‘Yevele says I cut him during sword drill,’ the lad grumbled as they went. ‘But it is a lie. I wish the Sheriff had not taken him on. Do you remember coming to tend his frost-nipped nose last week? Well, he let that happen on purpose, purely to get out of guard duty.’
Bartholomew had suspected as much at the time. It had been an unusually cold night, but even so, Yevele’s claim that his nose had frozen while walking from one side of the bailey to the other was patently untrue.
‘I do not need you, physician,’ growled Yevele ungraciously, when Bartholomew approached his bed. Robin rolled his eyes and left. ‘Barber Cook sewed me up nicely, and gave me a free haircut into the bargain. He does a special offer every Friday, see – a free trim with every medical procedure.’
Surprisingly, Cook had managed a reasonable job on the wound, although the stitches were ugly, and would leave a scar. Bartholomew suspected Yevele would not mind – the soldiers at the castle were proud of their ‘badges of honour’, and the bigger they were, the better they liked them.
‘I do not know why you called me,’ said Bartholomew to Tulyet and Helbye, who were waiting outside for him when he emerged. ‘Not when Cook has already been.’
‘Because of Mother Salter,’ explained Tulyet. ‘Dead of a scratch at the hands of that butcher. I would have refused to let him in, but he had been and gone before I could stop him.’
‘Cook is all right,’ said Sergeant Helbye, who was grey-faced with fatigue and moved as if he was in pain. ‘And he does give a lovely trim. He even made Norys look presentable.’
He nodded towards the soldier in question, a surly lout who would always look like a ruffian, no matter how many sessions he had with a barber. Then Helbye mumbled something about going to check on Yevele, and Bartholomew felt a surge of compassion for the old warrior when he saw how hard he was trying not to limp.
‘He and I questioned Isnard and Gundrede nearly all night,’ said Tulyet. ‘Then we tackled the tomb-makers, but none of them confessed to Lucas’s murder. We wasted our time.’
‘You do realise that Helbye is no longer young?’ said Bartholomew quietly. ‘You might be able to forgo your sleep, but it is more of a strain for him.’
‘Nonsense! He is as strong as an ox. Besides, he is my right-hand man, and I do not know how I would manage without him.’
‘You might have to, unless you treat him more gently.’
Tulyet grimaced. ‘He would be mortified if I suggested light duties. But do not fret, Matt – he will feel better when winter turns to spring.’
Bartholomew doubted it, but was disinclined to argue. ‘Did you ask Egidia and Inge about the discrepancy between their version of events and Weasenham’s – whether they reached Moleyns sooner or later, once he had fallen off his horse?’
‘I did, but they are sticking to their tale and will not be budged. Perhaps Helbye is not the only one who is too old for this line of work – I am sure I could have terrified a confession from the culprit five years ago. Perhaps I should take a leaf from Michael’s book, and have myself promoted.’
Cambridge would be a very different place, thought Bartholomew unhappily, without its Sheriff and its Senior Proctor, and he was not sure he would like it. Perhaps he should leave, too, and begin a new life somewhere with the woman he had once loved so deeply.
CHAPTER 6
Friday afternoons were dreaded by the whole town, because it was when the Michaelhouse Choir met. The choir comprised a large number of spectacularly untalented individuals who had joined solely for the free bread and ale that were dispensed after rehearsals. They compensated for their lack of skill with volume, and prided themselves on being heard over considerable distances. Michael was their conductor, and was fiercely proud of them, although Bartholomew failed to understand why, given that the monk was a talented musician, with standards.
‘At least it drove Whittlesey away,’ said Michael, when the rehearsal was over and all Cambridge heaved a sigh of relief that there would not be another for seven blissful days. ‘He asked to shadow me, to learn how I operate. I thought I would not mind, but I do – I cannot be myself with him looming over my shoulder. But a few notes from my tenors sent him running.’
Bartholomew was not surprised, but refrained from saying so, as Michael seemed frayed and downhearted – which was odd, as he usually enjoyed choir practice.
‘What is wrong, Brother?’ he asked gently.
