‘Worse, he hates women,’ put in Langelee, shaking his head at such an unfathomable notion, ‘and would too rigorously enforce the rule that all scholars must shun them. Celibacy is all very well for some, but what about those of us with normal appetites?’
‘It would be a nuisance,’ agreed Suttone, who liked the company of ladies himself, despite the religious vows he had taken. Then he brightened. ‘But no one will vote for him once they know his stance on lasses. He will lose on that issue alone.’
‘He will not, because he has the support of King’s Hall, whose infractions he will overlook,’ countered Langelee, ‘while the clerics will applaud his miserable views.’ He glanced at Suttone. ‘Well, most of them.’
‘What a choice,’ muttered Michael. ‘Godrich, Lyng, Thelnetham or Hopeman.’
‘Lyng is a decent soul,’ said Langelee, ‘although I would be happier if he were not so old. He is not robust enough to withstand the rigours of office now.’
‘He is not as frail as everyone seems to think,’ argued Michael. ‘There is a core of steel in that man, which makes me wonder to what depths he would plunge to get himself elected.’
‘I do not see him engaging in tussles on rooftops while pretending to be Satan,’ said Langelee doubtfully. ‘Tynkell was no Hercules, but even he could have bested the likes of Lyng.’
Suttone cleared his throat. ‘I might stand for election myself. I have always had a hankering for the post, and I am good at administration. I will not impose any unreasonable laws – the one about women can go for a start, because God would not have created ladies if He had not wanted us to enjoy them.’
Michael regarded him appraisingly, while Langelee nodded to say he fully agreed with the last part, and Bartholomew wondered if he would be able to marry Matilde and still teach.
‘Would you be willing to listen to advice from a man with experience and skill?’ asked the monk keenly. ‘Namely me?’
Suttone inclined his head. ‘Indeed, I would welcome such counsel.’
‘Well, then,’ said Michael, green eyes gleaming at the prospect of a challenge. ‘We shall have to see what we can do about getting you in.’
‘You are both excused College duties until Suttone is safely in post,’ declared Langelee promptly. ‘It is high time we had a chancellor among our Fellows. However, I liked Tynkell, and his killer must be brought to justice. Bartholomew can help you with that, Brother.’
‘I cannot,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘I have too many patients, and my students—’
‘It is a good opportunity for me to see if Aungel can step into your shoes when you leave.’ Langelee raised his hand to stop the physician from speaking again. ‘I have made my decision, so do not argue. Well? What are you waiting for? Off you go.’
Disliking the way everyone assumed he would automatically hurl himself into Matilde’s arms, when the truth was that he was hopelessly confused about his feelings towards her, Bartholomew trailed after Michael to meet Tulyet in St Mary the Great. On any other day, he would have suggested deliberating his romantic conundrum in the Brazen George – a tavern where Michael was always made very welcome – but the monk’s face was pale with worry, and Bartholomew did not want to burden him further.
The University Church was busier than usual, partly because it was Candlemas, but also because the battle on the tower had encouraged folk to go there and see what had attracted Satan to the place. It rang with excited voices and the clatter of industry, the latter of which came from Petit and his assistants, who were setting an elaborately carved pinnacle on Dallingridge’s tomb.
‘You promised to work on Oswald today,’ said Bartholomew, approaching them and speaking accusingly.
‘His mortar is still too wet, I am afraid,’ shrugged Petit. His apprentices came to stand behind him in a protective semicircle. ‘It is the cold weather, you see – it slows everything down. Perhaps it will be set by tomorrow.’
Bartholomew knew exactly why Petit had elected to work in St Mary the Great that day – it was an opportunity to advertise his skills to the hordes who flocked there. The physician’s suspicions were borne out when Petit grabbed Michael’s arm and tugged him towards the narthex at the western end of the church. The narthex not only contained the Great West Door – the large portal that was only opened for special ceremonial processions – but was also the place where the bells were rung, as the tower was directly above it.
‘Good morning, Nicholas,’ said Michael amiably to the man who was preparing to haul on the ropes. Then he frowned. ‘What are you doing? Mass is over.’
