A Grave Concern

Chapter 4

The sun was shining the following day, although its light was pale and thin, with no warmth in it. Even so, it lifted Bartholomew’s spirits, and he found himself humming as he strode around the town, visiting patients. The man whose thumb he had amputated was doing better than he expected, while the lad with the reset leg was comfortable and cheerful.

When he had finished his rounds, he delivered a lecture on Galen’s Prognostica in Michaelhouse, then asked Aungel to read the next instalment of Maimonides’ views on breathing disorders to his first years, while he tested the remaining classes on their grasp of humoral theory. He joined his colleagues in the hall for the noonday meal, after which Aungel offered to supervise a writing assignment, so that the physician could help Michael.

The first item on their agenda was to visit Edith Stanmore, given that one murder victim had been buying cloth from her while the other had fought for his life on the tower. Bartholomew knew where she would be at such an hour – at her husband’s tomb. They arrived to discover it a flurry of activity: Petit was there with three of his apprentices.

‘Wonders will never cease,’ breathed Bartholomew. ‘I know Petit said he would work on Oswald today, but he has never kept his promises before.’

‘The Worshipful Company of Masons probably forbids it,’ drawled Michael. ‘Along with staying at one job for more than three hours in any given day.’

‘It probably also insists that all its members have at least four commissions on the go at any one time, and that while work must never be finished on schedule, bills should always be presented early.’

Michael laughed. ‘But one of those apprentices is Lucas. Dick will have interrogated him by now, but I say we also buy whatever intelligence he has to offer. He may be more forthcoming with us than the Sheriff.’

He and Bartholomew walked to the little aisle near the chancel, where Edith was watching the craftsmen build a hoist to lift the heavy granite slab that would eventually seal Oswald’s stone-lined vault. Bartholomew was glad the burial chamber would soon be closed, because every time he saw it, he was reminded that his beloved sister would lie inside it one day.

He and she were unmistakably siblings, although she had aged since the death of her husband. Her once-raven locks were streaked with grey, and there was a sadness in her dark eyes that worried him, although she smiled when she saw him and Michael.

‘There has been a miracle,’ she said serenely. ‘Petit claimed the mortar was too wet to allow work on Oswald’s monument today, but it set spontaneously when I marched into St Mary the Great and made a speech about craftsmen reneging on their vows.’

‘Your tirade had nothing to do with it,’ countered Petit stiffly. ‘I told you I would return here at the earliest opportunity, and I did. I am a man of my word.’

‘I am glad to hear it,’ said Edith, ‘because if you let me down one more time, I shall cancel the effigy, and have a brass instead. Indeed, I went so far as to discuss the matter with Lakenham, who is here to erect a memorial to poor John Cew.’

She nodded to the other side of the chancel, where the lattener was attaching a metal plate to the wall, although one so small as to be virtually invisible. Bartholomew understood why Cew’s colleagues were reluctant to provide anything too conspicuous: the hapless King’s Hall Fellow had once possessed a formidable intellect, but then he had lost his reason, which had been acutely embarrassing to a foundation that put so much store by outward appearances.

‘I would not have accepted such a lowly commission,’ scoffed Petit, watching Lakenham stir the pitch that would glue the memorial in place. He raised his voice, to ensure his rival heard. ‘But Lakenham is so poor that he will accept any old job. Stanmore’s tomb will have to be carefully guarded from now on, lest bits of it disappear.’

‘I have my own supplies, thank you,’ retorted Lakenham. ‘And do not accuse me of stealing Dallingridge’s feet last night. I went nowhere near them.’

Bartholomew blinked. ‘Dallingridge’s feet?’

‘It is cheaper to carve effigies in sections, rather than using a single piece of stone,’ explained Lakenham sneeringly. ‘And niggardly masons are always looking for ways to cut corners.’

‘To save our clients money,’ corrected Petit sharply.

‘It is common practice these days,’ put in one of his apprentices, a lanky, freckle-faced lad named Peres. ‘Me and Lucas worked hard on those feet, and we finished them yesterday. They were beautiful, too – we had them resting on a greyhound.’

‘But someone came along in the night and stole them from our workshop,’ said Lucas, glaring at Lakenham.

