A Masterly Murder (56 page)

He sat at the base of a pillar, and watched Michael haul the altar away from the wall and begin to toss the soap blocks into
the cart.

‘I suppose Runham must have used accomplices to help him with this,’ said the monk conversationally as he worked. ‘I do not
think he would have known how to sell these things on his own. The answer must lie in the cloaked intruders we keep almost
catching in the College.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Caumpes admitted to tampering with the scaffolding, which accounts for one of those times. But … ’ He paused as certain things became clear in his mind.

‘But what?’ asked Michael impatiently.

‘Caumpes,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It was Caumpes who sold the treasure that Runham recovered.’

‘Really?’ asked Michael uncertainly. ‘How do you know?’

‘Two reasons. First, I saw him. One afternoon, I watched him visit Harold of Haslingfield, the goldsmith. Later,
Harold told me that Caumpes had provided him with a number of items recently, although he said none were stolen – he checked
with his Guild and with Dick Tulyet.’

Michael scratched his chin thoughtfully. ‘Yes, but if Wilson garnered his ill-gotten gains during the Death, then there are
a couple of points we should remember: dead people cannot identify their own property or register it as stolen; and we are
talking about thefts committed five years ago. It is not surprising that the goldsmiths and Dick did not recognise these items
as stolen.’

‘And the second reason I know Caumpes must have been Runham’s accomplice is that Oswald informed me that Caumpes dabbles with
the black market. Harold told me, too, and, come to that, so did Caumpes himself – he made money for Bene’t by buying and
selling things.’

‘So, Runham commissioned Caumpes to sell items that belonged to Michaelhouse, such as the contents of our hutches and the
College silver, along with the valuables he recovered from Wilson’s hoard,’ said Michael, frowning in thought. ‘Runham hid
them in the soap for Caumpes to collect and dispose of at his leisure, and the memorandum we found in Runham’s room was a
listing of the amounts Caumpes told Runham to expect for each item.’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘The only problem I can see in all this is that Caumpes hated Michaelhouse for poaching Bene’t’s workmen.
Why should he then act as Runham’s agent?’

‘The building work started last Wednesday, and two days later, Runham was dead. The answer is simple: as you have said all
along, smothering is an unusual way to kill someone. Wymundham was smothered, and we
know
Caumpes killed Wymundham. Runham was also smothered.
Quod erat demonstrandum
.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Bartholomew uncertainly. ‘But Caumpes said he did not kill Wymundham.’

‘Murderers do not make honest witnesses, Matt, and you should never believe what they say. Anyway, Caumpes would do anything
for his College, so we have reason to assume that he would swallow his dislike of Runham in order to raise money for Bene’t’s
buildings. We know Bene’t was having financial problems, with the Duke tightening his purse strings and the guilds less generous
than they had been.’

‘So, we were right last night when we surmised that very little was stolen from Runham’s chest?’ asked Bartholomew, turning
his attention back to the soap-stuffed altar. ‘We assumed that about forty-five pounds was missing, but we were wrong because
Runham’s chest never contained the ninety pounds he needed for the building.’

‘Right,’ said Michael. ‘Runham must have assumed that Caumpes would be able to raise the outstanding amount by the time the
builders were to be paid. But Runham’s list mentions books, chalices and other items too large to be concealed in soap. He
must have those hidden elsewhere. And then we must not forget the twelve pounds that was so kindly returned to you the other
morning. Now there is something I do not understand.’

‘Nor me,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is unlikely to have been Caumpes.’

‘Clippesby!’ exclaimed Michael suddenly. ‘I
knew
he would be involved. There is your second cloaked intruder – Caumpes and Clippesby, both wandering Michaelhouse at night,
breaking our scaffolding and murdering our Master.’

‘But Clippesby had no reason to creep around in the dark,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Michaelhouse is his College, and he has every
right to be in it.’

‘Michaelhouse is his
new
College,’ corrected Michael.
‘He probably did not feel confident to demolish scaffolding and murder his Master without donning some sort of disguise. Matt,
someone is coming! Quick, put this piece of soap in your bag, while I hide the rest.’

Michael was still heaving at the broken altar when Suttone walked up the aisle. The Carmelite smiled benignly at them, his
red face friendly.

‘It is my turn to say the daily prayer for the soul of our founder,’ he explained. He saw the damaged altar and the redness
drained from his face, leaving it white and shocked. ‘What are you doing? That is sacrilege! You have damaged a sacred altar!’

‘It needed some repairs,’ said Michael smoothly, leaning against it so that Suttone could not look too closely.

‘It did not!’ cried Suttone, aghast. ‘What have I let myself in for at Michaelhouse? It is a College of murderers and desecrators!’

Michael sighed, then moved away from the altar so that Suttone could see it. ‘I am sick of secrecy, and you will know everything
soon anyway.’

