A Grave Concern: The Twenty Second Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew Book 22)

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘Linking Moleyns and Tynkell might lead you astray,’ warned Bartholomew.

  ‘Then you will just have to keep me on the right path. We begin today, as soon as we have been to church and eaten breakfast. And do not say it is term time, and you cannot spare the time, because you have him.’

  He nodded to Bartholomew’s senior student, John Aungel, who had taken on the task of minding his master’s classes when Bartholomew was busy with patients – which was greatly appreciated, as all Cambridge’s medici were currently inundated with work arising from the continued cold snap – congested lungs, chills, injuries resulting from falls, and frost-nipped fingers, toes, ears and noses.

  Aungel hurried over when he saw they were talking about him. ‘I imagine you want me to teach while you find Chancellor Tynkell’s killer,’ he said, and beamed. ‘I do not mind, sir. I know Galen’s Prognostica backwards, and I would love to help.’

  ‘You would?’ asked Bartholomew suspiciously, wondering what mischief was brewing. Students did not volunteer for extra work out of the goodness of their hearts.

  ‘Oh, yes! Master Langelee has offered to make me a Fellow if I prove my worth, so I am delighted that you will be otherwise engaged for a while. It will give me a chance to show off my talents.’

  Bartholomew was astonished. He was so used to his pupils racing away to earn lots of money by physicking the wealthy that it had never occurred to him that one might like a career in academia. Then he realised why Langelee was so keen to acquire another medicus.

  ‘Matilde,’ he said heavily. ‘He thinks I will resign when she returns to Cambridge, and he wants you as my replacement.’

  Matilde was the love of his life, who had left Cambridge four and a half years ago in the mistaken belief that her affection for him was not reciprocated. The misunderstanding had since been set to rights, and a week earlier, a letter had arrived announcing that she was on her way back to him. But so much time had passed that he feared they could not just pick up where they had left off, and so he was unsure what to think about her imminent return, other than that it was seriously disturbing his peace of mind.

  Aungel shrugged. ‘He could do worse. But you should marry and leave the College if she asks you to wed her, sir. You have been here too long, and a change will do you good.’

  ‘Out of the mouths of babes and those with agendas,’ murmured Michael, amused, as Aungel swaggered away.

  ‘I cannot decide what to do about Matilde,’ Bartholomew confided unhappily. ‘It has been a long time since we last met, and we are both different people now. It may be too late for—’

  ‘Nonsense,’ interrupted Michael. ‘Not a day has passed that you have not missed her, and her recent letter made it perfectly clear that her feelings for you are unchanged.’

  ‘Perhaps they are, but she cannot abandon me without a word, then expect to march in as though nothing has happened. If she really wanted a life with me, she would not have disappeared in the first place.’

  ‘She went because she wanted a life with you – and she thought she was not going to get one. Personally, I am all admiration for her: the moment she learned that the door was still open, she set about securing enough money to keep you both from starving once you exchange your University stipend for wedded bliss.’

  ‘Money should not matter,’ persisted Bartholomew stubbornly. ‘If she truly loved me, she would have come back at once. Instead, she dallied in York, meddling about with investments.’

  ‘Sentimental claptrap! You cannot blame her for declining to live in a hovel while you squander all your earnings on medicine for the poor. You should give her a chance when she arrives, because I believe she can make you happy.’

  ‘I am not so sure, Brother. Not now.’

  ‘Well, at least listen to what she has to say, although I cannot see that you will have to do it very soon. It is far too cold for travel, and she will have to wait for the weather to ease. You have plenty of time before you need to make a decision.’

  When Michaelhouse was first established, its founder, the rich lawyer-priest Hervey de Stanton, was determined that his scholars would not neglect their religious duties, so he had included a church in the property he bequeathed. St Michael’s was a pretty building with a large chancel and a low, squat tower. It was bitterly cold inside though. Icicles dangled from the place where the ceiling leaked, and the Holy Water in the stoop had turned to Holy Ice.

