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

by Susanna Gregory

  Langelee’s smile was predatory. ‘Do you? Good! Your defiance means I can fine you a shilling. Now, unless you want it doubled, I suggest you do as I say.’

  Kolvyle opened his mouth to argue, but the Master’s expression was dangerous, and he wisely closed it again. Langelee snapped his fingers, and Mallet and Aungel came to escort the errant Fellow back to the College. Kolvyle went with ill grace.

  ‘My apologies,’ called Langelee to Suttone. ‘He will not annoy you again. Now what were you saying about Thomas Aquinas’s soul being made of cabbage? Pray continue.’

  Bartholomew arrived at St John Zachary to find Frisby just finishing Mass. The vicar tottered to the porch, where he greeted his parishioners by the wrong names, and asked after kinsmen they did not have. Many lingered to chat to each other in the churchyard outside, and Tulyet moved discreetly among them, asking questions about the murders. He broke off when he saw Bartholomew, and came to talk to him.

  ‘I have identified the guard who let Moleyns out at night,’ he said in a low voice. ‘I got the bastard because of you – and a frost-nipped nose.’

  Bartholomew ran through a mental list of all those he had treated for that particular complaint. There had been any number, but only one at the castle: the surly, ungrateful soldier, who had later been injured while sparring with Agatha’s nephew.

  ‘Yevele? He was the traitor?’

  Tulyet nodded. ‘You said at the time that his nose was unlikely to have been frozen when walking from one side of the bailey to the other, as he claimed. Well, you were right: it happened while he was lurking by the sally port, waiting to let Moleyns in and out.’

  ‘I assumed he had left his nose exposed on purpose, in the expectation that you would give him inside duties instead. Night patrols must be miserable when the weather is so cold.’

  ‘I should have seen through his lies.’ Tulyet was disgusted with himself. ‘He arrived in the summer, begging for work, and I should have refused, given that I disliked him on sight. But Helbye thought he could make something of him, and it seemed unkind not to give the lad a chance …’

  ‘Did he tell you anything else?’

  ‘Unfortunately, he sensed I was closing in on him, and bolted to the Fens. Helbye is organising a posse to hunt him down as we speak.’

  Bartholomew glanced up at the dull winter sky and shivered. Dusk was not far off, and it would not be pleasant out in the open once night fell. He left Tulyet and entered the church, where Petit and his boys were busy working on the tracery around the tomb’s lofty canopy. Despite the distracting racket, Bartholomew bowed his head and whispered a prayer that Marjory was wrong. She was not – the little horned serpent was carved on a corner, near the base.

  ‘What is that?’ he asked of the labouring craftsmen, pointing at it.

  Petit came to look. ‘Peres must have put it there – he was working on it last. I suppose he has chosen it as his masons’ mark. Why? Do you not like it? I can get him to pick another.’

  ‘Where is he?’ It had not escaped Bartholomew’s notice that Petit had named the one apprentice who was missing, and thus not in a position to confirm or deny the claim.

  ‘I sent him to buy a new chisel. But what is—’

  ‘Have you seen this mark before?’ interrupted Bartholomew, aiming to find out if any of the craftsmen had a penchant for witchy symbols.

  All shook their heads. ‘But I agree that it is not quite appropriate for church-work,’ said Petit. ‘I shall tell him to file it off when he comes back, and replace it with something less … demonic.’

  They returned to the canopy, leaving Bartholomew to stare at the little snake and think sadly about the many people whose faith had wavered in those dark and desperate times, when the plague had claimed the lives of one in three, and no one knew who would sicken next.

  At that moment, the door opened and Lakenham entered with his enormous wife. They walked to the place where Cew’s plate had been affixed, and he ran disconsolate fingers over the empty indent, as if he thought it might reappear if he stroked it long enough.

  ‘I worked hard on that piece,’ he said tearfully, when Bartholomew passed him on his way out. ‘It may not have been very big, but I gave it my all, and it was beautiful. Tynkell’s executors would have agreed, but it was stolen before they could see it – which is why they gave that commission to Petit instead.’

  ‘It is not fair,’ growled Cristine. ‘Petit should not be allowed to have so many jobs on the go at the same time. None will ever be finished, you know.’

