A Grave Concern

Chapter 11

A Dominican Priory had been founded in Cambridge not long after that Order had first arrived in the country, and its founders had chosen a site east of the town, rather than in the centre, like the Carmelites, Austins and Franciscans. This meant it had been free to expand unfettered by constraints of space, and so was enormous. It was centred around its beautiful church, which rivalled St Mary the Great in size and splendour. Other buildings included a refectory and dormitories for its sixty or so priests, and a range of sheds, pantries, storerooms and stables.

The lay-brother who answered the gate invited them to wait by the fire in his lodge while he went to announce their arrival to Prior Morden. His kindness came with a caveat, though.

‘And no stealing my bread and cheese, Brother. I know exactly how much there is, and will notice if any is missing.’

‘He seems to have a very odd impression of me,’ said Michael when the man had gone. ‘Does he really imagine that I wander around the town scoffing whatever I happen to find?’

Eventually, they were conducted across the garden to the Prior’s House, an elegant edifice that had been built that summer, and that was larger than many hostels. It had a tiled roof, and its walls were stone. Michael had developed a mischievous habit of entering the old one by flinging open the door hard enough to startle its occupant – a practice that nearly always resulted in damage to the wall. However, Morden had evidently taken this into account when he had designed his new parlour, so Michael thrust open the door with his customary vigour, only to have it snap back at him, landing him a painful crack on the nose.

‘Do come in, Brother,’ said Morden, struggling to keep a straight face.

He was in company with Almoner Byri, a plump man with white hair, who leaned against the wall while tears of mirth rolled down his plump cheeks. Bartholomew saw the door had been fitted with a thin strip of metal, which meant it would always spring back at the opener – and the harder it was pushed, the more violently it would return. The Dominicans were famous for their love of practical jokes.

‘This is dangerous,’ he said disapprovingly. ‘You could hurt someone.’

‘They have hurt someone,’ said Michael nasally. ‘I feel as though I have been punched, and the Senior Proctor can levy fines for that sort of thing.’

‘It is only a bit of fun,’ said Morden. He was sitting on a stool behind his desk, which had been piled high with cushions; his little legs swung in the empty space below them. ‘Where is your sense of humour?’

‘There is nothing amusing about visitors’ noses being mashed into the back of their skulls,’ growled Michael. ‘I have cautioned you about these pranks before.’

‘You are as bad as Hopeman,’ said Morden, rolling his eyes. ‘He is all grim business and no play, too. However, we only deployed that device when we heard you were here, Brother. My walls are new, and I do not want them dented by one of your forceful arrivals.’

‘Here is some wine to make you feel better,’ said Byri. He saw the monk’s eyes narrow, so took a sip himself. ‘Best quality claret. This is not another jest, I promise.’

Michael took the proffered goblet with ill grace, and plonked himself down on a bench. He should have known better, and squawked in shock when it tipped violently. Quick as lightning, Bartholomew grabbed the end that flew into the air, and preserved the monk’s dignity by sitting on it himself. Morden and Byri were openly disappointed.

‘I am here on a serious matter,’ said Michael sternly. ‘Murder. It is not an occasion for merriment, so I suggest you desist with these foolish antics before you annoy me.’

Morden became serious. ‘My apologies, Brother. We are very sorry about Tynkell and Lyng. Both were good men, and Lyng would have made an excellent Chancellor.’

‘Yet you support Hopeman,’ Michael pointed out, ‘who will not.’

‘Yes, because he is a Dominican,’ explained Morden. ‘We cannot vote for Thelnetham or Suttone, because one is a Gilbertine and the other a Carmelite, while Godrich will not do at all.’

‘Why not?’ probed Michael.

Morden indicated that Byri should reply.

‘He has been bribing hostels to vote for him,’ obliged the almoner, although he spoke reluctantly; he was not a man for gossip. ‘But he was overheard saying that he cannot possibly honour all the pledges he has made, and will renege on most the moment he is in post.’

‘Then there is his friendship with Moleyns,’ added Morden. ‘I assume you know what happened in Stoke Poges all those years ago, when Moleyns was charged with the murder of Egidia’s uncle, but was acquitted?’

Michael nodded. ‘He chose the jury himself.’

‘Yes, and one of its members was Godrich.’ Byri frowned when he saw Michael’s surprise. ‘No one told you?’

‘No,’ said Michael stiffly. ‘How did you find out?’

‘The village priest is a Dominican, and I met him at a conclave recently. He said that Godrich bragged about telling the other jurors how to vote. Godrich was sent there from Court, you see, to make sure that a man who was generous to the royal coffers was not convicted.’

