The Chancellor’s Secret

Chapter 15

It took a long time for Bartholomew to examine both bodies, then arrange for them to be taken to their parish churches. While he worked, Tulyet questioned the onlookers, but when the two of them met in the Brazen George some hours later, neither had anything significant to report. Michael arrived, too, his face pale and weary in the flickering lamplight. He stayed just long enough to devour a hasty bowl of meat pottage, then left to break the news to Martyn’s landlord in the Cardinal’s Cap.

Bartholomew trudged home alone, only to be told that there were patients who needed to see him, so it was nearly dawn before he finally reached his bed. He flopped on it fully clothed, and slept through the bell summoning scholars to morning prayers. He slept through breakfast, too, and his students let him be, afraid that if he woke, he would subject them to a gruelling round of classes and lectures.

He might have slumbered until noon, but Walter’s peacocks set up a tremendous racket when Stasy came to demand the return of the fees he had paid for the degree he would never receive. The noise was deafening, and even Bartholomew – the deepest sleeper the College had ever known – was unequal to drowsing through it.

He rose slowly, muddle-headed from tiredness, washed in the water Cynric had left for him, then donned a clean tunic and tabard. They felt clammy and cold, the heatwave already a distant memory. He was just restocking his medical bag when Michael walked in.

The monk looked every inch a Chancellor in his spotless habit and neat tonsure. He was freshly shaven, and possessed a natural authority which Donwich lacked. He could not disguise the lines of strain etched into his face, though, or the dark smudges under his eyes that showed Bartholomew was not the only one who needed a decent night’s sleep.

‘Dickon has been arrested for the murder of Lyonnes,’ he reported without preamble. ‘His father came to tell me just now.’

Bartholomew wondered if he had misheard. ‘Dickon arrested? On what grounds?’

‘The fact that he publicly threatened to cleave Lyonnes’ head from his shoulders, and that seems to have been what happened. Lyonnes left the Griffin in a drunken haze on Monday evening, and the general consensus is that Dickon struck then. Naturally, he protests his innocence, and is terrified by the situation in which he finds himself.’

‘Is he innocent?’ asked Bartholomew, struggling to come to terms with the tale.

Michael shrugged. ‘He is nasty, bullying and ghoulish, and no one likes him, but murder? That takes a certain courage – which he does not have.’

Bartholomew agreed. ‘He is a vicious little brute, who longs to be in France where he thinks he can run amok. But there is a big difference between terrorising strangers in a foreign land and killing people here. Moreover, whoever beheaded Lyonnes did it badly, but Dickon’s sword is extremely sharp …’

‘In other words, you think he would have made a better job of it,’ said Michael drily. ‘I hardly think that will be seen as much of a defence.’

‘Has anyone examined his sword?’

‘Sergeant Robin did, and declared it to be blood-free. But Dickon is proud of his weapons, and is forever polishing them, so that is no defence either. Incidentally, Meadowman is back at work, thank God. He can take over the Senior Proctor’s duties until Brampton has collected all the bridge money and has written up an official account of it.’

‘So Meadowman will investigate the murders now?’ asked Bartholomew hopefully.

‘That task would be entirely beyond him. However, he did learn something on his first visit to a tavern since becoming ill – the identity of the “saint” who has been donating money to paupers and beadles. The rector of Holy Trinity got drunk with him and let it slip.’

‘Who is it?’ asked Bartholomew, intrigued. ‘A scholar?’

‘Chaumbre,’ replied Michael. ‘Which explains why he has been so slow to infill his dye-pits – his wealth is being channelled into more pressing causes.’

‘Chaumbre?’ echoed Bartholomew, stunned.

‘He also lent some to Shardelowe when Morys refused to pay his bargemen. And it is a good thing he did, because Morys continues to default, despite being ordered to settle the account by the end of Monday. You witnessed Shardelowe and Chaumbre discussing the details of the arrangement after the spat on the High Street.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘And both of them lied about it: Shardelowe denied it ever took place, while Chaumbre invented some nonsense about the builder admiring his dye-pits. Why did they not just tell me the truth?’

‘Because Chaumbre begged Shardelowe’s discretion. It transpires that your brother-in-law is a humble man, who has no desire for gratitude. Perhaps he is a saint. No other burgess asks for his generosity to be kept quiet – they all want to be feted and admired.’

