A Grave Concern

Chapter 5

As it was not every day that a member of Michaelhouse was offered a bishopric, the Fellows celebrated with considerable vigour that night, merrymaking with an abandon rarely seen in the College. As a consequence, there were sore heads aplenty the following day, and the students, who had been kept awake by the racket, spoke in deliberately loud voices, in a concerted attempt to make their teachers wince. It was disappointingly easy with all the Fellows, except two.

Bartholomew rarely drank to excess, lest he was summoned by a patient. He knew other medici did not allow such considerations to limit their pleasures, but he hated the notion of failing someone for the sake of a few cups of wine. He had still enjoyed himself enormously, but was quite happy to sip watered ale and smile at the antics of the others. Meanwhile, Kolvyle had sat in sulky silence all night, plainly jealous of the monk’s good fortune. His colleagues treated his pouting envy with the contempt it deserved by ignoring it.

‘There was something wrong with that wine last night,’ whispered Michael, as he joined his colleagues in the yard to process to Mass. He looked very much the worse for wear, with a pasty face and bloodshot eyes. ‘It has given me a headache.’

‘And I have a sour stomach,’ agreed Langelee. ‘Return the barrel and demand a refund.’

‘I would, but there is none left to prove our point,’ said Michael. ‘I imagine the students finished it after we went to bed. After all, the seven of us cannot have emptied it alone.’

‘The five of you,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘And you did.’

‘I think we had better let Kolvyle take our classes this morning,’ said Langelee, hand to his middle. ‘I am not well enough to teach, and if you are suffering similar symptoms …’

‘That is a good idea,’ said Suttone weakly. His portly features were grey-green above a vomit-flecked habit. It was rumpled, too, suggesting he had slept in it, and had risen too late to change. ‘I feel dreadful.’

‘I suppose I can oblige,’ said Kolvyle grudgingly. He was freshly shaven, his hair was brushed, and he was wearing clean clothes. Just the sight of him made his older colleagues feel worn, jaded and very shabby. ‘After all, we do not want the students to complain. None of you are decent teachers on a good day, so after a night of intemperate hedonism …’

‘I am much respected in the lecture hall,’ objected Suttone, albeit feebly. ‘Indeed, I promised my lads a discourse on reductio ad absurdum today, which is no easy topic. Of course, I cannot recall what I planned to say, exactly …’

‘Your thesis was that Ethel the chicken must weigh something, or she would spend all her time floating in the air,’ supplied Clippesby, who held the bird in question in his arms. His eyes were glazed, and he wore the silly grin that indicated he was still drunk. ‘You will base your argument on the fact that denial of the assertion will have a ridiculous result. In other words, it will demonstrate this very common form of logical argument.’

‘I know what reductio ad absurdum means, Clippesby,’ said Suttone irritably. ‘But was that really the example I intended to use? Lord! I had better find another, or my lads will think I have lost my reason.’

‘They will,’ agreed Kolvyle spitefully. ‘Clearly, it would be better if you all left this morning’s work to me. I will not let our pupils down.’

He flounced away, startling Langelee and his Fellows by opening the gate and walking to church by himself. Allowing the Master to lead the way was not a written rule, but it was a custom everyone followed, and all were astonished that Kolvyle should have chosen to flout it.

‘I hope we did not do anything embarrassing last night,’ said Suttone uneasily. ‘Especially in front of him. I recall very little after the Master stood on the table and recited that poem about the nuns and the dragon, and it would be a pity if our night of levity damaged my chances of being Chancellor. Kolvyle is the kind of man to gossip about any … indiscretions.’

‘It was quite a night,’ grinned William, who looked much as he usually did, given that he was not a clean man to start with, so any new spillages were difficult to detect. ‘I cannot recall the last time we enjoyed ourselves so.’

‘We had much to celebrate,’ smiled Michael. ‘My See and Suttone’s chancellorship.’

