‘Then we could have stopped assuming that Potmoor was guilty of the burglaries,’ Michael went on when there was no reply. ‘And looked for the real culprit.’
‘Who was the real culprit? The minions Potmoor no longer needed after his brush with death, as de Stannell claimed?’
Michael nodded. ‘They stole a veritable fortune, although Bon’s records reveal that de Stannell kept a lot for himself. Doubtless Bon would have poisoned him in time. And Uyten, whom I interviewed at length last night. He is stunned to learn that his master was Bon, not Illesy. He really is a fool. As if the likes of him would ever be made a University Fellow!’
‘What will happen to him?’
‘He will face trial, but will claim benefit of clergy, so will probably be exiled.’
Bartholomew sighed. ‘No wonder this case was so difficult to solve. Bon had a grand plan, but all his helpmeets were in it for themselves.’
‘For money,’ nodded Michael. ‘Like Eyer. Or for prestige, like Uyten. Or for both, like Holm, Julitta and de Stannell – who rashly expected the College to be renamed after him.’
Bartholomew nodded to where John Winwick was talking to the Sheriff. ‘He is unwilling to concede defeat, and wants to try again.’
‘Yes. I have suggested he does it in Oxford.’
Bartholomew laughed.
‘I am serious. They pride themselves on their adaptability, so they can accommodate his impatience. However, we at Cambridge are unsuited to hurried decisions.’
‘Yet some good came out of all this. I learned that no one murdered Oswald, and Richard proved himself to be decent in the end.’
‘There is hope for him, I suppose. He goes home older and wiser, especially about his sire.’ Michael sniggered suddenly. ‘Did you know that Thelnetham wants to be reinstated at Michaelhouse? Langelee has refused, so our conclave will be a haven of peace once more.’
‘William will be pleased.’
‘There is something else that is good, too. We have discovered a new weapon in our battle against killers – dissection.’
‘Oh, no! My conscience will not let me do that again.’
‘Yes, it will,’ countered Michael. ‘Several bodies have been recovered from Winwick’s ruins, and we need to be sure that they are crushed looters, not hapless souls poisoned by Bon. There is a great deal of work for you once this ceremony is over.’
Bartholomew’s reply was drowned out by the choir, beginning the jubilant anthem that marked the end of the ceremony, but this time Michael made no effort to quieten them. He shrugged and pointed to his ears when the physician tried to make himself heard, then turned towards his singers with a complacent smile. He could not have timed their interruption better himself.
Bon had not fled when Winwick Hall and all his dreams had collapsed. He had hidden in the rubble, feeling anger burn within him. He would repay those who had thwarted his plans, and when they were dead he would rebuild his College better, bigger and stronger than ever. He was there now, listening to the choir bellow the closing anthem. He pushed the din from his mind, and thought about the task that lay ahead.
He did not need good eyesight to tell him that the hall was past saving, and that the tottering remains would have to be demolished in order to start afresh. He would not make the same mistakes again, though. His new College would be raised slowly and painstakingly, and it would stand for centuries, outlasting Peterhouse, Gonville, Clare, Trinity Hall and all the other foundations that had called it an upstart.
He groped his way to the cellar, the cool vaulted chamber below the hall that should have been full of ale, wine and food for the coming term. When he thought about all he had lost, his temper boiled again, and he thumped a wooden post with all the force he could muster, wishing it were Michael, Illesy, Lawrence, Nerli or Bartholomew instead.
But for once his poor vision worked against him, and he did not know that the strut was one that had been inserted to shore up the roof until it could be dismantled safely. Bon’s blow knocked it from its moorings, and it crashed to the floor. For a second nothing happened, then the ceiling caved in. It happened so quickly that Bon was barely aware of it. One moment he was standing in silent fury, and the next he was buried under tons of masonry.
There was only one witness to his death. Clippesby had been appalled by the loss of life at Winwick Hall, and had gone there to pray for the souls of the dead. Unnoticed, he watched Bon slouch to the cellar, and his keen ears caught the bitter curses hissed into the darkness. Then he heard Bon strike the post, and knew from the sound of the resulting collapse that the man would not be coming out again. He bowed his head, and added another name to his prayers.
Winwick Hall’s desirable location on the High Street meant it was not long before the site was sold. One parcel of land was purchased by Nerli, who decided to settle in Cambridge once Bartholomew had made it clear that he would not try to discuss mutual acquaintances at Salerno. Nerli had been appalled when the well-intentioned Lawrence had tried to initiate the conversation, sure he was going to be exposed as an imposter, as not only had he never been to the place from which he claimed his impressive string of degrees, but he had no qualifications whatsoever. He had read widely, though, and knew he was more than a match for more formally trained minds.
His land contained the collapsed cellar, but the rubble was nicely packed, so he used it as the foundation for his new home, a pretty cottage that he named Knyt Hostel, in honour of the murdered Secretary of the Guild of Saints. He only ever took three students at a time, but he trained them with such meticulous diligence that kings and bishops clamoured to hire them when they graduated. He ran Knyt Hostel for the next six decades, and was much mourned when he died just short of his hundredth birthday.
Beneath him, Bon’s bones gradually turned to dust, and although Michael continued to hunt, no trace of the blind lawyer was ever found. It was generally believed that he had fled to the Fens and had drowned in one of its treacherous marshes. Only Clippesby knew different, but he saw no reason to disturb the dead.