Bartholomew rubbed his eyes, and wondered if she and Satan would take credit for selecting the next successful candidate, as well as the last one.
He and Cynric continued along Milne Street, aiming for the house at the end, where his patients – Robert and Yolande de Blaston and their sixteen children – lived. Unfortunately, there was a problem en route.
‘Thieves,’ said Master Braunch of Trinity Hall angrily, when Bartholomew demanded to know why the road was completely blocked by rubble that stood more than the height of two men. ‘They stole the scaffolding from our new dormitory, which caused one entire end to collapse. Surely you heard it tumble? It made a tremendous din.’
‘I did,’ put in Cynric. ‘But I assumed it was Chancellor Tynkell, trying to escape from his grave in St Mary the Great’s churchyard.’
‘Was anyone hurt?’ asked Bartholomew, before the book-bearer could pursue that particular line of conversation any further.
Braunch crossed himself. ‘No, thank God. But the wind has picked up, as you can no doubt feel, which helped to bring it down.’
‘It cannot have been very well constructed then,’ said Bartholomew, ‘if a few gusts could knock it over.’
He thought, but did not say, that the collapse was a blessing in disguise. The building was huge, and would house a very large number of scholars. If it had fallen when it had been occupied, the carnage would have been terrible.
Braunch shot him a baleful look. ‘No, it was not, and it is the tomb-makers’ fault. Benefactors are now more interested in commissioning grand memorials for themselves than making donations to worthy causes, so we are forced to cut corners in an effort to defray costs. Are you in a hurry, by the way? If so, you can scramble over the top.’
‘I will give you a leg up, boy,’ offered Cynric. ‘But do not ask me to come over with you.’
It was patently unsafe to attempt such a feat, so Bartholomew declined, although it meant a considerable detour, even though he could see the Blastons’ roof from where he stood. Cynric escorted him there, then disappeared on business of his own.
Yolande de Blaston supplemented her husband’s income by selling her favours to the town’s worthies. Edith had tried to reform her by providing employment as a seamstress, but sewing was not nearly as much fun, and Yolande had not plied a needle for long before returning to what she knew best.
‘Good,’ she said briskly, as she ushered Bartholomew inside her house. ‘You have come to tend my bunion, Alfred’s bad stomach, Tom’s sore wrist, Robert’s chilblains, Hugh’s stiff knee and the baby’s wind.’
‘Oh,’ said Bartholomew, daunted. ‘Is that all?’
‘No,’ replied Yolande. ‘But you can do the rest next time.’
He sat at the table and made a start, enjoying the lively chatter that swirled around him. The Blastons were among his favourite patients, and he loved the noisy chaos of their home. But then the discussion turned to the murders.
‘Tynkell, Moleyns and Lyng were Satan’s beloved,’ stated Blaston matter-of-factly. ‘And Tynkell was not fighting him on the tower, but having a friendly romp – for fun.’
‘I disagree,’ said Yolande. ‘Tynkell was not a man who enjoyed physical activity.’ She spoke with confidence, as well she might, given that he had been one of her regulars. ‘And I will hear nothing bad about Lyng. He gave us money for bread when times were hard last year. It was good of him.’
‘But he had a vicious temper,’ gossiped Blaston. ‘I overheard a terrible row when I went to mend a table in Maud’s Hostel. He was beside himself, and said some vile things.’
‘When was this?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised. He had never seen the elderly priest lose his equanimity. ‘Recently?’
Blaston nodded. ‘Thursday – the evening he went out and never came back.’
Bartholomew regarded him hopefully. ‘What had upset him?’
‘I could not hear everything, because he and whoever had annoyed him were upstairs, but the words “black villain” were howled, and so was “Satan”. My first thought was that he was arguing with the Devil, but then I heard Lyng slap him. Well, no one belts Lucifer, so I was forced to concede that it was a person who had earned his ire. Hopeman, probably.’
Bartholomew blinked. ‘And Lyng hit him? Are you sure it was not the other way around?’
‘Quite sure, because I heard Lyng say “Take that, you black villain”. I might have laughed, but I did not want him to hear and come to clout me as well.’
