A Grave Concern

Chapter 7

The King’s Ditch arced around the eastern side of the town, and was used as a sewer and a convenient repository for rubbish. Unfortunately, it was too sluggish to carry its malodorous contents far, with the result that it comprised a reeking, festering ribbon of slime that posed a serious risk to health. Although its name suggested connections to royalty, all self-respecting monarchs would have vigorously denied any association with such a revolting feature.

Master Lyng had been found on its north bank, near the Hall of Valence Marie. To the south lay Peterhouse, the Gilbertine Priory and the King’s Head tavern, a townsmen-only establishment that was famous for fighting, and was a favourite haunt of Isnard and most of the Michaelhouse Choir.

Lyng’s body had been neatly positioned, his hands folded across his middle. His robes were carefully straightened, and someone had made a pillow of his hat and tucked it under his head. He was cold, and his clothes were dusted with rime, which told Bartholomew that he had lain undisturbed for some time.

The discovery had attracted onlookers, despite the unsociable hour – scholars from the nearby Colleges, canons from the priory, and a gaggle of patrons from the inn, all being held back by a cordon of beadles. Several, including Isnard and Gundrede, carried pitch torches, although the sky was lightening in the east and dawn was not far off.

‘Murder,’ reported Bartholomew tersely, indicating the now-familiar puncture wound. ‘A lump on the back of Lyng’s head suggests that he was stunned first, then stabbed as he lay helpless. He did not arrange himself like this, so his killer must have done it.’

‘Meaning what?’ demanded Michael. ‘That the culprit is sorry, and thinks that treating the body with respect will make amends?’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Only he can answer that.’

Michael crouched next to the corpse, so they could speak without being overheard by the growing throng of spectators. ‘I am deeply sorry to see Lyng like this – a three-time Chancellor deserves to end his days peacefully.’

‘He was a good man,’ agreed Bartholomew sadly. ‘We were wrong to include him on our list of suspects.’

Michael nodded. ‘And his death is a severe blow to our enquiries. Now we cannot ask him what Moleyns whispered before he died, or about the messages that he ferried between Tynkell and Moleyns in St Mary the Great. And as all three are dead, I suspect that both matters were important.’

‘Unless he was killed because he was the man most likely to win the election,’ suggested Bartholomew, and nodded to where Thelnetham, Godrich and Hopeman were watching with wary faces. ‘In which case, the culprit is one of them. Or Suttone, I suppose – the only candidate who has not come to gawp.’

‘Which is a point in his favour, as far as I am concerned,’ retorted Michael, then added wryly, ‘Although I suspect the real reason is because he is still abed. So when did Lyng die? Give me a precise time, so we can begin exploring alibis.’

‘You know that is impossible.’ Bartholomew gestured to the bridge above their heads. ‘He is invisible from the road, so he might have lain here since he was first reported missing.’

‘Which was Thursday night.’ Michael stood and called to the crowd. ‘Who found him?’

Thelnetham raised his hand, and the beadles let him past. The flickering torchlight showed that he had taken Bartholomew’s advice to heart, because his habit was devoid of vibrant accessories, other than the brooch that fastened his cloak. He also stood more erect and seemed to be more manly – until he glanced at the body, at which point he whipped out a silken cloth and pressed it to his eyes in an effete gesture of distress.

‘I was walking along this bank when I tripped over him,’ he began. ‘It gave me a scare, I can tell you! I climbed back up to the road, and raced straight to Michaelhouse–’

‘You were walking here?’ asked Michael, glancing around in distaste. ‘In the dark?’

‘I could not sleep after nocturns, so I decided to visit the clerks in St Mary the Great – some work all night, as you know, because the University’s recent expansion is generating so much extra work. I want their votes.’

‘I see,’ said Michael. ‘However, that does not explain why you chose to make your way there via the edge of the King’s Ditch. And do not say you glimpsed Lyng while crossing the bridge, because he cannot be seen from the road.’

Thelnetham lowered his voice and spoke a little crossly. ‘If you must know, I was with a companion. But that is my business, and I would sooner not turn my personal life into the subject of prurient gossip. I am sure you understand.’

‘What companion?’ demanded Michael, although he allowed the Gilbertine to propel him away from the gathering crowd. No one would have been able hear their discussion, given that they had kept their voices low, but there was always a danger that someone could lip-read. Bartholomew followed.

‘Him.’ Thelnetham nodded towards Secretary Nicholas, who was looking simultaneously defensive and furtive. ‘Obviously, we cannot meet in my priory or his hostel, so we have taken to using other places. Here, near St Clement’s Church, under the Great Bridge. All are usually deserted, so we can … do what we like.’

‘Which does not include eating slugs, presumably,’ muttered Bartholomew. He shook his head when Thelnetham regarded him questioningly. ‘You were seen. Find somewhere else.’

‘Yes, do,’ agreed Michael with a shudder. ‘It cannot be pleasant to lurk down here, especially for a man of refined tastes like yourself.’

‘No,’ sighed Thelnetham ruefully. ‘Unfortunately, the nicer refuges are always occupied by others. You have no idea how hard it is to find somewhere private in this hectic little town.’

‘Did you come here yesterday?’ asked Bartholomew, hoping to narrow down the time that Lyng had been dead.

‘No – we have been too busy. The last time we met was on Wednesday, but that was near the Great Bridge, not here.’

‘Did you move Lyng? Or tidy his robes?’

‘I probably jostled him when I stumbled over his corpse. But the moment we realised that he was … well, we both backed away as fast as we could. I hurried to Michaelhouse, while Nicholas went to tell Lyng’s colleagues at Maud’s. He told them to bring a bier, students to carry it, and the necessary equipment for anointing a body, but they should be here soon.’

Michael gestured to his beadles, telling them to let Nicholas through.

‘It is not what you think, Brother,’ the secretary began in a frightened gabble. ‘We were looking for lost coins, to donate to the University Chest and–’

‘It is all right, Nicholas,’ said Thelnetham softly. ‘They know my habits from living with me at Michaelhouse. They do not judge us.’

‘Then I hope they will be discreet,’ gulped Nicholas, not much comforted. ‘Our friendship is private.’

