A Masterly Murder Read Free Page A

goods, as well as the more mundane wool, grain and stone for building. In the winter,
     however, the colourful bustle of the tiny docks all but ceased, and that day only a few shabbily dressed bargemen laboured
     in the chill wind, slowly and listlessly removing peat faggots from a leaking flat-bottomed skiff. Two gulls watched Bartholomew
     and Cynric with sharp yellow eyes, waiting for them to be gone so that they could resume their scavenging for the discarded
     fish entrails and eel heads that lay festering and rank in the sticky muck of the towpath.
    Cynric’s fears that Justus’s body would attract hordes of intrigued townsfolk were unfounded: the toiling bargemen – and
     even the birds – were not interested in it. Life was hard for many people following the Great Pestilence that had swept across
     the country, and it was not uncommon for desperate souls to end it all in the murky depths of the river. Justus lay disregarded
     and uncared for amid the scrubby weeds and filth, no more popular or remarkable in death than he had been in life.
    Justus had been the servant of a Michaelhouse Fellowcalled John Runham, although Bartholomew had always been under the impression that they did not like each other. He could
     understand why: Runham was smug, condescending and arrogant; Justus was self-absorbed and dismal.
    ‘I found him when I came to buy peat for the College fires,’ explained Cynric. ‘I noticed a stray dog sniffing around, and
     when I came to see what it had discovered, I saw Justus. At least, I assume it is Justus. He is wearing that horrible tunic
     Justus always donned when he was not working.’
    Cynric had a point about the corpse’s identity. The bizarrely patterned garment of which Justus had been so fond was all that
     could be immediately identified, because a thick leather wineskin had been pulled over the body’s head and then tied tight
     under the chin with twine. Bartholomew crouched down and undid it, noting it had been knotted at the front in the imperfect,
     haphazard way he would expect from a suicide. He drew it off, hearing Cynric’s soft intake of breath as he saw the dark, swollen
     features of the dead book-bearer.
    ‘Well, it is Justus right enough,’ said Cynric grimly. ‘I would recognise those big yellow teeth anywhere. Did he kill himself?’
    ‘It looks that way,’ said Bartholomew, inspecting the wineskin. It was a coarse, watertight sack, designed to hold cheap brews
     for those not able to afford the better wines that came in casks. Because the bag had been sealed with resin to make it leak-proof,
     it was also air-proof, and once the rope had been tightened around the neck, it had suffocated the wearer.
    ‘Justus was never a contented man,’ said Cynric, regarding his fellow book-bearer pityingly. ‘He was always complaining about
     something. And he envied me my happiness with Rachel.’ He gave a sudden andinappropriate grin. ‘Married life is a fine thing, boy. You should try it.’
    ‘Perhaps I will one day,’ said Bartholomew vaguely, unwilling to indulge in such a discussion when one of the College servants
     lay dead at his feet. ‘But first, I want to be certain that Justus killed himself, and that no one gave him a helping hand
     into the next world.’
    ‘But why would anyone do that?’ asked Cynric, surprised. ‘He had nothing worth stealing, because he spent all he earned on
     wine or ale. None of his clothes are missing as far as I can see, and here is his dagger – not a very valuable item, but one
     that would have been stolen had he been murdered for his possessions.’
    Bartholomew inspected the dead man in more detail, checking for signs that Justus might have been involved in a struggle.
     He examined the man’s hands, but they were unmarked and the fingernails showed no evidence that he had clawed at an assailant.
     Ignoring an exclamation of disgust from Cynric, Bartholomew sniffed cautiously at Justus’s mouth, and detected the