But Tulyet’s expression was sheepish. ‘I may have mentioned something to Weasenham …’
Michael gaped at him. ‘You did what?’
‘Who seized your idle musings and turned them into rumour,’ finished Bartholomew.
Michael continued to gape. ‘No, Dick! I cannot believe you would do something so recklessly irresponsible!’
‘What is irresponsible about using all the means at my disposal to avert trouble?’ asked Tulyet defensively, although he would not meet Michael’s eyes.
‘Well, for a start, there is the very strong possibility that your ruse will work, and that the University will bear the brunt of these marauders’ attentions,’ snapped Michael, anger taking the place of disbelief. ‘How could you? It is not–’
‘Is the money still here, in the castle?’ asked Bartholomew, speaking quickly to prevent a spat. Having the Sheriff and Senior Proctor at loggerheads would be disastrous at such a time.
‘Locked in the Great Tower.’ Then Tulyet’s defiant glare faded. ‘But with hindsight, I see that I should not have acted without consulting you, Brother. I am sorry.’
‘We came to speak to Willelmus,’ said Bartholomew, seeing Michael gird himself up to reject the apology. But while Tulyet was certainly in the wrong, nothing would be gained from remonstrating with him further. ‘Is he here?’
‘May I ask why?’ asked Tulyet.
‘Just an avenue of enquiry,’ replied Michael coldly. ‘If it leads anywhere, you will be the first to know. I shall not exclude you from anything important.’
Tulyet inclined his head rather stiffly, and pointed to the Great Tower. Michael fumed as he and Bartholomew crossed the bailey towards it.
‘How dare he put us at risk! What was he thinking?’
‘That it was a way to avert trouble,’ said Bartholomew calmly. ‘Do not quarrel–’
‘I understand the importance of good relations in a time of crisis, even if he does not,’ hissed Michael. ‘But what he has done is unforgivable. How can I ever trust him again?’
‘He has barely slept since the attack, and the deaths of his men hit him very hard. He made an error of judgement, which he had the grace to acknowledge. I doubt it will happen again.’
Michael scowled. ‘It had better not!’
Willelmus was working on a document when Bartholomew and Michael arrived, leaning close to the text as he strained to see. He glanced up when the visitors were shown in, his milky eyes squinting in an effort to identify them. Still angry with the Sheriff and eager to vent his spleen, Michael homed in on him like a hawk after a rabbit.
‘You were seen talking to one of the raiders during the attack,’ he began curtly. ‘Why?’
‘He approached me,’ replied Willelmus, alarmed by the monk’s belligerence. ‘And I was so frightened that it caused a seizure. Surgeon Holm and Doctor Rougham say I am lucky to survive.’
‘You seem well enough now,’ said Bartholomew, knowing it took rather longer to recover from genuine seizures. Holm and Rougham had exaggerated its seriousness to their patient, probably so they could charge a higher fee for their services.
‘I am mending,’ acknowledged Willelmus. ‘But I am not as fit as I was before it happened.’
‘What did you discuss with this terrifying individual?’ demanded Michael.
‘He asked where the tax money was kept,’ gulped Willelmus. ‘I am afraid I told him, because I feared he would kill me otherwise.’
‘That makes no sense.’ Bartholomew regarded him doubtfully. ‘Every other witness says the robbers aimed straight for the Great Tower – they already knew where to go. So why did this one man stop to question you, especially once the raid was under way?’
‘I cannot be expected to know what is in the minds of criminals,’ said Willelmus, swallowing hard. ‘They probably think differently from normal men. All I can say is that he must have picked on me because I do not look brave and I was unarmed. He thought I would crack easily.’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew, regarding the friar intently. ‘You are lying. Our witnesses implied it was more conversation than interrogation, which suggests to me that you had spoken before. Do you not think it is time to tell us what is going on, so we can prevent another attack?’
‘No!’ squeaked Willelmus. ‘Your witnesses are wrong! I never–’
‘Tell us the truth,’ snapped Michael. ‘Or you will never see your scriptorium again.’
Willelmus was close to tears. ‘All right! I did know him, but they will kill me if I talk. They said so, and I have no reason to doubt them. They will crush me like a snail.’
‘You talked to Ayera,’ said Michael harshly. ‘From Michaelhouse.’
Willelmus closed his eyes. ‘Yes,’ he replied in a whisper.
Bartholomew narrowed his eyes at the easy capitulation. ‘No! Ayera is not the one you really fear. Who else threatened you?’
But Willelmus was silent, rocking back and forth in distress. Fortunately, small threads of evidence began to come together in Bartholomew’s mind.
‘It has been suggested that the invaders aimed straight for the Great Tower because they are local, so they know where the Sheriff stores his valuables. But they have been reconnoitring the town for weeks, killing anyone who sees them. However, perhaps they let some folk live in exchange for information.’
‘I see,’ said Michael, his eyes steely. ‘They knew to assault the Great Tower not because they had a local’s knowledge, or because it was an obvious conclusion to draw, but because someone told them all they needed to know.’
Willelmus’s face was a mask of anguish. ‘What will happen to me?’ he breathed.
‘That is for the Sheriff to decide,’ said Michael harshly. ‘However, I imagine it will involve a spell in his gaol, next to the villain he has already caught.’
‘That man will kill me, too,’ said Willelmus miserably. ‘I have been doomed from the start.’
He tried to dart away, but it was not difficult for Bartholomew to intercept him. Moreover, his pathetic attempt at flight revealed a significant limp.
‘Was this miserable specimen one of those who attacked you the other night, Matt?’ asked Michael. ‘I thought you were more of a warrior than that.’
‘I have not attacked anyone in years,’ sobbed Willelmus pitifully. ‘Not after …’
‘Not after the disaster that occurred when you tackled someone else,’ said Bartholomew, understanding coming in a blinding flash. ‘Willelmus is the Latin form of William. You are William Hildersham!’
‘Hildersham,’ mused Michael. ‘Where have I heard that name before?’
‘It is the name of the scrivener who killed Ayce’s son all those years ago.’
‘How in God’s name did you reason that?’ asked Michael, when Willelmus slumped to the floor and began to sob. ‘An ancient murder was the last thing on my mind today.’
‘Because Willelmus could have warned the Sheriff, and remained safely hidden in the castle until the raiders were caught and the danger was over. But he let the attack take place without a word. Ergo, they have some other hold over him.’
‘I accept that,’ said Michael. ‘But what made you think of John Ayce? I know he was stabbed by a scribe, but there have been hundreds of them in Cambridge over the years.’
‘The clues are obvious with hindsight. What are the two letters Willelmus specialises in illustrating at the scriptorium?’
‘J and A,’ said Michael, round eyed. ‘John Ayce!’
‘He also draws chickens. And how did Ayce earn his living? By supplying the castle with eggs!’
‘It was an accident,’ wept Willelmus. ‘A secular jury declared me guilty, but they would have found against me no matter what the evidence, because my trial took place at a time when relations between town and University were strained. But it was an accident!’