A Masterly Murder

Chapter 12

‘NOT YOU!’ EXCLAIMED MICHAEL, EYEING IN horror the knife that Suttone wielded in St Michael’s Church. ‘Surely you were not Runham’s accomplice in this filthy affair?’

Suttone closed his eyes. ‘It has all gone wrong. I cannot imagine how matters have spiralled so far out of control.’

‘Then put down the knife,’ said Bartholomew, standing up slowly. ‘Stop this before it goes any further.’

‘Stay where you are, both of you,’ said Suttone, snapping open his eyes and gesturing that they were to sit on the remains of Wilson’s altar. ‘We must talk about this. There are things I wish you to know.’

‘Put down the knife first,’ said Bartholomew.

Suttone sighed, standing sufficiently far away to prevent any surprise lurch from Bartholomew and holding the knife as if he meant business. ‘Where in God’s name do I start with all this?’ He answered his own question. ‘With Wilson, I suppose.’

‘Wilson was dishonest, and secreted stolen items in his room,’ said Michael promptly, seeking to engage the man in conversation to distract him from the long and sharp-looking knife. ‘There was some suggestion at the time that the University might not survive the plague, and I imagine he was lining a nest for his future, should the worst happen and he find himself Collegeless.’

Suttone nodded. ‘He skulked in his room by day, avoiding those with the disease, but at night he slipped out to see his lover in the Convent of St Radegund. On his way, he stole from the dead and the dying. He stole from a person very dear to me – a relative.’

‘Is that what all this is about?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Revenge on Wilson because he stole from someone you loved?’

‘Not revenge,’ said Suttone. ‘All I wanted to do was recover this wealth and return it to its rightful owner.’

‘You became a Michaelhouse Fellow just to get someone’s money back?’ asked Michael warily. ‘But why not claim it through the courts – legally and openly?’

‘No court in the land would act on my claim, and especially not against a powerful institution like Michaelhouse. When I saw Kenyngham was Master, my hopes rose, because I knew he was a man who would see justice done. But he resigned before I could take him into my confidence, and Runham was elected.’

‘You voted for him,’ Michael pointed out.

‘I thought I would fare better with him than with that fanatical William. I was wrong.’

‘Runham immediately started selling the items he had recovered from Wilson’s hoard,’ said Michael. ‘Like my crystal bowl. And you knew you would have no help from him.’

‘He stole from you, too?’ asked Suttone. ‘Then you must understand how I feel.’

‘I do,’ said Michael. ‘That bowl was very dear to me – a gift from my grandmother. Put the knife down, Suttone, and let us discuss this in a civilised manner.’

‘Everyone was surprised when Runham suddenly produced the finances for his new buildings,’ said Suttone, still fingering the weapon with unsteady hands. ‘None of you knew where it came from. But I did.’

‘You guessed that Runham would use Wilson’s treasure, some of which belonged to your friend, to build his College,’ said Michael, trying to sound sympathetic as he eyed the knife.

Suttone nodded. ‘I decided to approach him before he could spend everything. I told him that not all of Wilson’s fortune was obtained honestly, but he refused to listen. At first he denied that he had recovered Wilson’s hoard, but then he started to gloat that he would use it for the good of his cousin’s soul.’

‘And you did not want your relative’s possessions adding to the glorification of the man who had robbed him in the first place,’ said Michael, hoping to calm the man.

Suttone clutched the knife harder, and Bartholomew saw sweat beading on his forehead. ‘It was obscene! It was not Runham’s to dispose of – and certainly not to be used for purifying Wilson’s diseased soul!’

‘So you smothered him,’ said Michael. Bartholomew jabbed him in the ribs, certain that bringing the discussion around to murder was unwise. Michael ignored him. ‘You took a cushion and you pressed it over his mouth until he stopped struggling.’

Suttone gazed at the floor, and Bartholomew tensed in readiness to spring an attack, grasping his medicine bag like a shield to protect himself from the blade. He glanced at Michael, who gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head.

‘I am not sorry Runham is dead, God rot his soul,’ said Suttone softly. ‘But I am sorry it was I who did the deed.’ He glanced across to Runham’s body, lying under its fine silken sheet.

‘And are you sorry that you and Caumpes endangered the lives of your colleagues by causing the scaffolding to fall?’ asked Bartholomew coldly. ‘Had Michael been in his room, he would have been killed, and he has nothing to do with this business of Runham’s.’

‘I did not touch the scaffolding,’ said Suttone. ‘I thought that was an accident – that it fell because Runham did not pay for it to be assembled safely.’

‘But Caumpes said–’ began Bartholomew.

‘Then Caumpes acted alone,’ interrupted Suttone firmly. ‘I had nothing to do with it. I killed Runham, but I did not touch the scaffolding.’

‘And are you sorry you killed Wymundham, too?’ asked Michael. ‘If you killed Runham, then you also killed Wymundham. Both men were smothered with cushions.’

Suttone did not reply, and Bartholomew tensed again, poised to strike. Michael tugged the physician’s sleeve, urging him not to move. Bartholomew was uneasy that Michael was content to let Suttone continue their discussion waving a knife, when there was a chance to disarm him, but knew he would not be able to break Michael’s grip and be able to launch a surprise attack on Suttone.

‘Yes,’ said Suttone eventually. ‘I was sorry I had to kill Wymundham. But he had discovered what I had come to do, and he threatened to expose me.’

‘How did he find out?’ asked Michael, puzzled.

‘I have no idea,’ said Suttone. ‘Perhaps he consorted with witches or fortune-tellers.’

‘Surely you do not believe that,’ said Michael doubtfully. ‘You are a friar!’

‘Caumpes told me about the evil things Wymundham did – how he drove his lover Raysoun to drink and then lied about his dying words; about how he blackmailed de Walton over his harmless admiration of Mayor Horwoode’s wife; and how he threatened to reveal that Caumpes’s father was not the wealthy merchant he always claimed. It would not have surprised me to learn that Wymundham was in league with the Devil.’

‘So, he deserved to die,’ said Michael flatly. ‘He was an evil man whom no one would mourn.’

‘You are putting words in my mouth,’ said Suttone. ‘No one deserves to die, before they have had the chance to repent their sins. And Brother Patrick did not deserve to die, either.’

‘Did you kill him as well?’ asked Michael.

Suttone shook his head. ‘But he saw me kill Wymundham. He was Wymundham’s apprentice, busily learning dark secrets that he could use to his own advantage in the future.’

Bartholomew recalled that Heltisle had said the same. ‘So did Wymundham try to blackmail you about your plan to return Wilson’s ill-gotten gains to their rightful owners? Did he ask you to meet him in that shed in Bene’t’s grounds, where you put a cushion over his face and smothered him?’

Suttone nodded. ‘And Patrick was stabbed when we realised he had seen what I had done.’

‘We?’ pounced Michael. ‘Who is we?’

Suttone smiled sadly. ‘I will confess everything else, but never that. Too many lives have been tainted by men like Wilson, Runham, Wymundham and Patrick already. I will not see more people fall victim to their plague.’

‘Is it a woman?’ asked Michael bluntly. ‘You must think highly of her, given that you are prepared to kill and steal for this person.’

Suttone looked shocked. ‘I am a friar, Brother. I have committed many sins, but breaking my vows of chastity is not one of them – unlike you, I should imagine.’

‘We are not discussing me,’ said Michael haughtily. ‘But you had an alibi for Runham’s murder. How did you manage that?’

Suttone smiled. ‘Poor Master Kenyngham is too good and honest for this world. You know how he is – every office is a deeply religious experience. I was present at the beginning of compline that night, but he did not notice me leave in the middle of it, and he did not notice me return later.’

That rang true, thought Bartholomew. Once Kenyngham was into the business of praying, very little could impinge on his consciousness. And anyway, Bartholomew recalled, Kenyngham had stayed after compline to pray at the high altar, while Suttone had said he had prayed at Wilson’s altar. Since Wilson’s altar was nearer the door, it would be entirely possible to slip out and back in again without being seen from the high altar at the other end of the church.

‘And it was not Kenyngham who provided you with your alibi ultimately,’ he said. ‘It was Caumpes.’

