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

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘You should have boxed his ears,’ said Michael. ‘If he insults you again, you have my permission to do it. And when he complains, I shall fine him for being an irritating little brat.’

  Aidan smiled for the first time. ‘I might hold you to that, Brother.’

  Michael turned back to Richard. ‘Who else did Lyng greet?’

  ‘Suttone, Thelnetham, Moleyns’ wife, Godrich, the Mayor, and some of the tomb-builders, although I cannot tell you which ones, because it was too dark to tell. But I know it was them because they were muttering about casement-and-bowtell edge moulding.’

  ‘So virtually all our suspects saw Lyng out and about after nightfall,’ mused Michael. He turned to Aidan. ‘But I had better read this letter now. Let us hope it contains something helpful.’

  ‘I shall fetch it for you,’ offered Richard, and thundered up the stairs before Michael could inform him that he would rather go himself – and take the opportunity for another rummage through Lyng’s belongings at the same time. There was silence, followed by a shriek.

  Bartholomew exchanged a glance of mystification with Michael, then hurried upstairs to find out what was happening. He flung open the door to Lyng’s room just in time to see a black shape slither across the floor and start to climb through a window. Unfortunately, all the other shutters were closed to exclude the inclement weather, making it too dim to see properly. Richard was a blubbering heap in the corner.

  ‘The Devil!’ he wept. ‘It is Satan himself!’

  Bartholomew was sure it was not, especially as there was a very human curse when the invader’s cloak caught on a nail. He darted after him but ‘Satan’ freed himself quickly and began scrambling down the ivy-coated wall outside. Bartholomew leaned out after him, and managed to snag enough of his hood to stop him from going any further, but not enough to haul him back up again.

  ‘I came in, and Lucifer was standing in the middle of the room,’ wailed Deynman, as Michael and Aidan hurried in to find out what was happening. ‘Which it why it is so cold in here – an icy blast from Hell.’

  ‘Hell is hot,’ said Michael authoritatively. ‘Your “icy blast” came from the open window.’

  ‘What was Satan doing?’ breathed Aidan, while Bartholomew struggled to get a better grip on his quarry.

  ‘Nothing,’ gulped Richard. ‘But I saw the red gleam of his terrible eyes – in a face that was invisible under its hood.’

  ‘You could see his eyes but not his face?’ demanded Michael sceptically. He hurried to the window, reaching it just as Bartholomew’s tenuous hold on the hood snapped loose, allowing the culprit to continue his escape unimpeded. ‘After him, Matt!’

  ‘You do it,’ retorted Bartholomew. It was a long way down, and the ivy was covered in frost and icicles.

  ‘With my heavy bones? Are you mad? Quickly now, or he will escape.’

  ‘Then go down to the yard and cut him off,’ ordered Bartholomew, unwilling to take all the risks while everyone else just stood and watched.

  He clambered over the sill, and took hold of a branch, wincing at the cold, slick feel of it on his fingers. Then he began to descend, although rather more gingerly than ‘Satan’ had done. His caution was not misplaced: the invader’s frantic flight had loosened the plant’s hold on the wall, and it began to peel away. Alarmed, Bartholomew tried to move faster, aware of his quarry swearing pithily below as bits of ice and vegetation began to shower down on him.

  Then, with a swishing hiss, the whole thing tore free, sending Bartholomew and the invader tumbling to the yard below, although their fall was cushioned by leaves and branches. The ivy kept coming after they had landed, though, and Bartholomew found himself submerged in foliage. By the time he had fought free of its prickly embrace, ‘Satan’ had gone.

  ‘Did you do all this damage, Matt?’ came Michael’s voice from somewhere on the other side of the green mountain. ‘Heavens! I am glad I did not listen to you and attempt it myself. I might have been hurt.’

  ‘The Devil flew away,’ shouted Richard, who had recovered from his gibbering fright and was standing with Aidan at the window. ‘If he had tried to clamber down the branches, like Doctor Bartholomew did, he would also be entangled in the leaves. But he has gone!’

  ‘Just as he soared away after Tynkell was stabbed,’ gulped Aidan. ‘We are fortunate he did not kill you, too, Bartholomew.’

  ‘That was a person,’ said Michael firmly. ‘Not Lucifer. And he stole Lyng’s letter, because it is no longer in his room. It was the killer, of course, making off with the clue that would have exposed him.’

