‘Especially Agatha,’ said Langelee. ‘After all, her cushion was the murder weapon.’
‘I am sure she sewed every stitch with Runham’s demise in mind,’ said Bartholomew facetiously, unable to see Agatha as a smotherer, and disliking the way unfounded suspicions were being bandied about. Langelee gazed at him uncertainly.
‘How awful this is,’ said Kenyngham in a small voice. ‘So much hatred and bitterness.’
‘So, what we must do is consider our oath of loyalty to the College,’ said Michael. ‘There is only one way we can fulfil that: we must find a way out of this unfortunate affair without compromising Michaelhouse.’
Bartholomew almost laughed when the full import of the monk’s words sank in. ‘You mean we should hatch a plot that will cover up Runham’s murder, and pass it off as suicide or death by natural causes?’
‘Suicide would be better,’ said Langelee reflectively. ‘Then we will not have his vile corpse cluttering up our cemetery.’
‘Then he can lie next to his poor book-bearer, Justus,’ said Suttone. ‘Runham consigned Justus to a grave in that desolate spot – although I understand he had not planned to consign him to a grave at all, if it would cost him money – and so it is fitting that Runham’s own body suffer a similar fate.’
‘I am not suggesting we “hatch a plot”,’ said Michael, fixing Bartholomew with offended eyes. ‘I am merely pointing out that nothing will be gained from rumours running around the town that one of us murdered his unpopular Master. The students have already been told that Runham died of a fatal seizure and we do not need to worry about the servants, because there are virtually none left.’
‘We must not overlook the fact that Runham’s murder might have been a case of opportunism,’ said Paul. ‘You say this chest of money was next to the window. Perhaps one of the workmen saw it and decided to help himself. Then, when Runham caught him, he thrust the pillow over Runham’s face to quieten his accusations, and, once he had started, he realised that he would have to finish.’
‘Perhaps we can eliminate some of the suspects by looking at when Runham died,’ said Suttone practically. ‘I last saw him when he left the conclave after dismissing Langelee – just before dusk last night.’
‘I did not see him after that, either,’ said Langelee quickly.
‘Did anyone see him later?’ asked Michael. He looked around: all shook their heads. ‘He announced to us all that he was going to his chamber to work, so I imagine we can assume he went there. That means he was killed some time between sunset and … when, Matt?’
Bartholomew shrugged. ‘The body is a little stiff, but the room is cold. It is almost impossible to tell. All I can say for certain is that he died some time between sunset when he was last seen alive, and at dawn when he was found.’
‘Are you sure you cannot be more specific?’ asked Michael, a little irritably. ‘You see, the University’s Chancellor came to see me just after sunset, and he stayed very late – until ten or so. He may provide my alibi.’
‘Were you discussing the affair with your Oxford collaborators?’ asked Langelee unpleasantly. ‘Does the Chancellor know you correspond regularly with William Heytesbury of Merton College?’
Michael gave him a venomous glare. ‘That is none of your affair, Langelee. But, since you seem to be so obsessed by my private activities, I can tell you that the Chancellor knows exactly what I am doing and that I have his blessing.’
‘I do not believe you,’ said Langelee immediately. ‘Why would the Chancellor allow you to squander valuable University property just to get scraps of worthless information from Oxford men?’
‘For reasons that are too complex for you to understand,’ snapped Michael. ‘But we are not here to chat about my duties as Senior Proctor; we are here to discuss Runham’s murder. And as I was saying, if he died before ten o’clock last night, the Chancellor is my alibi.’
‘I cannot help you, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is no way for me to tell what time Runham died. Perhaps he was killed at sunset, while it was still light enough for the workmen to be around. Or perhaps it happened later – perhaps a few moments before he was found dead. I really cannot say.’
‘I was stalking around Cambridge in a rage,’ said Langelee. ‘But no one saw me.’
‘I went to Trumpington and sat near the church, thinking about whether to leave Michaelhouse,’ said Bartholomew.
‘I was also alone part of the evening,’ said Suttone. ‘I was in St Michael’s Church, praying for the patience to deal with Runham. Several people were in and out – including Clippesby and Kenyngham – but no one can vouch for me the whole time. I attended compline, at seven o’clock, and I stayed later to pray – probably until ten.’
‘I do not even recall where I was myself, let alone expect anyone else to do it,’ said Kenyngham, to no one’s surprise.
‘You were at compline,’ Suttone reminded him. ‘And after, we both lingered. You were at the high altar and I was at the prie-dieu near Wilson’s tomb.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Kenyngham, frowning. ‘After that, I think I returned here.’
‘I was at the friary,’ said Paul. ‘After compline, I went to sleep in my cell. Since we do not share cells at the Franciscan Friary, I have no one to vouch for me, and neither will William.’
‘I was in my room,’ said Clippesby in a hushed voice. ‘I share it with three students, but they were all in Sam Gray’s chamber engaged in some kind of scribing exercise. So, I spent the night on my own.’
‘What a mess!’ said Michael gloomily. He scratched a flabby cheek with a dirty fingernail. ‘I confess, I do not know how to proceed with this, but I do know we should all agree to say that Runham had a fatal seizure. Now, I tire easily after my recent brush with death, and so will consider this matter in more detail after I have rested. Do nothing. Act normally – well, as normally as you usually do – and I will try to think of the best way to deal with it. Any questions?’
There were none. One by one, the Fellows of Michaelhouse filed from the conclave, wondering which of them, if any, was the murderer.
‘I thought you said you were tired, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, watching as Michael paced back and forth in the chamber he shared with his fellow Benedictines. It was mid-morning, and Bartholomew had just returned from seeing a patient who lived near the Castle. Since he was nearby, he had knocked at Matilde’s door, to tell her that Adela Tangmer had made some unwarranted assumptions, but either Matilde was out or she did not want to see him, because there was no answer.
He went to the nearby church of All Saints, and borrowed a pen and a scrap of parchment from a scribe to write her a note. It took him a long time to compose a message that did not sound as though he was trying to exonerate himself at Adela’s expense, but in the end he felt he had achieved the right flavour. He tapped on Matilde’s door a second time, then slid the parchment underneath it when there was still no reply. He returned to Michaelhouse feeling more cheerful. At the back of his mind was the thought that Langelee had been right, and that now that Runham was dead, Bartholomew would not have to leave Cambridge for Paris after all.
He reclined on the bed in Michael’s room, feeling the thick-headed lethargy of a night without sleep creep over him, and wondered whether life at Michaelhouse would ever return to its hectic but predictable routine of teaching and learning. He hoped with all his heart that Kenyngham would agree to resume his duties as Master until Suttone and Clippesby had settled in, so that they would know for certain which candidate would make the best Master instead of being obliged to vote for people they barely knew. Bartholomew had reservations about the peculiar Clippesby, but he liked Suttone, who seemed a kind-hearted man. Bartholomew was grateful for his assistance in burying Justus, and appreciated the fact that the Carmelite had not just muttered a few prayers, but had helped with the preparation of the body and had tried to imbue the mean little ceremony with some dignity.