancaster coolly. ‘But I am not here to exchange pleasantries, Heltisle. Simeon informs me that Wymundham
and Raysoun are dead. Is this true? And why are there no builders at work and the scaffolding dismantled? My coffers are not
bottomless, you know; if Bene’t’s new hall is not completed soon, you will have to look elsewhere for a gullible benefactor.’

‘It is not our fault,’ protested Heltisle in alarm. ‘It was all going excellently: the upper floor was almost completed and
Raysoun spent most of his time supervising the workers and making sure no one shirked. Then he fell and was killed, and Michaelhouse
stole all our labourers. If you want someone to blame for this setback, look to Michaelhouse.’

As one, every Bene’t scholar’s gaze went from the Duke to Bartholomew, who suspected he cut a sorry figure with
his darned and patched tabard and clothes dishevelled from his tussle with the porters.

‘This is one of them,’ explained Caumpes to the Duke. ‘He complained to the Sheriff that our scaffolding posed a danger to
the public, and then enticed away our labourers while the matter was rectified.’

‘Well?’ demanded the Duke, regarding Bartholomew coldly. ‘Have you come to demand money before our craftsmen are reinstated?
Speak up!’

‘Of course not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I did not even know the men working on Michaelhouse were from Bene’t. I am a physician
and I came here at the request of the University’s Senior Proctor to examine the bodies of the two Fellows who died.’

‘Well, you are far too late for that,’ said Heltisle with grim satisfaction. ‘They were buried days ago.’

T
HE DUKE OF LANCASTER HAD NO INTENTION OF
standing in Bene’t’s chilly yard in the gathering gloom of dusk to discuss whether or not Michaelhouse had wronged the College into which he had ploughed a good deal of his own money. He tossed his riding gloves
to Osmun, ordered Ulfo to stable his horse, and strode to the hall, where more servants flitted around him like moths around
a candle.

Bartholomew, flanked by Heltisle and Caumpes, watched the Duke being made comfortable and thought about the last time he had
been in Bene’t’s hall. Although only eight days before, it felt longer. He had been attending Wymundham, fetching him wine
from behind the serving screen to calm him after the death of his friend Raysoun.

Had Wymundham been telling the truth about Raysoun’s last words? And had Wymundham then been killed to prevent him from telling
Michael? Adela Tangmer, Matilde and the Stanmores had all told Bartholomew that Bene’t seethed with dissension. Was that why
Heltisle had ordered the bodies buried before the Proctors’ office had given permission for them to be released, to prevent
Bartholomew from learning the truth about the way they had died? Or was it simply because Michael’s illness had delayed matters
too long, and, quite naturally, Bene’t College was reluctant to keep decomposing corpses in the church it used for its daily
prayers? They would certainly be within their rights.

But if Wymundham
had
been murdered, then how did Mayor Horwoode fit into the plot? Was he an innocent bystander, whose garden was selected at
random as a place to dump the body? Or did he and his Guild of St Mary, which had co-founded Bene’t, have something to hide?
And was the Duke of Lancaster aware of or involved in the murder? Since the Duke had made his squire a Fellow of Bene’t for
the express purpose of keeping an eye on the place, he clearly sensed the College was not all it should be. With a sinking
heart, Bartholomew suspected he was about to be drawn into something he would rather avoid.

‘Michaelhouse must have been planning this for weeks!’ Caumpes burst out, evidently unable to restrain himself any longer.
‘It is a coincidence, is it not, that all this happens the instant Runham is elected as their new Master?’

Bartholomew wondered if that were true. It usually took many months for the concept of a building to become reality, and yet
Runham had arranged for plans to be drawn up, materials to be delivered, a workforce hired and money to pay for it all within
a few days. On reflection, Bartholomew decided that Caumpes’s accusation was undoubtedly true. And if that were the case,
then Runham must have been anticipating Kenyngham’s resignation, too, and had been ready to spring into action the moment
he, Runham, was elected.

‘It would not surprise me to learn that Michaelhouse was responsible for Raysoun’s death,’ Caumpes continued hotly. ‘It certainly
seems to have benefited Michaelhouse.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘That is not true. Michaelhouse has always striven for peaceful relations with its neighbours,
whether townsmen or other Colleges.’

‘That is a lie!’ Heltisle pounced immediately. ‘Michaelhouse cares nothing for peaceful relations. As a case in
point, Runham recently dismissed his College choir, and almost caused a riot by refusing to pay them the bread and ale they
were owed.’

Bartholomew was silent, cursing Runham for his shortsighted actions.

‘And worse, we have been subjected to an almost continual stream of unemployed singers hoping to be allowed to join the Bene’t
choir,’ Heltisle went on. ‘That none of them has the slightest iota of musical talent seems irrelevant to them. They are not
interested in singing, only in whether we can feed them after the Sunday mass.’

