A Grave Concern

Chapter 1

Cambridge, February 1360

An enormous crowd had gathered outside St Mary the Great, and everyone in it was gazing upwards. On the top of the tower, high above, the University’s Chancellor was doing battle with the Devil, a desperate, frantic struggle that surged back and forth, perilously close to the edge. More than once it seemed the pair would plummet to their deaths. Or Chancellor Tynkell would: most suspected it would take rather more to eliminate Satan.

Master Ralph de Langelee of Michaelhouse and four of his Fellows were among the throng. They had been to visit friends in Peterhouse and were hurrying home when their attention had been snagged by the spectacle. All had teaching planned for that morning, but lectures had flown from their minds when they had seen what was happening on the roof.

‘Whatever possessed him to tackle such a foe?’ breathed Father William. He was famous for three things: a filthy Franciscan habit, scandalously bigoted opinions, and a dim-wittedness rare among those claiming to be academics. ‘Even I would not dare, and I am a priest.’

‘Let us pray he is strong enough,’ whispered Clippesby, the College’s Dominican. He crossed himself, then hugged the goose he was carrying. His habit of talking to animals – and claiming they talked back – naturally led most people to assume he was insane.

‘This wind does not help,’ added Langelee. He had been a henchman for the Archbishop of York before deciding that life as a scholar would be more fun. Like William, he was no intellect, but he was an able administrator, and his Fellows were generally satisfied with his rule. ‘One false step, and they will both be blown off.’

Even as he spoke, a violent gust made him stagger, then huddle more deeply into his cloak. It was bitterly cold, with streams and ditches frozen hard, and the occasional flurry of snow dancing in the air. He turned as Beadle Meadowman approached at a run. Beadles were the men who kept order in the University, under the command of the proctors. The Senior Proctor was currently Michael, a rotund Benedictine theologian, who was the third of Langelee’s Fellows.

‘We cannot open the porch door, Brother,’ Meadowman reported tersely. ‘The Devil must have tampered with it, to keep us out.’

‘Then try the one in the vestry,’ suggested Matthew Bartholomew, Michaelhouse’s physician and the last Fellow in the pack. Besides teaching medicine, he was also the University’s Corpse Examiner, which meant it was his responsibility to provide an official cause of death for any scholar who died. He sincerely hoped that his services would not be required for Tynkell.

‘That is a good idea.’ Michael sighed irritably when Meadowman only gazed up at the tower in open-mouthed fascination. ‘Well, go on then, man!’

Meadowman shuffled away, but with such obvious reluctance that it was clear his efforts to enter the building had not been as assiduous as he would have his Senior Proctor believe.

‘He does not want to go in, because he is afraid of what he might encounter in there,’ said Bartholomew, watching him.

Michael scowled. ‘Tynkell is fighting a person, Matt, not Satan. I cannot imagine what he thinks he is doing, but unless my beadles stop them soon, blood will be spilled.’

‘It is the Devil.’ William sounded astonished that the monk should think otherwise. ‘Look at him, Brother – dressed in black from head to toe.’

‘So am I,’ retorted Michael, indicating his Benedictine habit. ‘But that does not mean–’

‘And he has that hunched, impish look of all demons,’ William went on earnestly. ‘Trust me, I know. I learned these things when I was with the Inquisition in France.’

Fortunately for that country’s ‘heretics’, William’s appointment had been a short one, and he had been assigned to Cambridge when his fellow inquisitors had deemed him too extreme.

There was a collective gasp from the onlookers as the wrestling pair lurched violently to one side, dislodging a coping stone, which crashed to the ground below. Then Tynkell managed to wrap his hands around his opponent’s throat. There was a cheer of encouragement from the crowd, especially when the Devil began to flail around in a frantic effort to breathe.

‘Those wretched beadles are more interested in gawping than putting an end to it,’ said Michael crossly, glaring at them. ‘I shall have to do it myself.’

‘Then hurry,’ advised Bartholomew. ‘Unless you want the Chancellor to commit murder in front of half the town.’

‘Do not intervene!’ cried William in dismay, as the monk began to stride towards the church. ‘Not when Tynkell is winning. New scholars will race to study here once they learn that we are the kind of men who can conquer Lucifer.’

Michael did not grace the appeal with a response. He reached the church, Bartholomew at his heels, and inspected the vestry door. The beadles were more than happy to abandon their half-hearted attempts to open it, and scuttled off to join the other spectators in the High Street.

The vestry door was shut fast, but it only took a moment to ascertain that a key had been used, not some diabolical device. It was still in the hole, and a jab from one of Bartholomew’s surgical probes saw it drop to the floor on the other side. There was a large gap between door and flagstones, so it was easy for the physician to slip his hand beneath and retrieve it.

‘I thought you had keys to this place,’ he remarked, inserting it into the lock and pushing the door open. Behind him, a disappointed moan from the crowd suggested that Lucifer had just broken the Chancellor’s death grip.

‘I do, but I rarely carry them these days,’ explained the monk, shoving past him and hurrying inside. ‘There is no need, because the church is always open. It has to be – the University’s recent expansion means our clerks have urgent business day and night, while the masons working on Sir John Dallingridge’s tomb must be able to come and go at will.’

‘Then where are they all?’ asked Bartholomew, following him up the empty nave.

Michael looked around and shrugged. ‘They must have left when they heard the commotion outside. Then the doors caught the wind, which slammed them so hard that they jammed.’

‘Both of them?’ asked Bartholomew sceptically. ‘And besides, the vestry door was locked, not jammed.’ He frowned when Michael pulled a bunch of keys from his scrip. ‘I thought you just said you never carry those.’

‘I meant the ones to the outer doors,’ explained the monk. ‘These are for the tower, which, as you know, houses the University Chest. There are only two sets of keys in existence, and this is one of them.’

The Chest contained all the University’s money and most precious documents, so its security was taken seriously. Bartholomew was not surprised that only a limited number of people had the wherewithal to access it.

‘Who has the other set?’ he asked. ‘Tynkell?’

‘He did, but I took it away and gave it to Meadowman instead.’ The monk shot his friend a rueful glance. ‘I was afraid Tynkell might do something else to make a name for himself before he finally retires next summer.’

Tynkell had won the chancellorship on a technicality, but it had quickly become clear that the post was well beyond his abilities. This had suited Michael perfectly, as it allowed him to seize control behind the scenes. Loath to go down in history as the Puppet Chancellor, Tynkell had backed two schemes to see himself remembered more favourably. One was to build a Common Library – a place that would have been open to all scholars, whether rich or poor, which some masters felt set a dangerously egalitarian precedent. The other was to found a new College. Both had gone disastrously wrong, but Tynkell stubbornly refused to learn from his mistakes, and Michael lived in fear that he might try something else.

Tynkell had announced his resignation eighteen months before, but had changed his mind at the last minute, and decided to stay on. A year later, he gave notice a second time, but then had been assailed with misgivings as the leaving date had loomed. He was currently due to step down at the end of the academic year, and claimed he was looking forward to enjoying some well-earned leisure time, although no one was sure whether to believe him.

