His mind returned to the disturbing deaths of the scholars that Michael had charged him to investigate. Of Brother Patrick’s murder, Bartholomew had learned nothing: the man had been stabbed and no one had seen what had happened. He hoped Michael was right, and that someone would start to brag about the crime he had committed, and patience would bring the killer to justice.
Of the Bene’t deaths, Bartholomew had discovered little that he and Michael did not already know or had not already guessed: it seemed Raysoun and his intimate Wymundham were disliked by their colleagues, and there was an undeniable atmosphere of unpleasantness in the small community. Had the Master or his henchman Caumpes killed them? Was that why they were so determined that no investigation should take place? And what of the courtly Simeon? Why had he visited Michael to encourage a more rigorous investigation without the knowledge of his Master? Did he suspect his colleagues were involved in the killings? He had intimated to Michael that he suspected a workman, and had urged Michael to look in that direction. But was that to divert attention from himself?
Bartholomew found himself unable to concentrate on the Bene’t murders, when his own College played on his mind. Where had Runham’s sudden wealth come from? Had he acquired it dishonestly, as Suttone feared? Was Michael right, and Runham had somehow tampered with the Widow’s Wine so that the whole College would be either drunk or incapacitated, thus allowing him to do something unseen? Bartholomew frowned. Runham had been waiting for them when he and Michael had arrived back at Michaelhouse after seeing Wymundham’s body. If Runham had not been one of the pair of intruders, was that evidence that he knew them and their secret business?
And there was another thing. The morning after the feast, Runham had arrived very early at the church to complete Bartholomew’s chores before he arrived. Had he been up all night doing something connected to the sudden influx of money? Bartholomew racked his brains to recall whether Runham had also drunk the Widow’s Wine, but could not remember. Runham had certainly not been drunk when he had loomed out of the shadows to accuse Bartholomew and Michael of being late.
The wind blew keenly, and Bartholomew shivered in the damp chill, sensing there would be rain before too long. He pulled his cloak tighter around him and fumbled in his bag for his gloves, groaning when he realised he had lost one. A new pair would cost sixpence, and he did not have sixpence to spare because Runham kept fining him. And that reminded him of another problem. The following day, he would have to tell Runham whether he was to resign his Fellowship. At that precise moment he wanted to tell Runham exactly where to put it, but knew that was just what the lawyer wanted. Bartholomew had no intention of doing anything that would please Runham.
At the same time, he did not relish the notion of life at College with Runham at the helm. Michael’s connections with Bishop and Chancellor seemed to give him a certain influence over Runham, and he perhaps would be able to control some of the smug Master’s wilder schemes, but would Michael be able to bring about a reconciliation between William and Runham? And what of Paul and Kenyngham? Was there any hope that they might be reinstated? Michaelhouse would be a poorer place without their gentleness and patience.
So engrossed was Bartholomew in his thoughts that he was surprised to find he had walked far enough to see the warm twinkle of the lights of Trumpington beckoning to him through the darkness. He continued towards them, and stopped outside the house where his sister and her husband had their country home. The great gates that led to the cobbled yard were closed for the night, but he could see candles burning in the house itself when he peered through a crack in the wood. He thought he could hear the sound of a lute being played very softly, accompanied by a woman singing. He smiled to himself, recalling many nights when he had been a child, listening to Stanmore playing and Edith singing the latest romantic ballads or the more ancient poems of the troubadours.
He hesitated, not wanting to walk any further, but reluctant to foist himself on Edith and Oswald when they were enjoying an evening in each other’s company. And he did not much feel like companionship, preferring to wrap himself in the dark with his own thoughts.
He strolled to the village church. It was locked and no lights shone from the priest’s house, suggesting that the man had retired to his bed once darkness had fallen. Bartholomew found a spot on the west wall that was out of the wind and sat in the grass, pulling his cloak around him for warmth. He thought about Michaelhouse, and the people he had considered friends as well as colleagues, and about his students. Could he really abandon the teaching to which he had committed himself? He supposed he could take one or two of the more senior undergraduates and train them as he worked; other practising physicians did so.
He thought long and hard about his decision, carefully weighing up the advantages and disadvantages of each option – to his students and patients as well as to himself. And then he made up his mind. He would leave Cambridge and travel to Paris, where the Arab physician who had taught him his medicine still lived. Ibn Ibrahim would be delighted to see him, and would undoubtedly be able to secure him a teaching post at the University. With the exception of Edith, who was happily married and scarcely required any financial support from him, he had no family, while Michael was a resourceful man who would be able to find himself another tame physician to assist him in his enquiries. Cynric had already gone, and there was no one else who needed him. He was a free agent – alone.
He sat for so long amid the waving grass of the churchyard, careless of the light drizzle that began to fall, that by the time he dragged his mind away from his thoughts he was soaking wet and chilled to the bone. He had no idea what the time might be, although no lights burned in any of the village houses, so it must be very late. He wondered if it were too late to call on his sister.
He walked briskly to where the gates of Stanmore’s manor house abutted on to the road. Peering through the split timber, he saw that a light still gleamed in the upper window he knew was Edith’s. Not wanting to rouse the whole household, he skirted the retaining wall to an old tree that leaned its crusty branches against the stone. Bartholomew had spent his childhood with Edith and Oswald Stanmore, and knew very well how to slip undetected in and out of their house at night.
The tree was older and more brittle, and Bartholomew was heavier and less lithe than thirty years before, so it took some scrambling before he had eased himself over the uneven wall. He landed with a bone-jarring thump in some rhubarb, and heard something rip on his tabard. Brushing the tree bark from his hands, he walked across the vegetable plots towards the light that still glowed in Edith’s bedchamber. He picked up a small clod of moss and hurled it upward, hoping to attract her attention. Nothing happened, so after a moment he tried again with a larger piece.
There was a sharp splinter of cracked glass and several dogs started barking. Lamps began to gleam all over the house and within a few moments, the front door opened and Stanmore’s steward came out, carrying a bow with an arrow already nocked. Bartholomew called out to him, uncomfortably aware of a black dog snarling and slavering around his knees.
Stanmore poked a cautious head out of the door. ‘Matt?’ he called suspiciously. ‘Is that you? Come out where I can see you.’