A Grave Concern

Chapter 13

For the second time that morning, Bartholomew and Michael set out for the castle, now with even more reason to speak to the Sheriff, but were saved from climbing the hill when they met Tulyet on the Great Bridge. He was striding along briskly with a wet and very muddy Helbye at his heels. The older man was struggling to keep up with him.

‘What have you been doing to get into such a state?’ Bartholomew asked the sergeant, while Michael gave Tulyet a brief summary of all that had happened since they had last met.

‘Hunting Yevele,’ replied the old soldier curtly. ‘I had a report that he was in Trumpington, but it was a lot of rubbish, because none of the villagers had seen him. Then, on the way back, I saw a barge that looked very heavy in the water. I gave chase, but it promptly cut off down a channel, where I could not follow. It was the thieves – I am sure of it.’

‘What kind of barge?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily, thinking of Isnard.

Helbye read his mind. ‘Yes, it could have been his, although it was difficult to be sure.’

Bartholomew was puzzled. ‘Yet if you saw this craft from the Trumpington road, it must have been travelling south. Why, when the sea and the Fens are north and east?’

‘Because I suspect they have a base down there,’ explained Helbye. ‘They will take their loot a few miles by boat, then load it on to carts, to be transported to London by road.’

‘I do not suppose you noticed a bell on board, did you?’

‘A bell?’ Helbye was thoughtful. ‘There was something bulky, now you mention it. Why? Have you lost one?’

‘The University Church has.’ Bartholomew nodded at the sergeant’s sodden clothes. ‘I hope you did not try to swim after this boat.’

Helbye grimaced. ‘I jumped across a ditch. I thought I could make it with room to spare, but there were roots and I stumbled … I landed with an awful thump. My arm is agony.’

‘Would you like me to look at it?’

‘Not in the street.’ Helbye looked around quickly. ‘I cannot have the lads seeing and thinking me feeble.’ He nodded to a nearby tavern. ‘But it will be nice and warm in there, and I would not mind a sip of hot ale. It is perishing out here.’

‘We shall all come,’ determined Michael, overhearing. ‘We have much to discuss, and it will be more pleasant to do it indoors.’

The tavern was the Ship, a small, seedy establishment with an owner whose eyes bulged in alarm when the door opened to admit the Sheriff and Senior Proctor. His agitation did not diminish when Michael asked what victuals were available, making it clear that he intended to stay a while. The other patrons promptly melted away, ignoring his whispered pleas not to leave him alone with such a party. Oblivious of the fact that they were ruining his day, Michael and Tulyet began to discuss murder and theft, while Bartholomew examined Helbye.

The sergeant had fallen directly on his older wound, partly reopening it, and adding a deep cut that reached the bone. He had bound it to stem the bleeding, but the wound was filthy and would fester without proper care. Bartholomew began to clean it, a painful, laborious process that made Helbye groan and hiss between his teeth. He had not been working long before there was a familiar and unwelcome voice at his elbow.

‘What are you doing?’

Bartholomew could only suppose that one of the Ship’s patrons had gone to tell Barber Cook what was happening, probably in the expectation of getting a coin for his trouble.

‘He is tending one of my men,’ said Tulyet coolly. ‘Not that it is any of your business.’

‘It is my business,’ countered Cook, all haughty dignity. ‘That is a laceration, and those are mine to treat, as stipulated in the charter of the Worshipful Company of Barbers. Helbye, come with me. I know how to heal injuries without making my patients swoon from the pain. Better yet, I will throw in a shave, gratis.’

Bartholomew doubted the barber could be more gentle than he had been, but Helbye seized the offer with relief.

‘Thank God!’ he gulped, standing at once. ‘I can take a bit of discomfort, but no man enjoys having his wounds poked with sharp spikes.’

‘No, Will,’ snapped Tulyet. ‘Stay with Matt.’

‘Do not listen to him,’ instructed Cook. ‘He is–’

He backed away fast when Tulyet came to his feet with a dangerous light in his eyes: he had not forgotten the threat that had been issued the last time he had dared challenge the Sheriff’s authority.

‘It is all right, sir,’ said Helbye. ‘This small scratch is not worth any trouble. I will go with Cook, and he will soon set me right.’

‘It is not a “small scratch”,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘It is a serious injury that needs proper attention or it will turn bad.’

‘I know how to treat wounds,’ said Cook curtly. ‘I am a barber-surgeon. Helbye, if you value your life, follow me. If you want to die, then stay here with this physician.’

He spat the last word like an insult, before spinning on his heel and stalking out. Bartholomew opened his mouth to appeal to Helbye’s sense of self-preservation, but the sergeant raised a hand to stop him.

‘Do not worry,’ he said with a lop-sided grin. ‘He did a lovely job sewing me up last time, and it barely hurt at all. You can do me a horoscope later, and then everyone will be happy.’