‘How did he get up the tower, then?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Borrowed Meadowman’s, I suppose.’ Michael hissed irritably when haste made him clumsy, and he could not find the right key. ‘I thought I had loaded him with enough extra duties to keep him out of mischief. He should not have time for this sort of nonsense.’

Outside, there was a collective cry of annoyance, suggesting that the action on the roof had moved out of sight. Michael muttered a quick prayer of thanks when he found the right key at last. He started to thrust it into the hole, then gaped in disbelief when the door swung open of its own accord.

‘This is always kept locked,’ he said angrily, gathering the voluminous folds of his habit as he prepared to tackle the spiral staircase. ‘Even when one of us is working up there. Tynkell has become a real menace – I need a Chancellor I can trust, not one who runs amok.’

Knowing the monk’s upwards progress would be stately, Bartholomew pushed past him and went first, climbing as fast as he dared up steps that were unlit, icy and perilously uneven. It was not easy, and he was obliged to clamber back down again when Michael fell and released a yelp of pain, although the monk flapped an impatient hand, telling him to go on without him.

The tower comprised three large chambers, set one above the other. The first contained the bells, a trio of tuneful domes suspended in a wooden frame. Bartholomew glanced in as he hurried past, noting that it was empty. The second was the Chest Room, protected by an iron-bound door with two substantial locks. He rattled it, but it was shut fast. The third was a vast empty space containing nothing but the mess left by pigeons. Then came the roof. Bartholomew opened the little door that gave access to it, and saw Tynkell slumped on the far side.

The wind buffeted the top of the tower so hard that it was difficult to stay upright, while the slates underfoot were treacherously slick with ice. As he picked his way gingerly across them, he wondered what had induced Tynkell to fight under such conditions.

‘Matt!’ yelled Michael, hobbling up the last few stairs. ‘Wait! Where is his opponent?’

Instinct had prompted Bartholomew to go to the Chancellor’s aid, and the possibility that he might be in danger himself had not crossed his mind. He looked around in alarm, but the roof was deserted.

‘He is not here,’ he called back, although Michael could see this for himself. ‘He must have fallen over the edge while we were coming up the stairs.’

He reached Tynkell and shook his shoulder. There was no response. Alarmed, he felt for a life-beat, and then stared in shock when he could not find one.

‘No!’ he whispered in stunned disbelief. ‘Tynkell … he is dead.’

For several moments, Bartholomew could do no more than stare in horror at the man who had been the University’s public face for the last six years. Tynkell had been his patient and he had liked him. Then he dragged his eyes away and looked at Michael. The colour had drained from the monk’s face, leaving it as white as snow; he clutched the doorframe for support.

‘You are wrong,’ he said unsteadily. ‘Check again.’

Bartholomew obliged, because he was unwilling to believe the horrible truth himself, but it was not long before he sat back on his heels and shook his head. ‘I am sorry, Brother.’

‘But he wants to retire,’ objected Michael, as if this would undo the terrible news. ‘And I believe he is serious this time, because he has been making plans for his future.’

‘I know,’ said Bartholomew softly. ‘And I am more sorry than I can say.’

Michael limped across the roof. ‘How can he be dead? All he and his opponent did was grapple and shove at each other.’

‘Perhaps he suffered an apoplexy.’

Michael shot him a disbelieving glance. ‘Well, at least the cause of death will be easy to determine for his rival. This tower is high, and anyone who falls off …’

He inched towards the parapet, and clung tightly to a pinnacle as he peered over the edge. He was greeted by a sea of faces, all upturned in eager expectation.

‘Who fell?’ he yelled, scanning the ground below for mangled remains.

‘No one,’ Father William bellowed back. ‘They disappeared from sight for a moment, after which Satan launched himself off the roof and flew to the Dominican Friary.’

William hated Dominicans, and was rarely logical where they were concerned.

‘What really happened?’ shouted Michael, appealing to his more sensible colleagues.

‘Just what he said,’ hollered Langelee. ‘Lucifer spread his great big wings, and soared off in that direction.’ He pointed east, which was not quite where the Black Friars’ convent was located, although it was not far away.

The other spectators clamoured to say that they had also seen it, so Michael squinted in the direction indicated, but could detect nothing through eyes that streamed in the iciness of the wind. Then he went to each side of the tower in turn, and surveyed the ground and the various roofs below, but there was no evidence that anyone had landed there.

‘The wind must have carried off some item of clothing,’ he yelled. ‘That is what you saw flapping away – not Satan.’

‘Nonsense!’ countered William firmly. ‘I know the Devil when I see him.’

Others roared that they did, too. Michael tried to make them see reason, but the gale was blowing harder than ever, snatching his words away before they could reach the assembled ears below. Not that anyone wanted to hear them, of course – it was far more exciting to have glimpsed the Lord of Darkness than a combatant’s cloak. Michael made his way back to where the physician still crouched next to Tynkell.

‘It was a person,’ he insisted doggedly. ‘And people do not fly.’

‘Then where is he?’ Bartholomew gestured around him. ‘He is not up here; he would have been seen falling; and he cannot have gone down the stairs, because we would have met him when we were coming up. Or is there an alcove he might have hidden in?’

‘There is not. And nor did he take refuge in one of the chambers: the Chest Room is locked, and I looked in the other two on my way up. Both were empty.’

‘But he must be in the Chest Room,’ said Bartholomew, willing to accept the monk’s point about the other two, because he had also seen that no one was in them. ‘There is nowhere else he could have gone.’

‘It is locked,’ insisted Michael. ‘Come – I shall prove it.’

He hobbled back down the stairs, Bartholomew trailing behind him, looking for a space where the culprit might have lurked while they had hurried past. But the walls were smooth and unbroken, and not even a sparrow could have concealed itself there.

They reached the Chest Room, where Michael unfastened its two locks to reveal a sparsely furnished chamber containing a table, two stools and the enormous coffer that gave it its name. Its walls were stone, the window a fixed frame that could not be opened, and the floor and ceiling were solid wood. Small dishes holding poison were scattered around, to ensure the University’s precious records were not eaten by mice.

‘You see?’ said Michael. ‘No one is here.’

‘What about inside the Chest?’ persisted Bartholomew.

Michael opened the seven great padlocks one by one, and lifted the lid. The box was packed with scrolls, books and documents, and not only was there no room for a person to hide, but someone else would have been needed on the outside to manipulate the keys.

Leaving the monk to lock up, Bartholomew descended to the bell chamber, and quickly determined that hiding there was also impossible.

The bells had originally been higher up, but when they had been augmented from one to three, the bell-hangers had decided that several tons of metal swinging around there would put too great a strain on the tower’s foundations, so they had been installed just above the church’s west porch. Bartholomew suffered a sharp pang of grief when he saw them: they had been bought with a benefaction from his late brother-in-law.

