The bells had originally been higher up, but when they had been augmented from one to three, the bell-hangers had decided that several tons of metal swinging around there would put too great a strain on the tower’s foundations, so they had been installed just above the church’s west porch. Bartholomew suffered a sharp pang of grief when he saw them: they had been bought with a benefaction from his late brother-in-law.
‘Oswald died too young,’ he murmured, when the monk eventually joined him. He knew he should be thinking about Tynkell’s assailant, but his kinsman’s untimely death remained a source of great sadness to him, and he could not help himself.
‘He would have liked these bells.’ Michael spoke absently, still stunned by what had happened on the roof. ‘And Tynkell was proud to have had them installed under his chancellorship. But never mind that – we must find whatever flew off the roof and prove it was not Satan, or we shall never hear the end of this ridiculous tale.’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘I will look for it as soon as I have carried Tynkell downstairs.’
‘That will be too late – the rumour will be all over the town by then. I will detail my beadles to do it. William pointed out the direction it took, so I know where to tell them to start.’
‘It is probably Tynkell’s cloak. You must have noticed that he was not wearing one.’
‘Pity. If it had been his opponent’s, it might have allowed us to identify him.’
While Michael hurried away to brief his men, Bartholomew began the tortuous business of manoeuvring a corpse down a narrow spiral staircase. By the time he reached the Lady Chapel, he was sweating heavily, warmer than he had been since Christmas, when the cold weather had started. Then the beadles chased out the gawpers and kept guard while he conducted a formal examination of the Chancellor’s body.
It was not pleasant, as Tynkell had had an unfortunate aversion to personal hygiene, and his being dead did nothing to improve matters.
Bartholomew began by checking the head for bruises or dents, but there was nothing amiss. However, when he removed Tynkell’s academic tabard, he discovered a patch of blood. He pulled away the remaining garments to reveal a tiny puncture wound in the left side of Tynkell’s chest, small enough to be almost invisible. It had not been made with a knife, so he supposed some kind of spike was responsible, although one that was unusually long and thin.
‘It was pushed through the ribs, directly into his heart,’ he told Michael, when he eventually finished and the monk came to hear his report. ‘Death would have been virtually instant, and there was very little bleeding – which is why I did not notice it on the roof.’
‘It makes more sense than a sudden attack of natural causes.’ Michael rubbed his chin, fingers rasping against the stubble. ‘So our killer stabbed Tynkell, then escaped with all the ease of Lucifer. Literally, according to at least three dozen witnesses, all of whom swear on their souls that he then flew off the tower.’
‘What did they say when you showed them the cloak?’
‘Nothing, because my beadles cannot find it. I suppose a pauper got to it first, and is reluctant to hand it over. I do not blame him – the weather is bitter, and such a garment might mean the difference between life and death.’
‘That is unfortunate,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I dislike rumours about Satan – they nearly always result in trouble.’
Michael nodded agreement, then was silent for a while, staring down at the man who had worked so closely with him for the past six years. Then he reached for the blanket that Bartholomew had used to cover the body. There had always been something a little odd about Tynkell’s person, which had resulted in some outrageous speculation among the students – one had even suggested that he was pregnant. Bartholomew knew what made the Chancellor different, but steadfastly refused to tell.
‘No,’ he said sharply, slapping Michael’s hand away. ‘Leave him in peace.’
‘Why?’ asked Michael, aggrieved. ‘It cannot hurt him now, and I have manfully swallowed my curiosity all these years. Besides, it might have a bearing on his death.’
‘It does not. Besides, how would you like it if people came to paw at your corpse for no reason other than prurient curiosity?’
‘I have no intention of shuffling off this mortal coil,’ retorted Michael loftily; he had long been of the opinion that his own death was optional. ‘And certainly not before I have been made a bishop or an abbot. Which will not be much longer in the offing, of course.’
Bartholomew regarded him searchingly. The monk had always maintained that he would one day hold high rank in the Church – without the inconvenience of climbing through the stages in between, naturally – but had something happened to prompt the remark now?
