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

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘I do not envy you your task, Brother,’ he said. ‘I cannot imagine how you will charge the Devil with Tynkell’s murder. However, I saw Moleyns take his tumble, and I can assure you that Satan was not responsible for that. I would have sensed him, you see.’

  ‘Right,’ said Michael flatly. ‘So who did kill Moleyns?’

  Milde considered the question carefully. ‘Well, his wife and lawyer were leaning over his inert form at one point. Have you considered them as suspects?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  The vicar turned to Lakenham and Cristine. ‘You were there as well. Did you see anything that might help?’

  ‘We only came later,’ said Lakenham quickly. ‘And we saw nothing.’

  Milde frowned. ‘Really? I was sure you were … but no matter. It was dark, and my eyes are not what they were.’

  ‘Quite,’ agreed Lakenham. ‘And it is easy to be mistaken. But about this brass for Tynkell, Brother. Here are some sketches I made last night, and if you choose one, I will devote every waking moment to it. Unlike Petit, who will put you at the back of a very long queue.’

  It was some time before Michael could extricate himself from the eager lattener. He was thoughtful as they left the church.

  ‘We shall certainly keep Lakenham and Cristine on our list of suspects,’ he said. ‘Even if he baulks at murder, she will not. And their motive is obvious: they are desperate for the work. Godrich was right to remark that the death of a wealthy man is good news for tomb-makers.’

  * * *

  The castle stood on a ridge above the town, reached by a short but stiff climb. It had started life as a simple motte raised by the Normans shortly after the Conquest, but had been expanded since, and was now a significant fortress. It comprised a curtain wall that surrounded a very large bailey, punctuated by towers and the Great Keep. There were also barracks, a chapel, storerooms, a huge kitchen, stables and an armoury.

  Sergeant Helbye was in the bailey, supervising drill. He had been one of Bartholomew’s first ever patients, and he had not been young then. Now he moved as though his joints hurt, and there was a weariness in his eyes that had not been there before. The physician wondered how long it would be before he was forced to retire, although Helbye, who claimed his ancestors had been warriors since the time of William the Conqueror, was determined to avoid such an ignominious fate.

  Tulyet’s office was a sparse, functional space on the first floor of the Great Keep. A bench was available for visitors, although it was not a very long one. When Bartholomew and Michael arrived, Egidia and Inge were already sitting on it, which meant that they were obliged to stand.

  ‘What, again?’ groaned Egidia, when Michael asked her to tell him what had happened the previous evening. ‘I have repeated it at least a dozen times already.’

  ‘And you might have to repeat it a dozen more,’ said Michael coolly, ‘if it helps us catch the villain who dispatched your husband in full sight of his lawyer and loving wife.’

  Egidia looked sharply at him. ‘I hope you are not suggesting that Inge or I were responsible. We had no reason to harm John, and his death leaves us prostrate with grief.’

  They did not look particularly distressed, leaving Bartholomew to reflect that Tulyet and Vicar Milde might be right to suggest them as suspects for the murder. Of course, that would mean Cook was innocent, which would be a pity. Unless the three of them had colluded, of course – they had been acquainted in Nottingham, and might be bosom friends for all Bartholomew knew.

  ‘How well do you know Cook?’ he asked, deciding to find out, although the question was something of a non sequitur to the others, who had no way of knowing the direction his thoughts had taken.

  ‘As well as any man knows the fellow who shaves him,’ replied Inge cautiously. ‘We were acquainted in Nottingham, and I use his services here, because he is the only barber-surgeon in town. Why?’

  ‘He wrote to tell us that Cambridge was a charming place,’ said Egidia, before Bartholomew could reply. ‘But he lied. It is vile, and it will be more wretched still once we win compensation for our grievous loss. We will be awarded so much money that it will take you years to pay it off.’

  ‘I recommend you wait for the result of our official enquiry before making that sort of threat,’ warned Michael sharply, while Bartholomew noted that the association between Cook, Egidia and Inge must be tighter than they were willing to admit, if the barber had taken the time and trouble to send them missives. ‘Or we might claim compensation from you – for slander. Now tell us what happened yesterday.’

