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

by Susanna Gregory

  Bartholomew was sure he would, although he was less certain that it would be a good thing for either organisation.

  They arrived at St John Zachary, where Bartholomew was dismayed to learn that Lucas’s body lay at the bottom of his brother-in-law’s vault. With Tulyet’s help, he hastened to haul it out, lest Edith heard about the desecration and came to see for herself. Once Lucas had been retrieved, it did not take Bartholomew long to ascertain how he had died.

  ‘Stabbed in the back.’ He pointed to a trail of bloody spatters that ended with a discarded chisel. ‘With that, I imagine.’

  At that point, there was a commotion at the back of the church, which heralded the arrival of Petit and his remaining apprentices. They stormed to the chancel en masse, demanding to know what had happened. Tulyet told them tersely.

  ‘He volunteered to stay late,’ wailed Petit, and jabbed an accusing forefinger at Bartholomew. ‘He and his sister are always urging us to work faster, so I agreed, thinking to appease them. Poor Lucas! He was such a diligent boy.’

  ‘It was not diligence that kept him out tonight,’ said Michael bluntly. ‘It was money – he was going to meet us at the witching hour, and sell us the name of the person who killed Tynkell and Moleyns.’

  ‘But he did not know it!’ cried Petit. ‘If he had, he would have told me. I was like a father to him.’

  ‘That chisel,’ said Bartholomew, nodding towards it. ‘Is it yours?’

  Petit gaped at it. ‘It is Lucas’s, which means the culprit used the poor boy’s own tool to dispatch him.’ He turned accusingly to Tulyet. ‘This is your fault. You should have been out hunting this vile murderer, not listening to Lakenham whine about stolen brasses. If you had done your duty, a third innocent life would not have been lost.’

  ‘Is Lucas the killer’s third victim, Matt?’ asked Michael in a low voice, as the mason continued to rail at Tulyet, his apprentices clamouring their agreement at his side.

  ‘I do not believe so,’ Bartholomew whispered back. ‘First, Moleyns and Tynkell were stabbed cleanly, whereas Lucas has five separate and very messy punctures – this killer did not know what he was doing. Second, they were stabbed in the front, but Lucas was attacked from behind. Third, they were murdered publicly, while this was an assault on a lone man in the dark. And finally, Moleyns and Tynkell were dispatched with a thin spike—’

  ‘A burin,’ interrupted Michael, looking pointedly at the masons.

  ‘Possibly a burin,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘Whereas a chisel was used on Lucas.’

  Petit chose that moment to stop haranguing the Sheriff and hurl himself across Lucas’s body in a dramatic expression of grief. The freckled Peres hurried to comfort him, although Petit’s distraught sobs abated when Bartholomew, Michael and Tulyet retreated to the far side of the chancel to talk, and there was no audience.

  ‘I agree,’ said Tulyet, when Bartholomew had outlined his conclusions. ‘This is not the work of the rogue who dispatched Moleyns and Tynkell with such surgical precision. We have two killers here, not one.’

  ‘Perhaps this death is an escalation of the feud between latteners and masons,’ suggested Michael. ‘The stakes are high, with a chancellor and a favourite of the King needing tombs. We had better see if Lakenham has an alibi for Lucas’s murder – he has access to this church at the moment, because he is making a memorial brass for Cew.’

  ‘It would be a tidy solution,’ said Tulyet. ‘The only problem being that Lakenham does have an alibi – he was with me when Lucas died. We were discussing his stolen supplies.’

  ‘Then perhaps he hired someone else to do it,’ suggested Michael.

  ‘Does he have that sort of money?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘He has won no major commissions since Knyt – Cew’s little plate cannot have earned him much.’

  ‘Then maybe Cristine did it,’ suggested Tulyet. ‘She is a powerful and determined lady, quick to take offence. Of course, we should not discount Petit as a culprit either. I am unconvinced by his showy display of grief, and he is certainly callous enough to sacrifice one of his own lads to compromise a rival.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Michael, looking to where the mason had abandoned Lucas’s body now that no one was watching, and was ordering Peres to rinse off the chisel.

  ‘And nor can we forget Isnard and Gundrede,’ added Tulyet. ‘They also have a hearty dislike of these tomb-builders.’

