A Masterly Murder (50 page)

‘Michaelhouse will pay you for a week,’ said Michael firmly. ‘That is already twice what you would have earned from Bene’t.’

‘We have heard rumours – put about by your own servants – that Michaelhouse was robbed when Runham died,’ shouted Blaston.
‘We do not trust you to pay us later. We want
all
our money now.’

Walter immediately started to inspect his fingernails, while one of the cooks who had been listening to the exchange seemed
to be similarly guilt-stricken. Bartholomew did not blame either of them: they had been summarily dismissed after years of
service, and it was only human nature to gossip and gripe about it in the taverns – and to speculate that the College did
not have the money to pay for the services it had requested.

‘It is not common practice to pay everything in advance,’ argued Michael. ‘We will pay you for the week of work that you have
already done, and then you can return to Bene’t. The scholars there are keen for you to complete their building first. You
can finish ours later.’

‘The rumours were right!’ cried Newenham in disbelief. ‘You do
not
have the funds to pay us what we are due.’

‘I will not shriek out this matter with you like the
constable of a besieged castle,’ snapped Michael irritably. ‘I will open the door, and you and Blaston can enter. We will
discuss this like civilised men, not like vendors at a fish market.’

Reluctantly, Walter opened the gate to admit Blaston and Newenham, flinching as though he anticipated the horde outside might
come crashing in. Michael’s beadle, Meadowman, was with them, white-faced and tense as he contemplated the widening rift between
the University that paid his wages and the town in which he lived.

Curious scholars had gathered in the yard, and they ringed Michael and the two carpenters, watching the exchange with interest.
The other Fellows arrived, too, Langelee in a foul enough mood to join in any fight going, and Clippesby and Suttone, unused
to the occasional spats between town and University, looking nervous. William was gripping a heavy bible like a lethal weapon,
and Bartholomew had the unnerving impression that he was either about to pronounce the start of a holy war or hurl the book
at someone and brain them with it.

‘Oh, hello, Doctor,’ said Blaston amiably to Bartholomew as he spotted the physician. ‘Did I tell you that my Yolande was
very pleased with her ribbon?’

‘What is this?’ demanded William, glaring challengingly at Bartholomew. ‘You gave Yolande de Blaston a gift? I thought she
was a whore.’

‘Only on certain nights of the week,’ objected Blaston, offended.

‘Then what is that smell?’ demanded William, gazing around him with the glare of a fanatic. ‘I detect the unmistakable odour
of brothel!’

Bartholomew moved away from him.

‘And how would you know, Father?’ asked Langelee
archly. ‘You have some personal experience of brothels, do you? Perhaps you can recommend me a couple.’

‘Come into our hall,’ said Kenyngham quickly to the craftsmen, sensing a confrontation in the making that had nothing to do
with wages and broken contracts. ‘Share some wine with us, and we will discuss this in a dignified way.’

‘No, thank you,’ said Newenham hastily. ‘We hear that Michaelhouse has laid in a supply of Widow’s Wine. I would not drink
that stuff if I were dying of thirst in a desert.’

‘It is a splendid brew,’ said William indignantly. ‘It is a good, honest man’s drink, not this weak and watery rubbish that
I hear is served in other Colleges. I must see about ordering more of it.’

‘We did not come here to talk about wine,’ said Newenham impatiently. ‘We came because we want our money. We want the ninety
pounds right now – for the supplies that we will have to buy and for our labour over the next three weeks, as well as what
we are already owed.’

‘It is not customary to pay for work before it is completed,’ argued Michael again. ‘I can assure you that our College—’

‘Show us, then,’ interrupted Blaston. Michael regarded him uncertainly. ‘Give us our week’s wages now, and show us the rest.
We heard it was all in a large coffer in Master Runham’s room. Show us this coffer, and we will be back within the hour with
our tools to complete the work we started. We only want to make sure we will not be cheated.’

‘Michaelhouse does not cheat people,’ began William, offended. Kenyngham put a cautionary hand on his shoulder to quieten
him.

‘Please,’ said Suttone, stepping forward and raising
his hands in a placatory gesture. ‘Michaelhouse scholars are honest men, and none of us has any intention of cheating you.’