Bartholomew was not happy at all, and followed him to the door, where he watched Cook grin triumphantly as he took the sergeant’s arm and escorted him into the Griffin Inn opposite. He was about to return to Michael and Tulyet when he saw his colleague Doctor Rougham of Gonville Hall. Rougham was wearing a handsome, fur-lined cloak against the chill, although it was too long for traipsing around Cambridge’s mucky streets, and the bottom was sadly soiled with manure and something unpleasant picked up from walking past the slaughter-houses.

‘Did I just see Helbye surrendering to Cook’s tender mercies?’ Rougham asked. ‘I thought he had more sense. Still, when that lunatic kills him, at least he can have the satisfaction of lying in his grave with a beautiful haircut and a very close shave.’

‘Helbye’s life is not a matter for jests,’ said Bartholomew sharply.

‘Who is jesting? Cook is a menace, and should be banished from our town before he kills someone important – or worse, someone rich. He almost deprived me of Inge the other day, and he has been one of my best clients.’

‘Why did Inge need a medicus?’

‘He accidentally swallowed some resin, so Cook brewed him an emetic, which made him vomit so violently that his stomach bled. The resin would have done him scant harm, but the emetic … well, suffice to say that he was lucky I was on hand to administer an antidote.’

‘How does one “accidentally swallow” resin?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused.

‘According to Inge, he mistook it for honey, although it sounds a peculiar tale to me. But I cannot loiter here gossiping, Bartholomew. I have patients to tend.’

Bartholomew re-entered the Ship, hoping that Helbye would not take too long to come for his horoscope, so he could check Cook’s handiwork before there was a problem.

‘Why did you send him to Trumpington, Dick?’ he asked, a little reproachfully. ‘You must see that he is no longer up to that sort of jaunt.’

‘I did not send him,’ replied Tulyet. ‘He volunteered. Besides, it was meant to be a short, easy ride, followed by putting a few questions in a tavern. How was I to know that he would take the opportunity to hare off in pursuit of barges?’

‘Speaking of barges, how is your hunt for the thieves going?’ asked Michael. ‘I am afraid I have learned nothing to help, although my beadles have been told to keep their eyes open.’

‘It is not “going” at all,’ replied Tulyet sourly. ‘And the rogues continue to outwit me at every turn. Your University has just lost a bell, while Holty is now missing his pinnacles.’

‘But you have the tomb-makers under surveillance,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘Your men would have noticed the masons or the latteners slipping away to steal, which means they can be eliminated as suspects. Yes?’

‘Not really,’ sighed Tulyet. ‘The nights are bitterly cold, and although my guards claim they stay at their posts every moment of their watch, I am not such a fool as to believe them. Of course they disappear for a quick walk to get their blood moving again, or even to find a warming drink. And who can blame them?’

‘But what Helbye saw was valuable,’ said Bartholomew encouragingly. ‘I imagine you have been concentrating on craft travelling north and east – towards the Fens. But he saw one heading south, which will give you a new place to look for the thieves’ base.’

‘I monitor all the waterways and roads, regardless of direction, and that barge was not carrying your bell, no matter what Helbye thinks. No boat or cart that could have been toting such an item has left the town.’

‘Then it is still here,’ surmised Michael. ‘Stashed away until you lower your guard.’

‘Yes, but where? So much material has gone missing – all of it heavy or bulky – that a house or a large shed would be needed to store it all. I have searched all the likely places, but there is no sign of it.’

‘Then perhaps it is cached in lots – a bit here and a bit there,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Or it has been moved piecemeal. Lead does not take up much room when it is rolled up, so perhaps it was hidden in a handcart or a travelling pack.’

Tulyet eyed him lugubriously. ‘We would have found it, believe me.’

At that moment the door opened and Robin walked in. The young soldier looked around doubtfully as he approached their table, clearly of the opinion that the Sheriff had lost his wits by frequenting such an insalubrious establishment. Bartholomew was inclined to agree when the taverner began to bring the food that Michael had ordered – a plate of greasy fried pork and a pot of something that reeked powerfully of garlic.

‘A letter has arrived for you, sir,’ said Robin. ‘I thought it might be important, so I decided to deliver it at once.’

Tulyet glanced at the seal, but tossed it on the table when it was one he did not recognise, more interested in what else Robin had to tell him.

‘Well?’ he demanded. ‘What did you find out? Which boats and carts left the town last night, and what were they carrying?’

‘One barge and three carts,’ reported Robin promptly. ‘The men searched them all, as per your orders. The boat was empty, and the carts carried sacks of flour. Then there was the usual trickle of folk going to the King’s Head, along with two horsemen. They frisked the drinkers but not the riders.’

‘Why not?’ asked Tulyet sharply. ‘I said no exceptions.’

