A Masterly Murder Read Free Page B

pungently
     sweet odour of alcohol – far stronger than he would have expected had the smell come simply from Justus having a wineskin
     over his head for a few hours.
    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 themud 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 Michaelhousewith 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