A Grave Concern: The Twenty Second Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew Book 22)

by Susanna Gregory

  Susanna Gregory was a police officer in Leeds before taking up an academic career. She has served as an environmental consultant during seventeen field seasons in the polar regions, and has taught comparative anatomy and biological anthropology.

  She is the creator of the Matthew Bartholomew series of mysteries set in medieval Cambridge and the Thomas Chaloner adventures in Restoration London, and now lives in Wales with her husband, who is also a writer.

  Also by Susanna Gregory

  A Plague on Both Your Houses

  An Unholy Alliance

  A Bone of Contention

  A Deadly Brew

  A Wicked Deed

  A Masterly Murder

  An Order for Death

  A Summer of Discontent

  A Killer in Winter

  The Hand of Justice

  The Mark of a Murderer

  The Tarnished Chalice

  To Kill or Cure

  The Devil’s Disciples

  A Vein of Deceit

  The Killer of Pilgrims

  Mystery in the Minster

  Murder by the Book

  The Lost Abbot

  Death of a Scholar

  A Poisonous Plot

  The Thomas Chaloner Series

  A Conspiracy of Violence

  Blood on the Strand

  The Butcher of Smithfield

  The Westminster Poisoner

  A Murder on London Bridge

  The Body in the Thames

  The Piccadilly Plot

  Death in St James’s Park

  Murder on High Holborn

  The Cheapside Corpse

  The Chelsea Strangler

  Copyright

  Published by Sphere

  ISBN: 978-1-4055-1684-6

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2016 Susanna Gregory

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

  Sphere

  Little, Brown Book Group

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  www.littlebrown.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  For Ethel May Pritchard

  Contents

  About the author

  Also by Susanna Gregory

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Epilogue

  Historical Note

  PROLOGUE

  Nottingham, late summer 1359

  John Dallingridge did not know who had poisoned him. He only knew he would not live to be inaugurated as a Fellow in the University at Cambridge that October, something he had wanted to do ever since childhood. He sighed at the pity of it all. He would have made an excellent teacher – his students would have hung on his every word, his scholarly writings would have set the academic world afire, and his colleagues would have delighted in his mental agility.

  He shifted restlessly in the bed. When he had first been afflicted by the griping pains in his innards, he had assumed that bad meat was responsible. He had been taken ill on Lammas Day after a feast at the castle, where the steward was notorious for making reckless economies. But as the days had turned into weeks and his agonies had only intensified, he began to realise that this was no innocent sickness – that someone had done him deliberate and serious harm.

  The toxin was slow-acting, which gave him plenty of time to ponder the culprit’s identity. Unfortunately, almost everyone he knew had been at the feast, and nearly all of them had set greedy eyes on the fortune he had accumulated – and those who were not interested in his money were jealous of his formidable intellect or his influential connections. Yet try as he might, he had failed to determine which of them had resorted to murder.

  He had woken that morning knowing his end was near. His friends and family sensed it, too, and began to gather, jostling with each other to spend a few moments at his side. They murmured impassioned promises to pray for his soul, each trying to outdo the one in front. Dallingridge grimaced. They were not there out of concern for his spiritual well-being – they wanted to make sure he had not forgotten to include them in his will.

  The grimace turned into a bleak smile of satisfaction, for they were all going to be disappointed. He was damned if the killer was going to benefit from the crime, and as he did not know the identity of the culprit, he had decided to disinherit everyone. Instead, every last penny of his enormous wealth would be spent on his tomb, a creation so magnificent that it would be the talk of the country. It was to be in Cambridge, because if the University he had longed to join could not have him in life, then it could house him in death.

  The mason he had commissioned to build the monument was among the shuffling throng at the far end of the room, so Dallingridge beckoned him forward. His name was John Petit, a short, squat man, whose thick fingers did not look capable of producing the delicate sculptures for which he was famous.

  ‘Are you sure you understand my exact instructions?’ Dallingridge asked softly, anxious because so much depended on the mason doing as he was told. ‘You will carve a good likeness of me, and set it on a canopied marble tomb-chest in Cambridge’s biggest and most prestigious church, just as we discussed?’

  Petit nodded reassuringly. ‘It is all arranged. The scholars were more than happy to grant your request, especially once they learned the size of the donation that went with it.’

  ‘Good.’ Dallingridge closed his eyes to indicate the conversation was over, and the mason tiptoed away. Then an unpleasant thought occurred to him.

  Business had been brisk for tomb-builders immediately after the plague, as they had been inundated with requests for memorials to lost loved ones. But that was nearly ten years ago, and the backlog had been cleared. Good commissions were now few and far between, because such undertakings were expensive and only the very rich could afford them. Petit had been idly kicking his heels for the past few months, so had he acquired poison, knowing that an affluent man like Dallingridge would certainly require his services?

