‘That is a lie!’ Heltisle pounced immediately. ‘Michaelhouse cares nothing for peaceful relations. As a case in point, Runham recently dismissed his College choir, and almost caused a riot by refusing to pay them the bread and ale they were owed.’
Bartholomew was silent, cursing Runham for his shortsighted actions.
‘And worse, we have been subjected to an almost continual stream of unemployed singers hoping to be allowed to join the Bene’t choir,’ Heltisle went on. ‘That none of them has the slightest iota of musical talent seems irrelevant to them. They are not interested in singing, only in whether we can feed them after the Sunday mass.’
‘Why did you want to examine the bodies of our scholars?’ the Duke asked of Bartholomew curiously.
Simekyn Simeon rested his elegantly clad feet on the table, and observed the spectacle that was being played out in front of him, with half-closed eyes. That Simeon declined to acknowledge that it was he who had insisted Michael should conduct a more rigorous enquiry indicated to Bartholomew that his errand had not been on the command of his Master. Simeon, it seemed, had acted independently. Bartholomew wondered whether that was significant.
He hesitated before he replied to the Duke’s question, not sure that it was wise to mention his suspicions that the two Bene’t Fellows might have been murdered when their killer could be standing in the hall at that very moment. While Simeon might be certain that the killer was not a Bene’t man, Bartholomew wanted to reserve judgement until he knew more about the College that Michaelhouse had wronged.
‘He is reluctant to answer you, my lord,’ said Caumpes, when Bartholomew did not respond immediately. ‘Could that be because I am right, and Michaelhouse had them killed, and now it wants to hide any evidence of it?’
‘Michaelhouse is more cunning than that,’ said Heltisle. ‘I do not think it had a hand in killing Raysoun or Wymundham, but I do think it might be trying to start rumours that a Bene’t scholar had a hand in their deaths. That is the kind of subtle damage the likes of Michaelhouse men would inflict on us. Rumours are easy to start, but less easy to stop.’
The Duke of Lancaster made an impatient sound at the back of his throat. ‘Enough of this! You scholars are obsessed with petty details. If Michaelhouse had wanted Raysoun and Wymundham dead, there would be clear evidence that they had been murdered. Was there?’
‘No, my lord,’ said Heltisle immediately. ‘Raysoun fell from the scaffolding and Wymundham flung himself over the bank of the King’s Ditch in his grief.’
Bartholomew said nothing. Neither did Simeon, who had been told that Wymundham’s body showed signs of a struggle. Bartholomew wondered why the courtier kept his peace. Was it simply because he did not believe a body could yield that sort of information? Or was there another reason for his silence?
‘Well, there you are, then,’ said the Duke. ‘No one was murdered, and if no one was murdered, then no one can accuse Bene’t of anything. And that is the end of the matter, except for one thing.’
‘And what is that, my lord?’ asked Heltisle, a little nervously.
‘The fact that you did not tell me that work on my College has stopped, and yet money continues to be drawn from the funds I left for you.’
‘We were going to tell you,’ protested Heltisle, swallowing hard. ‘The money was drawn to pay a carpenter to make the scaffolding safe after the workmen looted it to take to Michaelhouse.’
‘Well, I am far from pleased,’ said the Duke. ‘I am a busy man, and have better things to do than visit Cambridge every week to rescue Bene’t from its latest disaster.’
‘It is not a disaster,’ said Caumpes stiffly. ‘It is a minor setback.’
‘You call the deaths of two Fellows a minor setback?’ asked Simeon coolly.
‘That is not what I meant,’ said Caumpes. ‘I was referring to the building. But since you mention it, I am not sorry Raysoun and Wymundham have gone. Raysoun was a drunkard who would have brought the College into disrepute at some point, while Wymundham was a malicious tale-teller. We will appoint more Fellows. There are plenty of good clerks who would be willing to accept positions at Bene’t.’
‘There will be no more clerks’ stipends until the buildings are finished,’ growled the Duke. ‘How many Fellows are there, now that you have buried two of them?’
‘Four,’ answered Heltisle, white-faced with anger. ‘Me, Caumpes, Henry de Walton, and your man – Simekyn Simeon.’
‘Simeon is a Fellow only to ensure that my money is not squandered,’ said the Duke. ‘But, in the light of recent events, I plan to leave him here until the building is finished.’
Simeon’s jaw dropped in horror, and he seemed about to object vigorously when the Duke forestalled him with a raised hand.
‘It will be an incentive for you to see that Bene’t College is completed, Simeon. The sooner it is ready, the sooner I will allow you to resign your Fellowship and return to court with me.’
‘But–’ Simeon’s handsome face was dark with outrage.
‘No buts. I want you to stay in Cambridge to see my College finished, so that when I die there will be a body of men to say prayers for my soul. A man cannot live for ever, and I must make some preparation for the next world.’
The Duke and the scholars continued to argue, their voices becoming louder and more acrimonious. Heltisle claimed that he, too, had not liked Raysoun and Wymundham, while Caumpes railed that there was a plot afoot to damage Bene’t, masterminded by Michaelhouse. Simekyn Simeon, his sardonic smile gone now that he was obliged to remain at Bene’t, glared at everyone with open hostility. The students, a scruffy, disreputable crowd, shuffled restlessly, some of them shoving and pushing at each other like a group of bored children.
The man who Bartholomew assumed was the last of the four Fellows, Henry de Walton, said nothing. He stood near the wall, a pallid, fox-faced man who looked unwell. On one cheek was a dark bruise, and Bartholomew remembered Michael’s beadle telling him that Osmun had been arrested for brawling with one of the Bene’t Fellows. The skinny little man, whose nervousness was apparent in every flutter of his hands and twitch of his face, would have been no match for the brawny porter, and Bartholomew suspected it was not de Walton who had started the fight.
So, had one of these four Fellows pressed something over Wymundham’s face to silence him before he could pass what he knew to the Senior Proctor? Had Wymundham actually been fleeing from the murderer when Bartholomew had seen him slipping so furtively into Holy Trinity Church the afternoon Raysoun had died? And had the same murdering Fellow also stabbed Raysoun and then pushed him from the scaffolding?
‘I am sure you have found our discussion most entertaining,’ said the Duke, becoming aware that Bartholomew was a witness to the unseemly quarrel. ‘You now know that there is more to life at Bene’t than squandering my money.’
‘What shall we do with him?’ asked Caumpes. ‘We cannot let him return to Michaelhouse to tell lies about us.’
‘He says he is here on the instructions of the Senior Proctor,’ said the Duke. ‘The poor man is only trying to do his job, and even you must admit that the deaths of two scholars within a couple of days might appear a little peculiar to outsiders.’
‘I disagree,’ said Heltisle. ‘Things like that happen all the time in the University.’
‘You should watch your back, then, Simeon,’ said the Duke wryly. ‘I want my College completed under your watchful eye, but I would like you alive at the end of it.’
‘I am touched by your concern,’ said Simeon sullenly.