A Grave Concern

Chapter 8

As Bartholomew was keen to ensure that his students were on track with the reading he had set, he and Michael returned to Michaelhouse, where the monk took the opportunity to give Langelee an update on their findings. Suttone listened, too, on the grounds that he should know what was happening in the University he would soon be running. He nodded sagely, but when Michael asked for his opinion as to the culprit’s identity, he mumbled an excuse and shuffled off to the kitchens in search of food.

‘Are you sure he is up to the task?’ asked Langelee worriedly. ‘Obviously, I would love to see a Michaelhouse man in charge. But Suttone … well, he has his failings.’

‘Kolvyle has been saying the same,’ sighed Michael. ‘So will you keep the brat here until the election is over? His disloyalty is doing Suttone great harm, and I shall devise a pretext to expel him when I have a spare moment. Perhaps I can banish him to Oxford. That will teach him not to cross me.’

‘I know how to occupy him today,’ said Langelee. ‘He can give the Saturday Sermon.’

He referred to a tradition that he had started, where the Fellows took it in turns to lecture on a light-hearted subject of his choosing, after which there was a debate. Michael laughed.

‘Excellent! He takes himself far too seriously, and Matt’s lads will heckle him if he tries to regale them with some tedious monologue on law. It will show him that he is fallible.’

He had arranged to meet Tulyet in the Brazen George again, so he and Bartholomew hurried there as soon as the physician was satisfied that his pupils were not falling behind with their work. They arrived to find the Sheriff waiting, having ordered a very modest meal. There was one salted herring and a hard-boiled egg each, along with a dish of pickled onions to share.

‘We caught Petit lugging brasses about on a cart not long ago,’ said Michael, taking one look at the spread, and indicating that the landlord was to bring something more suitable. ‘I assume they belong to Lakenham, although Petit denied it, of course.’

Tulyet nodded. ‘Helbye cornered him by the Trumpington Gate, and brought him to the castle to explain himself. I was delighted – I thought we had our thief at last. Unfortunately, the metal is his – he has receipts to prove it.’

‘Then the thief must be Lakenham,’ said Bartholomew.

Tulyet shook his head. ‘The latest crime is to his detriment – the brass he made for Cew has been stolen. It disappeared at roughly the same time that Petit was with me, which suggests that neither is the guilty party. And there is the fact that they are under surveillance – if they had stolen Cew’s plate, we would have noticed. Which leaves Isnard and Gundrede.’

‘You were watching all the masons and all the latteners?’ asked Bartholomew sceptically. ‘Apprentices, as well as masters?’

‘Well, no,’ acknowledged Tulyet. ‘But I am inclined to drop them in favour of Isnard and Gundrede because Isnard and Gundrede have left the town.’

‘Left it to go where?’ asked Michael.

‘No one knows, which is suspicious in itself. However, I saw Isnard’s barge slipping down the river at first light this morning. I was too far away to stop it, but it was very low in the water, and I suspect it was loaded down with contraband.’

‘Wine, probably,’ said Michael. ‘We know he smuggles claret on occasion.’

‘It looked too heavy for that – more like the kind of weight that would come from ledger slabs, brasses, Dallingridge’s feet and the lead from Gonville’s chapel. Obviously, the rogues will ferry it through the Fens, then around the coast to London.’

Michael frowned. ‘But who will want second-hand tomb parts? Or is there a large population of dead Cews in the city?’

‘The back of the plate will be blank,’ explained Tulyet. ‘So a lattener will just flip it over and engrave his own design on the other side. Or scratch out Cew’s name, and etch someone else’s over the top of it. It is a lucrative business, and such a load will fetch a fortune.’

‘Well, we will soon know if Isnard and Gundrede are the culprits,’ said Michael. ‘Because they will start throwing their profits around, and we will hear about it. Neither is the kind of man to be discreet about any ill-gotten gains.’

Bartholomew sincerely hoped they were wrong.

‘We had better review what we have learned,’ said Michael, rubbing his hands eagerly as Lister began to replace Tulyet’s meagre repast with plates of meat and bread. ‘And I mean facts, not conjecture and supposition. First, Tynkell. I thought he was working on University business when he shut himself in his room, but it transpires that he was doing something else altogether. I have been unable to ascertain what. So far, at least.’

