A Grave Concern

Chapter 14

The next day – the last before the election – was bitingly cold, but clouds had rolled in, and Marjory Starre stood in the Market Square declaring to anyone who would listen that there would be snow before the day was out. Bartholomew thought she might be right, as the sky was a dirty yellowish grey and the wind so keen that it sliced right through his clothes.

‘Heavens!’ gasped Suttone, as he stepped into Michaelhouse’s yard and was buffeted by an icy blast. ‘I hope this will not prevent people from turning out to vote tomorrow.’

‘It will not stop the young,’ said Kolvyle archly. ‘It is only the old who are bothered by inclement weather, and who cares what they think? The future lies with us, the fresh and vibrant – not tedious ancients who moan about their aching bones.’

‘I am really beginning to dislike him,’ muttered Suttone, as Kolvyle strutted away.

‘I hate to admit it, Suttone,’ said Michael, ‘but it will be a close-run thing between you and Hopeman, so you must work hard today.’

Suttone groaned. ‘Must I? I thought I might be able to relax, given how frantically I have laboured over the last few days.’

‘Hopeman will not relax,’ Michael pointed out shortly. ‘And you should take some responsibility for winning. I am doing all I can, but it has been much harder than I anticipated.’

‘Because you have been busy solving murders?’ asked Suttone, removing a slice of cake from somewhere on his portly person and beginning to eat it. Some crumbs tumbled down the front of his habit, and others stuck to his lips.

‘Yes, along with other things,’ replied Michael, looking disapprovingly at the pastry and the mess Suttone was making with it. ‘So shave, don a clean habit, and go out to persuade people that you are a credible alternative to Hopeman.’

Suttone shuffled into his place in the procession, still eating. He was wearing odd hose, one new and black, the other grey from repeated washing, and the hem of his habit had come unravelled. He yawned widely, then scrubbed at his face and hair with his hands, which did nothing to improve his appearance. Bartholomew wondered if the Carmelite had always been slovenly, or if it was just more apparent now that it mattered.

‘Lord help us!’ muttered Michael. ‘No wonder people tell me they are unhappy with the choice they are being offered – a fanatical bigot or him. I confess I expected more when he offered me his services.’

As far as Bartholomew recalled, Suttone had just stated a desire to be Chancellor, and offering his services had never been part of the equation. He changed the subject by asking if there had been any news about the hunt for Whittlesey and Godrich.

‘Yes,’ replied the monk. ‘A message arrived from Meadowman in the small hours. Whittlesey passed through a village called Walden yesterday, but no one remembers Godrich. Meadowman thinks that Whittlesey caught up with him – Satan is by far the faster horse – dispatched him, hid the body and galloped on.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘Then he is wrong, because we decided that Whittlesey was not the killer. Besides, what is not to say that Godrich turned off the road before Walden, blithely oblivious that his cousin was hot on his heels? And “no one remembers Godrich” does not mean that Godrich was never there. Perhaps he rode through this village without being noticed.’

‘True.’ Michael shook his head slowly. ‘Their flight bothers me profoundly. Even if it is unrelated to what happened to Tynkell and the others, it is still suspicious, particularly given its timing. Godrich might well have won the election had he stayed, and I do not understand why he has thrown all that away.’

‘Unless they have hatched a plot that will see him installed anyway,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘I know Godrich has rendered himself ineligible by not keeping term, but I do not see him allowing a technicality to stand between him and his ambitions.’

‘Nor do I,’ acknowledged Michael. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘We know he and Whittlesey quarrelled, but what does that mean? That Whittlesey objected to his cousin’s machinations and ordered him to desist, or that they just disagreed on tactics?’

‘And why has Whittlesey told so many lies?’ Bartholomew was more suspicious of the slippery envoy than the belligerent scholar. ‘Not just to the soldiers on the gate, but about his knee – I am sure he made up the tale about falling down the stairs. And there was the whispered discussion with Lyng on the night that Lyng died – the one Richard Deynman witnessed.’

‘I had not forgotten that – or the fact that we do not know whether to believe his claim about not being in Nottingham when Dallingridge was poisoned.’ Michael sighed dispiritedly. ‘All I can say is that the behaviour of both is odd and worrisome.’

‘Of course, we still have two other good suspects for the murders. Namely Hopeman, who is tipped to win the election now that Godrich is no longer eligible. And Cook.’

‘Yes,’ said Michael tiredly. ‘But we have no evidence against either. So today, I shall speak to everyone who saw Tynkell and Moleyns die. Again. Perhaps time will have altered their perspective, and something has occurred to them that will lead us forward.’

They attended church, but Bartholomew found it difficult to concentrate, his thoughts bouncing between the murders and Matilde – because if Meadowman had made such good time on the roads, then perhaps she had, too, and would arrive sooner than expected. And then what? He still had reached no decision about what to say to her. Wryly, it occurred to him that if he dithered long enough, he might not have to make one – she would grow tired of waiting and abandon Cambridge a second time.

He was equally distracted at breakfast, although it was a paltry affair, over in record time when Langelee decided that the victuals did not warrant a moment longer than was absolutely necessary to swallow what was offered.

‘I shall not be teaching today,’ announced Kolvyle, as the Fellows stood to leave the hall. ‘I have business of a personal nature to conduct.’

