A Grave Concern

Chapter 3

The men who wanted to be Chancellor were still quarrelling when Bartholomew, Michael and Tulyet left the Lady Chapel, although Lyng flung up his hands in resignation before walking out, claiming he wanted no part of such an unbecoming spectacle. Scholars from the hostels nodded approval, while others came to shake his hand when he reached the street.

‘He is popular,’ mused Michael. ‘Suttone will have to ooze charm to defeat him, so let us hope he is equal to the task. After all, there is only so much I can do to facilitate his election without eyebrows being raised.’

Tulyet laughed. ‘Watch your words, Brother. It sounds as though you intend to cheat.’

Michael did not smile back. ‘I cannot work with Lyng.’

‘Why not? He seems a decent soul, albeit far too old.’

‘Because he will refuse my advice, on the grounds that he thinks he knows everything already. But times have changed since he was last in power and–’

‘There is that cowled man again,’ interrupted Bartholomew irritably. ‘I wish he would just come to talk to us. I dislike the sense of being watched all the time.’

‘Could he be the killer?’ asked Tulyet sharply, preparing to give chase if so. ‘Monitoring you to assess whether you are closing in on him?’

‘The killer will be eager to stay as far away from us as possible,’ replied Michael with conviction. ‘We must bide our time with this shadow. He will approach us when the time is right.’

Bartholomew wanted to argue, but a sudden hammering drew their attention to the Great West Door, where Kolvyle was nailing up a notice. He was with scholars from King’s Hall, who were patting him on the back.

‘His demand for an election,’ predicted Michael sourly. ‘Well, he shall have one, although his favourite Godrich will not win. I shall write a statute to keep upstarts like Kolvyle in their place when all this is over. I dislike youthful arrogance.’

‘So Suttone will be Tynkell’s successor?’ asked Tulyet. He reflected for a moment. ‘He is better than the others, I suppose. Godrich is only interested in furthering his own career, Hopeman is a reckless zealot, Thelnetham dresses wrongly, and you have just said that Lyng would not be suitable.’

Bartholomew was not sure the Carmelite would be much better. He liked Suttone, who was a good man on the whole, but he would be another Tynkell, a meek nonentity ruled by Michael. Except that Michael would be in his See, and thus not in a position to guide him, so what would happen to the University then? Would chaos reign, because a strong Chancellor was needed to govern a lot of opinionated, unpredictable and vociferous academics?

‘I cannot believe the audacity of this killer,’ Michael was saying to Tulyet, dragging Bartholomew’s thoughts away from University politics. ‘Moleyns’ murder was especially bold.’

‘Yes and no,’ said Tulyet. ‘It was dark and the torches did more to confuse than illuminate, so it was difficult to see anything well. I would argue it was a very good time to choose.’

‘I saw a woman in a cloak with an embroidered hem,’ said Bartholomew suddenly, as Tulyet’s words jolted his own memory of the flickering confusion that had ensued after Moleyns’ fall. ‘She was shouldering her way out of the press, which was odd when everyone else was craning forward.’

‘What else did you notice about her?’ asked Tulyet keenly.

‘Her hood was up, so I did not see her face. But it was cold, so everyone else’s was up as well, including my own. There was nothing suspicious about that.’

‘Could it have been Egidia?’ pressed Tulyet. ‘She does not seem overly distressed by her bereavement, and I did say that I would look to her, should any harm befall her husband. She will certainly benefit from his death, because not only will she inherit all his worldly goods, but she is now free to live wherever she wants.’

‘She was free before,’ said Michael, frowning. ‘She was not forced to keep him company in prison – she chose to do it.’

‘Because he held all their money – or what remained of their wealth after the courts had seized most of his assets,’ explained Tulyet. ‘Had she gone to live alone, she would have been as poor as a church mouse. She begged him any number of times for an allowance, but he always refused. She resented it bitterly, and so did Inge, who was also obliged to rely on Moleyns’ largesse. Such as it was.’

‘Inge has no funds of his own?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘He did, but they have long gone – he expected Moleyns to be released within a few weeks, and never imagined the ordeal would drag on for years. He could have left and struck out alone, but then what? He had sold himself to Moleyns, body and soul, so his only option was to hold fast and hope that Moleyns would one day be in a position to reward his loyalty.’

‘Now Egidia can reward it,’ remarked Michael. ‘I assume she is Moleyns’ sole heir?’

‘She is,’ nodded Tulyet. ‘She has already laid claim to the store of money he kept in his room, which was no mean sum, and I am sure Inge will help her spend it. I have the sense that they are rather more than just lawyer and client, which makes them both prime suspects for his murder in my book.’

‘But they were in the Market Square when Tynkell died,’ said Bartholomew. ‘With you. And we have decided that Moleyns and Tynkell were claimed by the same hand.’

‘Moleyns was with me,’ corrected Tulyet. ‘Egidia and Inge had gone to St Mary the Great to look at the tombs.’

‘Why would they do that?’ asked Michael suspiciously. ‘So they would know what to commission when Moleyns needed one?’

‘Perhaps. Regardless, it means they have no alibi for Tynkell’s death, and they were certainly nearby when Moleyns was killed.’ Tulyet turned back to Bartholomew. ‘So I repeat: could the cloaked woman you saw have been Egidia?’

‘Yes, I suppose. However, when I pronounced Moleyns dead, she was standing right next to me. It seems unlikely that she would fight her way out of the press, then battle back in again.’

