A Grave Concern

Chapter 10

The next day was Sunday, when there was a longer service in church, followed by a marginally nicer breakfast than that served during the rest of the week. Formal teaching was forbidden, but the University’s masters knew better than to release hundreds of lively young men into the town with nothing to do, so some form of entertainment was always arranged. In Michaelhouse, it revolved around games, the reading of humorous tracts or mock disputations. The Fellows took turns to organise something, and that week Langelee ordered Kolvyle to oblige.

‘I doubt he will best what you did last Sunday,’ murmured Michael to Bartholomew. ‘My theologians are still talking about cenandum liberalis quam prandendum. They tell me they have never laughed so much in all their lives.’

The debate had been about whether it was better to eat more at breakfast than at dinner, and Michael had been one of the disputants. The monk had been unable to bring himself to say that he might consume less at either, and the seriousness with which he took the question had amused the whole College. Afterwards, there had been ball games in the orchard for those with energy to burn, or a quiz on Aesop’s fables for those of a more sedentary nature.

‘Kolvyle does not have a comic bone in his body,’ said Langelee. ‘Perhaps it is because he knows nothing about camp-ball, which is a sure sign of an undeveloped mind.’

They processed to the church, where they were startled to discover that the lid to Wilson’s tomb was gone, leaving behind an open chest containing a lot of rubbish left by the original mason. Scratches on the flagstones showed where the slab had been lugged to the door.

‘Perhaps Petit took it away,’ suggested William, as they all clustered around to look.

‘He has not, because we agreed that he would work on it in situ,’ said Langelee worriedly, ‘to save on costs. Lord! I hope it has not been stolen.’

Michael’s expression was grim. ‘I imagine it has – and we cannot afford to replace it.’

‘I heard that Isnard and Gundrede arrived home last night,’ said Kolvyle slyly. ‘Perhaps you should ask them if they took it.’

‘I know how to investigate a crime, thank you,’ said Michael sharply.

‘Do you?’ sneered Kolvyle. ‘That is not how it seems to me. We have six unsolved murders, while robbers continue to make off with whatever they please. You are doing nothing about any of it. At least, nothing that is effective.’

He took his place in the chancel before Michael could respond, then stood with his head bowed, although Bartholomew was sure he could not be praying after such a spiteful tirade.

‘I admire your patience, Brother,’ growled William. ‘I would box his ears if he spoke to me like that. Indeed, I am considering boxing them anyway, just for being an irritating–’

‘I shall deal with him in my own way,’ interrupted Michael shortly. ‘Without recourse to violence. He will not emerge the victor, never fear.’

It was Suttone’s turn to officiate at the altar, but his performance was unusually lacklustre, and the students began to shuffle and fuss restlessly. He finished eventually, and Langelee led his scholars back to the College. The Fellows sat in silence for once, each sunk in his own concerns, although the students were lively, eagerly anticipating the entertainment that would soon begin. Bartholomew suspected they were going to be sadly disappointed.

Langelee intoned a final grace, and everyone left the hall for the servants to clear up. The Fellows – other than Kolvyle and Clippesby – stood together in the yard, chatting about their plans for the day. Langelee was due to play camp-ball that afternoon, and was looking forward to fighting his friends in the name of sport, while William planned to visit the Franciscan Friary. Both promised to use the occasions to secure Suttone more votes.

‘I spent most of yesterday evening visiting hostels,’ said Suttone. ‘It was callous, I know, given that it was where Lyng was popular, but Godrich, Thelnetham and Hopeman started the moment they learned he was dead. At least I had the decency to wait for a few hours.’

‘Do not allow scruples to hold you back,’ advised William sternly. ‘You must be as ruthless as your opponents, if you aim to win.’

‘More ruthless,’ corrected Langelee. ‘I can give you plenty of tips in that direction, if you like. For example, Godrich is currently in the lead, so how about a rumour to disparage him? We can say he slept with the Queen when he was last at Court.’

‘Did he?’ asked Suttone wistfully. ‘I do not blame him. She is a beautiful lady.’

Langelee reflected thoughtfully. ‘I suppose that might raise him in the estimation of some. Perhaps we should say that he has formed an unnatural affection for his horse then.’

‘No,’ said Michael firmly. ‘I cannot condone that sort of tactic. At least, not yet – we may have to review the situation come Wednesday.’

‘Actually, we are doing quite well in the polls,’ said William. ‘Especially after I went to the Austin Friary, and told them to vote for Suttone. They agreed – all twenty-seven of them.’

‘Thank you, Father,’ said Suttone, pleased.

‘I told them that you were the only candidate who would know what to do in a second wave of the plague,’ William went on. ‘Unfortunately, I think I might have frightened them.’

‘We must do anything – anything – to secure a victory,’ said Langelee. ‘So I shall visit a few fellow heads of house this morning. Godrich will be a disaster for them, because he will favour King’s Hall, whereas Suttone will be impartial. At least, that is what I shall tell them.’

At that moment, Clippesby hurried up with Ethel, the College’s lead hen, under one arm. ‘You told Kolvyle to organise today’s entertainment, Master,’ he said, rather accusingly. ‘But his idea of fun is to invite Hopeman to tell us why he should be Chancellor. May I be excused? Ethel says he is too obsessed with Satan to be pleasant company, and I agree.’

