A Masterly Murder (26 page)

‘Heaven forbid,’ said Bartholomew.

‘Allies, then?’ asked Adela, leaning down to extend a powerful, calloused hand for Bartholomew
to shake. ‘Shall you and I stand together against unsuitable matches?’

‘Why not?’ said Bartholomew, taking the proffered hand with a smile. He wondered what his sister would say if she ever learned
he had formed such an alliance.

M
ICHAEL CHUCKLED AS HE RECLINED ON
his bed the following afternoon. The dirty plates and empty goblets scattered around the room suggested that he had regained his appetite with a vengeance, and Bartholomew suspected that the monk was
rather enjoying his convalescence.

‘And Agatha threatened to do away with Runham?’ asked Michael, eyes gleaming with merriment as he listened to Bartholomew’s
account of what had happened when William had bloodied Runham’s nose and Agatha the laundress had become involved in the fracas.

‘Not in so many words, but she does not like him.’

Michael chortled again. ‘Foolish man! He will never run a successful College
without the acquiescence of Agatha. And if he tries to dismiss her, he is dead for certain.’

‘She has been offered a post at Bene’t College,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It provides higher pay and better living accommodation,
and she is seriously thinking of taking it.’

The humour faded from Michael’s face. ‘Bene’t is poaching our servants?’

‘We do not have many left,’ said Bartholomew. ‘All the porters have gone – including Walter, which is a blessing – and all
but one of the cooks, while poor Cynric was dismissed the day after the feast.’

‘We will both miss him,’ said Michael sincerely. ‘But things are getting out of hand, Matt. I am at Death’s
door for a few days and I recover to find my College is a different place.’

‘You have not been at Death’s door, Brother. Did you know that Runham believes I am responsible for your illness?’

Michael regarded him incredulously and then started to laugh. ‘You? Not the bee that stung me?’

‘He said I used a poisonous salve – secretly in St Michael’s Lane – and he claims I refused to allow Robin of Grantchester
to amputate your arm because I was afraid it would save your life.’

‘My God, Matt! That is venomous stuff! I suppose it was my bantering accusations a couple of days ago that put that notion
in his silly head. That man has a nasty mind!’

‘It was his accusations that started the row with William,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Poor William. He might be a fanatic, but he
stood up for me. Runham has effectively removed him, Paul has already gone, and he aims to be rid of me tomorrow. I wonder
who will be next.’

Michael shifted restlessly. ‘This is dreadful. My College is tumbling about my ears even as I lie here – quite literally,
at times. A lump of ceiling became detached by the banging of the workmen this morning and narrowly missed my chair.’

‘Teaching has all but stopped,’ continued Bartholomew. ‘It is too noisy, and it is difficult to keep the students’ attention
when there are workmen tramping through the hall every few moments, whistling and singing. I took my classes in St Michael’s
Church this morning – until Runham found out and told me to leave.’

‘Why did he do that?’

‘He said it was sacrilegious to teach medicine in a church. A little later, I saw that he had moved
his own class there and was teaching it civil law.’

‘Civil law is far more sacrilegious than medicine,’ observed Michael. ‘One aims to promote health and the other to promote
wealth – for the lawyers. But did William make good his escape from Runham’s wrath?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘I visited Father Paul last night, to tend his eyes, and he told me the Franciscan brethren have William
secreted away somewhere, and will only reveal his whereabouts when they are sure Runham will not persecute him.’

‘Now William will know how those poor so-called heretics felt when he chased them all over southern France,’ said Michael
grimly.

‘At least he will not be able to begin the investigation he threatened,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He was going to look into the
death of that Franciscan, Brother Patrick.’

‘Was he?’ asked Michael coolly. ‘On whose authority?’

‘Yours. Since you were incapacitated, he decided to act as unofficial
Proctor. I think he planned to present you with the killer as a gift to aid your recovery, and then solve your other cases,
too – Raysoun and Wymundham.’

‘Thank God he did not,’ said Michael with a shudder. ‘The circumstances surrounding the deaths of Raysoun and Wymundham are
complicated – far more so than the likes of William could appreciate; while poor Patrick’s case seems hopeless. My beadles
are having no luck with their enquiries in the taverns, and I am beginning to fear that none of us will find whoever is responsible
for that. Any suspects William produces will almost certainly be innocent.’

‘He is rather good at frightening people into making false confessions,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘And he will concentrate on the
Dominicans.’