‘Suttone may not win,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘Lyng has the support of the hostels, and that is where most votes lie. It will not be easy to defeat him.’

‘I thought the same, but Michael says he has a plan.’ Suttone beamed suddenly. ‘I shall like being Chancellor even more if he is not here to push me around. I am doubly delighted that he is leaving.’

Michael’s expression darkened. ‘I most certainly will tell you what to do! I shall be watching your every move like a hawk.’

‘How?’ asked Bartholomew curiously. ‘You will be in Rochester.’

‘I have my ways,’ replied Michael mysteriously. ‘But do not worry about Lyng, Suttone. No killer will ever hold the post of Chancellor.’

‘Killer?’ echoed Langelee, startled. ‘You mean it was Lyng who made an end of Tynkell and Moleyns? Lord! He seems such a decent fellow, and I have always liked him.’

‘Most people do, which is why he felt free to commit murder,’ said Michael airily. ‘He thinks he is the last man we will accuse, just because he is charming and elderly.’

‘So you have solved the case?’ asked Bartholomew, pleased. ‘You did not mention it last night, but I am glad it is over. I shall teach my lads Maimonides’ Tractus contra passionem asthmatis today. They will prefer that to some tedious monologue from Kolvyle.’

‘I have not solved it exactly,’ hedged Michael, ‘but Lyng is my chief suspect. However, I shall need you to help me to gather the necessary evidence, so Maimonides will have to wait.’

Bartholomew regarded him through narrowed eyes. ‘Do you really think Lyng is the culprit, or have you picked on him because he is Suttone’s most serious rival?’

‘A little of both,’ admitted Michael. ‘But he does have the strongest motive for killing Tynkell – namely dispatching the present incumbent, so that he could be Chancellor once more. It makes sense – he is old, and Tynkell kept delaying his departure.’

‘And that is your scheme to secure me the post?’ asked Suttone worriedly. ‘Accusing Lyng of murder? Is that not unethical?’

‘Not if he is guilty,’ replied Michael glibly. ‘And if he is innocent … well, he will just have to weather the storm as best he can.’

The scholars attended Mass in St Michael’s, although it was not easy to concentrate on their devotions, because Petit arrived and began to prise the damaged lid from Wilson’s tomb. He and his apprentices obviously thought they were being unobtrusive, but there were a lot of loud whispers, much clattering of tools, and they failed to understand the concept of tiptoeing, so their footsteps clattered loudly enough to render some of the rite inaudible.

‘I know I promised to work on Stanmore today,’ the mason said stiffly, when the ceremony was over and Bartholomew went to have words with him. ‘But you cannot expect us to enter the building where Lucas was so vilely killed. At least, not for the foreseeable future.’

‘It was a terrible shock, see,’ added the freckled Peres, sticking out his chin challengingly. ‘So we have decided to concentrate on our other masterpieces for a while.’

‘If you abandon Oswald again, I shall follow my sister’s lead, and make speeches about unreliable craftsmen,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘So think very carefully before doing anything rash.’

Petit shot him a foul look as he left, while young Peres shoved past the physician roughly enough to make him stagger. Then the lad was almost knocked from his own feet when he found himself in Langelee’s path, and the Master did some jostling of his own.

‘I had to hire them,’ said Langelee defensively, as Bartholomew regarded him with silent reproach. ‘Petit is the only monumental mason within a sixty-mile radius. Or do you want Kolvyle to win a claim of compensation against us?’

Bartholomew scowled at him, and they processed home in silence. No one ate much at breakfast, some because their stomachs were still too delicate, and the rest because what was on offer was virtually inedible – the servants had also raised a goblet to Michael’s future success. Agatha the laundress was decidedly fragile, while Cynric had yet to get out of bed.

‘Your lads will enjoy Kolvyle’s lecture, Bartholomew,’ said Langelee, after he had recited a shockingly short final grace, and the students had filed out. ‘He will speak on Gratian’s Decretum, which is always fun. Or so he tells me.’

