‘Oh, horrible!’ exclaimed Tulyet in distaste. ‘What do they plan to do? Have a spit roast?’
‘There would be plenty of lard to baste the meat if they did,’ said Michael, unaware that he was not in a position to criticise the fat of others. ‘I think they intend to lynch him.’
‘Lynch a corpse?’ asked Tulyet uncertainly. ‘Oh well, it is better than lynching a live person, I suppose. Come on. Let us put a stop to all this madness before any real harm is done.’
He made as if to inspect the crumpled figure of Adela as he passed, but Bartholomew took his arm and hurried him on, thinking the Sheriff’s duties lay with the living first; he could deal with the dead later. Michael and Cynric followed them the short distance along the High Street to the Market Square.
‘That was Adela Tangmer,’ said Tulyet as they ran. ‘What happened to her?’
‘She fell off her horse,’ replied Michael tersely. ‘I will tell you the details later. Right now, it is more important to deal with these rioters.’
‘We can only deal with them if we know what they are doing,’ said Tulyet, skidding to a halt as they reached the Market Square. ‘And I have no idea what they plan to do.’
He was not the only one. Standing next to him, Bartholomew regarded the scene warily. The crowd, having reached the Square with their intended victim, was suddenly at a loss at what to do. Without the yells and encouragement of Osmun – and Dunstan was too old to have kept up with the main body of the mob and was still huffing his way from the church – they milled around like lost sheep. The body of Runham in its fine coffin was set down gently near the fishmonger’s stall, while the effigy was propped nonchalantly against the water pump that stood in the centre of the Square.
‘I think the answer to your question is simple,’ said Bartholomew. ‘These people do not know what they are going to do, either. Tell them all to go home, Dick.’
‘Michaelhouse will not press charges over this?’ asked Tulyet. ‘You would be within your rights to do so. Snatching the corpses of scholars is not generally regarded as good civic behaviour.’
‘Depends on the corpse,’ said Michael. ‘But Matt is right. The sooner this incident is over and forgotten, the better. Tell them to disperse and that there will be no reprisals from Michaelhouse.’
‘Right,’ yelled Tulyet, striding forward and taking control while he had the chance. ‘I want eight volunteers to transport Masters Runham and Wilson back to St Michael’s Church, and then we will say no more about this disagreeable spectacle.’
Several of the choir shuffled forward, and Runham was heaved off the ground to begin his return journey. Aethelbald was one of the ones who volunteered to lift the effigy, but it was heavy, and his frail old arms were not strong enough to take the weight. With a crash that echoed all over the Market Square, it slipped from his grasp and smashed to the ground. The head rolled in one direction, the legs in another, while the torso cracked in two. And out from the breaks rolled Master Runham’s hidden treasure.
For a moment, no one moved, and the tinkle of coins flowing from the statue was all that could be heard. And then there was chaos. Runham was rudely dropped to the ground, where his corpse flopped from its coffin and his white shroud became splattered with dirt. The crowd surged forward, Michael among them, and uncountable hands reached, grabbed and snatched for the bright gold that lay in the mud. People were trampled, hair was yanked, clothes were ripped, and faces were slapped and thumped. Bartholomew watched it all aghast, while Tulyet used the flat of his sword in a hopeless attempt to try to restore some sort of order.
News that there was gold to be had near the fish stalls carried faster than the wind, and more people raced to join the affray. Those staggering away from the chaos found themselves mugged for their new acquisitions, and Bartholomew was wrestled to the ground by two apprentices who were certain his pockets were stuffed with coins, but backed off when Cynric came to his rescue.
‘Come away, boy,’ the Welshman urged with distaste. ‘This is no place for honest men.’
‘But we cannot just leave,’ said Bartholomew, appalled both by the display of naked greed and by the fact that the gold that was being spirited away in a hundred different pockets was stolen property and would never be returned to its rightful owners. ‘Some of that gold belongs to Michaelhouse.’
‘Not any more,’ said Cynric with a grin.
