‘We carry the necessary equipment with us at all times,’ elaborated a disciple, hefting a sack that bulged. ‘We can be ready to combat Lucifer in a trice.’
‘The Devil would not have flown away if he had tackled me on the tower,’ declared Hopeman. ‘I would have vanquished him once and for all. And if you care anything for the safety of your soul, you will elect me next week.’
He did not wait for a reply, clearly thinking that no more needed to be said, and turned to rap on the door to White Hostel. He pounded with such vigour that he dislodged several icicles from the roof, causing his men to scatter in alarm. He stood firm though.
‘I am God’s chosen,’ he informed them loftily. ‘Nothing can harm me.’
Bartholomew hoped for his sake that he was right.
The physician was glad to reach Michaelhouse. He walked across the yard, feet crunching on frost, and glanced up at a sky that was splattered with stars, some brighter than he had ever seen them. He arrived at the conclave to find all the other Fellows there, some reading, the rest talking quietly. Kolvyle sat apart from them, as if he considered himself too good for their company. When Clippesby tried to draw him into an innocuous conversation about the College cat, the younger man stood abruptly, snapping shut the book he had been perusing.
‘I do not have time for idle chatter,’ he declared shortly. ‘Especially with lunatics.’
‘The cat is not a lunatic,’ objected Clippesby, stroking her silken head.
The other Fellows laughed, which drew a petulant scowl from Kolvyle and a look of hurt confusion from Clippesby. The cat purred and settled herself more comfortably on the Dominican’s knees. Kolvyle collided roughly with Bartholomew as their paths converged, but the physician had anticipated such a manoeuvre and was ready, so it was Kolvyle who staggered. The others laughed again, and Kolvyle stamped out furiously, slamming the door behind him.
Bartholomew poured himself some mulled ale and went to sit next to Suttone. There were crumbs down the front of the Carmelite’s habit, and he had not bothered to shave that day, so Bartholomew found himself comparing Suttone rather unfavourably to the cultivated Thelnetham. Or even to Hopeman, who was not relaxing by a fire, but busily working to secure himself more votes. If Suttone did win, he thought, it would be because Michael had engineered a victory, not because of the Carmelite’s own efforts.
When Michael came to join them, Bartholomew saw the solution to his conundrum regarding Isnard was at hand, and berated himself for not thinking of it sooner: Michael could tell Tulyet what the bargeman had confided. The moment Suttone went to pour himself more wine, leaving the two of them alone, Bartholomew took a deep breath and began to repeat what he had heard, phrasing his report with infinite care, so as not to reveal his source.
‘Isnard,’ deduced the monk when he had finished. Appalled, Bartholomew started to deny it, but Michael raised his hand. ‘Do not worry – his secret is safe with me. I suspect he would have preferred to tell me himself, but there was an incident at choir practice …’
‘One involving feathers, I understand.’ Several still adhered to the monk’s habit.
‘They gave me a lovely cushion, a gift to encourage me to stay. Unfortunately, it exploded when I sat on it – which I would not have minded if they had at least tried not to laugh.’
‘Has Lyng come home yet?’ asked Bartholomew, changing the subject before he laughed, too. ‘It would be useful to know what Moleyns whispered to him as he lay on the ground.’
‘I visited Maud’s less than an hour ago, but he is still missing. Perhaps he has fled the town, knowing we are closing in on him.’
‘Fled where? This has been his home for more than forty years. Yet it is difficult to see him as the culprit. My money is still on Cook, who is ruthless, greedy and devious.’
‘Then Cook must be a villain indeed, as it is not often that you denounce anyone so vigorously. But you fared better than me with fact-gathering – I learned nothing at all from Egidia and Inge. When I mentioned that Weasenham’s testimony contradicts theirs, they simply told me that he was mistaken, and they deny knowing anything about a horseman with the Stoke Poges insignia on his saddle.’
‘Their claims will be irrelevant if Lyng transpires to be guilty.’
‘True.’ Michael picked a feather from his lap and sighed sadly. ‘Leaving my choir will not be easy. I do not suppose you would take my place as conductor, would you?’
