A Masterly Murder (59 page)

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.’