‘Caumpes was there,’ said Suttone. ‘He showed me the latest pieces Runham had asked him to sell, but none of them fitted the description of the jewels my relative had lost. In despair, I went to speak with Runham again. It was then that I killed him – when he mocked me for my desire to see justice done.’

‘And then you just returned to the church to finish your prayers?’ asked Michael. ‘That was cool-headed!’

Suttone ran the blade of the knife along his fingers, as if testing its sharpness. ‘I returned to ask for forgiveness, but not for me – for Runham.’

‘Why Caumpes?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I do not see why you chose to go into partnership with a Fellow from another College.’

‘Why not? Would you have volunteered your services? I met Caumpes just after my first encounter with the blackmailing Wymundham, and he was kind to me. We struck up a friendship. He is a man of integrity, a virtue that seems lacking in most people I have met at this University.’

‘So, the arrangement was that Caumpes would show you all that Runham gave him to sell before he disposed of it?’ asked Michael. ‘Why did he do that? What was in it for him?’

‘Nothing,’ said Suttone heavily. ‘As I said, Caumpes is a man of integrity. He knew of the wrong perpetrated on my relative, and was keen to see it rectified.’ Michael looked patently disbelieving, and Suttone allowed himself another small smile. ‘And my relative offered to make a donation to Bene’t to ensure Caumpes’s cooperation.’

‘That I can believe,’ said Michael. ‘So, did Caumpes kill Patrick?’

‘Caumpes has killed no one.’

‘But he killed de Walton,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Stabbed him.’ He glanced uneasily at the knife, and wondered whether that had been a wise thing to say.

Suttone rubbed his head. ‘I do not believe you. All Caumpes has ever wanted was to protect his College. He is not a murderer.’

‘Caumpes provided Michaelhouse with the Widow’s Wine on the night of Runham’s election,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He stole it from Bene’t cellars.’

‘He sold Langelee a couple of hogsheads of it, so that everyone would be drunk and I would be able to search Kenyngham’s room should the worst – or what I then imagined would be the worst – happen and Father William be elected Master. I knew I would never have another opportunity. Unfortunately, you and Michael left before the feast was over and almost caught us as we were leaving after our unsuccessful search.’

So, thought Bartholomew, it had been Caumpes and Suttone with whom he had first struggled, and who had pushed him into the mud of St Michael’s Lane. But searching the Master’s room for hidden gold and intoxicating the entire College with Heltisle’s pickling agent had not been all the pair had achieved that night.

‘You poisoned the salve I use for infections,’ said Bartholomew coldly. ‘You knew I would use it on Michael’s stung arm. You were plotting murder even then.’

‘I exchanged your pot for one with stronger ingredients, guessing that you would use it, because Michael was scratching himself like a dog with fleas,’ said Suttone. ‘I was afraid his injury would render him sleepless, and that he might see Caumpes and me searching the Master’s quarters. But the salve was not poisonous. It was intended to make him sleep.’

‘It might have killed him,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And later, you stole it back again.’

‘I retrieved it from your bag when Runham started making unpleasant accusations,’ said Suttone. ‘I was sure the salve I gave you was safe, but I did not want to provide Runham with the means to persecute you, should I be wrong. I took the salve to protect you.’

‘Thank you,’ said Bartholomew icily.

‘I am not a bad person,’ Suttone insisted unsteadily. ‘I started with the most noble of intentions, and, through no fault of my own, ended up a murderer.’

‘You started a murderer,’ said Bartholomew, recalling another death that could be attributed to Suttone’s preferred method of killing. ‘Like Wymundham and Runham, Justus was smothered.’

Suttone sighed and his eyes took on a distant look, as though the memory were a painful one. ‘I smothered him, and then put a wineskin over his head to make it appear as if he took his own life. He was senseless with drink at the time. He felt no pain; he did not even struggle. And I did conduct his requiem mass for no charge.’

‘A kindly killer,’ said Michael softly. ‘But why? What had Justus done to you?’

‘I am not an evil man, Brother,’ repeated Suttone, ignoring the question. ‘I only want justice. When I realised that the money I had seized from Runham’s chest exceeded the amount my relative had lost, I gave the balance back. I passed it to Bartholomew in the churchyard.’

‘So that was you, was it?’ asked Michael.

‘I keep telling you, I am not wicked,’ said Suttone. ‘It is Runham, Wilson and Wymundham who are the real villains in this story. It is with their selfishness and greed that all this starts.’

‘So put the knife down,’ said Bartholomew. ‘If you are not evil, you will not be committing any more murders, and especially not in a church.’

There was a sudden crash at the back of the nave, and Cynric appeared with his weapon at the ready. Stanmore and Father William were at his heels, along with a white-haired Carmelite friar. Cynric faltered when he saw the knife Suttone held.

‘More murders?’ asked Suttone, as though the thought had not crossed his mind. He looked from Cynric to the dagger he held in his hand, and then gave a slow, sad smile. ‘You misunderstand me, even now. It is not you I came here to kill, my friends. It is me.’

And he took the knife and drew it in a quick slashing motion across his neck.

Bartholomew dived towards Suttone as the friar collapsed slowly on the floor next to Wilson’s altar, tugging the knife from the inert fingers and flinging it away in disgust. He rammed the sleeve of the man’s tabard against the pumping wound in his neck, but he knew it would do no good. Even pressing as hard as he could, the blood dripped and spurted beneath his hands, and the rosiness gradually faded from Suttone’s face to be replaced by the waxy whiteness of death. Just as the feeble pulse began to flutter into stillness, Suttone turned his head and gazed at the sheeted form of Runham’s corpse, regarding it with a weary resignation, as though he considered that neither of them had won.

Michael had dropped to his knees to begin intoning prayers for the dead. The white-haired Carmelite, who had entered the church with Cynric, Stanmore and William, hesitated, but then joined him. William did nothing but turn his bewildered gaze from the blood that flowed in a shiny red puddle across the chancel tiles to the damaged remains of Wilson’s altar.

‘What has Suttone done?’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘It is a dreadful sin to take the life God granted him in God’s own house, but to desecrate His altars, too? He is hell-bound for certain!’

‘Just pray,’ snapped Michael, taking a handful of William’s unsavoury habit and jerking the friar down to kneel next to him. ‘Suttone was a man who allowed friendship and loyalty to those he loved to cloud his judgement. He deserves our pity, not our condemnation.’

‘He is bound for the fierce fires and boiling brimstones of the Devil’s domain …’ began William, who relished voicing his extraordinarily vivid predictions of the nature of Hell.

‘Pray, Father, or I will see you join him there,’ hissed Michael venomously.

Unused to such naked hostility from the equable monk, William quickly bent his head and began reciting the offices for the dead, taking a small phial of holy oil from his scrip to anoint Suttone.

Bartholomew stepped away from the clerics, and walked outside, breathing deeply of the cool morning air with its scent of wet grass and the richer aroma of river. He was wiping his bloodstained hands on some moss when Stanmore came to join him, Cynric at his heels.

‘How did you know where we were?’ Bartholomew asked, recalling their timely entry.

‘We thought you were in dreadful danger, Matt,’ said Stanmore unsteadily. ‘Cynric and I were riding into town after making a delivery of cloth to Barnwell Priory, when that Carmelite asked us the way to Michaelhouse. We fell to talking as we went and he told us that he had been delayed in taking up a new appointment in your College by an accident.’

Bartholomew looked up at him in dull resignation. ‘And I suppose his name is Thomas Suttone? The Carmelite friar who was due to be admitted as a Fellow of Michaelhouse at the same time as Clippesby?’

Cynric nodded. ‘He was attacked as he journeyed south from Lincoln, and his arm was injured. He was obliged to wait for it to heal.’

‘Lincoln,’ said Bartholomew flatly. ‘Justus came from Lincoln.’

‘What of it?’ asked Stanmore. ‘So do a number of people, I should imagine.’

‘But not the man who has just slit his own throat,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He had probably never been to Lincoln, which is why Justus had to die. He could not risk Justus asking him awkward questions, and Justus might even know the real Suttone. Lincoln is not a very big place.’

‘Justus was murdered?’ asked Cynric. ‘I thought he had killed himself with his wine and his morose reminiscences.’