Bartholomew was bemused. ‘Why would a thief take such a thing?’

Petit regarded him pityingly. ‘So he can sell them to some unscrupulous mason in London, who will then adapt them to fit another tomb, and pass off our work as his own. The sly b–’

‘This is why brasses are superior to sculptures, Brother,’ interrupted Lakenham smugly. ‘Feet, noses, hands and even heads are very vulnerable on effigies.’

‘But brasses can be prised off in their entirety and spirited away,’ countered Petit.

‘Not my brasses,’ argued Lakenham. ‘I use pitch and pins to anchor them down.’

‘So you say,’ jeered Petit, and shot the lattener a look of utter contempt before turning his back on him to smile ingratiatingly at Michael. ‘I have taken the liberty of designing exemplars for Tynkell and Moleyns. Would you like to see them?’

‘Exemplars cannot be put together overnight,’ said Lakenham to Michael, his expression vengeful. ‘Which means he knew in advance that those two men would die. So question him about the murders, Brother, because that is suspicious.’

Petit hauled a burin – a chisel with a wooden handle and a sharp metal point – from his belt and fingered it menacingly. ‘You have a poisonous tongue, Lakenham, and you will be wanting a funerary brass for yourself, unless you stop wagging it.’

‘You see, Brother?’ said Lakenham archly. ‘That was almost a confession.’

‘I want to know where you all were when Tynkell died,’ said Michael.

‘He was in St Mary the Great,’ said Lakenham, stabbing an accusing finger at his rival. ‘Perfectly placed to slip up the tower and pretend to be Satan while he killed Tynkell.’

‘Nonsense! We all ran outside when we heard the commotion,’ said Petit, although he licked his lips nervously and his men exchanged furtive glances. ‘When the excitement was over, we came here to work.’ Then he went on an offensive of his own. ‘And how would you know where we were, Lakenham, unless you were nearby?’

The lattener was ready for this. ‘Because the beadles told me,’ he replied smugly. ‘I, however, was in St Clement’s Church with my wife.’

‘That is not what you said yesterday,’ pounced Bartholomew. ‘Cristine claimed her cloak was stolen from St Mary the Great – she had taken it off to ring the bells.’

‘You see?’ crowed Petit. ‘Lakenham is a liar! He stabbed Tynkell and Moleyns, because he hopes to build their tombs.’

Lakenham became flustered. ‘Perhaps we did slip into St Mary the Great for a few moments, but I am not a killer. Not a thief either. Come and look in my shed – you will find no carved feet there. Petit’s workshop, however, will be stuffed full of my brasses, nails and–’

‘That tool,’ interrupted Bartholomew, pointing to Petit’s burin. ‘May I see it?’

‘Why?’ demanded Petit suspiciously, hiding it behind his back.

Michael fixed the mason with an icy glare until he handed it over, which he did with obvious reluctance. The tool was intended for fine work, and possessed a long, slender point. Bartholomew pressed it into some damp clay, where it made a tiny circular hole.

‘The murder weapon?’ asked Michael.

‘Possibly,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘Or something similar.’

Petit was pale with alarm. ‘But lots of craftsmen have these! Indeed, Lakenham has several that are longer and thinner, which he uses for engraving. You cannot accuse me of–’

‘You were in the High Street when Moleyns was killed,’ interrupted Michael. He included the grinning lattener in his proctorly glower. ‘You both were – among the crowd that clustered around him after his fall.’

‘Yes, but I was busy minding my wife,’ said Lakenham, his smirk vanishing like mist in the sun. ‘Making sure she was not unduly jostled.’

From what Bartholomew had seen of Cristine, she was perfectly capable of looking after herself. Indeed, he imagined that if any protecting needed to be done, she would be far better at it than her diminutive spouse.

‘And I could get nowhere near Moleyns,’ added Petit. ‘There were too many people.’

Michael continued to ask questions, but neither craftsman could be persuaded to say more, and nor could their apprentices, and in the end he let them go. Lakenham scuttled away in relief, while Petit and his lads resumed their work on the winch. They did so in silence, clearly unsettled by the monk’s ruthless interrogation.

