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

by Susanna Gregory

  She made a lunge for it, but Tulyet held it aloft.

  ‘That reaction tells me all I need to know,’ he said coldly. ‘You did kill Peter Poges, and Moleyns’ acquittal was not the miscarriage of justice we all thought. Did he ever guess that his wife and friend left him to stand trial for a crime that they committed?’

  Their sullen silence suggested he had not, and Bartholomew supposed it was just as well Moleyns was dead, or they could have expected some serious retribution. Belatedly, Inge drew breath to deny the charge, but the physician spoke first.

  ‘Tell us how you came to swallow resin,’ he ordered, deciding to follow Tulyet’s example and opt for a frontal attack.

  ‘Rougham!’ muttered Inge in disgust. ‘So much for professional discretion.’

  ‘Answer the question.’ Tulyet waved the letter again. ‘You are already accused of murder, so a charge of theft makes no odds now.’

  ‘Theft?’ echoed Inge, raising his eyebrows. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘And you will never prove murder anyway,’ put in Egidia. ‘Not now.’

  ‘We had nothing to do with Moleyns’ antics.’ Inge spoke quickly, in an obvious effort to prevent Egidia from saying any more. ‘We went through all this yesterday: we guessed what he was doing, but we were not involved.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘But when you saw how well his scheme worked, you decided to devise one of your own. He stole coins, but you opted for marble, lead, brasses, nails, pinnacles, pitch—’

  ‘All valuable commodities that will fetch high prices in London,’ said Tulyet, watching Inge in a way that suggested he had revised his opinion of Bartholomew’s theory, and was now ready to accept it.

  The lawyer sneered. ‘And can you prove any of this? No? Then I suggest you desist with these slanderous allegations. I have already written to the King about our treatment here, and this will do nothing to help your case.’

  ‘That is true.’ Egidia nodded eagerly. ‘Your accusations will look like what they are – a sly attempt to escape the blame for John’s murder. No one will believe you, regardless of whether or not they are true.’

  ‘That was a confession,’ pounced Tulyet, while Inge shot her an irritable scowl. ‘And I have heard enough. You are both under arrest. We shall resume this discussion in the castle.’

  He stepped forward purposefully. Egidia immediately began to screech her outrage, while Inge leapt to his feet and grabbed a knife from the table. Unfortunately for him, it was a blunt one, used for smearing cheese on bread, and Tulyet regarded it contemptuously. Inge gulped his alarm when the Sheriff drew his sword, and promptly dived under the table.

  The ensuing commotion, as Tulyet tried to lay hold of the lawyer without losing his own dignity by getting down on all fours, drew spectators from the other rooms, including Cook and Helbye. When one of Inge’s wildly flailing fists caught Tulyet a glancing blow on the cheek, Helbye bellowed his fury and waded into the fray, trailing bandages. Unfortunately, he did more to hinder than help, particularly as his right arm was useless.

  Michael managed to lay hold of Egidia, but she bit him, so he yelped and let her go, leaving Bartholomew to grab her. Then Inge scrambled from beneath the table and darted towards the door, but when Tulyet tried to follow, his feet became entangled in Helbye’s dressings. He stumbled over them, and Helbye’s scream of agony froze him in his tracks.

  Bartholomew shoved Egidia at him, and hurtled after Inge, whom he would have caught with ease, if Cook had not decided that it was a good opportunity for some sly revenge. The barber launched himself at Bartholomew and managed to land several hefty thumps before the physician was able to turn and fend him off.

  With no one to stop him, Inge shot through the door and dashed into the street. Michael set off in lumbering pursuit, but the lawyer had already disappeared, and the monk returned moments later, shaking his head to say Inge had escaped.

  ‘Enough!’ roared Tulyet, in a voice so full of anger that Egidia stopped struggling and Cook desisted in his efforts to hit Bartholomew. The physician used Cook’s momentary inattention to land a punch that made him stagger; he was ashamed of how much pleasure it gave him.

  ‘Go after Inge,’ Tulyet ordered one of his men, who had rushed in to help when he had heard the sounds of a skirmish. ‘And send me a couple of lads to escort Egidia to the castle. Matt, leave that butcher alone and help Helbye.’