‘That is what we were supposed to think,’ said Bartholomew, looking down at the reddened moss at his feet, where he had wiped Suttone’s blood from his hands. ‘So who was Suttone? The false Suttone, I mean, not the real one.’

‘A man prepared to injure an innocent friar in order to take on his identity and conduct nasty business in Michaelhouse,’ said Stanmore angrily. ‘We saw the false Suttone – and he saw us – as we rushed into the College to tell you about him. By the time we had found William and he suggested you might be in the church, we realised that was probably where this impostor had headed, too, knowing his game was over.’

‘I thought we might be too late, boy,’ said Cynric unsteadily. ‘And you did not have me watching out for you in the shadows as usual.’

‘Suttone never intended to harm us,’ said Bartholomew wearily. ‘Michael sensed that – it was why he would not let me try to wrest the knife from him. I saw only a murderer, but Michael saw a tortured soul.’

‘He was a tortured soul who made an end to Master Runham, by the sound of it,’ said Stanmore unsympathetically. ‘Well, at least it is all over now. I heard this morning that you identified Caumpes as the man who killed the Bene’t scholars, and now you have the culprit for the Michaelhouse murders. It is over, Matt. Finished.’

‘I do not think so,’ said Bartholomew with a sigh. ‘We have Suttone’s confession that he smothered Justus, Wymundham and then Runham; and it seems that Raysoun’s fall from the scaffolding was exactly that – an accident. But Suttone claims he did not kill Brother Patrick or de Walton, and Caumpes says he did not either.’

‘As I have told you before,’ said Michael, emerging from the church and coming to stand with them, ‘murderers do not make for reliable witnesses, Matt. Suttone and Caumpes were lying.’

‘Suttone smothered his victims,’ said Bartholomew, leaning against one of the church’s buttresses. ‘But both Patrick and de Walton were stabbed.’

‘Then stabbing was probably what Caumpes did well,’ said Michael in exasperation. ‘Caumpes was certainly in the vegetable garden when de Walton died – and he almost turned you and me into human torches while he was at it.’

‘What about this wronged relative of Suttone’s?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps he stabbed Patrick and de Walton.’

‘Listening to Suttone’s confession has unsettled you, Matt,’ said Michael. ‘Let it go.’

‘Why were you so sure Suttone would not kill us?’ asked Bartholomew of the monk. ‘You would not even let me try to disarm him.’

‘I wish I had now,’ said Michael. ‘I did not think he would kill himself, either. I sensed he had come to confess, but I did not anticipate it would be a dying declaration.’

‘There are still some things I do not understand,’ said Bartholomew. ‘For example …’

Michael tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Leave it, Matt. What we need to do now is to try to think where Runham might have hidden the rest of his treasure. If we can find it and show it to those workmen today, we might yet save Michaelhouse from harm.’

‘I think it is too late for that, boy,’ said Cynric nervously. ‘A mob has been massing in the Market Square since dawn. And it means to tear down Michaelhouse stone by stone.’

While Stanmore hurried back to his business premises to make certain the rioters did not shift their attentions to the wealthy merchants’ properties on Milne Street, Bartholomew, Michael and Cynric, with William and the new Carmelite trailing behind, ran back to Michaelhouse with the cart full of soap.

The atmosphere of the town had changed since Bartholomew and Michael had hurried through the darkened streets to the church earlier that morning. Then, the city had slept, silent and peaceful. Now, distant voices could be heard on the wind, angry and demanding. Sensing that Cambridge was about to degenerate into one of its frequent spells of anarchy, people had closed the shutters on their windows, and their doors were locked and barred against attack. The High Street, which usually thronged with traders and travellers, was virtually deserted: its residents were either barricaded inside their homes to wait out the chaos that was to come, or had joined the crowd in the Market Square.

‘Oh, Lord, Matt!’ groaned Michael, as a sudden roar of furious voices reverberated around the empty streets from the Square. ‘We should not have wasted time listening to Suttone’s confession. Now we are too late to prevent this riot – and it is Michaelhouse’s fault!’

‘It is,’ agreed Cynric uncompromisingly. ‘You should not have dismissed the choir and the servants or tried to cheat the builders.’

‘Will the town really attack us?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Is there no way to prevent it?’

‘Yes,’ replied Cynric. ‘You can give the workmen their due. Nothing less will spare Michaelhouse from being stormed by a good part of the town. They mean business, and I am not sure that even your strong walls will protect you this time.’

They arrived at the College to find that Langelee had not been idle. He had barricaded the back gate and set a guard of servants to watch it, and had soldiers from the Castle lined up along the front wall with bows and arrows at the ready. The students were prepared to defend themselves and their College, too. They were armed with a vicious assortment of sharpened sticks, short swords and even a mace. Deynman and Bulbeck, directed by Clippesby, were dragging parts of the scaffolding to pile against the main gate, while Gray lined up the others like some kind of military parade.

While Michael briefly outlined to the other Fellows what had happened to Suttone and about the treasure Wilson stole and Runham sold, Kenyngham scuttled back and forth in dismay, appalled that once again his College was to be the scene of violence. The new Carmelite – the real Suttone – took one look at the preparations that were underway and promptly fled, claiming he had left something at the friary on Milne Street. William watched him go with considerable disapproval.

‘Typical!’ he spat in disdain. ‘Carmelites are always far more interested in saving their own skins than in doing their duty. If he had not been so feeble over his injured arm, we would have known that the other Suttone was an impostor a good deal earlier. And then Runham might still be alive.’

‘Then thank the good Lord he is a malingerer,’ said Langelee fervently. ‘It was a black day for Michaelhouse when that evil tyrant was elected Master. If everyone had voted for me, then none of this would have happened.’

‘Never mind that,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘What we should be thinking about now is how to protect Michaelhouse.’

‘Michaelhouse will come to no harm,’ said Langelee confidently, laying a thick, calloused hand fondly on the creamy yellow stones of the front wall. ‘The rabble of builders and music-makers who plan to attack us will not make much headway against this.’

‘Music-makers?’ asked Kenyngham, startled, looking up from where he knelt among the pile of soap parings and recovered jewellery.

‘Forgive me, Master Kenyngham,’ said Langelee. ‘I had forgotten that the word “music” is not one that is usually associated with that gaggle of caterwaulers who like to be known as the choir.’

‘They are improving,’ said Michael, offended. ‘But I am sure my choir is not part of this mob.’

‘They are, Brother,’ said Cynric. ‘You have not reinstated them as they expected, and they are only too willing to vent their ire against Michaelhouse.’

‘We must find the rest of that treasure hidden by Wilson and Runham,’ said Michael urgently. ‘If we can show the mob that we do indeed possess ninety pounds, then they might disperse before any fighting begins. How much can we lay our hands on now?’

‘Probably about seventy pounds with the soap jewellery,’ said Langelee.

‘It is not enough,’ said Kenyngham. ‘These are not stupid men – they will know we are short.’

‘Ask Agatha to clean these baubles off,’ said Langelee, glancing down at the soapy bracelets and necklaces that lay on the ground. ‘If we pile them in the chest, the workmen may think we have more than we do.’

Kenyngham shook his head. ‘They will want to see irrefutable evidence that we have the entire amount in cash – not a few pounds and a heap of trinkets.’

‘True,’ said William, picking up one of the pieces and inspecting it briefly with an experienced eye. ‘Many of these items are of little value – gilt and coloured glass.’

‘Then we must find where Runham stored the rest of his treasure,’ said Michael. ‘The only problem is, I do not know where to start.’

‘His room, of course,’ said William. ‘That is where Wilson hid a lot of it, you say. I will take a couple of students and start looking there right now.’

‘I will come with you,’ said Langelee, running after him. ‘The Master’s room is the finest chamber in the College, and I would not like to see it destroyed because you are impatient or unable to see that some of the furnishings are delicate. Kenyngham says he will resign again soon. The new Master will have to live in that room – and it might be me.’

‘Over my dead body,’ muttered Michael, as he left.

‘I suspect that Runham has removed anything easily recoverable from his room already,’ said Clippesby hesitantly. His hair, greasy and unkempt, stood in a spiky circle, so that with his staring eyes he had the look of a frightened cat. ‘And then he put them in the church, just as you told us. So, I think it would be better to look elsewhere for the rest.’

