A Grave Concern

Chapter 12

‘Has the killer struck again, Brother?’ asked Langelee a little later that morning.

It was still early, but he and his Fellows had already attended their devotions, broken their fast, and repaired to the conclave, where they were busily preparing for the day ahead. Michael was fluttering around Suttone with a brush and scissors, struggling to render him a little more Chancellor-like; Langelee, William, Clippesby and Kolvyle were assembling their notes for the morning’s lessons; Bartholomew was making a list of the texts he wanted his students to read; and Langelee himself was honing his letter-opener, originally an innocuous little implement but now a very deadly weapon. Clearly, he was of the opinion that only a fool would not take precautions to protect himself if Michael’s answer was yes.

Michael stopped primping Suttone, his expression bleak. ‘Well, Lyng went missing, and look what happened to him. However, I can tell you that Godrich is not on the banks of the King’s Ditch, because we searched them very thoroughly – by torchlight.’

‘Personally, I thought Godrich was the murderer,’ said William. ‘So perhaps he sensed the net closing in around him, and fled before he was arrested.’

‘Nonsense,’ declared Kolvyle. ‘He would never–’

‘He was my main suspect, too,’ interrupted Michael, ignoring Kolvyle and addressing William. ‘He is a despicable rogue. First, he was on the jury that acquitted Moleyns of poisoning Peter Poges. Second, Dallingridge was poisoned in Nottingham, and Godrich was there at the time, although he insists on denying it–’

‘Dallingridge was not poisoned,’ snapped Kolvyle irritably. ‘He died of natural causes, as I have told you on countless occasions. And Godrich is telling the truth about Lammas Day – I would have noticed if he had been at the feast in the castle.’

‘Dallingridge wrote a list of all the people he suspected of killing him,’ Michael retorted. ‘It included you, so forgive me if I do not accept your opinion on the matter.’ He turned back to William. ‘And third, Godrich stoops to buying votes to make himself Chancellor.’

‘I heard that he turned to the Devil for help during the plague, too,’ said William, cutting across the response Kolvyle started to make. ‘He bought charms and spells from witches to keep himself safe.’

‘Many people did,’ said Clippesby, hugging a mangy dog. ‘And we should not judge them too harshly for what happened during that terrible time.’

‘We should if they want to be Chancellor,’ retorted Suttone. ‘Because they might do it again, when the disease sweeps through us a second time.’ Rashly, he addressed Kolvyle. ‘I trust this will make you rethink your allegiance to him?’

Kolvyle’s face was hard and cold. ‘And vote for you? Do not make me laugh!’

‘I will make a good Chancellor,’ protested Suttone, stung. ‘I am a–’

‘You will never be elected,’ declared Kolvyle viciously. ‘But if you are, I shall threaten to resign. And that means you will not keep your post for long, because no one will choose an old man over the University’s brightest young mind.’

‘Be careful what you promise,’ warned Langelee, while the others blinked their astonishment at such brazen hubris. ‘Thelnetham resigned in favour of a better offer, and he ended up with nothing.’

‘And good riddance!’ scoffed Kolvyle. ‘But I am different, because I am a rising star, whereas he is just another elderly has-been. Like the rest of you.’

‘Now just a moment,’ said William dangerously. ‘I am in the prime of my–’

‘You are all too old,’ Kolvyle declared contemptuously. ‘And it is time a clean sweep was made to rid the University of its deadwood.’

He turned and stalked away, but Michael raised his hand when William started after him. ‘Leave him. He is not worth the effort.’

William scowled. ‘Even Thelnetham was nicer than him, and that is saying something. I recommend we never hire any more Fellows. They are a menace!’

‘Other than Aungel,’ said Langelee. ‘We shall enrol him when Bartholomew abandons us for matrimonial bliss. He has his failings, but better the devil you know.’

‘I am not going anywhere,’ said Bartholomew, disliking the way his future was being decided without him. ‘At least, not yet. I shall see out the academic year, no matter what.’

‘You will not need to go at all if Suttone is Chancellor,’ said William. ‘He will let you have your woman and keep your Fellowship.’

‘I will,’ agreed Suttone. ‘And why not? It is stupid to lose a good teacher, just because he has normal manly appetites. However, I hope Godrich is not dead. He has powerful friends at Court, and I do not want the King accusing me of his murder.’ Then a thought occurred to him, and he blanched. ‘Lord! Do you think I am in danger? After all, we started with five candidates, but now we are four.’