Bartholomew’s mind was racing. ‘What makes you think it was Hopeman?’
‘Three reasons. First, he is a Black Friar. Second, he loves to rant about Satan. And third, he is a member of Maud’s, so was likely to be there. However, I did not see him, so I cannot be certain. They were in Lyng’s room, you see, and I was in the kitchen.’
‘Aidan should have mentioned this to Michael,’ said Bartholomew crossly.
‘He does not know – everyone but those two was out.’ Blaston grinned. ‘The punch hurt though, because Hopeman howled like a girl, and called Lyng a bully. Lyng! A bully!’
‘So did Hopeman kill him for that slap?’ asked Yolande, agog. ‘Because he has learned from his experiences with Tynkell and Moleyns that he will never be caught?’
It was certainly possible, thought Bartholomew.
Bartholomew left the Blaston house, deep in thought. He could not imagine Lyng hitting anyone, yet Blaston had no reason to lie. Moreover, the Master of Valence Marie had expressed reservations about Lyng’s character, while the mark on the elderly priest’s foot suggested that there was rather more to him than simple appearances had suggested.
So was Hopeman the recipient of the slap? Bartholomew was inclined to think he was, for the same reasons that Blaston had given: because the conversation had revolved around his favourite topic; because “black villain” was an insult Lyng might well have levelled against a Dominican; and because both lived in Maud’s. There was also the fact that Hopeman was argumentative, and could needle a saint into a quarrel.
Bartholomew was so engrossed in his thoughts that he did not see Thelnetham until they collided. The Gilbertine yelped, then bent to peer disgustedly at the mud on his habit.
‘Watch where you are going, Matthew,’ he said irritably. ‘Or do you want me to lose the election by virtue of campaigning in a filthy robe?’
‘It is only a smear.’ Bartholomew smiled, to make amends. ‘You spoke well earlier.’
‘Thank you,’ said Thelnetham. ‘But I did not stop you to fish for compliments, no matter how deserving. I have been listening to rumours, and I heard a few things that might help you and Michael catch the villain who murdered our colleagues. The first is that Lyng and Tynkell were not devoted sons of the Church.’
‘Yes,’ sighed Bartholomew. ‘I know.’
‘Oh,’ said Thelnetham, deflated. ‘Do you? You do not seem very shocked.’
‘Of course I am shocked,’ said Bartholomew quickly, lest it was put about that he condoned such activities. ‘But apparently, it is not as rare as we might think.’
‘Neither is murder, apparently, but that does not make it acceptable.’
‘No,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘How did you find out?’
‘Nicholas had the tale from one of his fellow clerks. Apparently, Tynkell had a diabolical mark on his wrist, while Moleyns and Lyng had them on their feet. They were seen proudly showing them off to each other in St Mary the Great.’
‘Which clerk?’ asked Bartholomew, knowing that Michael would want to question him.
‘Nicholas refused to say, because it was told in confidence. Perhaps Michael will have better luck in prising a name from him, although do not hold your breath. Nicholas is not a man for betrayal.’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But—’
‘Did you hear that terrible roar earlier? It was Satan, calling for his dead followers to rise from their graves and follow him. Fortunately, all have been buried deep, so they cannot oblige, altho
ugh woe betide anyone who disturbs them with a spade.’
Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘What nonsense! I am surprised at you, Thelnetham. I thought you were a man guided by reason.’
‘I am, but not everything in this world can be understood by human minds, not even clever ones like ours. And if you want proof, then consider the mysteries of our own faith. Transubstantiation, for example. You would not imagine that it is possible for wine to become in substance the Blood of Christ, but it happens every time Mass is celebrated.’
‘I suppose it does,’ acknowledged Bartholomew.
Thelnetham pursed his lips. ‘Of course, witchery is not all that connected Lyng, Tynkell and Moleyns.’
‘You refer to Moleyns’ manor,’ predicted Bartholomew, ‘which you visited last summer.’
‘I passed through it last summer,’ corrected Thelnetham. ‘I did not stay there. My prior sent me on business to a Gilbertine cell nearby, but floods forced me to leave the main road and take a detour. In other words, it was chance that took me to Stoke Poges, not design.’
