Bartholomew smiled nervously, wondering where the fat monk’s untruths were leading.
‘This thief has had the audacity to claim that he was with a Fellow of Bene’t on Friday night.’ Michael raised his hand to quell the indignant objections that arose. ‘We do not believe him for an instant, of course. But I would like to be able to return to him and say that each one of you has accounted for his movements, and that our thief was not included in them.’
‘I do not see why we should play this game …’ began Heltisle.
‘Where lies the harm, Master Heltisle?’ asked Simeon with a shrug. ‘Brother Michael is not accusing us of anything: he is merely asking us to help him trap a thief. What was stolen, Brother?’
‘Some rings and gold coins,’ said Michael vaguely. ‘I appreciate your help in this matter, because I would not like this villain to go free and prey on some other unsuspecting College.’ He gazed around him meaningfully.
Michael really was clever, Bartholomew thought admiringly. He would learn the whereabouts of the Bene’t scholars without an unpleasant confrontation – unless one of them was the killer of Runham, of course, in which case the culprit would know exactly why Michael wanted to know where they were at eight o’clock on Friday evening. The monk was also cunning in appealing to their instincts for self-preservation, intimating that if his fictitious criminal were to go free, Bene’t might be the next victim.
‘I attended compline in St Botolph’s Church,’ said Heltisle. ‘I always insist that the students come with me on Fridays – Friday is usually the night that students attempt to slip their leashes and escape to the town to romp with the prostitutes.’
Bartholomew realised that Heltisle’s alibi was not a good one. Compline at St Botolph’s was earlier than at St Michael’s, and a fleet-footed man could have attended St Botolph’s and still run to Michaelhouse to kill Runham at eight o’clock. And bearing in mind that hour candles were often not accurate – especially the cheap ones favoured by Runham – the killer might have even had a few additional moments to complete his grisly task. Of course, Bartholomew thought, if Runham’s candle had burned faster than normal, Heltisle would be in the clear.
‘After we returned from compline, I retired to my room and studied the College accounts,’ Heltisle continued. ‘I was alone, but you can hardly expect me to have kept company with a thief. Anyway, you can check with Osmun the porter; he will tell you that no visitors came for me that evening. And now, if you will excuse me, I am busy, and have no time to waste sorting out the problems of other Colleges.’ He gathered up his parchments and swept from the room.
‘I have a confession to make,’ said Caumpes, giving a wan smile that revealed his bad teeth. Bartholomew saw Michael look interested. ‘I am a simple man and I do not like arguments. Life at Bene’t is not always as tranquil as I would like, and there was an altercation on Friday afternoon. I felt I could not attend compline in such an angry atmosphere, and so I went to the one in St Michael’s Church instead.’
‘Is that it?’ asked Michael, acutely disappointed.
Caumpes nodded. ‘I know it is unusual to patronise the church of another College, but I hope you will forgive me. I asked Master Kenyngham if I might join him and your new man – Suttone, I believe he is called – and he readily agreed. If you speak to them, they will confirm my story. But I encountered no thief, as far as I know.’
So, that discounted Caumpes as a potential killer, thought Bartholomew. If Bartholomew could choose anyone to give him an alibi, he would select Kenyngham, because the gentle Gilbertine was more honest than any man he had ever encountered. Kenyngham would never lie. And the fact that Suttone had been present, too, meant that Caumpes’s alibi was unshakeable. Kenyngham could be a little vague when he was praying, but Suttone was a sensible and practical man, and would remember whom he had met and when.
‘I cannot help you, I am afraid,’ said the foppish Simeon, looking as though he cared little one way or the other. ‘I spent an hour or two in the King’s Head – fine me, if you will, Senior Proctor, I offer no defence – and then I went looking for women. I did not see any that took my fancy. Ralph de Langelee had already engaged the only one worth romping with, while the lovely Matilde bestows her favours on no man these days, so I returned here and went to bed alone.’
‘Where is the fourth Fellow – Henry de Walton?’ asked Michael. ‘Could the thief have met him?’
‘I sincerely doubt it, Brother,’ said Simeon laconically. ‘No sensible thief would keep company with our Master de Walton.’
‘Why not?’ asked Michael. ‘What is wrong with him?’
‘Leprosy,’ replied Simeon, amused by the shock on Michael’s face. ‘It was diagnosed by Master Lynton of Peterhouse two days ago, and de Walton is on his way to a lazar house even as we speak.’
‘Which one?’ asked Bartholomew, with the interest of a professional.
‘Since I have no intention of paying him a comradely visit, I did not think to find out,’ said Simeon with a shrug. ‘Somewhere to the north. But it is time for a walk before I take another nap. Good morning, gentlemen.’
He wandered out, leaving Caumpes to see them across the courtyard to the gate.
‘Simeon is lying,’ said Caumpes as they walked, shaking his head in puzzlement. ‘He knows which lazar hospital de Walton will be in, because it was he who arranged it – St Giles in Norwich.’
‘When did de Walton leave?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Yesterday,’ said Caumpes. ‘I cannot imagine why Simeon did not tell you. It is not a secret, and there is nothing shameful in sending a sick colleague somewhere he will be properly cared for. All the Fellows came to see the poor man on his way yesterday, and I at least have promised to travel to Norwich to see him soon.’
‘You will not be allowed in,’ said Michael. ‘Lazar hospitals do not encourage visitors.’
‘De Walton is my friend,’ said Caumpes simply. ‘So I will try.’ He stopped at the gate and waited for Osmun to open it. ‘Goodbye, Brother, Doctor. I hope you convict your thief.’
‘So do I,’ said Michael fervently.
He and Bartholomew had barely started the walk back to Michaelhouse, when they heard a yell. It was Walter, the lazy ex-Michaelhouse porter, racing down the street after them as though he were being pursued by the hounds of hell. Agatha the laundress was not far behind. Walter grabbed Michael’s arm and began demanding back his old job in piteous, wheedling tones.
‘Please take me home to Michaelhouse. I promise I will never sleep on duty again.’
‘We will see,’ said Michael, firmly disengaging his arm and attempting to walk on.
‘I am returning to Michaelhouse myself,’ announced Agatha, with every confidence that she would be welcomed back, and that any laundress appointed in her absence would be summarily dismissed. ‘I will move into my old quarters immediately. I do not know who killed Raysoun and Wymundham, Brother, but these Bene’t men are trying my patience to the limits.’
‘Have you learned anything at all?’ asked Michael, although the flatness of his voice suggested that he predicted that she had not.
She sighed, and Bartholomew saw that her own lack of success was as disheartening to her as it was to Michael. ‘Nothing. And you should not have asked me to go there, Brother. Those Bene’t scoundrels are followers of the Devil.’
‘Really?’ asked Michael with quickened interest. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘Because, as God’s chosen, I should have been able to recognise the guilty man immediately, but they called on the Devil to hide him from me. Still, I did my best. And now I am going home to Michaelhouse. Good wages and a big room are no compensation for bad company and lazy underlings.’