A Masterly Murder хмб-6 Read online

  ‘Lord, no!’ said Adela, hands on hips. ‘I have a foal due soon – an unusual time of the year, but there it is. No predicting nature, eh, Matthew?’

  ‘But Joan …’ began Edith.

  ‘Joan is betrothed to Stephen Morice, so I imagine he will take her,’ said Adela carelessly. ‘He is a wealthy man and a burgess, too. It is a good match, and it is about time she stopped mourning for the husband she lost to the plague.’

  Edith shot Bartholomew a withering look that implied the impending marriage was his fault for not acting sooner.

  ‘You will miss her when she goes to live with Morice,’ said Bartholomew, who knew that Adela, Joan and their father Henry Tangmer all shared a house on Bridge Street.

  ‘More than you can possibly imagine,’ said Adela fervently. ‘My father has been urging us to marry for years, and now she is betrothed, I will have to bear the brunt of his complaints alone. But I suppose that is the way of families. Does Edith nag you about your reluctance to select a spouse, Matthew?’

  ‘She does,’ agreed Bartholomew.

  ‘I do not,’ said Edith, at the same time.

  Adela looked from one to the other in amusement. ‘Actually, I am pleased to have run into you, Matthew,’ she went on cheerfully. ‘Do you have any tried and tested remedies for ending unwanted pregnancies?’

  Once again, Bartholomew and Edith gazed at her speechlessly. Her voice had been loud, and one or two people had overheard. It was hardly a matter for bellowing across the Market Square, and abortion was not looked upon kindly by the authorities. If Bartholomew was caught dispensing that sort of treatment, losing his licence would be the least of his worries.

  ‘It is not for me,’ Adela bawled, giving her braying laugh when she saw what they were thinking. ‘One of my old nags is pregnant, and I do not think she will survive bearing another foal. I am fond of her, and do not want her to die.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Bartholomew, keenly aware that people were still looking at them. ‘I have no idea what would end a pregnancy in a horse.’

  ‘Just tell me what you recommend for people, then,’ pressed Adela, undeterred. ‘I often use human remedies on my horses – and sometimes they even work. Perhaps I could give you some of my horse cures, and you could adapt them for use on your patients. That would be jolly.’

  ‘Not for my patients,’ said Bartholomew, edging away.

  ‘Do not be so narrow-minded,’ Adela admonished him. ‘But you can always let me know if you change your mind. You know where I live. Goodbye.’

  She strode away, an eccentric figure in her old-fashioned wimple and unflattering dress. The handsome blue riding cloak and well-made leather shoes were the only indication that she was a woman of some wealth. When she was out of earshot, Bartholomew started to laugh.

  ‘Not her,’ said Edith, laughing with him. ‘I do not want a sister-in-law who will raise that sort of topic at the dinner table. Now let me see.’ She began to scan again.

  ‘I must go,’ said Bartholomew quickly. ‘My students …’

  He faltered, looking across the Market Square to the Church of the Holy Trinity. He was considerably taller than Edith, and so she could not see what had made him stop speaking mid-sentence. She craned her neck and stood on tiptoe, hoping that a woman had smitten him with her charms at first sight.

  ‘What is the matter? Who can you see?’

  Bartholomew’s gaze was fixed on a figure in a blue tabard who slunk along the back of the church, weaving between the grassy grave mounds. John Wymundham, Fellow of Bene’t College and friend of the lately deceased Raysoun, looked around him carefully, before opening the church door and disappearing inside.

  ‘That is odd,’ said Bartholomew. ‘That was Wymundham. His friend has just died – murdered, he says – and he was supposed to be talking to Michael about it.’

  ‘Oh no, Matt!’ cried Edith in dismay. ‘Not murder again! Now you will never have time to meet the ladies I select for you.’

  ‘Every cloud has a silver lining,’ he said, grinning. ‘But I am not involved in this – all I did was tend Raysoun as he lay dying. Solving the crime is Michael’s work, not mine.’

  ‘So, why were you staring at Wymundham with such intense interest?’ asked Edith, unconvinced.

  ‘Wymundham said he would wait for Michael in Bene’t College, but here he is, wandering around the town.’ Bartholomew shrugged. ‘I suppose it means nothing. Perhaps Michael was too busy to see Wymundham today, and agreed to interview him another time.’