‘Moleyns sent him invitations to meet in St Mary the Great.’ Bartholomew took up the tale. ‘We do not know why, but it was probably nothing to do with siege engines. Then he went up the tower and fought a person who then managed to escape, even though there was nowhere to hide.’

‘Either Tynkell or his killer used Meadowman’s keys to get up there,’ Michael went on. ‘But they were back in their hiding place shortly after his death, which means the killer must have returned them.’

‘Unless Tynkell unlocked the tower and replaced them before going upstairs,’ said Tulyet. ‘It is an odd thing to do, but little about these murders makes sense.’

‘Moleyns died next,’ continued Michael. ‘A dog was set racing after a bone, which caused his horse to unseat him. He chose Satan himself, so we cannot blame anyone else for giving him a mount that was beyond his skills. The culprit merely took advantage of the fact – as he did the mêlée when half the town clustered around the fallen Moleyns. No one saw him kill his victim.’

‘I believe someone did,’ said Tulyet. ‘The woman in the cloak with the fancy hem, who saw what happened and fled for her life. Unfortunately, I have still not managed to identify her.’

‘Moleyns was also engaged in untoward activities – namely sneaking out of the castle at night to steal.’ Michael shrugged when Tulyet winced. ‘It is the King’s fault for giving him such outrageous freedoms. Moleyns should have been kept locked in a cell, like the felon he was.’

‘I doubt that argument will win me much sympathy at Court,’ muttered Tulyet.

‘Moleyns met Tynkell – and Cook – in St Mary the Great,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Where Lyng carried messages between them.’

‘Inge and Egidia deny all knowledge of Moleyns’ nocturnal forays,’ said Tulyet. ‘They also insist that they could not get close to Moleyns immediately after he fell, although Weasenham and Kolvyle claim otherwise. Inge and Egidia are liars, and we should believe nothing they say.’

‘And finally, there is Lyng,’ said Michael. ‘Who probably aimed to spend Thursday evening winning votes, but was ambushed near the King’s Ditch. The killer arranged his body neatly, and left it in a place where it was unlikely to be discovered very soon.’

‘Lyng received a letter,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘And someone took a huge risk to retrieve it, so it must have been important.’

‘It was my fault that he succeeded,’ said Michael bitterly. ‘I should not have announced to all and sundry that I was going to Maud’s to collect it. Lord! It makes my skin crawl to think that the villain was there, monitoring my every word.’

‘You must have noticed someone paying you special attention,’ said Tulyet. ‘Think, both of you. Who was listening when you brayed your plans?’

‘I did not bray them,’ objected Michael testily. ‘I spoke in my normal voice. Even so, it is unfortunate that Matt did not hush me sooner.’

‘Cook was there,’ said Bartholomew to Tulyet, more interested in talking about suspects than apportioning blame. ‘Along with Kolvyle.’

Michael rolled his eyes. ‘And four dozen others, all of whom had his – or her – hood pulled up to ward off the chill. But you saw the rogue on the ivy, Matt. Surely you noticed something that will allow us to identify him?’

‘The room was too dim to let me see more than a shape, and once he was outside, he was hidden by leaves.’ Bartholomew spread the fingers on his right hand and stared at them. ‘I even had hold of him for a moment, but he managed to pull away from me.’

‘Could it have been one of the tomb-makers?’ pressed Tulyet, rather keenly. ‘After all, Moleyns, Tynkell and Lyng were killed with a burin.’

‘With something akin to a burin,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘Or perhaps a surgical instrument – of the kind that that Cook will own.’

‘I spoke to Cook about his encounters in St Mary the Great with our victims,’ said Tulyet. ‘He claims they met there by chance.’

‘Then he is lying, and you should interrogate him again,’ said Bartholomew, ignoring the fact that his own attempt to prise the truth from the barber had been no more successful.

‘There is another connection between the victims, besides the manner of their deaths and their meetings,’ said Michael. ‘Namely Stoke Poges: Moleyns once owned it, Lyng hailed from the next village, Tynkell wanted its chapel for the University, and a rider with its insignia was seen galloping away shortly after Moleyns’ murder.’

‘Then I shall invite Inge and Egidia to the castle, and we shall discuss the matter again,’ said Tulyet, ‘but do not hold your breath. Inge is a lawyer with experience of criminal courts, so getting a confession from him will be nigh on impossible. And do not suggest cornering Egidia alone – I tried that, but she refused to speak to me until someone had fetched him.’