  ‘Barber,’ corrected Cook, rubbing his jaw and glaring at Bartholomew. ‘I am a barber.’

  ‘Do not worry about me,’ said Helbye, although he was clutching his elbow and his face was grey with pain. ‘I shall be as right as rain when Cook has bound me up.’

  ‘He has not had his shave yet either,’ said Cook, and shot Bartholomew a glance that was full of malicious hostility. ‘I do not cheat my customers, unlike some I could mention. Come, Helbye. Let me finish mending your arm.’

  Tulyet started to object, but Helbye raised a weary hand and made a feeble joke about his stubble. Then soldiers arrived to conduct Egidia to the gaol. She went with quiet dignity, her head held high, which suggested that she did not expect to be incarcerated for long before Inge rallied powerful forces to free her.

  ‘She is going to be disappointed,’ said Tulyet, watching her go. ‘Her husband wielded a certain power, but no one will listen to Inge. Which is why he ran, of course – he knows there would have been no rescue for him.’

  While Tulyet went to supervise the hunt for Inge, Bartholomew and Michael aimed for Maud’s Hostel, to speak to Hopeman again.

  ‘Inge will not get far,’ predicted Bartholomew. ‘He will be caught if he tries to hire a horse, and he does not seem like the kind of man who will fare well hiding in the marshes.’

  ‘He might,’ said Michael. ‘He hails from this area, if you recall.’

  ‘So do I,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But that does not mean I can survive the Fens in winter without the necessary clothes and equipment.’

  Michael shook his head slowly, still thinking about the confrontation in the tavern. ‘I am astonished, Matt – your wild theory was right. Who would have thought it?’

  ‘They did not actually admit to stealing the supplies,’ Bartholomew pointed out.

  ‘They did not have to – their guilt was obvious from Egidia’s reckless replies and Inge’s flight. Unfortunately, while you have solved the thefts, we still have a killer at large, given that we both have reservations about Whittlesey or Godrich being the culprit. And we are running out of suspects.’

  ‘It is Cook,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Hopeman would brag if he was the killer – claim that God told him to do it or some such nonsense.’

  ‘He would not,’ argued Michael. ‘He may be a fanatic, but he is not stupid.’

  ‘Then can we be sure that Inge and Egidia are innocent? It seems they killed Peter Poges, so how do we know they did not kill Tynkell, Lyng and Moleyns as well? They were near Moleyns when he died – which they later lied about – and they were in St Mary the Great when Tynkell was on the roof.’

  ‘They had good reason to dispatch Moleyns,’ mused Michael. ‘His imprisonment was lasting a good deal longer than they had anticipated, and he was mean with the money he stole – as evidenced by the fact that he refused to buy them new cloaks when they were inspecting suitable cloth with Edith in the Market Square.’

  ‘I sense a “but”,’ said Bartholomew, shooting him a sidelong glance.

  Michael nodded. ‘But in the conclave earlier, I quizzed Clippesby very closely about exactly what he saw when Moleyns fell off his horse. It took some doing – and he insisted the intelligence came from that mangy dog – but I managed to ascertain that Inge and Egidia could not have reached Moleyns’ side in time to stab him. And that means they did not kill Tynkell and Lyng either.’

  They walked the rest of the way in silence, aware again of the tension between those who supported one of the two remaining candidates, and those who felt they had been disenfranchised by the loss of thei
r favourite. Quarrels were rife, and the beadles struggled to keep the peace, especially as the situation was exacerbated by the inflammatory taunts of townsfolk. When Bartholomew and Michael reached Maud’s, they ran into Thelnetham, who was just coming out.

  ‘There are five more votes for Suttone,’ said the Gilbertine with a triumphant grin. ‘I knew I could entice them to our side by pointing out the benefits of an alliance with Michaelhouse. This might be Hopeman’s home, but they do not like him very much.’

  ‘Who can blame them?’ murmured Michael. ‘I take it he is not inside then?’

  ‘He is at his friary, pontificating about the Devil, apparently – about whom he knows rather more than is appropriate for a man in holy orders.’

  Michael decided to visit Maud’s anyway, to see what might be learned about the Dominican from his colleagues. He began by asking about the row that Blaston had overheard between Lyng and the “black villain”, followed by the one that Almoner Byri had witnessed between Lyng and Hopeman in St Botolph’s churchyard.

