‘Perhaps I should talk to him before we go,’ said Bartholomew anxiously.
‘Please do,’ said Langelee. ‘He has been up all night, doing something in the library.’
He made it sound sinister, and Bartholomew hurried to the hall in alarm. Clippesby had lit a lamp and was sitting at a table. The physician faltered. The last time he had seen the Dominican at that desk he had been talking to a jar of moths, berating them for eating Michaelhouse’s linen.
Clippesby jumped when he realised someone was behind him. ‘You startled me,’ he said with a smile. ‘What is the matter? Can you not sleep?’
‘What are you doing?’
Clippesby gestured to the book that lay in front of him. ‘Reading. What else would I be doing in here?’
Bartholomew did not like to imagine. He peered over the Dominican’s shoulder and saw Aquinas’s Cathena aurea, a standard biblical commentary. Clippesby was halfway through it.
‘I often read at night,’ Clippesby went on. ‘It is the only time I can be guaranteed peace and quiet. I begin Aquinas with my third-years next week, and I wanted to refresh my memory. But I suspect you are not here to discuss teaching. I imagine Langelee told you what I found in Wynewyk’s room.’
Bartholomew nodded, thinking Clippesby was often perfectly sane when they were alone together, and it was only the presence of others that seemed to bring out the mischief in him. That morning, there was not an animal in sight and the notes he had jotted on a scrap of parchment pertained to serious theological issues.
‘Langelee promised not to say anything,’ Clippesby went on. His voice was uncharacteristically bitter. ‘But I suppose he thinks a vow to a madman does not count.’
Bartholomew was not sure what to say, because Clippesby was right: his eccentric behaviour did mean his colleagues often declined to afford him the courtesies they extended to others. He settled for a shrug, thinking the Dominican had only himself to blame.
‘I should have kept quiet,’ Clippesby continued. ‘But he caught me feeding parchments to the flames, and demanded an explanation. He was furious.’
‘He had every right to be. You have no business burning documents that might explain what Wynewyk had been doing.’
‘The cat suggested I light the fire–’
‘Stop,’ ordered Bartholomew. ‘Do not play this game with me, John. We both know you are only pretending to be fey in order to avoid difficult questions. What did the letters say?’
Clippesby grimaced. ‘They asked whether certain people would be interested in buying diamonds. But you know Wynewyk is innocent, so you understand why I destroyed them. I was trying to protect his good name – to prevent the others from obtaining more ammunition to use against him.’
‘What “certain people”?’ demanded Bartholomew, more interested in the letters than Clippesby’s concerns about their colleagues.
‘The Earl of Suffolk, the Bishop of Lincoln. Important men, rich men.’
‘You told Langelee these letters were copies. Does that mean the originals have been sent?’
Clippesby nodded unhappily. ‘I believe so. The abbreviations and contractions in the documents I found suggest they were being kept as a record, to remind the author of what had been said.’
Bartholomew was bemused. ‘Did he say where these diamonds were supposed to come from?’
‘No. Langelee’s first thought was that he was selling them for Gosse, who is almost certainly responsible for the theft of precious stones from around the University. But he must be wrong.’
‘So you do not think Wynewyk had diamonds to sell?’
‘If he did, then they are not in his room.’ Clippesby hesitated, and Bartholomew saw no trace of madness now, only sorrow. ‘After I had burned the letters and had my set-to with Langelee, I returned to Wynewyk’s room and resumed packing up his belongings. And it was then that I found something else – something even more disturbing.’
‘What?’ prompted Bartholomew, when the Dominican paused again.
‘A purse with the strings cut. It contained a few coins, and a schedule of camp-ball games.’
Bartholomew gazed at him, not liking the implications of that discovery. ‘Wynewyk watched camp-ball if one of his lovers was playing.’
Clippesby reached into the scrip at his side, and pulled something out. The purse was grubby, manly and large, and certainly not something the fastidious Wynewyk would have owned.
‘He must have come by it after Langelee was attacked,’ said Bartholomew, refusing to believe what the evidence was telling him.
Clippesby would not meet his eyes. ‘The word is that Langelee was ambushed by someone slight, who wore a scholar’s tabard. It was also someone who was very specific about selecting his victim – he let others pass unmolested before launching his assault.’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew, shaking his head. ‘Wynewyk did not stab Langelee.’
‘Langelee was attacked two nights before he told you what he had discovered in the accounts,’ Clippesby pressed on. ‘And Wynewyk was out that particular evening, because the owls … because I saw him. It pains me to say it, but I think Wynewyk knew he was on the verge of being exposed, and tried to prevent it.’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew again, aware that his voice shook.
Clippesby touched his arm sympathetically. ‘I still feel he would not cheat us, but he must really have wanted to keep his secrets, because to tackle Langelee…’
Bartholomew stared at the purse, thoughts churning wildly, and for some moments they stood in silence. Then Clippesby sketched a benediction at him, and returned to his reading. Bartholomew left the hall and walked slowly across the yard to where Langelee was inspecting the horses that had just been delivered from the Brazen George. The physician, who was not a skilled rider, regarded the snorting, stamping beasts with trepidation, and wondered whether it might be safer for him to walk.
‘Have you remembered anything else about the night you were attacked?’ he asked the Master.
Langelee patted the neck of a large, black creature that had a distinctly malevolent look in its eyes. ‘I keep recalling flashes, but it was very dark. I saw an academic tabard, though. Black, like ours.’
Bartholomew swallowed hard. ‘You think it was Wynewyk. That is why you ordered Michael to forget about it – pretend it did not happen.’
Langelee turned towards him, and his expression was haggard. ‘I would like to believe I am mistaken – that I was too drunk to remember clearly – but I am deluding myself. Wynewyk did try to kill me, and he damn near succeeded.’
‘There must be an explanation–’
‘So you keep saying,’ interrupted Langelee bitterly. ‘But I think he knew what I had found in the accounts, and wanted to prevent me from telling anyone else. Moreover, I believe he stole my purse to make the assault look like a common robbery.’
‘Perhaps he just meant to frighten you,’ began Bartholomew tentatively. ‘He would not have–’
‘He did frighten me,’ snarled Langelee. ‘He frightened me into telling you what I had discovered as soon as I could get you alone for a few hours. And then what did he do? He laughed himself to death!’
It was fully light by the time Bartholomew, Michael, the three students and Cynric finally set out, mostly because Tesdale, never a morning person, proved difficult to prise out of bed.
‘We cannot be gone long,’ said Michael, more to himself than anyone else. ‘The Blood Relic debate is on Monday, and I would not miss that for the world. Not only am I one of the primary disputants, but I am worried that Gosse might use the opportunity to burgle empty Colleges and hostels. I need to be here to ensure he does not succeed.’