‘Was she wearing this distinctive cloak?’ asked Tulyet, and when Bartholomew shook his head, he raised his hands in a shrug. ‘Then maybe it was bloodstained, obliging her to get rid of it before someone noticed. Then she hurried back to play the distraught widow.’

‘It is possible,’ acknowledged Bartholomew, although he doubted Moleyns’ wound had produced much gore. He would have noticed, even in the unsteady light of the bobbing torches.

‘Who else was in the crowd?’ asked Michael. ‘I am afraid my thoughts were on Tynkell, so I was not really paying attention.’

‘All the tomb-makers, plus Isnard and Gundrede,’ replied Tulyet promptly. ‘I was watching them, because I was afraid they might start a fight over these stolen supplies.’

‘Isnard has nothing to do with that,’ said Bartholomew sharply. ‘Why would he? He can hardly sell such items here.’

Tulyet regarded him pityingly. ‘He is a bargeman, Matt, which means he can transport goods anywhere he likes, and there is a huge market for illicit brass and stone in London. However, I might have given him the benefit of the doubt, if he had not developed this odd friendship with the felonious Gundrede.’

‘Who else did you see in the crowd?’ asked Bartholomew, unwilling to admit that the Sheriff might have a point.

‘Godrich, Hopeman and Lyng,’ said Tulyet. ‘The first two quarrelling, while Lyng tried to act as peacemaker – a spat I noticed, because I was afraid your other scholars would join in and start a brawl.’

‘Suttone was not there, because he was teaching in Michaelhouse, and two dozen students will testify to that fact,’ said Michael. ‘But what about Thelnetham?’

‘Not that I noticed. I spotted Kolvyle, though. He was one of the first to surge forward when Moleyns fell.’

‘Lord! I hope he is not the culprit,’ exclaimed Michael. ‘A killer in the College might damage Suttone’s election campaign.’

‘Barber Cook was also very quick on the scene,’ Tulyet went on. ‘I would not mind at all if he is the villain – I cannot abide the fellow. Of course, he does give a lovely shave …’

‘I would not let him near me with a sharp knife,’ said Bartholomew shortly.

‘That is probably wise in your case,’ remarked Tulyet. ‘He loathes physicians.’

‘So are these all our suspects?’ asked Michael. ‘Inge and Egidia; the warring tomb-builders; Isnard and Gundrede; Hopeman, Lyng, Godrich and Kolvyle; and Barber Cook?’

‘If only!’ sighed Tulyet. ‘A host of others raced to Moleyns’ side as well – the Mayor and his burgesses; scholars from King’s Hall, Maud’s and several other University foundations; the woman in the embroidered cloak …’

‘What about motives?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘What links Tynkell to Moleyns, other than their odd meetings in St Mary the Great?’

‘That is easily answered,’ said Michael. ‘Tynkell was killed either to make way for a new Chancellor or to strike a blow against the University. And Moleyns intimated that he knew the culprit, so he was dispatched to prevent him from blabbing.’

‘Which means that the killer was close enough to hear what Moleyns told us,’ said Bartholomew, ‘and launched a plan to stab him within a few moments. Is that likely?’

Michael and Tulyet had no answer.

‘Someone will have seen something,’ said Michael eventually. ‘No matter how careful he was. So I will question scholars, while you speak to townsmen, Dick. However, before we start, I should like another word with the grieving widow.’

‘Not here,’ advised Tulyet. ‘She will accuse you of heartlessness. Come to the castle at noon.’

The cold weather meant that Bartholomew had yet more summonses from ailing patients, so he used the intervening time to visit the most urgent cases. He trudged around the town with his older students in tow – other than Aungel, who had offered to read to the younger ones – treating a variety of colds, coughs and lung complaints. He visited his regulars first, then went to the first of three new customers. It was a butcher who had been tended by Cook a week before. Unfortunately, the barber had made such a hash of sewing up the man’s injured thumb that the only option left was to amputate.

‘It is important that all wounds are thoroughly cleaned before they are stitched,’ he informed his students, noting their pale, horrified faces and hoping they would learn from Cook’s negligence, even if it would do the patient scant good. ‘Leaving wood shavings inside them, as happened here, will always result in trouble.’

The next client had a broken leg, which Cook had failed to immobilise properly, and it took Bartholomew and two of his strongest lads – a burly pair named Islaye and Mallet – to reset it. The third was dying, because a wound that could have been treated with a simple salve had been reopened and drained so many times that her blood was now poisoned.

‘It was not a serious cut,’ whispered Islaye, when they had done all they could to make her comfortable and had left her to the parish priest. He was a sensitive lad, who was too easily distressed by the plight of others to make a good physician. ‘It should not have killed her.’

‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘So remember that all injuries must be treated with equal care. Minor does not equal inconsequential.’

‘I shall not deal with them at all,’ declared Mallet, who did not have a compassionate bone in his body, and made no secret of the fact that he had chosen medicine for its financial rewards. ‘I shall leave it to the surgeons. After all, it is their job, and Cook told me that the Worshipful Company of Barbers prosecutes anyone who trespasses in their domain.’

‘You may have no choice,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘Or will you watch a patient bleed to death while you wait for another practitioner to appear?’

‘Yes,’ replied Mallet, quite seriously. ‘If the alternative is being sued.’

‘Well, I shall dive in with needle and thread,’ declared Islaye stoutly. ‘And if that irks Cook, then so be it. When I am qualified, I shall not let a barber anywhere near my patients.’

‘Many are competent men,’ cautioned Bartholomew, although it had been a long time since he had met any. ‘Do not judge them all by … by what you have seen today.’

