A Masterly Murder Read Online Free PDF Page B

restore order, at
     which point – in a moment of rare common sense – he hastily signalled tothe Bible Scholar to begin reading, effectively preventing any further discussion during the meal.
    When the last remnants of the food had been consumed by a scowling Michael, Kenyngham rose to say another grace, but was prevented
     from leaving the hall by the vicelike fingers of Father William, who seemed about to embark on an argument there and then,
     with all the students watching the dissension between their seniors with open interest.
    ‘I suggest we Fellows adjourn to the conclave for an emergency meeting,’ said Runham, before the friar could begin a diatribe.
     He turned to the two bemused newcomers. ‘Perhaps you might care to join us. You will, after all, be expected to vote for the
     next candidate for the Mastership, so you had better see for yourselves what is on offer.’
    He gave them a smile that was far from genuine, and Bartholomew immediately saw that the vain and pompous Runham intended
     to have his own name put forward as Kenyngham’s successor. The physician grimaced: it was not an attractive proposition. Runham’s
     cousin, Thomas Wilson, had been Master of Michaelhouse during the black days of the plague, and he had not been a popular
     Head of House. The similarity between the two men was such that Bartholomew could not imagine Runham would be any better.
    He was about to follow the other Fellows into the conclave when Cynric arrived, breathing hard from a sprint across the courtyard.
     Since his marriage to a local seamstress at the end of the summer, contentment had added a ring of fat to the Welshman’s waist,
     and he was now considerably less agile. He was also happier than Bartholomew had ever seen him, and he and Rachel Atkin were
     settling down to a life of domestic bliss that delighted them both.
    ‘There has been an accident,’ Cynric gasped. ‘Someone has fallen from the scaffolding at Bene’t College and hurt himself.
     One of their porters has come to ask if you will go. He is waiting for you at the gate.’
    ‘I will come with you,’ said Michael, following the physician towards the spiral stairs.
    ‘There is no need,’ said Bartholomew, giving the monk an admonishing look as he gave his bad arm a vigorous massage.
    ‘There is every need,’ muttered Michael, scratching his arm a second time just to prove he was master of his own itches. ‘I
     do not want to spend the afternoon locked in the conclave with the likes of William, Langelee and Runham, all telling me to
     vote for them as our next Master.’
    ‘You will have to do it eventually,’ said Bartholomew. ‘If not this afternoon, then later.’
    ‘Later is better,’ said Michael. ‘By then, they will have aired their views – several times, I would imagine – and I will
     have escaped the worst of it. And anyway, I need a little time to consider my own campaign before I lock horns with the others.’
    ‘You intend to stand, then?’ asked Bartholomew, not at all surprised that an ambitious man like Michael should consider the
     Mastership of Michaelhouse a suitable prize for his talents.
    Michael nodded. ‘Of course. I am easily the best person for the task, and I do not want to lose just for the want of a little
     preparation.’
    ‘What do you mean by “preparation”?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily, suspecting that Michael’s strategy might well involve some
     less than honest tactics.
    ‘You will see,’ said Michael enigmatically. ‘But I should come with you anyway. A person injured or killed on University property
     is the business of the Senior Proctor, as I am sure you know by now.’
    ‘I most certainly do,’ said Bartholomew, not without rancour, for he had been dragged into all kinds of intrigue and murder
     by virtue of being the Senior Proctor’s close friend.
    ‘What about our meeting?’ called Langelee indignantly, as they left the hall. ‘What about discussing this decision of