  Dallingridge experienced a sharp stab of dismay. If so, then he had played directly into his killer’s hands. Not only would the monument provide work for Petit and his apprentices, but it would furnish them with an opportunity to advertise their skills in a place that had no resident tomb-makers of its own. New work would flood in, and they would be set for years.

  With mounting disquiet, he looked for Petit among the well-wishers again – it was not too late to dispense with his services and appoint another mason.
But his eye lit instead on Richard Lakenham, an engraver of funerary brasses, who had been hired to make the six decorative shields that would be affixed to the tomb’s sides. Lakenham was poor, so even modest commissions were important to him. Dallingridge gulped. Was Lakenham the culprit then, desperate to earn a few shillings before he and his wife starved?

  Lakenham saw Dallingridge looking at him, and started to step forward, to see if he was needed, but Petit grabbed his arm and stopped him – the two men were implacable rivals and hated each other with a passion. Indignantly, Lakenham tried to break free, which resulted in an unseemly scuffle. While the other visitors watched the squabbling pair in silent disapproval, Dallingridge took the opportunity to review his shortlist of suspects for his murder, all of whom were there that day.

  First, there were the folk from the castle, including its most famous prisoner – Sir John Moleyns. Moleyns was a royal favourite, and the King had been outraged when a jury had convicted his old friend of theft, extortion and murder. Eager to win His Majesty’s favour, the Sheriff treated Moleyns like an honoured guest, providing him with sumptuous accommodation, the finest food, and the freedom to roam the city as he pleased. All Moleyns had to do in return was promise not to escape. Naturally, he had been at the Lammas Day feast, so had he indulged his penchant for unlawful killing, just for the thrill of doing it right under the Sheriff’s nose? If so, Dallingridge was sorry. He rather liked Moleyns, who was entertaining, if mercurial, company.

  Moleyns was standing with his wife Egidia, a cold, grasping woman, who was resentful that her husband’s ‘incarceration’ meant he could no longer add to the family coffers by stealing and terrorising his neighbours. Also with them was John Inge, Moleyns’ lawyer, whom Dallingridge disliked intensely. Inge was sly, secretive and duplicitous, and it was common knowledge that he would do anything for money.

  Dallingridge eyed the three of them thoughtfully. Since he had announced that he was dying, they had made it their business to call on him every day, purely in the hope of getting money. Moleyns had been rich, but most of his property was confiscated by the courts, so a legacy would suit him very nicely. Meanwhile, Inge and Egidia hated relying on Moleyns for the occasional hand-out, and longed to be financially independent. Could one of them have killed him, in the hope of acquiring enough cash to tide them over until the King arranged for Moleyns to be released?

  In another corner was a young scholar named Will Kolvyle, and the plan had been for him and Dallingridge to enrol in the University together – two Nottingham men side by side. Unfortunately, Kolvyle was jealous of the name Dallingridge had made for himself with his sophisticated understanding of contract law, so had Kolvyle dispensed the poison, lest he should be regarded as second best when they arrived in Cambridge? Dallingridge shifted uneasily. He would not put it past the lad – Kolvyle was egotistical, callous and frighteningly ambitious.

  ‘Lie still,’ ordered Barber Cook, the medicus who had nursed Dallingridge since the feast. ‘You will unbalance your humours if you twist around so, and then you will never recover.’

  Dallingridge scowled at him, resenting the assumption that he was a fool who did not know that death was near. He would have preferred a physician to tend him, but Cook had been the first practitioner to offer his services, and Dallingridge had not been well enough to demand someone better. He studied the barber’s mean, sharp face and shifty eyes. Perhaps he was the culprit. He had, after all, earned a fortune for his ministrations over the last few weeks, and clearly expected to be rewarded further still once his patient was dead.

  It was becoming difficult for Dallingridge to see the other eager, hopeful faces, but he knew who was there – friends and family from near and far, servants, neighbours and business associates. Had even one of them come out of affection for him, or were they all hoping to gain something from his imminent demise? And with that question came the knowledge of what he must do – not build a tomb, but donate his whole fortune to the University that was to have been his home. There would be no fine monument to remind future generations of what a great man he had been, but the scholar-priests would pray for his soul, which was all that really mattered.

  His mind made up, he tried to call his clerk, but his tongue was suddenly thick and heavy, so all that emerged was an incoherent gurgle. As one, the horde surged forward to gabble more meaningless platitudes, jostling for space at his bedside. He looked at them in despair before his eyes grew too dim to see. Which one had condemned him to this terrible, lingering death? He supposed he would never know.

  Cambridge, October 1359

  When Sir John Moleyns and his train of guards arrived in Cambridge, it was a beautiful day, and the kindly weather showed the little Fen-edge settlement at its very best. The autumn sun shone gently, and leaves were beginning to be touched with red and gold. The town’s roads were little more than strips of mature and compacted rubbish, but they added a certain rustic charm that had been absent in Nottingham, while many of its churches were very handsome indeed.