‘Because one was that envoy from Rochester, who told them that he was on urgent University business and needed to hurry – which was true, as Cynric was there, and wished him God’s speed. Once he was through the gate, the lads say he took off like lightning – he was riding Satan, you see.’

‘Stephen,’ corrected Tulyet automatically. He explained to the scholars. ‘I could hardly keep the animal after what happened to Moleyns, but I could not bring myself to destroy him either, so I sold him to King’s Hall.’

‘Whittlesey,’ said Michael through gritted teeth. ‘Who used Cynric’s chance presence to deceive your men, because he is not on any business of ours. And the lie certainly means we shall have questions to ask when Meadowman drags him back. Who was the other horseman?’

‘Master Godrich of King’s Hall,’ replied Robin, ‘who left a couple of hours earlier. It is a good thing there was a full moon, or riding would have been very treacherous for–’

‘Godrich?’ cried Michael. ‘But we have been scouring the town for him for hours!’

‘Have you?’ said Robin, startled. ‘Then it is a pity you did not ask our sentries – they could have told you not to bother.’

‘I did ask them,’ snapped Michael. ‘They told me that they had not seen him.’

‘They must have misunderstood your question,’ said Robin, spreading his hands apologetically.

Michael knew that was unlikely, but was not surprised he had been misled. He and Tulyet worked well together, but the same was not true of their people – the soldiers struck sly blows at the University at every opportunity, while the beadles did the same to the castle. The guards had no doubt taken great delight in watching their rivals hunt for someone who was not there.

‘When did Godrich go exactly?’ he asked between gritted teeth.

‘Before nocturns,’ replied Robin. ‘Perhaps two o’clock, or a little later. The lads say he also set off like greased lightning.’

‘Did either mention where they were going?’ asked Tulyet.

‘The envoy did not, but Godrich thought the boys were taking too long to open the gate, and muttered that he would never reach Royston if they worked at the pace of snails. So that is where he was heading.’

‘A journey of less than fifteen miles,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘But why there?’

‘Because it has an inn where you can hire fresh horses,’ explained Tulyet. ‘It is not necessarily his final destination.’

‘Did he seem frightened or uneasy?’ asked Michael urgently of Robin. ‘As if he was fleeing for his life?’

Robin shook his head. ‘Apparently, he was just his usual self – arrogant, rude and nasty.’

‘Well, at least he is not dead,’ said Bartholomew. ‘That is good news.’

‘He was not dead at two o’clock last night,’ corrected Michael. ‘But that was hours ago, and Whittlesey is hot on his trail, riding a very fast horse. I had better send more beadles after them. Meadowman needs to know that he might be required to defend Godrich from attack.’

‘He also needs to know that he must bring both of them back,’ added Tulyet. ‘I will send soldiers to help. If Whittlesey is the rogue who killed my prisoner, then the castle should play a role in his capture.’

‘The Benedictine will not be caught,’ predicted Robin. ‘Not if he is riding Satan.’

‘Even Stephen will need to rest at some point,’ said Tulyet briskly. ‘Now go and pick four of our best men–’

‘Preferably ones who understand that we are all working to the same end,’ put in Michael acidly.

‘–and tell them to meet the beadles at the Trumpington Gate,’ finished Tulyet. ‘Hurry!’

‘I am confused,’ said Bartholomew, watching Robin stride away. ‘Everything made sense – after a fashion – when we thought Whittlesey was the killer, who fled when he realised Godrich’s murder was one too many. But now we learn that Godrich went first. Why? Could he be the culprit after all? In which case, why did Whittlesey go after him?’

‘Perhaps Whittlesey aims to corner Godrich himself,’ suggested Tulyet. ‘Or he wants to help him escape – they are cousins, after all. Or maybe Godrich left on some unrelated mission, and has no idea that a ruthless killer is on his heels.’

‘And Whittlesey is up to no good, or he would not have lied to the sentries,’ said Michael worriedly. ‘Moreover, Godrich spent a fortune on buying votes, and I strongly suspect that he did not intend to be gone for long. The fact that he has failed to return bodes very ill, as far as I am concerned.’

‘Well, there is no use in speculating,’ said Tulyet practically. ‘We shall have answers when our people bring them back.’

‘If they bring them back,’ said Michael grimly. ‘They have a significant lead.’

But Bartholomew was shaking his head. ‘Tynkell and Moleyns were murdered in front of dozens of witnesses, telling us that the killer is bold, confident and ruthless. He is not someone who runs at the first sign of trouble, and especially not from the paltry “evidence” that we have managed to put together. He would stay and brazen it out.’

Tulyet frowned. ‘What are you saying? That Godrich and Whittlesey are innocent?’

‘Not “innocent” – they are clearly up to something untoward, or they would not have raced off in the middle of the night, telling lies and riding King’s Hall’s fastest horses. But I am not sure that either killed Tynkell, Moleyns and Lyng.’

