A Masterly Murder (19 page)

Bartholomew wondered whether it was as obvious to Runham himself. ‘Michael does have a fever,’ he said vaguely. ‘And I confess
I am surprised by the speed at which the infection has spread.’

‘Fat men succumb easier to fevers than thin ones,’ said Gray wisely. ‘Master Saddler was fat, and look what
happened to him. His leg rotted, and even Robin of Grantchester’s delicate surgery could not save him.’

Amused by Gray’s statement of ‘fact’, Bartholomew trudged back across the sticky morass of the yard to Michael’s room. The
two sombre Benedictines who shared the room had moved to the now-vacant servants’ quarters, and had prepared a straw mattress
so that the physician could sleep next to his patient. Thoughtfully, one of them even left a candle stub, so that Bartholomew
would be able to see what he was doing if Michael needed help during the night.

Outside, the sounds of evening gradually faded to sounds of night. The lively chatter of students in the yard was replaced
by the soft murmur of scholars in their rooms, and the clank and clatter from the kitchens was eventually stilled to the occasional
sharp crack as the fire spat. Bartholomew lit the candle and tried to work on his treatise on fevers, until he fell asleep
at the table.

By the following day, Michael was essentially better, but slept most of the time and had lost his appetite. To Bartholomew’s
surprise, he even declined some of his favourite delicacies from the kitchen. He was not too ill to remind Bartholomew of
his promise to visit Simekyn Simeon at Bene’t College, however, and insisted that the physician went there that morning. Bartholomew
did not want to become embroiled in the insalubrious affairs of another College, recalling that the murdered Wymundham had
told him he would be better not knowing what they were, and he took his time readying himself to go out.

At last he could delay no longer, and began to walk slowly across the yard to the gate. He had taken no more than a few steps
when he saw a man wearing the distinctive blue tabard of a Bene’t scholar striding
towards him. From under the tabard protruded a pair of shapely legs clad in striking yellow and green striped hose. Bartholomew
knew very well that neither they, nor the bright gold-coloured hat that sat at a jaunty angle on the man’s head, were part
of the prescribed uniform of Bene’t, and was astonished that the Master allowed one of his Fellows to flaunt the rules so
flagrantly.

The man greeted him cheerfully. He was younger than Bartholomew, and wore his long dark hair in elaborate ringlets of the
kind currently in favour at the King’s court. He was rather more plump than a man of his age should have been, indicating
that he had not been eating College fare for very long, and he had the kind of glowing complexion that more likely resulted
from a carefree existence of hunting and falconry than of a life spent in study.

‘My name is Simekyn Simeon, Fellow of Bene’t College,’ he said, favouring Bartholomew with an impressively courtly bow. ‘I
know it is an unlikely appellation, but it is the one with which my parents saw fit to encumber me.’

‘Matthew Bartholomew,’ said Bartholomew, grateful that
he
did not have to go through life with a name better suited to a court jester.

‘I have come to see the Senior Proctor about the sad demise of John Wymundham, lately Fellow of Bene’t College,’ Simeon continued.
‘Is he in his room?’

‘He is ill, but he asked me to visit you. I was just on my way.’

‘I saved you a journey, then,’ said Simeon jauntily. ‘Tell me, is Brother Michael’s illness such that we should avoid him
for fear of contamination, or can I loiter at his sickbed with no ill effects?’

‘He does not have a contagion,’ said Bartholomew curtly, not impressed by the man’s brazen self-interest.

‘Good,’ said Simeon. ‘I mean no disrespect, Bartholomew, but I will discuss this matter with him, not you. I am aware of his
reputation for solving mysteries in the University, but you I do not know. Is this the way to his room?’

He had ducked past Bartholomew and was up the stairs to Michael’s chamber before the physician could do anything to stop him.
Irritated at being so summarily dismissed by a man who wore green and yellow hose, Bartholomew followed him, intending to
prevent him from disturbing the ailing monk, but Simeon had moved quickly and was through Michael’s door before Bartholomew
had reached the top of the stairs. Michael regarded the intruder in astonishment, hauling his blanket up under his chin like
a maiden caught in bed by a knight intent on mischief.

‘Did I waken you?’ Simeon asked, not sounding especially contrite. ‘I do apologise. However, one of my colleagues died on
Saturday night, and I feel that is a matter of sufficient import to raise the Senior Proctor from his slumbers. I expected
you to visit us yesterday.’