‘You had a letter from Bishop de Lisle yesterday,’ he fished.
Michael nodded. ‘He is still with the Pope in Avignon, which is a nuisance actually, because it is difficult to whisper in his ear when he lives so far away. However, I have sent him reports about the University for nigh on two decades now, and my loyal service has put him in my debt.’
‘Is that why he wrote? To thank you?’
‘Yes and no. He has been singing my praises to the Holy Father, and wanted me to know that an opportunity for advancement might soon come my way.’
‘Not too soon, I hope,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We have just lost our Chancellor, and we cannot afford to lose our Senior Proctor as well.’
‘Do not worry – I shall ensure that a suitable successor to Tynkell is appointed before I go anywhere. I have worked hard to build this University, and I will not leave it foundering.’
‘Oh, Lord!’ groaned Bartholomew, as it occurred to him that Tynkell’s death would bring about changes, not all of them pleasant. ‘There will have to be an election, and the last time we had one of those, there was mayhem, with scholars at each other’s throats and—’
‘Who said anything about an election? It would be best if I chose Tynkell’s replacement, and installed him quietly. I know what is needed; our colleagues do not.’
Bartholomew knew the University’s voting members would not be pleased to learn that they were about to be deprived of the right to select their own leader, but it was hardly the time or the place for a debate on the matter. He fetched the necessary accoutrements from the vestry, and began to lay Tynkell out himself, knowing it was what the Chancellor would have wanted. When he had finished, he found the parish coffin – a reusable box with sturdy clasps – lifted Tynkell into it, and fastened down the lid as tightly as he could. Then he charged two of Michael’s most trustworthy beadles to guard it.
‘No one looks inside, not even Michael,’ he instructed, then added a lie to ensure that his orders were followed. ‘Opening it would be dangerous, because there is a deadly miasma around the body.’
‘We know,’ said one man in distaste, holding his nose. ‘We can smell it from here.’
When Bartholomew stepped into the street shortly afterwards, he was nearly blown off his feet by the force of the gale. Yet despite the mighty gusts, people still thronged around the church, reluctant to leave after the excitement. This was convenient for Michael, as it allowed him to question witnesses. Unfortunately, everyone told him the same tale: that Tynkell and the Devil had disappeared for a moment, after which Lucifer had flown away.
‘You know that is impossible,’ the monk was saying irritably to William Thelnetham, a Gilbertine who liked to liven up the sober habit of his Order with outrageously colourful accessories; that day, he sported yellow hose, while a pink ribbon graced the hem of his cloak.
Thelnetham had been a member of Michaelhouse, but had resigned when another foundation had made him a better offer. When the new College had come to nought, he had expected to be reinstated at his old one, and had been astonished when his colleagues had refused to accept him back. He was an excellent teacher and a skilled orator, so there was no question that he raised Michaelhouse’s academic profile, but he was also acerbic and quarrelsome, and the
other Fellows decided that they preferred life without him. He had been obliged to take up residence in the Gilbertine Priory instead, although he had not given up all hope that Michaelhouse would one day recant and invite him to return.
‘It sounds impossible,’ Thelnetham replied. ‘But it is what happened – I saw it with my own eyes. And you said yourself that no one else was on the roof when you arrived.’
‘What you saw take to the air was Tynkell’s cloak,’ argued Michael.
‘Nonsense,’ countered Thelnetham with considerable conviction. ‘I know the difference between a gown and the Devil. Unlike you, it seems.’
‘Satan does not go around stabbing folk,’ said Michael, speaking just as vehemently. ‘That is something people do.’
This remark was overheard by a Dominican named Thomas Hopeman, an unattractive individual with a low forehead and darkly glittering eyes, who promptly marched across to say his piece. He was another scholar who could not open his mouth without contradicting someone, although unlike Thelnetham, he did it without humour. He was always accompanied by a band of six or seven disciples, who were all much of an ilk – grim, unsmiling fanatics, who turned religion into something joyless and rather frightening.
