Suttone groaned. ‘Must I? I thought I might be able to relax, given how frantically I have laboured over the last few days.’
‘Hopeman will not relax,’ Michael pointed out shortly. ‘And you should take some responsibility for winning. I am doing all I can, but it has been much harder than I anticipated.’
‘Because you have been busy solving murders?’ asked Suttone, removing a slice of cake from somewhere on his portly person and beginning to eat it. Some crumbs tumbled down the front of his habit, and others stuck to his lips.
‘Yes, along with other things,’ replied Michael, looking disapprovingly at the pastry and the mess Suttone was making with it. ‘So shave, don a clean habit, and go out to persuade people that you are a credible alternative to Hopeman.’
Suttone shuffled into his place in the procession, still eating. He was wearing odd hose, one new and black, the other grey from repeated washing, and the hem of his habit had come unravelled. He yawned widely, then scrubbed at his face and hair with his hands, which did nothing to improve his appearance. Bartholomew wondered if the Carmelite had always been slovenly, or if it was just more apparent now that it mattered.
‘Lord help us!’ muttered Michael. ‘No wonder people tell me they are unhappy with the choice they are being offered – a fanatical bigot or him. I confess I expected more when he offered me his services.’
As far as Bartholomew recalled, Suttone had just stated a desire to be Chancellor, and offering his services had never been part of the equation. He changed the subject by asking if there had been any news about the hunt for Whittlesey and Godrich.
‘Yes,’ replied the monk. ‘A message arrived from Meadowman in the small hours. Whittlesey passed through a village called Walden yesterday, but no one remembers Godrich. Meadowman thinks that Whittlesey caught up with him – Satan is by far the faster horse – dispatched him, hid the body and galloped on.’
Bartholomew frowned. ‘Then he is wrong, because we decided that Whittlesey was not the killer. Besides, what is not to say that Godrich turned off the road before Walden, blithely oblivious that his cousin was hot on his heels? And “no one remembers Godrich” does not mean that Godrich was never there. Perhaps he rode through this village without being noticed.’
‘True.’ Michael shook his head slowly. ‘Their flight bothers me profoundly. Even if it is unrelated to what happened to Tynkell and the others, it is still suspicious, particularly given its timing. Godrich might well have won the election had he stayed, and I do not understand why he has thrown all that away.’
‘Unless they have hatched a plot that will see him installed anyway,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘I know Godrich has rendered himself ineligible by not keeping term, but I do not see him allowing a technicality to stand between him and his ambitions.’
‘Nor do I,’ acknowledged Michael. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘We know he and Whittlesey quarrelled, but what does that mean? That Whittlesey objected to his cousin’s machinations and ordered him to desist, or that they just disagreed on tactics?’
‘And why has Whittlesey told so many lies?’ Bartholomew was more suspicious of the slippery envoy than the belligerent scholar. ‘Not just to the soldiers on the gate, but about his knee – I am sure he made up the tale about falling down the stairs. And there was the whispered discussion with Lyng on the night that Lyng died – the one Richard Deynman witnessed.’
‘I had not forgotten that – or the fact that we do not know whether to believe his claim about not being in Nottingham when Dallingridge was poisoned.’ Michael sighed dispiritedly. ‘All I can say is that the behaviour of both is odd and worrisome.’
‘Of course, we still have two other good suspects for the murders. Namely Hopeman, who is tipped to win the election now that Godrich is no longer eligible. And Cook.’
‘Yes,’ said Michael tiredly. ‘But we have no evidence against either. So today, I shall speak to everyone who saw Tynkell and Moleyns die. Again. Perhaps time will have altered their perspective, and something has occurred to them that will lead us forward.’
They attended church, but Bartholomew found it difficult to concentrate, his thoughts bouncing between the murders and Matilde – because if Meadowman had made such good time on the roads, then perhaps she had, too, and would arrive sooner than expected. And then what? He still had reached no decision about what to say to her. Wryly, it occurred to him that if he dithered long enough, he might not have to make one – she would grow tired of waiting and abandon Cambridge a second time.
He was equally distracted at breakfast, although it was a paltry affair, over in record time when Langelee decided that the victuals did not warrant a moment longer than was absolutely necessary to swallow what was offered.