‘Then it can wait,’ said Langelee tartly. ‘Because we are too busy to–’

‘Bartholomew or Michael can take my classes,’ interrupted Kolvyle. ‘I have minded theirs often enough these last few days, and it is time they returned the favour.’

‘That is not how it works,’ said Langelee irritably. ‘You cannot pick and choose when you deign to work, and your students are expecting what you promised them today – three lectures on Gratian, and a good debate on primogeniture.’

‘Then they will just have to live with their disappointment,’ retorted Kolvyle carelessly. ‘Because I shall not be here. And do not threaten to dismiss me, because we all know that if you do, you will never recruit another scholar of my intellectual calibre. I am here to stay, so I suggest you get used to it, Master.’

The last word was injected with such sneering contempt that Bartholomew was sure Kolvyle was going to lose teeth for it. Fortunately for Kolvyle – and for Langelee, as Masters punching Fellows was frowned upon in the University – Michael stepped forward to intervene.

‘What is the nature of this personal business, Kolvyle?’ he asked briskly. ‘If it is urgent, I am sure some accommodation can be reached.’

‘It is private,’ replied Kolvyle loftily. ‘Now, get out of my way.’

‘Come back!’ roared Langelee furiously, as the youngster began to flounce off. ‘Or keep walking and never return, because this is the last time you will defy me.’

Kolvyle turned, gave a provocative little wave, and aimed for the gate.

‘Right, that does it,’ snarled Langelee, clenching his fists. ‘I shall clear out his room and toss his belongings into the street. I refuse to endure another moment of his odious company.’

‘Please wait until tomorrow afternoon,’ begged Michael. ‘We cannot afford a scandal in Michaelhouse right before the election, as it might adversely affect my … I mean Suttone’s chances of winning.’

Langelee inclined his head stiffly. ‘Very well. But keep Kolvyle out of my way, or there may be another murder for you to solve.’

‘Speaking of murder,’ said Suttone uneasily, ‘may I have Cynric again, Matt? It would be a pity if I were dispatched on the very eve of my victory.’

Bartholomew nodded absently. ‘I wonder what manner of “personal business” draws Kolvyle away from his duties. It must be important, as he has never refused to teach before.’

‘It does not matter, because he is no longer a member of Michaelhouse,’ declared Langelee. ‘But enough of him. Suttone, why are you still here? Smarten yourself up, then go and win some more votes. The honour of the College is at stake here, man.’ He turned to Michael. ‘And you should be out hunting the killer if you aim to leave us on Thursday.’

‘And leave you must,’ added Suttone. ‘Because we do not want the grasping Bishop of Bangor to get there first, and lay sticky fingers on your mitre.’

‘No,’ agreed Michael fervently. ‘We do not.’

There was a long list of patients wanting Bartholomew’s attention, and Aungel grinned his delight when informed that he was to mind the physician’s classes yet again. He produced a sheaf of notes that suggested he had anticipated as much, and had probably spent much of the night preparing. Bartholomew called for Islaye and Mallet, aiming to take them with him on his rounds, and was taken aback when they informed him that they had other plans.

‘There is a two-mark reward for recovering the University’s missing bell, sir,’ explained Mallet. ‘And Master Langelee says that we can keep a shilling each if we find it, with the rest going to the College coffers.’

‘But it is a weekday in term time,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘You are here to study, not go hunting stolen property. Besides, Egidia will tell Dick Tulyet where to find it now she is charged with its theft.’

‘She cannot, because she does not know,’ said Islaye. ‘She was questioned thoroughly last night, and the Sheriff is satisfied that, while she definitely helped to organise the thefts, Inge never trusted her enough to tell her where he stashed what they stole.’

‘And he was right to be wary,’ put in Islaye. ‘Because I hear it was her incautious tongue that betrayed them in the Griffin yesterday. If she had kept her mouth shut, they would have got away with it.’

‘So the only way you will ever see the bell again,’ said Mallet, ‘is if someone like us finds it before it is spirited out of the town, into the Fens, and around the coast to London.’

‘Kolvyle will be looking for it,’ added Islaye. ‘That is why he abandoned his classes today – he aims to have that two marks for himself. Well, we do not want him to get them. We will never hear the end of it if he does, and his gloating will be unbearable.’

‘Besides, your sister would be glad if we got the bell back,’ said Mallet. ‘She must be distraught that her beloved husband’s donation is in the hands of greedy thieves.’

‘All right!’ Bartholomew threw up his hands in defeat at the onslaught. ‘But only until noon. I want you back in the hall with Maimonides after the midday meal.’

Grinning their delight, the two students hurried away before he could change his mind. Bartholomew visited his patients alone, and met Edith on his way home.

‘The Sheriff has promised to catch the culprits,’ she said unhappily. ‘But why should I believe him? He has had no luck so far, and so many things have been taken – Dallingridge’s feet, Wilson’s lid, Holty’s pinnacles, Gonville’s lead, Cew’s brass …’

‘But he has caught them,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Well, Inge is still on the run, I suppose, but Dick has sent patrols to hunt him down, so it is only a matter of time before he is caught.’

‘Oh, Inge and Egidia were involved certainly,’ said Edith bitterly. ‘But they cannot have done it alone, and whoever helped them is cunning in the extreme.’

