Michael was not sure why Dallingridge should have chosen to confide in Godrich, of all people, but the answer came at the very end of the missive: Dallingridge had asked Godrich to draft out his will, on the grounds that he was neither kin nor a close friend, and therefore could not expect a legacy. However, judging by the way the letter had been screwed up into a tight ball – the monk had found it under the bed, where it had evidently rolled after being tossed away in a rage – Michael suspected that Godrich had entertained hopes of a reward, and had been vexed when he had learned that he was not going to get one.
Godrich therefore could not be eliminated from Michael’s list of suspects for the murders in Cambridge. Or for Dallingridge’s death in Nottingham, for that matter.
The monk was back in Michaelhouse by noon, ready to ask Godrich about the letter when he arrived to address the students. The other Fellows joined him in the yard, although Kolvyle lingered in his room, primping. Suttone came from the kitchens. He had been at the wine, perhaps for courage, so his cheeks were flushed, while his best habit had suffered a mishap in the laundry and was too tight around his middle. His boots were muddy, and the book he held in an attempt to appear erudite was one on arithmetic, which everyone knew he would not have read. Bartholomew itched to take him aside and brush him down, disliking the slovenly spectacle he presented.
Thelnetham was the first to arrive, smart, clean and businesslike in a pristine robe. He was ushered in with genuine pleasure by Walter – the Gilbertine had been quietly generous to the College staff, and had often slipped them gifts of money and food. He looked around fondly.
‘You have repaired the conclave roof, I see,’ he said amiably. ‘It must be nice to sit there of an evening, and not feel the patter of rain on your heads.’
‘It is,’ agreed William stiffly. He loathed Thelnetham, and hated seeing him in the College again. ‘And Stanmore bequeathed a sum of money for fuel, so we have fires most nights.’
‘It sounds positively luxurious,’ drawled Thelnetham. ‘What about the food? Has that improved, or is Agatha still in charge?’
‘Lower your voice, man,’ hissed Langelee. ‘She might hear, and then you will never be Chancellor, because you will be dismembered.’
Thelnetham shuddered. ‘True, and living in terror of her is one thing about Michaelhouse that I have definitely not missed.’
‘She will be vexed if you defeat me in this election,’ warned Suttone, a sly move that had Langelee and William nodding their approval. ‘She likes the idea of a Michaelhouse man in charge.’
‘I shall bear it in mind,’ replied Thelnetham. He turned to Michael. ‘I know you think you will continue to rule the University through Suttone when you are in Rochester, but such an arrangement will be a disaster. We need a Chancellor who can make pronouncements instantly, not one who needs to wait for an exchange of letters.’
Michael laughed. ‘The University has never made a rapid decision in its life, and if you aim to indulge in that sort of madness, you should withdraw before you do us any harm.’
‘Besides, you underestimate me,’ said Suttone, hurt. ‘I can run the University alone.’
‘Of course you can,’ sneered Thelnetham, with such sarcastic contempt that everyone was reminded of why he had been so difficult to like. Then he turned his back on Suttone and addressed Michael again. ‘Have you caught the killer yet?’
‘No,’ replied Michael coolly. ‘But I have a number of leads.’
‘Good,’ said Thelnetham, although Bartholomew suspected the monk was lying, purely because he could not bring himself to admit that he was stumped. ‘It is not comfortable knowing that there is someone walking around who likes to shove knives into people.’
‘Not knives – a burin,’ said Michael.
‘You mean one of those pointed things used for engraving?’ asked Thelnetham. ‘Then surely the case should be easy to solve? There cannot be many people who own such items.’
‘You would be surprised,’ sighed Michael. ‘They feature in the toolboxes of most craftsmen, and even Deynman the librarian has one – he uses it to clean the locks on his books.’
Thelnetham was thoughtful. ‘Then I imagine horsemen have them, too, for prising stones from hoofs, which is what I saw Godrich doing yesterday. He was using a long metal spike.’
‘Really?’ asked Michael keenly. ‘Now that is most interesting.’