  ‘We have already told you,’ said Father Aidan, exasperated. ‘We were not at home when Blaston was mending the table, and we were certainly not in St Botolph’s churchyard after dark. And I do not believe Blaston’s story, anyway. Lyng was not a violent man – he would never have hit anyone.’

  ‘He threatened to kill me once,’ said Richard sheepishly. ‘But I probably deserved it, so I did not take it to heart. I am afraid I quite often irritated him into a bad mood.’

  ‘Lyng?’ asked Aidan in disbelief. ‘But he was a gentle man. A saint!’

  ‘Perhaps,’ shrugged Richard. ‘But he still had a bit of a tongue on him. He could be rather free with his fists, too, although he was old and slow, so I usually managed to duck.’

  ‘Lyng?’ breathed Aidan again, stunned. ‘Are you sure?’

  Richard pulled a rueful face. ‘I might not be as intellectual as my brother the librarian, but I do know the difference between our teachers. Yes, Father – it was Lyng.’

  ‘I am astonished, too,’ confessed Michael. ‘And it makes me wonder whether we can ever really know another person. However, Lyng’s violent temper might explain why he was killed. Could Hopeman have witnessed it, and decided it meant he was possessed by the Devil?’

  And dispatched him for it was the unspoken question.

  ‘Hopeman sees Satan in everything,’ said Aidan wryly. ‘But perhaps he did spot something in Lyng that the rest of us missed, although I would be surprised – he is not a percipient man.’

  ‘I hope you are wrong, Brother,’ said Richard. ‘It would be embarrassing for Maud’s if Hopeman is the culprit. After all, no foundation likes its members slaughtering each other.’

  Michael and Bartholomew hurried to the Dominican Priory. It was not a pleasant journey, as the road was treacherous with ice and the wind was getting up again.

  ‘Marjory Starre says it will snow soon,’ gasped Bartholomew as they staggered along.

  ‘You should keep your friendship with her quiet,’ advised Michael. ‘Especially if our colleagues ever discover that Tynkell and Lyng were closet Satanists. There will be all manner of trouble, and you do not want to be part of it.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew sincerely.

  They reached the friary to discover Hopeman just leaving. He was being escorted out by Prior Morden and Almoner Byri, and through the open gate, a lot of Dominicans could be seen standing together in worried huddles.

  ‘Hopeman has been telling us about Lucifer again,’ explained Morden, casting a sour glance at the fanatical friar. ‘We shall all have nightmares tonight. It was a terrifying discourse.’

  ‘It was meant to be,’ boomed Hopeman, who looked rather demonic himself, with his blazing eyes and hooded face. ‘The Devil is not someone to be taken lightly, and there is too much complacency in this town. I shall put an end to it when I am Chancellor.’

  ‘Lyng,’ said Michael crisply. ‘You were heard arguing with him – twice – on the evening when he disappeared and was probably murdered. What did—’

  ‘Yes, all right, we argued,’ hissed Hopeman. ‘What of it?’

  Michael narrowed his eyes at the abrupt capitulation. ‘You denied it when I asked you before – you said you could not remember.’

  Hopeman shrugged defiantly. ‘I have since re-examined my memory. Lyng was Satan’s spawn. He pretended to be good and saintly, but he was a Devil-lover, and he carried the mark of it on the sole of his foot.’

  ‘How do you know?’ asked Bartholomew suspiciously. ‘I cannot imagined he showed you.’

  ‘I saw it at Maud’s, when he was soaking his aged toes after a day of marching around the town, telling people to vote for him,’ replied Hopeman vengefully. ‘Oh, he tried to hide it, but it was too late – I had seen. He told me it meant nothing, but I am no fool. So, yes, we quarrelled – in St Botolph’s, where I tackled him about it, as your spy reported.’

  ‘And you only “remember” this now?’ asked Michael accusingly.

  Hopeman met his gaze with a defiant stare. ‘Yes. Why? Do you want to make something of it? However, the simple explanation is that I am busy with important matters, and I cannot be expected to recall every encounter with Satan’s minions.’

  In other words, thought Bartholomew, regarding him with dislike, he had been afraid that he would be accused of murder if he had admitted to quarrelling with one of the victims, but was less concerned about it now that he had convinced himself that God was on his side.

