‘Even during the night?’ asked Michael sceptically.
‘Yes,’ replied Hopeman firmly. ‘Even then.’
‘Except when he was in private conversation with God,’ put in one of the deacons helpfully. ‘Which was quite often, given that he is a favoured Son of Christ.’
‘But I keep my holy audiences short,’ said Hopeman hastily, and the disciple received a look that was none too friendly. ‘I assure you, Brother, I have had no time to kill anyone.’
‘And you, Godrich?’ asked Michael.
‘I do not have to answer that,’ retorted Godrich, but something in Michael’s face caused him to reconsider the wisdom of this response, because he added sullenly, ‘I spent most of it visiting convents and Colleges, outlining my vision of the University’s future.’
‘And the rest of the time?’ asked Michael.
Godrich raised his voice, to ensure that everyone could hear. ‘I have decided to buy books for some of our poorer foundations, so their masters have been flocking to King’s Hall to make their cases to me – day and night. And when I was not dispensing my largesse to our less fortunate colleagues, I was with Whittlesey.’
‘It is true, Brother,’ said Whittlesey with a smile. ‘I was with my cousin every moment that I was not with you.’
Michael turned to another matter. ‘How well did you know Moleyns?’
‘Not at all,’ replied Whittlesey pleasantly, although the question had actually been directed at Godrich. ‘Other than by reputation, of course.’
‘Nor did I,’ put in Hopeman. ‘I do not count felons among my acquaintances.’
‘That is curious,’ said Godrich slyly, ‘because I saw you with him at the castle – twice. Or are you going to tell us that you went there to save his soul?’
‘I did, as a matter of fact,’ said Hopeman, flushing angrily. ‘But it was too steeped in sin for rescue, even by me. However, you were his friend – you went to Stoke Poges like an errand boy, spying there, to see what was happening on his behalf.’
‘What is this?’ demanded Michael, eyes narrowing as he regarded the King’s Hall man intently. ‘You did favours for Moleyns?’
Godrich shrugged carelessly, although his eyes revealed his dismay. ‘I happened to be passing, so I looked in on the place for him. However, it was Lyng who should have done it, not me. Tell him why, Thelnetham.’
While Godrich and Hopeman were being grilled by Michael, the Gilbertine had been standing quietly to one side with Nicholas. He started in surprise when Godrich whipped around to address him, and stepped forward reluctantly.
‘Not here, Godrich,’ he said softly. ‘Not when Lyng lies dead in the—’
‘He is past caring,’ interrupted Godrich, a callous remark that had a number of listeners exchanging glances of disapproval. ‘Now tell the Senior Proctor what you know.’
‘Lyng hailed from the village next to Stoke Poges,’ replied Thelnetham, although he spoke with obvious reluctance. ‘Last term, he regaled me with an account of the delights of Buckinghamshire for an entire evening.’
‘Why did you not mention it before?’ demanded Michael. ‘You must see it is important.’
‘Is it?’ asked Godrich slyly. ‘Why? Did you suspect Lyng of being the killer then?’
‘Of course not,’ lied Michael. ‘But these coincidences matter. I should have been told.’
‘How can they matter?’ asked Nicholas, defensive of his friend. ‘All Moleyns’ estates – including Stoke Poges – were confiscated when he was convicted.’
‘Yes, but the King promised to restore them to him,’ argued Michael. ‘And Moleyns certainly considered himself Lord of the Manor still.’ He scowled at the Gilbertine. ‘What about Tynkell? Will I later learn that he had connections to Stoke Poges as well?’
‘He hailed from Hertfordshire,’ replied Thelnetham. ‘Miles away. However, he was working on a scheme to get Stoke Poges’ chapel for the University, so he must have visited it at some point. After all, how else would he have known that it was worth having?’
‘He did what?’ exploded Michael. ‘He never mentioned it to me.’
‘Perhaps he was afraid you would stop him,’ shrugged Thelnetham, ‘which he would not have wanted, as it represented his last chance to make his mark on the University.’
‘I would have stopped him,’ declared Michael vehemently. ‘We cannot accept property from a place with links to a convicted felon! What would our other benefactors think?’
‘Thank God that Tynkell is dead,’ brayed Godrich. ‘He was a fool with his reckless ideas. After all, look what happened when he tried to foist a new College on us.’