‘It will not stay so,’ warned Michael. ‘People will wonder what you were doing down here together – and the tale will out if Thelnetham persists in standing for election, because he will be in the public eye. It will be better for you both if he withdraws.’

The Gilbertine smiled thinly. ‘I shall say the wind caught my hat, so I came to get it. No one need know that Nicholas was with me.’

‘But it would be a lie,’ said Michael. ‘From a man who aims to lead our University.’

‘I told you it was a mistake to trust him, Thelnetham,’ said Nicholas bitterly. ‘We should have sent him an anonymous message, as I suggested. Then no one would be trying to blackmail you.’

Thelnetham’s face was pale in the flickering torchlight. ‘I will not step down – it would be feeble to bow to pressure, and I am no weakling. Very well, then, Brother. Bray my secrets to the world if you must. I shall take the resulting censure in my stride.’

‘I am neither a gossip nor an extortionist,’ objected Michael huffily, although Bartholomew was not so sure about the second, given that he was so determined to see Suttone in power. ‘I will keep your trust. However, Weasenham is among the spectators, so do not be surprised if the truth – or some approximation of it – seeps out.’

Thelnetham inclined his head. ‘Thank you for the warning.’

‘Yet it is convenient for you that Lyng is dead,’ Michael went on. ‘He was by far the most popular candidate.’

‘Perhaps,’ acknowledged Thelnetham. ‘But I am quite capable of fighting with my tongue, and have no need to resort to physical violence. However, the same cannot be said of Godrich and Hopeman, so I suggest you look to them first.’

‘And Thelnetham has not been alone since Lyng disappeared anyway,’ added Nicholas. ‘He has either been out campaigning with me, or in his priory with his brethren. Between them and me, every moment of his time can be accounted for.’

‘You should speak to Suttone, too,’ said Thelnetham. ‘Just because he is your favourite does not mean that he is innocent. After all, why is he not here? All the other hopefuls are keen to learn what is happening in the University they aim to govern, so why does he keep his distance?’

When the Maud’s men arrived with the bier, Bartholomew helped them lift Lyng on it, after which they carried him to their church. The onlookers followed in silence, all cloaked and hooded against the bite of an icy winter morning. When they reached Holy Trinity, Father Aidan opened the door for the body and its bearers, then closed it firmly behind them, leaving the spectators to mill aimlessly in the graveyard, unwilling to disperse lest they missed something interesting. Hopeman was quick to take advantage, and began to speak in a self-important bellow, much to the annoyance of Godrich.

‘It is inappropriate to electioneer on an occasion such as this,’ he informed Michael imperiously. ‘So do your duty, and shut him up.’

Michael had actually drawn breath to silence Hopeman, but no one told the Senior Proctor how to do his job, and he resented the presumption extremely. He closed his mouth with a snap.

‘When will our University accept that it needs a righteous priest at its helm?’ Hopeman was bawling. ‘Satan has claimed Lyng’s life, showing us that he was not pious enough, but Godrich, Thelnetham and Suttone are worse.’

‘You zealot!’ sneered Godrich, abandoning the moral high ground when he saw that staying quiet would put him at a disadvantage. ‘God will not want a low-bred fellow like you as Chancellor. You would set the religious Orders at each other’s throats within a week.’

‘Yes – there will be factions,’ ranted Hopeman, eyes blazing. ‘Two: those who stand with me to fight evil, and those who delight in it. I do not need to ask which one you will be on.’

Godrich responded with a stream of insults that had the Dominican bristling his fury. Their followers responded in kind, and soon there were forty men haranguing each other. Thelnetham urged them to moderate their language, but no one listened, and he retreated sharply when Godrich began berating him as well.

‘You should have listened to Godrich, and ordered that lunatic priest home,’ said Whittlesey, coming to murmur in Michael’s ear. ‘It would have averted an unedifying scene.’

‘There would have been no “unedifying scene” if Godrich had maintained a dignified silence,’ Michael shot back.

‘But a good leader would have quelled this spat before it started,’ argued Whittlesey. ‘Your decision to let Hopeman rail was a poor one.’

‘On the contrary,’ said Michael stiffly, ‘it is allowing our scholars to see both men in their true light, thus enabling them to make a more informed choice. In other words, it has reinforced Hopeman’s reputation as a truculent radical, and exposed Godrich as a man who does not know when to hold his tongue.’

‘And I suppose that makes Suttone more appealing?’ asked Whittlesey drily.

Michael smiled serenely. ‘I would say it does. However, you are right: this unseemly behaviour has gone on quite long enough.’

He waded into the mêlée just as words were turning to shoves, although it transpired to be much more difficult to restore peace than it had been to break it. Moreover, the raised voices had attracted additional spectators, including the kind of townsfolk who always appeared when the University was at loggerheads with itself, ready to join in any brawl.

‘Enough!’ roared Michael eventually, a stentorian bellow of which any member of his choir would have been proud. He scowled first at Godrich, then at Hopeman, and both had the sense to stay quiet. ‘Now tell me where have you been since eight o’clock on Thursday evening?’

A hush fell over the whole churchyard as people craned forward to listen to the replies.

‘I cannot possibly list all the places I have visited,’ declared Hopeman haughtily. ‘That was …’ He did some calculations on thick, grubby fingers; Godrich smirked his disdain that the Dominican should be unable to work it out in his head. ‘More than thirty-four hours ago. However, I was never alone. My followers were with me every moment.’

‘Even during the night?’ asked Michael sceptically.

‘Yes,’ replied Hopeman firmly. ‘Even then.’

‘Except when he was in private conversation with God,’ put in one of the deacons helpfully. ‘Which was quite often, given that he is a favoured Son of Christ.’

‘But I keep my holy audiences short,’ said Hopeman hastily, and the disciple received a look that was none too friendly. ‘I assure you, Brother, I have had no time to kill anyone.’

‘And you, Godrich?’ asked Michael.

‘I do not have to answer that,’ retorted Godrich, but something in Michael’s face caused him to reconsider the wisdom of this response, because he added sullenly, ‘I spent most of it visiting convents and Colleges, outlining my vision of the University’s future.’

‘And the rest of the time?’ asked Michael.

