‘So, you are saying that Wymundham’s body might have been here for as long as three days,’ Michael was asking, as Bartholomew skidded down again.
‘No,’ said Horwoode impatiently. ‘He could not have been here before Raysoun’s death, because I hear he was present when Raysoun fell. His colleagues were concerned when he did not appear for the meal that night – the Duke of Lancaster was guest of honour, you see.’
‘I do not see,’ said Bartholomew, puzzled. ‘What does that have to do with it?’
‘No Fellow wanting advancement in the University fails to capitalise on an opportunity to mingle with royalty,’ explained Horwoode, clearly surprised that Bartholomew did not know this. ‘The Fellows had been looking forward to the visit, and that Wymundham missed it did not bode well for his safety.’
‘But he had just seen his friend die,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘Not everyone feels like attending a feast after a shock like that.’
‘I do not see why that should have prevented him from making the most of the occasion,’ said Horwoode. ‘Indeed, the incident might have worked in his favour, because he would have had an interesting tale to attract the Duke’s attention.’
‘How did Wymundham’s body get here, do you think?’ Michael asked, seeing Bartholomew about to argue. Just because the physician might have balked at a good night out after the sudden death of a colleague, did not mean that others would have done the same – especially given that the event in question was an opportunity to meet the Duke of Lancaster.
Horwoode shrugged. ‘I really have no idea. Since he lies near the Ditch, I assume he came via the water. My walls are high and difficult to scale. I suppose he was on the bank, and he lost his balance and fell.’
‘What makes you think he fell?’ asked Bartholomew, looking up from the body. His head swam at the sudden movement, and he felt himself topple slightly.
Horwoode regarded his lurch with disapproval. ‘I am only offering a suggestion.’
‘Did you look at the body when you found it?’ asked Bartholomew.
Horwoode sighed. ‘Of course I looked at it. I wanted to be certain the man was dead before I went for help.’
‘What do you mean by you “wanted to be certain the man was dead”?’ pressed Bartholomew curiously, tipsy enough to be incautious.
Horwoode fixed him with a hostile glare. ‘Why are you questioning me? I sent for the Proctor, not you. And you are drunk! I can smell wine on your breath and you can barely stand without reeling.’
‘I am not drunk …’ began Bartholomew, although he knew he was not exactly sober.
Horwoode overrode him. ‘I have been more than patient. You can carry Wymundham’s body back to Bene’t and that will be an end to the matter as far as I am concerned. The University can make enquiries if it likes, but they will not involve me. It is neither my fault nor my responsibility that this silly man chose my garden in which to die.’
He snapped his fingers to his servant, who took Wymundham’s legs, leaving the beadle to struggle with the torso. Horwoode strode away.
‘You have done an admirable job of making enemies for yourself tonight, Matt,’ said Michael mildly. ‘First you anger the new Master of your College, and then you antagonise the Mayor of your town. If Runham manages to prise you out of Michaelhouse, you will need to stay on Horwoode’s good side if you want to practise medicine in Cambridge.’
Bartholomew sighed and grabbed at the monk as he tripped over a root in the dark. ‘I should not have come. I told you I had drunk too much wine.’
‘So, what did your examination of the body reveal?’ asked Michael. ‘And do not say that you cannot know for certain until you have looked more closely, or that your wine-sodden mind could make no sense of what you saw. I want to know your suspicions now.’
‘I do not think he fell from the Ditch’s bank. I think someone held something over his face and smothered him until he was dead, pushing so hard that a tooth was snapped in the process.’
They stumbled through the dark garden and took their leave of the Mayor. Horwoode held open the gate for them, and slammed it shut after they left, making a sound like a clap of thunder that started several dogs barking.
‘I wonder what the truth behind this is,’ mused Michael as they walked. ‘What was Wymundham doing at the bottom of Horwoode’s garden in the dead of night?’
‘He may not have been there in the dead of night,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘He was not at the Duke’s feast on Thursday – the day that Raysoun died – and so it is possible that the body could have been in the garden since then.’
‘It seems an odd place for Wymundham to go, though,’ said Michael. ‘Horwoode suggested that he does not encourage familiarity with the scholars of the College he helped to found, and it did not sound as though visiting Fellows would be made welcome. I do not understand why Wymundham should be found dead there of all places.’
‘Perhaps Horwoode is lying,’ said Bartholomew with a shrug that made him stagger. ‘Perhaps he asked Wymundham to meet him in his garden, so that he could prevent Wymundham from telling anyone what Raysoun said with his dying breath.’
‘But that implies Horwoode had something to do with Raysoun’s accident,’ said Michael. ‘And I think that highly unlikely. The Mayor, of all people, should know that good relations between the town and the University are vital for all concerned.’
‘Then I wish he would pass that on to Runham,’ said Bartholomew gloomily.
‘Forget Runham. But are you certain Wymundham was murdered? Are you sure you are not looking for evidence of a crime because you believe Wymundham was carrying some sordid secret, whispered to him by Raysoun – a secret I did not hear him reveal, I might add?’
‘It was dark by the Ditch and I could barely see, but I think I am right in saying Wymundham was smothered. But for now all I want to do is return to my damp little chamber in Michaelhouse and dream up ways to pay back Runham for what he did to Father Paul.’
Michael shook his arm, unused to seeing his friend so bitter. ‘Do not dwell on that, Matt. I assure you I am quite capable of thinking up a way to extract revenge that will leave us untainted. If you had your way, you would have us both hanging from the Castle walls as Master-killers.’
Bartholomew sighed. ‘So what do we do now? Is it too late to go to Bene’t to make enquiries about Wymundham?’
Michael laughed softly. ‘Are you offering to help me? How unusual! I am invariably obliged to beg, bully or wheedle your assistance in matters of this nature. But, much as I would like to take advantage of you, there is little we can do tonight. I would rather talk to the Bene’t men in the cold light of day.’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘I suppose I will be better at that when I am sober, too.’
‘Good. If Wymundham was murdered, then we cannot afford to make mistakes because you should have exercised more self-control with the College’s wine. Actually, there was enough of it to ensure the “celebrations” continue for at least half the night. Do you want to return to take part in them?’
‘I do not,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘Aside from the fact that I see nothing to be joyous about, that wine was overly strong.’
‘That gruesome brew is known to the student fraternity as “Widow’s Wine”,’ said Michael. ‘Surely, you have heard of it? It is the cheapest, strongest and nastiest drink money can buy – guaranteed to render you insensible after five glasses and probably dead after ten.’