When Michael had finished frightening the tomb-makers, he and Bartholomew went to find Edith, who had been unable to listen to the discussion for fear that Petit would be arrested, and her husband’s tomb would be subject to even further delays. They found her in the little Lady Chapel, lighting candles for Stanmore’s soul.

‘Moleyns told us that he was buying cloth from you when Tynkell died,’ said Michael. ‘And that he saw more of the fight than the rest of us, because he was on horseback.’

Edith smiled wanly. ‘He dared not dismount lest he was unable to get back on again – Satan is a feisty beast. However, I doubt he saw enough to identify Tynkell’s killer. His elevated position might have let him see a little more than me, but not that much.’

‘Then why did he give us the impression that he did?’ asked Bartholomew.

Edith’s expression was wry. ‘You obviously did not know him very well. He liked to be the centre of attention, and was willing to do or say anything to get it.’

‘So he was lying?’

‘Yes, if he claimed he saw the killer’s face. And if you do not believe me, then borrow Satan from the castle, and sit on him in the Market Square yourself.’

‘I believe you,’ said Michael. ‘Especially as Dick Tulyet thinks much the same. What about Inge and Egidia? Where were they?’

‘They stormed off when Moleyns announced that he was buying cloth for himself only – that if they wanted new cloaks, they would have to purchase the material themselves. They marched towards St Mary the Great, but I was more interested in making a sale to Moleyns, so I cannot tell you whether or not they went inside.’

Michael’s eyes narrowed. ‘They told us the reason they left was because they were bored with him taking so long to make his decision.’

‘Lies,’ said Edith firmly. ‘They were perfectly happy with his dithering when they thought they might be getting something out of it. Do you think they had a hand in Moleyns’ death? It would not surprise me.’

‘Would it not?’ probed Michael keenly. ‘Why?’

‘Because both are ruthless and greedy, and I know for a fact they were beginning to fear that his royal pardon might never arrive – that they might be doomed to spend the rest of their lives living as prisoners with him. Egidia told me so herself. And do not say they could just leave him. It was too late – they had hitched themselves too tightly to his wagon.’

‘Then they must be glad their ordeal is over,’ said Michael, ‘despite their protestations to the contrary. And if Egidia has inherited all his worldly goods …’

‘His store of money,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘Which will not last long now that they are obliged to pay for their bed and board, instead of living free at the castle.’

‘His “store of money” was probably larger than you think,’ said Edith. ‘Because he had a unique way of ensuring that it was regularly replenished.’

‘He did?’ asked Michael curiously. ‘How?’

‘He stole,’ replied Edith, pursing her lips in disapproval. ‘For example, the Mayor’s purse disappeared a month ago, and he is sure Moleyns took it. The coward! He dared not say anything when Moleyns was alive, but now he is dead …’

‘He was afraid of him?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Afraid of what Moleyns might tell the King – he was a royal favourite, remember, which meant that everyone was keen to stay in his good books. But now he can no longer write anything mean, all manner of unsavoury tales will emerge about the man. You mark my words.’

Lucas the apprentice had gone to fetch water from the well by the time Bartholomew and Michael had finished talking to Edith, so they loitered in the graveyard, aiming to waylay him discreetly when he returned. While they waited, they discussed what they had learned, although both conceded that it was rather less than they had hoped. Then Lucas appeared, staggering under the weight of two large buckets.

‘Talking is dangerous, so you will have to make it worth my while,’ he stated without preamble, glancing around uneasily. ‘How much are you offering?’

‘That depends on what you tell us,’ replied Michael. ‘Do you know who killed Tynkell and Moleyns? For that information, I might be persuaded to part with threepence.’

Lucas’s eyes gleamed greedily. ‘Very well then. Meet me here at midnight – alone.’

He started to walk away, but Michael grabbed his arm.

‘You will speak to us now or not at all.’

Lucas scowled as he tried to free himself. ‘Then it will be not at all. Did you not hear me? Talking is dangerous.’

‘Not talking is dangerous,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘Because the Sheriff will–’

‘So it was you who put him on to me, was it?’ spat Lucas. ‘I might have known! Well, I told him nothing – I do not deal with officers of the law. And the price is now sixpence. Come at midnight. Or not. It is all the same to me.’

He wrenched his arm out of the monk’s grasp and went on his way. Irked, Bartholomew started to follow, but Michael stopped him.