‘Yet Cook does give a beautiful shave,’ said Mallet, running an appreciative hand over his jaw. ‘And the lasses do love a smooth chin. You should visit him before your woman arrives, sir. It is certain to have her tumbling into your bed.’

‘Do not let Cook near your throat with a knife!’ cried Islaye, while Bartholomew gaped his astonishment at Mallet’s presumption; his students did not used to be so disrespectful. Or was he just getting old and prickly? ‘He hates you. I heard him say so to Moleyns and Tynkell.’

Bartholomew stared at him, indignation forgotten. ‘All three were together?’

Islaye nodded. ‘In St Mary the Great. Sergeant Helbye was there, too, but Egidia was railing at him over something, and he did not notice – he usually shoved folk away if they got too close. He takes his duties as watchdog very seriously.’

So Cook had been part of the curious assignations that had taken place in the University Church, thought Bartholomew. Could he be the killer? He had been to hand when Moleyns fell off his horse, while his antipathy towards the University gave him a motive for dispatching Tynkell. And who better than a surgeon to kill with such clinical precision? Or was Bartholomew allowing dislike to interfere with his reason?

He sent his students back to College, and was about to collect Michael from St Mary the Great when he saw Langelee with Petit. Curious, he followed them into St Michael’s Church, where he found them looking at the slab of black marble that lay over the final resting place of an unpopular former Master named Thomas Wilson. It was in the chancel, but was too large for the space allotted to it, which meant it was vulnerable to collisions. Recently, a corner had been knocked off.

‘Kolvyle,’ explained Langelee grimly. ‘He claims he hurt himself when he bashed into it and is considering legal action against us, so I thought we had better get rid of the evidence.’

‘Perhaps we can sue him,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You do not break stone by brushing against it, so he must have hit it with something.’

‘That is what I told him, but he insists it was just his hip.’

‘It is only a matter of time before it happens again,’ warned Petit, running his finger along the jagged edge. ‘So I recommend you arrange for it to be mended immediately.’

‘But not by you,’ said Bartholomew coolly. ‘Not while Oswald’s tomb is–’

‘This represents a serious hazard,’ interrupted Petit sternly. ‘It would be criminally negligent to leave it in this state. It is what happens when you hire inferior craftsmen, of course. Even my rawest apprentice knows the importance of making monuments to measure.’

Langelee raised a hand to quell Bartholomew’s objections when the mason named a fee and he agreed. ‘It is not my fault, Bartholomew. Blame Kolvyle.’

‘But how will we pay for it?’ demanded Bartholomew, watching Petit swagger away triumphantly. ‘There is no income from our pier, and we no longer own the dyeworks.’

The pier had been badly damaged by fire, while the dyeworks had been sold to fund emergency repairs to the conclave roof. Losing the income from the pier had been especially painful, as it had been a lucrative venture. Replacing the charred timber would cost a fortune – one Michaelhouse did not have – and was unlikely to happen in the foreseeable future.

‘We will find a way,’ sighed Langelee. ‘We must, because if we leave the slab as it is, Kolvyle will certainly lodge a claim for compensation. And do not glare at me, Bartholomew. If you had argued more forcefully against his appointment, we would not be in this position now.’

Bartholomew regarded him archly. ‘So it is my fault he is here, even though the rest of you were the ones who insisted on appointing him?’

‘Of course. You had obviously guessed what he would be like, while we were in blissful ignorance. You should have warned us.’

Disgusted, Bartholomew went to St Mary the Great, and found Michael in the Chancellor’s office. He opened his mouth to release a stream of invective against Langelee, Kolvyle and tomb-makers in general, but shut it when he saw that a furious dressing-down was in progress.

‘How could you allow this to happen?’ Michael was yelling, while Secretary Nicholas stood in front of him, hanging his head. ‘Surely you noticed these documents piling up?’

‘He refused to let me in,’ said Nicholas, miserable and defensive in equal measure. ‘I thought it was because you had given him confidential duties, so I did not question him. Besides, I was already overwhelmed with work – he delegated, you know – and I dared not risk getting lumbered with more.’

‘Delegated?’ demanded Michael suspiciously.

Nicholas nodded. ‘For example, he took the credit for conferring all those licences to study last week, but it was I who drafted them all out.’

‘Really? He told me that he had done them himself.’

‘I know, but I let it pass, because I assumed he had been working on other important University business. After all, what else could he have been doing in here with the door so firmly closed?’

‘Tynkell is transpiring to be rather a mystery,’ confided Michael, as he and Bartholomew left the church and began to walk to the castle. ‘He misled his secretary, shut himself in his office, neglected his duties, and met Moleyns under the pretext of attending his devotions. I hope he was not doing anything untoward.’

‘Is there any reason to suppose he might?’

‘Other than the lies, the suspicious behaviour, and the fact that he had dabbled in murky waters twice before – once when trying to build a new College, and once when trying to inflict a Common Library on us?’ asked Michael caustically. ‘No, no reason at all.’

They walked in silence up the High Street, then turned towards the Great Bridge – a grand name for the wooden structure that always seemed to be on the brink of collapse, and that had been the scene of more than one distressing mishap. Before they reached it, however, Michael ducked into St Clement’s Church.

‘There is a monumental brass in here,’ he explained. ‘And I want to see whether it is nicer than a sculpted effigy before I decide which to let Tynkell have.’

‘It is your decision? I thought he had already chosen, and his executors would implement his wishes. And you are not one of them.’

