‘Did he indeed?’ breathed Michael, his eyes bright with interest. ‘No wonder he caught the disease, if he went rummaging about in the houses of the sick looking for their treasure.’
Bartholomew recalled vividly the night Wilson had died – how he had been burning papers and leaving his business affairs in the way he wanted them found. He had probably been hiding things, too, secreting them away behind weak plaster or old wall hangings, perhaps even imagining that he might return from the hereafter to retrieve them.
‘And then Runham must have started to spirit Wilson’s goods out of the College to sell,’ said Michael. ‘He hid them in the soap so that he would not be caught red-handed. But it is already dusk. We should leave these items here – they have been quite safe so far, and I do not want to carry them back to the College in the dark – and prepare ourselves for our foray to Bene’t tonight.’
Bartholomew sighed. ‘I am not sure we are within our rights to–’
‘We are perfectly within our rights,’ interrupted Michael. ‘We are doing well, Matt. We have found part of Michaelhouse’s missing treasure, and by tomorrow we will have the Bene’t murderer in the proctors’ cells. And then all we need to do is to discover which of us killed Master Runham.’
Chapter 11
FOR THE FIRST TIME IN MANY YEARS, BARTHOLOMEW was faced with a clandestine nocturnal expedition without the comforting presence of Cynric. He seriously considered asking the Welshman if he would go anyway, but knew that he had no right to make that sort of demand on their friendship. Trying to recall all that Cynric had taught him about sneaking around in the dark, he sat in the kitchen, watching Agatha mend one of his shirts.
It was good to see her familiar figure in her customary fireside chair, and to hear the creak and groan of the wicker as she rocked herself back and forth, her thick fingers deftly manipulating the tiny silver needle. Bartholomew sat on a stool to one side of the fire, poking it with a stick. When the College cat rubbed around his legs, he picked it up and put it on his lap, finding in its trusting purr a comforting respite from the twists and turns of the University’s schemes. Michael was at the kitchen table with a pile of fresh oatcakes smeared with bacon fat, happily enjoying a little light refreshment to supplement the meal of pea pudding and bread he had already devoured in the hall.
‘This is better,’ he said, beaming at Agatha and Bartholomew as he rammed another cake into his mouth. ‘The spectre of Runham is exorcised, and the College is gradually returning to normal. We have most of our staff back again, and there is food in the pantry and cool ale in the cellars.’
‘But we still have a murdered Master, a half-empty chest from which we will need to pay the workmen–’ began Bartholomew.
‘A third empty,’ corrected Michael. ‘With the gold that was returned to you, we now have fifty-seven of the original ninety pounds.’
‘–and the horrible prospect that one of our colleagues is a Master-killer.’
‘Clippesby,’ said Michael with certainty. ‘He is the only one whose alibi is patently false. The Bene’t men had nothing to do with Runham’s murder, Matt. I know we thought they had a motive – to get their workmen back – but the more I think about it, the more ludicrous that notion feels.’
‘But what about those intruders?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘They must have been people from outside Michaelhouse. If either of them had been Clippesby, there would have been no need for furtiveness.’
‘Clippesby would have been furtive if he were smuggling a woman in,’ said Michael confidently. ‘I think the intruders who have bested you twice were Clippesby and his whore.’
Bartholomew gazed at him in astonishment. ‘And how did you reach that conclusion, Brother?’
‘It is all I can think of,’ said Michael carelessly. ‘But let me tell you what I think happened: Clippesby is a man who feels the need for female company – well, who does not on occasion? – but being a Dominican friar, he needs to be a little careful. One night, Runham – who we know crept around at night, hoping to come across people he could fine – caught him. Rather than risk exposure, Clippesby smothered Runham and then raided the chest to make the murder look like robbery, rather than a crime of panic.’
‘And did he arrange for the scaffolding to fall, too?’
‘That was a coincidence, as I have been telling you all along. Clippesby just happened to be escorting his whore out of the College when the thing collapsed. I was fortunate you made such a racket when you attacked them, or I would have been sleeping in my room at the time and would have been killed for certain.’
It all seemed far too convenient to Bartholomew; he could see no evidence at all that Clippesby had a penchant for the town’s women.
‘We have forgotten about Justus, Runham’s dead book-bearer,’ he said, changing the subject.
‘That is because Justus was a suicide who dragged a wineskin over his head and killed himself. You said so yourself.’
‘But that was before I discovered that Runham and Wymundham had also died from suffocation. It is too unusual a way to die for all three deaths to be coincidental.’
‘Very well,’ said Michael irritably. ‘We will include Justus in our reasonings, if it will make you happy. But I must point out that you did not mention the presence of smothering cushions at Dame Nichol’s Hythe when you found his corpse.’
‘If someone had tied a wineskin over Justus’s head to make it appear that he had killed himself, that person would hardly have left a tell-tale cushion behind,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But perhaps the most important point here is that Justus was killed before Clippesby arrived in Cambridge: thus we cannot blame Justus’s death on Clippesby – and if not Justus’s, then also not Runham’s and Wymundham’s.’
‘No, Matt. Justus was killed the same day that Clippesby arrived,’ said Michael. ‘Perhaps that alone is significant. But you are wrong in thinking the deaths of Wymundham, Justus and Runham are connected. They are not: they cannot be. What could a gloomy servant, a gossiping Bene’t Fellow and Michaelhouse’s Master have had in common?’
‘Justus was Runham’s book-bearer,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is one connection.’
‘But not to Wymundham. I will accept that Runham’s death and Justus’s suicide may be related, but the business at Bene’t is completely separate. Clippesby killed Runham, and your logic would have him slaying Justus, too. But I do not see why he would also murder Wymundham.’
Bartholomew sighed, knowing he would not convince Michael otherwise. ‘So, what do you plan to do about Clippesby?’
‘Nothing,’ said Michael comfortably.
‘Nothing?’
‘Nothing yet. I will be watching him day and night – Walter, Agatha, William, Suttone and others will help – and when he makes a mistake, we will have him.’
‘What kind of mistake?’
Michael shrugged. ‘Spending large amounts of money, smuggling a woman into his chamber, an unhealthy fascination with cushions.’
‘That is risky,’ said Bartholomew anxiously. ‘He might harm someone before you can stop him.’
‘As I said, Matt, we will be watching him. If he makes a hostile move, we will strike.’
Bartholomew frowned, not sure that the monk’s strategy of wait-and-see was a wise one. There was no doubt in his mind that Clippesby was verging on insanity, and to allow him freedom of movement when he might be connected to the deaths of three people seemed rash, to say the least.
‘So, what will you do about Master Runham’s fine north court?’ he asked after a while. ‘Do you really intend to send all the workmen back to Bene’t, as you promised Heltisle?’