‘I do not want to leave them,’ said Langelee, nodding at the book and the pile of documents. ‘I will stay here, if you do not mind.’
‘Where do you want me to start?’ asked Bartholomew, a little helplessly. ‘These records go back more than a decade – before the plague.’
Langelee opened the book to a specific page. It was dated a year before, roughly where Langelee’s bold scrawl gave way entirely to Wynewyk’s neat roundhand. Before that, both had made entries.
‘There,’ he said, stabbing a thick forefinger at the record for the previous November. ‘That was when I decided I trusted him so completely that I stopped checking his sums. They were always right, anyway.’
Bartholomew regarded him uneasily. ‘What are you saying? Wynewyk would never–’
‘Just look at the figures,’ interrupted Langelee shortly. ‘And then we will talk.’
By the end of the afternoon, Bartholomew had been through the accounts so many times that the columns of figures were beginning to swim before his eyes. He leaned back and flexed his aching shoulders. There were a number of conclusions that could be drawn from the complex calculations in the book and the documents that lay in front of him, but none made him happy.
First, it was possible that Wynewyk had made a series of honest mistakes. But Bartholomew felt there were too many errors to be attributed solely to careless arithmetic.
Second, it could be argued that Wynewyk had been promoted beyond his abilities, and that the discrepancy between what the College should have owned, and what was actually in its coffers, was down to incompetence. But Wynewyk was intelligent, and the physician did not see him as inept.
And third – although Bartholomew was loath to believe it – Wynewyk could have been lining his own pockets at Michaelhouse’s expense.
‘Well?’ asked Langelee. As good as his word, he had remained silent the whole time. He had paced to begin with, but an irritable glance from the physician had made him sit again, and then he had either looked at the pictures in Bartholomew’s medical books, or dozed on the bed. Now he was uncharacteristically grave. ‘Is there an innocent explanation for why we are short of thirty marks?’
Bartholomew did not reply. He stood, and pushed the window shutters further open, feeling the need for fresh air. A cold breeze blew in, billowing among the parchments on the table and sending some to the floor. Neither scholar moved to retrieve them. The physician leaned against the stone mullion and gazed across the courtyard. It was deserted, and the only thing moving was Walter’s tailless peacock, which was scratching in the mud for food.
‘Please,’ said Langelee in an uncharacteristically strangled voice. ‘You must tell me what you think. Are we thirty marks short? Or have I missed something?’
‘You have not missed anything,’ replied Bartholomew. He closed the shutters, thinking this was a discussion they had better have with the window barred against possible eavesdroppers. Frequent bellows of laughter from the hall showed that the debate was still in full swing, but he did not want to take the chance that someone had left early. ‘Thirty marks have gone astray.’
‘My next question is how,’ said Langelee unhappily. ‘How has such a vast sum disappeared?’
‘Through some cunning manipulation.’ Bartholomew spoke reluctantly, not liking what he was saying. ‘A quick glance at the records suggests all is in order, and it is only when you work through them carefully that these … these inconsistencies are apparent.’
Langelee massaged his eyes wearily. ‘Your assessment coincides with mine. So what shall we do? Confront him, and demand to know what the hell he thinks he is doing? Or shall we inform the Senior Proctor, and let there be an official investigation?’
‘Wynewyk is not a thief,’ said Bartholomew, his thoughts in turmoil. ‘He will have a reason for doing what he has done, and you should give him the opportunity to explain himself.’
‘What reason?’ Langelee sneered the last word. He began to pace, the agitation that had been in control earlier now erupting. ‘What reason gives him the right to steal thirty marks?’
Bartholomew spread his hands, trying to think of one. ‘Perhaps he has invested in a scheme that will make the College a profit eventually.’
‘Then why conceal it so slyly?’ demanded Langelee angrily. ‘He knows we do whatever he recommends – he could suggest we invest in the moon, and we would do it. We trust him.’
‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘We do. So all we need to do is talk to him, and ask what is going on. You are agonising over nothing.’
‘I am agonising over thirty marks,’ countered Langelee. ‘A fortune.’
‘What made you suspicious in the first place?’ asked Bartholomew, after a silence in which both men reflected on how much more pleasant life in Michaelhouse would have been with an additional thirty marks. They would not have had to endure such dreadful food, for a start.
Langelee sat on the bed again, as though pacing had sapped his energy. ‘Experience. I dealt with some very treacherous villains for the Archbishop of York, and it taught me how to recognise them. I had Wynewyk marked for a scoundrel from the beginning.’
Bartholomew did not believe him, thinking it was easy to express reservations with the benefit of hindsight. ‘Then why did you accept him as a Fellow?’
‘Because I hoped he would use his aptitude for deceit to benefit us,’ snapped Langelee. ‘God knows, we need something to give us an edge over Cambridge’s venal tradesmen.’
‘That is a dreadful thing to admit! We do not want a reputation for unfair dealings. The University is unpopular enough as it is, without courting trouble by cheating those who do business with us.’
‘They would cheat us, given the chance,’ Langelee flashed back. ‘And a reputation for honest trading would make us the target of every thief in the shire. It is better to be crafty and slippery.’
‘God’s teeth!’ breathed Bartholomew, shocked. He tried to bring his thoughts back to Wynewyk. ‘But if you knew he was a thief, why did you entrust him with Michaelhouse’s money?’
‘Because I did not think he would cheat us. I kept a close eye on him for two years, as he steered us from poverty to prosperity. Eventually, I decided he could be trusted, and spent less time checking his work. And in November, I stopped altogether. It was a terrible mistake, but I thought two years was enough to gain a man’s measure.’
‘It is enough,’ said Bartholomew. ‘In fact, I am so sure Wynewyk would never hurt us that I am willing to wager anything you like on there being an innocent explanation.’
‘I hope you are right, I really do. And if he refunds our thirty marks, I may be prepared to listen to his excuses. However, if he has spent it on himself, then he can expect my dagger in his gizzard.’
‘We shall talk to him as soon as the debate is over,’ said Bartholomew, not entirely sure that Langelee was speaking figuratively. That was the problem with having a Master whose previous occupation had involved so many insalubrious activities. ‘He will put your mind at rest.’
‘He will lie,’ predicted Langelee despondently. ‘You will believe him, and I will be alone with my suspicions once more. I chose to confide in you because you are faster at arithmetic than the others, but I should have approached Michael instead. He is less inclined to see the good in people.’
Selfishly, Bartholomew wished Langelee had lumbered Michael with the burden of confronting a colleague with accusations of dishonesty. He was about to recommend that they made a list of all the questionable transactions they had found, when there was a knock at the door. It was Cynric.