A Grave Concern

Chapter 2

Stars were still glittering in the black velvet of the sky when the scholars of Michaelhouse prised themselves from their beds the following day. It was still bitterly cold, and frost had settled in a hard white crust across roofs and the mud of the yard. The water in the kitchen had frozen again, despite the fire that had been left burning all night, and Agatha the laundress, who ran the domestic side of the College, could be heard cursing as she tried to break it with a poker.

As usual, the College was bursting at the seams, because Master Langelee continued to enrol far more students than was practicable in order to get their tuition fees. A run of bad luck, combined with a series of dubious investments, meant that Michaelhouse remained on the brink of financial ruin, despite several recent donations from Bartholomew’s generous sister, and overloading his Fellows with pupils was an easy way for Langelee to raise much-needed cash. This had resulted in an acute shortage of space, even with all the first years sleeping in the hall.

Bartholomew had always had two chambers at his disposal, but this was a luxury the College could no longer afford. His students – at least three times as many as he should have had – were crammed into the larger one, while he slept in the room where he kept his medicines. This had originally been provided because the reek of these powerful compounds was thought to be injurious to his health, but the danger had been conveniently forgotten in the demand for berths. He did not even have it to himself, and was obliged to share with his book-bearer Cynric and Deynman the librarian.

Deynman had once been a student himself, accepted purely because his father was rich. His studies had not gone well, and everyone had breathed a sigh of relief when he had abandoned a career in medicine and had opted instead to look after Michaelhouse’s small but valuable collection of books. His proud father insisted on funding the post, and as no son of his was going to lack creature comforts, the allowance included plenty of money for firewood.

It was a pleasant change for Bartholomew, who usually shivered all through winter, while wind howled through the gaps in his windows and froze the mould that dripped down his walls. Now, he woke each morning to a blaze that had kept the three of them agreeably toasty all night, and hot water was available for washing and shaving. Better yet, his clothes were always aired when he donned them, and were comfortably warm against his skin. Sleeping with his head under a bench and his legs bent was a small price to pay for such unaccustomed delights.

Cynric had been in Bartholomew’s employ for years, and the relationship between them was more of equals than master and servant. Unfortunately, the Welshman was one of the most superstitious men in the country, so their cramped quarters were liberally adorned with bundles of herbs, amulets, charms and mysterious pouches. Those Fellows in religious Orders had asked that they be removed – or at least put somewhere more discreet – but Cynric had doggedly refused, and the witchy paraphernalia remained.

‘I am sorry that Satan stabbed Chancellor Tynkell,’ he said conversationally, reaching for one of his talismans and kissing it three times. ‘Poor man.’

‘He was killed by a person,’ Bartholomew told him firmly. ‘The Devil had nothing to do with it.’

‘Oh, yes, he did,’ argued Cynric. ‘We all saw that battle on the tower, and I watched him fly away afterwards.’

‘You saw the wind catch Tynkell’s cloak,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘That is all.’

‘Oh, yes?’ challenged Cynric. ‘Then why did Brother Michael’s beadles fail to find it? I know for a fact that he had them looking all afternoon. The answer is that it was not a cloak, but Satan, who took off from the tower and soared over to the Barnwell Fields.’

‘And why would he go there?’ asked Bartholomew archly. ‘To talk to the sheep?’

‘His ways are not for us to question,’ said Cynric darkly, then grew thoughtful. ‘I imagine he used one of his claws to inflict the fatal wound. You did say it was not a knife.’

‘Yes, but that does not mean it was a claw. It was more likely to have been a long nail or some other kind of thin spike.’

‘I imagine Satan has plenty of those,’ put in Deynman, who had been listening with avid interest. ‘He probably carries them in his purse, along with his coins and nose-cloths.’

He and Cynric began a debate about what else the Devil might keep in his scrip, so Bartholomew left them to it and walked into the yard, where his colleagues were gathering, ready to process to church for their morning devotions. While he waited, he looked around at the College that had been his home for longer than he cared to remember.

It was dominated by its hall, a handsome building with an oriel window, and a beautiful mural along one wall, which depicted Michaelhouse’s scholars listening to four great thinkers: Aristotle, Aquinas, Plato and Galen. Its shutters were closed, and would remain so all day, given that none of its windows had glass, although a light gleaming underneath one showed that the students who slept in that part of it were astir.

While the scholars were at church, the servants would stack away the mattresses, and set out benches and tables for breakfast. When the meal was over, the tables would be folded away, and the hall converted into a lecture room. Langelee and his Fellows would sit in their assigned places, and struggle to keep their own class’s attention over the competing racket from their colleagues.

Below the hall were the kitchens and a series of pantries, while adjacent to it was the conclave, a cosy parlour that was the undisputed domain of the Fellows, a place where they could escape from their charges and relax. At right angles to the hall were the twin accommodation wings, two storeys high and with four doors apiece. Each door led to a little vestibule with rooms on either side, and stairs leading to the upper floor. Bartholomew lived in the older, more dilapidated northern one.

‘I did not sleep a wink,’ grumbled Michael, coming to stand next to him. His breath plumed as he spoke. ‘I could not stop thinking about Tynkell.’

‘It kept me awake, too,’ confessed Bartholomew. ‘We saw the killer with our own eyes, as did half the town, yet we have nothing to help us identify him.’

Michael grimaced. ‘He thinks he is so clever, and it makes me even more determined to catch him. Especially after what happened to Moleyns.’

Bartholomew blinked. ‘Surely you are not suggesting a connection between the two? How can there be? One was a respectable scholar, the other a criminal; one was stabbed on a tower, the other fell off his horse; one died “fighting the Devil”, the other chatting in the street–’

‘Two well-known men and two sudden deaths in public places,’ countered Michael. ‘I want you to examine Moleyns properly this morning, Matt. No, do not argue – I need the truth. Then we shall combine forces with Dick Tulyet to find the culprit.’

‘Linking Moleyns and Tynkell might lead you astray,’ warned Bartholomew.

‘Then you will just have to keep me on the right path. We begin today, as soon as we have been to church and eaten breakfast. And do not say it is term time, and you cannot spare the time, because you have him.’

He nodded to Bartholomew’s senior student, John Aungel, who had taken on the task of minding his master’s classes when Bartholomew was busy with patients – which was greatly appreciated, as all Cambridge’s medici were currently inundated with work arising from the continued cold snap – congested lungs, chills, injuries resulting from falls, and frost-nipped fingers, toes, ears and noses.