‘Yes, they had helpmeets,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘But it was Inge who masterminded the scheme. And when he is arrested, he will give Dick the names of his accomplices.’

‘But he may be as ignorant as Egidia. He might hail from the Fens, but he is not a local, and no stranger could have outfoxed the Sheriff and his men all this time. Of course, there are rumours about who is the real brain behind this operation …’

‘And who do these tales accuse?’ Bartholomew had already guessed what was coming.

Edith grimaced. ‘You know who: Isnard. I appreciate that you are fond of him, Matt, but Gundrede is bad news, and Isnard should have kept his distance.’

‘It is not Isnard,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘He would never have taken Wilson’s lid or struck at St Mary the Great, because he loves Michael and the choir.’

‘Does he? Or does he feel betrayed, because Michael is going to Rochester? And even if you are right about him, Gundrede owns no such allegiance and Isnard is clay in his hands.’

‘Is there evidence to prove these allegations?’ asked Bartholomew, a little coolly, knowing there was not, or Tulyet would have acted on it.

‘Well, first, there is only one way to transport heavy goods over long distances: the waterways, which Isnard knows like the back of his hand. Second, he owns suitable craft. Third, Gundrede was a metalsmith, who knows how to sell such goods illegally. And fourth, both he and Isnard have been gone a lot recently.’

‘That is not evidence, it is supposition. Besides, why can’t the goods be moved by road?’

‘Because Tulyet watches them like a hawk – no cart gets past him without an inspection. Moreover, horses or oxen can pull heavy wagons short distances, but not all the way to London.’

Bartholomew was not sure what to think, but sincerely hoped she was wrong.

He hurried from patient to patient through streets that buzzed with excitement as news of the reward began to spread. Any number of folk – students and townsmen – were determined to have it, and skirmishes broke out when searchers invaded the property of those who objected.

Most Regent masters, however, were more interested in the election, and were beginning to form factions. Unfortunately, the largest ones comprised not supporters of Suttone and Hopeman, but those of Lyng, Godrich and Thelnetham, who felt that events had conspired to deprive them of a voice. Emotions were running high and altercations were frequent, although so far confined to words and the occasional jabbing finger.

‘Psst! Doctor!’

Bartholomew knew without looking that it was Isnard who hailed him so slyly. He hesitated, not sure whether to respond given what Edith had just said, but then he relented. Isnard was a patient, and might need medical help. The bargeman was beckoning frantically from a nearby alehouse, an establishment that sold cheap ale to those with undiscerning palates. He and Gundrede were in the shadows of the porch, both looking tired, unshaven and furtive.

‘We are hiding,’ said Isnard, somewhat unnecessarily. ‘From the Sheriff, who thinks we stole the University’s bell.’

‘Can you prove you did not?’ asked Bartholomew, speaking frostily, because Edith had been right about one thing: Isnard had not made a good choice of friends in Gundrede.

‘No,’ replied Gundrede gloomily. ‘Because I was spying on Lakenham – from shortly after you fixed my nose, right up until dawn. Obviously, he had no idea I was there, which means he cannot give me an alibi.’

‘And the same goes for me,’ said Isnard. ‘Except that I was minding Petit. We are tired of being accused of their crimes, so we decided to monitor them ourselves – to catch them in the act and prove our innocence.’

‘That was unnecessary,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The Sheriff is doing it.’

‘Yes, but his men slip away for quick drinks or to stretch their legs,’ explained Isnard. ‘Whereas we do not leave our posts for an instant. Our good reputations are at stake here, so we are much more careful than guards with no vested interest.’

‘We minded them most of Sunday and all Monday night,’ Gundrede went on, yawning. ‘Which is why we are so tired now. However, our exhaustion will not stop us from starting again, once we have had a bit of bread and cheese to fortify us.’

‘Unfortunately, the rogues decided to take those particular times off,’ said Isnard glumly, ‘and they both stayed in. Indeed, I think they were asleep.’

He sounded indignant that they should dare do such a thing when he had been waiting to witness something criminal.

Bartholomew was thoughtful. ‘The bell went missing between nocturns and dawn. If you were watching Lakenham and Petit at those times, then it means that neither of them can have taken it.’

‘Damn it, Gundrede!’ cried Isnard in alarm. ‘We have proved their innocence, but put nooses around our own necks! I told you it was a stupid idea.’

‘Then maybe they sent one of their apprentices to do it,’ said Gundrede, thinking fast. ‘Or a wife – that Cristine would have no problem lifting a bell.’

‘Aye,’ agreed Isnard in relief. ‘That must be what happened – she is a strong lass. But speaking of lasses, that is why we hailed you: to ask you to visit Yolande. She usually sees me on a Tuesday, as you know, but today she refused to open her door. Something is wrong.’

‘Perhaps she is busy with someone else,’ suggested Bartholomew, unwilling to be drawn into a dispute between a man and his prostitute.

‘She would never give my spot to another client,’ declared Isnard, affronted. ‘And I am afraid that Barber Cook has got at her, because I saw him leave her house. He should not be allowed to physick a goat, let alone a person.’

‘I cannot abide Cook,’ spat Gundrede. ‘He was sewing up a cut on my leg when the Chancellor fought the Devil on the tower, and he would not let me outside to watch.’