Bartholomew pondered the revelation. ‘Does Edith know?’

‘No one does, other than the priests, and they are sworn to silence. We would still be in the dark if Meadowman had not plied the only unreliable one with ale. When I went to inform Chaumbre that his secret will soon be out, I asked why he had gone to such lengths to maintain his anonymity. The answer is Edith.’

‘Edith?’

‘Apparently, he has loved her since they were youngsters, and he left the town with a broken heart after she married Oswald – he was not rich then, and your parents insisted she took a wealthy husband with a promising future.’

‘They did,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘She had no say in the matter, but they chose well. She was happy with Oswald.’

‘When Chaumbre heard she was a widow,’ Michael continued, ‘he decided to move back to Cambridge, and was delighted to step in and save her from her profligate son. He knows she married him out of need, not affection, but he claims to be the happiest man alive.’

‘He certainly smiles a lot.’

‘He told me that the very sight of her makes his heart sing, and thinks God has finally given him the only thing he has ever really wanted. In return, he vowed to help the poor and needy with his wealth – not for his own glory, but for God’s.’

‘Is he wealthy? At one point, Morys jibed him about having no money, and you told me that Edith had to buy her own wedding kirtle. He even tried to borrow some from me.’

‘Apparently, settling your nephew’s debts took most of his available cash, then he was hurt by the theft from his Girton house. Despite this, he refused to break his oath, even though finding enough to meet his charitable obligations was a serious challenge.’

Bartholomew thought about the huge number of people who had benefited from Chaumbre’s largesse, not to mention the heavy purse that had arrived for his paupers’ medicine. ‘It must be costing him a fortune.’

‘It is, but he is solvent again now, because the monks at Ely have paid for a massive consignment of cloth, and the money has arrived from the sale of his London mansion.’

‘Do you believe this tale?’ asked Bartholomew, not sure what to think.

‘Well, every parish priest – and Shardelowe – confirms it, so yes,’ replied Michael. ‘And if either of us ever considered him a rogue, we misjudged him badly. He is irritatingly cheerful, but that is not a crime.’

‘No,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps I should have trusted Edith’s judgement – she would never have married him if he was unsavoury, not even to save her business. She recognised something in him that I failed to see.’

‘Then it is a good thing that he wanted to marry her, not you,’ said Michael, and glanced up at the sky to gauge the time. ‘I have a few moments before meeting the vicars-general again. Come to my rooms for something to eat before you resume your enquiries. It will be a lot nicer than anything you can beg from Agatha.’

Michael was right: his personal larder was far better stocked than the College kitchens, and Bartholomew was presented with fresh bread, crisp apples and creamy cheese.

‘I am no closer to finding the killer than I was when I started, Brother,’ the physician said unhappily as he ate. ‘You will have to help me if you want a culprit in three days.’

Michael winced. ‘I wish I could, but my dealings with the vicars-general have reached a critical stage, and I cannot abandon them now. Who are your remaining suspects?’

‘Donwich, Morys, Stasy and Hawick. And we need to find Gille, so he can answer for what he did to Martyn. Brampton is eliminated as a suspect, too.’

‘Yes, I heard you ignored my express orders and interrogated him anyway. Luckily for you, it did not interfere with him collecting the bridge money – he took the bulk of that to Morys last night, and the remaining few marks will be delivered by noon today. He has performed nothing short of a miracle, and the University has kept its promise to the town.’

‘I am disturbed by the violent nature of Lyonnes’ death,’ said Bartholomew, unwilling to listen to Michael singing the praises of a man he did not like. ‘I wonder if–’

‘You do not have time to explore a town murder,’ interrupted Michael in alarm. ‘Concentrate on Aynton, Martyn, Huntyngdon and Elsham. Your colleagues.’

They both jumped when the door was flung open and Cynric burst in, dragging Clippesby behind him. The Dominican had a chicken on his shoulder, which flapped frantically as she fought to keep her balance. William brought up the rear.

‘Francis of Assisi here has something to tell you,’ announced William, jerking a grubby thumb at Clippesby. ‘Information from a sparrow, but important, even so.’

‘Tell him, Master Clippesby,’ urged Cynric. ‘Go on. Quickly now.’

