‘Yes and no,’ said Tulyet. ‘It was dark and the torches did more to confuse than illuminate, so it was difficult to see anything well. I would argue it was a very good time to choose.’
‘I saw a woman in a cloak with an embroidered hem,’ said Bartholomew suddenly, as Tulyet’s words jolted his own memory of the flickering confusion that had ensued after Moleyns’ fall. ‘She was shouldering her way out of the press, which was odd when everyone else was craning forward.’
‘What else did you notice about her?’ asked Tulyet keenly.
‘Her hood was up, so I did not see her face. But it was cold, so everyone else’s was up as well, including my own. There was nothing suspicious about that.’
‘Could it have been Egidia?’ pressed Tulyet. ‘She does not seem overly distressed by her bereavement, and I did say that I would look to her, should any harm befall her husband. She will certainly benefit from his death, because not only will she inherit all his worldly goods, but she is now free to live wherever she wants.’
‘She was free before,’ said Michael, frowning. ‘She was not forced to keep him company in prison – she chose to do it.’
‘Because he held all their money – or what remained of their wealth after the courts had seized most of his assets,’ explained Tulyet. ‘Had she gone to live alone, she would have been as poor as a church mouse. She begged him any number of times for an allowance, but he always refused. She resented it bitterly, and so did Inge, who was also obliged to rely on Moleyns’ largesse. Such as it was.’
‘Inge has no funds of his own?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘He did, but they have long gone – he expected Moleyns to be released within a few weeks, and never imagined the ordeal would drag on for years. He could have left and struck out alone, but then what? He had sold himself to Moleyns, body and soul, so his only option was to hold fast and hope that Moleyns would one day be in a position to reward his loyalty.’
‘Now Egidia can reward it,’ remarked Michael. ‘I assume she is Moleyns’ sole heir?’
‘She is,’ nodded Tulyet. ‘She has already laid claim to the store of money he kept in his room, which was no mean sum, and I am sure Inge will help her spend it. I have the sense that they are rather more than just lawyer and client, which makes them both prime suspects for his murder in my book.’
‘But they were in the Market Square when Tynkell died,’ said Bartholomew. ‘With you. And we have decided that Moleyns and Tynkell were claimed by the same hand.’
‘Moleyns was with me,’ corrected Tulyet. ‘Egidia and Inge had gone to St Mary the Great to look at the tombs.’
‘Why would they do that?’ asked Michael suspiciously. ‘So they would know what to commission when Moleyns needed one?’
‘Perhaps. Regardless, it means they have no alibi for Tynkell’s death, and they were certainly nearby when Moleyns was killed.’ Tulyet turned back to Bartholomew. ‘So I repeat: could the cloaked woman you saw have been Egidia?’
‘Yes, I suppose. However, when I pronounced Moleyns dead, she was standing right next to me. It seems unlikely that she would fight her way out of the press, then battle back in again.’
‘Was she wearing this distinctive cloak?’ asked Tulyet, and when Bartholomew shook his head, he raised his hands in a shrug. ‘Then maybe it was bloodstained, obliging her to get rid of it before someone noticed. Then she hurried back to play the distraught widow.’
‘It is possible,’ acknowledged Bartholomew, although he doubted Moleyns’ wound had produced much gore. He would have noticed, even in the unsteady light of the bobbing torches.
‘Who else was in the crowd?’ asked Michael. ‘I am afraid my thoughts were on Tynkell, so I was not really paying attention.’
‘All the tomb-makers, plus Isnard and Gundrede,’ replied Tulyet promptly. ‘I was watching them, because I was afraid they might start a fight over these stolen supplies.’
‘Isnard has nothing to do with that,’ said Bartholomew sharply. ‘Why would he? He can hardly sell such items here.’
Tulyet regarded him pityingly. ‘He is a bargeman, Matt, which means he can transport goods anywhere he likes, and there is a huge market for illicit brass and stone in London. However, I might have given him the benefit of the doubt, if he had not developed this odd friendship with the felonious Gundrede.’
‘Who else did you see in the crowd?’ asked Bartholomew, unwilling to admit that the Sheriff might have a point.
