A Masterly Murder (39 page)

Bartholomew found it amusing and not entirely surprising that Adela seemed to have weathered the impact far better than had
the friar: it had been he who had almost fallen, not her.

She put her hands on her hips and looked disgusted. ‘He ran off up Shoemaker Lane without uttering the most basic of apologies,
as if the Devil himself were on his heels. Naturally, I was curious to know what had provoked such a reaction.’

‘Naturally,’ said Bartholomew. ‘So, what did you do?’

‘I came in here, to see what had frightened him. Men can be a bit feeble at times, and so I was anticipating that he had seen
a spider or a mouse or some such thing, and had taken flight. But instead I saw a group of scholars standing at the high altar.’

She seized his arm in a grip that had tamed the wildest of horses, and hauled him to the spot where the gathering of scholars
had allegedly taken place. Bartholomew was not sure where her involved tale was leading.

‘Some people would claim that insects and small rodents have a lot in common with scholars,’ he said, rubbing his arm where
her fingers had pinched.

‘Very true,’ she agreed with a wheezy chuckle, positioning him at the low rail that separated the sanctuary from the main
body of the church. ‘These scholars stood in a line along this bar, as you and I are standing now.’

‘But why should this friar – whom I assume you think was Patrick – find a group of scholars so terrifying?’ asked
Bartholomew. ‘He was a scholar himself. He would not feel the need to flee from them.’

‘When I entered the church – in none too good a temper, I can tell you – they immediately started all that Latin muttering
that they think passes for praying. And they quickly closed ranks, standing so that I would be unable to see past them.’

‘Is that it?’ asked Bartholomew, not sure why she considered that her tale would be of interest to him. ‘And how do you know
this friar was Patrick anyway, and not someone else?’

‘Because I went and had a look at his body after he died,’ said Adela promptly. ‘He was laid out in St Mary’s Church, as though
his colleagues at Ovyng Hostel grieved for him, although I am sure they do not.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Matilde has already told you that he had a reputation as a gossip. No one likes a tale-teller.’

‘But what induced you to go inspecting corpses in the first place?’

She sighed. ‘I wanted to make sure Ovyng’s murdered friar and the man who collided with me were one and the same before I
passed along my intelligence to you.’

‘Well, thank you,’ said Bartholomew politely.

She gave him a vigorous slap on the shoulder that made him wince. ‘But I have not finished my story yet. I am saving the best
part for last.’

‘Then what is it?’ asked Bartholomew, massaging his shoulder, and wondering how many more thumps and pinches he would have
to endure before her tale was told.

‘These scholars all closed ranks at the rail, thinking that they would obscure my view of the altar. There were five of them,
and they were all from that Devil’s den – Bene’t College.’

‘So, Bene’t scholars frightened Brother Patrick the day he died?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Yes they did, but I still have not told you the best bit. You will keep interrupting, Matthew! They closed ranks, as I said,
but I am a tall woman, and I was able to see over them. What I saw was a leg – the leg of a man who lay on the ground. Perhaps
a dead man’s leg.’

B
ARTHOLOMEW GAZED AT ADELA IN THE DARK
church, and tried to match the story she had told him to the details he had already learned about the death of Brother Patrick.
He wondered whether she was trying to side-track him, to distract his attention from the fact that she had claimed an intimacy
with him that did not exist. If so, it was a desperate measure.

‘So, what did you do when you saw this leg – possibly that of a corpse – that the Bene’t Fellows were evidently trying to
hide from you?’ he asked.

‘What do you think I did?’ she demanded, incredulous that he should even enquire. ‘I left and rode home as fast as Horwoode
could carry me. Why? What would you have done?’

‘I do not know,’ said Bartholomew with a shrug. ‘Probably tried to see whether the leg belonged to someone who might need
my help.’

‘If it had been a fetlock, I might have done the same,’ said Adela. ‘But since it was a human leg, and it occurred to me that
they were concealing the corpse of a person, I did what any sane woman would do – I beat a prudent and hasty retreat, and
did not linger to meddle in affairs I wanted nothing to do with.’

‘And these five men were definitely from Bene’t College?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Adela. ‘I know them all, because my father is Master of one of the two guilds that founded Bene’t, remember?
I recognised that haughty Heltisle,
that snivelling de Walton, that gaudy Simekyn Simeon who dresses like a woman, and those two revolting porters.’

‘Osmun and Ulfo?’

‘The very same. They are an unsavoury pair. I wonder that Heltisle keeps them on. They cannot be good for his College’s reputation.’

‘And Heltisle’s henchman, Thomas Caumpes? Was he there, too?’

‘No. Caumpes tends to keep his distance from the rest of that crowd. Who can blame him?’

‘He did not keep his distance when I was rash enough to pay Bene’t a visit yesterday. He seemed very much a part of their
unpleasant little community.’

‘Doubtless he strives to give the appearance of unity to outsiders. He is an intensely loyal man, and cares very much about
what other people think of his College.’

‘Then
he
should persuade Heltisle to rid Bene’t of Ulfo and Osmun.’