  ‘I thought we might win Lyng though,’ sighed Lakenham. ‘Given that he was a modest man with simple tastes. But we have just learned that he did not want any kind of monument at all. Perhaps he considered himself too sinful to lie in a church for all eternity.’

  Or perhaps he had not wanted to lie in a place that other deities would consider off limits, thought Bartholomew unhappily, recalling the mark on the old priest’s foot.

  ‘There is still Moleyns,’ he said encouragingly. ‘Petit does not have him yet.’

  ‘But he will,’ predicted Cristine glumly. ‘Because he moves in higher circles than us. For example, he was invited to dine in King’s Hall a few weeks ago, which is where he persuaded Godrich to invest in the sculpted effigy that will go in the chancel of St Mary the Great.’

  ‘And Godrich will spend even more money on the thing if he is elected Chancellor,’ sighed Lakenham. ‘It makes me sick! I could have done so much with such an assignment, whereas Petit will just churn out one of his usual scabby pieces.’

  ‘Yet perhaps we should not hanker too fiercely after the Moleyns commission,’ said Cristine. ‘He was a criminal, and we have standards.’ She glanced at Bartholomew. ‘We saw him sneaking around the town in the dark when he should have been locked up. Twice, in fact.’

  ‘Then tell the Sheriff,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘It is something he will want to know.’

  ‘We would rather not,’ said Lakenham. ‘He has a nasty habit of accusing us of theft every time our paths cross.’

  ‘And murder,’ added Cristine indignantly. ‘He thinks we killed Lucas, although we never did. Worse, he has made scant effort to find out who brained poor Reames. He was the only apprentice we had, and I cannot imagine how we will manage without him.’

  Very easily, thought Bartholomew, if they failed to secure themselves new work. ‘Did he hail from a wealthy family? His fine clothes suggested he did. Perhaps they will want a brass to honour his memory.’

  ‘He was an orphan,’ said Lakenham glumly. ‘And the money left over from his inheritance will not buy him a funerary plate. It might have done, had he invested it with a goldsmith, but he insisted on squandering most of it on pretty tunics. Foolish boy!’

  Bartholomew suddenly became aware that Petit was watching him, and as he had no wish to be interrogated about what had been said, he chose a route out of the church that would avoid the mason’s clutches. It took him past Stanmore’s vault. The hoist was finished, and beneath it sat the great granite slab that would be lifted into place once the bones were brought from the churchyard. Bartholomew was glad. Even if Petit took an age to complete the effigy, at least Oswald would soon lie in his final resting place.

  Then he frowned. Was that blood on the lip of the hole? He went to look more closely, then started in shock when he saw Peres lying at the bottom with a knife protruding from his chest.

  CHAPTER 9

  It was not long before the little church thronged with people. Some carried lamps, as darkness had fallen outside. Petit huddled with his apprentices, wailing that he had been deprived of another beloved pupil, while Lakenham and Cristine stood side by side, watching their rivals with expressions that were difficult to read in the gloom. Then Vicar Frisby arrived.

  ‘A second murder in this most holy of places,’ he slurred, squinting at the body through bloodshot eyes, and almost toppling into the vault when he leaned over too far. ‘Poor Stanmore! He must be wondering how ma
ny more interlopers will inhabit his grave before he gets the chance to use it himself.’

  ‘Frisby has a point, Matt,’ murmured Tulyet, as he helped Bartholomew to pull Peres up and lay him on the floor. ‘You should arrange for Stanmore to be interred before someone else ends up down there.’

  ‘You can do it next week,’ sobbed Petit, overhearing. ‘The granite slab will be ready to seal it up by Wednesday. Or perhaps Friday.’

  ‘I shall have to resanctify the whole church now,’ interjected Frisby crossly. ‘Or is that the Bishop’s prerogative? But he is in Avignon with the Pope, and might be gone for months, so how shall I earn a living in the interim? Hah! I know. Michael can do it. He is almost a prelate.’

  ‘Did you notice anything amiss when you came to say Mass earlier?’ asked Tulyet, obviously unimpressed that the vicar was more concerned with his own circumstances than the victim’s.

