‘Did you tell her to pass the documents to us, so they could be delivered to Langelee?’ he asked.
D’Audley nodded weakly. ‘I could not give them to Langelee myself – Luneday would have known who was behind the theft. But Margery has disappeared – and the documents with her.’
Bartholomew was not sure what to say; he did not want to distress d’Audley by telling him Margery was dead. Fortunately, though, d’Audley did not see him as someone with answers.
‘I honestly believe Alneston’s records will end King’s Hall’s claim,’ he went on softly. ‘But Luneday would never let anyone see them – he distrusted Haverhill’s priests, while Withersfield’s is a bumpkin, barely literate. Luneday and Margery cannot read … neither can I…’
‘Hush,’ said Bartholomew, seeing the desperate flood of words was taking its toll. ‘The priest will be here soon. You can make the rest of your confession to him.’
D’Audley’s expression was haunted. ‘He will be too late, and I have not finished … the worst is yet to come.’ He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. ‘I murdered Neubold.’
‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew quietly. ‘I know.’
D’Audley stared at him. ‘How? I thought I was careful.’
‘You were. I would never have known, had you not mentioned your relationship with Margery. But she was your accomplice in stealing the documents, so it stands to reason she was your accomplice in killing Neubold, too. She told you he was locked in the barn – you hanged him there.’
‘Yes,’ whispered d’Audley. ‘I wanted Luneday blamed because I hate him – and because it would eliminate one of Elyan Manor’s claimants. Then it would just be me and King’s Hall.’
Bartholomew was beginning to understand at last. ‘You took Neubold to Haverhill, because it is what Luneday might have done – he would not have wanted Neubold dead in Withersfield. And you hoped a week in the Alneston Chantry would destroy any evidence that you–’
‘Yes, God forgive me!’
‘But why kill Neubold? Was it just to make trouble for Luneday?’
D’Audley closed his eyes. ‘No – it was also for his corruption, for befriending the thieving villains at King’s Hall, for making the inheritance issue more complex than it is … He was a bad man.’
Bartholomew resisted the urge to point out that it still did not give anyone the right to murder him, then use his body to see another man accused of the crime.
‘So, there are my sins,’ breathed d’Audley. ‘I cannot say more now…’
He slipped into the kind of drowse from which Bartholomew knew he would never wake. All the physician could do was make sure he was comfortable, and sit with him until his ragged breathing faded into nothing.
Isnard had known d’Audley would die before he returned and, coolly practical, had brought two Michaelhouse servants and a bier, as well as Clippesby. The compassionate Dominican did not waste time with questions, but promptly dropped to his knees and began to pray. While he muttered his devotions, Bartholomew helped the servants load d’Audley on to the stretcher. They carried it to the nearest church together, after which Bartholomew hurried back to the College.
‘Risleye is not the culprit,’ he said when he met Michael in the yard. He darted into his room, but it was empty, and there was no sign of any of his students. ‘It is Tesdale, and he sent Idoma and Gosse after me on the towpath. Gosse killed d’Audley, so he would not be a witness to my murder.’
‘What?’ Michael was shocked. ‘But I thought–’
‘Tesdale was lying,’ said Bartholomew, going to the chest where the lad stored his possessions. It was empty, and a glance inside some of the other students’ boxes told him Tesdale had not confined himself to his own belongings when he had packed. ‘He knew we would realise the truth as soon as we spoke to Risleye, so he escaped while he could.’
‘After sending Gosse in your direction, to repay you for seeing through his nasty little game.’ The monk’s face was white with anger. ‘We must find him. He cannot have gone far yet.’
‘King’s Hall,’ said Bartholomew. ‘They are the only friends he has left now. He will have gone there, in the hope that they will lend him a fast horse.’
‘He has not – I have just come from there. They must have gone early to the Blood Relic debate, because there was no reply to my knock. I considered going to St Mary the Great and hauling Paxtone outside, but the church is already packed and there would have been a riot. The atmosphere is uneasy – our colleagues are honing their tongues for some serious invective.’
‘But King’s Hall has porters,’ said Bartholomew, alarmed. ‘They will not be at the church – and if they failed to answer the door, then it means something is wrong. I will go there. But Idoma said again that something is going to happen during the debate, so you should be at St Mary the Great.’
‘I have been at St Mary the Great. But short of dressing up as a scholar and expressing a controversial opinion, there is nothing she can do to disrupt the proceedings. Besides, my beadles have been charged to arrest them on sight. They will not remain free for long.’
‘I hope not – they are cold-blooded killers. There was no need to harm d’Audley.’
‘Well, at least we know it was not him who hired them,’ said Michael. ‘They would not have killed the man who paid their wages. That leaves Elyan, Luneday and Hilton.’
‘And Agnys,’ added Bartholomew, making for the door. ‘But now is not the time for talking. I am going to King’s Hall.’
‘I had better come, too, because you are right – it is odd that the porters did not answer my knock, and Tesdale will be desperate. Who knows what he might do?’
Bartholomew did not wait to hear more. He set out for King’s Hall, running as hard as he could. The streets were oddly empty, and he supposed everyone had gone early to the debate to ensure themselves good places.
Michael panted along behind him, shouting about waiting for beadles, but Bartholomew did not stop. Nor did he aim for King’s Hall’s front, but instead raced to the back, where a gate led from the towpath into the grounds. Then he sprinted across the vegetable plots, aware of Michael falling farther behind with every step. Only when he neared the main courtyard did he reduce his speed.
The College was indeed deserted. The only sign of life was a cat washing itself. He crossed to the porters’ lodge, then backed out sharply when he saw the carnage within. Tobias had fought hard, but it had not saved his life.
Michael was still lumbering through the gardens when Bartholomew dashed up the stairs towards Paxtone’s room. He heard voices and slowed down, treading softly in the hope that the wooden steps would not creak and lose him the element of surprise.
‘I will not do it,’ Paxtone was saying. ‘I thought you were just a lad in debt when Wynewyk asked me to help you, but you are a criminal. Kill me if you must – as you slaughtered Wynewyk and Tobias – but I will not forge you a graduation certificate, and nor will I give you one of our horses.’
‘Then you can die,’ came Tesdale’s furious voice.
Bartholomew abandoned stealth and tore up the last few stairs. The racket he made alerted the student to his approach, and he only just managed to avoid the swipe that aimed to disembowel him. Tesdale lunged again and Bartholomew stumbled backwards, tripping over something that lay on the floor. It was Risleye, clutching a wound in his stomach. Paxtone was kneeling next to him, trying to staunch the flow of blood.
Bartholomew’s brief moment of inattention almost cost him his life, for Tesdale attacked with such ferocity that the physician was hard-pressed to defend himself. He was astounded by the speed and force of the assault – it was wholly unexpected from so slothful a lad. Absently, he recalled Risleye once praising Tesdale’s skill with knives, and supposed the remark should have warned him that there was another, darker side to the indolent student.