‘Godrich, Hopeman and Lyng,’ said Tulyet. ‘The first two quarrelling, while Lyng tried to act as peacemaker – a spat I noticed, because I was afraid your other scholars would join in and start a brawl.’
‘Suttone was not there, because he was teaching in Michaelhouse, and two dozen students will testify to that fact,’ said Michael. ‘But what about Thelnetham?’
‘Not that I noticed. I spotted Kolvyle, though. He was one of the first to surge forward when Moleyns fell.’
‘Lord! I hope he is not the culprit,’ exclaimed Michael. ‘A killer in the College might damage Suttone’s election campaign.’
‘Barber Cook was also very quick on the scene,’ Tulyet went on. ‘I would not mind at all if he is the villain – I cannot abide the fellow. Of course, he does give a lovely shave …’
‘I would not let him near me with a sharp knife,’ said Bartholomew shortly.
‘That is probably wise in your case,’ remarked Tulyet. ‘He loathes physicians.’
‘So are these all our suspects?’ asked Michael. ‘Inge and Egidia; the warring tomb-builders; Isnard and Gundrede; Hopeman, Lyng, Godrich and Kolvyle; and Barber Cook?’
‘If only!’ sighed Tulyet. ‘A host of others raced to Moleyns’ side as well – the Mayor and his burgesses; scholars from King’s Hall, Maud’s and several other University foundations; the woman in the embroidered cloak …’
‘What about motives?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘What links Tynkell to Moleyns, other than their odd meetings in St Mary the Great?’
‘That is easily answered,’ said Michael. ‘Tynkell was killed either to make way for a new Chancellor or to strike a blow against the University. And Moleyns intimated that he knew the culprit, so he was dispatched to prevent him from blabbing.’
‘Which means that the killer was close enough to hear what Moleyns told us,’ said Bartholomew, ‘and launched a plan to stab him within a few moments. Is that likely?’
Michael and Tulyet had no answer.
‘Someone will have seen something,’ said Michael eventually. ‘No matter how careful he was. So I will question scholars, while you speak to townsmen, Dick. However, before we start, I should like another word with the grieving widow.’
‘Not here,’ advised Tulyet. ‘She will accuse you of heartlessness. Come to the castle at noon.’
The cold weather meant that Bartholomew had yet more summonses from ailing patients, so he used the intervening time to visit the most urgent cases. He trudged around the town with his older students in tow – other than Aungel, who had offered to read to the younger ones – treating a variety of colds, coughs and lung complaints. He visited his regulars first, then went to the first of three new customers. It was a butcher who had been tended by Cook a week before. Unfortunately, the barber had made such a hash of sewing up the man’s injured thumb that the only option left was to amputate.
‘It is important that all wounds are thoroughly cleaned before they are stitched,’ he informed his students, noting their pale, horrified faces and hoping they would learn from Cook’s negligence, even if it would do the patient scant good. ‘Leaving wood shavings inside them, as happened here, will always result in trouble.’
The next client had a broken leg, which Cook had failed to immobilise properly, and it took Bartholomew and two of his strongest lads – a burly pair named Islaye and Mallet – to reset it. The third was dying, because a wound that could have been treated with a simple salve had been reopened and drained so many times that her blood was now poisoned.
‘It was not a serious cut,’ whispered Islaye, when they had done all they could to make her comfortable and had left her to the parish priest. He was a sensitive lad, who was too easily distressed by the plight of others to make a good physician. ‘It should not have killed her.’
‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘So remember that all injuries must be treated with equal care. Minor does not equal inconsequential.’
‘I shall not deal with them at all,’ declared Mallet, who did not have a compassionate bone in his body, and made no secret of the fact that he had chosen medicine for its financial rewards. ‘I shall leave it to the surgeons. After all, it is their job, and Cook told me that the Worshipful Company of Barbers prosecutes anyone who trespasses in their domain.’
‘You may have no choice,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘Or will you watch a patient bleed to death while you wait for another practitioner to appear?’
‘Yes,’ replied Mallet, quite seriously. ‘If the alternative is being sued.’