  By rights, the prisoner should have been delivered directly to the gaol, but Moleyns had wanted to see his new home first, and had persuaded the officer in charge to make a detour so that they arrived from the south. Sergeant Helbye had been quite happy to oblige. After all, who would not rather swap mundane duties in the castle for an afternoon of leisurely riding?

  ‘There is St Mary the Great,’ said Inge the lawyer, pointing to an enormous building near the Market Square, which thronged with scholars. He hailed from the Fens, so knew the area well. ‘Also called the University Church. You may recall the name, as it is where Sir John Dallingridge asked to be buried.’

  Inge had thought long and hard about his future when Moleyns had been convicted. Should he settle for a dull but safe life as a rural judge, or should he stick with his biggest client, knowing that Moleyns would eventually be pardoned, as those generous to the royal coffers always were? In the end, he had decided that his best interests lay with the devious knight, so he had followed Moleyns to ‘prisons’ in Windsor, Nottingham and now Cambridge.

  Unfortunately, he was beginning to think he might have made a mistake. It had been three years since the trial, and there was still no sign that a reprieve was in the offing. And with no income of his own, Inge was obliged to rely on Moleyns for every last penny, which was a position no man liked to be in. But Inge was unwilling to cut his losses just yet. The move to Cambridge showed that the King had not forgotten his favourite, and Moleyns was fun company when he was in a good mood – which was why His Majesty loved him, of course.

  Moleyns was looking around approvingly. ‘Dallingridge was right to wax lyrical about this town, and I was right to request a transfer here. It will be much more comfortable than Nottingham, where the castle was draughty and its Sheriff a bore.’

  At that moment, St Mary the Great’s bell began to chime, a toneless clunk that made him wince. His wife, who rode at his side, started to laugh.

  ‘Do the scholars keep a bucket in the tower?’ she chortled. ‘I expected a more tuneful sound from so glorious a building.’

  Egidia and Moleyns had been married for nearly thirty years, and although it had been a union of convenience, both had done well out of the arrangement. She had brought him the plum manor that had won him a place at Court, and he had provided her with a steady supply of riches from his criminal schemes – at least, until his arrest had put an end to them.

  ‘It cracked earlier this year,’ explained Inge. ‘But replacements have already been cast, and will be hung soon. Three of them – a gift from a wealthy benefactor.’

  He pointed out more landmarks as they and their guards rode along the High Street – pretty St Catherine’s Hostel, King’s Hall with its stalwart walls, and the Hospital of St John on the corner. Then they passed into Bridge Street, and caught their first glimpse of the castle.

  It dominated the northern end of the town by squatting on a ridge – an unusual feature in an area that was almost un
iformly flat. It was an imposing sight, a mass of grey walls and bristling towers with the mighty Great Keep rising from its middle.

  ‘Its function is more administrative than military these days,’ Inge chatted on, pleased to show off his local knowledge. ‘And the most dangerous task its Sheriff performs is collecting taxes from people who do not want to pay.’

  ‘And running a prison, presumably,’ remarked Egidia.

  ‘There are cells in the gatehouse,’ acknowledged Inge, ‘but those are for common felons. We will be housed in quarters that are commensurate with Moleyns’ status as a close friend of the King.’

  ‘I shall be very happy in this town,’ declared Moleyns, smiling contentedly. ‘I can tell. Did I mention that His Majesty has granted me even more privileges than I had in Nottingham? I shall go hunting and hawking, as well as enjoying all the usual feasts and revels that the Sheriff will have to provide. Nottingham had palled, and we all needed a change.’

  ‘Regardless, I hope you are pardoned soon,’ sighed Egidia. ‘I am tired of these grim fortresses, and I want to go home to Stoke Poges.’

  ‘Stoke Poges is not your home now,’ Inge reminded her. ‘It was confiscated by the courts when Moleyns was found guilty.’

  ‘It will be returned to me the moment I am pardoned,’ averred Moleyns confidently. ‘Which will not be long now. The King swore not to rest until the verdict of those stupid jurors was overturned.’

  ‘He did,’ acknowledged Inge. ‘But perhaps it is time for another letter reminding him of your plight. This is a pretty town, and I do not doubt that we shall enjoy ourselves here, but who would not rather be free?’

  Moleyns wanted to dismount and inspect some of the interesting stalls on Bridge Street, but Helbye growled an order for the party to keep moving – taking the long way through the town was one thing, but going shopping in the shadow of the castle was another altogether. He was a grizzled veteran of many campaigns and the Sheriff’s most trusted subordinate, so he was the natural choice to travel to Nottingham and bring the prisoner back. He had enjoyed the excursion immensely, despite the nagging aches in his ageing joints, and was not about to risk future jaunts by letting Moleyns defy his authority in a place where it would be noticed.