‘I agree,’ said Michael, barely looking at him as he desperately tried to think of ways to convince a furious mob that Michaelhouse was not twenty pounds short. ‘Where did you have in mind?’

Clippesby looked blank for a moment, but then brightened. ‘He may have buried it in the orchard. I will go there.’

‘The orchard is a large place,’ said Bartholomew, regarding him uncertainly. ‘How will you know where to look?’

‘Voices,’ said Clippesby mysteriously. ‘I hear voices. They will tell me.’

He strode away towards the small gate that led to the gardens. Bartholomew gazed after him, wondering whether to fetch him back.

‘That man is not sane, Matt,’ said Michael. ‘Voices indeed! Who does he think he is? The Virgin Mary?’

‘Remember what Runham said about him?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘That he was ill before he came to us? I imagine that the stresses and uncertainties of these past few days have unbalanced him, and that we have made the poor man ill again with our accusations and suspicions.’

‘Is it safe to allow him in the orchard, do you think?’ asked Kenyngham, wringing his hands in despair as he saw yet one more problem to contend with. ‘Are you sure he will not ram a spade through the skull of one of the students?’

‘I do not think so,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is best to leave him to his own devices. We will only distress him if we try to prevent him from doing what he wants.’

‘Very well,’ said Kenyngham unhappily. He pushed Clippesby from his mind, and turned his attention to the matter of the hidden gold. ‘I will look in the attics in the south wing.’

‘Take Deynman with you,’ suggested Bartholomew, his immediate thought to put his slow-witted student in a place where he might be safe if the mob attacked. ‘Gray and Bulbeck will stay here and ring the bell if the mob starts to mass outside.’

‘I do not think this treasure is in the College, boy,’ said Cynric in a low voice to Bartholomew.

‘Where is it, then?’ demanded Michael, overhearing and coming towards the Welshman. Cynric seldom ventured an opinion about such matters that was not worth hearing.

‘Do you remember giving me a document to look after when we were in Suffolk this summer? I hid it in a place where I said you would not think to look.’

‘Yes,’ said Michael, peeved. ‘I had to give you a shilling when I lost a bet that I would be able to guess where it was. And you have never told me where you put it.’

‘I put it under Master Alcote’s corpse,’ said Cynric. ‘In his coffin.’

Bartholomew and Michael stared at him.

‘What are you suggesting?’ asked Michael uneasily. ‘That Runham hid the treasure in St Michael’s parish coffin?’

‘Not in the parish coffin,’ said Cynric. ‘In Master Wilson’s coffin – inside his tomb.’

‘But he would not dare!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, revolted. ‘Wilson died of the plague. Even a greedy man like Runham would not open the grave of a man taken by the pestilence.’

‘Are you sure about that?’ asked Cynric.

Michael scratched his face, fingernails rasping on his bristles. ‘You may be right. Runham was certainly prepared to use the space in the altar to hide his ill-gotten gains. What was to stop him from storing the rest inside the tomb itself? It would certainly explain his unhealthy fascination with it.’

‘And the strong-smelling soap served not only to smuggle riches out of the College and into the church, but to disguise the stench from the open tomb,’ said Bartholomew.

‘That is an unpleasant suggestion, Matt,’ said Michael, wrinkling his nose in disgust. ‘But you are probably correct. And when Runham was kneeling at that grave, pretending to pray for his cousin, he was hiding his treasure for Caumpes to collect.’

‘When any of us saw him at the tomb, our immediate reaction was to avoid him,’ said Bartholomew. ‘None of us wanted to be invited to join him at his prayers, and I think we were all made uncomfortable by the devotion with which he revered Wilson’s memory.’

He recalled Runham kneeling at the tomb the morning after his election, when he had fined the physician for being late. Bartholomew’s assumption that Runham had arrived early to catch him was wrong: Runham had arrived early to place some of the treasure in the church for Caumpes. He had not been cleaning when Bartholomew had arrived, but hiding his loot.

‘And Wilson and Runham did not even like each other,’ said Cynric. ‘Father Paul said that they had always been rivals, and that he was surprised Runham should be so determined to build a tomb for a man he hated.’

‘He was not building a tomb,’ said Michael. ‘He was building a strongbox for the treasures he anticipated would fill it when he finally became Master.’

‘We should go,’ said Cynric. ‘The lane is clear at the moment. We should be able to sneak out without being seen by the rioters.’

‘But what happens if the mob attacks Michaelhouse while we are gone?’ asked Michael. ‘I do not like the notion of being outside its walls when the trouble comes.’

‘Then we will have to be quick,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The whole point of the exercise is to prevent the riot from starting. Those archers on the walls will not hesitate to shoot, and I do not want to see men like Blaston and Newenham hurt.’

‘Or my choir,’ added Michael. ‘Isnard the bargeman, and the rivermen Dunstan and Aethelbald, are good people whom Michaelhouse has wronged. Come on, then, Cynric. Lead the way.’

With a grin of pleasure, delighted to be back in his role of assistant to the Senior Proctor, Cynric slipped the bar on the wicket gate and led the way up the lane towards the church.

The High Street was still deserted, although Bartholomew could hear the ominous rumble of voices emanating from the Market Square. He heard individual voices, too – that of Sheriff Tulyet, ordering people back to their homes, and of Mayor Horwoode making an appeal for peace. He and the others jumped to one side as a group of mounted soldiers thundered past, swords already drawn in anticipation of violence. Bartholomew and Michael exchanged a horrified glance and hurried on.

Bartholomew wrenched open the door to the church, swearing loudly when the sticky latch played its usual tricks. The building was silent and shadowy. Runham still lay under his silken sheet in his coffin, and the altar that Bartholomew and Michael had prised from its moorings remained on its side. As far away from Runham as possible was the fake Suttone, covered hastily with a sheet and lying on two planks. Below him was a bowl, strategically placed to catch the blood that still dripped from the body.

Wilson’s grave had once been a boxlike affair of grey stone, topped by a simple and attractive piece of black marble. Since Runham had arrived, the box had been encased in some elaborate wooden carvings, while the life-sized gilded effigy of Wilson, sneering at the world as it rested on one elbow and gazed across the chancel, had been grafted over the marble slab.

‘I do not like this, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, pausing with a metal lever poised over the tomb. ‘Supposing opening this grave releases the contagion again, and the plague returns?’

‘Runham probably had it open, and the Death did not strike him,’ Cynric pointed out. Bartholomew could not help but notice that the book-bearer was nevertheless keeping a respectful distance from the tomb and its contents.

‘But what if you are wrong?’ he asked, hesitating. ‘What if Runham hid the treasure elsewhere – with a friend, for example?’

‘Runham did not have any friends,’ said Michael, exasperated. ‘And people will die unless we are able to produce this damned treasure soon. I cannot think of anywhere else Runham might have stored the stuff, and we do not have time to hold a disputation over it. All we need to do is lift that slab and have a quick look underneath.’

‘All right, all right,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Stand back, then.’

He began to poke around with his lever, seeing that the mortar had been loosened all along the back. Cynric was right: someone had been inside the tomb. Bartholomew began to heave. The slab lifted slightly, and then dropped back. He tried again, but it was too heavy with the brazen effigy reclining on top of it.

‘We need to lift this thing off first,’ he said. ‘We will never get the lid open with this revolting carving weighting it down.’

Cynric and Michael watched him chip away the mortar that held the effigy in its place, but made no move to assist when he staggered under its weight.

‘It is curious how loath I am to touch it,’ said Michael, reluctantly stepping forward and wrapping his hands in his sleeves before he handled the statue. ‘It reminds me so much of Wilson himself, that I want nothing to do with it.’

‘If you are not squeamish about opening the man’s grave, I hardly think you can be fastidious about touching his graven image,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Put it on the floor, over there. We do not want to damage it and then have more of Wilson’s cousins coming to rectify matters.’

‘We do not,’ said Cynric with a shudder.

Once the effigy had been removed, prising open the slab was easy. The silence in the church was broken by the noise of clattering hooves. More soldiers were hurrying to the escalating confrontation between Sheriff and mob in the Market Square.