‘So our culprit is still here?’ asked Tulyet. ‘Perhaps waiting to strike again?’

‘It seems likely,’ said Bartholomew.

While they waited for the beadles and soldiers to don travelling clothes, pack supplies into saddlebags, and ready horses, Bartholomew, Michael and Tulyet continued to discuss what they had reasoned. Michael was torn between despair that they still did not know the killer’s identity, and relief that he might be spared the embarrassment of accusing one of the Archbishop’s nephews of the crimes. Meanwhile, Bartholomew had continued to ponder the thefts.

‘Pitch,’ he said, suddenly and somewhat out of the blue. ‘Lakenham lost a bucket of it to thieves, did he not?’

Tulyet regarded him warily. ‘So he claims. Why?’

‘Because Rougham told me that Inge had “accidentally swallowed” some resin.’

‘And?’ asked Tulyet, even more mystified. ‘What of it?’

‘Pitch is distilled from resin,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And Lakenham’s was taken at night, when it is difficult to see. Burglary is a tense business, and anxious men are often clumsy …’

Tulyet blinked. ‘You think Inge is the thief now? And he swallowed pitch in the process? I hardly think–’

‘We know Moleyns escaped from the castle to steal,’ interrupted Bartholomew, speaking urgently, because the more he thought about it, the more he was sure he was right. ‘So why not Inge and Egidia as well?’

‘Because I questioned them thoroughly, and I am satisfied that neither was involved. They knew what Moleyns was doing, certainly, but were not invited to take part. Which annoyed them, actually, as I suspect they would have welcomed a chance to earn some quick money.’

‘Exactly! Being excluded must have been extremely galling, especially as Moleyns held the purse strings, and was not overly generous. I suspect they saw how easy it was for him to steal, so they decided to do the same.’

Tulyet made an impatient sound at the back of his throat. ‘And you think they then elected to filch great lumps of stone and metal? That is ridiculous, Matt! Even if you are right about them taking a leaf from Moleyns’ book – and I am not saying you are – they would have opted for coins, too. Cash, which is readily slipped into a purse and hidden.’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘First, they do not have “friends” to tell them about hidden hoards. Second, Moleyns was already targeting coins, and they would not have dared to compete with him. And third, his crimes won him only modest returns – he was careful never to take too much lest someone complained. The theft of stone and brass, however, is on a much grander scale – one that will allow them to break away from Moleyns once and for all.’

‘I am not convinced, Matt,’ warned Tulyet. ‘Why would a lawyer and the wife of a friend of the King opt to take building supplies, of all things?’

‘Because they knew the tomb-builders in Nottingham, where the cost of raw materials was almost certainly discussed. Inge is an intelligent man – he would have seen the enormous profit that could be made. Moreover, he hails from the Fens, and so will know how to spirit illicit goods away through the marshes. He may even have local contacts to help him.’

‘Isnard and Gundrede,’ spat Tulyet. ‘I knew it!’

‘Not them,’ said Bartholomew quickly. ‘They helped Moleyns to steal, not Inge and–’

He trailed off in horror, wondering what was wrong with him. First, he had blurted the secret of Tynkell’s inked symbols to Michael, and now this. Tulyet eyed him balefully.

‘So that is how you found out what Moleyns had been doing: they told you. Of course, I imagine their uncharacteristic attack of honesty only happened once he was dead, and they were no longer in a position to profit from him.’

‘I still do not see Inge and Egidia stealing stone feet, pinnacles, bells and brasses,’ said Michael, taking pity on Bartholomew and deftly steering the discussion away from the uncomfortable topic of Moleyns and his local helpmeets.

‘Then how did Inge come to swallow resin?’ persisted Bartholomew. ‘It is not something that can happen under normal circumstances, which means it happened under abnormal ones – such as that he was out burgling and some splashed into his mouth.’

‘This is arrant nonsense,’ said Tulyet irritably. ‘I cannot believe we are even discussing it when we have so much else to occupy our minds.’

Bartholomew raised his hands in a shrug. ‘Can we question them anyway? It will cost us nothing, and what do we have to lose?’

‘Nothing, I suppose,’ conceded Tulyet reluctantly. ‘But–’

He broke off as the landlord of the Ship approached.

‘You forgot this, sir,’ the man said obsequiously, handing over the missive that Robin had brought. ‘You left it on the table.’

Tulyet nodded his thanks and opened it. He scanned it absently, then gaped his astonishment. ‘It is from Godrich! Written in haste on his journey south. It says that–’

Michael grabbed it and read it himself. ‘That when Moleyns was tried for the murder of Peter Poges, the evidence pointed to Inge and Egidia as the culprits, which is why he arranged for Moleyns to be acquitted. He claims there was nothing improper in the jury’s verdict.’