  ‘Who found Lucas?’ asked Michael, cutting across Bartholomew’s immediate defence of the bargeman. ‘Frisby?’

  ‘I did,’ replied Tulyet. ‘Frisby is in his house, drunk.’

  ‘What were you doing here in the dark?’ asked Michael curiously.

  ‘Looking for Lucas. He refused to speak to me earlier, so I came to press him again. He was still warm to the touch, and I wish to God I had arrived a few moments sooner. Then we might have had answers, and he would still be alive.’

  ‘His murder comes under your jurisdiction,’ said Michael, ‘so you investigate him, while I concentrate on Tynkell and Moleyns. It will be the most efficient use of our time.’

  But Tulyet shook his head. ‘I will take Lucas, you can have Tynkell, and we will share Moleyns. I cannot delegate the murder of a prisoner, Brother. The King would not approve.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Michael. ‘But we must meet regularly, to compare notes.’

  Tulyet smiled. ‘The University and the town working together to thwart criminals. Are you sure you would not rather be a chancellor than a bishop, Brother? Cambridge needs you.’

  ‘It does,’ agreed Michael immodestly. ‘But so does Rochester.’

  CHAPTER 5

  As it was not every day that a member of Michaelhouse was offered a bishopric, the Fellows celebrated with considerable vigour that night, merrymaking with an abandon rarely seen in the College. As a consequence, there were sore heads aplenty the following day, and the students, who had been kept awake by the racket, spoke in deliberately loud voices, in a concerted attempt to make their teachers wince. It was disappointingly easy with all the Fellows, except two.

  Bartholomew rarely drank to excess, lest he was summoned by a patient. He knew other medici did not allow such considerations to limit their pleasures, but he hated the notion of failing someone for the sake of a few cups of wine. He had still enjoyed himself enormously, but was quite happy to sip watered ale and smile at the antics of the others. Meanwhile, Kolvyle had sat in sulky silence all night, plainly jealous of the monk’s good fortune. His colleagues treated his pouting envy with the contempt it deserved by ignoring it.

  ‘There was something wrong with that wine last night,’ whispered Michael, as he joined his colleagues in the yard to process to Mass. He looked very much the worse for wear, with a pasty face and bloodshot eyes. ‘It has given me a headache.’

  ‘And I have a sour stomach,’ agreed Langelee. ‘Return the barrel and demand a refund.’

  ‘I would, but there is none left to prove our point,’ said Michael. ‘I imagine the students finished it after we went to bed. After all, the seven of us cannot have emptied it alone.’

  ‘The five of you,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘And you did.’

  ‘I think we had better let Kolvyle take our classes this morning,’ said Langelee, hand to his middle. ‘I am not well enough to teach, and if you are suffering similar symptoms …’

  ‘That is a good idea,’ said Suttone weakly. His portly features were grey-green above a vomit-flecked habit. It was rumpled, too, suggesting he had slept in it, and had risen too late to change. ‘I feel dreadful.’

  ‘I suppose I can oblige,’ said Kolvyle grudgingly. He was freshly shaven, his hair was brushed, and he was wearing clean clothes. Just the sight of him made his older colleagues feel worn, jaded and very shabby. ‘After all, we do not want the students to complain. None of you are decent teachers on a good day, so after a night of intemperate hedonism …’

  ‘I am much respected in the lecture hall,’ objected Suttone, albeit f
eebly. ‘Indeed, I promised my lads a discourse on reductio ad absurdum today, which is no easy topic. Of course, I cannot recall what I planned to say, exactly …’

  ‘Your thesis was that Ethel the chicken must weigh something, or she would spend all her time floating in the air,’ supplied Clippesby, who held the bird in question in his arms. His eyes were glazed, and he wore the silly grin that indicated he was still drunk. ‘You will base your argument on the fact that denial of the assertion will have a ridiculous result. In other words, it will demonstrate this very common form of logical argument.’

  ‘I know what reductio ad absurdum means, Clippesby,’ said Suttone irritably. ‘But was that really the example I intended to use? Lord! I had better find another, or my lads will think I have lost my reason.’

  ‘They will,’ agreed Kolvyle spitefully. ‘Clearly, it would be better if you all left this morning’s work to me. I will not let our pupils down.’

