A Masterly Murder (33 page)

His mind returned to the disturbing deaths of the scholars that Michael had charged him to investigate.
Of Brother Patrick’s murder, Bartholomew had learned nothing: the man had been stabbed and no one had seen what had happened.
He hoped Michael was right, and that someone would start to brag about the crime he had committed, and patience would bring
the killer to justice.

Of the Bene’t deaths, Bartholomew had discovered little that he and Michael did not already know or had not already guessed:
it seemed Raysoun and his intimate Wymundham were disliked by their colleagues, and there was an undeniable atmosphere of
unpleasantness in the small community. Had the Master or his henchman Caumpes killed them? Was that why they were so determined
that no investigation should take place? And what of the courtly Simeon? Why had he visited Michael to encourage a more rigorous
investigation without the knowledge of his Master? Did he suspect his colleagues were involved in the killings? He had intimated
to Michael that he suspected a workman, and had urged Michael to look in that direction. But was that to divert attention
from himself?

Bartholomew found himself unable to concentrate on the Bene’t murders, when his own College played on his mind. Where had
Runham’s sudden wealth come from? Had he acquired it dishonestly, as Suttone feared? Was Michael right, and Runham had somehow
tampered with the Widow’s Wine so that the whole College would be either drunk or incapacitated, thus allowing him to do something
unseen? Bartholomew frowned. Runham had been waiting for them when he and Michael had arrived back at Michaelhouse after seeing
Wymundham’s body. If Runham had not been one of the pair of intruders, was that evidence that he knew them and their secret
business?

And there was another thing. The morning after the
feast, Runham had arrived very early at the church to complete Bartholomew’s chores before he arrived. Had he been up all
night doing something connected to the sudden influx of money? Bartholomew racked his brains to recall whether Runham had
also drunk the Widow’s Wine, but could not remember. Runham had certainly not been drunk when he had loomed out of the shadows
to accuse Bartholomew and Michael of being late.

The wind blew keenly, and Bartholomew shivered in the damp chill, sensing there would be rain before too long. He pulled his
cloak tighter around him and fumbled in his bag for his gloves, groaning when he realised he had lost one. A new pair would
cost sixpence, and he did not have sixpence to spare because Runham kept fining him. And that reminded him of another problem.
The following day, he would have to tell Runham whether he was to resign his Fellowship. At that precise moment he wanted
to tell Runham exactly where to put it, but knew that was just what the lawyer wanted. Bartholomew had no intention of doing
anything that would please Runham.

At the same time, he did not relish the notion of life at College with Runham at the helm. Michael’s connections with Bishop
and Chancellor seemed to give him a certain influence over Runham, and he perhaps would be able to control some of the smug
Master’s wilder schemes, but would Michael be able to bring about a reconciliation between William and Runham? And what of
Paul and Kenyngham? Was there any hope that they might be reinstated? Michaelhouse would be a poorer place without their gentleness
and patience.

So engrossed was Bartholomew in his thoughts that he was surprised to find he had walked far enough to see the warm twinkle
of the lights of Trumpington beckoning to him through the darkness. He continued towards them, and stopped outside the house
where his sister and her
husband had their country home. The great gates that led to the cobbled yard were closed for the night, but he could see
candles burning in the house itself when he peered through a crack in the wood. He thought he could hear the sound of a lute
being played very softly, accompanied by a woman singing. He smiled to himself, recalling many nights when he had been a child,
listening to Stanmore playing and Edith singing the latest romantic ballads or the more ancient poems of the troubadours.

He hesitated, not wanting to walk any further, but reluctant to foist himself on Edith and Oswald when they were enjoying
an evening in each other’s company. And he did not much feel like companionship, preferring to wrap himself in the dark with
his own thoughts.

He strolled to the village church. It was locked and no lights shone from the priest’s house, suggesting that the man had
retired to his bed once darkness had fallen. Bartholomew found a spot on the west wall that was out of the wind and sat in
the grass, pulling his cloak around him for warmth. He thought about Michaelhouse, and the people he had considered friends
as well as colleagues, and about his students. Could he really abandon the teaching to which he had committed himself? He
supposed he could take one or two of the more senior undergraduates and train them as he worked; other practising physicians
did so.