‘My singers have heard that I am leaving,’ explained the monk wretchedly. ‘And they looked at me with such reproach … But what do they expect? I cannot stay here for ever, and they must realise that I have ambitions.’
‘The choir is important to them. For most, it is the only decent meal they have all week.’
‘Do not make it worse, Matt,’ groaned Michael. ‘I feel bad enough as it is.’
Each alone with his thoughts, they walked to Maud’s Hostel, where Michael wanted to ask Lyng about the curious encounter that Kolvyle had described – where the elderly priest had scurried between Moleyns and Tynkell in St Mary the Great.
As Maud’s catered to wealthy students, it occupied a very handsome mansion. Its teachers were not obliged to room with students, its furnishings were luxurious, and the food and drink were of the very highest quality. Its Principal, Father Aidan, came to greet the visitors, accompanied by Richard Deynman, brother of the Michaelhouse librarian. Both Deynmans were of an ilk – good-natured, ebullient and deeply stupid.
‘I am glad you are here, Brother,’ said Aidan worriedly. ‘Because Lyng went out last night at about eight o’clock, and none of us have seen him since.’
‘And you wait until now to tell me?’ cried Michael in alarm. ‘What are you thinking?’
‘That we do not want to damage his chances in the election,’ snapped Aidan. ‘You heard what his rivals sniggered when he was not there to see the notice nailed to the Great West Door – they mocked him, and accused him of resting his ancient bones.’
‘Did he tell you where he was going?’ asked Bartholomew.
Aidan shook his head. ‘But we assumed it was something to do with winning a few more votes. He is very excited about the prospect of being Chancellor again.’
‘Which he will be, of course,’ put in Richard brightly, ‘because all the hostels want him, and they comprise most of the University.’
‘Not all of them,’ said Michael coolly. ‘A good many have expressed a preference for Suttone. But never mind this now. Has Lyng stayed out all night before?’
‘Never,’ replied Aidan, ‘which is why we are concerned. He was not back when I extinguished the lamps at ten o’clock last night, but I assumed he was busy electioneering. However, when I went to see why he was late to breakfast today, I saw his bed has not been slept in.’
‘Have you spoken to his friends in other foundations?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps he decided to stay with one of them overnight, rather than walk home in the dark.’
‘Now there is an idea!’ exclaimed Richard. ‘I shall do it at once. Being old, he probably just fell asleep somewhere, and is happily napping in another hostel.’
‘If he is, I suggest he withdraws, Aidan,’ said Michael after the lad had sped away. ‘We cannot have a Chancellor who dozes off on other people’s property.’
‘Oh, I am sure you would love that,’ said Aidan bitterly. ‘But do not think it will help Suttone – scholars who would have voted for Lyng will just transfer their allegiance to Hopeman, on the grounds that he is another priest.’
‘Suttone is a priest,’ Michael pointed out.
‘Yes, but one who aims to challenge the rules of celibacy, and who terrifies everyone by telling them that the plague is poised to return. He is also a member of a College, whereas Hopeman is a hostel man.’
‘Your hostel,’ remarked Michael. ‘How fortunate for you that Maud’s is offering two candidates for election.’
‘I would much rather have Lyng,’ said Aidan stiffly. ‘So let us hope he returns unh
armed.’
Michael inclined his head. ‘Tell me when Richard finds him. I shall also ask my beadles to keep their eyes peeled. In the meantime, perhaps you will answer some questions. First, I want to know how well Lyng knew Moleyns and Tynkell.’
Aidan gave a tight smile. ‘He knew Tynkell very well. They were good friends, and Tynkell often sought his advice about University affairs.’
‘Did he indeed?’ murmured Michael.
Aidan looked away. ‘But as for Moleyns … well, I cannot say I am sorry he is dead. He was a felon, and it vexed me to see him strutting freely about our town. Lyng did not like it either.’
‘Then why did he whisper to him during services in St Mary the Great?’
‘You are mistaken, Brother. Lyng would never have interrupted his devotions to chat to a criminal. He despised Moleyns, and said so several times.’
‘Did he explain why?’