  But it seemed strange that Michael would not want to discover from Wymundham who Raysoun claimed had killed him. Bartholomew glanced up at the sky. More time had passed than he had realised since he had met Edith. Perhaps Wymundham had already spoken to Michael, and felt the urge to sample the calming effects of a few prayers.

  However, Edith was right – the affair had nothing to do with him, and he should not waste his time thinking about it. She had already dismissed Wymundham and his dead friend from her mind, and was pulling her brother’s arm, leading him to where a fire-eater was entertaining an entranced crowd. Bartholomew forgot Wymundham and Raysoun, yielded to her insistent tugs, and spent the next hour trying to ascertain why the fire-eater was not covered in burns.

  The following day was typically busy for Bartholomew. He rose long before dawn to spend some time on his treatise on fevers, working quickly and concisely in the silence of the night, using the light from a cheap tallow candle that smoked and made his eyes water. At dawn, he walked with the other scholars to St Michael’s Church, and then ate a hasty breakfast before being summoned to the hovels where the riverfolk lived, to tend a case of the sweating sickness.

  After that, he dashed back to the College to start teaching in the hall, ignoring the admonishing glare shot at him by Runham for being late for his lecture. His younger students were restless and unable to concentrate on their lessons, obviously far more interested in speculating on which of the Fellows might succeed the gentle Kenyngham as Master.

  His older students were not much better, and he could see their attention was wandering from the set commentary on Galen’s De Urinis. Bartholomew was not particularly interested in contemplating the ins and outs of urine on a cold winter morning, either, but it had to be endured if the scruffy lads assembled in front of him ever wanted to be successful physicians.

  When the bell rang for the midday meal, Cynric came to tell him that he was needed at the home of Sam Saddler, a man afflicted with a rotting leg. Bartholomew had recommended amputation two weeks before, but Saddler had steadfastly refused. Robin of Grantchester had finally relieved him of the festering limb the previous day, and Bartholomew was astonished that Saddler had survived the surgeon’s filthy instruments and clumsy stitching. Saddler’s hold on life was tenacious, but Bartholomew knew it was a battle Death would soon win. The flesh around the sutures was swollen and weeping, and angry red lines of infection darted up the stump of leg.

  Bartholomew always carried a plaster of betony for infected wounds, but Saddler’s state was beyond the efficacy of any remedy that Bartholomew knew about, although he spent some time trying to help. He prescribed a syrup to dull the pain, and warned Saddler’s two daughters to be ready to send for a priest within the next two days.

  On his way back to Michaelhouse, he saw Adela Tangmer, arm in arm with her father, although who was leading whom was difficult to say. Adela strode along in her customary jaunty style, but the vintner walked stiffly, every step suggesting that something had deeply angered him. Bartholomew tried to slip past unnoticed, but Adela was having none of that.

  ‘Hello, Matthew,’ she boomed across the High Street, making several people jump. ‘We have just been to a meeting of my father’s guild, Corpus Christi. What a dreadful gaggle of people – all arguing and bickering. They need to get out more – do a bit of riding and see the world.’

  ‘Bene’t College is at the heart of it,’ muttered Tangmer furiously. ‘I wish to God the Guild of St M
ary’s had never persuaded us to become involved in that venture.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.

  ‘We were doing perfectly well in establishing a modest little house of learning, but that was not good enough for the worthy people of the Guild of St Mary,’ said Tangmer bitterly.

  ‘They brought in the Duke of Lancaster as a patron,’ explained Adela. ‘He donated some money, but we have just learned that there are strings attached.’

  ‘You mean like a certain number of masses to be said for his soul?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Similar conditions were imposed by Michaelhouse’s founder, Hervey de Stanton. We are obliged to say daily prayers for him.’

  ‘I wish that were all!’ muttered Tangmer. ‘Prayers cost nothing, especially if someone else is saying them.’

  ‘The Duke wants Bene’t to rival King’s Hall and the Hall of Valence Marie for splendour,’ said Adela. ‘The only problem is that his donation will not cover all the costs, and so the guilds of Corpus Christi and St Mary are obliged to provide the difference. And money spent on Bene’t would be better spent on good horseflesh.’

