Death of a Scholar

Chapter 15

Bartholomew returned to Michaelhouse to find the other Fellows waiting for him, their expressions grim. It was almost eleven o’clock, and late for them to be awake. The elation he had felt on discovering the truth about Oswald evaporated when he recalled what they had to do that night.

‘We must catch them this time,’ said Langelee. ‘If they escape, it will not matter that we have retrieved the Stanton Hutch – they will make good on their threat and we shall be destroyed.’

‘Perhaps we should go to Ely and arrest Uyten,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Then we will be spared this reckless escapade.’

‘I do not believe Uyten is the culprit,’ said Michael, after Bartholomew had explained his theory to the others. ‘He is not sufficiently clever.’

‘Then perhaps he is following orders,’ suggested Langelee.

‘It is possible,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But I doubt he will be entrusted with tonight’s delicate business. He is too brutal and clumsy. This is a task the rogues will tackle themselves.’

Everyone except Bartholomew agreed, and turned their attention to Langelee’s plan.

‘We had better take some money with us,’ said William worriedly. ‘They will not approach if they think we have come empty-handed.’

‘I have prepared this.’ Langelee produced a parcel that clinked metallically. ‘It is roughly the weight of fifty marks in shillings, but comprises a lot of nails. It should be enough to draw them in. And then we shall pounce.’

‘Heavens!’ gulped Suttone. ‘Are you sure there is no other way? They will almost certainly be armed, and one of us may be hurt.’

‘You only have yourselves to blame,’ said Thelnetham, who had been listening to the discussion with aloof disdain. ‘I told you that William’s disagreeable opinions would cause trouble, but you would not listen. You should have dismissed him years ago.’

‘And you should never have been appointed,’ flared William. ‘You are a spiteful old–’

‘Thank God I am leaving at the end of the week,’ interrupted Thelnetham, crossing himself piously. ‘I cannot tell you what a relief it is to be going to a respectable foundation.’

William drew breath to retort, but the Gilbertine put his head in the air and minced away. Under the sober habit of his Order he was wearing bright red shoes.

‘We are better off without him,’ said Langelee, watching him go. ‘He might rise above the rest of us in a debate, but he is of an unpleasantly quarrelsome disposition.’

‘He is,’ agreed William. ‘And his manner of dress sets a bad example to our students.’

‘We should go,’ said Michael, after a brief moment during which everyone contemplated the fact that the Franciscan’s unkempt mien was hardly something to which young men should aspire either. ‘Or the culprits might arrive first and see us slipping into our hiding places.’

‘Is that the plan?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. ‘But it is what they will expect us to do!’

‘Credit me with some sense,’ said Langelee irritably. ‘I have chosen positions where they will not think to look. No, Clippesby, you cannot bring the chicken. Put it down.’

‘Perhaps he should stay here,’ suggested Bartholomew, suspecting the traumatic revelations earlier had taken their toll and it would be safer for everyone if the Dominican was left behind. ‘We should not strip the College of all its Fellows when the town is so uneasy.’

‘And Thelnetham no longer counts,’ growled William. ‘He does not care what happens to us now. The selfish, ungrateful pig! After all our kindness towards him, too.’

‘I had better stay behind as well,’ said Suttone. ‘You are right: we cannot trust Thelnetham to act in our best interests, while John has been odd since Hemmysby died. I am worried for him.’

‘Worried for himself more like,’ muttered William, as the Carmelite led Clippesby away before anyone could object. ‘You had better recruit a few beadles to help instead, Brother.’

‘No,’ said Langelee. ‘We cannot involve outsiders. We do this alone or not at all. But do not worry. Cynric will help, and I will not be defeated a second time. We will prevail.’

Bartholomew’s heart pounded with tension as they walked to the north of the town, where the Round Church was a barrel-shaped mass in the darkness. The streets were unusually busy with bands of townsfolk, students and matriculands, all armed and obviously looking for trouble. Fortunately, Langelee and Cynric were formidable in their half-armour and broadswords, so no one bothered the Michaelhouse contingent.

When they arrived, Bartholomew was allocated a spot at the back of the graveyard, a dismal location near the reeking, fetid canal known as the King’s Ditch. William was not far away, while Langelee and Michael were on Bridge Street, and Cynric had been given the Barnwell Causeway. Langelee’s parcel had already been deposited behind the stipulated tomb.

