A Masterly Murder Read Free

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, andheaded 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