‘Take it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I do not want it.’
Blaston gazed at him. ‘No,’ he said with clear reluctance. ‘I could not take something so fine from you – you are almost as poor as we are.’
Bartholomew tried not to show he was amused. If impecunious men like Robert de Blaston thought him impoverished, then it was small wonder that influential dignitaries like Mayor Horwoode did not want to be seen with him. ‘Please take the thing. Matilde told me that Yolande was not overjoyed to learn about this tenth child. A ribbon might cheer her.’
‘It would!’ agreed Blaston. ‘And a nice bit of ribbon like this might enable her to attract a better class of customer until she becomes too incapacitated to work.’
Bartholomew could not but help wonder how many of Yolande de Blaston’s expanding brood were the result of her occupation. He brushed aside the carpenter’s effusive thanks and walked briskly back to the College. Michael was sitting at the table in his room, writing a letter by candlelight. He professed himself disheartened by his lack of progress in discovering the identities of the cloaked intruders they had encountered leaving Michaelhouse the night Runham was elected. He grew even more dispirited when he had heard what had transpired at Bene’t, although his eyes narrowed in suspicion when he learned that the Bene’t Fellows were determined to dismiss Wymundham’s death as accidental.
‘I thought we told Simeon about your findings from the corpse,’ he said.
‘We did, but perhaps he did not believe us. He certainly appeared to be sceptical.’
‘Or perhaps he has his own reasons for dismissing them.’ Michael sighed. ‘My only hope is that Beadle Meadowman will learn something from the workmen. The one good thing to come out of Runham’s disgraceful “borrowing” of Bene’t labourers is that Meadowman is now here, in Michaelhouse, and so better able to keep me informed of his progress.’
‘What about the other beadles?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Have they learned anything yet?’
Michael shook his head. ‘Not so much as a whisper. It is very frustrating. I would dearly love to go myself, but, as I said before, the men likely to yield the information we need are not the sort I would be able to intimidate, bribe or cajole. We will just have to be patient, and hope that sooner or later the killer finds he is unable to resist boasting about what he has done, and then I will have him.’
Bartholomew left him listening to Meadowman apologising for having nothing to report, and went to check that his students had completed the reading he had set them. He was surprised to learn that the senior undergraduates had obeyed his instructions to the letter, and that one of them had even donated a candle, because they had not finished their task when dusk fell.
They were frowning in concentration as Bulbeck ploughed his way through Averroës’ Colliget, a difficult text that Bartholomew insisted they understand completely before they began their fourth year of study. Bartholomew stayed with them for a while, answering questions and enjoying the atmosphere of enthusiasm and scholarship that Bulbeck had managed to generate, despite the noise of the builders and the bitter chill of the chamber.
The junior students were in the room Sam Gray shared with Rob Deynman. Deynman was wealthy and could afford to buy fuel for the fire in his room, so that flames cast a welcoming orange glow on the whitewashed ceiling and walls. But despite the pleasantly warm chamber, any pretence at debate and learning was absent. Deynman glanced around guiltily when Bartholomew entered, and something fell from his hand.
‘What in God’s name are you doing?’ whispered Bartholomew, gazing at the chipped plaster and stained walls in horror. ‘Runham will be furious when he sees this, Rob!’
‘Runham has dismissed him,’ said Gray bitterly. The other students muttered resentfully. There was a strong smell of wine in the room, and Bartholomew knew that the students had been drinking.
‘What are you talking about?’ he asked impatiently. ‘And get rid of that wine. You know you are not supposed to drink during lessons.’
‘Runham dismissed Rob,’ repeated Gray. ‘He said that Rob “is not of the intellectual calibre that Michaelhouse requires”.’
His imitation of the pompous stuffiness of Runham’s voice was rather good, and Bartholomew might have laughed under other circumstances. It was true Deynman was no Aristotle, but it was Bartholomew’s understanding that Michaelhouse needed the unusually high fees it charged Deynman’s wealthy father, and that Deynman’s position was probably more secure than anyone else’s for that reason alone. Bartholomew was astonished that Runham would relinquish such an easy source of cash so casually.
‘Is that why you are merrily destroying your room?’ he asked of Deynman, nodding to the knife that lay at the lad’s feet, and the wine that had been splashed across the walls.
‘It serves Runham right,’ said Deynman in a muffled voice, not looking at Bartholomew.
‘But Gray will have to live here after you have gone,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘It is not just Runham you are punishing with this wanton act of loutishness.’
‘He will not be here long enough to care,’ mumbled Deynman.
Bartholomew regarded Gray warily. ‘Why? Did Runham catch you dicing again?’
‘Stealing ink,’ supplied Deynman. ‘We all do it – masters and students alike. But Runham said if Sam does not copy out the entire first part of Corpus Juris Civilis by this time tomorrow, then he will be dismissed, too.’
‘Corpus Juris Civilis is a legal text,’ said Bartholomew thoughtfully. ‘Is he using you as a scribe to improve his personal library, then?’
‘No,’ said Gray bitterly. ‘Because I cannot do it. It is so long that even if I worked all night, I would never be able to finish it. Runham set me a task that he knows is impossible, and he did it because he wants me gone – like Father Paul, Rob and Master Kenyngham.’
‘Kenyngham?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘He has not gone anywhere.’
‘He will soon, though,’ said Gray. ‘Runham suggested that Kenyngham might find it difficult to see his College under a new Master after managing it so long himself. Kenyngham, like a meek little lamb, agreed. He leaves on Sunday.’
Bartholomew’s thoughts began to whirl. It was clear that Runham intended to dismiss anyone he thought he might not be able to manipulate, and that he intended to fill his College with scholars who would not oppose anything he tried to do. He stared at the resentful students who sat in huddles in front of him. Deynman, filled a new with anger and grief, snatched up the knife and raked a deep gouge down the wall.
‘Stop that,’ said Bartholomew sharply. ‘And clear all these wine cups away. You have some writing to do.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Gray suspiciously.
‘You might not be able to copy out the whole text yourself, but there are fifteen of you here. Start with a page each – and remember to use a similar style of handwriting.’
‘What is the point?’ asked Gray sullenly. ‘He will only find another excuse to be rid of me.’
‘Just start scribing,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And we will face the next problem when it comes.’
‘What about me?’ asked Deynman hopefully. ‘Will you tell Runham that he was mistaken, and that I am all that Michaelhouse could ask for in a scholar?’
There were limits, Bartholomew thought. ‘I will see what I can do. Hang a rug over that mess on the wall before anyone sees it.’
He left the students hunting around for parchment and ink and made his way to the hall. Runham’s actions seemed to be methodical and premeditated – a neat pruning of unwanted parts like a gardener hoeing weeds – and Bartholomew guessed that the pompous lawyer had been planning exactly how he wanted his College for a long while. He felt unwarranted anger at Kenyngham for resigning and leaving them in this mess, but it had only been a matter of time before Kenyngham had become too old to continue, and then Runham would have made his move anyway.