‘I think the culprit is Cook. He was among those who raced to “help” when Moleyns fell.’
‘And his motive?’
‘Perhaps Moleyns criticised his barbering skills.’ Bartholomew hurried on when the monk looked sceptical. ‘He also tried to make us think that Moleyns stabbed himself by accident, and he met slyly with Moleyns and Tynkell in St Mary the Great.’
Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘Does this accusation stem from the fact that he is a dire medicus, and you aim to prevent him from harming more of his patients by seeing him hanged?’
Bartholomew eyed him balefully. ‘I accuse him because I believe he might be guilty. He probably has a fine collection of thin spikes in his surgical toolkit.’
‘But what about Tynkell? Why would Cook take against him?’
‘Because he hates scholars. All scholars.’
‘I see,’ said Michael, and changed the subject before they wasted time on an argument neither would win. ‘What do you make of the dog?’
‘We should find out if Cook owns one.’ Bartholomew saw Michael’s irritable look and shrugged. ‘The story is true. I heard it bark, and I saw it dart across the road.’
‘It cannot be coincidence – the dog upsetting the horse, while the killer just happened to be waiting with a deadly spike. Yet he must have moved fast, to set the creature loose, and then dash in to stab Moleyns. Would he have had time?’
‘There is nothing to say that Moleyns was dispatched the moment he hit the ground. He may have been too shocked to get up immediately, or was prevented from rising by the sheer press of people.’ Bartholomew stopped walking suddenly. ‘There is that cowled man again! I am getting tired of him trailing after us all the time. It is disconcerting.’
Ignoring Michael’s injunction to pay no heed, Bartholomew shot across the street, aiming to lay hold of the shadow and have some answers. The figure started in alarm, then dived into the nearest shop, which happened to be the stationer’s. This was a spacious building, always busy, because academics gathered there not just to purchase what they needed for their studies, but to chat with friends, and to browse its extensive collection of books and scrolls.
Bartholomew flung open the door and looked around wildly, aware that his dramatic entry had startled everyone within into silence. All were looking at him. Most were wearing dark cloaks and there were cowls galore. Then he heard a door slam at the back, so he hared towards it. It had been jammed shut, and by the time he had wrenched it open, his quarry was gone. Disgusted, he traipsed back to the main room to find Michael the centre of attention.
‘Of course I know who will win the election,’ the monk was declaring. ‘Suttone, because he is the best man. You will all vote for him if you want your University to flourish.’
‘I shall support Godrich,’ said Geoffrey Dodenho from King’s Hall, a scholar who was not nearly as intelligent as he thought he was. ‘He is wealthy, well connected, and will attract plenty of rich benefactors.’
Godrich was next to him, all haughty superiority, an attitude that immediately antagonised a number of hostel men, including Secretary Nicholas, who limped forward to have his say.
‘But Thelnetham has by far the sharpest brain,’ he said earnestly. ‘And if we want to attract bright young minds, we must have a celebrated scholar in post, or they will all go to Oxford instead. I am Chancellor’s secretary, so I know better than most what is required.’
‘In other words, Thelnetham has offered to let you keep your position if he wins,’ sneered Godrich. ‘It is not the future of the University that concerns you, but your own.’
‘My friars and I will support Hopeman,’ said little Prior Morden, cutting across Nicholas’s offended denials. ‘We do not want another puppet of the Senior Proctor, but a man who can make his own decisions. Subject to the approval of his Order, of course.’
‘Yes, the next Chancellor must be a priest,’ nodded Father Aidan of Maud’s, a man whose missing front teeth gave him a piratical appearance that belied his timorous nature. ‘But an independent one, not a Dominican or a Carmelite. He must also hail from the hostels, who will, after all, represent the bulk of our scholars. Ergo, Lyng is the only man for the job.’
‘Well, I am voting for Suttone,’ declared Doctor Rougham of Gonville Hall, one of Bartholomew’s medical colleagues. ‘Purely for his sensible views on women. It is time we moved with the times, and abandoned these outmoded notions of celibacy. I applaud his enlightened attitude.’
Bartholomew was sure he did, given that he was a regular visitor to Yolande de Blaston, the town’s most popular prostitute.
