‘I saw you near Moleyns when he took his tumble,’ said Bartholomew, coming straight to the point so he would not have to spend a moment longer than necessary in such objectionable company. ‘Will you tell us exactly what happened?’
Kolvyle shrugged. ‘A dog barked, Satan bucked, and Moleyns hit the ground. I hurried to help him – he was swearing, so he was definitely alive – but then there was a stampede, and I dislike being jostled by inferiors, so I withdrew.’
‘Which particular inferiors were these?’ asked Michael. ‘Godrich? I know for a fact that he was there, too, because I saw him.’
Kolvyle regarded him with open dislike. ‘He is not a man for rubbing shoulders with commoners either – he followed me away. However, Lyng did not. He is probably the killer, desperate to do something meaningful before he dies of old age. Or Hopeman, perhaps, driven by his low intellect. Or a tomb-maker, for the delight of building another grave.’
‘In other words, you have no idea,’ said Michael, unimpressed.
Kolvyle smiled, an expression of such smug arrogance that Bartholomew was seized with the sudden and most uncharacteristic desire to slap it off him. ‘Oh, I have plenty of theories, all sure to be better than anything you might have devised. However, to solve the case, you need to identify exactly how the two victims are connected.’
‘Clearly,’ agreed Michael with admirable patience. ‘And do you have the answer?’
‘Of course,’ replied Kolvyle, and turned back to his notes.
‘So what is it?’ pressed Michael, while Bartholomew clenched his fists behind his back and was all admiration for the monk’s self-control.
‘There was a special service in St Mary the Great last week, to pray against a return of the plague. Suttone insisted on holding it, if you recall.’
‘Yes,’ said Michael. ‘I attended it myself. Was Moleyns there, too? I did not notice.’
‘He was,’ replied Kolvyle. ‘And he spent a lot of time chatting to Lyng. Afterwards, Lyng went straight to our Chancellor, whispered in his ear, then returned to Moleyns. Obviously, Moleyns and Tynkell had business together, and Lyng was their go-between.’
‘We know Tynkell and Moleyns met,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Tynkell was interested in siege warfare, and Moleyns was willing to give him eye-witness accounts. Moleyns sent him messages, inviting him to meet in St Mary the Great.’
Kolvyle released a shrill bray of laughter. ‘You believe that? What an ass you are, Bartholomew! Of course they were not discussing weapons!’ He turned back to Michael. ‘So there is your connection, Brother, although you should not have needed me to draw it to your attention. Now all you need to do is find out what they discussed.’
‘Do you know?’ asked Michael.
Kolvyle hesitated, but then shook his head, although it was plain he wished it were otherwise, so he could gloat a little more about his superior knowledge.
‘What about Cook?’ asked Bartholomew, fighting down his irritation by pondering whether the barber or Kolvyle was more disagreeable. ‘Did he join this discussion?’
‘He might have done. He was always hanging around Moleyns, because he knew him from Nottingham, and liked to consider himself the friend of a friend of the King.’
‘Ah, yes, Nottingham,’ said Michael. ‘The place where Dallingridge was poisoned. I wonder who could have done such a terrible thing.’
‘He claimed he was poisoned,’ said Kolvyle contemptuously. ‘But there was nothing to prove it, as I have told you before.’
‘That is not what Nottingham’s Sheriff thinks,’ said Michael. ‘He is—’
‘Nottingham’s Sheriff!’ sneered Kolvyle. ‘That man is an idiot of the first order. Now, if you will excuse me, I have work to do.’
He elbowed Bartholomew and Michael out of his room and locked the door behind him. He was the only College member who took such precautions, and Bartholomew had always considered it an affront. Then, head held high, the youngster swaggered across the yard.
‘I will look the other way while you thump him, Brother,’ offered Bartholomew.
‘Do not tempt me, Matt.’
Unfortunately, several patients needed Bartholomew, and as he refused to delegate their care to his students, the monk went alone to St Mary the Great to hear his beadles’ reports, hoping one had learned something to help him catch the killer. He had ordered them to trawl the taverns the previous night, and had allocated a generous sum from the University Chest to buy any information on offer. He arrived at the church to find Whittlesey waiting for him, too.
