A Masterly Murder

Epilogue

THE FOLLOWING DAY, WHEN PEACE HAD BEEN restored to the town and Master Runham’s body had been restored to St Michael’s Church, Bartholomew and Michael sat in the conclave with Langelee, William and Kenyngham. It was a lovely afternoon, with a pale winter sun shining in a clear, cloudless sky that bathed the room with its warm brightness. A merry fire crackled in the hearth, and Agatha had just brought a platter of freshly baked oatcakes for the Fellows to eat while they waited for the bell to call them to supper. The students were all gainfully employed removing the last of the scaffolding under the watchful eye of a shame-faced Robert de Blaston, while Cynric moved around the room refilling goblets with wine. Michael was happily contemplating a resumption of his hoodwinking of William Heytesbury of Merton College, while Bartholomew was anticipating with pleasure his meeting with Matilde that evening.

‘It is good to have you back, Cynric,’ said Michael, holding out his cup. ‘The College was not the same without you.’

‘A life of evenings at home is very nice,’ said Cynric, ‘but I found I missed the occasional adventure with you. I have decided to work at Michaelhouse during the day and return to Rachel at night – unless you have any prowling or fighting you need done.’

‘I hope that will not be necessary,’ said Bartholomew in alarm. ‘I have had more than my share of that sort of thing for a while, and I do not think Rachel would approve of us leading you astray.’

‘She wants whatever makes me happy,’ said Cynric with smug contentment. ‘You always claim you do not like these adventures of Brother Michael’s, but I think you do, really.’

‘I do not!’ began Bartholomew vehemently. ‘In fact–’

‘Has anyone seen the real Master Suttone today?’ asked Langelee, downing his wine in a single draught and holding out his cup to Cynric for more. ‘Or is he still skulking in the Carmelite Friary?’

‘Is that how he will be known from now on?’ asked Michael, amused. ‘The real Master Suttone?’

‘It is better to be clear on this matter, Michael,’ said William pompously. ‘Or who knows what confusion might arise? On the one hand we had a man prepared to lie and kill for a woman, and on the other we have a weaselly coward who ran away the first time his College needed him, and who remained in his bed for nigh on two weeks with little more than a scratched arm.’

‘Do not despise the real Master Suttone for his cowardice, Father,’ said Michael comfortably. ‘He may have done more for Michaelhouse than he will ever know – it was because of him that we are now rid of the dreadful Runham and his wicked deeds.’

William gazed at him. ‘Then perhaps the real Master Suttone should have stayed away longer still. Then we might have been able to rid ourselves of that mad-eyed Clippesby, too.’

‘We believed the mad-eyed Clippesby had killed Runham,’ mused Michael. ‘Now it seems that the man is innocent – he just happens to be insane.’

‘He is not insane, he is disturbed,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He has delusions and is unable to view the world in the same way as a rational man.’

‘The sedate, calm life of a scholar should heal him, given time,’ said William, following Langelee’s example and downing his wine so that he could have more.

‘Perhaps he should go elsewhere, then,’ said Kenyngham anxiously. ‘The events of the last few days have indicated that Cambridge is not the place to be if you desire a sedate, calm life.’

‘Are you saying that one of the Fellows is genuinely insane?’ asked Cynric, not sounding as surprised as Bartholomew thought he should.

‘Not insane,’ Bartholomew corrected. ‘Disturbed. And if he has the support and care of his colleagues, he may overcome the problem.’

‘So, only one of the Fellows is officially a lunatic,’ muttered Cynric with a puzzled frown. Bartholomew was not sure whether he had heard him correctly, but was too grateful to have the Welshman back again to begin an argument over it.

Clippesby entered the conclave, looking more haunted and nervous than ever. Bartholomew smiled at him and made room near the fire. Timidly, like a deer taking an apple from a hunter, the Dominican edged forward, as if he imagined the proffered stool might suddenly move of its own accord – or that he might discover it was a figment of his imagination. Finding it was not, he sat quickly and looked around at his colleagues with his peculiar eyes.

‘What happened to the false Suttone?’ he asked shyly in the slightly awkward silence that followed his entrance. ‘Somehow I seem to have become confused by all the chaos of yesterday.’

‘I am not surprised,’ muttered William. ‘I was confused myself, and I am sane.’

Cynric chuckled softly as he replenished the Franciscan’s goblet. ‘It is good to be back,’ he said ambiguously.