Aungel hurried over when he saw they were talking about him. ‘I imagine you want me to teach while you find Chancellor Tynkell’s killer,’ he said, and beamed. ‘I do not mind, sir. I know Galen’s Prognostica backwards, and I would love to help.’

‘You would?’ asked Bartholomew suspiciously, wondering what mischief was brewing. Students did not volunteer for extra work out of the goodness of their hearts.

‘Oh, yes! Master Langelee has offered to make me a Fellow if I prove my worth, so I am delighted that you will be otherwise engaged for a while. It will give me a chance to show off my talents.’

Bartholomew was astonished. He was so used to his pupils racing away to earn lots of money by physicking the wealthy that it had never occurred to him that one might like a career in academia. Then he realised why Langelee was so keen to acquire another medicus.

‘Matilde,’ he said heavily. ‘He thinks I will resign when she returns to Cambridge, and he wants you as my replacement.’

Matilde was the love of his life, who had left Cambridge four and a half years ago in the mistaken belief that her affection for him was not reciprocated. The misunderstanding had since been set to rights, and a week earlier, a letter had arrived announcing that she was on her way back to him. But so much time had passed that he feared they could not just pick up where they had left off, and so he was unsure what to think about her imminent return, other than that it was seriously disturbing his peace of mind.

Aungel shrugged. ‘He could do worse. But you should marry and leave the College if she asks you to wed her, sir. You have been here too long, and a change will do you good.’

‘Out of the mouths of babes and those with agendas,’ murmured Michael, amused, as Aungel swaggered away.

‘I cannot decide what to do about Matilde,’ Bartholomew confided unhappily. ‘It has been a long time since we last met, and we are both different people now. It may be too late for–’

‘Nonsense,’ interrupted Michael. ‘Not a day has passed that you have not missed her, and her recent letter made it perfectly clear that her feelings for you are unchanged.’

‘Perhaps they are, but she cannot abandon me without a word, then expect to march in as though nothing has happened. If she really wanted a life with me, she would not have disappeared in the first place.’

‘She went because she wanted a life with you – and she thought she was not going to get one. Personally, I am all admiration for her: the moment she learned that the door was still open, she set about securing enough money to keep you both from starving once you exchange your University stipend for wedded bliss.’

‘Money should not matter,’ persisted Bartholomew stubbornly. ‘If she truly loved me, she would have come back at once. Instead, she dallied in York, meddling about with investments.’

‘Sentimental claptrap! You cannot blame her for declining to live in a hovel while you squander all your earnings on medicine for the poor. You should give her a chance when she arrives, because I believe she can make you happy.’

‘I am not so sure, Brother. Not now.’

‘Well, at least listen to what she has to say, although I cannot see that you will have to do it very soon. It is far too cold for travel, and she will have to wait for the weather to ease. You have plenty of time before you need to make a decision.’

When Michaelhouse was first established, its founder, the rich lawyer-priest Hervey de Stanton, was determined that his scholars would not neglect their religious duties, so he had included a church in the property he bequeathed. St Michael’s was a pretty building with a large chancel and a low, squat tower. It was bitterly cold inside though. Icicles dangled from the place where the ceiling leaked, and the Holy Water in the stoop had turned to Holy Ice.

The Master and his Fellows took their places in the choir stalls, with the students ranged behind them. Langelee shifted impatiently from foot to foot, clearly itching to get on with something more pressing; he hated enforced immobility. Clippesby’s head was bowed in prayer, although he had a duck under either arm, and not for the first time, Bartholomew marvelled that the creatures selected for such excursions never tried to escape. William stood next to Langelee, watching with critical eyes as Suttone the Carmelite performed the ceremonies at the altar.

Portly and an indifferent scholar, Suttone was utterly convinced that the plague was poised to return, when it would claim all those who had survived it the first time. He was a theologian, and his sermons tended to reflect his nihilist convictions, which meant they could make for bleak listening. However, as he had been saying the same thing for years and none of his grim predictions had yet come to pass, people had learned to take his warnings with a good pinch of salt.

His assistant that day was Will Kolvyle, one of two scholars recruited from Nottingham. Unfortunately, the other – John Dallingridge – had died before he could take up his appointment, and was the man currently being provided with a magnificent tomb in St Mary the Great. There was a rumour that he had been poisoned, but Kolvyle assured his horrified colleagues that there was no truth to the tale, and that the hapless Dallingridge had just died of natural causes.

Bartholomew had not liked the sound of Kolvyle when he had read the lad’s application, and had voted against the appointment. The other Fellows had disregarded his concerns which meant that the motion to elect Kolvyle had passed. However, they had realised their mistake the moment the young man arrived: Kolvyle considered himself to be a rising star of unusual brilliance, who would bring fame and fortune to any foundation he deigned to grace with his presence. He was selfish, arrogant and rude, and made no bones about the fact that he considered Michaelhouse well beneath him, a mere stepping stone to better things. None of his new colleagues liked him, and he was almost as unpopular at Thelnetham had been.

That morning’s service was longer than usual, because it was the Feast of the Purification of the Virgin, also known as Candlemas, when candles were blessed and given to the scholars for their religious obligations throughout the following year. Cynric believed that these warded off storms, and insisted on displaying Bartholomew’s supply on the windowsill, where the elements would see them and move on. For the next twelve months, there would be a mute but determined battle of wills, when Bartholomew would stack them back inside the cupboard and the book-bearer would pull them out again.

When the rite was over, Langelee led his scholars at a rapid clip out of the church and down St Michael’s Lane, eager now for his breakfast. They were meant to walk in silence, but academics were talkative by nature, so it was a rule they all ignored.

‘Well, Brother?’ the Master asked. ‘Have you charged Satan with Tynkell’s murder yet?’

Michael scowled at him. ‘Are you sure you can tell me nothing useful about what happened? You are a practical man – you know the culprit was a person, and that the Devil was actually a cloak.’

‘I know no such thing,’ averred Langelee, crossing himself. ‘Especially having listened to Hopeman in the Cardinal’s Cap last night. He intends to take Tynkell’s place, and has promised that Satan will never set foot in Cambridge again if he is elected. I might vote for him, because we cannot have Lucifer flapping around our streets.’

‘Please do not,’ said Michael curtly. ‘He is a zealot, and will get us suppressed. The Church dislikes rabid opinions being brayed to impressionable young minds.’

