‘Did you tell her to pass the documents to us, so they could be delivered to Langelee?’ he asked.
D’Audley nodded weakly. ‘I could not give them to Langelee myself – Luneday would have known who was behind the theft. But
Margery has disappeared – and the documents with her.’
Bartholomew was not sure what to say; he did not want to distress d’Audley by telling him Margery was dead. Fortunately, though,
d’Audley did not see him as someone with answers.
‘I honestly believe Alneston’s records will end King’s Hall’s claim,’ he went on softly. ‘But Luneday would never let anyone
see them – he distrusted Haverhill’s priests, while Withersfield’s is a bumpkin, barely literate. Luneday and Margery cannot
read … neither can I …’
‘Hush,’ said Bartholomew, seeing the desperate flood of words was taking its toll. ‘The priest will be here soon. You can
make the rest of your confession to him.’
D’Audley’s expression was haunted. ‘He will be too late, and I have not finished … the worst is yet to come.’ He closed
his eyes and took a deep breath. ‘I murdered Neubold.’
‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew quietly. ‘I know.’
D’Audley stared at him. ‘How? I thought I was careful.’
‘You were. I would never have known, had you not mentioned your relationship with Margery. But she was your accomplice in
stealing the documents, so it stands to reason she was your accomplice in killing Neubold, too. She told you he was locked
in the barn – you hanged him there.’
‘Yes,’ whispered d’Audley. ‘I wanted Luneday blamed because I hate him – and because it would eliminate one
of Elyan Manor’s claimants. Then it would just be me and King’s Hall.’
Bartholomew was beginning to understand at last. ‘You took Neubold to Haverhill, because it is what Luneday might have done
– he would not have wanted Neubold dead in Withersfield. And you hoped a week in the Alneston Chantry would destroy any evidence
that you—’
‘Yes, God forgive me!’
‘But
why
kill Neubold? Was it just to make trouble for Luneday?’
D’Audley closed his eyes. ‘No – it was also for his corruption, for befriending the thieving villains at King’s Hall, for
making the inheritance issue more complex than it is … He was a bad man.’
Bartholomew resisted the urge to point out that it still did not give anyone the right to murder him, then use his body to
see another man accused of the crime.
‘So, there are my sins,’ breathed d’Audley. ‘I cannot say more now …’
He slipped into the kind of drowse from which Bartholomew knew he would never wake. All the physician could do was make sure
he was comfortable, and sit with him until his ragged breathing faded into nothing.
Isnard had known d’Audley would die before he returned and, coolly practical, had brought two Michaelhouse servants and a
bier, as well as Clippesby. The compassionate Dominican did not waste time with questions, but promptly dropped to his knees
and began to pray. While he muttered his devotions, Bartholomew helped the servants load d’Audley on to the stretcher. They
carried it to the nearest church together, after which Bartholomew hurried back to the College.
‘Risleye is not the culprit,’ he said when he met Michael
in the yard. He darted into his room, but it was empty, and there was no sign of any of his students. ‘It is Tesdale, and
he sent Idoma and Gosse after me on the towpath. Gosse killed d’Audley, so he would not be a witness to my murder.’
‘What?’ Michael was shocked. ‘But I thought—’
‘Tesdale was lying,’ said Bartholomew, going to the chest where the lad stored his possessions. It was empty, and a glance
inside some of the other students’ boxes told him Tesdale had not confined himself to his own belongings when he had packed.
‘He knew we would realise the truth as soon as we spoke to Risleye, so he escaped while he could.’
‘After sending Gosse in your direction, to repay you for seeing through his nasty little game.’ The monk’s face was white
with anger. ‘We must find him. He cannot have gone far yet.’
‘King’s Hall,’ said Bartholomew. ‘They are the only friends he has left now. He will have gone there, in the hope that they
will lend him a fast horse.’
‘He has not – I have just come from there. They must have gone early to the Blood Relic debate, because there was no reply
to my knock. I considered going to St Mary the Great and hauling Paxtone outside, but the church is already packed and there
would have been a riot. The atmosphere is uneasy – our colleagues are honing their tongues for some serious invective.’
‘But King’s Hall has porters,’ said Bartholomew, alarmed. ‘
They
will not be at the church – and if they failed to answer the door, then it means something is wrong. I will go there. But
Idoma said again that something is going to happen during the debate, so you should be at St Mary the Great.’