‘Is it not obvious? Moleyns was a thief and a murderer. Did you not hear about the man he killed in order to inherit Stoke Poges – his wife’s uncle? He was acquitted only because he was allowed to choose his own jury, a travesty of justice that shames our legal system.’
‘Did Lyng also feel strongly about this?’
Aidan pursed his lips. ‘What you are really asking is: did Lyng kill Moleyns on a point of principle? Well, the answer is no. Lyng is a gentle man.’
‘Will you show us his room? There may be something in it that will tell us where he has gone.’
‘There will not,’ predicted Aidan. ‘Besides, I cannot let just anyone rummage through my masters’ chambers. It would be a violation of their rights.’
‘I am not “just anyone”,’ objected Michael. ‘I am the Senior Proctor, investigating the murder of our Chancellor and a friend of the King – which Moleyns was, no matter what you think of him. Now, unless you want me to tell His Majesty that Maud’s was uncooperative …’
‘Follow me,’ said Aidan quickly, and led the way up the stairs.
The upper floors were as opulently appointed as the ones below, and Lyng had been allocated a wood-panelled chamber overlooking the yard. It smelled of lavender and sage, and was scrupulously clean, although north-facing and so gloomy. Above the bed was a row of books that would have any theologian drooling with envy, while the table was well supplied with ink, pens and parchment. An unopened letter had pride of place. Michael picked it up and raised questioning eyebrows.
‘It arrived yesterday morning, but he said he would open it later,’ explained Aidan.
‘Who is it from?’
‘I have no idea – the seal is not one I recognise.’ Aidan blushed when he realised that this remark revealed that he had inspected it rather more closely than was polite.
‘The parchment is expensive,’ noted Michael. ‘Another wealthy scholar, perhaps?’
‘It is possible. Put it back, Brother. Not even the Senior Proctor can open private correspondence without good cause.’
Reluctantly, Michael did as he was told.
Once outside, Michael decided that he was hungry, so they headed for his favourite tavern. Such places were off limits to scholars, but he saw no reason why this should apply to the Senior Proctor, and was such a regular visitor to the Brazen George that Landlord Lister had set aside a chamber at the rear of the premises for his exclusive use. It was a pleasant room that overlooked the garden, although the shutters were closed. Dusk was approaching, and the temperature was dropping fast.
‘We shall have snow soon,’ said Lister conversationally, as he fussed around his guests. ‘I feel it in my bones.’
‘Perhaps it will arrive on Wednesday,’ said Michael hopefully. ‘And will force scholars to stay indoors and leave appointing chancellors to those who know best. Namely me.’
He ordered one of his gargantuan repasts of meat and bread, then sent a potboy to invite Tulyet to join him. He had scant new information to share, but felt it was important to liaise with the Sheriff as often as possible.
‘Who should we believe about Lyng’s relationship with Moleyns, Matt?’ he asked while they waited for Tulyet to arrive. ‘Kolvyle or Aidan? Because they both cannot be right.’
‘Actually, they could. Perhaps Moleyns forced Lyng to carry messages to Tynkell, which would mean that Kolvyle was telling the truth. And as Lyng would resent being pushed around by a felon, he might well have told Aidan that he disliked Moleyns.’
Michael regarded him askance. ‘And why would a respectable priest allow himself to be browbeaten by Moleyns?’
Bartholomew shrugged. ‘It is something we will have to find out.’
Michael was thoughtful. ‘Yet your thesis does make sense. It means that Lyng dispatched Tynkell because he wanted to be Chancellor, and he killed Moleyns to rid himself of a bully. I know you are reluctant to see a cold-hearted killer in that seemingly gentle old man, but even you must admit that his relationship with Moleyns is suspicious.’
At that moment, the door opened and Tulyet walked in, although his expression of eager anticipation faded when Michael indicated that he had nothing of significance to report. He slumped on a bench and wearily rubbed his face with his hands.
‘Reames is dead,’ he said. ‘Do you know the lad I mean? The lattener’s apprentice, who always dressed like a courtier.’
