A Masterly Murder (6 page)

Bartholomew had never been inside Bene’t before, and was impressed by the sumptuousness of those buildings that had been completed.
The walls were made of good-quality stone purchased from the quarries at Barnack near Peterborough, and were a pleasing amber
hue. Inside, the floors of the hall were polished wood – not just flagstones strewn with dried rushes like Michaelhouse’s
– and were liberally scattered with fine wool rugs. Large chests with handsome iron bindings stood at one end of the room,
while the tables at which the scholars ate and which they used for lessons were carved from oak that had been buffed to an
impressive sheen.

Wymundham slumped in a chair at the high table and put his head in his hands, sobbing loudly. Bene’t was deserted, so Bartholomew
went behind the serving screen, and found a jug of wine and some cups. He filled one and took it back to Wymundham, urging
him to drink. Eventually, the man’s weeping subsided, and he rubbed away his tears with a hand stained with his friend’s blood.
Bartholomew saw a basin filled with water on one of the windowsills, dipped a napkin in it, and gave it to the scholar so
that he could clean his face. At Bartholomew’s silent kindness, Wymundham began to weep afresh. The physician sat with him,
waiting for him to compose himself.

Wymundham was not an attractive man. His narrow face had a rather vulpine look about it, and his small eyes were bright and
beady. His mannerisms were fussy and effeminate, and under his scholar’s tabard he wore hose
of soft blue wool, so that his legs reminded Bartholomew of those of an elderly nun.

‘I am sorry,’ said Wymundham, wiping his nose on the napkin. ‘It was the shock.’

‘It is all right,’ said Bartholomew gently. ‘Is there anyone I can fetch to be with you? One of the other Fellows, perhaps?’

Wymundham shook his head. ‘That will not be necessary, thank you. I am perfectly recovered now. As I said, it was the shock
of seeing poor Raysoun die that distressed me. We were good friends. We were the first Fellows to be admitted to the College
last year, you see.’

‘If it is any consolation, I do not think he felt much,’ said Bartholomew. ‘In fact, it is likely that he did not even know
what had happened to him.’

‘Oh, he knew,’ said Wymundham with sudden bitterness. ‘He told me. Just before he died.’

‘Told you what?’ asked Bartholomew, confused. ‘That he knew he had fallen?’

‘That someone had killed him,’ said Wymundham harshly. ‘That is what shocked me, even more than seeing him lying there in
all that blood.’

‘You mean he told you that someone had murdered him?’ asked Bartholomew, bewildered. ‘But Master Lynton said he fell—’

‘Someone stabbed him with one of those builders’ spikes, and then shoved him off the scaffolding,’ interrupted Wymundham,
pursing his lips and regarding Bartholomew with bird-like eyes. ‘That is what he told me as he died.’

‘He may have been rambling,’ said Bartholomew, wondering whether grief had turned Wymundham’s mind. ‘I had given him a powerful
medicine to dull any pain he might have felt.’

‘He was not rambling,’ said Wymundham firmly. ‘He sounded perfectly clear to me.’

‘Then who pushed him?’ asked Bartholomew, still doubtful. ‘And why?’

Wymundham shrugged his thin shoulders. ‘Our College is not a happy place, and the Fellows are always quarrelling and fighting.’

‘You think one of the Fellows pushed Raysoun to his death?’ asked Bartholomew, startled.

‘That is what he told me,’ said Wymundham, raising one of his fluttering hands to his face. ‘And it is dreadful. Quite dreadful.’

‘Did he say which Fellow?’

Wymundham gave a pained smile. ‘Oh, yes. But when I became a member of Bene’t College I swore an oath of allegiance, and I
take it seriously. I will tell the Senior Proctor what Raysoun whispered with his dying breath, because I will be legally
obliged to do so, but I should not gossip about it to anyone else.’

‘Then shall I fetch Brother Michael for you?’ asked Bartholomew.

Wymundham shook his head. ‘I am not ready to face him yet. And I expect I look perfectly hideous. I will sit here quietly
for a while and compose myself. Brother Michael will come to me when he has seen poor Raysoun’s body removed to the church.’

Bartholomew refilled the cup, noting that Wymundham had regained some of his colour and that his hands were now steadier.

‘You have been kind to me,’ said the Bene’t man, giving Bartholomew a weary smile. ‘And you seem a sensible sort of fellow.
I would very much like to confide in you, but it is better if I do not burden you with our unsavoury secrets – better for
you, that is.’

