A Masterly Murder хмб-6 Page 3

  While Kenyngham flicked lovingly through his psalter to select the reading of the day, Bartholomew leaned around Father William and tapped the lawyer, John Runham, on the arm.

  ‘I have some bad news,’ he whispered. ‘Your book-bearer is dead.’

  ‘Dead?’ asked Runham, startled. ‘I do not think so! Justus served my dinner last night.’

  ‘He died after that. Cynric found his body near Dame Nichol’s Hythe this morning.’

  ‘Damn!’ muttered Runham, gazing at him irritably. ‘What did he do? Jump in the river?’

  ‘He tied a wineskin over his head,’ said Bartholomew, feeling sorry for Justus in having a master who cared so little for him. Bartholomew would not have taken news of Cynric’s demise with such casual indifference. ‘He suffocated.’

  Runham gave a mirthless smile. ‘That sounds like Justus. If he had to take his own life, wine would have been involved somehow. Curse the man! Now I will have to find a replacement and I am busy this week. What a wretched inconvenience!’

  ‘Especially for Justus,’ retorted Bartholomew before he could stop himself. How Runham received the news of his book-bearer’s death was none of his affair, and it was not for him to be judging his colleagues’ relationships with their servants.

  ‘Especially for me!’ hissed Runham vehemently. ‘You know how difficult it is to find reliable staff these days – we have the Death to thank for that, carrying off so many peasants. Justus could not have chosen a worse time to abandon me. I am willing to wager he did it deliberately.’

  Shaking his head crossly, he turned to face the front, leaving the physician repelled by such brazen self-interest. He hoped Runham would remember that it was his responsibility to bury his dead servant, and that he would not leave the corpse to fester in the church for days until he decided he had sufficient time to undertake the necessary arrangements.

  ‘Are we ready?’ asked Kenyngham, cocking his head questioningly at Bartholomew, who realised that he had not assumed the attitude of prayerful contemplation usually required when the Master intoned the reading of the day. He bowed his head, and Kenyngham began to read, pausing at random moments to reflect on the sacred words in a way that had Michael sighing in hungry impatience. When Kenyngham had finally finished – or had paused sufficiently long to make his listeners suppose he had – there was a scraping of chairs and benches on the rush-strewn floor as the Fellows and students took their seats.

  Kenyngham, however, remained standing, his psalter still open in his hands. For several confusing moments, no one spoke or moved. The servants were loath to begin bringing the food to the tables if their saintly Master were still in the throes of his prayers, while the scholars, who knew Kenyngham might continue to read until he had completed the entire book unless stopped, shot each other uneasy glances. Michael was the only one hungry enough – or irreligious enough – to remind the Master that he was not alone in an ecstasy of religious contemplation, but in his hall with the entire College waiting for its dinner.

  ‘The food is getting cold,’ he stated baldly.

  Startled, Kenyngham glanced up from his psalter and regarded Michael in surprise, clearly having forgotten entirely where he was. He gazed around the hall at the watching scholars.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ he said, recollecting himself. ‘I have an announcement to make.’

  Another long pause ensued as his eyes slid downward to the hallowed words of the psalter, which were apparently more demanding of his immediate attention than his six Fellows, eight commoners and forty or so students.

  Blind Father Paul smiled indulgently. ‘That man is a saint,’ he whispered in admiration. ‘His whole existence is taken up with spiritual matters.’

  ‘He is short of a few wits,’ murmured Runham unpleasantly. ‘I swear he barely knows where he is most of the time – unless it is in a church. It is not good for the Master of a College to be so …’ He hesitated, deliberating what word would best describe the eccentric Master of Michaelhouse.

  ‘Unworldly,’ suggested Bartholomew.

  ‘Holy,’ countered Paul.

  ‘Odd,’ stated the loutish Ralph de Langelee flatly, a man who had decided to become a scholar because his duties as spymaster for the Archbishop of York were not sufficiently exciting. He entertained high hopes that the scheming and intrigues in the University might furnish him with the adventure and exhilaration he craved. For the most part, he had not been disappointed.

  ‘Unsuitable,’ finished Runham firmly.