‘Quickly,’ urged Michael, white-faced. ‘If Cynric thinks these rioters mean business, then Tulyet will not be able to control them for much longer.’

‘I will hold it up, while you slip your hand inside the tomb and see what you can feel,’ said Bartholomew. Michael and Cynric exchanged a nervous glance.

‘We will feel bones, boy,’ said Cynric with a shudder. ‘We will not do it, will we, Brother?’

‘We will not,’ said Michael with firm conviction. ‘Just lever the whole thing off, and then we can look inside with no need for poking about with our hands.’

‘It is too heavy,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And if we take it off, we will never get it back on again. We cannot leave an open grave – of a plague victim, remember – in the church where our friends come to pray.’

‘Then we will lever and you can feel,’ said Michael, snatching the metal rod from him. ‘You are more used to that sort of thing than us.’

Bartholomew sighed, wanting the whole matter over and done with. ‘Hurry up then, before I change my mind.’

Cynric and Michael leaned on the bar, and Bartholomew peered into the dark space within. He could see Wilson’s coffin, already beginning to crumble and crack with age, and he fancied he could detect the paler gleam of bones within it. It stank of dampness and mildew and ancient, rotting grave clothes, and he felt himself gag. Before he could lose his nerve completely, he thrust his hand inside, careful not to touch the coffin, and felt around. Triumphantly, he emerged with one of the College’s silver chalices. He rummaged again, and found two silver patens and the lovely thurible that the founder had left to Michaelhouse in his will.

‘You were right,’ he said, smiling up at Cynric. ‘This is exactly where Runham hid his treasure!’

‘Now why did I not think to look there?’ said a voice from the shadows of the nave.

Bartholomew rose to his feet fast, holding the thurible like a weapon that could be hurled and looking around him for the owner of the voice. Cynric and Michael seemed as bewildered as he was.

‘Now, now, Matthew,’ said Adela Tangmer, stepping out from the shadows and giving him one of her open, cheerful grins. ‘Put down that lovely work of art before you damage it. Thomas Caumpes has his crossbow loaded, and he will not hesitate to use it, if I ask him – which I will if you start throwing around goods that I intend to sell.’

Michael gazed at the vintner’s daughter in astonishment. ‘You?’ he exclaimed. ‘You are the secret relative whom Suttone was prepared to kill for?’

Behind her was Caumpes, still wearing the blue tabard that marked him as a Fellow of Bene’t College. He was white with shock and fear, and Bartholomew noticed that the crossbow was unsteady in his hands. His eyes looked haunted, and Bartholomew suspected that the traumas and anxieties of the past few days had made him unpredictable, and that his shaking fingers might even loose a quarrel by accident.

Adela beamed with her long teeth. ‘And why not, Brother? Do you think I am insufficiently attractive to warrant such devotion?’

Michael clearly did: he gaped at the woman’s plain features, her baggy brown dress and practical riding cloak, at a loss for words. More horses pounded past outside, indicating that Sheriff Tulyet intended to quell the rebellion with all the resources at his disposal.

‘Are you leaving the town?’ the monk asked, gesturing to the saddlebag thrown over Adela’s shoulder. ‘I do not blame you. A riot is brewing. But if we can get this silver to Michaelhouse, we may yet prevent trouble.’

‘My leaving has nothing to do with that,’ said Adela. ‘My father is driving me to distraction with his insistent whining about marriage. I might be obliged to stab him if it goes on much longer, and I do not want to do that.’

‘Stab?’ asked Bartholomew, appalled. ‘So, it was you who killed de Walton and Brother Patrick, not Caumpes?’

‘I told you it was not me–’ began Caumpes. Adela silenced him with a wave of her hand.

‘When you escaped from Bene’t’s burning hut, I thought our game would be over,’ she said. ‘But then you started chasing shadows that were nothing to do with us, and Caumpes acted as decoy to lead you away from where I hid in the trees. I was able to escape – after I made an end of de Walton, of course. I did not want him talking before I was ready.’

Bartholomew thought it likely that poor de Walton had known very little. He was sure the man had not guessed it was Adela behind the plotting that had so damaged his College.

‘And Patrick?’ asked Michael. ‘He saw Suttone smothering Wymundham, so you killed him, too?’

Adela gave a careless nod and pulled a handful of metal spikes from her saddlebag. ‘I stabbed him with one of these – the implements I use for plucking stones out of horses’ hooves. And I will kill you with them, too, unless you do as I say.’

‘So that was why the shape of the wound was so unusual,’ said Bartholomew, recalling the round injury in Patrick’s back.

‘But why did you tell us about Patrick fleeing from Holy Trinity Church?’ asked Michael. ‘We know now that it was no corpse that made him run away.’

‘She wanted to make us look more closely at Bene’t, so that suspicion would be removed from her,’ said Bartholomew, before Adela could answer. ‘It was a ruse.’

She gave a quick grin of begrudging approval at his deduction. ‘Patrick did flee the church – but because he was afraid of being associated with Wymundham’s drunken state, not because Wymundham was dead.’

Michael began to edge away from the tomb. ‘I see. But much as I would love to have the answers to this mystery, there are more pressing matters to attend. If we do not return to–’

‘Stay where you are,’ said Adela sharply. She jumped, as a sudden roar of angry voices came from the Market Square.

‘Listen to them,’ said Michael, desperately ‘Those are the workmen Runham hired to build his new courtyard. They plan to destroy Michaelhouse unless we can–’

Caumpes released a sharp bark of laughter. ‘Then there is some justice in this mess! Michaelhouse will pay for what it did to Bene’t.’

The reminder of the wrong perpetrated on Bene’t seemed to steady Caumpes. He took a firmer grip on his crossbow and his expression changed from miserable bewilderment to bitter determination.

‘Let us go,’ said Bartholomew, appealing to Adela. I do not want to see good men like Robert de Blaston killed by the Sheriff’s soldiers.’

‘No,’ said Adela. ‘I have no intention of handing over what Wilson stole from my dying mother to pay Michaelhouse’s debts.’

‘Please, Adela,’ pleaded Bartholomew. ‘Too many people have already died for Wilson’s treasure.’

‘You are wrong,’ said Adela harshly. ‘Not enough people have died – including you, Brother.’

Michael seemed startled to be singled out for such venom, but then he nodded slowly. ‘Matt’s suspicions were right about my recent illness. You told Suttone to exchange the salve Matt usually applies to infections for a more potent one, and you persuaded Caumpes to tamper with the scaffolding near my room. But what have I done to earn such hatred?’

‘I did not want you to investigate Patrick’s death before Suttone had had the chance to retrieve my mother’s stolen treasure.’

‘Do you feel no remorse for Suttone’s death?’ asked Bartholomew softly.

‘Suttone was a fool,’ said Adela. ‘He knew nothing about horses and thought the reward for retrieving my stolen goods was my marriage to him. And him with great fat legs like a pig!’

‘Whom will you marry? Caumpes?’ asked Michael.

Adela regarded him askance. ‘Do you think I would go to all this trouble just to put my now considerable wealth at the disposal of some man to drink and gamble away?’

‘Was it Caumpes who betrayed Suttone to Wymundham?’ asked Michael. ‘Wymundham knew all about Suttone – that is why Suttone smothered him.’

‘I did not–’ began Caumpes, casting an anxious glance at Adela.

Adela silenced him by raising her hand. ‘Actually, I told Wymundham about Suttone. Not deliberately, of course, but he fed me some of that disgracefully strong brew that Bene’t uses to drive out the cold – tastes like horse liniment.’

‘Widow’s Wine,’ said Bartholomew heavily. ‘That stuff seems to crop up all over the place.’

‘It should not be allowed to crop up at all,’ said Adela. ‘Anyway, I became a little indiscreet – at a respectable guild meeting, too, held in Bene’t’s hall! I embarrassed my father dreadfully, but I do have a weak head for wines.’

‘You mean you betrayed Suttone because you were drunk?’ asked Bartholomew, astounded.

‘Basically. I did not mean to, but the wine was strong and Wymundham was an attentive listener.’

