‘Michael should resign,’ he shouted provocatively. ‘He has accrued too much power, and I have no confidence in his rule. I demand he steps down as Senior Proctor.’
There was a cacophony of yells, some howling support for Michael and others bawling that Powys made a very good point. The clamour was deafening.
‘Powys is right,’ hollered Eltisle of Bene’t College, who had never liked the monk. He had a shrill voice, and it carried over the others. ‘We have all been burgled over the last few weeks, but Brother Michael has made no effort to catch the culprits.’
‘On the contrary,’ boomed Michael, scrambling on to the dais next to the Chancellor. He held an imperious hand aloft, and such was the force of his personality that it immediately quelled the din. ‘I have just arrested Gosse and his sister on charges of theft and murder.’
His words were met with a startled silence, which was followed at once by a clamour of questions and cheers. Bartholomew reached the refreshments and looked at the three large casks of wine that were sitting ready to be poured. Had Gosse poisoned them all, or just one?
He could not afford to take risks with his colleagues’ lives, so he pulled the stoppers from all three and watched their contents splatter to the floor. Fortunately, the rumpus caused by Michael’s declaration drowned the sound it made. By the time the din subsided, the kegs were virtually empty.
‘You have Gosse in custody?’ It was Powys asking, and he sounded worried.
‘They are being taken to my prison as I speak,’ affirmed Michael haughtily. ‘Of course, I was deeply disappointed to miss the debate, but sacrifices must be made. I have always put duty before pleasure, and catching criminals who have harmed my University is a sacred responsibility, as far as I am concerned.’
‘I am glad you have him, Brother,’ called Rougham of Gonville Hall warmly. ‘He stole three gold candlesticks from us.’
‘And a silver paten from us,’ added Master Wisbeche of Peterhouse.
‘I shall do my utmost to see they are returned to you,’ promised Michael. ‘Meanwhile, I insist you all return to your debate, and leave the unpleasant work to me.’
Deynman released a sudden cheer, which was taken up by other Michaelhouse men, and soon the whole church resounded with it. Friends surged forward to clap Michael on the back, although no one from King’s Hall was among them.
Bartholomew shook the barrels, to make sure they were drained to the dregs, then backed away and edged towards the door. The gathering could turn against him just as quickly as it had turned to favour Michael – no scholar liked to be deprived of free wine.
‘You transformed yourself from villain to hero,’ he remarked, when the monk’s path crossed his own. ‘It was cleverly done.’
Michael preened. ‘And Powys is furious. Look at his dark face!’
‘It will not stay dark for long,’ warned Cynric worriedly, appearing beside them. ‘Idoma recovered her senses as we were taking her to the cells. We could not hold her, and she has escaped.’
Epilogue
Two weeks later, Bartholomew and Michael were again travelling the road that led to Suffolk. The physician was reluctant to leave his pupils a second time, but Deynman had managed a surprisingly good job of supervising them during the earlier jaunt, and had offered to do it again. And it would be the calm before the storm as far as the students were concerned, because Bartholomew intended to keep them so busy for the rest of the term that no one would have time to think, let alone indulge in spying or stealing his medicines.
It was a pretty day, with the crisp scent of late autumn in the air. The trees were red and gold, and showers of leaves drifted across the road each time the wind blew. A pheasant croaked from deep in the woods, and a cow lowed in a nearby meadow. Bartholomew tipped his head back and took a deep breath, savouring the smell of damp leaves and freshly tilled soil. Unfortunately, his horse objected to the movement, and skittered sideways.
‘Grip with your knees,’ said Michael automatically. ‘And shorten the reins.’
‘I was wrong,’ said Bartholomew, when he had regained control of the beast. He noticed Cynric and the beadles were riding well back, partly to give the scholars the opportunity to talk without being overheard, but mostly to stay away from the menace the physician represented while on horseback. ‘About Wynewyk.’
‘We all were,’ said Michael softly. ‘It just took you longer to accept the truth.’
‘He was a thief and a murderer,’ said Bartholomew, still barely able to believe it. ‘I kept thinking there would be an innocent explanation for the wrong he did, but there was not.’
‘Poor Joan,’ said Michael. ‘If Carbo had not made his so-called discovery of diamonds, she and Wynewyk would probably never have met again. Their affair would have been forgotten – Joan would have given Elyan his heir, and Wynewyk would never have known about the child.’
‘So what happened?’ asked Bartholomew tiredly. ‘What made him poison her?’
‘I suspect he saw her in Cambridge, and assumed she was there to make trouble for him – to reveal that he, a scholar, had fathered a child. In other words, he judged her by his own rotten standards. But, of course, she would have been as eager as he to conceal what had happened.’
Bartholomew closed his eyes. ‘So he gave her pennyroyal, and he did it without compunction.’
Michael nodded. ‘Valence told me he heard Wynewyk and Tesdale discussing that particular herb the day before Joan died. Tesdale almost certainly told him what to use.’
Bartholomew kept his eyes closed. ‘It was my supply that killed Joan. Edith will never forgive me.’
‘She knows it was not your fault, Matt,’ said Michael kindly. ‘She liked Wynewyk, too, and was appalled when she heard how he deceived us.’
‘Did he deceive us? He borrowed money to make arrangements with Luneday, d’Audley and Elyan, but there is no proof that he intended to keep the proceeds for himself.’
‘Actually, there is. Clippesby discovered more hidden documents in Wynewyk’s room, in the chimney this time. There were arrangements to buy a big house in London, fine new clothes and deposits to be left with a moneylender – a kind of pension. Apparently, he had a lover who was going to join him there, because there are several fond references to a man named Osa.’
Bartholomew’s eyes snapped open. ‘Not Osa Gosse? But Wynewyk talked about him the night he was ill – when the almond posset upset him – and he did not describe him in very flattering terms.’
Michael ignored him. ‘Apparently, Wynewyk and Osa met in February, when Wynewyk travelled to Suffolk to inspect Luneday’s pigs – and impregnated Joan, into the bargain – and they embarked on a relationship. He always did have a weakness for ruffians, but the correspondence indicates he was deeply in love this time.’
Bartholomew frowned. ‘But the night he was unwell, he told me he had only met Gosse the previous week. He said Gosse had accused him of seduction, and was offended by it.’
‘He was lying. Reliable witnesses have since informed me that he and Gosse were often together. And the night he misled you was his first attempt at suicide. Tesdale said so, and I think he was telling the truth about that. You see, there is some indication in Wynewyk’s letters that Gosse had recently spurned him – that he was refusing to go to London.’