‘Thank you for your offer to house me in Michaelhouse for the duration of my stay here,’ the envoy said. ‘But I have been lodging in King’s Hall since I arrived, and Godrich will be offended if I moved now. I am sure you understand.’
‘As you wish,’ said Michael, simultaneously relieved that Michaelhouse’s poverty would not be exposed to a man he wanted to impress, but hurt that his hospitality should be rejected. ‘Godrich is a friend of yours then? How did you meet?’
‘We are kin – both cousins to the Archbishop of Canterbury.’ Whittlesey hesitated for a moment, but then forged on. ‘My familial ties to the country’s leading cleric proved very useful for Bishop Sheppey. Moreover, I learned a lot about Church politics during my years in his service – the sort of experience that could be of considerable value to his successor …’
Michael smiled. ‘Forgive me, Whittlesey. I did not invite you to serve as my envoy, because I assumed it was a given. I am sure we can do a great deal for each other.’
Whittlesey smiled back, pleased. ‘In that case, I should like to watch you at work again – openly this time. I must make myself familiar with your ways quickly, because we shall both be busy once we reach Rochester. Do not mind me – you will not know I am here.’
Michael seriously doubted that, and was acutely aware of his beadles casting uneasy glances in the envoy’s direction as they delivered their reports. He understood why: there was something unsettling about the silent, black presence in the shadows, especially as Whittlesey liked to keep his cowl up, to protect the back of his neck from draughts. It was, the monk thought, rather like having Death looming over his shoulder.
‘So none of you learned anything to help me catch Tynkell’s killer?’ he asked when his men had finished speaking, struggling to keep the disappointment from his voice. ‘Despite spending four shillings on ale?’
‘Sorry, Brother,’ replied Meadowman, their leader and his favourite. ‘All we can say is that the culprit is more likely to be a scholar than a townsman.’
‘And why is that, pray?’ asked Michael warily.
‘Because no one has stepped forward to take credit for the deed, which a guilty townsman would definitely do, for the glory it would win him among his peers. Most real folk are delighted that the University has lost its leading scholar.’
‘And if the culprit is not a scholar, then it is the Devil,’ added another. ‘After all, he did fly away after he stabbed the Chancellor.’
Michael’s eyes narrowed. ‘Is this why you have failed to locate the cloak – you are all of the asinine belief that it was Satan you saw fluttering off the roof?’
‘It was Satan,’ the beadle assured him earnestly, while his cronies clamoured their agreement, ‘so the “cloak” will never be found, because it does not exist.’
‘Of course, the tomb-makers are also on our list of suspects,’ said Meadowman before the Senior Proctor could argue. ‘I know they are not scholars, but they cannot be classed as townsfolk either, because they have not been here long enough.’
Michael dismissed them in disgust, then attended Tynkell’s burial, a small, private ceremony for friends – a public requiem would be held later. Even so, there was an impressive turnout, and Secretary Nicholas was not the only one who wept when the body was lowered into the ground. Afterwards, heavy of heart, Michael settled down to some administration, aware of Whittlesey shuffling restlessly behind him as time ticked past and the
re was nothing interesting to see. Eventually, Nicholas arrived, red-eyed, but back in control of himself once more.
‘Here is the official notice for the Great West Door,’ he said, waving it to dry the ink. ‘Authorising the election for noon next Wednesday. Lyng will be disappointed, of course. He would rather it were sooner – before Hopeman and Godrich can besmirch him.’
‘Does he have anything they can besmirch him with?’ asked Michael keenly.
‘I doubt it, but they could find ways to defame a saint. A lot is at stake here, Brother, and all five candidates are determined to win.’
‘You support Thelnetham, I recall.’
‘Yes, but not because he promised to let me keep my job – Weasenham just said that for spite. It is because he will make the best Chancellor. He is intelligent, astute, dynamic, tough, a gifted teacher and a brilliant orator. The other candidates pale by comparison.’
Michael leaned back in his chair. ‘But they all have powerful backers: Lyng has the hostels, Godrich has King’s Hall, Hopeman has the Dominicans, and Suttone has me. Thelnetham has no one.’
‘He has his own order – the Gilbertines.’
‘Yes, but they only amount to two dozen voting members, and they have never been very influential in the University.’