Suttone gaped at him. ‘Hopeman plans to give an election speech in my College?’

Clippesby nodded. ‘Along with Godrich and Thelnetham, so the event will be acrimonious as they all attack each other’s stances. Ethel dislikes discord, and we would both rather spend the day with her flock.’

‘Yes, go,’ said Langelee, aware that letting visitors see a Fellow with a chicken on his lap was unlikely to do much for Michaelhouse’s reputation as a foundation for serious learning. ‘But not to the henhouse. Visit your friary, and persuade Morden to vote for Suttone.’

‘I have already tried, but he will not go against a member of his own Order. Indeed, he is pressuring me to vote for Hopeman, too. But I shall stand by Suttone. He is the better man.’

‘Even a slug is a better man than Hopeman,’ growled William. ‘You should hear his nasty views on Apostolic Poverty.’

‘You will,’ predicted Clippesby, backing away. ‘At noon, when he is due to arrive.’

‘This is unacceptable,’ wailed Suttone. ‘I know it will make no difference to the election – Michaelhouse will vote for me no matter what the other candidates say here today – but that is beside the point.’

‘Why did they agree to come?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused. ‘They know where our allegiance lies.’

‘I imagine Kolvyle devised some spurious logic to convince them that it is in their best interests,’ replied Michael, scowling. ‘And we cannot turn them away, because it will look as though we think Suttone is unequal to the challenge of besting them. I am afraid Kolvyle has presented us with a fait accompli.’

‘The slippery little toad,’ spat Langelee. ‘I am beginning to think the only way to muzzle him is to lock him in the cellar. One more stunt like this, and I shall do it.’

‘Do it now,’ begged Suttone. ‘Before he loses me the election.’

‘Not yet,’ said Langelee. ‘We shall have to let him put in an appearance at this debate, or the other candidates will assume that we were obliged to muzzle him because we cannot keep him in order. However, the moment it is over …’

‘Three days,’ said Michael. ‘Then Suttone will be Chancellor, and we can all turn our attention to solving the nuisance that Kolvyle has become. It is not long to wait.’

‘It feels like an eternity to me,’ grumbled Suttone.

‘Here is Kolvyle now,’ said Langelee. He beckoned the youngster over, and launched into a lecture about College etiquette – which did not include Junior Fellows inviting outsiders to speak to the students without the Master’s prior permission.

Kolvyle shrugged insolently. ‘Our boys should see how poorly Suttone compares to Godrich. They have a right to know what sort of man Michaelhouse thinks should be in charge of the University.’

‘There will be nothing wrong with my performance,’ objected Suttone, stung.

Kolvyle looked him up and down, taking in the stained habit, plump face still dappled with crumbs from breakfast, and cloak that was rumpled from spending the night in a heap on the floor. Then he put his head in the air and stalked away without a word.

‘Three days,’ repeated Michael. ‘Then that little snake will be gone. I swear it.’

‘Good,’ said Suttone, and turned to Bartholomew. ‘I saw him talking to Edith late last night. She looked very cross, so you might want to make sure he did nothing to upset her. He despises us all, and would think nothing of striking at us through those we love.’

Alarmed, Bartholomew went to visit Edith as soon as his students had been settled in the hall with Kolvyle, whose idea of light entertainment until the would-be chancellors arrived was to read aloud from a variety of legal tomes. If William had not agreed to stand guard at the door, Bartholomew’s classes would have been out, and there would have been nothing Kolvyle could have done to stop them.

Michael accompanied Bartholomew, because Edith’s Sunday breakfasts were famous for their quality, and Agatha’s egg-mash had not quite hit the spot that morning. It was another clear day, although bitterly cold, and the ruts in the road had frozen so hard that they made for treacherous walking. The yellowish quality of the light suggested there might be snow before too long.

They reached Milne Street to find Trinity Hall’s rubble still lying across the road, although a narrow corridor had been cleared through the middle of it. The pathway was not wide enough for carts, but there was room for two pedestrians to pass each other – unless one of them happened to be Michael. The monk battled his way through, then grimaced when the first people they met on the other side were Godrich, Whittlesey and some King’s Hall cronies.

‘Tell Suttone to withdraw before he suffers an embarrassing defeat, Brother,’ Godrich said gloatingly. ‘Because Trinity Hall has just changed its mind about supporting him. It is astonishing how loyalty can be bought with the promise of funds for clearing up this mess.’

‘Very honourable,’ said Michael icily. ‘Your family must be proud of you.’

Godrich shrugged. ‘They understand expediency.’

‘And does this expediency extend to dispatching your rivals?’

Godrich’s manner went from smug to angry in the wink of an eye. ‘You cannot prove I had anything to do with Lyng’s death, and you will be sorry if you use it to stop me from winning.’

‘Yet you do not deny the accusation,’ mused Michael.

‘Of course I deny it!’ cried Godrich. ‘You twist my words.’

‘Easy,’ said Whittlesey, coming to place a warning hand on his cousin’s shoulder. ‘You will gain nothing by challenging the Senior Proctor. Besides, he knows you are innocent of these crimes.’

‘Do I indeed?’ murmured Michael. ‘That is interesting to hear.’