‘There is no harm in being careful,’ replied Michael. ‘So Cynric can stay with you today.’

‘Tell us what you learned at King’s Hall last night, Brother,’ said Langelee, returning to his original question. ‘Should we be concerned for Godrich’s safety?’

‘Unfortunately, I think we should,’ replied the monk unhappily. ‘Especially as Whittlesey seems to be missing too.’

‘Whittlesey?’ echoed Langelee, shocked. ‘God’s teeth! The Church will be livid if anything happens to him. He is the Archbishop of Canterbury’s favourite nephew, and an important cleric in his own right.’

‘Godrich organised a feast at King’s Hall in Whittlesey’s honour,’ Michael went on, ‘but neither appeared for it and I am very worried. As I said, Godrich was my chief suspect, but now he has vanished … well, it just bodes ill.’

‘This dog,’ said Clippesby, indicating the creature in his arms. ‘She is the one who was made to run across the road when Moleyns died – after a bone. A lamb shank, she says.’

‘And?’ demanded Michael eagerly. ‘Is she going to tell us who threw it?’

‘She does not know. However, she tells me that it was definitely not Godrich, because he loves dogs, and would never have put one in danger.’

Michael seized his arm urgently. ‘Are you sure? Please, Clippesby – no madness now. This is important, because if Godrich can be eliminated as a suspect, then it means he probably is dead. And Whittlesey with him. They were rarely out of each other’s company these last few days, so Whittlesey may have been dispatched just because he was in the killer’s way.’

‘I am sure. I happened to be watching Godrich when Moleyns fell off his horse – one of his hounds was limping, you see, and I was waiting for an opportunity to tell him so. He did run towards the mêlée, but he did not kill Moleyns. I would have noticed.’

‘Damn it, Clippesby!’ cried Michael, exasperated. ‘Why did you not tell me this at once?’

‘Because I did not know that Godrich was a suspect until you announced it just now.’

‘I do not suppose you noticed Whittlesey in the scrum, did you?’ asked Michael, fighting down his frustration. The other-worldly Dominican often closed his eyes to the sordid affairs of men; most of the time, Michael did not blame him.

‘I did, actually,’ replied Clippesby serenely. ‘He was trailing after you and Matt, although I did not know then that he was an envoy from Rochester. When Moleyns fell, he raced forward with the rest, but I did not see what he did when he got there.’

‘I never did like Whittlesey,’ declared William. ‘Too greasy by half. He killed Tynkell, Moleyns and Lyng. Then he dispatched Godrich, but realised it was one murder too many, so he fled while he was still able.’

‘But they are cousins,’ Suttone reminded him.

‘Quite,’ said William tartly. ‘People are far more likely to kill their family than strangers – you can usually avoid the one, but you are stuck with the other until death.’

Not long after, when the debate about the killer’s identity was still in full swing, the door opened to admit Thelnetham and Nicholas. The Gilbertine was wearing pink hose, shoes with shiny silver tassels, and his cloak was fastened by the gaudy purple-jewelled brooch. He opened his mouth to address the Fellows, but sneezed twice in quick succession instead. When he tried a second time to speak, he was convulsed by four more.

‘It is the dog,’ explained Nicholas. ‘They always have this effect on him.’

‘Take her outside, Clippesby,’ ordered Langelee. ‘Or we will never hear what Thelnetham has to tell us.’

‘I should have known better than to visit when he was here,’ wheezed Thelnetham, eyes streaming as he glared after the Dominican. ‘It reminds me why I was so glad to leave.’

‘You were not glad,’ countered William spitefully. ‘You begged to be reinstated.’

‘Then thank the good Lord I was not,’ snapped Thelnetham, dabbing at his nose with a piece of puce silk. ‘Because it means I shall not have to wait until the end of term before I return to my Mother House in Lincolnshire.’

Suttone blinked. ‘You are leaving Cambridge? But why?’

‘Because Godrich is buying votes, Hopeman is bullying everyone with threats of divine vengeance, and you have the Senior Proctor behind you,’ replied Thelnetham shortly. ‘I cannot compete against such odds, and I was a fool to think the University might consider brains to be an important quality in a Chancellor.’

‘They are overrated,’ said William. ‘Most officials manage perfectly well without them.’