‘Oswald died too young,’ he murmured, when the monk eventually joined him. He knew he should be thinking about Tynkell’s assailant, but his kinsman’s untimely death remained a source of great sadness to him, and he could not help himself.

‘He would have liked these bells.’ Michael spoke absently, still stunned by what had happened on the roof. ‘And Tynkell was proud to have had them installed under his chancellorship. But never mind that – we must find whatever flew off the roof and prove it was not Satan, or we shall never hear the end of this ridiculous tale.’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘I will look for it as soon as I have carried Tynkell downstairs.’

‘That will be too late – the rumour will be all over the town by then. I will detail my beadles to do it. William pointed out the direction it took, so I know where to tell them to start.’

‘It is probably Tynkell’s cloak. You must have noticed that he was not wearing one.’

‘Pity. If it had been his opponent’s, it might have allowed us to identify him.’

While Michael hurried away to brief his men, Bartholomew began the tortuous business of manoeuvring a corpse down a narrow spiral staircase. By the time he reached the Lady Chapel, he was sweating heavily, warmer than he had been since Christmas, when the cold weather had started. Then the beadles chased out the gawpers and kept guard while he conducted a formal examination of the Chancellor’s body.

It was not pleasant, as Tynkell had had an unfortunate aversion to personal hygiene, and his being dead did nothing to improve matters.

Bartholomew began by checking the head for bruises or dents, but there was nothing amiss. However, when he removed Tynkell’s academic tabard, he discovered a patch of blood. He pulled away the remaining garments to reveal a tiny puncture wound in the left side of Tynkell’s chest, small enough to be almost invisible. It had not been made with a knife, so he supposed some kind of spike was responsible, although one that was unusually long and thin.

‘It was pushed through the ribs, directly into his heart,’ he told Michael, when he eventually finished and the monk came to hear his report. ‘Death would have been virtually instant, and there was very little bleeding – which is why I did not notice it on the roof.’

‘It makes more sense than a sudden attack of natural causes.’ Michael rubbed his chin, fingers rasping against the stubble. ‘So our killer stabbed Tynkell, then escaped with all the ease of Lucifer. Literally, according to at least three dozen witnesses, all of whom swear on their souls that he then flew off the tower.’

‘What did they say when you showed them the cloak?’

‘Nothing, because my beadles cannot find it. I suppose a pauper got to it first, and is reluctant to hand it over. I do not blame him – the weather is bitter, and such a garment might mean the difference between life and death.’

‘That is unfortunate,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I dislike rumours about Satan – they nearly always result in trouble.’

Michael nodded agreement, then was silent for a while, staring down at the man who had worked so closely with him for the past six years. Then he reached for the blanket that Bartholomew had used to cover the body. There had always been something a little odd about Tynkell’s person, which had resulted in some outrageous speculation among the students – one had even suggested that he was pregnant. Bartholomew knew what made the Chancellor different, but steadfastly refused to tell.

‘No,’ he said sharply, slapping Michael’s hand away. ‘Leave him in peace.’

‘Why?’ asked Michael, aggrieved. ‘It cannot hurt him now, and I have manfully swallowed my curiosity all these years. Besides, it might have a bearing on his death.’

‘It does not. Besides, how would you like it if people came to paw at your corpse for no reason other than prurient curiosity?’

‘I have no intention of shuffling off this mortal coil,’ retorted Michael loftily; he had long been of the opinion that his own death was optional. ‘And certainly not before I have been made a bishop or an abbot. Which will not be much longer in the offing, of course.’

Bartholomew regarded him searchingly. The monk had always maintained that he would one day hold high rank in the Church – without the inconvenience of climbing through the stages in between, naturally – but had something happened to prompt the remark now?

‘You had a letter from Bishop de Lisle yesterday,’ he fished.

Michael nodded. ‘He is still with the Pope in Avignon, which is a nuisance actually, because it is difficult to whisper in his ear when he lives so far away. However, I have sent him reports about the University for nigh on two decades now, and my loyal service has put him in my debt.’

‘Is that why he wrote? To thank you?’

‘Yes and no. He has been singing my praises to the Holy Father, and wanted me to know that an opportunity for advancement might soon come my way.’

‘Not too soon, I hope,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We have just lost our Chancellor, and we cannot afford to lose our Senior Proctor as well.’

‘Do not worry – I shall ensure that a suitable successor to Tynkell is appointed before I go anywhere. I have worked hard to build this University, and I will not leave it foundering.’

‘Oh, Lord!’ groaned Bartholomew, as it occurred to him that Tynkell’s death would bring about changes, not all of them pleasant. ‘There will have to be an election, and the last time we had one of those, there was mayhem, with scholars at each other’s throats and–’

‘Who said anything about an election? It would be best if I chose Tynkell’s replacement, and installed him quietly. I know what is needed; our colleagues do not.’

Bartholomew knew the University’s voting members would not be pleased to learn that they were about to be deprived of the right to select their own leader, but it was hardly the time or the place for a debate on the matter. He fetched the necessary accoutrements from the vestry, and began to lay Tynkell out himself, knowing it was what the Chancellor would have wanted. When he had finished, he found the parish coffin – a reusable box with sturdy clasps – lifted Tynkell into it, and fastened down the lid as tightly as he could. Then he charged two of Michael’s most trustworthy beadles to guard it.

‘No one looks inside, not even Michael,’ he instructed, then added a lie to ensure that his orders were followed. ‘Opening it would be dangerous, because there is a deadly miasma around the body.’

‘We know,’ said one man in distaste, holding his nose. ‘We can smell it from here.’

When Bartholomew stepped into the street shortly afterwards, he was nearly blown off his feet by the force of the gale. Yet despite the mighty gusts, people still thronged around the church, reluctant to leave after the excitement. This was convenient for Michael, as it allowed him to question witnesses. Unfortunately, everyone told him the same tale: that Tynkell and the Devil had disappeared for a moment, after which Lucifer had flown away.

‘You know that is impossible,’ the monk was saying irritably to William Thelnetham, a Gilbertine who liked to liven up the sober habit of his Order with outrageously colourful accessories; that day, he sported yellow hose, while a pink ribbon graced the hem of his cloak.

Thelnetham had been a member of Michaelhouse, but had resigned when another foundation had made him a better offer. When the new College had come to nought, he had expected to be reinstated at his old one, and had been astonished when his colleagues had refused to accept him back. He was an excellent teacher and a skilled orator, so there was no question that he raised Michaelhouse’s academic profile, but he was also acerbic and quarrelsome, and the other Fellows decided that they preferred life without him. He had been obliged to take up residence in the Gilbertine Priory instead, although he had not given up all hope that Michaelhouse would one day recant and invite him to return.

‘It sounds impossible,’ Thelnetham replied. ‘But it is what happened – I saw it with my own eyes. And you said yourself that no one else was on the roof when you arrived.’

‘What you saw take to the air was Tynkell’s cloak,’ argued Michael.