‘I will be Chancellor in three days,’ said Godrich, reining in his temper with difficulty. ‘And the first thing I shall do is appoint a new Senior Proctor. The University will be very different in the future.’

‘You think you can oust me?’ asked Michael, amused by the notion.

‘It will not be necessary to oust you – you will go to Rochester of your own accord. Your successor will be Geoffrey Dodenho.’

Dodenho stepped forward to bow, and Bartholomew struggled to mask his dismay. The King’s Hall man was decent enough, but wholly unsuitable for such a demanding post. Godrich shot Michael a gloating sneer, and led his friends away, although Whittlesey lingered.

‘Godrich is tenacious, dedicated and energetic,’ he said quietly. ‘He rose before dawn to begin visiting hostels with a view to securing their support. Can Suttone say the same?’

‘He was in church, dedicating his time to God, not his own interests,’ retorted Michael, overlooking the fact that the Carmelite had then returned to College and consumed a leisurely breakfast. ‘And Godrich is not the sort of person we want in charge.’

Whittlesey frowned. ‘Of course he is. I have just listed his virtues and–’

‘He is my chief suspect for killing Tynkell, Lyng and Moleyns,’ interrupted Michael. ‘So you might want to distance yourself from him while you can. It will do your own career no good to be associated with a murderer.’

Whittlesey gaped at him. ‘Godrich is no murderer! I would stake my life on it.’

‘You are staking your life on it,’ retorted Michael, ‘because who knows who will be next for a burin in the heart? Besides, it is not your place to meddle in University affairs.’

Whittlesey gave him a pitying smile. ‘Do you honestly believe that? Powerful men are impressed by what you have achieved here, and they do not want your work undone. My remit was not only to tell you of your good fortune and bring you safely to Rochester, but also to ensure that your departure does not leave a dangerous void.’

‘Then do not foist Godrich on us. Suttone will be a much more–’

‘Suttone will not be as malleable as you think,’ warned Whittlesey. He forced a smile. ‘But let us not quarrel. You will see I am right in time.’

He patted the monk on the shoulder, and hurried after his cousin.

‘What powerful people is he talking about?’ asked Bartholomew, also resenting the envoy’s interference. ‘Courtiers? I do not think it matters what they think.’

‘He means the bishops, who have a vested interest in both universities, because it is where their priests are trained.’

They continued on their way, and were just passing St John Zachary when the door opened and Egidia flounced out, Inge at her side. Frisby was behind her, grinning in delight, while Tulyet brought up the rear, his face as black as thunder.

‘A toast!’ Frisby declared, producing a wineskin. His flushed face and bright eyes suggested that he had probably done this several times already. ‘To our agreement.’

‘What agreement?’ asked Michael warily.

‘The one that says Sir John Moleyns will have his tomb here, in my church,’ replied Frisby happily. ‘Because of his name.’

‘John,’ explained Egidia, lest the scholars had not made the connection. ‘St Mary the Great is getting rather full, what with Dallingridge, Godrich and Chancellor Tynkell destined to bag great swathes of space there, so Inge and I looked to see what else was available.’

‘I dislike the mess masons make, of course,’ slurred Frisby. ‘But the King himself is likely to visit his dear friend Moleyns, so it will be worth the inconvenience. His Majesty will reward me handsomely if I oversee the provision of a suitable monument.’

‘No doubt,’ said Tulyet between gritted teeth. ‘But I am not paying for it.’

‘Oh, yes, you are,’ countered Egidia sharply. ‘You failed to protect him from killers, so it is the least you can do.’

‘I have not forgotten the horseman who galloped away moments after his death,’ said Michael. ‘The one whose saddle bore the Stoke Poges insignia. Are you sure he was not carrying messages from you to the villagers, informing them about a change of circumstances?’

‘Yes, we are sure,’ said Inge tightly. ‘As we told you the first time you asked.’

‘Because he rode out so soon after the murder that I am left wondering if he knew it was going to happen,’ Michael continued. ‘And–’

‘That is ridiculous,’ interrupted Inge sharply. ‘And now, you must excuse us, because we have important business to attend.’

‘You will not catch them out, Brother,’ said Tulyet, watching them strut away. ‘Believe me, I have tried. Inge is far too slippery and Egidia is guided by him. If you really think they are the culprits, we must find another way to trap them.’

‘Like finding the woman in the embroidered cloak and asking her to identify the culprit,’ said Michael pointedly.

Tulyet inclined his head. ‘I shall make a concerted effort to track her down today. Incidentally, I hear you lost a tomb lid last night, just as Isnard and Gundrede returned from the Fens. Curious, eh?’

Edith was at home when Bartholomew and Michael arrived, readying her household for Mass in St John Zachary, and all was noisy chaos. The younger apprentices stood in a chattering line to have their faces and hands inspected for cleanliness, while the servants were hurrying to finish their chores before it was time to leave. Bartholomew went to the solar to wait until she was free, which suited Michael very well, as it was where breakfast had been laid.

‘What did Kolvyle say to you last night?’ asked Bartholomew, when Edith came to see what they wanted. He spoke quickly, to distract her from the fact that Michael had made rather significant inroads into her household’s victuals. ‘Suttone thought he might have upset you.’

