Bartholomew smiled. ‘There is nothing I would like more.’
Michael’s green eyes grew large and round when he saw the state of his friend but he said nothing. He followed the physician into his room, which still lay under a thick coat of dust from the collapse of the scaffolding, and Bartholomew felt a pang of regret when he realised that Cynric would not be in to help him clean it, or to leave fresh water in the jug on the floor by the table. He fetched his own, and went to the lavatorium, trying to sluice away the stench of the Ditch.
When he had finished, Michael was waiting, but the monk wrinkled his nose in disgust and went to fetch some of the coarse-grained scented soap they had seen in Master Runham’s room. It was not pleasant standing on the cold flagstone floor of the lavatorium while Michael threw jug after jug of water over him, and the soap was rough on Bartholomew’s skin. But it smelled powerfully of lavender, and he imagined most people would consider it an improvement on the rank stench of the Ditch. He rubbed the soap in his hair, revolted by the brown sludge that washed out as Michael tipped water over his head.
Between deluges, he told Michael about the meeting between Heytesbury and Simeon. The monk was delighted that Simeon had underestimated him, and began speculating on the advantages Heytesbury’s information would hold for Cambridge at Oxford’s expense. He was especially gratified to learn that Langelee also had Oxford connections, and swore that the philosopher’s hypocrisy would be exposed at some future time, when it would be most damaging.
‘I will be Master of Michaelhouse yet, and Langelee will be sorry he ever crossed me,’ he vowed, pulling a face when he saw that the filth of the Ditch still clung to Bartholomew’s skin. ‘This is going to take for ever. What were you doing, anyway? Making mud pies? And I am not sure that this reeking soap of Runham’s is any improvement. You will smell like a whore, and Father William will think you have been rubbing up against Matilde.’
Bartholomew ignored him. ‘Runham was not a man who seemed especially interested in hygiene. I wonder why he kept so much soap in his room.’
‘He took it to Wilson’s tomb,’ said Michael.
Bartholomew regarded him uncertainly through his dripping hair. ‘Like a votive offering, you mean? That sounds rather pagan.’
‘That is what I thought, but I saw him doing it at least twice. If you look behind that altar, you will see it is packed with the stuff. It is the strong odour of this soap that always made me sneeze if I went too close – a good excuse for not praying there, I always thought.’
‘So that is why Wilson’s tomb always smells like a brothel. Sometimes the scent was so powerful that I could barely breathe – like when Runham demanded that I knelt next to him there the morning after the feast. What an odd thing for him to do.’
‘Hurry up,’ said Michael, pouring more water over the physician’s head. ‘Or we will miss our meal. And do not be shy with the soap. Runham will not be needing it to make his cousin’s tomb smell pretty now.’
Bartholomew scrubbed vigorously, noting with distaste the amount of dirt that swirled around his feet. Suddenly he dropped the soap with a yelp of pain, clutching his arm.
‘What now?’ asked Michael impatiently, dashing the last of the water at Bartholomew as the physician inspected his arm. ‘Never mind. That will do. Get dressed quickly before the bell rings. Agatha promised to make a mess of eggs and bacon fat today, to celebrate her return.’
‘So that is the hurry, is it?’ asked Bartholomew, shivering as he rubbed himself dry with a piece of sacking. He reached for a clean shirt. ‘Runham’s soap might be generous on scent, but it is as coarse as stone. That hurt.’
Michael picked it up from the floor, and was about to toss it in the empty water jug when he saw the faint glitter of metal.
‘No wonder you howled,’ he said. ‘There is something in it.’
He rummaged in Bartholomew’s medicine bag for a surgical knife, and poked about with it while the physician finished dressing. Eventually, he had prised an object free of the waxy substance, and spent a few moments paring the excess soap away so that he could be certain of what he held.
‘I do not understand this,’ he said, bewildered, as he inspected a small crucifix. ‘This is part of the College’s silver.’
‘The silver that Runham sold to raise funds for his buildings?’ asked Bartholomew, equally bemused. ‘But what is it doing in his soap?’
‘I think when we know the answer to that, we will understand why he died,’ said Michael grimly.
‘What about your eggs in bacon fat?’ asked Bartholomew, as the monk started to stride across the courtyard towards the gate.
Michael faltered, then changed direction abruptly. ‘You are right. I am a lot better at grave-robbing when I have a full stomach.’
‘Grave-robbing?’ asked Bartholomew in alarm. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘I am talking about retrieving the rest of the soap from Wilson’s altar and seeing what else it contains,’ said Michael. ‘But first things first. I have not tasted Agatha’s egg mess for ages, and you look as if you could do with a good meal. You are unnaturally thin these days.’
The bell had started to ring, so they made their way to the hall and ate a hasty meal, while Father William reported in great detail the lack of success of his own investigations into Master Runham’s murder. Kenyngham, occupying the Master’s seat again, did not pay the friar any attention, and gazed beatifically at one of the stained-glass windows, evidently reflecting on some religious matter that was uplifting to his soul.
Clippesby sat alone, barely eating and wearing the expression of a man hunted. Bartholomew wondered whether William or Suttone had been indiscreet in their surveillance of him, and that the Dominican knew he was under suspicion of murdering his Master. Bartholomew also wondered whether Clippesby could shed light on why Runham saw fit to keep the College silver in his soap. Was Clippesby Runham’s seller – the man who took the purloined goods from their hiding place in the church and passed them to the blithely innocent, or to the less innocent who did not care as long as a profit could be made? Clippesby might not be entirely sane, but he was also cunning in his own way. He certainly had the intelligence to fence stolen goods.
Between Clippesby and William sat Suttone, trying not to let William’s strident voice distract him as he read a psalter. His grimaces as he tried to concentrate suggested he was having serious doubts about whether Michaelhouse was the right place for him. Bartholomew sincerely hoped he would not leave, and made a mental note to try to spend some time with him, to convince him that Michaelhouse had a lot to offer.
Langelee sat at the end of the table, his nose buried in a cup that Bartholomew was fairly sure did not contain the customary small ale, but something a little stronger. As soon as he could, Michael made his apologies to Kenyngham and asked to be excused, leaving the other Fellows curious as to what could be so important as to make the monk rise from the table while there was still bread to be eaten and the egg-mess bowl to be scraped.
‘We will go to St Michael’s Church immediately,’ said Michael, as Bartholomew followed him down the spiral stairs and into the yard. ‘We will look behind this altar of Runham’s, and bring any soap we find back to the College. And then we will decide what to do next.’
They were about to open the front gate when Walter came hurrying out from the porter’s lodge, his gloomy face anxious. He was working days at Michaelhouse in the hope he would be reappointed. ‘I would not open that, if I were you, Brother,’ he advised. ‘Some of your choir are outside.’
‘So?’ asked Michael irritably. ‘What do you think they might do? Sing to me?’