‘Maud’s cannot be an easy place to live,’ said Weasenham the stationer. The gleeful glint in his eye suggested he would make hay with Rougham’s candid opinions later. ‘Most foundations have one candidate for election, but yours has two – Lyng and Hopeman.’
‘We shall vote for Lyng,’ declared Aidan shortly. ‘Hopeman has his own following.’
‘You mean his fanatics,’ corrected Weasenham, ‘who say he is the only man capable of besting Satan. They tell me that Tynkell tried, but was unequal to the task, so the Devil killed him – before flying off to dine in the Dominican Priory.’
‘Watch what you say,’ warned Morden, before Michael could tell them about the killer’s cloak. ‘You know perfectly well that Lucifer flew over the top of us, and went to sup with the Benedictines at St Edmundsbury.’
‘Now, now,’ chided Michael mildly, although anger flashed in his eyes. ‘No slandering of rival Orders, please. It is ungentlemanly.’
‘Perhaps other contenders will step forward,’ mused Weasenham. ‘I imagine there are plenty who think they can do better than the five currently on offer.’
‘The statutes stipulate a timetable for these events,’ said Nicholas, ‘and the deadline for nominations was noon today. No new names can be accepted now.’
‘Then God help the University,’ declared Weasenham.
‘On the contrary, we have the man we need,’ said Kolvyle, glaring at him. ‘Namely Godrich, who is a skilled administrator, a fine warrior, and knows the King. I agree with your reservations about the others, though – Hopeman is too radical, Lyng too meek, and Suttone and Thelnetham have connections to Michaelhouse.’
Michael’s eyes narrowed. ‘You have connections there yourself, lest you had forgotten. You are our Junior Fellow.’
‘Yes – and it has taught me that Suttone would be rubbish,’ flashed Kolvyle.
There was a startled silence, as it was rare to hear anyone publicly disparage fellow members of the foundation that housed him and paid his stipend. However, while Michael was livid at the gross breach of etiquette, he knew better than to challenge Kolvyle in front of an audience. Instead, he confined himself to patting him on the head like an errant child, a gesture that drew chuckles from the onlookers and a furious scowl from the recipient. Then someone else entered the fray: Thelnetham, whose cloak was fastened with a large purple-jewelled brooch of a type rarely seen on a man, let alone a cleric.
‘I am proud to have been a member of Michaelhouse,’ he said quietly. ‘It is a fine place, and I deeply regret the misunderstanding that led me to resign. I would return there in an instant, should I be asked. However, in the meantime, I believe I will make a worthy Chancellor. For a start, I have published more academic treatises than any other candidate.’
‘But you are not a warrior,’ said Kolvyle in disdain. ‘Nor do you have links to royalty.’
Thelnetham smiled. ‘I sincerely doubt I shall be required to defend the University with a sword. And as for royal connections, I shall acquire those once I am in post. There is nothing to say they need be of long duration. Indeed, perhaps it is preferable to have none, as old alliances might be dangerous or inappropriate.’
‘That is a good point,’ nodded Secretary Nicholas. ‘It is common knowledge that Godrich has enemies at Court – and his enemies will become ours, if he is Chancellor.’
‘Thelnetham spe
aks well,’ murmured Michael to Bartholomew, as Nicholas’s remark occasioned a furious denial from Godrich. ‘But no one will elect a man who wears women’s jewellery and minces about like a—’
‘What are you two whispering about?’ came a voice from behind. It was Weasenham, his eyes alight with the prospect of gossip.
‘Murder,’ lied Michael. ‘Do you have any intelligence to impart?’
Weasenham’s eyes gleamed brighter still. ‘Well, I was nearby when Moleyns fell. Unfortunately, I could not get a place at the front of the throng, because his wife and friend were in the way.’
‘They told us it took some time to reach him,’ said Michael. ‘They had to dismount first, then fight their way through people like you – idle gawpers.’
‘Then they are lying,’ said Weasenham, unfazed by the rebuke. ‘However, they did not kill him. That honour goes to Satan, who claimed Tynkell’s life, too. Everyone saw the fight on the roof, while Moleyns rode him down the High Street.’