‘Then it was a pity for Moleyns that Godrich was not available for his next trial as well,’ murmured Morden acidly. ‘I imagine he was horrified when he was pronounced guilty of all those terrible deeds – theft, cattle rustling, harbouring felons …’

‘You should have mentioned this sooner, Byri,’ said Michael aggrieved. ‘How am I supposed to solve these murders when people withhold vital information?’

‘I assumed that Godrich would tell you himself,’ replied Byri defensively. ‘On the grounds that keeping it quiet makes it look as though he has something to hide.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Michael caustically. ‘It does, doesn’t it.’

‘Do you think Godrich is the killer?’ Morden answered the question himself. ‘It would make sense: he stabbed Tynkell to force an election, Moleyns to prevent unsavoury details about his past from emerging, and Lyng to rid himself of his most dangerous rival.’

‘Are there any other “unsavoury details” that I might not know?’ asked Michael crossly.

Byri raised his hands in a shrug. ‘Not that I am aware. However, Godrich would not have done that sort of favour for Moleyns and then forgotten all about it. Moleyns will have expressed his gratitude to him in some significant way, you can be sure of that.’

Michael thought so, too. ‘But we are here on another matter, as it happens. Tell us about the argument you overheard between Hopeman and Lyng.’

Byri gaped at him. ‘How on Earth do you know about that? The only person I have told is Prior Morden, and he has been in here with me ever since, going through our accounts.’

‘The Senior Proctor has very long ears,’ replied Michael smugly.

‘Or his spies do,’ muttered Byri. ‘Very well, then. It was on Thursday night, well after nine. I had been away on priory business, and I stopped at St Botolph’s Church to give thanks for my safe return. When I came out, Hopeman and Lyng were in the graveyard. I suppose I should have made myself known, but I was very tired and Hopeman can be … wordy.’

‘You did not want him to keep you from your rest with a diatribe,’ surmised Michael. ‘So you skulked in the dark, waiting for him to leave.’

‘It sounds sly when put like that,’ objected Byri. ‘Whereas I merely decided that it would be more comfortable to have his news the next day, rather than there and then, out in the cold.’

‘So what did you hear, exactly?’

‘They were talking about the chancellorship, amiably at first. Then Lyng told Hopeman to stand down and support him instead. He said he was going to win anyway, and Hopeman could save himself a lot of embarrassment by withdrawing before the votes were counted.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘Lyng said that? I thought he was a modest man.’

‘So did I, which just goes to show that you never know anyone as well as you think.’

Bartholomew recalled the argument in Maud’s Hostel, where Blaston the carpenter had overheard a quarrel that had involved physical violence. Perhaps Byri was right.

‘Needless to say, Hopeman was incensed,’ the almoner went on. ‘He began to rant and screech, and said some terrible things, including …’

‘Yes?’ pressed Michael. He grimaced when Byri glanced at his prior. ‘I need the truth about this encounter, Byri. If Hopeman is the killer, he needs to be stopped. I know he is a Dominican, and you are reluctant to betray him, but think of his victims.’

‘Michael is right, Byri,’ said Morden quietly. ‘You have a duty to tell the truth.’

‘Very well,’ sighed the almoner. ‘Hopeman said he would kill Lyng if he interfered with God’s plans. Lyng retorted that Hopeman might be the one to die, but they were both seriously angry by this point, and men often say things in temper that they do not really mean.’

‘And temper often exposes their true intentions,’ countered Michael, and stood so abruptly that Bartholomew was tipped off the other end of the bench, although no one laughed. ‘We shall return to Michaelhouse and see what Hopeman has to say about this matter.’

‘He is not the killer,’ said Morden, although his voice lacked conviction. ‘He may be a zealot, but he would never break one of the Ten Commandments.’

‘If he had nothing to hide, he would have mentioned this encounter when I questioned him about Lyng’s disappearance,’ said Michael. ‘But he told me that he had not seen Lyng since noon. Which means he does break the Commandments – by bearing false witness.’

‘I suppose it does,’ conceded Morden unhappily.

The wind had picked up since Bartholomew and Michael had been inside the priory, and was now blowing hard. It made the voluminous folds of Michael’s habit billow wildly, while Bartholomew struggled to stay upright. They began to trudge back towards the town.

‘I am confused,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Blaston heard Lyng quarrel with a “black villain” – we assume Hopeman – in Maud’s Hostel at dusk. But if Lyng had slapped Hopeman then, why would Hopeman risk another encounter with Lyng a few hours later?’

‘The answer is obvious: it must have been someone else who Blaston heard – he admits that he did not see this other person. And we are learning a lot about Lyng. He was no gentle saint, as we all believed, but someone who issued ultimatums, engaged in vicious rows, and used threats and physical violence. What are you doing?’