‘So I am withdrawing from the race,’ Thelnetham went on. ‘Nicholas will draft a suitable notice and post it on the Great West Door today. With your permission, Brother.’

Michael inclined his head. ‘However, before you do anything rash, it is only fair to tell you that Godrich has disappeared. It may only be a three-way competition.’

Thelnetham smiled thinly. ‘I appreciate your honesty, Brother – you could have mentioned it after you had accepted my decision to stand down. But it makes no difference. I have learned more than is pleasant about University politics these last few days, and I want no further part in it. I shall journey to Lincoln as soon as there is a break in the weather.’

‘Besides, Godrich has spent a lot of money on his campaign,’ added Nicholas, ‘so I doubt he will stay away long. Indeed, his “disappearance” is probably a ploy to gain support.’

‘Perhaps it is,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But I shall be sorry to see you go, Thelnetham. You would have been my second choice.’

‘That is what most people have told me,’ said Thelnetham sourly. ‘Although I do not consider it much of a compliment. However, until the weather breaks and I can safely ride north, I shall make myself useful by helping Suttone.’

‘You will?’ asked Suttone suspiciously. ‘Why?’

‘Because as long as you have Michael behind you, you are the best man for the post. I may be leaving the University, but that does not mean I want it in the hands of a fanatic or an opinionated ass like Godrich.’

‘That is very decent of you,’ said Michael approvingly. ‘If you encourage your supporters to vote for Suttone, we shall win handily.’

‘Not necessarily,’ warned Thelnetham. ‘Godrich has purchased a lot of “loyalty” over the last few days, while a great many priests have been persuaded to follow Hopeman. But we shall work together to see what might be done to thwart them.’

‘You will not regret it,’ promised Michael. ‘I am thinking of establishing the post of Vice-Chancellor. I will offer it to you, should you change your mind and decide to stay.’

‘What would such a position entail?’ asked Nicholas curiously.

‘Stepping in when the Chancellor is indisposed or travelling – and Suttone will be required to spend a certain amount of time in Rochester. He will need a reliable deputy.’

But Thelnetham shook his head. ‘This deputy would make decisions, only to have them overturned when Suttone comes back. It would be a mere sinecure.’

‘I disagree,’ argued Michael. ‘And Suttone would be delighted to have someone like you at his side – a strong man, who understands the University.’

‘It is kind of you, Brother, but my mind is made up. Perhaps I shall return one day – or even chance my hand in Oxford – but for now, I hanker for the serenity of Lincolnshire. It has been too long since I was there.’ Then Thelnetham grinned impishly. ‘But there is a bright side to my withdrawal: I can dress as I please once more. Black and white are dull colours, and do not suit my complexion at all.’

He bowed and took his leave, Nicholas limping at his heels.

‘I have never understood him,’ said Michael. ‘He is arrogant, cruel and vain, yet also capable of great generosity. He slipped me a lot of money for the choir when he was a Fellow, although always anonymously. He thinks to this day that I never knew it was him.’

‘He is a swine,’ countered William. ‘And I shall not be sorry when he goes.’

‘Was his sneezing genuine?’ asked Langelee. ‘Because if so, he can be eliminated as a suspect – he could never have snagged the dog and held it until he was ready to lob a bone.’

‘It was genuine,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘It is partly why he objected to Clippesby bringing animals in here when he was a member of Michaelhouse. And he was never a suspect as far as I was concerned.’

The first task that day was to find out what had happened to Godrich, so Bartholomew and Michael walked quickly to King’s Hall, in the hope that there had been some news. The tale of his disappearance was already all over the town, and several scholars approached to say that they were now shifting their allegiance to Suttone.

‘Even if Godrich is alive, we do not want a man who slopes off without explanation,’ said Master Braunch of Trinity Hall. ‘And there are nasty rumours about him anyway – that he acquitted Moleyns of murder, dabbled in witchery, and poisoned a man in Nottingham.’

‘Let us hope you find the killer soon, Brother,’ added the haughty Master Heltisle of Bene’t College. ‘Or people might start to wonder if you are responsible for all this slaughter. After all, the deaths of Tynkell, Lyng and possibly Godrich – and perhaps even Moleyns, too – have certainly benefited Suttone.’

‘They have benefited Hopeman, too, Heltisle,’ Braunch pointed out. ‘And he is far more likely to kill than our Senior Proctor. He is a zealot, who thinks his nasty opinions reflect the will of God. There is no reasoning with that sort of person, and we must all pray that he does not win, or our University will become a very unpleasant place to live.’

