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

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘You will,’ predicted Clippesby, backing away. ‘At noon, when he is due to arrive.’

  ‘This is unacceptable,’ wailed Suttone. ‘I know it will make no difference to the election – Michaelhouse will vote for me no matter what the other candidates say here today – but that is beside the point.’

  ‘Why did they agree to come?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused. ‘They know where our allegiance lies.’

  ‘I imagine Kolvyle devised some spurious logic to convince them that it is in their best interests,’ replied Michael, scowling. ‘And we cannot turn them away, because it will look as though we think Suttone is unequal to the challenge of besting them. I am afraid Kolvyle has presented us with a fait accompli.’

  ‘The slippery little toad,’ spat Langelee. ‘I am beginning to think the only way to muzzle him is to lock him in the cellar. One more stunt like this, and I shall do it.’

  ‘Do it now,’ begged Suttone. ‘Before he loses me the election.’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Langelee. ‘We shall have to let him put in an appearance at this debate, or the other candidates will assume that we were obliged to muzzle him because we cannot keep him in order. However, the moment it is over …’

  ‘Three days,’ said Michael. ‘Then Suttone will be Chancellor, and we can all turn our attention to solving the nuisance that Kolvyle has become. It is not long to wait.’

  ‘It feels like an eternity to me,’ grumbled Suttone.

  ‘Here is Kolvyle now,’ said Langelee. He beckoned the youngster over, and launched into a lecture about College etiquette – which did not include Junior Fellows inviting outsiders to speak to the students without the Master’s prior permission.

  Kolvyle shrugged insolently. ‘Our boys should see how poorly Suttone compares to Godrich. They have a right to know what sort of man Michaelhouse thinks should be in charge of the University.’

  ‘There will be nothing wrong with my performance,’ objected Suttone, stung.

  Kolvyle looked him up and down, taking in the stained habit, plump face still dappled with crumbs from breakfast, and cloak that was rumpled from spending the night in a heap on the floor. Then he put his head in the air and stalked away without a word.

  ‘Three days,’ repeated Michael. ‘Then that little snake will be gone. I swear it.’

  ‘Good,’ said Suttone, and turned to Bartholomew. ‘I saw him talking to Edith late last night. She looked very cross, so you might want to make sure he did nothing to upset her. He despises us all, and would think nothing of striking at us through those we love.’

  Alarmed, Bartholomew went to visit Edith as soon as his students had been settled in the hall with Kolvyle, whose idea of light entertainment until the would-be chancellors arrived was to read aloud from a variety of legal tomes. If William had not agreed to stand guard at the door, Bartholomew’s classes would have been out, and there would have been nothing Kolvyle could have done to stop them.

  Michael accompanied Bartholomew, because Edith’s Sunday breakfasts were famous for their quality, and Agatha’s egg-mash had not quite hit the spot that morning. It was another clear day, although bitterly cold, and the ruts in the road had frozen so hard that they made for treacherous walking. The yellowish quality of the light suggested there might be snow before too long.

  They reached Milne Street to find Trinity Hall’s rubble still lying across the road, although a narrow corridor had been cleared through the middle of it. The pathway was not wide enough for carts, but there was room for two pedestrians to pass each other – unless one of them happened to be Michael. The monk battled his way through, then grimaced when the first people they met on the other side were Godrich, Whittlesey and some King’s Hall cronies.

  ‘Tell Suttone to withdraw before he suffers an embarrassing defeat, Brother,’ Godrich said gloatingly. ‘Because Trinity Hall has just changed its mind about supporting him. It is astonishing how loyalty can be bought with the promise of funds for clearing up this mess.’

  ‘Very honourable,’ said Michael icily. ‘Your family must be proud of you.’

  Godrich shrugged. ‘They understand expediency.’

  ‘And does this expediency extend to dispatching your rivals?’

  Godrich’s manner went from smug to angry in the wink of an eye. ‘You cannot prove I had anything to do with Lyng’s death, and you will be sorry if you use it to stop me from winning.’

  ‘Yet you do not deny the accusation,’ mused Michael.

  ‘Of course I deny it!’ cried Godrich. ‘You twist my words.’

