‘That is the third time you have washed your hands since we came in,’ remarked the envoy when Bartholomew had finished. ‘And Cook tells me that you are in the habit of boiling bandages over the kitchen fire. It strikes me that these are peculiar practices. Overly finicky.’
‘Perhaps,’ shrugged Bartholomew. ‘But they seem to prevent festering. Of course, I do not understand why …’
‘Then perhaps you should spend more time reading,’ suggested Whittlesey. ‘The answer will be somewhere in the vast body of literature available to diligent practitioners. However, you have eased my pain, so I shall not complain too loudly about your academic shortcomings.’
‘Good,’ said Bartholomew coolly. ‘Come back to see me in a—’
He faltered when the door burst open and Cook stormed in. Kolvyle was at his heels, and the younger scholar’s face was bright with malice.
‘You see?’ Kolvyle said. ‘I told you he was in here with one of your patients.’
‘This is an outrage!’ howled Cook, shoving Bartholomew away with considerable force. ‘You are a physician, not a surgeon. You have no right to tend my clients’ wounds.’
‘I asked him to do it,’ said Whittlesey, standing quickly and raising his hand to prevent Cook from pushing Bartholomew again. ‘He did not volunteer. And I am glad of it, as it happens, because I am much more comfortable now. You could learn a lot from him.’
It was not a diplomatic remark, and served to send Cook into even greater paroxysms of fury. His voice rose to a shriek, and spittle flew from his mouth. Worse, he began wagging his finger, a gesture that Bartholomew had always found intensely annoying.
‘Stick to urine flasks and astrological charts,’ he screeched, and the offending digit came so close to Bartholomew’s face that it was in danger of poking out an eye. ‘The next time you trespass in my domain, the Worshipful Company of Barbers will crush you like a snail.’
‘Do not bother suing him though,’ put in Kolvyle poisonously. ‘He does not have any money, because he spends it all on the poor. That is why they go to him for treatment. You would be a rich man, Cook, if it were not for his misguided generosity.’
Incensed, Cook lurched forward and grabbed the front of Bartholomew’s tabard. ‘You arrogant bastard! Poach my business again and I will break your—’
He did not finish, because Bartholomew thrust him away, hard enough to send him crashing into a table, where he suffered a painfully cracked elbow. More livid than ever, Cook surged forward a second time, finger at the ready. Bartholomew could not help himself. When it wagged in his face, he grabbed it and squeezed as hard as he could.
‘They come to me because they do not want to die,’ he said, in a quiet voice that nevertheless held considerable menace. Cook’s eyes widened in alarm. ‘And the next time I see evidence of your incompetence, I will tell the Sheriff to prosecute you. Is that clear?’
He held the finger a little longer, then released it abruptly. Cook gazed at him with open hatred, and Bartholomew supposed he should have controlled his temper. He did not want a feud with a fellow practitioner, and was sorry that he and the barber had failed to find a way to work together. However, he was tired of standing by while Cook butchered his patients, and his threat had not been an idle one.
‘You will not win,’ hissed Cook. ‘I will kill you first.’
‘Such hot words,’ said Whittlesey reproachfully. ‘It is hardly becoming. Come, both of you. Shake hands, and agree to be friends.’
‘Never!’ declared Cook hotly, while Kolvyle smirked at his side. ‘I would sooner cut off my right arm than make peace with him. But his days are numbered and—’
‘Why were you in St Mary the Great with Tynkell and Moleyns?’ interrupted Bartholomew, going on an offensive of his own and ignoring the voice in his head that told him to leave such questions to Tulyet. ‘The Chancellor was my patient, so do not say you were consulting them on a matter of medicine.’
‘That is none of your affair.’
‘Then tell me where you were on Thursday night,’ ordered Bartholomew, more than ever convinced that a sly jab in the heart would not be beneath the loathsome barber.
‘I was with customers. Lots of them, so do not think to accuse me of killing Lyng, because I have plenty of alibis.’
But worthless ones, thought Bartholomew, if Cook had been traipsing from house to house. After all, how long would it take to hit an elderly priest over the head, stab him, and drag the body out of sight?
‘You will probably die from his ministrations, and it will serve you right,’ Cook snarled at Whittlesey, before spinning on his heel and stalking out.