‘Leave him, Matt. Could you not see the fear behind that bluster? We will get nothing from him unless we meet him on his own terms, so we shall have to wait. After all, we do not want to earn him a burin in the heart for spilling his secrets.’

‘A spike,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘We do not know it was a burin. But Lucas will be safe once he gives us the name of the killer – he cannot be hurt if the culprit is arrested.’

‘If it were that simple, he would have told us the name and grabbed the money at once,’ said Michael. ‘Which makes me suspect that his intelligence may not be as precise as we hope.’

As they left the churchyard, they met the parish priest. His name was Roger Frisby, and he was patently unsuited to a career in the Church. He was brusque, drank too much, liked irreligious jokes, and was unsympathetic if his flock came to him with problems. He looked more like a brawler than a man of God, with thick fists and a flattened nose. He was kin to Secretary Nicholas, although there was little similarity between the quiet, scholarly clerk and the hard-living vicar.

‘I wish these tomb-builders would hurry up and finish,’ he grumbled. ‘Petit swore that I would barely notice his presence, and that any inconvenience would only last a few weeks, but it has been months and I am sick of it. The dust alone is enough to drive a man to claret.’

‘I understand you visited Moleyns at the castle,’ said Michael, tactfully not mentioning that it took far less than a bit of dirt to steer Frisby towards the wineskin. ‘Why?’

‘Because he knew how to enjoy life,’ replied Frisby with a sudden grin. ‘And I admire that in a man. There is too much sobriety in this town, and it was fun to carouse with a fellow who was not afraid to hold back. We showed that prim Tulyet a party or two!’

‘Often?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Not as often as I would have liked. But Moleyns was over sixty years old, and once or twice he had to cancel our revels or excuse himself and leave early, claiming weariness. I was nearby when he fell off his horse, and could not believe it when you declared him dead.’

‘Tell us what you saw,’ instructed Michael.

Frisby closed his eyes as he searched his memory. ‘A dog started it all. Someone lobbed a bone, and the thing tore across the road to get it.’

‘A bone?’ probed Michael. ‘You mean the dog was deliberately encouraged to dart out?’

‘Now you have made it sound sinister,’ said Frisby, folding his brawny arms. ‘Whereas all I am saying is that a bone arced across the road with a dog in pursuit. I suspect someone was just trying to get the animal to go away – you know what a nuisance these strays can be.’

‘Did you see who threw it?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘It was too dark, and I only noticed the bone because it landed by my foot. It was a lamb shank, if that is any help. I wish I could tell you more, but that is all I know.’

As the afternoon wore on, the day turned colder, and Bartholomew began to long for his little room with its welcoming fire. However, he did not object when Principal Haye of White Hostel invited him and Michael to dine – it was an opportunity to question more witnesses about the deaths of Tynkell and Moleyns, not to mention the fact that White was famous for the high quality of its victuals.

‘Yes, I visited Moleyns in the castle,’ said Haye, in response to Michael’s question. ‘Because he promised to put in a good word for us at Court.’

‘You mean for nobles to send their sons to you?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Yes, and reminding them that donations to our coffers are always gratefully received. However, he never bothered, and I am sure he was the rogue who stole my purse. I dared not mention it when he was alive, lest he avenged himself with a spiteful letter to the King, but now he is dead …’

‘Curious,’ mused Michael. ‘The Mayor thinks Moleyns filched his purse, too.’

‘And there will be others.’ Haye passed the platter of roasted meat. ‘Moleyns was a light-fingered rogue, and His Majesty should have been more careful in his choice of friends.’

Bartholomew and Michael were pleasantly replete when they left. Night had fallen, and the monk declared himself too tired for listening to more useless testimonies, so they headed home. They were almost at Michaelhouse when the physician glimpsed a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye, and knew without looking that it was the spy in the cowl.

‘I should visit Isnard before turning in,’ he said, loudly enough for his words to carry. ‘To see if he needs more salve for his bruises.’

Without waiting for a reply, he strode towards the river. He turned the corner, then doubled back and peered up the lane. He saw Michael waiting for the gate to be opened, while the spy watched from behind a buttress. Keeping to the darkest shadows, Bartholomew edged towards them, tiptoeing at first, then breaking into a run as he came closer. The figure started in alarm at the sudden clatter of footfalls.