‘There is that cleric again,’ said Bartholomew suddenly. ‘The one in the cowl.’

‘Do not bother to chase him,’ said Michael, although Bartholomew had no intention of doing anything so rash in a lane that was slick with ice. ‘He will come to us when he is ready.’

They reached Michaelhouse to find the Sheriff waiting for them at the gate, so Michael and Bartholomew stepped out of the procession to talk to him, leaving their colleagues to hurry across the yard to the smelly warmth of the hall. Again, Bartholomew found himself looking for Dickon, and smiled when he remembered that the lad had gone.

‘Moleyns,’ began Tulyet without preamble. ‘His death is a serious problem for me. The King will be vexed that I failed to protect the friend he placed in my custody, while Moleyns’ wife Egidia threatens to sue me for negligence. Will you look at the body, Matt, and tell me exactly how he died?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘I tried to do it last night, but his lawyer – Inge, is that his name? – claimed it was outside the University’s jurisdiction.’

‘Did he indeed?’ murmured Tulyet, eyes narrowed as he reached for his purse. ‘Then here are three pennies, which means you are now officially in my employ, and if you discover anything untoward, Inge will be the first person I shall interrogate. The second will be Egidia, who is far more interested in suing me than grieving for her husband.’

‘You should question them,’ said Michael. ‘Especially if it transpires that Moleyns has been poisoned. They were both at a feast in Nottingham, during which Dallingridge is alleged to have been fed a toxin. Kolvyle assures us that the tale is untrue, but I do not trust him.’

‘He is a nasty youth,’ agreed Tulyet. ‘And if Moleyns is the victim of foul play, then he will be my third suspect. By all accounts, Dallingridge would have been successful here, and Kolvyle is not the sort of fellow to appreciate competition.’

‘Petit the mason was in Nottingham then as well,’ mused Michael, ‘and he has done very well out of Dallingridge’s death. Not only is he being paid to create his patron’s princely tomb, but the project has also won him several new customers.’

‘Yes, and one is my sister,’ said Bartholomew sharply. ‘So leave him alone until Oswald’s monument is finished, if you please. The process has already dragged on far longer than it should, and it is a strain on her.’

‘It has dragged on because Petit it trying to serve too many clients,’ said Tulyet. ‘Besides Dallingridge and Stanmore, he is also building monuments for Holty, Mortimer and Deschalers. Of course, he only accepted the last two to stop the work from going to Lakenham. He and Lakenham hate each other, as you know.’

‘Godrich of King’s Hall has retained Petit’s services, too,’ said Michael. ‘Although his monument cannot be started until I have decided where it can go – which will not be the chancel. Then there are Moleyns and Tynkell … it is a good time for tomb-makers.’

‘Speaking of Tynkell,’ said Tulyet, ‘I hear you have no plans to take his place, Brother. I wish you would reconsider. You and I work well together, and I doubt anyone else will be as effective.’

‘No,’ agreed Michael. ‘You will have to contend with Lyng, Thelnetham or Hopeman.’

Tulyet was appalled. ‘They are the candidates? Christ God! Hopeman will have us in flames within a week, Lyng is too old to be effective, while Thelnetham … well, you cannot have a Chancellor who wears pink bows on his shoes. I do not want to spend all my time quelling spats between jeering townsmen and affronted scholars.’

‘Perhaps others will agree to stand,’ said Michael. ‘I shall have a word with a few suitable puppets … I mean candidates later today.’

‘Good,’ said Tulyet. ‘But we had better see to Moleyns. Will you come now, Matt?’

‘Not until he has broken his fast,’ said Michael, before Bartholomew could reply. ‘He cannot deal with corpses on an empty stomach, and nor can I.’

Michaelhouse was not noted for the quality of its fare, although the food on offer that morning was better than usual, because Candlemas was a Feast Day. There was pottage with pieces of real meat, although these were few and far between, followed by bread and honey. Like the processions to and from church, meals were meant to be taken in silence, so the scholars could fill their minds with religious thoughts as they ate. It was another rule the Fellows ignored, which made it difficult to enforce among the students, so it was not long before the hall was abuzz with lively conversation. Most revolved around the Chancellor.

‘Poor Tynkell,’ said Langelee, when he had intoned one of his ungrammatical Latin graces, and was devouring his pottage with every appearance of relish; he tended not to mind what he ate, as long as there was lots of it. ‘But Hopeman says his replacement will be in post within a week, which is good – it is risky to keep such an important office vacant.’

‘His replacement will not be elected until next term,’ countered Michael, who had emptied his bowl before most of the others had been served, and was already holding it out for a refill. ‘These matters cannot be rushed.’

‘Oh, yes, they can,’ argued Kolvyle, inspecting the contents of his own dish before pushing it away with a fastidious shudder. ‘The statutes say that if a Chancellor dies in office, there must be an election within a month. You have no grounds to postpone, Brother.’

‘Tynkell did not “die in office”,’ countered Michael shortly. ‘He was murdered. And I shall not appoint a successor until his killer is under lock and key.’

‘No, you will not appoint him,’ said Kolvyle challengingly. ‘Because he must be elected. And we will have a ballot soon, because I shall go to St Mary the Great today, and issue a demand for one to be held next Wednesday. Exactly a week from now.’

‘You cannot,’ said Michael irritably. ‘An election can only be called by the University’s senior theologian – who just happens to be me. If you have read the statutes as closely as you claim, you should know this.’

‘Except in extremis,’ argued Kolvyle with a triumphant smirk. ‘And I would say that the Chancellor’s murder constitutes desperate circumstances, wouldn’t you? So I shall make my announcement today, and most scholars will support it.’

‘Oh, I see,’ said Michael, his voice heavy with understanding. ‘You aim to stand yourself. Well, I am afraid that is out of the question, because you are not eligible.’

Kolvyle blinked his astonishment. ‘What are you talking about? Of course I am eligible.’

‘You are only a Bachelor,’ said Michael sweetly. ‘The Chancellor must be a Master or a Doctor.’

‘I am a Master,’ snapped Kolvyle crossly. ‘I completed all the requirements, and even gave a celebratory dinner last month – one you attended, Brother. The only thing lacking is a certificate, which Tynkell was supposed to have signed weeks ago, but he kept forgetting. It is a formality, no more.’

Michael smiled. ‘A formality that will be completed as soon as the new Chancellor is in office. Obviously, that cannot be you – you can hardly award yourself a degree.’