‘And a Common Library,’ put in Principal Haye of White Hostel. ‘A venture doomed to failure from the start. Poor Tynkell! We shall have to ensure he is not forgotten by building him a nice tomb instead.’
Hopeman was more interested in exploiting the revelations about Stoke Poges. ‘Moleyns’ old manor is a popular place. Godrich, Lyng and Tynkell all visited it. Oh, and so did Thelnetham, of course. In the summer. He told me so himself.’
Michael turned to the Gilbertine, only to find he was no longer there.
‘He has gone to attend terce,’ explained Nicholas. ‘He will not forsake his sacred offices, even if others put their devotions second to gossiping in graveyards.’
Several listeners nodded approvingly, although others resented the censure, and as a ploy to gain votes, the remark had probably lost Thelnetham more support than it had won. As the Gilbertine was unavailable, Hopeman resumed his attack on Godrich.
‘He was Moleyns’ bosom friend,’ he declared, stabbing an accusing finger. ‘And I have always said that one can judge a man by the company he keeps.’
No one spoke, but all eyes went to the grim-faced fanatics who were ranged behind him.
‘Are you disparaging Moleyns, Hopeman?’ asked Godrich sweetly. ‘Then I must tell the King. Moleyns was a favourite of his, and I am sure he will be interested to know what you—’
‘I cannot waste time here when there is holy work to be done,’ interrupted Hopeman, sensing he was on uncertain ground, and so opting to exit on his own terms. ‘Come, brothers. Let us be about our saintly business.’
He and his deacons marched away, chanting a psalm. Their voices were loud, and it was still early, so a number of lamps went on in the houses they passed. Bartholomew winced, sure there would be complaints about the racket later.
The rest of the morning was taken up with trying to ascertain exactly what had happened to the hapless Lyng. A more detailed examination of his body revealed brown dust on his heels – it matched the road’s, suggesting that he had been attacked in the open and dragged out of sight afterwards. Michael and Bartholomew started their investigation in the Hall of Valence Marie, the buildings of which were closest to the scene of the crime.
‘And you noticed nothing amiss?’ asked Michael of its Master, John Tinmew. ‘No quarrel in the street, or mysterious shadows along the King’s Ditch?’
‘Of course not, or we would have told you,’ replied Tinmew. ‘Yet I cannot say I am sorry that Lyng is dead. He was not as kindly as he wanted everyone to think, and was too fond of the hostels for my liking. Now he is out of the running, Godrich will be Chancellor.’
‘Will he indeed?’ murmured Michael. ‘What makes you think so?’
‘He has the backing of all the Colleges except Michaelhouse, and Lyng’s death means the hostels will switch their support to him – because of his free-book campaign.’
‘Do you really want a Chancellor who has bought the post?’ asked Michael in distaste.
‘Why not, if he can afford it?’ shrugged Tinmew.
‘Why do you prefer Godrich to the other candidates?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.
‘Because Hopeman is a fanatic, while there must be some reason why Michaelhouse refused to reinstate Thelnetham after he resigned. He probably has a dark secret, which means he is not the sort of man we want.’
‘Then vote for Suttone,’ urged Michael. ‘He is neither a fanatic nor a man with nasty secrets. Moreover, like you, he is a College man – and one who lives in a foundation that is home to the Senior Proctor into the bargain.’
But Tinmew shook his head. ‘While I applaud his modern views on women, I cannot vote for someone who thinks we will all be dead of the plague in a few months. It means he is unlikely to develop any meaningful forward-looking policies.’
Next, Michael visited Peterhouse, while Bartholomew went to the King’s Head. Scholars entered this particular tavern at their peril, but most of its patrons were his patients, so while he was not welcomed with open arms, he was at least allowed inside. Unfortunately, everyone claimed that the first they had known about a body on the banks of the King’s Ditch was a horrified screech from Thelnetham.
‘Slugs,’ explained Gundrede. ‘We just assumed that one had bitten him back.’
‘Normally, it would have been me who found Lyng,’ added Isnard, ‘because I go past that spot every Saturday morning, delivering coal to the Austins. But I did something else today.’
‘What?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking the question simply begged to be put, but Isnard turned furtive and refused to reply.