‘Not as much fun as Maimonides,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘And do not suggest letting Aungel teach Passionem asthmatis, because he does not know it well enough. Michael’s beadles can find the evidence he needs to convict Lyng, but my duties lie here.’

‘Lyng is not the killer,’ said Langelee in a low voice. ‘I understand why Michael thinks so, but he is wrong – Lyng is not bold enough. It is far more likely to be Hopeman. However, Michael cannot leave Cambridge until the case is solved, and our College needs the glory his promotion will bring. Thus you must help him, to ensure he catches the right man.’

‘I do not think–’

‘It is common knowledge that the Bishop of Bangor has been waiting for Sheppey to die so he can grab Rochester. Thus Michael must get there as soon as possible, which he cannot do until Tynkell’s murder is properly solved. That is your duty, Bartholomew, not passionate asthma. Moreover, he cannot arrange for Suttone to be elected if he is busy hunting killers.’

Bartholomew supposed the Master was right. He capitulated with a grudging nod, and Langelee expressed his thanks with a vigorous clap on the back that made his teeth rattle. Then the bell rang to announce the start of the day’s teaching, and the students trooped into the hall to hear what Kolvyle had to say about the principles of canon law. Bartholomew was sorry for them, sure that even the lawyers among them would be more interested in Maimonides’ views on lung diseases.

As usual, Kolvyle was in no hurry to begin his work, preferring instead to let the suspense build before gracing the audience with his presence. He was still in his room, and Michael indicated that Bartholomew was to accompany him there.

‘Partly to make sure he does not dally too long – my Premonstratensians are restless today,’ he said as they walked, ‘but also to ask what he saw when Moleyns died.’

Although the most junior Fellow was usually allocated the meanest room, Kolvyle had made such a fuss that even Langelee had been incapable of withstanding the litany of complaints. As a consequence, he occupied quarters that were far nicer than anyone else’s – they were not only larger and in better repair, but also beautifully decorated.

Bartholomew and Michael arrived at them to discover that Kolvyle already had a visitor in the form of Suttone, who looked plump, soft and dissolute next to his bright and youthful colleague.

‘But it will do me harm if a member of my own College openly supports another candidate,’ he was objecting. ‘You cannot declare for Godrich.’

‘I already have,’ said Kolvyle smugly. ‘You are too old for the post anyway. There should be a rule that no one over twenty-five should be allowed to stand, because it is time our University was in the hands of younger, more dynamic officers.’

‘Do not underestimate experience,’ argued Suttone. ‘It is–’

‘What experience?’ Kolvyle shot back snidely. ‘You do not have any, and your campaign is based on two things: scaring everyone by saying the plague is about to return, and then trying to make them feel better about it by offering to lift the ban on women. You silly old fool!’

‘We created a monster by letting him have his own way every time he stamps a sulky foot,’ murmured Bartholomew to Michael. ‘It would not surprise me to learn that he killed Tynkell, and is piqued because he will not be the one to benefit from it.’

‘If so, he will suffer the consequences,’ vowed Michael. ‘Member of my College or not.’

He marched into the room, but Kolvyle was gathering notes for his lecture, and pretended not to notice. Suttone tried again to reason with him, then threw up his hands in defeat when Kolvyle began to sing, drowning him out.

‘You talk to him, Brother,’ he spat as he left. ‘He is incapable of listening.’

‘I do not listen, because Suttone has nothing to say,’ declared Kolvyle when the Carmelite had gone. ‘His jaw flaps, but only rubbish emerges.’

‘I saw you near Moleyns when he took his tumble,’ said Bartholomew, coming straight to the point so he would not have to spend a moment longer than necessary in such objectionable company. ‘Will you tell us exactly what happened?’

Kolvyle shrugged. ‘A dog barked, Satan bucked, and Moleyns hit the ground. I hurried to help him – he was swearing, so he was definitely alive – but then there was a stampede, and I dislike being jostled by inferiors, so I withdrew.’