Bartholomew had stopped, and was staring across the flat expanse of the Barnwell Fields. As he watched, the rising gale whisked a piece of rubbish high into the air, where it was carried some distance before becoming entangled in an alder copse.

‘The wind,’ he said. ‘It is blowing from the same direction as it was on Tuesday.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Michael, pulling his thick winter mantle more closely around him. ‘And it is cutting right through me.’

‘The killer’s cloak was whipped from the tower and carried towards these fields.’

‘I know,’ said Michael drily. ‘My beadles and I spent hours searching for the wretched thing, and our failure to produce it has fuelled the rumour that it was Satan.’

‘Where did you look exactly?’

Michael spread his hands in a shrug. ‘Every inch of ground between St Mary the Great and the Dominican Priory. Why?’

Bartholomew stared at the church tower, angles and distances running through his mind. When there was no reply, Michael repeated the question, then sighed in annoyance when it was ignored a second time. He began to walk away, loath to stand around while the physician ruminated in silence – it was far too cold for that. Bartholomew barely saw him go.

His calculations complete, Bartholomew stepped off the Hadstock Way and began to plod in a north-easterly direction, sure that Tuesday’s gale had been strong enough to carry a garment such a distance – and equally sure that Michael had been looking in the wrong place.

The Barnwell Fields were pretty in the summer, when sun and showers created luxurious meadows of thick grass and wild flowers, but they were bleak in winter, when they tended to flood. Bartholomew squelched through knee-deep puddles, struggling to keep his balance on the uneven ground, a task made more difficult still by the buffeting wind. His feet soon turned to ice, while it was impossible to keep his hood from blowing back, so his head ached from the cold. He persisted anyway, determined to succeed where Michael had failed. Then the sun began to set.

‘Good afternoon, Matthew,’ came a familiar voice through the gloom. It was Thelnetham, snugly wrapped in a thick winter cloak and a scarlet liripipe – a long-tailed hood that also served as a scarf. He saw Bartholomew eyeing it in surprise, and shrugged. ‘I did not expect to meet any voters all the way out here, so I decided to indulge my penchant for colour. I shall take it off before I arrive though, as it would be inappropriate for the occasion.’

‘Before you arrive where?’ asked Bartholomew, continuing to stare at it as he imagined its soft, warm folds wrapped around his frozen ears.

‘At Widow Miller’s house,’ replied Thelnetham. ‘Lord, it is bitter today! The sky had an ugly hue earlier, and there will be snow before long. Shall we walk the rest of the way together, and pray that it holds off until we have both finished and are safely home again?’

Bartholomew’s mystification intensified. ‘What is happening in Widow Miller’s home?’

Thelnetham frowned his own bemusement. ‘She is dying, and my prior sent me to sit with her. I assume you are going there, too – to see what can be done to ease her final hours.’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘She is Rougham’s patient, not mine.’

Thelnetham regarded him askance. ‘Then what on Earth are you doing out here? It is scarcely wise on such a foul day, and a lot of paupers rely on your continued good health for their free medical care. You, of all people, cannot afford to be reckless.’

Bartholomew gestured towards the sturdy bulk of St Mary the Great. ‘The killer’s cloak blew off the roof when Tynkell was killed, and it came in this direction. I am trying to find it.’

‘It was not a cloak,’ averred Thelnetham firmly. ‘It was the Devil – too many folk saw him for that not to be true. Nicholas was among them, and he is as honest a man as you could ever hope to meet. If he says it was Satan, then it was Satan.’

‘Hopefully, he will revise his position when I show him the garment.’

‘Or he will tell you that it is the one Satan wore when he flapped away,’ countered Thelnetham. ‘So if you do find the thing, poke it with a stick first, to make sure he is not still inside it. But I had better hurry, or poor Widow Miller will be dead before I arrive.’

He turned and trotted away, at which point Bartholomew became aware that the wind had shifted. When he reworked his calculations accordingly, they took him farther north. The ground was soggier there, and the icy puddles deeper. As the last vestiges of daylight faded and he was getting ready to concede defeat, he glimpsed something black lying in the grass.

He snatched it up eagerly. It was a cloak, too good a garment to have been discarded deliberately, even by someone wealthy. There was a tear near the collar, where the clasp that had kept the two edges together had been ripped out. It proved what Michael had suspected from the start: that it had come loose as its wearer and Tynkell had grappled, after which the wind had carried it off.

It was not much of a step forward, but Bartholomew hoped it would be enough to throw doubts on the tale that Tynkell had been unequal to besting Lucifer.