Godrich raised his voice, to ensure that everyone could hear. ‘I have decided to buy books for some of our poorer foundations, so their masters have been flocking to King’s Hall to make their cases to me – day and night. And when I was not dispensing my largesse to our less fortunate colleagues, I was with Whittlesey.’

‘It is true, Brother,’ said Whittlesey with a smile. ‘I was with my cousin every moment that I was not with you.’

Michael turned to another matter. ‘How well did you know Moleyns?’

‘Not at all,’ replied Whittlesey pleasantly, although the question had actually been directed at Godrich. ‘Other than by reputation, of course.’

‘Nor did I,’ put in Hopeman. ‘I do not count felons among my acquaintances.’

‘That is curious,’ said Godrich slyly, ‘because I saw you with him at the castle – twice. Or are you going to tell us that you went there to save his soul?’

‘I did, as a matter of fact,’ said Hopeman, flushing angrily. ‘But it was too steeped in sin for rescue, even by me. However, you were his friend – you went to Stoke Poges like an errand boy, spying there, to see what was happening on his behalf.’

‘What is this?’ demanded Michael, eyes narrowing as he regarded the King’s Hall man intently. ‘You did favours for Moleyns?’

Godrich shrugged carelessly, although his eyes revealed his dismay. ‘I happened to be passing, so I looked in on the place for him. However, it was Lyng who should have done it, not me. Tell him why, Thelnetham.’

While Godrich and Hopeman were being grilled by Michael, the Gilbertine had been standing quietly to one side with Nicholas. He started in surprise when Godrich whipped around to address him, and stepped forward reluctantly.

‘Not here, Godrich,’ he said softly. ‘Not when Lyng lies dead in the–’

‘He is past caring,’ interrupted Godrich, a callous remark that had a number of listeners exchanging glances of disapproval. ‘Now tell the Senior Proctor what you know.’

‘Lyng hailed from the village next to Stoke Poges,’ replied Thelnetham, although he spoke with obvious reluctance. ‘Last term, he regaled me with an account of the delights of Buckinghamshire for an entire evening.’

‘Why did you not mention it before?’ demanded Michael. ‘You must see it is important.’

‘Is it?’ asked Godrich slyly. ‘Why? Did you suspect Lyng of being the killer then?’

‘Of course not,’ lied Michael. ‘But these coincidences matter. I should have been told.’

‘How can they matter?’ asked Nicholas, defensive of his friend. ‘All Moleyns’ estates – including Stoke Poges – were confiscated when he was convicted.’

‘Yes, but the King promised to restore them to him,’ argued Michael. ‘And Moleyns certainly considered himself Lord of the Manor still.’ He scowled at the Gilbertine. ‘What about Tynkell? Will I later learn that he had connections to Stoke Poges as well?’

‘He hailed from Hertfordshire,’ replied Thelnetham. ‘Miles away. However, he was working on a scheme to get Stoke Poges’ chapel for the University, so he must have visited it at some point. After all, how else would he have known that it was worth having?’

‘He did what?’ exploded Michael. ‘He never mentioned it to me.’

‘Perhaps he was afraid you would stop him,’ shrugged Thelnetham, ‘which he would not have wanted, as it represented his last chance to make his mark on the University.’

‘I would have stopped him,’ declared Michael vehemently. ‘We cannot accept property from a place with links to a convicted felon! What would our other benefactors think?’

‘Thank God that Tynkell is dead,’ brayed Godrich. ‘He was a fool with his reckless ideas. After all, look what happened when he tried to foist a new College on us.’

‘And a Common Library,’ put in Principal Haye of White Hostel. ‘A venture doomed to failure from the start. Poor Tynkell! We shall have to ensure he is not forgotten by building him a nice tomb instead.’

Hopeman was more interested in exploiting the revelations about Stoke Poges. ‘Moleyns’ old manor is a popular place. Godrich, Lyng and Tynkell all visited it. Oh, and so did Thelnetham, of course. In the summer. He told me so himself.’

Michael turned to the Gilbertine, only to find he was no longer there.

‘He has gone to attend terce,’ explained Nicholas. ‘He will not forsake his sacred offices, even if others put their devotions second to gossiping in graveyards.’

Several listeners nodded approvingly, although others resented the censure, and as a ploy to gain votes, the remark had probably lost Thelnetham more support than it had won. As the Gilbertine was unavailable, Hopeman resumed his attack on Godrich.

‘He was Moleyns’ bosom friend,’ he declared, stabbing an accusing finger. ‘And I have always said that one can judge a man by the company he keeps.’

No one spoke, but all eyes went to the grim-faced fanatics who were ranged behind him.

‘Are you disparaging Moleyns, Hopeman?’ asked Godrich sweetly. ‘Then I must tell the King. Moleyns was a favourite of his, and I am sure he will be interested to know what you–’

‘I cannot waste time here when there is holy work to be done,’ interrupted Hopeman, sensing he was on uncertain ground, and so opting to exit on his own terms. ‘Come, brothers. Let us be about our saintly business.’

He and his deacons marched away, chanting a psalm. Their voices were loud, and it was still early, so a number of lamps went on in the houses they passed. Bartholomew winced, sure there would be complaints about the racket later.

The rest of the morning was taken up with trying to ascertain exactly what had happened to the hapless Lyng. A more detailed examination of his body revealed brown dust on his heels – it matched the road’s, suggesting that he had been attacked in the open and dragged out of sight afterwards. Michael and Bartholomew started their investigation in the Hall of Valence Marie, the buildings of which were closest to the scene of the crime.

‘And you noticed nothing amiss?’ asked Michael of its Master, John Tinmew. ‘No quarrel in the street, or mysterious shadows along the King’s Ditch?’

‘Of course not, or we would have told you,’ replied Tinmew. ‘Yet I cannot say I am sorry that Lyng is dead. He was not as kindly as he wanted everyone to think, and was too fond of the hostels for my liking. Now he is out of the running, Godrich will be Chancellor.’

‘Will he indeed?’ murmured Michael. ‘What makes you think so?’

‘He has the backing of all the Colleges except Michaelhouse, and Lyng’s death means the hostels will switch their support to him – because of his free-book campaign.’

‘Do you really want a Chancellor who has bought the post?’ asked Michael in distaste.