‘Cook was with you when Tynkell was stabbed?’ asked Bartholomew urgently. ‘Are you sure? Because if you are, then it means that Cook is not the killer.’

‘You had him on your list, did you?’ asked Gundrede. ‘Well, I do not blame you, because he is a devious bastard. However, he did not kill the Chancellor. He was with me and half a dozen others when Tynkell was up on the roof.’

‘I watched that fight,’ said Isnard, while Bartholomew struggled to mask his disappointment. It was unworthy of him, he knew, but it would have been so very satisfying to see the loathsome barber charged with murder. ‘I was so shocked to see Chancellor Tynkell challenge Satan that I sat down hard and hurt my back, if you recall. But by the time Gundrede came to carry me home, the excitement was over. He had missed it all.’

‘Then, a bit later, we were among those who saw Moleyns fall off his horse,’ Gundrede went on. ‘Unfortunately, so was Cook, and he spent the whole time demanding to be paid for tending my leg. So he did not kill Moleyns either.’

‘I wish you had mentioned this sooner,’ groaned Bartholomew. ‘It would have saved a lot of wasted time.’

‘Why would we want that?’ asked Gundrede artlessly. ‘The longer Tulyet takes to solve the murders, the less time he has to persecute me and Isnard.’

The two townsmen led Bartholomew on a circuitous route to the Blaston house, partly because they were keen to avoid meeting the Sheriff, but also because Milne Street was still blocked by Trinity Hall’s rubble, and there was a lot of irritable jostling from those who wanted to squeeze down the narrow opening that had been punched through the middle of it.

They arrived at the Blastons’ home to hear loud sobbing emanating from within. Isnard and Gundrede exchanged uneasy glances, wished Bartholomew luck, and melted away before they were seen.

Bartholomew knocked on the door, and was admitted by a child with frightened eyes. He touched her shoulder reassuringly, and followed her to the bedchamber, where Yolande lay surrounded by her family. There were so many of them, all grave-faced, that he was uncomfortably reminded of the deathbed of a monarch or a high-ranking churchman.

‘Do not waste your time here,’ whispered Yolande. ‘I shall be dead in a week.’

Blaston’s face was as white as snow. ‘She cut her hand last night. Barber Cook heard about it, and came to do her a horoscope. But the news is not good.’

Bartholomew sat on the bed and unwrapped the bandages that swathed Yolande’s arm to the elbow. The wound was deep but clean, while the skin around it was pink and healthy, so there was no reason to think it would not heal. He looked at her in mystification.

‘My stars,’ whispered Yolande, her expression haunted. ‘They say that I shall be in my grave within seven days. Show him Barber Cook’s workings, Robert.’

Bartholomew did not believe in the predictive power of horoscopes, and for many years had refused to calculate them at all, considering them a waste of his time and the patient’s money. Such a stance had earned him a good deal of condemnation, and had contributed to his reputation as a maverick. However, age and experience had taught him that some patients recovered more quickly if they believed their stars were favourable, so he had come to accept that astrology had its place in a physician’s arsenal.

Yet the one Blaston handed him was like nothing he had ever produced – or seen devised by anyone else. It had a few Latin words, but they were in no particular order, and were interspersed with meaningless symbols and squiggles. All around the edges were drawings of horned serpents.

‘What does it say?’ he asked.

Blaston blinked his surprise at the question. ‘You are the one who can read Greek, Doctor. Barber Cook says that particular language is the best for matters pertaining to stars.’

‘This is not Greek,’ said Bartholomew, feeling anger stir within him as he pushed the parchment in his bag, intending to confront the surgeon with it later. ‘It is gibberish. And he is not qualified to produce horoscopes anyway. That is the domain of physicians.’

Yolande gazed at him, hope lighting her eyes. ‘So I will not die?’

‘Not yet, certainly,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘And to prove it, I will read your stars. Then I will give my calculations to Rougham and Lawrence, who will check them for you.’

‘Three University men,’ breathed Blaston, impressed. ‘They will know a lot more than Barber Cook.’

‘Of course they will,’ said Bartholomew briskly, and set to work at once, while parents and children watched in taut silence, even the babies. When he had finished, he informed Yolande that there was no reason she should not live to be a hundred. She grasped his hand tearfully, but he could not hear her whispered thanks over the delighted whoops of her family.

He walked outside and looked around rather wildly, hoping to see Cook there and then. Instead, he spotted Rougham, who was just emerging from Trinity Hall.

‘Look,’ he said, all righteous indignation as he pulled the barber’s augury from his bag. ‘And Cook accuses me of trespassing on his domain! He gave this to Yolande.’

‘Heavens!’ Rougham took it from him gingerly. ‘It is a long time since I have seen one of these. They were sold during the plague, to those who thought the Church had deserted them. Do you see these horned serpents? They are the Devil’s mark.’

‘How do you know?’ asked Bartholomew, startled.

‘Desperate times called for desperate measures,’ replied Rougham evasively. ‘But I am told that witchery is becoming popular again – probably thanks to Suttone, who keeps announcing that the plague is about to return.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘So Cook is a proponent of witchcraft?’

‘It would seem so. Give that document to me, and I shall include it with the letter I am writing to Tulyet, asking him to banish Cook from our town. We do not want that sort of person practising medicine in Cambridge. He will give us all a bad name.’