‘Why did you want to examine the bodies of our scholars?’ the Duke asked of Bartholomew curiously.

Simekyn Simeon rested his elegantly clad feet on the table, and observed the spectacle that was being played out in front
of him, with half-closed eyes. That Simeon declined to acknowledge that it was he who had insisted Michael should conduct
a more rigorous enquiry indicated to Bartholomew that his errand had not been on the command of his Master. Simeon, it seemed,
had acted independently. Bartholomew wondered whether that was significant.

He hesitated before he replied to the Duke’s question, not sure that it was wise to mention his suspicions that the two Bene’t
Fellows might have been murdered when their killer could be standing in the hall at that very moment. While Simeon might be
certain that the killer was not a Bene’t man, Bartholomew wanted to reserve judgement until he knew more about the College
that Michaelhouse had wronged.

‘He is reluctant to answer you, my lord,’ said Caumpes, when Bartholomew did not respond immediately. ‘Could that be because
I am right, and Michaelhouse had them killed, and now it wants to hide any evidence of it?’

‘Michaelhouse is more cunning than that,’ said Heltisle. ‘I do not think it had a hand in killing Raysoun or Wymundham, but
I do think it might be trying to start rumours that a Bene’t scholar had a hand in their deaths. That is the kind of subtle
damage the likes of Michaelhouse men would inflict on us. Rumours are easy to start, but less easy to stop.’

The Duke of Lancaster made an impatient sound at the back of his throat. ‘Enough of this! You scholars are obsessed with petty
details. If Michaelhouse had wanted Raysoun and Wymundham dead, there would be clear evidence that they had been murdered.
Was there?’

‘No, my lord,’ said Heltisle immediately. ‘Raysoun fell from the scaffolding and Wymundham flung himself over the bank of
the King’s Ditch in his grief.’

Bartholomew said nothing. Neither did Simeon, who had been told that Wymundham’s body showed signs of a struggle. Bartholomew
wondered why the courtier kept his peace. Was it simply because he did not believe a body could yield that sort of information?
Or was there another reason for his silence?

‘Well, there you are, then,’ said the Duke. ‘No one was murdered, and if no one was murdered, then no one can accuse Bene’t
of anything. And that is the end of the matter, except for one thing.’

‘And what is that, my lord?’ asked Heltisle, a little nervously.

‘The fact that you did not tell me that work on my College has stopped, and yet money continues to be drawn from the funds
I left for you.’

‘We were going to tell you,’ protested Heltisle, swallowing hard. ‘The money was drawn to pay a carpenter to make the scaffolding
safe after the workmen looted it to take to Michaelhouse.’

‘Well, I am far from pleased,’ said the Duke. ‘I am
a busy man, and have better things to do than visit Cambridge every week to rescue Bene’t from its latest disaster.’

‘It is not a disaster,’ said Caumpes stiffly. ‘It is a minor setback.’

‘You call the deaths of two Fellows a minor setback?’ asked Simeon coolly.

‘That is not what I meant,’ said Caumpes. ‘I was referring to the building. But since you mention it, I am not sorry Raysoun
and Wymundham have gone. Raysoun was a drunkard who would have brought the College into disrepute at some point, while Wymundham
was a malicious tale-teller. We will appoint more Fellows. There are plenty of good clerks who would be willing to accept
positions at Bene’t.’

‘There will be no more clerks’ stipends until the buildings are finished,’ growled the Duke. ‘How many Fellows are there,
now that you have buried two of them?’

‘Four,’ answered Heltisle, white-faced with anger. ‘Me, Caumpes, Henry de Walton, and your man – Simekyn Simeon.’

‘Simeon is a Fellow only to ensure that my money is not squandered,’ said the Duke. ‘But, in the light of recent events, I
plan to leave him here until the building is finished.’

Simeon’s jaw dropped in horror, and he seemed about to object vigorously when the Duke forestalled him with a raised hand.

‘It will be an incentive for you to see that Bene’t College is completed, Simeon. The sooner it is ready, the sooner I will
allow you to resign your Fellowship and return to court with me.’

‘But—’ Simeon’s handsome face was dark with outrage.

‘No buts. I want you to stay in Cambridge to see my
College finished, so that when I die there will be a body of men to say prayers for my soul. A man cannot live for ever,
and I must make some preparation for the next world.’

The Duke and the scholars continued to argue, their voices becoming louder and more acrimonious. Heltisle claimed that he,
too, had not liked Raysoun and Wymundham, while Caumpes railed that there was a plot afoot to damage Bene’t, masterminded
by Michaelhouse. Simekyn Simeon, his sardonic smile gone now that he was obliged to remain at Bene’t, glared at everyone with
open hostility. The students, a scruffy, disreputable crowd, shuffled restlessly, some of them shoving and pushing at each
other like a group of bored children.

