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

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘It cannot be a person, Brother,’ interrupted Vicar Milde from St Clement’s. ‘Because I was in the narthex when it donged earlier, and I saw the rope move of its own volition. No one was anywhere near it.’

  ‘And the tower is locked,’ added Nicholas. ‘I checked before I came out. No one is up there pushing the bells around.’

  ‘Then the wind did it,’ shrugged Michael. ‘The louvres are open and—’

  ‘What wind?’ asked Thelnetham. ‘There is not so much as a breath of it.’

  ‘But that will change tonight,’ brayed Hopeman. ‘Because God will send a blizzard, as a warning to all those who plan to vote for a man who wants to turn the University into a brothel. He told me so Himself.’

  ‘You do not need to commune with God to know that there will be snow soon,’ countered Michael scathingly. ‘There are all manner of signs – the dirty yellow colour of the sky, the way the clouds are moving, the behaviour of the birds—’

  ‘You have been talking to Mad Clippesby!’ spat Hopeman in disgust. ‘That is the kind of inane remark he might make. I shall petition for him to be defrocked when I am Chancellor.’

  There was a roar of agreement from his acolytes, followed by a bellow of anger from those who valued Clippesby’s quiet goodness.

  ‘You scholars!’ muttered Tulyet in disgust. ‘Any excuse for a spat.’

  ‘Right,’ said Michael purposefully, removing the tower keys from his scrip as the tenor sounded yet again. ‘I have had enough of this nonsense. Hopeman, Suttone – come with me. You can help me nab this prankster – a rogue, who has the credulous all a-flutter.’

  Hopeman surged forward determinedly, although his acolytes held back, preferring to let him tackle whatever was inside. Suttone turned a little pale, but gamely fell in at Michael’s heels. No one else was inclined to follow, and there was a buzz of excited anticipation as the onlookers waited to see what would happen next.

  ‘Should we offer to help, Matt?’ asked Tulyet. ‘Or can Michael handle the mischief-maker on his own?’

  ‘He can manage.’ Bartholomew nodded to where a pack of beadles had assembled nearby. ‘They will take the culprit off his hands when he comes down. I imagine a student is up there, having a bit of fun at our expense.’

  ‘In that case, shall we go to St John Zachary? I hate wasting time, and Michael will be busy for a while yet. Rather than twiddle our thumbs, I suggest we find out what Frisby has to say about the tomb that was stolen from his church.’

  They arrived to find the vicar in the graveyard, his back resting against a tomb, while his legs were splayed in front of him. He was drinking from a very large jug. It looked dissipated, and Bartholomew wondered why the Bishop did not oust him and appoint someone more suitable to the post.

  ‘Another theft from my poor chancel,’ Frisby slurred, his eyes red-rimmed and angry. ‘And from right under my nose, as well.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Tulyet.

  ‘I mean that I guessed it was only a matter of time before something else was swiped, given that those wretched tomb-makers have been using my church as their personal battleground, so I decided to stay here all night and keep watch.’

  ‘And what did you see?’ asked Tulyet eagerly.

  ‘Nothing, because I fell asleep. It was dark and quiet, and I was very tired.’

  ‘But you must have heard something,’ pressed Tulyet irritably. ‘Moving an entire tomb cannot be a silent task.’

  ‘It is if you know what you are doing,’ averred Frisby. ‘I could hardly believe my eyes when I woke up an hour ago to discover the whole thing missing.’

  ‘An hour ago?’ echoed Bartholomew in disbelief. ‘You slept all night and half the day?’

  ‘I was tired,’ repeated Frisby, although his dissipated appearance suggested that he had not been overcome by healthy sleep, but a drunken stupor. He sighed self-pityingly. ‘Monuments might look pretty in a church, but between you and me, they are more trouble than they are worth.’

  Sensing that questioning him further would be a waste of time, Bartholomew opened the door to the church, and was immediately assailed by the sound of voices raised in fury. They belonged to Lakenham and Petit, who were in the chancel, quarrelling heatedly. The mason had his apprentices to back him, but Lakenham had Cristine, and when her stabbing finger connected with a rival’s chest, it hurt. Several lads were rubbing places where bruises would appear by the morning.

