‘I have come to see the Senior Proctor about the sad demise of John Wymundham, lately Fellow of Bene’t College,’ Simeon continued. ‘Is he in his room?’
‘He is ill, but he asked me to visit you. I was just on my way.’
‘I saved you a journey, then,’ said Simeon jauntily. ‘Tell me, is Brother Michael’s illness such that we should avoid him for fear of contamination, or can I loiter at his sickbed with no ill effects?’
‘He does not have a contagion,’ said Bartholomew curtly, not impressed by the man’s brazen self-interest.
‘Good,’ said Simeon. ‘I mean no disrespect, Bartholomew, but I will discuss this matter with him, not you. I am aware of his reputation for solving mysteries in the University, but you I do not know. Is this the way to his room?’
He had ducked past Bartholomew and was up the stairs to Michael’s chamber before the physician could do anything to stop him. Irritated at being so summarily dismissed by a man who wore green and yellow hose, Bartholomew followed him, intending to prevent him from disturbing the ailing monk, but Simeon had moved quickly and was through Michael’s door before Bartholomew had reached the top of the stairs. Michael regarded the intruder in astonishment, hauling his blanket up under his chin like a maiden caught in bed by a knight intent on mischief.
‘Did I waken you?’ Simeon asked, not sounding especially contrite. ‘I do apologise. However, one of my colleagues died on Saturday night, and I feel that is a matter of sufficient import to raise the Senior Proctor from his slumbers. I expected you to visit us yesterday.’
‘I am unwell,’ said Michael peevishly. ‘I sent Matt to see you in my stead.’
Simeon sat on the chamber’s only chair and gave a disarming smile. ‘But now I am here, we can speak directly to each other. There is no need to communicate through one of your lackeys.’
‘I am ill,’ repeated Michael. To make sure Simeon understood the true gravity of his condition he added, ‘I have eaten nothing all day!’
That seemed to convince Simeon. He leaned forward and gazed at Michael’s pale face and red-rimmed eyes.
‘I am sorry, Brother. I see now that you are not malingering; you do have something of the appearance of a corpse three days dead. You must understand, though, that the sudden death of one of our members – two, if you count Raysoun’s fall on Thursday – has been a blow, and I wanted to know what you are doing about it. But I appreciate the fact that you are unwell, and so I suppose I shall have to leave you in peace for now.’
‘You are here now, so you may as well stay,’ said Michael ungraciously. ‘You have heard, I take it, that Wymundham was found dead in Mayor Horwoode’s garden?’
Simeon nodded. ‘Of course. We are not that uninformed. One of your beadles told me that you had the body examined, and the verdict was that someone had smothered him. Are you certain of that? Are you sure he did not drown himself?’
Michael waved a feeble hand, indicating that Bartholomew was to answer.
The physician nodded. ‘Wymundham’s body was not wet, and, as far as I could tell, there was no water in his lungs to suggest drowning. His blue face and swollen tongue, along with damaged nails and a broken tooth, indicated that he had been smothered, and that he had fought hard against his killer.’
Simeon regarded him sceptically, as if he did not consider such details convincing. ‘So, do you have any idea who might have done this?’
‘None. Yet,’ said Michael. ‘I was hoping you might be able to help. Did Wymundham have any enemies in Bene’t, or other people who might wish him harm?’
Simeon frowned slightly. ‘Not that I can think of. Bene’t is a small College and there are only four Fellows now that Wymundham and Raysoun are dead. We all liked each other well enough.’
‘That is not what Wymundham said after he had watched Raysoun die,’ said Bartholomew bluntly. ‘He told me that Raysoun had claimed with his dying breath that he had been pushed.’
Simeon’s expression was unreadable. ‘Are you suggesting that there have been two murders – not one – in Bene’t?’
‘Wymundham believed Raysoun was murdered, and then he was murdered himself,’ said Bartholomew. ‘What does that imply to you?’
Simeon crossed one striped leg over the other and leaned back in his chair. ‘I believe someone has made a mistake. Either Wymundham misheard or misunderstood Raysoun’s dying words, or someone is guilty of gross fabrication – making up stories about our dead scholars because they are not in a position to confirm or deny them.’
‘Wymundham told me what Raysoun said,’ replied Bartholomew coolly. ‘I can assure you that I did not invent it.’
‘Then did Wymundham tell you who Raysoun said had pushed him?’ asked Simeon, raising his eyebrows questioningly.
‘No,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He said it would be better if I did not know.’
‘Really,’ said Simeon flatly. ‘How very inconvenient.’
‘Matt has no reason to lie,’ said Michael. ‘If he says Wymundham claimed Raysoun had been pushed, then Wymundham claimed Raysoun was pushed. So, the question we must now ask is: was Wymundham himself lying or was he speaking the truth? Let us assume first that he was lying: why would he want people to believe Raysoun had been murdered if his death were an accident?’
‘Perhaps he was not lying in the true sense of the word,’ suggested Simeon. ‘Perhaps the shock of Raysoun’s accident unhinged him, and he said things he did not mean.’
‘It is a possibility,’ said Michael. ‘But then, two days later, Wymundham is found dead, which makes me inclined to believe there was some truth to his claim. In which case, we must ask who would kill Raysoun and then murder Wymundham to ensure he told no one what Raysoun murmured with his dying breath?’
Simeon sighed and shook his head. ‘Certainly no one at Bene’t. The Fellows keep their distance from the students – unlike Michaelhouse, which I hear encourages friendships between masters and their charges – and we would never stoop to fraternising with servants, again unlike Michaelhouse.’
‘How dare you make such comparisons,’ snapped Michael, offended. ‘You have never been to Michaelhouse!’
‘Actually, I have been here on a number of occasions. For my sins, I am acquainted with your Ralph de Langelee, who pursues me relentlessly because of my court connections. Langelee tells me all sorts of scandalous stories about Michaelhouse.’
‘Such as what?’ demanded Michael, peeved.
‘Such as Bartholomew’s friendship with his book-bearer,’ said Simeon with a grimace of distaste. ‘Langelee informs me that Bartholomew treats that dirty little man like a brother. I certainly would not trust my life to a common man!’
‘With an attitude like that, you would be wise not to,’ retorted Bartholomew, angry that the foppish scholar should insult the loyal Cynric.
‘And then there is the Michaelhouse choir,’ continued Simeon, ignoring him. ‘Those who are not thieves or beggars are engaged in lowly trades like ditch-clearing and barging, and yet Brother Michael quite happily spends every Sunday afternoon in their company.’
‘They are good people,’ said Michael coldly. ‘It is not their fault that greedy landowners have forced them into such poverty that they are forced to steal to feed themselves.’
‘That sounds seditious,’ said Simeon, regarding Michael in amusement. ‘You are not one of those modern thinkers who believes peasants should have rights, are you?’
‘My personal opinions are none of your affair,’ said Michael. ‘And they certainly have nothing to do with discovering who killed your colleagues.’
‘True,’ admitted Simeon. ‘My apologies, Brother. Blunt speaking is all the fashion at court these days, and I forget you University men prefer good old-fashioned ambiguity and obtuseness. But, as I was saying, I do not think you will find your killer in Bene’t. You will have to look elsewhere for him.’