‘Which particular inferiors were these?’ asked Michael. ‘Godrich? I know for a fact that he was there, too, because I saw him.’

Kolvyle regarded him with open dislike. ‘He is not a man for rubbing shoulders with commoners either – he followed me away. However, Lyng did not. He is probably the killer, desperate to do something meaningful before he dies of old age. Or Hopeman, perhaps, driven by his low intellect. Or a tomb-maker, for the delight of building another grave.’

‘In other words, you have no idea,’ said Michael, unimpressed.

Kolvyle smiled, an expression of such smug arrogance that Bartholomew was seized with the sudden and most uncharacteristic desire to slap it off him. ‘Oh, I have plenty of theories, all sure to be better than anything you might have devised. However, to solve the case, you need to identify exactly how the two victims are connected.’

‘Clearly,’ agreed Michael with admirable patience. ‘And do you have the answer?’

‘Of course,’ replied Kolvyle, and turned back to his notes.

‘So what is it?’ pressed Michael, while Bartholomew clenched his fists behind his back and was all admiration for the monk’s self-control.

‘There was a special service in St Mary the Great last week, to pray against a return of the plague. Suttone insisted on holding it, if you recall.’

‘Yes,’ said Michael. ‘I attended it myself. Was Moleyns there, too? I did not notice.’

‘He was,’ replied Kolvyle. ‘And he spent a lot of time chatting to Lyng. Afterwards, Lyng went straight to our Chancellor, whispered in his ear, then returned to Moleyns. Obviously, Moleyns and Tynkell had business together, and Lyng was their go-between.’

‘We know Tynkell and Moleyns met,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Tynkell was interested in siege warfare, and Moleyns was willing to give him eye-witness accounts. Moleyns sent him messages, inviting him to meet in St Mary the Great.’

Kolvyle released a shrill bray of laughter. ‘You believe that? What an ass you are, Bartholomew! Of course they were not discussing weapons!’ He turned back to Michael. ‘So there is your connection, Brother, although you should not have needed me to draw it to your attention. Now all you need to do is find out what they discussed.’

‘Do you know?’ asked Michael.

Kolvyle hesitated, but then shook his head, although it was plain he wished it were otherwise, so he could gloat a little more about his superior knowledge.

‘What about Cook?’ asked Bartholomew, fighting down his irritation by pondering whether the barber or Kolvyle was more disagreeable. ‘Did he join this discussion?’

‘He might have done. He was always hanging around Moleyns, because he knew him from Nottingham, and liked to consider himself the friend of a friend of the King.’

‘Ah, yes, Nottingham,’ said Michael. ‘The place where Dallingridge was poisoned. I wonder who could have done such a terrible thing.’

‘He claimed he was poisoned,’ said Kolvyle contemptuously. ‘But there was nothing to prove it, as I have told you before.’

‘That is not what Nottingham’s Sheriff thinks,’ said Michael. ‘He is–’

‘Nottingham’s Sheriff!’ sneered Kolvyle. ‘That man is an idiot of the first order. Now, if you will excuse me, I have work to do.’

He elbowed Bartholomew and Michael out of his room and locked the door behind him. He was the only College member who took such precautions, and Bartholomew had always considered it an affront. Then, head held high, the youngster swaggered across the yard.

‘I will look the other way while you thump him, Brother,’ offered Bartholomew.

‘Do not tempt me, Matt.’

Unfortunately, several patients needed Bartholomew, and as he refused to delegate their care to his students, the monk went alone to St Mary the Great to hear his beadles’ reports, hoping one had learned something to help him catch the killer. He had ordered them to trawl the taverns the previous night, and had allocated a generous sum from the University Chest to buy any information on offer. He arrived at the church to find Whittlesey waiting for him, too.

