‘And you, Clippesby?’ asked Michael hurriedly, seeing Kenyngham’s eyes snap open in alarm at the prospect of more lustful revelations. ‘Tell us what you did.’
‘I went to vespers,’ said Clippesby. ‘That was around sunset. Then I wandered around the Market Square, watching the traders pack away their goods.’
‘So that is what Dominicans do for a good time, is it?’ asked William, coolly judgemental. ‘They watch merchants pore over their worldly goods and their filthy gold.’
‘And then?’ asked Michael, ignoring William.
‘And then I heard the bell ring for compline, but I did not feel like attending another office.’
‘You “did not feel like” worshipping God?’ exploded William in outrage.
Clippesby fixed him with a glower of his own, and the full brunt of a gaze from his mad eyes was sufficient to silence the Franciscan. ‘No, I did not. I lingered near the Market Square, watching the mystery plays by candlelight outside St Mary’s Guildhall. I was there for hours, and I do not think I was in the College before nine. So, it could not have been me who killed Master Runham,’ he concluded triumphantly.
‘Which mystery play did you see?’ asked Michael.
Clippesby shrugged. ‘I do not recall.’
‘Did you speak to anyone there who might be able to corroborate your story?’
Clippesby thought for a moment and then shook his head. ‘Not that I remember.’
‘No one?’ pressed Michael.
Clippesby frowned. ‘I spoke to a woman – that merchant’s daughter who looks like a horse. She was there, I think.’
‘This is taking us nowhere,’ said Kenyngham, rising from his seat near the fire. ‘All you are doing is raising accusations against your fellow scholars – accusations that are based on suspicion and assumptions. This meeting is closed. I will take the money that God has seen fit to restore to us, and put it in a secure place. The rest of you should go to the church and pray for forgiveness for harbouring such uncharitable thoughts against each other.’
The Fellows began to drift out of the conclave to the yard below. As he returned from his room with a bible, and prepared to inflict himself on the students who had gathered in the hall, William announced in a loud, hoarse whisper to Michael that he would enquire after Gray and Deynman’s whereabouts on the night of Runham’s murder.
‘Is that wise?’ asked Suttone doubtfully, watching the Franciscan stride purposefully towards the hall, scattering students reckless enough to be in his path. ‘Only the good Father is not very subtle, and Gray seems a clever sort of lad. I do not know that William has the necessary skills for cunning interrogation.’
‘Gray and Deynman could not have killed Runham,’ said Bartholomew. ‘They were up all night scribing a copy of Corpus Juris Civilis for Runham, and the fifteen students who were helping them are prepared to vouch for their whereabouts the whole time.’
‘I think I had better accompany William,’ said Suttone, clearly believing that innocence or guilt had nothing to do with the ethics of allowing the Franciscan fanatic loose on the students.
He hurried away, and Michael took Bartholomew’s arm to lead him across the yard towards the gate. ‘Deynman would have let something slip by now, had he had anything to do with the crime. He does not have the guile to keep his guilt hidden.’
‘That is certainly true,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Tell me, Brother, did the guards really see me leave the town the night Runham was killed?’
Michael grinned. ‘Of course not. They are so notoriously unobservant that I did not even bother to ask. But we know you are not the killer, and I did not want to waste time by having the others muse that most innocent men do not walk along outlaw-infested highways on dark, rainy nights and then sit thinking in graveyards until they rouse their sister’s households at the witching hour.’
Bartholomew glanced up at the hall, where William could be heard shouting for Gray and Deynman. ‘I do not like the thought of letting him question my students. He will have some of the younger ones confessing to all sorts of things they did not do.’
‘Questioning them will keep him busy today,’ said Michael, opening the gate and ushering Bartholomew into the lane. ‘And better busy than trying to “help” by launching some enquiry of his own that may damage our chances of catching the killer. Suttone is there, anyway. He will not let William harm anyone.’
‘True. If everyone were as rational and compassionate as Suttone, Michaelhouse would be a much nicer place to live in.’
‘But also a much more dull one,’ said Michael, pulling on Bartholomew’s arm. ‘Being Master of the College of saintly friars will be no fun for me at all.’
‘You intend to stand, then, when Kenyngham resigns again?’
‘Of course,’ replied Michael, opening the gate. ‘As I am sure you know I am the best Michaelhouse has to offer. It would be remiss of me not to do my moral duty.’
‘Where are we going?’ asked Bartholomew, not liking the way he was being steered in the direction Michael wanted him to go.
‘To catch our killer,’ said Michael cheerfully. ‘And we will not do it by lurking in Michaelhouse all day. We have people to see.’
The first person on Michael’s list was Cynric, dismissed so callously from Michaelhouse after many years of faithful service. While Bartholomew knew the Welshman well enough to be sure he would not stoop to smothering Runham, there was no denying that he had the skills to enter the College undetected, commit the crime and leave again with no one the wiser, not to mention the fact that his life as a soldier – before he had become Bartholomew’s book-bearer – meant he had killed more men than the physician liked to contemplate.
Cynric was just returning from the market, arm in arm with his new wife Rachel. He beamed with pleasure when he saw Bartholomew, although Rachel did not seem quite so delighted.
‘Have you come to ask him to help you tackle all these University deaths?’ she demanded immediately. ‘Because if so, I would rather you invited someone else. I do not want my husband chasing killers on your behalf.’
Cynric looked disappointed. ‘But they need me–’
‘No,’ said Rachel firmly. ‘You are too old for the fighting and subterfuge Doctor Bartholomew likes. He is much younger than you, and he has no wife at home, grieving and worrying.’
‘I do not like fighting and subterfuge,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘Quite the contrary; I would far rather live a quiet and uneventful life.’
‘Then I hope you have not come to accuse my Cynric of Runham’s murder,’ said Rachel bluntly, her hand tightening possessively on her husband’s arm. ‘If so, you are wasting your time. Cynric has finished with all that creeping around in the dark; he stays in with me at nights now, by the fire.’
‘We do not know that anyone killed Runham,’ said Michael smoothly.
Cynric regarded the monk with patent disbelief. ‘He just had a fatal seizure, then, did he?’ he asked with a knowing wink.
Michael’s lips compressed in a tight line, displeased that people had seen through the ambiguous story he had instructed Kenyngham to tell the students.
‘Which of the Fellows did it?’ asked Rachel baldly. ‘Langelee seems a violent kind of man, while Suttone has a history of theft, and that Kenyngham seems too saintly to be true.’
‘It might not have been a Fellow,’ temporised Michael.
Rachel glared. ‘I hope you are not implying that it was one of the servants.’
‘They would never accuse me of killing Runham,’ said Cynric, patting her arm comfortably. ‘Mind you, I have to say that the old devil deserved what was coming to him.’
‘So, what did you want, if not to ask for Cynric’s help?’ asked Rachel.