‘What sort of ill-gotten gains?’ asked Suttone anxiously.
‘Items stolen from his colleagues and from people who paid him for last rites during the Death. Runham then started to move the property out of Michaelhouse to sell, using tablets of soap, so that he would not be caught with the goods on his person.’
‘You are not on mass duty this week, Suttone,’ said Bartholomew, puzzled. ‘I am.’
‘Runham had an accomplice,’ Michael went on. ‘We have reasoned that it is Clippesby, who with the assistance of Caumpes, helped to murder Runham because their game started to go wrong.’
‘Clippesby?’ asked Suttone quietly.
‘I imagine that unholy trinity – Runham, Clippesby and Caumpes – intended to make themselves rich on Wilson’s stolen treasure. The other two killed Runham when he disagreed with them over some matter.’
‘No, Brother,’ said Suttone softly, drawing a long, wicked knife from his sleeve. ‘You have this all wrong. All terribly wrong.’
Chapter 12
‘NOT YOU!’ EXCLAIMED MICHAEL, EYEING IN horror the knife that Suttone wielded in St Michael’s Church. ‘Surely you were not Runham’s accomplice in this filthy affair?’
Suttone closed his eyes. ‘It has all gone wrong. I cannot imagine how matters have spiralled so far out of control.’
‘Then put down the knife,’ said Bartholomew, standing up slowly. ‘Stop this before it goes any further.’
‘Stay where you are, both of you,’ said Suttone, snapping open his eyes and gesturing that they were to sit on the remains of Wilson’s altar. ‘We must talk about this. There are things I wish you to know.’
‘Put down the knife first,’ said Bartholomew.
Suttone sighed, standing sufficiently far away to prevent any surprise lurch from Bartholomew and holding the knife as if he meant business. ‘Where in God’s name do I start with all this?’ He answered his own question. ‘With Wilson, I suppose.’
‘Wilson was dishonest, and secreted stolen items in his room,’ said Michael promptly, seeking to engage the man in conversation to distract him from the long and sharp-looking knife. ‘There was some suggestion at the time that the University might not survive the plague, and I imagine he was lining a nest for his future, should the worst happen and he find himself Collegeless.’
Suttone nodded. ‘He skulked in his room by day, avoiding those with the disease, but at night he slipped out to see his lover in the Convent of St Radegund. On his way, he stole from the dead and the dying. He stole from a person very dear to me – a relative.’
‘Is that what all this is about?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Revenge on Wilson because he stole from someone you loved?’
‘Not revenge,’ said Suttone. ‘All I wanted to do was recover this wealth and return it to its rightful owner.’
‘You became a Michaelhouse Fellow just to get someone’s money back?’ asked Michael warily. ‘But why not claim it through the courts – legally and openly?’
‘No court in the land would act on my claim, and especially not against a powerful institution like Michaelhouse. When I saw Kenyngham was Master, my hopes rose, because I knew he was a man who would see justice done. But he resigned before I could take him into my confidence, and Runham was elected.’
‘You voted for him,’ Michael pointed out.
‘I thought I would fare better with him than with that fanatical William. I was wrong.’
‘Runham immediately started selling the items he had recovered from Wilson’s hoard,’ said Michael. ‘Like my crystal bowl. And you knew you would have no help from him.’
‘He stole from you, too?’ asked Suttone. ‘Then you must understand how I feel.’
‘I do,’ said Michael. ‘That bowl was very dear to me – a gift from my grandmother. Put the knife down, Suttone, and let us discuss this in a civilised manner.’
‘Everyone was surprised when Runham suddenly produced the finances for his new buildings,’ said Suttone, still fingering the weapon with unsteady hands. ‘None of you knew where it came from. But I did.’
‘You guessed that Runham would use Wilson’s treasure, some of which belonged to your friend, to build his College,’ said Michael, trying to sound sympathetic as he eyed the knife.
Suttone nodded. ‘I decided to approach him before he could spend everything. I told him that not all of Wilson’s fortune was obtained honestly, but he refused to listen. At first he denied that he had recovered Wilson’s hoard, but then he started to gloat that he would use it for the good of his cousin’s soul.’
‘And you did not want your relative’s possessions adding to the glorification of the man who had robbed him in the first place,’ said Michael, hoping to calm the man.
Suttone clutched the knife harder, and Bartholomew saw sweat beading on his forehead. ‘It was obscene! It was not Runham’s to dispose of – and certainly not to be used for purifying Wilson’s diseased soul!’
‘So you smothered him,’ said Michael. Bartholomew jabbed him in the ribs, certain that bringing the discussion around to murder was unwise. Michael ignored him. ‘You took a cushion and you pressed it over his mouth until he stopped struggling.’
Suttone gazed at the floor, and Bartholomew tensed in readiness to spring an attack, grasping his medicine bag like a shield to protect himself from the blade. He glanced at Michael, who gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head.
‘I am not sorry Runham is dead, God rot his soul,’ said Suttone softly. ‘But I am sorry it was I who did the deed.’ He glanced across to Runham’s body, lying under its fine silken sheet.
‘And are you sorry that you and Caumpes endangered the lives of your colleagues by causing the scaffolding to fall?’ asked Bartholomew coldly. ‘Had Michael been in his room, he would have been killed, and he has nothing to do with this business of Runham’s.’
‘I did not touch the scaffolding,’ said Suttone. ‘I thought that was an accident – that it fell because Runham did not pay for it to be assembled safely.’
‘But Caumpes said–’ began Bartholomew.
‘Then Caumpes acted alone,’ interrupted Suttone firmly. ‘I had nothing to do with it. I killed Runham, but I did not touch the scaffolding.’
‘And are you sorry you killed Wymundham, too?’ asked Michael. ‘If you killed Runham, then you also killed Wymundham. Both men were smothered with cushions.’
Suttone did not reply, and Bartholomew tensed again, poised to strike. Michael tugged the physician’s sleeve, urging him not to move. Bartholomew was uneasy that Michael was content to let Suttone continue their discussion waving a knife, when there was a chance to disarm him, but knew he would not be able to break Michael’s grip and be able to launch a surprise attack on Suttone.
‘Yes,’ said Suttone eventually. ‘I was sorry I had to kill Wymundham. But he had discovered what I had come to do, and he threatened to expose me.’
‘How did he find out?’ asked Michael, puzzled.
‘I have no idea,’ said Suttone. ‘Perhaps he consorted with witches or fortune-tellers.’
‘Surely you do not believe that,’ said Michael doubtfully. ‘You are a friar!’
‘Caumpes told me about the evil things Wymundham did – how he drove his lover Raysoun to drink and then lied about his dying words; about how he blackmailed de Walton over his harmless admiration of Mayor Horwoode’s wife; and how he threatened to reveal that Caumpes’s father was not the wealthy merchant he always claimed. It would not have surprised me to learn that Wymundham was in league with the Devil.’
‘So, he deserved to die,’ said Michael flatly. ‘He was an evil man whom no one would mourn.’
‘You are putting words in my mouth,’ said Suttone. ‘No one deserves to die, before they have had the chance to repent their sins. And Brother Patrick did not deserve to die, either.’