‘Thank you for your offer to house me in Michaelhouse for the duration of my stay here,’ the envoy said. ‘But I have been lodging in King’s Hall since I arrived, and Godrich will be offended if I moved now. I am sure you understand.’

‘As you wish,’ said Michael, simultaneously relieved that Michaelhouse’s poverty would not be exposed to a man he wanted to impress, but hurt that his hospitality should be rejected. ‘Godrich is a friend of yours then? How did you meet?’

‘We are kin – both cousins to the Archbishop of Canterbury.’ Whittlesey hesitated for a moment, but then forged on. ‘My familial ties to the country’s leading cleric proved very useful for Bishop Sheppey. Moreover, I learned a lot about Church politics during my years in his service – the sort of experience that could be of considerable value to his successor …’

Michael smiled. ‘Forgive me, Whittlesey. I did not invite you to serve as my envoy, because I assumed it was a given. I am sure we can do a great deal for each other.’

Whittlesey smiled back, pleased. ‘In that case, I should like to watch you at work again – openly this time. I must make myself familiar with your ways quickly, because we shall both be busy once we reach Rochester. Do not mind me – you will not know I am here.’

Michael seriously doubted that, and was acutely aware of his beadles casting uneasy glances in the envoy’s direction as they delivered their reports. He understood why: there was something unsettling about the silent, black presence in the shadows, especially as Whittlesey liked to keep his cowl up, to protect the back of his neck from draughts. It was, the monk thought, rather like having Death looming over his shoulder.

‘So none of you learned anything to help me catch Tynkell’s killer?’ he asked when his men had finished speaking, struggling to keep the disappointment from his voice. ‘Despite spending four shillings on ale?’

‘Sorry, Brother,’ replied Meadowman, their leader and his favourite. ‘All we can say is that the culprit is more likely to be a scholar than a townsman.’

‘And why is that, pray?’ asked Michael warily.

‘Because no one has stepped forward to take credit for the deed, which a guilty townsman would definitely do, for the glory it would win him among his peers. Most real folk are delighted that the University has lost its leading scholar.’

‘And if the culprit is not a scholar, then it is the Devil,’ added another. ‘After all, he did fly away after he stabbed the Chancellor.’

Michael’s eyes narrowed. ‘Is this why you have failed to locate the cloak – you are all of the asinine belief that it was Satan you saw fluttering off the roof?’

‘It was Satan,’ the beadle assured him earnestly, while his cronies clamoured their agreement, ‘so the “cloak” will never be found, because it does not exist.’

‘Of course, the tomb-makers are also on our list of suspects,’ said Meadowman before the Senior Proctor could argue. ‘I know they are not scholars, but they cannot be classed as townsfolk either, because they have not been here long enough.’

Michael dismissed them in disgust, then attended Tynkell’s burial, a small, private ceremony for friends – a public requiem would be held later. Even so, there was an impressive turnout, and Secretary Nicholas was not the only one who wept when the body was lowered into the ground. Afterwards, heavy of heart, Michael settled down to some administration, aware of Whittlesey shuffling restlessly behind him as time ticked past and there was nothing interesting to see. Eventually, Nicholas arrived, red-eyed, but back in control of himself once more.

‘Here is the official notice for the Great West Door,’ he said, waving it to dry the ink. ‘Authorising the election for noon next Wednesday. Lyng will be disappointed, of course. He would rather it were sooner – before Hopeman and Godrich can besmirch him.’

‘Does he have anything they can besmirch him with?’ asked Michael keenly.

‘I doubt it, but they could find ways to defame a saint. A lot is at stake here, Brother, and all five candidates are determined to win.’

‘You support Thelnetham, I recall.’

‘Yes, but not because he promised to let me keep my job – Weasenham just said that for spite. It is because he will make the best Chancellor. He is intelligent, astute, dynamic, tough, a gifted teacher and a brilliant orator. The other candidates pale by comparison.’

