‘Gille certainly is,’ agreed Edith. ‘He stole from my warehouse. He pretended to be looking at cloth, but when he left, a spool of ribbon had disappeared. I was tempted to challenge him about it, but decided it was not worth the aggravation.’
‘Stationer Weasenham thinks he filches exemplars,’ put in Lucy. ‘He loses several every week, nearly always after Gille has been in the shop, browsing.’
Bartholomew raised his eyebrows. ‘Stasy and Hawick sell exemplars passed to them by Gille and Elsham. I wonder if they know they are handling stolen goods.’
‘I imagine they do,’ said Edith wryly. ‘They are not very honourable either. But next time you visit Clare Hall, ask to search Gille’s room. If you find Weasenham’s texts, it will prove that Gille is a felon. And while you are there, look for my ribbon, too.’
‘No,’ said Matilde at once. ‘Supposing the falling stone was intended for you, Matt? The killer might be anyone, and going to Clare Hall could be dangerous.’
‘I was not the target,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘First, it would be a lot easier to strike when I am out alone at night, visiting patients, and second, I am sure Elsham’s death is connected to his murder of Huntyngdon. There is no need to worry.’
But he could see from her anxious face that he had failed to convince her.
Clare Hall was not a happy College. Bartholomew sensed it the moment the porter opened the gate and conducted him to the conclave. It was not surprising. Aynton and Elsham were dead in suspicious circumstances, Elsham had confessed to a murder, Gille had absconded, and their Master was engaged in an unedifying dispute that entailed him being awarded the dubious title of Anti-Chancellor.
The Fellows were in the conclave, their faces lined with worry. They were sitting around the table, and it was clear that Bartholomew had interrupted an impromptu meeting. Before he could speak, there were footsteps in the corridor outside, and Donwich swept in.
‘What are you all doing, gathered here so furtively?’ he demanded. ‘Plotting against me?’ Then he saw Bartholomew and grew angrier still. ‘And you can get out!’
‘The Chancellor sent him,’ said Pulham coolly. ‘And if you oust him, everyone will think we have something to hide.’
Donwich regarded him haughtily. ‘By “Chancellor”, do you refer to that impostor Michael? I do not recognise his authority, and neither should you.’
Pulham returned his glare levelly. ‘Aynton and Elsham died horribly, and Bartholomew has been appointed to investigate. If we want answers, I suggest we cooperate.’
‘Let us talk to him, Master,’ urged March pleadingly. ‘You can go and prepare for your interview with the vicars-general instead.’
‘I have no need to prepare,’ retorted Donwich arrogantly. ‘Michael called the election with indecent haste and then he cheated. That is all they need to know.’
The vicars-general would dismiss his claim out of hand if he took that attitude, thought Bartholomew. Then Pulham asked what had transpired on the riverbank the previous day. Donwich had been about to stalk out, but he stayed to listen to what Bartholomew had to say.
‘So Elsham confessed to stabbing Huntyngdon,’ the physician finished, ‘but he claimed it was a favour for a friend. Not Gille, but someone else.’
‘In other words, Elsham was innocent,’ said Donwich. ‘A helpless victim, who was bullied into committing a crime against his will. And Gille fled in terror of his life.’
‘Elsham had just four friends,’ said Pulham, ignoring his Master’s self-serving interpretation of events. ‘Gille, Donwich, Stasy and Hawick. No one else liked him.’
‘Now just a moment,’ began Donwich angrily, ‘I am not–’
‘Gille has absconded, Master,’ interrupted March sternly. ‘He raced here shortly after Elsham died, packed a bag and bolted. I told him that running away smacks of a guilty conscience, but he refused to listen. Assuming he had taken refuge with Stasy and Hawick, I went to Shoemaker Row, aiming to reason with him again. He was not there.’
‘We have been racking our brains for other places he might be,’ Pulham told Bartholomew. ‘But with no success.’
‘I have it on good authority that he is a thief,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps that is why he ran – he cannot risk being questioned too closely, lest it leads to his exposure as a felon.’
‘How dare you!’ cried Donwich, incensed anew. ‘That is slander.’
‘If he is innocent, prove it by letting me search his room,’ said Bartholomew, feeling he had cornered the Master rather nicely. He certainly expected to find stolen goods there, but more importantly, there might be something that would tell him where Gille had gone.
The Fellows agreed at once, although Donwich spluttered his outrage. They ignored him and conducted Bartholomew up the stairs, their Master stamping along behind them, muttering venomously under his breath.
Gille and Elsham had occupied a pleasant room overlooking the river and the water meadows beyond. Bartholomew began to search it.
‘Where is Elsham’s Book of Hours?’ demanded Pulham, who loved beautiful texts, and always noticed the ones other people owned. ‘He kept it on this shelf, but it has gone.’
‘I imagine Elsham bequeathed it to Gille,’ shrugged Donwich. ‘So Gille took it with him when he left. They were friends, after all.’
‘No, he left it to Clare Hall,’ countered Pulham. ‘I drew up the deed myself. He also wanted us to have all his jewellery, but that is missing, too.’
Incensed that their College might be the victim of a crime, everyone – including Donwich – began to hunt for the items listed in Elsham’s will. They were not in the room, although they did discover a spool of ribbon and a pile of exemplars under a loose floorboard.
‘Just a moment!’ cried Pulham, examining the find. ‘Two of these exemplars are mine! I assumed a student had borrowed them to study over the summer, but now it becomes apparent that Gille took them.’
‘So Gille is a thief and Elsham was a murderer,’ said March heavily, and gave Donwich an unpleasant look. ‘Charming men you appointed as Fellows, Master. We were right to voice our reservations, and you should have listened.’
‘There must be some mistake,’ blustered Donwich, struggling to conceal his dismay. ‘Or more likely, a conspiracy, designed to discredit me in front of the vicars-general. Next, you will be claiming that I am the “friend” who ordered Elsham to kill Huntyngdon.’
‘We know you would never do such a thing, Master,’ said Pulham, although Bartholomew thought his voice lacked conviction.
Then the porter appeared to announce the arrival of another visitor – Senior Proctor Brampton, resplendent in his new robes of office. Brampton listened to March’s account of what had been found, then turned imperiously to Bartholomew.
‘Clearly, Gille and Elsham deceived poor Donwich most grievously. However, as one is dead and the other has vanished, we shall say no more about it. The matter is closed.’
‘It is not closed!’ objected Bartholomew, astonished that Brampton should think so. ‘We need to find Gille so he can be questioned. How else will we establish the identity of Elsham’s so-called friend?’
‘I doubt he exists,’ said Brampton dismissively. ‘And if he does, it will likely be Stasy or Hawick. They sell charms and spells openly now, so we know they are not respectable men. The rot is in Michaelhouse, as well as Clare Hall, so I advise you to keep your mouth shut about what you think you have discovered here.’
Bartholomew gaped at him. ‘Is this how you will keep order in the University? By looking the other way when crimes are committed?’
Brampton opened his mouth to respond, but Donwich spoke first.