The night was dark and cold, and a strengthening wind made it difficult to listen for stealthy footsteps. Time passed slowly, and Bartholomew grew increasingly chilled, but dared not move lest the culprits were watching. He heard the bells in the nearby Franciscan Priory chime for nocturns, which meant it was after two o’clock – the blackmailers were obviously in no hurry for their money – but still nothing happened. The friars’ chanting wafted towards them, melodious and serene.

Then he saw a shadow near the tomb. It could not have come from either of the roads, so he could only suppose there was another way into the cemetery of which Langelee had been unaware when he had deployed his troops. At the same time, he heard crooning above the buffeting wind: William was joining his brethren’s night office, probably on his knees with his eyes closed, which meant he was unaware that their quarry had arrived.

Bartholomew picked up a pebble and lobbed it in the friar’s direction, but the singing continued. He peered into the darkness, hoping to see Langelee, Michael or Cynric stealing forward, but they were watching the streets, not anticipating that the culprits might approach from another direction. The wind tore the clouds from the moon, and he saw the shadow clearly – a figure wearing a hooded cloak, his movements brisk and confident as he weighed the parcel in his hand.

Bartholomew exploded from his hiding place with a furious yell. He heard Langelee’s answering shout, and lumbering footsteps told him that William was also on his feet and running. Then the clouds obscured the moon, and the figure vanished in the sudden blackness. By the time Bartholomew reached the tomb, the shape had gone.

However, while the moon’s silvery light had still glowed he had spotted a path, and knew the blackmailer had taken it. It was narrow and nearly impossible to follow in the dark; brambles tore at his clothes as he blundered along it. He stopped and listened intently, but all he could hear was Langelee cursing somewhere behind him.

Then there was a gleam of light – Cynric had had the wit to bring a lamp. The book-bearer shoved past Bartholomew and began to race along a thin, all-but-invisible track that snaked through the tangle of brush towards Bridge Street. Bartholomew followed, but was knocked flying when Langelee barrelled into the back of him.

‘Move!’ bellowed the Master, pounding past.

As Bartholomew scrambled upright the clouds parted for an instant and illuminated a fork in the track. Cynric and Langelee had chosen the broader more obvious route to the left, so he took the other, shouting for William and Michael to do the same. It made a sharp right turn, then ended at the King’s Ditch so abruptly that he was obliged to flail with his arms to avoid pitching in.

Not far away was a boat, one person rowing and another sitting in the stern. Bartholomew put one foot in the water, the chase so hot in him that he was willing to leap in and swim after it, but the ditch was icy cold and reeked of sewage. It brought him to his senses. The chances of catching a moving boat were slim, but he might well catch something else, and he could not afford to be ill at the beginning of term.

‘No,’ he shouted, when William made as if to stage a running dive. ‘It is too late.’

The figure in the stern leaned back nonchalantly as the little craft gained speed, and raised a hand in a taunting gesture of farewell. William released a string of oaths no friar should have known, and Bartholomew thought he heard mocking laughter float across the water.

‘Damn!’ hissed Langelee, coming to stand next to them. ‘I searched this place thoroughly and saw no sign of these paths. The bastards must have concealed them. Did you see anything that will allow you to identify them?’

‘No,’ replied Bartholomew despondently. ‘It was too dark.’

Later, the Fellows sat in the conclave, analysing what had gone wrong. Langelee was pale and sullen, hating being bested a second time, while Cynric was furious with himself for not guessing that the culprits might travel by water. William was indignant that the crime should have taken place during a holy office, and Michael was worried about what would happen when the blackmailers arrived home to discover that they had been given a parcel of nails.

‘The figure I saw was too small to be Uyten,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps he was the one rowing the boat.’

‘Not if he is in Ely,’ said Michael. ‘Besides, I was sceptical when you first outlined your theory, and nothing has changed my mind. But we shall certainly speak to him in the morning.’

‘You mean in an hour or two,’ put in William. ‘The night is almost over now.’

‘Do not waste your time on Uyten,’ ordered Langelee. ‘We have too much else to do. The villains will make good on their threat when they discover that we have deceived them, and we must be ready for the resulting trouble. We shall start preparing our defences at first light.’

