As far as Bartholomew could tell, virtually every other scholar was out – either in the church praying for Runham, like Kenyngham, or celebrating their unexpected release from tyranny, like everyone else. Bartholomew was unable to concentrate on writing when his stomach was growling for food, and so he decided to walk to the Market Square to buy something from one of the bakers.
He wandered down Shoemaker Row, his mind still on the relationship between the nearby marshes and the sweating sicknesses that sometimes crippled the town, absently nodding greetings to people he knew. He met Isnard the bargeman, who demanded to know whether Michaelhouse had plans to reinstate the choir now that Runham was dead. Bartholomew promised to mention it to Master Kenyngham, and Isnard suggested he made sure he did.
Next, he was hailed by Agatha, who was striding through the Market Square with a string of dead rabbits swinging from one hand.
‘Would you like one?’ she asked generously, waving the little corpses uncomfortably close to Bartholomew’s face. ‘Cynric gave them to me. He has been practising his archery in the water meadows near Newnham. I do not see why those Bene’t scoundrels should benefit from his skills and enjoy rabbit stew tonight while you eat nothing but dry bread.’
‘Why did you leave us?’ Bartholomew asked. ‘Did Runham put pressure on you to go?’
Agatha regarded him as if he were insane. ‘Do you think I would have gone if he had? God’s chosen do not pander to the whims of men like him.’
‘Oh, yes. I forgot about that,’ said Bartholomew weakly.
‘I went to Bene’t because Master Caumpes offered to pay me a respectable wage. And, of course, because Brother Michael suggested I could do God’s work better at Bene’t than at Michaelhouse for the moment. He has instructed me to watch those nasty Bene’t Fellows to see whether I can learn which of them killed Raysoun and Wymundham. Those of us who were spared the Death by God to make the Earth a better place do not approve of murder.’
‘None of us do.’
‘Wrong,’ declared Agatha. ‘Some people approve of it very much, and are skilled at it. But they will not best the likes of me and Brother Michael. And when I have brought this killer to justice, I shall return to Michaelhouse. The better pay at Bene’t is very nice, but I do not like working with that Osmun. I can see I will have to box his ears before too long, to teach him the lesson he is always trying to inflict on others.’
She stalked away, leaving Bartholomew the reluctant owner of a dead rabbit. He thought Michael must be growing desperate indeed, to use the unsubtle Agatha to spy on Bene’t.
‘I did not take you for a hunting man, Matthew,’ came Suttone’s amused voice at his side, as he gestured to the rabbit. ‘Or is that how your patients pay you these days?’
Bartholomew smiled. ‘Agatha gave it to me.’
‘I miss her,’ said Suttone. He saw Bartholomew’s doubtful expression and gave a grin. ‘I do. Your University is full of intriguers and liars, and her blunt honesty is a refreshing change.’
‘Well, perhaps she will return now that Runham has gone,’ said Bartholomew vaguely.
‘Are you really certain that Runham was murdered?’ asked Suttone, suddenly earnest. ‘So many people wanted him dead that it seems inevitable that one of them should have succeeded in killing him. But that logic worries me. Are you certain you are not jumping to conclusions? Perhaps he died naturally. He almost gave himself a seizure the other day when he became so enraged with William. Maybe he did the same again.’
Bartholomew shook his head. ‘There is no doubt.’
Suttone sighed. ‘What a pity. But we must set about rectifying some of the wrongs he perpetrated over the last week – it may help his soul escape from Purgatory that much sooner. We should set about reinstating the choir as soon as possible. Brother Michael tells me that the bread and ale are important to those folk.’
‘We must see whether we can pay for it first. And we must ensure we have enough for the workmen.’
‘There were some coins and a few scraps of jewellery left in the chest. Use that.’
‘We cannot give away our resources while we have debts,’ said Bartholomew reasonably. While he sympathised with Suttone’s point of view, he did not think the builders would be happy to see Michaelhouse feeding the poor while refusing to pay their wages. They would have the townsfolk up in arms in an instant, and Michaelhouse would be attacked. And that would do no one any good.
‘I suppose you are right,’ said Suttone reluctantly. ‘What a vile mess that man has left us to sort out!’
After Suttone had returned to Michaelhouse, Bartholomew wandered around the Market Square, thinking about the disbanded choir and the death of Runham. As he was buying a pie from a baker with some of the blackest and most rotten teeth Bartholomew had ever seen – which the physician hoped had not resulted from consuming his own wares – he spotted Caumpes. The Fellow of Bene’t College was striding briskly towards the goldsmith’s premises, which stood in an alleyway behind St Mary’s Church. Bartholomew watched him stop outside the home of Harold of Haslingfield, glance around in a way that made it perfectly clear he did not want anyone to see him, and slip inside. Bartholomew sat on the low wall that marked the boundary of St Mary’s churchyard and ate his pie, his attention half on Michaelhouse’s financial travails and half on Caumpes’s suspicious behaviour.
He was just brushing the crumbs from his hands when Caumpes emerged from the goldsmith’s shop, first poking his head around the door to peer up and down the alleyway to see whether anyone was watching. Bartholomew pretended to be looking up at the church tower, and Caumpes, apparently satisfied that he was unobserved, walked quickly across the Market Square in the direction of Bene’t College.
Harold of Haslingfield was one of Bartholomew’s patients, treated regularly for a wheeziness in the lungs that the physician thought might be caused by years of inhaling the fine dust that tended to accompany working with hot metals. Bartholomew had recently acquired some myrrh from a pedlar, and had developed a balsam with Jonas the Poisoner that they hoped would ease shortness of breath in people with Harold’s complaint. He decided to visit Harold, to tell him about the new medicine and to see whether he could ascertain what Caumpes had been doing so furtively.
He pushed open the sturdy wooden door and stepped into the dim, acrid-smelling shop. Harold was stoking up a small furnace that produced waves of heat so intense that Bartholomew’s eyes watered, and was busy setting up the equipment he used for melting gold. Lying on the bench next to him were two bracelets of a heavy Celtic design.
‘Those are pretty,’ said Bartholomew, wondering whether Caumpes’s visit and the bracelets were connected. He recalled Stanmore mentioning that Caumpes dabbled in the black market, and that he often sold things to the town’s merchants. ‘May I see them?’
Carelessly, Harold picked up one of the pieces and tossed it to him. ‘Actually, they are rather ugly. There is not much call for Celtic work these days, and I will never be able to sell them as they are. I am about to melt them down and use the metal to make something more appealing.’
Other merchants might have seen Bartholomew as a potential customer, but Harold had known him for a long time and was aware that the physician did not have the resources to buy gold bracelets.
‘Did Thomas Caumpes sell them to you?’ asked Bartholomew, deciding to take a blunt approach.