‘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?’ asked 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.
William had an impressive voice, and his words thundered around the room, making it almost impossible for the others to teach. Master Kenyngham asked him to moderate his tones twice, but the volume gradually crept up again as the friar worked himself into a frenzy of moral outrage. Father Paul listened to his fellow Franciscan’s speech with growing horror.