A short while later, the gate was flung open and Godrich strode in. He had not knocked, and he did not wait for Walter to conduct him across the yard, which precipitated a murmur of resentment from his hosts. He had brought Whittlesey with him, who shrugged apologetically behind his back – he appreciated College etiquette, even if his kinsman did not.
‘Dallingridge,’ said Michael, irked by the impertinence and so launching an attack. ‘Tell me about your association with him.’
‘What association?’ asked Godrich contemptuously. ‘There was none.’
‘Oh, yes, there was,’ countered Michael. ‘He wrote you letters and you drafted out his will.’ He assumed a haughty expression when he received a sharp glance of suspicion. ‘I have spies in many places, so please do not lie to me. I will always know.’
Godrich sighed angrily. ‘I had forgotten about the will – it was an insignificant incident that took place months ago. And perhaps he did write me a note burbling about poison and suspects for his murder. However, I did not take it seriously, as he was clearly out of his wits. Why do you—’
‘Were you in Nottingham on Lammas Day?’ demanded Michael, including Whittlesey in the question.
‘No,’ replied Godrich shortly. ‘I was in Derby, running an errand for King’s Hall.’
‘And I was on diocesan business in Leicester,’ said Whittlesey mildly. ‘As I have told you before. I am sure our Benedictine brethren will confirm it, should you wish to offend your new envoy by declining to believe him.’
‘Of course I believe him,’ said Michael flatly, and renewed his assault on Godrich before Whittlesey could remark that it did not sound as if he did. He changed the subject abruptly in an effort to disconcert. ‘Show me the tool you use for tending your horse’s hoofs.’
Godrich blinked his bemusement. ‘What tool? And why should I—’
‘I am conducting a murder investigation here,’ interrupted Michael sharply. ‘I shall arrest you if you refuse to cooperate.’
‘No one is refusing,’ said Whittlesey quickly. ‘Let him see it, Godrich. Clearly, he aims to eliminate you as a suspect, and this will help.’
Godrich scowled, but he opened the pouch at his side and pulled out a short nail.
‘You had a different one yesterday,’ said Thelnetham. ‘It was longer and thinner.’
The look Godrich gave him would have intimidated the boldest of souls, although Thelnetham held it without flinching. With ill grace, Godrich produced a spike that was as long as his hand, topped off with a wooden handle. Bartholomew inspected it carefully, ignoring the impatient sighs of those waiting for his verdict.
‘It might be the murder weapon,’ he said eventually. ‘It is the right size and shape. But I cannot be certain. However, there is dried blood here—’
‘Horse blood,’ said Godrich, snatching it back. ‘And you cannot prove otherwise.’
‘You might want to be careful, Michael,’ advised Whittlesey softly, as Godrich stalked away. ‘It is unwise to accuse powerful scholars of murder.’
‘I accused him of nothing,’ countered Michael. ‘I merely asked to inspect his burin.’
‘It is not a burin – it is a hoof-pick.’ Whittlesey lowered his voice even further. ‘I mean what I say, Brother. I should hate to see you fall before you are consecrated, simply for the want of a little discretion. I speak as a friend – which I hope we are, despite the reservations you evidently still hold about my whereabouts on Lammas Day.’
‘Dallingridge’s reservations,’ said Michael. ‘Expressed in a letter to Godrich.’
Whittlesey ra
ised his hands in a shrug. ‘From what I hear, the poor man was raving in his final days. You would be wise to ignore anything he might have written.’
Michael inclined his head, then glared at Bartholomew once his fellow monk had hurried across the yard to prevent Godrich from entering the hall without the Master’s invitation.
‘It was our chance to arrest the killer, and you let it slip away,’ he hissed accusingly. ‘You know that was the burin that killed Tynkell, but you refused to say so.’
‘I know nothing of the kind,’ countered Bartholomew crossly. ‘And you would not thank me if I gave a verdict to please you, and it later transpired that Godrich was innocent.’
‘He tried to conceal the weapon,’ said Michael between gritted teeth. ‘That was suspicious. And there was blood on it. That should have been enough.’
‘I agree with Matthew, Brother,’ said Thelnetham with quiet reason. ‘It is better to wait for something less ambiguous.’
