A Grave Concern

Chapter 9

It was not long before the little church thronged with people. Some carried lamps, as darkness had fallen outside. Petit huddled with his apprentices, wailing that he had been deprived of another beloved pupil, while Lakenham and Cristine stood side by side, watching their rivals with expressions that were difficult to read in the gloom. Then Vicar Frisby arrived.

‘A second murder in this most holy of places,’ he slurred, squinting at the body through bloodshot eyes, and almost toppling into the vault when he leaned over too far. ‘Poor Stanmore! He must be wondering how many more interlopers will inhabit his grave before he gets the chance to use it himself.’

‘Frisby has a point, Matt,’ murmured Tulyet, as he helped Bartholomew to pull Peres up and lay him on the floor. ‘You should arrange for Stanmore to be interred before someone else ends up down there.’

‘You can do it next week,’ sobbed Petit, overhearing. ‘The granite slab will be ready to seal it up by Wednesday. Or perhaps Friday.’

‘I shall have to resanctify the whole church now,’ interjected Frisby crossly. ‘Or is that the Bishop’s prerogative? But he is in Avignon with the Pope, and might be gone for months, so how shall I earn a living in the interim? Hah! I know. Michael can do it. He is almost a prelate.’

‘Did you notice anything amiss when you came to say Mass earlier?’ asked Tulyet, obviously unimpressed that the vicar was more concerned with his own circumstances than the victim’s.

‘If I had, I would not have conducted the rite,’ said Frisby, intending piety but achieving only dissipation. ‘It is my belief that Masses should never be performed with corpses in the vicinity. Except Requiem Masses, I suppose, when it is unavoidable.’

‘When did you last see Peres?’ asked Tulyet of the mason and his remaining lads.

‘I sent him to buy a chisel,’ replied Petit tearfully. ‘Four or five hours ago now. I wondered what was taking him so long, but I never imagined he would be …’

‘Four or five hours?’ Tulyet turned back to Frisby. ‘Were you in here the whole time?’

‘No, I was in my house for most of it, praying.’

A titter of amusement rippled through his parishioners at the notion that their worldly priest would engage in anything remotely pious.

‘So who was in the church when you arrived?’ pressed Tulyet.

‘No one,’ replied Frisby. ‘I began setting out my accoutrements, and the congregation trickled in, but they all stood in the nave. I do not let them into the sacred confines of the chancel while the Host is up here. It involves wine, you know, and they might try to take it.’

‘What about the rest of you?’ said Tulyet, addressing the assembled masses. ‘Did you notice anything unusual when you came in?’

No one had. Meanwhile, Petit knelt next to Peres and began to go through his clothes.

‘What are you doing?’ asked Bartholomew in distaste.

‘Looking for the new chisel,’ replied the mason, then held up three coins. ‘But here is the money I gave him for it, which means he was killed before he reached the market. He must have come to check Stanmore’s vault first, and was ambushed here.’

‘That makes sense,’ nodded Tulyet. ‘No one saw the killer, because he had been and gone before the Mass started. What about the knife? Does anyone recognise it?’

There were a lot of shaken heads, which was no surprise, given that it was cheap and unremarkable – the kind that could be bought anywhere for a few coins.

‘Well, Lakenham?’ asked Petit, unsteadily, still kneeling next to the body. ‘Are you satisfied? Another of my boys dead at your hands.’

‘Not ours,’ said Lakenham firmly. ‘We were in St Clement’s all day, as Vicar Milde will attest. And you never liked Peres anyway, so you probably dispatched him yourself.’

‘How, when I was in St Mary the Great with a dozen witnesses to prove it?’ demanded Petit angrily, surging to his feet. ‘But I know your game, Lakenham – you murdered Peres in the hope that my distress will lead me to refuse the Tynkell commission. Well, it will not work.’

