A Grave Concern

Chapter 19

‘I told you I could lure him in, Frisby,’ said Nicholas smugly. ‘Now kill him.’

Frisby stepped forward to oblige, but he was unsteady with drink, so Bartholomew was able to roll away before the cudgel landed. The force of the blow chipped a flagstone, and caused the vicar to stumble. While he staggered, Bartholomew scrambled to his feet.

‘Matt!’ It was Tulyet’s voice, muffled and indistinct. ‘Be watchful!’

Bartholomew looked around wildly. It sounded as though the Sheriff had spoken from below him. Then he noticed that Stanmore’s vault was sealed. Or almost sealed – the granite slab had been positioned badly, so that one side was higher than the other and there was a gap all along one edge. His stomach lurched: Cynric’s hat was caught in it. The book-bearer and Tulyet were inside.

Frisby swiped with the cudgel again, dragging Bartholomew’s attention back to the fight. Bartholomew darted behind a pillar, dodging first one way and then the other as the vicar tried to reach him. At the same time, Nicholas surged forward and jumped on the lopsided stone. There was an immediate grating sound, and Cynric released a wail of terror.

‘Petit is an indifferent craftsman,’ called Nicholas tauntingly. ‘This slab is too small, and it will not take much to send it crashing down on those below. Surrender, or they die.’

Bartholomew felt despair begin to overwhelm him. Was he to lose all his friends that day? He tried to force his shock-numbed mind to work – to devise a plan to defeat Nicholas and Frisby, while staying alive to rescue Michael. Or was it already too late?

‘The bells,’ he said in a choked voice. ‘You arranged for them to fall …’

Nicholas smiled coldly. ‘I expect to hear them plummet any time now.’

So it had not happened yet. Bartholomew glanced towards the door. Could he reach it without Frisby braining him? It would condemn Cynric and Tulyet to certain death, but he might be able to avert a massacre in St Mary the Great. Or would the journey take too long in the snow – in which case, should he try to save Tulyet and Cynric? He experienced a futile surge of anger with Nicholas, for forcing him to make such a terrible choice.

The secretary seemed to read his mind. ‘Your friends stormed in here, expecting to catch me with ease, but Frisby shot Tulyet, while I knocked Cynric senseless with a slingshot.’

‘You shot Tulyet?’ asked Bartholomew in horror.

‘In the leg – we guessed he would be wearing armour,’ said Frisby. ‘But it immobilised him enough to let us shove him and the book-bearer down the vault. They will die when the slab falls on them – unless you desist this lurching about and give yourself up.’

‘Please,’ begged Bartholomew, knowing perfectly well that Nicholas would then just dispatch all three of them. ‘There has been enough killing.’

‘On the contrary, it has only just started.’ Nicholas shifted slightly, and the stone scraped against the edge of the hole; Cynric whimpered. ‘But the end is in sight. The bells will fall and we shall be rid of Michael, Suttone, Hopeman and everyone else who stands in our way. Then we can install a better Chancellor.’

‘Thelnetham will not do it,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘He will never accept a post that has been won by such foul means.’

‘Of course he will,’ slurred Frisby, lunging again. ‘And he will reward me with a nice easy living somewhere. Stoke Poges, perhaps.’

‘I doubt that is in the University’s gift.’ Bartholomew pointed at Nicholas. ‘I imagine he fabricated the deed of ownership, to make us think that manor held the key to the murders. But the connections between it and the victims are spurious.’

Nicholas could not resist a smirk. ‘They are, although you followed the crumbs I left like hungry birds. Lyng did not hail from the next village, Tynkell never tried to get its chapel, and neither ever visited the place.’

‘You will not have an easy living, Frisby,’ said Bartholomew, aiming to drive a wedge between the pair. ‘Because when you are of no further use, he will kill you as well.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Nicholas, so quickly that Bartholomew was sure the vicar’s fate was already sealed. ‘He is my kinsman: I would never harm him.’

‘He is angry with you for telling us about the dog,’ lied Bartholomew. Had he heard shouting in the distance? Did it mean the voting was over and the procession was on the move? ‘The clue that explained how he made Moleyns fall off his horse.’

Frisby frowned. ‘Yes, I mentioned the dog, but only because others must have done the same, and it would have looked suspicious to keep it quiet.’