‘What about the deaths of Lucas and Reames?’ asked Bartholomew, moving to another subject. ‘How are those enquiries going?’

‘Poorly,’ replied Tulyet glumly. ‘Incidentally, we should not forget Dallingridge in all this. I am sure he was murdered, and his death precipitated something dark and wicked, with Moleyns like a spider at its centre. My chief suspects are Egidia, Inge and all the tomb-makers, who were in Nottingham at the time.’

‘So was Cook,’ said Bartholomew, promptly and with great satisfaction. ‘Along with Kolvyle and Whittlesey.’

‘Well, you are both wrong,’ declared Michael, ‘because the culprit is Godrich. Whittlesey let slip that he was in the vicinity of Nottingham on the day that Dallingridge was poisoned, although I can think of no good reason for him being there.’

‘Have you asked him?’ queried Tulyet.

‘Of course, but he told me to mind my own business, which was no way to convince me that he has nothing to hide. He is dangerously ambitious, and will do anything to achieve his goals. The same is true of Kolvyle, who is second on my list, with Hopeman a close third.’

‘Hopeman was never in Nottingham,’ said Bartholomew.

‘How do you know?’ retorted Michael. ‘It was in the summer vacation, when lots of scholars were away. He was one of them – I checked.’

‘What about Thelnetham and Suttone?’ asked Tulyet. ‘Were they away, too?’

‘Yes,’ admitted Michael. ‘But Suttone is too fat to fly off roofs and scramble down walls, while Thelnetham has alibis for the deaths of Tynkell and Moleyns in the form of Nicholas and his Gilbertine brethren. Moreover, Thelnetham would not have “found” Lyng’s body if he was responsible for killing him. He would have left it for someone else to discover.’

‘True,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘It led to awkward questions – ones that may have lost him votes.’

‘Yet Godrich told us that Thelnetham visited Stoke Poges in the summer,’ Tulyet pointed out. ‘Perhaps he also has secret connections to Moleyns.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Michael. ‘There is a Gilbertine cell nearby, so he had a perfectly legitimate reason for passing through the place.’

‘Right,’ said Tulyet, standing abruptly. ‘I will speak to Egidia, Inge and the tomb-makers again, then resume my hunt for the woman in the embroidered cloak. I will also try to learn more about Stoke Poges. Perhaps one of my knights knows something. What will you do?’

‘Concentrate on Godrich, Hopeman and Kolvyle,’ replied Michael. ‘And re-question as many witnesses as will talk to me.’

‘I need to visit patients,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But I will listen for rumours, and I will challenge Cook if I see him. And Whittlesey, who we need to ask about the discussion he held with Lyng on Thursday night – the one witnessed by Richard.’

‘No!’ exclaimed Michael and Tulyet in unison; Michael continued. ‘Whittlesey is too influential a man to irritate, while your dislike of Cook will not allow you to be objective. Leave them to us, if you please.’

Unfortunately, Bartholomew’s customers were of scant help in providing useful nuggets of information. The general consensus was that the Devil was responsible for all the murders, and that anyone who tried to investigate would be wasting his time. The theory was propounded particularly strongly by Marjory Starre, who had summoned Bartholomew to tend her rash. He was glad to see her, as it happened, because he wanted to explore what she had said in Isnard’s house – about a clandestine connection between Moleyns, Tynkell and Lyng.

‘I understand you met Satan in Maud’s Hostel,’ she said conversationally, as she opened her door and ushered him inside. ‘You are lucky he likes you, or he might have resented being chased down the ivy like a common felon.’

Bartholomew blinked. ‘I hardly think–’

‘But he let it peel from the wall in such a way that you would not be hurt,’ she declared with conviction. ‘He appreciates everything you do for us, see.’

‘Please do not say that to anyone else,’ begged Bartholomew. ‘I will be dismissed from the University if my colleagues think I am one of the Devil’s favourites.’

‘Yes, most scholars are narrow-minded fools,’ she said sympathetically. ‘It will be our little secret then. Of course, Lucifer does not like the University.’ She spoke as though this was something he had confided personally. ‘It has too many priests for his taste.’

‘I am sure it does,’ muttered Bartholomew, and hastily moved to a safer subject. ‘You mentioned the last time we met that Moleyns, Lyng and Tynkell were associated in some way. Will you tell me how?’