‘No?’ demanded Blaston. ‘Then show us the gold.’

‘We are clerics,’ continued Suttone, in the same reasonable tones. ‘Friars
and monks. I promise you we are honourable men who will see you are paid what you agreed with Runham. Even if I have to work
as a common scribe in St Mary’s Church for the rest of my life, I assure you that Michaelhouse will make good its debts.’

Blaston gazed at him, aware of the sincerity in the Carmelite’s voice. ‘Then show us the gold, Father. Prove to us that you
have it. That is all we are asking.’

‘When Master Runham died, we thought it was unsafe to have so much money in one place,’ said Michael smoothly, ‘so we deposited
it with various people around the town. We cannot show it to you, because it is no longer here.’

‘Lies!’ spat Newenham. He turned to Blaston. ‘The rumours were true: Michaelhouse will not pay us at the rate we were promised.
They want to give us a week’s money, when we were promised four times as much. I am not standing here to have my intelligence
insulted!’

He stamped towards the gate, which Walter hastily fumbled open. After a moment, Blaston followed. Before he left, he turned
and addressed the assembled scholars.

‘You will regret this, Michaelhouse. You are trying to cheat honest workmen. You will regret it.’

‘No!’ cried Suttone, distressed. ‘Please wait! There is no need for violence that may lead to bloodshed. Come back, so that
we can talk about this.’

But although Blaston may have believed that Suttone did not intend to cheat him, he was clearly not convinced of the honesty
of the other Michaelhouse men. With an apologetic shrug to the Carmelite, he turned and stalked
away. Beadle Meadowman grabbed Michael’s sleeve and muttered in his ear before following.

‘He means what he says, Brother. Michaelhouse had better show them what they want, or you can expect every working man in
the town to fall in behind them to see justice done.’

‘I hope you are not threatening us,’ said William coldly.

Meadowman shook his head. ‘I have been with these men for a week now, and I know what they think. I am only warning you that
they mean what they say: pay up or face the consequences.’

He turned to run after Blaston before Walter locked the gate. Bartholomew climbed to the top of the wall and was relieved
to see that the people assembled in the lane were dispersing. He was about to descend when Blaston turned and howled at the
top of his voice.

‘You have trouble coming your way, Michaelhouse!’

Bartholomew knelt next to the small altar near Wilson’s tomb and tugged with all his might. Next to him, Michael was casting
anxious glances up the nave, as though he anticipated that a horde of furious townspeople would descend on him at any moment.
Not far away, and covered by a sheet of silk, was the body of Runham, lying in its own coffin – not the parish one that served
everyone else – and looking as smug and complacent in death as it had in life.

‘I keep thinking he is watching me,’ said Bartholomew, glancing over at the body as he pushed and pulled at the portable altar.
‘It is not a pleasant sensation.’

‘Do not be fanciful, Matt. And hurry up! I do not feel safe here.’

‘No one will attack the church,’ said Bartholomew reasonably. ‘It is Michaelhouse they want, and that has
withstood attacks before – far more violent ones than a few masons, carpenters and out-of-work singers will manage.’

‘Do not be so sure,’ said Michael. ‘You know how the apprentices love to join in any kind of rioting and looting. They will
willingly add their numbers and their belligerence to the mob.’

‘Then stop it before it starts,’ said Bartholomew, easing himself into a better position and trying again. ‘You have already
warned the Sheriff’s men and your beadles to be ready, but perhaps you need to call a curfew or close off St Michael’s Lane.’

‘I know how to attempt to prevent a riot,’ said Michael stiffly. ‘I am the Senior Proctor and have far more experience of
this sort of thing than you do.’

‘Well, stop fretting about it, then,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Come and help me with this. I think it must be mortared into place.
I cannot budge the thing.’

Michael elbowed him out of the way and lent his considerable strength to prising the small altar from Wilson’s tomb. With
a snapping of ripped wood, it came free and they peered behind it. It was stuffed to the gills with blocks of soap, the scent
so powerful that Michael backed away and immediately started to sneeze. Bartholomew removed one and began to pare the soap
away with one of his knives. Concealed within it was a ring.