He might have added more, but the gate opened a third time, and Hopeman stepped through. His deacons were behind him, and there was an unseemly scuffle when Walter refused to let them pass.
‘Hey, you!’ bellowed Hopeman, stabbing a furious forefinger at Langelee. ‘Either allow my disciples to accompany me, or I am leaving.’
‘Leave,’ shrugged Langelee. ‘It makes no difference to me. Come, Suttone. Let us go and show everyone who is the superior candidate.’
Suttone looked anything but superior as he trailed after his Master, leaving Bartholomew to wonder if Thelnetham was right to question the Carmelite’s ability to rule. Anger suffused Hopeman’s face at the dismissive treatment, and he surged forward to grab Langelee’s arm.
‘I am God’s agent on Earth,’ he boomed. ‘You will afford me the respect I deserve.’
‘I did afford you the respect you deserve,’ retorted Langelee, freeing his arm firmly. ‘What I did not afford you was the respect you think you deserve.’
The students were expecting entertainment to rival the fun they had enjoyed the previous week, so their faces fell when Suttone, Thelnetham, Godrich and Hopeman – the latter sans disciples – strode towards the dais. It would be a good test of the candidates’ strength of character, thought Bartholomew, if they could keep his lively lads in order – he could already see them exchanging the kind of glances that suggested mischief was in the offing. But he had reckoned without Aungel.
‘No!’ hissed the senior student fiercely. ‘You will not risk our reputation by misbehaving in front of guests from other foundations.’ Bartholomew was pleasantly pleased by his responsible stance, until Aungel added, ‘I am supposed to be in charge of you, and any loutish antics might hurt my chances of a Fellowship.’
Bartholomew studied the four men while they waited for Langelee to call the audience to order. Hopeman stood with his hands on his hips, his dark gaze sweeping disdainfully across the assembly. Godrich leaned nonchalantly against the wall, inspecting his fingernails in an attitude of calculated boredom. Thelnetham looked smug, clearly of the opinion that this was an encounter he would win. And Suttone was visibly daunted by the ordeal that was about to commence, an unease that intensified when Thelnetham whispered something in his ear. Bartholomew grimaced: undermining the confidence of a nervous rival was cruel, and should have been beneath a man of Thelnetham’s stature.
‘This “entertainment” will not hold the students’ interest for long,’ murmured Langelee to Kolvyle. ‘So I hope you are ready to step in with an alternative when they grow restless.’
‘You would doubtless prefer to see them racing about on a camp-ball field, punching the stuffing out of each other,’ scoffed Kolvyle. ‘I cannot imagine why you were ever installed as Master. You are a lout, with the intellectual agility of a gnat.’
Langelee was so astonished by the insult that he could do no more than gape as Kolvyle strutted to the front of the hall. By rights, it should have been the Master himself who opened the proceedings, but Kolvyle had hopped on to the dais while Langelee was still standing in mute disbelief. An immediate hush descended on the gathering.
‘The impudent bastard!’ breathed Langelee, finding his voice at last. ‘I will trounce—’
‘Not in front of visitors,’ whispered Michael sharply. ‘Wait until they have left.’
‘He has gone too far this time,’ hissed Langelee furiously. ‘He will apologise or pack his bags.’
‘Which is exactly how he wants you to react,’ warned Michael. ‘And when he has needled you into a confrontation, during which you will say or do something rash, he will use it to make a bid for the mastership. We prevented him from standing as Chancellor, so he has decided to go for the next best thing.’
‘Well it will not work,’ determined Langelee, fists clenched. ‘He is the last man I want as my successor. Not that I have any plans to resign just yet.’
‘Good,’ said Michael. ‘Then do not let him manipulate you.’
Kolvyle did not speak immediately, but let the anticipation mount. When he did start, his voice oozed arrogance and conceit, and resentment rose from the students in waves.
‘As commensurate with a foundation that aims to promote education, learning and research,’ he began pompously, ‘I have organised a superior form of diversion today – something more significant than silly debates or boisterous games. Namely the choice of our next Chancellor.’