‘I
have
been at St Mary the Great. But short of dressing up as a scholar and expressing a controversial opinion,
there is nothing she can do to disrupt the proceedings. Besides, my beadles have been charged to arrest them on sight. They
will not remain free for long.’
‘I hope not – they are cold-blooded killers. There was no need to harm d’Audley.’
‘Well, at least we know it was not him who hired them,’ said Michael. ‘They would not have killed the man who paid their wages.
That leaves Elyan, Luneday and Hilton.’
‘And Agnys,’ added Bartholomew, making for the door. ‘But now is not the time for talking. I am going to King’s Hall.’
‘I had better come, too, because you are right – it
is
odd that the porters did not answer my knock, and Tesdale will be desperate. Who knows what he might do?’
Bartholomew did not wait to hear more. He set out for King’s Hall, running as hard as he could. The streets were oddly empty,
and he supposed everyone had gone early to the debate to ensure themselves good places.
Michael panted along behind him, shouting about waiting for beadles, but Bartholomew did not stop. Nor did he aim for King’s
Hall’s front, but instead raced to the back, where a gate led from the towpath into the grounds. Then he sprinted across the
vegetable plots, aware of Michael falling farther behind with every step. Only when he neared the main courtyard did he reduce
his speed.
The College was indeed deserted. The only sign of life was a cat washing itself. He crossed to the porters’ lodge, then backed
out sharply when he saw the carnage within. Tobias had fought hard, but it had not saved his life.
Michael was still lumbering through the gardens when Bartholomew dashed up the stairs towards Paxtone’s room. He heard voices
and slowed down, treading softly in the hope that the wooden steps would not creak and lose him the element of surprise.
‘I will not do it,’ Paxtone was saying. ‘I thought you were just a lad in debt when Wynewyk asked me to help you, but you
are a criminal. Kill me if you must – as you slaughtered Wynewyk and Tobias – but I will
not
forge you a graduation certificate, and nor will I give you one of our horses.’
‘Then you can die,’ came Tesdale’s furious voice.
Bartholomew abandoned stealth and tore up the last few stairs. The racket he made alerted the student to his approach, and
he only just managed to avoid the swipe that aimed to disembowel him. Tesdale lunged again and Bartholomew stumbled backwards,
tripping over something that lay on the floor. It was Risleye, clutching a wound in his stomach. Paxtone was kneeling next
to him, trying to staunch the flow of blood.
Bartholomew’s brief moment of inattention almost cost him his life, for Tesdale attacked with such ferocity that the physician
was hard-pressed to defend himself. He was astounded by the speed and force of the assault – it was wholly unexpected from
so slothful a lad. Absently, he recalled Risleye once praising Tesdale’s skill with knives, and supposed the remark should
have warned him that there was another, darker side to the indolent student.
He forced himself to concentrate, pushing all else from his mind. Tesdale held a blade in either hand, and was clearly adept
at using both. Bartholomew winced when one tore through his sleeve, but managed to grab the young man’s wrist, twisting it
hard and forcing him to let go of one weapon. But Tesdale still had another, and the vengeful, furious expression on his face
told Bartholomew that the student intended to see him dead. He jerked backwards as the blade sliced towards him.
Then Michael staggered in, puffing like a pair of bellows. Without missing a beat, the monk grabbed one of Paxtone’s books
and lobbed it with all his might. It was dead on target, and Tesdale crashed to the floor, clutching his head.
‘See to Risleye, Matt,’ ordered Michael, retrieving the knives Tesdale had dropped and walking to where the student was trying
to struggle to his feet. ‘This little toad will not be going anywhere.’
‘Risleye was Paxtone’s spy,’ Tesdale said, ignoring the monk and addressing Bartholomew. ‘Paxtone urged you to teach him,
just so he could report on you. I dispatched him for
your
benefit.’
‘Do not lie,’ said Bartholomew shakily, still shocked by the lad’s murderous attack. ‘It is not—’
‘It is true,’ said Paxtone quietly. There were tears in his eyes, and Bartholomew saw Risleye had died while he had been skirmishing
with Tesdale. ‘I did recruit Risleye to watch your College.’
‘I knew it!’ muttered Michael. ‘I
knew
there was something suspect about that arrangement!’
