Free A Masterly Murder by Susanna Gregory Page B

child was all smiles and false innocence in the comfort of his loving mother’s lap – although the
     physician saw chubby fingers already reaching for his father’s official seal – Tulyet offered Bartholomew some refreshment
     in the small room at the back of the house that he used as an office.
    ‘I would keep this locked, if I were you,’ said Bartholomew,seeing in the cosy chamber an impressive array of sharp, heavy, sticky, dirty and fragile objects that would provide Baby
     Tulyet with hours of dangerous delight.
    ‘I will, from now on,’ said Tulyet, handing Bartholomew some rich red wine in a carved crystal goblet. He prodded at the fire
     that burned merrily in the hearth, and indicated for the physician to make himself comfortable. Bartholomew sat, stretching
     his hands to the flickering flames.
    The Sheriff gave a huge sigh, and took a substantial gulp of wine, before collapsing heavily into the chair opposite. He wiped
     an unsteady hand over his face, shaken by his son’s howls of fright and pain. Evidently considering the traumas of parenthood
     more terrifying than mere law enforcement, he changed the subject.
    ‘I hear your scholars are murdering each other again, Matt. I am glad it is Brother Michael’s task to investigate matters
     involving the University and not mine. You academics seldom commit good, simple crimes – you always seem to go in for convoluted
     ones.’
    ‘Who told you a murder was committed?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised. ‘I did not think Raysoun’s claim was common knowledge
     yet. Or do you mean Justus the book-bearer? He committed suicide.’
    ‘I was referring to the Franciscan who was killed this morning,’ said Tulyet, eyeing him askance. ‘My God, Matt! How many
     deaths have there been in that festering pit of crime and disorder that you see fit to call a place of learning?’
    ‘Just the two,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Well, three, I suppose, if you say a Franciscan has died.’
    ‘Three deaths! In less than two days!’ exclaimed Tulyet, appalled. ‘As I said, give me good, honest town criminals any day.
     But have one of these “hat-cakes”. My wife bakesthem for me because she thinks I am too thin for the good of my health.’
    Tulyet’s wife was an excellent cook, and her husband’s wealth meant that she could afford to use ingredients beyond the purse
     of most people. The cakes were tiny hat-shaped parcels of almond pastry filled with minced pork, dates, currants and sugar,
     and flavoured with a mixture of saffron, ginger, cinnamon and cloves. They were overly sweet, but Bartholomew was hungry.
     He took a second.
    ‘So, what do you know about this Franciscan?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Are you sure his death was suspicious?’ He took a third
     cake.
    ‘His name was Brother Patrick and he was stabbed in the grounds of his hostel, apparently. Given that he was knifed in the
     back, suicide has been ruled out, although there were no witnesses.’
    ‘Then it might have been a townsperson who killed him – in which case, the matter is for you to investigate, as well as Michael.’
    Tulyet shook his head. ‘It happened on University property to a University member. This murder is all Michael’s.’
    ‘Which hostel?’ asked Bartholomew, reaching for the last cake.
    ‘Ovyng, I believe.’
    ‘Ovyng belongs to Michaelhouse,’ said Bartholomew absently. ‘But speaking of Michaelhouse, I should go
     unless I want to be late for this afternoon’s lectures. Let me know if there are any problems with your son’s nose, Dick,
     but I do not think there will be.’
    ‘Good,’ said Tulyet, following Bartholomew down the stairs and across the hall to the main door. ‘We are lucky he is always
     so well-behaved for you – he is terrible with Master Lynton.’
    Bartholomew, recalling the violent struggles and theear-splitting howls of rage and indignation, decided he did not want to see Baby Tulyet being ‘terrible’. He made his farewells
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