‘Why not, if he can afford it?’ shrugged Tinmew.

‘Why do you prefer Godrich to the other candidates?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.

‘Because Hopeman is a fanatic, while there must be some reason why Michaelhouse refused to reinstate Thelnetham after he resigned. He probably has a dark secret, which means he is not the sort of man we want.’

‘Then vote for Suttone,’ urged Michael. ‘He is neither a fanatic nor a man with nasty secrets. Moreover, like you, he is a College man – and one who lives in a foundation that is home to the Senior Proctor into the bargain.’

But Tinmew shook his head. ‘While I applaud his modern views on women, I cannot vote for someone who thinks we will all be dead of the plague in a few months. It means he is unlikely to develop any meaningful forward-looking policies.’

Next, Michael visited Peterhouse, while Bartholomew went to the King’s Head. Scholars entered this particular tavern at their peril, but most of its patrons were his patients, so while he was not welcomed with open arms, he was at least allowed inside. Unfortunately, everyone claimed that the first they had known about a body on the banks of the King’s Ditch was a horrified screech from Thelnetham.

‘Slugs,’ explained Gundrede. ‘We just assumed that one had bitten him back.’

‘Normally, it would have been me who found Lyng,’ added Isnard, ‘because I go past that spot every Saturday morning, delivering coal to the Austins. But I did something else today.’

‘What?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking the question simply begged to be put, but Isnard turned furtive and refused to reply.

‘Ask the tomb-makers if they killed Lyng,’ suggested Gundrede helpfully. ‘After all, they were conspicuous by their absence today – everyone else came to see what was going on.’

‘It was still early,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Most folk were still in bed.’

‘Then no wonder they take so long to do their work,’ said Isnard contemptuously. ‘I had been up for hours by then, and …’

He trailed off when Gundrede shot him a warning glance. Bartholomew did not want to hear more, lest he learned something he would be obliged to report, so he left the tavern and went to see if Michael had finished in Peterhouse. The monk had, and was standing outside it, talking to Tulyet and Helbye.

‘Lyng was last seen alive on Thursday evening,’ Michael was saying, ‘and while Matt thinks he was probably killed soon afterwards, he cannot prove it. Not surprisingly, no one is able to provide alibis for the whole time.’

‘Thelnetham can,’ said Bartholomew. ‘In the form of Nicholas or his fellow Gilbertines.’

‘So can Egidia and Inge,’ said Helbye. ‘The Sheriff ordered a watch put on them when they went to stay in the Griffin, so they have been under surveillance since Thursday afternoon. And we started monitoring the tomb-makers after Reames lost his brains yesterday.’

‘If you mean the kind of surveillance that you deployed on Moleyns, I am disinclined to trust it,’ said Michael coolly. ‘We have witnesses who say he slipped out of the castle to commit crimes all over the town, and if he could corrupt your guards, then others can, too. I had planned to visit you this morning, to ask you about it, but you have saved me the trek.’

‘What nonsense is this?’ demanded Tulyet. ‘Moleyns did nothing of the sort, I assure you.’

‘He was wealthy,’ said Michael. ‘And your soldiers are poorly paid–’

‘No!’ snapped Helbye, although there was alarm in his eyes. ‘Our men would never put money before their duties.’

‘Who told you this tale, Brother?’ asked Tulyet coolly. ‘A scholar?’

‘I cannot say,’ replied Michael, while Bartholomew suddenly found a hole in his sleeve to examine, which allowed him to avoid Tulyet’s eyes. ‘However, it is true, because I mentioned it to my beadles, and several say they saw Moleyns out without an escort after dark. They assumed it was with your blessing, and were astonished when I told them that was unlikely.’

Tulyet turned so furiously on Helbye that the sergeant took an involuntary step backwards. ‘Tell me this is untrue.’

‘Of course it is untrue!’ cried Helbye. ‘You know how carefully we watched Moleyns. He never went out unless you or I was with him.’

‘My beadles saw him at night,’ said Michael. ‘So I suspect he waited until you were tucked up safely in your beds, then used his purse on less scrupulous individuals.’

Tulyet was appalled. ‘Christ’s blood! What if he had taken it into his head to escape? The King would have had me executed!’

‘No!’ insisted Helbye stoutly. ‘None of this is true. Your beadles are mistaken, Brother. I watched Moleyns every waking moment. I swear I did.’

Tulyet rubbed his eyes. ‘Yes, you are above reproach, Will. However, the same cannot be said for all the villains under our command.’

‘Moleyns preyed on the “friends” who visited him in the castle,’ Michael continued, ‘after he had cajoled them into revealing where they kept their money. He did not steal all of it, of course, as that would have raised eyebrows. But he took enough to keep him in ready cash.’

‘He was always flush with funds,’ acknowledged Tulyet. ‘I often asked him how, given that most of his property had been confiscated, and he always told me that Inge got it for him. Yet he was frequently heavy-eyed in the mornings, but would never explain why …’

‘Vicar Frisby loved carousing into the small hours with him,’ recalled Bartholomew, ‘but sometimes, Moleyns cancelled the revels or claimed he was too tired. I suspect these “early nights” coincided with his rambles outside the castle walls.’

Tulyet sagged against a wall as the evidence mounted. ‘When he first arrived, we crossed swords – he tried to bully me and I resisted. He vowed then that he would make me sorry. Well, it seems he has succeeded, because I shall never live this down.’

‘Could Egidia and Inge have been involved as well?’ asked Michael.

‘Unlikely.’ It was Helbye who answered, his cheeks burning with shame. ‘They had separate rooms – at Moleyns’ insistence. He said it was because he snored, and he did not want to bother them …’

‘But it was to prevent them from seeing what he was doing,’ finished Tulyet heavily. ‘God damn the man!’

‘So let us recap what we know about the relationships between our three victims,’ said Michael, feeling the recriminations had gone on quite long enough, and it was time to change the focus of the discussion. ‘Moleyns and Lyng hailed from neighbouring villages; Moleyns whispered something to Lyng shortly before his death; Lyng and Tynkell were friends and fellow scholars; Moleyns sent invitations for Tynkell to meet him in St Mary the Great …’

‘And Lyng carried messages between them,’ finished Bartholomew. ‘Cook was there, too – not with Lyng, but while the other two chatted. We should speak to him about it.’