‘Matt, no!’ cried Michael.

But Bartholomew was sick of being followed, and gave a whoop of triumph as he laid hold of his quarry. At the same time, Walter the porter opened the gate, and when he saw a Fellow wrestling with a stranger, he hurtled forward to help. The spy was ridiculously easy to overpower, after which it was a simple matter to bundle him into the porter’s lodge for questioning. The commotion drew a screech of alarm from Walter’s pet peacock, which was relaxing by the fire with a jug of ale.

‘I told you not to let him drink,’ said Bartholomew to Walter, while the spy brushed himself down and Michael stood in silent disapproval in the doorway. ‘It is bad for him.’

‘Yes, but he loves ale,’ said Walter defensively. ‘Besides, if I deprive him, he only goes to the kitchen and helps himself. I do not want him there – not when Agatha keeps threatening to wring his neck.’

‘Your College’s peacock is a drunkard, Michael?’ drawled the spy. ‘Singular.’

‘He is not a drunkard,’ objected Walter, offended. ‘He just likes an occasional tipple.’

But Bartholomew was more interested in the fact that the spy had addressed Michael by name. ‘You two know each other?’

The question was answered when the spy unfastened his cloak to reveal the Benedictine habit underneath. It was made of the finest cloth, which suggested he was no ordinary monk – as did his supercilious demeanour. Meanwhile, Michael was glaring at Bartholomew. Sensing trouble, Walter prudently made himself scarce, taking his tipsy bird with him.

‘I told you he would approach us when the time was right, Matt,’ Michael said irritably. ‘You really should have let him be.’

The spy’s eyes narrowed. ‘You knew I was following you? How? I kept to the shadows.’

Michael smiled superiorly. ‘You had not been in Cambridge an hour before your presence was reported to me. Of course I knew you were dogging my every move.’

‘Then why let me continue with the pretence?’ demanded the spy crossly.

‘I assumed you had your reasons, and far be it from me to question them.’ Michael turned to Bartholomew. ‘Allow me to introduce Richard de Whittlesey. You may remember him – he was once Master of Peterhouse, but left to become the Bishop of Rochester’s envoy.’

‘Before my time,’ said Bartholomew curtly. Whittlesey was not the only one who was annoyed with Michael for failing to be open with him.

‘Those were happy days,’ sighed Whittlesey wistfully. ‘And although I have done well since leaving the University, I still hanker for the intellectual sparring that only scholars can provide. I debated theology with Bishop Sheppey, of course, but it was not the same.’

‘So why did you come back?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘If it is to stand for Chancellor, you are too late – the closing date for applications has passed.’

Whittlesey laughed. ‘I have better things to do than struggling to impose order on a lot of opinionated academics. No, I came to bring Michael news. Some good and some bad.’

Michael frowned. ‘Bad news? Not about my family, I hope?’

‘Yes, in a way. Bishop Sheppey is dead, God rest his sainted soul.’ Tears shimmered in Whittlesey’s eyes before he blinked them away. ‘He died after a long illness, which he endured with courage and patience. He was a fine man, and I am honoured to have been his friend.’

‘A fine man indeed,’ agreed Michael quietly. ‘A Benedictine, like us. I first met him as a youth, when I heard him preach at Paul’s Cross in London. I had already decided to take holy orders, but he was the one who convinced me to become a Black Monk.’

‘He was proud of his sermons,’ said Whittlesey with a sad smile. ‘I wrote some of them down, and will publish them for him later this year. He was fond of you, Brother, and that is the good news – he has nominated you as his successor.’

Michael reacted with such a serene lack of surprise that Bartholomew wondered if the monk had been entirely honest about what had been in the letter from Avignon. ‘Then he has made a good choice, and it is fitting that Rochester will pass to another Benedictine. Continuity is important.’

‘Of course, your appointment still needs to be confirmed by the Holy Father,’ warned Whittlesey. ‘The King and the Archbishop have endorsed it, though.’

Michael waved an airy hand. ‘Formalities – the Pope will accede to Sheppey’s wishes. Yet I am surprised you came yourself. Do you not have messengers for this sort of task?’