  ‘Easy,’ said Whittlesey, coming to place a warning hand on his cousin’s shoulder. ‘You will gain nothing by challenging the Senior Proctor. Besides, he knows you are innocent of these crimes.’

  ‘Do I indeed?’ murmured Michael. ‘That is interesting to hear.’

  ‘I will be Chancellor in three days,’ said Godrich, reining in his temper with difficulty. ‘And the first thing I shall do is appoint a new Senior Proctor. The University will be very different in the future.’

  ‘You think you can oust me?’ asked Michael, amused by the notion.

  ‘It will not be necessary to oust you – you will go to Rochester of your own accord. Your successor will be Geoffrey Dodenho.’

  Dodenho stepped forward to bow, and Bartholomew struggled to mask his dismay. The King’s Hall man was decent enough, but wholly unsuitable for such a demanding post. Godrich shot Michael a gloating sneer, and led his friends away, although Whittlesey lingered.

  ‘Godrich is tenacious, dedicated and energetic,’ he said quietly. ‘He rose before dawn to begin visiting hostels with a view to securing their support. Can Suttone say the same?’

  ‘He was in church, dedicating his time to God, not his own interests,’ retorted Michael, overlooking the fact that the Carmelite had then returned to College and consumed a leisurely breakfast. ‘And Godrich is not the sort of person we want in charge.’

  Whittlesey frowned. ‘Of course he is. I have just listed his virtues and—’

  ‘He is my chief suspect for killing Tynkell, Lyng and Moleyns,’ interrupted Michael. ‘So you might want to distance yourself from him while you can. It will do your own career no good to be associated with a murderer.’

  Whittlesey gaped at him. ‘Godrich is no murderer! I would stake my life on it.’

  ‘You are staking your life on it,’ retorted Michael, ‘because who knows who will be next for a burin in the heart? Besides, it is not your place to meddle in University affairs.’

  Whittlesey gave him a pitying smile. ‘Do you honestly believe that? Powerful men are impressed by what you have achieved here, and they do not want your work undone. My remit was not only to tell you of your good fortune and bring you safely to Rochester, but also to ensure that your departure does not leave a dangerous void.’

  ‘Then do not foist Godrich on us. Suttone will be a much more—’

  ‘Suttone will not be as malleable as you think,’ warned Whittlesey. He forced a smile. ‘But let us not quarrel. You will see I am right in time.’

  He patted the monk on the shoulder, and hurried after his cousin.

  ‘What powerful people is he talking about?’ asked Bartholomew, also resenting the envoy’s interference. ‘Courtiers? I do not think it matters what they think.’

  ‘He means the bishops, who have a vested interest in both universities, because it is where their priests are trained.’

  They continued on their way, and were just passing St John Zachary when the door opened and Egidia flounced out, Inge at her side. Frisby was behind her, grinning in delight, while Tulyet brought up the rear, his face as black as thunder.

  ‘A toast!’ Frisby declared, producing a wineskin. His flushed face and bright eyes suggested that he had probably done this several times already. ‘To our agreement.’

  ‘What agreement?’ asked Michael warily.

  ‘The one that says Sir John Moleyns will have his tomb here, in my church,’ replied Frisby happ
ily. ‘Because of his name.’

  ‘John,’ explained Egidia, lest the scholars had not made the connection. ‘St Mary the Great is getting rather full, what with Dallingridge, Godrich and Chancellor Tynkell destined to bag great swathes of space there, so Inge and I looked to see what else was available.’

  ‘I dislike the mess masons make, of course,’ slurred Frisby. ‘But the King himself is likely to visit his dear friend Moleyns, so it will be worth the inconvenience. His Majesty will reward me handsomely if I oversee the provision of a suitable monument.’

  ‘No doubt,’ said Tulyet between gritted teeth. ‘But I am not paying for it.’

  ‘Oh, yes, you are,’ countered Egidia sharply. ‘You failed to protect him from killers, so it is the least you can do.’

  ‘I have not forgotten the horseman who galloped away moments after his death,’ said Michael. ‘The one whose saddle bore the Stoke Poges insignia. Are you sure he was not carrying messages from you to the villagers, informing them about a change of circumstances?’

  ‘Yes, we are sure,’ said Inge tightly. ‘As we told you the first time you asked.’

