A Masterly Murder (49 page)

Simeon grinned, and took the bag from him. ‘Excellent. I will—’

When Bartholomew had bumped into his medicine bag, it had been nudged towards the edge of the bank, where it very slowly began
to slide. Before he could stop it, it had gathered momentum on the slick grass, assisted by the weight of the heavy birthing
forceps inside, and tumbled away down the bank to land with a heavy thud at Simeon’s feet. For one horror-stricken moment,
Bartholomew was not sure whether to run away or to confront the two men. Although the rational part of his mind told him that
he had done nothing to warrant flight, there was always the possibility that the mincing courtier was a murderer, who had
already killed two of his colleagues and who would be quite happy to dispatch Bartholomew, too.

But the matter was decided for him. Without waiting to establish the identity of the bag’s owner, Heytesbury was away, bounding
through the long grass towards the High Street at an impressive pace. Meanwhile, Simeon raced off in the direction of Luthburne
Lane and the rear of his College. Bartholomew leapt to his feet, a vague notion of pursuing Simeon forming in his mind, although
he was not sure to what purpose. The sudden movement was ill-advised, and his leather-soled boots skidded on the slick grass.
He lost his balance, and fell flat on his back in a patch of grey-green slime just above the Ditch’s waterline.

Appalled by the notion that he might slide further and end up in the fetid black waters that slunk by in a foul, glassy-smooth
curl, Bartholomew twisted on to his stomach and snatched at some weeds. Moments later, he was on firm ground again, although
to his dismay he found he was heavily coated in the repulsive ooze from the Ditch’s muddy banks. Revolted by the sulphurous
stench that already emanated from his clothes, he retrieved his bag and returned to Michaelhouse, earning some curious glances
from passers-by as he went.

To his chagrin, one of the people he met was Matilde. She looked him up and down and seemed uncertain whether to express concern
or be amused. She tried the former, but seeing he was unharmed, her natural good humour quickly bubbled to the surface and
she started to laugh.

‘You look like a ditcher,’ she said, walking around behind him to appreciate the full scale of the mess he was in. ‘How did
you manage to end up in such a state?’

‘I was listening to a conversation about Michael between Simekyn Simeon and a scholar from Oxford and I slipped. It must have
been divine retribution for spying.’

‘Ah, you mean William Heytesbury of Merton,’ said Matilde immediately. ‘He is in Cambridge to learn whether Michael is a blustering
fool who wants certain information simply to secure the Chancellorship of the University next year, or a cunning negotiator
who will use the information to promote Cambridge’s interests over those of Oxford.’

Bartholomew gaped at her. ‘How do you know that?’

Matilde smiled at his astonishment. ‘Through the sisters, of course. Langelee
feels guilty for his shameful tactics during the last election for the Master of Michaelhouse, and so will recommend that
Heytesbury does what Michael suggests. And then, perhaps not next year, or even the year after, Michael will use Heytesbury’s
information to steal away from Oxford the patronage of some wealthy and powerful people.’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘I gathered as much. But I thought his negotiations were secret. He certainly has told me very little
about them.’

‘But Heytesbury is not as discreet as Michael,’ said Matilde. ‘He had already unburdened himself to Yolande de Blaston. Michael
is a clever man. Heytesbury should be careful.’

‘Where are you going?’ asked Bartholomew, suddenly feeling a strong desire to spend some time alone with her. ‘Will you come
with me to the Brazen George for a while? Now?’

‘I certainly will not,’ she said, beginning to laugh again. ‘The landlord would not allow you in all covered in mud, and I
have my reputation to consider.’ She sensed his disappointment and leaned forward to touch his arm with a slender forefinger.
‘But when you are clean and dry, I would welcome your company in my house. Will you come tomorrow evening?’

Bartholomew smiled. ‘There is nothing I would like more.’

Michael’s green eyes grew large and round when he saw the state of his friend but he said nothing. He followed the physician
into his room, which still lay under a thick coat of dust from the collapse of the scaffolding, and Bartholomew felt a pang
of regret when he realised that Cynric would not be in to help him clean it, or to leave fresh water in the jug on the floor
by the table. He fetched his own, and went to the lavatorium, trying to sluice away the stench of the Ditch.

