A Masterly Murder (38 page)

‘He was a strange man,’ said Matilde. ‘One night, I remember coming back very late from sitting with one of
the sisters who was ill, and I saw him gliding through the streets like the Grim Reaper. Someone cried out to him, begging
him to give last rites – Wilson was an ordained priest and he was wearing his priest’s habit.’

‘But he ignored the plea and continued on his way to his lover?’ asked Bartholomew, knowing Wilson to have been a man devoid
of compassion, particularly where it posed a risk to himself.

To his surprise, Matilde shook her head. ‘The dying man was a rich merchant, who had been abandoned by his terrified family.
He said Wilson could have all he could carry from the house, if he would grant absolution.’

‘And Wilson agreed?’ asked Bartholomew in astonishment. ‘After skulking in his room all day to avoid contamination, he then
went into the house of a sick man who offered him money?’

Matilde nodded. ‘I was intrigued, and so I hid in the shadows to watch. Moments later – Wilson must have furnished a very
fast absolution – he came out, so loaded down with silver plates and gold cups that he could barely walk. Then he staggered
off in the direction of Michaelhouse.’

Bartholomew shook his head in disbelief. ‘I have always wondered how Wilson managed to contract the disease. I assumed he
would have run through the streets to reach the convent, and declined contact with anyone. So now I know.’

‘According to the sisters, that was not the only time. You know what it was like – people were terrified of dying unabsolved,
and were prepared to give a willing priest all they owned in this world to help them safely into the next. By all accounts,
Wilson made a tidy profit from the sick, because he helped people like Adela Tangmer’s mother, Sheriff Tulyet’s sisters, and
Mayor Horwoode’s first wife, who were all wealthy citizens.’

‘And Wilson then gave it to me to pay for his own tomb,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘How ironic!’

‘But enough of Wilson,’ said Matilde with a shudder. ‘Even now I find him a repellent character. What about these more recent
deaths?’

‘Wymundham and Raysoun are buried, and although I know Wymundham’s death was no accident, I have no idea whether the same
was true of Raysoun’s. Michael’s beadles have been visiting taverns every night to see what they might learn – about Patrick
as well as the Bene’t men – but they have heard nothing.’

‘But I told you Patrick was a shameless gossip. You should investigate the people he gossiped about,’ suggested Matilde.

‘I tried doing that at his hostel,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But it led nowhere. Perhaps the beadles will have better luck.’

‘Are these dead scholars associated in any way?’ asked Matilde. ‘Both Wymundham and Patrick were men who loved to tell tales
and peddle information. Perhaps they were killed to ensure their silence regarding the same rumour.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The only connection, as far as I can see, is that they were University men. There is doubtless a
link between the murder of Wymundham and the death of Raysoun – who were at the same College – but not with Patrick.’

‘Are you certain?’ pressed Matilde.

Bartholomew regarded her curiously. ‘As certain as I can be, given that we have very little information about them. Why? Do
you know differently?’

‘No,’ said Matilde. ‘I have had the sisters asking questions in all sorts of places to see what they might discover for you,
but they have revealed nothing useful, other than what I have already passed on.’

‘It is good of you to be going to so much effort,’ said Bartholomew sincerely.

She smiled and touched his cheek affectionately. ‘It is because I am concerned for you. I do not like the way Brother Michael
drags you into these affairs.’

‘Neither do I,’ said Bartholomew vehemently. ‘I would rather concentrate on my teaching and visiting my patients.’

‘And seeing your friends?’ asked Matilde softly. ‘Is that important to you, too?’

‘You know it is,’ said Bartholomew, a little confused by her question.

She stood on tiptoe, quickly kissed his cheek and then was gone, stepping lightly over the muddy ruts of the High Street as
she walked towards her home. He smiled suddenly, and thought that Michaelhouse, Bene’t and their various troubles were not
so important after all. Briskly he walked back to the College, where he wrote an inspired description of the symptoms of quartan
fever before falling asleep on the table.

