The Chancellor’s Secret

Epilogue

Bartholomew and Matilde were married in St Michael’s Church the day after the end of term. Father William and Clippesby performed the ceremony, while Michael gave a sermon that was both touching and amusing. Afterwards, so many people wanted to join the happy couple that Matilde’s house proved to be far too small, so the celebratory feast was held in Michaelhouse instead. All Bartholomew’s students had stayed on to wish him well, while the Marian Singers had been secretly practising for weeks. The rumpus could be heard from as far away as the castle, but no one complained.

Bartholomew was glad the Tulyets were among the guests: they were pale and strained, but also lighter-hearted, as if a great burden had been lifted from them. He feared Tulyet’s bitten hand might fester, but it was still clean and pink, so he was hoping for the best. Tulyet would carry the scar for the rest of his days, although it was nothing compared to the one that Dickon had inflicted on his heart.

Tulyet had sent patrols to hunt for the boy as soon as it was light, but none of his soldiers much liked the idea of being the one to catch the brat, so their searches were not as assiduous as they had led him to believe. When the last one returned empty-handed, he resigned as Sheriff.

‘That will be a blow to you, Brother,’ yelled Bartholomew, shouting to make himself heard over the choir’s deafening rendition of ‘Summer is a-coming in’. ‘You always say that no other royally appointed official will be as easy to work with as him.’

‘And I am right,’ Michael hollered back. ‘But I have written letters to several powerful acquaintances, and I am confident that Brampton will be appointed in his place.’

Bartholomew gaped at him. ‘Brampton? He could barely function as Senior Proctor. I cannot imagine him running an entire shire.’

‘Quite,’ said Michael smugly. ‘He will require advice, and has promised to come to me for it. Besides, while he may be feeble at keeping law and order, he is excellent at administration. The King’s taxes will always be delivered on time, which is enough to keep us away from unwanted royal scrutiny.’

Bartholomew shook his head in grudging admiration. ‘You do not need an abbacy or a bishopric now, Brother. You are Chancellor of a University that will reap students from all over the Province of Canterbury, and you will have a Sheriff under your control. Your authority extends over half the country!’

Michael smiled comfortably. ‘Hardly half, Matt, but enough. I shall not have to worry about the Great Bridge either, as Zoone informs me that Shardelowe’s creation will last for years. And the money Baldok stole – which Dickon gave to John to look after – was used to pay the builders the bonus they were promised, so everyone is happy.’

‘Stasy and Hawick are not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘They were found dead in their cell yesterday morning. They had died by poison.’

Michael blinked. ‘They killed themselves to avoid answering for their crimes?’

‘Dickon did it. After they were arrested on Friday, he visited their cell and made them an offer: he would help them escape in exchange for a bottle of poison. You see, even then, he guessed he would need to kill more people to protect himself …’

‘And God forbid that he should do it in a fair fight,’ muttered Michael in distaste.

‘Quite,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Poison: the coward’s weapon. Anyway, they agreed, and told him where to find some in their dispensary.’

‘Which he then used on Narboro and Lucy,’ surmised Michael. ‘At least, that is what he claimed, although there is no sign of their bodies.’

‘Then he visited Stasy and Hawick a second time, and took them some wine. Not long after finishing it, they realised they had been treated to a dose of their own medicine.’

‘But why?’ asked Michael, frowning. ‘They had done nothing to hurt him.’

‘I imagine he wanted to make sure they never told anyone about the poison. Or perhaps to spare him the bother of organising an escape. Regardless, they managed to gasp a confession to the gaoler before they died.’

‘And I only find out about this now?’ asked Michael, unimpressed.

‘The gaoler tried to tell someone, but you were too busy with all the end-of-term formalities, while Dick has been working to put all to rights after the flood. He told me that Stasy and Hawick recanted their witchery in the end, and asked for a priest.’

‘Folk will claim they died because of Margery Starre’s curse.’ Michael was obliged to yell again as the choir reached an unexpected crescendo. ‘I should be sorry, but their antics nearly killed Meadowman and made dozens of people ill – all to make themselves rich. They would have done it again, in another town, if Dickon had let them out.’

‘I spent years training them,’ said Bartholomew bitterly. ‘And all for nothing.’

‘Then you had better start thinking about what to teach the ladies in Matilde’s studium generale,’ bellowed Michael.

Bartholomew smiled. ‘Did you know that the school will occupy Morys’s old house? Chaumbre has bought it and donated it to her, so she will never have to worry about paying rent. It is very generous of him, but I cannot imagine where he found the money. I know everything Morys stole from Girton was returned, but even so …’

Michael laughed. ‘He is richer than ever now, because of a sly trick Morys played on him. You see, before the bridge could be rebuilt, two things had to happen: the town had to raise the capital and the project had to be underwritten by an independent body. Morys approached Chaumbre, and asked him to stand as guarantor for the scheme.’

Bartholomew was stunned. ‘So when Morys stole the money, he knew Chaumbre would be left with a bill for the entire amount? It would have destroyed him – taken everything he and Edith have!’