His mind full of questions and solutions, Bartholomew hurried to St Mary the Great, where he asked Nicholas to show him the Chest Room. The secretary narrowed his eyes in rank suspicion, making the physician feel as though he had asked for something untoward.

‘I think I know how Tynkell’s killer escaped from the tower,’ he explained. ‘I will show you if you let me up there – it will be easier than telling you down here.’

Nicholas remained wary. ‘I cannot – I do not have the keys. Only Michael and Meadowman do. Besides, we do not let just anyone up there, you know. It contains all our most precious documents and most of our money.’

Michael heard their voices and came to find out what was going on. Bartholomew showed him the cloak and told him where he had found it.

‘Can it be identified?’ asked the monk, seizing it eagerly. ‘Even soaked and muddy, it is obviously expensive. Someone might recognise it.’

‘It is also black,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘Like the ones owned by virtually every scholar in the University, not to mention most priests. Many can afford decent cloth.’

‘So can burgesses and merchants,’ put in Nicholas. ‘And black is by far the most popular colour. Clothiers sell it by the cartload, as Matthew’s sister will attest.’

‘But there are tears and marks on this one,’ persisted Michael. ‘It is unique.’

‘Yes – from its spell out in the Barnwell Fields,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is impossible to say what it looked like before flying off the roof and spending five days in the mud.’

Michael sagged in disappointment. ‘So its discovery means nothing?’

‘It proves that Satan was not involved,’ said Bartholomew.

‘It will take more than a discarded mantle to change people’s minds about that,’ predicted Nicholas. ‘They love that tale.’

‘I am afraid that is true, Matt,’ said Michael, seeing the physician prepare to argue. ‘More is the pity. But what do you want in the Chest Room?’

‘I think I know how the killer hid from us that day.’

Michael raised questioning eyebrows at Nicholas. ‘Then why did you refuse to let him in? You know where Meadowman keeps his keys, and we are desperate for answers.’

‘It is against the rules,’ replied the secretary indignantly. ‘Which say that the tower should never be opened unless two University officers are in attendance.’

Michael rolled his eyes, and indicated with an irritable flick of his hand that Nicholas was to do as Bartholomew had requested. The secretary responded with an offended sniff intended to remind the monk of who had written the guidelines in the first place.

‘He really is a pedantic fellow,’ muttered Michael, as he and Bartholomew followed him up the nave. ‘And I have an uncomfortable feeling that he thinks I am the killer – my motive being that I want to see Suttone safely installed before I leave for Rochester.’

‘What did Godrich say about being on the jury that acquitted Moleyns of murder?’ asked Bartholomew, hoping the secretary had more sense than to suspect the Senior Proctor.

‘Nothing,’ replied Michael sourly. ‘Because he had stormed out of Michaelhouse in a rage by the time I arrived home. I went to King’s Hall, but he was not there either. Warden Shropham has promised to let me know the moment he returns, and then he will be in for an uncomfortable interview.’

‘Then did you speak to Hopeman about his arguments with Lyng?’

Michael nodded. ‘He openly acknowledges that they were often at loggerheads, but says he cannot recall specifics. I suggested that he try, and he informed me that God speaks through him, so any threats he might have issued actually came from the Almighty.’

‘So he might be stabbing people in the belief that he is doing God’s will?’

‘It is possible, although Godrich remains my chief suspect.’

He unlocked the tower door and began to ascend the stairs, Bartholomew following and Nicholas bringing up the rear. Bartholomew paused at the bell chamber, and looked at the three metal domes, remembering Stanmore as he did so. He wondered what his brother-in-law would have made of the decision to silence them until after the election, and was sure he would have disapproved. Oswald had always loved the noisy jangle of bells.

Michael had unfastened the two locks to the Chest Room by the time Bartholomew and Nicholas arrived, and was waiting inside, holding a lantern aloft. Bartholomew stepped across the threshold and looked around. The only thing that had changed since his last visit was that mice had been at the poison in the little dishes, because there was less of it than there had been.

‘The killer did not hide in here, Matt,’ averred Michael. ‘Even if he had managed to lay hold of Meadowman’s keys, the door cannot be locked from the inside.’

Bartholomew smiled. ‘Assuming it was locked.’

‘It was,’ averred Michael. ‘I rattled it on my way past, and so did you.’

‘Go and stand on the stairs, then come back in when I call you.’

Puzzled, Michael went to do as he was told, although Nicholas declined to join him, clearly of the opinion that the physician might make off with the University’s treasure if left unsupervised. Once the door was closed, Bartholomew took one of the plates of poison and jammed it underneath, kicking it hard to ensure it was securely lodged.

‘Enter, Brother,’ he shouted. ‘If you can.’

There was a rattle as the monk seized the handle, followed by a determined series of thumps as he pushed at it with increasing vigour. The door held firm.