  ‘What about the incident in Maud’s?’ he asked accusingly. ‘When Lyng slapped you and called you a “black villain”? That cannot have been pleasant.’

  Hopeman regarded him askance. ‘He would not have dared to lay hands on the Lord’s anointed. And I did not confront him at home anyway, because Richard Deynman was there.’

  ‘Why should that make a difference?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused.

  Hopeman’s eyes gleamed manically. ‘I did not want witnesses to what I had to say to him – witnesses who might gossip, and put it about that the next Chancellor hails from a hostel that houses Satanists. However, once I had exposed Lyng’s evil, God took matters in hand, and arranged for him to be eliminated.’

  Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘You accuse the Almighty of murder?’

  ‘Of eradicating vermin,’ corrected Hopeman. ‘The Bible is full of such tales, so go away and read it, Brother. It might save your soul.’

  ‘Have you heard that Godrich might not be in a position to stand for election on Wednesday?’ asked Bartholomew, before the monk could take exception to the advice.

  ‘Yes!’ Hopeman grinned wildly. ‘The race is between me and Suttone now: the agent of the Lord and the Senior Proctor’s creature. I do not think there will be much of a contest. I shall win, and then I will revoke all the evil edicts you have passed, Brother.’

  ‘Hopeman,’ warned Prior Morden. ‘I thought we had reached an understanding about these radical remarks. You agreed to moderate them in exchange for our support.’

  ‘And we shall not vote for you unless you do,’ added Byri. ‘Just because you are a fellow Dominican does not mean—’

  ‘I do as God commands,’ flashed Hopeman. ‘And you will vote for me, because to support Suttone is to invite Lucifer to rule.’ He laughed suddenly, a harsh bray that grated on the ears. ‘Oh, there will be changes when I am in power! For example, no one will study any subject but theology, so do not think that you will teach here, Bartholomew.’

  ‘But we shall need physicians,’ objected Morden worriedly. ‘Or would you rather have someone like Cook come to tend you when you are ill?’

  ‘God protects the righteous from sickness,’ hissed Hopeman. ‘And the sufferings of sinners will be good for their souls, and thus assure them a place in Heaven.’

  Prior Morden tried to reason with him, but Hopeman flicked his fingers at his deacons, and they all marched away, singing one of the more warlike Psalms.

  ‘He is deranged,�
� declared Michael in distaste. ‘You should lock him away before he brings your Order into disrepute.’

  ‘I am sure you would like that,’ said Byri bitterly. ‘It would leave Suttone free to win.’

  ‘It would,’ conceded Michael. ‘But at least our University would not be in the hands of a lunatic – and one who lies about his interactions with murder victims into the bargain.’

  None of the Dominicans had an answer for that particular charge, and Morden spared himself the chore of thinking one up by announcing that it was time for afternoon prayers. Relieved, the Black Friars hurried to their chapel, leaving a lay brother to shut the gate on the outside world. Bartholomew and Michael turned to trudge back to the town.

  ‘Did you see Morden’s face?’ asked Michael. ‘He thinks Hopeman might be guilty of these murders, even if his almoner is too stupid to see it. And if Hopeman’s own Prior thinks he might be capable of such terrible deeds …’

  CHAPTER 14

  The next day – the last before the election – was bitingly cold, but clouds had rolled in, and Marjory Starre stood in the Market Square declaring to anyone who would listen that there would be snow before the day was out. Bartholomew thought she might be right, as the sky was a dirty yellowish grey and the wind so keen that it sliced right through his clothes.

  ‘Heavens!’ gasped Suttone, as he stepped into Michaelhouse’s yard and was buffeted by an icy blast. ‘I hope this will not prevent people from turning out to vote tomorrow.’

  ‘It will not stop the young,’ said Kolvyle archly. ‘It is only the old who are bothered by inclement weather, and who cares what they think? The future lies with us, the fresh and vibrant – not tedious ancients who moan about their aching bones.’

  ‘I am really beginning to dislike him,’ muttered Suttone, as Kolvyle strutted away.

  ‘I hate to admit it, Suttone,’ said Michael, ‘but it will be a close-run thing between you and Hopeman, so you must work hard today.’