‘Rubbish!’ he stated dogmatically. ‘Lucifer has long claws that he keeps honed for the express purpose of running people through.’
His acolytes surged forward to clamour their agreement. While Michael struggled to silence them, Thelnetham took Bartholomew’s arm and pulled him aside.
‘What will happen now?’ he asked in a gossipy whisper. ‘I assume there will be an election, and Michael will put himself forward as Tynkell’s successor?’
‘I have no idea,’ lied Bartholomew.
Thelnetham grimaced. ‘He must have said something to you, Matthew. The University is growing fast at the moment, which means we cannot be without a titular head for long. Or will Michael just take the post without the bother of having himself voted in by his peers?’
‘You will have to ask him.’ Bartholomew tried to edge away.
‘I shall then. And if he agrees to a fair and open competition, I might stand myself.’
‘You will?’ Bartholomew was astounded. He had not imagined it was a post that anyone would want, given that Tynkell’s reign had seen it go from a position of great power to one with a hefty administrative load, an obligation to host lots of dull ceremonies, and no authority to make independent decisions. ‘Why?’
‘Because I love teaching, and I should like a say in the way it is managed. And when I do, substandard masters like your William can expect an end to their comfortable existences.’ Thelnetham glowered to where the Franciscan was chatting to some of his brethren. ‘Our students deserve better than the likes of him.’
It was difficult to argue with that. Students paid for their tuition, and it was unethical to fob them off with mediocre educators. However, it was not just William’s failings in the classroom that drew Thelnetham’s disapproval. When the Gilbertine had been a member of Michaelhouse, he and William had quarrelled constantly, and had loathed each other ever since.
Thelnetham flounced away at that point, so Bartholomew turned back to Michael and Hopeman. As he listened to them argue, he recalled that the Dominican was a member of Maud’s Hostel. Unlike Colleges, hostels had no endowment – no pot of money that paid salaries and kept buildings in good repair – so they tended to be smaller, poorer and less stable. Maud’s was the exception. It took only very wealthy students, and so was always flush with funds, although it had an unfortunate propensity to attract applicants of less than average intelligence. How lads with such short attention spans were persuaded to sit still for Hopeman’s famously protracted theological expositions had always been a mystery to Bartholomew.
Then another Maud’s man joined them, also keen to know what would happen now that Tynkell was dead. He was the elderly Richard Lyng, who had been Chancellor three times himself, and had been very good at it. He was a theologian of some repute, and Bartholomew had often wondered how he could bear lecturing to students who could not remember what they had been taught from one day to the next.
‘No, I shall not stand myself,’ replied Michael in response to Lyng’s polite enquiry. ‘However, organising an election takes time, so it will not happen this term and—’
‘I could arrange one in a trice,’ interrupted Hopeman. ‘All you have to do is set a date, tell everyone, then count a show of hands.’
‘It is rather more complex than that,’ countered Michael irritably. ‘The statutes—’
‘The statutes are a lot of silly decrees designed to impede progress,’ stated Hopeman belligerently. ‘If I were Chancellor, I would scrap them.’
‘Then it is fortunate for us that you are never likely to be in office,’ retorted Michael coolly. He loved the minutiae of the University’s rulebooks, and never tired of poring over them to extract interpretations that allowed him to get his own way.
‘And we do need them, Hopeman,’ said Lyng with a pleasant smile. ‘Without our rubrics, we should have anarchy. Besides, they have served us well for a hundred and fifty years. They need a little tweaking now and again, to bring them in line with changing requirements, but they are fundamentally sound.’
‘Hear, hear,’ said Michael firmly.
‘A hundred and fifty years?’ scoffed Hopeman. ‘Fool! Our University is much older. It was founded by King Arthur, just a year after Our Lord’s glorious Resurrection.’
‘I see history is not your forte,’ drawled Michael, then turned back to Lyng before the Dominican could respond. ‘As I was saying, it will take several weeks to arrange an election, but until then, I shall assume the mantle of Chancellor. I have—’
‘Why?’ interrupted Hopeman aggressively. ‘You just told us that you will not stand.’