‘Not quite, because Chaumbre only agreed to underwrite half the total – he asked Morys to take the rest. However, if one of them died, the other would be liable for the whole amount, so he suggested they made each other the sole heirs to their estates. In that way, neither would be left with crippling debts in the event of a tragedy.’

‘And Morys agreed? That does not sound like him.’

‘He agreed because he did not expect to die. No doubt he intended to change his will back again the moment he absconded with all the money, but Lucy killed him before he had the chance. So Chaumbre remains his sole legal beneficiary.’

‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘Morys was a very wealthy man.’

‘He was, and as most of his money was dishonestly obtained, Chaumbre has vowed to spend it all on charitable causes – Matilde’s school, a new library for Michaelhouse, a fund to help sick beadles, and a free medical service for the town’s poor.’

‘What kind of medical service?’ asked Bartholomew, puzzled.

‘One where you will be paid a salary to tend them, with money available for the remedies you think they need. Did he not tell you? It is his wedding gift to you and Matilde.’

There was a lump in Bartholomew’s throat. Of course Chaumbre had not told him – he would be uncomfortable with the resulting gratitude, and would rather let someone else break the news.

‘Edith really did marry a good man,’ he managed to say eventually.

‘A very good man,’ agreed Michael, and glanced to where Chaumbre and Edith sat together; she was laughing at something he had said. ‘Their partnership of convenience has turned into one of genuine love and friendship. I predict they will be very happy together.’

‘I am glad. They deserve it.’

‘I have a wedding gift for you, too. I have decided to make the post of Corpse Examiner a secular one, which means you can keep it. It comes with a modest stipend, the right to give occasional lectures, and invitations to College feasts. You will no longer be a Regent Master, but you will not sever all your ties with us.’

Bartholomew stared at him. ‘You can do that?’

‘I am Master of Michaelhouse and Chancellor of the University at Cambridge,’ replied Michael haughtily. ‘I can do what I like. Are you pleased?’

Bartholomew nodded, the lump back in his throat. ‘I have done something for you, too, Brother. You asked Zoone to be Senior Proctor, and Aungel to be his junior, but both refused. Well, I have persuaded them to change their minds.’

Michael clapped his hands in delight. ‘Excellent! They are exactly what I need. Indeed, I suspect they will transpire to be better than us in time.’

‘I remember Aungel when he was no more than a child,’ sighed Bartholomew. ‘Now he is teaching medicine in my place.’

‘He still is a child as far as I am concerned. We must be getting old, Matt. But not too old to thwart killers and deadly diseases, eh? Shall we drink to our continued success?’

Bartholomew raised his cup. Then Matilde came to collect him, and he left Michaelhouse for the last time as a Fellow. He paused at the gate, his wife on his arm, and glanced back. The College looked pretty in the dark, with lights burning in the hall windows. The yard was full of well-wishers – colleagues, patients, students, townsfolk and family, each one of whom he considered a friend.

He would miss his old life, but he had not lost what really mattered. That would be with him wherever he went.

Dickon swam for what felt like an age after escaping at the Mill Pond. He was terrified the whole time – afraid that he would drown, afraid that someone would see him and raise the alarm, and afraid that he would catch his death of cold.

He crawled out of the water eventually, and made his way to an abandoned shepherds’ hut in the Fens that John had once shown him. Once there, he began to plot his revenge on the men who had destroyed his fine plans. After all, if it were not for Bartholomew and Michael, he would have been in France by now, killing peasants with John at his side and a fortune in his purse.

Slipping into Michaelhouse or Matilde’s house to poison their wine quickly proved to be impossible, because they expected him to try, and took precautions. After a fifth frustrating night, when he was still no closer to his objective, he went to sit in the cemetery opposite the Hospital of St John, to consider his options.

Despite inheriting so much money, Chaumbre still had not paid for the last dye-pit to be filled, although no one nagged him about it, as his generosity had earned him so many friends. Dickon liked the last hole, because it was where he had hidden Narboro and Lucy after he had poisoned them. A thin layer of soil concealed their bodies, although one of Narboro’s fingers was visible, and Dickon was amazed that no one had noticed it.

He was not alone for long, and he jumped when Ulf emerged from the shadows, distinctive in his new hat. Dickon did not like Ulf, and he certainly did not trust him.

‘You are an outlaw,’ declared Ulf, plumping himself down next to him. ‘I will get money if I tell them at the castle where you are.’

Dickon shrugged, affecting nonchalance, although his stomach lurched in alarm. ‘I did what was necessary,’ he said, trying to put a swagger in his voice. ‘Now I am back for revenge.’

‘On who?’ asked Ulf curiously. ‘Your father, because he threatened to hang you? You are too late – he went to London today, to work for the King. I think him and his wife were too embarrassed to stay here after what you did.’

‘I care nothing for them,’ spat Dickon contemptuously. ‘But Bartholomew and Michael interfered in my business, so I am going to poison them – along with anyone else who gets in my way.’