‘Why, through Satan, of course,’ replied Marjory; she sounded surprised that he should need to ask. ‘All three solicited his help on occasion, but they must have angered him in some way, so he decided to make an end of them.’

Bartholomew cursed himself for a fool. He should have known better than to expect sensible intelligence from a woman who made no bones about the fact that she was a witch.

‘Moleyns, perhaps,’ he said, ‘but not the other two. Lyng was a priest, for a start.’

‘Yes, but we never hold that against anyone,’ she replied graciously. ‘Yet I see you do not believe me, so ask yourself this: why was Master Tynkell covered in those marks?’

‘What marks?’ Bartholomew kept his attention on her rash, lest she read the truth in his face.

‘The ones inked all over his body. You know what I am talking about, Doctor, so do not play the innocent with me.’

He looked up accusingly. ‘Did you open his coffin?’

‘Of course not – there are beadles minding it.’ From that response, he assumed that she would have done, had it been left unattended, and was glad he had taken precautions against such liberties. ‘I saw them on another occasion.’

‘How? He went to considerable trouble to keep them hidden.’

‘He was not always ashamed of them.’ Marjory pulled up her skirts to reveal a pale white calf, and he was startled to see a horned serpent drawn there. ‘I have one, but he had lots. We put them on ourselves as a mark of respect to darker powers. Of course, I have a cross on the other leg, as a sop to Jesus. It is reckless to put all your eggs in one basket, after all.’

It was an uncomfortable discussion for a man who spent a lot of time in church, but Bartholomew felt obliged to persist anyway – the secret Tynkell had worked so hard to keep would likely be spread about the town if Marjory’s claim went unchallenged, so it was his duty to see it nipped in the bud. ‘Tynkell’s symbols were inked on him while he was drunk – by friends, who did it as a joke.’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘Is that what he told you? Pah! These take hours to make, and the process is painful. No one could slumber through all of it, not even a man in his cups. He lied to you, Doctor, because the truth is that he wanted them there.’

‘Then it was a youthful mistake and he recanted,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘Which explains his determination to hide the things. Besides, Lyng and Moleyns had no such marks. I would have noticed when I examined their bodies.’

‘Did you inspect the soles of their feet? No? Then of course you did not see them! Go and look at Master Lyng if you do not believe me, although if you want to view Sir John Moleyns, you will have to dig him up, because he was buried today.’

Bartholomew rubbed a hand through his hair. ‘But Lyng was a priest,’ he said again.

‘A priest who was terrified of the plague,’ she said quietly, ‘when many folk learned that God and His saints could not be trusted to save them. Master Lyng wanted to survive, so he enlisted the help of another power. I could name dozens of people who did the same. Most returned to the Church when the danger was over. Master Lyng was one of them.’

‘You cannot claim that Tynkell weakened during the plague, though – that was only a decade ago, and his marks are much older.’

‘He was a devout Christian most of the time, but he came to me when he needed extra help. The plague was one such time, and the last election for the chancellorship was another.’

‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew, not liking to imagine what the town would make of the claim that it was Lucifer who had picked the University’s last leader.

‘Yes,’ said Marjory serenely. ‘But which one?’

Bartholomew’s thoughts were reeling. So, was a shared interest in witchery – whether current or past – why Tynkell, Lyng and Moleyns met in St Mary the Great? And if so, was it significant that Cook was there, too? He asked, but Marjory’s expression turned haughty.

‘I never discuss the living – only the dead, to whom it no longer matters. However, your brother-in-law said the Devil could have his soul if Edith were spared. Satan was so touched that he allowed them both to live. Look on his tomb if you do not believe me. Round the back, you will see a horned serpent. It will protect him in the afterlife, should God forget.’

Bartholomew was so unsettled by Marjory’s revelations that he was not sure where to go first – to look at Lyng or to inspect Stanmore’s tomb. In the end, he opted for Lyng, where it took but a moment to see that she had been telling the truth. He scrubbed at his face with shaking fingers. So was she right about Stanmore, too? His brother-in-law had certainly dabbled in such matters on occasion, and might well have bargained with the Devil for Edith’s life, given that she had meant the world to him.

With a heavy tread, he turned towards St John Zachary. He saw Cook on the way, and received a furious glare. As the barber had just emerged from the home of Siffreda Sago, an old friend, Bartholomew felt obliged to knock on her door, to make sure she was still alive.

