‘Why should we want anything?’ asked Michael glibly, conveniently forgetting that he had sought Cynric out with the express purpose of learning whether he had an alibi for the night of Runham’s death. ‘As a matter of fact, we came to give, not take. We thought you might like this, to adorn the new room Oswald Stanmore says he has given you.’
He rummaged in his scrip and produced a tiny crystal bowl of the kind that would hold lavender to scent a room. It was a pretty thing, intricately carved so that it glittered like diamonds.
‘It is lovely,’ said Rachel, taking it and inspecting it with pleasure. ‘So delicate and fine.’
‘You are welcome,’ said Michael. ‘And now we must be on our way, if you will excuse us.’
Leaving Cynric and Rachel admiring their new possession, Michael led the way up the High Street towards Bene’t, deciding that another proctorial visit to the scholars who had probably murdered Wymundham in Holy Trinity Church and then dumped the body in Mayor Horwoode’s garden would not go amiss. And this time, he also intended to ask where they had been at eight o’clock on Friday evening.
‘That little bowl belonged to Runham,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I saw it in his room when we were searching it.’
‘Actually, it was mine,’ said Michael. ‘Or at least, it had been. I mislaid it some years ago, and had given up all hope of seeing it again.’
‘If you have not seen it for years, then it may not have been yours at all,’ reasoned Bartholomew. ‘It might be another that looks similar. I do not think it is wise to remove Runham’s possessions without the permission of his executors. You might find yourself accused of stealing the College’s lost gold – or even of killing Runham for it.’
‘That was my bowl,’ said Michael firmly. ‘My grandmother gave it to me, and she engraved a message on the bottom. That message was still there. To be honest, I always suspected Wilson of stealing it from me during the Death – I noticed his covetous eyes on it several times – but then he died, and there was no way to confront him about it.’
‘Wilson stole from you?’ asked Bartholomew, shocked. ‘But he was the Master of our College.’
‘So was Runham,’ said Michael, ‘and it did not make him a saint. Wilson stole my bowl and Runham must have inherited it from him. I was quite startled last night to see it boldly displayed on the windowsill, as if Runham had a legal right to it.’
‘If he inherited it, he probably thought he did.’
‘What he thought does not matter to me. The bowl was mine, and I do not want Runham’s heirs to have it. However, I do not want it for myself, because it is tainted by Wilson’s thieving hands. I gave it to Cynric because it will go some way to compensate him for the shabby way he was treated by Runham. It is quite valuable, and he will be able to sell it if he ever finds himself in need.’
Bartholomew regarded him affectionately. ‘You are a strange man, Brother; you have a peculiar sense of justice.’
‘No more peculiar than yours,’ said Michael. ‘I heard about you offering your own purse to my choir to try to make up for Runham’s wickedness. But, look! Here comes your bride-to-be!’
Bartholomew glanced up from where he was negotiating his way around one of the High Street’s more crater-like potholes, to see the cheerfully formidable bulk of Adela Tangmer, mounted on a spirited bay and riding at the side of her father.
‘Matthew!’ she cried in her friendly way. ‘There you are again, ploughing your way through the filth of the streets when a horse would raise you above it all.’
‘All you ever think about is horses,’ muttered her father resentfully. ‘You should be thinking about children and marriage before it is too late.’
‘Have you tried any of the scholars at Bene’t College? Some of them might appreciate a wealthy wife,’ suggested Michael.
‘The scholars at Bene’t are a gaggle of argumentative bores with scrawny legs – like chickens,’ muttered Adela. ‘I will have none of them!’
‘Speaking of scrawny legs, do you know Master Clippesby of Michaelhouse?’ asked Michael, seeing an opportunity to test the Dominican’s feeble alibi for the night of Runham’s death. ‘He says he spoke to you on Friday evening, while you were watching the mystery plays outside St Mary’s Guildhall.’
‘She did not go to the mystery plays,’ said Tangmer, giving his daughter a nasty look. ‘I suggested she should, but she was busy with some horse or other and was in the stables all night. Why? Is this Clippesby looking for a wife?’
‘Friday,’ repeated Michael, looking hard at Adela. ‘Are you sure you did not meet Clippesby on Friday evening?’
‘Positive,’ said Adela. ‘My father is right: I was with a horse about to foal from sunset on Friday until dawn on Saturday. I have told you that already, Matthew. When your sister asked whether I was planning to attend the mystery plays a week or more ago – the day I challenged that knife-thrower in the Market Square – I informed her that I had a horse to see to, and would have no time to waste on such foolery.
‘I saw him on Thursday evening, though, wandering around the Market Square,’ Adela continued thoughtfully. ‘He was talking to himself and gesticulating wildly. He was frightening some of the traders’ children, so I told him to return to Michaelhouse and see Matthew – although I do not know whether madness is curable. Of course, horses can be wild and unpredictable, but they do not lose their wits like people.’
Bartholomew and Michael exchanged a glance. So, Clippesby’s alibi could be dismissed, and Bartholomew did recall that Adela had told Edith she would not be going to the plays. He had been remiss not to have remembered that when Clippesby had made his claim.
‘Well then, Clippesby was lying,’ said Michael as they walked away. ‘I have never trusted him, Matt. He is unstable enough to commit murder and then forget all about it. Or is he clever enough to use his madness to conceal the fact that he is a ruthless killer with a grudge to settle?’
‘I thought Clippesby liked Runham. He was certainly prepared to spy for him, and he would probably have done very well at Michaelhouse as Runham’s henchman.’
‘But Runham revealed details about the illness Clippesby wanted to conceal,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘And who knows what may have passed between the pair of them during these secret meetings they had at dawn? Who found the body, Matt? It was Clippesby – and in my experience, the person who “discovers” a corpse is often the person who has created it.’
He stopped suddenly, glaring ahead of him. Bartholomew glanced up from the muck of the High Street and saw that Michael’s gaze was fixed on two people who stood outside Bene’t College, examining the partly demolished scaffolding. They were the carpenter, Robert de Blaston, and his wife Yolande. Blaston turned his head this way and that as he assessed the spars and planks, while Yolande sighed and fidgeted with boredom.
‘What is he doing there?’ muttered Michael. ‘He is supposed to be working on Michaelhouse. I hope the story of the theft from Runham’s room is not out.’
‘We have already discussed this,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I thought we had decided to be honest and send them all back to Bene’t. It is better to have Bene’t men gloating over us, than to see Michaelhouse torn apart by workmen who want the wages we cannot pay. Blaston cannot blame us because a thief stole the money Runham had raised.’
‘There is no place for reason between a man and his money,’ said Michael. ‘You should know that, Matt. If the workmen learn that we cannot pay the fabulous wages Runham promised, they will not shrug and happily accept that it is just one of those things. They will riot.’
Yolande spotted them, and came to bid them good morning, swinging her hips provocatively as she revealed her poor teeth in what would have passed for an alluring smile in the dark. She wore a rather grimy green ribbon in her lustreless hair, which she fingered shyly to acknowledge Bartholomew’s generosity.