Bartholomew told him what had happened, and then spent some time persuading the friar that there was no point in waking every household in the wretched runnels and alleyways behind the church until a culprit confessed to his ignoble act.
‘It is good-quality stuff,’ said William, reaching out a hand to touch the cloth. ‘That poor robber did worse than leave empty-handed; he abandoned a decent piece of sacking. It would make a nice short cloak, Matthew – the kind of cloak a poor Franciscan friar might wear in the summer months to ward off evening chills.’
‘Would you like it?’
‘Me?’ asked William, as though the notion had never crossed his mind. ‘What a kind thought! I will ask Agatha to sew me …’ He faltered. Agatha had gone from Michaelhouse. ‘Well, it will make a good cloak anyway.’
He shook the material out and something fell to the floor – a rough, shapeless bundle tied with the loop of rope that had been dropped over Bartholomew’s head. Bartholomew leaned down to retrieve it and was startled to hear the clink of metal. Curious, he untied the thin rope that held the neck of the bag and gazed in surprise at the coins that gleamed inside.
William snatched the bundle from him and strode across to Wilson’s tomb, where the small altar provided a flat surface. He upended the bag, and he and Bartholomew gaped in astonishment at the heap of gold that glittered on the white cloth.
Chapter 10
‘TWELVE POUNDS, TWO SHILLINGS AND FOURPENCE,’ said Michael, sitting back at last, the coins set in neat piles in front of him. ‘And it is definitely part of the money stolen from Michaelhouse, because I was very familiar with the coins in the Illegh Hutch – I was its manager – and I recognise the distinctive way that several of the pieces have been clipped.’
The Fellows – Michael, Bartholomew, William, Kenyngham, Langelee, Clippesby and Suttone – were in the conclave, sitting in the thin winter sun that streamed in through the glass windows. Ignoring some of his colleagues’ anxieties that belts would need to be tightened and economies made if Michaelhouse wanted to repay its debts, Kenyngham had ordered that fires must continue to be lit in the hall and conclave, and had given the cooks leave to buy their regular supplies. Bartholomew agreed wholeheartedly, thinking that a cold College with no food was not going to present itself as something worth fighting for. So, a small fire flickered gaily in the conclave, while the furniture, rugs and cushions pillaged by Runham for his personal use were back in their rightful places.
‘And someone just gave this to you?’ asked Clippesby again, disbelief etched into every line of his face. ‘Someone handed it over, just like that?’
‘Basically,’ said Bartholomew.
Clippesby continued to regard Bartholomew with such rank suspicion that the physician began to wonder whether the man considered him responsible for the theft from Runham’s room. Bartholomew thought Clippesby himself seemed ill at ease and anxious that morning: his hair stood up in peculiar clumps all over his head, as though he had been tearing at it, and his wild eyes were redrimmed and more glassy than usual. Bartholomew could not decide whether the Dominican’s odd appearance was the result of grief over Runham, guilt because he was the murderer, or merely the incipient madness that evidently clawed at the edges of his consciousness.
‘Recovering this money is very fortunate,’ said Langelee cheerfully. ‘Perhaps we should send Bartholomew to mass every morning, to see how much more we can retrieve.’
‘I do not like it,’ said Kenyngham. ‘I do not like the notion that the killer of poor Master Runham approached Matthew so brazenly and handed him this gold.’
‘How do you know it was the killer?’ asked Langelee, taking a gulp from a goblet of wine he had somehow contrived to have with him. He did not sound unduly concerned that a murderer was at large, no doubt because he was confident he could best any would-be attacker, unlike his weaker and less able colleagues.
‘Because it is obvious that whoever stole the money also murdered Runham,’ said William, regarding the philosopher and his wine with a glower that was partly disapproval and partly envy.
‘It is not obvious at all,’ said Suttone with quiet reason. ‘It is likely, but it is also possible that someone smothered Runham and fled, and then a second person took the gold when he saw it had been left unguarded.’
William said nothing, but stared ahead of him with the stony expression on his face that he always wore when he knew someone else was right and he was not prepared to admit it.
Kenyngham sighed. ‘This is all very distasteful, but we must review where we were precisely at eight o’clock on Friday night. William and Paul were at compline at the Franciscan Friary, while Master Suttone and I were doing the same at St Michael’s Church.’
‘I was with the Chancellor,’ said Michael. ‘Which leaves only Matt, Langelee and Clippesby.’
‘I was at Trumpington,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I went to visit my sister.’
‘But it was raining on Friday,’ pounced Langelee. ‘Why did you walk so far in the wet?’
‘The guards on the town gate confirm that Matt left around sunset and that he did not return until the following day,’ said Michael. ‘He was not in Cambridge when Runham was murdered.’
Bartholomew gazed at him uncertainly, fairly sure that the guards had not observed him leaving – their attention had been on a family of tinkers who had been trying to enter the city. But Michael spoke with such authority that no one asked why he had not mentioned such an important fact before.
‘What about you, Ralph?’ asked Kenyngham of Langelee. ‘Tell us again what happened to you that night.’
‘I walked,’ said Langelee with a careless shrug. ‘I went to the wharves, where I stood on Dame Nichol’s Hythe for a long time and watched the river flow past.’
‘In the rain?’ asked Michael, using the same point that Langelee had raised against Bartholomew.
‘I was in the watchman’s shelter,’ said Langelee. ‘He was not there because there were no barges to guard that night. And when I grew restless, I went into the town.’ He glared defiantly at William. ‘I visited a whore.’
‘Which one?’ asked Michael before William could respond. ‘And what time?’
‘I have no idea of the time,’ said Langelee. ‘But the whore’s name was Yolande de Blaston.’
‘Yolande de Blaston?’ echoed Kenyngham, deeply shocked. ‘But she is the wife of one of the carpenters! Are you saying that you compounded the sin of lust with that of adultery?’
‘I am one of her regulars,’ said Langelee, in the tone of a man who did not know what the fuss was about. ‘And Blaston is more than happy to see her earnings support their ever growing brood. They have at least nine children.’
‘You seduced the mother of nine children?’ whispered Kenyngham, his faced flushed with dismay. He crossed himself vigorously, clasped his hands, and began to pray.
‘I hate it when he does that,’ muttered Langelee, finally discomfited by Kenyngham’s horror. ‘Yolande is always more than happy with what I pay her and, being a prostitute, she is fair game for a lonely man. But Kenyngham always makes me feel as though I have done something sordid and dirty.’
‘Perhaps he is right,’ boomed William. ‘And what do you mean by “always”? Is this kind of thing a regular occurrence?’
‘What time did you leave Yolande?’ asked Michael quickly. ‘Was it later than midnight?’
‘We fell asleep,’ said Langelee. ‘I was tired – drained by my unpleasant confrontation with Runham – and we both slept until dawn, after we had–’