‘I had better do it – he is unlikely to cooperate with you.’ Tulyet turned to Michael. ‘Do you think Moleyns used Lyng and Tynkell to help him steal?’

‘I cannot see them burgling the town’s worthies,’ replied the monk evenly, while Bartholomew kept his eyes on the hole in his jerkin again. ‘However, Nicholas said Tynkell changed after Moleyns arrived, and took to shutting himself in his office. Perhaps he was being blackmailed …’

‘Yet Kolvyle told me that their discussion was amiable,’ said Tulyet. ‘Which would not have been the case, if one had been forcing the other to act against his will.’

Michael frowned, annoyed that the youth had confided something to the Sheriff that he had not mentioned to the Senior Proctor; he already knew it from Nicholas, but that was hardly the point.

‘Inge claimed they discussed siege engines,’ he mused, ‘although Kolvyle disagreed …’

‘So do I,’ said Tulyet firmly. ‘Moleyns might have been a knight, but he was no warrior, and if Tynkell had wanted to find out about weapons, he would have asked me.’ He rubbed his eyes again. ‘You two had better explore these peculiar ties between our three victims, while I find out how Moleyns contrived to escape. And when I do, heads will roll.’

Michael and Bartholomew went on their way, but had not gone far before Whittlesey appeared, asking if he might observe them at work. There was something about the suave Benedictine that Bartholomew did not like at all, and he was about to suggest that Michael used the envoy as a helpmeet instead, when Whittlesey stumbled over a pothole. He yelped, and hobbled away to perch on a nearby trough, rubbing his knee and wincing.

‘I hurt myself falling down the stairs on Thursday night,’ he explained. ‘Barber Cook stitched it up, but it still hurts like the Devil.’

‘Cook?’ echoed Michael in distaste. ‘Why would you demean yourself by hiring him?’

‘Because he offered me a free haircut at the same time,’ explained Whittlesey, ‘and my tonsure needed attention. Besides, Godrich summoned him almost before I had picked myself up. My cousin is very solicitous of me, and is never far away. It would not surprise me to learn that he is watching over me now in fact.’

Michael glanced around irritably, disliking the notion that he was being monitored by unseen eyes. ‘Matt will ease the pain in your leg, Whittlesey. He has a rare talent with knees.’

‘Good,’ said Whittlesey, and snapped imperious fingers. ‘Come, Bartholomew, we shall use the Cardinal’s Cap. It is far too cold to sit around out here.’

He began to limp towards it before Bartholomew could respond. The physician was sorely tempted to ignore such an impolite order, leaving the arrogant Benedictine to wait inside in vain, but Michael chose that moment to waylay Master Heltisle of Bene’t College, another person Bartholomew disliked, and Whittlesey was the lesser of two evils. He entered the inn, and found the envoy sitting on a bench by the window.

‘You did this tumbling down some stairs?’ he asked, examining the damaged joint.

‘Yes, and it was most embarrassing. I fear some King’s Hall men thought I was drunk.’

‘And were you?’

‘No,’ said Whittlesey indignantly. ‘Here is a shilling for your pains – conditional on you posing no more impertinent questions.’

It was an enormous sum, and would replenish nicely Bartholomew’s dwindling stock of remedies for lung-rot. He nodded acceptance of the terms, then called for hot water and bathed the wound before removing Cook’s tight little stiches – the gash was long, but shallow, and did not need them. He smeared it with a healing balm, then covered it with a clean dressing.

‘That is the third time you have washed your hands since we came in,’ remarked the envoy when Bartholomew had finished. ‘And Cook tells me that you are in the habit of boiling bandages over the kitchen fire. It strikes me that these are peculiar practices. Overly finicky.’

‘Perhaps,’ shrugged Bartholomew. ‘But they seem to prevent festering. Of course, I do not understand why …’

‘Then perhaps you should spend more time reading,’ suggested Whittlesey. ‘The answer will be somewhere in the vast body of literature available to diligent practitioners. However, you have eased my pain, so I shall not complain too loudly about your academic shortcomings.’

‘Good,’ said Bartholomew coolly. ‘Come back to see me in a–’

He faltered when the door burst open and Cook stormed in. Kolvyle was at his heels, and the younger scholar’s face was bright with malice.

‘You see?’ Kolvyle said. ‘I told you he was in here with one of your patients.’

‘This is an outrage!’ howled Cook, shoving Bartholomew away with considerable force. ‘You are a physician, not a surgeon. You have no right to tend my clients’ wounds.’

‘I asked him to do it,’ said Whittlesey, standing quickly and raising his hand to prevent Cook from pushing Bartholomew again. ‘He did not volunteer. And I am glad of it, as it happens, because I am much more comfortable now. You could learn a lot from him.’

It was not a diplomatic remark, and served to send Cook into even greater paroxysms of fury. His voice rose to a shriek, and spittle flew from his mouth. Worse, he began wagging his finger, a gesture that Bartholomew had always found intensely annoying.

‘Stick to urine flasks and astrological charts,’ he screeched, and the offending digit came so close to Bartholomew’s face that it was in danger of poking out an eye. ‘The next time you trespass in my domain, the Worshipful Company of Barbers will crush you like a snail.’

‘Do not bother suing him though,’ put in Kolvyle poisonously. ‘He does not have any money, because he spends it all on the poor. That is why they go to him for treatment. You would be a rich man, Cook, if it were not for his misguided generosity.’

Incensed, Cook lurched forward and grabbed the front of Bartholomew’s tabard. ‘You arrogant bastard! Poach my business again and I will break your–’

He did not finish, because Bartholomew thrust him away, hard enough to send him crashing into a table, where he suffered a painfully cracked elbow. More livid than ever, Cook surged forward a second time, finger at the ready. Bartholomew could not help himself. When it wagged in his face, he grabbed it and squeezed as hard as he could.

‘They come to me because they do not want to die,’ he said, in a quiet voice that nevertheless held considerable menace. Cook’s eyes widened in alarm. ‘And the next time I see evidence of your incompetence, I will tell the Sheriff to prosecute you. Is that clear?’