‘We are talking about St Mary the Great, Matt. It is a splendid building, and it is my moral duty to ensure that it stays that way. After all, we do not want it to look like London Blackfriars, which has so many tombs that you can scarcely move for the wretched things.’

Sir John Knyt had been a member of the now defunct Guild of Saints, a charity dedicated to helping the poor. He had been much loved in the town, so the Mayor had arranged for a tomb to be built by public subscription. Enough had been raised to fund a neat marble chest topped by an engraving – of an armour-clad Knyt lying with his feet on a lion, although Lakenham, who had made it, had never seen such a beast, so it looked like a fluffy dragon.

By chance, the lattener was there that day, polishing his handiwork with a cloth. His wife Cristine was with him, and when she saw Michael, she stormed towards him angrily. She was twice the size of her husband – taller by a head and twice as fat – which made her a formidable sight.

‘Your town is full of thieves,’ she snarled. ‘You should do something about it.’

‘Her cloak was stolen,’ explained Lakenham. ‘And she is vexed about it.’

‘Of course I am vexed!’ exploded Cristine. ‘What am I supposed to wear when I go out? I am no wealthy scholar, who can afford to buy another. My husband earns too little for that sort of luxury, so I am now condemned to shiver until summer comes.’

‘Her cloak was filched yesterday morning, and a brass plate went last night,’ sighed Lakenham before Michael could respond. ‘It was my biggest one, and I was hoping to use it for Chancellor Tynkell or Sir John Moleyns. If I win one of the commissions, of course.’

‘Well?’ demanded Cristine of Michael. ‘What are you going to do about it?’

‘I am afraid it is the Sheriff’s concern, not mine,’ replied Michael. ‘He is–’

‘My cloak was stolen from St Mary the Great,’ interrupted Cristine. ‘The University Church. I took it off to have a go on the bells, you see – Secretary Nicholas let me ring them in exchange for an apple – but when I went to pick it up, it had gone.’

‘Then I shall inform my beadles,’ replied Michael, and added pointedly, ‘Although hunting it down must take second place to their enquiries about the Chancellor’s murder.’

‘Are you here to discuss his tomb then?’ asked Lakenham eagerly. ‘I hope you are not considering a sculpted effigy. A brass is much nicer.’

At that moment, the vicar arrived. Richard Milde was a friendly, amiable man with a lisp and a soft voice, a combination that rendered his sermons all but unintelligible. Fortunately, he kept them short, so his congregation did not mind.

‘I do not envy you your task, Brother,’ he said. ‘I cannot imagine how you will charge the Devil with Tynkell’s murder. However, I saw Moleyns take his tumble, and I can assure you that Satan was not responsible for that. I would have sensed him, you see.’

‘Right,’ said Michael flatly. ‘So who did kill Moleyns?’

Milde considered the question carefully. ‘Well, his wife and lawyer were leaning over his inert form at one point. Have you considered them as suspects?’

‘Oh, yes.’

The vicar turned to Lakenham and Cristine. ‘You were there as well. Did you see anything that might help?’

‘We only came later,’ said Lakenham quickly. ‘And we saw nothing.’

Milde frowned. ‘Really? I was sure you were … but no matter. It was dark, and my eyes are not what they were.’

‘Quite,’ agreed Lakenham. ‘And it is easy to be mistaken. But about this brass for Tynkell, Brother. Here are some sketches I made last night, and if you choose one, I will devote every waking moment to it. Unlike Petit, who will put you at the back of a very long queue.’

It was some time before Michael could extricate himself from the eager lattener. He was thoughtful as they left the church.

‘We shall certainly keep Lakenham and Cristine on our list of suspects,’ he said. ‘Even if he baulks at murder, she will not. And their motive is obvious: they are desperate for the work. Godrich was right to remark that the death of a wealthy man is good news for tomb-makers.’

The castle stood on a ridge above the town, reached by a short but stiff climb. It had started life as a simple motte raised by the Normans shortly after the Conquest, but had been expanded since, and was now a significant fortress. It comprised a curtain wall that surrounded a very large bailey, punctuated by towers and the Great Keep. There were also barracks, a chapel, storerooms, a huge kitchen, stables and an armoury.

Sergeant Helbye was in the bailey, supervising drill. He had been one of Bartholomew’s first ever patients, and he had not been young then. Now he moved as though his joints hurt, and there was a weariness in his eyes that had not been there before. The physician wondered how long it would be before he was forced to retire, although Helbye, who claimed his ancestors had been warriors since the time of William the Conqueror, was determined to avoid such an ignominious fate.

Tulyet’s office was a sparse, functional space on the first floor of the Great Keep. A bench was available for visitors, although it was not a very long one. When Bartholomew and Michael arrived, Egidia and Inge were already sitting on it, which meant that they were obliged to stand.

‘What, again?’ groaned Egidia, when Michael asked her to tell him what had happened the previous evening. ‘I have repeated it at least a dozen times already.’

‘And you might have to repeat it a dozen more,’ said Michael coolly, ‘if it helps us catch the villain who dispatched your husband in full sight of his lawyer and loving wife.’

Egidia looked sharply at him. ‘I hope you are not suggesting that Inge or I were responsible. We had no reason to harm John, and his death leaves us prostrate with grief.’

They did not look particularly distressed, leaving Bartholomew to reflect that Tulyet and Vicar Milde might be right to suggest them as suspects for the murder. Of course, that would mean Cook was innocent, which would be a pity. Unless the three of them had colluded, of course – they had been acquainted in Nottingham, and might be bosom friends for all Bartholomew knew.