There was another yell from the Market Square. Bartholomew cast Michael an agonised glance. Unless they acted soon the rioters would march on Michaelhouse and people would die.

‘We must–’ he began.

‘As long as Michaelhouse is under attack, this church will be safe,’ interrupted Adela. ‘We will remain here until the violence is over.’

‘Let us go,’ pleaded Bartholomew. ‘We may be able to–’

‘Enough!’ snapped Adela. ‘I do not want to hear any more about this wretched riot.’

‘The way Suttone spoke, I thought he referred to someone who had died in the plague,’ said Michael in the brief silence that followed.

‘Something of me did die during the Death,’ said Adela softly. ‘I learned that it is unwise to love someone who might be snatched away without warning. It is that knowledge, more than anything else, that makes me determined to put myself in a position where I never have to marry.’

The triumphant braying was gone from her voice, and Bartholomew saw that, yet again, the pestilence had a good deal to answer for; it had stolen away people with whom Adela might have led a contented life.

Caumpes, meanwhile, was nervous again. He was sweating profusely and his hands shook almost uncontrollably. Bartholomew glanced at Cynric, but the book-bearer’s shocked, disgusted face suggested there would be no help from that quarter.

‘So what did Wilson steal from you?’ asked Michael, breaking into Adela’s soulful introspection.

‘During the Death, I persuaded Wilson – who was on his way to visit his lover in St Radegund’s Convent – to give my mother last rites. When he had finished, I noticed he had relieved her of all her jewellery. What kind of man steals from the dying?’

‘I suppose he thought she no longer needed it,’ said Michael. ‘Things seemed different during the pestilence, when no one knew whether they would live another day, or which of their friends or relatives would die before sunset.’

‘That is irrelevant,’ she hissed angrily. ‘The jewellery was not his to take. My mother might not have needed it, but she did not intend it to end up in the vile claws of a corpse-robber. She wanted it to be mine.’

‘So, what will you do when you have it back?’ asked Michael. ‘You cannot stay here.’

‘I will go to Ireland, where I will not be pestered by proposals of marriage. But my plans are my business and none of yours.’

‘Quite,’ said Michael hastily. ‘But the day is wearing on, and you should be on your way. If Master Caumpes will kindly lower his crossbow, we will–’

‘Oh, no!’ said Adela. ‘Caumpes’s crossbow remains, thank you. But there will be no need for violence. If you co-operate, I will let you go. I have one question to ask and as soon as I have the answer, I will leave under the cover of this riot. My trusty steed Horwoode is waiting outside. You can do what you like.’

But her steely gaze told Bartholomew that, if things went according to her plan, he, Michael and Cynric would not be leaving the church alive, one question answered or not.

‘What is your question?’ asked Michael, his eyes fixed uneasily on the quaking Caumpes and his wavering crossbow. Bartholomew swallowed hard, wondering what would happen first – his death at the hands of Adela, or the attack on Michaelhouse that would see a bloodbath in which scholars and townsmen would die.

‘I want to know where Runham hid his treasure,’ she said. ‘I see you have some of the College silver there, but what have you done with the rest of it?’

‘Suttone took only what he considered to be yours,’ said Michael in sudden understanding. ‘He even returned the excess to Matt later, because he did not like the notion of stealing.’

Adela grimaced. ‘That just shows what happens when you engage a friar to help you. A word of warning, Matthew – if you ever decide to commit a robbery, choose Cynric to assist, not your friend the monk. Clerics have scruples that you would find frustrating.’

‘I am not so sure about that,’ muttered Bartholomew, who knew Michael much better than she did. ‘But who was Suttone?’

‘A Carmelite friar, just as he told you,’ said Adela. ‘He left his Order because he found his brethren lacking in morals. We are distantly related, and he came to my father’s house to beg for work. Before my father could set him to carrying wine barrels, I suggested something that appealed to his sense of justice. I asked him to take the place of one of your new Fellows, so that he could rectify a great wrong.’

‘Then he chose the wrong man to impersonate,’ said Michael wryly. ‘The real Suttone was a thief, according to Master Runham.’

‘That upset him terribly,’ said Adela. ‘But you are trying to distract me. Where is the rest of the treasure?’

‘Most of it is at Michaelhouse,’ said Michael. ‘Wait here, and I will go and fetch it.’

Adela laughed. ‘I know there is about seventy pounds at Michaelhouse – the money Suttone returned to you, along with some promissory notes and baubles that Runham found, begged or borrowed. But that is nothing compared to what Wilson really had. Runham boasted to Suttone that Wilson had at least a hundred pounds in gold coins hidden away. So, let us not play games here. Where is it?’

‘A hundred pounds?’ exclaimed Michael, astonished. ‘As well as the seventy pounds in College?’

‘Yes,’ said Adela impatiently. ‘And do not pretend to be surprised: it is common knowledge that Wilson’s room was stuffed to the gills with gold after he died, so you cannot fool me with your feigned innocence.’

‘But I am telling the truth,’ protested Michael. ‘Believe me, if I knew where to find a hundred pounds, we would not be poking around in Wilson’s tomb for treasure to show angry builders.’

‘Liar!’ snapped Adela. ‘Tell me where it is, or Caumpes will shoot you.’

Caumpes was quaking like a leaf, and Bartholomew inched forward. It was a mistake.

‘Caumpes!’ Adela’s ringing no-nonsense voice made the agitated scholar jump and his finger trembled on the trigger. ‘Pull yourself together!’

‘I did not mean for this to happen,’ said Caumpes in an unsteady whisper. ‘All I wanted was to protect my College from wicked men like Wymundham and Brother Patrick, and to make sure Michaelhouse did not poach our workmen. That is all. I wanted no part in murder and theft.’

‘But you sold stolen goods,’ said Michael, unmoved.

Caumpes turned a tortured gaze on him. ‘No! Do you think I would risk having it said that Bene’t scholars peddle stolen property? Everything I sold was honestly obtained. Ask Sheriff Tulyet or the Goldsmiths’ Guild.’

‘Then why did you throw in your lot with her?’ asked Michael, casting a contemptuous glance at Adela. ‘And with Runham?’

‘I told you,’ said Caumpes miserably. ‘I wanted money to finish Bene’t’s buildings, because the Duke and the Guilds of St Mary and Corpus Christi are becoming reluctant to pay.’

This time the yell from the crowd was hoarse and angry. It sounded as though it were closer, as if the mob had left the Market Square and was already on the move.

‘The treasure,’ prompted Adela, gazing purposefully at Michael. ‘Where is it?’

‘Caumpes will not shoot,’ said Michael, although his voice was uncertain. ‘He has said all along that he is not a murderer, and he is right.’

‘Caumpes!’ snapped Adela again. ‘Kill the servant. Show them that you are a man, and not a snivelling, cowardly rat.’

‘Caumpes is not a murderer,’ said Michael again. His conviction wavered slightly as Caumpes swallowed hard and brought his crossbow to bear on Cynric. ‘And it would do you no good if he were, madam, because we do not know where Runham hid his gold.’

‘I do not believe you,’ said Adela. ‘Shoot him, Caumpes.’

But Michael was right: Caumpes had no intention of shooting anyone. He hurled the crossbow from him in revulsion and started running up the nave towards the door. Before Bartholomew could react, Adela made a quick, decisive movement, and Caumpes fell, scrabbling helplessly at the metal that was embedded in his back. She turned to Bartholomew, Michael and Cynric, showing that she held another four or five shining silver spikes in her hands.

‘I am good with these,’ she said. ‘I advise you to stay where you are.’

Bartholomew gazed at Caumpes who was gasping for breath on the patterned tiles of the nave, and then watched him painfully continue his journey to the door. The physician guessed the wound had pierced a lung, and doubted whether Caumpes would survive. How many more people would die in their church, he wondered, before the curse of Wilson’s stolen treasure was exorcised?

A short distance away, the cheated workmen and the wronged singers were definitely making their move. The shouting was louder, and Bartholomew could hear ringing curses from carters on the High Street as the rioters began to stream from the Square towards Michaelhouse, blocking the road. Caumpes had reached the church door and opened it, allowing the sounds to drift in more clearly. A horse neighed in panic at the sudden increase in noise.