‘You have locked it!’ he shouted accusingly. ‘How?’

Bartholomew removed the dish, and showed him what he had done. The monk was thoughtful.

‘Then I submit that Tynkell came up here alone, unlocking the doors with Meadowman’s keys. The killer followed, and they had some sort of confrontation. Or perhaps Tynkell saw him sneaking past, and hared after him to the roof, where they fought. Once Tynkell was dead, the villain started to descend …’

‘But he heard us coming up,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Fortunately for him, you fell and twisted your knee. I went back to help you, which delayed us just long enough to let him duck in here – the door would have been left open when Tynkell gave chase. He jammed it shut … you can see scratches on the floor where the dish was lodged.’

‘My word!’ breathed Nicholas, peering at them.

‘Tynkell almost certainly left Meadowman’s keys behind when he went to the roof,’ Bartholomew went on. ‘So the killer calmly waited until we had gone on upwards, after which he came out, locked the door behind him, and returned the keys to their hiding place.’

Nicholas looked from one to the other. ‘But that means the culprit is a University officer! We are the only ones who know where they are kept.’

‘Not so,’ said Michael. ‘Most of the beadles have seen Meadowman “hide” them, and not all are discreet men. One may have let something slip in a tavern. Or sold the information.’

‘No!’ gulped Nicholas. ‘They would never betray you – they are loyal men.’

‘Generally,’ agreed Michael. ‘But none are very well paid, and all like a drink.’

Nicholas was thoughtful. ‘Even the Sheriff was betrayed by a soldier he thought he could trust. Perhaps we all put too much faith in the vagaries of human nature.’

Bartholomew continued with his analysis. ‘However, when we arrived at the church, the porch and the vestry doors were locked from the inside, and the building was empty because everyone had gone out to watch. That means those doors were secured after Tynkell had started to fight. It could not have been before, or people would not have been able to leave.’

‘What are you saying?’ demanded Michael. ‘That he had an accomplice?’

‘He must have done.’

Michael turned to Nicholas. ‘So why did Tynkell come up here? You must have an inkling – you were his secretary after all.’

‘He did not confide in me, Brother. I told you: he had grown withdrawn and secretive these last few weeks, and kept shutting himself in his office.’

‘Look in the Chest,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps something will be out of place.’

Michael obliged, and he and Nicholas began a careful analysis of its contents, although it looked like a random jumble to Bartholomew.

‘This,’ said Michael eventually, pulling out a piece of vellum. He opened it and began to read. ‘It is a deed of ownership for the chapel in Stoke Poges.’

‘Thelnetham said that Tynkell hoped to get it for the University,’ recalled Bartholomew. ‘And that he visited Stoke Poges to such an end, determined to make sure he was favourably remembered when he retired. Well, it seems he did. And as that manor once belonged to Moleyns, the chances are that he was involved in helping Tynkell to acquire it for us.’

Michael’s expression was dark with anger. ‘Moleyns murdered his wife’s uncle to get that manor – his ownership of it is tainted, which means we cannot possibly accept its chapel. No wonder Tynkell shut himself away! He knew I would stop him if I knew what he was doing.’

‘Oh, Tynkell,’ whispered Nicholas sadly. ‘We would have remembered you fondly anyway. You did not have to stoop to such antics.’

Michael stared at the deed. ‘So he came up here to deposit this for safekeeping – or perhaps to gloat over it – when his killer happened across him.’

‘It seems likely,’ agreed Nicholas. ‘So how does it help us identify the culprit?’

Michael rubbed a weary hand across his face. ‘I am damned if I know.’

Bartholomew went to bed early that night, but woke at midnight and could not go back to sleep. Eventually, he rose and went to the conclave, intending to work on a lecture he was to give on Galen’s De urinis later that term. He arrived to find he was not the only one who was restless. Michael was there, too, so they fell to discussing the murders. The monk had questioned the other University clerks about the deed to Stoke Poges chapel, but Tynkell had mentioned it to none of them, and all professed themselves astonished that he had succeeded in getting it.

‘Perhaps Moleyns helped him because of their shared interest in witchery,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Moleyns visited Marjory Starre, while we know that Lyng and Tynkell had horned serpents inked on their–’

He stopped in horror when he realised that he had just broken Tynkell’s confidence.

Michael’s jaw dropped. ‘They had what? Did you say horned serpents? But that is a mark of Satan!’

Bartholomew began to speak in a gabble about Moleyns and Lyng, in the desperate but futile hope that Michael would forget Tynkell had also been mentioned.

