Bartholomew sat, glancing uneasily over his shoulder as Michael moved about behind him.
‘Do not cheat,’ said Michael, taking up a cushion. ‘You are Runham, engrossed in the business of transferring silver from the College hutches to your building chest, and I am a colleague – a man you know well and whom you have no cause to fear.’
‘Runham was not stupid, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, turning to face him. ‘He knew he had alienated his colleagues, and I do not think it likely that he would have turned his back on the likes of William or Langelee. He knew they both have vile tempers.’
‘But Runham did not anticipate that someone would murder him,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘If he had, he would have taken precautions: he would have hired a bodyguard or kept his door locked – which he did not.’
‘All right,’ Bartholomew sighed, turning around and placing both hands on the table. ‘So, Runham is sitting like this when his killer comes in. Then what?’
‘The killer makes gentle conversation,’ said Michael. ‘He moves around, looking at the plunder Runham has stolen from the College’s common rooms for his own use, including Agatha’s cushion. He picks it up, pretending to admire the embroidery, and then …’
With a single step, Michael bounded across the room and had the cushion slapped across the physician’s face before he could utter a sound. Then he wrapped both arms around cushion and head together, holding them in a firm embrace. Startled, Bartholomew began to struggle, but found he was able to move very little, and the lower half of his body was trapped between the chair and the table. When the pressure of Michael’s grip increased, Bartholomew felt a surge of panic. He reached backward with his hands but could not reach the monk’s face; he could only claw ineffectually at the thick arms that held him.
Deprived of air, he felt his senses begin to reel. He struggled more violently, but the monk’s grip was too secure to be shaken or prised away. He tried to call out, to tell Michael to stop, but he could not draw the air into his lungs and the only sound he made was a muffled gasp. He attempted to twist to one side, to break the grip, but Michael merely moved with him. When he leaned down, to jab an elbow or a hand into Michael’s stomach or ribs to startle him into loosening his hold, he found the chair was in the way.
Just when he thought his lungs were about to explode and felt on the verge of fainting, the pressure was released, and Michael stood back. Bartholomew staggered out of the chair and backed quickly away from the monk, gasping for breath and leaning on the wall for support.
‘Simple,’ said Michael, raising his hands, palms up. ‘That was how it was done. And afterwards, Runham was laid on the floor, exactly how we found him. Are you all right, Matt?’
The physician shook his head, eyeing Michael in disbelief. ‘God’s teeth, Brother! I thought we were on the same side. You nearly killed me!’
‘I did not,’ said Michael dismissively. ‘I held you only for a few moments. If I had let you loose too soon, I would not have proved to you that Runham’s broken fingernails need not necessarily have resulted in his killer being scratched. You clawed at the table, the chair and at me, but I am not marked in the slightest.’
He raised the loose sleeves of his habit to reveal a pair of flabby white arms, one still bandaged from his encounter with the bee, but otherwise unscathed.
‘You could just touch my arms and hands, but you could not reach my face,’ Michael amplified. ‘And you were in such an awkward position that you were unable to put any force into your attempts to harm me. Runham must have been killed in the way I have just demonstrated, otherwise it would mean him meekly lying on the floor, while allowing his murderer to place the cushion over his head.’
‘Look under the table,’ said Bartholomew, still breathless. ‘See if you can tell whether Runham kicked it in his death throes.’
Michael knelt. ‘Yes! Here! I should have thought of this sooner. There are a couple of sizeable dents and some scratches. Come and look.’
Bartholomew shook his head. ‘I am never going to turn my back on you again. From now on, I will stay where I can see you.’
Michael made an impatient sound. ‘I barely touched you. I did not squeeze nearly as hard as I could have done. Do not be so feeble, Matt!’
‘Let me try it on you,’ said Bartholomew, snatching up the cushion and advancing on the monk. Michael stood quickly and moved away.
‘Why? So you can smother me to within an inch of my life and claim tit-for-tat? Really, Matt. I had not understood you to be a vindictive man.’
‘Because I want to test what you just said,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘You said you did not exert as much pressure as you could have done, and yet you still could have killed me. What I want to know is how strong do you have to be to smother someone like that?’
‘Are you sure you know what you are doing?’ asked Michael, regarding him doubtfully.
‘I am a physician,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Of course I know what I am doing.’
He placed the cushion over the monk’s face and wrapped his arms around Michael’s head, just as the monk had done. Unlike Michael, however, he did not deprive his subject of air, and instead experimented with various different grips. He discovered that by pulling upward, he could make it even more difficult for his victim to struggle. He was just concluding his investigations by leaning forward, so that Michael was trapped between him and the desk, when the door opened.
‘Matthew!’ came the shocked, hushed tones of Father William. ‘So it was you all along!’
With the door firmly closed against curious ears, and William ordered to keep his voice down on pain of death, the three Fellows stood in the centre of Master Runham’s room and looked around them.
‘I am sorry for accusing you of so vile a crime, Matthew,’ said William, yet again. ‘I really thought you were smothering Michael. It was clever of you to experiment like that. I wish I had thought to do it myself.’
‘We need to go through everything in this room to see whether we can find any clue that will help us discover the identity of Runham’s killer,’ said Michael, trying to bring the friar’s mind back to the task in hand. ‘All of us are potential suspects, so our very lives may depend on being thorough – even though we are all innocent.’
‘Why are you so sure of my innocence?’ asked William curiously. ‘I am innocent, of course, but in this den of suspicion and intrigue, I am surprised you believe me. I was so afraid I would be blamed for Runham’s murder that I have been loath to abandon the safety of the friary walls.’
‘So, why choose now to leave?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘It is dark. And I came to look for clues that might help me prove it was not I who did the world this great favour. But I do not have to convince you, it seems.’
‘Any man is capable of murder, and so my belief in your innocence does not stem from trust in your innate morality,’ said Michael pompously. ‘But although you are certainly strong enough to have overpowered Runham, you are not the kind of man to use smothering as a means to an end. Fists, certainly; a blunt instrument, yes; a dagger, very possibly. But I cannot see you slowly and deliberately squeezing the life out of anyone.’
‘Then you know me less well than you think,’ said William bluntly. ‘I think I would have gained a great deal of pleasure from squeezing the life out of Runham.’
‘You should learn to take a compliment, Father,’ said Michael dryly. ‘But, very well, if you must know the truth, several of your brethren told me that the snores emanating from your cell kept them awake half the night. They are prepared to swear that you are accounted for from sunset, when you attended compline, until the morning, when the news came that Runham was no more.’