Bartholomew turned his attention to the rest of the room. Although Runham had only recently taken it from Kenyngham, his unmistakable touch was already obvious. The walls were hung with tapestries – at least two of them from the conclave – while the wooden floor was completely covered with the best of the rugs from the hall. The pair of finely carved chairs that stood next to the table had belonged to a recently deceased scholar called Roger Alcote, and had been placed in storage to await collection by his next of kin. Runham had apparently been into the attics, and had removed the furniture for his personal use.
Bartholomew also noticed that the overstuffed cushions that lined one of the chairs were from Agatha’s old wicker throne in the kitchen.
Besides the rugs, tapestries and chairs that Runham had so skilfully looted from the College, there were the chests. Under the window – perilously close to where an enterprising workman could reach in and touch it – was the large strongbox from which Runham had intended to pay for his new building. A number of small coins and pieces of cheap jewellery lay in the bottom, but it had clearly been ransacked and the most valuable items removed.
Next to the strongbox were Michaelhouse’s loan chests – the College ‘hutches’ – that allowed payments to be made to needy scholars. Even from the door, Bartholomew could see that all were empty. He turned a horrified gaze on Michael. The monk nodded to his unspoken question.
‘I think you can see where Runham obtained at least some of the money for his building work, Matt. Every single one of our nine hutches is empty. There will be no loans for desperate students from Michaelhouse from now on.’
‘Runham raided the hutches for his building work?’ asked Father Paul in horror, gazing around him with his opaque eyes. ‘But the hutches are sacrosanct; they were given to us by benefactors who left money for the purpose of loans, and loans only. No one – not even a Master – has the authority to take money from the hutches for things like buildings.’
‘Nevertheless, that seems to be what Runham did,’ said Michael. ‘I even saw him carrying some of them to his room. In my ridiculous innocence, I merely assumed he was taking an inventory of their contents. It did not occur to me that he would empty them of cash for his wretched buildings.’
‘We do not know Runham took the money,’ said Kenyngham reproachfully. ‘Perhaps whoever stole from the building chest also emptied the hutches.’
Michael shook his head as he reached into Runham’s strongbox to retrieve a metal bracelet that lay at the bottom. ‘It is decent of you to be charitable, but I know this piece of jewellery was in the Illegh Hutch. As you saw, I just retrieved it from Runham’s building chest, where it had no business to be.’
‘Runham denied me a loan,’ said Suttone thoughtfully. ‘I asked him yesterday if I could have two groats from the Fellows’ hutch to buy a new alb, but he told me that the tradition of borrowing from the hutches was over, and that I should go elsewhere. I wondered what was behind all that, and now I understand.’
‘It seems there is no doubt,’ said Michael. ‘Runham found himself short of the funds he needed for his building, and so took out a loan himself – a loan that comprised all the remaining money in every one of the College hutches.’
‘We should not be concerned about money when one of our colleagues lies dead at our feet,’ said Kenyngham softly. ‘We should be praying for him. All the Fellows are present except Father William. When will he return, Paul? Does he know the news?’
‘He does, but he will not come,’ said Paul. ‘He says he has no wish to be accused of murder, given that he quarrelled so bitterly with Runham the other day.’
‘What makes you say that Runham was murdered?’ asked Suttone curiously. He nodded to the body on the floor. ‘I am no expert, but he looks to have had a fatal seizure to me.’
Everyone stared at Bartholomew, who gazed at the body in distaste. He wondered why it never seemed to occur to anyone that he did not like inspecting the bodies of people he knew, looking for clues regarding their causes of death. It was partly because their bodies reminded him uncomfortably of his own mortality, but also because he was a physician: his business was with the living, not the dead.
‘Well, Matt?’ asked Michael, when Bartholomew did not move towards Runham’s corpse. ‘Are William’s fears justified, or did Runham simply have a fatal seizure as he fondled his ill-gotten gains in the middle of the night?’
With a distinct lack of enthusiasm, Bartholomew knelt next to Runham and began a careful inspection, although he had known the answer to Michael’s question the instant he set eyes on the body. He noticed that the dead Master’s hands were slightly bloody and that the nails were ripped: Runham had struggled and fought against something. Another peculiarity was the fact that there was a small feather protruding from Runham’s mouth. Ignoring his colleagues’ exclamations of disgust, he felt under the tongue and in the cheeks to retrieve two more feathers and a ball of fluff.
‘William is right to be cautious,’ he said, sitting back and gazing down at the lifeless features of his Master. ‘Someone smothered him: Runham was murdered.’
Once Runham’s body had been removed to St Michael’s Church, and two student friars of his own Order had been commandeered into keeping a vigil over it, the Fellows met in the conclave. Kenyngham, who they unanimously agreed should resume the Mastership until another election could be organised, had gathered the students in the hall and informed them that Runham had fallen prey to a fatal attack. The ambiguous wording was Michael’s idea: he said it would not be wise to declare that Runham had been murdered until they had some idea who might be the culprit. Kenyngham concluded his brief announcement by suggesting that the scholars might like to use the remainder of what was now a free day to pray for Runham. None of them did, and Bartholomew’s students were among the noisy throng that disappeared with alacrity though the gates to enjoy themselves in the town.
‘Is that wise?’ asked Kenyngham anxiously, watching them leave from the conclave window. ‘Despite my obtuse announcement, it will not be long before word seeps out that Master Runham was murdered, and our students may start a fight over it.’
Michael shook his head as he settled himself in one of the best chairs. ‘None of them is going to fight to defend Runham’s good name, Master Kenyngham. Let them go. At least they will not be under the feet of the workmen. And all the Fellows should be here, discussing what we should do, not trying to supervise a lot of restless lads.’
‘As a mark of respect, I think the building work should stop,’ said Kenyngham, as Clippesby and Suttone, with unspoken agreement, began to light the conclave fire. ‘It is only right that we interrupt our normal affairs to show our sorrow over this tragic death.’
‘I have already tried to send the workmen away,’ said Michael, ignoring the fact that there would not be much sorrowing. ‘But thanks to Runham himself, they see any attempt by us to prevent them from working as an excuse not to pay them their bonus. They would not hear of going home, and I dare not force the issue. I have no wish to see us go up in flames for antagonising them.’
‘And that would be easy with all the scaffolding everywhere,’ said Langelee, watching Clippesby blowing on the smouldering wood in the hearth. ‘A torch touched to all that cheap timber will see the College ignite like a bonfire.’