‘But why?’ Bartholomew asked Paxtone, bewildered and hurt. ‘I would have told you anything you wanted to know. I
like
discussing medicine.’
‘It was not about medicine,’ said Paxtone tiredly. ‘And it was not about you, either – I wanted to know what Wynewyk was doing.
He was an enigma, and Warden Powys and I were afraid he might damage King’s Hall. Risleye was loyal, and volunteered to find
out …’
‘Wynewyk would never harm King’s Hall,’ objected Bartholomew, stunned by the accusation.
‘I disagree,’ said Paxtone in the same weary voice. ‘He was embroiled in some very unsavoury business, although Risleye learned
very little about it. His life has been squandered …’
‘Let me go,’ said Tesdale softly. ‘Risleye was the spy, and I have exposed him. He—’
Bartholomew dragged his attention away from Paxtone, recalling what had been said as he had crept up the stairs. He looked
hard at Tesdale. ‘Did you really kill Wynewyk?’
‘Yes, he did,’ said Paxtone, before Tesdale could deny it. ‘He knew Wynewyk was sensitive to foxglove, because Wynewyk told
me and I mentioned it in a class – to make a point about the hidden dangers of potent cures. Tesdale was there. So he added
foxglove to the Fellows’ claret: not enough to harm anyone else, but enough to kill a man who could not tolerate it.’
‘So the tale you spun earlier was untrue?’ asked Bartholomew of Tesdale. ‘Wynewyk did not demand access to my storeroom? You
took the foxglove yourself?’
‘He was going to kill himself anyway,’ said Tesdale defensively. ‘He ate the cake, knowing it was full of nuts. I
helped
him – gave him an easier death.’
‘But why?’ cried Bartholomew, appalled. ‘Most people would have stopped him.’
‘He was damaging my College,’ snarled Tesdale. ‘And I was afraid the nuts might not work. He had swallowed almond posset a
few days earlier and lived to tell the tale. So I decided that this time there would be no mistakes. I did the right thing.’
‘You fed poison to a man in the process of committing suicide?’ said Michael, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘If it were not
so tragic, it might be funny.’
‘I thought you liked Wynewyk.’ Bartholomew was lost and confused. ‘You said he was kind to you, and you seemed genuinely distressed
by his death.’
‘No – he was a bad man,’ said Tesdale angrily. ‘He got me a job at King’s Hall, but he was always asking me questions; he
thought finding me employment put me in his debt.
He was harming our College with his crafty dealings, so I pretended to befriend him. But it was really to learn what he was
doing and stop him. I did it for Michaelhouse – for all of us.’
Michael regarded him with loathing. ‘You do not care about the College! What annoyed you was that Wynewyk’s financial games
were resulting in dismal food. The rest of us can afford commons, but the meals in the hall are all you get. You blamed him
for subjecting you to them.’
Tesdale raised his hands in piteous entreaty, trying a different tactic when he saw righteous indignation was not going to
work. ‘It was not only that – it was Gosse. He kept demanding more and more money from me, making me poorer than ever. None
of this is my fault. I am a victim.’
‘Of course you are,’ said Michael harshly, while Bartholomew sank down on a bench and put his head in his hands, repelled
by the lad’s transparent efforts to worm his way out of trouble.
‘Gosse said he would forget my debt if I got rid of Wynewyk,’ Tesdale went on. ‘I was frightened, and had no option but to
do as he ordered. You must see I was out of my depth. Terrified and—’
‘You were not terrified,’ said Michael disdainfully. ‘You are adept with knives, and know how to look after yourself. Besides,
you were reluctant to travel to Suffolk with us. If you were frightened of Gosse, you would have relished the chance to be
away.’
‘He did not want to go, because he is lazy,’ said Paxtone, regarding Tesdale with a mixture of shock and revulsion. ‘I hired
him to work in our kitchens because Wynewyk asked me to – and I did not dare decline a request from
him
because he unnerved me so with his capacity for sly dealings – but it was almost impossible to get Teasdale to do any work,
and we were on the verge of dismissing him.’
Tesdale pounced on the physician’s words. ‘Did you hear that? Well, I did not dare decline Wynewyk, either. And he
did
demand access to your storeroom. I admit he did not take foxglove, as I led you to believe. What he actually stole was pennyroyal,
but I did not tell you because I was confused by all that was—’