  ‘Do you think of nothing but horses, woman?’ asked Tangmer in weary exasperation. ‘You should marry – that would concentrate your mind on other matters.’

  ‘I do not want to marry,’ said Adela with the same weary exasperation. ‘I like my life the way it is.’

  ‘What about you, Bartholomew?’ asked Tangmer, eyeing the physician up and down speculatively. ‘You are not betrothed, are you? Adela would make a fine wife for a physician.’

  Adela closed her eyes, although whether from embarrassment or because the topic of conversation was tiresome to her, Bartholomew could not tell.

  ‘She certainly knows her remedies for equine ailments,’ he agreed carefully. ‘But Fellows are not permitted to marry, Sir Henry. I regret to inform you that I am not available.’

  ‘Pity,’ said Tangmer. ‘I shall have to think of someone else.’

  ‘Do not trouble yourself, father,’ said Adela. ‘If I decide I want a man, I am quite capable of grabbing him for myself.’

  Bartholomew was sure she was. He made his farewells, and resumed his walk to Michaelhouse. As he approached it, a thickset figure uncoiled itself from where it had been leaning against the wall. It was Osmun, the surly porter from Bene’t College.

  ‘I have been waiting for you,’ he said, moving towards Bartholomew in a manner that was vaguely threatening. The physician took two steps backward, and wondered whether his book-bearer would hear him from inside Michaelhouse if he shouted for help.

  ‘What do you want?’ he asked uneasily. ‘Is someone ill?’

  ‘If they were, I would not send for you to help,’ replied Osmun nastily. ‘I would rather call on Robin of Grantchester.’

  ‘I do not have time for this,’ said Bartholomew, trying to edge past the man. He recoiled at the stench of old garlic and onions on Osmun’s breath as the porter suddenly moved forward and grabbed a fistful of Bartholomew’s tabard.

  ‘Runham’s servant Justus was my cousin,’ he hissed. ‘He was my uncle’s son, and he came to Cambridge from Lincoln because I said there were opportunities to be had here. But now he is dead. He killed himself with a wineskin.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ said Bartholomew, shrugging Osmun’s dirty hand from his clothes. ‘I did not know you were related.’ He refrained from suggesting that a little family support might not have gone amiss when Justus was in some of his more gloomy moods.

  ‘I want his personal effects,’ Osmun went on. ‘He had a nice tunic and a dagger. He spent all his money on wine, but I will have his clothes and that knife he always carried.’

  ‘I will inform Runham,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We did not know he had any kinsmen in the town.’

  ‘We did not see much of each other,’ said Osmun, almost defiantly. ‘But as his closest living relative, I am entitled to his things. Make sure they are sent to me.’

  ‘Very well.’ Bartholomew paused, his hand on the latch to the wicket gate. ‘As Justus’s next of kin, you may find yourself responsible for his burial, as well as his personal effects. I am sure Runham will be delighted to be relieved of that particular duty.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Osmun confidently. ‘I checked all that before I came here. Justus’s burial is Michaelhouse’s responsibility, because he was Runham’s servant. You just make sure that fat lawyer understands that. I know my rights.’

  He turned and strode away, leaving Bartholomew alone. The physician had only just closed the gate, when Cynric came to greet him, telling him he had been asked to visit Sheriff Tulyet’s home as soon as possible.

  Abandoning hope of getting anything to eat, he trudged back through the muck of the High Street to the handsome house on Bridge Street where Richard Tulyet lived with his wife and child.

  Bartholomew liked Tulyet, a small, energetic man whose boyish appearance belied a considerable strength of character and a rare talent for keeping law and order in the uneasy town; he found he was looking forward to paying a visit to the Sheriff’s neat and pleasant home.

  Tulyet’s son, a lively youngster of three with quick fingers and an inquisitive mind, had managed to insert a stick of his father’s sealing wax in his nose, and it was stuck fast. While the anxious parents hovered and offered unhelpful advice and Baby Tulyet screamed himself into a red-faced fury, Bartholomew struggled to extricate the wax in one piece.

  When it was done, and the child was all smiles and false innocence in the comfort of his loving mother’s lap – although the physician saw chubby fingers already reaching for his father’s official seal – Tulyet offered Bartholomew some refreshment in the small room at the back of the house that he used as an office.

