A Grave Concern: The Twenty Second Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew Book 22)
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‘Women,’ began Godrich, immediately snagging the students’ attention. ‘They are forbidden to us, but I shall change that stricture when I am in power. Being scholars does not make us priests, and it is ridiculous to force us to live celibate lives.’
This raised a cheer from Bartholomew’s lads, although Michael’s monastics maintained a disapproving silence.
‘But that was my idea,’ cried Suttone, dismayed. ‘I forgot to mention it in my speech just now, but I was the one who first suggested—’
‘You had your turn, Suttone,’ interrupted Kolvyle sharply. ‘So shut up and allow Godrich the same respect he afforded you by listening to him in silence.’
He indicated that Godrich should resume, nodding encouragingly. The King’s Hall man spoke well, and Suttone shrivelled further with every word. Bartholomew felt for him, especially as Godrich was a noted hater of women, and had started his campaign by mocking Suttone’s recommendation that the rules regarding them be relaxed.
‘There,’ said Kolvyle, when Godrich had finished. ‘Are there any questions before we end this session and move on to the next stage?’
‘I have one,’ said Thelnetham mildly. ‘Have you forgotten me?’
Kolvyle regarded him disparagingly. ‘You want to speak, do you? Very well, but make it brief. We cannot waste time.’
It was rude, as well as patently unfair, but the Gilbertine rose to the challenge, and laughter soon reverberated around the hall. Kolvyle’s face was stony, while the other candidates were openly envious at the applause that marked the end of Thelnetham’s speech – a short one, because the Gilbertine also knew when to stop. Then Bartholomew felt someone tugging at his sleeve. It was Clippesby, red-faced, sweaty and breathless.
‘I went to my friary, as Langelee ordered,’ he whispered. ‘And I got talking to a couple of cockerels. It seems that Hopeman had a very fierce argument with Lyng on Thursday night, after which Lyng stalked off towards the Trumpington road.’
Michael frowned. ‘Are you telling us that Hopeman killed Lyng?’
‘No, Brother,’ replied Clippesby. ‘I am telling you that they quarrelled the night he died. The cockerels did not witness this fight themselves, though – Almoner Byri did, and they overheard him telling Prior Morden about it. Apparently, it was a very savage row, and threats were made …’
‘What threats?’ demanded Michael.
‘Hopeman said that he would sooner kill Lyng than let him be Chancellor – he genuinely believes that God guides his wild opinions, you see. The cockerels are afraid that Hopeman realised Lyng was the most popular candidate, and decided to eliminate him …’
‘Well, then,’ said Michael, ‘we had better visit Byri and have this tale from the horse’s mouth before tackling Hopeman with it.’
‘The horses were not there,’ said Clippesby seriously. ‘Just the cockerels. But wear your warmest cloaks. The wind is getting up again, and it is bitterly cold. Ethel says there will be snow soon.’
‘I will come with you, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. He nodded towards the dais. ‘I do not think I can stand any more of this.’
CHAPTER 11
A Dominican Priory had been founded in Cambridge not long after that Order had first arrived in the country, and its founders had chosen a site east of the town, rather than in the centre, like the Carmelites, Austins and Franciscans. This meant it had been free to expand unfettered by constraints of space, and so was enormous. It was centred around its beautiful church, which rivalled St Mary the Great in size and splendour. Other buildings included a refectory and dormitories for its sixty or so priests, and a range of sheds, pantries, storerooms and stables.
The lay-brother who answered the gate invited them to wait by the fire in his lodge while he went to announce their arrival to Prior Morden. His kindness came with a caveat, though.
‘And no stealing my bread and cheese, Brother. I know exactly how much there is, and will notice if any is missing.’
‘He seems to have a very odd impression of me,’ said Michael when the man had gone. ‘Does he really imagine that I wander around the town scoffing whatever I happen to find?’
Eventually, they were conducted across the garden to the Prior’s House, an elegant edifice that had been built that summer, and that was larger than many hostels. It had a tiled roof, and its walls were stone. Michael had developed a mischievous habit of entering the old one by flinging open the door hard enough to startle its occupant – a practice that nearly always resulted in damage to the wall. However, Morden had evidently taken this into account when he had designed his new parlour, so Michael thrust open the door with his customary vigour, only to have it snap back at him, landing him a painful crack on the nose.