James Nicholas was Secretary to the Chancellor, a quiet, scholarly man who limped from a childhood illness. He had tawny hair and a pleasant smile, and was one of the more able clerks who helped to run the studium generale. It was not his responsibility to chime the bells, but he loved doing it, and Michael was more than happy to let him, because it meant he did not have to pay a verger to oblige.
‘I shall sound them whenever I have a spare moment today,’ explained Nicholas earnestly. ‘It is Candlemas, and people should be reminded of it from dawn until dusk.’
He began to pull, setting first one bell swinging, and then another, until he had all three clanging in a joyful cacophony of noise, moving from rope to rope with impressive skill – most men could only manage one at a time. His face was sombre, but there was a gleam in his eye that revealed his delight in the exercise.
Meanwhile, Petit was forced to shout to make himself heard – the bells were right above their heads. Bartholomew had often wondered if this was why Nicholas loved them: it was an opportunity for a quiet, unassuming man to make a fine old din. Putting his hands over his ears, Michael retreated to the relative peace of the nave. Bartholomew and Petit went with him.
‘The narthex is where Chancellor Tynkell’s monument should be,’ stated Petit authoritatively. ‘Beneath the bells, because he was in charge of seeing them cast and hung. There is plenty of room, even with three ropes whipping about.’
‘You cannot build another monument,’ said Bartholomew shortly. ‘Not until you have finished the five you have already started.’
Petit ignored him. ‘I envisage a canopy with soaring arches, a tomb that will be the envy of all England, and will set a precedent for other high-ranking University men. Such as yourself, Brother. I imagine you would like something handsome, when you go.’
‘If every dead official is provided that sort of monstrosity, there will be no room left in the church for the living,’ remarked Bartholomew caustically. ‘And Tynkell was not an ostentatious man. He would have preferred something modest.’
‘Then I am the fellow you want,’ came a voice from behind them. ‘I am Richard Lakenham, and this is my apprentice Reames. We are latteners – engravers of funerary brasses. We can provide something far more suitable than the gaudy affairs created by Petit.’
Lakenham was a small, nondescript man, who looked as though he was in need of a good meal. By contrast, his pupil appeared to be very well fed, and his clothes were of far better quality than his master’s. Indeed, if Bartholomew had been asked, he would have said that Reames was the one in charge, and Lakenham was the assistant.
‘We will craft a nice plain chest with a pretty brass on top,’ said Reames. ‘You will love it, I promise.’
‘We can engrave him wearing his robes of office, if you like,’ added Lakenham eagerly, ‘and there will be room around the edge for an inscription of your own composition.’
‘They do not want your rubbish,’ growled Petit, furious at the brazen attempt to steal ‘his’ business. ‘They want something decent, something in keeping with Tynkell’s elevated status. They only need to inspect the brass shields you made for Dallingridge’s tomb to see that your work is vastly inferior.’
Lakenham did not deign to acknowledge the insult. He turned his back on the mason and continued to address Michael. ‘Hire us, Brother. You will not regret it. Moreover, we do not flit from job to job like butterfl
ies.’
‘Oh, yes, you do,’ snapped Petit, nettled. ‘Or are you saying that it is not necessary for mortar to set or pitch to cool? No wonder all your tombs fall to pieces!’
‘If they do, it is because you steal my supplies,’ flashed Lakenham, whipping around to glare at him at last. ‘You are a thief, and the sooner you are arrested, the better.’
‘A third brass plate disappeared from our shed last night,’ added Reames, brushing an invisible speck from his gipon. ‘And we know exactly who stole it: you and your louts.’
‘It is true,’ said Lakenham, then jabbed a grubby finger towards Sheriff Tulyet, who was walking down the nave to join them, clearly wondering why Bartholomew had not yet made a start on Moleyns. ‘And he will catch you eventually. He vowed only this morning that you will not keep getting the better of him, and that you will soon swing.’
