Bartholomew was desperate enough to launch one last, frantic assault on him. ‘No murderer will ever be Chancellor,’ he declared hotly. ‘We know you killed Aynton, and that you ordered your henchmen to dispatch Huntyngdon and Martyn.’
‘Donwich did not kill Aynton,’ said March wearily, before his Master could react to the bald accusation. ‘I told you that when you first spoke to us.’
‘Saying something does not make it true,’ retorted Bartholomew.
‘Donwich did not kill Aynton,’ repeated March, so vehemently that everyone looked at him in astonishment. ‘I had hoped to avoid this conversation, as it is hardly commensurate with my standing as Clare Hall’s Senior Fellow …’
‘What have you done?’ asked Pulham in alarm, while Donwich’s eyes narrowed.
March winced and looked at his feet. ‘Aynton was not the only one to follow our Master to Lucy Brampton’s house that night. So did I.’
Donwich gaped at him, while Bartholomew recalled that March had already admitted that he had not been with the other Fellows – he had claimed to be in the chapel, praying for Donwich to revert to the man he had been before he was Master.
‘How dare you!’ cried Donwich, when he found his voice. ‘You have no–’
‘I did it for Clare Hall,’ interrupted March, angry in his turn. ‘My only home. You have been behaving like an ass, and Aynton was no better – climbing up walls to peer through windows at his age! Anyway, we all heard your quarrel with Lucy, when she spurned your advances that evening.’
‘So you eavesdropped, too?’ Donwich was outraged and shocked in equal measure.
‘“We all”?’ pounced Bartholomew at the same time. ‘Who else was there?’
‘We did not need to eavesdrop – you were yelling like a fishmonger,’ March informed Donwich coldly, then turned to Bartholomew. ‘I lied about being in the chapel, but not about the company I was in. Our two chaplains went with me to Brampton’s house. Speak to them – they will confirm what I say.’
‘We will speak to them,’ put in William warningly. ‘And if you are lying again …’
‘When Lucy repelled him, Donwich stormed out and virtually collided with Aynton.’ March ignored William and continued to address Bartholomew. ‘Then they quarrelled, after which Donwich stalked home. The chaplains and I followed him at a discreet distance.’ He winced. ‘If one of us had stayed with Aynton, he might still be alive.’
‘So why did you leave Aynton?’ demanded Bartholomew, struggling to mask his exasperation. True, the tale showed March in a less than edifying light, but this was a murder enquiry, and the man should not have put his dignity above catching a killer.
‘Because he would have been mortified to know that he had been spotted scrambling up the outside of the Senior Proctor’s house,’ explained March wretchedly. ‘We aimed to spare his blushes by allowing him to make his way home alone.’
‘And what about my blushes?’ demanded Donwich indignantly.
‘Yours we did not care about,’ flashed March. ‘Aynton was acting for the good of the College. You were satisfying your carnal desires.’
William exploded. ‘We have been trying to catch a murderer, and your half-truths and omissions may have allowed him to escape. You should have mentioned this days ago!’
‘But I told Bartholomew that Donwich was not the culprit,’ argued March. ‘I assumed he had taken my word for it. How was I to know that he considered me a liar?’
‘But you are a liar,’ snarled William.
‘You must have realised that I still had reservations,’ said Bartholomew angrily. ‘Why else would I have kept coming back to ask Donwich questions?’
‘I assumed it was to learn more about Elsham and Gille,’ replied March, although he had the grace to look sheepish. ‘And as I said, the chaplains and I are not proud of what we did that night. I cannot tell you how much we wish we had not tried to play the spy.’
‘So did you see or hear anything that might lead us to Aynton’s killer?’ demanded Bartholomew, fighting down an almost irresistible urge to punch him.
March shook his head. ‘If we had, I swear we would have informed you at once, even if it had meant exposing ourselves to ridicule.’
‘So there you are, Bartholomew,’ said Donwich nastily. ‘I am exonerated, and you are exposed as an incompetent fool who failed to see that March was leading you astray. I am glad you will leave the University tomorrow, because it will save me the trouble of expelling you.’
‘I hardly think–’ began March.
‘And do not think you will escape unscathed either,’ snarled Donwich, fixing him with an icy glare. ‘I shall expect your resignation as a Fellow of Clare Hall the moment the vicars-general find in my favour.’
March went so white that Pulham hurried forward to take his arm, although Bartholomew was hard-pressed to feel sorry for the man. He turned to leave, unable to look at the gloating expression on Donwich’s face any longer. The gate opened before he and William reached it, and Beadle Meadowman hurried through.
‘The vicars-general will announce their verdict in less than an hour,’ he said in a low voice, and waved a sealed letter. ‘I am sent to deliver this to Donwich, so he will have warning before they make their public statement in St Mary the Great. You two might want to be there, because I have a bad feeling that Brother Michael may need you.’
‘You do?’ asked William in alarm. ‘Why?’
‘Because I have never seen a man look more utterly devastated,’ replied Meadowman grimly. ‘He fought with all he had, but his bloodshot eyes and trembling hands tell me that it may not have been enough.’
Chapter 18
Michael was not in St Mary the Great, and his chief clerk said he had gone back to Michaelhouse. The vicars-general had returned to their accommodations in King’s Hall, where they were relaxing for a few hours before starting the long trek home to Canterbury in the morning.
‘What did they decide?’ asked Bartholomew anxiously.
The clerk looked away unhappily. ‘No one knows, other than them and Michael. All we can do is wait for Teofle to make his speech.’
Bartholomew and William hurried home through the teeming rain, fearing the worst. Michaelhouse’s yard was a square of liquid mud, and it was a treacherous journey across it. Bartholomew flung open the Master’s door without knocking, then stared in surprise.
Michael was entertaining Brampton and – somewhat surprisingly – Lucy. His eyes were indeed bloodshot, and he looked as though he had not slept in a week. However, his face was split by an enormous grin that told Bartholomew all he needed to know. He sagged in relief.
‘You won?’ asked William tentatively. ‘The vicars-general confirmed your election?’
Michael raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Of course! That was never in question.’
‘Oh, yes it was,’ countered William. ‘Every scholar in the University has been on tenterhooks for days, and you have been scuttling around looking fraught and anxious.’
‘Because of other matters,’ explained Michael. ‘I was never worried about the election.’
‘What “other matters”?’ demanded William, and pointed a grubby finger at Lucy before Michael could answer. ‘And why is Donwich’s mistress here?’
‘I am not his mistress,’ objected Lucy crossly. ‘I never have been and I never will be.’ She stood. ‘And if I am to be insulted here, like I was in Clare Hall–’