‘It gave you away,’ persisted Bartholomew. ‘Along with telling us that the bone was a lamb shank – a detail no one else knew. There is a warrant for your arrest–’

‘Ignore him, Frisby,’ instructed Nicholas. ‘He is making it up.’

‘Nicholas is much cleverer than you,’ sneered the vicar. ‘He laid not one false trail, but two: Stoke Poges and witchery. Tynkell and Lyng made some youthful mistakes, but were good sons of the Church most of their adult lives. Moleyns was not, but Satanism is not what they discussed in St Mary the Great.’

‘I know,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We had the truth from Cook. Tynkell and Lyng went to grovel to Moleyns, in the hope of winning favourable mentions at Court.’

He glanced at the vault. Cynric and Tulyet were resourceful. Were they devising an escape plan while he kept Nicholas and Frisby talking? But the hole was deep and the stone too heavy to move from the inside, especially if both were incapacitated. He raised a hand to his head. It shook with tension.

‘But not for themselves,’ explained Nicholas. ‘For the University. You see, Tynkell did confide his plans to me. He aimed to use Moleyns to promote the University to royal ears – his parting gift before he retired. Lyng agreed to help.’

‘Why would Lyng do that?’ asked Bartholomew suspiciously. ‘His colleagues told us that he despised Moleyns.’

‘Oh, he did, but he was willing to swallow his distaste for the benefit of the University he had served for so many years. Poor Tynkell devoted his every waking moment to the scheme – at the expense of all his other duties. And when Moleyns invited Tynkell to discuss “certain business”, he referred to his power to expedite royal patronage.’

Bartholomew knew he needed to forget about Nicholas and get to St Mary the Great. He could not help Tulyet and Cynric, and it was time to be pragmatic, unpleasant though that was. He forced himself to take a step towards the door, but Frisby blocked him.

‘You told Michael that Tynkell was quiet and withdrawn,’ he said, in an effort to distract them with more words before making a dash for freedom. ‘And that he had developed a habit of muttering about Satan.’

Nicholas laughed and the stone wobbled. ‘I lied.’

Bartholomew was aware of a creeping sense of defeat as he recalled all the ‘clues’ that had led him astray: Marjory’s claim that Moleyns had spoken to Lyng before he died – perhaps he had, but it was irrelevant; Kolvyle’s association with Moleyns, which was just a continuation of a harmless friendship started in Nottingham; the curious antics of Whittlesey and Godrich; and the arguments between Hopeman and Lyng. None were pertinent to the murders.

‘You will not profit from helping Cook and Inge,’ he said desperately. ‘They are dead, and your beloved bell lies at the bottom of the river.’

‘I already have what I wanted from the thieves,’ smiled Nicholas. ‘Namely adjustments made to the remaining two bells and their frame. A share of their profits was never part of the agreement.’

Bartholomew took a step to his left, and this time Frisby did not notice, because he had retrieved his crossbow and was fiddling with it. Fortunately for Bartholomew, its rough treatment had smashed the winding mechanism. He spoke to Nicholas again.

‘You offered two marks for its return, an enormous sum designed to cause trouble.’

‘It worked. The resulting fuss distracted the Sheriff and Senior Proctor very nicely. Of course, they are not the only nuisances we saw off …’

‘Whittlesey,’ surmised Bartholomew. ‘He is an intelligent, observant man, and you feared he might realise what was happening, so you sent a letter to Godrich, purporting to be from Bishop Sheppey, warning him to watch his cousin.’

Nicholas inclined his head. ‘Godrich did not let Whittlesey out of his sight, which made it impossible for the man to pry. How did you guess?’

‘Because Sheppey would never have written such a thing about a man he considered to be a friend. Because it was dated the day before Sheppey’s death, but the signature was too strong and firm for a dying man. And because it was addressed to a “favoured son in Christ”.

‘Which Godrich was not,’ chuckled Nicholas. ‘A small joke on my part.’

‘You wrote other letters, too,’ said Bartholomew, shifting another inch to his left. ‘To Whittlesey, telling him about Godrich’s predilection for witchery, knowing that a Benedictine would never countenance such a man in charge of a university. And to Lyng, which you had to retrieve by breaking into Maud’s.’

‘The handwriting,’ explained Nicholas. ‘Michael would have recognised it as mine.’