‘He did upset me,’ said Edith shortly. ‘He told me that your College has hired Petit to fix Wilson’s tomb, which will slow down progress on Oswald. He says it shows that you love Michaelhouse more than you love me.’

‘It was Langelee who hired Petit,’ said Michael, while Bartholomew marvelled that the young scholar should be so vindictive. ‘Matt had nothing to do with it.’

‘I know that,’ said Edith impatiently. ‘And I told Kolvyle exactly what I think of sneaky youths who bray lies about my brother. He will not come here trying to make trouble again, the loathsome little worm!’

‘And you need not worry about Wilson interfering with Oswald anyway,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Because his ledger slab was stolen last night. You did not take it, did you?’

Edith laughed. ‘I think it might be a little too heavy for me to tote around. However, it does not matter anyway, because I dismissed Petit this morning. I have hired Lakenham instead, and Oswald will have a nice brass in place of an effigy.’

Her steward called up the stairs at that moment, to say that everyone was ready to leave. Bartholomew and Michael followed her to the yard, where she gave her household one last inspection to ensure that all was in order, then led the way out on to the street.

‘Go with her, Matt,’ instructed Michael. ‘The tomb-makers attend St John Zachary, so try to find out which of them stole Wilson’s lid. We cannot afford another, so it is vital that we get it back.’

‘You do not believe Isnard took it, then?’ asked Bartholomew, not sure how he was expected to solve a theft when the Senior Proctor and Sheriff had tried and failed.

‘He would never act against Michaelhouse – he loves the choir too much. Of course, he is bitter about the fact that I shall soon be unavailable to lead it, and he listens to that rogue Gundrede far too much for his own good …’

‘Where will you be while I am doing your work?’ asked Bartholomew. He was unwilling to accept that Isnard would steal from their church, even if Michael was wavering.

‘King’s Hall. I plan to bribe a porter to let me search Godrich’s room.’

Obediently, Bartholomew hurried to St John Zachary, where Frisby was thundering wine-scented greetings to his parishioners. Inside, he saw Lakenham and Cristine inspecting Stanmore’s tomb in readiness for beginning work on it the following day, so he went to speak to them first. However, he had only just stepped into the chancel when he found himself surrounded by Petit and his apprentices.

‘No one cancels my commissions,’ the mason hissed angrily. ‘So tell your sister to take me back, or Stanmore will not be in his tomb alone for long – you will join him there.’

‘It is your own fault,’ said Bartholomew, more irritated than unnerved by the threat. ‘You should have kept your promises.’

‘I did keep them,’ snarled Petit. ‘But laymen do not understand how long these things take. And it is stupid to dismiss me now, just when the end is in sight.’

Bartholomew was sure it was nothing of the kind. ‘The decision has been made,’ he said coolly. ‘So that is that.’

‘Well, she is not getting her deposit back,’ flashed Petit.

‘Wilson’s ledger slab,’ said Bartholomew, watching the masons intently as he embarked on what he suspected would be a futile set of questions. ‘It has been stolen, but it can never be resold, because every church in the country knows that particular piece of stone. It is unique.’

It was a lie, but two of the apprentices exchanged an uneasy glance, while he thought there was a flicker of alarm in Petit’s eyes. Of course, furtive reactions were not evidence of guilt, and more than that was needed to see them charged with its theft. With a final glower, Petit led his lads away, but they had barely left the chancel before Lakenham and Cristine came to stand at Bartholomew’s side.

‘Did they accuse us of stealing your stone?’ demanded Cristine angrily. ‘Because we never did. We have been nowhere near St Michael’s. However, we lost two big boxes of brass nails, three hammers and a bucket of pitch last night. We are sure they took them.’

‘It is easy to target us now that Reames is dead, you see,’ explained Lakenham. ‘He used to sleep in our supplies shed – which is why they killed him, of course.’

Bartholomew was inclined to believe them over the belligerent Petit. Or was he wrong to base his suspicions on the fact that he liked the latteners more than the masons? He asked more questions but learned nothing of relevance, and turned to leave. Then he jumped in shock when he saw Edith’s steward standing in the shadows, so still and silent that he might have been an effigy himself. The man abandoned his hiding place when he saw he had been spotted.

‘Edith sent me over when she saw Petit corner you,’ he explained. ‘But the hero of Poitiers needed no help from me.’

‘Look after her,’ said Bartholomew softly. ‘I do not trust Petit.’

‘He will come nowhere near her, never fear.’ A determined gleam lit the steward’s eyes. ‘We will get her deposit back and all.’

When Bartholomew left the church, he walked to the river for no reason other than a desire to stand quietly and think for a while. The lane he chose happened to be the one that led to Michaelhouse’s pier, which had been a busy dock just a few weeks earlier. Now all that remained was a mess of charred timbers. He was surprised to see a boat moored to one of its scorched bollards – a boat containing Isnard and Gundrede.

‘What are you doing?’ he called. ‘You know you should not be there.’

The structure had been deemed unsafe by the town’s worthies, and river traffic was forbidden to use it. However, it was by far the best place to unload goods bound for the Market Square, so some bargemen surreptitiously flouted the ban. Bartholomew supposed he should have guessed that Isnard, with his cavalier disregard both for authority and his own safety, would be one of them.