‘I shall not be teaching today,’ announced Kolvyle, as the Fellows stood to leave the hall. ‘I have business of a personal nature to conduct.’
‘Then it can wait,’ said Langelee tartly. ‘Because we are too busy to—’
‘Bartholomew or Michael can take my classes,’ interrupted Kolvyle. ‘I have minded theirs often enough these last few days, and it is time they returned the favour.’
‘That is not how it works,’ said Langelee irritably. ‘You cannot pick and choose when you deign to work, and your students are expecting what you promised them today – three lectures on Gratian, and a good debate on primogeniture.’
‘Then they will just have to live with their disappointment,’ retorted Kolvyle carelessly. ‘Because I shall not be here. And do not threaten to dismiss me, because we all know that if you do, you will never recruit another scholar of my intellectual calibre. I am here to stay, so I suggest you get used to it, Master.’
The last word was injected with such sneering contempt that Bartholomew was sure Kolvyle was going to lose teeth for it. Fortunately for Kolvyle – and for Langelee, as Masters punching Fellows was frowned upon in the University – Michael stepped forward to intervene.
‘What is the nature of this personal business, Kolvyle?’ he asked briskly. ‘If it is urgent, I am sure some accommodation can be reached.’
‘It is private,’ replied Kolvyle loftily. ‘Now, get out of my way.’
‘Come back!’ roared Langelee furiously, as the youngster began to flounce off. ‘Or keep walking and never return, because this is the last time you will defy me.’
Kolvyle turned, gave a provocative little wave, and aimed for the gate.
‘Right, that does it,’ snarled Langelee, clenching his fists. ‘I shall clear out his room and toss his belongings into the street. I refuse to endure another moment of his odious company.’
‘Please wait until tomorrow afternoon,’ begged Michael. ‘We cannot afford a scandal in Michaelhouse right before the election, as it might adversely affect my … I mean Suttone’s chances of winning.’
Langelee inclined his head stiffly. ‘Very well. But keep Kolvyle out of my way, or there may be another murder for you to solve.’
‘Speaking of murder,’ said Suttone uneasily, ‘may I have Cynric again, Matt? It would be a pity if I were dispatched on the very eve of my victory.’
Bartholomew nodded absently. ‘I wonder what manner of “personal business” draws Kolvyle away from his duties. It must be important, as he has never refused to teach before.’
‘It does not matter, because he is no longer a member of Michaelhouse,’ declared Langelee. ‘But enough of him. Suttone, why are you still here? Smarten yourself up, then go and win some more votes. The honour of the College is at stake here, man.’ He turned to Michael. ‘And you should be out hunting the killer if you aim to leave us on Thursday.’
‘And leave you must,’ added Suttone. ‘Because we do not want the grasping Bishop of Bangor to get there first, and lay sticky fingers on your mitre.’
‘No,’ agreed Michael fervently. ‘We do not.’
There was a long list of patients wanting Bartholomew’s attention, and Aungel grinned his delight when informed that he was to mind the physician’
s classes yet again. He produced a sheaf of notes that suggested he had anticipated as much, and had probably spent much of the night preparing. Bartholomew called for Islaye and Mallet, aiming to take them with him on his rounds, and was taken aback when they informed him that they had other plans.
‘There is a two-mark reward for recovering the University’s missing bell, sir,’ explained Mallet. ‘And Master Langelee says that we can keep a shilling each if we find it, with the rest going to the College coffers.’
‘But it is a weekday in term time,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘You are here to study, not go hunting stolen property. Besides, Egidia will tell Dick Tulyet where to find it now she is charged with its theft.’
‘She cannot, because she does not know,’ said Islaye. ‘She was questioned thoroughly last night, and the Sheriff is satisfied that, while she definitely helped to organise the thefts, Inge never trusted her enough to tell her where he stashed what they stole.’
‘And he was right to be wary,’ put in Islaye. ‘Because I hear it was her incautious tongue that betrayed them in the Griffin yesterday. If she had kept her mouth shut, they would have got away with it.’