‘Know everything?’ echoed Suttone in alarm. ‘I am not sure I like the sound of that.’

‘We have discovered who is behind all this,’ said Michael. A previous Master called Wilson was a thief, and Runham was his
cousin. Wilson hid stolen goods in his room, and when Runham was elected Master, he set about seeing which of his kinsman’s
ill-gotten gains were still there.’

‘What sort of ill-gotten gains?’ asked Suttone anxiously.

‘Items stolen from his colleagues and from people who paid him for
last rites during the Death. Runham then started to move the property out of Michaelhouse to sell, using tablets of soap,
so that he would not be caught with the goods on his person.’

‘You are not on mass duty this week, Suttone,’ said Bartholomew, puzzled. ‘I am.’

‘Runham had an accomplice,’ Michael went on. ‘We have reasoned that it is Clippesby, who with the assistance of Caumpes, helped
to murder Runham because their game started to go wrong.’

‘Clippesby?’ asked Suttone quietly.

‘I imagine that unholy trinity – Runham, Clippesby and Caumpes – intended to make themselves
rich on Wilson’s stolen treasure. The other two killed Runham when he disagreed with them over some matter.’

‘No, Brother,’ said Suttone softly, drawing a long, wicked knife from his sleeve. ‘You have this all wrong. All terribly wrong.’

^‘
N
OT YOU!’ EXCLAIMED MICHAEL, EYEING IN
horror the knife that Suttone wielded in St Michael’s Church. ‘Surely
you
were not Runham’s accomplice in this filthy affair?’

Suttone closed his eyes. ‘It has all gone wrong. I cannot imagine how matters have spiralled so far out of control.’

‘Then put down the knife,’ said Bartholomew, standing up slowly. ‘Stop this before it goes any further.’

‘Stay where you are, both of you,’ said Suttone, snapping open his eyes and gesturing that they were to sit on the remains
of Wilson’s altar. ‘We must talk about this. There are things I wish you to know.’

‘Put down the knife first,’ said Bartholomew.

Suttone sighed, standing sufficiently far away to prevent any surprise lurch
from Bartholomew and holding the knife as if he meant business. ‘Where in God’s name do I start with all this?’ He answered
his own question. ‘With Wilson, I suppose.’

‘Wilson was dishonest, and secreted stolen items in his room,’ said Michael promptly, seeking to engage the man in conversation
to distract him from the long and sharp-looking knife. ‘There was some suggestion at the time that the University might not
survive the plague, and I imagine he was lining a nest for his future, should the worst happen and he find himself Collegeless.’

Suttone nodded. ‘He skulked in his room by day, avoiding those with the disease, but at night he slipped
out to see his lover in the Convent of St Radegund. On his way, he stole from the dead and the dying. He stole from a person
very dear to me – a relative.’

‘Is that what all this is about?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Revenge on Wilson because he stole from someone you loved?’

‘Not revenge,’ said Suttone. ‘All I wanted to do was recover this wealth and return it to its rightful owner.’

‘You became a Michaelhouse Fellow just to get someone’s money back?’ asked Michael warily. ‘But why not claim it through the
courts – legally and openly?’

‘No court in the land would act on my claim, and especially not against a powerful institution like Michaelhouse. When I
saw Kenyngham was Master, my hopes rose, because I knew he was a man who would see justice done. But he resigned before I
could take him into my confidence, and Runham was elected.’

‘You voted for him,’ Michael pointed out.

‘I thought I would fare better with him than with that fanatical William. I was
wrong.’

‘Runham immediately started selling the items he had recovered from Wilson’s hoard,’ said Michael. ‘Like my crystal bowl.
And you knew you would have no help from him.’

‘He stole from you, too?’ asked Suttone. ‘Then you must understand how I feel.’

‘I do,’ said Michael. ‘That bowl was very dear to me – a gift from my grandmother. Put the knife down, Suttone, and let us
discuss this in a civilised manner.’

‘Everyone was surprised when Runham suddenly produced the finances for his new buildings,’ said Suttone, still fingering the
weapon with unsteady hands. ‘None of you knew where it came from. But I did.’

‘You guessed that Runham would use Wilson’s treasure, some of which belonged to your friend, to build his
College,’ said Michael, trying to sound sympathetic as he eyed the knife.

Suttone nodded. ‘I decided to approach him before he could spend everything. I told him that not all of Wilson’s fortune was
obtained honestly, but he refused to listen. At first he denied that he had recovered Wilson’s hoard, but then he started
to gloat that he would use it for the good of his cousin’s soul.’

‘And you did not want your relative’s possessions adding to the glorification of the man who had robbed him in the first place,’
said Michael, hoping to calm the man.