Kolvyle’s expression was murderous, but he realised that he was making a spectacle of himself, and hastened to smother his temper. He shrugged, feigning indifference. ‘Well, I am young, so there will be plenty of time for such honours in the future, unlike the rest of you. Meanwhile, I shall vote for Godrich from King’s Hall. He will make a splendid Chancellor. Better than Hopeman, Lyng or Thelnetham.’

‘Godrich plans to stand?’ frowned Michael.

Kolvyle smirked again, pleased to be in possession of information that the monk did not have. ‘He announced it last night. Did you not hear?’

‘Godrich will not make a very good Chancellor,’ predicted Suttone. He had dripped honey down the front of his habit, and his efforts to mop it up had left a sticky smear; a mat of breadcrumbs adhered to it. ‘He will favour King’s Hall at the expense of other foundations, and he is a dreadful elitist. He is not the man we want.’

‘Well, I like him,’ said Kolvyle defiantly. ‘He recognises promising young talent, and I shall rise through the University’s ranks more quickly with an enlightened man like him in charge.’

‘No self-interest here,’ murmured Bartholomew, prodding warily at a lump in his pottage. It looked suspiciously like part of a pig’s snout, complete with bristles.

‘The role of Senior Proctor has grown bloated,’ Kolvyle went on, ‘and it is time it was reined in. Godrich said that will be the first thing he does when he wins.’

‘You are rash, throwing in your lot with a rival foundation,’ remarked Langelee. ‘Their first allegiance is to each other, and you will find yourself out on a limb if you alienate us. And speaking of unsuitable acquaintances, I hear you were friends with Moleyns the criminal.’

Kolvyle regarded him with open dislike. ‘We knew each other from Nottingham. But my personal life is none of your affair, Master, and I will thank you to mind your own business.’

The response stunned Langelee and his Fellows into a gaping silence, during which Kolvyle stood and sailed out of the hall, head held high, blithely ignoring the rule that no one was supposed to leave the table before the Master, and certainly not before the final grace.

‘You chose him,’ said Bartholomew, the first to find his tongue. ‘I told you he would be difficult, but you refused to listen.’

‘Then you should have made your point more forcefully,’ snapped Langelee, eyeing him accusingly.

‘You should,’ agreed Michael. ‘I dislike this alliance with Godrich, too – another man with delusions of grandeur, as shown by his determination to be buried in the sort of style usually reserved for bishops and nobles.’

‘Godrich will make a terrible Chancellor,’ said Suttone. He had tried to rinse the honey from his robe with ale, and had made a greater mess than ever. ‘He is too lazy.’

‘Worse, he hates women,’ put in Langelee, shaking his head at such an unfathomable notion, ‘and would too rigorously enforce the rule that all scholars must shun them. Celibacy is all very well for some, but what about those of us with normal appetites?’

‘It would be a nuisance,’ agreed Suttone, who liked the company of ladies himself, despite the religious vows he had taken. Then he brightened. ‘But no one will vote for him once they know his stance on lasses. He will lose on that issue alone.’

‘He will not, because he has the support of King’s Hall, whose infractions he will overlook,’ countered Langelee, ‘while the clerics will applaud his miserable views.’ He glanced at Suttone. ‘Well, most of them.’

‘What a choice,’ muttered Michael. ‘Godrich, Lyng, Thelnetham or Hopeman.’

‘Lyng is a decent soul,’ said Langelee, ‘although I would be happier if he were not so old. He is not robust enough to withstand the rigours of office now.’

‘He is not as frail as everyone seems to think,’ argued Michael. ‘There is a core of steel in that man, which makes me wonder to what depths he would plunge to get himself elected.’

‘I do not see him engaging in tussles on rooftops while pretending to be Satan,’ said Langelee doubtfully. ‘Tynkell was no Hercules, but even he could have bested the likes of Lyng.’

Suttone cleared his throat. ‘I might stand for election myself. I have always had a hankering for the post, and I am good at administration. I will not impose any unreasonable laws – the one about women can go for a start, because God would not have created ladies if He had not wanted us to enjoy them.’

Michael regarded him appraisingly, while Langelee nodded to say he fully agreed with the last part, and Bartholomew wondered if he would be able to marry Matilde and still teach.

‘Would you be willing to listen to advice from a man with experience and skill?’ asked the monk keenly. ‘Namely me?’

Suttone inclined his head. ‘Indeed, I would welcome such counsel.’

‘Well, then,’ said Michael, green eyes gleaming at the prospect of a challenge. ‘We shall have to see what we can do about getting you in.’

‘You are both excused College duties until Suttone is safely in post,’ declared Langelee promptly. ‘It is high time we had a chancellor among our Fellows. However, I liked Tynkell, and his killer must be brought to justice. Bartholomew can help you with that, Brother.’

‘I cannot,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘I have too many patients, and my students–’

‘It is a good opportunity for me to see if Aungel can step into your shoes when you leave.’ Langelee raised his hand to stop the physician from speaking again. ‘I have made my decision, so do not argue. Well? What are you waiting for? Off you go.’

Disliking the way everyone assumed he would automatically hurl himself into Matilde’s arms, when the truth was that he was hopelessly confused about his feelings towards her, Bartholomew trailed after Michael to meet Tulyet in St Mary the Great. On any other day, he would have suggested deliberating his romantic conundrum in the Brazen George – a tavern where Michael was always made very welcome – but the monk’s face was pale with worry, and Bartholomew did not want to burden him further.

The University Church was busier than usual, partly because it was Candlemas, but also because the battle on the tower had encouraged folk to go there and see what had attracted Satan to the place. It rang with excited voices and the clatter of industry, the latter of which came from Petit and his assistants, who were setting an elaborately carved pinnacle on Dallingridge’s tomb.

‘You promised to work on Oswald today,’ said Bartholomew, approaching them and speaking accusingly.

‘His mortar is still too wet, I am afraid,’ shrugged Petit. His apprentices came to stand behind him in a protective semicircle. ‘It is the cold weather, you see – it slows everything down. Perhaps it will be set by tomorrow.’

Bartholomew knew exactly why Petit had elected to work in St Mary the Great that day – it was an opportunity to advertise his skills to the hordes who flocked there. The physician’s suspicions were borne out when Petit grabbed Michael’s arm and tugged him towards the narthex at the western end of the church. The narthex not only contained the Great West Door – the large portal that was only opened for special ceremonial processions – but was also the place where the bells were rung, as the tower was directly above it.