Bartholomew rubbed his aching head. ‘But why go to all this trouble when Tynkell was on the verge of retiring anyway? Why not wait?’

‘And give the wealthy all that time to buy the post? You saw how many scholars Godrich bribed in a few days – imagine what he would have managed over a period of months. Hah! More cheers. It will not be long now.’

‘You cannot murder people in a church.’ Bartholomew’s voice cracked with despair. ‘You will be damned for all eternity.’

Nicholas laughed. ‘You think that worries me?’ He pulled back his sleeve to reveal the horned serpent that was inked there.

Bartholomew gazed at it in despair, and tried another tack. ‘Are you skulking in here because you cannot bear to watch the results of your despicable crime? You are cowards, who dare not look on the faces of their victims?’

‘No,’ replied Nicholas. ‘We are hiding here so that no one can accuse us of having a hand in the disaster later.’ He glanced at Frisby, and his muscles bunched as he prepared for the jump that would send the granite crashing downwards. ‘Do you have a knife, Frisby? Good. Then stop messing about with that useless crossbow, and stab him.’

Even the drunken Frisby was unlikely to miss from such close range, so with nothing to lose, Bartholomew hurled himself at Nicholas, aiming to knock him off the slab in the desperate, if unrealistic, hope that Cynric and Tulyet might be able to use the respite to save themselves.

Nicholas was in the act of jumping down hard when Bartholomew slammed into him, but the physician misjudged the distance. Instead of knocking Nicholas clean away, he only spun him around, and the secretary landed on one corner of the stone. Bartholomew’s own momentum sent him tumbling across the floor to fetch up against the far wall. Cynric howled his terror as there was an unpleasant grating sound, and the stone juddered disturbingly.

At the same time, Frisby released a bellow of frustration: his wild swipe had missed Bartholomew, but the blade had flown from his fingers and was clattering away from him over the flagstones towards the vault.

Bartholomew struggled to his feet and gazed at the slab in alarm, expecting to see it in the process of crashing downwards. But it was wedged at an angle, and he saw it was held there by Nicholas’s leg, which was trapped in the space between it and the lip of the vault. The secretary was silent for a moment, then he screamed in pain.

‘Behind you, Matt!’ yelled Tulyet.

Bartholomew turned to see Frisby, ham-sized fists ready to deliver a pummelling. But the physician was faster and lighter, and was able to deliver two brisk clouts to the dissipated face before snatching up the jug he had brought from the porch. Meanwhile, despite his agony, Nicholas had managed to grab the dagger his kinsman had dropped.

‘Drive him towards me, Frisby,’ the secretary rasped in a voice that was thick with pain. ‘I will stab him, and then you can help me out. Hurry – it hurts!’

Frisby started to oblige, but Bartholomew swung the jug with all his might, and knocked him backwards. It was another misjudgement on Bartholomew’s part, because the blow sent the vicar staggering towards the vault. He could hardly bear to watch as Frisby’s foot caught on the edge of the granite and over he went. The vicar landed on top of Nicholas, who released another shriek of anguish.

But by some miracle, the granite slab still did not fall, although Frisby lay unmoving across his howling cousin.

‘He came down on the dagger,’ shouted Tulyet to Bartholomew, his eyes just visible through the slit between the stone and the lip of the vault – he was standing on Cynric’s shoulders. ‘Did it kill him?’

Bartholomew felt for a life-beat, then hauled the dead vicar away before his weight could drive the slab downwards anyway. ‘Yes. Can you push–’

‘Stop!’ cried Tulyet, as Bartholomew put his fingers under the enormous stone and prepared to heave. ‘You will bring it down on us for certain if you try to lift it on your own. Examine Nicholas. Is he still alive?’

Bartholomew winced when he saw the state of the secretary’s leg. Even if Nicholas survived the shock of such a terrible injury, the limb would have to come off in its entirety. ‘He has fainted.’

‘Here,’ said Tulyet, shoving a piece of rope through the gap. ‘Fasten that to the hoist – it will keep us safe until help arrives.’

‘How badly are you hurt? Frisby said he shot you?’

‘I will survive. Now go to St Mary the Great. Quickly!’

Outside, snow had started to fall again. Bartholomew began to wade through it, cursing the unsteadiness of his legs. Then he heard a round of applause, although not a particularly enthusiastic one. It told him that someone had been declared the University’s new Chancellor, which meant it would not be long before the procession moved towards the narthex.

