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.’
Chapter 2
LEAVING 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?’