‘Because the townsfolk do not like scholars dabbling in trade,’ said Michael. ‘Caumpes was tolerated because he was once a merchant himself, and he is a local man. But Runham could not afford to be seen to be involved in the buying and selling business. Such secrecy was not necessarily an indication of any wrongdoing.’
‘So Caumpes was in league with Runham?’ asked Clippesby. ‘I thought he was working with Adela and the false Suttone.’
‘He was,’ said Michael. ‘Adela always liked Caumpes more than the other Bene’t Fellows, and Caumpes, like Suttone, was a victim of Wymundham’s blackmailing. They formed an alliance. Caumpes sold Runham’s jewellery, and he told Adela exactly how much the old miser was making. Doubtless the thought of all that treasure going to pay for a building to honour the man who stole from her dying mother was a bitter pill to swallow, and it made her more determined than ever that Runham should not have it.’
‘Caumpes’s motive, however, was not to get his hands on Wilson’s gold for himself, but to raise money for his College,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He went with Adela to tamper with the scaffolding at Michaelhouse one night, thinking that its collapse would drive the workmen back to Bene’t. Adela, though, had different intentions: she wanted the scaffolding to fall on Michael, because she did not want him exposing her before she had a chance to locate the rest of the gold.’
‘Speaking of murder, Adela also tried to kill me and Matt in the shed at Bene’t,’ added Michael, rather indignantly, ‘and she succeeded in stabbing de Walton with one of her horse picks, while Caumpes acted as a decoy.’
‘Why did she kill de Walton?’ asked Clippesby.
Michael sighed. ‘Because de Walton would have been a valuable witness in convicting Caumpes. Simekyn Simeon sensed that de Walton was in some danger, and so hid him. Like fools, Matt and I led Caumpes and Adela right to him, and he died for our mistake.’
‘Oh, I do not think you should see it like that, Brother,’ said Clippesby, fixing the monk with his fanatical gaze. ‘It was not your fault that Caumpes and Adela were murderers. It is they who are to blame for the death of de Walton, not you. Especially her, I would say.’
‘True,’ said William. ‘The woman was a maniac.’
‘I appreciate your support,’ said Michael. ‘Then Suttone came to confess his role in the affair to me in the church, intending from the outset to kill himself; and Adela and Caumpes appeared, wanting Runham’s treasure. The rest you know.’
‘Poor Runham was only doing what he thought was best for his cousin’s soul,’ said Kenyngham, who always searched for the good in people, even in thieves and murderers.
‘You can believe that if you will,’ said Michael. ‘I think he came here a year ago intending to have himself elected Master at the first opportunity. I also think he conducted a preliminary search of the Master’s room and learned that the rumours were true, and that there was indeed gold hidden in it. And I believe he regularly slipped into it while you were out, and that he has been leaving bits and pieces for Caumpes for a lot longer than the period of his Mastership.’
‘I agree,’ said William. ‘Although most of the stolen treasure has surfaced relatively recently. I saw a set of silver spoons that Alcote lost during the plague for sale some months ago. Runham must have found them on one of his foraging missions and passed them to Caumpes to sell.’
‘He evicted you from your room with indecent haste,’ said Langelee to Kenyngham. ‘He could not wait to give the chamber a really thorough search. And he was well rewarded, it seems. I think that once he had satisfied himself that he had recovered every scrap of Wilson’s inheritance and the buildings were completed, he would have left us, taking with him the coins he had hidden in the effigy. They were never intended for Michaelhouse or for Caumpes to sell. They were set aside for his personal use.’
‘The effigy was a cunning place to hide them,’ said Michael. ‘When I examined the smashed pieces, I saw a small slit in the top of Wilson’s head, so that the coins could be dropped through it as and when they became available. They would have been safe for years. None of us could bear to be near the thing, let alone inspect it closely.’
‘That was why Runham was so keen for the building work to be finished quickly,’ said William. ‘All he really wanted to do was complete his new court and then leave Michaelhouse to live a life of luxury.’ He folded his arms and pursed his lips to show his disapproval of such worldly temptations.
‘But why bother with the building at all?’ asked Clippesby. ‘Why did Runham not search out the gold and run away with it immediately?’
‘Immortality,’ said Michael. ‘Every man wants to be remembered. Runham desired to be revered as the Master who built the north court. He did everything on the cheap, but the new court – even if we had been obliged to rebuild the whole thing – would have been called “Runham’s Court”. He would have been remembered by generations of Michaelhouse scholars, and doubtless, before he left, he would have arranged to have masses said for him, too, like our founder.’
‘Ingenious hiding place, though,’ said William reluctantly, his mind still fixed on Wilson’s gold, despite his alleged dislike of material possessions. ‘Who would have thought of looking there?’
‘It did take a certain amount of cunning on my part,’ said Michael, not looking at Cynric.
‘It is a good thing you were there when the effigy broke,’ said Clippesby shyly to Michael. ‘The money you recovered was just enough to save Michaelhouse from disaster.’
‘But only just,’ said William gloomily. ‘We may have paid the workmen, reimbursed our would-be benefactors and returned the loans from the guilds, but our hutches remain empty.’
A shriek from outside brought them all to their feet, and Bartholomew felt his stomach turn upside-down, anticipating some dreadful accident involving the students. But it was only Gray, howling with laughter as Deynman gasped and shook water from his hair from the bucket that had ‘accidentally’ fallen on him.
‘Kenyngham is a saint, putting up with students like that year after year,’ said William, returning to his place near the fire. ‘Disgraceful behaviour! Well, I want none of it.’
‘Is this your way of saying that you will not stand as Runham’s replacement?’ demanded Langelee with keen interest.
‘It is,’ said William firmly. ‘I do not want to become embroiled in plans to raise buildings we do not need, nor do I want to be smothered with cushions by discontented colleagues.’
‘That does not trouble me,’ said Langelee eagerly. ‘I will do it.’
‘Then you have my vote,’ said William in disgust.
‘Wait,’ began Michael in alarm.
‘And mine,’ said Kenyngham tiredly. ‘I am just grateful to pass the responsibility to someone else. I have no stomach for this kind of thing, either.’
‘No!’ cried Michael, struggling to heave his bulk out of his chair so that he could protest more vigorously.
‘I will vote for you, Langelee,’ said Clippesby shyly. ‘I do not like Franciscans, such as Father William, but I will vote for you.’
‘But …’ spluttered Michael, horror making him uncharacteristically inarticulate.
‘Good,’ said Langelee, rubbing his hands. ‘I am elected, then. We do not need the real Master Suttone, because technically he is not a Fellow yet, given that it was his impersonator who was admitted. Paul has resigned, so we cannot ask him. That only leaves Michael and Bartholomew – and since I have three votes already, what they think is irrelevant.’
‘Oh, my God!’ breathed Michael in horror. ‘He has done it! Langelee is our next Master.’