‘You mean you betrayed Suttone because you were drunk?’ asked Bartholomew, astounded.
‘Basically. I did not mean to, but the wine was strong and Wymundham was an attentive listener.’
There was another yell from the Market Square. Bartholomew cast Michael an agonised glance. Unless they acted soon the rioters would march on Michaelhouse and people would die.
‘We must–’ he began.
‘As long as Michaelhouse is under attack, this church will be safe,’ interrupted Adela. ‘We will remain here until the violence is over.’
‘Let us go,’ pleaded Bartholomew. ‘We may be able to–’
‘Enough!’ snapped Adela. ‘I do not want to hear any more about this wretched riot.’
‘The way Suttone spoke, I thought he referred to someone who had died in the plague,’ said Michael in the brief silence that followed.
‘Something of me did die during the Death,’ said Adela softly. ‘I learned that it is unwise to love someone who might be snatched away without warning. It is that knowledge, more than anything else, that makes me determined to put myself in a position where I never have to marry.’
The triumphant braying was gone from her voice, and Bartholomew saw that, yet again, the pestilence had a good deal to answer for; it had stolen away people with whom Adela might have led a contented life.
Caumpes, meanwhile, was nervous again. He was sweating profusely and his hands shook almost uncontrollably. Bartholomew glanced at Cynric, but the book-bearer’s shocked, disgusted face suggested there would be no help from that quarter.
‘So what did Wilson steal from you?’ asked Michael, breaking into Adela’s soulful introspection.
‘During the Death, I persuaded Wilson – who was on his way to visit his lover in St Radegund’s Convent – to give my mother last rites. When he had finished, I noticed he had relieved her of all her jewellery. What kind of man steals from the dying?’
‘I suppose he thought she no longer needed it,’ said Michael. ‘Things seemed different during the pestilence, when no one knew whether they would live another day, or which of their friends or relatives would die before sunset.’
‘That is irrelevant,’ she hissed angrily. ‘The jewellery was not his to take. My mother might not have needed it, but she did not intend it to end up in the vile claws of a corpse-robber. She wanted it to be mine.’
‘So, what will you do when you have it back?’ asked Michael. ‘You cannot stay here.’
‘I will go to Ireland, where I will not be pestered by proposals of marriage. But my plans are my business and none of yours.’
‘Quite,’ said Michael hastily. ‘But the day is wearing on, and you should be on your way. If Master Caumpes will kindly lower his crossbow, we will–’
‘Oh, no!’ said Adela. ‘Caumpes’s crossbow remains, thank you. But there will be no need for violence. If you co-operate, I will let you go. I have one question to ask and as soon as I have the answer, I will leave under the cover of this riot. My trusty steed Horwoode is waiting outside. You can do what you like.’
But her steely gaze told Bartholomew that, if things went according to her plan, he, Michael and Cynric would not be leaving the church alive, one question answered or not.
‘What is your question?’ asked Michael, his eyes fixed uneasily on the quaking Caumpes and his wavering crossbow. Bartholomew swallowed hard, wondering what would happen first – his death at the hands of Adela, or the attack on Michaelhouse that would see a bloodbath in which scholars and townsmen would die.
‘I want to know where Runham hid his treasure,’ she said. ‘I see you have some of the College silver there, but what have you done with the rest of it?’
‘Suttone took only what he considered to be yours,’ said Michael in sudden understanding. ‘He even returned the excess to Matt later, because he did not like the notion of stealing.’
Adela grimaced. ‘That just shows what happens when you engage a friar to help you. A word of warning, Matthew – if you ever decide to commit a robbery, choose Cynric to assist, not your friend the monk. Clerics have scruples that you would find frustrating.’
‘I am not so sure about that,’ muttered Bartholomew, who knew Michael much better than she did. ‘But who was Suttone?’
‘A Carmelite friar, just as he told you,’ said Adela. ‘He left his Order because he found his brethren lacking in morals. We are distantly related, and he came to my father’s house to beg for work. Before my father could set him to carrying wine barrels, I suggested something that appealed to his sense of justice. I asked him to take the place of one of your new Fellows, so that he could rectify a great wrong.’
‘Then he chose the wrong man to impersonate,’ said Michael wryly. ‘The real Suttone was a thief, according to Master Runham.’
‘That upset him terribly,’ said Adela. ‘But you are trying to distract me. Where is the rest of the treasure?’
‘Most of it is at Michaelhouse,’ said Michael. ‘Wait here, and I will go and fetch it.’
Adela laughed. ‘I know there is about seventy pounds at Michaelhouse – the money Suttone returned to you, along with some promissory notes and baubles that Runham found, begged or borrowed. But that is nothing compared to what Wilson really had. Runham boasted to Suttone that Wilson had at least a hundred pounds in gold coins hidden away. So, let us not play games here. Where is it?’
‘A hundred pounds?’ exclaimed Michael, astonished. ‘As well as the seventy pounds in College?’
‘Yes,’ said Adela impatiently. ‘And do not pretend to be surprised: it is common knowledge that Wilson’s room was stuffed to the gills with gold after he died, so you cannot fool me with your feigned innocence.’
‘But I am telling the truth,’ protested Michael. ‘Believe me, if I knew where to find a hundred pounds, we would not be poking around in Wilson’s tomb for treasure to show angry builders.’
‘Liar!’ snapped Adela. ‘Tell me where it is, or Caumpes will shoot you.’
Caumpes was quaking like a leaf, and Bartholomew inched forward. It was a mistake.
‘Caumpes!’ Adela’s ringing no-nonsense voice made the agitated scholar jump and his finger trembled on the trigger. ‘Pull yourself together!’
‘I did not mean for this to happen,’ said Caumpes in an unsteady whisper. ‘All I wanted was to protect my College from wicked men like Wymundham and Brother Patrick, and to make sure Michaelhouse did not poach our workmen. That is all. I wanted no part in murder and theft.’
‘But you sold stolen goods,’ said Michael, unmoved.
Caumpes turned a tortured gaze on him. ‘No! Do you think I would risk having it said that Bene’t scholars peddle stolen property? Everything I sold was honestly obtained. Ask Sheriff Tulyet or the Goldsmiths’ Guild.’
‘Then why did you throw in your lot with her?’ asked Michael, casting a contemptuous glance at Adela. ‘And with Runham?’
‘I told you,’ said Caumpes miserably. ‘I wanted money to finish Bene’t’s buildings, because the Duke and the Guilds of St Mary and Corpus Christi are becoming reluctant to pay.’
This time the yell from the crowd was hoarse and angry. It sounded as though it were closer, as if the mob had left the Market Square and was already on the move.
‘The treasure,’ prompted Adela, gazing purposefully at Michael. ‘Where is it?’
‘Caumpes will not shoot,’ said Michael, although his voice was uncertain. ‘He has said all along that he is not a murderer, and he is right.’
‘Caumpes!’ snapped Adela again. ‘Kill the servant. Show them that you are a man, and not a snivelling, cowardly rat.’
‘Caumpes is not a murderer,’ said Michael again. His conviction wavered slightly as Caumpes swallowed hard and brought his crossbow to bear on Cynric. ‘And it would do you no good if he were, madam, because we do not know where Runham hid his gold.’