‘You never did explain how you learned about Tynkell and the Stoke Poges’ chapel. Did he tell you himself? Or confide in Nicholas?’
‘No.’ Thelnetham hesitated briefly before continuing. ‘I met a young man when I stopped to water my horse there, and we … understood each other. I mentioned that our Sheriff is always looking for recruits who do not mind hard work …’
Bartholomew could well imagine the scene. Thelnetham sensing a kindred spirit, and encouraging him to migrate to a town where such liaisons were more readily accepted. ‘And he acted on your advice?’
Thelnetham nodded. ‘We have been friends ever since. It was he who told me about Tynkell and the chapel. He also mentioned that the village’s motif is a pilgrim staff – the symbol I saw on that rider’s saddle.’
Bartholomew regarded him uneasily. ‘I do not suppose this man was Yevele – the soldier who let Moleyns out at night? It makes sense that Moleyns would use a lad from his own manor for such business.’
Thelnetham grimaced. ‘Yes, which means I bear some responsibility for what happened. Of course, I had no idea that Moleyns had blackmailed him until today …’
‘Moleyns blackmailed him?’
‘By threatening to expose his peccadillos. Moleyns said he just wanted to go out the once, but then he demanded a second excursion and a third, and poor Yevele was locked in a cycle of deceit. After Moleyns’ death, he came to me in such terror that I gave him money to run away.’
‘Are you sure that was wise? Dick Tulyet will be livid.’
‘Of course it was not wise, Matthew, but it was the right thing to do. Yevele should not suffer because Moleyns was a rogue who preyed on the vulnerable.’
‘Did Yevele tell you anything else?’
‘Just that Moleyns murdered Egidia’s uncle – Peter Poges – to get his hands on the manor, and that he was a villain who was corrupt to the core. Perhaps that roar was the Devil coming for him, because he is certainly the kind of man Satan would want in Hell.’
‘What you heard was Trinity Hall’s new dormitory tumbling down.’
‘So you say,’ muttered Thelnetham, crossing himself.
CHAPTER 10
The next day was Sunday, when there was a longer service in church, followed by a marginally nicer breakfast than that served during the rest of the week. Formal teaching was forbidden, but the University’s masters knew better than to release hundreds of lively young men into the town with nothing to do, so some form of entertainment was always arranged. In Michaelhouse, it revolved around games, the reading of humorous tracts or mock disputations. The Fellows took turns to organise something, and that week Langelee ordered Kolvyle to oblige.
‘I doubt he will best what you did last Sunday,’ murmured Michael to Bartholomew. ‘My theologians are still talking about cenandum liberalis quam prandendum. They tell me they have never laughed so much in all their lives.’
The debate had been about whether it was better to eat more at breakfast than at dinner, and Michael had been one of the disputants. The monk had been unable to bring himself to say that he might consume less at either, and the seriousness with which he took the question had amused the whole College. Afterwards, there had been ball games in the orchard for those with energy to burn, or a quiz on Aesop’s fables for those of a more sedentary nature.
‘Kolvyle does not have a comic bone in his body,’ said Langelee. ‘Perhaps it is because he knows nothing about camp-ball, which is a sure sign of an undeveloped mind.’
They processed to the church, where they were startled to discover that the lid to Wilson’s tomb was gone, leaving behind an open chest containing a lot of rubbish left by the original mason. Scratches on the flagstones showed where the slab had been lugged to the door.
‘Perhaps Petit took it away,’ suggested William, as they all clustered around to look.
‘He has not, because we agreed that he would work on it in situ,’ said Langelee worriedly, ‘to save on costs. Lord! I hope it has not been stolen.’
Michael’s expression was grim. ‘I imagine it has – and we cannot afford to replace it.’
‘I heard that Isnard and Gundrede arrived home last night,’ said Kolvyle slyly. ‘Perhaps you should ask them if they took it.’
‘I know how to investigate a crime, thank you,’ said Michael sharply.
‘Do you?’ sneered Kolvyle. ‘That is not how it seems to me. We have six unsolved murders, while robbers continue to make off with whatever they please. You are doing nothing about any of it. At least, nothing that is effective.’