  The Master and his Fellows took their places in the choir stalls, with the students ranged behind them. Langelee shifted impatiently from foot to foot, clearly itching to get on with something more pressing; he hated enforced immobility. Clippesby’s head was bowed in prayer, although he had a duck under either arm, and not for the first time, Bartholomew marvelled that the creatures selected for such excursions never tried to escape. William stood next to Langelee, watching with critical eyes as Suttone the Carmelite performed the ceremonies at the altar.

  Portly and an indifferent scholar, Suttone was utterly convinced that the plague was poised to return, when it would claim all those who had survived it the first time. He was a theologian, and his sermons tended to reflect his nihilist convictions, which meant they could make for bleak listening. However, as he had been saying the same thing for years and none of his grim predictions had yet come to pass, people had learned to take his warnings with a good pinch of salt.

  His assistant that day was Will Kolvyle, one of two scholars recruited from Nottingham. Unfortunately, the other – John Dallingridge – had died before he could take up his appointment, and was the man currently being provided with a magnificent tomb in St Mary the Great. There was a rumour that he had been poisoned, but Kolvyle assured his horrified colleagues that there was no truth to the tale, and that the hapless Dallingridge had just died of natural causes.

  Bartholomew had not liked the sound of Kolvyle when he had read the lad’s application, and had voted against the appointment. The other Fellows had disregarded his concerns which meant that the motion to elect Kolvyle had passed. However, they had realised their mistake the moment the young man arrived: Kolvyle considered himself to be a rising star of unusual brilliance, who would bring fame and fortune to any foundation he deigned to grace with his presence. He was selfish, arrogant and rude, and made no bones about the fact that he considered Michaelhouse well beneath him, a mere stepping stone to better things. None of his new colleagues liked him, and he was almost as unpopular at Thelnetham had been.

  That morning’s service was longer than usual, because it was the Feast of the Purification of the Virgin, also known as Candlemas, when candles were blessed and given to the scholars for their religious obligations throughout the following year. Cynric believed that these warded off storms, and insisted on displaying Bartholomew’s supply on the windowsill, where the elements would see them and move on. For the next twelve months, there would be a mute but determined battle of wills, when Bartholomew would stack them back inside the cupboard and the book-bearer would pull them out again.

  When the rite was over, Langelee led his scholars at a rapid clip out of the church and down St Michael’s Lane, eager now for his breakfast. They were meant to walk in silence, but academics were talkative by nature, so it was a rule they all ignored.

  ‘Well, Brother?’ the Master asked. ‘Have you charged Satan with Tynkell’s murder yet?’

  Michael scowled at him. ‘Are you sure you can tell me nothing useful about what happened? You are a practical man – you know the culprit was a person, and that the Devil was actually a cloak.’

  ‘I know no such thing,’ averred Langelee, crossing himself. ‘Especially having listened to Hopeman in the Cardinal’s Cap last night. He intends to take Tynkell’s place, and has promised that Satan will never set foot in Cambridge again if he is elected. I might vote for him, because we cannot have Lucifer flapping around our streets.’

  ‘Please do not,’ said Michael curtly. ‘He is a zealot, and will get us suppressed. The Church disl
ikes rabid opinions being brayed to impressionable young minds.’

  ‘There is that cleric again,’ said Bartholomew suddenly. ‘The one in the cowl.’

  ‘Do not bother to chase him,’ said Michael, although Bartholomew had no intention of doing anything so rash in a lane that was slick with ice. ‘He will come to us when he is ready.’

  They reached Michaelhouse to find the Sheriff waiting for them at the gate, so Michael and Bartholomew stepped out of the procession to talk to him, leaving their colleagues to hurry across the yard to the smelly warmth of the hall. Again, Bartholomew found himself looking for Dickon, and smiled when he remembered that the lad had gone.

  ‘Moleyns,’ began Tulyet without preamble. ‘His death is a serious problem for me. The King will be vexed that I failed to protect the friend he placed in my custody, while Moleyns’ wife Egidia threatens to sue me for negligence. Will you look at the body, Matt, and tell me exactly how he died?’

  Bartholomew nodded. ‘I tried to do it last night, but his lawyer – Inge, is that his name? – claimed it was outside the University’s jurisdiction.’