‘Just looking, Doctor,’ the bargeman replied airily, beginning to cast off. ‘That blaze made quite a mess of this poor quay. When will you be getting it mended?’

Never, thought Bartholomew glumly, unless a wealthy benefactor could be persuaded to pay for it. However, Michaelhouse’s Fellows were not in the habit of making their financial difficulties public, so he asked a question instead.

‘Have you heard that part of Wilson’s tomb was stolen from our church?’

‘A vile act of desecration,’ declared Isnard, while Gundrede busied himself with the ropes and refused to look at the physician. ‘I hope the Sheriff catches the rogue responsible.’

With a cheerful wave, he poled the boat away, meaning that Bartholomew either had to drop the matter or bawl his next question at the top of his voice. He watched the little craft skim away, wondering what the pair had been doing at the wharf in the first place.

Michael’s illicit visit to Godrich’s quarters had yielded two discoveries of interest. First, a scroll itemising all the bribes that had been promised in exchange for votes – so many he was sure that Godrich could not possibly make good on them all. Unfortunately, the disappointed parties would already have voted him into power by the time they realised that he had no intention of honouring the pledges he had made.

The second was a letter from Dallingridge, written shortly before his death. It stated unequivocally that he had been fed a toxin, and a list of suspects was appended. It comprised many people Michael did not know, but a number he did, including Kolvyle, Egidia, Inge, the tomb-makers and Barber Cook. Whittlesey’s name was also there, and Godrich was instructed to ignore any claim the envoy might make about being nowhere near Nottingham on Lammas Day. Dallingridge was sure Whittlesey was lying, and Godrich should ask himself why the envoy should feel the need for such brazen untruths.

Michael was not sure why Dallingridge should have chosen to confide in Godrich, of all people, but the answer came at the very end of the missive: Dallingridge had asked Godrich to draft out his will, on the grounds that he was neither kin nor a close friend, and therefore could not expect a legacy. However, judging by the way the letter had been screwed up into a tight ball – the monk had found it under the bed, where it had evidently rolled after being tossed away in a rage – Michael suspected that Godrich had entertained hopes of a reward, and had been vexed when he had learned that he was not going to get one.

Godrich therefore could not be eliminated from Michael’s list of suspects for the murders in Cambridge. Or for Dallingridge’s death in Nottingham, for that matter.

The monk was back in Michaelhouse by noon, ready to ask Godrich about the letter when he arrived to address the students. The other Fellows joined him in the yard, although Kolvyle lingered in his room, primping. Suttone came from the kitchens. He had been at the wine, perhaps for courage, so his cheeks were flushed, while his best habit had suffered a mishap in the laundry and was too tight around his middle. His boots were muddy, and the book he held in an attempt to appear erudite was one on arithmetic, which everyone knew he would not have read. Bartholomew itched to take him aside and brush him down, disliking the slovenly spectacle he presented.

Thelnetham was the first to arrive, smart, clean and businesslike in a pristine robe. He was ushered in with genuine pleasure by Walter – the Gilbertine had been quietly generous to the College staff, and had often slipped them gifts of money and food. He looked around fondly.

‘You have repaired the conclave roof, I see,’ he said amiably. ‘It must be nice to sit there of an evening, and not feel the patter of rain on your heads.’

‘It is,’ agreed William stiffly. He loathed Thelnetham, and hated seeing him in the College again. ‘And Stanmore bequeathed a sum of money for fuel, so we have fires most nights.’

‘It sounds positively luxurious,’ drawled Thelnetham. ‘What about the food? Has that improved, or is Agatha still in charge?’

‘Lower your voice, man,’ hissed Langelee. ‘She might hear, and then you will never be Chancellor, because you will be dismembered.’

Thelnetham shuddered. ‘True, and living in terror of her is one thing about Michaelhouse that I have definitely not missed.’

‘She will be vexed if you defeat me in this election,’ warned Suttone, a sly move that had Langelee and William nodding their approval. ‘She likes the idea of a Michaelhouse man in charge.’

‘I shall bear it in mind,’ replied Thelnetham. He turned to Michael. ‘I know you think you will continue to rule the University through Suttone when you are in Rochester, but such an arrangement will be a disaster. We need a Chancellor who can make pronouncements instantly, not one who needs to wait for an exchange of letters.’

Michael laughed. ‘The University has never made a rapid decision in its life, and if you aim to indulge in that sort of madness, you should withdraw before you do us any harm.’

‘Besides, you underestimate me,’ said Suttone, hurt. ‘I can run the University alone.’

‘Of course you can,’ sneered Thelnetham, with such sarcastic contempt that everyone was reminded of why he had been so difficult to like. Then he turned his back on Suttone and addressed Michael again. ‘Have you caught the killer yet?’

‘No,’ replied Michael coolly. ‘But I have a number of leads.’

‘Good,’ said Thelnetham, although Bartholomew suspected the monk was lying, purely because he could not bring himself to admit that he was stumped. ‘It is not comfortable knowing that there is someone walking around who likes to shove knives into people.’

‘Not knives – a burin,’ said Michael.

‘You mean one of those pointed things used for engraving?’ asked Thelnetham. ‘Then surely the case should be easy to solve? There cannot be many people who own such items.’