By noon, the hunt for the missing bell had reached fever point. Unfortunately, it was causing friction, not only between the searchers and those people who owned the places they aimed to ransack, but between students and the town. On the High Street, Bartholomew witnessed a furious fracas over who should have first dibs on exploring St Edward’s crypt.

‘We do,’ one of Hopeman’s deacons was snarling. ‘Because that bell is University property, and it will be desecrated if secular hands maul it.’

‘But this church belongs to the town,’ retorted a butcher’s boy. ‘And that will be sullied if the likes of you is allowed inside. So sod off and–’

He stopped speaking abruptly when he saw Tulyet striding towards them. Under the Sheriff’s gimlet eye, both sides had the sense to break off their quarrel and slink away without further ado.

‘Who offered this reward, Dick?’ asked Bartholomew disapprovingly. ‘It cannot have been the University. Michael would know better.’

‘Unfortunately, the same cannot be said of Secretary Nicholas,’ replied Tulyet. ‘It was his idea, and he announced it before Michael could stop him. The money is his own, apparently.’

‘Well, he does love the bells.’

‘I like them myself, but it was stupidity itself to offer such an enormous sum to get one back again. But I am glad to have caught you, Matt. I have been looking everywhere for you. Will you come to examine Helbye? I think Cook did something terrible to his arm yesterday, because he is ill.’

He turned and set a cracking pace towards the castle before the physician could reply. He spoke in short, agitated bursts as they went, and Bartholomew saw the strain the last few days had brought, with the King’s favourite dead and thieves running circles around him.

‘Egidia knows nothing,’ Tulyet confided bitterly. ‘Her role in the affair was to distract Moleyns while Inge sneaked out. They did not want Moleyns to know what they were doing, you see, because he would have ordered them to stop, lest it interfered with his own antics.’

‘What will you do about Moleyns’ crimes against his wealthy “friends”?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily, afraid of what such an investigation might mean for Isnard.

Tulyet’s expression was wry. ‘Nothing, so you can tell Isnard not to worry. Moleyns’ victims do not want the King to know they are fools easily parted from their money, lest he tries to get some of it for himself – the royal coffers are always empty. I have been told to let it drop.’

‘Good,’ said Bartholomew in relief. ‘Not just for Isnard, but because Moleyns’ plan to humiliate you will fail. Now the King will never know that he escaped your custody to steal.’

‘True,’ acknowledged Tulyet, although his youthful face remained troubled. ‘We found no sign of Inge, by the way. I have soldiers scouring the marshes in ever-widening circles.’

‘Are you sure he is out there? He did not move those heavy items by himself, which means he has accomplices in the town. Perhaps one of them is sheltering him.’

‘You mean Isnard and Gundrede? I searched their houses – he is not there.’

‘No, I do not mean them! They were watching the tomb-makers when the bell was stolen – far more carefully than your guards, as it happens, because they are determined to prove their innocence. Besides, thanks to my incautious tongue, you know that they helped Moleyns. They could not have obliged Inge and Egidia as well.’

‘Oh, yes, they could,’ countered Tulyet. ‘But I shall give them the benefit of the doubt. However, I still want to know where they go when they disappear so slyly – such as on Saturday, when no one saw them for hours.’

Bartholomew recalled Isnard’s suspicious demeanour when he himself had asked where they had been, and was sure Tulyet was right to smell a rat. He said nothing, though, unwilling to betray Isnard a second time.

‘I suspect Inge fled the town under cover of darkness,’ Tulyet went on, more concerned with the missing lawyer. ‘We watch the gates, but he could have waded across the river or the King’s Ditch. Still, the marshes are bleak at this time of year, so he will not get far.’

Bartholomew glanced up at the lowering sky and shivered, thinking he would not want to brave the Fens in such weather.

Helbye was indeed unwell. His injured arm was hot and swollen, and Bartholomew was appalled to see that Cook had applied a poultice comprising what appeared to be mud and strands of riverweed to the wound. He did his best to wash it off, but some of the smaller fragments were difficult to see in the swollen tissue, and he was far from certain that he had removed them all.

‘Cook sewed me up once before with no ill effects,’ said Helbye defensively, when Bartholomew had finished, ‘so I do not know what happened this time.’

‘Wounds are often unpredictable,’ said Bartholomew non-committally.

At that moment, there was a commotion in the bailey. Tulyet had received Rougham’s letter of complaint about Cook in the interim, and had sent Robin to bring the barber to the castle. Cook was livid, screeching his outrage so stridently that his guards were wincing.

‘You medici should have made your concerns official weeks ago,’ said Tulyet, looking out of the window at the spectacle. ‘But better late than never, I suppose. That charlatan will leave my town by nightfall or I shall arrest him for murder.’

Helbye blinked his astonishment. ‘Murder? You mean it was Cook who killed all those people – Moleyns, Tynkell, Lyng and the tomb-builders’ apprentices?’

‘No, I mean Mother Salter and Widow Miller,’ replied Tulyet. ‘His patients.’

There was a clatter of footsteps on the stairs and Cook appeared, his face as black as thunder. He threw off the guards who held his arms and stalked towards the Sheriff – until he saw Bartholomew with Helbye, at which point he stopped dead in his tracks.