Bartholomew blinked. ‘But I saw him not long ago, walking home from the castle with Lakenham and Cristine. You had been interrogating them about Lucas’s murder – which they could not have committed themselves, because they were with you at the time.’
‘I should have kept them in the castle for their own protection – Petit believes they are responsible for Lucas’s death, and I should have anticipated a revenge attack. Petit was in St Mary the Great when Reames was dispatched, and has alibis to prove it, although the same cannot be said of all his apprentices.’
‘Wait a minute,’ said Michael, holding up a plump hand. ‘Are you saying that Reames was murdered? We have a fourth suspicious death to investigate?’
‘I am afraid so. Yet I do not believe his life was claimed by the rogue who killed Moleyns and Tynkell. He was attacked from behind, and his brains were bashed out with a rock – a frenzied attack, rather than a cool spike in the heart.’
‘Matt will inspect his corpse anyway,’ determined Michael.
Tulyet nodded his thanks, then sighed morosely. ‘It was a bad day for the town when these warring tomb-builders arrived. I shall monitor them constantly from now on, and the next time one commits a crime, we shall have him.’
‘Good,’ said Michael. ‘My beadles will help.’
At that point, Lister began to bring food to the table, and the Sheriff gaped his astonishment as platter after platter of meat and bread were set down.
‘Was my entire garrison included in the invitation to dine here, Brother?’
‘It is just a morsel,’ declared Michael, fastening a piece of linen around his neck to protect his habit from greasy splatters. ‘We all have healthy appetites, after all.’
Tulyet declined to comment, but listened with interest as the monk told him what Kolvyle had said about Lyng relaying messages between Tynkell and Moleyns during the Mass in which the Almighty had been begged to spare Cambridge from a second wave of the plague.
‘I attended that service,’ he said. ‘Lyng did hobble up to Moleyns and begin whispering, although I did not see him go to Tynkell.’
‘I was there, too, but noticed nothing amiss,’ said Michael. ‘Incidentally, I need to talk to Egidia and Inge about a rider on a brown horse with a pilgrim-staff embossed on his saddle – Thelnetham says that he galloped away shortly after Moleyns’ murder. Perhaps they did not commit murder with their own hands, but hired a trusted retainer from Stoke Poges to do it.’
Delighted by the prospect of a lead, Tulyet surged to his feet. ‘We shall do it now.’
‘Yes,’ said Michael, not moving. ‘The moment we have finished eating.’
Years of dining in College, where fast eaters
tended to be better fed than those who took their time, meant it was not long before Michael had reduced the meal in the Brazen George to empty plates and a pile of gnawed bones. Then the three of them went to St Clement’s Church, where Reames’ body had been taken, but Bartholomew was able to tell them nothing they did not already know. The attack had been a vicious one, and the killer had delivered far more blows to the apprentice’s skull than had been necessary to end his life. There were no other injuries.
‘You are right about one thing, Dick,’ mused Michael, who had kept his eyes fixed on Reames’ torso to avoid looking at the ruin of his head. ‘He did dress like a courtier.’
‘Which is odd,’ said Bartholomew, ‘considering that Lakenham is so poor that he cannot afford to buy Cristine a new cloak.’
Tulyet shrugged. ‘Perhaps Reames hailed from an affluent family, who gave him an allowance. But are you sure there is nothing to help us catch his killer, Matt? Whoever did this is abnormally violent, so the sooner he is locked up, the better.’
Bartholomew shook his head, and was about to accompany Michael and Tulyet to visit Egidia and Inge when Cynric appeared, hot, tired and gasping for breath, because he had been frantically hunting the physician for some time.
‘Isnard,’ he rasped. ‘He needs you and says it is urgent.’
As the bargeman had been hale and hearty not long before, Bartholomew ran to his cottage in alarm, fearing that he had engaged in a violent confrontation with the tomb-makers, and had suffered some terrible injury, like Reames and Lucas.
‘Come in, Doctor,’ Isnard called jovially when Bartholomew arrived. ‘The fire is lit, the ale is hot, and good company awaits.’
A Grave Concern: The Twenty Second Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew Book 22) Page 15