‘How well do you know Cook?’ he asked, deciding to find out, although the question was something of a non sequitur to the others, who had no way of knowing the direction his thoughts had taken.

‘As well as any man knows the fellow who shaves him,’ replied Inge cautiously. ‘We were acquainted in Nottingham, and I use his services here, because he is the only barber-surgeon in town. Why?’

‘He wrote to tell us that Cambridge was a charming place,’ said Egidia, before Bartholomew could reply. ‘But he lied. It is vile, and it will be more wretched still once we win compensation for our grievous loss. We will be awarded so much money that it will take you years to pay it off.’

‘I recommend you wait for the result of our official enquiry before making that sort of threat,’ warned Michael sharply, while Bartholomew noted that the association between Cook, Egidia and Inge must be tighter than they were willing to admit, if the barber had taken the time and trouble to send them missives. ‘Or we might claim compensation from you – for slander. Now tell us what happened yesterday.’

‘We went to the Market Square to buy cloth,’ replied Inge, although Egidia bristled at the reprimand. ‘From Edith Stanmore. But Moleyns took so long over it that Egidia and I went to St Mary the Great to admire Dallingridge’s tomb instead.’

‘Why?’ asked Michael suspiciously.

‘Because it is a fine spectacle, with its soaring pinnacles and the elegant brasses along its sides,’ replied Inge smoothly. ‘And we both appreciate good art.’

‘We hurried outside when we heard the commotion on the tower,’ Egidia went on, ‘but the best vantage points were gone, so all we saw was the occasional bobbing head or arm.’

‘How well did you know Tynkell?’

‘Not at all,’ replied Egidia promptly. ‘I never met him.’

‘Nor I,’ averred Inge. ‘There has been no need to deal with scholars, not when so many townsfolk have hastened to make our acquaintance.’

‘You do have dealings with scholars,’ countered Tulyet crossly. ‘The Fellows of King’s Hall and the Dominicans were always popping in and out. Then Lyng and Kolvyle were regular visitors, along with the vicars of St Clement’s, St John Zachary and–’

‘They came to see Moleyns,’ interrupted Inge with a bland smile. ‘Not us. Besides, Tynkell was never among them.’

‘Then what about in St Mary the Great?’ pressed Michael. ‘Did Tynkell meet you there?’

‘He may have spoken to John,’ replied Egidia, although a slight pause indicated that she had considered her answer carefully before speaking. ‘But never to us.’

‘So what did you do when the spectacle on the roof was over?’

‘We collected our horses and rejoined Moleyns in the market,’ replied Inge. ‘And as he had seen no cloth that he wanted, Mistress Stanmore invited us to her warehouse in Milne Street, where there is more of a selection.’

‘We were there a long time, so she offered us home-baked cakes,’ continued Egidia. ‘When we had eaten our fill, we started to ride back to the castle …’

‘We took the High Street route, because it was less icy than the side roads,’ said Inge. ‘Helbye was with us, and you were behind, Sheriff.’

‘Yes – behind,’ spat Egidia, glaring at Tulyet. ‘If you had been at his side, where you belonged, John would still be alive.’

‘We stopped frequently to exchange greetings with friends and acquaintances,’ Inge went on when Tulyet declined to respond. ‘He spoke to you two, if I recall aright.’

‘Yes, he did,’ nodded Michael. ‘To hint that he might know who killed Tynkell.’

Inge and Egidia exchanged a glance that was impossible to interpret.

‘Really?’ asked Inge warily. ‘He said nothing about it to us.’

‘Who else did he greet?’

Inge waved an expansive hand. ‘Lots of folk – most had seen the Chancellor slain by Satan, and it is difficult to return to one’s duties after such an event, so a good many people were out and about. For example, Moleyns chatted to the men of King’s Hall, while Egidia and I spoke to the Mayor and his burgesses.’

‘We had all just made our farewells, and were moving forward again, when a dog ran across the road, which made John’s horse rear.’ Egidia scowled at Tulyet again. ‘He should never have been given such a lively beast.’

‘I did not give it to him,’ snapped Tulyet, nettled at last. ‘My best destriers are not for jaunts to the Market Square. But he told me that was the horse he wanted, and he stamped his foot and sulked like a spoilt child until he got his way.’

Egidia sniffed. ‘You should have resisted. Anyway, he fell off after the dog barked, and pandemonium ensued. Dozens of people came to cluster around us – too many to list. We dismounted, and gave our horses to Helbye, lest someone was trampled, but there was such a crush that it was difficult to reach poor John’s side. It took us an age.’

‘As we said in the church, Moleyns was killed with a long, thin spike,’ said Michael. ‘I assume you have no objection to us looking through your possessions – purely for elimination purposes, of course?’

Inge smiled serenely. ‘I am afraid they are currently being moved to the Griffin – you can hardly expect us to stay in the castle now that Moleyns is dead – but you may see them this evening, after we have unpacked.’

When any such item would have been removed, thought Bartholomew, disgusted.

‘Moleyns was accused of murder thirty years ago,’ said Tulyet, changing the subject abruptly. ‘How was his victim dispatched, exactly?’

‘Thirty years ago?’ echoed Michael. ‘I thought it was more recent – three or four.’

‘He faced charges of unlawful killing more than once, Brother,’ explained Tulyet, and turned back to Egidia and Inge. ‘Is that not so?’