‘You would be surprised,’ sighed Michael. ‘They feature in the toolboxes of most craftsmen, and even Deynman the librarian has one – he uses it to clean the locks on his books.’

Thelnetham was thoughtful. ‘Then I imagine horsemen have them, too, for prising stones from hoofs, which is what I saw Godrich doing yesterday. He was using a long metal spike.’

‘Really?’ asked Michael keenly. ‘Now that is most interesting.’

A short while later, the gate was flung open and Godrich strode in. He had not knocked, and he did not wait for Walter to conduct him across the yard, which precipitated a murmur of resentment from his hosts. He had brought Whittlesey with him, who shrugged apologetically behind his back – he appreciated College etiquette, even if his kinsman did not.

‘Dallingridge,’ said Michael, irked by the impertinence and so launching an attack. ‘Tell me about your association with him.’

‘What association?’ asked Godrich contemptuously. ‘There was none.’

‘Oh, yes, there was,’ countered Michael. ‘He wrote you letters and you drafted out his will.’ He assumed a haughty expression when he received a sharp glance of suspicion. ‘I have spies in many places, so please do not lie to me. I will always know.’

Godrich sighed angrily. ‘I had forgotten about the will – it was an insignificant incident that took place months ago. And perhaps he did write me a note burbling about poison and suspects for his murder. However, I did not take it seriously, as he was clearly out of his wits. Why do you–’

‘Were you in Nottingham on Lammas Day?’ demanded Michael, including Whittlesey in the question.

‘No,’ replied Godrich shortly. ‘I was in Derby, running an errand for King’s Hall.’

‘And I was on diocesan business in Leicester,’ said Whittlesey mildly. ‘As I have told you before. I am sure our Benedictine brethren will confirm it, should you wish to offend your new envoy by declining to believe him.’

‘Of course I believe him,’ said Michael flatly, and renewed his assault on Godrich before Whittlesey could remark that it did not sound as if he did. He changed the subject abruptly in an effort to disconcert. ‘Show me the tool you use for tending your horse’s hoofs.’

Godrich blinked his bemusement. ‘What tool? And why should I–’

‘I am conducting a murder investigation here,’ interrupted Michael sharply. ‘I shall arrest you if you refuse to cooperate.’

‘No one is refusing,’ said Whittlesey quickly. ‘Let him see it, Godrich. Clearly, he aims to eliminate you as a suspect, and this will help.’

Godrich scowled, but he opened the pouch at his side and pulled out a short nail.

‘You had a different one yesterday,’ said Thelnetham. ‘It was longer and thinner.’

The look Godrich gave him would have intimidated the boldest of souls, although Thelnetham held it without flinching. With ill grace, Godrich produced a spike that was as long as his hand, topped off with a wooden handle. Bartholomew inspected it carefully, ignoring the impatient sighs of those waiting for his verdict.

‘It might be the murder weapon,’ he said eventually. ‘It is the right size and shape. But I cannot be certain. However, there is dried blood here–’

‘Horse blood,’ said Godrich, snatching it back. ‘And you cannot prove otherwise.’

‘You might want to be careful, Michael,’ advised Whittlesey softly, as Godrich stalked away. ‘It is unwise to accuse powerful scholars of murder.’

‘I accused him of nothing,’ countered Michael. ‘I merely asked to inspect his burin.’

‘It is not a burin – it is a hoof-pick.’ Whittlesey lowered his voice even further. ‘I mean what I say, Brother. I should hate to see you fall before you are consecrated, simply for the want of a little discretion. I speak as a friend – which I hope we are, despite the reservations you evidently still hold about my whereabouts on Lammas Day.’

‘Dallingridge’s reservations,’ said Michael. ‘Expressed in a letter to Godrich.’

Whittlesey raised his hands in a shrug. ‘From what I hear, the poor man was raving in his final days. You would be wise to ignore anything he might have written.’

Michael inclined his head, then glared at Bartholomew once his fellow monk had hurried across the yard to prevent Godrich from entering the hall without the Master’s invitation.

‘It was our chance to arrest the killer, and you let it slip away,’ he hissed accusingly. ‘You know that was the burin that killed Tynkell, but you refused to say so.’

‘I know nothing of the kind,’ countered Bartholomew crossly. ‘And you would not thank me if I gave a verdict to please you, and it later transpired that Godrich was innocent.’

‘He tried to conceal the weapon,’ said Michael between gritted teeth. ‘That was suspicious. And there was blood on it. That should have been enough.’

‘I agree with Matthew, Brother,’ said Thelnetham with quiet reason. ‘It is better to wait for something less ambiguous.’

He might have added more, but the gate opened a third time, and Hopeman stepped through. His deacons were behind him, and there was an unseemly scuffle when Walter refused to let them pass.

‘Hey, you!’ bellowed Hopeman, stabbing a furious forefinger at Langelee. ‘Either allow my disciples to accompany me, or I am leaving.’

‘Leave,’ shrugged Langelee. ‘It makes no difference to me. Come, Suttone. Let us go and show everyone who is the superior candidate.’

