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

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘Then stand yourself. It is the only sure way of keeping your power.’

  ‘But I do not want to be Chancellor! It would be wrong to put myself forward, only to leave a couple of months later.’

  ‘A couple of months?’ Bartholomew regarded his friend intently. ‘That letter from the Bishop – what did it really say?’

  Michael grimaced. ‘I did not want to tell anyone yet, lest there is a hiccup, but this will force my hand. De Lisle has arranged for me to be offered a See. He told me to expect a messenger confirming the appointment in the next few days.’

  Bartholomew was delighted for him. ‘That is excellent news, Brother! Which diocese?’

  ‘I do not know yet. However, I would be happier with my good fortune if I were not afraid for my University. I do not want it in the hands of a lunatic like Hopeman, while Lyng is too old, and Thelnetham has no experience. Lord! What a terrible day this is transpiring to be.’

  ‘Especially for Tynkell,’ said Bartholomew soberly.

  Bartholomew was a very busy man. He had more students than he could realistically teach, plus an enormous medical practice – far larger than the town’s other physicians, who tended to confine themselves to tending the wealthy elite. Thus while the monk questioned more witnesses, he hurried back to Michaelhouse, not sure whether the rest of his day would be spent teaching or seeing patients.

  He arrived to discover several urgent summonses, so he left his classes a daunting number of texts to learn – a list that elicited horrified exclamations, although he genuinely failed to understand why there was a problem, when he could read twice that amount in the allocated time – collected his final-year students, and set off on his rounds.

  His first patient was Isnard the bargeman, whose leg he had once been obliged to amputate after an accident with a cart. Isnard had adapted well to the loss of his limb, but the episode had not taught him to be more careful, and Bartholomew was called at least once a week to tend cuts and bruises, many sustained during nights of riotous fun in the town’s less salubrious taverns.

  ‘I toppled backwards when I was watching Chancellor Tynkell fight the Devil,’ the bargeman explained, as Bartholomew and his pupils crowded into the little riverside cottage. There was a powerful reek of ale, which explained exactly why Isnard’s balance had been adversely affected. ‘And I sat down so hard that I hurt my back.’

  ‘I found him shortly afterwards, and was obliged to carry him home,’ added another man, emerging from the shadows. ‘He could not manage by himself.’

  Isnard did not always live on the right side of the law, but Bartholomew was sorry indeed to see him in company with Gundrede, a thoroughly disreputable character who could have earned a decent living from his trade as a metalsmith but preferred instead to dabble in crime. Isnard was easily led, and Bartholomew sincerely hoped that Gundrede would not drag him into trouble.

  ‘It is a pity the battle cost Tynkell his life,’ sighed Isnard. ‘He was a nice man.’

  ‘Yet there was always something a little odd about his person,’ mused Gundrede. ‘Between you and me, I suspect he was branded with Satan’s mark, and was killed trying to stop the Devil from pulling off his tabard and exposing it.’

  ‘What kind of mark?’ asked one of the students, agog.

  ‘Enough,’ said Bartholomew sharply, as Gundrede drew breath to reply. ‘The poor man is dead. Afford him some respect, if you please.’

  ‘Did you see Lucifer kill him, Isnard?’ asked another lad eagerly. He glanced resentfully at Bartholomew. ‘We missed it, because we were stuck in the hall, reading Maimonides.’

  ‘Reading your what?’ asked Isnard, then waved an impatient hand when the student started to explain. ‘Never mind. And the answer is: yes, I did see Satan strike. Afterwards, I watched him soar across the town, returning to his home in Hell.’

  ‘Which lies to the east,’ elaborated Gundrede darkly, before Bartholomew could tell them about the cloak, ‘in the Barnwell Fields. I always said that place was desolate. I imagine he is there now, picking his way through all the boggy puddles.’

  ‘Not if he can fly,’ averred Isnard. ‘He will want to avoid getting his feet wet, if he can.’

  ‘You saw Tynkell killed?’ asked Bartholomew, the moment he could interject a question into the discussion. ‘Because no one else did. They all say that he and the Dev— his opponent disappeared from sight at the critical time.’