‘I am unwell,’ said Michael peevishly. ‘I sent Matt to see you in my stead.’

Simeon sat on the chamber’s only chair and gave a disarming smile. ‘But now I am here, we can speak directly to each other.
There is no need to communicate through one of your lackeys.’

‘I am ill,’ repeated Michael. To make sure Simeon understood the true gravity of his condition he added, ‘I have eaten nothing
all day!’

That seemed to convince Simeon. He leaned forward and gazed at Michael’s pale face and red-rimmed eyes.

‘I am sorry, Brother. I see now that you are not malingering; you do have something of the appearance of a corpse three days
dead. You must understand, though, that the sudden death of one of our members – two, if
you count Raysoun’s fall on Thursday – has been a blow, and I wanted to know what you are doing about it. But I appreciate
the fact that you are unwell, and so I suppose I shall have to leave you in peace for now.’

‘You are here now, so you may as well stay,’ said Michael ungraciously. ‘You have heard, I take it, that Wymundham was found
dead in Mayor Horwoode’s garden?’

Simeon nodded. ‘Of course. We are not that uninformed. One of your beadles told me that you had the body examined, and the
verdict was that someone had smothered him. Are you certain of that? Are you sure he did not drown himself?’

Michael waved a feeble hand, indicating that Bartholomew was to answer.

The physician nodded. ‘Wymundham’s body was not wet, and, as far as I could tell, there was no water in his lungs to suggest
drowning. His blue face and swollen tongue, along with damaged nails and a broken tooth, indicated that he had been smothered,
and that he had fought hard against his killer.’

Simeon regarded him sceptically, as if he did not consider such details convincing. ‘So, do you have any idea who might have
done this?’

‘None. Yet,’ said Michael. ‘I was hoping you might be able to help. Did Wymundham have any enemies in Bene’t, or other people
who might wish him harm?’

Simeon frowned slightly. ‘Not that I can think of. Bene’t is a small College and there are only four Fellows now that Wymundham
and Raysoun are dead. We all liked each other well enough.’

‘That is not what Wymundham said after he had watched Raysoun die,’ said Bartholomew bluntly. ‘He told me that Raysoun had
claimed with his dying breath that he had been pushed.’

Simeon’s expression was unreadable. ‘Are you suggesting that there have been two murders – not one – in Bene’t?’

‘Wymundham believed Raysoun was murdered, and then he was murdered himself,’ said Bartholomew. ‘What does that imply to you?’

Simeon crossed one striped leg over the other and leaned back in his chair. ‘I believe someone has made a mistake. Either
Wymundham misheard or misunderstood Raysoun’s dying words, or someone is guilty of gross fabrication – making up stories about
our dead scholars because they are not in a position to confirm or deny them.’

‘Wymundham told
me
what Raysoun said,’ replied Bartholomew coolly. ‘I can assure you that I did not invent it.’

‘Then did Wymundham tell you
who
Raysoun said had pushed him?’ asked Simeon, raising his eyebrows questioningly.

‘No,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He said it would be better if I did not know.’

‘Really,’ said Simeon flatly. ‘How very inconvenient.’

‘Matt has no reason to lie,’ said Michael. ‘If he says Wymundham claimed
Raysoun had been pushed, then Wymundham claimed Raysoun was pushed. So, the question we must now ask is: was Wymundham himself
lying or was he speaking the truth? Let us assume first that he was lying: why would he want people to believe Raysoun had
been murdered if his death were an accident?’

‘Perhaps he was not lying in the true sense of the word,’ suggested Simeon. ‘Perhaps the shock of Raysoun’s accident unhinged
him, and he said things he did not mean.’

‘It is a possibility,’ said Michael. ‘But then, two days later, Wymundham is found dead, which makes me inclined to believe
there was some truth to his claim.
In which case, we must ask who would kill Raysoun and then murder Wymundham to ensure he told no one what Raysoun murmured
with his dying breath?’

Simeon sighed and shook his head. ‘Certainly no one at Bene’t. The Fellows keep their distance from the students – unlike
Michaelhouse, which I hear encourages friendships between masters and their charges – and we would never stoop to fraternising
with servants, again unlike Michaelhouse.’

‘How dare you make such comparisons,’ snapped Michael, offended. ‘You have never been to Michaelhouse!’