Kolvyle watched him go with spiteful satisfaction, so Bartholomew rounded on him.
‘Why did you bring him here? What have you achieved?’
‘I have exposed a physician who treads on the toes of barber-surgeons,’ replied Kolvyle haughtily. ‘It is time you chose between medicine and scholarship, Bartholomew, as it is obvious that you cannot do both.’
Bartholomew did not rise to the bait, but only because Whittlesey was there, and he did not want witnesses when he gave Kolvyle the benefit of a few home truths.
‘I shall bear it in mind,’ he said mildly. ‘So tell me: how well did you know Lyng, Tynkell and Moleyns?’
‘Oh, I see,’ sneered Kolvyle. ‘You aim to accuse me of being the killer now. Well, I am sorry to disappoint you, Bartholomew, but I am innocent. I cannot prove where I was every moment since Thursday night, but neither can anyone else. Including you.’
‘Moleyns, Cook, the tomb-builders,’ listed Bartholomew. ‘You were friends with all of them in Nottingham, and you have continued the association since – criminals, charlatans and men engaged in a bitter rivalry. You—’
‘My private life is none of your concern,’ interrupted Kolvyle indignantly. ‘And the tomb-makers are not my friends, thank you very much. I do not associate with commoners.’ Then he whipped around to address Whittlesey. ‘And speaking of Nottingham, you were there, too. I always thought it odd that you happened to be passing just when Dallingridge was poisoned.’
‘He was poisoned?’ pounced Bartholomew, although he was astonished to learn that the Benedictine had been in Nottingham during that fateful time – and that he should be in Cambridge now. ‘You always claim he died of natural causes. Have your changed your mind?’
Kolvyle’s face was as black as thunder. ‘Do not make an enemy of me, Bartholomew. You will not win, and you will end up being more sorry than you can possibly imagine.’
‘I have never liked him,’ confided Whittlesey, when the youngster had gone. ‘He might have a brilliant mind, but his character leaves much to be desired. I hope he cuts a niche for himself in academia, because I should not like him to join the Church.’
‘Were you in Nottingham when Dallingridge first became ill?’ asked Bartholomew. He would not mind at all if Whittlesey transpired to be the culprit, although it would not be as satisfying as seeing Cook accused, of course.
Whittlesey shook his head. ‘I arrived a few days later, with my cousin Godrich. And we did just happen to be passing, no matter what that vituperative little brat claims.’
When Bartholomew returned to Michael, having cunningly dispensed with Whittlesey’s company by advising him to rest his leg, the monk was with Father Aidan. The Principal’s face was wet with tears, which had attracted a circle of interested onlookers. Sobbing, he was telling Michael that he could not talk in the street, but that he might be able to manage a short conversation in Maud’s after he had downed a restorative cup of wine. Any number of people heard the remark, and there was much malicious sniggering. As it was so cold, hoods shielded faces, but Bartholomew was fairly sure Cook and Kolvyle were responsible for some of it. Richard Deynman came to put a comforting arm around Aidan’s shoulders.
‘I shall want that letter,’ warned Michael. ‘The unopened one from Lyng’s room.’
‘Softly, Brother,’ murmured Bartholomew, disliki
ng the way so many spectators were brazenly hanging on their every word.
Michael lowered his voice as he continued to address Aidan. ‘It might contain a vital clue. Unless you have opened it already?’
‘Of course not!’ declared Richard, before his Principal could reply for himself. ‘Maud’s men do not read other people’s personal correspondence. We leave that for less scrupulous individuals. Like senior proctors.’
There was more chortling among the listeners, which Michael ignored. He indicated that Aidan should return to Maud’s at once, where they could talk without an audience, and fell into step behind him. Bartholomew went, too, at the same time telling the monk what had happened in the Cardinal’s Cap. Michael, however, was more interested in how Moleyns had contrived to escape from the castle.
‘Because of Helbye,’ he said. ‘The man has become a liability. Of course, it was the journey to Nottingham to collect Moleyns that did it – it was too hard a jaunt for a man his age, and it has prompted a fatal decline.’
