Bartholomew was fumbling with the latch on the door when he was aware of a presence behind him. Before he could turn, something was thrown over his head and he found his arms pinioned to his sides. He felt a heavy tug at the back of his neck, and then he was pushed forward – not roughly, but enough to make him stagger into the wall, reaching out blindly with his hands to steady himself.
Alarmed, he struggled free of the sacking that covered his head and looked around, anticipating a mob of townspeople ready to lynch a lone Michaelhouse scholar for its treatment of the choir, or because news had leaked out that the workmen would not be paid. But there was no one in the churchyard except him. Heart thumping, he walked the few steps back to the High Street, looking up and down it to see if he could spot his attacker, but it was deserted, too. It was not a market day, and no carts or traders crammed the roads on their way to the Square. The only person he could see was Bosel the beggar, who often worked in the High Street and sat hunched in the lee of a buttress, out of the wind.
‘Bosel!’ he called. ‘Did someone just come running past?’
Bosel gave a crafty grin and held out his only hand. ‘Maybe.’
‘I do not have any money,’ said Bartholomew, who had left his purse behind in his haste to arrive at the church.
‘Then you will not have the answer to your question,’ said Bosel, shrugging.
‘Please,’ said Bartholomew, feeling his scanty patience begin to evaporate. ‘It is important.’
‘Oh, it is always important,’ sneered Bosel. ‘Everything is important these days – except the likes of me, left to starve in the gutter after I served the King so loyally in his wars in France. I lose my arm defending England from the French devils, and the only reward I get is kicks and curses and wealthy people like you pretending to have no money.’
‘You lost your hand for stealing, not fighting in France,’ retorted Bartholomew. ‘For breaking into the Guildhall of St Mary and relieving them of their silver, if I recall correctly. Now, will you tell me or not?’
‘I will tell you for a penny,’ said Bosel stubbornly. ‘Give.’
‘I do not have a penny,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But you can have breakfast at Michaelhouse after the mass.’
Bosel tipped his head back and regarded Bartholomew down his long, filthy nose, as if calculating the chances of the physician cheating him. ‘All right, then.’
‘Well? Did someone run from the churchyard just now?’
‘No,’ said Bosel.
Bartholomew gazed at him. ‘Is that it?’
‘That is the truth,’ said Bosel. ‘I will lie for you, to make a more interesting story, if you like. But the truth is that no one came from the churchyard except you.’
Bartholomew slumped in defeat. Because of Bosel’s negotiations for payment, it was too late to give chase anyway.
‘I saw you run in and then run out moments later,’ Bosel clarified. ‘And Father William has been yelling his head off inside the church since before first light. But I did hear someone moving about in the churchyard – other than you, that is.’
‘Who?’ asked Bartholomew.
Bosel made an impatient sound. ‘I do not know! I did not see the person, I only heard him. And the reason I did not see him come from the churchyard was because I heard him scramble over the wall at the back and head off down those alleys instead. You will never catch him now. Did he rob you of your purse, then? Is that why you cannot give me a penny?’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew shortly. ‘He just gave me a nasty fright.’
‘I will see you after mass, then,’ called Bosel, as he left.
Still holding the sacking that had been tossed over his head, Bartholomew opened the door to the church and walked inside. William had already laid out the sacred vessels, lit the candles and opened the great bible to the correct reading of the day. Bartholomew was suddenly horribly reminded of the week before, when Runham had come to the church to do the physician’s duties and fine him for being late.
‘Well, I do not have a shilling to pay any fine,’ he said irritably to William, as he walked towards the altar. ‘I did not even have a penny to give to Bosel.’
‘Do you want to borrow one?’ asked William, puzzled by the hostile greeting. He rummaged in his scrip. ‘I have a couple in here somewhere that I can lend you. As a friar, I have little need for worldly wealth. When can you pay me back?’
Bartholomew tossed the sacking on to a bench, thinking that Bosel had probably been right, and that the attack had been an attempt by a thief to make off with the heavy purses all scholars were thought to possess. It had been a perfect opportunity: Bartholomew had been alone and the churchyard was free of possible witnesses. The only thing wrong with the plan was that they had picked a scholar who had forgotten his purse, and there would have been very little in it anyway.
As the sacking hit the wooden bench, there was a heavy thump. Bartholomew gave it an angry glare, recalling that something had tugged at the back of his neck – probably a weighted rope that would hold the sacking in place long enough to allow the robber to make his escape. The physician had been lucky. In the desperate days following the plague, when food was scarce and people starved in the streets, many hungry people considered a knife under the ribs the best way to rob a victim and leave no witnesses to identify them later.
‘Do not leave those rags there,’ said William peevishly. ‘I came here early this morning to give the church a good clean, and I do not want bits of sacking lying all over the place.’
‘It looks nice,’ said Bartholomew, glancing around him and noticing that the floor had been swept, the spilled wax from the candles scraped away and the holders polished, and the desiccated flies and spiders brushed from the windowsills.
William smiled, pleased by the compliment. The complacent grin faded when his gaze came to rest on the shrouded corpse that reclined near Wilson’s glittering tomb. ‘I only wish I could have swept that rubbish from our holy church, too.’
‘That is not a very friarly attitude,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But did you hear that Master Kenyngham thinks we should not have a second grisly tomb in our chancel, as Runham stipulated in his will? He says a tomb like the one Runham wants will not leave enough space for us to pray, and instead he proposes to place Runham in Wilson’s tomb – on top of his cousin.’
William chuckled nastily. ‘I have heard that Wilson did not like Runham at all, so they will make uneasy bedfellows. Or should I say grave-fellows? That tomb is hideous – it is only right that Runham should spend eternity in the thing.’
‘The requiem is to be on Thursday,’ said Bartholomew. ‘At dawn.’
‘I hope you will not be assisting the celebrant,’ said William. ‘You will be late, and Runham will spend more time above ground than is his right.’
‘I am sorry about that,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It was the combination of our activities in Runham’s chambers and sleeping on the floor in Cynric’s old room.’
William gave a reluctant smile. ‘Well, I guessed you would be late this morning anyway, because Walter took his cockerel with him when he was dismissed.’
‘That thing is more unreliable than I am. It is just as likely to oversleep as I am.’
‘And even more likely to crow half the night just for the fun of it,’ agreed William. ‘I am surprised it has not ended up in the pot before now. But I have done your chores for you already. All you need to do, Matthew, is kneel with me and pray that we catch the killer of Runham without too much inconvenience to the College. But first, you can fold up that sacking that is cluttering my clean church. What is it anyway? Where did it come from?’