‘We are not felons,’ shouted Petit, incensed. ‘Accuse Isnard and Gundrede. They might stoop to touching the paltry contents of your vile little hut, but we would never demean—’
‘This is a House of God, not a tavern,’ snapped Tulyet, when he heard what was being bawled. ‘If you cannot behave with the proper decorum, then leave.’
Both sides backed away, unnerved by the anger in his voice, although they had not taken many steps before they resumed their spat.
‘I rue the day they arrived in my town,’ growled Tulyet, watching them in rank disapproval. Then he glared at Bartholomew and Michael. ‘It is your College’s fault, of course. Dallingridge’s death brought them here, and he was one of your Fellows.’
‘Not officially,’ objected Michael, ‘given that he died before he could be installed. It was a pity, actually – he might have served to temper some of Kolvyle’s unpleasantness.’
While he and Tulyet embarked on a detailed analysis of Kolvyle’s failings, Bartholomew decided it was time that he examined Moleyns. However, he had not taken many steps towards the Lady Chapel before he was waylaid by one of Petit’s apprentices. His name was Peter Lucas, and he was a hefty lad with a bad haircut.
‘I know things,’ he muttered, tapping a grimy finger to his temple. ‘Lots of things.’
‘What sort of things?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused.
‘You know,’ said Lucas, and winked meaningfully. ‘Events and people. I might tell you later, if you make it worth my while.’
He had gone before Bartholomew could ask him to elaborate.
Sir John Moleyns had been taken to St Mary the Great because it was the largest and most prestigious church in the town, and Tulyet was keen for the King to know that his friend’s remains had been treated with the appropriate respect. The body was in the Lady Chapel, next to Tynkell, although it occupied a coffin far grander than the one in which the Chancellor lay, and the lid was off, so that well-wishers could pay their last respects face to face.
‘Not that there have been many,’ confided Tulyet. ‘His “friends” dropped him like a hot coal once he was no longer in a position to do them favours at Court.’
By contrast, Tynkell had attracted a great many mourners. At that particular moment, most were Dominicans, led by little Prior Morden, who was perfectly proportioned, but the size of a small child. Bartholomew was pleased to note that the two beadles – both with scarves covering their faces – were dutifully keeping the curious at a respectful distance.
‘We have been praying for his soul,’ explained Morden to Bartholomew, Michael and Tulyet. ‘Which is in serious danger, given what happened to his body.’
‘You mean the deadly miasma that seeps from him?’ asked Tulyet, wrinkling his nose in distaste, while Bartholomew wondered whether to remind them that the Chancellor had smelled like that before he had died.
‘And the rest,’ said Morden darkly. ‘We know why he is in a closed coffin, with all the clasps securely fastened and armed men standing guard. You are afraid that he will break out and come to haunt us.’
‘No, we are not,’ said Bartholomew, horrified that his attempt to protect Tynkell should have been so badly misinterpreted. ‘Those are to prevent ghouls from opening the box to gawp at him. He deserves to be left in peace.’
‘He will not get much of that in here,’ remarked Morden, as a clatter of hammers and raised voices indicated that Petit and his people were back at work. ‘But it is not necessary to conceal the truth from us, Matthew. We are priests: we know all about the Devil taking possession of corpses and using them to walk among the living.’
And with that, he flung a generous glug of holy water towards Tynkell’s casket, and led his friars out. As they went, they chanted a psalm in voices so deep that it verged on the sinister, and sent a shiver down Bartholomew’s spine.
‘Now look what your ridiculous insistence on secrecy has done,’ said Michael irritably. ‘I am sure the truth about Tynkell’s … peculiarities cannot be more terrible than the notion that Satan aims to inhabit his body. It would be better for everyone concerned, if you were honest.’
‘It is not a case of honesty,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘It is a case of respecting his wishes. He made me promise never to tell.’
‘Moleyns,’ prompted Tulyet impatiently. ‘Examine him now, Matt, while the Lady Chapel is fairly empty. I assume you would rather work without too large an audience?’
‘I would rather work with no kind of audience,’ said Bartholomew. ‘So you will have to oust everyone first.’