‘You trespass on my professional domain again?’ he snarled. ‘How dare you!’

Tulyet stepped in front of him. ‘Here is the “horoscope” you calculated for Yolande de Blaston. Perhaps you would care to explain why it is covered in demonic symbols.’

Cook’s eyes took on a sly cant. ‘I did not give her that – she must have bought it from some other practitioner. Rougham or Bartholomew, for example.’

‘Do not lie,’ warned Tulyet. ‘You will only make matters worse for yourself.’

‘How could you do such a terrible thing?’ asked Bartholomew reproachfully. ‘Telling her she was going to die! It was cruel, and it frightened her children.’

‘It serves her right for going around telling everyone that I killed Mother Salter,’ flashed Cook viciously. ‘I was not the last medicus to see her before she died. You were.’

‘But it was you who provided the “care” that caused her demise,’ countered Tulyet. He waved the horoscope again. ‘And here is the evidence that you wilfully defrauded a townsperson – you know Yolande cannot read, so had no way to tell that she was being fobbed off with rubbish. Now, you have two choices: leave Cambridge and never return; or spend the next few months in my gaol, awaiting trial. Which will it be?’

‘Neither,’ snapped Cook. ‘I have complaints pending with the Worshipful Company of–’

‘Arrest, is it?’ interrupted Tulyet. ‘As you wish.’

‘Wait!’ Cook backed away hastily. ‘I will go, but I need time to pack. I own a lot of valuable equipment, and I am damned if I am going to leave it for the physicians to steal.’

‘You have nothing we want,’ retorted Bartholomew, unable to help himself.

Furious, Cook started forward with the clear intention of delivering a punch, but Tulyet deftly intervened by enveloping him in a grip that he often used on awkward customers. It involved one arm around the neck, which was tight enough to restrict the barber’s airflow. Panicked, Cook began to claw at it, and as he did, one sleeve fell back to reveal the skin of his forearm.

‘What is that?’ demanded Bartholomew, pointing at the symbol that was inked there.

‘A horned serpent,’ mused Tulyet. ‘Well, well, well! Our barber is a Satanist.’

‘No!’ gasped Cook, once the Sheriff had loosened his hold enough to let him explain. ‘It is a symbol to ward off evil. Lots of folk have them.’

‘So that is why you met Lyng, Moleyns and Tynkell in St Mary the Great,’ said Bartholomew. ‘To plot with like-minded–’

‘You are mistaken!’ gulped Cook. ‘If you must know, Lyng, Tynkell and I went there to grovel to Moleyns – he liked to feel himself important, and he was a friend of the King. But there was no harm in it, and he had to have some pleasure in life.’

‘He did have some pleasure,’ said Tulyet acidly. ‘Sneaking out of the castle and depriving his wealthy friends of their money.’

Cook managed to twist around and gape at him. ‘Wait a moment! Moleyns broke into my house and took my purse? And Lyng’s charity box and the money Tynkell had saved for the Michaelhouse Choir? We did note that he was the only other person who knew about them, but we assumed he was innocent, because they disappeared at night, when he was locked up.’

There was a curious plausibility to Cook’s explanations, and Bartholomew found he was inclined to believe them. So was that all there was to the secretive meetings in St Mary the Great? A man who liked to be the centre of attention, and acquaintances who aimed to exploit his weakness to win themselves a good word at Court? Tulyet was obviously convinced, because he released the barber with a grimace of disgust.

‘You have an hour to pack,’ he said coldly. ‘You are finished here, and if I ever see your face again, I will clap you in gaol. Is that clear?’

Cook glowered, but could see that arguing would be futile. He stalked out without another word, the soldiers at his heels to make sure he did as he was ordered. They almost collided with Robin at the door. The young soldier was muddy, breathless and triumphant.

‘We have had a report of Inge,’ he told the Sheriff excitedly. ‘Five miles to the east.’

Helbye struggled to his feet. ‘Half a dozen men should be enough to run him down. Do not worry, sir. I will bring him back.’

‘Not this time, Will.’ Tulyet indicated a rough-looking soldier with short, greasy hair and a scar down one cheek. ‘Norys can go. You stay here and rest.’

A short while later, Bartholomew and Tulyet walked down the hill together, aiming for St Mary the Great, where Tulyet had agreed to meet Michael. Bartholomew was surprised to hear one of its bells clanging in the distance – he had thought they were to remain silent until the University had a new Chancellor. They had just crossed the Great Bridge when Bartholomew saw Edith again. She was talking to Rougham and he could tell just by looking that something was wrong. He hurried over to her, Tulyet at his heels.

‘Perhaps you should offer a reward for its safe return,’ Rougham was saying. ‘Like Nicholas has done for his bell. However, I wish he had advanced a more modest sum. Every student in the University is out looking for the thing, and lectures have ground to a halt.’

‘What have you lost, Edith?’ asked Bartholomew anxiously.

‘Oswald’s tomb-chest,’ replied Edith tearfully. ‘The whole thing – top, base and sides. Lakenham says that Petit failed to cement it to the floor properly, which rendered it easy to pick up and tote away. Petit denies it, of course.’