  ‘What did you want to tell us, Master Kenyngham?’ prompted Michael, eyeing the food on the platters near the screen at the far end of the hall.

  Kenyngham cleared his throat, then beamed paternally at the assembled scholars. Before his mind could wander again, William almost snatched the psalter from him. Closing it, he laid it on the table. Kenyngham patted him on the head, as an adult might do to a child, much to the friar’s consternation and the students’ amusement.

  ‘You may have noticed that we have two new faces at the high table,’ said Kenyngham, gesturing to the Dominican and the Carmelite who sat on his left.

  ‘Welcome, welcome,’ said Michael, waving a hand that was more dismissive than friendly. When Cynric placed a basket of bread in front of him, he immediately selected the piece that was significantly larger than the rest. His colleagues, however, were more interested in the newcomers than in the rough bread baked from the cheapest flour the College could buy, or the thin bean stew that was now being distributed in greasy pewter bowls by the servants.

  ‘Master Thomas Suttone,’ Kenyngham continued, indicating the Carmelite, ‘comes to us from Lincoln, where he has been vicar of one of the parish churches. He will teach the trivium – grammar, rhetoric and logic.’

  ‘Good,’ said William with feeling. ‘I have been forced to teach the trivium since Alcote met his untimely demise in the summer, and I am heartily sick of it. Now Suttone can take over, and I can concentrate on what I am best at.’

  ‘And what, pray, is that?’ asked Langelee archly. ‘Unmasking warlocks among the Dominicans?’

  ‘When I was with the Inquisition …’ began William hotly.

  ‘We are pleased to have you at Michaelhouse, Master Suttone,’ said Bartholomew quickly, before William could start down that track. The friar’s tales of his ruthless persecution of ‘heretics’ in France were enough to put even Michael off his food, and Bartholomew did not want the new Fellows to wonder what they had let themselves in for on their first day.

  ‘I am delighted to be here,’ said Suttone, his red face breaking into a happy smile. ‘As parish priest in Lincoln, my duties included teaching the city’s children, who were lively and curious, but I missed the maturity and depth of adult minds, and I am looking forward to many hours of academic debate and disputation at Michaelhouse.’

  ‘Lord help us!’ whispered Langelee in alarm. ‘He sounds like one of those thinking types.’

  ‘This is a University,’ replied Michael under his breath. ‘We are supposed to harbour “thinking types” in our Colleges.’

  ‘Lincoln,’ mused William, regarding Suttone with suspicion. ‘That is a heathen place, I hear.’

  ‘It cannot be heathen,’ said Bartholomew, smiling. ‘It has a magnificent cathedral.’

  ‘So does Paris,’ replied William, pursing his lips as if no more needed to be said on that matter. He turned his attention back to Suttone. ‘Runham’s book-bearer comes from Lincoln. You may find you have mutual acquaintances.’

  ‘Excellent!’ began Suttone. ‘I will …’

  ‘I hardly think that my wine-loving book-bearer and a Carmelite friar would have enjoyed the same company,’ said Runham dryly.

  ‘Especially not now,’ muttered Michael, exchanging a glance with Bartholomew as they both thought about the sorry figure found dead on the river bank.

  ‘Actually, Justus is–’ began Bartholomew.

  ‘Runham is right. Justus is a man more fond of taverns than churches,’ said
Langelee, reaching for his own cup, as if in sympathy. ‘So, unless you like your ale, Suttone, I doubt you will have come across each other.’

  ‘And John Clippesby, our second new Fellow, hails from Huntingdon,’ said Kenyngham, speaking quickly before the conversation ran away from his introductions completely. ‘He will teach astronomy and music.’

  ‘Music?’ queried William in disapprobation, making it sound like some disgusting vice. ‘We have never had anyone teaching music at Michaelhouse before.’

  ‘Then it is about time someone started,’ said Father Paul, smiling sightlessly to where he thought the Dominican might be located. ‘Music can be a wonderful thing.’

