‘You took the deeds relating to the Oxford proposal?’ asked Bartholomew in sudden understanding.
Michael nodded. ‘I took the property deeds of the church and farms I propose to pass to Heytesbury, along with the information telling us how profitable they are. Plus, I took priceless books written by other great nominalists, like John Dumbleton and Richard Swineshead. Lincolne is the kind of man to consign that sort of text to the flames, and I do not approve of book-burning.’
Bartholomew knew Michael was right on that score. When Heytesbury’s Regulae Solvendi Sophismata had been found among Faricius’s belongings, Lincolne had ordered it burned without a moment’s hesitation.
‘That was all?’ he asked. ‘You committed the theft only to remove sensitive items from the Carmelite Friary?’
‘Yes,’ Michael confirmed. ‘But I wish you would not insist on calling it a theft. It was nothing of the kind. It was merely me taking documents from one place and securing them in another. If I were a serious thief, I would have had the gold that was stored in the chest, too, not just the texts.’
‘True,’ acknowledged Bartholomew, recalling the scrap of parchment he had found in Michael’s room when he had been writing an account of Faricius’s murder. Walcote’s list of stolen items had mentioned no missing gold.
‘I could hardly be open about what I was doing, could I?’ Michael continued. ‘How do you think Lincolne would have reacted if I had told him he was no longer to be trusted with some of the University’s business?’
‘He would have been offended,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And he might even have been vindictive.’
‘Quite,’ agreed Michael. ‘This arrangement with Oxford is important, and, after losing the Mastership of Michaelhouse to it, I did not want all my work to come to nothing because an old bigot like Lincolne got wind of it by rummaging through the documents stored in his friary.’
‘Where did you put these books and deeds?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘You could not store duplicate copies in St Mary’s tower – what would be the point of keeping two sets in the same place? – and you always claim that you never keep anything valuable in your office or in your room at Michaelhouse.’
‘Right,’ said Michael. ‘But I do keep them in a damp little corner of Michaelhouse’s wine cellars. But only Chancellor Tynkell, Agatha and now you know about that.’
‘So you had good reason to assume that last night’s intruders did not find what they wanted: you knew that whatever it was would have been in the cellar?’
Michael rubbed his chin, the bristles rasping under his fingernails. ‘I have already considered the possibility that last night’s raid was related to the documents I “stole”, and discounted it. I suppose it is remotely possible that someone was desperate to get his hands on an annotated copy of Dumbleton’s Summa Logicae et Philosophiae Naturalis, but I sincerely doubt it. I do not know what these intruders thought they might find, but I cannot believe it was anything to do with my arrangements with Oxford or the nominalist texts I have safeguarded.’
‘How can you be sure?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I imagine Heytesbury would love to see the finances of the properties he plans to take from you. Has it occurred to you that he has a very good reason to search your room?’
‘Heytesbury?’ asked Michael, startled. ‘I do not think so, Matt! The man is a scholar, for God’s sake, not a burglar!’
‘He is also a cunning negotiator who is determined to do his best for Oxford,’ argued Bartholomew, declining to mention that Michael himself was also a scholar, but that did not stop him from removing what he wanted from the Carmelite Friary. ‘You cannot be sure that he was not one of the intruders.’
‘Heytesbury and Morden?’ asked Michael, amused. ‘They would make odd bedfellows.’
‘Heytesbury might have hired someone else to commit the burglary,’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘He is not stupid, and would not risk being caught stealing from the Senior Proctor’s room himself.’
‘We will put these questions to Morden later today,’ said Michael. ‘But I think you are wrong. And anyway, the person in Cambridge whom Heytesbury seems to like best is your nephew Richard. The lad has taken to carrying ornate daggers and riding black war-horses around the town. Perhaps he has also taken to burglary.’
‘No!’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘Not Richard. He may be a fool, but he is not a criminal.’
Michael shrugged. ‘As I said, we will ask Morden.’
‘Several important issues were discussed at Walcote’s meetings,’ said Bartholomew, dragging his thoughts away from the unpleasant possibility that Richard might have been the man who attacked him on the darkened stairwell. ‘Besides repairing the Great Bridge and discussing philosophy, they talked about the plot to murder you and the theft from the friary. I wonder whether Walcote thought the two subjects were connected.’
‘You think he believed that someone wanted me dead, because I am seen as a thief?’ asked Michael. He blew out his cheeks in a sigh. ‘It is possible, I suppose.’
‘Some people believe that Walcote’s investigation of the theft led him too close to the culprit,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘Pechem and Kenyngham saw an association between his death and the theft you committed.’
Michael’s face was sombre. ‘I can accept that people see me as the kind of man to steal, but I cannot imagine how they could see me – me – as the kind of man to take the life of my deputy.’
‘What shall we do about it?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘It was my original intention to prove you innocent of the theft, so that you would be absolved of the murder. Your confession just now has put paid to that plan.’
‘Then we shall just have to go one step further, and find Walcote’s killer instead. That will prove me innocent beyond any shadow of a doubt.’
They were silent for a while, each wrapped in his own thoughts.
‘Did you know that Walcote made a list of the documents you took from the Carmelite Friary?’ asked Bartholomew eventually.
Michael nodded. ‘He jotted down his initial report in rough, then scribed it more neatly for the Chancellor – who knows exactly why I removed those particular items, before you ask. Carelessly, Walcote discarded his first copy in the box where we keep used parchment. I found it later.’
‘It was among the scraps in your room.’
‘I meant to burn it, but I forgot. It must have sat there undisturbed and forgotten for three months, until you discovered it by chance.’
‘Why did the Chancellor not tell Walcote that the theft from the Carmelite Friary was not what it seemed?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Did Tynkell distrust Walcote?’
‘He considered him too gentle and too easily led. Tynkell decided not to tell Walcote the truth about the “theft”, although he was obliged to ask him to investigate. It would have looked odd had he instructed him to forget about it.’
Bartholomew was feeling exhausted by the twists and turns the plot had taken. He was also hungry, and was grateful when the bell chimed to announce that breakfast was ready.
‘And there are other things I do not understand,’ Michael went on as they walked slowly towards the hall, ‘such as what is Simon Lynne’s role in all this? I am sure he is connected in some way, because I am positive he is lying.’
‘And Tysilia and the meetings at St Radegund’s,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is a link between her and Walcote, I am sure.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Michael noncommittally, ‘although I am less convinced of that than you. We shall visit Matilde again today, to see if she has learned anything new.’