The dull ache of cold feet woke him two hours later. He glanced out of the window to see that it was late afternoon, and that
candles already burned in some scholars’ rooms. He straightened, wincing at his stiff shoulders and back, and rubbed his face,
trying to dispel the peculiar light-headed sensation that he always experienced when woken from a deep sleep in the middle
of the day. He was about to walk to the conclave to see whether anyone had lit the fire so that he could doze in front of
it, when he recalled that he had an assignation with his self-proclaimed fiancée at sunset.

He seriously considered not going to meet Adela in the Church of the Holy Trinity, but suspected that it would be wiser to
thrust his head into the lion’s mouth and address the issue of her rumour-spreading directly.

In the back of his mind was the uneasy suspicion that unless he confronted her soon about her decision to marry him, she might
very well assume his compliance and take matters a stage further by inviting people to their nuptial celebrations.

Still fastening his cloak, he set off up St Michael’s Lane, crossed the High Street and walked down Shoemaker Row to the church
Adela had selected for their rendezvous. The sun was low in the sky, huddled behind a band of clouds, and the market people
were beginning to pack away their wares as the shadows lengthened and the afternoon dulled. The air rang with the increasingly
strident yells of vendors wanting to sell the last of their perishable goods, while horses and carts cluttered the streets
as the others began to make their way home. Bartholomew bought an apple pie from a baker at a ridiculously low price. It was
surprisingly good, so he bought one for Michael, too.

The Church of the Holy Trinity on the edge of the Market Square was a honey-coloured stone building with fine traceried windows.
Bartholomew pushed open the great wooden door and stepped inside, feeling the temperature immediately drop and the air become
chill and damp. It was also gloomy. The sun was too low to provide much light, and there were no candles lit except for the
one on the altar, which was kept burning day and night as a symbol of the perpetual presence of God.

Three Cluniac monks knelt in the chancel, and their low voices whispered through the darkness as they recited their offices.
At the back of the nave, a scruffy clerk yawned as he packed away his pens and parchment, while in one of the aisles a vagrant
snored and snuffled on a wall bench as he slept off an afternoon of drinking. The church smelled rather strongly of cat, which
all but masked the perfume of cheap incense, and Bartholomew
saw at least six amber eyes gleaming at him from the shadows.

The effects of a night without sleep were beginning to tell, and as soon as he sat on one of the benches near the wall, his
eyes began to close. From nowhere, a voice hissed at his elbow.

‘Want to buy some wine?’

‘I beg your pardon?’ asked Bartholomew. The man who had spoken was a scruffy individual with a heavily whiskered face and
the kind of purple nose that suggested he liked a drop to drink himself. He sighed impatiently. ‘Are you here for wine?’

‘No, of course not,’ said Bartholomew, puzzled. ‘Why would I come to a church for wine?’

The man looked hurt. ‘Because it is known all over town that I sell the cheapest wine in Cambridge, and that I can usually
be found here late of an afternoon. I thought all scholars were aware of that.’

The selling of smuggled goods was not uncommon in Cambridge. Its location on the edge of the Fens meant it was easy to spirit
contraband down the myriad of ditches and waterways without paying the heavy taxes imposed by the King to finance his wars
with France. But Bartholomew had not been aware that Holy Trinity Church was the place to come for wines. He assured the man
that he wanted nothing to drink, and watched him melt away into the shadows.

Adela was late, and Bartholomew gazed without much interest at the poorly executed wall paintings and at some graffiti that
claimed in a bold hand that the Death would come again to claim all those who did not renounce their evil lives immediately.
The sun set, and dusk settled in deeply, so that the shadows became impenetrably dark and Bartholomew could barely see the
ground at his feet. He was about to give up and leave when the door
crashed open, and Adela arrived. She slammed the door behind her, causing enough of a draught to douse the eternal flame.

‘I am glad you came, Matthew,’ she announced without preamble, grinning at Bartholomew with her long teeth. She either did
not notice or did not care about the outraged scowls of the three Cluniacs who hastened to relight the altar candle. ‘I have
something to tell you.’

‘Is it anything to do with the fact that you have determined upon plans for my future?’ he asked, raising his eyebrows but
not smiling back at her.

