When put like that, Bartholomew saw he would have no choice but to oblige.
It was past five o’clock when they reached the High Street, although the town was still busy. The winter daylight hours were too short for all the business that needed to be done, so many shops stayed open well into the evening, shedding cosy golden lamplight into the dark streets outside. Bartholomew was eager to be back in Michaelhouse, wanting no more than to sit by the fire, but the monk had other ideas.
‘I need you to come to Maud’s with me, to question two of my suspects about Tynkell’s murder. Then we can go home.’
‘You have suspects?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised.
‘Of course I have suspects,’ said Michael irritably. ‘Namely the men who aim to profit from Tynkell’s death by having themselves elected in his place.’
‘Lyng and Hopeman?’
‘Yes, along with Thelnetham.’
Bartholomew frowned. ‘I can believe Hopeman is guilty, while Thelnetham can be ruthless, but not Lyng. He is a good man, liked by all.’
‘It would not be the first time a “good man” committed murder to further his ambitions. And is Lyng a good man anyway? You cannot be too scrupulous if you hold high office in the University, and he was Chancellor three times.’
‘Does that observation apply to the Senior Proctor, too?’ asked Bartholomew wryly. Michael did not reply, so he continued. ‘Lyng is too old to be the culprit, Brother. And do not say that we have encountered elderly killers in the past, because they did not engage in close combat on gale-swept roofs. Lyng is not robust enough for such a feat.’
‘He might be,’ argued Michael, ‘if provided with enough of an incentive. He probably misses the esteem he enjoyed when he was Chancellor, and aims to have it back before he dies. So we shall speak to him first, then Hopeman. We can leave Thelnetham until tomorrow – assuming Lyng or Hopeman do not confess in the interim, of course.’
At that point, both scholars were obliged to step aside smartly as four horsemen cantered by, far too fast for a time when visibility was poor and the streets were full of pedestrians.
‘That was Sir John Moleyns,’ said Michael disapprovingly. ‘He rides like a sack of grain, and should not have been given such a lively mount. A donkey would suit him better.’
Even Bartholomew, no equestrian himself, could tell that Moleyns’ skill was well below par. He wondered if the prancing horse had been provided out of spite, in the hope that the knight would take an embarrassing tumble.
Moleyns was with his wife and lawyer, who accompanied him everywhere he went, while a guard had been provided in the form of Sergeant Helbye, the Sheriff’s most trusted officer. As if he knew he was the subject of conversation, Moleyns turned his stallion in a clumsy half-circle and trotted back, leaving his companions to chat to some of the town’s wealthy burgesses.
‘Your poor Chancellor,’ he said slyly. ‘What a terrible affair! I was in the Market Square at the time – on my horse. My elevated position gave me an excellent view of what happened.’
‘So you saw who killed him?’ asked Michael, trying, unsuccessfully, to keep the hope from his voice. ‘Who was it?’
Moleyns regarded him thoughtfully. ‘I must reflect carefully on the matter before answering that question – I should hate to mislead you, even inadvertently. However, I am always willing to cooperate with the forces of law and order, and I am sure we shall reach a mutually acceptable agreement.’
Michael regarded him in distaste. ‘In other words, you want to be paid for helping us. How much?’
Moleyns put a hand to his chest, fingers splayed in a gesture of hurt indignation. ‘You misunderstand, Brother. I do not want money – I want you to remember me when you are installed in your See.’
Michael gaped at him. ‘How do you know what my future holds?’
Moleyns smiled. ‘I have powerful friends, who keep company with kings and bishops. You could do worse than win my good graces.’
And with that, he wheeled his horse around and attempted to gallop off, but the animal gave an angry snicker and trotted defiantly to a patch of grass by the side of the road, where it began to graze. In a pitiable attempt to make it appear as though this was what he had intended, Moleyns hailed a group of scholars from King’s Hall, and began to chat. One of them was the arrogant Godrich – the man who intended to be buried in St Mary the Great with more pomp and ceremony than a monarch.
‘Does he know who killed Tynkell?’ wondered Bartholomew, watching the knight laugh and joke. ‘Or is he playing games with you?’
