He stamped towards the gate, which Walter hastily fumbled open. After a moment, Blaston followed. Before he left, he turned and addressed the assembled scholars.
‘You will regret this, Michaelhouse. You are trying to cheat honest workmen. You will regret it.’
‘No!’ cried Suttone, distressed. ‘Please wait! There is no need for violence that may lead to bloodshed. Come back, so that we can talk about this.’
But although Blaston may have believed that Suttone did not intend to cheat him, he was clearly not convinced of the honesty of the other Michaelhouse men. With an apologetic shrug to the Carmelite, he turned and stalked away. Beadle Meadowman grabbed Michael’s sleeve and muttered in his ear before following.
‘He means what he says, Brother. Michaelhouse had better show them what they want, or you can expect every working man in the town to fall in behind them to see justice done.’
‘I hope you are not threatening us,’ said William coldly.
Meadowman shook his head. ‘I have been with these men for a week now, and I know what they think. I am only warning you that they mean what they say: pay up or face the consequences.’
He turned to run after Blaston before Walter locked the gate. Bartholomew climbed to the top of the wall and was relieved to see that the people assembled in the lane were dispersing. He was about to descend when Blaston turned and howled at the top of his voice.
‘You have trouble coming your way, Michaelhouse!’
Bartholomew knelt next to the small altar near Wilson’s tomb and tugged with all his might. Next to him, Michael was casting anxious glances up the nave, as though he anticipated that a horde of furious townspeople would descend on him at any moment. Not far away, and covered by a sheet of silk, was the body of Runham, lying in its own coffin – not the parish one that served everyone else – and looking as smug and complacent in death as it had in life.
‘I keep thinking he is watching me,’ said Bartholomew, glancing over at the body as he pushed and pulled at the portable altar. ‘It is not a pleasant sensation.’
‘Do not be fanciful, Matt. And hurry up! I do not feel safe here.’
‘No one will attack the church,’ said Bartholomew reasonably. ‘It is Michaelhouse they want, and that has withstood attacks before – far more violent ones than a few masons, carpenters and out-of-work singers will manage.’
‘Do not be so sure,’ said Michael. ‘You know how the apprentices love to join in any kind of rioting and looting. They will willingly add their numbers and their belligerence to the mob.’
‘Then stop it before it starts,’ said Bartholomew, easing himself into a better position and trying again. ‘You have already warned the Sheriff’s men and your beadles to be ready, but perhaps you need to call a curfew or close off St Michael’s Lane.’
‘I know how to attempt to prevent a riot,’ said Michael stiffly. ‘I am the Senior Proctor and have far more experience of this sort of thing than you do.’
‘Well, stop fretting about it, then,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Come and help me with this. I think it must be mortared into place. I cannot budge the thing.’
Michael elbowed him out of the way and lent his considerable strength to prising the small altar from Wilson’s tomb. With a snapping of ripped wood, it came free and they peered behind it. It was stuffed to the gills with blocks of soap, the scent so powerful that Michael backed away and immediately started to sneeze. Bartholomew removed one and began to pare the soap away with one of his knives. Concealed within it was a ring.
‘That is the gold ring Sam Gray placed as a pledge in one of our hutches,’ said Michael, taking it from him and wiping his running nose on a piece of linen.
Bartholomew gazed at him in confusion. ‘I do not understand. I thought Runham had sold all those things. That list we found in his room told us how much he had been paid for each item.’
‘We were wrong, Matt,’ said Michael tiredly. ‘In the light of what we have just discovered, I suggest that the list was not Runham itemising how much he had been paid, it was predicting how much he thought he was going to be paid.’
‘But that means the chest in his room never contained ninety pounds at all,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It must have contained the thirty he borrowed from the guilds, the thirty he begged from benefactors, and some undetermined amount.’
‘Do you think he planned to abscond with it?’ asked Michael, turning the ring over in his fingers. ‘It is possible, you know. Runham was very partial to money, as was his thieving cousin.’
Bartholomew sat back on his heels and considered. ‘I wonder if the fact that the bowl of yours that Wilson stole later made an appearance in Runham’s room suggests that Runham knew his cousin was a thief and came to Michaelhouse specifically to claim these ill-gotten gains.’
‘I wonder,’ said Michael thoughtfully, sitting on the damaged altar. ‘It makes sense.’
‘Does it?’ asked Bartholomew, not absolutely certain he was right.
Michael nodded slowly. ‘Runham came to Michaelhouse a year ago, and it seemed to me as though he always intended to make a bid for the position of Master when it became vacant.’
‘But Roger Alcote, who died this summer, was generally considered Kenyngham’s successor.’
‘No one liked Alcote,’ said Michael. ‘I am not sure I would have voted for him, and I am very sure you would not.’
‘True. But I would not – did not – vote for Runham, either.’
‘But you might have done if the alternative was Alcote. We all knew Runham was smug and superior, but none of us knew how truly dreadful he was until he was in a position of power. He must have been hiding his real character all this time.’
‘So, he presented us the charming side of his personality – his arrogance and condescension – for a year, and then made a bid for the Mastership?’ said Bartholomew.
Michael nodded again. ‘And all that time, the unworldly Kenyngham was residing in the Master’s quarters. Stolen treasure could be dripping from the walls and Kenyngham would not notice. Do you remember Runham ordering Kenyngham out of his room as soon as he was elected Master?’
‘He did occupy the Master’s quarters with unseemly haste,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘Usually, the outgoing Master shows a little respect for his predecessor by allowing him a few weeks’ grace, but Runham wanted Kenyngham gone within a day.’
‘And the reason was that he could not wait to search it, to see if he could find the treasure he knew Wilson had stolen. We assumed he was flexing his new muscles of power, but it was because he was desperate to get his greedy fingers on Wilson’s room.’
‘But the only evidence we have that Wilson was a thief is your little bowl,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I hardly think a man like Runham is going to bide his time for a year on the off-chance that a few crystal bowls might be hidden up the chimney.’
‘You are wrong, Matt,’ said Michael. ‘There were other pieces I suspected Wilson had pilfered. Alcote lost some silver spoons, while the Oliver brothers – remember that dreadful pair, who were students during the Death? – had a purse of gold stolen. Wilson was seen near both rooms just before these items went missing, although this was insufficient evidence to confront him with.’
‘Dunstan and Aethelbald, the rivermen, told me that there was a rumour in the town that Wilson’s room was stuffed full of stolen gold and silver when he died,’ said Bartholomew thoughtfully, recalling what had been said when the choir had been dismissed.
Michael shrugged. ‘There is often a grain of truth in some of these tales.’
‘And then there were the last rites Matilde told me about,’ said Bartholomew. ‘She said Wilson absolved rich people who died during the plague, and then relieved them of as many of their worldly goods as he could carry.’