The argument swayed back and forth, and Tulyet let it run in the hope that temper would lead to incriminatory slips. Bartholomew crouched down to examine Peres more closely. Like Lucas, it had not been a clean kill, and several vicious jabs had been inflicted before the fatal blow. He was about to cover him up when he noticed something caught in one of the boy’s fingernails. It was a thread of an unusual shade of aqua.

‘From his attacker?’ asked Tulyet, peering at it.

Bartholomew nodded. ‘I think so – his nail is torn, which suggests he snatched at his assailant in an effort to ward him off.’

‘I have never seen anyone wearing an item of clothing this colour. However, it is distinctive, and I shall start my search for it in the tomb-makers’ homes. When we have the garment, we shall have our killer.’

‘You will have Peres’ killer,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘And perhaps Lucas’s and Reames’. But not Moleyns’, Tynkell’s and Lyng’s. That culprit is altogether more efficient.’

As Edith sold cloth, Bartholomew decided to ask her if she recognised the thread. He arrived at her house to find her sitting at a table surrounded by documents, which she was struggling to read by lamplight. She was delighted by the interruption, as she had never liked record-keeping. He sat by the fire and accepted a large piece of almond cake. Then he showed her the aqua fibre, and was disappointed when she shook her head.

‘It did not come from here,’ she said. ‘And I do not mean just our warehouses – I mean Cambridge. It was dyed somewhere else.’

‘You mean our killer is a visitor?’ asked Bartholomew keenly.

‘Or someone who lives here, but who bought it on a journey. Or had it sent.’

Bartholomew’s brief surge of hope for an easy solution faded. ‘Damn!’

They sat in silence for a while, enjoying the comfortable crackle of the fire and the scent of burning pine cones. Then Edith stood and fetched something from the table. It was an exemplar of a funerary brass.

‘Lakenham made it for me. He says I should dismiss the masons, and put this on top of Oswald’s tomb-chest instead of the carving that Petit is supposed to make. What do you think?’

He took it from her. It had been crafted with loving care, and the engraving caught perfectly the clothier’s flowing robes and practical hat. Bartholomew was impressed.

‘I think it is more tasteful than an effigy, and will be finished a lot sooner.’

‘Then I shall inform Petit that his services are no longer required. He only has himself to blame – I have berated him countless times for not turning up when he promised, and so have you. I suspect others will follow my example, because everyone is fed up with his unreliability.’

‘Then let us hope they do not all hire Lakenham, or we shall be back where we started.’

Edith smiled, then began to chat about her day. Bartholomew let the flow of words wash over him, his thoughts returning to Peres. Was the apprentice’s murder connected to the serpent he had carved on Stanmore’s tomb? Or was it just part of the rivalry between latteners and masons? Then something Edith was saying brought his attention back to her with a snap.

‘What?’

‘I said I was cross when I saw that Marjory Starre and her cronies had arranged for that nasty little snake to be etched into Oswald’s grave. I know his faith wavered on occasion, but he was not one of them. I told her to get it removed immediately.’

Bartholomew stared at her. ‘Do you think she asked Peres to do it? Is that why he went to St John Zachary instead of the market?’

‘Well, he was a regular visitor to her house – for potions to remove his freckles, according to her, although they clearly did not work, so you have to wonder why he kept going back.’

‘So he was a Satan-lover?’

‘Or just deeply superstitious. It is not unusual, Matt – a blend of the Church and witchery is more common than you might think. After all, just look at Cynric. Would you call him a Satan-lover?’

‘No, but he does not go around carving horned snakes on other people’s tombs.’

‘As far as you know,’ said Edith drily.

‘Who else adheres to these beliefs? Did Lyng, Tynkell or Moleyns?’

Edith shrugged. ‘Well, if they did, it would explain why they all chatted so disrespectfully during Mass, and why Moleyns sometimes used it as an opportunity to steal his friends’ purses. I told you about Widow Knyt, did I not? She found herself minus three shillings when Moleyns “accidentally” bumped into her in St Clement’s Church.’

‘What else can you tell me about witchery?’

‘Nothing, Matt, but ask Cynric. He knows far more about these matters than I do.’