Michael leaned back in his chair. ‘But they all have powerful backers: Lyng has the hostels, Godrich has King’s Hall, Hopeman has the Dominicans, and Suttone has me. Thelnetham has no one.’

‘He has his own order – the Gilbertines.’

‘Yes, but they only amount to two dozen voting members, and they have never been very influential in the University.’

Nicholas smiled. ‘True, but he also has the support of intelligent men – clever scholars who can see beyond simple and arbitrary allegiances. They may be a minority, but they are eloquent and persuasive. Do not underestimate them or him.’

‘Unfortunately for Thelnetham,’ said Michael, ‘I suspect even that may not be enough.’

With Meadowman walking in front, bearing the declaration like a holy relic, Michael and Nicholas, with Whittlesey trailing behind, processed to the narthex. While they were there, Nicholas took the opportunity to ring the bells, hauling on each rope in turn until he had all three clanging in a joyful cacophony. He grinned his delight at the exercise, although the noise was deafening, drowning out the sound of Meadowman nailing the proclamation to the Great West Door and the remarks of those who gathered to read it.

The bells’ clamour caused other scholars to come and see what was happening, so it was not long before there was quite a crowd. It included Hopeman, Godrich, Thelnetham and Suttone, although there was no sign of Lyng. Michael wondered why the old man had elected to stay away when it was an ideal opportunity to win more votes.

‘The bells will remain silent until a new Chancellor is elected,’ declared Michael, the moment he could make himself heard again. A sigh of relief rippled through the onlookers, although Nicholas’s face fell. ‘Then all scholars will know that the interregnum has ended.’

Vicar Frisby was grinning his amusement. ‘Five days without bells will be agony for you, Nicholas. You had better come for a drink, to take your mind off it.’

‘It is too long to be without a proper leader,’ objected Hopeman, and glared at Michael. ‘I know why you want the delay, of course – to give your creature Suttone more time to rally support.’

‘I am no one’s creature,’ objected Suttone indignantly. ‘Nor do I need to cheat. Why would I, when I have the support of the Senior Proctor and the Carmelites?’

‘And the votes of lustful rogues who aim to ravage Cambridge’s women,’ Hopeman snapped back. ‘You pander to the lowest kind of scum – the kind I shall not tolerate when I am in charge.’

There was a chorus of jeers at this pronouncement, and Michael was pleased that the Carmelite’s attack on celibacy was making him popular. The statute in question could never be revoked, of course – the town would not tolerate having open season declared on its women, and relations between it and the University would become so strained as to be untenable. The rule, no matter how inconvenient, was there to stay, although that was not something he would reveal just yet, naturally.

‘Anyone who does not support me supports Satan,’ brayed Hopeman. ‘I have the Lord on my side, and He will rain down his wrath on all those who oppose me.’

Godrich gazed theatrically upwards. ‘I see nothing but clear skies, Father. You must have misunderstood Him. And I am glad the election will not be until next week, because it gives us all time to make a proper, informed decision.’

‘And him a chance to buy more votes,’ murmured Nicholas in Michael’s ear.

‘Lyng will win,’ called Father Aidan from Maud’s. ‘How can he not, when every hostel is behind him?’

‘Lyng?’ sneered Godrich, and gestured around him. ‘A man who is nowhere to be seen on this most momentous of occasions. Where is he? In bed, resting his ancient bones?’

‘Perhaps he is unwell,’ suggested Thelnetham, whose cloak was again pinned by the gaudy purple brooch, but this time he had added red hose and a pink hat to the ensemble. ‘The excitement of such an occasion must be considerable for a man of his advanced years.’

Michael took all four candidates aside and asked again for their thoughts on what had happened to Tynkell and Moleyns. All except Thelnetham admitted to being near the felon when he had died, and to watching Tynkell frolic on the roof with the Devil, but no one had seen the killer’s face.

‘I was in the Gilbertine Priory,’ said Thelnetham. ‘With Nicholas and several of my brethren, should you require alibis. So I missed all the fun.’