He took his place in the chancel before Michael could respond, then stood with his head bowed, although Bartholomew was sure he could not be praying after such a spiteful tirade.
‘I admire your patience, Brother,’ growled William. ‘I would box his ears if he spoke to me like that. Indeed, I am considering boxing them anyway, just for being an irritating—’
‘I shall deal with him in my own way,’ interrupted Michael shortly. ‘Without recourse to violence. He will not emerge the victor, never fear.’
It was Suttone’s turn to officiate at the altar, but his performance was unusually lacklustre, and the students began to shuffle and fuss restlessly. He finished eventually, and Langelee led his scholars back to the College. The Fellows sat in silence for once, each sunk in his own concerns, although the students were lively, eagerly anticipating the entertainment that would soon begin. Bartholomew suspected they were going to be sadly disappointed.
Langelee intoned a final grace, and everyone left the hall for the servants to clear up. The Fellows – other than Kolvyle and Clippesby – stood together in the yard, chatting about their plans for the day. Langelee was due to play camp-ball that afternoon, and was looking forward to fighting his friends in the name of sport, while William planned to visit the Franciscan Friary. Both promised to use the occasions to secure Suttone more votes.
‘I spent most of yesterday evening visiting hostels,’ said Suttone. ‘It was callous, I know, given that it was where Lyng was popular, but Godrich, Thelnetham and Hopeman started the moment they learned he was dead. At least I had the decency to wait for a few hours.’
‘Do not allow scruples to hold you back,’ advised William sternly. ‘You must be as ruthless as your opponents, if you aim to win.’
‘More ruthless,’ corrected Langelee. ‘I can give you plenty of tips in that direction, if you like. For example, Godrich is currently in the lead, so how about a rumour to disparage him? We can say he slept with the Queen when he was last at Court.’
‘Did he?’ asked Suttone wistfully. ‘I do not blame him. She is a beautiful lady.’
Langelee reflected thoughtfully. ‘I suppose that might raise him in the estimation of some. Perhaps we should say that he has formed an unnatural affection for his horse then.’
‘No,’ said Michael firmly. ‘I cannot condone that sort of tactic. At least, not yet –
we may have to review the situation come Wednesday.’
‘Actually, we are doing quite well in the polls,’ said William. ‘Especially after I went to the Austin Friary, and told them to vote for Suttone. They agreed – all twenty-seven of them.’
‘Thank you, Father,’ said Suttone, pleased.
‘I told them that you were the only candidate who would know what to do in a second wave of the plague,’ William went on. ‘Unfortunately, I think I might have frightened them.’
‘We must do anything – anything – to secure a victory,’ said Langelee. ‘So I shall visit a few fellow heads of house this morning. Godrich will be a disaster for them, because he will favour King’s Hall, whereas Suttone will be impartial. At least, that is what I shall tell them.’
At that moment, Clippesby hurried up with Ethel, the College’s lead hen, under one arm. ‘You told Kolvyle to organise today’s entertainment, Master,’ he said, rather accusingly. ‘But his idea of fun is to invite Hopeman to tell us why he should be Chancellor. May I be excused? Ethel says he is too obsessed with Satan to be pleasant company, and I agree.’
Suttone gaped at him. ‘Hopeman plans to give an election speech in my College?’
Clippesby nodded. ‘Along with Godrich and Thelnetham, so the event will be acrimonious as they all attack each other’s stances. Ethel dislikes discord, and we would both rather spend the day with her flock.’
‘Yes, go,’ said Langelee, aware that letting visitors see a Fellow with a chicken on his lap was unlikely to do much for Michaelhouse’s reputation as a foundation for serious learning. ‘But not to the henhouse. Visit your friary, and persuade Morden to vote for Suttone.’
‘I have already tried, but he will not go against a member of his own Order. Indeed, he is pressuring me to vote for Hopeman, too. But I shall stand by Suttone. He is the better man.’
‘Even a slug is a better man than Hopeman,’ growled William. ‘You should hear his nasty views on Apostolic Poverty.’
A Grave Concern: The Twenty Second Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew Book 22) Page 23