Nicholas smiled. ‘True, but he also has the support of intelligent men – clever scholars who can see beyond simple and arbitrary allegiances. They may be a minority, but they are eloquent and persuasive. Do not underestimate them or him.’
‘Unfortunately for Thelnetham,’ said Michael, ‘I suspect even that may not be enough.’
With Meadowman walking in front, bearing the declaration like a holy relic, Michael and Nicholas, with Whittlesey trailing behind, processed to the narthex. While they were there, Nicholas took the opportunity to ring the bells, hauling on each rope in turn until he had all three clanging in a joyful cacophony. He grinned his delight at the exercise, although the noise was deafening, drowning out the sound of Meadowman nailing the proclamation to the Great West Door and the remarks of those who gathered to read it.
The bells’clamour caused other scholars to come and see what was happening, so it was not long before there was quite a crowd. It included Hopeman, Godrich, Thelnetham and Suttone, although there was no sign of Lyng. Michael wondered why the old man had elected to stay away when it was an ideal opportunity to win more votes.
‘The bells will remain silent until a new Chancellor is elected,’ declared Michael, the moment he could make himself heard again. A sigh of relief rippled through the onlookers, although Nicholas’s face fell. ‘Then all scholars will know that the interregnum has ended.’
Vicar Frisby was grinning his amusement. ‘Five days without bells will be agony for you, Nicholas. You had better come for a drink, to take your mind off it.’
‘It is too long to be without a proper leader,’ objected Hopeman, and glared at Michael. ‘I know why you want the delay, of course – to give your creature Suttone more time to rally support.’
‘I am no one’s creature,’ objected Suttone indignantly. ‘Nor do I need to cheat. Why would I, when I have the support of the Senior Proctor and the Carmelites?’
‘And the votes of lustful rogues who aim to ravage Cambridge’s women,’ Hopeman snapped back. ‘You pander to the lowest kind of scum – the kind I shall not tolerate when I am in charge.’
There was a chorus of jeers at this pronouncement, and Michael was pleased that the Carmelite’s attack on celibacy was making him popular. The statute in question could never be revoked, of course – the town would not tolerate having open season declared on its women, and relations between it and the University would become so strained as to be untenable. The rule, no matter how inconvenient, was there to stay, although that was not something he would reveal just yet, naturally.
‘Anyone who does not support me supports Satan,’ brayed Hopeman. ‘I have the Lord on my side, and He will rain down his wrath on all those who oppose me.’
Godrich gazed theatrically upwards. ‘I see nothing but clear skies, Father. You must have misunderstood Him. And I am glad the election will not be until next week, because it gives us all time to make a proper, informed decision.’
‘And him a chance to buy more votes,’ murmured Nicholas in Michael’s ear.
‘Lyng will win,’ called Father Aidan from Maud’s. ‘How can he not, when every hostel is behind him?’
‘Lyng?’ sneered Godrich, and gestured around him. ‘A man who is nowhere to be seen on this most momentous of occasions. Where is he? In bed, resting his ancient bones?’
‘Perhaps he is unwell,’ suggested Thelnetham, whose cloak was again pinned by the gaudy purple brooch, but this time he had added red hose and a pink hat to the ensemble. ‘The excitement of such an occasion must be considerable for a man of his advanced years.’
Michael took all four candidates aside and asked again for their thoughts on what had happened to Tynkell and Moleyns. All except Thelnetham admitted to being near the felon when he had died, and to watching Tynkell frolic on the roof with the Devil, but no one had seen the killer’s face.
‘I was in the Gilbertine Priory,’ said Thelnetham. ‘With Nicholas and several of my brethren, should you require alibis. So I missed all the fun.’
‘I hardly think murder constitutes fun,’ admonished Michael.
Thelnetham inclined his head. ‘Forgive me, Brother; it was a poor choice of words. By the time the tale reached my convent, both men were dead. However, I did see a rider gallop down the Trumpington road at a furious lick shortly after Moleyns is said to have perished. He was bundled up in his cloak, so all I can tell you is that he rode a brown horse. However …’
‘Yes?’
‘Stoke Poges. Have you heard of it?’
Michael nodded. ‘It was Moleyns’ manor, which he inherited through Egidia when her uncle Peter Poges was murdered.’