‘Well, I shall dive in with needle and thread,’ declared Islaye stoutly. ‘And if that irks Cook, then so be it. When I am qualified, I shall not let a barber anywhere near my patients.’
‘Many are competent men,’ cautioned Bartholomew, although it had been a long time since he had met any. ‘Do not judge them all by … by what you have seen today.’
‘Yet Cook does give a beautiful shave,’ said Mallet, running an appreciative hand over his jaw. ‘And the lasses do love a smooth chin. You should visit him before your woman arrives, sir. It is certain to have her tumbling into your bed.’
‘Do not let Cook near your throat with a knife!’ cried Islaye, while Bartholomew gaped his astonishment at Mallet’s presumption; his students did not used to be so disrespectful. Or was he just getting old and prickly? ‘He hates you. I heard him say so to Moleyns and Tynkell.’
Bartholomew stared at him, indignation forgotten. ‘All three were together?’
Islaye nodded. ‘In St Mary the Great. Sergeant Helbye was there, too, but Egidia was railing at him over something, and he did not notice – he usually shoved folk away if they got too close. He takes his duties as watchdog very seriously.’
So Cook had been part of the curious assignations that had taken place in the University Church, thought Bartholomew. Could he be the killer? He had been to hand when Moleyns fell off his horse, while his antipathy towards the University gave him a motive for dispatching Tynkell. And who better than a surgeon to kill with such clinical precision? Or was Bartholomew allowing dislike to interfere with his reason?
He sent his students back to College, and was about to collect Michael from St Mary the Great when he saw Langelee with Petit. Curious, he followed them into St Michael’s Church, where he found them looking at the slab of black marble that lay over the final resting place of an unpopular former Master named Thomas Wilson. It was in the chancel, but was too large for the space allotted to it, which meant it was vulnerable to collisions. Recently, a corner had been knocked off.
‘Kolvyle,’ explained Langelee grimly. ‘He claims he hurt himself when he bashed into it and is considering legal action against us, so I thought we had better get rid of the evidence.’
‘Perhaps we can sue him,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You do not break stone by brushing against it, so he must have hit it with something.’
‘That is what I told him, but he insists it was just his hip.’
‘It is only a matter of time before it happens again,’ warned Petit, running his finger along the jagged edge. ‘So I recommend you arrange for it to be mended immediately.’
‘But not by you,’ said Bartholomew coolly. ‘Not while Oswald’s tomb is—’
‘This represents a serious hazard,’ interrupted Petit sternly. ‘It would be criminally negligent to leave it in this state. It is what happens when you hire inferior craftsmen, of course. Even my rawest apprentice knows the importance of making monuments to measure.’
Langelee raised a hand to quell Bartholomew’s objections when the mason named a fee and he agreed. ‘It is not my fault, Bartholomew. Blame Kolvyle.’
‘But how will we pay for it?’ demanded Bartholomew, watching Petit swagger away triumphantly. ‘There is no income from our pier, and we no longer own the dyeworks.’
The pier had been badly damaged by fire, while the dyeworks had been sold to fund emergency repairs to the conclave roof. Losing the income from the pier had been especially painful, as it had been a lucrative venture. Replacing the charred timber would cost a fortune – one Michaelhouse did not have – and was unlikely to happen in the foreseeable future.
‘We will find a way,’ sighed Langelee. ‘We must, because if we leave the slab as it is, Kolvyle will certainly lodge a claim for compensation. And do not glare at me, Bartholomew. If you had argued more forcefully against his appointment, we would not be in this position now.’
Bartholomew regarded him archly. ‘So it is my fault he is here, even though the rest of you were the ones who insisted on appointing him?’
‘Of course. You had obviously guessed what he would be like, while we were in blissful ignorance. You should have warned us.’
Disgusted, Bartholomew went to St Mary the Great, and found Michael in the Chancellor’s office. He opened his mouth to release a stream of invective against Langelee, Kolvyle and tomb-makers in general, but shut it when he saw that a furious dressing-down was in progress.
‘How could you allow this to happen?’ Michael was yelling, while Secretary Nicholas stood in front of him, hanging his head. ‘Surely you noticed these documents piling up?’