  ‘If I had, I would not have conducted the rite,’ said Frisby, intending piety but achieving only dissipation. ‘It is my belief that Masses should never be performed with corpses in the vicinity. Except Requiem Masses, I suppose, when it is unavoidable.’

  ‘When did you last see Peres?’ asked Tulyet of the mason and his remaining lads.

  ‘I sent him to buy a chisel,’ replied Petit tearfully. ‘Four or five hours ago now. I wondered what was taking him so long, but I never imagined he would be …’

  ‘Four or five hours?’ Tulyet turned back to Frisby. ‘Were you in here the whole time?’

  ‘No, I was in my house for most of it, praying.’

  A titter of amusement rippled through his parishioners at the notion that their worldly priest would engage in anything remotely pious.

  ‘So who was in the church when you arrived?’ pressed Tulyet.

  ‘No one,’ replied Frisby. ‘I began setting out my accoutrements, and the congregation trickled in, but they all stood in the nave. I do not let them into the sacred confines of the chancel while the Host is up here. It involves wine, you know, and they might try to take it.’

  ‘What about the rest of you?’ said Tulyet, addressing the assembled masses. ‘Did you notice anything unusual when you came in?’

  No one had. Meanwhile, Petit knelt next to Peres and began to go through his clothes.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked Bartholomew in distaste.

  ‘Looking for the new chisel,’ replied the mason, then held up three coins. ‘But here is the money I gave him for it, which means he was killed before he reached the market. He must have come to check Stanmore’s vault first, and was ambushed here.’

  ‘That makes sense,’ nodded Tulyet. ‘No one saw the killer, because he had been and gone before the Mass started. What about the knife? Does anyone recognise it?’

  There were a lot of shaken heads, which was no surprise, given that it was cheap and unremarkable – the kind that could be bought anywhere for a few coins.

  ‘Well, Lakenham?’ asked Petit, unsteadily, still kneeling next to the body. ‘Are you satisfied? Another of my boys dead at your hands.’

  ‘Not ours,’ said Lakenham firmly. ‘We were in St Clement’s all day, as Vicar Milde will attest. And you never liked Peres anyway, so you probably dispatched him yourself.’

  ‘How, when I was in St Mary the Great with a dozen witnesses to prove it?’ demanded Petit angrily, surging to his feet. ‘But I know your game, Lakenham – you murdered Peres in the hope that my distress will lead me to refuse the Tynkell commission. Well, it will not work.’

  The argument swayed back and forth, and Tulyet let it run in the hope that temper would lead to incriminatory slips. Bartholomew crouched down to examine Peres more closely. Like Lucas, it had not been a clean kill, and several vicious jabs had been inflicted before the fatal blow. He was about to cover him up when he noticed something caught in one of the boy’s fingernails. It was a thread of an unusual shade of aqua.

  ‘From his attacker?’ asked Tulyet, peering at it.

  Bartholomew nodded. ‘I think so – his nail is torn, which suggests he snatched at his assailant in an effort to ward him off.’

  ‘I have never seen anyone wearing an item of clothing this colour. However, it is distinctive, and I shall start my search for it in the tomb-makers’ homes. When we have the garment, we shall have our killer.’

  ‘You will have Peres’ killer,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘And perhaps Lucas’s and Reames’. But not Moleyns’, Tynkell’s and Lyng’s. That culprit is altogether more efficient.’

  * * *

  As Edith sold cloth, Bartholomew decided to ask her if she recognised the thread. He arrived at her house to find her sitting at a table surrounded by documents, which she was struggling to read by lamplight. She was delighted by the interruption, as she had never liked record-keeping. He sat by the fire and accepted a large piece of almond cake. Then he showed her the aqua fibre, and was disappointed when she shook her head.

  ‘It did not come from here,’ she said. ‘And I do not mean just our warehouses – I mean Cambridge. It was dyed somewhere else.’

  ‘You mean our killer is a visitor?’ asked Bartholomew keenly.

  ‘Or someone who lives here, but who bought it on a journey. Or had it sent.’

  Bartholomew’s brief surge of hope for an easy solution faded. ‘Damn!’