Suttone looked anything but superior as he trailed after his Master, leaving Bartholomew to wonder if Thelnetham was right to question the Carmelite’s ability to rule. Anger suffused Hopeman’s face at the dismissive treatment, and he surged forward to grab Langelee’s arm.

‘I am God’s agent on Earth,’ he boomed. ‘You will afford me the respect I deserve.’

‘I did afford you the respect you deserve,’ retorted Langelee, freeing his arm firmly. ‘What I did not afford you was the respect you think you deserve.’

The students were expecting entertainment to rival the fun they had enjoyed the previous week, so their faces fell when Suttone, Thelnetham, Godrich and Hopeman – the latter sans disciples – strode towards the dais. It would be a good test of the candidates’ strength of character, thought Bartholomew, if they could keep his lively lads in order – he could already see them exchanging the kind of glances that suggested mischief was in the offing. But he had reckoned without Aungel.

‘No!’ hissed the senior student fiercely. ‘You will not risk our reputation by misbehaving in front of guests from other foundations.’ Bartholomew was pleasantly pleased by his responsible stance, until Aungel added, ‘I am supposed to be in charge of you, and any loutish antics might hurt my chances of a Fellowship.’

Bartholomew studied the four men while they waited for Langelee to call the audience to order. Hopeman stood with his hands on his hips, his dark gaze sweeping disdainfully across the assembly. Godrich leaned nonchalantly against the wall, inspecting his fingernails in an attitude of calculated boredom. Thelnetham looked smug, clearly of the opinion that this was an encounter he would win. And Suttone was visibly daunted by the ordeal that was about to commence, an unease that intensified when Thelnetham whispered something in his ear. Bartholomew grimaced: undermining the confidence of a nervous rival was cruel, and should have been beneath a man of Thelnetham’s stature.

‘This “entertainment” will not hold the students’ interest for long,’ murmured Langelee to Kolvyle. ‘So I hope you are ready to step in with an alternative when they grow restless.’

‘You would doubtless prefer to see them racing about on a camp-ball field, punching the stuffing out of each other,’ scoffed Kolvyle. ‘I cannot imagine why you were ever installed as Master. You are a lout, with the intellectual agility of a gnat.’

Langelee was so astonished by the insult that he could do no more than gape as Kolvyle strutted to the front of the hall. By rights, it should have been the Master himself who opened the proceedings, but Kolvyle had hopped on to the dais while Langelee was still standing in mute disbelief. An immediate hush descended on the gathering.

‘The impudent bastard!’ breathed Langelee, finding his voice at last. ‘I will trounce–’

‘Not in front of visitors,’ whispered Michael sharply. ‘Wait until they have left.’

‘He has gone too far this time,’ hissed Langelee furiously. ‘He will apologise or pack his bags.’

‘Which is exactly how he wants you to react,’ warned Michael. ‘And when he has needled you into a confrontation, during which you will say or do something rash, he will use it to make a bid for the mastership. We prevented him from standing as Chancellor, so he has decided to go for the next best thing.’

‘Well it will not work,’ determined Langelee, fists clenched. ‘He is the last man I want as my successor. Not that I have any plans to resign just yet.’

‘Good,’ said Michael. ‘Then do not let him manipulate you.’

Kolvyle did not speak immediately, but let the anticipation mount. When he did start, his voice oozed arrogance and conceit, and resentment rose from the students in waves.

‘As commensurate with a foundation that aims to promote education, learning and research,’ he began pompously, ‘I have organised a superior form of diversion today – something more significant than silly debates or boisterous games. Namely the choice of our next Chancellor.’

‘That is very good of you,’ called Deynman the librarian, never one to be daunted by a sense of occasion. ‘But we are not eligible to vote. Only the Fellows are, so it does not matter if we are impressed or not, because we cannot elect them anyway.’

Kolvyle smiled stiffly. ‘Yes, but the outcome affects you all, and it is my contention that you have the right to make your opinions known. You can do this by lobbying your masters – to make them choose the candidate you want.’

‘We want Suttone,’ called Aungel dutifully. ‘Because he is a Michaelhouse man.’

‘Yes, he is,’ agreed Kolvyle, turning to look the nervous Carmelite up and down. ‘But will he best serve your interests? You are not yet in a position to know, because you have not heard what the other candidates have to say. That will be rectified today, and once the other foundations have seen what we have done, they will follow our example.’

Hopeman looked uneasy, Thelnetham was impassive, while Godrich fingered the heavy purse at his side with a meaningful smile. Suttone was ashen-faced though, desperately racking his brains for policies that would encourage his supporters to stay loyal.

‘Students are entitled to a voice,’ Kolvyle went on. ‘And I aim to ensure that it is heard. You have been at the mercy of the Fellows for far too long, but a new age is dawning, when younger men, like myself, will lead the University to a more enlightened future.’

‘You make our Regent masters sound like old men,’ called Deynman. ‘They are not. Well, Suttone has grey hair, I suppose, but you should see Master Langelee racing around the camp-ball field, while Doctor Bartholomew could not tend so many patients if he was ancient.’

‘Grey hair signifies experience and wisdom,’ said Suttone sharply, offended. ‘The chancellorship is not a post that should be occupied by some selfishly ambitious greenhorn.’