‘We are not ill,’ Siffreda said cheerfully, waving him inside. Her house was not very clean, and smelled of rotting cheese. ‘He came to cut our hair. He has a two-for-one offer this week, you see. But he visited my mother yesterday and gave her a potion – this cold weather plays havoc with her lungs – and she has not been very well ever since. Would you look at her?’

Supposing Stanmore’s tomb could wait, Bartholomew allowed himself to be conducted to a hovel north of the castle, where he learned with relief that Cook’s medicine comprised nothing more sinister than nettles and arrowroot. However, the old woman needed an expectorant that worked, so he sent to the apothecary for a syrup of hyssop and horehound instead. When he had finished, he emerged to find a small crowd waiting for him.

‘Barber Cook said you were too busy to bother with us any more,’ explained one crone tearfully. ‘And that we must hire him instead. So we are glad you found a few moments to visit Mother Sago, because she got worse when he took over her care.’

Bartholomew felt his temper rise – not only that Cook should dare tell his patients lies about him, but that they should be fobbed off with worthless remedies into the bargain. He prescribed better ones for the people who pressed eagerly around him, assured them that he would never abandon them to the likes of Cook, and began to stalk back down the hill, aflame with righteous indignation. Unfortunately, Cook happened to be coming up it. The barber stood still for a moment, then darted down the nearest lane. Bartholomew caught him with ease.

‘Stay away from my patients,’ Bartholomew snarled furiously, grabbing his arm and swinging him around. ‘You might have killed one with–’

He only just managed to jump back when Cook swiped at him with a dagger. He stumbled, and suddenly he was pinned against the wall with Cook’s blade at his throat. Too late, he realised that he had been deliberately lured there – to a deserted place, where no one would see what was happening. The knife began to bite.

‘I am tired of your arrogance,’ Cook hissed. ‘How dare you challenge my authority!’

More angry than afraid, Bartholomew fumbled for a knife of his own, but could not reach his bag. He tried to twist to one side, and when that did not work, he kneed Cook in the groin. The barber grunted with pain, but the grip did not loosen. Bartholomew was just gathering strength for a struggle that would see him free, when Cook was suddenly hauled backwards.

‘Enough!’ barked Sergeant Helbye, when Cook lunged forward with murder in his eyes. ‘I do not know what is going on here, but you will scarper if you have any sense.’

‘He started it,’ hissed Cook between gritted teeth. ‘I am lucky to be alive.’

Helbye glared at the barber until he slouched away, then turned crossly to Bartholomew.

‘I know you scholars love a scrap, but please try to control yourself. We cannot afford to lose the town’s only barber-surgeon.’

‘He has been foisting useless remedies on my patients,’ explained Bartholomew, loath for the sergeant to see him as a brawler.

‘Perhaps he has, but fighting is no way to make him stop.’ Helbye’s stern expression softened. ‘I appreciate that you long for the battlefield, Doctor. Cynric is always telling us about your prowess at Poitiers, and I like a skirmish myself. But the Sheriff will not approve of you breaking the King’s Peace, so no more of it, eh?’

Bartholomew winced. When Matilde had left, he had embarked on a determined hunt to find her, and bad timing had put him and Cynric in the place where King Edward’s troops were preparing to take on a much larger French force. He had been pressed into service, and had comported himself adequately, although it had been in tending the injured afterwards that he had made a real difference. Cynric loved describing the clash, and his accounts had now reached the stage where he and Bartholomew had defeated the French all but single-handed.

But Helbye was right – Bartholomew was a medicus, and chasing colleagues down dark lanes was unworthy of him. He nodded his thanks for the rescue, and went on his way.

There was a scything wind to accompany the plummeting temperatures that afternoon, and Bartholomew walked briskly towards St John Zachary. He met Petit on the way. The mason had his apprentices at his heels, and was beaming happily.

‘I have just won the commission for Tynkell,’ he announced gleefully. ‘He will be buried under the bells in St Mary the Great – in the narthex – although I shall have to make his tomb very narrow, or it will be in the way of the ceremonial processions that stream past it. Still, that is no problem for a man of my talents.’

‘Edith will dismiss you, if you start Tynkell without finishing Oswald,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘And she will sue you for breach of contract.’