Tulyet snatched it back again. ‘He also says that he requested another trial, but powerful people intervened and the matter was quietly forgotten.’ He looked up at Bartholomew. ‘So, it seems you were right to suspect Inge and Egidia of something untoward. My apologies.’

‘If Godrich is telling the truth,’ cautioned Michael. ‘It is difficult to know what to believe in this web of deceit and lies.’

‘It is,’ agreed Tulyet. ‘But I am sure about one thing: it is time we had a word with Inge and Egidia. About the hapless Peter Poges and the thefts.’

Inge and Egidia had moved from the castle to the Griffin, the large tavern where Cook had taken Helbye for treatment. It was a pleasant, rambling affair that smelled of the fresh rushes that had been scattered on the floor and the half-sheep that was roasting on a spit over the fire. Bartholomew, Michael and Tulyet entered to see the pair by the window, although Cook and Helbye had chosen to sit in a different chamber, for which Bartholomew was grateful – he did not want another confrontation with the barber quite so soon after the last one.

‘We have questions,’ said Tulyet, addressing Inge and Egidia without preamble. ‘If you answer truthfully, I shall allow you to abjure the realm. Refuse, and you will hang.’

Bartholomew blinked his surprise at the Sheriff’s opening gambit, but supposed a bombastic approach might serve to frighten them into a confession. Egidia was visibly alarmed, but Inge was made of sterner stuff, and regarded Tulyet in open disdain.

‘Do not threaten me,’ he sneered. ‘I know my rights. You cannot charge in here and–’

‘We can start with murder,’ interrupted Tulyet, brandishing the letter. ‘We have written testimony from a witness, who claims that you, not Moleyns, poisoned Peter Poges.’

‘Lies!’ declared Egidia, although the flash of fear in her eyes suggested otherwise.

‘Is that from Godrich?’ asked Inge, trying to examine the missive as Tulyet continued to wave it around. ‘That appears to be his seal.’ He laughed derisively. ‘And you believe it? A man who is steeped in corruption, and who perverted the course of justice at Moleyns’ trial?’

‘Did he?’ pounced Michael. ‘I thought you said the outcome was the proper one – that Moleyns was innocent.’

‘We did,’ said Inge smoothly. ‘But that was when Moleyns posed a danger to us. Now he is dead, we can tell the truth.’

‘That is right,’ nodded Egidia, licking her lips nervously, ‘Of course my husband killed Uncle Peter, and Godrich did pervert the course of justice by bribing the jury. And if you want more evidence that Godrich is a rogue, ask him about all the gold that Inge and I paid him to–’

‘Paid him to buy books for impoverished hostels,’ interrupted Inge sharply, and from the way Egidia jumped, it was clear that he had kicked her under the table. He leaned back on the bench, feigning nonchalance.

‘Well, that explains how Godrich was able to spend so much on his election campaign,’ murmured Michael to Bartholomew. ‘He had a plentiful source of easy money.’

‘You had better say your prayers,’ said Tulyet to Egidia, instinctively targeting the weaker of the two. ‘Because this letter is enough to see you on the scaffold.’

‘It is a forgery,’ said Inge with a shrug, although Egidia blanched. ‘Why would Godrich make such a claim when he is about to be Chancellor? It damages him as much as it does us.’

‘Yes – he would rather forget what happened in Stoke Poges all those years ago,’ agreed Egidia. ‘It shows him in a very poor light and–’

She jumped when Inge gave her another warning kick.

‘Think about it,’ Inge went on smoothly. ‘If there was any truth in those allegations, he would have made them years ago.’

‘Too right,’ said Egidia, ignoring the lawyer’s angry grimace for refusing to shut up. ‘That letter is a piece of dirty mischief, and you should put it in the fire, where it belongs. Give it to me at once.’

She made a lunge for it, but Tulyet held it aloft.

‘That reaction tells me all I need to know,’ he said coldly. ‘You did kill Peter Poges, and Moleyns’ acquittal was not the miscarriage of justice we all thought. Did he ever guess that his wife and friend left him to stand trial for a crime that they committed?’

Their sullen silence suggested he had not, and Bartholomew supposed it was just as well Moleyns was dead, or they could have expected some serious retribution. Belatedly, Inge drew breath to deny the charge, but the physician spoke first.

‘Tell us how you came to swallow resin,’ he ordered, deciding to follow Tulyet’s example and opt for a frontal attack.

‘Rougham!’ muttered Inge in disgust. ‘So much for professional discretion.’

‘Answer the question.’ Tulyet waved the letter again. ‘You are already accused of murder, so a charge of theft makes no odds now.’

‘Theft?’ echoed Inge, raising his eyebrows. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘And you will never prove murder anyway,’ put in Egidia. ‘Not now.’

‘We had nothing to do with Moleyns’ antics.’ Inge spoke quickly, in an obvious effort to prevent Egidia from saying any more. ‘We went through all this yesterday: we guessed what he was doing, but we were not involved.’

‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘But when you saw how well his scheme worked, you decided to devise one of your own. He stole coins, but you opted for marble, lead, brasses, nails, pinnacles, pitch–’

‘All valuable commodities that will fetch high prices in London,’ said Tulyet, watching Inge in a way that suggested he had revised his opinion of Bartholomew’s theory, and was now ready to accept it.

The lawyer sneered. ‘And can you prove any of this? No? Then I suggest you desist with these slanderous allegations. I have already written to the King about our treatment here, and this will do nothing to help your case.’

‘That is true.’ Egidia nodded eagerly. ‘Your accusations will look like what they are – a sly attempt to escape the blame for John’s murder. No one will believe you, regardless of whether or not they are true.’

‘That was a confession,’ pounced Tulyet, while Inge shot her an irritable scowl. ‘And I have heard enough. You are both under arrest. We shall resume this discussion in the castle.’

He stepped forward purposefully. Egidia immediately began to screech her outrage, while Inge leapt to his feet and grabbed a knife from the table. Unfortunately for him, it was a blunt one, used for smearing cheese on bread, and Tulyet regarded it contemptuously. Inge gulped his alarm when the Sheriff drew his sword, and promptly dived under the table.

The ensuing commotion, as Tulyet tried to lay hold of the lawyer without losing his own dignity by getting down on all fours, drew spectators from the other rooms, including Cook and Helbye. When one of Inge’s wildly flailing fists caught Tulyet a glancing blow on the cheek, Helbye bellowed his fury and waded into the fray, trailing bandages. Unfortunately, he did more to hinder than help, particularly as his right arm was useless.

Michael managed to lay hold of Egidia, but she bit him, so he yelped and let her go, leaving Bartholomew to grab her. Then Inge scrambled from beneath the table and darted towards the door, but when Tulyet tried to follow, his feet became entangled in Helbye’s dressings. He stumbled over them, and Helbye’s scream of agony froze him in his tracks.

Bartholomew shoved Egidia at him, and hurtled after Inge, whom he would have caught with ease, if Cook had not decided that it was a good opportunity for some sly revenge. The barber launched himself at Bartholomew and managed to land several hefty thumps before the physician was able to turn and fend him off.

With no one to stop him, Inge shot through the door and dashed into the street. Michael set off in lumbering pursuit, but the lawyer had already disappeared, and the monk returned moments later, shaking his head to say Inge had escaped.

‘Enough!’ roared Tulyet, in a voice so full of anger that Egidia stopped struggling and Cook desisted in his efforts to hit Bartholomew. The physician used Cook’s momentary inattention to land a punch that made him stagger; he was ashamed of how much pleasure it gave him.

‘Go after Inge,’ Tulyet ordered one of his men, who had rushed in to help when he had heard the sounds of a skirmish. ‘And send me a couple of lads to escort Egidia to the castle. Matt, leave that butcher alone and help Helbye.’

‘Barber,’ corrected Cook, rubbing his jaw and glaring at Bartholomew. ‘I am a barber.’

‘Do not worry about me,’ said Helbye, although he was clutching his elbow and his face was grey with pain. ‘I shall be as right as rain when Cook has bound me up.’

‘He has not had his shave yet either,’ said Cook, and shot Bartholomew a glance that was full of malicious hostility. ‘I do not cheat my customers, unlike some I could mention. Come, Helbye. Let me finish mending your arm.’

Tulyet started to object, but Helbye raised a weary hand and made a feeble joke about his stubble. Then soldiers arrived to conduct Egidia to the gaol. She went with quiet dignity, her head held high, which suggested that she did not expect to be incarcerated for long before Inge rallied powerful forces to free her.

‘She is going to be disappointed,’ said Tulyet, watching her go. ‘Her husband wielded a certain power, but no one will listen to Inge. Which is why he ran, of course – he knows there would have been no rescue for him.’

While Tulyet went to supervise the hunt for Inge, Bartholomew and Michael aimed for Maud’s Hostel, to speak to Hopeman again.

‘Inge will not get far,’ predicted Bartholomew. ‘He will be caught if he tries to hire a horse, and he does not seem like the kind of man who will fare well hiding in the marshes.’

‘He might,’ said Michael. ‘He hails from this area, if you recall.’

‘So do I,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But that does not mean I can survive the Fens in winter without the necessary clothes and equipment.’

Michael shook his head slowly, still thinking about the confrontation in the tavern. ‘I am astonished, Matt – your wild theory was right. Who would have thought it?’

‘They did not actually admit to stealing the supplies,’ Bartholomew pointed out.

‘They did not have to – their guilt was obvious from Egidia’s reckless replies and Inge’s flight. Unfortunately, while you have solved the thefts, we still have a killer at large, given that we both have reservations about Whittlesey or Godrich being the culprit. And we are running out of suspects.’