‘Lyng and Moleyns had snakes on their feet. Or rather, Lyng did – Moleyns was buried before I knew what to look for, so I cannot be sure about him. However, one of your clerks claims to have seen them comparing these symbols in St Mary the Great. Of course, I have not questioned the man myself, because I do not know who he is …’

‘And Tynkell?’ asked Michael sharply, when the physician trailed off. ‘He had one, too? Is that the mysterious secret you and he shared for so many years?’

Trapped, Bartholomew nodded wretchedly. ‘But he made me promise never to tell anyone. I did not understand why he was so insistent until Marjory Starre explained their significance yesterday.’

‘But I would have done, and you should have told me,’ said Michael angrily. ‘You have put the whole University at risk with your misguided principles. Do you not know what will happen if word seeps out that we had a Satanist at our helm?’

‘Tynkell was not a Satanist, Brother! There is no reason to suppose that he was anything other than a devout Christian.’

‘You are my Corpse Examiner,’ said Michael heatedly. ‘You have a responsibility to me, as well as to your patients, and your silence has done me a serious disservice. Not to mention damaging our investigation.’

‘It was not my secret to share. Besides, Tynkell always said it was the result of a youthful prank, and I had no reason to disbelieve him. Unfortunately, Marjory thinks that is unlikely, given the number of serpents he had put on himself, and the time it takes to draw them …’

Michael gaped anew at the implications of that revelation. ‘How many of these horrible things did he have?’

Bartholomew rubbed a hand through his hair, wondering whether to answer. However, the cat was out of the bag now, so there was no point in refusing to cooperate, especially as Michael could just ask Marjory. Besides, Tynkell had lied to him, and loyalty went both ways.

‘Lots,’ he mumbled. ‘Two dozen or more, of varying sizes. However, I never saw any indication that he attended covens or did … whatever it is that Satanists do. It is entirely possible that this so-called connection is completely irrelevant.’

‘Not if Lyng and Moleyns showed each other these symbols in St Mary the Great, where we know they met Tynkell for sly discussions.’ Michael continued to glare. ‘I cannot believe you kept such vital information from me, Matt. I am stunned!’

‘But I did not know it was vital,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘And perhaps we are overstating its importance anyway. It is not necessarily a sinister–’

‘Anything to do with witchery is sinister, and all three men have been murdered. Of course it is important! Oh, Lord, here comes Cynric. Now what?’

‘A brawl at the King’s Head,’ the book-bearer reported tersely to Bartholomew. ‘Cook is there, tending the injured, but some are the Sheriff’s men and he wants you to see to them instead. It will mean trouble, boy. Cook will not like being deprived of customers.’

‘I will come at once,’ said Bartholomew, relieved to be away from the monk’s scolding tongue, even if it did mean another confrontation with the vicious barber.

Bartholomew gathered what he needed from his room, and set off at a brisk trot, Cynric loping at his side. The streets felt oddly uneasy for the small hours, and he was disconcerted to see lights in hostels that were normally in darkness with their occupants fast asleep. Lamps also burned in the Carmelite Friary, Bene’t College, the Hall of Valence Marie and Peterhouse, while the Gilbertines’ refectory was lit up like a bonfire. Scholars darted in and out of the shadows, visiting neighbours and friends in defiance of the curfew that should have kept them indoors.

‘They are plotting,’ surmised Cynric. ‘About how to install their preferred candidate. But Suttone need not worry. I have bought several costly charms on his behalf, so he will win.’

‘Bought them from Marjory Starre?’ asked Bartholomew warily.

Cynric nodded. ‘She is very good, and she is kindly disposed towards Michaelhouse at the moment – because of Suttone himself, as a matter of fact.’

Bartholomew regarded him in alarm. ‘What do you mean by that?’

‘People have not forgotten the terrors of the plague, and he claims it is on the brink of return. His beliefs – which he has been airing in his election speeches – have driven folk to take all the precautions they can. Scholars and townsmen alike have flocked to Marjory for warding spells, and she says business has never been so good.’

‘Then we must tell him to stop,’ said Bartholomew worriedly. ‘Especially if he does win. We do not want half the University queuing up for her services.’

‘No,’ agreed Cynric. ‘It would be a nuisance for us regulars. However, it is Suttone’s intention to let scholars loose on townswomen that concerns me more. I do not want hordes of amorous academics after my wife – she may not like it. But Lord, it is bitter tonight! Marjory says we shall have snow the day after tomorrow.’

Bartholomew thought she might be right, as it was as cold as he could ever remember. It hurt to inhale; his nose, ears and fingers ached; and the frozen mud on the High Street made for treacherous walking. He began to wish he was back in the conclave, but then remembered that Michael would be there, and decided he was better off outside.