‘Nonsense,’ countered Thelnetham with considerable conviction. ‘I know the difference between a gown and the Devil. Unlike you, it seems.’

‘Satan does not go around stabbing folk,’ said Michael, speaking just as vehemently. ‘That is something people do.’

This remark was overheard by a Dominican named Thomas Hopeman, an unattractive individual with a low forehead and darkly glittering eyes, who promptly marched across to say his piece. He was another scholar who could not open his mouth without contradicting someone, although unlike Thelnetham, he did it without humour. He was always accompanied by a band of six or seven disciples, who were all much of an ilk – grim, unsmiling fanatics, who turned religion into something joyless and rather frightening.

‘Rubbish!’ he stated dogmatically. ‘Lucifer has long claws that he keeps honed for the express purpose of running people through.’

His acolytes surged forward to clamour their agreement. While Michael struggled to silence them, Thelnetham took Bartholomew’s arm and pulled him aside.

‘What will happen now?’ he asked in a gossipy whisper. ‘I assume there will be an election, and Michael will put himself forward as Tynkell’s successor?’

‘I have no idea,’ lied Bartholomew.

Thelnetham grimaced. ‘He must have said something to you, Matthew. The University is growing fast at the moment, which means we cannot be without a titular head for long. Or will Michael just take the post without the bother of having himself voted in by his peers?’

‘You will have to ask him.’ Bartholomew tried to edge away.

‘I shall then. And if he agrees to a fair and open competition, I might stand myself.’

‘You will?’ Bartholomew was astounded. He had not imagined it was a post that anyone would want, given that Tynkell’s reign had seen it go from a position of great power to one with a hefty administrative load, an obligation to host lots of dull ceremonies, and no authority to make independent decisions. ‘Why?’

‘Because I love teaching, and I should like a say in the way it is managed. And when I do, substandard masters like your William can expect an end to their comfortable existences.’ Thelnetham glowered to where the Franciscan was chatting to some of his brethren. ‘Our students deserve better than the likes of him.’

It was difficult to argue with that. Students paid for their tuition, and it was unethical to fob them off with mediocre educators. However, it was not just William’s failings in the classroom that drew Thelnetham’s disapproval. When the Gilbertine had been a member of Michaelhouse, he and William had quarrelled constantly, and had loathed each other ever since.

Thelnetham flounced away at that point, so Bartholomew turned back to Michael and Hopeman. As he listened to them argue, he recalled that the Dominican was a member of Maud’s Hostel. Unlike Colleges, hostels had no endowment – no pot of money that paid salaries and kept buildings in good repair – so they tended to be smaller, poorer and less stable. Maud’s was the exception. It took only very wealthy students, and so was always flush with funds, although it had an unfortunate propensity to attract applicants of less than average intelligence. How lads with such short attention spans were persuaded to sit still for Hopeman’s famously protracted theological expositions had always been a mystery to Bartholomew.

Then another Maud’s man joined them, also keen to know what would happen now that Tynkell was dead. He was the elderly Richard Lyng, who had been Chancellor three times himself, and had been very good at it. He was a theologian of some repute, and Bartholomew had often wondered how he could bear lecturing to students who could not remember what they had been taught from one day to the next.

‘No, I shall not stand myself,’ replied Michael in response to Lyng’s polite enquiry. ‘However, organising an election takes time, so it will not happen this term and–’

‘I could arrange one in a trice,’ interrupted Hopeman. ‘All you have to do is set a date, tell everyone, then count a show of hands.’

‘It is rather more complex than that,’ countered Michael irritably. ‘The statutes–’

‘The statutes are a lot of silly decrees designed to impede progress,’ stated Hopeman belligerently. ‘If I were Chancellor, I would scrap them.’

‘Then it is fortunate for us that you are never likely to be in office,’ retorted Michael coolly. He loved the minutiae of the University’s rulebooks, and never tired of poring over them to extract interpretations that allowed him to get his own way.

‘And we do need them, Hopeman,’ said Lyng with a pleasant smile. ‘Without our rubrics, we should have anarchy. Besides, they have served us well for a hundred and fifty years. They need a little tweaking now and again, to bring them in line with changing requirements, but they are fundamentally sound.’

‘Hear, hear,’ said Michael firmly.

‘A hundred and fifty years?’ scoffed Hopeman. ‘Fool! Our University is much older. It was founded by King Arthur, just a year after Our Lord’s glorious Resurrection.’

‘I see history is not your forte,’ drawled Michael, then turned back to Lyng before the Dominican could respond. ‘As I was saying, it will take several weeks to arrange an election, but until then, I shall assume the mantle of Chancellor. I have–’

‘Why?’ interrupted Hopeman aggressively. ‘You just told us that you will not stand.’

‘I will not,’ said Michael, struggling for patience. ‘But I shall plug the breach until Tynkell’s replacement is in post. Then I will step down.’

‘Are you sure you can manage his duties, as well as your own?’ asked Lyng worriedly. ‘We have grown so rapidly over the last year that to undertake both will be a very heavy burden. As an ex-Chancellor myself, I know what I am talking about.’

‘I agree,’ nodded Hopeman. ‘So we should hold an election immediately.’

Michael glared at him. ‘It is inappropriate to discuss such matters while Tynkell is still warm,’ he said curtly. ‘Nothing can or will happen until he is decently laid to rest.’

‘But that might take an age, Brother,’ said Lyng. ‘I helped him to write his will, so I know for a fact that he left funds for a tomb to be built in St Mary the Great. It will be weeks – perhaps even months – before that is ready to receive his mortal remains.’

‘Oh, dear,’ said Michael flatly. ‘What a pity.’

But Hopeman had the bit between his teeth. ‘Tynkell became irrelevant the moment he breathed his last. It is the University that is important now, not him. Ergo, we shall have our ballot in a few days. I shall stand myself, of course. Our studium generale will flourish under a devout man like me.’

His zealots murmured agreement, although Lyng was visibly alarmed by the prospect of Hopeman in charge. Foundations tended to be loyal to fellow members, so Hopeman should have been able to count on the support of anyone from Maud’s. Lyng, however, was cognisant of his University’s best interests.

‘Then I had better put myself forward, too,’ he said. ‘I have plenty of experience at the post, and people will vote for me.’

He had been a popular Chancellor, who had managed to lead without being a tyrant – unlike, it had to be said, Michael – so it was entirely possible that he would be elected for a fourth term. Bartholomew was relieved that there would be at least one sensible alternative to the rabid Dominican, although Hopeman was outraged at the ‘betrayal’, and Michael made a moue of annoyance.

‘I saw you both with Tynkell earlier today,’ said the monk, pointedly turning the discussion back to the man whose shoes they aimed to fill, ‘and I know he was fond of Maud’s. I do not suppose he mentioned an intention to climb up to the tower roof, did he?’

