A Grave Concern

Chapter 6

Friday afternoons were dreaded by the whole town, because it was when the Michaelhouse Choir met. The choir comprised a large number of spectacularly untalented individuals who had joined solely for the free bread and ale that were dispensed after rehearsals. They compensated for their lack of skill with volume, and prided themselves on being heard over considerable distances. Michael was their conductor, and was fiercely proud of them, although Bartholomew failed to understand why, given that the monk was a talented musician, with standards.

‘At least it drove Whittlesey away,’ said Michael, when the rehearsal was over and all Cambridge heaved a sigh of relief that there would not be another for seven blissful days. ‘He asked to shadow me, to learn how I operate. I thought I would not mind, but I do – I cannot be myself with him looming over my shoulder. But a few notes from my tenors sent him running.’

Bartholomew was not surprised, but refrained from saying so, as Michael seemed frayed and downhearted – which was odd, as he usually enjoyed choir practice.

‘What is wrong, Brother?’ he asked gently.

‘My singers have heard that I am leaving,’ explained the monk wretchedly. ‘And they looked at me with such reproach … But what do they expect? I cannot stay here for ever, and they must realise that I have ambitions.’

‘The choir is important to them. For most, it is the only decent meal they have all week.’

‘Do not make it worse, Matt,’ groaned Michael. ‘I feel bad enough as it is.’

Each alone with his thoughts, they walked to Maud’s Hostel, where Michael wanted to ask Lyng about the curious encounter that Kolvyle had described – where the elderly priest had scurried between Moleyns and Tynkell in St Mary the Great.

As Maud’s catered to wealthy students, it occupied a very handsome mansion. Its teachers were not obliged to room with students, its furnishings were luxurious, and the food and drink were of the very highest quality. Its Principal, Father Aidan, came to greet the visitors, accompanied by Richard Deynman, brother of the Michaelhouse librarian. Both Deynmans were of an ilk – good-natured, ebullient and deeply stupid.

‘I am glad you are here, Brother,’ said Aidan worriedly. ‘Because Lyng went out last night at about eight o’clock, and none of us have seen him since.’

‘And you wait until now to tell me?’ cried Michael in alarm. ‘What are you thinking?’

‘That we do not want to damage his chances in the election,’ snapped Aidan. ‘You heard what his rivals sniggered when he was not there to see the notice nailed to the Great West Door – they mocked him, and accused him of resting his ancient bones.’

‘Did he tell you where he was going?’ asked Bartholomew.

Aidan shook his head. ‘But we assumed it was something to do with winning a few more votes. He is very excited about the prospect of being Chancellor again.’

‘Which he will be, of course,’ put in Richard brightly, ‘because all the hostels want him, and they comprise most of the University.’

‘Not all of them,’ said Michael coolly. ‘A good many have expressed a preference for Suttone. But never mind this now. Has Lyng stayed out all night before?’

‘Never,’ replied Aidan, ‘which is why we are concerned. He was not back when I extinguished the lamps at ten o’clock last night, but I assumed he was busy electioneering. However, when I went to see why he was late to breakfast today, I saw his bed has not been slept in.’

‘Have you spoken to his friends in other foundations?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps he decided to stay with one of them overnight, rather than walk home in the dark.’

‘Now there is an idea!’ exclaimed Richard. ‘I shall do it at once. Being old, he probably just fell asleep somewhere, and is happily napping in another hostel.’

‘If he is, I suggest he withdraws, Aidan,’ said Michael after the lad had sped away. ‘We cannot have a Chancellor who dozes off on other people’s property.’

‘Oh, I am sure you would love that,’ said Aidan bitterly. ‘But do not think it will help Suttone – scholars who would have voted for Lyng will just transfer their allegiance to Hopeman, on the grounds that he is another priest.’

‘Suttone is a priest,’ Michael pointed out.

‘Yes, but one who aims to challenge the rules of celibacy, and who terrifies everyone by telling them that the plague is poised to return. He is also a member of a College, whereas Hopeman is a hostel man.’

‘Your hostel,’ remarked Michael. ‘How fortunate for you that Maud’s is offering two candidates for election.’

‘I would much rather have Lyng,’ said Aidan stiffly. ‘So let us hope he returns unharmed.’