  But it was the empty spot where Stanmore’s tomb had been that caught Bartholomew’s eye. All that remained were gouges in the floor, where it had stood. He glanced across at the vault, noting with relief that the thieves had left that alone at least, perhaps because the sealing slab was now suspended on its hoist, so moving it would be tricky.

  ‘I think I am beginning to understand at last,’ he said to Tulyet, who was at his side, watching the argument wearily. ‘We know the tomb-builders are innocent of the thefts, because they have alibis in Isnard and Gundrede.’

  Tulyet eyed him lugubriously. ‘I accepted your reasoning about that when you explained it the first time. There is no need to repeat it – I realise I was wrong.’

  ‘It must be a lucrative business,’ Bartholomew went on, thoughts racing. ‘Or Inge would not have bothered. People happily kill where large amounts of money are concerned – and that is why Lucas, Reames and Peres were murdered. Not because of the tomb-makers’ feud.’

  Tulyet lost his resigned expression and regarded him intently. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Lucas was first, stabbed with a chisel while he was waiting to sell us information. He talked about knowing “people and places”, and we assumed he referred to the killer. But he misled us.’

  ‘I disagree. Michael offered him threepence for the culprit’s name, and his response suggested that he knew it.’

  ‘He wanted the money,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘So he said what was necessary to get us into the churchyard at midnight. However, I suspect what he had to sell was information about the thefts, not the murders. The thieves guessed that he was going to betray them, so they stabbed him, doing so messily and without finesse.’

  Tulyet nodded slowly. ‘Very well. And Reames?’

  ‘Everyone thought his death was revenge for Lucas. However, he was killed – brained with a stone – not long after being questioned by you about the disappearance of lead from Gonville’s chapel. Did you notice his hands?’

  ‘Yes, they were filthy. He told me it is an occupational hazard for latteners, although I confess I was suspicious of the fact that he kept hiding them behind his back.’

  ‘You should have been – lead leaves black marks, but brass does not. I suspect he was involved in the thefts, and his accomplices grew nervous when he was summoned to the castle.’

  ‘They need not have been,’ said Tulyet bitterly. ‘He told me nothing.’

  ‘Not that time, but you would have tried again, and they are unwilling to take chances – especially with a man who strutted about with incriminating stains on his hands. They killed him to protect themselves.’

  Tulyet was thoughtful. ‘You may be right. Lakenham and Cristine are poor, but Reames was always very well dressed, so he must have had an additional source of income. However, it cannot have been another job, as that is forbidden to apprentices. Could it have come from an inheritance? Lakenham did mention that he was an orphan.’

  ‘I suspect that was a lie on Reames’ part, to explain the sudden windfall that allowed him to indulge his penchant for new clothes.’

  ‘So his money came from helping Inge,’ surmised Tulyet. ‘What about Peres? Lakenham and Cristine are convinced that Reames was killed by the masons, regardless of whether or not it is true, so I am inclined to think that they killed Peres for simple revenge.’

  ‘The aqua-coloured thread snagged in Peres’ fingernail proves they did not.’

  Tulyet frowned. ‘It does? How?’

  ‘Because you did not find such a garment in their house – if you had,
you would have arrested them on the spot.’

  ‘I would,’ acknowledged Tulyet. ‘But they could have got rid of it before I arrived.’

  ‘That is unlikely for two reasons. First, we did not make the discovery of the thread public, so how could they have known what to do? And second, when Cristine’s cloak was stolen from St Mary the Great, she complained about being too poor to buy another – they cannot afford to throw good clothes away.’

  ‘Fair enough. Continue.’

  ‘Peres was sent to buy a chisel, but used the opportunity to come here instead, probably to grind the horned serpent off Oswald’s tomb – he was the one who carved it, but Edith complained, so Marjory probably asked him to remove it. I think he was labouring away quietly when the thieves came for Cew’s brass. Peres saw them, and was stabbed to ensure his silence.’

  ‘Stabbed messily,’ mused Tulyet. ‘Like Lucas. Very well. I accept your reasoning – it fits with the facts as we know them. So who are these thieves?’

  ‘Now that I cannot tell you,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘I can only say that they are not Petit, Lakenham, Isnard or Gundrede.’

