‘We should wait until we have all the facts before condemning him,’ said Bartholomew coldly. Thelnetham was a relative newcomer, so what right did he have to judge Wynewyk?
‘If you say so,’ replied Thelnetham, adjusting the hood of his Gilbertine habit to keep the rain from his eyes. ‘But if he was innocent, why did he go to such lengths to conceal what he was doing?’
‘This is neither the time nor the place for such a discussion,’ chided Langelee, raising a hand to prevent the physician from responding. ‘Save your opinions for the Statutory Fellows’ Meeting tomorrow afternoon, where the matter will be aired in full.’
A number of people, including Chancellor Tynkell, a contingent of soldierly ex-lovers from the castle, and a small group of scholars from King’s Hall, had come to pay their respects at Wynewyk’s graveside. Hospitably, Langelee invited them back to the College for wine and honey cakes. Among the guests was Warden Powys.
‘Thank you for tending Shropham last night, Bartholomew,’ he said quietly. ‘It is a dreadful business, and I agree with Paxtone that there will be some rational explanation for what has happened. I have known Shropham for years, and he has never been violent before.’
‘He is malleable, though,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He told me he runs errands for the rest of you – teaching classes you dislike, sharpening your quills…’
‘He is not made to do those things,’ said Powys, a little defensively. ‘He pesters us until we agree to let him. We do not feel entirely comfortable with it, but it seems to make him happy. And we are all busy men, so you cannot blame us for taking advantage of what is freely offered.’
‘Why does he do it?’ asked Bartholomew. It was odd behaviour for a senior scholar.
‘I really have no idea. And it has been going on for so long that I no longer give it any thought.’
‘Did you ever meet the Dominican he killed? Carbo?’
Powys grimaced at his choice of words. ‘No, I had never seen Carbo before. And I took several Fellows to view his corpse in the Black Friars’ chapel today, but they did not know him, either. Prior Morden says Carbo is not one of his own people, so he must be a visitor. Ergo, there is no reason for Shropham to have…’ He waved his hand, not sure how to describe what had occurred.
‘If there is an explanation, Michael will find it,’ promised Bartholomew, seeing the unhappiness in the Warden’s face, and sympathising. It was how he felt about Wynewyk.
‘I visited Shropham earlier,’ said Powys miserably. ‘But he declined to talk to me. What is wrong with him? Could he have a brain fever?’
‘He does not seem ill,’ said Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘Just tired and sad.’
Powys’s expression was pained. ‘Paxtone may have to contest your opinion about that, if the Black Friars clamour for him to be hanged. The murder of a priest is a serious matter, and a plea of insanity may be the only way to save him. We do not want him executed.’
Bartholomew watched him move away, wondering to what lengths he would go to save his colleague. Would Michaelhouse do the same for Wynewyk? Would a tale be invented to explain the missing money, which would absolve him from any wrongdoing? He rubbed his head, and wished with all his heart that Wynewyk was alive to explain himself.
When the guests had gone, Langelee decided the rest of the day was to be dedicated to lessons, despite the fact that it was Sunday, when learning was usually suspended.
‘We must resume the semblance of normality as soon as possible,’ he said, looking around at his Fellows and ignoring the fact that teaching on the Sabbath was not normal at all. Then, in one of his legendary leaps of logic, he added, ‘I do not want it said that Wynewyk was the victim of foul play.’
‘Why would anyone say that?’ asked Michael suspiciously.
‘Because Bartholomew informed Paxtone that Wynewyk was poisoned,’ Langelee replied, shooting the physician a pained glance. ‘Warden Powys just told me.’
‘I said nothing of the kind,’ objected Bartholomew indignantly. ‘I mentioned Wynewyk’s aversion to nuts, but Paxtone said it was excessive hilarity that carried Wynewyk away: he thinks it brought about a fatal imbalance of humours.’
‘And which of these two theories is correct?’ asked Suttone worriedly.
‘I do not know,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘I thought the almonds had killed him at first, but perhaps Paxtone is right and it is too outlandish a–’
‘He died of a seizure brought on by laughter,’ said Michael firmly. He glared at the physician. ‘It is what we agreed, and it is what we shall tell anyone else who asks.’
‘Well, he had a lot to laugh about,’ said Langelee bitterly. ‘Thirty marks successfully stolen.’
‘Perhaps God struck him down,’ suggested Thelnetham. ‘I imagine He does not approve of thieves who gloat over their spoils, especially ones who do it in front of their victims.’
‘I do not believe that,’ said Clippesby, bending down to pick up the College cat, which had come to wind itself around his legs. ‘Wynewyk did not steal from us – he was our friend. And, if it is not too much to ask, I would rather no one voiced uncharitable thoughts about him until Brother Michael has proved his innocence. Which I know he will.’
‘Our students are waiting,’ said Langelee, bringing an abrupt end to the discussion. ‘We shall take their minds off this dismal occasion with lessons, and Michael can resume his enquiries into Wynewyk’s crimes tomorrow.’
It was late by the time the Master decided the students had been taught enough that day, by which point their heads were spinning and their masters were exhausted. Agatha had cooked pea pottage for supper, but it was full of peculiar lumps – she claimed they were apple, but they were hard and tasteless, and Bartholomew suspected they were the cattle fodder that had mysteriously gone missing the previous week.
‘Wynewyk has a lot to answer for,’ muttered Michael, glowering at his bowl. ‘We made good money from the sale of Sewale Cottage last summer, and we also have a tidy income from renting out the shops we bought from Mistress Refham. We should be living like kings, not eating this slop.’
‘And that is something we should have thought about weeks ago,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘The quality of food has been declining for months and Agatha is always saying she does not have enough money to make ends meet. We should have guessed far sooner that something was amiss.’
Michael glowered at him. ‘I hope you are not suggesting that it is our fault Wynewyk stole from us? That had we been more vigilant, it would not have happened?’
Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Why not? It is true. We all noticed the decline in the quality of meals, and we all complained. But none of us bothered to investigate.’
‘That is complete and utter nonsense!’ exploded Michael, loudly enough to draw disapproving glances from his colleagues. Talking at meals was overlooked if done discreetly, but yelling was not. He lowered his voice. ‘It did not occur to me to investigate, because it did not occur to me that a colleague – a man I liked and trusted – would cheat us.’
‘Enough, Bartholomew,’ said Langelee, when the physician opened his mouth to reply. ‘I told you at the churchyard – save your opinions for the Statutory Fellows’ Meeting tomorrow. Our students have long ears, and I do not want them overhearing something we would all rather they did not.’
He had a point, and Bartholomew did not want Wynewyk to become the subject of scurrilous rumours. He turned his attention to the pottage and found himself glad the rigours of the day had robbed him of his appetite, because it was almost inedible and certainly lacking in any nutritional benefit. He was not the only one who toyed listlessly with it until the servants took the dishes away.