He and Cynric arrived at the King’s Head to find the carnage was not as great as they had been led to believe. Most wounds were superficial, although Cook was busily sewing them up anyway, so he could claim a fee. One victim was a ditcher named Noll Verius, who never had any money, and would almost certainly have to resort to crime to pay what was demanded.

‘That will heal on its own,’ he said, feeling it would be unethical to look the other way while Cook embarked on a painful and wholly unnecessary procedure.

Predictably, Cook resented the interference. ‘I was here first, so these injuries belong to me.’ His hands were red to the wrists, like glistening gloves, and his needle was thick with gore from his previous customers. ‘Now piss off.’

‘Watch your mouth, you,’ said Cynric dangerously. ‘Or I will–’

‘Good, you are here at last, Matt,’ said Tulyet, bustling up and blithely oblivious of the fact that he had just prevented a second brawl. ‘I want you to look at Robin. He has–’

‘He will look at no one,’ interrupted Cook angrily. ‘Surgery is my prerogative, not his.’

‘You may tend the patrons of this tavern, if they are reckless enough to let you near them,’ said Tulyet coldly, ‘but stay away from my men.’

‘Where and when I practise is dictated by the Worshipful Company of Barbers,’ flashed Cook. ‘Not you.’

‘How good are you at inserting stitches into yourself?’ asked Tulyet malevolently. ‘Because that is what you will need to do if you challenge me again.’

Even the combative barber knew better than to argue, and he prudently slunk away, although not without a vicious glower that would have unnerved any lesser man. Bartholomew went to tend Robin, who was white with shock, because someone had pinned his hand to a table with a dagger. Fortunately, the blade had missed bone, tendons and arteries, and would heal well enough. Helbye stood with a comforting hand on his shoulder, looking old, grey and tired.

‘Please do not leave,’ begged Robin, as the sergeant turned to go. ‘When that wretched barber sees Doctor Bartholomew with me, he will storm over and try to push him away. And I do not want Cook. Not when he killed Widow Miller and Mother Salter. You should never have sent for him.’

‘Of course I had to send for him,’ argued Helbye irritably. ‘He is the town surgeon – and a good one, too.’ He raised his sleeve to reveal a healing gash. ‘Look at that – a lovely neat job! Not even a woman could have done better stitches.’

‘You were lucky, then,’ said Robin. ‘Perhaps he likes you.’

‘Most folk do,’ quipped Helbye, although his grin did not touch his eyes, and Bartholomew saw he was shocked by the speed with which the trouble in the King’s Head had erupted. ‘But the hero of Poitiers can protect you from Cook, and I should hunt for Isnard before there is any more fighting.’

‘Isnard,’ sighed Robin. ‘I was right, you know – we should not have come in here, demanding to see him. We should have waited for him to come out, like we usually do.’

‘We have the authority to go wherever we please in the town we rule,’ said Helbye indignantly. ‘And that includes the King’s Head.’

‘Yes, but …’ began Robin, then decided there was no point in arguing. He explained to Bartholomew. ‘We wanted to ask Isnard about the new stuff that was stolen, you see – Wilson’s lid, Trinity Hall’s scaffolding, and some nails from Lakenham’s shed.’

‘Isnard is a rogue,’ said Helbye grimly. ‘And it cannot be coincidence that these things went missing at the exact moment that he and Gundrede returned from their mysterious excursion to God knows where.’

His voice was flat and strained, so that Bartholomew sensed he knew he had made a serious error of judgement by invading the King’s Head, and was embarrassed by it. He muttered something about finding Isnard and hurried away, his shoulders slumped.

Bartholomew finished with Robin and went to the next patient, a lad who had fainted at the first splash of blood and was still feeling queasy. He refused to let Cook puncture the boy’s eardrum to ‘release the excess of bad humours’, and instead settled him quietly in a corner with a cup of honeyed ale.

‘I have been practising my trade since I was ten years old,’ said Cook, eyeing Bartholomew with open hatred, ‘while you wasted years by reading books. I am far more experienced than you, and you have no right to gainsay me.’

Bartholomew ignored him and moved on, gratified when this annoyed Cook far more than any retort. But the barber would not leave him alone, and was a constant presence at his side, braying that anyone who put his faith in physicians was courting Death.

‘For God’s sake, Cook!’ snapped Tulyet eventually. ‘I cannot hear myself think with all your carping. If you cannot hold your tongue, go home.’

Cook opened his mouth to object, but had second thoughts when he recalled the Sheriff’s earlier threat. Wordlessly, he collected his implements and stalked out. It was easier for Bartholomew to work once he had gone, and he soon finished what needed to be done. He packed up his equipment and was about to leave when Cynric approached.