Michael inclined his head. ‘Tell me when Richard finds him. I shall also ask my beadles to keep their eyes peeled. In the meantime, perhaps you will answer some questions. First, I want to know how well Lyng knew Moleyns and Tynkell.’

Aidan gave a tight smile. ‘He knew Tynkell very well. They were good friends, and Tynkell often sought his advice about University affairs.’

‘Did he indeed?’ murmured Michael.

Aidan looked away. ‘But as for Moleyns … well, I cannot say I am sorry he is dead. He was a felon, and it vexed me to see him strutting freely about our town. Lyng did not like it either.’

‘Then why did he whisper to him during services in St Mary the Great?’

‘You are mistaken, Brother. Lyng would never have interrupted his devotions to chat to a criminal. He despised Moleyns, and said so several times.’

‘Did he explain why?’

‘Is it not obvious? Moleyns was a thief and a murderer. Did you not hear about the man he killed in order to inherit Stoke Poges – his wife’s uncle? He was acquitted only because he was allowed to choose his own jury, a travesty of justice that shames our legal system.’

‘Did Lyng also feel strongly about this?’

Aidan pursed his lips. ‘What you are really asking is: did Lyng kill Moleyns on a point of principle? Well, the answer is no. Lyng is a gentle man.’

‘Will you show us his room? There may be something in it that will tell us where he has gone.’

‘There will not,’ predicted Aidan. ‘Besides, I cannot let just anyone rummage through my masters’ chambers. It would be a violation of their rights.’

‘I am not “just anyone”,’ objected Michael. ‘I am the Senior Proctor, investigating the murder of our Chancellor and a friend of the King – which Moleyns was, no matter what you think of him. Now, unless you want me to tell His Majesty that Maud’s was uncooperative …’

‘Follow me,’ said Aidan quickly, and led the way up the stairs.

The upper floors were as opulently appointed as the ones below, and Lyng had been allocated a wood-panelled chamber overlooking the yard. It smelled of lavender and sage, and was scrupulously clean, although north-facing and so gloomy. Above the bed was a row of books that would have any theologian drooling with envy, while the table was well supplied with ink, pens and parchment. An unopened letter had pride of place. Michael picked it up and raised questioning eyebrows.

‘It arrived yesterday morning, but he said he would open it later,’ explained Aidan.

‘Who is it from?’

‘I have no idea – the seal is not one I recognise.’ Aidan blushed when he realised that this remark revealed that he had inspected it rather more closely than was polite.

‘The parchment is expensive,’ noted Michael. ‘Another wealthy scholar, perhaps?’

‘It is possible. Put it back, Brother. Not even the Senior Proctor can open private correspondence without good cause.’

Reluctantly, Michael did as he was told.

Once outside, Michael decided that he was hungry, so they headed for his favourite tavern. Such places were off limits to scholars, but he saw no reason why this should apply to the Senior Proctor, and was such a regular visitor to the Brazen George that Landlord Lister had set aside a chamber at the rear of the premises for his exclusive use. It was a pleasant room that overlooked the garden, although the shutters were closed. Dusk was approaching, and the temperature was dropping fast.

‘We shall have snow soon,’ said Lister conversationally, as he fussed around his guests. ‘I feel it in my bones.’

‘Perhaps it will arrive on Wednesday,’ said Michael hopefully. ‘And will force scholars to stay indoors and leave appointing chancellors to those who know best. Namely me.’

He ordered one of his gargantuan repasts of meat and bread, then sent a potboy to invite Tulyet to join him. He had scant new information to share, but felt it was important to liaise with the Sheriff as often as possible.

‘Who should we believe about Lyng’s relationship with Moleyns, Matt?’ he asked while they waited for Tulyet to arrive. ‘Kolvyle or Aidan? Because they both cannot be right.’

‘Actually, they could. Perhaps Moleyns forced Lyng to carry messages to Tynkell, which would mean that Kolvyle was telling the truth. And as Lyng would resent being pushed around by a felon, he might well have told Aidan that he disliked Moleyns.’

Michael regarded him askance. ‘And why would a respectable priest allow himself to be browbeaten by Moleyns?’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘It is something we will have to find out.’

Michael was thoughtful. ‘Yet your thesis does make sense. It means that Lyng dispatched Tynkell because he wanted to be Chancellor, and he killed Moleyns to rid himself of a bully. I know you are reluctant to see a cold-hearted killer in that seemingly gentle old man, but even you must admit that his relationship with Moleyns is suspicious.’