‘I hardly think the tract will result in an assault on our College, Master,’ said Suttone. ‘Most people do not care two hoots about heresy. And the Pope and the King are unlikely to invade.’

Langelee shot him a withering look. ‘Excommunication and dissolution are what we face in the long term, but before we reach that stage, we must weather the reactions of those William insulted in his foreword. The Dominicans will seek reparation through the courts, but the Gilbertine novices are an unruly horde, and will come at us with weapons.’

‘So will John Winwick’s scholars,’ added Michael.

‘Then we had better start preparing now,’ gulped William, and the fact that he did not try to argue told an alarmed Bartholomew that Langelee’s concerns for the College’s safety were justified. ‘I shall rouse the students at once.’

The wind had picked up further since they had been at the Round Church, and was gusting hard. Bartholomew recalled Marjory Starre’s prediction that the next blow would presage another death, perhaps his own. He slipped his hand in his bag and felt the comforting smoothness of the charm she had given him, but then chided himself for a superstitious fool.

He followed his colleagues out of the hall, and it was not long before Michaelhouse was in the grip of frenzied activity. Buckets were filled with water, ready to combat fires; any objects that could be used as weapons were stacked in readily accessible piles; and baskets of stones were collected to lob from the tops of walls and the gatehouse.

‘Term starts today,’ gasped Michael, struggling to help Bartholomew and Langelee block the back gate with a stack of logs. ‘And I have never known a less scholarly atmosphere. I predict that far more students will immerse themselves in trouble than in a book.’

Langelee agreed. ‘Tynkell said that licences were issued for eighteen hostels last week alone, and the University has never seen such a massive influx of new members. Nearly all are louts.’

‘It is Winwick Hall’s fault,’ said Michael bitterly. ‘It has attracted entirely the wrong kind of applicant, and Thelnetham will soon learn that he has made a mistake.’

‘He has been seduced by its grand position on the High Street and handsome uniforms,’ said Langelee. ‘Perhaps you should refuse to let its people matriculate, Brother. That would show it what the University thinks of its upstart ways.’

‘If I did, ninety Winwick men would be mortally offended, and we should have a riot for certain. However, I might postpone the opening ceremony. I hate to cave in, but I have received notice from King’s Hall, Bene’t, Gonville, Peterhouse and Valence Marie saying that they will react with anger if Winwick does anything boastful or glory-seeking.’

‘And it will,’ predicted Langelee. ‘Illesy bragged yesterday that he will be first in the procession out. But I shall not yield precedence, and neither will the other Colleges.’

They turned as William hurried up, holding a letter bearing the familiar clerkly scrawl. His face was as white as snow, and he was closer to tears than Bartholomew had ever seen him.

‘This was left at the porter’s lodge,’ he said in a small voice. ‘No one saw it arrive.’

Langelee read the missive, then tore it into tiny pieces in impotent fury. ‘We are to expect retribution for our deceit,’ he reported tightly, once he was able to speak. ‘But we are to be given one last chance before the full tract is released. A hundred marks is to be left behind St Radegund’s Priory by noon tomorrow.’

‘They must know we cannot pay by now,’ said William wretchedly. ‘Why do they persist?’

‘They know nothing of the kind, thanks to our pride,’ said Michael grimly. ‘We put on a fine display yesterday, and they were almost certainly here. They think we are loaded with money.’

‘Here is Meadowman,’ groaned Langelee, as the beadle dashed towards them. ‘Now what?’

‘I have just been told that Jekelyn the porter has gone to St Clement’s Church,’ gasped the beadle. ‘Do you think he is going to set it alight again?’

It was still dark as Bartholomew and Michael, with Meadowman at their heels, ran towards Bridge Street, although dawn was not far off. The physician could not recall when he had last seen so many people out at such an hour, and it was clear that none had work in mind. He pulled up his hood to cover his face when he heard several cursing Potmoor’s penchant for other people’s property.

‘This wind does not help,’ muttered Michael, when one particularly violent blast made even his solid person stagger. ‘It is getting stronger by the moment.’

‘It means someone good will die,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Or so Marjory Starre says.’

‘You should know better than to listen to that sort of nonsense,’ said Michael sternly.

