‘Did you kill him as well?’ asked Michael.
Suttone shook his head. ‘But he saw me kill Wymundham. He was Wymundham’s apprentice, busily learning dark secrets that he could use to his own advantage in the future.’
Bartholomew recalled that Heltisle had said the same. ‘So did Wymundham try to blackmail you about your plan to return Wilson’s ill-gotten gains to their rightful owners? Did he ask you to meet him in that shed in Bene’t’s grounds, where you put a cushion over his face and smothered him?’
Suttone nodded. ‘And Patrick was stabbed when we realised he had seen what I had done.’
‘We?’ pounced Michael. ‘Who is we?’
Suttone smiled sadly. ‘I will confess everything else, but never that. Too many lives have been tainted by men like Wilson, Runham, Wymundham and Patrick already. I will not see more people fall victim to their plague.’
‘Is it a woman?’ asked Michael bluntly. ‘You must think highly of her, given that you are prepared to kill and steal for this person.’
Suttone looked shocked. ‘I am a friar, Brother. I have committed many sins, but breaking my vows of chastity is not one of them – unlike you, I should imagine.’
‘We are not discussing me,’ said Michael haughtily. ‘But you had an alibi for Runham’s murder. How did you manage that?’
Suttone smiled. ‘Poor Master Kenyngham is too good and honest for this world. You know how he is – every office is a deeply religious experience. I was present at the beginning of compline that night, but he did not notice me leave in the middle of it, and he did not notice me return later.’
That rang true, thought Bartholomew. Once Kenyngham was into the business of praying, very little could impinge on his consciousness. And anyway, Bartholomew recalled, Kenyngham had stayed after compline to pray at the high altar, while Suttone had said he had prayed at Wilson’s altar. Since Wilson’s altar was nearer the door, it would be entirely possible to slip out and back in again without being seen from the high altar at the other end of the church.
‘And it was not Kenyngham who provided you with your alibi ultimately,’ he said. ‘It was Caumpes.’
‘Caumpes was there,’ said Suttone. ‘He showed me the latest pieces Runham had asked him to sell, but none of them fitted the description of the jewels my relative had lost. In despair, I went to speak with Runham again. It was then that I killed him – when he mocked me for my desire to see justice done.’
‘And then you just returned to the church to finish your prayers?’ asked Michael. ‘That was cool-headed!’
Suttone ran the blade of the knife along his fingers, as if testing its sharpness. ‘I returned to ask for forgiveness, but not for me – for Runham.’
‘Why Caumpes?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I do not see why you chose to go into partnership with a Fellow from another College.’
‘Why not? Would you have volunteered your services? I met Caumpes just after my first encounter with the blackmailing Wymundham, and he was kind to me. We struck up a friendship. He is a man of integrity, a virtue that seems lacking in most people I have met at this University.’
‘So, the arrangement was that Caumpes would show you all that Runham gave him to sell before he disposed of it?’ asked Michael. ‘Why did he do that? What was in it for him?’
‘Nothing,’ said Suttone heavily. ‘As I said, Caumpes is a man of integrity. He knew of the wrong perpetrated on my relative, and was keen to see it rectified.’ Michael looked patently disbelieving, and Suttone allowed himself another small smile. ‘And my relative offered to make a donation to Bene’t to ensure Caumpes’s cooperation.’
‘That I can believe,’ said Michael. ‘So, did Caumpes kill Patrick?’
‘Caumpes has killed no one.’
‘But he killed de Walton,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Stabbed him.’ He glanced uneasily at the knife, and wondered whether that had been a wise thing to say.
Suttone rubbed his head. ‘I do not believe you. All Caumpes has ever wanted was to protect his College. He is not a murderer.’
‘Caumpes provided Michaelhouse with the Widow’s Wine on the night of Runham’s election,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He stole it from Bene’t cellars.’
‘He sold Langelee a couple of hogsheads of it, so that everyone would be drunk and I would be able to search Kenyngham’s room should the worst – or what I then imagined would be the worst – happen and Father William be elected Master. I knew I would never have another opportunity. Unfortunately, you and Michael left before the feast was over and almost caught us as we were leaving after our unsuccessful search.’
So, thought Bartholomew, it had been Caumpes and Suttone with whom he had first struggled, and who had pushed him into the mud of St Michael’s Lane. But searching the Master’s room for hidden gold and intoxicating the entire College with Heltisle’s pickling agent had not been all the pair had achieved that night.
‘You poisoned the salve I use for infections,’ said Bartholomew coldly. ‘You knew I would use it on Michael’s stung arm. You were plotting murder even then.’
‘I exchanged your pot for one with stronger ingredients, guessing that you would use it, because Michael was scratching himself like a dog with fleas,’ said Suttone. ‘I was afraid his injury would render him sleepless, and that he might see Caumpes and me searching the Master’s quarters. But the salve was not poisonous. It was intended to make him sleep.’
‘It might have killed him,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And later, you stole it back again.’
‘I retrieved it from your bag when Runham started making unpleasant accusations,’ said Suttone. ‘I was sure the salve I gave you was safe, but I did not want to provide Runham with the means to persecute you, should I be wrong. I took the salve to protect you.’
‘Thank you,’ said Bartholomew icily.
‘I am not a bad person,’ Suttone insisted unsteadily. ‘I started with the most noble of intentions, and, through no fault of my own, ended up a murderer.’
‘You started a murderer,’ said Bartholomew, recalling another death that could be attributed to Suttone’s preferred method of killing. ‘Like Wymundham and Runham, Justus was smothered.’
Suttone sighed and his eyes took on a distant look, as though the memory were a painful one. ‘I smothered him, and then put a wineskin over his head to make it appear as if he took his own life. He was senseless with drink at the time. He felt no pain; he did not even struggle. And I did conduct his requiem mass for no charge.’
‘A kindly killer,’ said Michael softly. ‘But why? What had Justus done to you?’
‘I am not an evil man, Brother,’ repeated Suttone, ignoring the question. ‘I only want justice. When I realised that the money I had seized from Runham’s chest exceeded the amount my relative had lost, I gave the balance back. I passed it to Bartholomew in the churchyard.’
‘So that was you, was it?’ asked Michael.
‘I keep telling you, I am not wicked,’ said Suttone. ‘It is Runham, Wilson and Wymundham who are the real villains in this story. It is with their selfishness and greed that all this starts.’
‘So put the knife down,’ said Bartholomew. ‘If you are not evil, you will not be committing any more murders, and especially not in a church.’
There was a sudden crash at the back of the nave, and Cynric appeared with his weapon at the ready. Stanmore and Father William were at his heels, along with a white-haired Carmelite friar. Cynric faltered when he saw the knife Suttone held.
‘More murders?’ asked Suttone, as though the thought had not crossed his mind. He looked from Cynric to the dagger he held in his hand, and then gave a slow, sad smile. ‘You misunderstand me, even now. It is not you I came here to kill, my friends. It is me.’