At that moment, the door opened and Tulyet walked in, although his expression of eager anticipation faded when Michael indicated that he had nothing of significance to report. He slumped on a bench and wearily rubbed his face with his hands.

‘Reames is dead,’ he said. ‘Do you know the lad I mean? The lattener’s apprentice, who always dressed like a courtier.’

Bartholomew blinked. ‘But I saw him not long ago, walking home from the castle with Lakenham and Cristine. You had been interrogating them about Lucas’s murder – which they could not have committed themselves, because they were with you at the time.’

‘I should have kept them in the castle for their own protection – Petit believes they are responsible for Lucas’s death, and I should have anticipated a revenge attack. Petit was in St Mary the Great when Reames was dispatched, and has alibis to prove it, although the same cannot be said of all his apprentices.’

‘Wait a minute,’ said Michael, holding up a plump hand. ‘Are you saying that Reames was murdered? We have a fourth suspicious death to investigate?’

‘I am afraid so. Yet I do not believe his life was claimed by the rogue who killed Moleyns and Tynkell. He was attacked from behind, and his brains were bashed out with a rock – a frenzied attack, rather than a cool spike in the heart.’

‘Matt will inspect his corpse anyway,’ determined Michael.

Tulyet nodded his thanks, then sighed morosely. ‘It was a bad day for the town when these warring tomb-builders arrived. I shall monitor them constantly from now on, and the next time one commits a crime, we shall have him.’

‘Good,’ said Michael. ‘My beadles will help.’

At that point, Lister began to bring food to the table, and the Sheriff gaped his astonishment as platter after platter of meat and bread were set down.

‘Was my entire garrison included in the invitation to dine here, Brother?’

‘It is just a morsel,’ declared Michael, fastening a piece of linen around his neck to protect his habit from greasy splatters. ‘We all have healthy appetites, after all.’

Tulyet declined to comment, but listened with interest as the monk told him what Kolvyle had said about Lyng relaying messages between Tynkell and Moleyns during the Mass in which the Almighty had been begged to spare Cambridge from a second wave of the plague.

‘I attended that service,’ he said. ‘Lyng did hobble up to Moleyns and begin whispering, although I did not see him go to Tynkell.’

‘I was there, too, but noticed nothing amiss,’ said Michael. ‘Incidentally, I need to talk to Egidia and Inge about a rider on a brown horse with a pilgrim-staff embossed on his saddle – Thelnetham says that he galloped away shortly after Moleyns’ murder. Perhaps they did not commit murder with their own hands, but hired a trusted retainer from Stoke Poges to do it.’

Delighted by the prospect of a lead, Tulyet surged to his feet. ‘We shall do it now.’

‘Yes,’ said Michael, not moving. ‘The moment we have finished eating.’

Years of dining in College, where fast eaters tended to be better fed than those who took their time, meant it was not long before Michael had reduced the meal in the Brazen George to empty plates and a pile of gnawed bones. Then the three of them went to St Clement’s Church, where Reames’ body had been taken, but Bartholomew was able to tell them nothing they did not already know. The attack had been a vicious one, and the killer had delivered far more blows to the apprentice’s skull than had been necessary to end his life. There were no other injuries.

‘You are right about one thing, Dick,’ mused Michael, who had kept his eyes fixed on Reames’ torso to avoid looking at the ruin of his head. ‘He did dress like a courtier.’

‘Which is odd,’ said Bartholomew, ‘considering that Lakenham is so poor that he cannot afford to buy Cristine a new cloak.’

Tulyet shrugged. ‘Perhaps Reames hailed from an affluent family, who gave him an allowance. But are you sure there is nothing to help us catch his killer, Matt? Whoever did this is abnormally violent, so the sooner he is locked up, the better.’

Bartholomew shook his head, and was about to accompany Michael and Tulyet to visit Egidia and Inge when Cynric appeared, hot, tired and gasping for breath, because he had been frantically hunting the physician for some time.

‘Isnard,’ he rasped. ‘He needs you and says it is urgent.’

As the bargeman had been hale and hearty not long before, Bartholomew ran to his cottage in alarm, fearing that he had engaged in a violent confrontation with the tomb-makers, and had suffered some terrible injury, like Reames and Lucas.