‘Good morning, Nicholas,’ said Michael amiably to the man who was preparing to haul on the ropes. Then he frowned. ‘What are you doing? Mass is over.’

James Nicholas was Secretary to the Chancellor, a quiet, scholarly man who limped from a childhood illness. He had tawny hair and a pleasant smile, and was one of the more able clerks who helped to run the studium generale. It was not his responsibility to chime the bells, but he loved doing it, and Michael was more than happy to let him, because it meant he did not have to pay a verger to oblige.

‘I shall sound them whenever I have a spare moment today,’ explained Nicholas earnestly. ‘It is Candlemas, and people should be reminded of it from dawn until dusk.’

He began to pull, setting first one bell swinging, and then another, until he had all three clanging in a joyful cacophony of noise, moving from rope to rope with impressive skill – most men could only manage one at a time. His face was sombre, but there was a gleam in his eye that revealed his delight in the exercise.

Meanwhile, Petit was forced to shout to make himself heard – the bells were right above their heads. Bartholomew had often wondered if this was why Nicholas loved them: it was an opportunity for a quiet, unassuming man to make a fine old din. Putting his hands over his ears, Michael retreated to the relative peace of the nave. Bartholomew and Petit went with him.

‘The narthex is where Chancellor Tynkell’s monument should be,’ stated Petit authoritatively. ‘Beneath the bells, because he was in charge of seeing them cast and hung. There is plenty of room, even with three ropes whipping about.’

‘You cannot build another monument,’ said Bartholomew shortly. ‘Not until you have finished the five you have already started.’

Petit ignored him. ‘I envisage a canopy with soaring arches, a tomb that will be the envy of all England, and will set a precedent for other high-ranking University men. Such as yourself, Brother. I imagine you would like something handsome, when you go.’

‘If every dead official is provided that sort of monstrosity, there will be no room left in the church for the living,’ remarked Bartholomew caustically. ‘And Tynkell was not an ostentatious man. He would have preferred something modest.’

‘Then I am the fellow you want,’ came a voice from behind them. ‘I am Richard Lakenham, and this is my apprentice Reames. We are latteners – engravers of funerary brasses. We can provide something far more suitable than the gaudy affairs created by Petit.’

Lakenham was a small, nondescript man, who looked as though he was in need of a good meal. By contrast, his pupil appeared to be very well fed, and his clothes were of far better quality than his master’s. Indeed, if Bartholomew had been asked, he would have said that Reames was the one in charge, and Lakenham was the assistant.

‘We will craft a nice plain chest with a pretty brass on top,’ said Reames. ‘You will love it, I promise.’

‘We can engrave him wearing his robes of office, if you like,’ added Lakenham eagerly, ‘and there will be room around the edge for an inscription of your own composition.’

‘They do not want your rubbish,’ growled Petit, furious at the brazen attempt to steal ‘his’ business. ‘They want something decent, something in keeping with Tynkell’s elevated status. They only need to inspect the brass shields you made for Dallingridge’s tomb to see that your work is vastly inferior.’

Lakenham did not deign to acknowledge the insult. He turned his back on the mason and continued to address Michael. ‘Hire us, Brother. You will not regret it. Moreover, we do not flit from job to job like butterflies.’

‘Oh, yes, you do,’ snapped Petit, nettled. ‘Or are you saying that it is not necessary for mortar to set or pitch to cool? No wonder all your tombs fall to pieces!’

‘If they do, it is because you steal my supplies,’ flashed Lakenham, whipping around to glare at him at last. ‘You are a thief, and the sooner you are arrested, the better.’

‘A third brass plate disappeared from our shed last night,’ added Reames, brushing an invisible speck from his gipon. ‘And we know exactly who stole it: you and your louts.’

‘It is true,’ said Lakenham, then jabbed a grubby finger towards Sheriff Tulyet, who was walking down the nave to join them, clearly wondering why Bartholomew had not yet made a start on Moleyns. ‘And he will catch you eventually. He vowed only this morning that you will not keep getting the better of him, and that you will soon swing.’

‘We are not felons,’ shouted Petit, incensed. ‘Accuse Isnard and Gundrede. They might stoop to touching the paltry contents of your vile little hut, but we would never demean–’

‘This is a House of God, not a tavern,’ snapped Tulyet, when he heard what was being bawled. ‘If you cannot behave with the proper decorum, then leave.’

Both sides backed away, unnerved by the anger in his voice, although they had not taken many steps before they resumed their spat.

‘I rue the day they arrived in my town,’ growled Tulyet, watching them in rank disapproval. Then he glared at Bartholomew and Michael. ‘It is your College’s fault, of course. Dallingridge’s death brought them here, and he was one of your Fellows.’

‘Not officially,’ objected Michael, ‘given that he died before he could be installed. It was a pity, actually – he might have served to temper some of Kolvyle’s unpleasantness.’

While he and Tulyet embarked on a detailed analysis of Kolvyle’s failings, Bartholomew decided it was time that he examined Moleyns. However, he had not taken many steps towards the Lady Chapel before he was waylaid by one of Petit’s apprentices. His name was Peter Lucas, and he was a hefty lad with a bad haircut.

‘I know things,’ he muttered, tapping a grimy finger to his temple. ‘Lots of things.’

‘What sort of things?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused.

‘You know,’ said Lucas, and winked meaningfully. ‘Events and people. I might tell you later, if you make it worth my while.’

He had gone before Bartholomew could ask him to elaborate.

Sir John Moleyns had been taken to St Mary the Great because it was the largest and most prestigious church in the town, and Tulyet was keen for the King to know that his friend’s remains had been treated with the appropriate respect. The body was in the Lady Chapel, next to Tynkell, although it occupied a coffin far grander than the one in which the Chancellor lay, and the lid was off, so that well-wishers could pay their last respects face to face.

‘Not that there have been many,’ confided Tulyet. ‘His “friends” dropped him like a hot coal once he was no longer in a position to do them favours at Court.’

By contrast, Tynkell had attracted a great many mourners. At that particular moment, most were Dominicans, led by little Prior Morden, who was perfectly proportioned, but the size of a small child. Bartholomew was pleased to note that the two beadles – both with scarves covering their faces – were dutifully keeping the curious at a respectful distance.

‘We have been praying for his soul,’ explained Morden to Bartholomew, Michael and Tulyet. ‘Which is in serious danger, given what happened to his body.’