  CHAPTER 15

  Bartholomew and Tulyet left St John Zachary, noting with alarm the increasing number of scholars who gathered in groups, muttering. Some were Regent masters, vexed over the fact that their new Chancellor would be one of two men they did not much like, but most were students from the hostels, who always took to the streets when trouble was brewing.

  ‘They will settle down after noon tomorrow, when we have a new leader,’ predicted Master Braunch, who was standing near the rubble that comprised his fallen building. The path that had been cleared was in great demand, and he was there to prevent spats over precedence.

  ‘I hope you are right,’ said Tulyet worriedly. ‘Because I sense mischief in the air – and you do not need me to tell you that there are townsfolk who will join in any brawls.’

  ‘It is the uncertainty that bothers our scholars,’ said Braunch. ‘Even Michael’s detractors admit that he represents stability, and we are all fearful of what will happen when he leaves. The hunt for that bell is not helping either. It has turned into a contest between us and the town.’

  They saw what he meant when a trio of lads from Physick Hostel engaged in a furious altercation with three villainous characters from the Swan. Tulyet quelled it with a few sharp words, after which he and Bartholomew hurried on to St Mary the Great.

  They arrived to find that Michael had completed his mission to the belfry, and had prevented further debate on the self-ringing bell by sending Hopeman and Suttone off in different directions. Their supporters had gone with them, while the remaining spectators, deprived of entertainment, eventually drifted away.

  ‘Well?’ asked Tulyet. ‘Who was in the tower? Kolvyle? He strikes me as a lad to cause trouble, just for the delight of annoying you and seeing gullible colleagues jabber about Satan.’

  ‘No one was up there,’ replied Michael. ‘I can only assume that the wind set them clanging.’

  ‘There is no wind,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And it would take quite a gust to make those bells chime anyway – they are heavy.’

  ‘Then some mischievous student found a way to tug the ropes with no one seeing,’ said Michael irritably. ‘God knows, most are resourceful enough. But never mind them. Where have you two been?’

  Bartholomew gave him a brief summary of their conclusions regarding the thefts.

  ‘So while Inge is probably the mastermind behind the scheme,’ he finished, ‘we do not know who helped him. And he did have help, given that the missing items are too bulky for him to have carried alone.’

  ‘We are rapidly running out of suspects for the murders as well,’ added Michael gloomily. ‘The only ones left on my original list are Hopeman, Kolvyle—’

  He broke off as an urgent clatter of hoofs heralded the arrival of one of the beadles who had gone with Meadowman in pursuit of Godrich and Whittlesey. The man flung himself from the saddle and dashed towards Michael, leaving his horse lathered and trembling from the speed with which it had been ridden.

  ‘We found Godrich,’ he gasped. ‘In a tavern just south of Royston. He told us that Whittlesey had hurtled past on Satan a few hours earlier, going like the wind.’

  ‘Going where?’ asked Michael. ‘After Godrich, without realising that his cousin had stopped?’

  The beadle shook his head. ‘Whittlesey believes that Godrich went north, because that is what he told him to do – slip away to live quietly in York or Chester. He does not know that Godrich ignored the advice and was aiming for France instead. You see, Whittlesey promised that if Godrich did as he was ordered, no charges would ever be brought against him.’

  ‘Charges?’ demanded Michael sharply. ‘What charges?’

  ‘Devilry,’ replied the beadle grimly. ‘Whittlesey burst in on Godrich while he was changing for the feast, and saw a horned serpent inked into his skin. He was horrified, and declared that someone bearing that sort of mark could never be Chancellor.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Michael, while Bartholomew recalled the number that had covered Tynkell, and wondered what the envoy would have said about those. ‘And Godrich meekly agreed?’

  ‘They had a blazing row, during which hot words were exchanged and a bowl was lobbed – it cut Whittlesey’s hand. But then they calmed themselves, and Whittlesey issued his ultimatum: that Godrich leave or be exposed.’

  ‘That explains the broken pot and the argument Dodenho heard,’ said Michael. ‘But why did Godrich bide by it? He spent a fortune on his campaign, and he is not the sort of man to shrug and walk away, just because a meddling kinsman threatened to tell tales – he would just have denied the allegations.’