  The other Fellows said nothing, but none of them looked at Michael, whose choir had managed to put most of them off that most noble of arts. The students murmured their own greetings to the two newcomers, to which Suttone responded with a friendly smile and Clippesby’s intense face assumed the kind of expression he might have used had someone accused him of molesting his mother. Bartholomew wondered whether he was entirely sane – it would not be the first time that a madman had been foisted on the University by an Order that did not know what else to do with him. Needless to say, Kenyngham did not notice Clippesby’s strange reaction to the students’ affable greetings, and continued with his announcement.

  ‘Masters Suttone and Clippesby will be formally admitted to the Society of the Holy and Undivided Trinity, the Blessed Virgin Mary and St Michael – to give us our official name – on Saturday evening. That is in two days … no three days …’ He frowned in thought.

  ‘It is the day after tomorrow, Master,’ said William irritably. ‘Today is Thursday.’

  Kenyngham nodded his thanks. ‘And we will celebrate the occasion with a feast.’

  Michael almost choked. ‘A feast? You cannot just snap your fingers and have a feast! It takes planning and preparation to arrange a decent feast. All we will have on Saturday will be more of this miserable bread and a double helping of this even more miserable stew. We need at least a week to organise something worthwhile.’

  ‘And I should like to take this opportunity to give you a little more news,’ Kenyngham went on, oblivious to Michael’s displeasure. ‘I propose to resign as Master of Michaelhouse on Saturday. Our two new members can join our other Fellows – Brother Michael, Fathers William and Paul, Doctor Bartholomew, and Masters Runham and Langelee – in selecting one of their number to become our next Master.’

  Predictably, the gentle, unassuming Kenyngham was surprised and dismayed by the chaos that erupted following his announcement, and was bewildered by the raised voices and objections to his proposed retirement. It took some time to restore order, at which point – in a moment of rare common sense – he hastily signalled to the Bible Scholar to begin reading, effectively preventing any further discussion during the meal.

  When the last remnants of the food had been consumed by a scowling Michael, Kenyngham rose to say another grace, but was prevented from leaving the hall by the vicelike fingers of Father William, who seemed about to embark on an argument there and then, with all the students watching the dissension between their seniors with open interest.

  ‘I suggest we Fellows adjourn to the conclave for an emergency meeting,’ said Runham, before the friar could begin a diatribe. He turned to the two bemused newcomers. ‘Perhaps you might care to join us. You will, after all, be expected to vote for the next candidate for the Mastership, so you had better see for yourselves what is on offer.’

  He gave them a smile that was far from genuine, and Bartholomew immediately saw that the vain and pompous Runham intended to have his own name put forward as Kenyngham’s successor. The physician grimaced: it was not an attractive proposition. Runham’s cousin, Thomas Wilson, had been Master of Michaelhouse during the black days of the plague, and he had not been a popular Head of House. The similarity between the two men was such that Bartholomew could not imagine Runham would be any better.

  He was about to follow the other Fellows into the conclave when Cynric arrived, breathing hard from a sprint across the courtyard. Since his marriage to a local seamstress at the end of the summer, contentment had added a ring of fat to the Welshman’s waist, and he was now considerably less agile. He was also happier than Bartholomew had ever seen him, and he and Rachel Atkin were settling down to a life of domestic bliss that delighted them both.

  ‘There has been an accident,’ Cynric gasped. ‘Someone has fallen from the scaffolding at Bene’t College and hurt himself. One of their porters has come to ask if you will go. He is waiting for you at the gate.’

  ‘I will come with you,’ said Michael, following the physician towards the spiral stairs.

  ‘There is no need,’ said Bartholomew, giving the monk an admonishing look as he gave his bad arm a vigorous massage.

  ‘There is every need,’ muttered Michael, scratching his arm a second time just to prove he was master of his own itches. ‘I do not want to spend the afternoon locked in the conclave with the likes of William, Langelee and Runham, all telling me to vote for them as our next Master.’

  ‘You will have to do it eventually,’ said Bartholomew. ‘If not this afternoon, then later.’

  ‘Later is better,’ said Michael. ‘By then, they will have aired their views – several times, I would imagine – and I will have escaped the worst of it. And anyway, I need a little time to consider my own campaign before I lock horns with the others.’