  ‘I was further away, so had a different perspective,’ replied Isnard grandly. ‘I saw Lucifer kneel down and do something to Tynkell, after which Tynkell did not move. It looked to me as though he laid a claw on his chest and stopped his heart.’

  ‘Did you see his face?’ asked Bartholomew, although he knew to treat any ‘intelligence’ from the bargeman with a healthy dose of scepticism.

  ‘He kept his hood up to conceal his wicked visage. However, I can tell you that he wore a black cloak. I could not make out much else, though. It is a long way up that tower, Doctor.’

  Bartholomew was thoughtful. The tower was high, so no one – and especially not the drunken Isnard – could have seen what had really happened, particularly in a wind that made eyes water and that was full of flying dust. The killer had achieved what Bartholomew would have considered impossible – a murder committed in front of dozens of witnesses, not one of whom could identify him.

  There followed a lively debate during which students and townsmen discussed the various ways in which a demon might end a human life. It was all nonsense, and Bartholomew let it wash over him as he examined Isnard’s bruises, which, he deduced, had not come from sitting down sharply, but from the rough manner in which he had been toted home afterwards. He prescribed a soothing balm, then went to his next call. It was at the Carmelite Priory, where the talk was again about the Chancellor’s spectacular and very public demise.

  ‘Poor Tynkell,’ sighed one of the friars. ‘I know he wanted to leave his mark on the University before he retired, but I doubt that is what he had in mind.’

  ‘How do you know?’ asked another. ‘His other schemes failed, so he was probably getting desperate. He might well have staged that display to impress us all.’

  ‘Then it failed,’ said the first grimly, ‘because there is nothing impressive about being slaughtered by Satan. He should have stuck to founding libraries and Colleges.’

  When he had finished with the Carmelites, Bartholomew went to a house on the Market Square, where a baker had been so engrossed in watching Tynkell’s mortal battle that he had burnt his hand. Then there were three cases of lung-rot near the King’s Head tavern, after which he trudged wearily homewards. He sent his students on ahead of him when he spotted Michael emerging from St Mary the Great. They did not need to be told twice, and shot away before he changed his mind, eager to warm chilled hands and feet by the fire in the hall.

  ‘Everyone in this town is a gullible fool,’ grumbled Michael. ‘Even rational men claim they saw the Devil flap away over the rooftops, and no one believes it was Tynkell’s cloak. How am I supposed to catch the killer when no one has anything sensible to say?’

  ‘Investigate Tynkell himself, then,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘See if he had any enemies.’

  ‘He did – lots,’ replied Michael sourly. ‘As Chancellor, he embodied the University, and there are scores of townsfolk who would love to strike a blow against us. And as for his choice of friends … well, suffice to say that I would not hobnob with the men of Maud’s.’

  Wryly, Bartholomew wondered if Maud’s had been singled out for censure because two of its members had already put themselves forward as Tynkell’s successor. He was about to say so, when he saw someone standing in a nearby doorway, watching them. He could not see the fellow’s face, covered as it was by a cowl, but supposed it was a cleric.

  He started to walk towards him, to ask if he wanted Michael or a medical consultation, but the fellow turned and hurried away. Michael did not seem inclined to give chase, so Bartholomew did not
either, and the cleric disappeared into one of the many alleys that led to the river.

  Because he had liked Tynkell, and wanted his killer caught, Bartholomew accompanied Michael to the Hall of Valence Marie, the scholars of which had also witnessed the rooftop battle. Unfortunately, their testimony was no more helpful than anyone else’s had been, and it was with a sense of defeat that the two Michaelhouse men began to walk home.

  It was bitterly cold, although the wind had dropped, so the clouds overhead did not scud along with quite such frantic urgency. A frost was settling across the rooftops, and the ground was frozen like iron underfoot. Bartholomew had no idea of the time, but sensed it would not be long until dusk, the short winter day over all too soon.

  ‘Your brother-in-law’s tomb,’ said Michael suddenly, as they passed the lane that led to the little church of St John Zachary. ‘Can we go to look at it? Tynkell’s executors tell me that he wants … wanted something similar, and I should like to know what he had in mind.’