Epilogue
THE FOLLOWING DAY, WHEN PEACE HAD BEEN restored to the town and Master Runham’s body had been restored to St Michael’s Church, Bartholomew and Michael sat in the conclave with Langelee, William and Kenyngham. It was a lovely afternoon, with a pale winter sun shining in a clear, cloudless sky that bathed the room with its warm brightness. A merry fire crackled in the hearth, and Agatha had just brought a platter of freshly baked oatcakes for the Fellows to eat while they waited for the bell to call them to supper. The students were all gainfully employed removing the last of the scaffolding under the watchful eye of a shame-faced Robert de Blaston, while Cynric moved around the room refilling goblets with wine. Michael was happily contemplating a resumption of his hoodwinking of William Heytesbury of Merton College, while Bartholomew was anticipating with pleasure his meeting with Matilde that evening.
‘It is good to have you back, Cynric,’ said Michael, holding out his cup. ‘The College was not the same without you.’
‘A life of evenings at home is very nice,’ said Cynric, ‘but I found I missed the occasional adventure with you. I have decided to work at Michaelhouse during the day and return to Rachel at night – unless you have any prowling or fighting you need done.’
‘I hope that will not be necessary,’ said Bartholomew in alarm. ‘I have had more than my share of that sort of thing for a while, and I do not think Rachel would approve of us leading you astray.’
‘She wants whatever makes me happy,’ said Cynric with smug contentment. ‘You always claim you do not like these adventures of Brother Michael’s, but I think you do, really.’
‘I do not!’ began Bartholomew vehemently. ‘In fact–’
‘Has anyone seen the real Master Suttone today?’ asked Langelee, downing his wine in a single draught and holding out his cup to Cynric for more. ‘Or is he still skulking in the Carmelite Friary?’
‘Is that how he will be known from now on?’ asked Michael, amused. ‘The real Master Suttone?’
‘It is better to be clear on this matter, Michael,’ said William pompously. ‘Or who knows what confusion might arise? On the one hand we had a man prepared to lie and kill for a woman, and on the other we have a weaselly coward who ran away the first time his College needed him, and who remained in his bed for nigh on two weeks with little more than a scratched arm.’
‘Do not despise the real Master Suttone for his cowardice, Father,’ said Michael comfortably. ‘He may have done more for Michaelhouse than he will ever know – it was because of him that we are now rid of the dreadful Runham and his wicked deeds.’
William gazed at him. ‘Then perhaps the real Master Suttone should have stayed away longer still. Then we might have been able to rid ourselves of that mad-eyed Clippesby, too.’
‘We believed the mad-eyed Clippesby had killed Runham,’ mused Michael. ‘Now it seems that the man is innocent – he just happens to be insane.’
‘He is not insane, he is disturbed,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He has delusions and is unable to view the world in the same way as a rational man.’
‘The sedate, calm life of a scholar should heal him, given time,’ said William, following Langelee’s example and downing his wine so that he could have more.
‘Perhaps he should go elsewhere, then,’ said Kenyngham anxiously. ‘The events of the last few days have indicated that Cambridge is not the place to be if you desire a sedate, calm life.’
‘Are you saying that one of the Fellows is genuinely insane?’ asked Cynric, not sounding as surprised as Bartholomew thought he should.
‘Not insane,’ Ba
rtholomew corrected. ‘Disturbed. And if he has the support and care of his colleagues, he may overcome the problem.’
‘So, only one of the Fellows is officially a lunatic,’ muttered Cynric with a puzzled frown. Bartholomew was not sure whether he had heard him correctly, but was too grateful to have the Welshman back again to begin an argument over it.
Clippesby entered the conclave, looking more haunted and nervous than ever. Bartholomew smiled at him and made room near the fire. Timidly, like a deer taking an apple from a hunter, the Dominican edged forward, as if he imagined the proffered stool might suddenly move of its own accord – or that he might discover it was a figment of his imagination. Finding it was not, he sat quickly and looked around at his colleagues with his peculiar eyes.
‘What happened to the false Suttone?’ he asked shyly in the slightly awkward silence that followed his entrance. ‘Somehow I seem to have become confused by all the chaos of yesterday.’
‘I am not surprised,’ muttered William. ‘I was confused myself, and I am sane.’
Cynric chuckled softly as he replenished the Franciscan’s goblet. ‘It is good to be back,’ he said ambiguously.