He held the finger a little longer, then released it abruptly. Cook gazed at him with open hatred, and Bartholomew supposed he should have controlled his temper. He did not want a feud with a fellow practitioner, and was sorry that he and the barber had failed to find a way to work together. However, he was tired of standing by while Cook butchered his patients, and his threat had not been an idle one.

‘You will not win,’ hissed Cook. ‘I will kill you first.’

‘Such hot words,’ said Whittlesey reproachfully. ‘It is hardly becoming. Come, both of you. Shake hands, and agree to be friends.’

‘Never!’ declared Cook hotly, while Kolvyle smirked at his side. ‘I would sooner cut off my right arm than make peace with him. But his days are numbered and–’

‘Why were you in St Mary the Great with Tynkell and Moleyns?’ interrupted Bartholomew, going on an offensive of his own and ignoring the voice in his head that told him to leave such questions to Tulyet. ‘The Chancellor was my patient, so do not say you were consulting them on a matter of medicine.’

‘That is none of your affair.’

‘Then tell me where you were on Thursday night,’ ordered Bartholomew, more than ever convinced that a sly jab in the heart would not be beneath the loathsome barber.

‘I was with customers. Lots of them, so do not think to accuse me of killing Lyng, because I have plenty of alibis.’

But worthless ones, thought Bartholomew, if Cook had been traipsing from house to house. After all, how long would it take to hit an elderly priest over the head, stab him, and drag the body out of sight?

‘You will probably die from his ministrations, and it will serve you right,’ Cook snarled at Whittlesey, before spinning on his heel and stalking out.

Kolvyle watched him go with spiteful satisfaction, so Bartholomew rounded on him.

‘Why did you bring him here? What have you achieved?’

‘I have exposed a physician who treads on the toes of barber-surgeons,’ replied Kolvyle haughtily. ‘It is time you chose between medicine and scholarship, Bartholomew, as it is obvious that you cannot do both.’

Bartholomew did not rise to the bait, but only because Whittlesey was there, and he did not want witnesses when he gave Kolvyle the benefit of a few home truths.

‘I shall bear it in mind,’ he said mildly. ‘So tell me: how well did you know Lyng, Tynkell and Moleyns?’

‘Oh, I see,’ sneered Kolvyle. ‘You aim to accuse me of being the killer now. Well, I am sorry to disappoint you, Bartholomew, but I am innocent. I cannot prove where I was every moment since Thursday night, but neither can anyone else. Including you.’

‘Moleyns, Cook, the tomb-builders,’ listed Bartholomew. ‘You were friends with all of them in Nottingham, and you have continued the association since – criminals, charlatans and men engaged in a bitter rivalry. You–’

‘My private life is none of your concern,’ interrupted Kolvyle indignantly. ‘And the tomb-makers are not my friends, thank you very much. I do not associate with commoners.’ Then he whipped around to address Whittlesey. ‘And speaking of Nottingham, you were there, too. I always thought it odd that you happened to be passing just when Dallingridge was poisoned.’

‘He was poisoned?’ pounced Bartholomew, although he was astonished to learn that the Benedictine had been in Nottingham during that fateful time – and that he should be in Cambridge now. ‘You always claim he died of natural causes. Have your changed your mind?’

Kolvyle’s face was as black as thunder. ‘Do not make an enemy of me, Bartholomew. You will not win, and you will end up being more sorry than you can possibly imagine.’

‘I have never liked him,’ confided Whittlesey, when the youngster had gone. ‘He might have a brilliant mind, but his character leaves much to be desired. I hope he cuts a niche for himself in academia, because I should not like him to join the Church.’

‘Were you in Nottingham when Dallingridge first became ill?’ asked Bartholomew. He would not mind at all if Whittlesey transpired to be the culprit, although it would not be as satisfying as seeing Cook accused, of course.

Whittlesey shook his head. ‘I arrived a few days later, with my cousin Godrich. And we did just happen to be passing, no matter what that vituperative little brat claims.’

When Bartholomew returned to Michael, having cunningly dispensed with Whittlesey’s company by advising him to rest his leg, the monk was with Father Aidan. The Principal’s face was wet with tears, which had attracted a circle of interested onlookers. Sobbing, he was telling Michael that he could not talk in the street, but that he might be able to manage a short conversation in Maud’s after he had downed a restorative cup of wine. Any number of people heard the remark, and there was much malicious sniggering. As it was so cold, hoods shielded faces, but Bartholomew was fairly sure Cook and Kolvyle were responsible for some of it. Richard Deynman came to put a comforting arm around Aidan’s shoulders.

‘I shall want that letter,’ warned Michael. ‘The unopened one from Lyng’s room.’

‘Softly, Brother,’ murmured Bartholomew, disliking the way so many spectators were brazenly hanging on their every word.

Michael lowered his voice as he continued to address Aidan. ‘It might contain a vital clue. Unless you have opened it already?’

‘Of course not!’ declared Richard, before his Principal could reply for himself. ‘Maud’s men do not read other people’s personal correspondence. We leave that for less scrupulous individuals. Like senior proctors.’

There was more chortling among the listeners, which Michael ignored. He indicated that Aidan should return to Maud’s at once, where they could talk without an audience, and fell into step behind him. Bartholomew went, too, at the same time telling the monk what had happened in the Cardinal’s Cap. Michael, however, was more interested in how Moleyns had contrived to escape from the castle.

‘Because of Helbye,’ he said. ‘The man has become a liability. Of course, it was the journey to Nottingham to collect Moleyns that did it – it was too hard a jaunt for a man his age, and it has prompted a fatal decline.’

‘Yet I understand why Dick is reluctant to replace him,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Helbye has been his right-hand man for longer than he cares to remember, just as Cynric has been mine, and Meadowman is yours. That sort of trust takes years to build.’

‘Except that Dick’s was betrayed. Not deliberately – I am sure Helbye would sooner die – but the plain fact is that he was let down.’

Bartholomew was about to return to the more interesting subject of Cook, when there was a flicker of movement in the trees at the end of St Bene’t’s churchyard. It was a strange place for anyone to be, so he stopped to look.

‘I saw it, too,’ said Michael. He pointed suddenly. ‘There! By the wall.’

