Bartholomew sighed, wanting the whole matter over and done with. ‘Hurry up then, before I change my mind.’
Cynric and Michael leaned on the bar, and Bartholomew peered into the dark space within. He could see Wilson’s coffin, already beginning to crumble and crack with age, and he fancied he could detect the paler gleam of bones within it. It stank of dampness and mildew and ancient, rotting grave clothes, and he felt himself gag. Before he could lose his nerve completely, he thrust his hand inside, careful not to touch the coffin, and felt around. Triumphantly, he emerged with one of the College’s silver chalices. He rummaged again, and found two silver patens and the lovely thurible that the founder had left to Michaelhouse in his will.
‘You were right,’ he said, smiling up at Cynric. ‘This is exactly where Runham hid his treasure!’
‘Now why did I not think to look there?’ said a voice from the shadows of the nave.
Bartholomew rose to his feet fast, holding the thurible like a weapon that could be hurled and looking around him for the owner of the voice. Cynric and Michael seemed as bewildered as he was.
‘Now, now, Matthew,’ said Adela Tangmer, stepping out from the shadows and giving him one of her open, cheerful grins. ‘Put down that lovely work of art before you damage it. Thomas Caumpes has his crossbow loaded, and he will not hesitate to use it, if I ask him – which I will if you start throwing around goods that I intend to sell.’
Michael gazed at the vintner’s daughter in astonishment. ‘You?’ he exclaimed. ‘You are the secret relative whom Suttone was prepared to kill for?’
Behind her was Caumpes, still wearing the blue tabard that marked him as a Fellow of Bene’t College. He was white with shock and fear, and Bartholomew noticed that the crossbow was unsteady in his hands. His eyes looked haunted, and Bartholomew suspected that the traumas and anxieties of the past few days had made him unpredictable, and that his shaking fingers might even loose a quarrel by accident.
Adela beamed with her long teeth. ‘And why not, Brother? Do you think I am insufficiently attractive to warrant such devotion?’
Michael clearly did: he gaped at the woman’s plain features, her baggy brown dress and practical riding cloak, at a loss for words. More horses pounded past outside, indicating that Sheriff Tulyet intended to quell the rebellion with all the resources at his disposal.
‘Are you leaving the town?’ the monk asked, gesturing to the saddlebag thrown over Adela’s shoulder. ‘I do not blame you. A riot is brewing. But if we can get this silver to Michaelhouse, we may yet prevent trouble.’
‘My leaving has nothing to do with that,’ said Adela. ‘My father is driving me to distraction with his insistent whining about marriage. I might be obliged to stab him if it goes on much longer, and I do not want to do that.’
‘Stab?’ asked Bartholomew, appalled. ‘So, it was you who killed de Walton and Brother Patrick, not Caumpes?’
‘I told you it was not me–’ began Caumpes. Adela silenced him with a wave of her hand.
‘When you escaped from Bene’t’s burning hut, I thought our game would be over,’ she said. ‘But then you started chasing shadows that were nothing to do with us, and Caumpes acted as decoy to lead you away from where I hid in the trees. I was able to escape – after I made an end of de Walton, of course. I did not want him talking before I was ready.’
Bartholomew thought it likely that poor de Walton had known very little. He was sure the man had not guessed it was Adela behind the plotting that had so damaged his College.
‘And Patrick?’ asked Michael. ‘He saw Suttone smothering Wymundham, so you killed him, too?’
Adela gave a careless nod and pulled a handful of metal spikes from her saddlebag. ‘I stabbed him with one of these – the implements I use for plucking stones out of horses’ hooves. And I will kill you with them, too, unless you do as I say.’
‘So that was why the shape of the wound was so unusual,’ said Bartholomew, recalling the round injury in Patrick’s back.
‘But why did you tell us about Patrick fleeing from Holy Trinity Church?’ asked Michael. ‘We know now that it was no corpse that made him run away.’
‘She wanted to make us look more closely at Bene’t, so that suspicion would be removed from her,’ said Bartholomew, before Adela could answer. ‘It was a ruse.’
She gave a quick grin of begrudging approval at his deduction. ‘Patrick did flee the church – but because he was afraid of being associated with Wymundham’s drunken state, not because Wymundham was dead.’
Michael began to edge away from the tomb. ‘I see. But much as I would love to have the answers to this mystery, there are more pressing matters to attend. If we do not return to–’
‘Stay where you are,’ said Adela sharply. She jumped, as a sudden roar of angry voices came from the Market Square.
‘Listen to them,’ said Michael, desperately ‘Those are the workmen Runham hired to build his new courtyard. They plan to destroy Michaelhouse unless we can–’
Caumpes released a sharp bark of laughter. ‘Then there is some justice in this mess! Michaelhouse will pay for what it did to Bene’t.’
The reminder of the wrong perpetrated on Bene’t seemed to steady Caumpes. He took a firmer grip on his crossbow and his expression changed from miserable bewilderment to bitter determination.
‘Let us go,’ said Bartholomew, appealing to Adela. I do not want to see good men like Robert de Blaston killed by the Sheriff’s soldiers.’
‘No,’ said Adela. ‘I have no intention of handing over what Wilson stole from my dying mother to pay Michaelhouse’s debts.’
‘Please, Adela,’ pleaded Bartholomew. ‘Too many people have already died for Wilson’s treasure.’
‘You are wrong,’ said Adela harshly. ‘Not enough people have died – including you, Brother.’
Michael seemed startled to be singled out for such venom, but then he nodded slowly. ‘Matt’s suspicions were right about my recent illness. You told Suttone to exchange the salve Matt usually applies to infections for a more potent one, and you persuaded Caumpes to tamper with the scaffolding near my room. But what have I done to earn such hatred?’
‘I did not want you to investigate Patrick’s death before Suttone had had the chance to retrieve my mother’s stolen treasure.’
‘Do you feel no remorse for Suttone’s death?’ asked Bartholomew softly.
‘Suttone was a fool,’ said Adela. ‘He knew nothing about horses and thought the reward for retrieving my stolen goods was my marriage to him. And him with great fat legs like a pig!’
‘Whom will you marry? Caumpes?’ asked Michael.
Adela regarded him askance. ‘Do you think I would go to all this trouble just to put my now considerable wealth at the disposal of some man to drink and gamble away?’
‘Was it Caumpes who betrayed Suttone to Wymundham?’ asked Michael. ‘Wymundham knew all about Suttone – that is why Suttone smothered him.’
‘I did not–’ began Caumpes, casting an anxious glance at Adela.
Adela silenced him by raising her hand. ‘Actually, I told Wymundham about Suttone. Not deliberately, of course, but he fed me some of that disgracefully strong brew that Bene’t uses to drive out the cold – tastes like horse liniment.’
‘Widow’s Wine,’ said Bartholomew heavily. ‘That stuff seems to crop up all over the place.’
‘It should not be allowed to crop up at all,’ said Adela. ‘Anyway, I became a little indiscreet – at a respectable guild meeting, too, held in Bene’t’s hall! I embarrassed my father dreadfully, but I do have a weak head for wines.’