In honour of the occasion, the Stanton silver had been brought out of the strong-room, and stood in a gleaming line along the altar. Patens, chalices and thuribles had been buffed until they shone like mirrors, and a new festive altar cloth, sewn by Agatha, was so brightly white that it hurt the eyes. The sun blazed through the east window, casting pools of coloured light into the chancel, and the parishioners had decorated the church with flowers of cream and yellow, so that the whole building was infused with the sweet scent of them.
Michael’s choir excelled themselves with an anthem they had been practising since Christmas, and the church rang with the joyous sound of their singing, making up in volume what they lacked in talent. Afterwards, the scholars spilled out into the sunlit churchyard, and Bartholomew saw that snowdrops were beginning to bloom among the grassy mounds. Langelee raised one lordly arm to indicate that his scholars were to fall in behind him, and began to lead the way back to Michaelhouse, where a special breakfast of oatmeal, eggs, boiled pork and fresh bread awaited them.
‘What a glorious day!’ exclaimed Michael, turning to the sun and closing his eyes, relishing its warmth on his flabby face. ‘Blue skies, a bright sun, the scent of spring in the air, and no murderers walking free on the streets of Cambridge.’
‘For now,’ said Bartholomew.
Michael jabbed him with his elbow. ‘It is a beautiful day and I am happy. Do not dispel my good temper by speculating any more on the unsavoury business of last night.’
‘But I still have questions,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And so does Richard.’
‘Richard!’ spat Michael in some disgust. ‘That silly boy! Last night’s events will teach him not to play politics with men he does not know. Had that plan of Timothy and Janius’s worked, not only would he have been dead, but he would have forced his parents to live in the knowledge that he had killed you, too. It would have broken Edith’s heart.’
‘She would not have believed it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘That was what I kept telling Timothy and Janius. They were basing their plan on actions that people would just not have taken: Richard would not have killed me in a fit of pique and you would not have killed him in retaliation.’
‘But they did not succeed,’ said Michael comfortably. ‘So it does not matter.’
They reached the College, and walked to the fallen apple tree in the orchard; they sat on its ancient trunk and rested their backs against the sun-warmed wall and waited for the breakfast bell to ring. The light danced across the thick green grass in tiny pools of brightness as it filtered through branches that were beginning to show signs of new leaves, and the town was unusually peaceful.
‘We have done well,’ said Michael, pleased with himself. ‘We have exposed two vicious killers and thwarted a plot that would have seen my beloved University in the hands of the excessively religious.’
‘So,’ said Bartholomew, trying to marshal his thoughts and summarise what had happened in chronological order. ‘In November last year, Timothy and Janius grew concerned by rumours – put about by Langelee – that you were involved in a scheme to pass Cambridge property to Oxford. They decided to act.’
Michael nodded. ‘At roughly the same time, weak Walcote started to arrange meetings at St Radegund’s Convent that would discuss important issues without my knowledge. These were paid for with coins he had grabbed when Wilson’s effigy spilled gold in the Market Square in November. He had been away in Ely while I was wrestling with that particular problem, but arrived back in Cambridge just in time to snatch himself a small fortune.’
‘He was also concerned by your Oxford connections, and was thinking about the time when he would be Senior Proctor. He wanted to impress the leaders of the religious Orders, who hold a good deal of power in the University. However, his gatherings merely aggravated the growing realism – nominalism debate and caused the conflict to escalate.’
‘Janius and Timothy hired a mercenary to kill me. Their messenger drowned in a drunken stupor, and Walcote came into possession of the letter to the assassin. Walcote was convinced by my Benedictine fellows that I should not be told about the plot. Meanwhile, I removed property for safe keeping from the Carmelite Friary and brought it here. Walcote assumed I was stealing, and said as much to everyone who attended his nasty meetings.’
‘Three months passed, and then two things happened at once,’ said Bartholomew. ‘First, Kyrkeby murdered Faricius for his essay on nominalism and Walcote caught Kyrkeby, racked by guilt, trying to give it back. And second, Heytesbury appeared in Cambridge intending to find out more about the man with whom he proposed to do business.’
‘They were unrelated events,’ said Michael. ‘But they provided a perfect opportunity for Timothy and Janius to use a tragedy to further their own ends. Two days after Faricius’s death – on the Monday – Walcote discovered Kyrkeby lurking near the Carmelite Friary, probably while checking to see whether Lynne had sealed up the tunnel.’
‘I spent that afternoon with Kyrkeby,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He was agitated and uncharacteristically uncommunicative. I thought it was because he was worried about his lecture, but I see now that it was a guilty conscience that was making him irritable and ill.’
‘Bullied by Timothy and Janius, Walcote badgered the guilt-ridden Precentor until he died,’ Michael continued. ‘Walcote then agreed to hide the body in the Carmelites’ tunnel.’
‘No one would have blamed Walcote for Kyrkeby’s death under the circumstances,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘But Timothy and Janius preyed on his insecurities. And at this point, Walcote revealed a grain of strength they had not anticipated.’
Michael nodded slowly. ‘The fact that he escaped them for a few moments to hide the essay with Father Paul indicates that he was already worried by their motives. And he refused to tell them where he had put it, so they did as they threatened and hanged him.’
‘Then you played right into their hands by appointing Timothy as Junior Proctor the next day,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Your record of selecting good juniors is not impressive, Brother.’
Michael ignored him. ‘Janius allowed Walcote’s purse to be found, so that we would assume he had been killed by desperate outlaws, and he took Kyrkeby’s scrip for the same reason. You declined to accept that the three murders were committed for theft alone, and then they learned from Simon Lynne that you wanted to search Timothy’s room for the essay. Therefore, they were waiting for you when you effected that daring but ill-advised assault on their hostel.’
‘You refused to help,’ said Bartholomew. ‘What was I supposed to do?’
‘If their plan had been successful, you and Richard would have been murdered, with me “proved” to be the killer,’ continued Michael, ignoring the question. ‘Timothy would have appointed Janius as his Junior Proctor; the arrangements with Heytesbury would have fallen to pieces; and the University would have been under the power of two men who would have made additional fortunes by publishing Faricius’s essay under their own names.’
‘I still have three questions, though,’ said Bartholomew. ‘First, why did Walcote hold his meetings at a place like St Radegund’s Convent? Second, why did he agree to hide Kyrkeby’s body in the Carmelite Friary tunnel? And third, what was that yellow sticky stuff on his and Faricius’s bodies?’
‘I doubt you will ever know the answer to the first question, Matt, but I can tell you the answer to the second. They were right outside the tunnel, and no one wants to traipse around the town with a corpse. It was simply a convenient hiding place.’
‘And the third?’
‘Lord knows,’ said Michael, sighing and stretching his feet in front of him, revealing a pair of monstrous white calves. ‘Frankly, I do not care.’
At that moment, the bell began to clang, summoning the Michaelhouse scholars for their Easter breakfast.
‘Good,’ said Michael, rubbing his hands happily. ‘All this thinking has given me an appetite. We will have breakfast, then go to the University debate. I would not want to miss hearing the great Heytesbury discussing life on other planets.’ He gave a malicious snigger.
‘He is still going to speak?’ asked Bartholomew, as they picked their way through the long grass towards the path that led to the kitchen door. ‘I thought he would have left with his deed as soon as he could hire a horse.’
Michael grinned wickedly. ‘He thinks he has bested me, and so feels no need to rush away. Heytesbury is now the proud owner of a church and a couple of farms that will cost him more to run than they will make.
