Nicholas’s expression was pained. ‘It started at about the same time that Moleyns arrived at the castle, which was October, if you recall – three months ago now. Although that is not to say that the two are connected, of course …’
‘But?’ prompted Michael when the secretary hesitated.
‘But before then, Tynkell was always very polite. After, he was irritable and withdrawn. Perhaps he knew what he would soon be facing, and feared he would prove unequal to the task.’
‘You mean meeting Moleyns during Mass?’ asked Michael, bemused.
‘I mean fighting the Devil, Brother,’ whispered Nicholas, wide-eyed. ‘Tynkell was not a man for combat – of any kind. And to challenge Satan …’
Michael regarded him balefully. ‘It was not Satan, and any man with an ounce of sense should know it.’
‘If you say so, Brother.’
‘I do say so, and I would be grateful if you could help me put an end to this foolish rumour by telling people that it was the killer’s cloak that they saw flying away.’
Nicholas inclined his head, although his sullenly stubborn expression told the monk that he believed he had seen the Devil, and nothing was going to persuade him otherwise. Disinclined to waste his time arguing, Michael changed the subject.
‘Can you tell me anything else about these assignations with Moleyns?’ he asked. ‘Such as how often you saw them together.’
‘Five or six times, I suppose. They talked while everyone else concentrated on their devotions. But Moleyns met lots of people when he was out, so his encounters with Tynkell are probably irrelevant.’
Michael would make up his own mind about that. ‘Now tell me about yesterday,’ he instructed. ‘How did Tynkell seem before he went up the tower?’
‘I did not see him, Brother. The moment he arrived for work, he came in here and shut the door.’
Michael was beginning to be exasperated. ‘Surely you can tell me something to help?’
Nicholas’s expression was stricken. ‘I have thought about nothing else all night – mulling over recent conversations in an effort to understand why he … The only thing I can tell you is that he had developed a habit of muttering about the Devil. So you see, Brother, he did know a confrontation was brewing.’
With the Lady Chapel empty, Bartholomew took the opportunity to open Tynkell’s coffin and ensure that the body had not been disturbed. The two hairs he had placed carefully across the Chancellor’s chest were still in place, telling him that Tynkell’s secret remained safe. He pulled the shroud to one side to look at what had given rise to such rumour and speculation.
Some years previously, there had been a popular fashion whereby small cuts were made in a specific pattern and then rubbed with pigment. The dye remained after the wounds had healed, leaving more or less permanent marks. Bartholomew had never been tempted to decorate himself so, but Tynkell was covered in little symbols, and all were the same: a twisting serpent with a rather diabolical pair of horns.
Shortly after his election, the Chancellor had tried to remove one with a rasp, which had resulted in a nasty infection. Bartholomew had been summoned, and Tynkell had sheepishly confided how he had come by them – after a particularly wild feast, when he had been insensible from drink, as his friends’ idea of fun. His shame of the marks was such that he had elected never to wash, lest someone burst in on him and saw them. This practice had resulted in so many upset stomachs that Deynman the librarian had once drawn the conclusion that Tynkell was suffering from the kind of morning sickness that was common in early pregnancy.
Bartholomew regarded the body sadly. Poor Tynkell! But he would be in the ground soon, and everyone would forget his eccentricities.
He replaced the hairs and the lid, fastening the clasps tightly, then turned his attention to Moleyns. He began by feeling the criminal’s head for suspicious bumps, then looked in his mouth and at his hands for burns that might suggest poison. There was nothing out of the ordinary, so he turned to the torso. Moleyns was still wearing the clothes in which he had died – fine ones that boasted an irritatingly large number of laces and buckles. Bartholomew fought his way through them, then stared in shock at what he found.
There was a wound in Moleyns’ chest that was identical to the one in Tynkell – a small round hole. He inspected it closely, sure it had been made with the same implement – or one that was very similar. He was about to call for Tulyet when there was a commotion outside the door, and he rolled his eyes when he recognised the unpleasantly strident tones of John Cook, the town’s new barber-surgeon.
