Heltisle fixed Bartholomew with a cold stare. ‘I do not want to confide in you, but I see I have little choice. What I am about to tell you is for the Senior Proctor’s ears only. I do not want this to become an amusing story for Michaelhouse’s high table.’
‘Do not tell him!’ exclaimed Caumpes in horror. ‘He will make us a laughing stock in the University.’
‘I see nothing amusing about it,’ said Heltisle. ‘You see, physician, Wymundham preferred the company of men to women.’
‘Really,’ said Bartholomew flatly, recalling Wymundham’s brazenly effeminate manners, and the way the man had rested his hand on Bartholomew’s leg.
Heltisle glanced at him sharply, but then went on. ‘Raysoun and Wymundham were more than friends. So, you see, there is nothing odd in the fact that Raysoun died in Wymundham’s arms, or that Wymundham subsequently killed himself from grief.’
Bartholomew gazed down at the floor. Grief-stricken though he might have been, Wymundham had certainly not asphyxiated himself. Suicide by smothering was not easy to achieve, and anyway, there had been nothing at the scene of his death for him to have suffocated himself with. The nature of Wymundham’s relationship with Raysoun did not alter the fact that he had been murdered.
‘Did you know about Wymundham’s preferences?’ asked the Duke of Simeon, surprised.
Simeon tried hard not to regard the Duke in disbelief, and only partly succeeded. ‘It was very obvious, my lord.’
Heltisle agreed. ‘It is not unusual in places like this, where women are forbidden and scholars spend hours in each other’s company. I imagine Michaelhouse is no different.’
‘Is that true?’ asked the Duke salaciously.
‘I have never thought about it,’ said Bartholomew vaguely, unwilling to satisfy the Duke’s odd fascination with the subject. ‘I do not like to pry into my colleagues’ personal affairs.’
‘Then I cannot see that anything more can be gained from this discussion,’ said the Duke, sounding disappointed. ‘You are free to go, physician. Make your report to the Senior Proctor, and we will lay these two sad souls to rest for ever.’
‘What report?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I have nothing to tell him now that Raysoun and Wymundham are buried.’
‘I doubt there was more to be learned from their bodies anyway,’ said Simeon, pulling himself, with some reluctance, from his fit of pique. ‘The Senior Proctor has his beadles making enquiries in the taverns, to see if any townsmen are bragging about the murders. That is far more likely to be successful than poking about with corpses.’
‘There are no murders,’ said Heltisle in exasperation. ‘How many more times do I have to repeat myself?’
Simeon said nothing.
‘Heltisle is right,’ said the Duke. ‘There is no evidence that either of these men were murdered, but a good deal to suggest that one had an accident and the other killed himself with grief. That is what you can report to the Senior Proctor, physician. Meanwhile, you can tell your Master Runham that I am not pleased he has poached my workmen to build his own College, but I suppose as long as they do not work, I will not have to pay. How long do you plan to keep them?’
‘A month, apparently.’
‘A month?’ exclaimed Caumpes in disbelief. ‘But that is impossible! The workmen will never reface the whole of the north wing and raise a whole new courtyard in that time.’
‘They might,’ said Simeon. ‘But I would not be impressed by the quality of the completed item.’
‘A month it is, then,’ said the Duke. ‘And then they will return to Bene’t.’
‘Now just a moment,’ said Caumpes indignantly. ‘I am not prepared to stand by as Michaelhouse steals our servants and accuses us of murdering our colleagues.’
‘You will do nothing,’ said the Duke angrily. ‘I have made my decision, and I will not have squabbling scholars giving Bene’t a bad reputation in the town.’
‘It is not I who–’ began Caumpes furiously.
‘I said enough!’ roared the Duke. ‘You must learn some decent manners, Caumpes. No wonder the wealthy townsfolk are loath to associate themselves with scholars. You are all a band of bickering pedants who are more interested in rivalries with other Colleges than in learning.’
Caumpes reddened with rage. ‘Bene’t is my College. I will do anything to protect it against–’
‘Go,’ said the Duke wearily. ‘All of you. I have had more than enough of you for one day. Bring me more wine, Simeon. And Heltisle can fetch me the College accounts to inspect. Other than that, you are all dismissed from my presence.’
Bartholomew was grateful to escape from the tense atmosphere of the hall. He almost ran across the yard, slowing only when he saw a familiar pair of hips swinging vigorously as their owner bent over a steaming vat of laundry.
He went past the porters’ lodge without a word, ignoring their transparent attempts to provoke him into a confrontation. Runham might have commandeered Bene’t’s builders, but Bene’t had poached a far greater prize than that from Michaelhouse – they had Agatha the laundress.
It was almost dark when Bartholomew left Bene’t. The streets were still busy with people trying to complete their business and return home before the light faded completely. He was tired and dispirited, and did not feel at all like going back to the College where Runham lurked liked a spider in his web waiting for innocent flies.
He saw Matilde, bundled up against the chill of early evening in a fine green cloak, and yet still managing to look slim and elegant among the burlier figures of the people who surged around her. He caught her eye and waved, intending to offer to escort her home. As she gazed back, an expression of such intense hurt crossed her face that he recoiled in shock. Bewildered, he ran after her and caught her hand, but she pulled away from him, and would not answer his repeated questions as to what was wrong.
‘Is he bothering you?’ asked a rough voice. Bartholomew recognised the familiar dirty apron of the carpenter, Robert de Blaston, whose wife Yolande was a friend of Matilde’s. ‘Tell me if he is, and I will see to him.’
‘He is just leaving,’ said Matilde shortly. ‘Thank you, Robert.’
‘But, Matilde,’ protested Bartholomew. ‘What is the matter? Is it one of the sisters? Is someone ill? Can I help?’
‘Nothing you do or say will help,’ she said in a voice that was simultaneously cold and unsteady. ‘Just leave me alone. And you can take this, too!’
Before he could reply, she had turned and fled up the High Street, and Blaston’s hefty hand was on Bartholomew’s shoulder. On the ground at his feet was a fluttering green ribbon, already smeared with mud from the road. Slowly, he bent to pick it up, wondering what he could have done to distress her in the short time since they had last spoken. But, he thought, perhaps it was not him at all; perhaps something else had happened. Cambridge was a small town, and if something dire had befallen the prostitutes, he would hear about it sooner or later.
‘Lovers’ tiff?’ asked Blaston with rough sympathy.
‘Not on my part,’ said Bartholomew. He closed his eyes, disgusted at himself for virtually admitting that he, a scholar of the University, was engaged in a romantic relationship with a prostitute. Blaston patted his arm.
‘Never mind,’ he said consolingly. ‘She will come round; women always do. Just make her a gift of a bit of ribbon, and she will love you dearly until the next time you do something wrong.’
‘Perhaps it was the ribbon that did it,’ said Bartholomew, looking at the green material in his hand and thinking that he would never again take Langelee’s advice about women. ‘Maybe I should have chosen the blue one instead.’
Blaston took it from him. ‘This is a fine thing,’ he said, rubbing it between his rough fingers and ingraining filth so deeply into it that Bartholomew wondered whether it would ever be clean again. ‘Yolande would love something like this, but with nine children and a tenth on its way, such foolishness is out of the question.’