‘Braunch is right, Matt,’ said Michael, when the pair had gone. ‘So we shall have words with Hopeman later.’

They knocked at King’s Hall’s handsome gate, and were conducted to the conclave, where Warden Shropham and thirty or so of his Fellows had gathered. They were sitting around a long table, and in the middle of it was a piece of parchment: Godrich’s will.

‘You have found his body?’ cried Michael in dismay. ‘Why did you not send word?’

‘There has been no news either way,’ replied Shropham. He gestured sheepishly at the document. ‘Assessing his estate is merely a precaution.’

‘Godrich is dead,’ stated Dodenho, an opinion that was evidently shared by the others, because a murmur of agreement went around the room. ‘We have visited all his favourite haunts, and there is no sign of him. He would never have left the town willingly – not when he was poised to win the election – so there is only one explanation: he has gone the same way as Tynkell and Lyng.’

‘Not necessarily,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘He might just be sitting quietly somewhere, waiting for certain rumours to die down.’

‘The ones about his chequered past?’ asked Shropham with a grimace. ‘That claim he bought charms from Marjory Starre, and did the King’s bidding in Moleyns’ trial for murder? You think he is lying low to avoid a scandal?’

‘Well, it is certainly possible,’ said Michael.

‘No, it is not,’ declared Dodenho, ‘because he was a warrior, a man trained to stand and fight. His vanishing means one thing and one thing only: that he is murdered.’

‘It is a pity he never saw his tomb started,’ sighed Shropham. ‘It will be such a glorious structure. All I hope is that we shall have a corpse to put in it.’

‘Glorious indeed,’ muttered Dodenho acidly, ‘given that every penny he owned will be squandered on the thing. And King’s Hall will get nothing. It is disgraceful!’

His remark – and his colleagues’ angry agreement – explained why no one was overly distressed by the notion that Godrich might be dead. There was an unwritten but inviolate rule that anyone who accepted a University Fellowship would repay the honour with a legacy, and if Godrich had indeed stipulated that everything was to be spent on his monument, then he had committed a serious breach of trust.

‘He took his cue from Dallingridge,’ Dodenho went on crossly, ‘who also wanted his entire estate spent on a tomb. What a wicked waste of money!’

‘Speaking of Dallingridge,’ said Shropham, ‘there is no truth in the tale that Godrich poisoned him. First, Godrich was more of a sword man. But second, and perhaps more convincingly, he did not arrive in Nottingham until after Dallingridge was taken ill.’

‘How do you know?’ asked Michael. ‘If it is because he told you so, I am not sure we can believe it.’

‘I sent him north on King’s Hall business over the summer,’ explained Shropham. ‘And just today, I unearthed three deeds signed and dated by several independent witnesses that prove he was in Derby on Lammas Day. He did not arrive in Nottingham until the following week.’

‘My mother always said that you cannot take your money with you to the grave,’ muttered Dodenho bitterly, more interested in his colleague’s last will and testament than his innocence. ‘But obviously, she never had met Godrich and Dallingridge.’

‘What have you done to find him?’ asked Michael. ‘Other than visit his favourite places?’

‘We made a thorough search of our grounds, and traced his last known movements,’ replied Shropham. ‘After storming out of Michaelhouse, he went to the Dominicans, where he offered Morden a bribe of ten marks for forcing Hopeman to stand down. Morden refused.’

‘Godrich took Whittlesey with him,’ added Dodenho, ‘although Whittlesey grumbled about it being too cold for a jaunt outside town. Afterwards, Whittlesey insisted on a warming drink in the Cardinal’s Cap to recover, so Godrich accompanied him there.’

‘Godrich had organised a feast in Whittlesey’s honour,’ said Shropham. ‘But neither was around at dusk, so we started without them. Unfortunately, we all enjoyed the free-flowing wine so much that it was past midnight before we realised that neither had put in an appearance.’

‘So no one saw them after they visited the Cardinal’s Cap?’ asked Michael.

‘I heard them,’ said Dodenho. ‘I spilled some claret on myself during the revelries, so I went to change. As I passed Godrich’s room – at roughly ten o’clock – I heard the pair of them quarrelling. I was not so ungentlemanly as to eavesdrop, but I can tell you that the conversation was heated.’

‘So one might have done the other harm, then fled to avoid the consequences?’