‘Who knows?’ muttered Michael, irritated by the encounter. ‘But he is always gallivanting around the town, which is highly irregular. What is Dick Tulyet thinking, to let a prisoner out so often?’
‘I am thinking that I must obey a direct order from the King,’ came a voice from behind them, cool and rather stiff.
They turned to see Sheriff Richard Tulyet, whose youthful appearance belied a bold warrior and a skilled administrator. Unlike many secular officials, he did not consider the University a threat to his authority, and he and Michael had developed an efficient working relationship. He was also a friend.
As usual, Bartholomew found himself looking around for Tulyet’s son Dickon, a child with no redeeming qualities and a nasty habit of ‘accidentally’ battering shins with the enormous sword his doting father had most unwisely given him. Then he allowed himself to relax. Dickon was no longer learning how to be a sheriff from his sire, because Chancellor Tynkell’s mother – Lady Joan of Hereford – had offered to assign him to one of her knights as a squire. The whole town had heaved a sigh of relief when Dickon had ridden away, tall and proud on his father’s best horse, to become someone else’s problem.
‘Are you telling us that the King told you to let Moleyns roam free?’ asked Michael in disbelief. ‘But he was convicted of robbery, burglary, extortion—’
‘I know,’ interrupted Tulyet shortly. ‘And it gives me no pleasure to let him strut about, believe me. But my hands are tied: the King did not want him imprisoned in the first place, but the evidence was compelling, so he had no choice but to accept the jury’s verdict. However, he promised to make the “captivity” as pleasant as possible, and Moleyns is quick to report any grievances.’
‘Why does the King stand by him?’ asked Bartholomew curiously; he had tended Moleyns in the castle several times for minor ailments, and had not taken to him at all. ‘He is an amusing raconteur, but his amiability is a façade. Beneath it, he is selfish, greedy, sullen and vicious.’
‘Unfortunately, the King has only met the genial joker,’ replied Tulyet. ‘And the man who has been generous with funds for the French wars.’
‘Funds amassed by abusing his power,’ remarked Michael. ‘He took bribes when he was Justice of the Common Bench, then committed all manner of dishonest acts to get more.’
‘Money is money as far as the King is concerned,’ shrugged Tulyet. ‘And his affection for Moleyns means that Cambridge folk have fluttered towards the man like moths to a flame, all hoping that he will write something nice about them in his letters to Court. Moleyns was inundated with offers of friendship from the moment he arrived.’
‘You mean burgesses?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘The Mayor and his friends?’
‘Yes, along with wealthy scholars from King’s Hall, Bene’t and Maud’s,’ replied Tulyet. ‘And Michaelhouse – young Will Kolvyle is a regular. He and Moleyns laugh and gossip for hours together. I am surprised you allow it.’
Will Kolvyle was Michaelhouse’s newest Fellow, a talented youth who had arrived to take up post at the beginning of the academic year. He had made no effort to endear himself to his new colleagues, all of whom thought him arrogant, irritating and wholly devoid of humour.
‘We did not know,’ said Michael disapprovingly. ‘But I will tell Langelee, and he will put an end to it. We do not want our College associated with Moleyns.’
‘Good,’ said Tulyet, and sighed rue
fully. ‘I was appalled when I learned that Moleyns was to be foisted on me. He is a distraction I could do without.’
‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Are you particularly busy?’
Tulyet shot him a sour glance. ‘There are taxes to be prised from folk who would rather not pay them; your University is twice the size it was a year ago; and there is a fierce feud between two rival bands of tomb-makers. So yes, I am busy.’
‘We have just been listening to Petit gripe about that,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He thinks the others stole a ledger slab from him.’
‘I know,’ said Tulyet drily. ‘Along with various other supplies that have recently gone missing. He mentions them every time our paths cross. It is extremely annoying.’
Michael was not very interested in a spat between craftsmen, and turned to what he considered to be a far more pressing matter.
‘Were you with Moleyns when Tynkell died?’