  ‘Yes, and you told him you were coming for it,’ said Bartholomew in a low voice. ‘You announced your intentions in the graveyard, and lots of people heard. Most were hooded, so I cannot tell you who they were, but I am sure Cook and Kolvyle were among them.’

  ‘So were Godrich and Hopeman,’ said Michael. ‘It is a wretched shame that Richard raced upstairs before we could stop him. If you or I had gone, the villain would now be in custody.’

  CHAPTER 8

  As Bartholomew was keen to ensure that his students were on track with the reading he had set, he and Michael returned to Michaelhouse, where the monk took the opportunity to give Langelee an update on their findings. Suttone listened, too, on the grounds that he should know what was happening in the University he would soon be running. He nodded sagely, but when Michael asked for his opinion as to the culprit’s identity, he mumbled an excuse and shuffled off to the kitchens in search of food.

  ‘Are you sure he is up to the task?’ asked Langelee worriedly. ‘Obviously, I would love to see a Michaelhouse man in charge. But Suttone … well, he has his failings.’

  ‘Kolvyle has been saying the same,’ sighed Michael. ‘So will you keep the brat here until the election is over? His disloyalty is doing Suttone great harm, and I shall devise a pretext to expel him when I have a spare moment. Perhaps I can banish him to Oxford. That will teach him not to cross me.’

  ‘I know how to occupy him today,’ said Langelee. ‘He can give the Saturday Sermon.’

  He referred to a tradition that he had started, where the Fellows took it in turns to lecture on a light-hearted subject of his choosing, after which there was a debate. Michael laughed.

  ‘Excellent! He takes himself far too seriously, and Matt’s lads will heckle him if he tries to regale them with some tedious monologue on law. It will show him that he is fallible.’

  He had arranged to meet Tulyet in the Brazen George again, so he and Bartholomew hurried there as soon as the physician was satisfied that his pupils were not falling behind with their work. They arrived to find the Sheriff waiting, having ordered a very modest meal. There was one salted herring and a hard-boiled egg each, along with a dish of pickled onions to share.

  ‘We caught Petit lugging brasses about on a cart not long ago,’ said Michael, taking one look at the spread, and indicating that the landlord was to bring something more suitable. ‘I assume they belong to Lakenham, although Petit denied it, of course.’

  Tulyet nodded. ‘Helbye cornered him by the Trumpington Gate, and brought him to the castle to explain himself. I was delighted – I thought we had our thief at last. Unfortunately, the metal is his – he has receipts to prove it.’

  ‘Then the thief must be Lakenham,’ said Bartholomew.

  Tulyet shook his head. ‘The latest crime is to his detriment – the brass he made for Cew has been stolen. It disappeared at roughly the same time that Petit was with me, which suggests that neither is the guilty party. And there is the fact that they are under surveillance – if they had stolen Cew’s plate, we would have noticed. Which leaves Isnard and Gundrede.’

  ‘You were watching all the masons and all the latteners?’ asked Bartholomew sceptically. ‘Apprentices, as well as masters?’

  ‘Well, no,’ acknowledged Tulyet. ‘But I am inclined to drop them in favour of Isnard and Gundrede because Isnard and Gundrede have left the town.’

  ‘L
eft it to go where?’ asked Michael.

  ‘No one knows, which is suspicious in itself. However, I saw Isnard’s barge slipping down the river at first light this morning. I was too far away to stop it, but it was very low in the water, and I suspect it was loaded down with contraband.’

  ‘Wine, probably,’ said Michael. ‘We know he smuggles claret on occasion.’

  ‘It looked too heavy for that – more like the kind of weight that would come from ledger slabs, brasses, Dallingridge’s feet and the lead from Gonville’s chapel. Obviously, the rogues will ferry it through the Fens, then around the coast to London.’

  Michael frowned. ‘But who will want second-hand tomb parts? Or is there a large population of dead Cews in the city?’

  ‘The back of the plate will be blank,’ explained Tulyet. ‘So a lattener will just flip it over and engrave his own design on the other side. Or scratch out Cew’s name, and etch someone else’s over the top of it. It is a lucrative business, and such a load will fetch a fortune.’