‘Of course not,’ said Dodenho indignantly. ‘This is King’s Hall, not a hostel.’

‘Right,’ said Michael. ‘But this row … surely you can remember something useful about it? It could be critical to finding out what happened to them.’

‘Well, I cannot,’ said Dodenho shortly. ‘I told you: it would have been rude to listen.’

‘Even though you must have been curious as to why both had missed the feast, especially as one had arranged it in the other’s honour?’

‘There was a lot of wine,’ explained Dodenho sheepishly, while his cronies exchanged the kind of glances that suggested it had been quite an evening. ‘And if I thought about Godrich and Whittlesey at all, it was just to assume that they would join us when they were ready. It is only now that we realise they never did.’

Michael plied them with more questions, but learned nothing else of use. He asked to see Godrich’s room – prudently not confessing that he had searched it once already – and he and Bartholomew were conducted to the handsome chamber in the gatehouse. The bed was loaded with furs and silks, and the floor was thick with expensive rugs. What caught Bartholomew’s attention, however – perhaps because Cynric had done something similar – were the charms that were dotted around the place, while in a chest by the window were several books on witchcraft that the University had banned. He picked one up at random, and opened it to see annotations in Godrich’s writing, suggesting that the King’s Hall Fellow had been more familiar with their contents than was appropriate for a God-fearing man.

‘What happened here?’ asked Michael, pointing to the shattered remains of what had been a pretty and probably expensive bowl.

‘I thought I heard something smash,’ mused Dodenho, gazing at it. ‘I suppose it must have been knocked over by mistake.’

‘There is blood on it,’ said Bartholomew, inspecting it closely. ‘I think it is more likely that one lobbed it at the other.’

‘Godrich was not given to hurling his belongings around,’ averred Dodenho. ‘Although I am not sure about Whittlesey. I did not take to him at all. Lord! I wish we had been more abstemious with the wine. Then Godrich might still be alive, and we could have persuaded him to make a more sensible will.’

‘There was a letter,’ blurted Shropham suddenly. ‘I just remembered!’

‘From Dallingridge?’ asked Michael innocently, not about to confess that it was currently residing in his office at St Mary the Great.

‘No, no – that would have been delivered months ago. I am talking about one that arrived more recently, although the messenger said it had been delayed because of the weather. Perhaps that will give us the clue we need to understand what has happened.’

There followed a concerted effort to find it. Eventually, it was located under a chest, where it had evidently been placed to keep it from prying eyes.

‘It is from Bishop Sheppey,’ said Michael, scanning it quickly. ‘Written the day before he died – in a hand that is firm and strong, for which I am glad; I was afraid that he had been ill for so long that he might have … lost his reason.’

‘You mean you feared that you might have been nominated by a madman,’ surmised Shropham. ‘Well, you need not be concerned: Whittlesey told me that Sheppey named you weeks ago. But what does the missive say? And why would Sheppey write to Godrich?’

Michael frowned. ‘It is addressed to his “favoured son in Christ”, and cautions Godrich to beware of black brethren arriving with false smiles and insincere offers of friendship.’

‘It refers to Whittlesey!’ breathed Dodenho. ‘Now all is clear. Whittlesey is the killer, and the Bishop predicted that there would be trouble when his envoy arrived in Cambridge.’

‘Have you searched Whittlesey’s quarters yet?’ asked Michael urgently.

Shropham shook his head. ‘We are not in the habit of invading the privacy of important guests. They tend not to like it.’

He led the way there, only to discover that all the envoy’s belongings had gone.

‘The sly dog!’ cried Dodenho in dismay. ‘I was right – he killed Godrich, packed up and left. How could he? We were on the brink of counting a Chancellor among our ranks, and he has struck us a grave blow.’

‘So is that it?’ asked Bartholomew when he and Michael were out on the street. He felt a strange sense of anticlimax. ‘Whittlesey is the killer? The murders did start when he arrived, and I said from the start that he was a suspicious character. I am surprised it was not Cook, but …’

‘I suppose he came to install his kinsman as Chancellor,’ said Michael unhappily. ‘He killed Tynkell to create a vacancy, Lyng to eliminate a rival, and Moleyns lest he revealed Godrich’s dubious dealings in Stoke Poges. Then the relationship turned sour, as such alliances often do, so he brained Godrich with the bowl, hid the body and disappeared while he could.’