‘Me?’ blurted Bartholomew, startled. ‘But I cannot sing.’
Michael’s expression was wry. ‘That will not be a problem. And you play the lute, so you could lead the practice, while Matilde organises the victuals. She is good at that sort of thing.’
The remark reawakened the unease Bartholomew had experienced when talking to Edith, and it was with a troubled mind that he later retired to bed. Unusually, he found the fire in his room too hot, and he was kept awake by Deynman’s snoring. When he did finally sleep, his dreams teemed with disturbing images, although he could recall none of them when Walter came to shake him awake a few hours later.
‘Thelnetham is here,’ he whispered. ‘A body has been found by the King’s Ditch, and he says it is Lyng’s.’
CHAPTER 7
The King’s Ditch arced around the eastern side of the town, and was used as a sewer and a convenient repository for rubbish. Unfortunately, it was too sluggish to carry its malodorous contents far, with the result that it comprised a reeking, festering ribbon of slime that posed a serious risk to health. Although its name suggested connections to royalty, all self-respecting monarchs would have vigorously denied any association with such a revolting feature.
Master Lyng had been found on its north bank, near the Hall of Valence Marie. To the south lay Peterhouse, the Gilbertine Priory and the King’s Head tavern, a townsmen-only establishment that was famous for fighting, and was a favourite haunt of Isnard and most of the Michaelhouse Choir.
Lyng’s body had been neatly positioned, his hands folded across his middle. His robes were carefully straightened, and someone had made a pillow of his hat and tucked it under his head. He was cold, and his clothes were dusted with rime, which told Bartholomew that he had lain undisturbed for some time.
The discovery had attracted onlookers, despite the unsociable hour – scholars from the nearby Colleges, canons from the priory, and a gaggle of patrons from the inn, all being held back by a cordon of beadles. Several, including Isnard and Gundrede, carried pitch torches, although the sky was lightening in the east and dawn was not far off.
‘Murder,’ reported Bartholomew tersely, indicating the now-familiar puncture wound. ‘A lump on the back of Lyng’s head suggests that he was stunned first, then stabbed as he lay helpless. He did not arrange himself like this, so his killer must have done it.’
‘Meaning what?’ demanded Michael. ‘That the culprit is sorry, and thinks that treating the body with respect will make amends?’
Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Only he can answer that.’
Michael crouched next to the corpse, so they could speak without being overheard by the growing throng of spectators. ‘I am deeply sorry to see Lyng like this – a three-time Chancellor deserves to end his days peacefully.’
‘He was a good man,’ agreed Bartholomew sadly. ‘We were wrong to include him on our list of suspects.’
Michael nodded. ‘And his death is a severe blow to our enquiries. Now we cannot ask him what Moleyns whispered before he died, or about the messages that he ferried between Tynkell and Moleyns in St Mary the Great. And as all three are dead, I suspect that both matters were important.’
‘Unless he was killed because he was the man most likely to win the election,’ suggested Bartholomew, and nodded to where Thelnetham, Godrich and Hopeman were watching with wary faces. ‘In which case, the culprit is one of them. Or Suttone, I suppose – the only candidate who has not come to gawp.’
‘Which is a point in his favour, as far as I am concerned,’ retorted Michael, then
added wryly, ‘Although I suspect the real reason is because he is still abed. So when did Lyng die? Give me a precise time, so we can begin exploring alibis.’
‘You know that is impossible.’ Bartholomew gestured to the bridge above their heads. ‘He is invisible from the road, so he might have lain here since he was first reported missing.’
‘Which was Thursday night.’ Michael stood and called to the crowd. ‘Who found him?’
Thelnetham raised his hand, and the beadles let him past. The flickering torchlight showed that he had taken Bartholomew’s advice to heart, because his habit was devoid of vibrant accessories, other than the brooch that fastened his cloak. He also stood more erect and seemed to be more manly – until he glanced at the body, at which point he whipped out a silken cloth and pressed it to his eyes in an effete gesture of distress.
‘I was walking along this bank when I tripped over him,’ he began. ‘It gave me a scare, I can tell you! I climbed back up to the road, and raced straight to Michaelhouse—’
‘You were walking here?’ asked Michael, glancing around in distaste. ‘In the dark?’