‘Inge,’ muttered Tulyet between gritted teeth, while Bartholomew gaped his astonishment at the scale of the undertaking. ‘He lingered here to wreak his revenge on us for exposing his schemes, and only then did he vanish into the Fens.’

‘Stanmore’s grave is not his only victim,’ said Rougham. ‘Do you remember our old colleague Linton, Bartholomew? Well, his monument was stolen last night, too. Admittedly, it was smaller than Stanmore’s, but it was an audacious act, even so. It makes me think that Lyng had the right idea – a modest burial in the churchyard, with a simple wooden cross.’

Bartholomew was reluctant to leave Edith while she was upset, but Tulyet’s wife arrived at that moment, and whisked her away for mulled wine and sympathy. Satisfied that she was in kindly hands, he and Tulyet continued on their way, and reached St Mary the Great to find a large gathering of scholars outside, all of whom were shouting. The horde included Michael, Suttone, Hopeman, Thelnetham and Nicholas.

‘I swear it!’ the little secretary was insisting. ‘I was in my office at the time, as a dozen colleagues will confirm. I did not ring the tenor – she sounded of her own accord. Unless the Devil …’

‘Yes!’ thundered Hopeman. ‘Satan chimed her, because Thelnetham persuaded Bene’t College to vote for Suttone. Lucifer is delighted with that outcome, because he feels it brings him closer to taking over the University. He rang the bell to celebrate.’

‘Satan keeps away from St Mary the Great these days,’ said Thelnetham with considerable authority. ‘Ever since he was obliged to make an undignified getaway from the tower roof. So if anyone rang the bell, it was God – because He is pleased that Suttone is winning.’

‘Suttone is not winning!’ yelled Hopeman. ‘I have secured far more votes, and tomorrow will see me installed as Chancellor.’

‘We shall see,’ said Suttone with quiet dignity. He was wearing his best habit and was freshly shaved. For the first time since he had put himself forward, he looked like Chancellor material. ‘I trust our colleagues to make the right decision.’

‘It is God who will decide, not them,’ countered Hopeman. ‘And anyone who votes against me will be damned for all eternity.’ He glowered around, causing several scholars to cross themselves as protection against his malign gaze. ‘Hah! Listen! The bell sounds yet again. That is the Almighty saying that I am right.’

‘It is a person up there,’ stated Michael firmly. ‘Not Satan or God.’

‘Heresy!’ shrieked Hopeman. ‘He is–’

‘It cannot be a person, Brother,’ interrupted Vicar Milde from St Clement’s. ‘Because I was in the narthex when it donged earlier, and I saw the rope move of its own volition. No one was anywhere near it.’

‘And the tower is locked,’ added Nicholas. ‘I checked before I came out. No one is up there pushing the bells around.’

‘Then the wind did it,’ shrugged Michael. ‘The louvres are open and–’

‘What wind?’ asked Thelnetham. ‘There is not so much as a breath of it.’

‘But that will change tonight,’ brayed Hopeman. ‘Because God will send a blizzard, as a warning to all those who plan to vote for a man who wants to turn the University into a brothel. He told me so Himself.’

‘You do not need to commune with God to know that there will be snow soon,’ countered Michael scathingly. ‘There are all manner of signs – the dirty yellow colour of the sky, the way the clouds are moving, the behaviour of the birds–’

‘You have been talking to Mad Clippesby!’ spat Hopeman in disgust. ‘That is the kind of inane remark he might make. I shall petition for him to be defrocked when I am Chancellor.’

There was a roar of agreement from his acolytes, followed by a bellow of anger from those who valued Clippesby’s quiet goodness.

‘You scholars!’ muttered Tulyet in disgust. ‘Any excuse for a spat.’

‘Right,’ said Michael purposefully, removing the tower keys from his scrip as the tenor sounded yet again. ‘I have had enough of this nonsense. Hopeman, Suttone – come with me. You can help me nab this prankster – a rogue, who has the credulous all a-flutter.’

Hopeman surged forward determinedly, although his acolytes held back, preferring to let him tackle whatever was inside. Suttone turned a little pale, but gamely fell in at Michael’s heels. No one else was inclined to follow, and there was a buzz of excited anticipation as the onlookers waited to see what would happen next.

‘Should we offer to help, Matt?’ asked Tulyet. ‘Or can Michael handle the mischief-maker on his own?’

‘He can manage.’ Bartholomew nodded to where a pack of beadles had assembled nearby. ‘They will take the culprit off his hands when he comes down. I imagine a student is up there, having a bit of fun at our expense.’

‘In that case, shall we go to St John Zachary? I hate wasting time, and Michael will be busy for a while yet. Rather than twiddle our thumbs, I suggest we find out what Frisby has to say about the tomb that was stolen from his church.’

They arrived to find the vicar in the graveyard, his back resting against a tomb, while his legs were splayed in front of him. He was drinking from a very large jug. It looked dissipated, and Bartholomew wondered why the Bishop did not oust him and appoint someone more suitable to the post.

‘Another theft from my poor chancel,’ Frisby slurred, his eyes red-rimmed and angry. ‘And from right under my nose, as well.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Tulyet.

‘I mean that I guessed it was only a matter of time before something else was swiped, given that those wretched tomb-makers have been using my church as their personal battleground, so I decided to stay here all night and keep watch.’