  ‘Did he indeed?’ murmured Tulyet, eyes narrowed as he reached for his purse. ‘Then here are three pennies, which means you are now officially in my employ, and if you discover anything untoward, Inge will be the first person I shall interrogate. The second will be Egidia, who is far more interested in suing me than grieving for her husband.’

  ‘You should question them,’ said Michael. ‘Especially if it transpires that Moleyns has been poisoned. They were both at a feast in Nottingham, during which Dallingridge is alleged to have been fed a toxin. Kolvyle assures us that the tale is untrue, but I do not trust him.’

  ‘He is a nasty youth,’ agreed Tulyet. ‘And if Moleyns is the victim of foul play, then he will be my third suspect. By all accounts, Dallingridge would have been successful here, and Kolvyle is not the sort of fellow to appreciate competition.’

  ‘Petit the mason was in Nottingham then as well,’ mused Michael, ‘and he has done very well out of Dallingridge’s death. Not only is he being paid to create his patron’s princely tomb, but the project has also won him several new customers.’

  ‘Yes, and one is my sister,’ said Bartholomew sharply. ‘So leave him alone until Oswald’s monument is finished, if you please. The process has already dragged on far longer than it should, and it is a strain on her.’

  ‘It has dragged on because Petit it trying to serve too many clients,’ said Tulyet. ‘Besides Dallingridge and Stanmore, he is also building monuments for Holty, Mortimer and Deschalers. Of course, he only accepted the last two to stop the work from going to Lakenham. He and Lakenham hate each other, as you know.’

  ‘Godrich of King’s Hall has retained Petit’s services, too,’ said Michael. ‘Although his monument cannot be started until I have decided where it can go – which will not be the chancel. Then there are Moleyns and Tynkell … it is a good time for tomb-makers.’

  ‘Speaking of Tynkell,’ said Tulyet, ‘I hear you have no plans to take his place, Brother. I wish you would reconsider. You and I work well together, and I doubt anyone else will be as effective.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Michael. ‘You will have to contend with Lyng, Thelnetham or Hopeman.’

  Tulyet was appalled. ‘They are the candidates? Christ God! Hopeman will have us in flames within a week, Lyng is too old to be effective, while Thelnetham … well, you cannot have a Chancellor who wears pink bows on his shoes. I do not want to spend all my time quelling spats between jeering townsmen and affronted scholars.’

  ‘Perhaps others will agree to stand,’ said Michael. ‘I shall have a word with a few suitable puppets … I mean candidates later today.’

  ‘Good,’ said Tulyet. ‘But we had better see to Moleyns. Will you come now, Matt?’

  ‘Not until he has broken his fast,’ said Michael, before Bartholomew could reply. ‘He cannot deal with corpses on an empty stomach, and nor can I.’

  Michaelhouse was not noted for the quality of its fare, although the food on offer that morning was better than usual, because Candlemas was a Feast Day. There was pottage with pieces of real meat, although these were few and far between, followed by bread and honey. Like the processions to and from church, meals were meant to be taken in silence, so the scholars could fill their minds with religious thoughts as they ate. It was another rule the Fellows ignored, which made it difficult to enforce among the students, so it was not long before the hall was abuzz with lively conversation. Most revolved around the Chancellor.

  ‘Poor Tynkell,’ said Langelee, when he had intoned one of his ungrammatical Latin graces, and was devouring his pottage with every appearance of relish; he tended not to mind what he ate, as long as there was lots of it. ‘But Hopeman says his replacement will be in post within a week, which is good – it is risky to keep such an important office vacant.’

  ‘His replacement will not be elected until next term,’ countered Michael, who had emptied his bowl before most of the others had been served, and was already holding it out for a refill. ‘These matters cannot be rushed.’

  ‘Oh, yes, they can,’ argued Kolvyle, inspecting the contents of his own dish before pushing it away with a fastidious shudder. ‘The statutes say that if a Chancellor dies in office, there must be an election within a month. You have no grounds to postpone, Brother.’

  ‘Tynkell did not “die in office”,’ countered Michael shortly. ‘He was murdered. And I shall not appoint a successor until his killer is under lock and key.’