‘That is the gold ring Sam Gray placed as a pledge in one of our hutches,’ said Michael, taking it from him and wiping his
running nose on a piece of linen.

Bartholomew gazed at him in confusion. ‘I do not understand. I thought Runham had sold all those things. That list we found
in his room told us how much he had been paid for each item.’

‘We were wrong, Matt,’ said Michael tiredly. ‘In the light of what we have just discovered, I suggest that the
list was not Runham itemising how much he
had
been paid, it was predicting how much he thought he was
going
to be paid.’

‘But that means the chest in his room never contained ninety pounds at all,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It must have contained the
thirty he borrowed from the guilds, the thirty he begged from benefactors, and some undetermined amount.’

‘Do you think he planned to abscond with it?’ asked Michael, turning the ring over in his fingers. ‘It is possible, you know.
Runham was very partial to money, as was his thieving cousin.’

Bartholomew sat back on his heels and considered. ‘I wonder if the fact that the bowl of yours that Wilson stole later made
an appearance in Runham’s room suggests that Runham knew his cousin was a thief and came to Michaelhouse specifically to claim
these ill-gotten gains.’

‘I wonder,’ said Michael thoughtfully, sitting on the damaged altar. ‘It makes sense.’

‘Does it?’ asked Bartholomew, not absolutely certain he was right.

Michael nodded slowly. ‘Runham came to Michaelhouse a year ago, and it seemed to me as though he always intended to make
a bid for the position of Master when it became vacant.’

‘But Roger Alcote, who died this summer, was generally considered Kenyngham’s successor.’

‘No one liked Alcote,’ said Michael. ‘I am not sure
I
would have voted for him, and I am very sure
you
would not.’

‘True. But I would not – did not – vote for Runham, either.’

‘But you might have done if the alternative was Alcote. We all knew Runham was smug and superior, but none
of us knew how truly dreadful he was until he was in a position of power. He must have been hiding his real character all
this time.’

‘So, he presented us the charming side of his personality – his arrogance and condescension – for a year, and then made a
bid for the Mastership?’ said Bartholomew.

Michael nodded again. ‘And all that time, the unworldly Kenyngham was residing in the Master’s quarters. Stolen treasure could
be dripping from the walls and Kenyngham would not notice. Do you remember Runham ordering Kenyngham out of his room as soon
as he was elected Master?’

‘He did occupy the Master’s quarters with unseemly haste,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘Usually, the outgoing Master shows a little
respect for his predecessor by allowing him a few weeks’ grace, but Runham wanted Kenyngham gone within a day.’

‘And the reason was that he could not wait to search it, to see if he could find the treasure he knew Wilson had stolen. We
assumed he was flexing his new muscles of power, but it was because he was desperate to get his greedy fingers on Wilson’s
room.’

‘But the only evidence we have that Wilson was a thief is your little bowl,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I hardly think a man like
Runham is going to bide his time for a year on the off-chance that a few crystal bowls might be hidden up the chimney.’

‘You are wrong, Matt,’ said Michael. ‘There were other pieces I suspected Wilson had pilfered. Alcote lost some silver spoons,
while the Oliver brothers – remember that dreadful pair, who were students during the Death? – had a purse of gold stolen.
Wilson was seen near both rooms just before these items went missing, although this was insufficient evidence to confront
him with.’

‘Dunstan and Aethelbald, the rivermen, told me that
there was a rumour in the town that Wilson’s room was stuffed full of stolen gold and silver when he died,’ said Bartholomew
thoughtfully, recalling what had been said when the choir had been dismissed.

Michael shrugged. ‘There is often a grain of truth in some of these tales.’

‘And then there were the last rites Matilde told me about,’ said Bartholomew. ‘She said Wilson absolved rich people who died
during the plague, and then relieved them of as many of their worldly goods as he could carry.’

‘Did he indeed?’ breathed Michael, his eyes bright with interest. ‘No wonder he caught the disease, if he went rummaging about
in the houses of the sick looking for their treasure.’

Bartholomew recalled vividly the night Wilson had died – how he had been burning papers and leaving his business affairs in
the way he wanted them found. He had probably been hiding things, too, secreting them away behind weak plaster or old wall
hangings, perhaps even imagining that he might return from the hereafter to retrieve them.