  ‘Well, we will soon know if Isnard and Gundrede are the culprits,’ said Michael. ‘Because they will start throwing their profits around, and we will hear about it. Neither is the kind of man to be discreet about any ill-gotten gains.’

  Bartholomew sincerely hoped they were wrong.

  ‘We had better review what we have learned,’ said Michael, rubbing his hands eagerly as Lister began to replace Tulyet’s meagre repast with plates of meat and bread. ‘And I mean facts, not conjecture and supposition. First, Tynkell. I thought he was working on University business when he shut himself in his room, but it transpires that he was doing something else altogether. I have been unable to ascertain what. So far, at least.’

  ‘Moleyns sent him invitations to meet in St Mary the Great.’ Bartholomew took up the tale. ‘We do not know why, but it was probably nothing to do with siege engines. Then he went up the tower and fought a person who then managed to escape, even though there was nowhere to hide.’

  ‘Either Tynkell or his killer used Meadowman’s keys to get up there,’ Michael went on. ‘But they were back in their hiding place shortly after his death, which means the killer must have returned them.’

  ‘Unless Tynkell unlocked the tower and replaced them before going upstairs,’ said Tulyet. ‘It is an odd thing to do, but little about these murders makes sense.’

  ‘Moleyns died next,’ continued Michael. ‘A dog was set racing after a bone, which caused his horse to unseat him. He chose Satan himself, so we cannot blame anyone else for giving him a mount that was beyond his skills. The culprit merely took advantage of the fact – as he did the mêlée when half the town clustered around the fallen Moleyns. No one saw him kill his victim.’

  ‘I believe someone did,’ said Tulyet. ‘The woman in the cloak with the fancy hem, who saw what happened and fled for her life. Unfortunately, I have still not managed to identify her.’

  ‘Moleyns was also engaged in untoward activities – namely sneaking out of the castle at night to steal.’ Michael shrugged when Tulyet winced. ‘It is the King’s fault for giving him such outrageous freedoms. Moleyns should have been kept locked in a cell, like the felon he was.’

  ‘I doubt that argument will win me much sympathy at Court,’ muttered Tulyet.

  ‘Moleyns met Tynkell – and Cook – in St Mary the Great,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Where Lyng carried messages between them.’

  ‘Inge and Egidia deny all knowledge of Moleyns’ nocturnal forays,’ said Tulyet. ‘They also insist that they could not get close to Moleyns immediately after he fell, although Weasenham and Kolvyle claim otherwise. Inge and Egidia are liars, and we should believe nothing they say.’

  ‘And finally, there is Lyng,’ said Michael. ‘Who probably aimed to spend Thursday evening winning votes, but was ambushed near the King’s Ditch. The killer arranged his body neatly, and left it in a place where it was unlikely to be discovered very soon.’

  ‘Lyng received a letter,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘And someone took a huge risk to retrieve it, so it must have been important.’

  ‘It was my fault that he succeeded,’ said Michael bitterly. ‘I should not have announced to all and sundry that I was going to Maud’s to collect it. Lord! It makes my skin crawl to think that the villain was there, monitoring my every word.’

  ‘You must have noticed someone paying you special attention,’ said Tulyet. ‘Think, both of you. Who was listening when you brayed your plans?’

  ‘I did not bray them,’ objected Michael testily. ‘I spoke in my normal voice. Even so, it is unfortunate that Matt did not hush me sooner.’

  ‘Cook was there,’ said Bartholomew to Tulyet, more interested in talking about suspects than apportioning blame. ‘Along with Kolvyle.’

  Michael rolled his eyes. ‘And four dozen others, all of whom had his – or her – hood pulled up to ward off the chill. But you saw the rogue on the ivy, Matt. Surely you noticed something that will allow us to identify him?’

  ‘The room was too dim to let me see more than a shape, and once he was outside, he was hidden by leaves.’ Bartholomew spread the fingers on his right hand and stared at them. ‘I even had hold of him for a moment, but he managed to pull away from me.’

  ‘Could it have been one of the tomb-makers?’ pressed Tulyet, rather keenly. ‘After all, Moleyns, Tynkell and Lyng were killed with a burin.’

  ‘With something akin to a burin,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘Or perhaps a surgical instrument – of the kind that that Cook will own.’

  ‘I spoke to Cook about his encounters in St Mary the Great with our victims,’ said Tulyet. ‘He claims they met there by chance.’