‘He was acquitted of the earlier charge,’ replied Egidia sharply. ‘So your question is irrelevant.’

‘He was acquitted because he chose the jury himself.’ Tulyet tapped a pile of documents, which caused Inge and Egidia to exchange another uneasy glance. ‘I made enquiries about his past when I learned he was to be my guest, to ascertain what kind of man I would be hosting. The verdict of that first trial remains contentious.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Egidia. ‘That particular accusation was a lot of rubbish, and twelve good men agreed with me, which is why they found him innocent. Besides, Peter Poges was a fool, and no one missed him.’

‘Peter Poges was her uncle,’ said Tulyet to Michael and Bartholomew. ‘Lord of the manor of Stoke Poges in Buckinghamshire. After his death, his estates passed to Egidia, where they not only gave Moleyns a centre of power, but brought him to the attention of the King. Without them, Moleyns would have remained a landless nobody.’

‘This is untrue!’ snapped Inge. ‘You–’

‘So how did Poges die?’ interrupted Tulyet, rounding on him. ‘Was he stabbed with a long metal spike?’

‘No,’ replied Inge stiffly. ‘He was poisoned.’

‘Just like Dallingridge then,’ mused Tulyet. ‘How very interesting.’

‘Dallingridge was not poisoned,’ barked Inge crossly. ‘He died of natural causes. Ask anyone.’

‘I asked the Sheriff of Nottingham,’ said Tulyet, patting the documents again. ‘He tells me that Dallingridge was fed a toxic substance on Lammas Day. Ergo, Dallingridge and Peter Poges died in an identical manner. And you two and Moleyns were present on both occasions.’

‘Have you never heard of coincidences?’ demanded Inge scathingly.

‘Yes,’ acknowledged Tulyet. ‘But I do not believe in them.’

The sun had been shining when Bartholomew and Michael had entered the castle, but it was hidden behind a bank of clouds when they stepped into the bailey. The dull light matched Bartholomew’s sombre mood, and he wondered how they would ever learn what had happened to Tynkell and Moleyns, when the killer had left them so little in the way of clues.

‘We will catch him,’ said Michael with grim determination, as Tulyet escorted them to the gate. ‘We must, because I cannot accept a bishopric as long as Tynkell’s murderer is on the loose, while Dick needs a culprit to present to the King.’

‘Then perhaps we had better speak to Petit’s apprentice – Lucas,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He claims to have information to sell.’

‘I will do it,’ offered Tulyet. ‘Straight away, lest he suffers the same fate as Moleyns.’

‘We should speak to Helbye, too,’ said Michael, nodding to where the sergeant was still overseeing the soldiers’ training. ‘He was riding next to Moleyns when he fell, after all.’

‘Poor Will,’ said Tulyet sadly. ‘He is mortified – feels he has let me down.’

‘Well, he has,’ said Michael bluntly. ‘Because Egidia is right: Moleyns should not have died when he was being guarded.’

‘We cannot stop dogs from barking or bad horsemen from taking tumbles.’ Tulyet was defensive of the man who had served him for so many years. ‘Do not be too hard on him.’

He led the way to where Helbye was using a young soldier – Robin, a nephew of Agatha the laundress – to demonstrate the move he wanted practised. The elderly warrior favoured his right knee, while a hand to a hip suggested a problem there, too, and Bartholomew suspected he could not have managed a ‘crosswise thrust’ if his life depended on it.

‘It all happened so fast,’ Helbye began wretchedly, when Michael asked him to recount what had happened. ‘I was close behind Moleyns – very close, as he had no business being on Satan, given that he was such a terrible rider–’

‘Stephen,’ corrected Tulyet crisply. ‘The horse’s name is Stephen.’

‘Well, he answers to Satan, which better suits his evil nature.’ Helbye turned back to Michael. ‘Suddenly, a dog raced out of St Michael’s Lane, and tore right in front of him. Satan reared, which would not have bothered a decent horseman, but Moleyns …’

‘Was Stephen the only beast that bucked?’ asked Michael.

‘The others shied, but the rest of us had them under control, even Egidia. Then, once Moleyns was on the ground, lots of people surged forward, some to help, others to jeer.’

‘Jeer?’ queried Michael. ‘I thought people were keen to win his favour.’

‘The wealthy were – those who wanted him to write nice things about them to the King. However, to normal folk he was just a felon who should not have been allowed out of his cell. They disapproved of the freedom he enjoyed, while those whose crimes are not nearly so serious are locked up in the dungeons.’

‘And who can blame them?’ muttered Tulyet. ‘I was irked about it myself, and would have refused to do it if I had not received direct orders from the King.’

‘So what did you do, Helbye?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Dismount and race to his rescue?’

‘No – all four horses were skittish, so I went to tether them on the other side of the road.’ Helbye’s face was a picture of misery. ‘I thought I was doing the right thing – taking them to a safe distance, so they would not hurt anyone. Or themselves. Satan in particular cost a fortune.’

‘What then?’ asked Michael.

‘The crowd had pressed around Moleyns very tightly, and although I did my best to push through quickly, people kept shoving me back. But it never occurred to me that he was in danger and–’

‘Who was in this throng?’

Helbye recited much the same list as everyone else, although he included two new names: Father Aidan, the Principal of Maud’s Hostel, and Weasenham, the University’s stationer and the biggest gossip in the county.

Michael groaned at the mention of the latter. ‘I am sure he will have plenty to say, and all of it will be pure speculation.’