‘Come in, Doctor,’ Isnard called jovially when Bartholomew arrived. ‘The fire is lit, the ale is hot, and good company awaits.’

The house was crammed with people, although it was difficult to tell precisely how many, because night had fallen, and Isnard only had one small lamp, which had been turned low.

‘Are you hurt?’ Bartholomew asked, a little testily, because he had risked life and limb by racing through streets that were slick with ice. ‘Or ill?’

‘No, I have information to impart,’ replied Isnard grandly. ‘I would have called Brother Michael, as it concerns him really. But I did not think he would come.’

‘He would not,’ agreed Gundrede. ‘Not after what happened at singing practice.’

Isnard was a long-term member of the Michaelhouse Choir, and had adopted a very proprietary attitude towards it. As his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, Bartholomew saw that most of the people in the room were basses, along with a smattering of tenors and a few women who should not have been permitted to join an all-male chorus. They went in disguise, and although Michael was perfectly capable of identifying false beards and horsehair moustaches, he never had the heart to turn them away.

‘It was his own fault,’ said the bargeman stiffly. ‘He should not be leaving us. I can lead the music, of course, but who will bring the food?’

‘I shall miss him, too.’ Bartholomew spoke gently, because Isnard’s eyes had filled with tears. ‘But he has been waiting for this opportunity for years. Would you keep him from it?’

‘Of course we would!’ cried Isnard, distressed. ‘We need him. And what happened earlier was just a mark of our affection. It was not our fault that he ended up covered in feathers.’

Bartholomew thought it best not to ask.

‘So we decided to tell you our news instead,’ said Gundrede. ‘And you can pass it on. Our first nugget is about Thelnetham the Gilbertine.’

‘He used to be at Michaelhouse,’ said Isnard, as if he thought Bartholomew might have forgotten. ‘And he is always very rude about our singing. However, we do not speak out of malice, but so that Brother Michael will know what sort of man he is.’

Bartholomew did not want to hear it. The choir members were very touchy about criticism, and Thelnetham had always been one of their more vocal detractors. He started to tell them to keep their gossip to themselves, but Gundrede overrode him.

‘He eats slugs,’ he declared. ‘He hunts for them under cover of darkness.’

Bartholomew was so taken aback that for several moments he could think of nothing to say. ‘How do you know?’ he asked eventually.

‘Because we have seen him,’ replied Isnard. ‘And do not say he was just looking for something he had lost, because I saw him near the Trumpington road, Gundrede noticed him by the Great Bridge and Marjory spotted him by St Clement’s.’

‘I did,’ said Marjory, a woman of indeterminate age who sold dubious remedies and charms from her little house in the Jewry, and made no bones about the fact that she considered Christianity to be a very inferior religion when compared to her own.

‘Besides, if he had been searching for mislaid objects, he would have done it in daylight,’ Gundrede went on. ‘He was eating slugs, and that is all there is to it. And if Michael will not take any notice of what we say, then we shall make it public ourselves.’

‘Please do not,’ begged Bartholomew, suspecting the trio had not been sober when they had drawn these particular conclusions. The fastidious Thelnetham was the last man on Earth to have anything to do with slugs, but his detractors would capitalise on the tale anyway, and it might destroy his chances of being elected, which was hardly fair. ‘Michael will look into it.’

‘Good,’ said Isnard. ‘But he must do it soon.’

‘You can tell him we are not thieves either,’ said Gundrede sourly. ‘He thinks I made off with the lead on Gonville’s chapel, just because I used to be a metalsmith. However, I rarely bother with that sort of work these days, so he can keep his nasty opinions to himself.’

‘And I do not ferry stolen goods about on my barges,’ declared Isnard. ‘Besides, those tomb-makers are probably lying about what they claim has been stolen. But sit down and have a drink, Doctor. You look tired, and we have some lovely French claret– Ouch!’

Gundrede had kicked him under the table, and it did not take a genius to guess why: the cask had been imported illegally, almost certainly on one of Isnard’s boats. Bartholomew began to back out, unwilling to consume contraband wine lest Tulyet or one of his men chose that particular evening to pay Isnard a visit.

‘I have to see Edith,’ he said, blurting the first excuse that entered his head. ‘To ask her about progress on Oswald’s tomb.’