‘Horwoode!’ exclaimed Adela in alarm, glancing at the door.

‘He sounds panicky,’ said Bartholomew quickly, seeing an opportunity to break the stalemate. ‘Perhaps someone is trying to steal him.’

‘No one in this town would steal a horse of mine,’ she said, raising her throwing hand to warn Bartholomew against moving. She glanced towards the door in agitation, then snapped her attention forward again as Bartholomew braced himself to stand. ‘They would not dare.’

‘Then perhaps it is an outsider,’ said Bartholomew. ‘To a poor man with a starving family, Horwoode would be well worth stealing.’

‘And eating,’ added Michael. ‘After all, it could not be sold, given that it is so distinctive, but it would keep a family in meat for a week.’

It was enough. Without a word, Adela turned and raced up the nave, her mind fixed on the rescue of her horse. Bartholomew followed her, ignoring the warning cries of Michael and Cynric to let her go. By the time he reached the door, she was mounted and the horse was prancing skittishly among the graves. She pulled back her arm, and Bartholomew ducked back inside the porch. One of her spikes thudded into the door.

‘Stay away!’ she yelled. ‘Let me go – we have a pact to help each other, remember?’

‘I would not have made it had I known what you planned,’ he shouted back. His medicine bag caught on the door latch, and as he struggled to free it, he felt the smooth metal of his new childbirth forceps. He hauled them out and held them like a weapon. Adela gave a bitter smile.

‘What will you do, Matthew? Club me off my horse with the implement you use to save women’s lives? Believe me, I will kill you before you close half the distance.’

To prove her point, another of the silver missiles appeared in her hand, and her arm came up as she prepared to throw. A furious yell from the mob unnerved Horwoode. Hooves flailed and Bartholomew took the opportunity to dash to the back of the bucking horse. It did not like the sensation that someone was behind it, and began to prance and rear even more frantically. Despite her skills as a horsewoman, Adela was having difficulty in controlling it. Meanwhile, Caumpes had reached the High Street, and was clinging to the churchyard gate for support.

Bartholomew dodged this way and that, trying to get close enough to knock Adela from her saddle. Horwoode became more agitated, and a sudden sideways skip made the horse collide with Bartholomew, causing him to drop the forceps to the ground. The metallic clatter and the sight of something shiny under its feet was the last straw. Horwoode bolted.

At that precise moment, Caumpes released his grip on the wall that supported him and began to lurch forward, following some final desire to make his way back to the College he had loved. Startled by another movement under its front legs, the horse jolted backward, rolling its eyes in terror, and then fell.

Caumpes was crushed under the falling body, while Adela lost her grip on the saddle and slid to the ground. She recovered herself quickly and maintained her grip of the horse’s reins, but the horse was on its side with its hooves flailing wildly. There was a sickening crack as one of them caught her on the side of her head. She stood immobile for a moment, and then crumpled to lie twitching on the ground. The horse scrambled to its feet and darted off along the High Street.

Bartholomew dashed forward and knelt next to her, but he could see she was beyond anything he could do. The hoof had cracked the skull at the temple, and crushed the brain inside. Despite her convulsive struggles, her eyes already had the glassy look of death in them.

‘The horse killed her,’ whispered Cynric, coming to stand next to Bartholomew. ‘She was killed by one of the animals she loved.’

Adela’s uncontrolled shuddering ceased as the brain relinquished its damaged grip on her body.

‘The horse has killed Caumpes, too,’ said Michael, who crouched next to the scholar from Bene’t. ‘He is dead.’

‘This is no place for us,’ said Cynric urgently, grabbing Bartholomew’s tabard and hauling him to his feet as an ear-splitting howl echoed through the churchyard. ‘The mob is here.’

Dragging Bartholomew behind him, and with Michael following with uncharacteristic speed, Cynric darted to the back of the graveyard and hid among the tangle of bushes and small trees that grew there. They had been wrong when they had assumed the mob would go straight to Michaelhouse. The gaggle of workmen and singers had known perfectly well that they would be unlikely to make an impression on a sturdy foundation like the College, and had marched instead on that most prominent piece of Michaelhouse property – St Michael’s Church.

From his frighteningly inadequate hiding place, Bartholomew watched the rioters pour into the churchyard. At the head of them was Osmun. He faltered as he saw Caumpes’s body, and his pugilistic features hardened. He jumped on a tombstone to address his followers.

‘This is the body of Master Caumpes of Bene’t College!’ he howled in fury. ‘Caumpes was a good and honest man, and it is obvious who killed him – Michaelhouse men!’

‘Why is that obvious?’ piped up old Dunstan the riverman from the front of the crowd. The question was not put in such a way as to question Osmun’s authority, but in a manner that suggested the old riverman merely wanted the information.

‘Because his murdered body lies in the graveyard of the church Michaelhouse owns,’ yelled Osmun, spittle flying from his mouth in his fury. ‘Use your wits, old man!’

‘I do not see that proves anything,’ said Aethelbald, Dunstan’s brother, scratching his head in genuine puzzlement. ‘Anyone could have killed your Master Caumpes and left the body here.’

‘Michaelhouse hates Bene’t scholars,’ fumed Osmun. ‘Poor Caumpes was killed only because he wore the blue tabard of the College I serve.’

‘In that case, why is Adela Tangmer also dead?’ asked Robert de Blaston the carpenter. ‘She was not a scholar from Bene’t.’

‘And anyway, those Michaelhouse men are a cunning brood,’ said his friend Newenham knowledgeably. ‘They would not leave the bodies of people they killed on their own property.’

Osmun was not stupid. He could see that the crowd’s fury was fading as he argued with them. He gave a warlike whoop and waved a long, gnarled stick in the air. There were some answering cries and a few weapons were rattled, although it all seemed rather feeble to Bartholomew.

‘To Michaelhouse!’ shouted Osmun. ‘We will tear it stone from stone to its foundations!’

‘We have been thinking about that,’ said Dunstan uneasily. ‘If we destroy Michaelhouse, we will never be invited to sing in a choir again – none of the other colleges would have us.’

‘Will you let music interfere with justice?’ yelled Osmun, outraged. ‘To Michaelhouse, lads, and all its ill-gotten wealth will be ours!’

‘But that is the problem,’ Blaston pointed out. ‘It does not have any ill-gotten wealth. If it did, we would not be here now, using the tools of our trade as weapons. We would be working on their north court. Michaelhouse is destitute.’

‘Hardly that,’ muttered Michael indignantly. Cynric jabbed him hard in the ribs to silence him before he gave them away.

‘To Michaelhouse!’ yelled Osmun, ignoring the carpenter.

‘It is all that Runham’s fault,’ said Dunstan, climbing unsteadily on another tombstone, using his brother as a prop. ‘He dismissed the choir and he made the deal with the craftsmen that he knew he could not fulfil. It is not the fault of the other scholars – only him.’

‘Where is Runham?’ screamed Isnard the bargeman from the back of the crowd. ‘It is him we will tear apart! And then we will march on Michaelhouse and demand our bread and ale.’

‘He is in the church, God rot his wicked soul,’ said Dunstan, addressing the crowd from his little pulpit, just as Osmun had been doing. ‘He is lying under a lovely piece of silk – unlike his own book-bearer, whom he left to rot for days. Justus would still be there now if Doctor Bartholomew had not arranged his burial.’

‘When was that, then?’ asked Isnard conversationally. ‘I would have attended Justus’s requiem mass had I known when it was going to happen. I like a good funeral.’

‘Justus was my cousin,’ yelled Osmun. ‘I had to plead and beg on bended knees for Michaelhouse to honour his poor remains and do its duty. Bene’t would never have left a man unburied for more than a week.’

‘Why did you not bury Justus, then?’ asked Dunstan. ‘If he was your cousin–’

‘March on Michaelhouse now, and demand all they have!’ shrieked Osmun, sensing he was losing control of his small crowd to the old man. ‘We will have their silver and gold, and their rich cloaks and fine food.’

‘Michaelhouse does not have fine food,’ said Isnard. ‘You are thinking of Peterhouse. Michaelhouse is the College with the worst food in Cambridge.’

‘I think you will find that honour goes to Gonville Hall,’ muttered Michael indignantly. Cynric prodded him again.