‘There were women, too,’ Helbye went on. ‘For example, that fat Cristine Lakenham, and a lass in the cloak with the fancy hem, who elbowed me rather hard …’

‘This dog,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘Did it run across the lane of its own volition or was it released on purpose?’

Helbye frowned. ‘Now that you mention it, the animal was chasing something – as if someone was playing a game of fetch with it. A child, probably.’

‘Or an adult, who knew that Moleyns would fall if Stephen was startled,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘And who also knew that an accident on the High Street would attract a jostling crowd, thus providing him with an opportunity to jab a spike into his victim’s chest. What kind of dog was it?’

‘A mongrel,’ replied Helbye, then added perfectly seriously, ‘Ask Clippesby about it. He probably knows the animal well, and it will have told him anything important.’

It was dusk by the time Bartholomew and Michael had finished at the castle. The physician glanced across the winter-bare fields to the east as they crossed the Great Bridge. The darkening countryside was brown and bleak, the trees stark skeletons against a lowering sky, and he was not surprised that some folk believed that the Devil had taken up residence there.

‘Egidia is right: Dick does bear some responsibility for Moleyns’ death,’ mused Michael. ‘He let his prisoner ride a horse that was well beyond his abilities, and he provided a guard who is past his prime. And he knows it.’

‘Then let us hope the King does not know it as well. It would be a great pity – for the University and the town – if he was dismissed. So we had better set about finding the culprit, for everyone’s sake. Who are your prime suspects?’

Michael considered. ‘Well, Inge and Egidia obviously. They were to hand when Moleyns died, and they were in St Mary the Great when Tynkell was on the tower. I cannot imagine why they should want Tynkell dead, but it seems he changed these last few weeks, so if we discover what he was doing in his office with the door closed, we might have our answer.’

‘But why stab their victims when poison would be so much easier?’

‘That is a good question, given that Peter Poges and Dallingridge may also have ingested toxic substances, and both have connections to that pair. Of course, Egidia and Inge are not my only suspects for the murders here. Lakenham and Cristine were not being entirely honest with us earlier. Then there are those who aim to be Chancellor – Godrich, Hopeman, Lyng and Thelnetham.’

‘No one has mentioned seeing Thelnetham in the crowd that gathered around Moleyns.’

‘No, but most folk wore hoods, so that means nothing. Then, I am sorry to say, there is Kolvyle, who thought he would be eligible to fill Tynkell’s shoes and who knew Moleyns from Nottingham. He is certainly the kind of man to solicit the good opinion of a royal favourite, and then dispatch him to suit himself.’

‘I think the culprit is Cook. He was among those who raced to “help” when Moleyns fell.’

‘And his motive?’

‘Perhaps Moleyns criticised his barbering skills.’ Bartholomew hurried on when the monk looked sceptical. ‘He also tried to make us think that Moleyns stabbed himself by accident, and he met slyly with Moleyns and Tynkell in St Mary the Great.’

Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘Does this accusation stem from the fact that he is a dire medicus, and you aim to prevent him from harming more of his patients by seeing him hanged?’

Bartholomew eyed him balefully. ‘I accuse him because I believe he might be guilty. He probably has a fine collection of thin spikes in his surgical toolkit.’

‘But what about Tynkell? Why would Cook take against him?’

‘Because he hates scholars. All scholars.’

‘I see,’ said Michael, and changed the subject before they wasted time on an argument neither would win. ‘What do you make of the dog?’

‘We should find out if Cook owns one.’ Bartholomew saw Michael’s irritable look and shrugged. ‘The story is true. I heard it bark, and I saw it dart across the road.’

‘It cannot be coincidence – the dog upsetting the horse, while the killer just happened to be waiting with a deadly spike. Yet he must have moved fast, to set the creature loose, and then dash in to stab Moleyns. Would he have had time?’

‘There is nothing to say that Moleyns was dispatched the moment he hit the ground. He may have been too shocked to get up immediately, or was prevented from rising by the sheer press of people.’ Bartholomew stopped walking suddenly. ‘There is that cowled man again! I am getting tired of him trailing after us all the time. It is disconcerting.’

Ignoring Michael’s injunction to pay no heed, Bartholomew shot across the street, aiming to lay hold of the shadow and have some answers. The figure started in alarm, then dived into the nearest shop, which happened to be the stationer’s. This was a spacious building, always busy, because academics gathered there not just to purchase what they needed for their studies, but to chat with friends, and to browse its extensive collection of books and scrolls.

Bartholomew flung open the door and looked around wildly, aware that his dramatic entry had startled everyone within into silence. All were looking at him. Most were wearing dark cloaks and there were cowls galore. Then he heard a door slam at the back, so he hared towards it. It had been jammed shut, and by the time he had wrenched it open, his quarry was gone. Disgusted, he traipsed back to the main room to find Michael the centre of attention.

‘Of course I know who will win the election,’ the monk was declaring. ‘Suttone, because he is the best man. You will all vote for him if you want your University to flourish.’

‘I shall support Godrich,’ said Geoffrey Dodenho from King’s Hall, a scholar who was not nearly as intelligent as he thought he was. ‘He is wealthy, well connected, and will attract plenty of rich benefactors.’

Godrich was next to him, all haughty superiority, an attitude that immediately antagonised a number of hostel men, including Secretary Nicholas, who limped forward to have his say.

‘But Thelnetham has by far the sharpest brain,’ he said earnestly. ‘And if we want to attract bright young minds, we must have a celebrated scholar in post, or they will all go to Oxford instead. I am Chancellor’s secretary, so I know better than most what is required.’