‘So the only way you will ever see the bell again,’ said Mallet, ‘is if someone like us finds it before it is spirited out of the town, into the Fens, and around the coast to London.’
‘Kolvyle will be looking for it,’ added Islaye. ‘That is why he abandoned his classes today – he aims to have that two marks for himself. Well, we do not want him to get them. We will never hear the end of it if he does, and his gloating will be unbearable.’
‘Besides, your sister would be glad if we got the bell back,’ said Mallet. ‘She must be distraught that her beloved husband’s donation is in the hands of greedy thieves.’
‘All right!’ Bartholomew threw up his hands in defeat at the onslaught. ‘But only until noon. I want you back in the hall with Maimonides after the midday meal.’
Grinning their delight, the two students hurried away before he could change his mind. Bartholomew visited his patients alone, and met Edith on his way home.
‘The Sheriff has promised to catch the culprits,’ she said unhappily. ‘But why should I believe him? He has had no luck so far, and so many things have been taken – Dallingridge’s feet, Wilson’s lid, Holty’s pinnacles, Gonville’s lead, Cew’s brass …’
‘But he has caught them,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Well, Inge is still on the run, I suppose, but Dick has sent patrols to hunt him down, so it is only a matter of time before he is caught.’
‘Oh, Inge and Egidia were involved certainly,’ said Edith bitterly. ‘But they cannot have done it alone, and whoever helped them is cunning in the extreme.’
‘Yes, they had helpmeets,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘But it was Inge who masterminded the scheme. And when he is arrested, he will give Dick the names of his accomplices.’
‘But he may be as ignorant as Egidia. He might hail from the Fens, but he is not a local, and no stranger could have outfoxed the Sheriff and his men all this time. Of course, there are rumours about who is the real brain behind this operation …’
‘And who do these tales accuse?’ Bartholomew had already guessed what was coming.
Edith grimaced. ‘You know who: Isnard. I appreciate that you are fond of him, Matt, but Gundrede is bad news, and Isnard should have kept his distance.’
‘It is not Isnard,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘He would never have taken Wilson’s lid or struck at St Mary the Great, because he loves Michael and the choir.’
‘Does he? Or does he feel betrayed, because Michael is going to Rochester? And even if you are right about him, Gundrede owns no such allegiance and Isnard is clay in his hands.’
‘Is there evidence to prove these allegations?’ asked Bartholomew, a little coolly, knowing there was not, or Tulyet would have acted on it.
‘Well, first, there is only one way to transport heavy goods over long distances: the waterways, which Isnard knows like the back of his hand. Second, he owns suitable craft. Third, Gundrede was a metalsmith, who knows how to sell such goods illegally. And fourth, both he and Isnard have been gone a lot recently.’
‘That is not evidence, it is supposition. Besides, why can’t the goods be moved by road?’
‘Because Tulyet watches them like a hawk – no cart gets past him without an inspection. Moreover, horses or oxen can pull heavy wagons short distances, but not all the way to London.’
Bartholomew was not sure what to think, but sincerely hoped she was wrong.
He hurried from patient to patient through streets that buzzed with excitement as news of the reward began to spread. Any number of folk – students and townsmen – were determined to have it, and skirmishes broke out when searchers invaded the property of those who objected.
Most Regent masters, however, were more interested in the election, and were beginning to form factions. Unfortunately, the largest ones comprised not supporters of Suttone and Hopeman, but those of Lyng, Godrich and Thelnetham, who felt that events had conspired to deprive them of a voice. Emotions were running high and altercations were frequent, although so far confined to words and the occasional jabbing finger.
‘Psst! Doctor!’
Bartholomew knew without looking that it was Isnard who hailed him so slyly. He hesitated, not sure whether to respond given what Edith had just said, but then he relented. Isnard was a patient, and might need medical help. The bargeman was beckoning frantically from a nearby alehouse, an establishment that sold cheap ale to those with undiscerning palates. He and Gundrede were in the shadows of the porch, both looking tired, unshaven and furtive.
‘We are hiding,’ said Isnard, somewhat unnecessarily. ‘From the Sheriff, who thinks we stole the University’s bell.’