‘You mean the deadly miasma that seeps from him?’ asked Tulyet, wrinkling his nose in distaste, while Bartholomew wondered whether to remind them that the Chancellor had smelled like that before he had died.

‘And the rest,’ said Morden darkly. ‘We know why he is in a closed coffin, with all the clasps securely fastened and armed men standing guard. You are afraid that he will break out and come to haunt us.’

‘No, we are not,’ said Bartholomew, horrified that his attempt to protect Tynkell should have been so badly misinterpreted. ‘Those are to prevent ghouls from opening the box to gawp at him. He deserves to be left in peace.’

‘He will not get much of that in here,’ remarked Morden, as a clatter of hammers and raised voices indicated that Petit and his people were back at work. ‘But it is not necessary to conceal the truth from us, Matthew. We are priests: we know all about the Devil taking possession of corpses and using them to walk among the living.’

And with that, he flung a generous glug of holy water towards Tynkell’s casket, and led his friars out. As they went, they chanted a psalm in voices so deep that it verged on the sinister, and sent a shiver down Bartholomew’s spine.

‘Now look what your ridiculous insistence on secrecy has done,’ said Michael irritably. ‘I am sure the truth about Tynkell’s … peculiarities cannot be more terrible than the notion that Satan aims to inhabit his body. It would be better for everyone concerned, if you were honest.’

‘It is not a case of honesty,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘It is a case of respecting his wishes. He made me promise never to tell.’

‘Moleyns,’ prompted Tulyet impatiently. ‘Examine him now, Matt, while the Lady Chapel is fairly empty. I assume you would rather work without too large an audience?’

‘I would rather work with no kind of audience,’ said Bartholomew. ‘So you will have to oust everyone first.’

Tulyet obliged, after which he and the beadles stood guard to ensure that Bartholomew was not disturbed at his grisly craft. Meanwhile, Michael walked to Tynkell’s office in the south aisle, and experienced a sharp pang of sorrow when he saw the Chancellor’s spare shoes under the table. When he closed the door behind him, he saw something else, too – Tynkell’s cloak hanging on a hook at the back of it. He had glanced into the office the previous day, and was annoyed with himself for not searching it properly, because the garment was important for two reasons.

First, it told him that Tynkell had not expected to be out in the elements when he had left his office or he would have taken it with him. And second, it meant it had been the killer’s cloak that had sailed off the roof – so it had to be found and identified as soon as possible. He waylaid a passing beadle and ordered him to continue looking, even giving the man money to make enquiries in the town’s less salubrious alehouses – places no Senior Proctor could go and expect to meet cooperative witnesses.

When the beadle had gone, Michael sat in the chair that Tynkell had occupied for the past six years and sighed with genuine sorrow. The Chancellor had had his faults, but Michael had liked him, and was deeply sorry that his remaining years had been so cruelly snatched away.

He reached for the nearest pile of documents and began to sort through them, alarmed to note that matters which should have been handled weeks ago had been left unattended. They included confirming a number of degrees, one of which was Kolvyle’s.

He leaned back in the chair and pondered. On reflection, the Chancellor had spent hours in his office with the door closed. Michael had assumed, not unreasonably, that Tynkell was busy with the extra assignments that he himself had devised – a ploy intended to prevent him from embarking on a third self-aggrandising scheme. Unfortunately, the mass of neglected documents suggested he had been doing anything but University duties for the past few weeks.

Vexed that he should be left with such a muddle, Michael dealt with the more urgent matters, and was about to summon Secretary Nicholas to help with the rest when he saw the corner of a letter poking from between the pages of a book. The book was Tynkell’s most cherished possession, a gift from his redoubtable mother, who had not long left the town after an extended visit.

Lady Joan of Hereford was a remarkable lady – one of few people who were a match for the hellion Dickon Tulyet – and Michael winced when he realised that he would have to tell her what had happened. He decided to delay the unhappy duty until he could also inform her that the killer had been caught. There were three reasons why this was a good idea.

First, there was a danger that she might appear with the intention of catching the culprit herself. Second, Tynkell’s funeral would be a much more manageable affair without her interference. And third, she had declared several times that she would make a better Chancellor than her son, and Michael did not want her to stage a coup. She was ineligible on several counts, not least of which was her sex, but Joan was unlikely to let those stop her.

He pulled the document out. It bore Moleyns’ signature, and invited Tynkell to meet him during Mass, when ‘certain business’ would be discussed. The tenor of the message suggested it was not the first time recipient and sender had made such an arrangement, and that they had done it in secret then, too. There was no hint of menace, so Tynkell had clearly not been coerced into an association with the felon, but Michael was puzzled, even so. What could the Chancellor of the University have had to say to such a man?

No answers came, so Michael went to the door and called for Nicholas. The Chancellor’s secretary shook his head when Michael showed him the note.

‘I have never seen it before. However, Moleyns did seek Tynkell out when he attended services here. They often stood in the nave and chatted.’

‘Chatted amiably?’ probed Michael.

Nicholas shrugged. ‘I was never close enough to hear, but they both laughed from time to time. I did once warn Tynkell that it was unwise to keep company with such a person, especially in public, but he told me to mind my own business.’

‘Tynkell did?’ Michael was astonished. It did not sound like anything the meek Chancellor would have uttered.

‘He had changed in the last few weeks,’ confided Nicholas. ‘I do not know why.’

‘And you did not think to tell me?’

‘You are always so busy, what with the University growing apace and your teaching at Michaelhouse, that I did not like to worry you. Besides, there was nothing specific, and I was afraid you would think I was wasting your time.’

‘In what way had he changed? And what precipitated it?’

Nicholas’s expression was pained. ‘It started at about the same time that Moleyns arrived at the castle, which was October, if you recall – three months ago now. Although that is not to say that the two are connected, of course …’

‘But?’ prompted Michael when the secretary hesitated.

‘But before then, Tynkell was always very polite. After, he was irritable and withdrawn. Perhaps he knew what he would soon be facing, and feared he would prove unequal to the task.’

‘You mean meeting Moleyns during Mass?’ asked Michael, bemused.

‘I mean fighting the Devil, Brother,’ whispered Nicholas, wide-eyed. ‘Tynkell was not a man for combat – of any kind. And to challenge Satan …’

Michael regarded him balefully. ‘It was not Satan, and any man with an ounce of sense should know it.’

‘If you say so, Brother.’