‘Ask the tomb-makers if they killed Lyng,’ suggested Gundrede helpfully. ‘After all, they were conspicuous by their absence today – everyone else came to see what was going on.’
‘It was still early,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Most folk were still in bed.’
‘Then no wonder they take so long to do their work,’ said Isnard contemptuously. ‘I had been up for hours by then, and …’
He trailed off when Gundrede shot him a warning glance. Bartholomew did not want to hear more, lest he learned something he would be obliged to report, so he left the tavern and went to see if Michael had finished in Peterhouse. The monk had, and was standing outside it, talking to Tulyet and Helbye.
‘Lyng was last seen alive on Thursday evening,’ Michael was saying, ‘and while Matt thinks he was probably killed soon afterwards, he cannot prove it. Not surprisingly, no one is able to provide alibis for the whole time.’
‘Thelnetham can,’ said Bartholomew. ‘In the form of Nicholas or his fellow Gilbertines.’
‘So can Egidia and Inge,’ said Helbye. ‘The Sheriff ordered a watch put on them when they went to stay in the Griffin, so they have been under surveillance since Thursday afternoon. And we started monitoring the tomb-makers after Reames lost his brains yesterday.’
‘If you mean the kind of surveillance that you deployed on Moleyns, I am disinclined to trust it,’ said Michael coolly. ‘We have witnesses who say he slipped out of the castle to commit crimes all over the town, and if he could corrupt your guards, then others can, too. I had planned to visit you this morning, to ask you about it, but you have saved me the trek.’
‘What nonsense is this?’ demanded Tulyet. ‘Moleyns did nothing of the sort, I assure you.’
‘He was wealthy,’ said Michael. ‘And your soldiers are poorly paid—’
‘No!’ snapped Helbye, although there was alarm in his eyes. ‘Our men would never put money before their duties.’
‘Who told you this tale, Brother?’ asked Tulyet coolly. ‘A scholar?’
‘I cannot say,’ replied Michael, while Bartholomew suddenly found a hole in his sleeve to examine, which allowed him to avoid Tulyet’s eyes. ‘However, it is true, because I mentioned it to my beadles, and several say they saw Moleyns out without an escort after dark. They assumed it was with your blessing, and were astonished when I told them that was unlikely.’
Tulyet turned so furiously on Helbye that the sergeant took an involuntary step backwards. ‘Tell me this is untrue.’
‘Of course it is untrue!’ cried Helbye. ‘You know how carefully we watched Moleyns. He never went out unless you or I was with him.’
‘My beadles saw him at night,’ said Michael. ‘So I suspect he waited until you were tucked up safely in your beds, then used his purse on less scrupulous individuals.’
Tulyet was appalled. ‘Christ’s blood! What if he had taken it into his head to escape? The King would have had me executed!’
‘No!’ insisted Helbye stoutly. ‘None of this is true. Your beadles are mistaken, Brother. I watched Moleyns every waking moment. I swear I did.’
Tulyet rubbed his eyes. ‘Yes, you are above reproach, Will. However, the same cannot be said for all the villains under our command.’
‘Moleyns preyed on the “friends” who visited him in the castle,’ Michael continued, ‘after he had cajoled them into revealing where they kept their money. He did not steal all of it, of course, as that would have raised eyebrows. But he took enough to keep him in ready cash.’
‘He was always flush with funds,’ acknowledged Tulyet. ‘I often asked him how, given that most of his property had been confiscated, and he always told me that Inge got it for him. Yet he was frequently heavy-eyed in the mornings, but would never explain why …’
‘Vicar Frisby loved carousing into the small hours with him,’ recalled Bartholomew, ‘but sometimes, Moleyns cancelled the revels or claimed he was too tired. I suspect these “early nights” coincided with his rambles outside the castle walls.’
Tulyet sagged against a wall as the evidence mounted. ‘When he first arrived, we crossed swords – he tried to bully me and I resisted. He vowed then that he would make me sorry. Well, it seems he has succeeded, because I shall never live this down.’
‘Could Egidia and Inge have been involved as well?’ asked Michael.