‘That is very good of you,’ called Deynman the librarian, never one to be daunted by a sense of occasion. ‘But we are not eligible to vote. Only the Fellows are, so it does not matter if we are impressed or not, because we cannot elect them anyway.’
Kolvyle smiled stiffly. ‘Yes, but the outcome affects you all, and it is my contention that you have the right to make your opinions known. You can do this by lobbying your masters – to make them choose the candidate you want.’
‘We want Suttone,’ called Aungel dutifully. ‘Because he is a Michaelhouse man.’
‘Yes, he is,’ agreed Kolvyle, turning to look the nervous Carmelite up and down. ‘But will he best serve your interests? You are not yet in a position to know, because you have not heard what the other candidates have to say. That will be rectified today, and once the other foundations have seen what we have done, they will follow our example.’
Hopeman looked uneasy, Thelnetham was impassive, while Godrich fingered the heavy purse at his side with a meaningful smile. Suttone was ashen-faced though, desperately racking his brains for policies that would encourage his supporters to stay loyal.
‘Students are entitled to a voice,’ Kolvyle went on. ‘And I aim to ensure that it is heard. You have been at the mercy of the Fellows for far too long, but a new age is dawning, when younger men, like myself, will lead the University to a more enlightened future.’
‘You make our Regent masters sound like old men,’ called Deynman. ‘They are not. Well, Suttone has grey hair, I suppose, but you should see Master Langelee racing around the camp-ball field, while Doctor Bartholomew could not tend so many patients if he was ancient.’
‘Grey hair signifies experience and wisdom,’ said Suttone sharply, offended. ‘The chancellorship is not a post that should be occupied by some selfishly ambitious greenhorn.’
‘Quite,’ agreed Thelnetham. ‘He should have been a member of the University for at least three years, so he knows its strengths and weaknesses.’
‘Rubbish,’ countered Godrich, who was also a relative newcomer and so did not fulfil this particular condition. ‘The only thing that is important is an ability to secure large donations.’
‘The only thing that is important is combatting evil,’ countered Hopeman hotly. ‘Money will be irrelevant if our University is suppressed because Satan is in charge.’
Thelnetham opened his mouth to join the debate, but Kolvyle took command again.
‘Suttone will speak first,’ he said, ‘because this is his College. I shall decide on the order for the others when he has finished. Right. Off you go.’
/> The order came so abruptly that the hapless Carmelite was left gaping stupidly while he rallied his thoughts. Then he began a wretched, rambling discourse that had his rivals grinning superiorly. Except Thelnetham, who had the grace to wince on his behalf.
‘Well, there you have it,’ drawled Kolvyle, when Suttone eventually stuttered to a halt. ‘You next, Hopeman.’
‘I speak at God’s command, not yours,’ declared Hopeman. ‘I will not play your games.’
Kolvyle addressed his audience. ‘It is generally claimed that Hopeman is a zealot with untenable views on theology. If he is happy with that summary of his abilities, we shall move to our next speaker.’
‘Lord, he is sly!’ murmured Michael grudgingly. ‘How can Hopeman remain silent now?’
The Dominican could not, and launched into a diatribe that was unnerving both in its intensity and the distasteful prejudice of its opinions. It was accompanied by a lot of finger wagging, and it was not long before William could bear it no longer.
‘You are a fool, Hopeman,’ he boomed, using the voice he reserved for his own feisty orations. ‘And the Devil must be delighted to have gained such a faithful servant.’
‘No interruptions!’ snapped Kolvyle, before the Dominican could respond. ‘I shall invite comments from the audience afterwards, but they cannot be abusive, and they must contain at least a modicum of intelligent analysis. However, I think we have heard enough from Hopeman. Godrich? Would you care to respond to the issues our Dominican has raised?’
‘I would not debase myself by acknowledging them,’ declared Godrich loftily. ‘But I have plenty to say about how the statutes might be adapted to suit our current needs. They were drafted more than a century ago, and it is time they were modernised.’
‘That man is a damned fool!’ hissed Michael angrily. ‘The statutes are what keep our University together – sensible rules devised by rational men.’
A Grave Concern: The Twenty Second Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew Book 22) Page 25