‘He refused to let me in,’ said Nicholas, miserable and defensive in equal measure. ‘I thought it was because you had given him confidential duties, so I did not question him. Besides, I was already overwhelmed with work – he delegated, you know – and I dared not risk getting lumbered with more.’
‘Delegated?’ demanded Michael suspiciously.
Nicholas nodded. ‘For example, he took the credit for conferring all those licences to study last week, but it was I who drafted them all out.’
‘Really? He told me that he had done them himself.’
‘I know, but I let it pass, because I assumed he had been working on other important University business. After all, what else could he have been doing in here with the door so firmly closed?’
‘Tynkell is transpiring to be rather a mystery,’ confided Michael, as he and Bartholomew left the church and began to walk to the castle. ‘He misled his secretary, shut himself in his office, neglected his duties, and met Moleyns under the pretext of attending his devotions. I hope he was not doing anything untoward.’
‘Is there any reason to suppose he might?’
‘Other than the lies, the suspicious behaviour, and the fact that he had dabbled in murky waters twice before – once when trying to build a new College, and once when trying to inflict a Common Library on us?’ asked Michael caustically. ‘No, no reason at all.’
They walked in silence up the High Street, then turned towards the Great Bridge – a grand name for the wooden structure that always seemed to be on the brink of collapse, and that had been the scene of more than one distressing mishap. Before they reached it, however, Michael ducked into St Clement’s Church.
‘There is a monumental brass in here,’ he explained. ‘And I want to see whether it is nicer than a sculpted effigy before I decide which to let Tynkell have.’
‘It is your decision? I thought he had already chosen, and his executors would implement his wishes. And you are not one of them.’
‘We are talking about St Mary the Great, Matt. It is a splendid building, and it is my moral duty to ensure that it stays that way. After all, we do not want it to look like London Blackfriars, which has so many tombs that you can scarcely move for the wretched things.’
Sir John Knyt had been a member of the now defunct Guild of Saints, a charity dedicated to helping the poor. He had been much loved in the town, s
o the Mayor had arranged for a tomb to be built by public subscription. Enough had been raised to fund a neat marble chest topped by an engraving – of an armour-clad Knyt lying with his feet on a lion, although Lakenham, who had made it, had never seen such a beast, so it looked like a fluffy dragon.
By chance, the lattener was there that day, polishing his handiwork with a cloth. His wife Cristine was with him, and when she saw Michael, she stormed towards him angrily. She was twice the size of her husband – taller by a head and twice as fat – which made her a formidable sight.
‘Your town is full of thieves,’ she snarled. ‘You should do something about it.’
‘Her cloak was stolen,’ explained Lakenham. ‘And she is vexed about it.’
‘Of course I am vexed!’ exploded Cristine. ‘What am I supposed to wear when I go out? I am no wealthy scholar, who can afford to buy another. My husband earns too little for that sort of luxury, so I am now condemned to shiver until summer comes.’
‘Her cloak was filched yesterday morning, and a brass plate went last night,’ sighed Lakenham before Michael could respond. ‘It was my biggest one, and I was hoping to use it for Chancellor Tynkell or Sir John Moleyns. If I win one of the commissions, of course.’
‘Well?’ demanded Cristine of Michael. ‘What are you going to do about it?’
‘I am afraid it is the Sheriff’s concern, not mine,’ replied Michael. ‘He is—’
‘My cloak was stolen from St Mary the Great,’ interrupted Cristine. ‘The University Church. I took it off to have a go on the bells, you see – Secretary Nicholas let me ring them in exchange for an apple – but when I went to pick it up, it had gone.’
‘Then I shall inform my beadles,’ replied Michael, and added pointedly, ‘Although hunting it down must take second place to their enquiries about the Chancellor’s murder.’
‘Are you here to discuss his tomb then?’ asked Lakenham eagerly. ‘I hope you are not considering a sculpted effigy. A brass is much nicer.’
At that moment, the vicar arrived. Richard Milde was a friendly, amiable man with a lisp and a soft voice, a combination that rendered his sermons all but unintelligible. Fortunately, he kept them short, so his congregation did not mind.
A Grave Concern: The Twenty Second Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew Book 22) Page 9