‘Unlikely.’ It was Helbye who answered, his cheeks burning with shame. ‘They had separate rooms – at Moleyns’ insistence. He said it was because he snored, and he did not want to bother them …’
‘But it was to prevent them from seeing what he was doing,’ finished Tulyet heavily. ‘God damn the man!’
‘So let us recap what we know about the relationships between our three victims,’ said Michael, feeling the recriminations had gone on quite long enough, and it was time to change the focus of the discussion. ‘Moleyns and Lyng hailed from neighbouring villages; Moleyns whispered something to Lyng shortly before his death; Lyng and Tynkell were friends and fellow scholars; Moleyns sent invitations for Tynkell to meet him in St Mary the Great …’
‘And Lyng carried messages between them,’ finished Bartholomew. ‘Cook was there, too – not with Lyng, but while the other two chatted. We should speak to him about it.’
‘I had better do it – he is unlikely to cooperate with you.’ Tulyet turned to Michael. ‘Do you think Moleyns used Lyng and Tynkell to help him steal?’
‘I cannot see them burgling the town’s worthies,’ replied the monk evenly, while Bartholomew kept his eyes on the hole in his jerkin again. ‘However, Nicholas said Tynkell changed after Moleyns arrived, and took to shutting himself in his office. Perhaps he was being blackmailed …’
‘Yet Kolvyle told me that their discussion was amiable,’ said Tulyet. ‘Which would not have been the case, if one had been forcing the other to act against his will.’
Michael frowned, annoyed that the youth had confided something to the Sheriff that he had not mentioned to the Senior Proctor; he already knew it from Nicholas, but that was hardly the point.
‘Inge claimed they discussed siege engines,’ he mused, ‘although Kolvyle disagreed …’
‘So do I,’ said Tulyet firmly. ‘Moleyns might have been a knight, but he was no warrior, and if Tynkell had wanted to find out about weapons, he would have asked me.’ He rubbed his eyes again. ‘You two had better explore these peculiar ties between our three victims, while I find out how Moleyns contrived to escape. And when I do, heads will roll.’
Michael and Bartholomew went on their way, but had not gone far before Whittlesey appeared, asking if he might observe them at work. There was something about the suave Benedictine that Bartholomew did not like at all, and he was about to suggest that Michael used the envoy as a
helpmeet instead, when Whittlesey stumbled over a pothole. He yelped, and hobbled away to perch on a nearby trough, rubbing his knee and wincing.
‘I hurt myself falling down the stairs on Thursday night,’ he explained. ‘Barber Cook stitched it up, but it still hurts like the Devil.’
‘Cook?’ echoed Michael in distaste. ‘Why would you demean yourself by hiring him?’
‘Because he offered me a free haircut at the same time,’ explained Whittlesey, ‘and my tonsure needed attention. Besides, Godrich summoned him almost before I had picked myself up. My cousin is very solicitous of me, and is never far away. It would not surprise me to learn that he is watching over me now in fact.’
Michael glanced around irritably, disliking the notion that he was being monitored by unseen eyes. ‘Matt will ease the pain in your leg, Whittlesey. He has a rare talent with knees.’
‘Good,’ said Whittlesey, and snapped imperious fingers. ‘Come, Bartholomew, we shall use the Cardinal’s Cap. It is far too cold to sit around out here.’
He began to limp towards it before Bartholomew could respond. The physician was sorely tempted to ignore such an impolite order, leaving the arrogant Benedictine to wait inside in vain, but Michael chose that moment to waylay Master Heltisle of Bene’t College, another person Bartholomew disliked, and Whittlesey was the lesser of two evils. He entered the inn, and found the envoy sitting on a bench by the window.
‘You did this tumbling down some stairs?’ he asked, examining the damaged joint.
‘Yes, and it was most embarrassing. I fear some King’s Hall men thought I was drunk.’
‘And were you?’
‘No,’ said Whittlesey indignantly. ‘Here is a shilling for your pains – conditional on you posing no more impertinent questions.’
It was an enormous sum, and would replenish nicely Bartholomew’s dwindling stock of remedies for lung-rot. He nodded acceptance of the terms, then called for hot water and bathed the wound before removing Cook’s tight little stiches – the gash was long, but shallow, and did not need them. He smeared it with a healing balm, then covered it with a clean dressing.
A Grave Concern: The Twenty Second Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew Book 22) Page 18