‘The sparrow lives in Shoemaker Row,’ began Clippesby obligingly, ‘so he often sees Stasy and Hawick, who have opened a dispensary there–’

‘They recite prayers to Satan every night,’ blurted William, unable to wait for the Dominican to come to the point. ‘And the consulting room at the back is not for seeing patients, but is where they store their demonic regalia.’

‘In chests,’ elaborated Clippesby. ‘Concealed from the casual visitor. The sparrow–’

‘Pentangles, spell books, black candles and bits of dead animals,’ listed William furiously. ‘Worse yet, Clippesby now reveals that they worshipped Lucifer while they lived here in the College, although he never thought to mention it to the rest of us.’

Michael was horrified. ‘But if anyone had found out, we would have been suppressed! You should not have kept such dangerous knowledge to yourself, Clippesby.’

The Dominican shrugged. ‘They asked their dark lord for all manner of favours, but none were ever granted. Ergo, I concluded that they were not really his disciples, but silly boys who would eventually come to their senses.’

‘That was not for you to decide,’ cried Michael angrily. ‘You should have told us. Moreover, they are on our list for murdering Aynton.’

‘Perhaps they did,’ said Clippesby, unruffled by his colleagues’ ire. ‘Although the sparrow has no knowledge of that, one way or the other. However, he is not convinced that Dickon killed Lyonnes – he thinks the boy would have chosen a cleaner mode of execution.’

‘So does Matt, but opinions will not exonerate him,’ said Michael. ‘He needs–’

‘It is time for me and Margery to deal with Stasy and Hawick,’ interrupted Cynric, more concerned with the danger posed to the College by the ex-students than exculpating the Sheriff’s unlikeable son. ‘Do not worry – we know what to do.’

‘No!’ cried Bartholomew, alarmed. ‘Leave them to …’

He trailed off. Leave them to whom? Michael was busy with the vicars-general, Tulyet would be frantically trying to prove that Dickon did not decapitate Lyonnes, Brampton was worse than useless, and he himself had a killer to catch. Cynric nodded knowingly when he stopped, and left without another word.

‘I cannot do this alone, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, suddenly overwhelmed with the enormity of the task that lay ahead of him. ‘I need help.’

‘Then take William,’ suggested Michael. He shrugged at Bartholomew’s instant horror, although the friar gave a grin of delight. ‘Desperate circumstances call for desperate measures, Matt, and besides, he is good in a fight.’

‘You anticipate fighting?’ gulped Bartholomew, more daunted than ever.

‘Your suspects include a corrupt mayor with a violent family, two warlocks and the ambitious Donwich,’ replied Michael drily. ‘So yes, I would say a spat might be possible.’

‘Do not worry, Matthew,’ said William grandly, drawing himself up to his full height. ‘I will protect you. Shall we tackle Morys first? I have never liked him.’

‘Dick will want to be there when we do that,’ hedged Bartholomew, trying to think of a way to ditch the Franciscan, sure he would be more hindrance than help.

‘You will have no help from Tulyet,’ predicted William. ‘Not when he is trying to save his nasty son. I wish him luck with that! The boy is a hellion, and the only thing that surprises me is that he has not beheaded someone sooner.’

As William categorically refused to be left behind, claiming he had been appointed to the investigation by the Chancellor himself, Bartholomew saw he had no choice but to accept his services. Together, they left Michaelhouse and headed for the guildhall in the hope that Morys would be there. It was raining hard and rather cool, so both wore cloaks. Bartholomew glanced down one lane at the river, and saw it flowing faster than it had done in weeks. He was glad that the filth accumulated during the drought would finally be washed away, although he prayed that no more corpses would appear.

‘Morys still refuses to open the Middle and East dams,’ grumbled William, who had mentioned the matter several times already, so Bartholomew saw it had become an obsession with him. ‘He wants to make sure that his own water needs are met first, so the only one he deigns to unlock is the West Dam, which feeds the spillway to his mill.’

‘If it rains like this for another day, it will not matter,’ shrugged Bartholomew. ‘The Mill Pond will be full, and there will be enough water for everyone.’

‘He is a selfish rogue,’ William went on, growing angrier the more he thought about it. ‘He has done something to the sluice gates, to prevent them from being unfastened without his permission. Well, I hope the burgesses elect a decent Mayor next time, and that he fines Morys for hogging the water that God meant us all to share.’