‘Perhaps he has tried. My father says he is the most reasonable of the Bene’t men and that he makes fewer outrageous demands
on the Guild of St Mary and the Guild of Corpus Christi than do the others. As scholars go, he is the least offensive one
that I know – other than you, I suppose.’

‘And it was definitely a leg you saw poking from behind this crowd who had gathered at the altar rail?’

‘As opposed to what?’ demanded Adela archly. ‘I may be a spinster, Matthew, but I know a leg when I see one. It was thin and
scrawny with pale goldish hairs on it. Not particularly attractive. I prefer legs with a bit more meat on them.’

‘You would approve of Brother Michael’s, then.’

‘Not that much meat, thank you. I like something with muscle, as well as fat.’

‘Why wait until now to tell me this?’ asked Bartholomew, hastily changing the subject before they became too bogged down in
anatomical details. ‘You have seen me several times since the day that happened, and you must have known the proctors are
making enquiries into Brother Patrick’s death.’

‘It did not occur to me to tell you until Matilde mentioned that you were helping Brother Michael to investigate the matter
when I met her this afternoon,’ said Adela. ‘I always thought you were more concerned with the living than the dead, Matthew.
You are not interested in Patrick because you want his corpse to dissect for your students, are you?’

‘It is already buried,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But Brother Michael occasionally asks me to examine bodies for him.’

‘I see,’ said Adela, regarding him doubtfully. ‘Well, each to his own, I suppose. Matilde mentioned that you sometimes delve
into the unsavoury world of murder. Most distasteful, I thought. You should develop an interest in horses instead. It would
be much healthier.’

‘You seem to have had quite a lengthy discussion with Matilde about this. Did you also admit to her that you and I do not
have an arrangement?’

Adela’s laughter echoed around the church again. ‘An “arrangement”! What a quaint way of putting it, Matthew! You mean did
I tell her that you are free to pursue her, should she desire it?’

Bartholomew was not quite sure how to reply, seeing pitfalls in every direction.

Adela sighed. ‘She already knew I have no binding claim on you, although she did ask me to confirm it. I assumed that because
Edith is so busy assessing all the available spinsters and widows in the town on your behalf, you were free of such attachments.
I had no idea
there were women who have a hankering for you.’

‘Are there?’

She smiled at him. ‘You seem more interested in my discussion with Matilde than in my leg story. Typical man! I risk my life
telling you about something I was not meant to see, and all you can do is fix your lustful sights on a lady.’

‘Do you think the Bene’t scholars might harm you because you saw this leg?’ asked Bartholomew, concerned.

Adela’s smile remained, although it became wistful. ‘So, you do harbour a little feeling for me after all. You are worried
lest they try to silence me, as I suspect they silenced Brother Patrick. I imagine he saw the body they were trying to hide,
and now he is dead.’

‘Have you told anyone else about this?’

‘Not a soul. When it first happened, I assumed I had walked in on one of those silly fights you scholars so love. My instincts
told me to forget what I had seen, and hope the Bene’t men would assume they had been successful in concealing the body from
me. Then I discovered that the murdered friar and the man who had fled from the church were one and the same, and I realised
the matter was a little more serious. I saw I should remain silent no longer.’

‘Why? You did not need to put yourself in danger.’

‘You know why,’ she said, looking down the nave and refusing to meet his eyes. ‘I felt I ought to make amends for the trouble
I have caused you by claiming we were betrothed. But I am sure you will be careful with my information. I do not see you as
the kind of man to go straight to that band of lunatics at Bene’t proclaiming that I saw them hiding a corpse in one of the
town’s churches.’

‘I will be careful,’ he promised. ‘But why did you make
up the story about our “betrothal” in the first place?’

‘Exasperation and desperation,’ she said with another sigh. ‘My father will not stop talking about marriage. I have horses
to tend to, and have no time to listen to him prattling about heirs and childbirth and other equally unappealing topics. So,
I said I was betrothed just to shut him up. Of course, then he wanted to know who to.’

‘Why pick me?’

‘I am sorry to disillusion you, Matthew, but you were the first appropriate mate who sprang to mind. I almost said Master
Lynton from Peterhouse, because he had been helping me with a sick colt that afternoon, and I only just recalled in time that
he is one of those chastity-bound fellows. Then I remembered you. It worked better than I could have hoped. My father kept
quiet about weddings for a good four days. But then I heard that he had been spreading the news.’

‘He certainly had,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘Edith was furious with me.’

Adela gave an apologetic grin. ‘But you and I
did
agree to become allies against marriage. I thought you would not mind if we put our understanding to some practical use,
and was hoping we would have a long betrothal with no wedding day to mar our lives, which would leave us both free to do what
we liked.’

‘Well, I suppose there is no harm done,’ said Bartholomew. He had been leaning against a pillar, and he straightened in anticipation
of leaving.

‘It was blissful for a while,’ said Adela dreamily. ‘My father even bought me a new saddle, so delighted was he that he would
soon have a brood of grandchildren galloping around his feet. And he was pleased to think he would have a contact with your
brother-in-law, too. Good for business, he said.’

‘I must go,’ said Bartholomew, stretching. He wanted
to return to the College to see whether Michael had made any headway in uncovering the killer of Runham.