‘Stephen,’ said Michael coldly. ‘The horse that Moleyns rode is named Stephen.’
‘That is not what the soldiers say,’ countered Weasenham with malicious satisfaction, before turning on his heel and stalking away to regale his customers with his dubious theories.
CHAPTER 4
The sun was shining the following day, although its light was pale and thin, with no warmth in it. Even so, it lifted Bartholomew’s spirits, and he found himself humming as he strode around the town, visiting patients. The man whose thumb he had amputated was doing better than he expected, while the lad with the reset leg was comfortable and cheerful.
When he had finished his rounds, he delivered a lecture on Galen’s Prognostica in Michaelhouse, then asked Aungel to read the next instalment of Maimonides’ views on breathing disorders to his first years, while he tested the remaining classes on their grasp of humoral theory. He joined his colleagues in the hall for the noonday meal, after which Aungel offered to supervise a writing assignment, so that the physician could help Michael.
The first item on their agenda was to visit Edith Stanmore, given that one murder victim had been buying cloth from her while the other had fought for his life on the tower. Bartholomew knew where she would be at such an hour – at her husband’s tomb. They arrived to discover it a flurry of activity: Petit was there with three of his apprentices.
‘Wonders will never cease,’ breathed Bartholomew. ‘I know Petit said he would work on Oswald today, but he has never kept his promises before.’
‘The Worshipful Company of Masons probably forbids it,’ drawled Michael. ‘Along with staying at one job for more than three hours in any given day.’
‘It probably also insists that all its members have at least four commissions on the go at any one time, and that while work must never be finished on schedule, bills should always be presented early.’
Michael laughed. ‘But one of those apprentices is Lucas. Dick will have interrogated him by now, but I say we also buy whatever intelligence he has to offer. He may be more forthcoming with us than the Sheriff.’
He and Bartholomew walked to the little aisle near the chancel, where Edith was watching the craftsmen build a hoist to lift the heavy granite slab that would eventually seal Oswald’s stone-lined vault. Bartholomew was glad the burial chamber would soon be closed, because every time he saw it, he was reminded that his beloved sister would lie inside it one day.
He and she were unmistakably siblings, although she had aged since the death of her husband. Her once-raven locks were streaked with grey, and there was a sadness in her dark eyes that worried him, although she smiled when she saw him and Michael.
‘There has been a miracle,’ she said serenely. ‘Petit claimed the mortar was too wet to allow work on Oswald’s monument today, but it set spontaneously when I marched into St Mary the Great and made a speech about craftsmen reneging on their vows.’
‘Your tirade had nothing to do with it,’ countered Petit stiffly. ‘I told you I would return here at the earliest opportunity, and I did. I am a man of my word.’
‘I am glad to hear it,’ said Edith, ‘because if you let me down one more time, I shall cancel the effigy, and have a brass instead. Indeed, I went so far as to discuss the matter with Lakenham, who is here to erect a memorial to poor John Cew.’
She nodded to the other side of the chancel, where the lattener was attaching a metal plate to the wall, although one so small as to be virtually invisible. Bartholomew understood why Cew’s colleagues were reluctant to provide anything too conspicuous: the hapless King’s Hall Fellow had once possessed a formidable intellect, but then he had lost his reason, which had been acutely embarrassing to a foundation that put so much store by outward appearances.
‘I would not have accepted such a lowly commission,’ scoffed Petit, watching Lakenham stir the pitch that would glue the memorial in place. He raised his voice, to ensure his rival heard. ‘But Lakenham is so poor that he will accept any old job. Stanmore’s tomb will have to be carefully guarded from now on, lest bits of it disappear.’
‘I have my own supplies, thank you,’ retorted Lakenham. ‘And do not accuse me of stealing Dallingridge’s feet last night. I went nowhere near them.’
Bartholomew blinked. ‘Dallingridge’s feet?’
‘It is cheaper to carve effigies in sections, rather than using a single piece of stone,’ explained Lakenham sneeringly. ‘And niggardly masons are always looking for ways to cut corners.’
‘To save our clients money,’ corrected Petit sharply.