  ‘We went to the Market Square to buy cloth,’ replied Inge, although Egidia bristled at the reprimand. ‘From Edith Stanmore. But Moleyns took so long over it that Egidia and I went to St Mary the Great to admire Dallingridge’s tomb instead.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Michael suspiciously.

  ‘Because it is a fine spectacle, with its soaring pinnacles and the elegant brasses along its sides,’ replied Inge smoothly. ‘And we both appreciate good art.’

  ‘We hurried outside when we heard the commotion on the tower,’ Egidia went on, ‘but the best vantage points were gone, so all we saw was the occasional bobbing head or arm.’

  ‘How well did you know Tynkell?’

  ‘Not at all,’ replied Egidia promptly. ‘I never met him.’

  ‘Nor I,’ averred Inge. ‘There has been no need to deal with scholars, not when so many townsfolk have hastened to make our acquaintance.’

  ‘You do have dealings with scholars,’ countered Tulyet crossly. ‘The Fellows of King’s Hall and the Dominicans were always popping in and out. Then Lyng and Kolvyle were regular visitors, along with the vicars of St Clement’s, St John Zachary and—’

  ‘They came to see Moleyns,’ interrupted Inge with a bland smile. ‘Not us. Besides, Tynkell was never among them.’

  ‘Then what about in St Mary the Great?’ pressed Michael. ‘Did Tynkell meet you there?’

  ‘He may have spoken to John,’ replied Egidia, although a slight pause indicated that she had considered her answer carefully before speaking. ‘But never to us.’

  ‘So what did you do when the spectacle on the roof was over?’

  ‘We collected our horses and rejoined Moleyns in the market,’ replied Inge. ‘And as he had seen no cloth that he wanted, Mistress Stanmore invited us to her warehouse in Milne Street, where there is more of a selection.’

  ‘We were there a long time, so she offered us home-baked cakes,’ continued Egidia. ‘When we had eaten our fill, we started to ride back to the castle …’

  ‘We took the High Street route, because it was less icy than the side roads,’ said Inge. ‘Helbye was with us, and you were behind, Sheriff.’

  ‘Yes – behind,’ spat Egidia, glaring at Tulyet. ‘If you had been at his side, where you belonged, John would still be alive.’

  ‘We stopped frequently to exchange greetings with friends and acquaintances,’ Inge went on when Tulyet declined to respond. ‘He spoke to you two, if I recall aright.’

  ‘Yes, he did,’ nodded Michael. ‘To hint that he might know who killed Tynkell.’

  Inge and Egidia exchanged a glance that was impossible to interpret.

  ‘Really?’ asked Inge warily. ‘He said nothing about it to us.’

  ‘Who else did he greet?’

  Inge waved an expansive hand. ‘Lots of folk – most had seen the Chancellor slain by Satan, and it is difficult to return to one’s duties after such an event, so a good many people were out and about. For example, Moleyns chatted to the men of King’s Hall, while Egidia and I spoke to the Mayor and his burgesses.’

  ‘We had all just made our farewells, and were moving forward again, when a dog ran across the road, which made John’s horse rear.’ Egidia scowled at Tulyet again. ‘He should never have been given such a lively beast.’

  ‘I did not give it to him,’ snapped Tulyet, nettled at last. ‘My best destriers are not for jaunts to the Market Square. But he told
me that was the horse he wanted, and he stamped his foot and sulked like a spoilt child until he got his way.’

  Egidia sniffed. ‘You should have resisted. Anyway, he fell off after the dog barked, and pandemonium ensued. Dozens of people came to cluster around us – too many to list. We dismounted, and gave our horses to Helbye, lest someone was trampled, but there was such a crush that it was difficult to reach poor John’s side. It took us an age.’

  ‘As we said in the church, Moleyns was killed with a long, thin spike,’ said Michael. ‘I assume you have no objection to us looking through your possessions – purely for elimination purposes, of course?’

  Inge smiled serenely. ‘I am afraid they are currently being moved to the Griffin – you can hardly expect us to stay in the castle now that Moleyns is dead – but you may see them this evening, after we have unpacked.’

  When any such item would have been removed, thought Bartholomew, disgusted.

  ‘Moleyns was accused of murder thirty years ago,’ said Tulyet, changing the subject abruptly. ‘How was his victim dispatched, exactly?’

