He ran up the stairs to the hall, hoping to find some of his colleagues with whom he could discuss the issue of Deynman. The room was deserted, and a draught from the open door had scattered parchments across the floor, so that it had a desolate, abandoned feel to it. It was also cold with no fire, and Bartholomew’s breath plumed in front of him as he looked around. There was something different about it, and at first he could not pinpoint what. Then he noticed that some of the best wall-hangings, which had lent the hall its cosy feel, had been removed, leaving the bare stone exposed. Because the tapestries would go well with the cream walls in Runham’s new quarters, Bartholomew guessed exactly where they had gone.
Kenyngham was sitting in the fireless conclave with Langelee and Suttone. The gentle Gilbertine was pale, but his face wore a serene expression, as though he had accepted Runham’s curt dismissal of a Fellowship spanning almost thirty years, and was already thinking of other matters.
‘We were just talking about you, Bartholomew,’ said Langelee. His voice lacked its usual ebullient quality. Like Kenyngham, he was wan; his heavy jowls were dark with stubble and there was a pink sheen to the whites of his eyes. Bartholomew suspected that Deynman and Gray were not the only ones who had spent the afternoon drowning their sorrows. ‘You will have no students left if Runham sends down any more.’
Bartholomew sat next to the empty hearth, prodding at the dead white ashes with a stick and sending a scattering of dust across the flagstones. ‘I am surprised he dismissed Deynman. I always thought we needed his money.’
‘So did I,’ said Kenyngham. ‘I would never have accepted him had we not – no offence, Matthew, but that boy has no place in a University.’
‘He certainly does not now,’ agreed Langelee gloomily.
‘So why is it that we do not need Deynman’s money all of a sudden?’ asked Suttone. ‘Is there a new benefactor so that we can afford to discount our old sources of income? I do not understand. These new buildings must be costing Michaelhouse a fortune, and it seems we should be conserving our regular income, not doing away with it.’
‘Especially given that Runham has offered to double the builders’ wages if the work is completed within a month,’ said Bartholomew.
Suttone and Langelee gaped at him in astonishment. ‘Really?’ asked Langelee. He blew out his red-veined cheeks in a sigh of surprise. ‘That will mean a lot of ready money.’
Kenyngham nodded. ‘But he has it – I saw it in a chest in his room. He is overly trusting to keep it in such an insecure place. Anyone could wander in and help themselves.’
‘You mean it is in an open box?’ asked Langelee, startled. ‘Just lying there?’
Kenyngham nodded again. ‘I asked him where it came from, but he would not tell me.’
‘I do not like the sound of this at all,’ said Suttone uneasily. ‘I am a law-abiding man – a friar from a respectable Order. I do not want to be associated with anything illegal.’
‘And we will be,’ said Langelee glumly. ‘If Runham has obtained this wealth by underhand means, we will be considered as guilty as he is, because we are Fellows of the same College.’
‘But what can we do?’ asked Suttone, alarmed. ‘We cannot just sit idly by and let him do things that may be dishonest.’
‘We have no proof that he has been breaking the law,’ said Kenyngham reasonably. ‘Just because he will not reveal the source of his wealth does not mean that he acquired it by criminal means.’
‘Does it not?’ said Suttone, clearly unconvinced. ‘Well, I do not feel comfortable with his secrecy. What are we going to do about it?’
‘There is nothing we can do,’ said Kenyngham wearily. ‘We can hardly approach the man and ask him where he stole his money from.’
‘Really?’ said Langelee harshly, standing with sudden purpose. ‘Well, I was once an agent for the Archbishop of York, and I have dealt with all manner of criminals and traitors in my time. I have no intention of allowing my career to be cut short by the activities of a common thief. We shall confront him with our suspicions like men, not skulk here in the dark because we are afraid of him.’
‘Ah, my loyal colleagues,’ said Runham smoothly, as he walked into the conclave with Clippesby at his heels. Bartholomew noticed that the door to the hall had not been properly closed, and assumed that the pair had been listening outside.
‘I want a word with you, Runham,’ began Langelee bluntly.
Bartholomew cringed. Runham was a clever man, and was not likely to yield any of his secrets or render himself amenable to reason if Langelee went at him with all the subtlety of a bull in heat.
‘And I want a word with you, Langelee,’ countered Runham immediately. ‘It has come to my notice that you are not all you should be.’
‘Am I not?’ asked Langelee, aggression evaporating as puzzlement took over. ‘In what way?’
‘You are married,’ said Runham, in a tone of voice that suggested wedlock was more akin to a contagious disease than a union made holy by the blessing of God. ‘And because you are married, you have rendered yourself ineligible for a Fellowship at Michaelhouse. You will remove yourself and all your belongings by morning. Your deceit is reprehensible.’
‘But I am not married,’ protested Langelee. ‘I was, but I am not now.’
‘Did you or did you not hold your Fellowship while you were wed to a woman called Julianna Deschalers?’ asked Runham coldly.
‘Well, yes, but I–’
‘Then you have broken one of the fundamental rules of our College, which is grounds for dismissal. And, since you also claimed your Fellow’s stipend when you had no right to do so, I demand that you repay the entire amount by the end of next week – a total of two marks.’
‘But I cannot pay so large a sum that soon!’ cried Langelee, aghast. ‘I spent all my money on obtaining the annulment and in buying off Julianna.’
‘Your domestic arrangements are not my concern,’ said Runham distastefully. ‘But I will have every penny of the money you drew fraudulently from Michaelhouse, or I shall ask the proctors to arrest you.’
‘Who told you about my marriage?’ asked Langelee in a whisper, his face white. ‘Was it Bartholomew?’
‘It was not,’ said Bartholomew, offended that the philosopher would believe he had betrayed a trust to a man like Runham – even when that trust had been foisted upon him without his consent.
‘It was you,’ said Langelee, anger slowly replacing the dull shock in his face. ‘It must have been, because you were the only one I told. I will kill you for this!’
Bartholomew leapt backward as the enraged Langelee dived at him with murder in his eyes. He edged behind a heavy bench, but Langelee kicked it to one side as though it were parchment, oblivious to the horrified cries of Kenyngham. Langelee snatched up a poker from the hearth, and only missed Bartholomew with his sweeping blow because blind fury made him clumsy.
Kenyngham seized Langelee’s sleeve in a feeble attempt to pull him away, but Langelee shook him off impatiently. Kenyngham stumbled and fell to the floor, where Suttone quickly dragged him out of the path of Langelee’s feet. Bartholomew glanced at Runham, expecting him to berate Langelee for his unprovoked display of violence or dart forward to prevent a brawl in his College. But Runham remained where he was, a smug smile on his face and his hands tucked in his wide sleeves. Clippesby stood next to him, grinning and apparently enjoying the unedifying scene as much as was Runham.