A Masterly Murder (2 page)

Cambridge, November 1353

^‘
I
F YOU DO NOT KEEP STILL, HOW CAN I PULL THE
sting out?’ asked Matthew Bartholomew of Brother Michael in exasperation.

‘You are hurting me!’ howled Michael, struggling as the physician bent over him again with a small pair of tweezers. ‘You
are jabbing about with those things like a woodpecker on a tree. Have you no compassion?’

‘It is only a bee sting, Brother,’ Bartholomew pointed out, bemused by the fuss the Benedictine was making. ‘And if you sit
still for just a moment I can remove it, and all your terrible suffering will be over.’

Michael regarded him suspiciously. ‘I have heard of bee stings proving fatal to some people. Are you trying to tell me something
in your discreet, physicianly way?’

Startled, Bartholomew laughed aloud. ‘It would take more than a mere bee to make an end of Brother Michael, the University’s
Senior Proctor and valued agent of the Bishop of Ely – although I have never witnessed such drama in all my life. Even children
do not squall and shriek like you do.’

‘That is probably because they do not understand what you are about to do,’ said Michael haughtily. ‘Well, come on, then;
get it over with.’

Imperiously, he thrust a flabby arm at Bartholomew and turned his head away, eyes tightly closed. Once he had deigned to
be co-operative, it was a simple task for the physician to pluck out the offending sting and then daub the afflicted area
with a salve of goose grease and juniper berries, although the monk accompanied the operation with an unremitting monologue
of complaint.

They were in Bartholomew’s medicine store at Michaelhouse, the College at the University of Cambridge where they held their
Fellowships. It was a small, dimly lit chamber, more cupboard than room, that was always filled with the bitter-sour aroma
of various potions and salves. Every available scrap of wall space was covered by overloaded shelves, and the workbench under
the window was stained and burned where ingredients had spilled as they had been mixed.

It was a damp, gloomy November day, and clouds sagged in a lumpy grey sheet across the small town and the marshy expanse of
the Fens beyond. University term was well under way, and Bartholomew could hear the stentorian tones of his colleague Father
William, who was teaching in the hall across the courtyard. Bartholomew was impressed. The previous year a generous benefactor
had paid for the windows in the hall and the adjoining conclave to be glazed, and for the Franciscan friar’s voice to carry
through the glass to the other side of the College indicated an impressive degree of volume. Bartholomew wondered how the
other masters could make themselves heard above it.

‘Right,’ he said, as he finished tending Michael’s arm. ‘That should heal nicely, if you do not scratch it.’

‘But it itches,’ protested Michael immediately. ‘It is driving me to distraction.’

‘It will itch even more if you keep fiddling with it,’ said Bartholomew unsympathetically. ‘How did you come to
be stung by a bee anyway? It is the wrong time of year for bees.’

‘Apparently not for this one,’ said Michael stiffly. ‘I bought a cake from a baker in the Market Square, and the thing decided
to share it with me. No amount of flapping and running seemed to deter it, and so I was reduced to swatting it when it landed.
Then it had the audacity to sting me.’

‘If the bee was crushed, you had the better end of the bargain. But we have been away from our students long enough. I want
mine to learn about how Galen developed the Hippocratic theory of the four humours, not about how the Devil founded the Dominican
Order, which is what Father William seems to be bawling to his students – and to the world in general – this morning.’

‘Is he really?’ asked Michael, half startled and half amused. ‘I have been in such agonies with this sting that I have not
even heard our Franciscan fanatic today – and that should tell you something of the suffering I have endured.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘William should be more discreet about his dislike of Dominicans. Master Kenyngham told me last night
that one of our two new Fellows – due to arrive today – is a Dominican.’

‘I expect Kenyngham told William, too – hence this morning’s bit of bigotry. You know the Franciscans and the Dominicans in
Cambridge loathe each other, Matt. They are always quarrelling about something they consider desperately important – usually
something the rest of us neither understand nor care about.’

‘I hope William and this new Dominican will not turn Michaelhouse into a battleground,’ said Bartholomew with feeling. ‘We
have managed to remain pleasantly free of squabbles between religious Orders so far, and I would like it to remain that way.’