‘He never talked about his University duties,’ replied Lyng. ‘He used to, when he was first appointed, but that stopped after a couple of months. I occasionally raised the subject, but he always maintained that it was too important for idle chatter.’

‘That was because he had no idea what was happening,’ scoffed Hopeman. ‘You never confided in him, Brother, so he was as much in the dark as the rest of us.’

‘So no, he did not mention the tower,’ continued Lyng, shooting the Dominican a look that warned him to moderate his tongue. ‘He just said that he had a lot of work to do today, because you had left a great pile of deeds on his desk.’

‘He also said he was looking forward to retiring, and being free of your bullying ways,’ put in Hopeman spitefully. ‘But I cannot stand here all day. I have an election to win.’

He strode away, his followers twittering excitedly at his heels.

‘Are his zealots members of Maud’s?’ asked Michael, looking after them disapprovingly. ‘They do not seem like the kind of lad you usually recruit.’

‘They are deacons from the parish churches,’ replied Lyng, ‘whom Hopeman aims to turn into younger versions of himself. We try to dissuade him from grooming fanatics, but you know what he is like – not a man to listen to reason. But I had better go, too. He will not waste a moment before he starts campaigning, so neither should I.’

‘I shall have scant time for manipulating elections if I am to perform Tynkell’s duties as well as my own,’ grumbled Michael, when he and Bartholomew were alone again. ‘Not to mention finding his killer. Damn Hopeman! His impatience is a nuisance.’

‘He will not win,’ predicted Bartholomew, hiding his amusement at Michael’s bald admission that he intended to cheat. ‘Lyng is far more popular. So is Thelnetham.’

‘Thelnetham?’ echoed Michael. ‘I do not want him, thank you very much. He will want to ignore my advice and rule alone.’

‘Then stand yourself. It is the only sure way of keeping your power.’

‘But I do not want to be Chancellor! It would be wrong to put myself forward, only to leave a couple of months later.’

‘A couple of months?’ Bartholomew regarded his friend intently. ‘That letter from the Bishop – what did it really say?’

Michael grimaced. ‘I did not want to tell anyone yet, lest there is a hiccup, but this will force my hand. De Lisle has arranged for me to be offered a See. He told me to expect a messenger confirming the appointment in the next few days.’

Bartholomew was delighted for him. ‘That is excellent news, Brother! Which diocese?’

‘I do not know yet. However, I would be happier with my good fortune if I were not afraid for my University. I do not want it in the hands of a lunatic like Hopeman, while Lyng is too old, and Thelnetham has no experience. Lord! What a terrible day this is transpiring to be.’

‘Especially for Tynkell,’ said Bartholomew soberly.

Bartholomew was a very busy man. He had more students than he could realistically teach, plus an enormous medical practice – far larger than the town’s other physicians, who tended to confine themselves to tending the wealthy elite. Thus while the monk questioned more witnesses, he hurried back to Michaelhouse, not sure whether the rest of his day would be spent teaching or seeing patients.

He arrived to discover several urgent summonses, so he left his classes a daunting number of texts to learn – a list that elicited horrified exclamations, although he genuinely failed to understand why there was a problem, when he could read twice that amount in the allocated time – collected his final-year students, and set off on his rounds.

His first patient was Isnard the bargeman, whose leg he had once been obliged to amputate after an accident with a cart. Isnard had adapted well to the loss of his limb, but the episode had not taught him to be more careful, and Bartholomew was called at least once a week to tend cuts and bruises, many sustained during nights of riotous fun in the town’s less salubrious taverns.

‘I toppled backwards when I was watching Chancellor Tynkell fight the Devil,’ the bargeman explained, as Bartholomew and his pupils crowded into the little riverside cottage. There was a powerful reek of ale, which explained exactly why Isnard’s balance had been adversely affected. ‘And I sat down so hard that I hurt my back.’

‘I found him shortly afterwards, and was obliged to carry him home,’ added another man, emerging from the shadows. ‘He could not manage by himself.’

Isnard did not always live on the right side of the law, but Bartholomew was sorry indeed to see him in company with Gundrede, a thoroughly disreputable character who could have earned a decent living from his trade as a metalsmith but preferred instead to dabble in crime. Isnard was easily led, and Bartholomew sincerely hoped that Gundrede would not drag him into trouble.

‘It is a pity the battle cost Tynkell his life,’ sighed Isnard. ‘He was a nice man.’

‘Yet there was always something a little odd about his person,’ mused Gundrede. ‘Between you and me, I suspect he was branded with Satan’s mark, and was killed trying to stop the Devil from pulling off his tabard and exposing it.’

‘What kind of mark?’ asked one of the students, agog.

‘Enough,’ said Bartholomew sharply, as Gundrede drew breath to reply. ‘The poor man is dead. Afford him some respect, if you please.’

‘Did you see Lucifer kill him, Isnard?’ asked another lad eagerly. He glanced resentfully at Bartholomew. ‘We missed it, because we were stuck in the hall, reading Maimonides.’

‘Reading your what?’ asked Isnard, then waved an impatient hand when the student started to explain. ‘Never mind. And the answer is: yes, I did see Satan strike. Afterwards, I watched him soar across the town, returning to his home in Hell.’

‘Which lies to the east,’ elaborated Gundrede darkly, before Bartholomew could tell them about the cloak, ‘in the Barnwell Fields. I always said that place was desolate. I imagine he is there now, picking his way through all the boggy puddles.’

‘Not if he can fly,’ averred Isnard. ‘He will want to avoid getting his feet wet, if he can.’

‘You saw Tynkell killed?’ asked Bartholomew, the moment he could interject a question into the discussion. ‘Because no one else did. They all say that he and the Dev– his opponent disappeared from sight at the critical time.’

‘I was further away, so had a different perspective,’ replied Isnard grandly. ‘I saw Lucifer kneel down and do something to Tynkell, after which Tynkell did not move. It looked to me as though he laid a claw on his chest and stopped his heart.’

‘Did you see his face?’ asked Bartholomew, although he knew to treat any ‘intelligence’ from the bargeman with a healthy dose of scepticism.

‘He kept his hood up to conceal his wicked visage. However, I can tell you that he wore a black cloak. I could not make out much else, though. It is a long way up that tower, Doctor.’

Bartholomew was thoughtful. The tower was high, so no one – and especially not the drunken Isnard – could have seen what had really happened, particularly in a wind that made eyes water and that was full of flying dust. The killer had achieved what Bartholomew would have considered impossible – a murder committed in front of dozens of witnesses, not one of whom could identify him.

There followed a lively debate during which students and townsmen discussed the various ways in which a demon might end a human life. It was all nonsense, and Bartholomew let it wash over him as he examined Isnard’s bruises, which, he deduced, had not come from sitting down sharply, but from the rough manner in which he had been toted home afterwards. He prescribed a soothing balm, then went to his next call. It was at the Carmelite Priory, where the talk was again about the Chancellor’s spectacular and very public demise.