They made the rest of the journey in silence, and arrived to find St Clement’s full of townsfolk, all listening to a pre-dawn rant by Heyford. There was a resentful murmur when three University men joined them, so Bartholomew huddled further inside his hood and retreated to the shadows with Meadowman. Michael was too large for hiding in dark corners, and was too princely a figure to try. He strode to the front, glaring up at the pulpit with his hands on his ample hips. Intimidated, Heyford finished his diatribe very lamely.

‘So the University will suffer hellfire and death,’ he said in a much meeker voice than he had been using moments before, ‘but they are for the Lord to inflict. Now, I have kept you all quite long enough. God be with you, and do not forget to leave your donations in the box on the way out.’

The congregation looked startled by the feeble conclusion: evidently they had expected something rather more rousing. Some began to murmur that it was time to oust an establishment they had never wanted in the first place, but the muttering stopped when Michael took up station at the door and greeted people by name as they shuffled past. Some were members of his choir, while others relied on the University for custom. Most left the church deflated and uncertain, a far cry from the braying mob that Heyford would have set loose.

Watching, Bartholomew saw what a charismatic figure his friend had become. Authority and age had imbued him with a power he had not possessed a decade before, and it occurred to him that the monk might be right when he claimed he was indispensable to the University. If the mere fact of his presence could silence a feisty orator and compel a would-be mob to exchange pleasantries with him, then perhaps the studium generale would founder without his guidance.

‘What do you want?’ asked Heyford when his flock had gone. ‘You should not be here.’

‘A Benedictine is unwelcome in your church?’ asked Michael archly. ‘I must tell the Bishop, so he can appoint a vicar who does embrace my Order.’

‘A Benedictine is welcome,’ said Heyford shortly. ‘The Senior Proctor is not, and nor is any member of your wicked University.’

Michael sighed irritably. ‘I do not have time for your histrionics today, Heyford, so we shall resume this discussion tomorrow. In the meantime, you can tell me where Jekelyn is.’

‘The Winwick porter? How should I know? He is hardly likely to come here. His nasty College is the foundation I most deplore.’

‘He is under the altar,’ explained Meadowman, happy to leave the safety of the shadows now that the congregation had dispersed. ‘He crept in when no one was looking, apparently.’

‘What?’ cried Heyford, outraged. ‘A holy place? How dare he!’

He stormed into the chancel and hauled up the altar cloth before the others could stop him. Meadowman’s hand dropped to his cudgel, ready to defend the priest, but Jekelyn sat in a dejected huddle and made no effort to emerge.

‘Come out,’ ordered Heyford angrily. ‘You cannot lounge there. It is sacred.’

‘I know,’ said Jekelyn, not moving. ‘That is why I came. For sanctuary.’

‘Sanctuary from what?’ asked Michael coldly. ‘From me, because I intend to charge you with the murder of Fulbut? We know you attended his party, where you stabbed him before he could be arrested and forced to reveal who hired him to shoot my Junior Proctor.’

Jekelyn licked dry lips. ‘I suppose my knife might have slipped into his vitals, but he was an evil man, and Heaven will not mourn him.’

‘Very possibly,’ said Michael. ‘But that is not for you to decide. Now come out before I lean in and drag you out by the ears.’

Jekelyn cowered away from him. ‘No! You cannot touch me here.’

Bartholomew was studying him thoughtfully. ‘You admit to killing Fulbut, so that is not the crime which troubles you. Is it the fire that plagues your conscience?’

Jekelyn swallowed hard, and would not look at Heyford. ‘It was not my idea. I should not go to Hell just because I carried out orders.’

‘Whose orders?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Uyten’s? I know he told you to murder Fulbut.’

‘He gave me up?’ gulped Jekelyn. ‘The bastard!’

‘Fulbut was told to disappear permanently,’ Bartholomew continued, while Michael blinked his astonishment that the physician should have been right. ‘But he was homesick and came back, so Uyten arranged to have him killed.’

Jekelyn looked away. ‘Fulbut’s only loyalty was to his purse, and his presence here put Uyten in danger. He had to die. But I was never happy with burning this church, so I only lit a small fire in the hope that it would be spotted and doused. And it was, so God has to take that into account!’

‘You consider burning a church a worse sin than murder?’ asked Michael, startled.