‘Not me then,’ said Ulf confidently. ‘I did what you asked on the bridge that day. I helped you get rid of Elsham.’

Dickon inclined his head. ‘You did, so have a drop of wine as another reward.’

He smirked his satisfaction when Ulf drained the little flask and wiped his lips on the back of his hand.

‘Bitter,’ said Ulf, grimacing. ‘Did you kill Gille as well? Everyone thinks he ran away.’

Dickon grinned. ‘Whoever rents my father’s house will have a shock when they explore the stink in the cellar.’

Ulf was impressed. ‘How did you do it?’

‘He accused me of killing Elsham, so I told him it was someone at Clare Hall. Then I gave him some wine to drink while we discussed which one of them it might be.’

‘Wine?’ asked Ulf, suddenly uneasy.

Dickon laughed softly. ‘Elsham, Gille, Stasy, Hawick, Narboro, Lucy, Aynton, Baldok – they all learned what happens when I am crossed.’

Ulf reeled suddenly. ‘I feel funny … Have you …’

‘I know you will betray me the moment we part company,’ said Dickon coldly. ‘So I have taught you what happens to traitors, too.’

With a howl of rage, Ulf leapt at him. Ulf was smaller, but he had a knife and he knew how to use it. The blade slipped easily between Dickon’s ribs. Dickon gasped in disbelief before toppling into the pit. Ulf fell, too, landing beside him. It did not take long for either boy to breathe his last.

The two men who had witnessed the encounter gaped their shock at the speed with which it had turned fatal. Isnard and Chaumbre had been in the shadows to one side, discussing the last dye-pit. It was an odd hour for such a conversation, but Chaumbre was so busy with his charitable works that it was the only time he could manage.

When Dickon had first appeared, Isnard wanted to race forward and lay hold of him, but Chaumbre held him back. Ever since Dickon had escaped, Chaumbre had been painfully aware that the boy posed a serious danger to his brother-in-law – and if anything happened to Matthew, it would break Edith’s heart. Thus he was not about to risk losing the brat by chasing him with a one-legged bargeman. However, he had certainly not expected to hear Dickon’s confession, and the boy’s ruthless malevolence had chilled him to the bone.

‘We should have grabbed him when he first appeared,’ whispered Isnard accusingly, once he had recovered his voice. ‘Like I told you.’

‘I was afraid he would escape,’ breathed Chaumbre, still stunned. ‘He is younger and faster than us. I would never have delayed if I had thought … Lord! And Ulf, too! I should have known they were in it together when he began sporting that new hat …’

Isnard frowned. ‘His hat? Why? It is just a black one, like any other.’

‘Not to a dyer,’ explained Chaumbre. ‘There is a hint of red that makes it distinctive to the trained eye. I thought it was familiar when I saw him wearing it on the day that Elsham died. I remember why now – it was Dickon’s. Ulf must have demanded it as payment for causing a diversion on the bridge.’

Isnard inched towards the dye-pit, and Chaumbre followed, both afraid of what they would see. Ulf was sprawled just below them, while Dickon lay at right angles to him. The eyes of both boys stared upwards sightlessly.

Chaumbre crossed himself. ‘They were children, Isnard,’ he whispered. ‘And they discussed murder as if it were something they did every day. Children!’

‘Not very nice children,’ said Isnard with a sniff.

‘Dickon wanted to poison Matthew,’ Chaumbre went on, shaking his head at the horror of it all.

‘And Brother Michael,’ said Isnard. ‘The man who leads the Marian Singers and supplies free bread and ale to half the town. Dickon really was the Devil’s spawn, to set his sights on them. Did you hear that Sheriff Tulyet found the Chancellor’s letter among the brat’s belongings, by the way?’

‘The one Aynton gave Huntyngdon to deliver?’

Isnard nodded. ‘Which proves beyond all doubt that Dickon was indeed the one who ordered Gille and Elsham to kill the messengers.’

Chaumbre shuddered, but then frowned as he continued to peer into the pit. ‘Is that a finger I see poking through the dirt next to Ulf? Is someone else down there? Yet another victim of Tulyet’s hellion son?’

‘Probably just an old glove,’ said Isnard, disinclined to look more closely.

‘Poor Tulyet,’ said Chaumbre. ‘Now he and his wife will have to bear the news that, on top of all his other crimes, Dickon poisoned another child.’

Isnard was silent for a while. ‘Perhaps we should spare them that knowledge,’ he whispered eventually. ‘Dickon has caused them enough pain, so why let him inflict more? What do you say?’

Their eyes met and plans were made. Within an hour, they were back with a cart of hard-core rubble and two spades. Wordlessly, they began to fill in the pit.

‘I shall plant a garden on top of them,’ said Chaumbre when they had finished. ‘One with fragrant herbs and a bench for people to sit on. It will be a place of peace and tranquillity.’

‘And if these bodies are ever discovered,’ said Isnard, ‘you and I will be long dead. No one will ever know the sorry tale of how they came to be there.’

‘A mystery,’ whispered Chaumbre. ‘For future folk to ponder.’