‘I passed through it last summer,’ said Thelnetham. ‘The village has a motif – a pilgrim’s staff – which I remember because it is similar to the crutch that is the symbol of my Order. Well, I thought I saw one embossed on this rider’s saddle.’
‘How, if the horse was going as fast as you claim?’ scoffed Godrich.
‘I saw it when the rider stopped at the Trumpington Gate to pay the toll,’ explained Thelnetham patiently. ‘Once through, he took off like lightning.’
Michael frowned. ‘Are you saying that this horseman came from Stoke Poges?’
‘No, Brother. I merely report that his saddle was marked with an emblem that matched the one that Stoke Poges uses. I do not know what – or even if – it is significant. That is for you to determine.’
While Michael questioned him further, Hopeman and Suttone went to canvass among those who milled around the door. Godrich cornered Whittlesey and began to whisper to him, although he left when Michael approached, rather too furtively for the monk’s liking.
‘What were you two muttering about, Whittlesey?’ he demanded.
‘The election,’ replied the envoy smoothly. ‘I hope he wins. Lyng might be popular, but he holds old-fashioned views. Meanwhile, Hopeman is a lunatic, Suttone a bumbling nonentity who aims to promote licentiousness, and Thelnetham is eccentric.’
‘And Godrich offers what, exactly? Other than an arrogance that will alienate everyone?’
‘Wealthy friends, who will provide vital funding. My kinsman will be good for the University, Brother. Give him a chance to prove it.’
While Michael was busy with University affairs, Bartholomew visited a patient near the Dominican Priory, then began to walk to the parish of All Saints-next-the-Castle for three cases of lung-rot. He met Isnard and Gundrede on the way – the pair had just been released from the castle after spending a night in Tulyet’s custody, where they had been quizzed relentlessly about Lucas’s murder.
‘But we did not kill him,’ declared Isnard, all righteous indignation. ‘How dare the Sheriff accuse us! We did not
steal the tomb-builders’ supplies either.’
‘He had to let us go in the end,’ smirked Gundrede, ‘because he had no good excuse to keep us, although it grieved him to admit it. However, me and Isnard were in the King’s Head when Lucas was stabbed, and it is not our fault that no one there remembers.’
Bartholomew watched them go unhappily. The King’s Head was brazenly opposed to the forces of law and order, and the landlord and his regulars would think nothing of fibbing to defend fellow patrons. However, they did not condone murder, and the fact that they declined to provide Isnard and Gundrede with alibis was worrisome. And if the bargeman and his friend were lying about where they had been, then what had they been doing?
He visited the first two patients with lung-rot, and was about to enter the home of the third when he spotted Lakenham, Cristine and their elegantly clad apprentice, Reames. Like Isnard and Gundrede, they were also coming home from the castle: Tulyet had been busy.
‘He wanted to know if we had arranged to have Lucas killed,’ said Cristine, although Bartholomew had not asked. ‘He knows we did not do it ourselves, because we were with him at the time. However, he did not detain us for long this morning.’
‘Because she gave him a piece of her mind for thinking such a vile thing,’ said Lakenham, reaching up to slip an affectionate arm around her mountainous shoulders. ‘She also told him, in no uncertain terms, that it was not us who pinched the lead off Gonville Hall’s chapel roof yesterday.’
Reames shoved his hands out of sight quickly, although not before Bartholomew had seen that they were filthy, which was odd, given the care that he obviously took with the rest of his appearance. Did that mean he had stolen the lead? The metal did, after all, leave tell-tale marks on those who touched it. Or was there an innocent explanation for the stains?
‘We work hard,’ said Reames shortly, when he saw where the physician was looking. ‘And hard work means dirty hands. What of it?’
He had turned and flounced away before Bartholomew could inform him that this answer was unsatisfactory. Bartholomew started to follow, but a child came to tug at his sleeve, pleading with him to tend her ailing grandmother. By the time he had finished with the old woman, the latteners were nowhere to be seen. He tended his third case of lung-rot, then walked to his last scheduled customer of the day. This was in the castle, where one of Tulyet’s men had been injured during training. He was conducted to the barracks by Robin, Agatha’s nephew.
A Grave Concern: The Twenty Second Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew Book 22) Page 14