‘Four years ago,’ Michael began, ‘a Master named Wilson decided to gather himself a fortune, lest the University flounder after the plague and he find himself without employment. He stole from a number of dying people, including the mother of Adela Tangmer. Hatred festered in the daughter after Wilson’s own death, and eventually, goaded by her father’s constant nagging that she should marry, she embarked upon a plan to get this money back. The wealth would also allow her to become independent from her father, and give her a life of freedom.’
‘The false Suttone was the key to the plan,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He incapacitated the real one and took up the appointment instead, careful to kill the one College servant – Justus – who, like the real Master Suttone, was from Lincoln and who therefore might be in a position to expose the false one as an impostor.’
‘Meanwhile,’ continued Michael, ‘arguments and dissension were bubbling among the Fellows of Bene’t, exacerbated by a spiteful-tongued blackmailer called Wymundham. Wymundham used like-minded men, such as Brother Patrick of Ovyng Hostel, to uncover embarrassing secrets about his colleagues. When Wymundham’s friend Raysoun fell from the scaffolding, driven to drink and despair by Wymundham himself, Wymundham claimed he had been pushed.’
‘Why?’ asked Clippesby.
‘No reason other than malice,’ said Michael. ‘He was bored by the life of a scholar, and sought to liven it up by creating a few scandals. Then he took money from Master Heltisle, as a bribe to stop telling lies about Raysoun’s death, and immediately set off for Holy Trinity Church to buy some of that cheap wine that we all know can be purchased there of an afternoon.’
‘Wymundham blackmailed people to buy wine?’ asked Clippesby, confused.
‘No,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘I have just explained Wymundham’s motive to you. The wine was a bonus, but not the main purpose of his actions. Do pay attention, man.’
‘Meanwhile, Adela became drunk at a Bene’t feast, and told Wymundham that her kinsman Suttone planned to infiltrate Michaelhouse with a view to reclaiming the goods that Wilson stole,’ said Bartholomew.
‘I remember that,’ said Langelee, thoughtfully. ‘I was at that feast, to meet the Duke of Lancaster. The woman had to be carried home, if I recall correctly. Her father was most embarrassed, and so was Master Heltisle, who had no business serving Widow’s Wine to his female guests.’
‘So Wymundham decided to blackmail Suttone,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He arranged to meet Suttone in the shack behind Bene’t, where he found his intended victim waiting not with a purse of gold, but with a cushion.’
‘And Adela followed Patrick, who was a witness to the murder, and stabbed him with one of her horse picks in the grounds of Ovyng Hostel,’ said Michael.
‘One of her what?’ asked Clippesby, bewildered.
‘A tool for removing things from horses’ hooves,’ explained Michael. ‘Sensing that time was running out, Suttone confronted Runham and demanded back the jewellery Wilson stole from Adela’s mother.’
‘But why did he not just take it?’ asked Clippesby. ‘Runham was not in his chamber all the time.’
‘He tried,’ said Michael. ‘He searched the Master’s room the night Runham was elected – with Adela herself – while most scholars were drunk on an exceptionally powerful brew of Widow’s Wine, provided by Caumpes. Matt and I almost caught them as they left. A week later, after Runham declined to part with Adela’s money, Suttone smothered him with the cushion Runham had stolen from Agatha’s chair.’
‘Agatha, the laundress,’ said William in sudden glee. ‘That reminds me. How is Osmun, by the way?’
‘He will live,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Although he will be scarred for life.’
‘Why?’ asked Clippesby, open-mouthed. ‘What did she do to Osmun?’
‘She bit him,’ said Bartholomew. ‘After Osmun had taken Caumpes’s body to Bene’t, he returned to the Market Square and tried to agitate the crowd into marching against Michaelhouse again, arguing that there was more gold hidden here. Agatha suggested he might like to be quiet. Rashly, he did not take her advice and she bit him in the ensuing mêlée.’
‘With those pointed teeth?’ asked Clippesby, awed. ‘Did she bite anything off?’
‘Almost,’ said Bartholomew.
