Free A Masterly Murder by Susanna Gregory Page A

embarrassment or because the topic of conversation was tiresome to her, Bartholomew
     could not tell.
    ‘She certainly knows her remedies for equine ailments,’ he agreed carefully. ‘But Fellows are not permitted to marry, Sir
     Henry. I regret to inform you that I am not available.’
    ‘Pity,’ said Tangmer. ‘I shall have to think of someone else.’
    ‘Do not trouble yourself, father,’ said Adela. ‘If I decide I want a man, I am quite capable of grabbing him for myself.’
    Bartholomew was sure she was. He made his farewells, and resumed his walk to Michaelhouse. As he approached it, a thickset
     figure uncoiled itself from where it had been leaning against the wall. It was Osmun, the surly porter from Bene’t College.
    ‘I have been waiting for you,’ he said, moving towardsBartholomew in a manner that was vaguely threatening. The physician took two steps backward, and wondered whether his book-bearer
     would hear him from inside Michaelhouse if he shouted for help.
    ‘What do you want?’ he asked uneasily. ‘Is someone ill?’
    ‘If they were, I would not send for you to help,’ replied Osmun nastily. ‘I would rather call on Robin of Grantchester.’
    ‘I do not have time for this,’ said Bartholomew, trying to edge past the man. He recoiled at the stench of old garlic and
     onions on Osmun’s breath as the porter suddenly moved forward and grabbed a fistful of Bartholomew’s tabard.
    ‘Runham’s servant Justus was my cousin,’ he hissed. ‘He was my uncle’s son, and he came to Cambridge from Lincoln because
     I said there were opportunities to be had here. But now he is dead. He killed himself with a wineskin.’
    ‘I am sorry,’ said Bartholomew, shrugging Osmun’s dirty hand from his clothes. ‘I did not know you were related.’ He refrained
     from suggesting that a little family support might not have gone amiss when Justus was in some of his more gloomy moods.
    ‘I want his personal effects,’ Osmun went on. ‘He had a nice tunic and a dagger. He spent all his money on wine, but I will
     have his clothes and that knife he always carried.’
    ‘I will inform Runham,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We did not know he had any kinsmen in the town.’
    ‘We did not see much of each other,’ said Osmun, almost defiantly. ‘But as his closest living relative, I am entitled to his
     things. Make sure they are sent to me.’
    ‘Very well.’ Bartholomew paused, his hand on the latch to the wicket gate. ‘As Justus’s next of kin, you may findyourself responsible for his burial, as well as his personal effects. I am sure Runham will be delighted to be relieved of
     that particular duty.’
    ‘Oh, no,’ said Osmun confidently. ‘I checked all that before I came here. Justus’s burial is Michaelhouse’s responsibility,
     because he was Runham’s servant. You just make sure that fat lawyer understands that. I know my rights.’
    He turned and strode away, leaving Bartholomew alone. The physician had only just closed the gate, when Cynric came to greet
     him, telling him he had been asked to visit Sheriff Tulyet’s home as soon as possible.
    Abandoning hope of getting anything to eat, he trudged back through the muck of the High Street to the handsome house on Bridge
     Street where Richard Tulyet lived with his wife and child.
    Bartholomew liked Tulyet, a small, energetic man whose boyish appearance belied a considerable strength of character and a
     rare talent for keeping law and order in the uneasy town; he found he was looking forward to paying a visit to the Sheriff’s
     neat and pleasant home.
    Tulyet’s son, a lively youngster of three with quick fingers and an inquisitive mind, had managed to insert a stick of his
     father’s sealing wax in his nose, and it was stuck fast. While the anxious parents hovered and offered unhelpful advice and
     Baby Tulyet screamed himself into a red-faced fury, Bartholomew struggled to extricate the wax in one piece.
    When it was done, and the