‘Who are the other Fellows?’ asked Michael, not liking Simeon’s transparent determination to steer the investigation away from his own College. ‘And what were you doing when Raysoun fell?’
Simeon shook the luxurious curls that cascaded to his shoulders – locks that Father William would have had shorn had Simeon been a member of Michaelhouse. ‘I was not in Cambridge when that happened. I am the Duke of Lancaster’s squire when not engaged in College affairs, and I was with him. I have at least a dozen highly respectable witnesses who will vouch for me.’
‘And the other Bene’t Fellows?’ demanded Michael, sounding disappointed that Simeon appeared to have a sound alibi. ‘Where were they?’
‘Master Heltisle and his good friend Caumpes were buying rat poison from the Franciscans in the Market Square. We have a rodent problem at Bene’t, you see.’
Bartholomew was sure they had, and one rat had shoved poor Raysoun to his death, then smothered Wymundham.
Simeon continued. ‘And lastly, there is Henry de Walton. I am surprised you do not know him, Bartholomew. I imagined he would be intimate with every physician in Cambridge, given that he is always complaining about some ailment or other.’
‘And you still claim that all Bene’t fellows liked each other?’ Michael pounced.
Simeon gave a rueful smile. ‘Yes, generally. I admit I find de Walton’s claims of continual poor health a little tiresome, but he is a good enough fellow. He works hard and is patient with our less able students.’
‘What were Raysoun and Wymundham like as Fellows?’ asked Michael. ‘Were they hard-working and patient with inferior students?’
Simeon glanced sharply at him. ‘Raysoun was a gentle man, although he did have a penchant for wine. He was worried that the building of Bene’t was taking too long, and was afraid that we would run out of funds before it was finished, and so the workmen considered him something of a nuisance because he checked their progress regularly. But the students liked him well enough.’
‘And Wymundham?’ asked Bartholomew when Simeon paused, wondering whether Simeon’s failure to cite Wymundham’s virtues without prompting was significant.
‘Wymundham was a man who enjoyed life,’ said Simeon carefully. ‘He had a quick mind, and was sometimes frustrated by the restrictions afforded by College life. I empathise entirely.’
Looking at the way Simeon had adapted his drab College uniform to include a gold hat and striped hose, Bartholomew was sure he did.
‘It is difficult to know how to proceed with this,’ said Michael. He was beginning to look tired, and Bartholomew stood, intending to ask – or order, if need be – Simeon to leave. ‘From what you say, enquiries within Bene’t will lead nowhere, so I suppose we must look elsewhere.’
‘I wish I could tell you where,’ said Simeon. He sounded sincere.
Michael nodded agreement. ‘The most obvious solution is that one of the men working on the building gave Raysoun a shove, and then killed Wymundham to keep his identity concealed. One of my beadles, Tom Meadowman–’
‘I know him,’ interrupted Bartholomew. ‘He was steward at David’s Hostel before it …’ He hesitated, not sure how to describe the end of the foundation for Scottish students that had harboured more than scholars under its roof.
‘I made him a beadle when he found himself without employment after David’s was destroyed,’ said Michael. ‘His sister is married to Robert de Blaston, one of the carpenters working at Bene’t. I will set him to discover what he can.’
‘Very well,’ said Simeon approvingly. ‘That is a good start.’
‘And meanwhile, I will instruct my beadles to listen harder in the taverns. The death of a scholar is invariably cause for celebration in the town, and perhaps some reckless boasting might bring this killer to light. My men are already on the alert for rumours about Brother Patrick of Ovyng Hostel, so they can add Raysoun and Wymundham to their list of enquiries.’
Simeon uncoiled his elegant limbs and stood. ‘Thank you, Brother. I knew you would not fail us. I can see you will have this killer under lock and key in no time.’
‘I will,’ vowed Michael in a way that suggested to Bartholomew that he was prepared to follow any clues that came his way, even if they led back to Simeon. ‘Matt will visit my office in St Mary’s Church, and instruct my beadles accordingly. But I am tired. I will sleep a little before considering further the evidence I have. Good morning, Master Simeon.’
He was dozing almost before Bartholomew had ushered the Bene’t man through the door. Simeon walked with Bartholomew to St Mary’s Church, where the beadles gathered for their daily instructions. Meadowman smiled warmly at the physician, recalling the peculiar business that had drawn them together in the summer of 1352. He readily agreed to do what Michael had asked, and hurried away immediately to speak to his brother-in-law the carpenter. Meanwhile, the other beadles were delighted that their duties entailed additional business in the taverns, and exchanged eager grins of pleasure.
Simeon seemed satisfied that an adequate investigation was under way, and left Bartholomew to return to his own College. With a feeling of disquiet, Bartholomew walked back to Michaelhouse, nodding absently to people he knew and oblivious to his sister’s frown of annoyance when he failed to return her cheerful wave.
He spent the rest of the day in Michael’s room, unashamedly using the monk’s convalescence as an excuse to avoid the soulless meals in the hall and the repressive atmosphere that prevailed during lectures. Langelee came to visit them and tried to discuss some College matter, but Bartholomew cut him off, not wanting Michaelhouse’s bitter politics to intrude on his small, temporary haven of peace.
Michael slept well that night, far better than did Bartholomew on his lumpy straw mattress. When Walter’s cockerel announced the beginning of a new day – which was still some hours off, according to the hour candle – Michael turned over and slept again, so Bartholomew used the silence and the Benedictine’s candle stub to work uninterrupted on his ever-growing treatise on fevers. When dawn finally broke, he set down his pen, clipped the lid back on the ink bottle and leaned back in his chair, wondering what the next day would bring.
Chapter 5
‘MATT!’ BARTHOLOMEW TURNED AT THE sound of Michael’s peevish voice. He had been so engrossed in his writing that he had forgotten where he was sitting. It was mid-morning on Tuesday, and he was in Michael’s chamber, still enjoying a spell of blissful peace while the monk slept. ‘Matt! I feel terrible! I need a drink.’
Bartholomew filled a cup and held it to the monk’s lips. It was thrust aside indignantly.
‘That is water!’ Michael cried in dismay. ‘You have given me water! Is there no wine?’
‘You have been ill, Brother. Wine would not be good for you. Drink this first.’
‘I will not!’ said Michael, turning his head away and trying to fold his arms. He gave a howl of pain as he moved his elbow. ‘God’s blood, Matt! What have you done to me? I had a mere bee sting, and now I am in agony! Call yourself a physician?’
‘Do you have a complaint to make, Brother?’ asked Runham from the doorway. ‘Bartholomew told me at breakfast that you were feeling better today.’
‘I am not feeling better at all!’ snapped Michael churlishly. ‘There is no wine to be had and I am dying of thirst. That is what happens when you consult a physician – you start with a minor complaint and you end up on your deathbed.’
‘You were not on your deathbed, Brother …’ began Bartholomew tiredly.‘