‘Yet I understand why Dick is reluctant to replace him,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Helbye has been his right-hand man for longer than he cares to remember, just as Cynric has been mine, and Meadowman is yours. That sort of trust takes years to build.’
‘Except that Dick’s was betrayed. Not deliberately – I am sure Helbye would sooner die – but the plain fact is that he was let down.’
Bartholomew was about to return to the more interesting subject of Cook, when there was a flicker of movement in the trees at the end of St Bene’t’s churchyard. It was a strange place for anyone to be, so he stopped to look.
‘I saw it, too,’ said Michael. He pointed suddenly. ‘There! By the wall.’
Bartholomew opened the churchyard gate, which precipitated an immediate flurry of activity. Several figures materialised from behind the graves and ran to a cart, which they began shoving as fast as the frozen ground would allow. It was not quick enough, and Bartholomew soon caught up with them, although when he saw so many chisels and mallets brandished, he wished he had not bothered.
‘Put those down,’ ordered Michael sternly from behind him. ‘How dare you menace members of the University. Do you not know that I can fine you for belligerent behaviour?’
‘Oh, it is you,’ said Petit with a sickly grin, indicating that his apprentices were to lower their ‘weapons’. ‘We thought it was Isnard and his cronies. Or worse, that rogue Lakenham. He would love to catch us out here with this.’
Bemused, Bartholomew lifted the blanket that covered the cart and peered underneath. Lying there were several flat metal plates.
‘Brasses!’ he exclaimed. ‘Are they Lakenham’s?’
‘No, they are not,’ snapped Petit crossly. ‘They are mine.’
‘But you are a mason – you work with stone, not metal. Are these the materials that Lakenham thinks have been stolen from him?’
‘No, they are the supplies I ordered from London,’ replied Petit curtly. He sighed irritably when Bartholomew raised sceptical eyebrows. ‘All right, all right, I will explain. Normally, when a client wants a bit of brass on his tomb, I subcontract a lattener to do the work. However, in Cambridge, that means hiring Lakenham—’
‘And we would sooner die than do him a favour,’ put in the freckle-faced Peres. ‘So we have decided to make the brasses ourselves instead.’
‘But Lakenham will make a dreadful fuss if he finds out,’ Petit went on. ‘For trespassing on his professional domain. So we are obliged to keep them hidden until it is too late for him to do anything about it.’
‘Not to mention the fact that he will try to pinch them,’ added Peres. ‘As he has pinched so much else. Now, if you do not mind, we need to hide them before he sees.’
Petit nodded to his apprentices, and together they hastened to trundle their haul away, hoods drawn up to hide their faces. They looked so manifestly suspicious that Bartholomew was sure the Sheriff’s men would stop them if their paths crossed, regardless of whether or not they were doing anything illegal.
‘Will you tell Dick, Brother?’ asked Bartholomew, when they had gone. ‘I am sure he will be interested.’
Michael nodded. ‘Moreover, that little encounter has just placed Petit and his boys at the top of my list of murder suspects. Perhaps Lyng caught them doing something similar, so they stabbed him to keep him quiet. They also knew Moleyns from Nottingham, and may have killed Tynkell in the hope of winning the commission for his tomb.’
‘Cook remains my first choice,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He was in Nottingham as well, where he was Dallingridge’s medicus. He probably poisoned him to win a wealthy patient.’
Michael blinked. ‘Lord, Matt. That is a wild leap in logic, even for you.’
‘Not so – Dallingridge lingered for weeks, so Cook would have earned a fortune from tending him. Then here, Cook tried to convince us that Moleyns was not murdered; he was to hand when both Moleyns and Tynkell died; he cannot prove his whereabouts for Lyng’s death; and he met Tynkell and Moleyns slyly in St Mary the Great. He is our killer. I am sure of it.’
‘We shall bear it in mind,’ said Michael, although he failed to look convinced. ‘However, our list is a lengthy one, because it also includes Egidia and Inge, Kolvyle—’
‘Oh, yes – Kolvyle is certainly on it,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘Especially now that I have experienced first-hand the depth of his malice.’
‘Then there are the men who want to be Chancellor: Godrich, Thelnetham and Hopeman.’
‘Not Suttone?’ Bartholomew felt treacherous for asking.
‘Do not be ridiculous, Matt. He is a member of Michaelhouse.’