‘It is Cook,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Hopeman would brag if he was the killer – claim that God told him to do it or some such nonsense.’

‘He would not,’ argued Michael. ‘He may be a fanatic, but he is not stupid.’

‘Then can we be sure that Inge and Egidia are innocent? It seems they killed Peter Poges, so how do we know they did not kill Tynkell, Lyng and Moleyns as well? They were near Moleyns when he died – which they later lied about – and they were in St Mary the Great when Tynkell was on the roof.’

‘They had good reason to dispatch Moleyns,’ mused Michael. ‘His imprisonment was lasting a good deal longer than they had anticipated, and he was mean with the money he stole – as evidenced by the fact that he refused to buy them new cloaks when they were inspecting suitable cloth with Edith in the Market Square.’

‘I sense a “but”,’ said Bartholomew, shooting him a sidelong glance.

Michael nodded. ‘But in the conclave earlier, I quizzed Clippesby very closely about exactly what he saw when Moleyns fell off his horse. It took some doing – and he insisted the intelligence came from that mangy dog – but I managed to ascertain that Inge and Egidia could not have reached Moleyns’ side in time to stab him. And that means they did not kill Tynkell and Lyng either.’

They walked the rest of the way in silence, aware again of the tension between those who supported one of the two remaining candidates, and those who felt they had been disenfranchised by the loss of their favourite. Quarrels were rife, and the beadles struggled to keep the peace, especially as the situation was exacerbated by the inflammatory taunts of townsfolk. When Bartholomew and Michael reached Maud’s, they ran into Thelnetham, who was just coming out.

‘There are five more votes for Suttone,’ said the Gilbertine with a triumphant grin. ‘I knew I could entice them to our side by pointing out the benefits of an alliance with Michaelhouse. This might be Hopeman’s home, but they do not like him very much.’

‘Who can blame them?’ murmured Michael. ‘I take it he is not inside then?’

‘He is at his friary, pontificating about the Devil, apparently – about whom he knows rather more than is appropriate for a man in holy orders.’

Michael decided to visit Maud’s anyway, to see what might be learned about the Dominican from his colleagues. He began by asking about the row that Blaston had overheard between Lyng and the “black villain”, followed by the one that Almoner Byri had witnessed between Lyng and Hopeman in St Botolph’s churchyard.

‘We have already told you,’ said Father Aidan, exasperated. ‘We were not at home when Blaston was mending the table, and we were certainly not in St Botolph’s churchyard after dark. And I do not believe Blaston’s story, anyway. Lyng was not a violent man – he would never have hit anyone.’

‘He threatened to kill me once,’ said Richard sheepishly. ‘But I probably deserved it, so I did not take it to heart. I am afraid I quite often irritated him into a bad mood.’

‘Lyng?’ asked Aidan in disbelief. ‘But he was a gentle man. A saint!’

‘Perhaps,’ shrugged Richard. ‘But he still had a bit of a tongue on him. He could be rather free with his fists, too, although he was old and slow, so I usually managed to duck.’

‘Lyng?’ breathed Aidan again, stunned. ‘Are you sure?’

Richard pulled a rueful face. ‘I might not be as intellectual as my brother the librarian, but I do know the difference between our teachers. Yes, Father – it was Lyng.’

‘I am astonished, too,’ confessed Michael. ‘And it makes me wonder whether we can ever really know another person. However, Lyng’s violent temper might explain why he was killed. Could Hopeman have witnessed it, and decided it meant he was possessed by the Devil?’

And dispatched him for it was the unspoken question.

‘Hopeman sees Satan in everything,’ said Aidan wryly. ‘But perhaps he did spot something in Lyng that the rest of us missed, although I would be surprised – he is not a percipient man.’

‘I hope you are wrong, Brother,’ said Richard. ‘It would be embarrassing for Maud’s if Hopeman is the culprit. After all, no foundation likes its members slaughtering each other.’

Michael and Bartholomew hurried to the Dominican Priory. It was not a pleasant journey, as the road was treacherous with ice and the wind was getting up again.

‘Marjory Starre says it will snow soon,’ gasped Bartholomew as they staggered along.

‘You should keep your friendship with her quiet,’ advised Michael. ‘Especially if our colleagues ever discover that Tynkell and Lyng were closet Satanists. There will be all manner of trouble, and you do not want to be part of it.’

‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew sincerely.

They reached the friary to discover Hopeman just leaving. He was being escorted out by Prior Morden and Almoner Byri, and through the open gate, a lot of Dominicans could be seen standing together in worried huddles.

‘Hopeman has been telling us about Lucifer again,’ explained Morden, casting a sour glance at the fanatical friar. ‘We shall all have nightmares tonight. It was a terrifying discourse.’