‘Brother Michael will be here soon,’ said Bartholomew,
thinking Wymundham was absolutely right: he had no desire to be drawn into the murderous politics of another College and
he certainly did not want to know who had killed Raysoun. ‘You can tell him, then.’

‘A divided College is a dreadful thing,’ said Wymundham, almost to himself. ‘You have no idea what it is like.’

‘No, but I think I may be about to find out,’ said Bartholomew, thinking about Kenyngham’s resignation and the repercussions
it would have. ‘But if one of your Fellows
has
been murdered, then the whole town will know about it before long. It will be impossible to keep something like that quiet
– you saw the crowd that had gathered around Raysoun’s body.’

‘You underestimate the power of the University,’ said Wymundham, laying a hand on Bartholomew’s knee and squeezing it gently.
‘But I am sure you will learn.’

Bartholomew was only too aware of what the University could do in the town, probably far more so than the mincing, effeminate
creature who sat opposite him dabbing at his eyes with the napkin with one hand, and with the other firmly clasped on the
physician’s knee.

‘But you should go back to your students,’ said Wymundham, releasing him abruptly. ‘And I must prepare myself for the interrogation
of the Senior Proctor.’

L
EAVING MICHAEL TO SEE RAYSOUN’S BODY TAKEN
to the church and to interview the grieving Wymundham, Bartholomew left Bene’t College, and started to walk slowly back to
Michaelhouse. It was a market day, and he could hear the lows of cattle, the bleats of sheep and the squeals of pigs all the
way from the High Street, not to mention the frenzied yells of the stall-keepers as they vied with each other to sell their
wares.

His hands were stained red with the blood of the dead scholar, so he went to rinse them in the ditch that ran down the side
of the High Street. The water that made his fingers ache from its coldness was probably tainted with sewage, offal and all
manner of filth, but Bartholomew considered them all preferable to the blood of what promised to be a murdered man.

‘Do I see you washing in the town’s sewers?’ came a cheerful voice from behind him. ‘That is unlike you.’

Bartholomew turned in pleasure at the sound of his sister’s voice. ‘Edith! I thought you were at home, in Trumpington.’

Edith Stanmore, like her brother, had black curly hair, although hers now had a sprinkling of silver in it. Ten years older
than Bartholomew, she was as different from him as it was possible to be, despite their physical similarities. She was ebullient,
unfailingly cheerful, and firmly believed the world comprised only two kinds of people – good ones and bad ones.

‘I love the peace of my husband’s country manor,’ said Edith, watching him scrubbing his hands in the murky water. ‘Usually,
I prefer it to the noise and muck of the town. But Oswald spends most of his time here with his business, we have a very efficient
steward to run the estate, my son is studying in Oxford, and my little brother is far too busy healing the sick to walk the
two miles to visit his boring old sister.’

‘That is not true,’ protested Bartholomew. ‘You know I like to see you.’

‘Yes? Then why do you not come more often? The last time you visited me was in September – before term started.’

‘Really?’ asked Bartholomew, genuinely surprised. ‘I did not realise it had been so long.’

‘So I gathered,’ said Edith dryly. ‘But the point of my rambling explanation is that I am bored in Trumpington, and so I travel
to Cambridge with Oswald most days.’

‘Most days?’ queried Bartholomew, astonished. ‘I have not seen you …’

‘But I have seen you. Running here, dashing there, always much too preoccupied to stop for a leisurely chat with the wife
of a mere merchant.’

‘Never,’ said Bartholomew firmly.

‘But it is true,’ she said, laughing. ‘In fact, this is the first time I have even been
able to catch up with you, you move so fast. But what are you doing, kneeling there in the filth? Preparing to wage war on
the town again for the vileness of its ditches and streams?’

‘Not this time,’ he said, standing up and shaking his hands to dry them. ‘And I have had enough of medicine for today anyway.’

‘You tended the man who fell from the scaffolding and died?’ asked Edith.

Bartholomew nodded. ‘Were you there, then, among the onlookers?’

‘No, but I heard people talking about it at the Trumpington Gate. Bene’t should be forced to make that scaffolding safe. I
said to Oswald only yesterday that someone was bound to injure himself on it soon. But you look as though you need a diversion
from this, not a discussion of it. How is life at Michaelhouse?’

Bartholomew sighed, not certain that the change of topic was for the better. ‘Kenyngham plans to resign on Saturday, which
means that we will have to elect someone else as Master. I dread to think who it will be.’

Edith agreed wholeheartedly in the blunt fashion he found so endearing. ‘Men of integrity and honour are a bit thin on the
ground at Michaelhouse. Who will stand, do you think?’