‘And what did you see?’ asked Tulyet eagerly.

‘Nothing, because I fell asleep. It was dark and quiet, and I was very tired.’

‘But you must have heard something,’ pressed Tulyet irritably. ‘Moving an entire tomb cannot be a silent task.’

‘It is if you know what you are doing,’ averred Frisby. ‘I could hardly believe my eyes when I woke up an hour ago to discover the whole thing missing.’

‘An hour ago?’ echoed Bartholomew in disbelief. ‘You slept all night and half the day?’

‘I was tired,’ repeated Frisby, although his dissipated appearance suggested that he had not been overcome by healthy sleep, but a drunken stupor. He sighed self-pityingly. ‘Monuments might look pretty in a church, but between you and me, they are more trouble than they are worth.’

Sensing that questioning him further would be a waste of time, Bartholomew opened the door to the church, and was immediately assailed by the sound of voices raised in fury. They belonged to Lakenham and Petit, who were in the chancel, quarrelling heatedly. The mason had his apprentices to back him, but Lakenham had Cristine, and when her stabbing finger connected with a rival’s chest, it hurt. Several lads were rubbing places where bruises would appear by the morning.

But it was the empty spot where Stanmore’s tomb had been that caught Bartholomew’s eye. All that remained were gouges in the floor, where it had stood. He glanced across at the vault, noting with relief that the thieves had left that alone at least, perhaps because the sealing slab was now suspended on its hoist, so moving it would be tricky.

‘I think I am beginning to understand at last,’ he said to Tulyet, who was at his side, watching the argument wearily. ‘We know the tomb-builders are innocent of the thefts, because they have alibis in Isnard and Gundrede.’

Tulyet eyed him lugubriously. ‘I accepted your reasoning about that when you explained it the first time. There is no need to repeat it – I realise I was wrong.’

‘It must be a lucrative business,’ Bartholomew went on, thoughts racing. ‘Or Inge would not have bothered. People happily kill where large amounts of money are concerned – and that is why Lucas, Reames and Peres were murdered. Not because of the tomb-makers’ feud.’

Tulyet lost his resigned expression and regarded him intently. ‘Go on.’

‘Lucas was first, stabbed with a chisel while he was waiting to sell us information. He talked about knowing “people and places”, and we assumed he referred to the killer. But he misled us.’

‘I disagree. Michael offered him threepence for the culprit’s name, and his response suggested that he knew it.’

‘He wanted the money,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘So he said what was necessary to get us into the churchyard at midnight. However, I suspect what he had to sell was information about the thefts, not the murders. The thieves guessed that he was going to betray them, so they stabbed him, doing so messily and without finesse.’

Tulyet nodded slowly. ‘Very well. And Reames?’

‘Everyone thought his death was revenge for Lucas. However, he was killed – brained with a stone – not long after being questioned by you about the disappearance of lead from Gonville’s chapel. Did you notice his hands?’

‘Yes, they were filthy. He told me it is an occupational hazard for latteners, although I confess I was suspicious of the fact that he kept hiding them behind his back.’

‘You should have been – lead leaves black marks, but brass does not. I suspect he was involved in the thefts, and his accomplices grew nervous when he was summoned to the castle.’

‘They need not have been,’ said Tulyet bitterly. ‘He told me nothing.’

‘Not that time, but you would have tried again, and they are unwilling to take chances – especially with a man who strutted about with incriminating stains on his hands. They killed him to protect themselves.’

Tulyet was thoughtful. ‘You may be right. Lakenham and Cristine are poor, but Reames was always very well dressed, so he must have had an additional source of income. However, it cannot have been another job, as that is forbidden to apprentices. Could it have come from an inheritance? Lakenham did mention that he was an orphan.’

‘I suspect that was a lie on Reames’ part, to explain the sudden windfall that allowed him to indulge his penchant for new clothes.’

‘So his money came from helping Inge,’ surmised Tulyet. ‘What about Peres? Lakenham and Cristine are convinced that Reames was killed by the masons, regardless of whether or not it is true, so I am inclined to think that they killed Peres for simple revenge.’

‘The aqua-coloured thread snagged in Peres’ fingernail proves they did not.’

Tulyet frowned. ‘It does? How?’

‘Because you did not find such a garment in their house – if you had, you would have arrested them on the spot.’

‘I would,’ acknowledged Tulyet. ‘But they could have got rid of it before I arrived.’

‘That is unlikely for two reasons. First, we did not make the discovery of the thread public, so how could they have known what to do? And second, when Cristine’s cloak was stolen from St Mary the Great, she complained about being too poor to buy another – they cannot afford to throw good clothes away.’

‘Fair enough. Continue.’

‘Peres was sent to buy a chisel, but used the opportunity to come here instead, probably to grind the horned serpent off Oswald’s tomb – he was the one who carved it, but Edith complained, so Marjory probably asked him to remove it. I think he was labouring away quietly when the thieves came for Cew’s brass. Peres saw them, and was stabbed to ensure his silence.’

‘Stabbed messily,’ mused Tulyet. ‘Like Lucas. Very well. I accept your reasoning – it fits with the facts as we know them. So who are these thieves?’

‘Now that I cannot tell you,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘I can only say that they are not Petit, Lakenham, Isnard or Gundrede.’