  ‘Because he rode out so soon after the murder that I am left wondering if he knew it was going to happen,’ Michael continued. ‘And—’

  ‘That is ridiculous,’ interrupted Inge sharply. ‘And now, you must excuse us, because we have important business to attend.’

  ‘You will not catch them out, Brother,’ said Tulyet, watching them strut away. ‘Believe me, I have tried. Inge is far too slippery and Egidia is guided by him. If you really think they are the culprits, we must find another way to trap them.’

  ‘Like finding the woman in the embroidered cloak and asking her to identify the culprit,’ said Michael pointedly.

  Tulyet inclined his head. ‘I shall make a concerted effort to track her down today. Incidentally, I hear you lost a tomb lid last night, just as Isnard and Gundrede returned from the Fens. Curious, eh?’

  Edith was at home when Bartholomew and Michael arrived, readying her household for Mass in St John Zachary, and all was noisy chaos. The younger apprentices stood in a chattering line to have their faces and hands inspected for cleanliness, while the servants were hurrying to finish their chores before it was time to leave. Bartholomew went to the solar to wait until she was free, which suited Michael very well, as it was where breakfast had been laid.

  ‘What did Kolvyle say to you last night?’ asked Bartholomew, when Edith came to see what they wanted. He spoke quickly, to distract her from the fact that Michael had made rather significant inroads into her household’s victuals. ‘Suttone thought he might have upset you.’

  ‘He did upset me,’ said Edith shortly. ‘He told me that your College has hired Petit to fix Wilson’s tomb, which will slow down progress on Oswald. He says it shows that you love Michaelhouse more than you love me.’

  ‘It was Langelee who hired Petit,’ said Michael, while Bartholomew marvelled that the young scholar should be so vindictive. ‘Matt had nothing to do with it.’

  ‘I know that,’ said Edith impatiently. ‘And I told Kolvyle exactly what I think of sneaky youths who bray lies about my brother. He will not come here trying to make trouble again, the loathsome little worm!’

  ‘And you need not worry about Wilson interfering with Oswald anyway,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Because his ledger slab was stolen last night. You did not take it, did you?’

  Edith laughed. ‘I think it might be a little too heavy for me to tote around. However, it does not matter anyway, because I dismissed Petit this morning. I have hired Lakenham instead, and Oswald will have a nice brass in place of an effigy.’

  Her steward called up the stairs at that moment, to say that everyone was ready to leave. Bartholomew and Michael followed her to the yard, where she gave her household one last inspection to ensure that all was in order, then led the way out on to the street.

  ‘Go with her, Matt,’ instructed Michael. ‘The tomb-makers attend St John Zachary, so try to find out which of them stole Wilson’s lid. We cannot afford another, so it is vital that we get it back.’

  ‘You do not believe Isnard took it, then?’ asked Bartholomew, not sure how he was expected to solve a theft when the Senior Proctor and Sheriff had tried and failed.

  ‘He would never act against Michaelhouse – he loves the choir too much. Of course, he is bitter about the fact that I shall soon be unavailable to lead it, and he listens to that rogue Gundrede far too much for his own good …’

  ‘Where will you be while I am doing your work?’ asked Bartholomew. He was unwilling to accept that Isnard would steal from their church, even if Michael was wavering.

  ‘King’s Hall. I plan to bribe a porter to let me search Godrich’s room.’

  Obediently, Bartholomew hurried to St John Zachary, where Frisby was thundering wine-scented greetings to his parishioners. Inside, he saw Lakenham and Cristine inspecting Stanmore’s tomb in readiness for beginning work on it the following day, so he went to speak to them first. However, he had only just stepped into the chancel when he found himself surrounded by Petit and his apprentices.

  ‘No one cancels my commissions,’ the mason hissed angrily. ‘So tell your sister to take me back, or Stanmore will not be in his tomb alone for long – you will join him there.’

  ‘It is your own fault,’ said Bartholomew, more irritated than unnerved by the threat. ‘You should have kept your promises.’

  ‘I did keep them,’ snarled Petit. ‘But laymen do not understand how long these things take. And it is stupid to dismiss me now, just when the end is in sight.’

  Bartholomew was sure it was nothing of the kind. ‘The decision has been made,’ he said coolly. ‘So that is that.’