Bartholomew did not like Cook, whom he considered inept and untrustworthy. The antipathy was fully reciprocated, and Cook rarely missed an opportunity to malign Bartholomew, particularly over the fact that he sometimes performed surgery. Most physicians steered well clear of such grisly work, believing it to be demeaning. Bartholomew, however, thought his patients had a right to any procedure that would make them better, and a long line of incompetent barbers meant he had learned to perform them himself.
Cook was short, sharp-eyed and bald, but had allowed the whiskers on his cheeks to grow to extraordinary length, while his chin was clean shaven. It was an odd style, particularly on a man who prided himself on his barbering skills. His clothes were of good quality, although greasy, which meant the hairs he cropped from his customers tended to stick to them, giving him the appearance of a badly cured pelt.
He hailed from Nottingham, but had accompanied the tomb-makers south, because his home town was awash with barber-surgeons, whereas Cambridge had none. He was fiercely protective of his professional rights, so it was inevitable that he and Bartholomew would clash.
‘How dare he!’ Cook was shouting. ‘I am the town’s barber, not him.’
‘I assure you,’ drawled Tulyet, ‘he is not giving Moleyns a haircut.’
‘I should hope not,’ snarled Cook. ‘I spent ages combing those curls last night, and no one should interfere with perfection.’
Bartholomew glanced at Moleyns’ coiffure, and thought if that was perfection, then he lived in a sadly flawed world. However, he was not surprised to learn that Cook was proud of what he had done: most barber-surgeons preferred to emphasise the medical part of their trade, but Cook liked to brag about his skill with hair. Moreover, he had an alarming habit of suspending surgical operations partway through, while he went to give another customer a trim.
‘Let me past, Sheriff,’ Cook ordered. ‘Or I shall report you to the Worshipful Company of Barbers. Only a fool challenges a man who has a powerful guild at his back.’
‘It is all right, Dick,’ called Bartholomew, although he seriously doubted that such an august organisation would race to defend the likes of Cook. ‘I have finished.’
Tulyet stepped aside and Cook thrust past him. The barber was followed by Inge and Egidia, both patently uneasy, which led Bartholomew to wonder if they knew more than was innocent about what had happened to Moleyns.
Seeing the Lady Chapel open, others crowded in on their heels. They included a gaggle of University clerks, some scholars from King’s Hall, three Gilbertines and several members of Maud’s Hostel, none of whom had a legitimate reason for being there. Michael trailed in at the end, with Secretary Nicholas and two beadles. Absently, Bartholomew noted that four of the five men who wanted to be Chancellor were among the press – Lyng, Hopeman, Godrich and Thelnetham. He was glad Suttone had the good taste not to come a-gawping.
‘You have ruffled his locks,’ declared Cook indignantly. ‘And why? For anatomy!’
He hissed the last word, giving it a decidedly sinister timbre, which had the onlookers crossing themselves against evil and exchanging uneasy glances.
‘Inspecting a corpse is hardly anatomy,’ argued Tulyet coolly. ‘It is a—’
‘Oh, yes, it is,’ countered Hopeman. ‘And it is the Devil’s work. I shall put an end to such practices when I am Chancellor.’
‘You will never be elected,’ scoffed Godrich.
He was a tall, aloof man in a fur-lined cloak, with protuberant eyes and bad skin. He made no pretence at scholarship, and had made it clear from the first that the University was an irritating but necessary step towards a career in the royal household. ‘We need a leader with important connections, not a religious fanatic.’
‘Gentlemen, please!’ cried Lyng, distressed. ‘No quarrels here, I beg you. It is inappropriate.’
‘Then let us go outside,’ suggested Thelnetham. ‘We shall hold a public debate, and see then who is the strongest candidate.’
None of the others moved to accept the challenge, perhaps because they knew they were no match for Thelnetham’s razor intellect and quick tongue. Then Egidia stepped forward.
‘Well?’ she demanded haughtily. ‘What killed my husband? I imagine it is something that can be attributed to the poor level of care he suffered at the castle.’
‘He was stabbed,’ replied Bartholomew, aiming to see what a bald statement of fact would shake loose. Unfortunately, the only ones who seemed shocked by the announcement were Michael and Tulyet. ‘You can see the mark here quite clearly.’