‘I do say so, and I would be grateful if you could help me put an end to this foolish rumour by telling people that it was the killer’s cloak that they saw flying away.’

Nicholas inclined his head, although his sullenly stubborn expression told the monk that he believed he had seen the Devil, and nothing was going to persuade him otherwise. Disinclined to waste his time arguing, Michael changed the subject.

‘Can you tell me anything else about these assignations with Moleyns?’ he asked. ‘Such as how often you saw them together.’

‘Five or six times, I suppose. They talked while everyone else concentrated on their devotions. But Moleyns met lots of people when he was out, so his encounters with Tynkell are probably irrelevant.’

Michael would make up his own mind about that. ‘Now tell me about yesterday,’ he instructed. ‘How did Tynkell seem before he went up the tower?’

‘I did not see him, Brother. The moment he arrived for work, he came in here and shut the door.’

Michael was beginning to be exasperated. ‘Surely you can tell me something to help?’

Nicholas’s expression was stricken. ‘I have thought about nothing else all night – mulling over recent conversations in an effort to understand why he … The only thing I can tell you is that he had developed a habit of muttering about the Devil. So you see, Brother, he did know a confrontation was brewing.’

With the Lady Chapel empty, Bartholomew took the opportunity to open Tynkell’s coffin and ensure that the body had not been disturbed. The two hairs he had placed carefully across the Chancellor’s chest were still in place, telling him that Tynkell’s secret remained safe. He pulled the shroud to one side to look at what had given rise to such rumour and speculation.

Some years previously, there had been a popular fashion whereby small cuts were made in a specific pattern and then rubbed with pigment. The dye remained after the wounds had healed, leaving more or less permanent marks. Bartholomew had never been tempted to decorate himself so, but Tynkell was covered in little symbols, and all were the same: a twisting serpent with a rather diabolical pair of horns.

Shortly after his election, the Chancellor had tried to remove one with a rasp, which had resulted in a nasty infection. Bartholomew had been summoned, and Tynkell had sheepishly confided how he had come by them – after a particularly wild feast, when he had been insensible from drink, as his friends’ idea of fun. His shame of the marks was such that he had elected never to wash, lest someone burst in on him and saw them. This practice had resulted in so many upset stomachs that Deynman the librarian had once drawn the conclusion that Tynkell was suffering from the kind of morning sickness that was common in early pregnancy.

Bartholomew regarded the body sadly. Poor Tynkell! But he would be in the ground soon, and everyone would forget his eccentricities.

He replaced the hairs and the lid, fastening the clasps tightly, then turned his attention to Moleyns. He began by feeling the criminal’s head for suspicious bumps, then looked in his mouth and at his hands for burns that might suggest poison. There was nothing out of the ordinary, so he turned to the torso. Moleyns was still wearing the clothes in which he had died – fine ones that boasted an irritatingly large number of laces and buckles. Bartholomew fought his way through them, then stared in shock at what he found.

There was a wound in Moleyns’ chest that was identical to the one in Tynkell – a small round hole. He inspected it closely, sure it had been made with the same implement – or one that was very similar. He was about to call for Tulyet when there was a commotion outside the door, and he rolled his eyes when he recognised the unpleasantly strident tones of John Cook, the town’s new barber-surgeon.

Bartholomew did not like Cook, whom he considered inept and untrustworthy. The antipathy was fully reciprocated, and Cook rarely missed an opportunity to malign Bartholomew, particularly over the fact that he sometimes performed surgery. Most physicians steered well clear of such grisly work, believing it to be demeaning. Bartholomew, however, thought his patients had a right to any procedure that would make them better, and a long line of incompetent barbers meant he had learned to perform them himself.

Cook was short, sharp-eyed and bald, but had allowed the whiskers on his cheeks to grow to extraordinary length, while his chin was clean shaven. It was an odd style, particularly on a man who prided himself on his barbering skills. His clothes were of good quality, although greasy, which meant the hairs he cropped from his customers tended to stick to them, giving him the appearance of a badly cured pelt.

He hailed from Nottingham, but had accompanied the tomb-makers south, because his home town was awash with barber-surgeons, whereas Cambridge had none. He was fiercely protective of his professional rights, so it was inevitable that he and Bartholomew would clash.

‘How dare he!’ Cook was shouting. ‘I am the town’s barber, not him.’

‘I assure you,’ drawled Tulyet, ‘he is not giving Moleyns a haircut.’

‘I should hope not,’ snarled Cook. ‘I spent ages combing those curls last night, and no one should interfere with perfection.’

Bartholomew glanced at Moleyns’ coiffure, and thought if that was perfection, then he lived in a sadly flawed world. However, he was not surprised to learn that Cook was proud of what he had done: most barber-surgeons preferred to emphasise the medical part of their trade, but Cook liked to brag about his skill with hair. Moreover, he had an alarming habit of suspending surgical operations partway through, while he went to give another customer a trim.

‘Let me past, Sheriff,’ Cook ordered. ‘Or I shall report you to the Worshipful Company of Barbers. Only a fool challenges a man who has a powerful guild at his back.’

‘It is all right, Dick,’ called Bartholomew, although he seriously doubted that such an august organisation would race to defend the likes of Cook. ‘I have finished.’

Tulyet stepped aside and Cook thrust past him. The barber was followed by Inge and Egidia, both patently uneasy, which led Bartholomew to wonder if they knew more than was innocent about what had happened to Moleyns.

Seeing the Lady Chapel open, others crowded in on their heels. They included a gaggle of University clerks, some scholars from King’s Hall, three Gilbertines and several members of Maud’s Hostel, none of whom had a legitimate reason for being there. Michael trailed in at the end, with Secretary Nicholas and two beadles. Absently, Bartholomew noted that four of the five men who wanted to be Chancellor were among the press – Lyng, Hopeman, Godrich and Thelnetham. He was glad Suttone had the good taste not to come a-gawping.

‘You have ruffled his locks,’ declared Cook indignantly. ‘And why? For anatomy!’

He hissed the last word, giving it a decidedly sinister timbre, which had the onlookers crossing themselves against evil and exchanging uneasy glances.

‘Inspecting a corpse is hardly anatomy,’ argued Tulyet coolly. ‘It is a–’

‘Oh, yes, it is,’ countered Hopeman. ‘And it is the Devil’s work. I shall put an end to such practices when I am Chancellor.’