‘I could not sleep after nocturns, so I decided to visit the clerks in St Mary the Great – some work all night, as you know, because the University’s recent expansion is generating so much extra work. I want their votes.’
‘I see,’ said Michael. ‘However, that does not explain why you chose to make your way there via the edge of the King’s Ditch. And do not say you glimpsed Lyng while crossing the bridge, because he cannot be seen from the road.’
Thelnetham lowered his voice and spoke a little crossly. ‘If you must know, I was with a companion. But that is my business, and I would sooner not turn my personal life into the subject of prurient gossip. I am sure you understand.’
‘What companion?’ demanded Michael, although he allowed the Gilbertine to propel him away from the gathering crowd. No one would have been able hear their discussion, given that they had kept their voices low, but there was always a danger that someone could lip-read. Bartholomew followed.
‘Him.’ Thelnetham nodded towards Secretary Nicholas, who was looking simultaneously defensive and furtive. ‘Obviously, we cannot meet in my priory or his hostel, so we have taken to using other places. Here, near St Clement’s Church, under the Great Bridge. All are usually deserted, so we can … do what we like.’
‘Which does not include eating slugs, presumably,’ muttered Bartholomew. He shook his head when Thelnetham regarded him questioningly. ‘You were seen. Find somewhere else.’
‘Yes, do,’ agreed Michael with a shudder. ‘It cannot be pleasant to lurk down here, especially for a man of refined tastes like yourself.’
‘No,’ sighed Thelnetham ruefully. ‘Unfortunately, the nicer refuges are always occupied by others. You have no idea how hard it is to find somewhere private in this hectic little town.’
‘Did you come here yesterday?’ asked Bartholomew, hoping to narrow down the time that Lyng had been dead.
‘No – we have been too busy. The last time we met was on Wednesday, but that was near the Great Bridge, not here.’
‘Did you move Lyng? Or tidy his robes?’
‘I probably jostled him when I stumbled over his corpse. But the moment we realised that he was … well, we both backed away as fast as we could. I hurried to Michaelhouse, while Nicholas went to tell Lyng’s colleagues at Maud’s. He told them to bring a bier, students to carry it, and the necessary equipment for anointing a body, but they should be here soon.’
Michael gestured to his beadles, telling them to let Nicholas through.
‘It is not what you think, Brother,’ the secretary began in a frightened gabble. ‘We were looking for lost coins, to donate to the University Chest and—’
‘It is all right, Nicholas,’ said Thelnetham softly. ‘They know my habits from living with me at Michaelhouse. They do not judge us.’
‘Then I hope they will be discreet,’ gulped Nicholas, not much comforted. ‘Our friendship is private.’
‘It will not stay so,’ warned Michael. ‘People will wonder what you were doing down here together – and the tale will out if Thelnetham persists in standing for election, because he will be in the public eye. It will be better for you both if he withdraws.’
The Gilbertine smiled thinly. ‘I shall say the wind caught my hat, so I came to get it. No one need know that Nicholas was with me.’
‘But it would be a lie,’ said Michael. ‘From a man who aims to lead our University.’
‘I told you it was a mistake to trust him, Thelnetham,’ said Nicholas bitterly. ‘We should have sent him an anonymous message, as I suggested. Then no one would be trying to blackmail you.’
Thelnetham’s face was pale in the flickering torchlight. ‘I will not step down – it would be feeble to bow to pressure, and I am no weakling. Very well, then, Brother. Bray my secrets to the world if you must. I shall take the resulting censure in my stride.’
‘I am neither a gossip nor an extortionist,’ objected Michael huffily, although Bartholomew was not so sure about the second, given that he was so determined to see Suttone in power. ‘I will keep your trust. However, Weasenham is among the spectators, so do not be surprised if the truth – or some approximation of it – seeps out.’
Thelnetham inclined his head. ‘Thank you for the warning.’
‘Yet it is convenient for you that Lyng is dead,’ Michael went on. ‘He was by far the most popular candidate.’