  He flounced away, startling Langelee and his Fellows by opening the gate and walking to church by himself. Allowing the Master to lead the way was not a written rule, but it was a custom everyone followed, and all were astonished that Kolvyle should have chosen to flout it.

  ‘I hope we did not do anything embarrassing last night,’ said Suttone uneasily. ‘Especially in front of him. I recall very little after the Master stood on the table and recited that poem about the nuns and the dragon, and it would be a pity if our night of levity damaged my chances of being Chancellor. Kolvyle is the kind of man to gossip about any … indiscretions.’

  ‘It was quite a night,’ grinned William, who looked much as he usually did, given that he was not a clean man to start with, so any new spillages were difficult to detect. ‘I cannot recall the last time we enjoyed ourselves so.’

  ‘We had much to celebrate,’ smiled Michael. ‘My See and Suttone’s chancellorship.’

  ‘Suttone may not win,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘Lyng has the support of the hostels, and that is where most votes lie. It will not be easy to defeat him.’

  ‘I thought the same, but Michael says he has a plan.’ Suttone beamed suddenly. ‘I shall like being Chancellor even more if he is not here to push me around. I am doubly delighted that he is leaving.’

  Michael’s expression darkened. ‘I most certainly will tell you what to do! I shall be watching your every move like a hawk.’

  ‘How?’ asked Bartholomew curiously. ‘You will be in Rochester.’

  ‘I have my ways,’ replied Michael mysteriously. ‘But do not worry about Lyng, Suttone. No killer will ever hold the post of Chancellor.’

  ‘Killer?’ echoed Langelee, startled. ‘You mean it was Lyng who made an end of Tynkell and Moleyns? Lord! He seems such a decent fellow, and I have always liked him.’

  ‘Most people do, which is why he felt free to commit murder,’ said Michael airily. ‘He thinks he is the last man we will accuse, just because he is charming and elderly.’

  ‘So you have solved the case?’ asked Bartholomew, pleased. ‘You did not mention it last night, but I am glad it is over. I shall teach my lads Maimonides’ Tractus contra passionem asthmatis today. They will prefer that to some tedious monologue from Kolvyle.’

  ‘I have not solved it exactly,’ hedged Michael, ‘but Lyng is my chief suspect. However, I shall need you to help me to gather the necessary evidence, so Maimonides will have to wait.’

  Bartholomew regarded him through narrowed eyes. ‘Do you really think Lyng is the culprit, or have you picked on him because he is Suttone’s most serious rival?’

  ‘A little of both,’ admitted Michael. ‘But he does have the strongest motive for killing Tynkell – namely dispatching the present incumbent, so that he could be Chancellor once more. It makes sense – he is old, and Tynkell kept delaying his departure.’

  ‘And that is your scheme to secure me the post?’ asked Suttone worriedly. ‘Accusing Lyng of murder? Is that not unethical?’

  ‘Not if he is guilty,’ replied Michael glibly. ‘And if he is innocent … well, he will just have to weather the storm as best he can.’

  The scholars attended Mass in St Michael’s, although it was not easy to concentrate on their devotions, because Petit arrived and began to prise the damaged lid from Wilson’s tomb. He and his apprentices obviously thought they were being unobtrusive, but there were a lot of loud whispers, much clattering of tools, and they failed to understand the concept of tiptoeing, so their footsteps clattered loudly enough to render some of the rite inaudible.

  ‘I know I promised to work on Stanmore today,’ the mason said stiffly, when the ceremony was over and Bartholomew went to have words with him. ‘But you cannot expect us to enter the building where Lucas was so vilely killed. At least, not for the foreseeable future.’

  ‘It was a terrible shock, see,’ added the freckled Peres, sticking out his chin challengingly. ‘So we have decided to concentrate on our other masterpieces for a while.’

  ‘If you abandon Oswald again, I shall follow my sister’s lead, and make speeches about unreliable craftsmen,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘So think very carefully before doing anything rash.’

  Petit shot him a foul look as he left, while young Peres shoved past the physician roughly enough to make him stagger. Then the lad was almost knocked from his own feet when he found himself in Langelee’s path, and the Master did some jostling of his own.