There was no reply to his sharp rap on the guildhall door, but it was open so he marched inside, evidently feeling that being asked to explore the murders gave him the authority to go wherever he pleased. Bartholomew followed more cautiously, and saw the Mayor deep in discussion with Narboro at the far end of the main hall. Morys’s cousin John was a menacing presence at his kinsman’s side. As he watched, Narboro handed Morys a purse. Morys opened it, and his indignant expression suggested that it contained less than he thought it should. He and Narboro began to quarrel.

‘We must find out what they are saying,’ whispered William, eyes agleam.

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘It will not concern our investigation and–’

‘You cannot say that for certain until you know what has set them at each other’s throats,’ interrupted William firmly. ‘Now, follow my lead.’

To Bartholomew’s utter astonishment, the friar dropped to his hands and knees and began to crawl towards the squabbling pair, using benches to conceal his approach. Bartholomew did not like to imagine what would happen if he was caught – the University would never live it down. With an irritable sigh, feeling that William was wasting their precious time with something that was irrelevant, he hurried outside to a conveniently placed window, where he could eavesdrop from a rather more dignified position.

‘It is no longer enough,’ Morys was declaring. ‘The stakes have risen.’

‘They have not,’ objected Narboro. ‘They are exactly the same as when we started.’

‘If you do not double this, you will regret it,’ warned Morys. ‘So I strongly advise you to reconsider. It is the way things work in Cambridge.’

‘It is while you are Mayor,’ muttered Narboro sourly.

He gulped his alarm when John stepped forward, and hastened to slap a second purse into Morys’s waiting palm. Then he turned and fled. Bartholomew held his breath when his route took him very close to where William was hiding. Fortunately, he was so intent on leaving that he looked neither to left nor right, and the friar escaped notice. Bartholomew sagged in relief.

Meanwhile, Morys chuckled with pleasure as he counted the coins he had acquired. ‘I shall have everything he owns before I am done with him,’ he crowed. ‘He is a fool.’

‘I disagree,’ growled John. ‘There is something about him … I sense he is not the dullard you imagine, cousin. You should treat him with more care.’

‘Nonsense,’ sniffed Morys. ‘But we should put our winnings somewhere safe. Come.’

They left the same way as Narboro, and Bartholomew watched in alarm a second time as they passed within inches of where William huddled like a great grubby grey slug. Fortunately, John was still trying to convince Morys that Narboro was not all he seemed, while Morys was more interested in the feel of his new money, so they also passed without spotting anything amiss. The moment they had gone, Bartholomew darted back to where the friar was brushing dust from his habit.

‘Did you hear all that?’ William demanded, pleased with himself. ‘I offer to assist you, and within moments, we uncover evidence of a vile plot.’

‘All we learned is that Morys is extorting money from Narboro, but we cannot investigate why, because we do not have time.’

‘The Mayor is involved in a shabby scheme with a scholar,’ countered William. ‘Ergo, we have a moral obligation to look into it. We shall speak to Narboro first, and demand a–’

‘No!’ interrupted Bartholomew sharply, heartily wishing Michael had never suggested working with him. ‘We came to talk to Morys about the murders. Everything else must wait.’

William shrugged. ‘So we force Morys to confess to those, then demand an explanation of his sly business with Narboro. I have no objection to doing it that way around.’

By the time Bartholomew and William emerged from the guildhall, Morys had disappeared, although John could be seen in the distance, striding towards the castle. William pointed to a narrow lane near the Round Church.

‘He must have gone down there – it runs near his house. Come on.’

When they reached Morys’s mansion, he hammered imperiously on the door with his fist. There was no reply, so he gave it a hefty shove. It swung open, and he marched inside before Bartholomew could remind him that barging into the homes of influential townsmen was not the same as entering a public building like the guildhall, and would bring all manner of trouble down on their heads. Reluctantly, he followed him in.

The house was silent. It was also empty, and not so much as a stick of furniture or a scrap of rug remained anywhere. Bartholomew was astonished, recalling the sumptuous décor he had admired when he had tended the ailing Rohese four days earlier.

‘His term of office expires soon,’ said William, looking around, ‘so I suppose he has decided to rent somewhere more modest. It is odd though – I know most of the burgesses, and none have mentioned him decanting to different lodgings.’

But it looked to Bartholomew as if Morys was not so much moving house as leaving the town altogether, and the fact that he had spirited his belongings away without informing his friends told him exactly what the man was up to.