Bartholomew opened the churchyard gate, which precipitated an immediate flurry of activity. Several figures materialised from behind the graves and ran to a cart, which they began shoving as fast as the frozen ground would allow. It was not quick enough, and Bartholomew soon caught up with them, although when he saw so many chisels and mallets brandished, he wished he had not bothered.

‘Put those down,’ ordered Michael sternly from behind him. ‘How dare you menace members of the University. Do you not know that I can fine you for belligerent behaviour?’

‘Oh, it is you,’ said Petit with a sickly grin, indicating that his apprentices were to lower their ‘weapons’. ‘We thought it was Isnard and his cronies. Or worse, that rogue Lakenham. He would love to catch us out here with this.’

Bemused, Bartholomew lifted the blanket that covered the cart and peered underneath. Lying there were several flat metal plates.

‘Brasses!’ he exclaimed. ‘Are they Lakenham’s?’

‘No, they are not,’ snapped Petit crossly. ‘They are mine.’

‘But you are a mason – you work with stone, not metal. Are these the materials that Lakenham thinks have been stolen from him?’

‘No, they are the supplies I ordered from London,’ replied Petit curtly. He sighed irritably when Bartholomew raised sceptical eyebrows. ‘All right, all right, I will explain. Normally, when a client wants a bit of brass on his tomb, I subcontract a lattener to do the work. However, in Cambridge, that means hiring Lakenham–’

‘And we would sooner die than do him a favour,’ put in the freckle-faced Peres. ‘So we have decided to make the brasses ourselves instead.’

‘But Lakenham will make a dreadful fuss if he finds out,’ Petit went on. ‘For trespassing on his professional domain. So we are obliged to keep them hidden until it is too late for him to do anything about it.’

‘Not to mention the fact that he will try to pinch them,’ added Peres. ‘As he has pinched so much else. Now, if you do not mind, we need to hide them before he sees.’

Petit nodded to his apprentices, and together they hastened to trundle their haul away, hoods drawn up to hide their faces. They looked so manifestly suspicious that Bartholomew was sure the Sheriff’s men would stop them if their paths crossed, regardless of whether or not they were doing anything illegal.

‘Will you tell Dick, Brother?’ asked Bartholomew, when they had gone. ‘I am sure he will be interested.’

Michael nodded. ‘Moreover, that little encounter has just placed Petit and his boys at the top of my list of murder suspects. Perhaps Lyng caught them doing something similar, so they stabbed him to keep him quiet. They also knew Moleyns from Nottingham, and may have killed Tynkell in the hope of winning the commission for his tomb.’

‘Cook remains my first choice,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He was in Nottingham as well, where he was Dallingridge’s medicus. He probably poisoned him to win a wealthy patient.’

Michael blinked. ‘Lord, Matt. That is a wild leap in logic, even for you.’

‘Not so – Dallingridge lingered for weeks, so Cook would have earned a fortune from tending him. Then here, Cook tried to convince us that Moleyns was not murdered; he was to hand when both Moleyns and Tynkell died; he cannot prove his whereabouts for Lyng’s death; and he met Tynkell and Moleyns slyly in St Mary the Great. He is our killer. I am sure of it.’

‘We shall bear it in mind,’ said Michael, although he failed to look convinced. ‘However, our list is a lengthy one, because it also includes Egidia and Inge, Kolvyle–’

‘Oh, yes – Kolvyle is certainly on it,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘Especially now that I have experienced first-hand the depth of his malice.’

‘Then there are the men who want to be Chancellor: Godrich, Thelnetham and Hopeman.’

‘Not Suttone?’ Bartholomew felt treacherous for asking.

‘Do not be ridiculous, Matt. He is a member of Michaelhouse.’

‘So was Thelnetham.’

‘True, but Suttone was not ousted from it for being disagreeable.’

Bartholomew supposed that was true. ‘We should include Whittlesey as well.’

Michael frowned. ‘Whittlesey? Why on Earth would you accuse him?’

‘Because I have just learned that he was in Nottingham when Dallingridge was poisoned as well, and–’

‘No, he was not,’ interrupted Michael. ‘He arrived a few days later.’

‘So he claims,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But can we believe him?’ He hurried on before Michael could answer. ‘Then people started to die the moment he came here, and I had the sense that he was lying to me about how he cut his leg. Perhaps solving these crimes is a test for you – to see whether you are good enough to step into Sheppey’s shoes.’

‘That would be rather an extreme way to find out,’ said Michael, wide-eyed. ‘And I cannot believe it of him. However, we shall keep him on our list, if it pleases you. Why not? We can no more eliminate him than any of the others.’

They reached Maud’s Hostel to find Richard waiting to let them in. He escorted them to Aidan’s quarters, where the Principal was downing a very large cup of wine to steady his nerves.

‘I cannot believe it,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Poor Lyng …’

‘Are you sure he did not tell you where he was going on Thursday?’ asked Michael. ‘Now he has been murdered, you will appreciate that the question is important.’

‘It was important when he was missing,’ countered Aidan bitterly. ‘Learning his plans now cannot help him.’

‘No,’ said Michael quietly. ‘But it might help us catch his killer.’

‘You want the case solved, so you can flounce off to Rochester and begin your new life,’ said Aidan accusingly. ‘While the rest of us remain here, steeped in grief.’

‘He wants it solved to prevent the killer from striking again,’ said Bartholomew gently. ‘And so that Lyng and the others will have the justice they deserve.’

‘The tomb-builders will be in for a disappointment, though,’ Aidan went on, ignoring him, ‘because Lyng did not want a monument. He specifically asked to be buried in the churchyard with a simple wooden cross. He was a modest man, whose only ambition was to serve a fourth term as Chancellor.’

‘Shall we discuss his last known movements now, Brother?’ asked Richard brightly. ‘I have painstakingly visited all his favourite haunts, so I know exactly where he went and what he did on Thursday. Shall I tell you?’

‘Go on, then,’ said Michael warily. If Richard was anything like his brother, the testimony would have to be taken with a very large pinch of salt.

‘Well, after breakfast he visited St Austin’s and Bede’s hostels to ask for their votes. Then he went to the Market Square, to make speeches with the other candidates.’