Suttone clutched the knife harder, and Bartholomew saw sweat beading on his forehead. ‘It was obscene! It was not Runham’s
to dispose of – and certainly not to be used for purifying Wilson’s diseased soul!’

‘So you smothered him,’ said Michael. Bartholomew jabbed him in the ribs, certain that bringing the discussion around to murder
was unwise. Michael ignored him. ‘You took a cushion and you pressed it over his mouth until he stopped struggling.’

Suttone gazed at the floor, and Bartholomew tensed in readiness to spring an attack, grasping his medicine bag like a shield
to protect himself from the blade. He glanced at Michael, who gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head.

‘I am not sorry Runham is dead, God rot his soul,’ said Suttone softly. ‘But I am sorry it was I who did the deed.’ He glanced
across to Runham’s body, lying under its fine silken sheet.

‘And are you sorry that you and Caumpes endangered the lives of your colleagues by causing the scaffolding to fall?’ asked
Bartholomew coldly. ‘Had Michael been in his room, he would have been killed, and he has nothing to do with this business
of Runham’s.’

‘I did not touch the scaffolding,’ said Suttone. ‘I thought that was an accident – that it fell because Runham did not pay
for it to be assembled safely.’

‘But Caumpes said—’ began Bartholomew.

‘Then Caumpes acted alone,’ interrupted Suttone firmly. ‘I had nothing to do with
it. I killed Runham, but I did not touch the scaffolding.’

‘And are you sorry you killed Wymundham, too?’ asked Michael. ‘If you killed Runham, then you also killed Wymundham. Both
men were smothered with cushions.’

Suttone did not reply, and Bartholomew tensed again, poised to strike. Michael tugged the physician’s sleeve, urging him not
to move. Bartholomew was uneasy that Michael was content to let Suttone continue their discussion waving a knife, when there
was a chance to disarm him, but knew he would not be able to break Michael’s grip and be able to launch a surprise attack
on Suttone.

‘Yes,’ said Suttone eventually. ‘I was sorry I had to kill Wymundham. But he had discovered what I had come to do, and he
threatened to expose me.’

‘How did he find out?’ asked Michael, puzzled.

‘I have no idea,’ said Suttone. ‘Perhaps he consorted with witches or fortune-tellers.’

‘Surely you do not believe that,’ said Michael doubtfully. ‘You are a friar!’

‘Caumpes told me about the evil things Wymundham did – how he drove his lover Raysoun to drink and then lied about his dying
words; about how he blackmailed de Walton over his harmless admiration of Mayor Horwoode’s wife; and how he threatened to
reveal that Caumpes’s father was not the wealthy merchant he always claimed. It would not have surprised me to learn that
Wymundham was in league with the Devil.’

‘So, he deserved to die,’ said Michael flatly. ‘He was an evil man whom no one would mourn.’

‘You are putting words in my mouth,’ said Suttone. ‘No one deserves to die, before they have had the chance to repent their
sins. And Brother Patrick did not deserve to die, either.’

‘Did you kill him as well?’ asked Michael.

Suttone shook his head. ‘But he saw me kill Wymundham. He was Wymundham’s apprentice, busily learning dark secrets that he
could use to his own advantage in the future.’

Bartholomew recalled that Heltisle had said the same. ‘So did Wymundham try to blackmail you about your plan to return Wilson’s
ill-gotten gains to their rightful owners? Did he ask you to meet him in that shed in Bene’t’s grounds, where you put a cushion
over his face and smothered him?’

Suttone nodded. ‘And Patrick was stabbed when we realised he had seen what I had done.’

‘We?’ pounced Michael. ‘Who is we?’

Suttone smiled sadly. ‘I will confess everything else, but never that. Too many lives have been tainted by men like Wilson,
Runham, Wymundham and Patrick already. I will not see more people fall victim to their plague.’

‘Is it a woman?’ asked Michael bluntly. ‘You must think highly of her, given that you are prepared to kill and steal for this
person.’

Suttone looked shocked. ‘I am a friar, Brother. I have committed many sins, but breaking my vows of chastity is not one of
them – unlike you, I should imagine.’

‘We are not discussing me,’ said Michael haughtily. ‘But you had an alibi for Runham’s murder. How did you manage that?’

Suttone smiled. ‘Poor Master Kenyngham is too good and honest for this world. You know how he is – every
office is a deeply religious experience. I was present at the beginning of compline that night, but he did not notice me leave
in the middle of it, and he did not notice me return later.’

That rang true, thought Bartholomew. Once Kenyngham was into the business of praying, very little could impinge on his consciousness.
And anyway, Bartholomew recalled, Kenyngham had stayed after compline to pray at the high altar, while Suttone had said he
had prayed at Wilson’s altar. Since Wilson’s altar was nearer the door, it would be entirely possible to slip out and back
in again without being seen from the high altar at the other end of the church.