He tried to move faster, legs burning with exhaustion and breath coming in ragged gasps. There came the sound of singing as the choir began the final anthem. He skidded on ice, twisting his knee, which made him limp for a few steps. His uneven gait reminded him of the way Nicholas walked. And then he stopped in horror.

The secretary was not the killer! How could he be? A lame man could never have done battle with the Chancellor on the roof, then scampered down the stairs to hide in the Chest Room. There was also the ‘woman’ in the cloak with the embroidered hem – ‘she’ had not been limping. And scrambling down the ivy at Maud’s would have been an impossible feat.

Bartholomew stumbled on again. Nicholas had taken credit for the killings, but it was a lie. However, he knew so much about the crimes that he had obviously discussed them with the real culprit – which meant that the two of them were friends. Very close friends.

Bartholomew felt sick with horror. Thelnetham! He was the clever mind behind all the plots and misinformation. And with that, answers tumbled into Bartholomew’s mind so fast that it was difficult to analyse them all.

Thelnetham stood to gain the most from the plan, and was doubtless waiting impatiently for the bells to fall, so he could offer to step into the breach afforded by the death or disappearance of the other four candidates. And his colleagues would accept him without demur. He had demonstrated himself to be eloquent, decent and intelligent, a man who had stood aside and graciously lent his support to a rival.

Then there was Stoke Poges. Who had claimed that Lyng hailed from the next village, that Tynkell wanted its chapel for the University, and that both men had visited the manor? The story about a horseman bearing the Stoke Poges insignia had been Thelnetham’s, too – another falsehood probably, given that no one else had seen it. Then there was Yevele, who had left Stoke Poges and begged for work at the castle on the Gilbertine’s recommendation. And what had Yevele done? Let Moleyns out at night!

It was not only false trails that Thelnetham had left – he had contributed to the confusion about witchery, too. He had told the tale about Lyng, Moleyns and Tynkell comparing horned serpents in St Mary the Great, but it was something that would never have happened – Tynkell had gone to considerable trouble to keep his symbols hidden, and would never have risked baring them in a public place.

Bartholomew reached Piron Lane to find the drifts even deeper. His legs ached so badly that he longed to stop, but the thought of Michael and the others who were about to be slaughtered kept him slogging on. To take his mind off the agony, he thought again about Thelnetham.

Why had the Gilbertine ‘discovered’ Lyng’s body, when it would have been better to leave it for someone else? Bartholomew closed his eyes. Thelnetham was devious indeed! He had known exactly what everyone would conclude – that he would not have raised the alarm if he had been the killer. The ploy had worked – they had taken it into account when they had dismissed him as a suspect, especially as it came with a confession about his illicit relationship with Nicholas. It had lost him votes, of course, but what did that matter, when he had other plans to see himself in power?

Bartholomew reached the High Street, relieved beyond measure to find it clearer, allowing him to make better time. As he stumbled along this final leg, he pondered Cook’s testimony.

The barber had overheard the killer talking to Inge – someone ‘educated, clever and confident’, who had put the lawyer in his place. Nicholas was incapable of such a feat, but Thelnetham’s caustic tongue made him formidable. And when Moleyns had charged Cook to ‘ask the secret air’, he had not been suggesting that the secretary was the killer, but that Cook should question Nicholas about the culprit.

St Mary the Great was closer now, and the singing was much louder. Bartholomew groaned. He might have been able to yell a warning if it had been any other group of singers, but the monk had contrived to use the Michaelhouse Choir, which meant the noise inside would be deafening. He could bawl all he liked, but no one would hear him.

Answers continued to pour into his mind as he struggled along the last few steps. Lyng had quarrelled with two people the night he died: Hopeman and someone he had called a ‘black villain’ – not a Dominican, but a Gilbertine, who had ‘howled like a girl’ when he had been slapped. And finally, there was the dog. They made Thelnetham sneeze, so it was doubtless Frisby who had obliged with the lamb shank, while the Gilbertine lurked in the cloak he had stolen from Cristine, ready to ply his deadly spike.