‘You claim that as a death wound?’ asked Inge in disbelief, as everyone craned forward to look. ‘Surely it is far too small?’
‘Cook will prove the truth, by inserting a surgical probe into it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Then you will all see that the killer’s weapon penetrated his victim’s heart.’
‘I do not hold with desecrating the dead,’ declared Cook, taking a brush and beginning to rearrange the corpse’s hair. It was macabre and Bartholomew found himself unable to watch, although he knew it was actually less gruesome than what he had just proposed.
‘Wait a moment, Matt,’ said Michael, finding his voice at last. ‘Are you saying we have two murders to explore?’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘And the similarities between them suggests that both were killed by the same weapon, probably wielded by the same person. You were right to see a connection between them.’
‘Lord!’ breathed Tulyet, stunned. ‘We were there when Moleyns died. He was dispatched right under our noses!’
‘Not just ours,’ said Michael soberly. ‘Lots of people surged towards him when he fell off his horse. And Tynkell was killed in full view of half the town.’
Lyng crossed himself. ‘So the Devil strikes a second time. Poor Moleyns!’
‘Poor Moleyns indeed,’ agreed Godrich. ‘Of course, a lot of tomb-builders clustered around him when he fell. And who benefits when a rich man breathes his last?’
‘No, the culprit is Satan,’ stated Hopeman matter-of-factly. ‘And he will claim other victims until a priest – a friar, like myself – is elected to the chancellorship.’
There was a clamour of agreement from his supporters, but Godrich cut across them.
‘No vulgar commoner will ever be Chancellor. How could he, when his duties include representing our University to kings and bishops?’
Hopeman and his deacons reacted with furious indignation, and their ringing voices echoed through the church. It was some time before the racket subsided, and Bartholomew saw that Michael had let it run on purpose, in the hope that temper would result in careless admissions. Unfortunately, no one had made that mistake.
‘I am a priest, too,’ said Lyng, when he could make himself heard. ‘I can face down demons just as well as any Dominican.’
‘But I am a canon,’ stated Thelnetham loftily. ‘A cut above mere mendicants. If a religious man is needed as Chancellor, then I am the best choice.’
Gradually, perhaps realising that squabbling over the corpse of the man they intended to replace was unedifying, the four contenders took their leave, although none went very far. They stopped in the nave, where a second row broke out. Most of the onlookers had followed, although a few lingered in the Lady Chapel, to see what would happen next with Moleyns.
‘You assume that John was stabbed in the street,’ said Egidia to Bartholomew, as Cook continued to ply his comb. ‘But maybe it happened earlier, while he was in the castle – a place where he should have been safe, as I am sure the King will agree.’
‘Impossible,’ replied Bartholomew promptly, much to Tulyet’s obvious relief. ‘The wound would have been almost instantly fatal.’
Egidia shot him a very unpleasant look.
‘We all saw him fall off his horse,’ said Tulyet. ‘So did he fall because he was stabbed, or was he attacked once he was on the ground?’
‘The latter,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘Because the culprit would have had to reach up to stab him on his horse, which we would have noticed.’
‘Then perhaps someone shot him,’ suggested Tulyet. ‘From a distance.’
‘If that were the case, the projectile would still be in him,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘No, this happened when he was on the ground. I am sure of it.’
‘You do not know what you are talking about,’ sneered Cook. ‘Because wounds are my business, not yours. And in my expert opinion, Moleyns fell on something sharp. Ergo, his death is not murder, but an accident – one the Sheriff should have prevented.’
He smiled ingratiatingly at Egidia, and received a nod of appreciation in return.
‘So Moleyns speared himself on a spike that just happens to be identical to the one that killed Tynkell a few hours earlier?’ asked Bartholomew sceptically. ‘Do you really think that is likely?’
Cook scowled. ‘You scholars are obsessed with logic, yet we barbers see “impossible” happenings on a daily basis. No one should accept the word of a physician on this matter.’