‘Of course.’ Jekelyn’s face was earnest. ‘No one will care about me dispatching a mercenary, but damaging a House of God … I heard Father Heyford preach about it and … well, I came here in the hope that St Clement would forgive me.’

‘He will not, and you will go to Hell,’ declared Heyford angrily. ‘Nothing can save you.’

‘But I could grant you absolution,’ said Michael quickly. ‘In exchange for information and surrender. You will be tried for the murder of Fulbut, but you will not be judged on the arson.’

‘Now just a moment,’ began Heyford as relief flooded into Jekelyn’s face. ‘He committed a terrible crime against me, and–’

‘Yes, he did,’ interrupted Michael. ‘But you have been whipping up fervour against the University, which is just as bad. And the Bishop will agree when I send him my report.’

Heyford glowered, but said no more, and Jekelyn began to speak.

‘I am amazed,’ said Michael as they hurried out of the church a short while later, leaving Meadowman to take Jekelyn to the proctors’ gaol. Day was breaking, filling the streets with a dull, leaden light. ‘I was sure you were mistaken about Uyten. We had better confront him at once.’

‘We cannot.’ Bartholomew was struggling against the weariness that threatened to overwhelm him after yet another virtually sleepless night. ‘He has gone to Ely, remember? I doubt he is back yet.’

‘He has ordered murder and arson for the sake of his beloved Winwick,’ said Michael, ‘so I doubt he will abandon it when it might need him most. I suspect he never went.’

Bartholomew skidded to a standstill. ‘Then he will be furious when he learns his crimes are revealed – the resulting scandal will certainly damage his College’s reputation. He has already killed at least four men to protect it, and might decide that two more are neither here nor there. And we are unlikely to stand much chance against him if he enlists the help of ninety loyal students.’

‘They would not dare harm the Senior Proctor.’

‘Were it any other College, I might agree, but it is Winwick – a new foundation with members who do not know the University and its ways. It would be reckless to march into the place alone.’

‘Perhaps you are right,’ conceded Michael. ‘I shall take some beadles then, although I hate to pull them away from their stations when we are a hair’s breadth from a serious riot. God only knows what it will be like when people start to assemble for the beginning of term ceremony.’

‘I thought you were going to cancel it.’

‘I shall, but scholars will still congregate, and so will many townsfolk.’

They ducked as a shower of pebbles sailed towards them, lobbed by a group of matriculands. Catcalls followed, centred around the claims that Bartholomew was a necromancer and Michael had murdered his deputy. Then the leader muttered an order, and the accusing jeers faded into a silence that was far more unnerving. The matriculands began to advance, slowly and with unmistakable menace.

‘Stop!’ roared Michael in his most commanding voice. ‘And go home before–’

‘He thinks he can tell you what to do,’ interrupted the leader mockingly, and Bartholomew was not surprised to recognise Goodwyn. ‘What do you say to that?’

There was a howl of outrage and weapons were drawn. Bartholomew fumbled for his childbirth forceps, knowing there was little he could do against so many but determined to put up a fight; Michael produced a stout stick from somewhere about his person. Just when they thought it could get no worse, Goodwyn and his cronies were joined by men from one of the new hostels. The ex-student’s face was bright with vengeful triumph when he saw his little army double in size, and Bartholomew knew that he and Michael would not be allowed to escape alive.

Then a score of warrior-nobles from King’s Hall happened past. Goodwyn’s mob outnumbered them two to one, but forty cudgels were no match for twenty swords, and King’s Hall knew it. They surged forward with bloodcurdling whoops, scattering Goodwyn and his men in terror. The King’s Hall party was too dignified to give chase, and war cries turned to laughter as their charge petered out. They went on their way without so much as a backward glance at the men they had saved. Bartholomew shot Michael a feeble grin.

‘There is nothing like the threat of death to sharpen one’s wits. I do not feel at all tired now.’

‘Then use them.’ Michael’s voice was urgent. ‘Did you see what happened just now? Hostel men racing to support Goodwyn’s louts?’

‘Yes. What of it?’

‘They mingled, Matt! They did not form discrete groups, as they would normally have done, but stood shoulder to shoulder with people who should have been strangers. However, I strongly suspect they were not.’