‘I will not,’ said Michael, struggling for patience. ‘But I shall plug the breach until Tynkell’s replacement is in post. Then I will step down.’
‘Are you sure you can manage his duties, as well as your own?’ asked Lyng worriedly. ‘We have grown so rapidly over the last year that to undertake both will be a very heavy burden. As an ex-Chancellor myself, I know what I am talking about.’
‘I agree,’ nodded Hopeman. ‘So we should hold an election immediately.’
Michael glared at him. ‘It is inappropriate to discuss such matters while Tynkell is still warm,’ he said curtly. ‘Nothing can or will happen until he is decently laid to rest.’
‘But that might take an age, Brother,’ said Lyng. ‘I helped him to write his will, so I know for a fact that he left funds for a tomb to be built in St Mary the Great. It will be weeks – perhaps even months – before that is ready to receive his mortal remains.’
‘Oh, dear,’ said Michael flatly. ‘What a pity.’
But Hopeman had the bit between his teeth. ‘Tynkell became irrelevant the moment he breathed his last. It is the University that is important now, not him. Ergo, we shall have our ballot in a few days. I shall stand myself, of course. Our studium generale will flourish under a devout man like me.’
His zealots murmured agreement, although Lyng was visibly alarmed by the prospect of Hopeman in charge. Foundations tended to be loyal to fellow members, so Hopeman should have been able to count on the support of anyone from Maud’s. Lyng, however, was cognisant of his University’s best interests.
‘Then I had better put myself forward, too,’ he said. ‘I have plenty of experience at the post, and people will vote for me.’
He had been a popular Chancellor, who had managed to lead without being a tyrant – unlike, it had to be said, Michael – so it was entirely possible that he would be elected for a fourth term. Bartholomew was relieved that there would be at least one sensible alternative to the rabid Dominican, although Hopeman was outraged at the ‘betrayal’, and Michael made a moue of annoyance.
‘I saw you both with Tynkell earlier today,’ said the monk, pointedly turning the discussion bac
k to the man whose shoes they aimed to fill, ‘and I know he was fond of Maud’s. I do not suppose he mentioned an intention to climb up to the tower roof, did he?’
‘He never talked about his University duties,’ replied Lyng. ‘He used to, when he was first appointed, but that stopped after a couple of months. I occasionally raised the subject, but he always maintained that it was too important for idle chatter.’
‘That was because he had no idea what was happening,’ scoffed Hopeman. ‘You never confided in him, Brother, so he was as much in the dark as the rest of us.’
‘So no, he did not mention the tower,’ continued Lyng, shooting the Dominican a look that warned him to moderate his tongue. ‘He just said that he had a lot of work to do today, because you had left a great pile of deeds on his desk.’
‘He also said he was looking forward to retiring, and being free of your bullying ways,’ put in Hopeman spitefully. ‘But I cannot stand here all day. I have an election to win.’
He strode away, his followers twittering excitedly at his heels.
‘Are his zealots members of Maud’s?’ asked Michael, looking after them disapprovingly. ‘They do not seem like the kind of lad you usually recruit.’
‘They are deacons from the parish churches,’ replied Lyng, ‘whom Hopeman aims to turn into younger versions of himself. We try to dissuade him from grooming fanatics, but you know what he is like – not a man to listen to reason. But I had better go, too. He will not waste a moment before he starts campaigning, so neither should I.’
‘I shall have scant time for manipulating elections if I am to perform Tynkell’s duties as well as my own,’ grumbled Michael, when he and Bartholomew were alone again. ‘Not to mention finding his killer. Damn Hopeman! His impatience is a nuisance.’
‘He will not win,’ predicted Bartholomew, hiding his amusement at Michael’s bald admission that he intended to cheat. ‘Lyng is far more popular. So is Thelnetham.’
‘Thelnetham?’ echoed Michael. ‘I do not want him, thank you very much. He will want to ignore my advice and rule alone.’
A Grave Concern: The Twenty Second Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew Book 22) Page 3
