‘Perhaps we should do as Luneday suggests, and go with him on Sunday,’ said Michael, when they were settled with cups of spiced ale. ‘It may not be safe for us to travel in such a small group.’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘We have done what we came to do: cleared Wynewyk’s name and located our thirty marks. You can draw up the legal documents tonight and d’Audley, Luneday and Elyan can sign them in the morning. Then we are going home.’
‘Very well,’ said Michael. ‘I suppose we should tell Langelee what we have learned as soon as possible – about Kelyng, as well as about the money. And the Blood Relic debate is on Monday. I would hate to miss it – not to mention the fact that it is the Senior Proctor’s duty to ensure Gosse does not burgle every College in Cambridge while it is under way. But what about Joan?’
‘What about her?’
‘Agnys said d’Audley was away from home when Joan was poisoned, and so was Margery. And both have good reason to want Elyan’s heir dead. Meanwhile, we have missing pennyroyal here, as well as in Cambridge: Agnys, Hilton and Neubold all bought some.’
Bartholomew rubbed his eyes. ‘Taking my students and Cynric home is more important than catching Joan’s killer – if indeed she was killed. Just because her unborn child stood between several claimants and a manor does not necessarily mean someone poisoned her. I still think she took her own life. Agnys said she was unhappy in the few weeks before she died–’
‘Yes, but why was she unhappy, when she was pregnant with this long-awaited heir?’
‘It was not her husband’s child. Perhaps she was ashamed of having gone elsewhere for favours, and was afraid the child’s birth might reveal the real father. Panic may have driven her to suicide.’
Michael tutted. ‘I think we both know better than that. Of course she was murdered. But perhaps you are right in saying the answers lie in Cambridge. We shall soon find out, because we shall be there this time tomorrow.’
Bartholomew retired early, and was asleep the moment he lay down. Michael read for a while, then tossed and turned on his bed, his mind full of Kelyng, Wynewyk, Carbo, Joan and the forthcoming debate. He was not as convinced as Bartholomew that they had done all they could in Suffolk, and felt there were answers still to be learned.
He fell asleep eventually, but was woken abruptly by Tesdale, who was in the grip of a nightmare. It was a bad one, because he shrieked instead of moaned, and the howl was loud enough even to disturb Bartholomew, who raced into the adjoining room in alarm.
‘Please, Master Wynewyk,’ Tesdale was weeping. ‘Do not die.’
‘It is all right,’ said Bartholomew, shaking him awake. ‘It is only a dream.’
Tesdale looked around wildly, then dissolved into tears. Valence hurried to his side and put his arm around his shoulders, while Risleye glared at them, and made a show of turning over and trying to get comfortable again. When he saw there was nothing for him to do, Michael returned to his own chamber. Bartholomew sat next to Tesdale, speaking softly, so as not to disturb Risleye.
‘What is wrong?’ he asked kindly. ‘You have been sleeping badly for weeks now.’
‘I have always had vivid dreams,’ sniffed Tesdale, struggling to bring himself under control.
‘You did not have them when you first came to Michaelhouse. Or at least, you did not frighten us all out of our wits by screaming in the middle of the night. Tell me what is troubling you – I may be able to help. Physicians can do more than just devise horoscopes, you know.’
Tesdale shot him a weak smile. ‘It is nothing. Really.’
‘You should tell him,’ advised Valence, his arm still about his friend’s shoulders. ‘He is good with difficult problems – look at all the murders he has solved with Brother Michael. Let him help you.’
‘Are you worried about your debts?’ asked Bartholomew, seeing Tesdale begin to weaken. ‘Wynewyk told me they were upsetting you.’
Tesdale blinked back more tears. ‘He was good to me – found me employment at King’s Hall.’
‘Employment?’ echoed Valence, startled. ‘You? But you hate the duties you have at Michaelhouse, so why undertake extra ones in another College?’
‘King’s Hall?’ asked Bartholomew at the same time, equally taken aback. ‘How did he persuade them to hire you? They have their own students wanting to earn extra pennies.’
‘I am not lazy,’ said Tesdale stiffly to Valence. ‘I just need more sleep than you. And I had no choice but to look for ways to earn more money, because I owe Michaelhouse a fortune in fees.’ He turned to Bartholomew. ‘I worked at King’s Hall because Master Wynewyk fixed it up. His friend Paxtone agreed to hire me, as a favour.’
‘Really?’ Bartholomew was astonished to learn the relationship between Paxtone and Wynewyk had been so warm – that sort of good turn was not easy to arrange, so was usually reserved only for very close acquaintances.
Tesdale nodded. ‘They were composing documents together, and became friendly by spending so much time in each other’s company.’
‘What sort of documents?’ asked Bartholomew curiously. ‘An academic project?’
Tesdale shrugged, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. ‘Their labours revolved around rocks, although I am not quite sure how. They asked me not to say anything, and I was going to keep my word, but it cannot matter now Wynewyk is gone. I never saw what they were writing, but it was something to do with selling stones of one kind or other.’
Bartholomew regarded him unhappily. Could this relate to the letters Clippesby had discovered in Wynewyk’s room, in which he had offered to hawk diamonds to certain nobles? Or was it connected to the pebbles he himself had found in Paxtone’s cupboard – the ones Yolande said could help a woman in childbirth? But Wynewyk’s activities were irrelevant to Tesdale’s current troubles.
‘There is more to your worries than your debt to Michaelhouse,’ he said to the snuffling student. ‘What have you done? Borrowed money from someone who has put undue pressure on you – either to pay it back, or pay in kind?’
‘Christ!’ Tesdale’s expression was a mixture of fear and guilt. ‘How do you know that? Is Isnard right, and you really can see into a man’s soul?’
‘It is a matter of logic, not sorcery,’ said Bartholomew shortly. ‘So, I am right?’
‘Lots of us borrow,’ said Valence, hastening to defend his friend. ‘We are not all rich like Risleye. If we did not make use of moneylenders, we would starve.’
‘Who did you borrow from?’ asked Bartholomew, ignoring him and looking at Tesdale.
Tesdale looked as though he would refuse to reply, but saw the grim expression on his teacher’s face and thought better of it. ‘Osa Gosse,’ he admitted reluctantly.
‘What?’ exploded Bartholomew. Risleye sighed angrily, annoyed to be woken a second time, while Valence looked stunned at the revelation. The physician lowered his voice. ‘But Gosse is a criminal!’
‘I knew you would react like this,’ said Tesdale, bitterly unhappy. ‘Why do you think I have been too scared to confide in you? I should have kept it to myself, because now you despise me.’
‘I do not despise you,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘But I did think you had more sense.’
‘Gosse said he had just come into an inheritance, and had spare funds to lend students. Please do not look at me like that, sir! Nor you, Valence. I did not know at the time that he was a felon, and that his “inheritance” was probably the proceeds of his most recent burglary.’