  ‘Thirty years ago?’ echoed Michael. ‘I thought it was more recent – three or four.’

  ‘He faced charges of unlawful killing more than once, Brother,’ explained Tulyet, and turned back to Egidia and Inge. ‘Is that not so?’

  ‘He was acquitted of the earlier charge,’ replied Egidia sharply. ‘So your question is irrelevant.’

  ‘He was acquitted because he chose the jury himself.’ Tulyet tapped a pile of documents, which caused Inge and Egidia to exchange another uneasy glance. ‘I made enquiries about his past when I learned he was to be my guest, to ascertain what kind of man I would be hosting. The verdict of that first trial remains contentious.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Egidia. ‘That particular accusation was a lot of rubbish, and twelve good men agreed with me, which is why they found him innocent. Besides, Peter Poges was a fool, and no one missed him.’

  ‘Peter Poges was her uncle,’ said Tulyet to Michael and Bartholomew. ‘Lord of the manor of Stoke Poges in Buckinghamshire. After his death, his estates passed to Egidia, where they not only gave Moleyns a centre of power, but brought him to the attention of the King. Without them, Moleyns would have remained a landless nobody.’

  ‘This is untrue!’ snapped Inge. ‘You—’

  ‘So how did Poges die?’ interrupted Tulyet, rounding on him. ‘Was he stabbed with a long metal spike?’

  ‘No,’ replied Inge stiffly. ‘He was poisoned.’

  ‘Just like Dallingridge then,’ mused Tulyet. ‘How very interesting.’

  ‘Dallingridge was not poisoned,’ barked Inge crossly. ‘He died of natural causes. Ask anyone.’

  ‘I asked the Sheriff of Nottingham,’ said Tulyet, patting the documents again. ‘He tells me that Dallingridge was fed a toxic substance on Lammas Day. Ergo, Dallingridge and Peter Poges died in an identical manner. And you two and Moleyns were present on both occasions.’

  ‘Have you never heard of coincidences?’ demanded Inge scathingly.

  ‘Yes,’ acknowledged Tulyet. ‘But I do not believe in them.’

  The sun had been shining when Bartholomew and Michael had entered the castle, but it was hidden behind a bank of clouds when they stepped into the bailey. The dull light matched Bartholomew’s sombre mood, and he wondered how they would ever learn what had happened to Tynkell and Moleyns, when the killer had left them so little in the way of clues.

  ‘We will catch him,’ said Michael with grim determination, as Tulyet escorted them to the gate. ‘We must, because I cannot accept a bishopric as long as Tynkell’s murderer is on the loose, while Dick needs a culprit to present to the King.’

  ‘Then perhaps we had better speak to Petit’s apprentice – Lucas,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He claims to have information to sell.’

  ‘I will do it,’ offered Tulyet. ‘Straight away, lest he suffers the same fate as Moleyns.’

  ‘We should speak to Helbye, too,’ said Michael, nodding to where the sergeant was still overseeing the soldiers’ training. ‘He was riding next to Moleyns when he fell, after all.’

  ‘Poor Will,’ said Tulyet sadly. ‘He is mortified – feels he has let me down.’

  ‘Well, he has,’ said Michael bluntly. ‘Because Egidia is right: Moleyns should not have died when he was being guarded.’

  ‘We cannot stop dogs from barking or bad horsemen from taking tumbles.’ Tulyet was defensive of the man who had served him for so many years. ‘Do not be too hard on him.’

  He led the way to where Helbye was using a young soldier – Robin, a nephew of Agatha the laundress – to demonstrate the move he wanted practised. The elderly warrior favoured his right knee, while a hand to a hip suggested a problem there, too, and Bartholomew suspected he could not have managed a ‘crosswise thrust’ if his life depended on it.

  ‘It all happened so fast,’ Helbye began wretchedly, when Michael asked him to recount what had happened. ‘I was close behind Moleyns – very close, as he had no business being on Satan, given that he was such a terrible rider—’

  ‘Stephen,’ corrected Tulyet crisply. ‘The horse’s name is Stephen.’

  ‘Well, he answers to Satan, which better suits his evil nature.’ Helbye turned back to Michael. ‘Suddenly, a dog raced out of St Michael’s Lane, and tore right in front of him. Satan reared, which would not have bothered a decent horseman, but Moleyns …’

  ‘Was Stephen the only beast that bucked?’ asked Michael.