‘Why would a powerful Benedictine be interested in who leads our University?’

‘I told you before, Matt – we train the priests who work in dioceses all over the country. All high-ranking churchmen are interested in us.’

‘And Sheppey feared that Whittlesey might turn violent, so decided to warn Godrich?’

Michael shrugged. ‘Sheppey knew Whittlesey well, because all bishops work closely with their envoys. And the warning certainly explains why Godrich was loath to let Whittlesey out of his sight – dragging him to Michaelhouse, taking him to see the Dominicans, accompanying him to the Cardinal’s Cap …’

‘I would have thought he would do the opposite – stay as far away from Whittlesey as possible.’

‘By keeping him close, Godrich could watch what he was doing. I would have done the same. I shall tell my beadles to intensify the search for him. He cannot have gone far.’

They had not taken many steps towards St Mary the Great before they met Cynric. The book-bearer was guarding Suttone, who was strolling along the High Street, shaking hands with anyone who would stop to pass the time of day with him. Cynric’s jaw dropped when Bartholomew told him what had happened.

‘But I saw Whittlesey!’ he cried. ‘I returned to the King’s Head after seeing you home last night, and we went through the Trumpington Gate together – me walking and him on horseback. I wished him God’s speed, and he thanked me. Then, the moment I entered the tavern, he shot off south like an arrow. I should have known then that there was something amiss.’

‘How did he seem?’ demanded Michael. ‘Anxious? Angry? Frightened? Gratified?’

‘Tense and worried,’ replied the book-bearer. ‘I assumed he was just uneasy about riding in such icy weather. There was a full moon to light his way, but it was still dark.’

When they reached the church, Michael charged Meadowman to go after the envoy and bring him back. Delighted to be entrusted with such an important task, the beadle chose four cronies and set about commandeering ponies and the necessary supplies.

‘Do not worry, Brother,’ he said cheerfully. ‘We will catch him, even if we have to travel to London to do it.’

And then he and his party were gone. Michael sketched a benediction after them, and his lips moved in a silent prayer for their well-being – and the success of their mission.

‘Yet something about Whittlesey as the killer feels wrong,’ said Bartholomew unhappily. ‘I know he is a villainous character, but …’

Michael turned a haggard face towards him. ‘I agree. I cannot escape the sense that we are missing something important, so I suggest we continue with our enquiries as though this had not happened. After all, even if Whittlesey is the culprit, we shall need more than a letter from a dead bishop to convict him.’

‘Where first?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘We had better tell Dick Tulyet what has happened. Then I want another word with Egidia and Inge. I have never been comfortable with their role in this affair.’

They left St Mary the Great just as Nicholas was nailing the notice about Thelnetham’s withdrawal to the Great West Door. Regent masters clustered around to read it.

‘It means you must now choose between Suttone and Hopeman,’ Nicholas explained, a remark that caused a ripple of consternation to run through them.

‘And Godrich,’ called someone at the back. ‘He might have disappeared, but he has not withdrawn. Not officially. We can still vote for him.’

‘Actually, you cannot,’ said Nicholas apologetically. ‘The statutes stipulate that all the candidates must “keep full term”, which, as you know, means they must be resident here for a specific number of nights. By vanishing yesterday, Godrich cannot prove he has fulfilled this stipulation, and has thus rendered himself ineligible.’

‘And I thought I lived by the statutes,’ breathed Michael to Bartholomew. ‘But he makes me look like an amateur. Perhaps I should promote him to Senior Proctor’s Secretary instead.’

‘We do not want a Chancellor who swans off without explanation anyway,’ said Vicar Eyton of St Bene’t’s. ‘It means he is unsteady, and not the sort of man to serve as our leader.’

‘He might be dead,’ called someone else. ‘He may not have gone voluntarily.’

‘If his body is found in Cambridge, I suppose it means he will have kept full term,’ mused Nicholas, frowning thoughtfully. ‘So we can still vote for him, as there is nothing in the statutes about excluding corpses from the running. However, it would not be wise for us to elect one – it would find fulfilling its duties very difficult.’

There was a startled silence at this proclamation, although it did not last long.

‘A corpse could not be worse than Tynkell,’ drawled Master Heltisle of Bene’t College. ‘He might have been dead, for all the decisions he made.’

‘It does not matter if Godrich is in the land of the living or lying in a ditch,’ said Eyton impatiently, ‘because he will not be Chancellor anyway. We must choose between Michaelhouse and Maud’s.’