‘It was meant to be,’ boomed Hopeman, who looked rather demonic himself, with his blazing eyes and hooded face. ‘The Devil is not someone to be taken lightly, and there is too much complacency in this town. I shall put an end to it when I am Chancellor.’

‘Lyng,’ said Michael crisply. ‘You were heard arguing with him – twice – on the evening when he disappeared and was probably murdered. What did–’

‘Yes, all right, we argued,’ hissed Hopeman. ‘What of it?’

Michael narrowed his eyes at the abrupt capitulation. ‘You denied it when I asked you before – you said you could not remember.’

Hopeman shrugged defiantly. ‘I have since re-examined my memory. Lyng was Satan’s spawn. He pretended to be good and saintly, but he was a Devil-lover, and he carried the mark of it on the sole of his foot.’

‘How do you know?’ asked Bartholomew suspiciously. ‘I cannot imagined he showed you.’

‘I saw it at Maud’s, when he was soaking his aged toes after a day of marching around the town, telling people to vote for him,’ replied Hopeman vengefully. ‘Oh, he tried to hide it, but it was too late – I had seen. He told me it meant nothing, but I am no fool. So, yes, we quarrelled – in St Botolph’s, where I tackled him about it, as your spy reported.’

‘And you only “remember” this now?’ asked Michael accusingly.

Hopeman met his gaze with a defiant stare. ‘Yes. Why? Do you want to make something of it? However, the simple explanation is that I am busy with important matters, and I cannot be expected to recall every encounter with Satan’s minions.’

In other words, thought Bartholomew, regarding him with dislike, he had been afraid that he would be accused of murder if he had admitted to quarrelling with one of the victims, but was less concerned about it now that he had convinced himself that God was on his side.

‘What about the incident in Maud’s?’ he asked accusingly. ‘When Lyng slapped you and called you a “black villain”? That cannot have been pleasant.’

Hopeman regarded him askance. ‘He would not have dared to lay hands on the Lord’s anointed. And I did not confront him at home anyway, because Richard Deynman was there.’

‘Why should that make a difference?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused.

Hopeman’s eyes gleamed manically. ‘I did not want witnesses to what I had to say to him – witnesses who might gossip, and put it about that the next Chancellor hails from a hostel that houses Satanists. However, once I had exposed Lyng’s evil, God took matters in hand, and arranged for him to be eliminated.’

Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘You accuse the Almighty of murder?’

‘Of eradicating vermin,’ corrected Hopeman. ‘The Bible is full of such tales, so go away and read it, Brother. It might save your soul.’

‘Have you heard that Godrich might not be in a position to stand for election on Wednesday?’ asked Bartholomew, before the monk could take exception to the advice.

‘Yes!’ Hopeman grinned wildly. ‘The race is between me and Suttone now: the agent of the Lord and the Senior Proctor’s creature. I do not think there will be much of a contest. I shall win, and then I will revoke all the evil edicts you have passed, Brother.’

‘Hopeman,’ warned Prior Morden. ‘I thought we had reached an understanding about these radical remarks. You agreed to moderate them in exchange for our support.’

‘And we shall not vote for you unless you do,’ added Byri. ‘Just because you are a fellow Dominican does not mean–’

‘I do as God commands,’ flashed Hopeman. ‘And you will vote for me, because to support Suttone is to invite Lucifer to rule.’ He laughed suddenly, a harsh bray that grated on the ears. ‘Oh, there will be changes when I am in power! For example, no one will study any subject but theology, so do not think that you will teach here, Bartholomew.’

‘But we shall need physicians,’ objected Morden worriedly. ‘Or would you rather have someone like Cook come to tend you when you are ill?’

‘God protects the righteous from sickness,’ hissed Hopeman. ‘And the sufferings of sinners will be good for their souls, and thus assure them a place in Heaven.’

Prior Morden tried to reason with him, but Hopeman flicked his fingers at his deacons, and they all marched away, singing one of the more warlike Psalms.

‘He is deranged,’ declared Michael in distaste. ‘You should lock him away before he brings your Order into disrepute.’

‘I am sure you would like that,’ said Byri bitterly. ‘It would leave Suttone free to win.’

‘It would,’ conceded Michael. ‘But at least our University would not be in the hands of a lunatic – and one who lies about his interactions with murder victims into the bargain.’

None of the Dominicans had an answer for that particular charge, and Morden spared himself the chore of thinking one up by announcing that it was time for afternoon prayers. Relieved, the Black Friars hurried to their chapel, leaving a lay brother to shut the gate on the outside world. Bartholomew and Michael turned to trudge back to the town.

‘Did you see Morden’s face?’ asked Michael. ‘He thinks Hopeman might be guilty of these murders, even if his almoner is too stupid to see it. And if Hopeman’s own Prior thinks he might be capable of such terrible deeds …’