‘He stabbed him, while we were chasing shadows,’ said Michael. ‘De Walton is dead.’
It was almost dawn before Bartholomew and Michael left Bene’t College. Bartholomew’s clothes had dried by the fire, but they had a stinking, pungent aroma to them that made him feel grubby and tainted. He felt even more unclean when he thought about Caumpes and the College he loved so much that he was prepared to go to any lengths to serve it – even committing murder. While Simeon went to the Castle to organise a search for Caumpes, Bartholomew and Michael trudged back to Michaelhouse.
‘What a filthy business,’ said Bartholomew gloomily. ‘It was Wymundham who tore that College apart, driving wedges between his colleagues and using the sordid secrets his nosiness uncovered to cause bitterness and dissent.’
‘And Matilde and her sisters were right about Patrick,’ said Michael. ‘He was a vicious gossip who became involved with another like-minded man – and died for it.’
‘And now we are returning to our own College where matters are not much better,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘We also have a murderer in our midst.’
‘Look on the bright side, Matt,’ said Michael. ‘We will be back in time for breakfast, although I would ask that you change your clothes before you sit next to me. You smell of the Ditch.’
Bartholomew glanced nervously up at the repaired scaffolding before ducking into his room. Blaston and his apprentices had been at work to render it safe, but Bartholomew knew he would never trust scaffolding again.
For the second time in less than a day, he scrubbed himself with Runham’s soap, while Michael fetched pail after pail of lukewarm water from the kitchens. The soap reminded him of Runham’s hoard, awaiting collection in St Michael’s Church and, still shivering, he followed Michael up the lane pushing a small handcart borrowed from the vegetable garden to retrieve it while most of the town still slept.
He sat at the base of a pillar, and watched Michael haul the altar away from the wall and begin to toss the soap blocks into the cart.
‘I suppose Runham must have used accomplices to help him with this,’ said the monk conversationally as he worked. ‘I do not think he would have known how to sell these things on his own. The answer must lie in the cloaked intruders we keep almost catching in the College.’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Caumpes admitted to tampering with the scaffolding, which accounts for one of those times. But … ’ He paused as certain things became clear in his mind.
‘But what?’ asked Michael impatiently.
‘Caumpes,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It was Caumpes who sold the treasure that Runham recovered.’
‘Really?’ asked Michael uncertainly. ‘How do you know?’
‘Two reasons. First, I saw him. One afternoon, I watched him visit Harold of Haslingfield, the goldsmith. Later, Harold told me that Caumpes had provided him with a number of items recently, although he said none were stolen – he checked with his Guild and with Dick Tulyet.’
Michael scratched his chin thoughtfully. ‘Yes, but if Wilson garnered his ill-gotten gains during the Death, then there are a couple of points we should remember: dead people cannot identify their own property or register it as stolen; and we are talking about thefts committed five years ago. It is not surprising that the goldsmiths and Dick did not recognise these items as stolen.’
‘And the second reason I know Caumpes must have been Runham’s accomplice is that Oswald informed me that Caumpes dabbles with the black market. Harold told me, too, and, come to that, so did Caumpes himself – he made money for Bene’t by buying and selling things.’
‘So, Runham commissioned Caumpes to sell items that belonged to Michaelhouse, such as the contents of our hutches and the College silver, along with the valuables he recovered from Wilson’s hoard,’ said Michael, frowning in thought. ‘Runham hid them in the soap for Caumpes to collect and dispose of at his leisure, and the memorandum we found in Runham’s room was a listing of the amounts Caumpes told Runham to expect for each item.’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘The only problem I can see in all this is that Caumpes hated Michaelhouse for poaching Bene’t’s workmen. Why should he then act as Runham’s agent?’
‘The building work started last Wednesday, and two days later, Runham was dead. The answer is simple: as you have said all along, smothering is an unusual way to kill someone. Wymundham was smothered, and we know Caumpes killed Wymundham. Runham was also smothered. Quod erat demonstrandum.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Bartholomew uncertainly. ‘But Caumpes said he did not kill Wymundham.’
‘Murderers do not make honest witnesses, Matt, and you should never believe what they say. Anyway, Caumpes would do anything for his College, so we have reason to assume that he would swallow his dislike of Runham in order to raise money for Bene’t’s buildings. We know Bene’t was having financial problems, with the Duke tightening his purse strings and the guilds less generous than they had been.’
‘So, we were right last night when we surmised that very little was stolen from Runham’s chest?’ asked Bartholomew, turning his attention back to the soap-stuffed altar. ‘We assumed that about forty-five pounds was missing, but we were wrong because Runham’s chest never contained the ninety pounds he needed for the building.’
‘Right,’ said Michael. ‘Runham must have assumed that Caumpes would be able to raise the outstanding amount by the time the builders were to be paid. But Runham’s list mentions books, chalices and other items too large to be concealed in soap. He must have those hidden elsewhere. And then we must not forget the twelve pounds that was so kindly returned to you the other morning. Now there is something I do not understand.’
‘Nor me,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is unlikely to have been Caumpes.’
‘Clippesby!’ exclaimed Michael suddenly. ‘I knew he would be involved. There is your second cloaked intruder – Caumpes and Clippesby, both wandering Michaelhouse at night, breaking our scaffolding and murdering our Master.’
‘But Clippesby had no reason to creep around in the dark,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Michaelhouse is his College, and he has every right to be in it.’
‘Michaelhouse is his new College,’ corrected Michael. ‘He probably did not feel confident to demolish scaffolding and murder his Master without donning some sort of disguise. Matt, someone is coming! Quick, put this piece of soap in your bag, while I hide the rest.’
Michael was still heaving at the broken altar when Suttone walked up the aisle. The Carmelite smiled benignly at them, his red face friendly.
‘It is my turn to say the daily prayer for the soul of our founder,’ he explained. He saw the damaged altar and the redness drained from his face, leaving it white and shocked. ‘What are you doing? That is sacrilege! You have damaged a sacred altar!’
‘It needed some repairs,’ said Michael smoothly, leaning against it so that Suttone could not look too closely.
‘It did not!’ cried Suttone, aghast. ‘What have I let myself in for at Michaelhouse? It is a College of murderers and desecrators!’
Michael sighed, then moved away from the altar so that Suttone could see it. ‘I am sick of secrecy, and you will know everything soon anyway.’
‘Know everything?’ echoed Suttone in alarm. ‘I am not sure I like the sound of that.’
‘We have discovered who is behind all this,’ said Michael. A previous Master called Wilson was a thief, and Runham was his cousin. Wilson hid stolen goods in his room, and when Runham was elected Master, he set about seeing which of his kinsman’s ill-gotten gains were still there.’