She waved a dismissive hand. ‘Oh, forget that silly nonsense. I have something much more interesting to tell you than stupid
marriage stories.’ She put her hands on her hips and took a deep breath. ‘I am quite winded, Matthew! Do you have any idea
how difficult it is to find somewhere to tether a horse in Cambridge? I swear the streets are growing more crowded in this
town. Soon it will be impossible to move at all, and we shall be stuck nose to tail in a solid line from dawn to nightfall.’

‘Then perhaps you should forgo horses and travel on foot,’ he suggested.

She regarded him as though he were insane. ‘The rumours are right about you – you
do
have peculiar opinions! A decent woman cannot be seen without a horse, and neither should a decent man. You should invest
in a mount, Matthew. It would improve your standing as a physician in the town. I am sure your patients would be reassured
to see you arrive at their sickbeds on a splendid filly, rather than crawling along the gutters in filthy boots.’

‘And I am sure they do not care one way or the other. Anyway, if they are in their sickbeds, they will not see me arrive at
all.’

‘Do not quibble. The point remains the same: it is not fitting for a man of your station to be walking.’

‘But I do not like horses,’ he objected. ‘They smell of manure and rotten straw. And I am not keen on the way they slobber
on your hands when you try to feed them.’

She gazed at him before releasing a raucous peal of laughter. The monks’ indignation increased, and they marched down the
nave towards the west door. The vagrant snored on, and the clerk finished packing away the meagre tools of his trade and followed
the monks, smiling at the unrestrained guffaws that echoed around the church. Bartholomew was not sure what Adela found so
amusing.

‘They do smell,’ she said, when she had finally brought her mirth under control. ‘But so do people. And as for slobbering,
all I can say is that you must have met some damned strange nags in your time. But I did not come to talk to you about horses,
pleasant though that would be. I came to tell you about the dead friar at Ovyng Hostel. Matilde told me you were looking into
it.’

‘Matilde?’ asked Bartholomew curiously. ‘How do you know her?’

‘Irrelevant,’ said Adela. ‘But the day Brother Patrick died—’

‘You are not one of the sisters, are you?’ he asked, unable to see many men wanting to romp with the energetic, mannish Adela,
but knowing there was no accounting for taste.

She laughed again, hard and long, wiping the tears from her eyes as she did so. Bartholomew had not meant to be so outspoken,
and was glad she had not taken offence at his blunt and impertinent question. He was tired, and knew he needed to pull himself
together if he did not want inadvertently to insult someone else.

‘Really, Matthew!’ she gasped when she could speak.

‘Do you really think my father would allow me to run with the women of the night? He is a town burgess and the Master of the
Guild of Corpus Christi – a respectable and influential man. I know he is more lenient with me than most parents would be,
but there are limits.’

‘So how do you know Matilde, then?’

‘You do her an injustice if you think the “sisters” are her only interest.’

‘The birthing forceps,’ said Bartholomew, aware of their reassuring weight in his medical bag. ‘She said you helped her to
design them.’

‘I did,’ said Adela. ‘I showed her the pair I use to ease foals from their mothers on occasion. But I also know her because
she distributes food to the poor every Thursday afternoon, and I sometimes help with the odd donation of bread or meat.’

‘I did not know she did that,’ said Bartholomew.

‘There is a lot you do not know about her,’ replied Adela. ‘But unless you shut up and listen, you will not know what I have
to tell you, either.’

‘Very well. Go on, then.’

‘It is about the death of that Franciscan – Brother Patrick. What I have to tell you occurred on the same day that I met you
and Edith in the Market Square, when your sister told me she liked my favourite brown dress. Do you remember?’

‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew warily, recalling that he had been concerned that Adela would know that a compliment was not what
Edith had intended.

‘I waited for a while – the friars always drop the price of their rat poison at sunset – and then I went to collect my horse,
which I had tethered outside this church. I had to leave him here, because there was absolutely nowhere else. I told you finding
somewhere to leave a horse is such a problem in Cambridge—’

‘Brother Patrick?’ prompted Bartholomew.

‘Well, I was just walking through the churchyard to collect the nag – it was Horwoode, if you remember him, the beast with
the thin legs? – when I saw a Franciscan friar come racing from the church all white-faced and shocked-looking. He was running
so blindly that he collided with me, and all but took a tumble in the mud.’