‘Thieves can be cunning and determined,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘One might have been planning this invasion for weeks, gathering information and watching what we do. Moreover, our porter is effective when he is at the gate, but what happens when he does his rounds?’
‘True,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘And I am much happier with the notion of the culprit being a stranger than a viper from within. However, we must remember that a lot of new students have enrolled this term, and we do not know them yet.’
‘Their seniors will keep them in order,’ said Bartholomew firmly.
Michael nodded, but did not look convinced. ‘I know you are busy, but I shall need your help with this. No, do not argue! How will you physick your paupers if you have no stipend to spend on medicine? Your best hope is to help me catch the culprit before he squanders it all. Then you might still be paid.’
Bartholomew gave his reluctant assent, wondering whether Lawrence would agree to treat more of the town’s needy until the situation was resolved. And the lectures he had to prepare for the coming term and his daily visits to Edith? He supposed he would just have to forgo more sleep.
‘Thank you,’ said Michael. ‘We shall start by speaking to our colleagues, to see if they have remembered anything new now that they have had time to reflect.’
Clippesby, Suttone and Hemmysby were in the conclave. The Dominican still held the hen, a feisty bird who chased any cat or dog that dared trespass in her domain, and who ruled the other fowl with a beak of iron. She was gentle with Clippesby, though, and her eyes were closed as she dozed on his lap.
‘I noticed nothing odd.’ Hemmysby ran a hand through his bushy hair. ‘I forgot we owned the thing, to tell you the truth. I do not manage a hutch, so I never think about them.’
‘I saw Thelnetham go down to the cellar last Tuesday,’ supplied Suttone. His plump face was troubled. ‘I hope he did not take it, aiming to have William blamed. I would not put it past him. I wish they would end this silly feud. Such rancour is hardly seemly for men in holy orders.’
‘Are you sure none of you saw anything unusual?’ pressed Michael desperately. ‘Clippesby? What about your animal friends?’
The Dominican had a habit of sitting quietly to commune with nature, which meant he often saw things not intended for his eyes. His observations had helped with enquiries in the past, although the intelligence he provided invariably required careful decoding.
‘No,’ he replied, uncharacteristically terse. ‘Or I would have said the first time you asked.’
Although Michael and Bartholomew spent the rest of the day asking questions of Fellows, students and servants, they learned nothing useful. Everyone was shocked by the news, especially when they heard that the Stanton Cup had gone, too, and Bartholomew did not relish the prospect of eventually confessing that the College’s entire fortune had disappeared into the bargain.
At sunset, he went to visit Edith. She lived in a pleasant manor in the nearby village of Trumpington, but since her bereavement, she had preferred to stay at the handsome, stone-built house on Milne Street, from which the family cloth business was run. Bartholomew was glad, feeling its lively bustle was better for her than the quiet serenity of the countryside.
Edith was in the solar, a comfortable room with thick rugs on the floor, and a warm, homely aroma of herbs and fresh bread. Lamps were lit, which imparted a cosy golden glow. She and Bartholomew were unmistakably siblings: both had dark eyes and black hair, although her locks now had a significant sprinkling of silver. He experienced a surge of mixed emotions when he saw Richard was with her – pleasure, because he was fond of his nephew; irritation, because he could see that Edith was upset.
‘She has found a box of Father’s personal documents, and aims to paw through them,’ Richard explained sulkily, when Bartholomew commented on the icy atmosphere. ‘It is not right.’
Bartholomew studied his nephew meditatively, trying to see in the man who lounged by the hearth the fresh-faced, carefree boy he had known. Soft living had furnished Richard with an unflattering chubbiness, while his eyes had an unhealthy yellow tinge. He wore his hair long, but the style did not suit him, and made him look seedy. Despite his arrogant confidence, Richard was not a good lawyer, and although he had secured a series of lucrative posts, he had kept none of them for long. The most recent had been with the Earl of Suffolk, where there had been a scandal involving a pregnant daughter. A considerable sum of money had been required to appease the outraged baron.
‘Of course it is right,’ said Edith irritably. ‘Some might be unpaid bills, or other matters that require my attention.’
‘They won’t – Zachary says so,’ Richard shot back.
‘Zachary is not in charge,’ countered Edith coolly. ‘I am. And besides, you neglected to mention that I found this box in the garden, atop a small fire – which the culprit had neglected to mind, so its contents were undamaged. Zachary denies putting it there, so perhaps Oswald…’
‘If it had been Oswald, surely you would have found it before now,’ said Bartholomew. ‘While Zachary is not the sort of man to burn someone else’s documents.’
‘Well, he seems to have had a go at these,’ said Richard sullenly. He turned back to his mother. ‘But it is not for you to paw through them. They might be nothing to do with the business, and pertain to my part of the inheritance.’
‘In which case I shall pass them on to you,’ said Edith, exasperated. ‘Now, did you mention that you were going out this evening?’
Richard saw the defiant jut of her chin, and evidently realised that this was a confrontation he would not win, because he grabbed his cloak and stalked out. Bartholomew watched him go, sorry the easy friendship they had once enjoyed was lost. Richard considered him dull company compared to his London cronies, and the rare evenings they spent together were strained affairs with each struggling to find common ground for conversation.
‘He looks well,’ he remarked, after the door had been slammed closed.
Edith pulled a disagreeable face. ‘He looks like what he is – someone with too much money and too many dissolute companions eager to help him spend it. To be honest, I have no desire to trawl through that chest, but the fact that he tried to stop me … Indeed, I cannot help but wonder whether he was the one who tried to destroy them.’
‘Do you want me to do it?’ The prospect did not fill Bartholomew with enthusiasm, and would be yet another demand on his precious time, but there was little he would not do for Edith.
She shook her head. ‘I wish Oswald were here, though. He would know how to handle Richard. I wake up each morning thinking it has all been a bad dream, and that he is still alive.’
‘Me, too,’ admitted Bartholomew.
‘His death … I know we have discussed it ad nauseam, Matt, but I am sure there was something amiss. Why did he die of marsh fever? His previous attacks were never very serious.’
‘I do not know,’ replied Bartholomew, as he had done many times before. ‘I was not there.’
‘No,’ said Edith bitterly. ‘You were off running errands with Michael in Peterborough when he needed you. If you had been in Cambridge, Oswald would still be alive.’
While Bartholomew knew that Edith’s words were born of grief, they still hurt, and he returned to Michaelhouse with a heavy heart. He doubted his presence at Oswald’s deathbed would have made any difference, given Rougham’s account of what had happened, but he still wished he had been there. While his colleagues slept, he sat in the conclave working on his lectures, aiming to distract himself from the guilt of failing Edith during the darkest hours of her life.