‘I have no idea what you are talking about.’

‘They knew each other,’ snapped Michael impatiently. ‘Not a superficial acquaintance from a night in a tavern, but something of longer duration. They are all recent arrivals, which means they must have been friends already. So why did they all suddenly decide to come here?’

‘Because Winwick is recruiting, and they are eager for a lucrative career in law.’

‘No,’ said Michael. ‘We have never been overwhelmed with new students in such numbers before. I think some came in the hope of winning a place at the University, but many have no intention of studying. They roam in packs, doing nothing but drink and carouse. So if they did not come for scholarship, they came for some other purpose, and the way they have behaved from the start suggests to me that the whole thing is orchestrated.’

‘You mean someone told them to descend on us?’

‘Yes. And as most hail from London, I suggest we discuss this with your nephew.’

Bartholomew gaped at him. ‘You think Richard brought them? But that is ludicrous!’

‘Is it? Then why does he stay here when our little town must be dull after the wild delights of the city? Why do so many of these matriculands come from the place where he lived until recently? Why does he know so many of them? And why is he always on hand when trouble arises?’

‘He would never do such a thing. And he has stayed for two reasons. First because he, thinks his father was murdered–’

‘A recent suspicion. Not one that explains his presence here since August.’

Bartholomew ignored him. ‘And second, because he wants a Fellowship at Winwick Hall.’

Michael pointed. ‘Well, there he is now with some of the worst offenders. And look at them – men in their mid-twenties, too old to be aspiring students. They are not here to study. There is mischief afoot, and we need to find out what it is before our poor town explodes into violence.’

Richard and his cronies numbered roughly a dozen men, all dressed in the latest Court fashion: long hair, shoes with pointed toes, and elaborately embroidered gipons. Bartholomew recognised at least three who had led packs of matriculands at different times, while others had been in the King’s Head two nights before. Michael was right, he thought: these were not men who wanted to study.

Moreover, something Clippesby had said was niggling at the back of his mind: that the Bene’t hedgehog thought Richard had encouraged the matriculands to try their luck at Winwick Hall. In other words, the Dominican had detected something odd in Richard’s behaviour, even if his saner colleagues had missed it. Then Bartholomew shook himself impatiently. No! This was his nephew – the lad he had known since birth. Richard would never orchestrate such dark mischief.

Michael strode up to Richard and pulled him to one side. The others immediately stepped forward to intervene, but Richard made a sharp gesture telling them to stay back. They obeyed at once, and Bartholomew felt a cold dread settle in his stomach. The fact that his nephew could so effortlessly control a lot of arrogant hotheads told him more than words ever could.

‘There are an unprecedented number of matriculands this year,’ began Michael, ice in his voice. ‘Can you tell us what brings them here?’

‘Perhaps they have heard of you, Brother,’ said Richard with an insolent smirk. The grin did not quite touch his eyes, though, which were wary. ‘And they came to see you in action.’

‘They came because of you,’ said Michael harshly. ‘Goodwyn told us that he knew you from a London tavern, and you are friends with a lot of other louts as well.’

Richard laughed harshly. ‘I know I am popular, but I do not have hundreds of acquaintances who would follow me into the Fens. And you have it the wrong way around, anyway: I choose to stay because so many of my London companions have elected to study here.’

Bartholomew felt sick: he could tell Richard was lying. ‘You met Uyten in London – the man whose Provost has sponsored your election to the Guild of Saints, and has promised you a Fellowship at Winwick.’

‘What of it?’ shrugged Richard. ‘It is not a crime to know people.’

‘Please tell us the truth! Edith will suffer if there is trouble. Cambridge is her home.’

‘Yes, and it should not be,’ flared Richard. ‘She should be living in respectable widowhood at Trumpington, not prodding around in Father’s affairs to expose his … oversights.’

Bartholomew’s first reaction was indignation that Richard should presume to judge Edith, but then he saw the angry confusion in his nephew’s eyes, and irritation gave way to understanding. ‘You tried to burn those documents, then ordered her to stay away from them because you guessed what she might find.’

‘I guessed nothing!’ snarled Richard, although the truth was in his eyes. ‘Father was a good man. He founded the Guild of Saints and was generous with alms.’