  ‘I would keep this locked, if I were you,’ said Bartholomew, seeing in the cosy chamber an impressive array of sharp, heavy, sticky, dirty and fragile objects that would provide Baby Tulyet with hours of dangerous delight.

  ‘I will, from now on,’ said Tulyet, handing Bartholomew some rich red wine in a carved crystal goblet. He prodded at the fire that burned merrily in the hearth, and indicated for the physician to make himself comfortable. Bartholomew sat, stretching his hands to the flickering flames.

  The Sheriff gave a huge sigh, and took a substantial gulp of wine, before collapsing heavily into the chair opposite. He wiped an unsteady hand over his face, shaken by his son’s howls of fright and pain. Evidently considering the traumas of parenthood more terrifying than mere law enforcement, he changed the subject.

  ‘I hear your scholars are murdering each other again, Matt. I am glad it is Brother Michael’s task to investigate matters involving the University and not mine. You academics seldom commit good, simple crimes – you always seem to go in for convoluted ones.’

  ‘Who told you a murder was committed?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised. ‘I did not think Raysoun’s claim was common knowledge yet. Or do you mean Justus the book-bearer? He committed suicide.’

  ‘I was referring to the Franciscan who was killed this morning,’ said Tulyet, eyeing him askance. ‘My God, Matt! How many deaths have there been in that festering pit of crime and disorder that you see fit to call a place of learning?’

  ‘Just the two,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Well, three, I suppose, if you say a Franciscan has died.’

  ‘Three deaths! In less than two days!’ exclaimed Tulyet, appalled. ‘As I said, give me good, honest town criminals any day. But have one of these “hat-cakes”. My wife bakes them for me because she thinks I am too thin for the good of my health.’

  Tulyet’s wife was an excellent cook, and her husband’s wealth meant that she could afford to use ingredients beyond the purse of most people. The cakes were tiny hat-shaped parcels of almond pastry filled with minced pork, dates, currants and sugar, and flavoured with a mixture of saffron, ginger, cinnamon and cloves. They were overly sweet, but Bartholomew was hungry. He took a second.

  ‘So, what do you know about this Franciscan?’ a
sked Bartholomew. ‘Are you sure his death was suspicious?’ He took a third cake.

  ‘His name was Brother Patrick and he was stabbed in the grounds of his hostel, apparently. Given that he was knifed in the back, suicide has been ruled out, although there were no witnesses.’

  ‘Then it might have been a townsperson who killed him – in which case, the matter is for you to investigate, as well as Michael.’

  Tulyet shook his head. ‘It happened on University property to a University member. This murder is all Michael’s.’

  ‘Which hostel?’ asked Bartholomew, reaching for the last cake.

  ‘Ovyng, I believe.’

  ‘Ovyng belongs to Michaelhouse,’ said Bartholomew absently. ‘But speaking of Michaelhouse, I should go unless I want to be late for this afternoon’s lectures. Let me know if there are any problems with your son’s nose, Dick, but I do not think there will be.’

  ‘Good,’ said Tulyet, following Bartholomew down the stairs and across the hall to the main door. ‘We are lucky he is always so well-behaved for you – he is terrible with Master Lynton.’

  Bartholomew, recalling the violent struggles and the ear-splitting howls of rage and indignation, decided he did not want to see Baby Tulyet being ‘terrible’. He made his farewells to Tulyet, and hurried back to the College, where the bell to announce the beginning of the afternoon lectures had already stopped ringing. He clattered into the hall late, feeling sick from the number of hat-cakes he had eaten, and found it hard to muster the enthusiasm to talk about urine inspection.

  Father William had also heard about the murder of one of his Franciscan brethren in Ovyng Hostel, and was busy holding forth about the Devil’s legion – referring to the Dominicans – who stalked the holy streets of Cambridge. Given that Tulyet had said there were no witnesses to the murder – and certainly nothing to suggest that the Franciscan’s killer was a Dominican – Bartholomew considered William’s comments ill-advised and dangerous. He noticed that Clippesby, the new Dominican Fellow whose sanity seemed questionable, was listening, and did not seem at all amused to be classified as an agent of the Devil by the ranting Franciscan.