‘I hardly think murder constitutes fun,’ admonished Michael.

Thelnetham inclined his head. ‘Forgive me, Brother; it was a poor choice of words. By the time the tale reached my convent, both men were dead. However, I did see a rider gallop down the Trumpington road at a furious lick shortly after Moleyns is said to have perished. He was bundled up in his cloak, so all I can tell you is that he rode a brown horse. However …’

‘Yes?’

‘Stoke Poges. Have you heard of it?’

Michael nodded. ‘It was Moleyns’ manor, which he inherited through Egidia when her uncle Peter Poges was murdered.’

‘I passed through it last summer,’ said Thelnetham. ‘The village has a motif – a pilgrim’s staff – which I remember because it is similar to the crutch that is the symbol of my Order. Well, I thought I saw one embossed on this rider’s saddle.’

‘How, if the horse was going as fast as you claim?’ scoffed Godrich.

‘I saw it when the rider stopped at the Trumpington Gate to pay the toll,’ explained Thelnetham patiently. ‘Once through, he took off like lightning.’

Michael frowned. ‘Are you saying that this horseman came from Stoke Poges?’

‘No, Brother. I merely report that his saddle was marked with an emblem that matched the one that Stoke Poges uses. I do not know what – or even if – it is significant. That is for you to determine.’

While Michael questioned him further, Hopeman and Suttone went to canvass among those who milled around the door. Godrich cornered Whittlesey and began to whisper to him, although he left when Michael approached, rather too furtively for the monk’s liking.

‘What were you two muttering about, Whittlesey?’ he demanded.

‘The election,’ replied the envoy smoothly. ‘I hope he wins. Lyng might be popular, but he holds old-fashioned views. Meanwhile, Hopeman is a lunatic, Suttone a bumbling nonentity who aims to promote licentiousness, and Thelnetham is eccentric.’

‘And Godrich offers what, exactly? Other than an arrogance that will alienate everyone?’

‘Wealthy friends, who will provide vital funding. My kinsman will be good for the University, Brother. Give him a chance to prove it.’

While Michael was busy with University affairs, Bartholomew visited a patient near the Dominican Priory, then began to walk to the parish of All Saints-next-the-Castle for three cases of lung-rot. He met Isnard and Gundrede on the way – the pair had just been released from the castle after spending a night in Tulyet’s custody, where they had been quizzed relentlessly about Lucas’s murder.

‘But we did not kill him,’ declared Isnard, all righteous indignation. ‘How dare the Sheriff accuse us! We did not steal the tomb-builders’ supplies either.’

‘He had to let us go in the end,’ smirked Gundrede, ‘because he had no good excuse to keep us, although it grieved him to admit it. However, me and Isnard were in the King’s Head when Lucas was stabbed, and it is not our fault that no one there remembers.’

Bartholomew watched them go unhappily. The King’s Head was brazenly opposed to the forces of law and order, and the landlord and his regulars would think nothing of fibbing to defend fellow patrons. However, they did not condone murder, and the fact that they declined to provide Isnard and Gundrede with alibis was worrisome. And if the bargeman and his friend were lying about where they had been, then what had they been doing?

He visited the first two patients with lung-rot, and was about to enter the home of the third when he spotted Lakenham, Cristine and their elegantly clad apprentice, Reames. Like Isnard and Gundrede, they were also coming home from the castle: Tulyet had been busy.

‘He wanted to know if we had arranged to have Lucas killed,’ said Cristine, although Bartholomew had not asked. ‘He knows we did not do it ourselves, because we were with him at the time. However, he did not detain us for long this morning.’

‘Because she gave him a piece of her mind for thinking such a vile thing,’ said Lakenham, reaching up to slip an affectionate arm around her mountainous shoulders. ‘She also told him, in no uncertain terms, that it was not us who pinched the lead off Gonville Hall’s chapel roof yesterday.’

