‘But they will have to know at some point,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We should tell them now, pay them for the work they have already done, and send them all back to Bene’t.’
‘Never,’ declared William vehemently. ‘It would not surprise me to learn that Bene’t stole our money just to put us in a compromising position.’
‘Killing a Master just to embarrass another College is a little extreme, Father,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Even for Bene’t.’
‘I disagree,’ said William. ‘The Bene’t men were furious that Runham poached the workmen. I would not put it past them to have stolen the money, just to spite us.’
‘We seem to be talking about two different things here,’ said Bartholomew wearily. ‘On the one hand, we have the theft of money, and on the other we have the murder of Runham. I was assuming they were committed at the same time by the same person or people. Did the killer come to Runham’s room to kill him or to take the money? We have already decided Runham knew his killer. Did he know the Bene’t scholars?’
‘He did,’ said William. ‘I saw Langelee introducing them a few weeks ago. Langelee likes to latch on to Simekyn Simeon of Bene’t, because Simeon knows the Duke of Lancaster. I nonchalantly passed by as Langelee presented Runham to Simeon, but Langelee did not deign to introduce me to his fine friends – a mere friar is not important enough, I suppose.’
The possibility that Langelee did not want to inflict the ‘mere friar’s’ belligerent fanaticism on his fine friends had not occurred to William. Looking at the Franciscan’s filthy habit and hair so dirty it stood up in a grimy halo around his tonsure, Bartholomew was not so sure he would leap at the opportunity to present such an unsavoury specimen to his own acquaintances, either.
‘Well, we need to keep an open mind about Runham’s death,’ said Michael ambiguously. ‘But, since this missing money is not in the College, I think we should assume that it has gone for good.’
‘In that case, we must tell the craftsmen tomorrow that we cannot pay them,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You say we have about half of the ninety pounds left, which is not enough to complete the buildings. We will pay them what we owe and that will be that.’
‘But of the forty-five pounds remaining, thirty has been loaned from the two guilds and is not ours anyway,’ said Michael gloomily. ‘And if we do not complete the buildings, we will need to repay the donations that Runham collected.’
‘Why?’ demanded Father William. ‘Those people gave their money to Michaelhouse. The thirty pounds of donations is ours now.’
‘Hardly,’ said Michael. ‘It is not ethical to raise money for a new courtyard, and then decide not to build it and keep the money instead. I think lawyers would be after us for breaching a contract if we tried that – and they would be quite right to do so. But if we repay the loans and the donations, it means that we are fifteen pounds in debt – with no workmen’s wages paid – not forty-five pounds in credit.’
‘Damn that Runham!’ exclaimed William, striding back and forth furiously. ‘He has left us in a fearful mess.’
‘Yes, fancy him allowing himself to be murdered just when we need him,’ said Michael.
‘I still do not understand how he thought he could manage this,’ said Bartholomew, rubbing a hand through his hair. ‘Had he lived to see his empire completed, he would have had massive debts. How could he have hoped not to have creditors knocking at our gates at all hours? How did he imagine Michaelhouse could raise a sum like thirty pounds to pay back these guilds? It is a fortune!’
‘I have no idea,’ said Michael, frowning as he bent over the documents again. ‘But I do not like the sound of these mysterious five items that brought Runham ten pounds. Since the buyers of the other items in the hutches paid him a mere fraction of what the goods were worth, I have a feeling Runham sold something quite valuable.’
‘Such as what?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I did not know Michaelhouse had anything valuable.’
‘Whatever it was, it is better gone,’ said William sanctimoniously. ‘Riches and worldly goods encourage avarice and envy. I want none of them in Michaelhouse.’
‘I hope he did not sell the church silver,’ said Bartholomew.
‘The church silver?’ boomed William, outraged. ‘But those chalices left to us by our founder are generally regarded to be the finest this side of Ely! They are priceless!’
‘They are only worldly goods, Father,’ pointed out Michael innocently. ‘But I think you are right, Matt. The church silver is usually kept in the Stanton Chest, and that is empty, like the others.’
‘Our silver chalices!’ cried William in abject dismay. ‘All gone, just so that Runham could raise some horrible cheap building to glorify himself!’
‘Hush, William,’ said Bartholomew urgently. ‘You will have the whole College awake.’
‘Even so, the Stanton silver was not worth ten pounds,’ said Michael. ‘It might account for one of these “items” but not all five. Four of them have the initials TW next to them.’
‘Thomas Wilson,’ said Bartholomew immediately. ‘Runham’s equally unscrupulous cousin. Perhaps it was something of Wilson’s that Runham sold – something that belonged to him, and not to Michaelhouse at all.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Michael worriedly. ‘But I think you are being far too charitable. I think Runham sold something he had no business to sell. And I also think that when we discover what it was, Michaelhouse will find itself in a lot of trouble – and us with it.’
There was little more Bartholomew, Michael and William could do that night, so they put Runham’s room back the way they had found it and went to bed. Michael’s chamber was still uninhabitable, and Bartholomew was not certain whether his own quarters, directly underneath Michael’s, were safe, so they used the tiny, closet-like space in the servants’ quarters that Cynric had shared with Walter the porter. William, secure in the knowledge that his innocence of the murder of Runham had been proved beyond the shadow of a doubt, made a triumphant return to the room he shared with three student Franciscans, and his stentorian tones condemning Runham’s wicked life and his killer in equal measure could be heard all over the College.
Michael chuckled softly in the darkness. ‘I do like William. He is an old bigot and a fanatic, and he has a deep distrust of anything his narrow mind cannot grasp, but he is usually honest, always predictable and entirely without guile.’
‘Guilelessness is a rare quality in this place,’ said Bartholomew, trying to find a comfortable position on the thin straw mattress. It was lumpy, stank of urine, and the thriving community of insects that inhabited it caused it to rustle and crackle of its own accord. After the third time his drowsing was rudely interrupted by the painful nip of invisible jaws, Bartholomew kicked it away in disgust, rolled himself up in a blanket, and slept on the floor.
He was awoken what felt like moments later by the tolling of a bell. It sounded different than it did in his own room, and he sat up in confusion, not knowing where he was. Michael was at the window, throwing open the shutters to let in the dim light of early morning.
‘You are late,’ he said. ‘It is Tuesday and your turn to help with the mass.’
Bartholomew struggled to his feet, feeling stiff, cold and tired. Michael picked strands of straw from his hair, while Bartholomew tugged on his boots, grabbed his cloak and ran across the yard as he was – unwashed, unshaven and still rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He raced up the lane to the church, cloak flying behind him, and shot across the grassy graveyard to the small porch in the north wall. From inside, he could hear the thundering tones of Father William praying, sounding more as though he were giving God an ultimatum than offering penitent supplications.