Those who had agreed to support Godrich in exchange for free books began to argue, unwilling to accept that the promised riches would not now be theirs. Then someone accused Hopeman’s followers of engineering a situation where his only rival was Suttone, and a furious quarrel broke out.

‘The tension might ease if we told them that Whittlesey is the killer,’ said Bartholomew to Michael. ‘Then there would be no grounds for charges of foul play, and the election could settle into a peaceful race between the two remaining candidates.’

‘No event will be peaceful if Hopeman is involved,’ remarked Michael wryly. ‘Besides, neither of us is entirely sure that Whittlesey is the guilty party, so I recommend we wait to hear his side of the story before making public allegations.’

‘Then let us hope Meadowman hurries,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He–’

He stopped when a gaggle of men from the hostels surged forward to surround them, clamouring to know why the Senior Proctor had not protected Godrich. They were led by Vicar Frisby, who was drunk.

‘You should have known that his offer of free books for the poorest hostels would make him unpopular in some quarters,’ Frisby slurred. ‘You should have kept him safe.’

‘You should,’ agreed Master Thomas of Bridge Hostel tearfully. His cloak was pitifully thin, and he was shivering. ‘We were so looking forward to having our own copy of Augustine’s Sermones.’

‘He might be alive,’ said Michael with quiet reason. ‘It is not–’

‘He is dead,’ interjected Frisby firmly. ‘Or he would be here now, buying more votes. And I am furious about it.’

‘You are?’ asked Thomas, bemused. ‘Why? You told us that Suttone would be your second choice, should Thelnetham become unavailable. Godrich is irrelevant to you.’

‘He was irrelevant, but then Cew’s brass was stolen from my church,’ explained Frisby. ‘He offered to pay for another if I switched my allegiance to him. Naturally, I agreed.’

‘So will you revert back to Suttone now?’ asked Thomas curiously.

Frisby nodded. ‘The Senior Proctor’s new puppet is infinitely preferable to Hopeman. I have never held with an overabundance of religion, and he is a bore with his pious sermons and conversations with the Almighty.’

He raised the wineskin in a sloppy salute and tottered away, leaving behind a number of baffled hostel men, all wondering why one priest should condemn another for talking to God.

Bartholomew and Michael were just passing St Clement’s on their way to the castle when Vicar Milde emerged, his face unusually sombre.

‘Have you heard, Brother?’ he asked. ‘All the pinnacles on the Holty tomb were stolen last night, probably shortly after I finished prayers at midnight. Personally, I like it better without them, but that is beside the point – which is that someone burgled a holy church. Do these people care nothing for their immortal souls?’

‘Not as much as they care about their purses,’ retorted Michael, and then frowned. ‘Do I hear Hopeman’s voice coming from your domain?’

‘I am afraid so,’ sighed Milde. ‘He just marched in and began holding forth. I shall be glad when this election is over, as I am tired of all these aggravating speeches.’

Michael and Bartholomew went to listen. The building was full, and Hopeman’s dark face burned with the power of his convictions as he informed his listeners that a vote for Suttone was an invitation for the Devil to rule the University. Michael was about to go and suggest he choose his words with more care when he was hailed by an urgent shout.

‘Brother! Brother!’ cried Nicholas, distraught. ‘My little bell has gone! Gone!’

Michael frowned his bemusement. ‘What little bell?’

‘Someone sneaked up the tower and made off with her,’ sobbed the secretary, wringing his hands in distress. ‘We only have two left. My poor bell! What will become of her?’

‘You mean one of the bells that Oswald bought?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering if Nicholas had been at Frisby’s claret. ‘But that is impossible. They are heavy – hardly something that can be tossed over one’s shoulder and toted away.’

‘Nor were Master Wilson’s ledger slab, Dallingridge’s feet and Holty’s pinnacles,’ wailed Nicholas, ‘but they were stolen. And now my little treble has suffered the same fate.’

‘How do you know?’ asked Michael, turning and beginning to hurry back to St Mary the Great. ‘Did you take Meadowman’s keys and go to look?’

‘Of course not! I never go up the tower alone, as I have told you before.’

‘Then how–’

‘I was afraid they might get stiff if they were left unused for days on end,’ sniffed the secretary. ‘So I gave their ropes a bit of a tug.’