‘It is common practice these days,’ put in one of his apprentices, a lanky, freckle-faced lad named Peres. ‘Me and Lucas worked hard on those feet, and we finished them yesterday. They were beautiful, too – we had them resting on a greyhound.’
‘But someone came along in the night and stole them from our workshop,’ said Lucas, glaring at Lakenham.
Bartholomew was bemused. ‘Why would a thief take such a thing?’
Petit regarded him pityingly. ‘So he can sell them to some unscrupulous mason in London, who will then adapt them to fit another tomb, and pass off our work as his own. The sly b—’
‘This is why brasses are superior to sculptures, Brother,’ interrupted Lakenham smugly. ‘Feet, noses, hands, feet and even heads are very vulnerable on effigies.’
‘But brasses can be prised off in their entirety and spirited away,’ countered Petit.
‘Not my brasses,’ argued Lakenham. ‘I use pitch and pins to anchor them down.’
‘So you say,’ jeered Petit, and shot the lattener a look of utter contempt before turning his back on him to smile ingratiatingly at Michael. ‘I have taken the liberty of designing exemplars for Tynkell and Moleyns. Would you like to see them?’
‘Exemplars cannot be put together overnight,’ said Lakenham to Michael, his expression vengeful. ‘Which means he knew in advance that those two men would die. So question him about the murders, Brother, because that is suspicious.’
Petit hauled a burin – a chisel with a wooden handle and a sharp metal point – from his belt and fingered it menacingly. ‘You have a poisonous tongue, Lakenham, and you will be wanting a funerary brass for yourself, unless you stop wagging it.’
‘You see, Brother?’ said Lakenham archly. ‘That was almost a confession.’
‘I want to know where you all were when Tynkell died,’ said Michael.
‘He was in St Mary the Great,’ said Lakenham, stabbing an accusing finger at his rival. ‘Perfectly placed to slip up the tower and pretend to be Satan while he killed Tynkell.’
‘Nonsense! We all ran outside when we heard the commotion,’ said Petit, although he licked his lips nervously and his men exchanged furtive glances. ‘When the excitement was over, we came here to work.’ Then he went on an offensive of his own. ‘And how would you know where we were, Lakenham, unless you were nearby?’
The lattener was ready for this. ‘Because the beadles told me,’ he replied smugly. �
��I, however, was in St Clement’s Church with my wife.’
‘That is not what you said yesterday,’ pounced Bartholomew. ‘Cristine claimed her cloak was stolen from St Mary the Great – she had taken it off to ring the bells.’
‘You see?’ crowed Petit. ‘Lakenham is a liar! He stabbed Tynkell and Moleyns, because he hopes to build their tombs.’
Lakenham became flustered. ‘Perhaps we did slip into St Mary the Great for a few moments, but I am not a killer. Not a thief either. Come and look in my shed – you will find no carved feet there. Petit’s workshop, however, will be stuffed full of my brasses, nails and—’
‘That tool,’ interrupted Bartholomew, pointing to Petit’s burin. ‘May I see it?’
‘Why?’ demanded Petit suspiciously, hiding it behind his back.
Michael fixed the mason with an icy glare until he handed it over, which he did with obvious reluctance. The tool was intended for fine work, and possessed a long, slender point. Bartholomew pressed it into some damp clay, where it made a tiny circular hole.
‘The murder weapon?’ asked Michael.
‘Possibly,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘Or something similar.’
Petit was pale with alarm. ‘But lots of craftsmen have these! Indeed, Lakenham has several that are longer and thinner, which he uses for engraving. You cannot accuse me of—’
‘You were in the High Street when Moleyns was killed,’ interrupted Michael. He included the grinning lattener in his proctorly glower. ‘You both were – among the crowd that clustered around him after his fall.’
‘Yes, but I was busy minding my wife,’ said Lakenham, his smirk vanishing like mist in the sun. ‘Making sure she was not unduly jostled.’
From what Bartholomew had seen of Cristine, she was perfectly capable of looking after herself. Indeed, he imagined that if any protecting needed to be done, she would be far better at it than her diminutive spouse.
‘And I could get nowhere near Moleyns,’ added Petit. ‘There were too many people.’
A Grave Concern: The Twenty Second Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew Book 22) Page 11
