‘Langelee said you have concerns about Wynewyk,’ said Bartholomew, going to stand by the window so that he would see Risleye return. His thoughts were more on his student than his colleague.
‘The Master does not believe me,’ said the Dominican softly. ‘But I know Wynewyk poisoned himself deliberately because he was ashamed of what he had done.’
‘You are wrong,’ said Bartholomew gently, hearing the distress in his friend’s voice and turning to face him. ‘Wynewyk was not dishonest – we proved it in Suffolk. He made some unorthodox arrangements, but none of them were detrimental to the College.’
‘I wish that were true,’ said Clippesby fervently. ‘I really do. But it is not, and I can prove it.’
Bartholomew frowned. It was rare that Clippesby did not bring animals into a discussion, and the grave, intense expression on his face was unnerving.
‘Langelee charged me with packing up Wynewyk’s personal effects,’ Clippesby went on. ‘I was going through a box of documents, throwing away laundry lists and the like, when I found a letter from his father. It reminded his son never to eat nuts, because he had an unusually strong reaction to them. And it said never to let a poultice of foxglove near an open wound for the same reason.’
‘I knew about the nuts,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Meanwhile, foxglove is a potent herb, and if Wynewyk was sensitive to it, then even a small dose might have brought about his death. However, it is rarely prescribed for–’
‘I have been thinking hard about his manner of death, trying to recall all that happened,’ interrupted Clippesby. ‘And my ponderings told me that he consumed four pieces of cake. Obviously, I did not realise then that he had an aversion to nuts, or I would have stopped him. I remember him gagging several times, but he did not stop eating.’
Bartholomew frowned. ‘Tesdale says he drank more than usual, which may have made him incautious. However, there was no foxglove–’
‘There was foxglove!’ Clippesby spoke sharply. ‘I use it to kill the fleas I catch from the hedgehog, so I am familiar with its smell. When I was cleaning up the hall after Wynewyk’s body had been taken away, I found an empty pot of it. It meant nothing to me at the time, so I threw it away. But then I discovered the letter from Wynewyk’s father, and all became clear.’
It was not clear to Bartholomew, and he struggled to understand what Clippesby was telling him.
‘There is more,’ said Clippesby, when the physician made no reply. ‘I told you about the copies of letters written to powerful men, offering to sell them precious stones. Do you remember? We decided he did not have any, so we dismissed the matter. But he did.’
‘Did what?’ asked Bartholomew, mind spinning.
‘He did own diamonds,’ said Clippesby. He reached into his purse and withdrew a handful of stones. ‘I found these under a loose floorboard in his room. Langelee said they are just rocks.’
Bartholomew took them from him. ‘But they are just rocks, John. Wynewyk carried another one in his purse, and Paxtone has a whole bag of them in his room. Tesdale said they pored over documents about stones together, so these are probably a charm against sickness. Or perhaps bad luck. But they are not diamonds, because diamonds are smooth and shiny, and these–’
‘They are raw,’ snapped Clippesby, uncharacteristically curt. ‘Diamonds look like this in their natural state, and only appear jewel-like when they have been cut and polished. If you do not believe me, rub one on this piece of glass. Diamonds scratch glass, as you know.’
‘So do many other things,’ said Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘Sapphires, rubies, even rock crystal.’
Clippesby slapped the glass into his hand. ‘Just do the experiment.’
Bartholomew did as he was told, and gazed at the mark the stone left behind. He looked more closely at the rock, and supposed Clippesby might be right. He had never seen diamonds straight from the ground, so it was hardly surprising that he did not know what they looked like.
‘I have no idea where these stones came from,’ said Clippesby quietly. ‘But the sly letters to the nobles suggest something untoward. So, you see, no matter what you discovered in Suffolk, I am afraid Wynewyk was embroiled in something shameful. And it led him to take his own life.’
Bartholomew grabbed Clippesby’s arm and hauled him across the yard, so the Dominican could tell Michael what he had surmised. They met the monk coming from his room, having read more of the documents Margery had given them. He started to speak at the same time as Clippesby.
‘Me first,’ insisted Michael. ‘Most of Luneday’s records are irrelevant to who should have Elyan Manor – they pertain to the sale of pigs – but two are vital.’ He brandished them.
‘What are they?’ asked Bartholomew. He was distracted, more concerned with Risleye and Wynewyk than with Haverhill’s problems. The door to his storeroom was open, and Tesdale was there, working on Isnard’s remedy. Bartholomew stepped inside to stare at his empty poppy-juice jug again. The student glanced up and smiled absently at him.
‘The first is the will of Alneston – the fellow who founded the chantry and who was a past owner of Elyan Manor,’ replied Michael. ‘In it he leaves his estate to King’s Hall, on the grounds that he disliked his children.’
‘So King’s Hall does have a valid claim?’ asked Bartholomew flatly. ‘That will please them.’
‘I have not finished. This deed was clearly written when Alneston was angry, but he later made peace with his sons and there is a second will that favours them.’ The monk waved it in the air. ‘It proves King’s Hall does not have a claim on the manor, and I shall tell them so when I speak to Paxtone, and demand to know why he has dealings with Osa Gosse.’
‘I thought something odd was going on in that College,’ mused Clippesby. ‘Wynewyk spent inexplicable amounts of time there, with Paxtone and the Warden; Shropham stands accused of murder; they associate with felons; they stake dubious claims to distant manors; and Matt tells me Paxtone owns raw diamonds, just like the ones I found hidden in Wynewyk’s room.’
Michael’s eyes narrowed – he was never quite sure what to make of Clippesby. ‘What diamonds?’
While Clippesby regaled Michael with his theory, Bartholomew’s attention wandered to his storeroom. How much time had Risleye spent there, stealing and hiding evidence of his crimes? How many patients in desperate pain had been given water?
As his mind filled with dark thoughts, he happened to glance at Tesdale. The student was listening to Clippesby telling Michael about the foxglove and was going through the motions of preparing the tonic for Isnard, but he had just added too much charcoal. It took a moment for Bartholomew to recognise the curious expression that filled the young man’s face, but when he did, his stomach lurched. It was guilt.
‘Oh, no,’ he whispered softly. ‘You gave Wynewyk the foxglove!’
‘What?’ asked Tesdale. He laughed his disbelief at the accusation, but not before the physician had caught the flash of panic in his eyes.
‘You are one of few people who have access to this room,’ Bartholomew went on. ‘He asked you for foxglove and, eager to help a man who was kind to you, you let him have it.’
Tesdale shook his head. ‘I did not give him anything. I swear!’
But Bartholomew was wise to the pedantry of students. ‘You did not give him anything,’ he repeated heavily. ‘So what did you do? Open the door and look the other way while he took what he wanted? I thought Risleye was the thief, and you let me.’