‘Do come in, Brother,’ said Morden, struggling to keep a straight face.
He was in company with Almoner Byri, a plump man with white hair, who leaned against the wall while tears of mirth rolled down his plump cheeks. Bartholomew saw the door had been fitted with a thin strip of metal, which meant it would always spring back at the opener – and the harder it was pushed, the more violently it would return. The Dominicans were famous for their love of practical jokes.
‘This is dangerous,’ he said disapprovingly. ‘You could hurt someone.’
‘They have hurt someone,’ said Michael nasally. ‘I feel as though I have been punched, and the Senior Proctor can levy fines for that sort of thing.’
‘It is only a bit of fun,’ said Morden. He was sitting on a stool behind his desk, which had been piled high with cushions; his little legs swung in the empty space below them. ‘Where is your sense of humour?’
‘There is nothing amusing about visitors’ noses being mashed into the back of their skulls,’ growled Michael. ‘I have cautioned you about these pranks before.’
‘You are as bad as Hopeman,’ said Morden, rolling his eyes. ‘He is all grim business and no play, too. However, we only deployed that device when we heard you were here, Brother. My walls are new, and I do not want them dented by one of your forceful arrivals.’
‘Here is some wine to make you feel better,’ said Byri. He saw the monk’s eyes narrow, so took a sip himself. ‘Best quality claret. This is not another jest, I promise.’
Michael took the proffered goblet with ill grace, and plonked himself down on a bench. He should have known better, and squawked in shock when it tipped violently. Quick as lightning, Bartholomew grabbed the end that flew into the air, and preserved the monk’s dignity by sitting on it himself. Morden and Byri were openly disappointed.
‘I am here on a serious matter,’ said Michael sternly. ‘Murder. It is not an occasion for merriment, so I suggest you desist with these foolish antics before you annoy me.’
Morden became serious. ‘My apologies, Brother. We are very sorry about Tynkell and Lyng. Both were good men, and Lyng would have made an excellent Chancellor.’
‘Yet you support Hopeman,’ Michael pointed out, ‘who will not.’
‘Yes, because he is a Dominican,’ explained Morden. ‘We cannot vote for Thelnetham or Suttone, because one is a Gilbertine and the other a Carmelite, while Godrich will not do at all.’
‘Why not?’ probed Michael.
Morden indicated that Byri should reply.
‘He has been bribing hostels to vote for him,’ obliged the almoner, although he spoke reluctantly; he was not a man for gossip. ‘But he was overheard saying that he cannot possibly honour all the pledges he has made, and will renege on most the moment he is in post.’
‘Then there is his friendship with Moleyns,’ added Morden. ‘I assume you know what happened in Stoke Poges all those years ago, when Moleyns was charged with the murder of Egidia’s uncle, but was acquitted?’
Michael nodded. ‘He chose the jury himself.’
‘Yes, and one of its members was Godrich.’ Byri frowned when he saw Michael’s surprise. ‘No one told you?’
‘No,’ said Michael stiffly. ‘How did you find out?’
> ‘The village priest is a Dominican, and I met him at a conclave recently. He said that Godrich bragged about telling the other jurors how to vote. Godrich was sent there from Court, you see, to make sure that a man who was generous to the royal coffers was not convicted.’
‘Then it was a pity for Moleyns that Godrich was not available for his next trial as well,’ murmured Morden acidly. ‘I imagine he was horrified when he was pronounced guilty of all those terrible deeds – theft, cattle rustling, harbouring felons …’
‘You should have mentioned this sooner, Byri,’ said Michael aggrieved. ‘How am I supposed to solve these murders when people withhold vital information?’
‘I assumed that Godrich would tell you himself,’ replied Byri defensively. ‘On the grounds that keeping it quiet makes it look as though he has something to hide.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Michael caustically. ‘It does, doesn’t it.’