Bartholomew had the opportunity to speak to his book-bearer when he left Edith’s house, because Cynric had been looking for him, and was waiting with a summons from a patient.

‘Lots of folk visit Marjory for charms,’ said Cynric, falling into step at his side. He kept one hand on the hilt of his long Welsh dagger, because the streets were never very safe after dark. ‘It is common sense to hedge your bets, especially as Master Suttone says the plague will be back this summer. Only fools do not bother with precautions.’

‘Did Tynkell and Lyng visit Marjory?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Not that I saw, but she has a back door for customers who do not want to be seen. She is very discreet.’

‘What about Moleyns?’

‘I spotted him there several times, usually in the small hours of the morning. I assumed he was out with the Sheriff’s blessing – he strutted about so confidently that it did not occur to me that he had escaped. Which is why no one ever reported him, of course.’

‘Who else frequented her house? Barber Cook?’

‘Yes – Cook buys her amulets to protect him from nasty diseases, which is wise for a man in his profession. You have some, too. I put them in your bag.’

‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew, not liking to imagine what his colleagues would say if they found them. He made a mental note to empty it out later, and burn them.

Cynric began to list all the people he had seen purchasing Marjory’s wares, a roll that went on and on, but that comprised mostly townsfolk. Scholars, it seemed, were either more careful about being noticed, or were happy with the Church. Except one.

‘Godrich?’ echoed Bartholomew. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course. I cannot bear that man – he is too arrogant by half, and is deeply unpopular with his servants. He bought a spell to make sure he won the election, but I told Marjory to sell him one that does not work.’

Bartholomew rubbed his eyes, and wondered if she and Satan would take credit for selecting the next successful candidate, as well as the last one.

He and Cynric continued along Milne Street, aiming for the house at the end, where his patients – Robert and Yolande de Blaston and their sixteen children – lived. Unfortunately, there was a problem en route.

‘Thieves,’ said Master Braunch of Trinity Hall angrily, when Bartholomew demanded to know why the road was completely blocked by rubble that stood more than the height of two men. ‘They stole the scaffolding from our new dormitory, which caused one entire end to collapse. Surely you heard it tumble? It made a tremendous din.’

‘I did,’ put in Cynric. ‘But I assumed it was Chancellor Tynkell, trying to escape from his grave in St Mary the Great’s churchyard.’

‘Was anyone hurt?’ asked Bartholomew, before the book-bearer could pursue that particular line of conversation any further.

Braunch crossed himself. ‘No, thank God. But the wind has picked up, as you can no doubt feel, which helped to bring it down.’

‘It cannot have been very well constructed then,’ said Bartholomew, ‘if a few gusts could knock it over.’

He thought, but did not say, that the collapse was a blessing in disguise. The building was huge, and would house a very large number of scholars. If it had fallen when it had been occupied, the carnage would have been terrible.

Braunch shot him a baleful look. ‘No, it was not, and it is the tomb-makers’ fault. Benefactors are now more interested in commissioning grand memorials for themselves than making donations to worthy causes, so we are forced to cut corners in an effort to defray costs. Are you in a hurry, by the way? If so, you can scramble over the top.’

‘I will give you a leg up, boy,’ offered Cynric. ‘But do not ask me to come over with you.’

It was patently unsafe to attempt such a feat, so Bartholomew declined, although it meant a considerable detour, even though he could see the Blastons’ roof from where he stood. Cynric escorted him there, then disappeared on business of his own.

Yolande de Blaston supplemented her husband’s income by selling her favours to the town’s worthies. Edith had tried to reform her by providing employment as a seamstress, but sewing was not nearly as much fun, and Yolande had not plied a needle for long before returning to what she knew best.

‘Good,’ she said briskly, as she ushered Bartholomew inside her house. ‘You have come to tend my bunion, Alfred’s bad stomach, Tom’s sore wrist, Robert’s chilblains, Hugh’s stiff knee and the baby’s wind.’