‘Isnard needs you outside,’ he whispered. ‘But he is hiding from Helbye, so he wants you to come discreetly. He is waiting in the stable.’

Bartholomew arrived in the outbuilding to find Gundrede with Isnard, both showing signs of being in the thick of the trouble. The bargeman had cuts on his face, while Gundrede’s nose was askew.

‘Why could you not just answer the soldiers’ questions?’ Bartholomew asked them reproachfully. ‘A spat was unwarranted, and you are lucky no one was killed.’

‘It was the principle of the thing,’ explained Isnard earnestly. ‘They know the King’s Head is a sanctuary for … hard-working folk, but they came storming in like Pontius Pilate after vestal virgins. It was an outrage that had to be challenged.’

‘We would have gone outside, if they had asked nicely,’ added Gundrede, while Bartholomew was still pondering the bargeman’s curious analogy. ‘There was no need for them to race in and start making accusations.’

‘Besides, we never stole anything last night,’ said Isnard. ‘We were not even here.’

‘Then where were you?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Away,’ replied Isnard airily. Then he regarded the physician with eyes that were full of hurt. ‘They accused me of taking Master Wilson’s lid, but he was once a member of Michaelhouse – the College I love with all my heart. I would never steal anything from you.’

‘Of course not,’ said Bartholomew, aware that Gundrede was studiously looking in the opposite direction.

‘Michaelhouse is dearer to me than my own home,’ Isnard went on tearfully. ‘Indeed, I plan to live there when I take over the choir.’

‘Oh,’ said Bartholomew, startled. ‘Do you?’

‘Unless you can persuade Brother Michael that his future lies here,’ said Isnard pleadingly. ‘Remind him of all the good things he has – not just the biggest and best choir in the country, but friends who are devoted to him.’

‘And who wants to be a bishop, anyway?’ asked Gundrede. ‘All they do is eat, drink and ponder about how to get one over on their colleagues.’

If that were true, then Michael would be in his element, thought Bartholomew. He worked in silence for a while, listening to Tulyet rounding up his soldiers in the street outside. Helbye was repeating the orders in a ringing voice, and Bartholomew supposed the sergeant was trying to claw back some of the authority he had lost with the ill-advised raid.

‘Incidentally, we have been looking for the woman in the fancy cloak,’ said Gundrede, breaking into his thoughts. ‘Lots of people saw her run off after Moleyns was killed – including you – so she probably knows the killer. Unfortunately, the wretched lass has disappeared.’

‘We want to take her to the Sheriff, see, so she can tell him that the Devil did it,’ elaborated Isnard. ‘And not us. We will keep searching. I am sure she will surface eventually.’

‘Unless Satan has silenced her with a claw to the heart, of course,’ said Gundrede darkly.

Bartholomew finished tending their injuries, and left them moaning about Michael’s disloyalty to the choir. He collected Cynric and started to walk home.

‘Blaston claims that fight was audible in Milne Street,’ said the book-bearer. ‘Helbye was a fool to march in and start throwing his weight around. It was deliberately provocative.’

‘So it would seem,’ sighed Bartholomew.

‘He probably wanted to prove that he is not too old for a skirmish,’ Cynric went on. ‘But it did the opposite – it showed everyone that it is time he retired.’

‘He should not bear all the blame for the brawl. It would not have happened if the patrons of the King’s Head had shown some restraint.’

Cynric shot him a sour glance to show he disagreed. ‘Speaking of restraint, Master Langelee should impose some on Kolvyle. That boy is a horror. In fact, it was probably him who killed Tynkell and the others.’

‘Was it?’ asked Bartholomew mildly. He was used to Cynric making outrageously unfounded remarks, and had learned to take them with a pinch of salt.

‘He murdered Tynkell because he wanted to be Chancellor, and then he stabbed Lyng for being popular. He was jealous, see.’

‘And why did Moleyns have to die?’

‘Oh, that is simple. You remember Dallingridge, the man who was poisoned in Nottingham? Well, Moleyns killed him for Kolvyle’s benefit. Dallingridge was a brilliant scholar, and Kolvyle was afraid that he would be seen as second-best.’

‘Right,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And what did Moleyns gain from this arrangement?’

‘Nothing,’ replied Cynric promptly. ‘Because the moment he asked for a favour, Kolvyle stabbed him. Now Kolvyle supports Godrich, who is the candidate least likely to do a good job, at which point he will demand another election and stand himself. There, I have solved the case. Now all you have to do is arrest the brat.’

At that moment, a familiar figure emerged from St Michael’s Lane with a train of beadles at his heels.

‘I am summoned to King’s Hall,’ said Michael worriedly. ‘Godrich is missing, and they fear the killer has struck again.’