‘You will never be elected,’ scoffed Godrich. He was a tall, aloof man in a fur-lined cloak, with protuberant eyes and bad skin. He made no pretence at scholarship, and had made it clear from the first that the University was an irritating but necessary step towards a career in the royal household. ‘We need a leader with important connections, not a religious fanatic.’

‘Gentlemen, please!’ cried Lyng, distressed. ‘No quarrels here, I beg you. It is inappropriate.’

‘Then let us go outside,’ suggested Thelnetham. ‘We shall hold a public debate, and see then who is the strongest candidate.’

None of the others moved to accept the challenge, perhaps because they knew they were no match for Thelnetham’s razor intellect and quick tongue. Then Egidia stepped forward.

‘Well?’ she demanded haughtily. ‘What killed my husband? I imagine it is something that can be attributed to the poor level of care he suffered at the castle.’

‘He was stabbed,’ replied Bartholomew, aiming to see what a bald statement of fact would shake loose. Unfortunately, the only ones who seemed shocked by the announcement were Michael and Tulyet. ‘You can see the mark here quite clearly.’

‘You claim that as a death wound?’ asked Inge in disbelief, as everyone craned forward to look. ‘Surely it is far too small?’

‘Cook will prove the truth, by inserting a surgical probe into it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Then you will all see that the killer’s weapon penetrated his victim’s heart.’

‘I do not hold with desecrating the dead,’ declared Cook, taking a brush and beginning to rearrange the corpse’s hair. It was macabre and Bartholomew found himself unable to watch, although he knew it was actually less gruesome than what he had just proposed.

‘Wait a moment, Matt,’ said Michael, finding his voice at last. ‘Are you saying we have two murders to explore?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘And the similarities between them suggests that both were killed by the same weapon, probably wielded by the same person. You were right to see a connection between them.’

‘Lord!’ breathed Tulyet, stunned. ‘We were there when Moleyns died. He was dispatched right under our noses!’

‘Not just ours,’ said Michael soberly. ‘Lots of people surged towards him when he fell off his horse. And Tynkell was killed in full view of half the town.’

Lyng crossed himself. ‘So the Devil strikes a second time. Poor Moleyns!’

‘Poor Moleyns indeed,’ agreed Godrich. ‘Of course, a lot of tomb-builders clustered around him when he fell. And who benefits when a rich man breathes his last?’

‘No, the culprit is Satan,’ stated Hopeman matter-of-factly. ‘And he will claim other victims until a priest – a friar, like myself – is elected to the chancellorship.’

There was a clamour of agreement from his supporters, but Godrich cut across them.

‘No vulgar commoner will ever be Chancellor. How could he, when his duties include representing our University to kings and bishops?’

Hopeman and his deacons reacted with furious indignation, and their ringing voices echoed through the church. It was some time before the racket subsided, and Bartholomew saw that Michael had let it run on purpose, in the hope that temper would result in careless admissions. Unfortunately, no one had made that mistake.

‘I am a priest, too,’ said Lyng, when he could make himself heard. ‘I can face down demons just as well as any Dominican.’

‘But I am a canon,’ stated Thelnetham loftily. ‘A cut above mere mendicants. If a religious man is needed as Chancellor, then I am the best choice.’

Gradually, perhaps realising that squabbling over the corpse of the man they intended to replace was unedifying, the four contenders took their leave, although none went very far. They stopped in the nave, where a second row broke out. Most of the onlookers had followed, although a few lingered in the Lady Chapel, to see what would happen next with Moleyns.

‘You assume that John was stabbed in the street,’ said Egidia to Bartholomew, as Cook continued to ply his comb. ‘But maybe it happened earlier, while he was in the castle – a place where he should have been safe, as I am sure the King will agree.’

‘Impossible,’ replied Bartholomew promptly, much to Tulyet’s obvious relief. ‘The wound would have been almost instantly fatal.’

Egidia shot him a very unpleasant look.

‘We all saw him fall off his horse,’ said Tulyet. ‘So did he fall because he was stabbed, or was he attacked once he was on the ground?’

‘The latter,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘Because the culprit would have had to reach up to stab him on his horse, which we would have noticed.’

‘Then perhaps someone shot him,’ suggested Tulyet. ‘From a distance.’

‘If that were the case, the projectile would still be in him,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘No, this happened when he was on the ground. I am sure of it.’

‘You do not know what you are talking about,’ sneered Cook. ‘Because wounds are my business, not yours. And in my expert opinion, Moleyns fell on something sharp. Ergo, his death is not murder, but an accident – one the Sheriff should have prevented.’

He smiled ingratiatingly at Egidia, and received a nod of appreciation in return.

‘So Moleyns speared himself on a spike that just happens to be identical to the one that killed Tynkell a few hours earlier?’ asked Bartholomew sceptically. ‘Do you really think that is likely?’

Cook scowled. ‘You scholars are obsessed with logic, yet we barbers see “impossible” happenings on a daily basis. No one should accept the word of a physician on this matter.’

‘Well, we do,’ said Tulyet shortly. ‘Matt is the University’s Corpse Examiner, and has been giving us his opinion on suspicious deaths for years. We trust him implicitly. You, on the other hand …’

He eyed Cook with such obvious contempt that the barber bristled, and to avoid another unseemly row, Michael showed Inge and Egidia the note he had found in Tynkell’s office.

‘He and my husband liked to discuss weaponry,’ explained Egidia with a careless shrug. ‘They often met here on the pretext of attending Mass. Well, why not? It was convenient for them both, and these rites can often be very dull. They needed something to keep them entertained.’

‘Weaponry?’ echoed Tulyet sharply, before Michael could remark that the University’s Chancellor was not a man to be bored with his religious duties. ‘Are you telling me that Tynkell was going to provide my prisoner with arms?’

‘Of course not,’ said Inge impatiently. ‘Tynkell was interested in siege engines, and planned to write a treatise on them when he retired. Moleyns had seen them in action, and was willing to give him eye-witness accounts.’

‘Tynkell was fascinated by war machines,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘He often talked about them to me.’

‘Then why meet Moleyns furtively?’ asked Michael doubtfully. ‘He could have gone to the castle for these sessions.’

‘Perhaps he found the place objectionable,’ suggested Egidia, looking at Tulyet out of the corner of her eye. ‘And who can blame him?’

‘I never saw Moleyns with Tynkell, here or anywhere else,’ said Tulyet, ‘but I will ask Helbye. He usually escorted Moleyns on his excursions, and will know what he did. If there was anything untoward in this association, he will find it.’