  ‘You can look, but please do not hire our mason to build it. He already has too many commissions – at least five – which means none are getting the attention they deserve. He works on Oswald for an hour, then disappears to do the same for someone else. I am beginning to think he will never finish any of them.’

  ‘He is a builder,’ shrugged Michael. ‘What do you expect?’

  The parish of St John Zachary had suffered heavy losses when the plague had swept through the town ten years before. Almost every resident had died, and with no congregation to pay for its upkeep, the church had fallen into disrepair. It was not until the University had bought up all the empty houses to use as hostels that the area began to thrive once more. Then Bartholomew’s kinsman, Oswald Stanmore, had provided a substantial sum of money for the church’s renovation, on condition that he would be buried in its chancel one day. Of course, he had not expected to need it quite so soon.

  ‘There was a time when I thought this place would have to be demolished,’ remarked Michael, as he opened the door. ‘But the last few months have seen it completely transformed.’

  It was true. A fine hammerbeam roof now excluded the elements, and the windows were full of pretty stained glass. The floor was paved in creamy stones, and the walls were alive with murals depicting the life of St John the Baptist.

  Stanmore’s tomb had pride of place, and occupied most of the south side of the chancel. The mason hired to build it was John Petit, who had come to Cambridge to erect the Dallingridge tomb in St Mary the Great. Personally, Bartholomew thought his sister should have hired someone else, as Petit was smugly aware that he was the only craftsman of his kind within a sixty-mile radius, and so tended to be both expensive and unreliable. Grand monuments were, however, currently in vogue, and Edith was determined that her beloved husband should have the best.

  And even Bartholomew was forced to admit that Petit’s work was outstanding. The tomb comprised a handsome chest of pink marble with a canopy, which would eventually be topped with an effigy of him lying next to his wife. However, as Edith was still very much alive, Bartholomew found this prospect deeply disconcerting, although everyone assured him that it was common practice.

  As the floor beneath the chancel was filled with the bodies of plague victims, Bartholomew had advised against disturbing them, and a separate vault was being prepared nearby. This was a steep-sided pit, large enough for Stanmore and Edith to lie side by side. Petit’s apprentices had dug it the first week that Edith had hired them, after which it had been lined with stone. Progress was painfully slow, however, and although the vault itself was finished, there had been problems with the granite slab that was to seal it, although Bartholomew had understood none of the explanations. As a result, Stanmore’s bones continued to languish in their temporary grave in the churchyard.

  Bartholomew was astonished to see Petit actually at work there that day, despite the fading light. No visible progress had been made on the tomb or the vault since he had last visited, although the masons had nonetheless managed to create a tremendous mess. He opened his mouth to remonstrate, but Petit’s eyes were fixed on Michael.

  ‘I know why you are here, Brother,’ he said, smiling superiorly. ‘You have come to request my services for your Chancellor. Unfortunately, I am very busy, so if you want Tynkell’s tomb built in a hurry, it will cost you.’

  ‘Then I shall tell his executors to buy one from London,’ said Michael coolly.

  Petit’s smug grin widened. ‘You can try, but the City workshops will transpire to be far more expensive in the long run – transporting large lumps of stone over such great distances does not come cheap.’

  ‘Then we shall have a funerary brass instead,’ shrugged the monk. ‘Those are far more reasonably priced.’

  ‘Brasses are rubbish,’ declared Petit haughtily and with conviction. ‘You do not want one of those, so let us do business. What do you have in mind for Tynkell?’

  Before the monk could reply, the mason opened a bag and produced a series of exemplars – scale models of the different designs on offer. They ranged from the tastefully simple one that Edith had chosen for Stanmore, to the excruciatingly ornate monstrosity that was being created for Dallingridge. Bartholomew noted that since he had last been shown the collection, another template had been added – a sculpted canopy that would rise a good thirty feet into the air.

  ‘Please not that,’ he said, thinking it horribly vulgar.

  Petit picked it up fondly. ‘This is for Master Godrich of King’s Hall. It will go in St Mary the Great, and he wants me to start it now, so he can enjoy looking at it while he is still alive.’