‘Poor Tynkell,’ sighed one of the friars. ‘I know he wanted to leave his mark on the University before he retired, but I doubt that is what he had in mind.’

‘How do you know?’ asked another. ‘His other schemes failed, so he was probably getting desperate. He might well have staged that display to impress us all.’

‘Then it failed,’ said the first grimly, ‘because there is nothing impressive about being slaughtered by Satan. He should have stuck to founding libraries and Colleges.’

When he had finished with the Carmelites, Bartholomew went to a house on the Market Square, where a baker had been so engrossed in watching Tynkell’s mortal battle that he had burnt his hand. Then there were three cases of lung-rot near the King’s Head tavern, after which he trudged wearily homewards. He sent his students on ahead of him when he spotted Michael emerging from St Mary the Great. They did not need to be told twice, and shot away before he changed his mind, eager to warm chilled hands and feet by the fire in the hall.

‘Everyone in this town is a gullible fool,’ grumbled Michael. ‘Even rational men claim they saw the Devil flap away over the rooftops, and no one believes it was Tynkell’s cloak. How am I supposed to catch the killer when no one has anything sensible to say?’

‘Investigate Tynkell himself, then,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘See if he had any enemies.’

‘He did – lots,’ replied Michael sourly. ‘As Chancellor, he embodied the University, and there are scores of townsfolk who would love to strike a blow against us. And as for his choice of friends … well, suffice to say that I would not hobnob with the men of Maud’s.’

Wryly, Bartholomew wondered if Maud’s had been singled out for censure because two of its members had already put themselves forward as Tynkell’s successor. He was about to say so, when he saw someone standing in a nearby doorway, watching them. He could not see the fellow’s face, covered as it was by a cowl, but supposed it was a cleric.

He started to walk towards him, to ask if he wanted Michael or a medical consultation, but the fellow turned and hurried away. Michael did not seem inclined to give chase, so Bartholomew did not either, and the cleric disappeared into one of the many alleys that led to the river.

Because he had liked Tynkell, and wanted his killer caught, Bartholomew accompanied Michael to the Hall of Valence Marie, the scholars of which had also witnessed the rooftop battle. Unfortunately, their testimony was no more helpful than anyone else’s had been, and it was with a sense of defeat that the two Michaelhouse men began to walk home.

It was bitterly cold, although the wind had dropped, so the clouds overhead did not scud along with quite such frantic urgency. A frost was settling across the rooftops, and the ground was frozen like iron underfoot. Bartholomew had no idea of the time, but sensed it would not be long until dusk, the short winter day over all too soon.

‘Your brother-in-law’s tomb,’ said Michael suddenly, as they passed the lane that led to the little church of St John Zachary. ‘Can we go to look at it? Tynkell’s executors tell me that he wants … wanted something similar, and I should like to know what he had in mind.’

‘You can look, but please do not hire our mason to build it. He already has too many commissions – at least five – which means none are getting the attention they deserve. He works on Oswald for an hour, then disappears to do the same for someone else. I am beginning to think he will never finish any of them.’

‘He is a builder,’ shrugged Michael. ‘What do you expect?’

The parish of St John Zachary had suffered heavy losses when the plague had swept through the town ten years before. Almost every resident had died, and with no congregation to pay for its upkeep, the church had fallen into disrepair. It was not until the University had bought up all the empty houses to use as hostels that the area began to thrive once more. Then Bartholomew’s kinsman, Oswald Stanmore, had provided a substantial sum of money for the church’s renovation, on condition that he would be buried in its chancel one day. Of course, he had not expected to need it quite so soon.

‘There was a time when I thought this place would have to be demolished,’ remarked Michael, as he opened the door. ‘But the last few months have seen it completely transformed.’

It was true. A fine hammerbeam roof now excluded the elements, and the windows were full of pretty stained glass. The floor was paved in creamy stones, and the walls were alive with murals depicting the life of St John the Baptist.

Stanmore’s tomb had pride of place, and occupied most of the south side of the chancel. The mason hired to build it was John Petit, who had come to Cambridge to erect the Dallingridge tomb in St Mary the Great. Personally, Bartholomew thought his sister should have hired someone else, as Petit was smugly aware that he was the only craftsman of his kind within a sixty-mile radius, and so tended to be both expensive and unreliable. Grand monuments were, however, currently in vogue, and Edith was determined that her beloved husband should have the best.

And even Bartholomew was forced to admit that Petit’s work was outstanding. The tomb comprised a handsome chest of pink marble with a canopy, which would eventually be topped with an effigy of him lying next to his wife. However, as Edith was still very much alive, Bartholomew found this prospect deeply disconcerting, although everyone assured him that it was common practice.

As the floor beneath the chancel was filled with the bodies of plague victims, Bartholomew had advised against disturbing them, and a separate vault was being prepared nearby. This was a steep-sided pit, large enough for Stanmore and Edith to lie side by side. Petit’s apprentices had dug it the first week that Edith had hired them, after which it had been lined with stone. Progress was painfully slow, however, and although the vault itself was finished, there had been problems with the granite slab that was to seal it, although Bartholomew had understood none of the explanations. As a result, Stanmore’s bones continued to languish in their temporary grave in the churchyard.

Bartholomew was astonished to see Petit actually at work there that day, despite the fading light. No visible progress had been made on the tomb or the vault since he had last visited, although the masons had nonetheless managed to create a tremendous mess. He opened his mouth to remonstrate, but Petit’s eyes were fixed on Michael.

‘I know why you are here, Brother,’ he said, smiling superiorly. ‘You have come to request my services for your Chancellor. Unfortunately, I am very busy, so if you want Tynkell’s tomb built in a hurry, it will cost you.’

‘Then I shall tell his executors to buy one from London,’ said Michael coolly.

Petit’s smug grin widened. ‘You can try, but the City workshops will transpire to be far more expensive in the long run – transporting large lumps of stone over such great distances does not come cheap.’

‘Then we shall have a funerary brass instead,’ shrugged the monk. ‘Those are far more reasonably priced.’

‘Brasses are rubbish,’ declared Petit haughtily and with conviction. ‘You do not want one of those, so let us do business. What do you have in mind for Tynkell?’

Before the monk could reply, the mason opened a bag and produced a series of exemplars – scale models of the different designs on offer. They ranged from the tastefully simple one that Edith had chosen for Stanmore, to the excruciatingly ornate monstrosity that was being created for Dallingridge. Bartholomew noted that since he had last been shown the collection, another template had been added – a sculpted canopy that would rise a good thirty feet into the air.

‘Please not that,’ he said, thinking it horribly vulgar.

Petit picked it up fondly. ‘This is for Master Godrich of King’s Hall. It will go in St Mary the Great, and he wants me to start it now, so he can enjoy looking at it while he is still alive.’

‘Then he is going to be disappointed,’ said Michael firmly, ‘because we are not having that thing in our nave. It would spoil the symmetry of the whole building.’