‘He ordered the University to pay all the bridge money by yesterday,’ he mused, ‘while the funds raised by the town – probably including the King’s contribution – are in his cellar. I saw the chest when I tended Rohese.’

William frowned. ‘What of it?’

‘I think that as soon as Brampton hands over the last few marks from the University, Morys will disappear, taking it all with him.’

William gaped his disbelief. ‘Not even he would dare commit theft on that scale!’

‘It is a fortune – far more than he could make from bribes. And he clearly does intend to sneak away. Why else would he strip his house without telling anyone? Moreover, he has been away a lot recently, “on business” or “visiting kin”. I suspect what he has really been doing is spiriting his furniture away, ready for when he vanishes with all our money.’

He did not wait to see if William was convinced, feeling time was too short to say more, and inside the lion’s den was no place to do it anyway. Motioning the friar to silence, he crept towards the cellar door. It was open and the stairs were lit by a lantern. He descended stealthily, William at his heels. They arrived in a deep stone-built basement that was even cooler than the ground floor of Hoo Hall. No wonder Morys had been able to store ice for his sherbets, he thought.

There were now two chests, and Morys was kneeling next to them. The lids of both were open, and he was weighing purses in his hands, his face bright with greed. Bartholomew saw one pouch sewn with Michaelhouse’s crest, proving beyond all doubt that this was indeed the bridge money.

‘Going somewhere, Morys?’ demanded William, pushing past the physician to stalk into the cellar and stand pugnaciously with his hands on his hips.

Morys leapt up in alarm, although his consternation was quickly masked, and the first thing he did was kick shut the lids on the boxes, concealing their contents from sight.

‘Yes, I shall return to the Fens in a few weeks,’ he replied, struggling to sound nonchalant. ‘My term in office expires soon, so I shall leave this house for my successor. Perhaps it will be my cousin John, although he will have to canvass for votes.’

‘Buy them, you mean,’ said William in distaste. ‘Like you did. But you cannot fool us, Morys. We know you plan to make off with all that money.’

‘It is why you refused to pay Shardelowe for supplies,’ put in Bartholomew, cutting across Morys’s blustering denial. ‘Why you still have not paid. You aim to keep everything for yourself.’

‘It will be a pretty sum when added to what you have amassed through corrupt practices,’ said William, eyeing him with revulsion.

‘What corrupt practices?’ demanded Morys indignantly.

‘We have just seen you with Narboro,’ retorted William. ‘He paid you for a favour.’

Morys shrugged. ‘It is the way things work in Cambridge. You pay me, I pay others, and together we get results. He wants planning permission for a house.’

‘What happened to your face?’ asked Bartholomew, noting again the three scratches down the Mayor’s left cheek. ‘Did one of your victims decline to pay, so you fought him?’

Morys touched the wounds with a tentative finger. ‘Rohese has a new kitten, and it does not know the strength of its own claws.’

‘You pressed for a stone bridge not because it is best for the town,’ said William, more interested in his accusations than Morys’s injury, ‘but because it will require more money than repairing the wooden one. Money you intended to steal from the start.’

‘Prove it,’ challenged Morys.

William faltered, but confirmation came from an unexpected source.

‘I brought the cart, cousin,’ came John’s voice from the top of the stairs. ‘You carry the chests outside, while I keep watch. Then all we need to do is wait for Brampton to bring the last few purses, and we can be away, free and clear.’

Morys shot the two scholars a weary glance. ‘Very well, you have caught us fair and square. How much will it take to buy your silence? Ten per cent? It cannot be more – starting a new life will be expensive, and we did not go through all this to live like paupers.’

His words alerted John to the fact that all was not well. There was a sharp hiss as weapons were drawn, and the knight came down the steps with a sword in one hand and a dagger in the other. Bartholomew fumbled in his medical bag for a surgical blade, although he knew it would be of scant use against such a formidable opponent.

Meanwhile, William untied the rope cincture from around his waist and whirled it around his head. It was clearly intended to convey menace, but instead looked ridiculous, and Bartholomew might have laughed had their predicament not been so dire.

‘They know our plan, John,’ said Morys hoarsely. ‘So kill them, and we will leave at once. We shall have to abandon the last of the University’s contribution, but better that than be caught. Now, hurry!’