‘It has been a pleasure talking with you,’ said Adela, holding out a rough, calloused hand to him. ‘I hope we will be able
to do business again some day.’

‘Right,’ said Bartholomew carefully, trying not to wince at what was one of the firmest grips he had ever encountered, and
recalling that the last time he had shaken her hand, he had almost ended up accepting it in marriage, too.

The following day, life at Michaelhouse seemed almost back to normal. It was Sunday, so there were no workmen hammering and
crashing, although a number of them had disobeyed the rule that no work was to be done on the Sabbath, and were surreptitiously
performing small, unobtrusive tasks to ensure that they did not fall behind schedule.

On the way back from the church Bartholomew saw Mayor Horwoode, dressed in his finery as he walked to morning mass. The Mayor
declined to acknowledge Bartholomew, although the youngest of his three step-daughters gave the physician a friendly wave.
He hoped the chubby ten-year-old was not someone Edith had approached as a prospective wife.

In the High Street, a pedlar risked a heavy fine by selling his wares on the Sabbath. Bartholomew risked the same by purchasing
a piece of green ribbon and arranging to have it delivered to Matilde’s home that morning.

Almost as soon as breakfast was over, he received a summons from the itinerants who lived in skin tents near the Castle, and
was delighted to be presented with an opportunity to use his new birthing forceps. While the patient’s man looked on with
a white face, Bartholomew
successfully extracted a healthy baby before its mother laboured so long that she bled to death. Nevertheless, he spent the
rest of the day in the chilly camp, to ensure that there were no complications. By the time he returned to Michaelhouse it
was dark, and cooking fires were lit all over the town, so that the air was thick with a haze of smoke and smelled of burning
wood and food. He coughed as the particles suspended in the night mist tickled the back of his throat, and wondered how the
damp, foggy evenings affected those of his patients with lung diseases. He was certain the thick atmosphere at this time of
night was not good for them.

He knocked at Michaelhouse’s gate, and waited for some moments before he remembered that Runham had dismissed the porters
and that no one would answer his hammering. Assuming that someone would have locked the gate as dusk fell, he was wondering
whether he might have to scale the walls, when it occurred to him to try the handle before attempting anything so energetic.
He was surprised and not very impressed to discover that not only was the wicket gate unlocked, but that the great wooden
door was not barred either. Cambridge was an uneasy town, and leaving the gates open after dark was tantamount to inviting
an attack. Disgusted, he made a mental note to remind Kenyngham that students would have to act as guards until more porters
could be hired.

He picked up one of the heavy bars and was manoeuvring it into place when he saw two scholars walking towards him, their hoods
pulled over their heads to combat the evening chill. The hoods rendered them unrecognisable, and he assumed they were students
intending to spend the night on the town. Well, they could give up that notion, he decided. While Runham might have been content
to allow Michaelhouse students to frequent taverns
– where they would inevitably fight with the townsfolk – by not employing porters to keep them in, Bartholomew was not prepared
to risk it. As one of them reached out to open the wicket gate, Bartholomew grabbed his arm.

‘You can help me bar the gate, and then you will return to your rooms,’ he said curtly. ‘You know you are not supposed to
leave the College at night.’

The pair exchanged a glance, and then one of them bent to pick up one end of the heavy wooden bar, indicating that Bartholomew
should lift the other.

‘Who are you?’ asked Bartholomew, struggling with the timber. ‘I cannot see you in the dark. You had better not be Gray and
Deynman.’

The bar went crashing to the ground so abruptly that Bartholomew lost his balance. Then the wicket gate was wrenched open,
and the pair were away. With sudden clarity, the physician recalled another time when two scholars had emerged from Michaelhouse
and disappeared into the darkness – when they had shoved him into the mud the night Runham became Master. Determined that
they should not elude him a second time, he dived full length and managed to grab the cloak of the second of them. The scholar
was jerked to a dead stop in his tracks as the garment tightened around his throat, and then began frantically tugging to
try to free it.

Bartholomew yelled at the top of his voice, aiming to attract the attention of the other Michaelhouse Fellows. Distantly,
he heard his colleagues, irritably demanding to know why someone was making such an ungodly row in the courtyard. Among them
was Michael’s voice, although that stopped the instant the monk became aware that some kind of tussle was in progress, and
Bartholomew could hear his footsteps thundering down the wooden stairs that led from his room.

Just when Bartholomew was confident he could maintain his precarious hold on the student’s cloak long enough to allow the
others to reach him, there was a deep groan that seemed to shudder through the very ground on which he lay. The voices of
his colleagues faltered and then fell silent. The scholar Bartholomew held hauled at his cloak with increasing desperation.

And then there was an almighty crash, louder than anything Bartholomew had ever heard before, and the ground shivered and
shook. A great cloud of dust billowed over him the same instant that the cloaked scholar finally freed the hem of his cloak.
The physician glimpsed the soles of his shoes as the student fled, and the wicket door slammed closed behind him as he made
good his escape. Meanwhile, small pieces of timber and plaster began pattering down like rain, and Bartholomew instinctively
covered his head with his arms.