Bartholomew reached the church at last, and stumbled inside with relief. It was packed with scholars and awash with noise. He scrambled on to the base of a pillar, and peered over the sea of heads towards the chancel. Suttone stood triumphantly next to the Senior Proctor, while Hopeman glowered ungraciously from the sidelines.

Bartholomew looked around wildly. Where was Thelnetham? Hiding, like Nicholas and Frisby, so he could claim to have been elsewhere when the disaster occurred? Then he glanced towards the tower. No! Thelnetham was meticulous, and would not risk his plan failing at the last hurdle. He would be with the bells, to ensure that they fell on cue.

He began to shove through the massed scholars, earning himself retaliatory pokes and shoves in the process. He tried to shout to them, to beg their help, but the choir was bellowing at the top of its collective lungs, and the few words he could make heard were greeted with incredulous gazes. His appearance did not help – he was wearing Isnard’s leather hat and the clothes he had taken from the warehouse, while every other Regent master was in his ceremonial best.

He reached the narthex just as the procession began to move down the nave. He would have a little time, because Suttone would walk slowly, thanking those who had voted for him, and accepting the sheepish congratulations of those who had not.

Beadles stood ready to throw open the Great West Door when Suttone reached it, but there was a problem: it was unexpectedly locked, and no one could find the key. Bartholomew watched their rising agitation helplessly. Thelnetham was thorough indeed – those at the back of the procession would push forward when those at the front stopped, creating a crush that would see a veritable massacre when the bells and their frame crashed through the ceiling.

Bartholomew managed to reach the tower door, and was startled when a frantic shove saw it swing inwards. But of course it was open – Thelnetham would want to be on hand as soon as possible after the tragedy, to take command with a show of calm competence. Locked doors would slow him down.

‘Help me!’ he howled at the top of his voice, grabbing Master Heltisle of Bene’t College by the arm and giving him a vigorous shake. ‘Please!’

He could not hear what Heltisle said in return, but the expression on the man’s haughty face made it clear that no assistance would be coming from that quarter – and also told him that trying to recruit anyone else would likely be a waste of valuable seconds. He was on his own.

Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he turned to the spiral staircase and began to climb.

Thelnetham was in the bell chamber, perched on a narrow ledge behind the frame and holding a crowbar. He jumped in surprise when Bartholomew stumbled in, and stood slowly. He had left his cloak in the doorway, folded neatly with the large purple brooch laid on top of it. For the first time, Bartholomew saw the back of the brooch – it had a long, thin pin.

‘So that is how you killed them,’ he said, watching the Gilbertine inch around the wall towards him. ‘I should have guessed.’

‘You should.’ Thelnetham was too intelligent to bother with denials. ‘I never made an attempt to hide it, and a brooch that large will inevitably have a big fastener.’

‘Come down,’ ordered Bartholomew. ‘Nicholas and Frisby are caught. It is over.’

‘Do not take me for a fool, Matthew. If it was over, there would be pandemonium. Instead, the choir is happily singing.’ He lunged suddenly, and kicked the door closed. There was a snap as the latch clicked down on the outside. ‘There. You cannot escape now. You will go down with the bells. I, of course, will be safe up here.’

‘But you will be locked in – and no one will come to let you out.’

‘I do not need anyone’s help to escape. I shall merely prise the door open with this crowbar when it is time for me to save the day.’

Bartholomew looked around quickly. Thelnetham had inserted his lever between the wall and the frame – one good heave would see the whole thing pop out, especially if Suttone set the bells swinging at the same time. The frame was already listing badly, pulled down by the great weight of the tenor. But a plan was beginning to take shape in Bartholomew’s mind, although it was a desperate one, and he was not sure it would work.

‘Why did you kill Tynkell on the roof?’ he asked, aiming to keep Thelnetham talking while angles, weights and measurements flashed through his mind.

Thelnetham smiled. ‘It suited my penchant for the dramatic, although I did not expect him to put up quite such a fight – he almost throttled me at one point. I was tempted to do something similar for Lyng, but Nicholas advised me against it.’

‘You were sorry about Lyng, though,’ said Bartholomew, walking cautiously across the trapdoor, which flexed alarmingly under his weight. He glanced up; the bells hung directly above him. ‘You arranged his body with care.’

Thelnetham shrugged. ‘I asked him nicely to withdraw, but he refused. Slapped me, in fact. Even so, I had no wish to kill an old man …’

The choir was singing even louder. Did it mean they were nearly at the narthex? Bartholomew was seized by a sudden panic. If his plan failed, the carnage would be terrible!