‘I was nearby – I happened to be free for an hour, so Helbye and I decided to mind him together. He and Moleyns were at your sister’s cloth stall, Matt, while I was next door, taking the opportunity to remind the glovers about the tax on fur. Why?’
‘Because he hinted that he knows the killer’s identity, but then declined to give us a name.’
‘Well, all I saw was a black shape flapping away to the east. But leave Moleyns to me. If he did see anything pertinent, I will prise it out of him.’
At that moment there was a clatter of hoofs – Moleyns had managed to pull his horse away from the grass and direct it back to his wife and lawyer. Once there, several scholars and townsfolk came to greet him, all nodding and bowing obsequiously. Tulyet growled something about it being time that Moleyns was back in the castle, but had not taken many steps towards his prisoner when there was a flurry of excited barks. The stallion reared and Moleyns fell off.
‘Sir John Moleyns indeed!’ sneered Michael. ‘He is not fit to bear such a title. Even you could have kept your seat then, Matt, and that is saying something.’
When Moleyns failed to stand up, Bartholomew went to see if he needed help, but so many folk had clustered around the fallen knight that it was difficult to push through them. A few carried torches, although the light they cast was unsteady, and there was a very real danger of setting someone else alight.
A person in a cloak with a prettily embroidered hem – a woman’s garment – was trying to escape, and Bartholomew was shoved away rudely when they got in each other’s way. While he staggered, off balance, he saw the cowled figure he had spotted earlier, but the cleric was more adept at surging through crowds than Bartholomew, and had vanished before he could be hailed. Grimly, Bartholomew resumed his journey.
‘Stand back!’ he shouted as he elbowed his way through the throng. ‘Let him breathe.’
The spectators eased away, allowing him just enough space to crouch down and examine Moleyns. He was vaguely aware of a number of familiar faces peering at him in the gloom, including Moleyns’ wife and lawyer, who had dismounted and were trying to keep their feet in the scrum.
Moleyns’ eyes were closed, and he lay unmoving among the scuffling feet. It did not take Bartholomew a moment to make his diagnosis, although it was not one he had been expecting.
‘Lord!’ he muttered to no one in particular. ‘He is dead.’
CHAPTER 2
Stars were still glittering in the black velvet of the sky when the scholars of Michaelhouse prised themselves from their beds the following day. It was still bitterly cold, and frost had settled in a hard white crust across roofs and the mud of the yard. The water in the kitchen had frozen again, despite the fire that had been left burning all night, and Agatha the laundress, who ran the domestic side of the College, could be heard cursing as she tried to break it with a poker.
As usual, the College was bursting at the seams, because Master Langelee continued to enrol far more students than was practicable in order to get their tuition fees. A run of bad luck, combined with a series of dubious investments, meant that Michaelhouse remained on the brink of financial ruin, despite several recent donations from Bartholomew’s generous sister, and overloading his Fellows with pupils was an easy way for Langelee to raise much-needed cash. This had resulted in an acute shortage of space, even with all the first years sleeping in the hall.
Bartholomew had always had two chambers at his disposal, but this was a luxury the College could no longer afford. His students – at least three times as many as he should have had – were crammed into the larger one, while he slept in the room where he kept his medicines. This had originally been provided because the reek of these powerful compounds was thought to be injurious to his health, but the danger had been conveniently forgotten in the demand for berths. He did not even have it to himself, and was obliged to share with his book-bearer Cynric and Deynman the librarian.
Deynman had once been a student himself, accepted purely because his father was rich. His studies had not gone well, and everyone had breathed a sigh of relief when he had abandoned a career in medicine and had opted instead to look after Michaelhouse’s small but valuable collection of books. His proud father insisted on funding the post, and as no son of his was going to lack creature comforts, the allowance included plenty of money for firewood.
It was a pleasant change for Bartholomew, who usually shivered all through winter, while wind howled through the gaps in his windows and froze the mould that dripped down his walls. Now, he woke each morning to a blaze that had kept the three of them agreeably toasty all night, and hot water was available for washing and shaving. Better yet, his clothes were always aired when he donned them, and were comfortably warm against his skin. Sleeping with his head under a bench and his legs bent was a small price to pay for such unaccustomed delights.