‘Can you prove you did not?’ asked Bartholomew, speaking frostily, because Edith had been right about one thing: Isnard had not made a good choice of friends in Gundrede.
‘No,’ replied Gundrede gloomily. ‘Because I was spying on Lakenham – from shortly after you fixed my nose, right up until dawn. Obviously, he had no idea I was there, which means he cannot give me an alibi.’
‘And the same goes for me,’ said Isnard. ‘Except that I was minding Petit. We are tired of being accused of their crimes, so we decided to monitor them ourselves – to catch them in the act and prove our innocence.’
‘That was unnecessary,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The Sheriff is doing it.’
‘Yes, but his men slip away for quick drinks or to stretch their legs,’ explained Isnard. ‘Whereas we do not leave our posts for an instant. Our good reputations are at stake here, so we are much more careful than guards with no vested interest.’
‘We minded them most of Sunday and all Monday night,’ Gundrede went on, yawning. ‘Which is why we are so tired now. However, our exhaustion will not stop us from starting again, once we have had a bit of bread and cheese to fortify us.’
‘Unfortunately, the rogues decided to take those particular times off,’ said Isnard glumly, ‘and they both stayed in. Indeed, I think they were asleep.’
He sounded indignant that they should dare do such a thing when he had been waiting to witness something criminal.
Bartholomew was thoughtful. ‘The bell went missing between nocturns and dawn. If you were watching Lakenham and Petit at those times, then it means that neither of them can have taken it.’
‘Damn it, Gundrede!’ cried Isnard in alarm. ‘We have proved their innocence, but put nooses around our own necks! I told you it was a stupid idea.’
‘Then maybe they sent one of their apprentices to do it,’ said Gundrede, thinking fast. ‘Or a wife – that Cristine would have no problem lifting a bell.’
‘Aye,’ agreed Isnard in relief. ‘That must be what happened – she is a strong lass. But speaking of lasses, that is why we hailed you: to ask you to visit Yolande. She usually sees me on a Tuesday, as you know, but today she refused to open her door. Something is wrong.’<
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‘Perhaps she is busy with someone else,’ suggested Bartholomew, unwilling to be drawn into a dispute between a man and his prostitute.
‘She would never give my spot to another client,’ declared Isnard, affronted. ‘And I am afraid that Barber Cook has got at her, because I saw him leave her house. He should not be allowed to physick a goat, let alone a person.’
‘I cannot abide Cook,’ spat Gundrede. ‘He was sewing up a cut on my leg when the Chancellor fought the Devil on the tower, and he would not let me outside to watch.’
‘Cook was with you when Tynkell was stabbed?’ asked Bartholomew urgently. ‘Are you sure? Because if you are, then it means that Cook is not the killer.’
‘You had him on your list, did you?’ asked Gundrede. ‘Well, I do not blame you, because he is a devious bastard. However, he did not kill the Chancellor. He was with me and half a dozen others when Tynkell was up on the roof.’
‘I watched that fight,’ said Isnard, while Bartholomew struggled to mask his disappointment. It was unworthy of him, he knew, but it would have been so very satisfying to see the loathsome barber charged with murder. ‘I was so shocked to see Chancellor Tynkell challenge Satan that I sat down hard and hurt my back, if you recall. But by the time Gundrede came to carry me home, the excitement was over. He had missed it all.’
‘Then, a bit later, we were among those who saw Moleyns fall off his horse,’ Gundrede went on. ‘Unfortunately, so was Cook, and he spent the whole time demanding to be paid for tending my leg. So he did not kill Moleyns either.’
‘I wish you had mentioned this sooner,’ groaned Bartholomew. ‘It would have saved a lot of wasted time.’
‘Why would we want that?’ asked Gundrede artlessly. ‘The longer Tulyet takes to solve the murders, the less time he has to persecute me and Isnard.’
The two townsmen led Bartholomew on a circuitous route to the Blaston house, partly because they were keen to avoid meeting the Sheriff, but also because Milne Street was still blocked by Trinity Hall’s rubble, and there was a lot of irritable jostling from those who wanted to squeeze down the narrow opening that had been punched through the middle of it.
A Grave Concern: The Twenty Second Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew Book 22) Page 33