‘I am told the foundations are already dug for our new kitchen courtyard,’ said Michael as an especially violent
clatter from outside reminded him of the presence of the builders.

Bartholomew nodded. ‘They are not as deep as they should be, and Runham is forcing a pace for the work that is too rapid for
safety. Did you know that he has employed forty labourers? I do not know how he raised the money so quickly. I only hope he
does
have it, and we do not find ourselves with forty enraged workmen demanding payment when they have finished. It would be like
the choir all over again, only these would be armed with hammers and saws and not a few scraps of music.’

‘The choir?’ asked Michael, sitting up abruptly. ‘What are you talking about?’

Bartholomew stared at him. ‘Has no one told you? I thought you would have heard by now.’

‘Heard what?’ demanded Michael dangerously, his voice hard and cold. ‘I do not appreciate being kept in the dark about matters
that involve my choir.’

‘Runham disbanded it.’ Seeing the anger that immediately clouded the monk’s face, Bartholomew understood exactly why none
of his colleagues had accepted responsibility for breaking that particular piece of news. ‘He put the Michaelhouse singers
under the control of Clippesby, but he dismissed the rest.’

‘He what?’ howled Michael, outrage mounting by the moment. ‘He disbanded my choir?’ He scrambled to his feet, his face white
with rage. ‘Why did you not tell me this before?’

‘I thought someone else would have told you,’ said Bartholomew, trying to wrestle him away from the door. ‘But do not confront
Runham while you are in a rage. Anyway, the damage is already done; it is too late to do anything now.’

‘Let me go, Matt!’ warned Michael, his green eyes
flashing with a fury that Bartholomew had seldom seen before. ‘I am going to kill that miserable snake! And then I am going
to teach my choir how to sing his requiem mass – and I hope he hears it from hell!’

‘Wait until tomorrow, Brother,’ said Bartholomew breathlessly, not surprised to find that the monk was as strong as ever.
But just because Michael was fit did not mean that Bartholomew should allow him to storm into Runham’s room and choke the
life out of him.

‘I will not wait!’ shouted Michael furiously. ‘Do you not realise what that man has done? There are children in my choir who
need their free bread and ale; there are adults who take it home where it serves as a meal for a whole family. That Devil-in-a-tabard
cannot dismiss them just like that. My choir needs Michaelhouse, and Michaelhouse will need my choir, if the riots ever start
again and we do not want to be ransacked and pillaged.’

‘What happened to the subtle revenge you promised when Paul was dismissed?’ gasped Bartholomew, struggling in vain to prevent
the monk from reaching the stairs. ‘What happened to the plan that would strike at Runham’s reputation and leave yours intact?’

Michael stopped his relentless advance. ‘You are right. Two black eyes to go with his bleeding nose would be no kind of punishment
for the likes of him. I must consider something else – something more permanent.’

‘Good,’ said Bartholomew wearily, leaning against the wall and wiping his forehead with his sleeve. ‘Just be discreet about
it.’

Michael frowned. ‘You seem very frail these days, Matt. First you allow Father William to push you down the stairs, and now
you are unable to prevent a sick man rising from his bed.’

‘You are not sick,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You are fitter
than I am. All this rest and good food has made you one of the healthiest men in Cambridge.’

‘I do feel well,’ admitted Michael. ‘And it has been pleasant to be the centre of so much loving attention over the past few
days. Still, I suppose all good things must come to an end. But what about you? Are you ill?’

‘Just tired,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And I think the effects of that powerful wine we had at the feast still linger on.’

Michael’s frown deepened. ‘Really? Bulbeck and Gray claimed the same thing. Agatha sent me some of it yesterday – left over
from Saturday’s débâcle – and Bulbeck advised me not to drink it.’

Bartholomew smiled. ‘Langelee is in charge of laying in the College wine. For all his pretensions to being courtly and well-connected,
he does not know a decent vintage from a bad one.’

Michael shook his head slowly. ‘I have been thinking about that feast. Most members of the College – including me – are used
to sampling the nectar of the gods in considerable quantities, and yet virtually everyone I have spoken to claims to have
been the worse for drink that night. Even you – abstemious to the point of being tedious – were reeling and lurching like
a drunkard.’

‘But it was Widow’s Wine. You told me the stuff is deliberately brewed to be strong and nasty.’

‘But not
this
strong and nasty,’ said Michael. ‘I wonder whether someone tampered with it.’