‘She should have hired a mason from London to do it,’ said Gundrede, his voice thick with disapproval. ‘That Petit is a worthless rogue, and Lakenham is no better.’

Bartholomew took another step towards the door, but Isnard moved to stop him. ‘We have more to tell you yet, Doctor. And if you want something to occupy your hands while we talk, we can provide you with plenty of interesting ailments. Marjory has a rash, for a start.’

‘Here,’ said Marjory, baring her arm with a flourish. Bartholomew had treated it before, but it had taken a new and intriguing turn since he had last seen it. He sat.

‘Moleyns,’ hissed Isnard. ‘We have information about him, too. None of us saw who killed him, as we have said before, but–’

‘Wait!’ cried Gundrede. ‘We need assurances first.’ He turned to Bartholomew. ‘You must promise that Sheriff Tulyet will never know who told you. We could be hanged.’

‘He cannot betray us,’ declared Isnard confidently. ‘He is bound by oaths of discretion. Cynric told me so, when I asked him to find out what odd affliction made Chancellor Tynkell so different from the rest of us. He says physicians can never reveal their patients’ secrets.’

‘About your ailments,’ clarified Bartholomew quickly. ‘Not about anything else.’

‘Well, you are tending an ailment now,’ said Marjory, indicating her arm. ‘So we are covered. And someone must pass what we know to the appropriate authorities.’

‘Moleyns got out of the castle at night,’ blurted Isnard, before Bartholomew could demur. ‘And he wandered around the town … doing business. Tell him, Gundrede.’

The metalsmith obliged. ‘Moleyns charmed his “friends” – those who fluttered around him in the hope that he would write something nice about them to the King – into confiding where they kept their money. Then he hired us … I mean he hired burglars to get it for him.’

Bartholomew was thoughtful. He knew for a fact that being imprisoned had not stopped Moleyns from stealing, because Principal Haye and the Mayor had both lost purses to his sticky fingers. And Moleyns had enjoyed a lavish lifestyle in the castle, even though most of his estates had been confiscated. He recalled the felon as he had been when he had needed the services of a physician – smug, sly and deceitful, certainly the kind of man to beguile the gullible into telling him about their precious hoards.

‘So he escaped from the castle and came to tell you which houses to burgle?’ he asked, wanting to be sure he had understood them correctly.

‘Told accomplices which houses to burgle,’ corrected Gundrede, while all around there were a lot of earnestly nodding heads.

‘So it is you … I mean Moleyns, who has been stealing the tomb-makers’ supplies?’

‘No,’ snapped Gundrede angrily. ‘I just told you – we had nothing to do with that. Moleyns was interested in money – coins, which could be spent on food, wine and clothes. He was not in a position to filch heavy items for resale in distant cities.’

‘Quite,’ agreed Isnard. ‘However, the point of all this is that Moleyns’ death marks the end of a lucrative arrangement, and we are very sorry about it. Which means that no townsman killed him, so you should look to a scholar as the culprit.’

‘Were any University men involved in this … operation?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Not that we are aware,’ replied Isnard. ‘Although we were not party to his every move. No one was, not even his wife and lawyer.’

‘Master Lyng might have been in league with him, though,’ mused Marjory. ‘When Moleyns fell off his horse, Lyng was the first to reach him, and I saw them whispering. I was too far away to hear what was being said, but Lyng nodded.’

‘Nodded how?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering if the felon had muttered something to provoke a fatal attack. ‘Angrily? Amiably? Urgently?’

‘It was too dark to tell, and then other folk surged forward and hid them from view. Lyng did not stay long, though – he was gone before you managed to fight to the front, Doctor.’

‘They might have been discussing Moleyns’ next exploit, I suppose,’ conceded Isnard, ‘although that would have been risky in front of so many flapping ears.’

‘Tynkell, Moleyns and Lyng,’ sighed Marjory. ‘They certainly had secrets!’

‘Do you know what they were?’ asked Bartholomew hopefully.

Marjory shrugged and looked away, giving the impression that she did, but was unwilling to say in front of an audience. He supposed he would have to corner her when she was alone.

‘So how did Moleyns leave the castle?’ he asked, tactfully changing the subject. ‘Dick Tulyet does not usually let prisoners stroll in and out as they please.’

