Bartholomew glanced at the surgeon’s clothes, stiff with ancient blood, and decided that even Osmun would have balked at searching Robin for hidden riches. Politely, he said nothing.
‘And he talked all night,’ continued Robin. ‘He was drunk and was blathering all sorts of nonsense. He told me that he believed one Bene’t Fellow named Wymundham had stabbed another called Raysoun with an awl after he had fallen from the scaffolding. Do you know anything about this? I was busy with Saddler at the time, God help me.’
‘Wymundham did not kill Raysoun,’ said Bartholomew, confused. ‘He was kneeling next to Raysoun when he died. I saw him holding the man’s hand and exhorting him to stand up.’
‘Osmun did not say Wymundham killed Raysoun,’ said Robin pedantically. ‘He said Wymundham stabbed Raysoun after he had fallen. He claimed that Wymundham was the kind of man to stab a corpse to make an accident look like murder.’
‘I do not think so,’ said Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘Wymundham could not have stabbed Raysoun with half the town watching, and anyway, Raysoun was not a corpse when Master Lynton pulled the awl out of him.’
‘Well, the Fellows of Bene’t are altogether odd,’ said Robin firmly. ‘The Master, Heltisle, is too ambitious for his own good; his second-in-command Caumpes likes to play with boats in his spare time, because he comes from the Fens; while de Walton has a fancy for Mayor Horwoode’s massive wife. And the last of them, Simekyn Simeon, is the Duke of Lancaster’s spy!’
‘Did Osmun tell you all this?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.
‘Lord, no!’ said Robin. ‘He is too fond of that foul place to utter seditious thoughts about it. What I tell you about the Fellows of Bene’t is general town knowledge.’
Bartholomew realised that Osmun was merely trying to shift any suspicion on to Wymundham, who was hardly in a position to defend himself, because he was dead. Perhaps Osmun had been the murderer, climbing the scaffolding to shove Raysoun to his death. And in that case, Osmun must have killed Wymundham, too, to silence him regarding the identity of Raysoun’s killer. Bartholomew decided he should pass the gossip to Michael, so that the Senior Proctor could decide what was truth and what was lies in the mess of charge and counter-charge. He was thankful that the affair was not his to solve.
Bartholomew was with his students in the conclave later that morning, in the midst of a long and involved explanation about a diagram of a neck in Mondino dei Liuzzi’s illustrated Anatomy, when there was a colossal crash. Anatomy forgotten, students and master rushed to the window to see that a pulley hauling slates to the roof had snapped, littering the yard below with smashed tiles.
For several moments there was a shocked silence, both in the hall and in the courtyard, and then the workmen began shouting in alarm. Afraid that someone might have been crushed, Bartholomew ran outside, pushing through the gathering crowd to see if there was anyone who needed his expertise.
They had been lucky: no one had been standing underneath the pulley when it had broken. With relief, Bartholomew heard the workmen’s shouts of alarm give way to laughter and bantering; evidently they considered the fall more of a matter for humour than anger or recrimination, although it seemed to Bartholomew that they were working too fast, and were abandoning safety for speed. He sprinted up the stairs to Michael’s room to find the monk standing at the window watching the chaotic scene below in disapproval. He shook his head as Bartholomew entered.
‘That could have killed someone. What is the hurry with this building? Why are the workmen so desperate to finish a task they have barely begun? Is it the prospect of being under Runham’s direction that makes them so keen to have the job done?’
‘If so, then I cannot blame them,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘Are you feeling better? You look better.’
Michael nodded. ‘I feel dizzy if I stand too long and I tire easily, but I am well enough.’ He gestured at his table, which was piled high with scrolls and parchments. ‘I am making good use of the fact that I am confined to my room, though. I have resumed my dealings with Master Heytesbury of Merton College in Oxford, and I have been sifting through the reports from my beadles about these murders.’
‘Have they learned anything?’
Michael shook his head gloomily, and not even the fragments of gossip from Robin of Grantchester and Suttone seemed to lessen his despondency about the slow pace of the investigation. Bartholomew left him sitting at his table, muttering obscenities about the fact that the reports his beadles dictated to the University’s scribes in St Mary’s Church were so ambiguous that he was obliged to send for most of them anyway, so that they could clarify what they had intended to say.
By the time Bartholomew quit Michael’s chamber he had lost his students, who were enjoying the spectacle of the workmen picking through the smashed tiles, and it was almost time for teaching to end anyway. He returned to the hall where he carefully secured the colourfully illustrated anatomy book to its chain in the wall, straightened the benches, and replaced the ink stands, spare parchment and pens in the aumbry in the corner of the conclave. When he had finished, Suttone came to stand next to him at the window, staring into the yard below.
‘That is what happens when corners are cut,’ he said, looking down at the mess with a resigned sigh. ‘Master Runham is forcing the pace of this building work to the point where it is dangerous.’
‘Then tell him,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘We do not want someone injured because Runham wants a new College instantly.’
‘He will not listen. He does not care if a workman is killed, anyway. I reminded him that Master Raysoun of Bene’t College died because he fell from unstable scaffolding, but Runham merely thanked me for my advice, and assured me that he would take care not to climb on any of ours.’
‘He said that?’ asked Bartholomew, not sure whether to be indignant or amused by the Master’s brazen self-interest.
Suttone frowned. ‘There he is. What is he doing now?’
Runham was staggering under the weight of a small chest. It was one of the College ‘hutches’ – a box containing money that benefactors had provided so that scholars could borrow from it if they found themselves short of cash. The Master would give the student money, while the student exchanged a caucio or pledge of comparable value. So, for example, when Gray had needed two marks to pay for his tuition fees, he had deposited a gold ring in the chest that he would redeem as soon as he had saved enough money. Similarly, Deynman had left his beautiful copy of Galen’s Tegni in the chest when he wanted money for pens and ink. If Gray or Deynman were unable or unwilling to repay their loan, the College would then be the proud owner of a gold ring and a book for the library. The College’s hutches, containing varying amounts of money, were stored in a heavily barred room in a cellar under the hall.
‘He must be going to do an inventory of the contents,’ said Bartholomew, watching Runham sweating under his load. ‘Some of our hutches contain a lot of money – or its equivalent.’
‘Are all the hutches for the students’ use?’ asked Suttone.
‘No. Some of our eight or nine hutches are for Fellows, too. They are useful if we need money to pay some fine or other.’
‘I owe no fines,’ said Suttone. He gave a sudden, wicked grin. ‘Although I might well be fined for being insubordinate to Runham before too long. But I do need money to buy the alb I will need to conduct masses in the church. I shall see Runham about it this morning.’
He wandered away, and Bartholomew went to visit a patient near the river before the bell announced the midday meal. His patient had been bitten by a rat, so Bartholomew cleaned the wound and then rummaged in his bag for the betony plaster that would help prevent festering. It was missing and he suspected it had been borrowed by Gray, who had then forgotten to replace it. He remembered that the last time he used it was when he had treated Michael in the lane the night Runham had been elected. He paid an urchin a penny to fetch some more from the apothecary, and talked with the man’s family while he waited.