Susanna GREGORY: A Masterly Murder

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.’

‘I imagine the quality of the scenery was not uppermost in his mind,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He probably saw this only as somewhere he would not be disturbed.’

Michael nodded. ‘Few people wander here after dark. Well, it is obvious what happened: Justus came here alone last night intending to drink himself into oblivion, became overly despondent – as he often did when he was in his cups – and decided to do away with himself.’

Bartholomew could see no reason to disagree with him. ‘The cord was fairly taut around his neck, but not so tight as to leave a mark. He must have knotted it there, and then slowly slipped into unconsciousness from lack of air. There is no damage to his hands, so he did not fight against it.’

‘And he is still in possession of his clothes and dagger, which suggests to me that he lay undisturbed until Cynric found him this morning,’ concluded Michael. ‘Poor man.’

Cynric arrived with two porters and a stretcher, and Bartholomew and Michael began to walk back to Michaelhouse while the servants followed with the body. Bartholomew noticed that the corpse had been covered as an automatic mark of respect, although a filthy horse-blanket hastily snatched from the stable had been used. There would be little mourning for the book-bearer, and Bartholomew wondered whether any of his colleagues would even bother to attend his burial.

‘Come on, Matt,’ said Michael, taking his arm, and hauling him along with surprising speed for a man who looked so flabby. ‘We can still make the midday meal if we are quick! I was only able to grab a lump of bread before you sent for me.’

‘A missed meal will do you no harm,’ said Bartholomew, eyeing the monk’s substantial girth critically. ‘It might even prove beneficial. I do not think it can be healthy to be so fat.’

‘What nonsense you speak sometimes,’ said Michael scathingly. ‘Being a Master of Theology, the Senior Proctor, an adviser to the Bishop of Ely …’

‘Spy for the Bishop of Ely,’ corrected Bartholomew.

‘… and a Fellow of Michaelhouse is a tiring business, and I need all the sustenance I can lay my hands on. Anyway, how did you come by this ridiculous notion that well-built men are unhealthy? Even a half-wit can see that the people who are ill most frequently are those who do not have enough to eat. Nearly all your patients are skinny people with appetites like sparrows.’

‘But most of my patients are poor. The poor tend to be thinner than the rich, because they cannot afford the luxury of gluttony.’

‘Well, there you are then,’ said Michael triumphantly. ‘Everyone knows the poor are subject to more diseases than the rich, and you have just acknowledged that poor people are thin. Ergo , being thin makes you susceptible to a greater number of illnesses. You are a strange sort of physician, Matt, always flying in the face of logic to form your own peculiar theories. No wonder your medical colleagues are convinced you are a heretic.’

‘I do not have many medical colleagues left,’ said Bartholomew dismally. ‘Those who survived the plague have either died or moved on to more lucrative positions. Only Master Lynton from Peterhouse and Robin of Grantchester remain.’

‘You should not claim Robin of Grantchester as a colleague,’ advised Michael. ‘First, he is a surgeon, not a physician. And second, he kills more people than he saves. I hear he is going to amputate Master Saddler’s leg today, even though Saddler will gain more from a priest than a surgeon, from what I am told.’

‘Robin plans to operate?’ said Bartholomew, surprised. ‘Saddler will not survive if he does. Amputation might have saved him two weeks ago, but not now. Robin is a fool to try.’

‘He is a fool with three shillings in his pocket,’ said Michael. ‘He always collects payment in advance – if he did the honourable thing and only charged patients who lived, he would starve. And speaking of starving, there is the bell for the midday meal.’ He beamed happily, Justus and the unsavoury image of Cambridge’s surgeon firmly pushed from his mind as he anticipated happier things. ‘We are just in time.’

Leaving the monk to hurry to his meal, Bartholomew went to wash in the basin of water that always stood on the floor of his room. It was a peculiarity of his that he always rinsed his hands after touching corpses, much to the disdainful amusement of his less fastidious colleagues. As he scrubbed them dry with a piece of sacking, he gazed out of his window.

In the dull, metallic light of November, the College looked stark and comfortless. With the exception of the hall and conclave, none of the windows had glass, and the scholars were faced with two choices: to close the shutters and have a room that was cold and dark, or leave them open for one that was very cold but light enough to see in. To compound the problem, Michaelhouse only provided fuel for fires in the communal rooms, not for individual chambers. Some scholars could afford to buy their own wood, but Bartholomew, with nothing but his Fellow’s salary of four marks a year, could not. His training as a physician might have made him rich, but he found it more satisfying to treat the diseases and ailments of the poor, than to dispense purges and astrological advice to the wealthy. The fees paid by the few who could recompense him for his services only just covered the expenses incurred in providing for his less affluent clients.