‘So was Thelnetham.’
‘True, but Suttone was not ousted from it for being disagreeable.’
Bartholomew supposed that was true. ‘We should include Whittlesey as well.’
Michael frowned. ‘Whittlesey? Why on Earth would you accuse him?’
‘Because I have just learned that he was in Nottingham when Dallingridge was poisoned as well, and—’
‘No, he was not,’ interrupted Michael. ‘He arrived a few days later.’
‘So he claims,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But can we believe him?’ He hurried on before Michael could answer. ‘Then people started to die the moment he came here, and I had the sense that he was lying to me about how he cut his leg. Perhaps solving these crimes is a test for you – to see whether you are good enough to step into Sheppey’s shoes.’
‘That would be rather an extreme way to find out,’ said Michael, wide-eyed. ‘And I cannot believe it of him. However, we shall keep him on our list, if it pleases you. Why not? We can no more eliminate him than any of the others.’
They reached Maud’s Hostel to find Richard waiting to let them in. He escorted them to Aidan’s quarters, where the Principal was downing a very large cup of wine to steady his nerves.
‘I cannot believe it,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Poor Lyng …’
‘Are you sure he did not tell you where he was going on Thursday?’ asked Michael. ‘Now he has been murdered, you will appreciate that the question is important.’
‘It was important when he was missing,’ countered Aidan bitterly. ‘Learning his plans now cannot help him.’
‘No,’ said Michael quietly. ‘But it might help us catch his killer.’
‘You want the case solved, so you can flounce off to Rochester and begin your new life,’ said Aidan accusingly. ‘While the rest of us remain here, steeped in grief.’
‘He wants it solved to prevent the killer from striking again,’ said Bartholomew gently. ‘And so that Lyng and the others will have the justice they deserve.’
‘The tomb-builders will be in for a disappointment, though,’ Aidan went on, ignoring him, ‘because Lyng did not want a monument. He specifically asked to be buried in the churchyard with a simple wooden cross. He was a modest man, whose only ambition was to serve a fourth term as Chancellor.’
‘Shall we discuss his last known movemen
ts now, Brother?’ asked Richard brightly. ‘I have painstakingly visited all his favourite haunts, so I know exactly where he went and what he did on Thursday. Shall I tell you?’
‘Go on, then,’ said Michael warily. If Richard was anything like his brother, the testimony would have to be taken with a very large pinch of salt.
‘Well, after breakfast he visited St Austin’s and Bede’s hostels to ask for their votes. Then he went to the Market Square, to make speeches with the other candidates.’
‘The event was acrimonious, and it distressed him,’ recalled Aidan. ‘He said it made the four of them look like squabbling schoolboys, so he came back here to lie down and recover.’
Richard nodded. ‘When he felt better, he got up and visited Copped Hall and Physwick, before coming home for dinner.’
‘He ate a whole pig’s heart,’ put in Aidan. ‘It was his favourite. I was a little peeved, actually, as I should have liked a slice myself, but he did not offer. Thank God I did not make a fuss! It was his last meal, and I might have ruined it for him.’
‘Then he went out yet again,’ Richard continued. ‘It was roughly eight o’clock – very late – and I accompanied him as far as the High Street, where I turned towards Michaelhouse to visit my brother.’
‘Did he speak to anyone along the way?’ asked Michael.
‘Oh, yes, lots of people. First, there was that sinister Benedictine who works for the Bishop of Rochester. They muttered together for ages while I waited.’
‘Whittlesey?’ asked Michael uneasily. ‘Did you hear what they discussed?’
‘No, because they were whispering.’ Richard looked sheepish. ‘I did try to eavesdrop, but they saw me and moved away. After, Lyng and I walked on a few paces until we were stopped by Cook, who told him that he needed a haircut. That horrid Michaelhouse lad was with him – the one who thinks the rest of us are stupid, and that only he is good enough to be a scholar.’
‘Kolvyle might have an outstanding mind, but a lesson in humility would not go amiss,’ agreed Aidan. ‘He told me the other day that Maud’s should be suppressed, on the grounds that we are an embarrassment to the University. It was rude.’
A Grave Concern: The Twenty Second Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew Book 22) Page 19