  ‘Then he is lying, and you should interrogate him again,’ said Bartholomew, ignoring the fact that his own attempt to prise the truth from the barber had been no more successful.

  ‘There is another connection between the victims, besides the manner of their deaths and their meetings,’ said Michael. ‘Namely Stoke Poges: Moleyns once owned it, Lyng hailed from the next village, Tynkell wanted its chapel for the University, and a rider with its insignia was seen galloping away shortly after Moleyns’ murder.’

  ‘Then I shall invite Inge and Egidia to the castle, and we shall discuss the matter again,’ said Tulyet, ‘but do not hold your breath. Inge is a lawyer with experience of criminal courts, so getting a confession from him will be nigh on impossible. And do not suggest cornering Egidia alone – I tried that, but she refused to speak to me until someone had fetched him.’

  ‘What about the deaths of Lucas and Reames?’ asked Bartholomew, moving to another subject. ‘How are those enquiries going?’

  ‘Poorly,’ replied Tulyet glumly. ‘Incidentally, we should not forget Dallingridge in all this. I am sure he was murdered, and his death precipitated something dark and wicked, with Moleyns like a spider at its centre. My chief suspects are Egidia, Inge and all the tomb-makers, who were in Nottingham at the time.’

  ‘So was Cook,’ said Bartholomew, promptly and with great satisfaction. ‘Along with Kolvyle and Whittlesey.’

  ‘Well, you are both wrong,’ declared Michael, ‘because the culprit is Godrich. Whittlesey let slip that he was in the vicinity of Nottingham on the day that Dallingridge was poisoned, although I can think of no good reason for him being there.’

  ‘Have you asked him?’ queried Tulyet.

  ‘Of course, but he told me to mind my own business, which was no way to convince me that he has nothing to hide. He is dangerously ambitious, and will do anything to achieve his goals. The same is true of Kolvyle, who is second on my list, with Hopeman a close third.’

  ‘Hopeman was never in Nottingham,’ said Bartholomew.

  ‘How do you know?’ retorted Michael. ‘It was in the summer vacation, when lots of scholars were away. He was one of them – I checked.’

  ‘What about Thelnetham and Suttone?’ asked Tulyet. ‘Were they away, too?’

  ‘Yes,’ admitted Michael. ‘But Suttone is too fat to f
ly off roofs and scramble down walls, while Thelnetham has alibis for the deaths of Tynkell and Moleyns in the form of Nicholas and his Gilbertine brethren. Moreover, Thelnetham would not have “found” Lyng’s body if he was responsible for killing him. He would have left it for someone else to discover.’

  ‘True,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘It led to awkward questions – ones that may have lost him votes.’

  ‘Yet Godrich told us that Thelnetham visited Stoke Poges in the summer,’ Tulyet pointed out. ‘Perhaps he also has secret connections to Moleyns.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Michael. ‘There is a Gilbertine cell nearby, so he had a perfectly legitimate reason for passing through the place.’

  ‘Right,’ said Tulyet, standing abruptly. ‘I will speak to Egidia, Inge and the tomb-makers again, then resume my hunt for the woman in the embroidered cloak. I will also try to learn more about Stoke Poges. Perhaps one of my knights knows something. What will you do?’

  ‘Concentrate on Godrich, Hopeman and Kolvyle,’ replied Michael. ‘And re-question as many witnesses as will talk to me.’

  ‘I need to visit patients,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But I will listen for rumours, and I will challenge Cook if I see him. And Whittlesey, who we need to ask about the discussion he held with Lyng on Thursday night – the one witnessed by Richard.’

  ‘No!’ exclaimed Michael and Tulyet in unison; Michael continued. ‘Whittlesey is too influential a man to irritate, while your dislike of Cook will not allow you to be objective. Leave them to us, if you please.’

  Unfortunately, Bartholomew’s customers were of scant help in providing useful nuggets of information. The general consensus was that the Devil was responsible for all the murders, and that anyone who tried to investigate would be wasting his time. The theory was propounded particularly strongly by Marjory Starre, who had summoned Bartholomew to tend her rash. He was glad to see her, as it happened, because he wanted to explore what she had said in Isnard’s house – about a clandestine connection between Moleyns, Tynkell and Lyng.