Petit regarded him coolly. ‘We were on our way to work in St John Zachary now, as a matter of fact. In the interests of good customer relations, we have agreed to overlook our distress at being in the place where poor Lucas was murdered. Is that not so, lads?’

There was a growl of agreement, after which he put his nose in the air and strode away, his boys at his heels. Bartholomew followed them into the High Street, where he was met by a curious sight. The men who wanted to be Chancellor had taken up station at strategic points along it, to demonstrate their oratory skills to those scholars who were walking home from the day’s general lectures.

Hopeman had chosen the corner with Bridge Street, and was by far the loudest. He brayed about Satan, while his besotted deacons cheered his every word. Most Regent masters – those eligible to vote – were giving them a wide berth, and only those with radical opinions of their own stopped to listen.

Thelnetham was next, and had attracted a huge group of scholars, all of whom were laughing fit to burst – the Gilbertine had the enviable talent of being able to entertain and instruct at the same time, which was why he was so popular with students. Bartholomew noted that Thelnetham had dispensed with his trademark accessories, although he had not been able to lose the mince, which was still very much in evidence as he flounced back and forth. Secretary Nicholas limped among the listeners, asking politely for their votes.

‘He is very clever,’ said Master Braunch of Trinity Hall, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. ‘But there is more to being Chancellor than making us chuckle – namely having the kind of royal contacts that Godrich possesses in abundance.’

‘And Thelnetham needs to brush up on his geometry,’ said Tinmew of the Hall of Valence Marie. ‘A chancellor should be well-versed in the quadrivium, as well as law and theology.’

‘I suppose a knowledge of angles and lines might come in useful for some ceremonial occasions,’ acknowledged Braunch cautiously. ‘Although I would not say it is an essential skill.’

From that response, Bartholomew assumed that Braunch was no geometrician himself, although he thought Tinmew’s pretext for not supporting Thelnetham was unreasonable. The Gilbertine was an excellent scholar, far better than the other candidates, so condemning him for having a poor grasp of one specialist subject was hardly fair.

Godrich was outside King’s Hall, where he could reinforce the fact that he had the University’s biggest and most powerful College at his back – literally as well as figuratively. His discourse was arrogant and disjointed, but it did not matter, because he made up for his lack of eloquence by distributing free wine to his audience. Whittlesey was one of those who was passing a jug around.

‘Godrich will make an excellent leader,’ the envoy said, coming to offer Bartholomew a sip of claret. ‘There is no other choice as far as I can see.’

‘Are you sure about that?’ asked Bartholomew, as Godrich began a sneering discourse about the shabby tabards worn by hostel men, either ignorant or uncaring of the fact that most could barely afford rent and food.

Whittlesey smiled wryly. ‘He will learn tact in time.’

‘Yes, but by then his offensive opinions might have torn the University apart.’

‘He is more than capable of quashing riots,’ shrugged Whittlesey. ‘He is a skilled warrior, after all.’

Bartholomew regarded him with distaste, and although Michael and Tulyet had ordered him to leave the envoy for them to interrogate, he could not help himself. ‘I understand that you talked to Lyng on the night he disappeared.’

Whittlesey raised laconic eyebrows. ‘As did many other folk. Why do you want to know? To assess whether our conversation gave rise to me shoving a burin in his heart?’

‘A burin?’ pounced Bartholomew. ‘Why mention one of those?’

‘Because Michael told me it was the implement used to kill Lyng, Tynkell and Moleyns,’ replied the Benedictine smoothly. ‘But to answer your question, Lyng and I discussed the weather, like any self-respecting Englishmen.’

‘Then why did you whisper?’

Whittlesey smiled. ‘Because we were out in the street, and some residents had already retired to bed. Or would you rather we had bawled our opinions and earned complaints?’

Bartholomew was beginning to realise that Michael and Tulyet had been right to suggest he leave the slippery-tongued envoy to them. He nodded to the jug. ‘Is it not beneath your dignity to serve wine to paupers and hostel men, especially when you should be sitting down, resting your knee?’

‘Yes, but Godrich asked me to do it. He is keen to keep me close at the moment – for the prestige of having a man of my elevated status among his supporters, I suppose. He is kin, so I am under an obligation to please him.’

Bartholomew could see he would learn nothing more, so he went on his way, where he saw Suttone outside St Michael’s Church, addressing a group that comprised nothing but Michaelhouse students. Bartholomew suspected that Langelee had sent them, so the Carmelite did not end up pontificating to himself. Suttone’s discourse was rambling and uninspired, although he smiled with genuine sweetness, and was by far the nicest of the remaining candidates.