‘Quite,’ agreed Thelnetham. ‘He should have been a member of the University for at least three years, so he knows its strengths and weaknesses.’

‘Rubbish,’ countered Godrich, who was also a relative newcomer and so did not fulfil this particular condition. ‘The only thing that is important is an ability to secure large donations.’

‘The only thing that is important is combatting evil,’ countered Hopeman hotly. ‘Money will be irrelevant if our University is suppressed because Satan is in charge.’

Thelnetham opened his mouth to join the debate, but Kolvyle took command again.

‘Suttone will speak first,’ he said, ‘because this is his College. I shall decide on the order for the others when he has finished. Right. Off you go.’

The order came so abruptly that the hapless Carmelite was left gaping stupidly while he rallied his thoughts. Then he began a wretched, rambling discourse that had his rivals grinning superiorly. Except Thelnetham, who had the grace to wince on his behalf.

‘Well, there you have it,’ drawled Kolvyle, when Suttone eventually stuttered to a halt. ‘You next, Hopeman.’

‘I speak at God’s command, not yours,’ declared Hopeman. ‘I will not play your games.’

Kolvyle addressed his audience. ‘It is generally claimed that Hopeman is a zealot with untenable views on theology. If he is happy with that summary of his abilities, we shall move to our next speaker.’

‘Lord, he is sly!’ murmured Michael grudgingly. ‘How can Hopeman remain silent now?’

The Dominican could not, and launched into a diatribe that was unnerving both in its intensity and the distasteful prejudice of its opinions. It was accompanied by a lot of finger wagging, and it was not long before William could bear it no longer.

‘You are a fool, Hopeman,’ he boomed, using the voice he reserved for his own feisty orations. ‘And the Devil must be delighted to have gained such a faithful servant.’

‘No interruptions!’ snapped Kolvyle, before the Dominican could respond. ‘I shall invite comments from the audience afterwards, but they cannot be abusive, and they must contain at least a modicum of intelligent analysis. However, I think we have heard enough from Hopeman. Godrich? Would you care to respond to the issues our Dominican has raised?’

‘I would not debase myself by acknowledging them,’ declared Godrich loftily. ‘But I have plenty to say about how the statutes might be adapted to suit our current needs. They were drafted more than a century ago, and it is time they were modernised.’

‘That man is a damned fool!’ hissed Michael angrily. ‘The statutes are what keep our University together – sensible rules devised by rational men.’

‘Women,’ began Godrich, immediately snagging the students’ attention. ‘They are forbidden to us, but I shall change that stricture when I am in power. Being scholars does not make us priests, and it is ridiculous to force us to live celibate lives.’

This raised a cheer from Bartholomew’s lads, although Michael’s monastics maintained a disapproving silence.

‘But that was my idea,’ cried Suttone, dismayed. ‘I forgot to mention it in my speech just now, but I was the one who first suggested–’

‘You had your turn, Suttone,’ interrupted Kolvyle sharply. ‘So shut up and allow Godrich the same respect he afforded you by listening to him in silence.’

He indicated that Godrich should resume, nodding encouragingly. The King’s Hall man spoke well, and Suttone shrivelled further with every word. Bartholomew felt for him, especially as Godrich was a noted hater of women, and had started his campaign by mocking Suttone’s recommendation that the rules regarding them be relaxed.

‘There,’ said Kolvyle, when Godrich had finished. ‘Are there any questions before we end this session and move on to the next stage?’

‘I have one,’ said Thelnetham mildly. ‘Have you forgotten me?’

Kolvyle regarded him disparagingly. ‘You want to speak, do you? Very well, but make it brief. We cannot waste time.’

It was rude, as well as patently unfair, but the Gilbertine rose to the challenge, and laughter soon reverberated around the hall. Kolvyle’s face was stony, while the other candidates were openly envious at the applause that marked the end of Thelnetham’s speech – a short one, because the Gilbertine also knew when to stop. Then Bartholomew felt someone tugging at his sleeve. It was Clippesby, red-faced, sweaty and breathless.

‘I went to my friary, as Langelee ordered,’ he whispered. ‘And I got talking to a couple of cockerels. It seems that Hopeman had a very fierce argument with Lyng on Thursday night, after which Lyng stalked off towards the Trumpington road.’

Michael frowned. ‘Are you telling us that Hopeman killed Lyng?’

‘No, Brother,’ replied Clippesby. ‘I am telling you that they quarrelled the night he died. The cockerels did not witness this fight themselves, though – Almoner Byri did, and they overheard him telling Prior Morden about it. Apparently, it was a very savage row, and threats were made …’

‘What threats?’ demanded Michael.

‘Hopeman said that he would sooner kill Lyng than let him be Chancellor – he genuinely believes that God guides his wild opinions, you see. The cockerels are afraid that Hopeman realised Lyng was the most popular candidate, and decided to eliminate him …’

‘Well, then,’ said Michael, ‘we had better visit Byri and have this tale from the horse’s mouth before tackling Hopeman with it.’

‘The horses were not there,’ said Clippesby seriously. ‘Just the cockerels. But wear your warmest cloaks. The wind is getting up again, and it is bitterly cold. Ethel says there will be snow soon.’

‘I will come with you, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. He nodded towards the dais. ‘I do not think I can stand any more of this.’