‘In other words, Thelnetham has offered to let you keep your position if he wins,’ sneered Godrich. ‘It is not the future of the University that concerns you, but your own.’

‘My friars and I will support Hopeman,’ said little Prior Morden, cutting across Nicholas’s offended denials. ‘We do not want another puppet of the Senior Proctor, but a man who can make his own decisions. Subject to the approval of his Order, of course.’

‘Yes, the next Chancellor must be a priest,’ nodded Father Aidan of Maud’s, a man whose missing front teeth gave him a piratical appearance that belied his timorous nature. ‘But an independent one, not a Dominican or a Carmelite. He must also hail from the hostels, who will, after all, represent the bulk of our scholars. Ergo, Lyng is the only man for the job.’

‘Well, I am voting for Suttone,’ declared Doctor Rougham of Gonville Hall, one of Bartholomew’s medical colleagues. ‘Purely for his sensible views on women. It is time we moved with the times, and abandoned these outmoded notions of celibacy. I applaud his enlightened attitude.’

Bartholomew was sure he did, given that he was a regular visitor to Yolande de Blaston, the town’s most popular prostitute.

‘Maud’s cannot be an easy place to live,’ said Weasenham the stationer. The gleeful glint in his eye suggested he would make hay with Rougham’s candid opinions later. ‘Most foundations have one candidate for election, but yours has two – Lyng and Hopeman.’

‘We shall vote for Lyng,’ declared Aidan shortly. ‘Hopeman has his own following.’

‘You mean his fanatics,’ corrected Weasenham, ‘who say he is the only man capable of besting Satan. They tell me that Tynkell tried, but was unequal to the task, so the Devil killed him – before flying off to dine in the Dominican Priory.’

‘Watch what you say,’ warned Morden, before Michael could tell them about the killer’s cloak. ‘You know perfectly well that Lucifer flew over the top of us, and went to sup with the Benedictines at St Edmundsbury.’

‘Now, now,’ chided Michael mildly, although anger flashed in his eyes. ‘No slandering of rival Orders, please. It is ungentlemanly.’

‘Perhaps other contenders will step forward,’ mused Weasenham. ‘I imagine there are plenty who think they can do better than the five currently on offer.’

‘The statutes stipulate a timetable for these events,’ said Nicholas, ‘and the deadline for nominations was noon today. No new names can be accepted now.’

‘Then God help the University,’ declared Weasenham.

‘On the contrary, we have the man we need,’ said Kolvyle, glaring at him. ‘Namely Godrich, who is a skilled administrator, a fine warrior, and knows the King. I agree with your reservations about the others, though – Hopeman is too radical, Lyng too meek, and Suttone and Thelnetham have connections to Michaelhouse.’

Michael’s eyes narrowed. ‘You have connections there yourself, lest you had forgotten. You are our Junior Fellow.’

‘Yes – and it has taught me that Suttone would be rubbish,’ flashed Kolvyle.

There was a startled silence, as it was rare to hear anyone publicly disparage fellow members of the foundation that housed him and paid his stipend. However, while Michael was livid at the gross breach of etiquette, he knew better than to challenge Kolvyle in front of an audience. Instead, he confined himself to patting him on the head like an errant child, a gesture that drew chuckles from the onlookers and a furious scowl from the recipient. Then someone else entered the fray: Thelnetham, whose cloak was fastened with a large purple-jewelled brooch of a type rarely seen on a man, let alone a cleric.

‘I am proud to have been a member of Michaelhouse,’ he said quietly. ‘It is a fine place, and I deeply regret the misunderstanding that led me to resign. I would return there in an instant, should I be asked. However, in the meantime, I believe I will make a worthy Chancellor. For a start, I have published more academic treatises than any other candidate.’

‘But you are not a warrior,’ said Kolvyle in disdain. ‘Nor do you have links to royalty.’

Thelnetham smiled. ‘I sincerely doubt I shall be required to defend the University with a sword. And as for royal connections, I shall acquire those once I am in post. There is nothing to say they need be of long duration. Indeed, perhaps it is preferable to have none, as old alliances might be dangerous or inappropriate.’

‘That is a good point,’ nodded Secretary Nicholas. ‘It is common knowledge that Godrich has enemies at Court – and his enemies will become ours, if he is Chancellor.’

‘Thelnetham speaks well,’ murmured Michael to Bartholomew, as Nicholas’s remark occasioned a furious denial from Godrich. ‘But no one will elect a man who wears women’s jewellery and minces about like a–’

‘What are you two whispering about?’ came a voice from behind. It was Weasenham, his eyes alight with the prospect of gossip.

‘Murder,’ lied Michael. ‘Do you have any intelligence to impart?’

Weasenham’s eyes gleamed brighter still. ‘Well, I was nearby when Moleyns fell. Unfortunately, I could not get a place at the front of the throng, because his wife and friend were in the way.’

‘They told us it took some time to reach him,’ said Michael. ‘They had to dismount first, then fight their way through people like you – idle gawpers.’

‘Then they are lying,’ said Weasenham, unfazed by the rebuke. ‘However, they did not kill him. That honour goes to Satan, who claimed Tynkell’s life, too. Everyone saw the fight on the roof, while Moleyns rode him down the High Street.’

‘Stephen,’ said Michael coldly. ‘The horse that Moleyns rode is named Stephen.’

‘That is not what the soldiers say,’ countered Weasenham with malicious satisfaction, before turning on his heel and stalking away to regale his customers with his dubious theories.