‘You spout arrant nonsense, man,’ came a scornful voice. ‘Thomas Aquinas did not say that human souls are made of vegetable matter – he said that we are different from plants because we have rational and immortal spirits.’

It was Kolvyle, his voice loud and combative. As one, the students turned to scowl at him.

‘Aquinas said it if Master Suttone claims he did,’ shouted Mallet. ‘And it is you who spouts nonsense – you do not even know who heads the tables in the camp-ball league. I have never heard such a miserable Saturday Sermon in all my life.’

There was a growl of agreement from the others, leading Bartholomew to surmise that the Master had deliberately picked a subject the youthful Fellow knew nothing about. Camp-ball, a rough game that involved kicking, punching and biting, was Langelee’s favourite pastime, and he often treated the College to analyses of statistics and fixtures, so the students were generally very well versed in them.

‘I wanted to speak about the canonical aspects of Apostolic Poverty,’ said Kolvyle sourly. ‘It would have been much more edifying, but Langelee–’

‘We do not discuss that sort of thing on Saturdays,’ interrupted Aungel, his voice dripping contempt. ‘You should know that – you have been a member of Michaelhouse long enough.’

‘He is too close to their own age to command their respect.’ Bartholomew turned to see Michael behind him. ‘That is why they challenge him so brazenly.’

‘He does not have their respect, because he has not earned it,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘He does not know how, and thinks that flaunting his intellect is enough. But I thought Langelee was going to keep him inside today.’

The words were no sooner out of his mouth, when the Master himself appeared. Langelee stalked up to Kolvyle and grabbed his arm.

‘I told you to help Deynman in the library,’ he hissed. ‘So what are you doing out here?’

Kolvyle tried, unsuccessfully, to free himself. ‘I am not wasting my precious afternoon in company with a dunce like him,’ he declared pettishly. ‘I refuse.’

Langelee’s smile was predatory. ‘Do you? Good! Your defiance means I can fine you a shilling. Now, unless you want it doubled, I suggest you do as I say.’

Kolvyle opened his mouth to argue, but the Master’s expression was dangerous, and he wisely closed it again. Langelee snapped his fingers, and Mallet and Aungel came to escort the errant Fellow back to the College. Kolvyle went with ill grace.

‘My apologies,’ called Langelee to Suttone. ‘He will not annoy you again. Now what were you saying about Thomas Aquinas’s soul being made of cabbage? Pray continue.’

Bartholomew arrived at St John Zachary to find Frisby just finishing Mass. The vicar tottered to the porch, where he greeted his parishioners by the wrong names, and asked after kinsmen they did not have. Many lingered to chat to each other in the churchyard outside, and Tulyet moved discreetly among them, asking questions about the murders. He broke off when he saw Bartholomew, and came to talk to him.

‘I have identified the guard who let Moleyns out at night,’ he said in a low voice. ‘I got the bastard because of you – and a frost-nipped nose.’

Bartholomew ran through a mental list of all those he had treated for that particular complaint. There had been any number, but only one at the castle: the surly, ungrateful soldier, who had later been injured while sparring with Agatha’s nephew.

‘Yevele? He was the traitor?’

Tulyet nodded. ‘You said at the time that his nose was unlikely to have been frozen when walking from one side of the bailey to the other, as he claimed. Well, you were right: it happened while he was lurking by the sally port, waiting to let Moleyns in and out.’

‘I assumed he had left his nose exposed on purpose, in the expectation that you would give him inside duties instead. Night patrols must be miserable when the weather is so cold.’

‘I should have seen through his lies.’ Tulyet was disgusted with himself. ‘He arrived in the summer, begging for work, and I should have refused, given that I disliked him on sight. But Helbye thought he could make something of him, and it seemed unkind not to give the lad a chance …’

‘Did he tell you anything else?’

‘Unfortunately, he sensed I was closing in on him, and bolted to the Fens. Helbye is organising a posse to hunt him down as we speak.’

Bartholomew glanced up at the dull winter sky and shivered. Dusk was not far off, and it would not be pleasant out in the open once night fell. He left Tulyet and entered the church, where Petit and his boys were busy working on the tracery around the tomb’s lofty canopy. Despite the distracting racket, Bartholomew bowed his head and whispered a prayer that Marjory was wrong. She was not – the little horned serpent was carved on a corner, near the base.