‘Four years ago,’ Michael began, ‘a Master named Wilson decided to gather himself a fortune, lest the University flounder after the plague and he find himself without employment. He stole from a number of dying people, including the mother of Adela Tangmer. Hatred festered in the daughter after Wilson’s own death, and eventually, goaded by her father’s constant nagging that she should marry, she embarked upon a plan to get this money back. The wealth would also allow her to become independent from her father, and give her a life of freedom.’

‘The false Suttone was the key to the plan,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He incapacitated the real one and took up the appointment instead, careful to kill the one College servant – Justus – who, like the real Master Suttone, was from Lincoln and who therefore might be in a position to expose the false one as an impostor.’

‘Meanwhile,’ continued Michael, ‘arguments and dissension were bubbling among the Fellows of Bene’t, exacerbated by a spiteful-tongued blackmailer called Wymundham. Wymundham used like-minded men, such as Brother Patrick of Ovyng Hostel, to uncover embarrassing secrets about his colleagues. When Wymundham’s friend Raysoun fell from the scaffolding, driven to drink and despair by Wymundham himself, Wymundham claimed he had been pushed.’

‘Why?’ asked Clippesby.

‘No reason other than malice,’ said Michael. ‘He was bored by the life of a scholar, and sought to liven it up by creating a few scandals. Then he took money from Master Heltisle, as a bribe to stop telling lies about Raysoun’s death, and immediately set off for Holy Trinity Church to buy some of that cheap wine that we all know can be purchased there of an afternoon.’

‘Wymundham blackmailed people to buy wine?’ asked Clippesby, confused.

‘No,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘I have just explained Wymundham’s motive to you. The wine was a bonus, but not the main purpose of his actions. Do pay attention, man.’

‘Meanwhile, Adela became drunk at a Bene’t feast, and told Wymundham that her kinsman Suttone planned to infiltrate Michaelhouse with a view to reclaiming the goods that Wilson stole,’ said Bartholomew.

‘I remember that,’ said Langelee, thoughtfully. ‘I was at that feast, to meet the Duke of Lancaster. The woman had to be carried home, if I recall correctly. Her father was most embarrassed, and so was Master Heltisle, who had no business serving Widow’s Wine to his female guests.’

‘So Wymundham decided to blackmail Suttone,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He arranged to meet Suttone in the shack behind Bene’t, where he found his intended victim waiting not with a purse of gold, but with a cushion.’

‘And Adela followed Patrick, who was a witness to the murder, and stabbed him with one of her horse picks in the grounds of Ovyng Hostel,’ said Michael.

‘One of her what?’ asked Clippesby, bewildered.

‘A tool for removing things from horses’ hooves,’ explained Michael. ‘Sensing that time was running out, Suttone confronted Runham and demanded back the jewellery Wilson stole from Adela’s mother.’

‘But why did he not just take it?’ asked Clippesby. ‘Runham was not in his chamber all the time.’

‘He tried,’ said Michael. ‘He searched the Master’s room the night Runham was elected – with Adela herself – while most scholars were drunk on an exceptionally powerful brew of Widow’s Wine, provided by Caumpes. Matt and I almost caught them as they left. A week later, after Runham declined to part with Adela’s money, Suttone smothered him with the cushion Runham had stolen from Agatha’s chair.’

‘Agatha, the laundress,’ said William in sudden glee. ‘That reminds me. How is Osmun, by the way?’

‘He will live,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Although he will be scarred for life.’

‘Why?’ asked Clippesby, open-mouthed. ‘What did she do to Osmun?’

‘She bit him,’ said Bartholomew. ‘After Osmun had taken Caumpes’s body to Bene’t, he returned to the Market Square and tried to agitate the crowd into marching against Michaelhouse again, arguing that there was more gold hidden here. Agatha suggested he might like to be quiet. Rashly, he did not take her advice and she bit him in the ensuing mêlée.’

‘With those pointed teeth?’ asked Clippesby, awed. ‘Did she bite anything off?’

‘Almost,’ said Bartholomew.

‘We were talking about Suttone,’ said Michael, irritated by the interruption. ‘After he had smothered Runham, he removed a certain amount of money from the building chest. But he was not comfortable keeping what he knew was not Adela’s, and he returned the balance to Matt in the churchyard before mass one morning. I suspect that was the turning point in their relationship. Suttone had agreed to right a wrong – to help Adela retrieve jewellery stolen from her mother by Wilson on her deathbed. But Adela wanted all of Wilson’s fabled wealth.’