‘The Archbishop sent me. He wanted to be sure that you were all Sheppey – and your patron, the Bishop of Ely – had promised. Which you are, of course. The University is five times the size it was a decade ago, and has grown stronger and more stable under your guidance.’

Michael inclined his head graciously. ‘So when do we travel to Rochester?’

‘Would tomorrow be convenient?’

Michael regarded him askance. ‘It would not! I cannot leave Cambridge for at least another month – I have a murdered Chancellor to avenge and an election to manage.’

‘Unfortunately, time is a luxury you do not have,’ said Whittlesey soberly. ‘The absolute latest we can go is next Thursday – the day after the election. Hopefully, it will be enough to allow you to usher in the candidate of your choice and catch the killer. But if you have not nabbed him by then, you will just have to entrust that task to your successor.’

‘Why the rush?’ asked Bartholomew suspiciously.

‘Because Michael has competition: the Bishop of Bangor is desperate for a better See, and he is expected to reach Rochester by Monday week. He may arrange to have himself installed if Michael is elsewhere, and then it will be difficult to oust him.’

‘He aims to steal my mitre?’ cried Michael in alarm. ‘We shall see about that! He–’

He stopped speaking when Cynric burst in. The book-bearer was panting hard.

‘There you are, Brother,’ he gasped. ‘Petit’s apprentice Lucas is dead, and the Sheriff wants you in St John Zachary at once.’

‘Lucas? Dead?’ breathed Michael, stunned, while Bartholomew gaped his shock. ‘How? Not murdered?’

Cynric shrugged apologetically. ‘All I can tell you is that the Sheriff wants you to hurry. You can ask for details when you get there.’

‘But we were going to meet Lucas later,’ cried Michael, horrified. ‘He has information about the murders.’

‘Then you should have prised the intelligence from him at once,’ said Whittlesey, although the monk did not need to be told. ‘You might have had the case solved by now.’

‘I did not want to put him in danger,’ explained Michael, then turned to Bartholomew, his troubled expression reflecting the physician’s own guilt-racked conscience. ‘I hope he is not dead because the killer saw us talking to him. Petit and his boys were inside the church, although Lakenham had left …’

‘Anyone might have been watching,’ said Bartholomew, and looked pointedly at Whittlesey. He did not care that the man was a bishop’s envoy or that he was an old acquaintance of Michael’s. Whittlesey had behaved peculiarly, as far as he was concerned, and his instincts were to distrust him. ‘Present company not excepted.’

‘Not me,’ said Whittlesey carelessly. ‘I was busy with other matters at the time.’

‘What other matters?’ demanded Bartholomew, thinking the question begged to be asked.

‘It was personal,’ said Whittlesey shortly, before going to sit by Walter’s fire. He settled himself comfortably and helped himself to the peacock’s ale. ‘Go and do your duty, Michael. I shall wait here until you return. Then we shall talk.’

‘Is he a friend?’ asked Bartholomew, as he and Michael hurried towards St John Zachary. ‘Because I cannot say I took to him.’

‘He is an acquired taste,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But no, he is not a friend, although I have always admired his intellect and ambition. He will go far in the Church and in our Order.’

Bartholomew was sure he would, although he was less certain that it would be a good thing for either organisation.

They arrived at St John Zachary, where Bartholomew was dismayed to learn that Lucas’s body lay at the bottom of his brother-in-law’s vault. With Tulyet’s help, he hastened to haul it out, lest Edith heard about the desecration and came to see for herself. Once Lucas had been retrieved, it did not take Bartholomew long to ascertain how he had died.

‘Stabbed in the back.’ He pointed to a trail of bloody spatters that ended with a discarded chisel. ‘With that, I imagine.’

At that point, there was a commotion at the back of the church, which heralded the arrival of Petit and his remaining apprentices. They stormed to the chancel en masse, demanding to know what had happened. Tulyet told them tersely.

‘He volunteered to stay late,’ wailed Petit, and jabbed an accusing forefinger at Bartholomew. ‘He and his sister are always urging us to work faster, so I agreed, thinking to appease them. Poor Lucas! He was such a diligent boy.’