Cynric had been in Bartholomew’s employ for years, and the relationship between them was more of equals than master and servant. Unfortunately, the Welshman was one of the most superstitious men in the country, so their cramped quarters were liberally adorned with bundles of herbs, amulets, charms and mysterious pouches. Those Fellows in religious Orders had asked that they be removed – or at least put somewhere more discreet – but Cynric had doggedly refused, and the witchy paraphernalia remained.
‘I am sorry that Satan stabbed Chancellor Tynkell,’ he said conversationally, reaching for one of his talismans and kissing it three times. ‘Poor man.’
‘He was killed by a person,’ Bartholomew told him firmly. ‘The Devil had nothing to do with it.’
‘Oh, yes, he did,’ argued Cynric. ‘We all saw that battle on the tower, and I watched him fly away afterwards.’
‘You saw the wind catch Tynkell’s cloak,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘That is all.’
‘Oh, yes?’ challenged Cynric. ‘Then why did Brother Michael’s beadles fail to find it? I know for a fact that he had them looking all afternoon. The answer is that it was not a cloak, but Satan, who took off from the tower and soared over to the Barnwell Fields.’
‘And why would he go there?’ asked Bartholomew archly. ‘To talk to the sheep?’
‘His ways are not for us to question,’ said Cynric darkly, then grew thoughtful. ‘I imagine he used one of his claws to inflict the fatal wound. You did say it was not a knife.’
‘Yes, but that does not mean it was a claw. It was more likely to have been a long nail or some other kind of thin spike.’
‘I imagine Satan has plenty of those,’ put in Deynman, who had been listening with avid interest. ‘He probably carries them in his purse, along with his coins and nose-cloths.’
He and Cynric began a debate about what else the Devil might keep in his scrip, so Bartholomew left them to it and walked into the yard, where his colleagues were gathering, ready to process to church for their morning devotions. While he waited, he looked around at the College that had been his home for longer than he cared to remember.
It was dominated by its hall, a handsome building with an oriel window, and a beautiful m
ural along one wall, which depicted Michaelhouse’s scholars listening to four great thinkers: Aristotle, Aquinas, Plato and Galen. Its shutters were closed, and would remain so all day, given that none of its windows had glass, although a light gleaming underneath one showed that the students who slept in that part of it were astir.
While the scholars were at church, the servants would stack away the mattresses, and set out benches and tables for breakfast. When the meal was over, the tables would be folded away, and the hall converted into a lecture room. Langelee and his Fellows would sit in their assigned places, and struggle to keep their own class’s attention over the competing racket from their colleagues.
Below the hall were the kitchens and a series of pantries, while adjacent to it was the conclave, a cosy parlour that was the undisputed domain of the Fellows, a place where they could escape from their charges and relax. At right angles to the hall were the twin accommodation wings, two storeys high and with four doors apiece. Each door led to a little vestibule with rooms on either side, and stairs leading to the upper floor. Bartholomew lived in the older, more dilapidated northern one.
‘I did not sleep a wink,’ grumbled Michael, coming to stand next to him. His breath plumed as he spoke. ‘I could not stop thinking about Tynkell.’
‘It kept me awake, too,’ confessed Bartholomew. ‘We saw the killer with our own eyes, as did half the town, yet we have nothing to help us identify him.’
Michael grimaced. ‘He thinks he is so clever, and it makes me even more determined to catch him. Especially after what happened to Moleyns.’
Bartholomew blinked. ‘Surely you are not suggesting a connection between the two? How can there be? One was a respectable scholar, the other a criminal; one was stabbed on a tower, the other fell off his horse; one died “fighting the Devil”, the other chatting in the street—’
‘Two well-known men and two sudden deaths in public places,’ countered Michael. ‘I want you to examine Moleyns properly this morning, Matt. No, do not argue – I need the truth. Then we shall combine forces with Dick Tulyet to find the culprit.’
A Grave Concern: The Twenty Second Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew Book 22) Page 5