  ‘I had to hire them,’ said Langelee defensively, as Bartholomew regarded him with silent reproach. ‘Petit is the only monumental mason within a sixty-mile radius. Or do you want Kolvyle to win a claim of compensation against us?’

  Bartholomew scowled at him, and they processed home in silence. No one ate much at breakfast, some because their stomachs were still too delicate, and the rest because what was on offer was virtually inedible – the servants had also raised a goblet to Michael’s future success. Agatha the laundress was decidedly fragile, while Cynric had yet to get out of bed.

  ‘Your lads will enjoy Kolvyle’s lecture, Bartholomew,’ said Langelee, after he had recited a shockingly short final grace, and the students had filed out. ‘He will speak on Gratian’s Decretum, which is always fun. Or so he tells me.’

  ‘Not as much fun as Maimonides,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘And do not suggest letting Aungel teach Passionem asthmatis, because he does not know it well enough. Michael’s beadles can find the evidence he needs to convict Lyng, but my duties lie here.’

  ‘Lyng is not the killer,’ said Langelee in a low voice. ‘I understand why Michael thinks so, but he is wrong – Lyng is not bold enough. It is far more likely to be Hopeman. However, Michael cannot leave Cambridge until the case is solved, and our College needs the glory his promotion will bring. Thus you must help him, to ensure he catches the right man.’

  ‘I do not think—’

  ‘It is common knowledge that the Bishop of Bangor has been waiting for Sheppey to die so he can grab Rochester. Thus Michael must get there as soon as possible, which he cannot do until Tynkell’s murder is properly solved. That is your duty, Bartholomew, not passionate asthma. Moreover, he cannot arrange for Suttone to be elected if he is busy hunting killers.’

  Bartholomew supposed the Master was right. He capitulated with a grudging nod, and Langelee expressed his thanks with a vigorous clap on the back that made his teeth rattle. Then the bell rang to announce the start of the day’s teaching, and the students trooped into the hall to hear what Kolvyle had to say about the principles of canon law. Bartholomew was sorry for them, sure that even the lawyers among them would be more interested in Maimonides’ views on lung diseases.

  As usual, Kolvyle was in no hurry to begin his work, preferring instead to let the suspense build before gracing the audience with his presence. He was still in his room, and Michael indicated that Bartholomew was to accompany him there.

  ‘Partly to make sure he does not dally too long – my Premonstratensians are restless today,’ he said as they walked, ‘but also to ask what he saw when Mole
yns died.’

  Although the most junior Fellow was usually allocated the meanest room, Kolvyle had made such a fuss that even Langelee had been incapable of withstanding the litany of complaints. As a consequence, he occupied quarters that were far nicer than anyone else’s – they were not only larger and in better repair, but also beautifully decorated.

  Bartholomew and Michael arrived at them to discover that Kolvyle already had a visitor in the form of Suttone, who looked plump, soft and dissolute next to his bright and youthful colleague.

  ‘But it will do me harm if a member of my own College openly supports another candidate,’ he was objecting. ‘You cannot declare for Godrich.’

  ‘I already have,’ said Kolvyle smugly. ‘You are too old for the post anyway. There should be a rule that no one over twenty-five should be allowed to stand, because it is time our University was in the hands of younger, more dynamic officers.’

  ‘Do not underestimate experience,’ argued Suttone. ‘It is—’

  ‘What experience?’ Kolvyle shot back snidely. ‘You do not have any, and your campaign is based on two things: scaring everyone by saying the plague is about to return, and then trying to make them feel better about it by offering to lift the ban on women. You silly old fool!’

  ‘We created a monster by letting him have his own way every time he stamps a sulky foot,’ murmured Bartholomew to Michael. ‘It would not surprise me to learn that he killed Tynkell, and is piqued because he will not be the one to benefit from it.’

  ‘If so, he will suffer the consequences,’ vowed Michael. ‘Member of my College or not.’

  He marched into the room, but Kolvyle was gathering notes for his lecture, and pretended not to notice. Suttone tried again to reason with him, then threw up his hands in defeat when Kolvyle began to sing, drowning him out.

  ‘You talk to him, Brother,’ he spat as he left. ‘He is incapable of listening.’

  ‘I do not listen, because Suttone has nothing to say,’ declared Kolvyle when the Carmelite had gone. ‘His jaw flaps, but only rubbish emerges.’