‘Once or twice, when I was in the Master’s chamber, gold coins rolled from the chimney,’ said Kenyngham with a vague smile. ‘And another time, a ring fell from behind one of the tapestries. I wondered where they had come from.’

‘Did you investigate, to see whether there were more of them?’ asked Michael, astonished.

Kenyngham shook his head. ‘I care nothing for such baubles, Michael, you know that. I gave them to the poor and put the matter out of my mind.’

‘So, the walls and chimney were dripping gold and you did not think to look into the matter?’ asked William in horror. ‘Really, Father! Michaelhouse might have been rich had you bothered to tell anyone else about this.’

‘I thought you also despised baubles,’ said Bartholomew, raising his eyebrows at the indignant friar. William’s mouth set into a grim line, and he stared stonily in front of him.

‘Meanwhile,’ said Michael loudly, growing tired of the interruptions, ‘Caumpes had been happily selling jewellery for Runham, left for him in Wilson’s altar. Caumpes was probably telling the truth when he said he thought it was legal.’

‘But it was not,’ said Clippesby.

‘No,’ said Michael. ‘It was not. It was taken from dying people by the avaricious Wilson, and Runham knew this. Perhaps he really did believe that building a new courtyard in Wilson’s honour would assuage the sin, but I suspect he intended to make his mark on our College and then leave – along with whatever remained of Wilson’s treasure trove.’

‘But surely Caumpes was suspicious with an arrangement that necessitated leaving treasure hidden in soap?’ asked Clippesby. ‘Why evolve such a plan if the whole business was legal?’

‘Because the townsfolk do not like scholars dabbling in trade,’ said Michael. ‘Caumpes was tolerated because he was once a merchant himself, and he is a local man. But Runham could not afford to be seen to be involved in the buying and selling business. Such secrecy was not necessarily an indication of any wrongdoing.’

‘So Caumpes was in league with Runham?’ asked Clippesby. ‘I thought he was working with Adela and the false Suttone.’

‘He was,’ said Michael. ‘Adela always liked Caumpes more than the other Bene’t Fellows, and Caumpes, like Suttone, was a victim of Wymundham’s blackmailing. They formed an alliance. Caumpes sold Runham’s jewellery, and he told Adela exactly how much the old miser was making. Doubtless the thought of all that treasure going to pay for a building to honour the man who stole from her dying mother was a bitter pill to swallow, and it made her more determined than ever that Runham should not have it.’

‘Caumpes’s motive, however, was not to get his hands on Wilson’s gold for himself, but to raise money for his College,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He went with Adela to tamper with the scaffolding at Michaelhouse one night, thinking that its collapse would drive the workmen back to Bene’t. Adela, though, had different intentions: she wanted the scaffolding to fall on Michael, because she did not want him exposing her before she had a chance to locate the rest of the gold.’

‘Speaking of murder, Adela also tried to kill me and Matt in the shed at Bene’t,’ added Michael, rather indignantly, ‘and she succeeded in stabbing de Walton with one of her horse picks, while Caumpes acted as a decoy.’

‘Why did she kill de Walton?’ asked Clippesby.

Michael sighed. ‘Because de Walton would have been a valuable witness in convicting Caumpes. Simekyn Simeon sensed that de Walton was in some danger, and so hid him. Like fools, Matt and I led Caumpes and Adela right to him, and he died for our mistake.’

‘Oh, I do not think you should see it like that, Brother,’ said Clippesby, fixing the monk with his fanatical gaze. ‘It was not your fault that Caumpes and Adela were murderers. It is they who are to blame for the death of de Walton, not you. Especially her, I would say.’

‘True,’ said William. ‘The woman was a maniac.’

‘I appreciate your support,’ said Michael. ‘Then Suttone came to confess his role in the affair to me in the church, intending from the outset to kill himself; and Adela and Caumpes appeared, wanting Runham’s treasure. The rest you know.’

‘Poor Runham was only doing what he thought was best for his cousin’s soul,’ said Kenyngham, who always searched for the good in people, even in thieves and murderers.