  ‘No, you will not appoint him,’ said Kolvyle challengingly. ‘Because he must be elected. And we will have a ballot soon, because I shall go to St Mary the Great today, and issue a demand for one to be held next Wednesday. Exactly a week from now.’

  ‘You cannot,’ said Michael irritably. ‘An election can only be called by the University’s senior theologian – who just happens to be me. If you have read the statutes as closely as you claim, you should know this.’

  ‘Except in extremis,’ argued Kolvyle with a triumphant smirk. ‘And I would say that the Chancellor’s murder constitutes desperate circumstances, wouldn’t you? So I shall make my announcement today, and most scholars will support it.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ said Michael, his voice heavy with understanding. ‘You aim to stand yourself. Well, I am afraid that is out of the question, because you are not eligible.’

  Kolvyle blinked his astonishment. ‘What are you talking about? Of course I am eligible.’

  ‘You are only a Bachelor,’ said Michael sweetly. ‘The Chancellor must be a Master or a Doctor.’

  ‘I am a Master,’ snapped Kolvyle crossly. ‘I completed all the requirements, and even gave a celebratory dinner last month – one you attended, Brother. The only thing lacking is a certificate, which Tynkell was supposed to have signed weeks ago, but he kept forgetting. It is a formality, no more.’

  Michael smiled. ‘A formality that will be completed as soon as the new Chancellor is in office. Obviously, that cannot be you – you can hardly award yourself a degree.’

  Kolvyle’s expression was murderous, but he realised that he was making a spectacle of himself, and hastened to smother his temper. He shrugged, feigning indifference. ‘Well, I am young, so there will be plenty of time for such honours in the future, unlike the rest of you. Meanwhile, I shall vote for Godrich from King’s Hall. He will make a splendid Chancellor. Better than Hopeman, Lyng or Thelnetham.’

  ‘Godrich plans to stand?’ frowned Michael.

  Kolvyle smirked again, pleased to be in possession of information that the monk did not have. ‘He announced it last night. Did you not hear?’

  ‘Godrich will not make a very good Chancellor,’ predicted Suttone. He had dripped honey down the front of his habit, and his efforts to mop it up had left a sticky smear; a mat of breadcrumbs adhered to it. ‘He will favour King’s Hall at the expense of other foundations, and he is a dreadful elitist. He is not the man we want.�
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  ‘Well, I like him,’ said Kolvyle defiantly. ‘He recognises promising young talent, and I shall rise through the University’s ranks more quickly with an enlightened man like him in charge.’

  ‘No self-interest here,’ murmured Bartholomew, prodding warily at a lump in his pottage. It looked suspiciously like part of a pig’s snout, complete with bristles.

  ‘The role of Senior Proctor has grown bloated,’ Kolvyle went on, ‘and it is time it was reined in. Godrich said that will be the first thing he does when he wins.’

  ‘You are rash, throwing in your lot with a rival foundation,’ remarked Langelee. ‘Their first allegiance is to each other, and you will find yourself out on a limb if you alienate us. And speaking of unsuitable acquaintances, I hear you were friends with Moleyns the criminal.’

  Kolvyle regarded him with open dislike. ‘We knew each other from Nottingham. But my personal life is none of your affair, Master, and I will thank you to mind your own business.’

  The response stunned Langelee and his Fellows into a gaping silence, during which Kolvyle stood and sailed out of the hall, head held high, blithely ignoring the rule that no one was supposed to leave the table before the Master, and certainly not before the final grace.

  ‘You chose him,’ said Bartholomew, the first to find his tongue. ‘I told you he would be difficult, but you refused to listen.’

  ‘Then you should have made your point more forcefully,’ snapped Langelee, eyeing him accusingly.

  ‘You should,’ agreed Michael. ‘I dislike this alliance with Godrich, too – another man with delusions of grandeur, as shown by his determination to be buried in the sort of style usually reserved for bishops and nobles.’

  ‘Godrich will make a terrible Chancellor,’ said Suttone. He had tried to rinse the honey from his robe with ale, and had made a greater mess than ever. ‘He is too lazy.’