  ‘Because of the Archbishop of Canterbury,’ explained the beadle. ‘It was him who Whittlesey threatened to tell, not our scholars.’

  ‘A shrewd move,’ said Michael grudgingly, and explained to Bartholomew and Tulyet. ‘The Archbishop would demand to see Godrich’s mark, and the truth would be out. Then, as no prelate can be seen condoning witchery, he would have to disown Godrich. The rest of the family would inevitably follow suit, cutting Godrich off without a penny.’

  ‘Right,’ said the beadle. ‘So Godrich had no choice but to do as Whittlesey ordered – unless he wanted to live in penury for the rest of his life, shunned by his kin.’

  ‘Godrich confided all this willingly?’ asked Bartholomew sceptically.

  The beadle grinned. ‘Of course not! We told him that we had orders to hang him for Chancellor Tynkell’s murder, and Meadowman posed as a priest to hear his last confession. Godrich was livid when he realised he had been deceived, but it could not be helped. We did not have time to devise a different plan.’

  ‘But he did not admit to murder?’ asked Michael, smirking at the thought of the haughty Godrich quailing in terror at the prospect of summary execution.

  ‘He assured “Father” Meadowman that he was innocent of those. He owned up to a lot of other nasty things, though – including not pressing for justice when he found out that Inge and Egidia had murdered Peter Poges. Oh, and he also said that he was with Whittlesey when Tynkell died, so if he is not the culprit, Whittlesey is not either. It pained him to say it, though.’

  ‘Because he wanted Whittlesey in trouble, I suppose,’ surmised Michael. ‘And resented being the one who would prove his innocence.’

  The beadle nodded. ‘And because he thought Whittlesey might be guilty of dispatching Moleyns. He received a letter, you see, from Bishop Sheppey, warning him that Whittlesey was dangerous. He kept a careful eye on him afterwards, lest Whittlesey did something to lose him votes.’

  ‘Which explains why he tried to keep Whittlesey close,’ sighed Michael. ‘It was not for the kudos of having an influential churchman at his side, as Whittlesey believed. But we can ask him all this when he comes back. I assume Meadowman is bringing him?’

  The beadle shook his head. ‘We locked him in the tavern’s cell
ar, and I will fetch him tomorrow. Meadowman and the others have gone after Whittlesey.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘You just told us that he is not the killer.’

  ‘Because once Godrich learned that his cousin had also raced off in the middle of the night, he kept saying that it was suspicious. We agreed: that envoy is up to something untoward. So we decided we had better try to find out what …’

  ‘Good,’ said Michael. ‘But let us hope it does not take them too long. I need them here.’

  ‘Kolvyle and Hopeman,’ said Bartholomew a short while later, when Tulyet had gone to supervise the increasingly fraught search for the woman in the cloak with the fancy hem, who he thought represented their best chance of answers. ‘We should speak to them again – and soon. I have a bad feeling that unless we do something quickly, the killer will strike again.’

  ‘Yes, with Suttone likely to be the next victim,’ said Michael. ‘Cynric will do his best, but … Do you really think the culprit is one of those two?’

  Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Neither has given us a reason to think otherwise.’

  They began to hurry to the Market Square, where they could hear Hopeman making another speech. The Dominican had a powerful voice, and Bartholomew hoped he would not win the election, if for no other reason that it would be taxing to hear it at every turn.

  ‘I hate to admit that I was wrong,’ said Michael as they went, ‘but I wish I had nailed my colours to Thelnetham’s mast. He is by far the most able candidate, and I am sure I could have devised a way to keep him in line. It is a pity he withdrew.’

  ‘Can you persuade him to re-enter the race? Most of our colleagues would welcome a third option now that Lyng and Godrich are unavailable. And it might serve to calm the trouble that is brewing – the Regent masters feel cheated as matters stand.’

  ‘The statutes forbid it.’

  ‘Then perhaps Hopeman is right to suggest they be scrapped. They are meant to serve us, not the other way around.’

  Michael did not bother to argue. They reached the Market Square, where the Dominican had attracted a small but fervent gathering of like-minded zealots.