Susanna GREGORY: A Masterly Murder

The friar smiled. It was not a pleasant smile, and there was more malice than friendship in it. ‘I heard a story about one of your Bene’t colleagues the other day. He sold several bracelets to Harold of Haslingfield, the goldsmith.’

‘And?’ asked the scholar when the friar paused. ‘What of it? Were they stolen property?’

The friar raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. ‘Stolen property? What kind of men do you admit as Fellows of Bene’t College, if you can so blithely ask me that sort of question?’

The scholar sighed irritably. ‘You know very well what kind of men are at Bene’t. Tell me about this jewellery.’

‘You are not the only one to question its origins. Harold the goldsmith was offered such an attractive price for these trinkets that he took them to his fellow guild members and to the Sheriff, to see whether anyone might recognise them as the proceeds of crime.’

‘Well?’ snapped the scholar, when the friar paused again. ‘Were they?’

The friar shrugged, knowing he was infuriating his companion with his trickle of information, but enjoying the sensation of power it brought. The scholar wanted to know what was being said about his College and since the University was so unpopular with the citizens of Cambridge, listening to the friar’s idle chatter would be the scholar’s only opportunity to learn what the town thought of Bene’t.

‘No one could say,’ the Franciscan replied carelessly. ‘The Sheriff and the honourable members of the Goldsmiths’ Guild said no such items had been reported as stolen, and that was the end of the matter.’

‘So why are you telling me this?’ demanded the scholar irritably. ‘That one of my colleagues sold a goldsmith jewellery that was not stolen is hardly an intriguing topic of conversation.’

The friar gave his secretive smile, unperturbed by the scholar’s prickliness. ‘I am informing you that a Fellow of Bene’t is dabbling in the gold market. I assumed you would be interested.’

Suddenly, from across the river drifted a mournful, mysterious noise that made both men gaze at each other in alarm. It was a discordant, grating, chilling sound, like dozens of tomcats on a moonlit night, and it stilled the laughing voices of the playing children as abruptly as if a bucket of cold water had been dashed over them. Even the pigeons were momentarily startled into silence.

‘What in God’s name is that?’ breathed the friar, looking around him uneasily.

‘Nothing – in God’s name,’ said the scholar, beginning to laugh, his bad temper at the friar’s piecemeal revelations forgotten. ‘Those inharmonious tones come from the Michaelhouse choir. They practise on Sunday afternoons.’

‘Well, that must keep the congregation’s numbers down,’ said the friar, crossing himself hurriedly. ‘I am surprised they are allowed to disturb the peace like that on the Sabbath.’

‘Michaelhouse probably bribes the Sheriff to turn a deaf ear. But never mind those caterwaulers. Did you hear about the Bursar of Ovyng Hostel? He has been drunk in the Brazen George three times this week!’

‘No!’ said the friar in scandalised glee. ‘Has he really?’

The scholar nodded. ‘And the word is that Ovyng’s philosophy teacher is so poorly sighted these days that he cannot even make out the titles on the books he uses in his classes. The Master pretends not to notice, because the philosopher is an old friend, but is it fair of him to take the fees of students and then abandon them to the care of a man who can no longer read?’

The friar shook his head disapprovingly, although his eyes gleamed with spite. ‘I should say not. It is disgraceful!’

‘And one of our porters told me that an Ovyng student stole – stole – a plum cake from the baker in Bridge Street yesterday. What kind of men enrol in the University these days? Thieves, frauds and drunkards!’

‘Especially the so-called scholars at Ovyng and Bene’t,’ said the friar, and both men laughed.

Their voices clattered on, malicious and vindictive, as they continued to walk towards Newnham. Concealed behind the clump of oak trees near the path, two more men wearing the blue tabards of Bene’t College regarded each other sombrely.

‘You see?’ asked one of the other bitterly. ‘He does not care who he chatters to, or what he says about our College. He is a wicked gossip, and, if he is allowed to continue unchecked, he will do Bene’t all manner of harm.’

His colleague nodded slowly. ‘Then we will have to ensure that does not happen,’ he said softly, fingering the dagger at his side.

Cambridge, November 1353

‘IF 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.’