It was not long before they were joined by the old brothers Dunstan and Aethelbald, who always came to see what was happening if a stranger visited the row of hovels that crouched near the seedy wharves on the river where they had lived all their lives.
‘We are going to Bene’t College today,’ announced Dunstan without preamble. ‘Now that Wymundham and Raysoun are dead, their choir is depleted, so we thought we would offer our services.’
‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, wondering whether Bene’t knew what it was letting itself in for if it accepted the rivermen’s reedy tenors.
‘They will have to give us bread and ale, though,’ added Aethelbald. ‘We do not sing for nothing.’
‘Isnard the bargeman tried to join the Peterhouse choir,’ said Dunstan. ‘Peterhouse gives its singers wine after each mass, you see. But the music master told Isnard he should take pity on the world and swear a sacred oath that he would never utter another note as long as he lived. Now why should the man say a rude thing like that, Doctor?’
‘I cannot imagine,’ said Bartholomew, deliberately not looking at the old man, who sounded genuinely surprised.
‘Bene’t will be glad to have us,’ said Aethelbald with conviction. ‘And when Michaelhouse hears us singing like angels, it will be sorry that it allowed us to leave.’
‘You could be right,’ said Bartholomew, sure he was not.
‘We heard one of your lot came to a nasty end,’ said Dunstan suddenly, with inappropriate salaciousness.
‘Who?’ asked Bartholomew absently, thinking about Raysoun, Wymundham and Brother Patrick.
‘One of your lot – that miserable Justus, Runham’s book-bearer. His body is in St Michael’s Church porch.’
Bartholomew sighed. It was already a week since the book-bearer’s body had been found, and it was clear that Runham had no intention of arranging a burial. Bartholomew saw he would have to do it himself if he did not want the corpse to remain in the church until it decomposed completely.
He was angry: Justus had served Runham for almost a year, and paying a few pennies for a shroud should not have been an insurmountable problem, even to a miser like Runham. Compared to the efforts Runham had made to beautify the tomb of his loathsome cousin, Bartholomew found the new Master’s attitude to the dead perplexing and inconsistent. Justus had not been a likeable man, but that was no reason to treat his body with such disrespect.
‘It is disgraceful,’ added Aethelbald gleefully. ‘Still, given what Runham did to our choir, I cannot say I am surprised. And then there was Brother Patrick – another victim of that University.’
‘I know,’ said Dunstan, shaking his head. ‘Stabbed through the heart, I heard.’
‘Stabbed in the back,’ corrected Aethelbald. ‘A coward’s blow.’
‘Who told you all this?’ asked Bartholomew, amazed at the speed at which gossip seemed to rip through the town.
‘Everyone knows,’ said Aethelbald dismissively. ‘It is no secret. And everyone knows who killed this Brother Patrick, too.’
‘They do?’ asked Bartholomew hopefully.
Dunstan nodded vehemently. ‘Another scholar. It could not have been a townsman because it was on University property.’
‘That does not necessarily follow,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is not unknown for townsmen to trespass on University land.’
‘I would like to trespass on Michaelhouse,’ said Aethelbald with feeling. ‘No offence, Doctor, but I would like to see it burn to the ground for what it did to our choir. And I would like to see every one of its fat, grasping scholars strung up like the common criminals they are – not you, of course, Doctor, and not that sainted Brother Michael.’
‘If I were twenty years younger, I would do it,’ announced Dunstan.
‘Forty years younger might see you in with a chance,’ cackled Aethelbald. ‘I tell you, Doctor, that College is destined for a great fall. And when it comes, not a soul in the town will raise a finger to save it.’
For some unaccountable reason, their words unnerved Bartholomew. When the betony plaster arrived, he slapped it on his patient’s leg with almost indecent haste, and strode quickly back up the lane, his head bowed in thought, wondering what he could do to prevent the ever-widening rift between his College and the townsfolk.
Since it was a lenten day, fried herring giblets were on the menu at Michaelhouse. Bartholomew thought about William as he toyed with the unappetising mess, because any kind of fish organs were a favourite with the friar. Bartholomew hoped William would be getting his share of them in the Franciscan Friary.
The entrails were served on thick slabs of stale bread made from rye flour, which served as platters. Although scholars were not usually expected to consume their trenchers, Bartholomew ate most of his that day because he was hungry and he did not fancy the oily, fishy guts that were heaped in front of him. Glancing down the table, he saw that none of the other Fellows were devouring them with much enthusiasm, either, and Runham had gone so far as to hire a personal cook to provide him with something else.
As well as giblets and stale bread, there was a thick, brown-green paste made from dried peas. It was bland and contained some crunchy parts that Bartholomew imagined it was better not to try to examine too carefully. The last time he had investigated a foreign body in his food it had transpired to be a toenail, although none of the cooks would admit to being its owner. The Bible Scholar droned on, skimming through the text quickly and without any indication that he had the slightest understanding of what he read.
When Runham rose to say grace, Bartholomew escaped with relief from the oppressive atmosphere of the hall and went to his own room. The College was still in a chaos of noise following the collapse of scaffolding, and Runham had announced that the rest of the day’s lectures were cancelled. The students were delighted although Bartholomew fretted that so much lost time would mean poor results at the end-of-year disputations.
He was about to go inside when he saw Beadle Meadowman hurrying across the yard towards him, and so escorted him to Michael’s room. In tones of barely concealed pride, Meadowman informed the monk that he had persuaded his brother-in-law, Robert de Blaston the carpenter, to hire him to work alongside the men who had been building Bene’t College the day Raysoun had died. Meadowman hoped to gain the confidence of his fellow workmen, and see whether he could ascertain if any of them had given Raysoun a timely shove.
Meadowman also reported that the other beadles had been diligent in their enquiries around the taverns, but although the townsmen professed to be delighted by the deaths of scholars of the much-hated University, no one seemed to be taking the credit for killing them. Michael instructed him to ensure the enquiries continued, and then sent him away to begin mixing mortar with his new colleagues.
‘This is a bad business,’ said Michael gloomily. ‘I have all my beadles on the alert for information regarding the deaths of Patrick, Raysoun and Wymundham, but they have heard nothing. It is unusual, because there is nearly always some rumour or accusation passed on over a jug of ale that I can act upon, but in these deaths, there is nothing.’
‘You are essentially better, so why do you not leave your room and take control over these investigations?’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Meadowman will do his best, but he is not you.’