‘But Risleye is the thief,’ cried Tesdale, beginning to be agitated. ‘Perhaps I did help Wynewyk once when he asked, but he did not take the poppy juice – Risleye did. Risleye is always accusing us of stealing from him, but all the while he was the thief.’
Bartholomew sat heavily on the bench, and regarded Tesdale with haunted eyes. ‘Why did you not tell us you let Wynewyk in here when we were trying to understand how he died?’ he asked, not sure whether he was more shocked by Risleye’s pilfering or Tesdale’s complicity in a colleague’s demise. ‘It would have answered so many questions.’
‘I wanted to, but I was afraid you would expel me,’ said Tesdale, tears welling. ‘It has not been easy, wondering whether I helped a man to suicide. I realise now that I should have refused when he asked to be allowed in, but it is easy to be wise after the event.’
Michael was angry. ‘You are a fool, Tesdale! However, you may be able to redeem yourself.’
Bartholomew was not so sure about that, but Tesdale looked up with hope in his eyes. ‘How?’
‘You can tell me about King’s Hall. Something untoward is happening in that place and I want to know what. You were employed there, so you can provide me with some answers.’
Tesdale was horrified. ‘But I worked in the kitchens, Brother! I do not know anything that will–’
‘Then you had better start looking for another master,’ said Michael, beginning to walk away. ‘Because you are finished at Michaelhouse.’
‘Wait!’ shouted Tesdale, flustered and frightened. ‘I can tell you one thing you might find interesting – although Paxtone paid me to keep quiet about it. On the night Carbo was murdered, Paxtone went out. He came back covered in blood. Shropham saw him, too.’
‘You thought Paxtone killed Carbo?’ Bartholomew was aghast. ‘But that is–’
‘Then why did he buy my silence?’ cried Tesdale. ‘He must have had something to hide.’
‘This explains why Shropham will not speak to you,’ said Clippesby to Michael. ‘He worships Paxtone, but believes him to be guilty of murder. So, he decided to take the blame instead.’
‘Why would he do that?’ demanded Michael suspiciously. ‘It makes no sense.’
‘Perhaps not to sane men like us,’ said Clippesby. ‘But Shropham once told me that Paxtone was King’s Hall’s most valuable asset – for his noble character and the revenue he brings from teaching.’
‘Loyalty,’ said Tesdale in a small voice. ‘Shropham will do anything for his College, even go to the gallows to ensure another Fellow is spared.’
‘You will have to release Shropham now, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We already knew he did not stab Carbo, but Tesdale’s evidence explains his suspicious silence, too. He is innocent of everything, even concealing murder, because Paxtone did not kill Carbo – Neubold did.’
But Michael’s expression remained grim. ‘Perhaps so, but he can still stay in his cell until we are certain.’ He fixed the hapless Tesdale with a stern glare. ‘Are you willing to tell me anything else?’
‘I do not know anything else,’ said Tesdale in a wail. ‘I would have told you already, if I did. I am not such a fool as to stand by while another College breaks the law.’
‘You had better be telling me the truth,’ growled Michael. ‘Or there will be trouble such as you have never seen.’
Bartholomew could not escape the unsettling sense that time was running out, and that unless they found answers to their various mysteries fast, someone else would die. And, as he and Michael had been targeted several times already, he had the feeling that they might be among the next victims.
‘I am going to interrogate Paxtone about his shady association with Gosse now,’ said Michael, as they left the physician’s storeroom. Tesdale skulked away towards the hall. ‘I do not want you there, though. You are friends, so it will be painful for you.’
Bartholomew was worried. ‘It is not a good idea to go to King’s Hall alone–’
‘I will not be alone. I shall take beadles and Cynric.’
Bartholomew regarded him unhappily, suspecting it would not be easy to march into King’s Hall and leave with one of its Fellows. Tesdale was right about the depth of devotion some members felt for their College, and they might well prove it with their swords.
‘Then be careful. Meanwhile, I had better visit Isnard. I would send Tesdale, but he might see it as a sign that he is back in my favour – and he is not. And then I will deal with Risleye.’
Bartholomew walked to Isnard’s house with a heavy heart, barely acknowledging the greetings of people he knew. He found the bargeman mostly recovered from his drunken revelry, but did not feel like lingering to chat. He mumbled something about preparing for the Blood Relic debate, and made his escape, leaving Isnard staring after him in bewilderment; the physician was never usually too busy to spend a few moments nattering with an old friend.
Bartholomew wanted to be alone, to consider Wynewyk’s death afresh, so he took the towpath route home, on the grounds that he would be less likely to meet anyone. As he walked, he berated himself for thinking nuts could kill a man so quickly, and for even entertaining the possibility that Wynewyk might have laughed to death. But foxglove would certainly explain what had happened – he had seen chickens die within moments of ingesting the stuff.
But why had Wynewyk killed himself? Because of the Suffolk business, or the diamonds Clippesby had found? Bartholomew was so immersed in his thoughts that he did not notice who was coming towards him until it was too late.
‘Not so fast, physician,’ said Idoma, reaching out to grab his arm.
He knocked the hand away and continued walking, loath to engage in a confrontation with her when Cynric had been too frightened to do it. He stopped abruptly when Gosse emerged from the bushes ahead, blocking his path. The thief carried a long hunting knife. Bartholomew turned quickly, intending to shove his way past Idoma before she realised what was happening, but she was similarly armed. With a pang of alarm, he saw he was trapped between them.
‘What do you want?’ he demanded, sounding more composed than he felt. He started to reach for his sword, before remembering that he no longer had it – scholars were not allowed to carry weapons in the town. He had nothing but his birthing forceps and some small surgical knives.
‘To kill you,’ replied Idoma evenly. Her cold, flat eyes were fixed unblinkingly on him and he realised he was in serious trouble. ‘We know you eavesdropped on our discussion in the hills, because we saw you creeping away. I doubt you have put all the pieces together yet, but it is only a matter of time before you do, and we cannot allow that. Not when we are on the verge of being rich.’
‘Rich?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering what they thought he knew. He did not feel as though he was close to a solution, and was as perplexed now as he had been when the business had first started.
‘Kill him,’ called Gosse softly. He was standing well back, watching the lane that led to the main road. ‘The longer you chat, the greater are our chances of discovery.’
‘Is stabbing me wise?’ Bartholomew edged away from Idoma, while inside his medical bag his fingers closed around the birthing forceps. ‘Michael will guess who did it, and you will hang.’
‘We will not,’ predicted Idoma smugly. Bartholomew tried to stop himself shuddering as her shark-fish eyes bored into his. ‘There are no witnesses, so no one will ever be able to prove anything.’
‘Idoma!’ snapped Gosse urgently. ‘You said you could do this better than me, so prove it. Stop chattering and dispatch him.’