The man who Bartholomew assumed was the last of the four Fellows, Henry de Walton, said nothing. He stood near the wall, a
pallid, fox-faced man who looked unwell. On one cheek was a dark bruise, and Bartholomew remembered Michael’s beadle telling
him that Osmun had been arrested for brawling with one of the Bene’t Fellows. The skinny little man, whose nervousness was
apparent in every flutter of his hands and twitch of his face, would have been no match for the brawny porter, and Bartholomew
suspected it was not de Walton who had started the fight.

So, had one of these four Fellows pressed something over Wymundham’s face to silence him before he could pass what he knew
to the Senior Proctor? Had Wymundham actually been fleeing from the murderer when Bartholomew had seen him slipping so furtively
into Holy Trinity Church the afternoon Raysoun had died? And had the same murdering Fellow also stabbed Raysoun and then pushed
him from the scaffolding?

‘I am sure you have found our discussion most entertaining,’ said the Duke, becoming aware that Bartholomew was
a witness to the unseemly quarrel. ‘You now know that there is more to life at Bene’t than squandering my money.’

‘What shall we do with him?’ asked Caumpes. ‘We cannot let him return to Michaelhouse to tell lies about us.’

‘He says he is here on the instructions of the Senior Proctor,’ said the Duke. ‘The poor man is only trying to do his job,
and even you must admit that the deaths of two scholars within a couple of days might appear a little peculiar to outsiders.’

‘I disagree,’ said Heltisle. ‘Things like that happen all the time in the University.’

‘You should watch your back, then, Simeon,’ said the Duke wryly. ‘I want my College completed under your watchful eye, but
I would like you alive at the end of it.’

‘I am touched by your concern,’ said Simeon sullenly.

Heltisle fixed Bartholomew with a cold stare. ‘I do not want to confide
in you, but I see I have little choice. What I am about to tell you is for the Senior Proctor’s ears only. I do not want this
to become an amusing story for Michaelhouse’s high table.’

‘Do not tell him!’ exclaimed Caumpes in horror. ‘He will make us a laughing stock in the University.’

‘I see nothing amusing about it,’ said Heltisle. ‘You see, physician, Wymundham preferred the company of men to women.’

‘Really,’ said Bartholomew flatly, recalling Wymundham’s brazenly effeminate manners, and the way the man had rested his hand
on Bartholomew’s leg.

Heltisle glanced at him sharply, but then went on. ‘Raysoun and Wymundham were more than friends. So, you see, there is nothing
odd in the fact that Raysoun died in Wymundham’s arms, or that Wymundham subsequently killed himself from grief.’

Bartholomew gazed down at the floor. Grief-stricken
though he might have been, Wymundham had certainly not asphyxiated himself. Suicide by smothering was not easy to achieve,
and anyway, there had been nothing at the scene of his death for him to have suffocated himself with. The nature of Wymundham’s
relationship with Raysoun did not alter the fact that he had been murdered.

‘Did you know about Wymundham’s preferences?’ asked the Duke of Simeon, surprised.

Simeon tried hard not to regard the Duke in disbelief, and only partly succeeded. ‘It was very obvious, my lord.’

Heltisle agreed. ‘It is not unusual in places like this, where women are forbidden and scholars spend hours in each other’s
company. I imagine Michaelhouse is no different.’

‘Is that true?’ asked the Duke salaciously.

‘I have never thought about it,’ said Bartholomew vaguely, unwilling to satisfy
the Duke’s odd fascination with the subject. ‘I do not like to pry into my colleagues’ personal affairs.’

‘Then I cannot see that anything more can be gained from this discussion,’ said the Duke, sounding disappointed. ‘You are
free to go, physician. Make your report to the Senior Proctor, and we will lay these two sad souls to rest for ever.’

‘What report?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I have nothing to tell him now that Raysoun and Wymundham are buried.’

‘I doubt there was more to be learned from their bodies anyway,’ said Simeon, pulling himself, with some reluctance, from
his fit of pique. ‘The Senior Proctor has his beadles making enquiries in the taverns, to see if any townsmen are bragging
about the murders. That is far more likely to be successful than poking about with corpses.’

‘There
are
no murders,’ said Heltisle in exasperation. ‘How many more times do I have to repeat myself?’

Simeon said nothing.

‘Heltisle is right,’ said the Duke. ‘There is no evidence that either of these men were murdered, but
a good deal to suggest that one had an accident and the other killed himself with grief. That is what you can report to the
Senior Proctor, physician. Meanwhile, you can tell your Master Runham that I am not pleased he has poached my workmen to build
his own College, but I suppose as long as they do not work, I will not have to pay. How long do you plan to keep them?’

‘A month, apparently.’

‘A month?’ exclaimed Caumpes in disbelief. ‘But that is impossible! The workmen will never reface the
whole of the north wing
and
raise a whole new courtyard in that time.’