‘What is this business with Master Heytesbury of Merton?’ asked Bartholomew curiously. ‘Offering Oxford something at Cambridge’s expense does not sound like something you would do, but that letter was definitely in your handwriting.’
Michael gave a grim smile. ‘Of course I am doing nothing that would damage Cambridge – quite the contrary, in fact. Say nothing to anyone else, but my Bishop and I devised a scheme whereby we would sacrifice a few small properties in exchange for some information that will gain us a good deal more.’
‘Now that does sound like you.’
Michael sighed. ‘Thank you. But Langelee’s interference may have destroyed all hopes of a successful outcome, not to mention the fact that the delicate nature of the arrangements meant that I could not justify why I was dealing with Heytesbury at all. But in time my plan will become known, and then he will be revealed as the fool he is. Meanwhile, I must suffer in silence. But I will have my revenge on Langelee, never you fear.’
Bartholomew knew perfectly well that Michael would not readily forgive Langelee for thwarting him in his ambitions, and that Langelee would pay dearly. He just hoped he would not have to play a part in it – wittingly or otherwise. Contemplating the ways in which Langelee would be forced to pay the price for his actions seemed to put Michael in a better mood, and he even began to enjoy himself.
‘The new Fellows shall also swear not to intrigue or promote litigation contrary to the utility of the house,’ droned Kenyngham, reading from the dog-eared copy of the statutes and ordinances.
‘That is my favourite one,’ whispered Michael to Bartholomew. ‘It says that intriguing and promoting litigation are perfectly acceptable, just as long as they are not to the detriment of the College. Our founder was blessed with a stroke of a genius when he wrote that.’
Bartholomew wondered how the founder had managed to produce such dry and antiquated phrases. Perhaps it was because he had been a lawyer.
‘They shall swear not to reveal the privy plans of the Fellowship to anyone outside,’ Kenyngham went on, with a casual, but unmistakable, glance at the hour candle that stood above the hearth.
‘We do not have any privy plans,’ muttered Michael somewhat grumpily. ‘More is the pity. I could have seen to that, had Langelee not interfered. The only business we have discussed recently is whether we should borrow two marks from the endowment to have the latrines cleaned. I hardly think the outside world will be falling over itself to hear about that kind of decision – even though it took us most of the afternoon to reach, thanks to you.’
‘It was important,’ whispered Bartholomew defensively. ‘Clean latrines are essential for the students’ good health – and ours.’
‘You do have some odd ideas, Matt,’ said Michael, taking another handful of nuts with one hand and scratching his arm with the other. ‘No wonder half the scholars in Cambridge think you are mad. We do not eat in the latrines, you know, or sleep in them. In fact, most of us spend as little time as possible in them, given their state.’
‘Then my point is proven. And do not scratch, Brother. You will give yourself an infection.’
‘If you think our latrines are bad, you should see the ones at Bene’t!’ said Michael, ignoring the advice. ‘I was obliged to pay a visit there the day before yesterday, while I was dealing with the Fellow who fell from the scaffolding – Raysoun.’
‘Speaking of Bene’t …’
‘I thought we were speaking of latrines,’ said Michael with a snigger. ‘Or do you consider them one and the same? That porter who came to fetch you – Osmun – is a nasty piece of work. I remember the student who complained he had been assaulted. The case against Osmun was dropped, but I am sure he was guilty.’
‘The Bene’t porters are notorious for being rough,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I think they pride themselves on being the surliest, rudest, most belligerent men in Cambridge. But did you discover who killed Raysoun? His friend, Wymundham, did not tell me.’
Michael gazed at him in surprise. ‘No one killed Raysoun, Matt. He fell off the scaffolding: his death was an accident.’
‘Was it?’ asked Bartholomew, startled in his turn. ‘But what about his dying words? What about Wymundham’s claim that Bene’t is an unhappy College with bad feeling among the Fellows?’
‘Where did you hear this?’ demanded Michael. ‘The Master of Bene’t told me that the Fellows are all good friends who rub along extremely well.’
‘Perhaps Wymundham was confused,’ said Bartholomew, growing confused himself. ‘He was deeply shocked by the death of his friend; it may have unbalanced him and made him say things that are not true.’
‘Or perhaps Master Heltisle was lying to me,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘I suspected there was something odd going on in that place – there was an atmosphere of goodwill and cheer that struck me as forced and painful. So, what exactly did Wymundham tell you?’
William gave a hearty sigh to register his disapproval of the muttered discussion that was taking place during the reading of the statutes. None of the other Fellows seemed to care. Father Paul and Runham were engaged in a discussion of their own, while Langelee seemed well on the way to drinking himself into oblivion. Clippesby and Suttone were listening intently, but after all it was the first time they had heard the statutes read.
‘Did Wymundham tell you nothing about Raysoun’s last words?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘What last words? I was kneeling next to him, giving him last rites, and I heard no last words. I saw Wymundham leaning over him, but although Raysoun’s eyes were open, he did not look aware to me.’
‘But did you speak to Wymundham?’ pressed Bartholomew.
Michael shook his head. ‘It took rather a long time to have the body removed from the High Street because the parish coffin had been loaned to St Botolph’s Church, and we had to wait for it to be retrieved. By the time I was ready to interview Wymundham, the man had disappeared. Rather than wait indefinitely for him to return, I decided to see him later.’
‘So, did you?’
‘No. I have been too busy. The stabbed friar in Ovyng Hostel – which is a murder – has taken all my time. I thought Raysoun’s death was accidental, and so did not consider its investigation urgent.’
‘I saw Wymundham going into Holy Trinity Church on Thursday afternoon,’ said Bartholomew thoughtfully. ‘It was not long after I had left him at Bene’t, and he was looking quite furtive – furtive enough to make me notice him.’
‘So, was he furtive because he had lied to you about these so-called dying words of Raysoun’s?’ mused Michael, resuming his scratching. ‘Or because he really does have a secret to tell, and he is afraid someone might not like it?’
‘You two might at least make a pretence at paying attention to the ceremony,’ hissed Father William in a voice loud enough to carry to the other end of the hall. Bartholomew saw Deynman’s shoulders quaking with laughter.
‘Sorry,’ he said.
‘Are you talking about the Bene’t Fellow who fell off his College scaffolding the day before yesterday?’ William asked, apparently not objecting to the discussion if he were included. ‘I ask because I know the Junior Proctor is in Ely this week, and I thought you might need a little help during his absence. I have a good deal of experience of these matters, following the events in Suffolk earlier this year.’
‘Your help with that was very much appreciated,’ said Michael smoothly. ‘We would never have managed without you.’