‘It will go in the chancel, not the nave,’ said Petit indignantly. ‘My work always sits in the holiest part of a church. I would not consider making tombs for anywhere less.’

Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘The chancel is not for the likes of Godrich – that is reserved for important scholars, such as myself. Or Chancellors, I suppose, although Tynkell did express a wish to be interred beneath the new bells.’

‘Under the bells,’ mused Petit, picking up a hammer and tapping desultorily at Stanmore’s lid. ‘That will put him in the narthex, where my handiwork will be the first thing anyone sees in ceremonial processions. Yes, I can live with that.’

Amused, Bartholomew envisioned the canopied monstrosity plonked in the west porch, where scholars and dignitaries would have to squeeze down the sides of it in order to get in. Then he remembered his responsibilities to his family and became serious again.

‘You cannot start another tomb until you have finished Oswald’s,’ he said. ‘Unless you want to annoy my sister.’

Petit blanched, as well he might, for Edith was formidable when riled, and he had been on the receiving end of more than one scolding for his lack of progress.

‘It is not my fault that this is taking longer than predicted,’ he whined. ‘I keep losing my supplies to thieves. Take this ledger slab, for example.’ He patted the tomb-chest’s lid, lest they did not know what he meant. ‘I had one ready cut and chamfered, but someone came along and filched it – which meant I had to start another from scratch.’

‘Someone stole a great lump of marble?’ asked Michael sceptically. ‘Why? You are the only mason in town, and it is hardly something that anyone else will want.’

‘Lakenham,’ replied Petit sullenly. ‘He took it. Have you met him? He moved here at the same time as me, and set up business in direct competition. He has been doing all he can to hinder my work and annoy my patrons.’

‘You mean there is a second mason for hire?’ asked Michael, brightening.

‘He is not a mason.’ Petit’s voice dripped disdain. ‘He is a lattener, a mere producer of brasses.’ He shuddered. ‘I should not like such a thing lying over me when I die. I want something decent.’

‘We shall bear it in mind,’ said Michael. ‘Now where can this lattener be found?’

‘Of course, Isnard the bargeman has an eye for fine stone, too,’ Petit went on, ignoring the question. ‘Him and his friend Gundrede. It is possible that they made off with my wares.’

‘Isnard is not a thief,’ said Bartholomew. Michael shot him a disbelieving look, so he hastened to modify his claim. ‘Not of large items, at least. He only has one leg, so lifting heavy objects is beyond– where are you going?’

Petit had started to pack away his tools.

‘I cannot do any more work on this until the mortar is dry,’ the mason explained. ‘If I tried, you would not be impressed with the result.’

‘What mortar?’ challenged Bartholomew, who could see that the bucket used to mix the stuff had not been moved in a week.

Petit waved an airy hand. ‘Mine is a painstaking craft, Doctor. Much progress has been made today, although no amateur eye will detect it. But I shall return first thing in the morning, and I will stay here all day.’

He slung his toolbag over his shoulder and marched out, leaving behind a muddle of discarded wood, dust and sundry other rubbish. Bartholomew supposed the vergers would be obliged to clean it up themselves if they wanted their chancel to be usable in the interim.

‘Godrich,’ mused Michael, thinking about the man who intended to have himself interred with such splendour in the town’s biggest and most important church. ‘Have you met him, Matt? He is a Fellow of King’s Hall, and although he has only been enrolled for a few weeks, he is already making his presence felt.’

‘I know the Warden is unhappy with him,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘Godrich is agitating for an election, so he can lead King’s Hall himself. The Warden never wanted the post, but he is reluctant to yield his power to Godrich, as he thinks it may do the place harm.’

‘Elections,’ sighed Michael, reminded of the one that would affect him personally. ‘Poor Tynkell. I cannot accept a bishopric as long as his killer is at large, so I hope you will agree to help me. After all, my entire future is at stake here.’

When put like that, Bartholomew saw he would have no choice but to oblige.

It was past five o’clock when they reached the High Street, although the town was still busy. The winter daylight hours were too short for all the business that needed to be done, so many shops stayed open well into the evening, shedding cosy golden lamplight into the dark streets outside. Bartholomew was eager to be back in Michaelhouse, wanting no more than to sit by the fire, but the monk had other ideas.

‘I need you to come to Maud’s with me, to question two of my suspects about Tynkell’s murder. Then we can go home.’

‘You have suspects?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised.

‘Of course I have suspects,’ said Michael irritably. ‘Namely the men who aim to profit from Tynkell’s death by having themselves elected in his place.’

‘Lyng and Hopeman?’

‘Yes, along with Thelnetham.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘I can believe Hopeman is guilty, while Thelnetham can be ruthless, but not Lyng. He is a good man, liked by all.’

‘It would not be the first time a “good man” committed murder to further his ambitions. And is Lyng a good man anyway? You cannot be too scrupulous if you hold high office in the University, and he was Chancellor three times.’

‘Does that observation apply to the Senior Proctor, too?’ asked Bartholomew wryly. Michael did not reply, so he continued. ‘Lyng is too old to be the culprit, Brother. And do not say that we have encountered elderly killers in the past, because they did not engage in close combat on gale-swept roofs. Lyng is not robust enough for such a feat.’

‘He might be,’ argued Michael, ‘if provided with enough of an incentive. He probably misses the esteem he enjoyed when he was Chancellor, and aims to have it back before he dies. So we shall speak to him first, then Hopeman. We can leave Thelnetham until tomorrow – assuming Lyng or Hopeman do not confess in the interim, of course.’

At that point, both scholars were obliged to step aside smartly as four horsemen cantered by, far too fast for a time when visibility was poor and the streets were full of pedestrians.

‘That was Sir John Moleyns,’ said Michael disapprovingly. ‘He rides like a sack of grain, and should not have been given such a lively mount. A donkey would suit him better.’

Even Bartholomew, no equestrian himself, could tell that Moleyns’ skill was well below par. He wondered if the prancing horse had been provided out of spite, in the hope that the knight would take an embarrassing tumble.

Moleyns was with his wife and lawyer, who accompanied him everywhere he went, while a guard had been provided in the form of Sergeant Helbye, the Sheriff’s most trusted officer. As if he knew he was the subject of conversation, Moleyns turned his stallion in a clumsy half-circle and trotted back, leaving his companions to chat to some of the town’s wealthy burgesses.

‘Your poor Chancellor,’ he said slyly. ‘What a terrible affair! I was in the Market Square at the time – on my horse. My elevated position gave me an excellent view of what happened.’

‘So you saw who killed him?’ asked Michael, trying, unsuccessfully, to keep the hope from his voice. ‘Who was it?’

Moleyns regarded him thoughtfully. ‘I must reflect carefully on the matter before answering that question – I should hate to mislead you, even inadvertently. However, I am always willing to cooperate with the forces of law and order, and I am sure we shall reach a mutually acceptable agreement.’

Michael regarded him in distaste. ‘In other words, you want to be paid for helping us. How much?’