‘And it was not Kenyngham who provided you with your alibi ultimately,’ he said. ‘It was Caumpes.’

‘Caumpes was there,’ said Suttone. ‘He showed me the latest pieces Runham had asked him to sell, but none of them fitted the
description of the jewels my relative had lost. In despair, I went to speak with Runham again. It was then that I killed him
– when he mocked me for my desire to see justice done.’

‘And then you just returned to the church to finish your prayers?’ asked Michael. ‘That was cool-headed!’

Suttone ran the blade of the knife along his fingers, as if testing its sharpness. ‘I returned to ask for forgiveness, but
not for me – for Runham.’

‘Why Caumpes?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I do not see why you chose to go into partnership with a Fellow from another College.’

‘Why not? Would you have volunteered your services? I met Caumpes just after my first encounter with the blackmailing Wymundham,
and he was kind to me. We struck up a friendship. He is a man of integrity, a virtue that seems lacking in most people I have
met at this University.’

‘So, the arrangement was that Caumpes would show you all that Runham gave him to sell before he disposed of it?’ asked Michael.
‘Why did he do that? What was in it for him?’

‘Nothing,’ said Suttone heavily. ‘As I said, Caumpes is a man of integrity. He knew of the wrong perpetrated on my relative,
and was keen to see it rectified.’ Michael looked patently disbelieving, and Suttone allowed himself another small smile.
‘And my relative offered to make a donation to Bene’t to ensure Caumpes’s cooperation.’

‘That I can believe,’ said Michael. ‘So, did Caumpes kill Patrick?’

‘Caumpes has killed no one.’

‘But he killed de Walton,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Stabbed him.’ He glanced uneasily at the knife,
and wondered whether that had been a wise thing to say.

Suttone rubbed his head. ‘I do not believe you. All Caumpes has ever wanted was to protect his College. He is not a murderer.’

‘Caumpes provided Michaelhouse with the Widow’s Wine on the night of Runham’s election,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He stole it from
Bene’t cellars.’

‘He sold Langelee a couple of hogsheads of it, so that everyone would be drunk and I would be able to search Kenyngham’s room
should the worst – or what I then imagined would be the worst – happen and Father William be elected Master. I knew I would
never have another opportunity. Unfortunately, you and Michael left before the feast was over and almost caught us as we were
leaving after our unsuccessful search.’

So, thought Bartholomew, it had been Caumpes and Suttone with whom he had first struggled, and who had pushed him into the
mud of St Michael’s Lane. But searching the Master’s room for hidden gold and
intoxicating the entire College with Heltisle’s pickling agent had not been all the pair had achieved that night.

‘You poisoned the salve I use for infections,’ said Bartholomew coldly. ‘You knew I would use it on Michael’s stung arm. You
were plotting murder even then.’

‘I exchanged your pot for one with stronger ingredients, guessing that you would use it, because Michael was scratching himself
like a dog with fleas,’ said Suttone. ‘I was afraid his injury would render him sleepless, and that he might see Caumpes and
me searching the Master’s quarters. But the salve was not poisonous. It was intended to make him sleep.’

‘It might have killed him,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And later, you stole it back again.’

‘I retrieved it from your bag when Runham started making unpleasant accusations,’ said Suttone. ‘I was sure the salve I gave
you was safe, but I did not want to provide Runham with the means to persecute you, should I be wrong. I took the salve to
protect
you
.’

‘Thank you,’ said Bartholomew icily.

‘I am not a bad person,’ Suttone insisted unsteadily. ‘I started with the most noble
of intentions, and, through no fault of my own, ended up a murderer.’

‘You started a murderer,’ said Bartholomew, recalling another death that could be attributed to Suttone’s preferred method
of killing. ‘Like Wymundham and Runham, Justus was smothered.’

Suttone sighed and his eyes took on a distant look, as though the memory were a painful one. ‘I smothered him, and then put
a wineskin over his head to make it appear as if he took his own life. He was senseless with drink at the time. He felt no
pain; he did not even struggle. And I did conduct his requiem mass for no charge.’

‘A kindly killer,’ said Michael softly. ‘But why? What had Justus done to you?’

‘I am not an evil man, Brother,’ repeated Suttone, ignoring the question. ‘I only want justice. When I realised that the money
I had seized from Runham’s chest exceeded the amount my relative had lost, I gave the balance back. I passed it to Bartholomew
in the churchyard.’

‘So that was you, was it?’ asked Michael.

‘I keep telling you, I am not wicked,’ said Suttone. ‘It is Runham, Wilson and Wymundham
who are the real villains in this story. It is with their selfishness and greed that all this starts.’

‘So put the knife down,’ said Bartholomew. ‘If you are not evil, you will not be committing any more murders, and especially
not in a church.’