Michael raised admonishing eyebrows. ‘But I issued an edict that they were not to be rung until after the election.’

‘I was not ringing them, Brother. I was making sure they were in good working order. The bigger two sounded faintly when I pulled their ropes, but my treble … who could have done such a dreadful thing?’

They reached St Mary the Great, where Michael began the laborious process of unlocking the tower door. Then he climbed up the stairs, with Bartholomew behind and Nicholas bringing up the rear, still weeping. They reached the bell chamber to discover that one of the great metal domes was indeed missing. When he saw it, Nicholas dropped to his knees and sobbed so violently that Bartholomew was concerned for his health.

‘Edith will buy you another,’ he said kindly. He had no idea if it was true, but he had to say something to stem the frenzied outpouring of grief.

‘But what will happen to her?’ cried Nicholas, when he had controlled himself enough to speak. ‘Will she be sold to another church or … melted down?’ The last words were spoken in an appalled gulp that precipitated a fresh wave of tears.

‘Neither,’ said Michael, patting his shoulder comfortingly. ‘As Matt said, bells are heavy, and cannot be toted about like sacks of grain. Someone will have seen the thieves, and we shall get her back. Matt – climb up to the frame and tell me how it was done.’

Bartholomew was tempted to tell the monk to do it himself, but Nicholas shot him a pleading look, so he put his foot in the stirrup formed by Michael’s hands and hauled himself upwards. However, when he put his hand on the frame to steady himself, he felt it move in its moorings, and jumped back down again fast.

‘Heavens!’ he exclaimed, glancing up uneasily. ‘It is loose.’

‘It is supposed to be loose,’ sniffled Nicholas. ‘The tower will crack if the frame is too rigidly attached to the walls. Just ask any bell-hanger. It needs to be able to rock.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, making a mental note never to stand beneath the bells when they were ringing. He turned to Michael. ‘The thieves unfastened the bolts that secured the treble to its headstock. Then they lowered it to the floor, opened the trapdoor, and winched it down to the narthex.’

The trapdoor in question had been cut into the middle of the floor when the bells had been installed, as they had been too big to fit through the windows or up the stairs. It was a flimsy affair, which had worked to the thieves’ advantage – a child could have lifted it up.

‘There was all manner of filth on the narthex floor when I went to ring … I mean to test the bells this morning,’ whispered Nicholas unsteadily. ‘Dust, feathers, pigeon droppings … I assumed those filthy masons were responsible, getting ready to work on Tynkell’s tomb.’

‘When did you last see the treble?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘When you dragged me up here to demonstrate how the thief “locked” the Chest Room yesterday,’ sniffed Nicholas. ‘However, I know she was still here at three o’clock this morning, because I gave her a bit of a tug just before nocturns. I felt her swing.’

‘The villains chose their time well,’ mused Michael. ‘The church is rarely empty, even in the small hours, but it was different last night. Too many scholars are angry about the election, so I told my beadles to oust everyone after each sacred office, to prevent spats.’

‘And you gave the order that the bells are not to be rung until Wednesday,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The thieves assume that they will not be missed until the election, and probably aim to come back for another tonight and the last one tomorrow.’

Nicholas stopped crying and a vengeful expression suffused his face. ‘Then I shall stand guard, and when they appear I shall run them through. Where can I get a sword, Brother? I want one with a very sharp point, because no one attacks my bells and lives to tell the tale.’

‘I think we had better let the beadles do it,’ said Michael kindly.

‘This dust,’ said Bartholomew, prodding a pile of wood shavings with his toe. ‘Someone has been sawing. Are you sure the frame is safe, Nicholas? Because if you are wrong, the remaining bells – and perhaps the frame, too – will crash through this floor and land in the narthex. On you, if you happen to be ringing them.’

Nicholas gave him a pitying look. ‘I see you know nothing about the technicalities of bell-hanging. The frame is designed to last a lifetime, and it will take more than a bit of sawing to render it unsound. The bells are quite safe, I assure you.’

They returned to the nave, where Michael detailed a few beadles to monitor the tower, as well as questioning visitors to the church about the missing bell.

‘The Sheriff will help us find it,’ he said to Nicholas, who had started to sob again. ‘A bell is bulkier and more distinctive than slabs of stone. We will catch the villains, never fear.’

‘Good,’ snuffled Nicholas. ‘Because I have set my heart on ringing them when the next Chancellor is elected. All of them, not just two.’