‘It has a sally port,’ explained Gundrede. ‘And guards who like wine. It was a simple matter to unlock a few doors while the Sheriff and his more trustworthy officers slept.’

The notion that Moleyns had been breaking the law under the Sheriff’s nose had unnerved Bartholomew, but he dared not tell Tulyet about it himself: the Sheriff would demand to know the source of such alarming intelligence, and he was not very good at lying. He decided to visit his sister, in the hope that her calm company would allow his thoughts to settle, after which he might be able to devise a way to pass on the information without getting anyone executed.

She lived in a handsome mansion on Milne Street, from which she ran her dead husband’s cloth business. It was a profitable venture, although less so than when Stanmore had been alive. There were two reasons for this. First, because Edith preferred her transactions to be legitimate; and second, because she had taken it upon herself to champion Cambridge’s fallen women. She had employed them to work in her dyeworks at one point, which had brought her a whole raft of trouble; then she had arranged for them to produce ready-made academic tabards. Although considerably cheaper than bespoke ones, they did not sell very well, because many scholars disliked wearing garments that had been put together by prostitutes.

Milne Street was an important thoroughfare in its own right. It boasted not only several large merchants’ houses, but two Colleges, the Carmelite Friary and the Church of St John Zachary. One College – Trinity Hall – was in the process of building itself a massive new dormitory, and workmen could still be seen swarming industriously over the complex web of scaffolding that encased it. Each held a lantern, so the whole structure was alive with purposefully bobbing lights.

The dormitory was causing a good deal of resentment in the town, because it stuck much further out into the road than had been agreed at the planning stage. But Trinity Hall desperately needed the space, and stubbornly ignored the complaints of those who objected to a huge building sprawled halfway across a public highway.

Bartholomew entered Edith’s house, breathing in deeply of the comfortingly familiar aroma of spices, beeswax and wood-smoke. His sister was in her solar, a pleasantly airy room with embroidered cushions, a huge fire in the hearth, and tapestries on the wall.

‘I am going to dismiss Petit if he does not work on Oswald’s tomb tomorrow,’ she declared. ‘I want it finished now, not in a decade. But you look troubled, Matt. What is wrong?’

Bartholomew was not about to tell her the truth, because she would guess in an instant who had gossiped to him about Moleyns. ‘I do not like hunting killers,’ he said instead.

Edith smiled. ‘Then take comfort in the fact that it will be the last time. Michael will go to Rochester to become a bishop, and you will marry Matilde. The University will have to find someone else to solve its crimes.’

Bartholomew experienced a familiar sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach when he recalled the decision he would soon have to make. Surely it should not be this difficult? And why did his heart not sing when he thought about Matilde, as it had in the past? Did it mean his love for her had grown cold? Or was it just the prospect of a major life change that so terrified him?

‘I am not sure about Matilde,’ he said unhappily.

‘Why not?’ asked Edith gently. ‘It is what you have wanted for years.’

‘Quite – for years. It has been too long, and we may not like what the other has become.’

‘Oh, she will like you,’ predicted Edith confidently. ‘And you need someone to make you smile, so do not dismiss her out of pride or fear. As Oswald always said, if something is worth having, it is worth the wait. Except tombs, of course. They need to be finished when they were promised.’

When Bartholomew left Edith’s house, he was still not ready to tell Tulyet about Moleyns. His spirits were low, as they often were on evenings when it was dark and cold, and the houses he passed were shut up tight against the weather. Lights spilled from a few, which served to make him feel excluded, and he quickened his pace, keen to be home. He passed St John Zachary, which looked pretty with candles shining through its stained-glass windows, and on impulse he went inside, feeling a sudden urge to pray for Oswald’s soul.

He opened the door and heard voices within – the dissipated Vicar Frisby was talking to Thelnetham and Nicholas. The Gilbertine had added a length of puce silk, which he wore like a scarf, to his array of colourful accessories. The shade contrasted pleasingly with his purple brooch, and Bartholomew found himself thinking that Matilde would appreciate his sense of style. Or perhaps she would disapprove, given that canons were supposed to resist such vanities, and she was a devout woman. The fact that he was uncertain told him yet again that he no longer knew her as he once had.

‘I am canvassing for votes,’ said Thelnetham. ‘Frisby has just promised to support me.’