‘It was not diligence that kept him out tonight,’ said Michael bluntly. ‘It was money – he was going to meet us at the witching hour, and sell us the name of the person who killed Tynkell and Moleyns.’

‘But he did not know it!’ cried Petit. ‘If he had, he would have told me. I was like a father to him.’

‘That chisel,’ said Bartholomew, nodding towards it. ‘Is it yours?’

Petit gaped at it. ‘It is Lucas’s, which means the culprit used the poor boy’s own tool to dispatch him.’ He turned accusingly to Tulyet. ‘This is your fault. You should have been out hunting this vile murderer, not listening to Lakenham whine about stolen brasses. If you had done your duty, a third innocent life would not have been lost.’

‘Is Lucas the killer’s third victim, Matt?’ asked Michael in a low voice, as the mason continued to rail at Tulyet, his apprentices clamouring their agreement at his side.

‘I do not believe so,’ Bartholomew whispered back. ‘First, Moleyns and Tynkell were stabbed cleanly, whereas Lucas has five separate and very messy punctures – this killer did not know what he was doing. Second, they were stabbed in the front, but Lucas was attacked from behind. Third, they were murdered publicly, while this was an assault on a lone man in the dark. And finally, Moleyns and Tynkell were dispatched with a thin spike–’

‘A burin,’ interrupted Michael, looking pointedly at the masons.

‘Possibly a burin,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘Whereas a chisel was used on Lucas.’

Petit chose that moment to stop haranguing the Sheriff and hurl himself across Lucas’s body in a dramatic expression of grief. The freckled Peres hurried to comfort him, although Petit’s distraught sobs abated when Bartholomew, Michael and Tulyet retreated to the far side of the chancel to talk, and there was no audience.

‘I agree,’ said Tulyet, when Bartholomew had outlined his conclusions. ‘This is not the work of the rogue who dispatched Moleyns and Tynkell with such surgical precision. We have two killers here, not one.’

‘Perhaps this death is an escalation of the feud between latteners and masons,’ suggested Michael. ‘The stakes are high, with a chancellor and a favourite of the King needing tombs. We had better see if Lakenham has an alibi for Lucas’s murder – he has access to this church at the moment, because he is making a memorial brass for Cew.’

‘It would be a tidy solution,’ said Tulyet. ‘The only problem being that Lakenham does have an alibi – he was with me when Lucas died. We were discussing his stolen supplies.’

‘Then perhaps he hired someone else to do it,’ suggested Michael.

‘Does he have that sort of money?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘He has won no major commissions since Knyt – Cew’s little plate cannot have earned him much.’

‘Then maybe Cristine did it,’ suggested Tulyet. ‘She is a powerful and determined lady, quick to take offence. Of course, we should not discount Petit as a culprit either. I am unconvinced by his showy display of grief, and he is certainly callous enough to sacrifice one of his own lads to compromise a rival.’

‘I agree,’ said Michael, looking to where the mason had abandoned Lucas’s body now that no one was watching, and was ordering Peres to rinse off the chisel.

‘And nor can we forget Isnard and Gundrede,’ added Tulyet. ‘They also have a hearty dislike of these tomb-builders.’

‘Who found Lucas?’ asked Michael, cutting across Bartholomew’s immediate defence of the bargeman. ‘Frisby?’

‘I did,’ replied Tulyet. ‘Frisby is in his house, drunk.’

‘What were you doing here in the dark?’ asked Michael curiously.

‘Looking for Lucas. He refused to speak to me earlier, so I came to press him again. He was still warm to the touch, and I wish to God I had arrived a few moments sooner. Then we might have had answers, and he would still be alive.’

‘His murder comes under your jurisdiction,’ said Michael, ‘so you investigate him, while I concentrate on Tynkell and Moleyns. It will be the most efficient use of our time.’

But Tulyet shook his head. ‘I will take Lucas, you can have Tynkell, and we will share Moleyns. I cannot delegate the murder of a prisoner, Brother. The King would not approve.’

‘Very well,’ said Michael. ‘But we must meet regularly, to compare notes.’

Tulyet smiled. ‘The University and the town working together to thwart criminals. Are you sure you would not rather be a chancellor than a bishop, Brother? Cambridge needs you.’

‘It does,’ agreed Michael immodestly. ‘But so does Rochester.’