‘But I did not speak to the Sheriff about your scaffolding,’ protested Bartholomew. ‘It was dangerous, but I did not mention it to the Sheriff.’
‘But you went to his house the very next day,’ said Caumpes. ‘You were not man enough to visit him openly in the Castle, so you sneaked to his home. I saw you myself, shaking the man’s hand on his doorstep.’
‘I had been summoned to physick his son,’ said Bartholomew, not liking the way his movements had been watched. ‘Not that it is any business of yours.’
‘So, what do you want here?’ asked Heltisle icily. ‘Have you come to offer us compensation for what your College has done to mine?’
‘The Senior Proctor asked me to come,’ he said, wishing he had never agreed to become Michael’s menial. ‘He wants me to examine the bodies of Wymundham and Raysoun, to ascertain the precise causes of their deaths.’
‘I am sure he does,’ said Caumpes nastily. ‘The Senior Proctor – a Michaelhouse man to the core – is trying to use the deaths of those two unfortunates to bring our College to the brink of ruin.’
‘Quite,’ agreed Heltisle. ‘He wants to start rumours that their accidental deaths were actually murders, so that he can bring Bene’t into disrepute.’
‘I can assure you that is not true,’ protested Bartholomew, hoping sincerely that it was not. Michael loved University politics, and would be quite happy to see another College fall from grace if it promoted his own.
He was wondering how he could extricate himself without acknowledging that Michaelhouse had acted somewhat shabbily – despite his personal opinion of Runham, he did not want to be openly disloyal to his own College – when the sound of horses’ hooves clattering on the cobbles drew attention away from him.
He was released abruptly, and Bartholomew saw that porters, Fellows and students were all busy bowing so deeply and obsequiously that a good many blue uniforms trailed in the mud. He glanced at the new arrivals, and immediately recognised the portly figure of the Duke of Lancaster.
The Duke was one of Bene’t College’s most noteworthy benefactors, and was often seen in the town, inspecting progress on the foundation that was costing him a small fortune. Riding with him was his squire, the elegant Simekyn Simeon, who sported hose and tunic of scarlet and a cloak of an impractical corn yellow. His shoes were made of an exquisite soft calfskin that would not last a day in Cambridge’s filthy streets.
The Duke himself cut a dowdy figure. He wore a mud-brown cloak trimmed with fur that was spiky and stained with rain, and his hose and tunic were a dull moss green. Bartholomew looked from his dour, uncompromising features to the sardonic, amused face of Simeon, and suspected that their arrival would not make his awkward position any easier.
‘My lord,’ said Heltisle, and Bartholomew was impressed to see him bow so low that he was bent almost double. ‘It is an honour to have you within our walls once more. May I offer you wine?’
‘You may,’ said Lancaster coolly. ‘But I am not here to exchange pleasantries, Heltisle. Simeon informs me that Wymundham and Raysoun are dead. Is this true? And why are there no builders at work and the scaffolding dismantled? My coffers are not bottomless, you know; if Bene’t’s new hall is not completed soon, you will have to look elsewhere for a gullible benefactor.’
‘It is not our fault,’ protested Heltisle in alarm. ‘It was all going excellently: the upper floor was almost completed and Raysoun spent most of his time supervising the workers and making sure no one shirked. Then he fell and was killed, and Michaelhouse stole all our labourers. If you want someone to blame for this setback, look to Michaelhouse.’
As one, every Bene’t scholar’s gaze went from the Duke to Bartholomew, who suspected he cut a sorry figure with his darned and patched tabard and clothes dishevelled from his tussle with the porters.
‘This is one of them,’ explained Caumpes to the Duke. ‘He complained to the Sheriff that our scaffolding posed a danger to the public, and then enticed away our labourers while the matter was rectified.’
‘Well?’ demanded the Duke, regarding Bartholomew coldly. ‘Have you come to demand money before our craftsmen are reinstated? Speak up!’
‘Of course not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I did not even know the men working on Michaelhouse were from Bene’t. I am a physician and I came here at the request of the University’s Senior Proctor to examine the bodies of the two Fellows who died.’
‘Well, you are far too late for that,’ said Heltisle with grim satisfaction. ‘They were buried days ago.’
Chapter 7
THE DUKE OF LANCASTER HAD NO INTENTION OF standing in Bene’t’s chilly yard in the gathering gloom of dusk to discuss whether or not Michaelhouse had wronged the College into which he had ploughed a good deal of his own money. He tossed his riding gloves to Osmun, ordered Ulfo to stable his horse, and strode to the hall, where more servants flitted around him like moths around a candle.
Bartholomew, flanked by Heltisle and Caumpes, watched the Duke being made comfortable and thought about the last time he had been in Bene’t’s hall. Although only eight days before, it felt longer. He had been attending Wymundham, fetching him wine from behind the serving screen to calm him after the death of his friend Raysoun.
Had Wymundham been telling the truth about Raysoun’s last words? And had Wymundham then been killed to prevent him from telling Michael? Adela Tangmer, Matilde and the Stanmores had all told Bartholomew that Bene’t seethed with dissension. Was that why Heltisle had ordered the bodies buried before the Proctors’ office had given permission for them to be released, to prevent Bartholomew from learning the truth about the way they had died? Or was it simply because Michael’s illness had delayed matters too long, and, quite naturally, Bene’t College was reluctant to keep decomposing corpses in the church it used for its daily prayers? They would certainly be within their rights.
But if Wymundham had been murdered, then how did Mayor Horwoode fit into the plot? Was he an innocent bystander, whose garden was selected at random as a place to dump the body? Or did he and his Guild of St Mary, which had co-founded Bene’t, have something to hide? And was the Duke of Lancaster aware of or involved in the murder? Since the Duke had made his squire a Fellow of Bene’t for the express purpose of keeping an eye on the place, he clearly sensed the College was not all it should be. With a sinking heart, Bartholomew suspected he was about to be drawn into something he would rather avoid.
‘Michaelhouse must have been planning this for weeks!’ Caumpes burst out, evidently unable to restrain himself any longer. ‘It is a coincidence, is it not, that all this happens the instant Runham is elected as their new Master?’
Bartholomew wondered if that were true. It usually took many months for the concept of a building to become reality, and yet Runham had arranged for plans to be drawn up, materials to be delivered, a workforce hired and money to pay for it all within a few days. On reflection, Bartholomew decided that Caumpes’s accusation was undoubtedly true. And if that were the case, then Runham must have been anticipating Kenyngham’s resignation, too, and had been ready to spring into action the moment he, Runham, was elected.
‘It would not surprise me to learn that Michaelhouse was responsible for Raysoun’s death,’ Caumpes continued hotly. ‘It certainly seems to have benefited Michaelhouse.’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘That is not true. Michaelhouse has always striven for peaceful relations with its neighbours, whether townsmen or other Colleges.’