‘Do not be so hard on it,’ said Una. ‘I like a drop of Widow’s Wine myself on occasion.’
‘The occasion must be when you are too drunk to know what is good for you,’ said Matilde, unimpressed. ‘Personally, I would never touch the stuff. I have heard that it is brewed with pine resin to give it its strength, and that a dead fox is added to the vats to improve its flavour.’
Bartholomew felt more sick than ever.
‘That is why it is popular with young men,’ said Yolande. ‘My husband’s apprentices love it. It is cheap, strong and, after the first cup, its taste does not matter. Were you two out on the town, then, indulging in a little debauchery to break the monotony of all those books you read?’
‘We elected two new Fellows tonight,’ said Bartholomew. ‘After the ceremony, we had a feast.’
‘With Widow’s Wine?’ asked Matilde, laughing in amused horror. ‘Is that how Michaelhouse scholars choose to celebrate?’
‘I cannot imagine what Master Kenyngham was thinking of,’ agreed Michael. ‘I suppose he was offered a few barrels cheaply, and did not know its reputation. It is powerful stuff. I, too, feel a little more merry than I would usually do after a mere nine cups.’
‘So, which is the latest murder you are investigating?’ asked Yolande, as she watched Bartholomew bend carefully to resume his examination of her foot. She snapped her fingers. ‘It must be the one where the Franciscan was stabbed in the grounds of Ovyng Hostel.’
‘That is one of them,’ said Michael. ‘I do not suppose any of the sisterhood saw someone fleeing the scene of that little crime, did they?’
The three women shook their heads.
‘But it was probably another scholar,’ suggested Una helpfully. ‘It has all the hallmarks of an internal killing.’
‘Really?’ asked Michael drolly. ‘And what would those be, pray?’
Matilde made an impatient sound at the back of her throat. ‘You know very well, Michael. When townsmen kill a scholar, it is nearly always in the heat of the moment, during or after a brawl. But this friar was killed silently and quickly, with no witnesses. It was clearly no spontaneous attack, but a carefully planned murder – an academic murder.’
Michael looked thoughtful. ‘You may be right. But I have absolutely nowhere to start with this one – Brother Patrick was fairly new to Ovyng Hostel, and had no time to make serious enemies. And he came from a tiny friary in a part of Norfolk that no one has ever heard of, so I doubt a quarrel could have followed him here.’
‘Perhaps he saw something he should not have done, and was killed in order to ensure his silence,’ suggested Una.
‘But you just said the killing bore the hallmarks of a carefully planned execution,’ said Michael. ‘That does not tally with Patrick seeing something and an assailant deciding he should not live to tell the tale. Saw what, anyway?’
‘It is more likely that he heard something,’ said Matilde thoughtfully.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Michael. ‘Did you know Brother Patrick?’
‘Only by reputation,’ said Matilde carefully.
‘But he had only recently arrived at Ovyng Hostel,’ said Michael. ‘How could he have a reputation?’
‘It does not take long to establish one,’ Matilde pointed out. ‘One of the sisters entertained him on several occasions and was astonished at the amount of gossip he knew, even though he had only been in the town for a few weeks.’
‘Patrick was a gossip?’ asked Michael.
‘Quite a shameless one,’ said Matilde. ‘From what I could tell, he and our sister spent most of their time together engaged in a scurrilous exchange of information. That is why I suggested that he may have been killed because he had heard something someone did not want him to know.’
‘But gossips seldom know secrets worth much,’ said Michael. ‘Because they are gossips, people do not tend to confide in them, and they only have access to information that is common knowledge. I do not think his loose tongue would have been sufficient reason to kill him.’
‘My experience tells me otherwise,’ argued Matilde. ‘No one likes a gossip – especially if his tale-telling harms you or your loved ones.’
‘What is the other case you have?’ asked Una, watching Bartholomew manipulate Yolande’s foot with the exaggerated care of the intoxicated. ‘You said the friar’s death was one of the ones you were working on – what is the other?’
‘Is it the one where the baker killed the potter in the King’s Head?’ asked Yolande. ‘Or the one where the surgeon Robin of Grantchester is accused of murdering Master Saddler by chopping off his leg on Thursday afternoon?’
‘Neither of those,’ said Michael.
‘Robin has been charged with Saddler’s murder?’ asked Bartholomew, looking up in horror. ‘But Saddler was ill anyway. His leg should have been amputated weeks ago, but he refused to allow anyone to do it.’
‘You medical men always stick together,’ said Una in disgust.
‘You will not have to amputate my leg, will you?’ asked Yolande nervously.
‘Hardly,’ said Bartholomew. ‘All that is wrong with you is that your shoes are too tight – you need to buy a larger pair.’
‘Oh, very practical!’ said Matilde crossly, her hands on her hips as Bartholomew stood up. ‘And where is she supposed to find the money to buy new shoes with nine children to feed?’
‘Slit them,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The shoes, I mean, not the children. Give them to me; I will do it for you.’
‘You will not,’ said Matilde, snatching the shoe away from him. ‘You are drunk and I do not want you wielding knives in my house. Her husband will do it for her tomorrow.’
‘So, which murder are you investigating?’ asked Una, opening her mouth so that Bartholomew could inspect her sore gums. Resting a hand on the wall, he leaned over her, hoping he would not slip and end up in her lap.
‘It is not murder,’ said Michael. ‘At least, I do not think so. A scholar fell from the scaffolding surrounding Bene’t College two days ago.’
‘Oh, that,’ said Yolande, disappointed. ‘My husband told me about it – he is one of the carpenters who is working on Bene’t. He told me that Raysoun was so miserly that he was always climbing up the scaffolding to make sure that none of the workmen were slacking. Because Raysoun was no longer young, and because he liked a drink or two – just like you, Doctor Bartholomew – my Robert said it was only a matter of time before he fell.’
‘Really?’ asked Michael.
Yolande gave a grin, revealing yellowed stumps of teeth. ‘Have I helped you, then?’
‘You may have done,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘His friend, Wymundham, has just been found dead near the King’s Ditch – in Mayor Horwoode’s garden, to be precise.’
‘I am sure the Mayor had nothing to do with it,’ said Yolande immediately. ‘I have visited him every Friday for years and know him well. He is too indecisive to kill anyone.’
Michael laughed. ‘I have never heard that used as a defence before, but I will bear it in mind. But no more of murder, ladies. It is delightful to sit and enjoy some congenial companionship. I was saying only tonight that Michaelhouse would benefit from a little female company now and again.’
‘It certainly would,’ said Matilde fervently. ‘I have seldom seen such an unprepossessing array of people – especially that revolting Runham.’
‘Do not speak ill of him,’ said Michael, in tones that suggested they should. ‘Runham was elected Michaelhouse’s new Master this evening. Kenyngham has retired.’
Matilde regarded Bartholomew in dismay, as though he were responsible for electing Runham single-handed. ‘What possessed you to select a man like that, Matthew? He will be a tyrant.’