‘It might spice things up a little,’ said Michael, green eyes gleaming as he contemplated the intrigues of such a situation.

‘It would not,’ said Bartholomew firmly, replacing the jar of salve in his bag and washing his hands. ‘William does not have
the intellect to embark on the kind of clever plotting you enjoy – he is more of a fists man.’

Michael laughed. ‘You are right. But you have missed your chance to enthral your students with lurid descriptions of bile,
phlegm and blood this morning, Matt, because the porter will ring the bell for the midday meal soon. Hurry up, or there will
be nothing left.’

He had shot from the storeroom and was crossing the courtyard to be first at the table, before Bartholomew could reply. The
physician smiled at the fat monk’s greed, finished tidying his chamber, and followed at a more sedate pace. He shivered as
he walked across the yard to the hall. A bitter north wind blew, bringing with it the promise of yet more rain, and perhaps
even snow. He had just reached the porch when Cynric, his book-bearer, came hurrying towards him, shouting to catch his attention.

‘You had better come with me, boy,’ said Cynric breathlessly. ‘I have just found Justus dead near Dame Nichol’s Hythe, on
the river.’

‘You mean the Justus who is John Runham’s book-bearer?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. Justus had served dinner at high table
only the previous evening. ‘How did he die? Did he drown?’

Cynric looked uncomfortable. ‘It is not for me to say – you are the physician. But come quickly before the poor man’s corpse
attracts a crowd of gawking onlookers.’

Bartholomew followed him out of the College and down the lane to the ramshackle line of jetties that lined the river bank.
They turned right along the towpath, and
headed for the last pier in the row, known as Dame Nichol’s Hythe. Dame Nichol was long since dead, and the sturdy wharf
she had financed was now in a sorry state. Its timber pillars were rotting and unsafe, and huge gaps in its planking threatened
to deposit anyone standing on it into the sluggish brown waters of the River Cam below. The bank behind was little more than
a midden, cluttered with discarded crates, broken barrels and scraps of unwanted clothing, and the fetid mud was impregnated
with human and animal waste. The whole area stank of decaying, wet wood and sewage.

In the summer, the wharves – even Dame Nichol’s – were hives of activity, with barges from France and the Low Countries arriving
daily, loaded with all manner of exotic goods, as well as the more mundane wool, grain and stone for building. In the winter,
however, the colourful bustle of the tiny docks all but ceased, and that day only a few shabbily dressed bargemen laboured
in the chill wind, slowly and listlessly removing peat faggots from a leaking flat-bottomed skiff. Two gulls watched Bartholomew
and Cynric with sharp yellow eyes, waiting for them to be gone so that they could resume their scavenging for the discarded
fish entrails and eel heads that lay festering and rank in the sticky muck of the towpath.

Cynric’s fears that Justus’s body would attract hordes of intrigued townsfolk were unfounded: the toiling bargemen – and
even the birds – were not interested in it. Life was hard for many people following the Great Pestilence that had swept across
the country, and it was not uncommon for desperate souls to end it all in the murky depths of the river. Justus lay disregarded
and uncared for amid the scrubby weeds and filth, no more popular or remarkable in death than he had been in life.

Justus had been the servant of a Michaelhouse Fellow
called John Runham, although Bartholomew had always been under the impression that they did not like each other. He could
understand why: Runham was smug, condescending and arrogant; Justus was self-absorbed and dismal.

‘I found him when I came to buy peat for the College fires,’ explained Cynric. ‘I noticed a stray dog sniffing around, and
when I came to see what it had discovered, I saw Justus. At least, I assume it is Justus. He is wearing that horrible tunic
Justus always donned when he was not working.’

Cynric had a point about the corpse’s identity. The bizarrely patterned garment of which Justus had been so fond was all that
could be immediately identified, because a thick leather wineskin had been pulled over the body’s head and then tied tight
under the chin with twine. Bartholomew crouched down and undid it, noting it had been knotted at the front in the imperfect,
haphazard way he would expect from a suicide. He drew it off, hearing Cynric’s soft intake of breath as he saw the dark, swollen
features of the dead book-bearer.