  ‘Then he is going to be disappointed,’ said Michael firmly, ‘because we are not having that thing in our nave. It would spoil the symmetry of the whole building.’

  ‘It will go in the chancel, not the nave,’ said Petit indignantly. ‘My work always sits in the holiest part of a church. I would not consider making tombs for anywhere less.’

  Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘The chancel is not for the likes of Godrich – that is reserved for important scholars, such as myself. Or Chancellors, I suppose, although Tynkell did express a wish to be interred beneath the new bells.’

  ‘Under the bells,’ mused Petit, picking up a hammer and tapping desultorily at Stanmore’s lid. ‘That will put him in the narthex, where my handiwork will be the first thing anyone sees in ceremonial processions. Yes, I can live with that.’

  Amused, Bartholomew envisioned the canopied monstrosity plonked in the west porch, where scholars and dignitaries would have to squeeze down the sides of it in order to get in. Then he remembered his responsibilities to his family and became serious again.

  ‘You cannot start another tomb until you have finished Oswald’s,’ he said. ‘Unless you want to annoy my sister.’

  Petit blanched, as well he might, for Edith was formidable when riled, and he had been on the receiving end of more than one scolding for his lack of progress.

  ‘It is not my fault that this is taking longer than predicted,’ he whined. ‘I keep losing my supplies to thieves. Take this ledger slab, for example.’ He patted the tomb-chest’s lid, lest they did not know what he meant. ‘I had one ready cut and chamfered, but someone came along and filched it – which meant I had to start another from scratch.’

  ‘Someone stole a great lump of marble?’ asked Michael sceptically. ‘Why? You are the only mason in town, and it is hardly something that anyone else will want.’

  ‘Lakenham,’ replied Petit sullenly. ‘He took it. Have you met him? He moved here at the same time as me, and set up business in direct competition. He has been doing all he can to hinder my work and annoy my patrons.’

  ‘You mean there is a second mason for hire?’ asked Michael, brightening.

  ‘He is not a mason.’ Petit’s voice dripped disdain. ‘He is a lattener, a mere producer of brasses.’ He shuddered. ‘I should not like such a thing lying over me when I die. I want something decent
.’

  ‘We shall bear it in mind,’ said Michael. ‘Now where can this lattener be found?’

  ‘Of course, Isnard the bargeman has an eye for fine stone, too,’ Petit went on, ignoring the question. ‘Him and his friend Gundrede. It is possible that they made off with my wares.’

  ‘Isnard is not a thief,’ said Bartholomew. Michael shot him a disbelieving look, so he hastened to modify his claim. ‘Not of large items, at least. He only has one leg, so lifting heavy objects is beyond— where are you going?’

  Petit had started to pack away his tools.

  ‘I cannot do any more work on this until the mortar is dry,’ the mason explained. ‘If I tried, you would not be impressed with the result.’

  ‘What mortar?’ challenged Bartholomew, who could see that the bucket used to mix the stuff had not been moved in a week.

  Petit waved an airy hand. ‘Mine is a painstaking craft, Doctor. Much progress has been made today, although no amateur eye will detect it. But I shall return first thing in the morning, and I will stay here all day.’

  He slung his toolbag over his shoulder and marched out, leaving behind a muddle of discarded wood, dust and sundry other rubbish. Bartholomew supposed the vergers would be obliged to clean it up themselves if they wanted their chancel to be usable in the interim.

  ‘Godrich,’ mused Michael, thinking about the man who intended to have himself interred with such splendour in the town’s biggest and most important church. ‘Have you met him, Matt? He is a Fellow of King’s Hall, and although he has only been enrolled for a few weeks, he is already making his presence felt.’

  ‘I know the Warden is unhappy with him,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘Godrich is agitating for an election, so he can lead King’s Hall himself. The Warden never wanted the post, but he is reluctant to yield his power to Godrich, as he thinks it may do the place harm.’

  ‘Elections,’ sighed Michael, reminded of the one that would affect him personally. ‘Poor Tynkell. I cannot accept a bishopric as long as his killer is at large, so I hope you will agree to help me. After all, my entire future is at stake here.’