Reames shoved his hands out of sight quickly, although not before Bartholomew had seen that they were filthy, which was odd, given the care that he obviously took with the rest of his appearance. Did that mean he had stolen the lead? The metal did, after all, leave tell-tale marks on those who touched it. Or was there an innocent explanation for the stains?

‘We work hard,’ said Reames shortly, when he saw where the physician was looking. ‘And hard work means dirty hands. What of it?’

He had turned and flounced away before Bartholomew could inform him that this answer was unsatisfactory. Bartholomew started to follow, but a child came to tug at his sleeve, pleading with him to tend her ailing grandmother. By the time he had finished with the old woman, the latteners were nowhere to be seen. He tended his third case of lung-rot, then walked to his last scheduled customer of the day. This was in the castle, where one of Tulyet’s men had been injured during training. He was conducted to the barracks by Robin, Agatha’s nephew.

‘Yevele says I cut him during sword drill,’ the lad grumbled as they went. ‘But it is a lie. I wish the Sheriff had not taken him on. Do you remember coming to tend his frost-nipped nose last week? Well, he let that happen on purpose, purely to get out of guard duty.’

Bartholomew had suspected as much at the time. It had been an unusually cold night, but even so, Yevele’s claim that his nose had frozen while walking from one side of the bailey to the other was patently untrue.

‘I do not need you, physician,’ growled Yevele ungraciously, when Bartholomew approached his bed. Robin rolled his eyes and left. ‘Barber Cook sewed me up nicely, and gave me a free haircut into the bargain. He does a special offer every Friday, see – a free trim with every medical procedure.’

Surprisingly, Cook had managed a reasonable job on the wound, although the stitches were ugly, and would leave a scar. Bartholomew suspected Yevele would not mind – the soldiers at the castle were proud of their ‘badges of honour’, and the bigger they were, the better they liked them.

‘I do not know why you called me,’ said Bartholomew to Tulyet and Helbye, who were waiting outside for him when he emerged. ‘Not when Cook has already been.’

‘Because of Mother Salter,’ explained Tulyet. ‘Dead of a scratch at the hands of that butcher. I would have refused to let him in, but he had been and gone before I could stop him.’

‘Cook is all right,’ said Sergeant Helbye, who was grey-faced with fatigue and moved as if he was in pain. ‘And he does give a lovely trim. He even made Norys look presentable.’

He nodded towards the soldier in question, a surly lout who would always look like a ruffian, no matter how many sessions he had with a barber. Then Helbye mumbled something about going to check on Yevele, and Bartholomew felt a surge of compassion for the old warrior when he saw how hard he was trying not to limp.

‘He and I questioned Isnard and Gundrede nearly all night,’ said Tulyet. ‘Then we tackled the tomb-makers, but none of them confessed to Lucas’s murder. We wasted our time.’

‘You do realise that Helbye is no longer young?’ said Bartholomew quietly. ‘You might be able to forgo your sleep, but it is more of a strain for him.’

‘Nonsense! He is as strong as an ox. Besides, he is my right-hand man, and I do not know how I would manage without him.’

‘You might have to, unless you treat him more gently.’

Tulyet grimaced. ‘He would be mortified if I suggested light duties. But do not fret, Matt – he will feel better when winter turns to spring.’

Bartholomew doubted it, but was disinclined to argue. ‘Did you ask Egidia and Inge about the discrepancy between their version of events and Weasenham’s – whether they reached Moleyns sooner or later, once he had fallen off his horse?’

‘I did, but they are sticking to their tale and will not be budged. Perhaps Helbye is not the only one who is too old for this line of work – I am sure I could have terrified a confession from the culprit five years ago. Perhaps I should take a leaf from Michael’s book, and have myself promoted.’

Cambridge would be a very different place, thought Bartholomew unhappily, without its Sheriff and its Senior Proctor, and he was not sure he would like it. Perhaps he should leave, too, and begin a new life somewhere with the woman he had once loved so deeply.