‘On my kinsman’s recommendation,’ said Frisby, giving the little secretary an affectionate pat on the back that almost sent him flying. ‘I trust his judgement.’

‘Good,’ said Nicholas, hobbling on his lame leg to regain his balance. ‘Because only a fool would opt for anyone else. Even Suttone, I am sorry to say. He is a nice man, but his views on women … well! We cannot have a lecher as Chancellor.’

‘Did you hear the speech I gave in St Andrew’s Church today, Matthew?’ asked Thelnetham with one of the superior smiles that Bartholomew found so irritating. ‘It received a standing ovation. My rivals cannot match me for eloquence, and that is all there is to it.’

‘Lyng can,’ said Nicholas, earning himself a hurt scowl. ‘But he seems to have left town, which is stupid, as no one will want a Chancellor who disappears at critical junctures.’

‘Will you back me, Matthew?’ asked Thelnetham. ‘We were friends at Michaelhouse, and I always considered you the best of all its members.’

‘Thank you,’ said Bartholomew, although ‘friends’ was not how he would have described their relationship – there had been some serious antagonism, nearly all of it arising from the Gilbertine’s barbed tongue. ‘But I cannot vote against another Fellow.’

‘I was a Fellow,’ said Thelnetham reproachfully. ‘And if Langelee had reinstated me, as I requested, then I would have been Michael’s pet candidate. Not Suttone.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Bartholomew, although he was sure that Michael would never have chosen Thelnetham, on the grounds that the Gilbertine was too intelligent to manipulate.

Thelnetham dropped his hectoring manner and became sincere. ‘I honestly believe that I can do some good, and I would like the opportunity to try. You know how seriously I take scholarship. I am the only one who will put it first – and it is why we are all here, after all.’

‘True,’ conceded Bartholomew. ‘But–’

‘Our University is more important than blinkered allegiances,’ interrupted Thelnetham earnestly. ‘And if I win, I will give Suttone a post to salvage his wounded pride.’ He laughed suddenly. ‘Official Plague Monitor, perhaps, given that he is so obsessed with it.’

‘I have been Chancellor’s secretary for six years,’ said Nicholas quietly. ‘So I am better qualified than most to judge what is needed. And it is not Suttone.’

‘I am a lawyer, too,’ Thelnetham went on. ‘Which means I can handle complex legal matters. Suttone is a theologian, who has never run a College, let alone a University.’

They spoke convincingly, but Bartholomew’s hands were tied – College loyalty ran too deep in him, and Suttone was a better friend than Thelnetham would ever be. He settled for dispensing some helpful advice instead. He nodded to Thelnetham’s scarf.

‘That will lose you votes – it makes you appear rebellious and unsteady. And a manly stride, rather than a dainty mince, will give an impression of strength and purpose.’

Thelnetham sighed. ‘Nicholas says the same. I had hoped to run an honest campaign, where people see me as I am, but I suppose I had better yield to popular prejudice. It is a pity – I bought some lovely cerise hose this morning and was looking forward to showing them off.’

Frisby, who was taking a surreptitious swig from his wineskin, almost choked. ‘You do not want to be wearing pink stockings, man! People will think bad things.’

Bartholomew left them discussing it, and went to stand by Stanmore’s tomb, whispering the prayers that he hoped would shorten his kinsman’s sojourn in Purgatory. Then he left the church, eager now for the conclave fire. However, he had not taken many steps along Milne Street before he ran into Hopeman and his followers, who had been visiting the hostels along Water Lane. They clustered around him rather menacingly.

‘That sinful Lyng dares not show his face,’ Hopeman crowed. He held a lantern, which cast eerie shadows on his dark features and made him look sinister. ‘He knows he is no match for me. And Godrich is Satan’s spawn – I shall exorcise him if I see him out tonight.’

‘We carry the necessary equipment with us at all times,’ elaborated a disciple, hefting a sack that bulged. ‘We can be ready to combat Lucifer in a trice.’

‘The Devil would not have flown away if he had tackled me on the tower,’ declared Hopeman. ‘I would have vanquished him once and for all. And if you care anything for the safety of your soul, you will elect me next week.’

He did not wait for a reply, clearly thinking that no more needed to be said, and turned to rap on the door to White Hostel. He pounded with such vigour that he dislodged several icicles from the roof, causing his men to scatter in alarm. He stood firm though.

