Meadowman, the beadle who had infiltrated the body of builders working on Bene’t when Raysoun had died, also had nothing to report. None of the craftsmen or their apprentices seemed to know anything about the University deaths. Meadowman was heavy-eyed and weary after nights of carousing with his new-found friends, and the other beadles were in a similar state. Some had even gone so far as to ask to do something else, bored and frustrated with endless evenings in wood-smoke-filled taverns drinking cloudy ale that turned their stomachs.
When the College was still and silent, and the last of the students’ candles had been doused, Michael led the way across the courtyard to the room in which Master Runham had been murdered. Not surprisingly, Kenyngham had been reluctant to move back into it, and had insisted on remaining in the chamber he shared with Clippesby until a permanent successor to Runham could be appointed.
As always, when Bartholomew entered the Master’s quarters, he was reminded unpleasantly of Master Wilson’s death in them, some four years previously. When Wilson had realised that he had been infected with the plague, he had spent his dying hours burning documents and scrolls. After his death, it had been discovered that his affairs were ruthlessly in order, which suggested to Bartholomew that Wilson had given a good deal more attention to his earthly life than he had spent preparing for the one to come. As Wilson had consigned certain parchments to the flames, he had knocked over a lamp and it had set his clothes alight. Bartholomew would never forget the deathbed scene that followed.
The Master’s chamber was a large room by College standards. At one end was a bed piled with furs and blankets, and next to it a substantial chest contained Runham’s impressive collection of robes, shoes and shirts. His cloaks and tabards hung on a row of hooks fastened to the wall above it. Under the window were a table and a chair, while the shelves to either side of them contained inks, pens, spare parchment and several blocks of a powerful-smelling soap that Bartholomew was certain Runham had never used. Nearby was the strongbox, its lid still dangling open, and the empty hutches.
‘It was Clippesby who found Runham’s corpse,’ said Michael conversationally, setting a candle in a holder. ‘His dismayed screeches woke the whole College.’
‘What time?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘An hour or so before first light. Cynric arrived shortly after and decided you were probably at Trumpington, so rode off to fetch you. I miss that man, Matt. Is there any way we could persuade him to come back?’
‘I think he is happier with Rachel than he ever was here. She does not ask him to go out at night chasing villains and scoundrels.’
‘I thought he enjoyed that – a lot more than you do. Anyway, Clippesby woke us with his unholy racket, and we all arrived to see Runham just as you saw him later, with his great paunch facing the ceiling and his smug face blue and lifeless.’
Michael was not a man who had cause to comment on the great paunches of others, and Bartholomew smothered a smile. He looked around him, not sure what the monk hoped to achieve by rummaging through the Master’s chamber when their colleagues were in bed.
‘What was Clippesby doing here so early?’ he asked, sitting on a bench near the hearth. It was a handsome piece of furniture, and Bartholomew recognised it as a gift from Kenyngham for the conclave. Yet again, he was astounded by Runham’s selfish audacity.
‘Clippesby said he and Runham usually met at dawn to discuss business,’ said Michael. ‘And I think that is true. Gray, Deynman and Suttone all saw Clippesby coming here on a number of occasions to plan their evil deeds for the forthcoming day. He was Runham’s lickspittle.’
‘To smother a man, the killer would need to come relatively close without alarming his victim,’ said Bartholomew slowly. ‘Runham would be unlikely to let a stranger that near.’
‘So, you conclude Runham’s killer was someone he knew?’ asked Michael. ‘That is not a great help, Matt. We know that – we have a splendid list of suspects, remember?’
‘Smothering is an unusual way to kill,’ Bartholomew went on. ‘It requires premeditation: you need a convenient implement and you need to be prepared to hold your victim for several minutes until he dies. It is odd, do you not think, that both Runham and Wymundham died from smothering?’
‘What are you saying?’ asked Michael. ‘That they were both killed by the same person?’
‘It is possible. I have seldom come across cases of suffocation like this, and now there are two within a few days of each other.’
‘But that would mean Runham’s killer was one of the Bene’t men,’ objected Michael, ‘since we already have evidence to suggest that a Bene’t Fellow killed Wymundham. And I do not think so, Matt. It is just another of those coincidences that happen in real life, but that you are always trying to read something into.’
‘I suppose you are right,’ said Bartholomew reluctantly. ‘But there is something else that has been nagging at the back of my mind – Justus.’
‘Justus? Runham’s book-bearer, who killed himself by shoving his head in a wineskin?’
‘What if he did not suffocate in the wineskin? What if he were smothered, and the wineskin tied over his head later?’
‘You did not say Justus had been smothered at the time. You said he had suffocated himself.’
‘I made a series of assumptions. First, I assumed that because the wineskin was tied over Justus’s head, that was how he died. Second, I assumed that he had tied it there himself. Third, I assumed he drank himself into a state of depression, and became suicidal.’
‘Yes,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘All that sounds reasonable.’
‘But the other servants said Justus was in an unusually good mood the night he died, because he had found some money on the High Street. That evening, of all evenings, he was not unhappy.’
‘But he used that money to buy wine, Matt. Men often start drinking merrily enough, but then end weeping for their mothers. His mood earlier that day tells us nothing.’
‘But I think he was suffocated,’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘And so were Runham and Wymundham.’
Michael sighed. ‘Very well. Let us consider this rationally. You think Justus’s death might be connected to Runham’s – that perhaps Justus knew something about Runham’s affairs that someone wanted kept quiet?’
‘I do not know,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I am only saying it is possible that the instrument of Justus’s death was not the wineskin, as I assumed, but a cushion. And if that is the case, then we have three deaths where the killer used the same, rather unusual, method: Justus, Wymundham and now Runham.’
‘I am not sure about this, Matt,’ warned Michael. ‘Apart from the fact that all three died because they could not breathe, I do not see the connection.’
‘Runham fought like the Devil before he died. Remember the torn fingernails? We should check your “splendid list of suspects” for scratches – and that includes the Bene’t men.’
‘I have already examined our own scholars, but have seen no inexplicable marks,’ said Michael. ‘I have earned myself a reputation as an ogler around the latrines and the lavatorium, eyeing up our colleagues as they wash themselves. And then I had a good look at the Bene’t men when I went there today. None of them is marred by scratches. But I suspect that all my efforts have been for nothing anyway: sit at the table, and I will show you something.’
‘Show me what?’ asked Bartholomew nervously, not liking the gleam of intent in the monk’s eyes.
‘I have given Runham’s death a good deal of thought, and I know how the murderer prevented him from screaming for help. Sit at the table, like Runham used to do when he counted his gold.’