‘What is that?’ he asked of the labouring craftsmen, pointing at it.

Petit came to look. ‘Peres must have put it there – he was working on it last. I suppose he has chosen it as his masons’ mark. Why? Do you not like it? I can get him to pick another.’

‘Where is he?’ It had not escaped Bartholomew’s notice that Petit had named the one apprentice who was missing, and thus not in a position to confirm or deny the claim.

‘I sent him to buy a new chisel. But what is–’

‘Have you seen this mark before?’ interrupted Bartholomew, aiming to find out if any of the craftsmen had a penchant for witchy symbols.

All shook their heads. ‘But I agree that it is not quite appropriate for church-work,’ said Petit. ‘I shall tell him to file it off when he comes back, and replace it with something less … demonic.’

They returned to the canopy, leaving Bartholomew to stare at the little snake and think sadly about the many people whose faith had wavered in those dark and desperate times, when the plague had claimed the lives of one in three, and no one knew who would sicken next.

At that moment, the door opened and Lakenham entered with his enormous wife. They walked to the place where Cew’s plate had been affixed, and he ran disconsolate fingers over the empty indent, as if he thought it might reappear if he stroked it long enough.

‘I worked hard on that piece,’ he said tearfully, when Bartholomew passed him on his way out. ‘It may not have been very big, but I gave it my all, and it was beautiful. Tynkell’s executors would have agreed, but it was stolen before they could see it – which is why they gave that commission to Petit instead.’

‘It is not fair,’ growled Cristine. ‘Petit should not be allowed to have so many jobs on the go at the same time. None will ever be finished, you know.’

‘I thought we might win Lyng though,’ sighed Lakenham. ‘Given that he was a modest man with simple tastes. But we have just learned that he did not want any kind of monument at all. Perhaps he considered himself too sinful to lie in a church for all eternity.’

Or perhaps he had not wanted to lie in a place that other deities would consider off limits, thought Bartholomew unhappily, recalling the mark on the old priest’s foot.

‘There is still Moleyns,’ he said encouragingly. ‘Petit does not have him yet.’

‘But he will,’ predicted Cristine glumly. ‘Because he moves in higher circles than us. For example, he was invited to dine in King’s Hall a few weeks ago, which is where he persuaded Godrich to invest in the sculpted effigy that will go in the chancel of St Mary the Great.’

‘And Godrich will spend even more money on the thing if he is elected Chancellor,’ sighed Lakenham. ‘It makes me sick! I could have done so much with such an assignment, whereas Petit will just churn out one of his usual scabby pieces.’

‘Yet perhaps we should not hanker too fiercely after the Moleyns commission,’ said Cristine. ‘He was a criminal, and we have standards.’ She glanced at Bartholomew. ‘We saw him sneaking around the town in the dark when he should have been locked up. Twice, in fact.’

‘Then tell the Sheriff,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘It is something he will want to know.’

‘We would rather not,’ said Lakenham. ‘He has a nasty habit of accusing us of theft every time our paths cross.’

‘And murder,’ added Cristine indignantly. ‘He thinks we killed Lucas, although we never did. Worse, he has made scant effort to find out who brained poor Reames. He was the only apprentice we had, and I cannot imagine how we will manage without him.’

Very easily, thought Bartholomew, if they failed to secure themselves new work. ‘Did he hail from a wealthy family? His fine clothes suggested he did. Perhaps they will want a brass to honour his memory.’

‘He was an orphan,’ said Lakenham glumly. ‘And the money left over from his inheritance will not buy him a funerary plate. It might have done, had he invested it with a goldsmith, but he insisted on squandering most of it on pretty tunics. Foolish boy!’

Bartholomew suddenly became aware that Petit was watching him, and as he had no wish to be interrogated about what had been said, he chose a route out of the church that would avoid the mason’s clutches. It took him past Stanmore’s vault. The hoist was finished, and beneath it sat the great granite slab that would be lifted into place once the bones were brought from the churchyard. Bartholomew was glad. Even if Petit took an age to complete the effigy, at least Oswald would soon lie in his final resting place.

Then he frowned. Was that blood on the lip of the hole? He went to look more closely, then started in shock when he saw Peres lying at the bottom with a knife protruding from his chest.