  They sat in silence for a while, enjoying the comfortable crackle of the fire and the scent of burning pine cones. Then Edith stood and fetched something from the table. It was an exemplar of a funerary brass.

  ‘Lakenham made it for me. He says I should dismiss the masons, and put this on top of Oswald’s tomb-chest instead of the carving that Petit is supposed to make. What do you think?’

  He took it from her. It had been crafted with loving care, and the engraving caught perfectly the clothier’s flowing robes and practical hat. Bartholomew was impressed.

  ‘I think it is more tasteful than an effigy, and will be finished a lot sooner.’

  ‘Then I shall inform Petit that his services are no longer required. He only has himself to blame – I have berated him countless times for not turning up when he promised, and so have you. I suspect others will follow my example, because everyone is fed up with his unreliability.’

  ‘Then let us hope they do not all hire Lakenham, or we shall be back where we started.’

  Edith smiled, then began to chat about her day. Bartholomew let the flow of words wash over him, his thoughts returning to Peres. Was the apprentice’s murder connected to the serpent he had carved on Stanmore’s tomb? Or was it just part of the rivalry between latteners and masons? Then something Edith was saying brought his attention back to her with a snap.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said I was cross when I saw that Marjory Starre and her cronies had arranged for that nasty little snake to be etched into Oswald’s grave. I know his faith wavered on occasion, but he was not one of them. I told her to get it removed immediately.’

  Bartholomew stared at her. ‘Do you think she asked Peres to do it? Is that why he went to St John Zachary instead of the market?’

  ‘Well, he was a regular visitor to her house – for potions to remove his freckles, according to her, although they clearly did not work, so you have to wonder why he kept going back.’

  ‘So he was a Satan-lover?’

  ‘Or just deeply superstitious. It is not unusual, Matt – a blend of the Church and witchery is more common than you might think. After all, just look at Cynric. Would you call him a Satan-lover?’

  ‘No, but he does not go around carving horned snakes on other people’s tombs.’

  ‘As far as you know,’ said Edith drily.

  ‘Who else adheres to these beliefs? Did Lyng, Tynkell or Moleyns?’

  Edith shrugged. ‘Well, if they did, it would explain why they all chatted so disrespectfully during Mass, and why Moleyns sometimes used it as an opportunity to steal his friends’ purses. I told you about Widow Knyt, did I not? She found herself minus three shillings when
Moleyns “accidentally” bumped into her in St Clement’s Church.’

  ‘What else can you tell me about witchery?’

  ‘Nothing, Matt, but ask Cynric. He knows far more about these matters than I do.’

  Bartholomew had the opportunity to speak to his book-bearer when he left Edith’s house, because Cynric had been looking for him, and was waiting with a summons from a patient.

  ‘Lots of folk visit Marjory for charms,’ said Cynric, falling into step at his side. He kept one hand on the hilt of his long Welsh dagger, because the streets were never very safe after dark. ‘It is common sense to hedge your bets, especially as Master Suttone says the plague will be back this summer. Only fools do not bother with precautions.’

  ‘Did Tynkell and Lyng visit Marjory?’ asked Bartholomew.

  ‘Not that I saw, but she has a back door for customers who do not want to be seen. She is very discreet.’

  ‘What about Moleyns?’

  ‘I spotted him there several times, usually in the small hours of the morning. I assumed he was out with the Sheriff’s blessing – he strutted about so confidently that it did not occur to me that he had escaped. Which is why no one ever reported him, of course.’

  ‘Who else frequented her house? Barber Cook?’

  ‘Yes – Cook buys her amulets to protect him from nasty diseases, which is wise for a man in his profession. You have some, too. I put them in your bag.’

  ‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew, not liking to imagine what his colleagues would say if they found them. He made a mental note to empty it out later, and burn them.

  Cynric began to list all the people he had seen purchasing Marjory’s wares, a roll that went on and on, but that comprised mostly townsfolk. Scholars, it seemed, were either more careful about being noticed, or were happy with the Church. Except one.

  ‘Godrich?’ echoed Bartholomew. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course. I cannot bear that man – he is too arrogant by half, and is deeply unpopular with his servants. He bought a spell to make sure he won the election, but I told Marjory to sell him one that does not work.’