‘Do you think Godrich is the killer?’ Morden answered the question himself. ‘It would make sense: he stabbed Tynkell to force an election, Moleyns to prevent unsavoury details about his past from emerging, and Lyng to rid himself of his most dangerous rival.’
‘Are there any other “unsavoury details” that I might not know?’ asked Michael crossly.
Byri raised his hands in a shrug. ‘Not that I am aware. However, Godrich would not have done that sort of favour for Moleyns and then forgotten all about it. Moleyns will have expressed his gratitude to him in some significant way, you can be sure of that.’
Michael thought so, too. ‘But we are here on another matter, as it happens. Tell us about the argument you overheard between Hopeman and Lyng.’
Byri gaped at him. ‘How on Earth do you know about that? The only person I have told is Prior Morden, and he has been in here with me ever since, going through our accounts.’
‘The Senior Proctor has very long ears,’ replied Michael smugly.
‘Or his spies do,’ muttered Byri. ‘Very well, then. It was on Thursday night, well after nine. I had been away on priory business, and I stopped at St Botolph’s Church to give thanks for my safe return. When I came out, Hopeman and Lyng were in the graveyard. I suppose I should have made myself known, but I was very tired and Hopeman can be … wordy.’
‘You did not want him to keep you from your rest with a diatribe,’ surmised Michael. ‘So you skulked in the dark, waiting for him to leave.’
‘It sounds sly when put like that,’ objected Byri. ‘Whereas I merely decided that it would be more comfortable to have his news the next day, rather than there and then, out in the cold.’
‘So what did you hear, exactly?’
‘They were talking about the chancellorship, amiably at first. Then Lyng told Hopeman to stand down and support him instead. He said he was going to win anyway, and Hopeman could save himself a lot of embarrassment by withdrawing before the votes were counted.’
Bartholomew frowned. ‘Lyng said that? I thought he was a modest man.’
‘So did I, which just goes to show that you never know anyone as well as you think.’
Bartholomew recalled the argument in Maud’s Hostel, where Blaston the carpenter had overheard a quarrel that had involved physical violence. Perhaps Byri was right.
‘Needless to say, Hopeman was incensed,’ the almoner went on. ‘He began to rant and screech, and said some terrible things, including …’
‘Yes?’ pressed Michael. He grimaced when Byri glanced at his prior. ‘I need the truth about this encounter, Byri. If Hopeman is the killer, he needs to be stopped. I know he is a Dominican, and you are reluctant to betray him, but think of his victims.’
‘Michael is right, Byri,’ said Morden quietly. ‘You have a duty to tell the truth.’
‘Very well,’ sighed the almoner. ‘Hopeman said he would kill Lyng if he interfered with God’s plans. Lyng retorted that Hopeman might be the one to die, but they were both seriously angry by this point, and men often say things in temper that they do not really mean.’
‘And temper often exposes their true intentions,’ countered Michael, and stood so abruptly that Bartholomew was tipped off the other end of the bench, although no one laughed. ‘We shall return to Michaelhouse and see what Hopeman has to say about this matter.’
‘He is not the killer,’ said Morden, although his voice lacked conviction. ‘He may be a zealot, but he would never break one of the Ten Commandments.’
‘If he had nothing to hide, he would have mentioned this encounter when I questioned him about Lyng’s disappearance,’ said Michael. ‘But he told me that he had not seen Lyng since noon. Which means he does break the Commandments – by bearing false witness.’
‘I suppose it does,’ conceded Morden unhappily.
The wind had picked up since Bartholomew and Michael had been inside the priory, and was now blowing hard. It made the voluminous folds of Michael’s habit billow wildly, while Bartholomew struggled to stay upright. They began to trudge back towards the town.
‘I am confused,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Blaston heard Lyng quarrel with a “black villain” – we assume Hopeman – in Maud’s Hostel at dusk. But if Lyng had slapped Hopeman then, why would Hopeman risk another encounter with Lyng a few hours later?’
‘The answer is obvious: it must have been someone else who Blaston heard – he admits that he did not see this other person. And we are learning a lot about Lyng. He was no gentle saint, as we all believed, but someone who issued ultimatums, engaged in vicious rows, and used threats and physical violence. What are you doing?’