When he had finished, Michael was waiting, but the monk wrinkled his nose in disgust and went to fetch some of the coarse-grained
scented soap they had seen in
Master Runham’s room. It was not pleasant standing on the cold flagstone floor of the lavatorium while Michael threw jug
after jug of water over him, and the soap was rough on Bartholomew’s skin. But it smelled powerfully of lavender, and he imagined
most people would consider it an improvement on the rank stench of the Ditch. He rubbed the soap in his hair, revolted by
the brown sludge that washed out as Michael tipped water over his head.

Between deluges, he told Michael about the meeting between Heytesbury and Simeon. The monk was delighted that Simeon had underestimated
him, and began speculating on the advantages Heytesbury’s information would hold for Cambridge at Oxford’s expense. He was
especially gratified to learn that Langelee also had Oxford connections, and swore that the philosopher’s hypocrisy would
be exposed at some future time, when it would be most damaging.

‘I will be Master of Michaelhouse yet, and Langelee will be sorry he ever crossed me,’ he vowed, pulling a face when he saw
that the filth of the Ditch still clung to Bartholomew’s skin. ‘This is going to take for ever. What were you doing, anyway?
Making mud pies? And I am not sure that this reeking soap of Runham’s is any improvement. You will smell like a whore, and
Father William will think you have been rubbing up against Matilde.’

Bartholomew ignored him. ‘Runham was not a man who seemed especially interested in hygiene. I wonder why he kept so much soap
in his room.’

‘He took it to Wilson’s tomb,’ said Michael.

Bartholomew regarded him uncertainly through his dripping hair. ‘Like a votive
offering, you mean? That sounds rather pagan.’

‘That is what I thought, but I saw him doing it at least twice. If you look behind that altar, you will see it is packed
with the stuff. It is the strong odour of this soap that always made me sneeze if I went too close – a good excuse for not
praying there, I always thought.’

‘So that is why Wilson’s tomb always smells like a brothel. Sometimes the scent was so powerful that I could barely breathe
– like when Runham demanded that I knelt next to him there the morning after the feast. What an odd thing for him to do.’

‘Hurry up,’ said Michael, pouring more water over the physician’s head. ‘Or we will miss our meal. And do not be shy with
the soap. Runham will not be needing it to make his cousin’s tomb smell pretty now.’

Bartholomew scrubbed vigorously, noting with distaste the amount of dirt that swirled around his feet. Suddenly he dropped
the soap with a yelp of pain, clutching his arm.

‘What now?’ asked Michael impatiently, dashing the last of the water at Bartholomew as the physician inspected his arm. ‘Never
mind. That will do. Get dressed quickly before the bell rings. Agatha promised to make a mess of eggs and bacon fat today,
to celebrate her return.’

‘So that is the hurry, is it?’ asked Bartholomew, shivering as he rubbed himself dry with a piece of sacking. He reached for
a clean shirt. ‘Runham’s soap might be generous on scent, but it is as coarse as stone. That hurt.’

Michael picked it up from the floor, and was about to toss it in the empty water jug when he saw the faint glitter of metal.

‘No wonder you howled,’ he said. ‘There is something in it.’

He rummaged in Bartholomew’s medicine bag for a surgical knife, and poked about with it while the physician finished dressing.
Eventually, he had prised an object free of the waxy substance, and spent a few moments paring
the excess soap away so that he could be certain of what he held.

‘I do not understand this,’ he said, bewildered, as he inspected a small crucifix. ‘This is part of the College’s silver.’

‘The silver that Runham sold to raise funds for his buildings?’ asked Bartholomew, equally bemused. ‘But what is it doing
in his soap?’

‘I think when we know the answer to that, we will understand why he died,’ said Michael grimly.

‘What about your eggs in bacon fat?’ asked Bartholomew, as the monk started to stride across the courtyard towards the gate.

Michael faltered, then changed direction abruptly. ‘You are right. I am a lot better at grave-robbing when I have a full stomach.’

‘Grave-robbing?’ asked Bartholomew in alarm. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘I am talking about retrieving the rest of the soap from Wilson’s altar and seeing what else it contains,’ said Michael. ‘But
first things first. I have not tasted Agatha’s egg mess for ages, and you look as if you could do with a good meal. You are
unnaturally thin these days.’