‘Michael already sees himself as the victor. Meanwhile, I am sure William, Langelee and Runham intend to provide him with
some stiff competition. Fortunately, I imagine Paul knows he is too old, and the two Fellows due to be admitted the day after
tomorrow are too new.’

‘You would make a good Master,’ said Edith fondly.

‘I would make a terrible Master,’ said Bartholomew, smiling at her loyalty
to him. ‘I would spend all our money on new cesspits, better drains and clean rushes for the floors, and have us bankrupt
within a month. But I wish Kenyngham had waited. Thomas Suttone, one of the newcomers, seems a pleasant man, and may make
a better Master than William, Langelee or Runham.’

‘And Michael?’ asked Edith curiously. ‘He is your closest friend. Surely you will support him?’

Bartholomew hesitated. Michael had certainly assumed so, but Michael was a man who thrived on intrigue and subterfuge, and
Bartholomew had always hoped that Michaelhouse would provide him with a haven from that sort of thing. Under Michael’s Mastership,
the College was likely to be the focus of more connivance and
treachery than Bartholomew cared to imagine. But the alternatives offered by any of the others were almost too awful to contemplate.

‘Yes,’ he said finally. ‘I will vote for Michael.’

‘Well, I hope his other supporters are a little more enthusiastic,’ she
said wryly. ‘If his dearest friend has such obvious reservations, what chance does he have of securing the confidence of those
who see only his pompous and selfish exterior?’

‘He is a good man,’ said Bartholomew, immediately defensive. ‘Well, most of the time.’

‘He is not popular with everyone,’ Edith pointed out. ‘Not only that, but Oswald has heard that he has been indulging in secret
meetings with scholars from the University of Oxford.’

‘I sincerely doubt it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Michael has always been very firm about his disdain for our rival university, and
anyway, he has far too much to do in Cambridge to indulge in plots with Oxford. And what is wrong with Oxford, anyway? I studied
there, and so does your son.’

‘I have no feelings about the place one way or the other; I am only repeating what I was told. But do not look so gloomy,
Matt. At least we can be sure that no one will be stupid enough to vote for that horrible Runham.’

‘Langelee would be worse,’ said Bartholomew.

‘I am not so sure,’ said Edith. ‘But if you choose not to support Michael, you
should vote for William. He will agree to anything when he is drunk – if you can bear to listen to his gruesome stories about
the Inquisition – and all you will need to do, if you want something, is to ply him with wine each night. You need not even
invest in a good-quality brew, because William will drink anything.’

Bartholomew laughed, enjoying his sister’s easy company. He took her arm and began to walk with her along
the High Street. He could have returned to his duties in the College, but Kenyngham’s announcement had dismayed him, and
he did not want to be plunged back into the intrigues that would be brewing as ambitious hopefuls lobbied their colleagues
for votes. Instead, he strolled with Edith to the Market Square, where they bought hot chestnuts that they ate as they watched
the antics of a knife-thrower.

‘How does he do that?’ asked Bartholomew, trying to gain a better position to see the nature of the trick he was certain was
involved. ‘It is not possible to be so consistently accurate.’

‘Oh, Matt! Must you be so analytical?’ cried Edith, poking him in the ribs with an elbow. ‘Just enjoy the spectacle. And speaking
of enjoyment, have you seen Matilde recently?’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘I have seen very little of her since I returned from Suffolk in June. Kenyngham gave me an additional
six students this year, and I have been struggling to try to fit in all the lectures they should have. I cannot recall ever
having been so busy.’

‘There were rumours that you were sent to Suffolk in the first place because of your friendship with Matilde,’ said Edith
bluntly.

‘A friendship with a prostitute is not something the University encourages,’ said Bartholomew, suspecting that the stories
held a grain of truth, and that his colleagues had indeed contrived to send him away from the town to allow time for his relationship
with the pretty courtesan to cool. ‘It is particularly frowned on for Fellows, who are supposed to be setting a good example
to the students.’

‘It seems to me that these additional six students are no accident, Matt. Your friends are trying to keep you occupied, so
that you will have no time to pursue a life outside their stuffy halls.’

Bartholomew realised she was probably right, and smiled at himself for being so naı¨ve, knowing he should have seen through
his colleagues’ machinations.

‘You should marry, Matt,’ said Edith, regarding him critically. ‘Or you will turn into one of those dreary old men who are
only interested in the food and drink they devour at high table.’

‘I hope not,’ said Bartholomew with a shudder. ‘Michaelhouse is not noted for the quality of its fare. I should be in a sorry
state indeed if I lived only for that.’