‘Perhaps,’ acknowledged Thelnetham. ‘But I am quite capable of fighting with my tongue, and have no need to resort to physical violence. However, the same cannot be said of Godrich and Hopeman, so I suggest you look to them first.’
‘And Thelnetham has not been alone since Lyng disappeared anyway,’ added Nicholas. ‘He has either been out campaigning with me, or in his priory with his brethren. Between them and me, every moment of his time can be accounted for.’
‘You should speak to Suttone, too,’ said Thelnetham. ‘Just because he is your favourite does not mean that he is innocent. After all, why is he not here? All the other hopefuls are keen to learn what is happening in the University they aim to govern, so why does he keep his distance?’
When the Maud’s men arrived with the bier, Bartholomew helped them lift Lyng on it, after which they carried him to their church. The onlookers followed in silence, all cloaked and hooded against the bite of an icy winter morning. When they reached Holy Trinity, Father Aidan opened the door for the body and its bearers, then closed it firmly behind them, leaving the spectators to mill aimlessly in the graveyard, unwilling to disperse lest they missed something interesting. Hopeman was quick to take advantage, and began to speak in a self-important bellow, much to the annoyance of Godrich.
‘It is inappropriate to electioneer on an occasion such as this,’ he informed Michael imperiously. ‘So do your duty, and shut him up.’
Michael had actually drawn breath to silence Hopeman, but no one told the Senior Proctor how to do his job, and he resented the presumption extremely. He closed his mouth with a snap.
‘When will our University accept that it needs a righteous priest at its helm?’ Hopeman was bawling. ‘Satan has claimed Lyng’s life, showing us that he was not pious enough, but Godrich, Thelnetham and Suttone are worse.’
‘You zealot!’ sneered Godrich, abandoning the moral high ground when he saw that staying quiet would put him at a disadvantage. ‘God will not want a low-bred fellow like you as Chancellor. You would set the religious Orders at each other’s throats within a week.’
‘Yes – there will be factions,’ ranted Hopeman, eyes blazing. ‘Two: those who stand with me to fight evil, and those who delight in it. I do not need to ask which one you will be on.’
Godrich responded with a stream of insults that had the Dominican bristling his fury. Their followers responded in kind, and soon there were forty men haranguing each other. Thelnetham urged them to moderate their language, but no
one listened, and he retreated sharply when Godrich began berating him as well.
‘You should have listened to Godrich, and ordered that lunatic priest home,’ said Whittlesey, coming to murmur in Michael’s ear. ‘It would have averted an unedifying scene.’
‘There would have been no “unedifying scene” if Godrich had maintained a dignified silence,’ Michael shot back.
‘But a good leader would have quelled this spat before it started,’ argued Whittlesey. ‘Your decision to let Hopeman rail was a poor one.’
‘On the contrary,’ said Michael stiffly, ‘it is allowing our scholars to see both men in their true light, thus enabling them to make a more informed choice. In other words, it has reinforced Hopeman’s reputation as a truculent radical, and exposed Godrich as a man who does not know when to hold his tongue.’
‘And I suppose that makes Suttone more appealing?’ asked Whittlesey drily.
Michael smiled serenely. ‘I would say it does. However, you are right: this unseemly behaviour has gone on quite long enough.’
He waded into the mêlée just as words were turning to shoves, although it transpired to be much more difficult to restore peace than it had been to break it. Moreover, the raised voices had attracted additional spectators, including the kind of townsfolk who always appeared when the University was at loggerheads with itself, ready to join in any brawl.
‘Enough!’ roared Michael eventually, a stentorian bellow of which any member of his choir would have been proud. He scowled first at Godrich, then at Hopeman, and both had the sense to stay quiet. ‘Now tell me where have you been since eight o’clock on Thursday evening?’
A hush fell over the whole churchyard as people craned forward to listen to the replies.
‘I cannot possibly list all the places I have visited,’ declared Hopeman haughtily. ‘That was …’ He did some calculations on thick, grubby fingers; Godrich smirked his disdain that the Dominican should be unable to work it out in his head. ‘More than thirty-four hours ago. However, I was never alone. My followers were with me every moment.’
A Grave Concern: The Twenty Second Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew Book 22) Page 17