‘I am God’s chosen,’ he informed them loftily. ‘Nothing can harm me.’

Bartholomew hoped for his sake that he was right.

The physician was glad to reach Michaelhouse. He walked across the yard, feet crunching on frost, and glanced up at a sky that was splattered with stars, some brighter than he had ever seen them. He arrived at the conclave to find all the other Fellows there, some reading, the rest talking quietly. Kolvyle sat apart from them, as if he considered himself too good for their company. When Clippesby tried to draw him into an innocuous conversation about the College cat, the younger man stood abruptly, snapping shut the book he had been perusing.

‘I do not have time for idle chatter,’ he declared shortly. ‘Especially with lunatics.’

‘The cat is not a lunatic,’ objected Clippesby, stroking her silken head.

The other Fellows laughed, which drew a petulant scowl from Kolvyle and a look of hurt confusion from Clippesby. The cat purred and settled herself more comfortably on the Dominican’s knees. Kolvyle collided roughly with Bartholomew as their paths converged, but the physician had anticipated such a manoeuvre and was ready, so it was Kolvyle who staggered. The others laughed again, and Kolvyle stamped out furiously, slamming the door behind him.

Bartholomew poured himself some mulled ale and went to sit next to Suttone. There were crumbs down the front of the Carmelite’s habit, and he had not bothered to shave that day, so Bartholomew found himself comparing Suttone rather unfavourably to the cultivated Thelnetham. Or even to Hopeman, who was not relaxing by a fire, but busily working to secure himself more votes. If Suttone did win, he thought, it would be because Michael had engineered a victory, not because of the Carmelite’s own efforts.

When Michael came to join them, Bartholomew saw the solution to his conundrum regarding Isnard was at hand, and berated himself for not thinking of it sooner: Michael could tell Tulyet what the bargeman had confided. The moment Suttone went to pour himself more wine, leaving the two of them alone, Bartholomew took a deep breath and began to repeat what he had heard, phrasing his report with infinite care, so as not to reveal his source.

‘Isnard,’ deduced the monk when he had finished. Appalled, Bartholomew started to deny it, but Michael raised his hand. ‘Do not worry – his secret is safe with me. I suspect he would have preferred to tell me himself, but there was an incident at choir practice …’

‘One involving feathers, I understand.’ Several still adhered to the monk’s habit.

‘They gave me a lovely cushion, a gift to encourage me to stay. Unfortunately, it exploded when I sat on it – which I would not have minded if they had at least tried not to laugh.’

‘Has Lyng come home yet?’ asked Bartholomew, changing the subject before he laughed, too. ‘It would be useful to know what Moleyns whispered to him as he lay on the ground.’

‘I visited Maud’s less than an hour ago, but he is still missing. Perhaps he has fled the town, knowing we are closing in on him.’

‘Fled where? This has been his home for more than forty years. Yet it is difficult to see him as the culprit. My money is still on Cook, who is ruthless, greedy and devious.’

‘Then Cook must be a villain indeed, as it is not often that you denounce anyone so vigorously. But you fared better than me with fact-gathering – I learned nothing at all from Egidia and Inge. When I mentioned that Weasenham’s testimony contradicts theirs, they simply told me that he was mistaken, and they deny knowing anything about a horseman with the Stoke Poges insignia on his saddle.’

‘Their claims will be irrelevant if Lyng transpires to be guilty.’

‘True.’ Michael picked a feather from his lap and sighed sadly. ‘Leaving my choir will not be easy. I do not suppose you would take my place as conductor, would you?’

‘Me?’ blurted Bartholomew, startled. ‘But I cannot sing.’

Michael’s expression was wry. ‘That will not be a problem. And you play the lute, so you could lead the practice, while Matilde organises the victuals. She is good at that sort of thing.’

The remark reawakened the unease Bartholomew had experienced when talking to Edith, and it was with a troubled mind that he later retired to bed. Unusually, he found the fire in his room too hot, and he was kept awake by Deynman’s snoring. When he did finally sleep, his dreams teemed with disturbing images, although he could recall none of them when Walter came to shake him awake a few hours later.

‘Thelnetham is here,’ he whispered. ‘A body has been found by the King’s Ditch, and he says it is Lyng’s.’