‘Oh,’ said Bartholomew, daunted. ‘Is that all?’

‘No,’ replied Yolande. ‘But you can do the rest next time.’

He sat at the table and made a start, enjoying the lively chatter that swirled around him. The Blastons were among his favourite patients, and he loved the noisy chaos of their home. But then the discussion turned to the murders.

‘Tynkell, Moleyns and Lyng were Satan’s beloved,’ stated Blaston matter-of-factly. ‘And Tynkell was not fighting him on the tower, but having a friendly romp – for fun.’

‘I disagree,’ said Yolande. ‘Tynkell was not a man who enjoyed physical activity.’ She spoke with confidence, as well she might, given that he had been one of her regulars. ‘And I will hear nothing bad about Lyng. He gave us money for bread when times were hard last year. It was good of him.’

‘But he had a vicious temper,’ gossiped Blaston. ‘I overheard a terrible row when I went to mend a table in Maud’s Hostel. He was beside himself, and said some vile things.’

‘When was this?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised. He had never seen the elderly priest lose his equanimity. ‘Recently?’

Blaston nodded. ‘Thursday – the evening he went out and never came back.’

Bartholomew regarded him hopefully. ‘What had upset him?’

‘I could not hear everything, because he and whoever had annoyed him were upstairs, but the words “black villain” were howled, and so was “Satan”. My first thought was that he was arguing with the Devil, but then I heard Lyng slap him. Well, no one belts Lucifer, so I was forced to concede that it was a person who had earned his ire. Hopeman, probably.’

Bartholomew blinked. ‘And Lyng hit him? Are you sure it was not the other way around?’

‘Quite sure, because I heard Lyng say “Take that, you black villain”. I might have laughed, but I did not want him to hear and come to clout me as well.’

Bartholomew’s mind was racing. ‘What makes you think it was Hopeman?’

‘Three reasons. First, he is a Black Friar. Second, he loves to rant about Satan. And third, he is a member of Maud’s, so was likely to be there. However, I did not see him, so I cannot be certain. They were in Lyng’s room, you see, and I was in the kitchen.’

‘Aidan should have mentioned this to Michael,’ said Bartholomew crossly.

‘He does not know – everyone but those two was out.’ Blaston grinned. ‘The punch hurt though, because Hopeman howled like a girl, and called Lyng a bully. Lyng! A bully!’

‘So did Hopeman kill him for that slap?’ asked Yolande, agog. ‘Because he has learned from his experiences with Tynkell and Moleyns that he will never be caught?’

It was certainly possible, thought Bartholomew.

Bartholomew left the Blaston house, deep in thought. He could not imagine Lyng hitting anyone, yet Blaston had no reason to lie. Moreover, the Master of Valence Marie had expressed reservations about Lyng’s character, while the mark on the elderly priest’s foot suggested that there was rather more to him than simple appearances had suggested.

So was Hopeman the recipient of the slap? Bartholomew was inclined to think he was, for the same reasons that Blaston had given: because the conversation had revolved around his favourite topic; because “black villain” was an insult Lyng might well have levelled against a Dominican; and because both lived in Maud’s. There was also the fact that Hopeman was argumentative, and could needle a saint into a quarrel.

Bartholomew was so engrossed in his thoughts that he did not see Thelnetham until they collided. The Gilbertine yelped, then bent to peer disgustedly at the mud on his habit.

‘Watch where you are going, Matthew,’ he said irritably. ‘Or do you want me to lose the election by virtue of campaigning in a filthy robe?’

‘It is only a smear.’ Bartholomew smiled, to make amends. ‘You spoke well earlier.’

‘Thank you,’ said Thelnetham. ‘But I did not stop you to fish for compliments, no matter how deserving. I have been listening to rumours, and I heard a few things that might help you and Michael catch the villain who murdered our colleagues. The first is that Lyng and Tynkell were not devoted sons of the Church.’

‘Yes,’ sighed Bartholomew. ‘I know.’