‘You can believe that if you will,’ said Michael. ‘I think he came here a year ago intending to have himself elected Master at the first opportunity. I also think he conducted a preliminary search of the Master’s room and learned that the rumours were true, and that there was indeed gold hidden in it. And I believe he regularly slipped into it while you were out, and that he has been leaving bits and pieces for Caumpes for a lot longer than the period of his Mastership.’

‘I agree,’ said William. ‘Although most of the stolen treasure has surfaced relatively recently. I saw a set of silver spoons that Alcote lost during the plague for sale some months ago. Runham must have found them on one of his foraging missions and passed them to Caumpes to sell.’

‘He evicted you from your room with indecent haste,’ said Langelee to Kenyngham. ‘He could not wait to give the chamber a really thorough search. And he was well rewarded, it seems. I think that once he had satisfied himself that he had recovered every scrap of Wilson’s inheritance and the buildings were completed, he would have left us, taking with him the coins he had hidden in the effigy. They were never intended for Michaelhouse or for Caumpes to sell. They were set aside for his personal use.’

‘The effigy was a cunning place to hide them,’ said Michael. ‘When I examined the smashed pieces, I saw a small slit in the top of Wilson’s head, so that the coins could be dropped through it as and when they became available. They would have been safe for years. None of us could bear to be near the thing, let alone inspect it closely.’

‘That was why Runham was so keen for the building work to be finished quickly,’ said William. ‘All he really wanted to do was complete his new court and then leave Michaelhouse to live a life of luxury.’ He folded his arms and pursed his lips to show his disapproval of such worldly temptations.

‘But why bother with the building at all?’ asked Clippesby. ‘Why did Runham not search out the gold and run away with it immediately?’

‘Immortality,’ said Michael. ‘Every man wants to be remembered. Runham desired to be revered as the Master who built the north court. He did everything on the cheap, but the new court – even if we had been obliged to rebuild the whole thing – would have been called “Runham’s Court”. He would have been remembered by generations of Michaelhouse scholars, and doubtless, before he left, he would have arranged to have masses said for him, too, like our founder.’

‘Ingenious hiding place, though,’ said William reluctantly, his mind still fixed on Wilson’s gold, despite his alleged dislike of material possessions. ‘Who would have thought of looking there?’

‘It did take a certain amount of cunning on my part,’ said Michael, not looking at Cynric.

‘It is a good thing you were there when the effigy broke,’ said Clippesby shyly to Michael. ‘The money you recovered was just enough to save Michaelhouse from disaster.’

‘But only just,’ said William gloomily. ‘We may have paid the workmen, reimbursed our would-be benefactors and returned the loans from the guilds, but our hutches remain empty.’

A shriek from outside brought them all to their feet, and Bartholomew felt his stomach turn upside-down, anticipating some dreadful accident involving the students. But it was only Gray, howling with laughter as Deynman gasped and shook water from his hair from the bucket that had ‘accidentally’ fallen on him.

‘Kenyngham is a saint, putting up with students like that year after year,’ said William, returning to his place near the fire. ‘Disgraceful behaviour! Well, I want none of it.’

‘Is this your way of saying that you will not stand as Runham’s replacement?’ demanded Langelee with keen interest.

‘It is,’ said William firmly. ‘I do not want to become embroiled in plans to raise buildings we do not need, nor do I want to be smothered with cushions by discontented colleagues.’

‘That does not trouble me,’ said Langelee eagerly. ‘I will do it.’

‘Then you have my vote,’ said William in disgust.

‘Wait,’ began Michael in alarm.

‘And mine,’ said Kenyngham tiredly. ‘I am just grateful to pass the responsibility to someone else. I have no stomach for this kind of thing, either.’

‘No!’ cried Michael, struggling to heave his bulk out of his chair so that he could protest more vigorously.

‘I will vote for you, Langelee,’ said Clippesby shyly. ‘I do not like Franciscans, such as Father William, but I will vote for you.’

‘But …’ spluttered Michael, horror making him uncharacteristically inarticulate.

‘Good,’ said Langelee, rubbing his hands. ‘I am elected, then. We do not need the real Master Suttone, because technically he is not a Fellow yet, given that it was his impersonator who was admitted. Paul has resigned, so we cannot ask him. That only leaves Michael and Bartholomew – and since I have three votes already, what they think is irrelevant.’

‘Oh, my God!’ breathed Michael in horror. ‘He has done it! Langelee is our next Master.’