‘Actually, I have been here on a number of occasions. For my sins, I am acquainted with your Ralph de Langelee, who pursues
me relentlessly because of my court connections. Langelee tells me all sorts of scandalous stories about Michaelhouse.’

‘Such as what?’ demanded Michael, peeved.

‘Such as Bartholomew’s friendship with his book-bearer,’ said Simeon with a grimace
of distaste. ‘Langelee informs me that Bartholomew treats that dirty little man like a brother. I certainly would not trust
my life to a common man!’

‘With an attitude like that, you would be wise not to,’ retorted Bartholomew, angry that the foppish scholar should insult
the loyal Cynric.

‘And then there is the Michaelhouse choir,’ continued Simeon, ignoring him. ‘Those who are not thieves or beggars are engaged
in lowly trades like ditch-clearing and barging, and yet Brother Michael quite happily spends every Sunday afternoon in their
company.’

‘They are good people,’ said Michael coldly. ‘It is not their fault that greedy landowners have forced them into such poverty
that they are forced to steal to feed themselves.’

‘That sounds seditious,’ said Simeon, regarding Michael in amusement. ‘You are not one of those modern thinkers who believes
peasants should have rights, are you?’

‘My personal opinions are none of your affair,’ said Michael. ‘And they certainly have nothing to do with discovering who
killed your colleagues.’

‘True,’ admitted Simeon. ‘My apologies, Brother. Blunt speaking is all the fashion at court these days, and I forget you University
men prefer good old-fashioned ambiguity and obtuseness. But, as I was saying, I do not think you will find your killer in
Bene’t. You will have to look elsewhere for him.’

‘Who are the other Fellows?’ asked Michael, not liking Simeon’s transparent determination to steer the investigation away
from his own College. ‘And what were you doing when Raysoun fell?’

Simeon shook the luxurious curls that cascaded to his shoulders – locks that Father William would have had shorn had Simeon
been a member of Michaelhouse. ‘I was not in Cambridge when that happened. I am the Duke of Lancaster’s squire when not engaged
in College affairs, and I was with him. I have at least a dozen highly respectable witnesses who will vouch for me.’

‘And the other Bene’t Fellows?’ demanded Michael, sounding disappointed that Simeon appeared to have a sound alibi. ‘Where
were they?’

‘Master Heltisle and his good friend Caumpes were buying rat poison from the Franciscans in the Market Square. We have a rodent
problem at Bene’t, you see.’

Bartholomew was sure they had, and one rat had shoved poor Raysoun to his death, then smothered Wymundham.

Simeon continued. ‘And lastly, there is Henry de Walton. I am surprised you do not know him, Bartholomew. I
imagined he would be intimate with every physician in Cambridge, given that he is always complaining about some ailment or
other.’

‘And you still claim that all Bene’t fellows liked each other?’ Michael pounced.

Simeon gave a rueful smile. ‘Yes, generally. I admit I find de Walton’s claims of continual poor health a little tiresome,
but he is a good enough fellow. He works hard and is patient with our less able students.’

‘What were Raysoun and Wymundham like as Fellows?’ asked Michael. ‘Were they hard-working and patient with inferior students?’

Simeon glanced sharply at him. ‘Raysoun was a gentle man, although he did have a penchant for wine. He was worried that the
building of Bene’t was taking too long, and was afraid that we would run out of funds before it was finished, and so the workmen
considered him something of a nuisance because he checked their progress regularly. But the students liked him well enough.’

‘And Wymundham?’ asked Bartholomew when Simeon paused, wondering whether Simeon’s failure to cite Wymundham’s virtues without
prompting was significant.

‘Wymundham was a man who enjoyed life,’ said Simeon carefully. ‘He had a quick mind, and was sometimes frustrated by the restrictions
afforded by College life. I empathise entirely.’

Looking at the way Simeon had adapted his drab College uniform to include a gold hat and striped hose, Bartholomew was sure
he did.

‘It is difficult to know how to proceed with this,’ said Michael. He was beginning to look tired, and Bartholomew stood, intending
to ask – or order, if need be – Simeon to leave. ‘From what you say, enquiries
within Bene’t will lead nowhere, so I suppose we must look elsewhere.’

‘I wish I could tell you where,’ said Simeon. He sounded sincere.

Michael nodded agreement. ‘The most obvious solution is that one of the men working on the building gave Raysoun a shove,
and then killed Wymundham to keep his identity concealed. One of my beadles, Tom Meadowman—’