‘Oh,’ said Thelnetham, deflated. ‘Do you? You do not seem very shocked.’

‘Of course I am shocked,’ said Bartholomew quickly, lest it was put about that he condoned such activities. ‘But apparently, it is not as rare as we might think.’

‘Neither is murder, apparently, but that does not make it acceptable.’

‘No,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘How did you find out?’

‘Nicholas had the tale from one of his fellow clerks. Apparently, Tynkell had a diabolical mark on his wrist, while Moleyns and Lyng had them on their feet. They were seen proudly showing them off to each other in St Mary the Great.’

‘Which clerk?’ asked Bartholomew, knowing that Michael would want to question him.

‘Nicholas refused to say, because it was told in confidence. Perhaps Michael will have better luck in prising a name from him, although do not hold your breath. Nicholas is not a man for betrayal.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But–’

‘Did you hear that terrible roar earlier? It was Satan, calling for his dead followers to rise from their graves and follow him. Fortunately, all have been buried deep, so they cannot oblige, although woe betide anyone who disturbs them with a spade.’

Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘What nonsense! I am surprised at you, Thelnetham. I thought you were a man guided by reason.’

‘I am, but not everything in this world can be understood by human minds, not even clever ones like ours. And if you want proof, then consider the mysteries of our own faith. Transubstantiation, for example. You would not imagine that it is possible for wine to become in substance the Blood of Christ, but it happens every time Mass is celebrated.’

‘I suppose it does,’ acknowledged Bartholomew.

Thelnetham pursed his lips. ‘Of course, witchery is not all that connected Lyng, Tynkell and Moleyns.’

‘You refer to Moleyns’ manor,’ predicted Bartholomew, ‘which you visited last summer.’

‘I passed through it last summer,’ corrected Thelnetham. ‘I did not stay there. My prior sent me on business to a Gilbertine cell nearby, but floods forced me to leave the main road and take a detour. In other words, it was chance that took me to Stoke Poges, not design.’

‘You never did explain how you learned about Tynkell and the Stoke Poges’ chapel. Did he tell you himself? Or confide in Nicholas?’

‘No.’ Thelnetham hesitated briefly before continuing. ‘I met a young man when I stopped to water my horse there, and we … understood each other. I mentioned that our Sheriff is always looking for recruits who do not mind hard work …’

Bartholomew could well imagine the scene. Thelnetham sensing a kindred spirit, and encouraging him to migrate to a town where such liaisons were more readily accepted. ‘And he acted on your advice?’

Thelnetham nodded. ‘We have been friends ever since. It was he who told me about Tynkell and the chapel. He also mentioned that the village’s motif is a pilgrim staff – the symbol I saw on that rider’s saddle.’

Bartholomew regarded him uneasily. ‘I do not suppose this man was Yevele – the soldier who let Moleyns out at night? It makes sense that Moleyns would use a lad from his own manor for such business.’

Thelnetham grimaced. ‘Yes, which means I bear some responsibility for what happened. Of course, I had no idea that Moleyns had blackmailed him until today …’

‘Moleyns blackmailed him?’

‘By threatening to expose his peccadillos. Moleyns said he just wanted to go out the once, but then he demanded a second excursion and a third, and poor Yevele was locked in a cycle of deceit. After Moleyns’ death, he came to me in such terror that I gave him money to run away.’

‘Are you sure that was wise? Dick Tulyet will be livid.’

‘Of course it was not wise, Matthew, but it was the right thing to do. Yevele should not suffer because Moleyns was a rogue who preyed on the vulnerable.’

‘Did Yevele tell you anything else?’

‘Just that Moleyns murdered Egidia’s uncle – Peter Poges – to get his hands on the manor, and that he was a villain who was corrupt to the core. Perhaps that roar was the Devil coming for him, because he is certainly the kind of man Satan would want in Hell.’

‘What you heard was Trinity Hall’s new dormitory tumbling down.’

‘So you say,’ muttered Thelnetham, crossing himself.