She shot him an anxious, sidelong glance. ‘You are not thinking of taking the cowl, are you, as Michael is always trying to
persuade you to do?’

‘No,’ he said, turning his attention back to the knife-thrower. ‘I would not make a good monk.’

‘Then give up this life at the University, and practise medicine in the town – with real people, not drunkards, gluttons and
power-mongers, who either loathe women or like them too much. And marry! You are a handsome man, and it is a waste for you
to be celibate.’

‘But in order to marry, there needs to be a compliant woman, and there do not seem to be many of those around.’

‘Then I shall find you some,’ said Edith, sensing a challenge. ‘Leave it to me.’

‘No, thank you,’ said Bartholomew in alarm, knowing from past experience that the ladies Edith was likely to consider would
be wholly unacceptable. It was not that he was fussy – he was an easygoing man who invariably found something to enjoy in
most people’s company – but he did not want to spend his evenings in stilted conversation with someone who had nothing to
discuss but the price of fish or the state of her wardrobe.

‘I can think of several,’ said Edith, ignoring his objection.

‘Please do not try to pair me off with the first available
female you encounter,’ he pleaded. ‘Michaelhouse may have its disadvantages, but I am happy there. I do not want to be trapped
in a loveless marriage.’

Edith pursed her lips. ‘You should put more trust in me, Matt. I know what I am doing.’

He regarded her uncertainly, not at all sure that she did.

While Bartholomew tried to distract her with some coloured ribbons being sold by a chapman, Edith began a sweeping search
of the Market Square to see whether she could locate a suitable partner there and then. He saw her eyes linger briefly on
the substantial figure of Adela Tangmer, the daughter of an immensely wealthy vintner, and felt his spirits flag. Adela’s
consuming passion was horses, and Bartholomew, who knew little more about them other than that they had four legs and a tail,
suspected he would be a bitter disappointment to her. Even discussing the price of fish held more appeal to him than endless
monologues about fetlocks and foaling and the merits of deep chests.

But, with relief, he recalled that Edith did not like Adela Tangmer, and even the prospect of seeing her brother happily married
would not induce her to recommend Adela to him. Edith considered Adela overbearing, and disliked her mannish ways. However,
Adela had a half-sister who was very different, and Edith had extolled the virtues of Joan Tangmer on a number of occasions.

He was relieved when Edith’s gaze moved on. To his horror, though, he saw her look rather keenly at the willowy form of old
Mistress Mortimer, the long since widowed mother of the town’s spice merchant, who was easily old enough to be Bartholomew’s
grandmother. He saw Edith give an almost imperceptible shake of her head, although he could tell that Mistress Mortimer had
by no
means been permanently discounted as a prospective sister-in-law. Edith then began to assess the three young step-daughters
of Mayor Horwoode, the oldest of whom was barely past puberty.

‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly, as Edith opened her mouth to speak.

‘Hello, Matthew,’ came a loud, braying voice behind them that made them both start. It was Adela Tangmer. ‘And Edith, too.
What brings you from the country to the town? Rat poison?’

‘I beg your pardon?’ asked Edith suspiciously. She was not the only one to be nonplussed: Bartholomew also had no idea what
Adela was talking about.

‘Rat poison,’ repeated Adela. She put her hands on her hips and regarded Edith and Bartholomew askance. ‘Do not tell me that
you did not know the Franciscan friars always sell their famous rat poison on the last Thursday of the month? I thought the
sale of one of the most vital commodities known to man was an event of national significance!’

‘I do not think about rats very often,’ replied Edith archly. ‘But my husband usually lays in a store of the Franciscans’
poison, and I leave such matters to him.’

‘I would never trust a man with something so important,’ declared Adela. ‘If I left the purchase of rat poison to my father,
we would be overrun and eaten alive in a week! And, of course, I have the nags to think of – they do not appreciate rats in
their hay at all.’ She gave them a grin full of big yellow incisors.

‘What a handsome dress,’ said Edith, looking down at the unattractive brown garment that fitted Adela’s heavy body like a
sack around corn. ‘It suits you very well.’

Bartholomew held his breath, certain that Adela would know she was being insulted. Adela, however, took Edith’s words at face
value.

‘Well, thank you. It is a little faded, but it is one of my favourites. It is excellent for riding, because the grease in
it means the rain runs off instead of soaking through, and it is much more comfortable than the tight garments that are so
fashionable these days. Do you not agree, Matthew?’

‘It has been some time since I went riding in a dress,’ said Bartholomew, ‘so I am not in a position to say.’