He thought long and hard about his decision, carefully weighing up the advantages and disadvantages of each option – to his
students and patients as well as to himself. And then he made up his mind. He would leave Cambridge and travel to Paris, where
the Arab physician who had taught him his medicine still lived. Ibn Ibrahim would be delighted to see him, and would undoubtedly
be able to secure him a teaching post at the University. With the exception of Edith, who was happily married
and scarcely required any financial support from him, he had no family, while Michael was a resourceful man who would be
able to find himself another tame physician to assist him in his enquiries. Cynric had already gone, and there was no one
else who needed him. He was a free agent – alone.

He sat for so long amid the waving grass of the churchyard, careless of the light drizzle that began to fall, that by the
time he dragged his mind away from his thoughts he was soaking wet and chilled to the bone. He had no idea what the time might
be, although no lights burned in any of the village houses, so it must be very late. He wondered if it were too late to call
on his sister.

He walked briskly to where the gates of Stanmore’s manor house abutted on to the road. Peering through the split timber, he
saw that a light still gleamed in the upper window he knew was Edith’s. Not wanting to rouse the whole household, he skirted
the retaining wall to an old tree that leaned its crusty branches against the stone. Bartholomew had spent his childhood with
Edith and Oswald Stanmore, and knew very well how to slip undetected in and out of their house at night.

The tree was older and more brittle, and Bartholomew was heavier and less lithe than thirty years before, so it took some
scrambling before he had eased himself over the uneven wall. He landed with a bone-jarring thump in some rhubarb, and heard
something rip on his tabard. Brushing the tree bark from his hands, he walked across the vegetable plots towards the light
that still glowed in Edith’s bedchamber. He picked up a small clod of moss and hurled it upward, hoping to attract her attention.
Nothing happened, so after a moment he tried again with a larger piece.

There was a sharp splinter of cracked glass and several dogs started barking. Lamps began to gleam all over the
house and within a few moments, the front door opened and Stanmore’s steward came out, carrying a bow with an arrow already
nocked. Bartholomew called out to him, uncomfortably aware of a black dog snarling and slavering around his knees.

Stanmore poked a cautious head out of the door. ‘Matt?’ he called suspiciously. ‘Is that you? Come out where I can see you.’

Bartholomew walked into the halo of light cast by the lamp one of the servants held, hands above his head in the hope that
the wary steward would not shoot him.

‘What are you doing?’ demanded Stanmore, once he had recognised his brother-in-law. ‘How did you get in? The gates have been
locked since dusk.’ His faced hardened. ‘The apple tree by the rhubarb patch! I thought you had grown out of that sort of
thing years ago.’

‘Sorry,’ said Bartholomew, moving forward slowly and wishing Stanmore would call off the dog. ‘Is Edith in?’

‘Is Edith in?’ echoed Stanmore in disbelief. ‘Of course she is in! It is almost midnight, man! Where did you think she would
be?’

Bartholomew advanced a little further, and felt the dog’s teeth suddenly take hold of the hem of his cloak and pull furiously.

‘Are you alone?’ asked Stanmore, trying to see him in the dim light and the haze of drizzle. ‘Is Michael with you? Or your
woman, perhaps?’

‘Woman? Why would a woman be here with me at this time of night?’ asked Bartholomew, startled by the peculiar question. With
annoyance, he heard a sharp rip as the dog won the encounter with his cloak. ‘And which woman do you mean?’

‘You tell me,’ said Stanmore, putting his hands on his hips and regarding Bartholomew as if he had just dropped from the sky.
‘You are a changed man these
days, Matt. Full of secrets and nasty surprises. So, is she with you, or are you skulking in my garden in the dead of night
and distressing my dog all by yourself?’

‘I am alone,’ said Bartholomew, wondering who was the mysterious ‘she’ that Stanmore seemed to think might be lurking nearby.
The chance would be a fine thing, he thought wryly; he could not imagine any woman being prepared to accept an impoverished
physician who was about to forsake Cambridge for the dubious delights of Paris.