‘Moleyns knew you were dangerous,’ he gabbled, afraid that Thelnetham would read his mind if he remained silent. ‘He told Cook. How did he guess?’

‘Because of Yevele – the soldier who let him out at night. Rashly, I confided my ambitions to the lad, but he betrayed me to Moleyns for a shilling.’

‘So you killed him,’ surmised Bartholomew. ‘The tale about helping Yevele escape was pure fabrication.’

‘Not entirely. I did give him money. I also gave him a flask of poisoned wine.’

‘You lied about the horseman who rode away after Moleyns was killed too.’

‘Yes, and about my alibis – neither Nicholas nor my Gilbertine brethren were with me at the time, although you did not bother to check.’ Thelnetham shook his head in disgust. ‘It has been so easy to fool you that I am glad I shall soon be in charge. The University deserves better.’

‘I cannot believe that you have stooped to such evil,’ said Bartholomew, taking a small step to his right. ‘You! A monk and a friend.’

‘A “friend” who was ousted from Michaelhouse,’ countered Thelnetham bitterly. ‘And what better way to avenge myself than winning the chancellorship? When I am in post, Mad Clippesby will be locked away, and William and Langelee will be sent packing. I need not bother with you, Suttone and Michael: you will be dead.’

‘And Kolvyle?’

‘He can stay. He reminds me of myself at that age – ambitious, clever and undervalued.’

Bartholomew took another step. ‘If you are so clever, why did you not find the cloak that blew away from the top of the tower? I know that is why you were out in the Barnwell Fields that day – it was nothing to do with the dying Widow Miller. Your poor grasp of geometry meant you could not predict where it had landed.’

‘Well, you did not find it either,’ retorted Thelnetham, nettled.

‘Yes, I did – it is in Michaelhouse. Langelee will show it to Agatha, and she will identify it as yours. Laundresses are well acquainted with the garments they look after. You will be exposed as “the Devil” who fought Tynkell on the roof.’

Thelnetham shrugged. ‘Then I shall deny it, and who will doubt the Chancellor? But I am afraid our little chat must end now. The bell ropes are beginning to move, which means that someone is preparing to ring.’

Bartholomew had also been watching the ropes. He grabbed the one that was twitching and hauled it upwards as fast as he could, then did the same to the other. Below, the anthem petered out as the peculiar phenomenon was observed. Thelnetham laughed derisively.

‘The frame will fall regardless of whether the bells are pulled, because it will–’

He faltered when Bartholomew reached up, and swung the clapper hard against the side of the nearest bell – the self-chiming tenor had caused considerable consternation the day before, and he prayed it would do so again. The frame gave an almighty groan, and dust poured from one wall as it shifted in its moorings, but the bell sounded loud and clear. The singing stopped altogether, which was Bartholomew’s chance.

‘Satan is in the tower!’ he hollered. ‘Run for your lives!’

Thelnetham snatched up his crowbar. ‘It is too late, Matthew. The Great West Door will not open, and everyone will mill around in confusion, trapping those in front. Nothing you do can make any difference now.’

‘Lucifer is here!’ howled Bartholomew at the top of his voice, giving the bell another belt and then stamping hard on the trapdoor, so it gave a hollow and sinister boom. ‘Run!’

Thelnetham released an almighty bellow of effort as he heaved on his lever, and Bartholomew dived towards the window as the frame began to tip. There was a groaning roar as the great mass of wood and metal slid to the floor, accompanied by the distraught clanging of bells. There was a moment when it held, but then the floorboards began to buckle.

‘Goodbye, Matthew,’ called Thelnetham tauntingly.

‘Geometry,’ Bartholomew shouted back from the windowsill, watching the Gilbertine’s gloat turn to alarm as his ledge began to crumble. ‘Your grasp of it is poor, or you would have chosen somewhere else to stand.’

And then the frame and bells were gone in a tearing rumble. There was a split second of silence, followed by a crash and a massive billow of dust and plaster. Before he was enveloped in a dense cloud of it, Bartholomew saw two things: Thelnetham clinging frantically to the ledge with his fingertips before tumbling downwards, and – through the window – Michael, Suttone and the choir racing away to safety.