  ‘The others shied, but the rest of us had them under control, even Egidia. Then, once Moleyns was on the ground, lots of people surged forward, some to help, others to jeer.’

  ‘Jeer?’ queried Michael. ‘I thought people were keen to win his favour.’

  ‘The wealthy were – those who wanted him to write nice things about them to the King. However, to normal folk he was just a felon who should not have been allowed out of his cell. They disapproved of the freedom he enjoyed, while those whose crimes are not nearly so serious are locked up in the dungeons.’

  ‘And who can blame them?’ muttered Tulyet. ‘I was irked about it myself, and would have refused to do it if I had not received direct orders from the King.’

  ‘So what did you do, Helbye?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Dismount and race to his rescue?’

  ‘No – all four horses were skittish, so I went to tether them on the other side of the road.’ Helbye’s face was a picture of misery. ‘I thought I was doing the right thing – taking them to a safe distance, so they would not hurt anyone. Or themselves. Satan in particular cost a fortune.’

  ‘What then?’ asked Michael.

  ‘The crowd had pressed around Moleyns very tightly, and although I did my best to push through quickly, people kept shoving me back. But it never occurred to me that he was in danger and—’

  ‘Who was in this throng?’

  Helbye recited much the same list as everyone else, although he included two new names: Father Aidan, the Principal of Maud’s Hostel, and Weasenham, the University’s stationer and the biggest gossip in the county.

  Michael groaned at the mention of the latter. ‘I am sure he will have plenty to say, and all of it will be pure speculation.’

  ‘There were women, too,’ Helbye went on. ‘For example, that fat Cristine Lakenham, and a lass in the cloak with the fancy hem, who elbowed me rather hard …’

  ‘This dog,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘Did it run across the lane of its own volition or was it released on purpose?’

  Helbye frowned. ‘Now that you mention it, the animal was chasing something – as if someone was playing a game of fetch with it. A child, probably.’

  ‘Or an adult, who knew that Moleyns would fall if Stephen was startled,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘And who also knew that an accident on the High Street would attract a jostling crowd, thus providing him with an opportunity to jab a spike into his victim’s chest. What kind of dog was it?’

  ‘A mongrel,’ rep
lied Helbye, then added perfectly seriously, ‘Ask Clippesby about it. He probably knows the animal well, and it will have told him anything important.’

  It was dusk by the time Bartholomew and Michael had finished at the castle. The physician glanced across the winter-bare fields to the east as they crossed the Great Bridge. The darkening countryside was brown and bleak, the trees stark skeletons against a lowering sky, and he was not surprised that some folk believed that the Devil had taken up residence there.

  ‘Egidia is right: Dick does bear some responsibility for Moleyns’ death,’ mused Michael. ‘He let his prisoner ride a horse that was well beyond his abilities, and he provided a guard who is past his prime. And he knows it.’

  ‘Then let us hope the King does not know it as well. It would be a great pity – for the University and the town – if he was dismissed. So we had better set about finding the culprit, for everyone’s sake. Who are your prime suspects?’

  Michael considered. ‘Well, Inge and Egidia obviously. They were to hand when Moleyns died, and they were in St Mary the Great when Tynkell was on the tower. I cannot imagine why they should want Tynkell dead, but it seems he changed these last few weeks, so if we discover what he was doing in his office with the door closed, we might have our answer.’

  ‘But why stab their victims when poison would be so much easier?’

  ‘That is a good question, given that Peter Poges and Dallingridge may also have ingested toxic substances, and both have connections to that pair. Of course, Egidia and Inge are not my only suspects for the murders here. Lakenham and Cristine were not being entirely honest with us earlier. Then there are those who aim to be Chancellor – Godrich, Hopeman, Lyng and Thelnetham.’

  ‘No one has mentioned seeing Thelnetham in the crowd that gathered around Moleyns.’

  ‘No, but most folk wore hoods, so that means nothing. Then, I am sorry to say, there is Kolvyle, who thought he would be eligible to fill Tynkell’s shoes and who knew Moleyns from Nottingham. He is certainly the kind of man to solicit the good opinion of a royal favourite, and then dispatch him to suit himself.’