  ‘You intend to stand, then?’ asked Bartholomew, not at all surprised that an ambitious man like Michael should consider the Mastership of Michaelhouse a suitable prize for his talents.

  Michael nodded. ‘Of course. I am easily the best person for the task, and I do not want to lose just for the want of a little preparation.’

  ‘What do you mean by “preparation”?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily, suspecting that Michael’s strategy might well involve some less than honest tactics.

  ‘You will see,’ said Michael enigmatically. ‘But I should come with you anyway. A person injured or killed on University property is the business of the Senior Proctor, as I am sure you know by now.’

  ‘I most certainly do,’ said Bartholomew, not without rancour, for he had been dragged into all kinds of intrigue and murder by virtue of being the Senior Proctor’s close friend.

  ‘What about our meeting?’ called Langelee indignantly, as they left the hall. ‘What about discussing this decision of Master Kenyngham’s?’

  ‘We will have to gather later,’ said Runham, casting predatory eyes over the newcomers, so that Bartholomew sensed he intended to make good use of the delay by winning their support for himself. ‘We cannot discuss such a significant issue with a quarter of our membership absent.’

  ‘When, then?’ demanded William belligerently. ‘This is important. We cannot postpone our discussion until Matthew decides he has no more pressing visits to patients.’

  ‘Then how about after dinner tonight?’ suggested Father Paul. ‘William is right – we should meet as soon as possible to talk about this.’

  ‘I am busy this evening,’ announced Langelee importantly. ‘I told you last week that I have been invited to dine with the Duke of Lancaster at Bene’t College.’

  ‘You certainly did,’ muttered Michael nastily. ‘At least six times that I recall.’

  ‘I was invited – by the Duke himself, actually – because of my powerful and prestigious connections,’ Langelee explained to Clippesby and Suttone, apparently deciding that Runham should not be the only one to start an immediate election campaign. ‘You see, before I decided to make a name for myself as a scholar at Michaelhouse, I was in the service of the Archbishop of York. I know all kinds of influential people.’

  ‘What Langelee is saying,’ said Michael, noticing Suttone’s bemusement at this unasked-for confidence, ‘is that he is on intimate terms with archbishops and dukes, and that you should bear this in mind when you come to vote for our next Master. Essentiall
y, he is soliciting your support, although in the hallowed halls of Cambridge, this is usually conducted with a little more subtlety.’

  ‘I can be subtle,’ objected Langelee indignantly. ‘But I can also be direct, which is what this College needs. No one likes all this underhandedness and subterfuge …’

  ‘I do,’ said Michael.

  ‘… and what we need is a Master who will be honest, candid and sincere,’ Langelee continued.

  ‘That should narrow the choices then,’ mumbled Father Paul, uncharacteristically facetious.

  ‘And that man is me,’ concluded Langelee, favouring his colleagues with a blazing grin. ‘I would make you a splendid Master.’

  ‘It is refreshing to hear such confidence in one’s own abilities,’ said Runham dryly. ‘But we need to arrange a meeting to elect a successor first. Since you are dining with royalty tonight, can I suggest that we meet after breakfast tomorrow morning?’

  ‘I have business with my Prior then,’ said William grandly. ‘Business of a religious nature,’ he elaborated, glancing meaningfully at Clippesby and Suttone to make sure they understood that while Langelee might have royal connections, his own influence lay where it really mattered – with the Prior of one of the most powerful Orders in Cambridge, not to mention God.

  ‘I heard he has been summoned by his Prior to be reprimanded for fanning the flames of hostility between the Franciscans and the Dominicans again,’ whispered Michael to Bartholomew, his eyes glittering with amusement. ‘If William decides to stand for Master, you will have the opportunity to elect yourself an experienced and competent rabble-rouser.’

  ‘Then I suggest the best time to meet is before the admissions ceremony on Saturday,’ said Runham smoothly. ‘I cannot see that the election of a new Master will take long, and I do not think we will delay the beginning of the feast unduly.’ He smiled graciously at Suttone and Clippesby. ‘But before then, perhaps I can show you around our College? And then I will answer any questions you might have over a cup of wine in my room.’