Bartholomew had stopped, and was staring across the flat expanse of the Barnwell Fields. As he watched, the rising gale whisked a piece of rubbish high into the air, where it was carried some distance before becoming entangled in an alder copse.
‘The wind,’ he said. ‘It is blowing from the same direction as it was on Tuesday.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Michael, pulling his thick winter mantle more closely around him. ‘And it is cutting right through me.’
‘The killer’s cloak was whipped from the tower and carried towards these fields.’
‘I know,’ said Michael drily. ‘My beadles and I spent hours searching for the wretched thing, and our failure to produce it has fuelled the rumour that it was Satan.’
‘Where did you look exactly?’
Michael spread his hands in a shrug. ‘Every inch of ground between St Mary the Great and the Dominican Priory. Why?’
Bartholomew stared at the church tower, angles and distances running through his mind. When there was no reply, Michael repeated the question, then sighed in annoyance when it was ignored a second time. He began to walk away, loath to stand around while the physician ruminated in silence – it was far too cold for that. Bartholomew barely saw him go.
His calculations complete, Bartholomew stepped off the Hadstock Way and began to plod in a north-easterly direction, sure that Tuesday’s gale had been strong enough to carry a garment such a distance – and equally sure that Michael had been looking in the wrong place.
The Barnwell Fields were pretty in the summer, when sun and showers created luxurious meadows of thick grass and wild flowers, but they were bleak in winter, when they tended to flood. Bartholomew squelched through knee-deep puddles, struggling to keep his balance on the uneven ground, a task made more difficult still by the buffeting wind. His feet soon turned to ice, while it was impossible to keep his hood from blowing back, so his head ached from the cold. He persisted anyway, determined to succeed where Michael had failed. Then the sun began to set.
‘Good afternoon, Matthew,’ came a familiar voice through the gloom. It was Thelnetham, snugly wrapped in a thick winter cloak and a scarlet liripipe – a long-tailed hood that also served as a scarf. He saw Bartholomew eyeing it in surprise, and shrugged. ‘I did not expect to meet any voters all the way out here, so I decided to indulge my penchant for colour. I shall take it off before I arrive though, as it would be inappropriate for the occasion.’
‘At Widow Miller’s house,’ replied Thelnetham. ‘Lord, it is bitter today! The sky had an ugly hue earlier, and there will be snow before long. Shall we walk the rest of the way together, and pray that it holds off until we have both finished and are safely home again?’
Bartholomew’s mystification intensified. ‘What is happening in Widow Miller’s home?’
Thelnetham frowned his own bemusement. ‘She is dying, and my prior sent me to sit with her. I assume you are going there, too – to see what can be done to ease her final hours.’
Bartholomew shook his head. ‘She is Rougham’s patient, not mine.’
Thelnetham regarded him askance. ‘Then what on Earth are you doing out here? It is scarcely wise on such a foul day, and a lot of paupers rely on your continued good health for their free medical care. You, of all people, cannot afford to be reckless.’
Bartholomew gestured towards the sturdy bulk of St Mary the Great. ‘The killer’s cloak blew off the roof when Tynkell was killed, and it came in this direction. I am trying to find it.’
‘It was not a cloak,’ averred Thelnetham firmly. ‘It was the Devil – too many folk saw him for that not to be true. Nicholas was among them, and he is as honest a man as you could ever hope to meet. If he says it was Satan, then it was Satan.’
‘Hopefully, he will revise his position when I show him the garment.’
‘Or he will tell you that it is the one Satan wore when he flapped away,’ countered Thelnetham. ‘So if you do find the thing, poke it with a stick first, to make sure he is not still inside it. But I had better hurry, or poor Widow Miller will be dead before I arrive.’
He turned and trotted away, at which point Bartholomew became aware that the wind had shifted. When he reworked his calculations accordingly, they took him farther north. The ground was soggier there, and the icy puddles deeper. As the last vestiges of daylight faded and he was getting ready to concede defeat, he glimpsed something black lying in the grass.