‘We were talking about Suttone,’ said Michael, irritated by the interruption. ‘After he had smothered Runham, he removed a certain amount of money from the building chest. But he was not comfortable keeping what he knew was not Adela’s, and he returned the balance to Matt in the churchyard before mass one morning. I suspect that was the turning point in their relationship. Suttone had agreed to right a wrong – to help Adela retrieve jewellery stolen from her mother by Wilson on her deathbed. But Adela wanted all of Wilson’s fabled wealth.’
‘Once or twice, when I was in the Master’s chamber, gold coins rolled from the chimney,’ said Kenyngham with a vague smile. ‘And another time, a ring fell from behind one of the tapestries. I wondered where they had come from.’
‘Did you investigate, to see whether there were more of them?’ asked Michael, astonished.
Kenyngham shook his head. ‘I care nothing for such baubles, Michael, you know that. I gave them to the poor and put the matter out of my mind.’
‘So, the walls and chimney were dripping gold and you did not think to look into the matter?’ asked William in horror. ‘Really, Father! Michaelhouse might have been rich had you bothered to tell anyone else about this.’
‘I thought you also despised baubles,’ said Bartholomew, raising his eyebrows at the indignant friar. William’s mouth set into a grim line, and he stared stonily in front of him.
‘Meanwhile,’ said Michael loudly, growing tired of the interruptions, ‘Caumpes had been happily selling jewellery for Runham, left for him in Wilson’s altar. Caumpes was probably telling the truth when he said he thought it was legal.’
‘But it was not,’ said Clippesby.
‘No,’ said Michael. ‘It was not. It was taken from dying people by the avaricious Wilson, and Runham knew this. Perhaps he really did believe that building a new courtyard in Wilson’s honour would assuage the sin, but I suspect he intended to make his mark on our College and then leave – along with whatever remained of Wilson’s treasure trove.’
‘But surely Caumpes was suspicious with an arrangement that necessitated leaving treasure hidden in soap?’ asked Clippesby. ‘Why evolve such a plan if the whole business was legal?’
‘Because the townsfolk do not like scholars dabbling in trade,’ said Michael. ‘Caumpes was tolerated because he was once a merchant himself, and he is a local man. But Runham could not afford to be seen to be involved in the buying and selling business. Such secrecy was not necessarily an indication of any wrongdoing.’
‘So Caumpes was in league wit
h Runham?’ asked Clippesby. ‘I thought he was working with Adela and the false Suttone.’
‘He was,’ said Michael. ‘Adela always liked Caumpes more than the other Bene’t Fellows, and Caumpes, like Suttone, was a victim of Wymundham’s blackmailing. They formed an alliance. Caumpes sold Runham’s jewellery, and he told Adela exactly how much the old miser was making. Doubtless the thought of all that treasure going to pay for a building to honour the man who stole from her dying mother was a bitter pill to swallow, and it made her more determined than ever that Runham should not have it.’
‘Caumpes’s motive, however, was not to get his hands on Wilson’s gold for himself, but to raise money for his College,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He went with Adela to tamper with the scaffolding at Michaelhouse one night, thinking that its collapse would drive the workmen back to Bene’t. Adela, though, had different intentions: she wanted the scaffolding to fall on Michael, because she did not want him exposing her before she had a chance to locate the rest of the gold.’
‘Speaking of murder, Adela also tried to kill me and Matt in the shed at Bene’t,’ added Michael, rather indignantly, ‘and she succeeded in stabbing de Walton with one of her horse picks, while Caumpes acted as a decoy.’
‘Why did she kill de Walton?’ asked Clippesby.
Michael sighed. ‘Because de Walton would have been a valuable witness in convicting Caumpes. Simekyn Simeon sensed that de Walton was in some danger, and so hid him. Like fools, Matt and I led Caumpes and Adela right to him, and he died for our mistake.’
‘Oh, I do not think you should see it like that, Brother,’ said Clippesby, fixing the monk with his fanatical gaze. ‘It was not your fault that Caumpes and Adela were murderers. It is they who are to blame for the death of de Walton, not you. Especially her, I would say.’
‘True,’ said William. ‘The woman was a maniac.’
‘I appreciate your support,’ said Michael. ‘Then Suttone came to confess his role in the affair to me in the church, intending from the outset to kill himself; and Adela and Caumpes appeared, wanting Runham’s treasure. The rest you know.’
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