‘Well come in, then,’ snapped Stanmore. ‘It is cold with the door open, and it is raining, too. And put your arms down, man.
You know perfectly well that Hugh will not shoot you.’

Noting the gleam of suspicion that lit the steward’s eyes, Bartholomew was not so sure. Hugh made no move to step aside for
him, and he was obliged to edge around the man more closely than was comfortable. He considered giving the steward a shove
as he passed, but Hugh was armed with a bow and wore a wicked-looking dagger at his belt, and Bartholomew knew when prudence
was more sensible than futile displays of manly pride.

Inside, he was immediately aware of the familiar smells of Edith’s home – wood-smoke scented with pine needles, baking bread
and the herbs she hung to dry in the rafters of the kitchen. It was an aroma that whisked him back many years, to a time when
life had been happy and far less complicated.

The house was a simple hall-type structure, with a large ground-floor chamber, and several smaller rooms above. It was timber-framed
and cosy, with rich woollen tapestries hanging from the walls and dark polished wooden floors. The embers of the hearth that
stood in the centre of the hall still glowed red, and Bartholomew moved towards them, stretching his chilled hands to their
feeble warmth. Stanmore dismissed the curious servants and the disapproving Hugh, and bustled about lighting candles and
throwing an extra log on the fire. When the room was flooded with a pleasant amber glow, he turned to face his brother-in-law.

‘What have you been doing?’ he asked in amazement, seeing for the first time Bartholomew’s bedraggled state. ‘You are soaking
wet, filthy with grass stains and slime from the tree, and your clothes are ripped. Really, Matt! You are supposed to be a
respectable citizen, but you arrive at my house in the middle of the night looking like a vagrant and offer me no explanation.’

‘You have not given me the chance,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘And I did not realise it was so late, or I would not have disturbed
you. I saw a light and assumed you were still awake.’

‘We were talking,’ said Stanmore vaguely. ‘About you, as it happened. But what were you doing, roaming the dark countryside
so that you do not even know what time it is?’

‘I was thinking,’ began Bartholomew.

‘I imagined academics thought all the time,’ said Stanmore, regarding him more curiously
than ever. ‘And most of them do not end up looking like you do! You have been doing more than thinking, my lad!’

‘I am going to Paris,’ said Bartholomew. ‘On Sunday, probably.’

Stanmore gazed at him in stupefaction. ‘What for? Paris is full of Frenchmen.’

‘I have no choice – no real choice. Can I speak to Edith?’

‘I do not think so,’ said Stanmore. ‘You have done more than enough to distress her for one night. You can see her tomorrow.’

It was Bartholomew’s turn to gaze. ‘What are you
talking about? What have I done? Why can I not see her? She is awake – you told me you were talking before I arrived.’

Stanmore sighed. ‘You really are obtuse, Matt. But very well. Since you insist, I will ask her to leave her warm bed and come
downstairs so that you can pay her a visit at a time when all honest men are sleeping. Wait here a moment, and I will see
whether she wants to see you.’

Bartholomew caught his arm as he made to leave. ‘I do not understand. What am I supposed to have done?’

‘How can you even ask such a thing?’ said Stanmore reproachfully. ‘Edith was very upset by what you did. In fact, her dismay
over you is the reason we were still awake – we were trying to think about what we might do to rectify matters.’

Bartholomew frowned in confusion, racking his brains to think of something he might have said or done to provoke such a strong
reaction from the sister who was generally tolerant of his occasionally eccentric behaviour.

Stanmore sighed. ‘You are incorrigible, Matt. Which of your various actions do you think would be the one to upset your only
sister? It is your betrothal to that dreadful Adela Tangmer.’

Wearing a dry shirt and hose of Stanmore’s, and with a cup of warm ale in his hands, Bartholomew began to feel comfortably
drowsy. Edith was curled up on the cushioned bench next to him, a thick blanket around her shoulders, while Stanmore leaned
towards the hearth and poked with an ornate iron poker at the merry flames that blazed there. Except for the cosy snap and
crackle of burning wood, the room was silent, and the ceiling and walls flickered orange. Bartholomew realised it was the
first time he had been really warm since Runham had become Master of Michaelhouse and had
banned the unseemly wastage of fuel in the hall and conclave.