‘I do not think so, Brother. It was probably just a bad brew.’

‘You are wrong, Matt,’ said Michael. ‘Think back to other College feasts. They sometimes continue until morning, and no one
–
no one
– would consider leaving while there was still wine to be had. But there was wine left from this feast, because Agatha sent
me some only yesterday.’

‘But there was no great cause for celebration, if you recall,’ said Bartholomew dryly. ‘We had just elected our new Master.’

‘The students would drink anyway,’ said Michael. ‘Yet when we returned from Matilde’s house, the whole College was silent
and still, and everyone was sleeping.’

‘It was late.’

‘Not too late for student carousing, Matt. I think someone did something unspeakable to the Widow’s Wine –
or gave us an especially powerful batch – so that we would all have a comparatively early night. And, of course, with Widow’s
Wine, no one would notice: the flavour is so damned unpleasant that you could add the most noxious substances known to man
and they would do nothing but improve the taste.’

‘But why would anyone do such a thing? And anyway, at least two scholars were not sleeping – the pair who pushed me over in
St Michael’s Lane.’

‘Precisely,’ said Michael. ‘They were not drunk, and I told you at the time that they were no mere students sneaking out for
a night in the taverns. I think that Michaelhouse was provided with extra-strong or doctored wine so that this pair could
complete whatever it was that they were doing.’

‘That seems a little far-fetched,’ said Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘Perhaps not everyone drank as much as we did. They are not
all gluttons.’

‘They are students, Matt. Wine pigs. Of course they are all gluttons! I am certain that something odd was going on in Michaelhouse
that night – and you and I almost stumbled on it.’

‘I think you are reading too much into this, but I agree that the wine was unusually strong. Most of our colleagues looked
awful the next morning, even Kenyngham. He was also uncharacteristically tearful.’

‘Tearful?’ asked Michael in surprise.

Bartholomew told him about Kenyngham’s remorse because he had not intervened when the choir had almost attacked him after
they had been dismissed.

‘Runham again,’ said Michael harshly. ‘It seems to me that he was one of the few people who did
not
fall victim to this powerful wine. Was he one of the two who pushed you over in the lane, do you think?’

‘Impossible. He was lurking in our staircase when we got back to our rooms, remember? He could not have run off down the lane
with a beadle in hot pursuit and been hiding on the stairs at the same time.’

‘True,’ admitted Michael. ‘But someone was up to no good in the College that night. I will do a little investigating here
this afternoon, while you can assist me with the Bene’t deaths. My beadles are doing all they can, but I have decided I need
your assistance in the matter of Wymundham and his claim that Raysoun was pushed.’

‘But surely the Junior Proctor is looking into that? He must be back from Ely by now.’

Michael shook his head. ‘He is still away. Will you go to St Bene’t’s Church and have another look at the bodies of Raysoun
and Wymundham, as you promised? Go to Bene’t College first, and ask permission from Master Heltisle, just to be polite.’

‘But I have teaching to do …’

‘You have just been complaining that teaching is impossible. From what Gray tells me, you
and Runham – who has bagged himself the comfort of the church – are the only two Fellows still trying to teach in all this
racket anyway.’

‘But—’

‘You promised you would do it,’ pressed Michael. ‘And Agatha heard you. Shall we summon her and have her repeat what
she heard you agree to do?’

‘That will not be necessary,’ said Bartholomew hastily. ‘I will do it.’

‘Good.’

‘I might not be teaching much longer at Michaelhouse in any case,’ said Bartholomew, thinking that running Michael’s
nasty errands was not something he would miss if he were forced to resign his Fellowship. ‘Runham is expecting me to choose
between Michaelhouse and medicine tomorrow.’

‘Then we have a day to prove Runham doctored the Widow’s Wine and had two cronies illicitly in the College that night,’ said
Michael, rubbing his hands together. ‘Because I, for one, do not want you to make that choice.’

Bartholomew did not feel at all inclined to inspect bodies that afternoon, but the banging and crashing had reached such a
crescendo that he could barely hear himself think, let alone write his treatise. He unlocked the chained medical books from
the hall – books were a valuable commodity, and most libraries kept their tomes under lock and key – and distributed them
among the students with strict instructions as to what they should read. They were resentful, aware that most of the others
had been given leave to watch the building progress, but Bartholomew was grimly determined that Runham’s ambition to make
Michaelhouse one of the grandest edifices in the town would not interfere with the College’s academic responsibilities.