‘Not insane,’ Bartholomew corrected. ‘Disturbed. And if he has the support and care of his colleagues, he may overcome the problem.’
‘So, only one of the Fellows is officially a lunatic,’ muttered Cynric with a puzzled frown. Bartholomew was not sure whether he had heard him correctly, but was too grateful to have the Welshman back again to begin an argument over it.
Clippesby entered the conclave, looking more haunted and nervous than ever. Bartholomew smiled at him and made room near the fire. Timidly, like a deer taking an apple from a hunter, the Dominican edged forward, as if he imagined the proffered stool might suddenly move of its own accord – or that he might discover it was a figment of his imagination. Finding it was not, he sat quickly and looked around at his colleagues with his peculiar eyes.
‘What happened to the false Suttone?’ he asked shyly in the slightly awkward silence that followed his entrance. ‘Somehow I seem to have become confused by all the chaos of yesterday.’
‘I am not surprised,’ muttered William. ‘I was confused myself, and I am sane.’
Cynric chuckled softly as he replenished the Franciscan’s goblet. ‘It is good to be back,’ he said ambiguously.
‘Four years ago,’ Michael began, ‘a Master named Wilson decided to gather himself a fortune, lest the University flounder after the plague and he find himself without employment. He stole from a number of dying people, including the mother of Adela Tangmer. Hatred festered in the daughter after Wilson’s own death, and eventually, goaded by her father’s constant nagging that she should marry, she embarked upon a plan to get this money back. The wealth would also allow her to become independent from her father, and give her a life of freedom.’
‘The false Suttone was the key to the plan,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He incapacitated the real one and took up the appointment instead, careful to kill the one College servant – Justus – who, like the real Master Suttone, was from Lincoln and who therefore might be in a position to expose the false one as an impostor.’
‘Meanwhile,’ continued Michael, ‘arguments and dissension were bubbling among the Fellows of Bene’t, exacerbated by a spiteful-tongued blackmailer called Wymundham. Wymundham used like-minded men, such as Brother Patrick of Ovyng Hostel, to uncover embarrassing secrets about his colleagues. When Wymundham’s friend Raysoun fell from the scaffolding, driven to drink and despair by Wymundham himself, Wymundham claimed he had been pushed.’
‘Why?’ asked Clippesby.
‘No reason other than malice,’ said Michael. ‘He was bored by the life of a scholar, and sought to liven it up by creating a few scandals. Then he took money from Master Heltisle, as a bribe to stop telling lies about Raysoun’s death, and immediately set off for Holy Trinity Church to buy some of that cheap wine that we all know can be purchased there of an afternoon.’
‘Wymundham blackmailed people to buy wine?’ asked Clippesby, confused.
‘No,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘I have just explained Wymundham’s motive to you. The wine was a bonus, but not the main purpose of his actions. Do pay attention, man.’
‘Meanwhile, Adela became drunk at a Bene’t feast, and told Wymundham that her kinsman Suttone planned to infiltrate Michaelhouse with a view to reclaiming the goods that Wilson stole,’ said Bartholomew.
‘I remember that,’ said Langelee, thoughtfully. ‘I was at that feast, to meet the Duke of Lancaster. The woman had to be carried home, if I recall correctly. Her father was most embarrassed, and so was Master Heltisle, who had no business serving Widow’s Wine to his female guests.’
‘So Wymundham decided to blackmail Suttone,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He arranged to meet Suttone in the shack behind Bene’t, where he found his intended victim waiting not with a purse of gold, but with a cushion.’
‘And Adela followed Patrick, who was a witness to the murder, and stabbed him with one of her horse picks in the grounds of Ovyng Hostel,’ said Michael.
‘One of her what?’ asked Clippesby, bewildered.
‘A tool for removing things from horses’ hooves,’ explained Michael. ‘Sensing that time was running out, Suttone confronted Runham and demanded back the jewellery Wilson stole from Adela’s mother.’
‘But why did he not just take it?’ asked Clippesby. ‘Runham was not in his chamber all the time.’
‘He tried,’ said Michael. ‘He searched the Master’s room the night Runham was elected – with Adela herself – while most scholars were drunk on an exceptionally powerful brew of Widow’s Wine, provided by Caumpes. Matt and I almost caught them as they left. A week later, after Runham declined to part with Adela’s money, Suttone smothered him with the cushion Runham had stolen from Agatha’s chair.’
‘Agatha, the laundress,’ said William in sudden glee. ‘That reminds me. How is Osmun, by the way?’
‘He will live,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Although he will be scarred for life.’
‘Why?’ asked Clippesby, open-mouthed. ‘What did she do to Osmun?’
‘She bit him,’ said Bartholomew. ‘After Osmun had taken Caumpes’s body to Bene’t, he returned to the Market Square and tried to agitate the crowd into marching against Michaelhouse again, arguing that there was more gold hidden here. Agatha suggested he might like to be quiet. Rashly, he did not take her advice and she bit him in the ensuing mêlée.’
‘With those pointed teeth?’ asked Clippesby, awed. ‘Did she bite anything off?’
‘Almost,’ said Bartholomew.
‘We were talking about Suttone,’ said Michael, irritated by the interruption. ‘After he had smothered Runham, he removed a certain amount of money from the building chest. But he was not comfortable keeping what he knew was not Adela’s, and he returned the balance to Matt in the churchyard before mass one morning. I suspect that was the turning point in their relationship. Suttone had agreed to right a wrong – to help Adela retrieve jewellery stolen from her mother by Wilson on her deathbed. But Adela wanted all of Wilson’s fabled wealth.’
‘Once or twice, when I was in the Master’s chamber, gold coins rolled from the chimney,’ said Kenyngham with a vague smile. ‘And another time, a ring fell from behind one of the tapestries. I wondered where they had come from.’
‘Did you investigate, to see whether there were more of them?’ asked Michael, astonished.
Kenyngham shook his head. ‘I care nothing for such baubles, Michael, you know that. I gave them to the poor and put the matter out of my mind.’
‘So, the walls and chimney were dripping gold and you did not think to look into the matter?’ asked William in horror. ‘Really, Father! Michaelhouse might have been rich had you bothered to tell anyone else about this.’
‘I thought you also despised baubles,’ said Bartholomew, raising his eyebrows at the indignant friar. William’s mouth set into a grim line, and he stared stonily in front of him.
‘Meanwhile,’ said Michael loudly, growing tired of the interruptions, ‘Caumpes had been happily selling jewellery for Runham, left for him in Wilson’s altar. Caumpes was probably telling the truth when he said he thought it was legal.’
‘But it was not,’ said Clippesby.
‘No,’ said Michael. ‘It was not. It was taken from dying people by the avaricious Wilson, and Runham knew this. Perhaps he really did believe that building a new courtyard in Wilson’s honour would assuage the sin, but I suspect he intended to make his mark on our College and then leave – along with whatever remained of Wilson’s treasure trove.’
‘But surely Caumpes was suspicious with an arrangement that necessitated leaving treasure hidden in soap?’ asked Clippesby. ‘Why evolve such a plan if the whole business was legal?’