‘Well, it is Justus right enough,’ said Cynric grimly. ‘I would recognise those big yellow teeth anywhere. Did he kill himself?’

‘It looks that way,’ said Bartholomew, inspecting the wineskin. It was a coarse, watertight sack, designed to hold cheap brews
for those not able to afford the better wines that came in casks. Because the bag had been sealed with resin to make it leak-proof,
it was also air-proof, and once the rope had been tightened around the neck, it had suffocated the wearer.

‘Justus was never a contented man,’ said Cynric, regarding his fellow book-bearer pityingly. ‘He was always complaining about
something. And he envied me my happiness with Rachel.’ He gave a sudden and
inappropriate grin. ‘Married life is a fine thing, boy. You should try it.’

‘Perhaps I will one day,’ said Bartholomew vaguely, unwilling to indulge in such a discussion when one of the College servants
lay dead at his feet. ‘But first, I want to be certain that Justus killed himself, and that no one gave him a helping hand
into the next world.’

‘But why would anyone do that?’ asked Cynric, surprised. ‘He had nothing worth stealing, because he spent all he earned on
wine or ale. None of his clothes are missing as far as I can see, and here is his dagger – not a very valuable item, but one
that would have been stolen had he been murdered for his possessions.’

Bartholomew inspected the dead man in more detail, checking for signs that Justus might have been involved in a struggle.
He examined the man’s hands, but they were unmarked and the fingernails showed no evidence that he had clawed at an assailant.
Ignoring an exclamation of disgust from Cynric, Bartholomew sniffed cautiously at Justus’s mouth, and detected the pungently
sweet odour of alcohol – far stronger than he would have expected had the smell come simply from Justus having a wineskin
over his head for a few hours.

The front-tied knot on the bag, plus the fact that Justus had probably been in his cups when he had died, suggested to Bartholomew
that the servant had drunk himself into a state of gloom and had chosen suffocation with the wineskin as a reasonably easy
death. Justus was seldom without wine to hand, so it was not inconceivable that he should choose such a method to dispatch
himself. And, as Cynric had pointed out, Justus was a naturally miserable man who was given to moods of black despair.

Poor Justus, he thought, sitting back on his heels and gazing down at the contorted features that lay in the
mud in front of him. Life as book-bearer to a demanding and ill-tempered master like John Runham could not have been especially
pleasant, but Bartholomew had not imagined it was bad enough to drive a man to suicide. He wondered what aspect of Justus’s
existence had caused him to end his life in such a pathetic way and to select as unsavoury and grimy a spot as Dame Nichol’s
Hythe in which to do it.

While Cynric went to summon porters to carry Justus’s body to St Michael’s Church, and to report what had happened to Brother
Michael, who as Senior Proctor would need to give a verdict on the sudden death of a University servant, Bartholomew waited,
gazing down at the body that lay in front of him.

It was damp from dew, and stiff, suggesting that it had been there for some hours. Bartholomew supposed that serving dinner
at Michaelhouse the evening before had been one of the last things Justus had done. He racked his brains, trying to recall
whether Justus had seemed more morose than usual, but the book-bearer was so habitually sullen that Bartholomew was not sure
whether he would have noticed anyway.

It was not long before Michael arrived, bustling importantly along the river bank, and more breathless than he should have
been from the short walk from his College.

‘Suicide?’ he panted, scratching his bad arm. ‘I am not surprised. Justus was a morose beggar, and was always moaning about
something. I have never met a more gloom-ridden man – and that includes all the Franciscans in my acquaintance! Well? When
did he do it?’

‘I cannot tell specifically, but probably last night.’

‘He served us dinner last night,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘And shortly
after that I saw him leave Michaelhouse
with a full wineskin dangling from one hand. Could I have been the last person to see him alive?’

‘Possibly,’ replied Bartholomew, sorry that he had not been aware of the extent of Justus’s misery before it had led to such
irreversible measures. The community of scholars and servants at Michaelhouse was not large, and someone should have noticed
Justus’s sufferings and tried to help.

Michael glanced around at the insalubrious surroundings of Dame Nichol’s Hythe and gave a fastidious shudder. ‘He could have
picked a better spot than this to spend his last moments on Earth.’