  ‘Well, she is not getting her deposit back,’ flashed Petit.

  ‘Wilson’s ledger slab,’ said Bartholomew, watching the masons intently as he embarked on what he suspected would be a futile set of questions. ‘It has been stolen, but it can never be resold, because every church in the country knows that particular piece of stone. It is unique.’

  It was a lie, but two of the apprentices exchanged an uneasy glance, while he thought there was a flicker of alarm in Petit’s eyes. Of course, furtive reactions were not evidence of guilt, and more than that was needed to see them charged with its theft. With a final glower, Petit led his lads away, but they had barely left the chancel before Lakenham and Cristine came to stand at Bartholomew’s side.

  ‘Did they accuse us of stealing your stone?’ demanded Cristine angrily. ‘Because we never did. We have been nowhere near St Michael’s. However, we lost two big boxes of brass nails, three hammers and a bucket of pitch last night. We are sure they took them.’

  ‘It is easy to target us now that Reames is dead, you see,’ explained Lakenham. ‘He used to sleep in our supplies shed – which is why they killed him, of course.’

  Bartholomew was inclined to believe them over the belligerent Petit. Or was he wrong to base his suspicions on the fact that he liked the latteners more than the masons? He asked more questions but learned nothing of relevance, and turned to leave. Then he jumped in shock when he saw Edith’s steward standing in the shadows, so still and silent that he might have been an effigy himself. The man abandoned his hiding place when he saw he had been spotted.

  ‘Edith sent me over when she saw Petit corner you,’ he explained. ‘But the hero of Poitiers needed no help from me.’

  ‘Look after her,’ said Bartholomew softly. ‘I do not trust Petit.’

  ‘He will come nowhere near her, never fear.’ A determined gleam lit the steward’s eyes. ‘We will get her deposit back and all.’

  When Bartholomew left the church, he walked to the river for no reason other than a desire to stand quietly and think for a while. The lane he chose happened to be the one that led to Michaelhouse’s pier, which had been a busy dock just a few weeks earlier. Now all that remained was a mess of charred timbers. He was surprised to see a boat moored to
one of its scorched bollards – a boat containing Isnard and Gundrede.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he called. ‘You know you should not be there.’

  The structure had been deemed unsafe by the town’s worthies, and river traffic was forbidden to use it. However, it was by far the best place to unload goods bound for the Market Square, so some bargemen surreptitiously flouted the ban. Bartholomew supposed he should have guessed that Isnard, with his cavalier disregard both for authority and his own safety, would be one of them.

  ‘Just looking, Doctor,’ the bargeman replied airily, beginning to cast off. ‘That blaze made quite a mess of this poor quay. When will you be getting it mended?’

  Never, thought Bartholomew glumly, unless a wealthy benefactor could be persuaded to pay for it. However, Michaelhouse’s Fellows were not in the habit of making their financial difficulties public, so he asked a question instead.

  ‘Have you heard that part of Wilson’s tomb was stolen from our church?’

  ‘A vile act of desecration,’ declared Isnard, while Gundrede busied himself with the ropes and refused to look at the physician. ‘I hope the Sheriff catches the rogue responsible.’

  With a cheerful wave, he poled the boat away, meaning that Bartholomew either had to drop the matter or bawl his next question at the top of his voice. He watched the little craft skim away, wondering what the pair had been doing at the wharf in the first place.

  Michael’s illicit visit to Godrich’s quarters had yielded two discoveries of interest. First, a scroll itemising all the bribes that had been promised in exchange for votes – so many he was sure that Godrich could not possibly make good on them all. Unfortunately, the disappointed parties would already have voted him into power by the time they realised that he had no intention of honouring the pledges he had made.

  The second was a letter from Dallingridge, written shortly before his death. It stated unequivocally that he had been fed a toxin, and a list of suspects was appended. It comprised many people Michael did not know, but a number he did, including Kolvyle, Egidia, Inge, the tomb-makers and Barber Cook. Whittlesey’s name was also there, and Godrich was instructed to ignore any claim the envoy might make about being nowhere near Nottingham on Lammas Day. Dallingridge was sure Whittlesey was lying, and Godrich should ask himself why the envoy should feel the need for such brazen untruths.