‘Well, we do,’ said Tulyet shortly. ‘Matt is the University’s Corpse Examiner, and has been giving us his opinion on suspicious deaths for years. We trust him implicitly. You, on the other hand …’
He eyed Cook with such obvious contempt that the barber bristled, and to avoid another unseemly row, Michael showed Inge and Egidia the note he had found in Tynkell’s office.
‘He and my husband liked to discuss weaponry,’ explained Egidia with a careless shrug. ‘They often met here on the pretext of attending Mass. Well, why not? It was convenient for them both, and these rites can often be very dull. They needed something to keep them entertained.’
‘Weaponry?’ echoed Tulyet sharply, before Michael could remark that the University’s Chancellor was not a man to be bored with his religious duties. ‘Are you telling me that Tynkell was going to provide my prisoner with arms?’
‘Of course not,’ said Inge impatiently. ‘Tynkell was interested in siege engines, and planned to write a treatise on them when he retired. Moleyns had seen them in action, and was willing to give him eye-witness accounts.’
‘Tynkell was fascinated by war machines,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘He often talked about them to me.’
‘Then why meet Moleyns furtively?’ asked Michael doubtfully. ‘He could have gone to the castle for these sessions.’
‘Perhaps he found the place objectionable,’ suggested Egidia, looking at Tulyet out of the corner of her eye. ‘And who can blame him?’
‘I never saw Moleyns with Tynkell, here or anywhere else,’ said Tulyet, ‘but I will ask Helbye. He usually escorted Moleyns on his excursions, and will know what he did. If there was anything untoward in this association, he will find it.’
CHAPTER 3
The men who wanted to be Chancellor were still quarrelling when Bartholomew, Michael and Tulyet left the Lady Chapel, although Lyng flung up his hands in resignation before walking out, claiming he wanted no part of such an unbecoming spectacle. Scholars from the hostels nodded approval, while others came to shake his hand when he reached the street.
‘He is popular,’ mused Michael. ‘Suttone will have to ooze charm to defeat him, so let us hope he is equal to the task. After all, there is only so much I can do to facilitate his election without eyebrows being raised.’
Tulyet laughed. ‘Watch your words, Brother. It sounds as though you intend to cheat.’
Michael did not smile ba
ck. ‘I cannot work with Lyng.’
‘Why not? He seems a decent soul, albeit far too old.’
‘Because he will refuse my advice, on the grounds that he thinks he knows everything already. But times have changed since he was last in power and—’
‘There is that cowled man again,’ interrupted Bartholomew irritably. ‘I wish he would just come to talk to us. I dislike the sense of being watched all the time.’
‘Could he be the killer?’ asked Tulyet sharply, preparing to give chase if so. ‘Monitoring you to assess whether you are closing in on him?’
‘The killer will be eager to stay as far away from us as possible,’ replied Michael with conviction. ‘We must bide our time with this shadow. He will approach us when the time is right.’
Bartholomew wanted to argue, but a sudden hammering drew their attention to the Great West Door, where Kolvyle was nailing up a notice. He was with scholars from King’s Hall, who were patting him on the back.
‘His demand for an election,’ predicted Michael sourly. ‘Well, he shall have one, although his favourite Godrich will not win. I shall write a statute to keep upstarts like Kolvyle in their place when all this is over. I dislike youthful arrogance.’
‘So Suttone will be Tynkell’s successor?’ asked Tulyet. He reflected for a moment. ‘He is better than the others, I suppose. Godrich is only interested in furthering his own career, Hopeman is a reckless zealot, Thelnetham dresses wrongly, and you have just said that Lyng would not be suitable.’
Bartholomew was not sure the Carmelite would be much better. He liked Suttone, who was a good man on the whole, but he would be another Tynkell, a meek nonentity ruled by Michael. Except that Michael would be in his See, and thus not in a position to guide him, so what would happen to the University then? Would chaos reign, because a strong Chancellor was needed to govern a lot of opinionated, unpredictable and vociferous academics?
‘I cannot believe the audacity of this killer,’ Michael was saying to Tulyet, dragging Bartholomew’s thoughts away from University politics. ‘Moleyns’ murder was especially bold.’
A Grave Concern: The Twenty Second Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew Book 22) Page 8