Moleyns put a hand to his chest, fingers splayed in a gesture of hurt indignation. ‘You misunderstand, Brother. I do not want money – I want you to remember me when you are installed in your See.’

Michael gaped at him. ‘How do you know what my future holds?’

Moleyns smiled. ‘I have powerful friends, who keep company with kings and bishops. You could do worse than win my good graces.’

And with that, he wheeled his horse around and attempted to gallop off, but the animal gave an angry snicker and trotted defiantly to a patch of grass by the side of the road, where it began to graze. In a pitiable attempt to make it appear as though this was what he had intended, Moleyns hailed a group of scholars from King’s Hall, and began to chat. One of them was the arrogant Godrich – the man who intended to be buried in St Mary the Great with more pomp and ceremony than a monarch.

‘Does he know who killed Tynkell?’ wondered Bartholomew, watching the knight laugh and joke. ‘Or is he playing games with you?’

‘Who knows?’ muttered Michael, irritated by the encounter. ‘But he is always gallivanting around the town, which is highly irregular. What is Dick Tulyet thinking, to let a prisoner out so often?’

‘I am thinking that I must obey a direct order from the King,’ came a voice from behind them, cool and rather stiff.

They turned to see Sheriff Richard Tulyet, whose youthful appearance belied a bold warrior and a skilled administrator. Unlike many secular officials, he did not consider the University a threat to his authority, and he and Michael had developed an efficient working relationship. He was also a friend.

As usual, Bartholomew found himself looking around for Tulyet’s son Dickon, a child with no redeeming qualities and a nasty habit of ‘accidentally’ battering shins with the enormous sword his doting father had most unwisely given him. Then he allowed himself to relax. Dickon was no longer learning how to be a sheriff from his sire, because Chancellor Tynkell’s mother – Lady Joan of Hereford – had offered to assign him to one of her knights as a squire. The whole town had heaved a sigh of relief when Dickon had ridden away, tall and proud on his father’s best horse, to become someone else’s problem.

‘Are you telling us that the King told you to let Moleyns roam free?’ asked Michael in disbelief. ‘But he was convicted of robbery, burglary, extortion–’

‘I know,’ interrupted Tulyet shortly. ‘And it gives me no pleasure to let him strut about, believe me. But my hands are tied: the King did not want him imprisoned in the first place, but the evidence was compelling, so he had no choice but to accept the jury’s verdict. However, he promised to make the “captivity” as pleasant as possible, and Moleyns is quick to report any grievances.’

‘Why does the King stand by him?’ asked Bartholomew curiously; he had tended Moleyns in the castle several times for minor ailments, and had not taken to him at all. ‘He is an amusing raconteur, but his amiability is a façade. Beneath it, he is selfish, greedy, sullen and vicious.’

‘Unfortunately, the King has only met the genial joker,’ replied Tulyet. ‘And the man who has been generous with funds for the French wars.’

‘Funds amassed by abusing his power,’ remarked Michael. ‘He took bribes when he was Justice of the Common Bench, then committed all manner of dishonest acts to get more.’

‘Money is money as far as the King is concerned,’ shrugged Tulyet. ‘And his affection for Moleyns means that Cambridge folk have fluttered towards the man like moths to a flame, all hoping that he will write something nice about them in his letters to Court. Moleyns was inundated with offers of friendship from the moment he arrived.’

‘You mean burgesses?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘The Mayor and his friends?’

‘Yes, along with wealthy scholars from King’s Hall, Bene’t and Maud’s,’ replied Tulyet. ‘And Michaelhouse – young Will Kolvyle is a regular. He and Moleyns laugh and gossip for hours together. I am surprised you allow it.’

Will Kolvyle was Michaelhouse’s newest Fellow, a talented youth who had arrived to take up post at the beginning of the academic year. He had made no effort to endear himself to his new colleagues, all of whom thought him arrogant, irritating and wholly devoid of humour.

‘We did not know,’ said Michael disapprovingly. ‘But I will tell Langelee, and he will put an end to it. We do not want our College associated with Moleyns.’

‘Good,’ said Tulyet, and sighed ruefully. ‘I was appalled when I learned that Moleyns was to be foisted on me. He is a distraction I could do without.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Are you particularly busy?’

Tulyet shot him a sour glance. ‘There are taxes to be prised from folk who would rather not pay them; your University is twice the size it was a year ago; and there is a fierce feud between two rival bands of tomb-makers. So yes, I am busy.’

‘We have just been listening to Petit gripe about that,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He thinks the others stole a ledger slab from him.’

‘I know,’ said Tulyet drily. ‘Along with various other supplies that have recently gone missing. He mentions them every time our paths cross. It is extremely annoying.’

Michael was not very interested in a spat between craftsmen, and turned to what he considered to be a far more pressing matter.

‘Were you with Moleyns when Tynkell died?’

‘I was nearby – I happened to be free for an hour, so Helbye and I decided to mind him together. He and Moleyns were at your sister’s cloth stall, Matt, while I was next door, taking the opportunity to remind the glovers about the tax on fur. Why?’

‘Because he hinted that he knows the killer’s identity, but then declined to give us a name.’

‘Well, all I saw was a black shape flapping away to the east. But leave Moleyns to me. If he did see anything pertinent, I will prise it out of him.’

At that moment there was a clatter of hoofs – Moleyns had managed to pull his horse away from the grass and direct it back to his wife and lawyer. Once there, several scholars and townsfolk came to greet him, all nodding and bowing obsequiously. Tulyet growled something about it being time that Moleyns was back in the castle, but had not taken many steps towards his prisoner when there was a flurry of excited barks. The stallion reared and Moleyns fell off.

‘Sir John Moleyns indeed!’ sneered Michael. ‘He is not fit to bear such a title. Even you could have kept your seat then, Matt, and that is saying something.’

When Moleyns failed to stand up, Bartholomew went to see if he needed help, but so many folk had clustered around the fallen knight that it was difficult to push through them. A few carried torches, although the light they cast was unsteady, and there was a very real danger of setting someone else alight.

A person in a cloak with a prettily embroidered hem – a woman’s garment – was trying to escape, and Bartholomew was shoved away rudely when they got in each other’s way. While he staggered, off balance, he saw the cowled figure he had spotted earlier, but the cleric was more adept at surging through crowds than Bartholomew, and had vanished before he could be hailed. Grimly, Bartholomew resumed his journey.

‘Stand back!’ he shouted as he elbowed his way through the throng. ‘Let him breathe.’

The spectators eased away, allowing him just enough space to crouch down and examine Moleyns. He was vaguely aware of a number of familiar faces peering at him in the gloom, including Moleyns’ wife and lawyer, who had dismounted and were trying to keep their feet in the scrum.

Moleyns’ eyes were closed, and he lay unmoving among the scuffling feet. It did not take Bartholomew a moment to make his diagnosis, although it was not one he had been expecting.

‘Lord!’ he muttered to no one in particular. ‘He is dead.’