‘The event was acrimonious, and it distressed him,’ recalled Aidan. ‘He said it made the four of them look like squabbling schoolboys, so he came back here to lie down and recover.’

Richard nodded. ‘When he felt better, he got up and visited Copped Hall and Physwick, before coming home for dinner.’

‘He ate a whole pig’s heart,’ put in Aidan. ‘It was his favourite. I was a little peeved, actually, as I should have liked a slice myself, but he did not offer. Thank God I did not make a fuss! It was his last meal, and I might have ruined it for him.’

‘Then he went out yet again,’ Richard continued. ‘It was roughly eight o’clock – very late – and I accompanied him as far as the High Street, where I turned towards Michaelhouse to visit my brother.’

‘Did he speak to anyone along the way?’ asked Michael.

‘Oh, yes, lots of people. First, there was that sinister Benedictine who works for the Bishop of Rochester. They muttered together for ages while I waited.’

‘Whittlesey?’ asked Michael uneasily. ‘Did you hear what they discussed?’

‘No, because they were whispering.’ Richard looked sheepish. ‘I did try to eavesdrop, but they saw me and moved away. After, Lyng and I walked on a few paces until we were stopped by Cook, who told him that he needed a haircut. That horrid Michaelhouse lad was with him – the one who thinks the rest of us are stupid, and that only he is good enough to be a scholar.’

‘Kolvyle might have an outstanding mind, but a lesson in humility would not go amiss,’ agreed Aidan. ‘He told me the other day that Maud’s should be suppressed, on the grounds that we are an embarrassment to the University. It was rude.’

‘You should have boxed his ears,’ said Michael. ‘If he insults you again, you have my permission to do it. And when he complains, I shall fine him for being an irritating little brat.’

Aidan smiled for the first time. ‘I might hold you to that, Brother.’

Michael turned back to Richard. ‘Who else did Lyng greet?’

‘Suttone, Thelnetham, Moleyns’ wife, Godrich, the Mayor, and some of the tomb-builders, although I cannot tell you which ones, because it was too dark to tell. But I know it was them because they were muttering about casement-and-bowtell edge moulding.’

‘So virtually all our suspects saw Lyng out and about after nightfall,’ mused Michael. He turned to Aidan. ‘But I had better read this letter now. Let us hope it contains something helpful.’

‘I shall fetch it for you,’ offered Richard, and thundered up the stairs before Michael could inform him that he would rather go himself – and take the opportunity for another rummage through Lyng’s belongings at the same time. There was silence, followed by a shriek.

Bartholomew exchanged a glance of mystification with Michael, then hurried upstairs to find out what was happening. He flung open the door to Lyng’s room just in time to see a black shape slither across the floor and start to climb through a window. Unfortunately, all the other shutters were closed to exclude the inclement weather, making it too dim to see properly. Richard was a blubbering heap in the corner.

‘The Devil!’ he wept. ‘It is Satan himself!’

Bartholomew was sure it was not, especially as there was a very human curse when the invader’s cloak caught on a nail. He darted after him but ‘Satan’ freed himself quickly and began scrambling down the ivy-coated wall outside. Bartholomew leaned out after him, and managed to snag enough of his hood to stop him from going any further, but not enough to haul him back up again.

‘I came in, and Lucifer was standing in the middle of the room,’ wailed Deynman, as Michael and Aidan hurried in to find out what was happening. ‘Which it why it is so cold in here – an icy blast from Hell.’

‘Hell is hot,’ said Michael authoritatively. ‘Your “icy blast” came from the open window.’

‘What was Satan doing?’ breathed Aidan, while Bartholomew struggled to get a better grip on his quarry.

‘Nothing,’ gulped Richard. ‘But I saw the red gleam of his terrible eyes – in a face that was invisible under its hood.’

‘You could see his eyes but not his face?’ demanded Michael sceptically. He hurried to the window, reaching it just as Bartholomew’s tenuous hold on the hood snapped loose, allowing the culprit to continue his escape unimpeded. ‘After him, Matt!’

‘You do it,’ retorted Bartholomew. It was a long way down, and the ivy was covered in frost and icicles.

‘With my heavy bones? Are you mad? Quickly now, or he will escape.’

‘Then go down to the yard and cut him off,’ ordered Bartholomew, unwilling to take all the risks while everyone else just stood and watched.

He clambered over the sill, and took hold of a branch, wincing at the cold, slick feel of it on his fingers. Then he began to descend, although rather more gingerly than ‘Satan’ had done. His caution was not misplaced: the invader’s frantic flight had loosened the plant’s hold on the wall, and it began to peel away. Alarmed, Bartholomew tried to move faster, aware of his quarry swearing pithily below as bits of ice and vegetation began to shower down on him.

Then, with a swishing hiss, the whole thing tore free, sending Bartholomew and the invader tumbling to the yard below, although their fall was cushioned by leaves and branches. The ivy kept coming after they had landed, though, and Bartholomew found himself submerged in foliage. By the time he had fought free of its prickly embrace, ‘Satan’ had gone.

‘Did you do all this damage, Matt?’ came Michael’s voice from somewhere on the other side of the green mountain. ‘Heavens! I am glad I did not listen to you and attempt it myself. I might have been hurt.’

‘The Devil flew away,’ shouted Richard, who had recovered from his gibbering fright and was standing with Aidan at the window. ‘If he had tried to clamber down the branches, like Doctor Bartholomew did, he would also be entangled in the leaves. But he has gone!’

‘Just as he soared away after Tynkell was stabbed,’ gulped Aidan. ‘We are fortunate he did not kill you, too, Bartholomew.’

‘That was a person,’ said Michael firmly. ‘Not Lucifer. And he stole Lyng’s letter, because it is no longer in his room. It was the killer, of course, making off with the clue that would have exposed him.’

‘Yes, and you told him you were coming for it,’ said Bartholomew in a low voice. ‘You announced your intentions in the graveyard, and lots of people heard. Most were hooded, so I cannot tell you who they were, but I am sure Cook and Kolvyle were among them.’

‘So were Godrich and Hopeman,’ said Michael. ‘It is a wretched shame that Richard raced upstairs before we could stop him. If you or I had gone, the villain would now be in custody.’