‘But not better than me,’ replied Langelee. ‘And I saw Michael as my main competitor, so I had no choice but to tell the others what I knew about him.’
‘You had a choice,’ said Bartholomew softly. ‘You were once a spy; you know perfectly well that things are not always as they seem. It was unprofessional of you to disclose Michael’s dealings with Heytesbury of Merton.’
‘Oh, I am well aware that Michael would never allow Oxford to triumph over Cambridge,’ said Langelee airily. ‘But that is irrelevant. My sole objective was to prevent Michael from pitting himself against me in my bid for the Mastership – and I was successful in that.’
‘But at what cost?’ asked Bartholomew bitterly. ‘You thwarted a good man and now we have a tyrant. All these dismissals of servants and new buildings that we cannot afford are your fault.’
‘Now just a moment,’ began Langelee angrily. ‘It is not my fault that the others voted for Runham. If they had voted for me, everything would have been all right. I am an upright and moral man.’
‘How is Julianna, by the way?’ asked Bartholomew, recalling this ‘upright and moral’ man’s dalliance with a town merchant’s niece.
Langelee gazed at him sharply. ‘Why?’
‘Because you were once close,’ said Bartholomew casually. ‘I was almost a witness at your wedding ceremony, if you recall.’
‘That was a long time ago,’ said Langelee shortly. ‘We seldom see each other now.’
‘Not even in Grantchester church?’ asked Bartholomew wickedly, recalling a rumour Michael had mentioned that summer, that Langelee had wed the lively Julianna in the seclusion of a small parish church a mile or so from the town. Fellows were not permitted to marry, and Langelee had been faced with an agonising choice of his own – wife and family, or a career in Michaelhouse. It seemed he had been unable to make up his mind, and, like a child offered two types of cake, reached out with greedy fingers and grabbed both.
‘That is none of your affair,’ snapped Langelee. He took Bartholomew’s arm in a painful pinch and bundled him into the medicine store, where they would not be overheard. ‘What have you heard about this?’
‘Nothing recently,’ said Bartholomew. He was not inclined to begin an argument with the loutish philosopher – especially since Langelee liked to settle debates with his ham-sized fists – and he regretted his incaution in mentioning Langelee’s secret marriage.
Langelee’s grip intensified, and the physician winced. Immediately, Langelee released him.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I forget sometimes that I am a strong man, and I occasionally bruise people when I intend no harm.’
‘Then you should learn not to go around grabbing them,’ said Bartholomew, rubbing his arm. Langelee was right – he was a strong man, and his vicelike grip hurt.
‘Can I share a secret with you?’ Langelee asked, out of the blue. He closed the door and furtively looked both ways out of the window before fastening the shutters securely.
‘No!’ said Bartholomew in alarm. ‘I do not want to be let into secrets that necessitate locked doors and closed windows. Please keep whatever it is to yourself.’
‘I did marry Julianna at Grantchester church,’ said Langelee, ignoring the physician’s appeal. ‘But once we had the opportunity to get to know each other, we found we were incompatible.’
‘I told you that before you married,’ said Bartholomew, recalling the arrogant, thick-skinned Julianna and wondering what had attracted Langelee to her in the first place. Or her to him.
‘So you did, but it is not helpful to mention it now, is it? Anyway, there I was with a pregnant wife I did not want on one hand, and a glorious future ahead of me as a University scholar on the other. I could hardly let the likes of Julianna spoil my chances for a successful career, could I?’
‘I suppose not,’ said Bartholomew, heartily wishing he were somewhere else. ‘Look, Langelee, if you are about to confess that you did away with her, I do not want to know.’
‘Of course I did not do away with her,’ said Langelee indignantly. ‘What kind of man do you take me for?’
Bartholomew did not reply.
‘The agreement we made was mutual – and it did not involve anyone being done away with. I gave her nearly all the money we had, including a nice little manor up near Peterborough. She is there now, ruling the roost with a rod of iron, I imagine.’
‘But you are married,’ said Bartholomew. ‘So you cannot be a Fellow of Michaelhouse.’
‘You sound like Runham the lawyer,’ said Langelee distastefully. ‘But I am not married actually, because we had the arrangement annulled. It cost a fortune, I can tell you! So, everything is all right; it was not all right for a while, but it is now.’
‘I am glad to hear it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But why did you tell me? It is the kind of thing you would be better revealing to nobody.’
‘It is good to speak to someone about it,’ said Langelee. ‘Now we share something personal. You can confide something in return, if you like.’
‘I am sorry, but I have no secrets that come anywhere close to the magnitude of yours.’
‘How very dull,’ said Langelee, disappointed. ‘Are you sure? Is there nothing you can dredge up? You must have done something interesting in your life. Did you ever deliberately kill a patient you did not like? Or what about your affair with that whore – Matilde? Is there nothing salacious to tell me about that?’
‘There is not,’ said Bartholomew shortly. ‘And I swore an oath to save lives, not help people into their graves, so I have nothing to confess to you along those lines. But why do you want to know such things?’
‘Shared confidences make people friends, like you and Brother Michael. If you were my friend, you would vote for me as Master, as you were going to vote for Michael.’
Bartholomew was not too tired to be amused by Langelee’s contorted logic. ‘But we have a Master,’ was all he said. ‘His name is John Runham, remember?’
‘I know that,’ said Langelee testily. ‘But what I am saying is that if Runham dies conveniently, I want you to vote for me as his replacement.’
‘I see,’ said Bartholomew. He rubbed a hand through his hair. ‘This has been a sensational week at Michaelhouse: Kenyngham resigns, Runham takes over, I am given an ultimatum to choose between my teaching or my medicine, Cynric is dismissed, and you are already preparing to step into Runham’s shoes.’
‘I am merely readying myself, in case he has an accident or something.’
Bartholomew gazed at him in the gloom. ‘I hope you are not planning to arrange one for him.’
Langelee sighed. ‘I would, if I could be sure I would get away with it, but it is too risky. I shall put my faith in God instead.’
‘I do not want to hear any more of this,’ said Bartholomew, trying to push past Langelee to the door. Langelee blocked his way, and with a resigned sigh, knowing he would never manage to best the philosopher in a shoving contest, Bartholomew retreated and sat on the edge of one of the benches that lined the walls.
‘I know what is making you so irritable,’ said Langelee, with sudden inspiration. ‘It is Matilde! She is angry because you never bother to visit her. But do not worry – she will come round. Take her a bit of ribbon or something. Then she will fly into your arms, and it will be you confessing to me about an annulled marriage.’
The door snapped open suddenly, making them both jump. Bartholomew had been sitting on the workbench with Langelee standing next to him. At the crash of the door, they leapt apart. Runham stood there, regarding them suspiciously.
‘What are you two up to?’ he demanded. ‘It had better not have been any improper behaviour.’