‘Yes, he was,’ said Bartholomew gently. ‘But that does not mean he always stayed on the right side of the law. What happened? Did someone in London tell you that Oswald’s affairs were not always honest?’

Richard glared at him, and when he spoke, it was through gritted teeth. ‘I was made aware of certain rumours, so I hurried here to put an end to them. Unfortunately, a brief glance through that box told me that there might be some justification to the tales.’

‘So why did you not destroy its contents – prevent Edith from learning things that have hurt her?’

‘I thought I had,’ replied Richard shortly. ‘I put it on a fire at the bottom of the garden, but the flames must have gone out, and she found it – unscathed – when she went for a walk last week.’

‘I see.’ Bartholomew was unimpressed to learn that Richard could not even be trusted to incinerate a box properly. Doubtless, he had been too keen to return to his drunken friends.

‘I tried to take it from her,’ Richard went on. ‘But all that did was give her the idea that there was something in it of interest.’

Bartholomew was thoughtful. ‘In Weasenham’s shop the other day, you said you knew what you were doing. I thought you meant with the stationer’s wife, but you meant something else entirely. But you don’t know, Richard. You have everything wrong.’

‘Yes and no,’ said Richard tightly. ‘I might have been unaware of the way my father conducted his affairs – I am not interested in cloth, so we never discussed it. But I do know it was not his choice to break the law. Evil people corrupted him, and when he tried to extricate himself from their vile clutches, they poisoned him. A friend in London told me all about it.’

‘Oswald was not poisoned,’ said Bartholomew, and outlined everything that Meryfeld had told him, concluding with, ‘So your friend was lying.’

‘In other words, your vengeance on the town you think led Oswald astray is woefully misplaced,’ said Michael. ‘I cannot imagine how you, an experienced lawyer, can have been so scandalously credulous.’

Richard gazed at them. ‘So he was not murdered?’ he asked in a voice that had lost its arrogance. ‘And he was more likely to have defrauded others than been cheated himself?’

Michael gave a sharp bark of laughter. ‘The person has not been born who could deceive Oswald Stanmore. He was the most astute businessman the town has ever seen, and it is common knowledge that he was ruthless, calculating and devious.’

‘Not all the time, of course,’ added Bartholomew kindly. ‘And he never preyed on the weak, the poor or the vulnerable.’

‘Who was the friend who spun you this yarn?’ asked Michael. ‘Uyten?’

Richard nodded and looked away. ‘So he took advantage of my grief? That was a low trick.’

‘If you want him brought to justice, you had better tell us exactly what he told you to do,’ said Michael briskly. ‘Come on, man. Time is passing, and we cannot afford to waste it.’

Richard’s face was white. ‘To recruit as many men as possible, and bring them here to create a rumpus. It was easy: London is full of lads who are game for fun. I brought about twenty, but they invited their own companions, so there are probably in excess of fifty of us here now, plus a lot more who heard about Winwick through us, and came of their own volition to try their luck in winning a place.’

‘Who funded all this mischief?’ demanded Michael.

‘I did.’ Richard’s voice was little more than a whisper. ‘That is to say I paid for a lot of them to get here. I was told that they would be given places at Winwick when they arrived, but Illesy will only accept wealthy applicants, so there are a lot of disappointed paupers wandering around…’

‘Where did you find all this money?’

‘My inheritance – avenging Father seemed a good way to use it.’ Richard’s shock slowly turned to anger. ‘Damn Uyten! I will make him pay for this.’

‘No, you will not,’ said Michael firmly. ‘You have done enough harm. Leave him to me.’

‘You?’ Richard had regained his composure and the hubris was back. ‘He has outwitted you at every turn, and there is no reason to assume that anything will change. But I am a patient man, Brother. Cambridge will not hold Uyten for ever, and when he slithers back to London I shall be waiting for him.’

‘London?’ pounced Michael. ‘You are leaving?’

‘There is nothing for me here now. I shall go today.’

‘What about your Fellowship at Winwick Hall?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘One has been offered, but for more money than I am willing to pay. It proves what I have suspected from the start – that the Provost and his Fellows do not want me, they want my fortune. But they will not have it. I can think of a hundred better ways to spend it.’

‘Then let us hope that they do not all involve drink and fickle friends,’ muttered Michael, watching him stalk away.