The bell had started to ring, so they made their way to the hall and ate a hasty meal, while Father William reported in great
detail the lack of success of his own investigations into Master Runham’s murder. Kenyngham, occupying the Master’s seat again,
did not pay the friar any attention, and gazed beatifically at one of the stained-glass windows, evidently reflecting on some
religious matter that was uplifting to his soul.

Clippesby sat alone, barely eating and wearing the expression of a man hunted. Bartholomew wondered whether William or Suttone
had been indiscreet in their surveillance of him, and that the Dominican knew he was
under suspicion of murdering his Master. Bartholomew also wondered whether Clippesby could shed light on why Runham saw fit
to keep the College silver in his soap. Was Clippesby Runham’s seller – the man who took the purloined goods from their hiding
place in the church and passed them to the blithely innocent, or to the less innocent who did not care as long as a profit
could be made? Clippesby might not be entirely sane, but he was also cunning in his own way. He certainly had the intelligence
to fence stolen goods.

Between Clippesby and William sat Suttone, trying not to let William’s strident voice distract him as he read a psalter. His
grimaces as he tried to concentrate suggested he was having serious doubts about whether Michaelhouse was the right place
for him. Bartholomew sincerely hoped he would not leave, and made a mental note to try to spend some time with him, to convince
him that Michaelhouse had a lot to offer.

Langelee sat at the end of the table, his nose buried in a cup that Bartholomew was fairly sure did not contain the customary
small ale, but something a little stronger. As soon as he could, Michael made his apologies to Kenyngham and asked to be excused,
leaving the other Fellows curious as to what could be so important as to make the monk rise from the table while there was
still bread to be eaten and the egg-mess bowl to be scraped.

‘We will go to St Michael’s Church immediately,’ said Michael, as Bartholomew followed him down the spiral stairs and into
the yard. ‘We will look behind this altar of Runham’s, and bring any soap we find back to the College. And then we will decide
what to do next.’

They were about to open the front gate when Walter came hurrying out from the porter’s lodge, his gloomy face anxious. He
was working days at Michaelhouse in the hope he would be reappointed. ‘I would not open
that, if I were you, Brother,’ he advised. ‘Some of your choir are outside.’

‘So?’ asked Michael irritably. ‘What do you think they might do? Sing to me?’

‘That would be a good enough reason to stay behind locked gates in itself,’ said Walter without the flicker of a smile. ‘But
I do not think they have come to sing: I think they have come to fight.’

‘Fight?’ asked Michael. ‘Why would they want to fight? I plan to reinstate them as soon as I have resolved this business with
Runham. I should have done it before, but first I was ill, and then I was busy.’

‘They do not know that, do they?’ Walter pointed out. ‘But they are outside, and they look as though music is the farthest
thing from their minds.’

A flight of steep, narrow steps led to the top of the wall that separated the College from Foul Lane. Bartholomew climbed
it quickly, and was startled to see that Walter was right: there was a large gathering of townsfolk outside the College gates.
None of them carried weapons as far as he could see, and he supposed that they had only come to beg for the reinstatement
that Michael proposed to arrange anyway. They did not seem to be the menacing throng that Walter had claimed.

‘You should talk to them,’ he said to Michael, climbing down again. ‘Tell them that the next practice will be at the usual
time, and I imagine they will disperse quite peacefully.’

‘Very well,’ said Michael, striding towards the gate. Before he could reach it, there was a tremendous hammering. He stopped
and gazed at Bartholomew in surprise.

‘Michaelhouse!’ came a loud voice from the other side of the wall. ‘Open up.’

‘Who is it?’ demanded Walter in an unsteady voice.
Standing well to one side, he eased open the small grille in the door that would allow him to see out.

‘It is me and Adam de Newenham,’ came Robert de Blaston’s voice. ‘And a few others who are prepared to stand by us and see
justice done. We want our money for working on your buildings.’

‘You said tomorrow,’ said Michael, aggrieved. ‘Then we will have a week’s wages for every man at the rate agreed by Master
Runham.’

‘But we want all of it,’ shouted Blaston. ‘We want the entire month’s pay in advance – today, not tomorrow.’