Tulyet obliged, after which he and the beadles stood guard to ensure that Bartholomew was not disturbed at his grisly craft. Meanwhile, Michael walked to Tynkell’s office in the south aisle, and experienced a sharp pang of sorrow when he saw the Chancellor’s spare shoes under the table. When he closed the door behind him, he saw something else, too – Tynkell’s cloak hanging on a hook at the back of it. He had glanced into the office the previous day, and was annoyed with himself for not searching it properly, because the garment was important for two reasons.
First, it told him that Tynkell had not expected to be out in the elements when he had left his office or he would have taken it with him. And second, it meant it had been the killer’s cloak that had sailed off the roof – so it had to be found and identified as soon as possible. He waylaid a passing beadle and ordered him to continue looking, even giving the man money to make enquiries in the town’s less salubrious alehouses – places no Senior Proctor could go and expect to meet cooperative witnesses.
When the beadle had gone, Michael sat in the chair that Tynkell had occupied for the past six years and sighed with genuine sorrow. The Chancellor had had his faults, but Michael had liked him, and was deeply sorry that his remaining years had been so cruelly snatched away.
He reached for the nearest pile of documents and began to sort through them, alarmed to note that matters which should have been handled weeks ago had been left unattended. They included confirming a number of degrees, one of which was Kolvyle’s.
He leaned back in the chair and pondered. On reflection, the Chancellor had spent hours in his office with the door closed. Michael had assumed, not unreasonably, that Tynkell was busy with the extra assignments that he himself had devised – a ploy intended to prevent him from embarking on a third self-aggrandising scheme. Unfortunately, the mass of neglected documents suggested he had been doing anything but University duties for the past few weeks.
Vexed that he should be left with such a muddle, Michael dealt with the more urgent matters, and was about to summon Secretary Nicholas to help with the rest when he saw the corner of a letter poking from between the pages of a book. The book was Tynkell’s most cherished possession, a gift from his redoubtable mother, who had not long left the town after an extended visit.
Lady Joan of Hereford was a remarkable lady – one of few people who were a match for the hellion Dickon Tulyet – and Michael winced when he realised that he would have to tell her what had happened. He decided to delay the unhappy duty until he could also inform her that the killer had been caught. There were th
ree reasons why this was a good idea.
First, there was a danger that she might appear with the intention of catching the culprit herself. Second, Tynkell’s funeral would be a much more manageable affair without her interference. And third, she had declared several times that she would make a better Chancellor than her son, and Michael did not want her to stage a coup. She was ineligible on several counts, not least of which was her sex, but Joan was unlikely to let those stop her.
He pulled the document out. It bore Moleyns’ signature, and invited Tynkell to meet him during Mass, when ‘certain business’ would be discussed. The tenor of the message suggested it was not the first time recipient and sender had made such an arrangement, and that they had done it in secret then, too. There was no hint of menace, so Tynkell had clearly not been coerced into an association with the felon, but Michael was puzzled, even so. What could the Chancellor of the University have had to say to such a man?
No answers came, so Michael went to the door and called for Nicholas. The Chancellor’s secretary shook his head when Michael showed him the note.
‘I have never seen it before. However, Moleyns did seek Tynkell out when he attended services here. They often stood in the nave and chatted.’
‘Chatted amiably?’ probed Michael.
Nicholas shrugged. ‘I was never close enough to hear, but they both laughed from time to time. I did once warn Tynkell that it was unwise to keep company with such a person, especially in public, but he told me to mind my own business.’
‘Tynkell did?’ Michael was astonished. It did not sound like anything the meek Chancellor would have uttered.
‘He had changed in the last few weeks,’ confided Nicholas. ‘I do not know why.’
‘And you did not think to tell me?’
‘You are always so busy, what with the University growing apace and your teaching at Michaelhouse, that I did not like to worry you. Besides, there was nothing specific, and I was afraid you would think I was wasting your time.’
‘In what way had he changed? And what precipitated it?’
A Grave Concern: The Twenty Second Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew Book 22) Page 7