‘And the food has got worse since Runham was made Master,’ shouted Dunstan, although there was no reason why he should be privy to such facts, now that he no longer earned his Sunday bread and ale. ‘And it was bad food that made Brother Michael ill. Runham tried to starve him to death!’

There was an ominous, angry rumble from the members of the choir, although the craftsmen appeared sceptical, and Bartholomew buried his face in his hands so that Michael would not see him smile. He wondered whether any of the crowd would question why Michael should be made ill with bad food, if Runham was starving him. None did.

‘And Runham was going to stop Doctor Bartholomew coming to visit the sick,’ continued Dunstan, now enjoying his role as spokesman for the underclasses. ‘How can we afford the high fees of Master Lynton when we are ill? We need Doctor Bartholomew, and Runham was trying to take him from us.’

The angry rumble increased in volume. Dunstan had succeeded where the aggressive Osmun had failed.

‘And Doctor Bartholomew gave my Yolande a green ribbon, too,’ added Blaston, drawing the bemused glances of several of the choir. ‘He is a kind man who is fond of his patients – us.’

‘To Michaelhouse then,’ shouted Osmun, waving his stave, ‘to avenge all these wrongs.’

‘No!’ wailed Dunstan in his reedy tenor. ‘To St Michael’s Church to where that vile Runham’s corpse lies. We will string it up.’

This time, the yell of approval from the crowd was distinctly more enthusiastic.

‘What for?’ demanded Osmun, startled. ‘Hanging a corpse will do you no good. Looting the College will bring you fortunes beyond your wildest dreams.’

‘How many more times do we have to tell you?’ demanded Blaston, shoving the porter out of his way. ‘Michaelhouse does not have this great fortune you keep talking about. And it is Runham we want. Runham is responsible for all our troubles.’

‘Wait!’ shouted Osmun, as the crowd surged forward and elbowed their way into the church.

But no one paid him any heed, and there was no more for him to do than to pick up the body of Caumpes, sling it over his shoulder, and be on his way. Smashing sounds came from inside the church. Bartholomew leapt to his feet and tried to move forward, but Cynric held him back.

‘Are you mad, boy?’ he hissed. ‘They will see a Michaelhouse tabard and turn their rage on you.’

That was certainly true, thought Bartholomew, easing back into the cover of the trees. He had almost been the victim of the choir once before in St Michael’s Church.

‘But they will destroy it,’ he whispered. ‘And they will take the church silver.’

‘I have that here,’ said Michael, holding up Adela’s saddlebag. ‘And there is nothing else to steal. The only thing of any value in that poor church is the silk sheet that is draped over Runham’s corpse – and they are welcome to that.’

‘But they are smashing things. I can hear them.’

‘Only the vase that contains the flowers Runham left for Wilson,’ said Michael. ‘And that has been empty this past week.’

There was some angry shouting, and the crowd began to emerge from the church, carrying Runham’s coffin with them. Dunstan, wearing the silk sheet around his thin shoulders, led the strange procession like some bizarre priest. Behind him, Runham shuddered and bumped as he was carried head-high along the High Street, willing hands reaching up to be part of the grisly celebration. Not far behind, the gilt effigy of Wilson was being given similar treatment, joggling in grabbing hands as it was borne away towards the Market Square.

It was not long before the church was empty. Fearful for it, Bartholomew darted from his hiding place and through the door. But Michael had been right, and the only thing that had been smashed was Runham’s clay vase. He started in alarm when the door clanked open.

‘Where have they gone now?’ asked Sheriff Tulyet wearily. ‘I thought that by showing them all my soldiers, armed and willing to use force, I had convinced them to go home peacefully. They were perfectly calm when I left them, and then I heard the whole thing had started again.’

‘Osmun from Bene’t was whipping them into a frenzy,’ said Michael. ‘Or was trying to. They do not seem a particularly frenzied mob to me – just people who have been badly treated.’

‘So where are they?’ said Tulyet. ‘I have better things to do than chase around after frustrated choristers. I will have that Osmun in my gaol for his role in this.’

‘Quite right, too,’ agreed Michael. ‘And then he can enjoy a spell in the proctors’ prison – that will cure his riotous fervour for a while. But the mob snatched Runham’s corpse and Wilson’s effigy and were heading off to the Market Square with them.’

‘Oh, horrible!’ exclaimed Tulyet in distaste. ‘What do they plan to do? Have a spit roast?’

‘There would be plenty of lard to baste the meat if they did,’ said Michael, unaware that he was not in a position to criticise the fat of others. ‘I think they intend to lynch him.’

‘Lynch a corpse?’ asked Tulyet uncertainly. ‘Oh well, it is better than lynching a live person, I suppose. Come on. Let us put a stop to all this madness before any real harm is done.’

He made as if to inspect the crumpled figure of Adela as he passed, but Bartholomew took his arm and hurried him on, thinking the Sheriff’s duties lay with the living first; he could deal with the dead later. Michael and Cynric followed them the short distance along the High Street to the Market Square.

‘That was Adela Tangmer,’ said Tulyet as they ran. ‘What happened to her?’

‘She fell off her horse,’ replied Michael tersely. ‘I will tell you the details later. Right now, it is more important to deal with these rioters.’

‘We can only deal with them if we know what they are doing,’ said Tulyet, skidding to a halt as they reached the Market Square. ‘And I have no idea what they plan to do.’

He was not the only one. Standing next to him, Bartholomew regarded the scene warily. The crowd, having reached the Square with their intended victim, was suddenly at a loss at what to do. Without the yells and encouragement of Osmun – and Dunstan was too old to have kept up with the main body of the mob and was still huffing his way from the church – they milled around like lost sheep. The body of Runham in its fine coffin was set down gently near the fishmonger’s stall, while the effigy was propped nonchalantly against the water pump that stood in the centre of the Square.

‘I think the answer to your question is simple,’ said Bartholomew. ‘These people do not know what they are going to do, either. Tell them all to go home, Dick.’

‘Michaelhouse will not press charges over this?’ asked Tulyet. ‘You would be within your rights to do so. Snatching the corpses of scholars is not generally regarded as good civic behaviour.’

‘Depends on the corpse,’ said Michael. ‘But Matt is right. The sooner this incident is over and forgotten, the better. Tell them to disperse and that there will be no reprisals from Michaelhouse.’

‘Right,’ yelled Tulyet, striding forward and taking control while he had the chance. ‘I want eight volunteers to transport Masters Runham and Wilson back to St Michael’s Church, and then we will say no more about this disagreeable spectacle.’

Several of the choir shuffled forward, and Runham was heaved off the ground to begin his return journey. Aethelbald was one of the ones who volunteered to lift the effigy, but it was heavy, and his frail old arms were not strong enough to take the weight. With a crash that echoed all over the Market Square, it slipped from his grasp and smashed to the ground. The head rolled in one direction, the legs in another, while the torso cracked in two. And out from the breaks rolled Master Runham’s hidden treasure.

For a moment, no one moved, and the tinkle of coins flowing from the statue was all that could be heard. And then there was chaos. Runham was rudely dropped to the ground, where his corpse flopped from its coffin and his white shroud became splattered with dirt. The crowd surged forward, Michael among them, and uncountable hands reached, grabbed and snatched for the bright gold that lay in the mud. People were trampled, hair was yanked, clothes were ripped, and faces were slapped and thumped. Bartholomew watched it all aghast, while Tulyet used the flat of his sword in a hopeless attempt to try to restore some sort of order.

News that there was gold to be had near the fish stalls carried faster than the wind, and more people raced to join the affray. Those staggering away from the chaos found themselves mugged for their new acquisitions, and Bartholomew was wrestled to the ground by two apprentices who were certain his pockets were stuffed with coins, but backed off when Cynric came to his rescue.

‘Come away, boy,’ the Welshman urged with distaste. ‘This is no place for honest men.’

‘But we cannot just leave,’ said Bartholomew, appalled both by the display of naked greed and by the fact that the gold that was being spirited away in a hundred different pockets was stolen property and would never be returned to its rightful owners. ‘Some of that gold belongs to Michaelhouse.’

‘Not any more,’ said Cynric with a grin.