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

by Susanna Gregory

  He snatched it up eagerly. It was a cloak, too good a garment to have been discarded deliberately, even by someone wealthy. There was a tear near the collar, where the clasp that had kept the two edges together had been ripped out. It proved what Michael had suspected from the start: that it had come loose as its wearer and Tynkell had grappled, after which the wind had carried it off.

  It was not much of a step forward, but Bartholomew hoped it would be enough to throw doubts on the tale that Tynkell had been unequal to besting Lucifer.

  His mind full of questions and solutions, Bartholomew hurried to St Mary the Great, where he asked Nicholas to show him the Chest Room. The secretary narrowed his eyes in rank suspicion, making the physician feel as though he had asked for something untoward.

  ‘I think I know how Tynkell’s killer escaped from the tower,’ he explained. ‘I will show you if you let me up there – it will be easier than telling you down here.’

  Nicholas remained wary. ‘I cannot – I do not have the keys. Only Michael and Meadowman do. Besides, we do not let just anyone up there, you know. It contains all our most precious documents and most of our money.’

  Michael heard their voices and came to find out what was going on. Bartholomew showed him the cloak and told him where he had found it.

  ‘Can it be identified?’ asked the monk, seizing it eagerly. ‘Even soaked and muddy, it is obviously expensive. Someone might recognise it.’

  ‘It is also black,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘Like the ones owned by virtually every scholar in the University, not to mention most priests. Many can afford decent cloth.’

  ‘So can burgesses and merchants,’ put in Nicholas. ‘And black is by far the most popular colour. Clothiers sell it by the cartload, as Matthew’s sister will attest.’

  ‘But there are tears and marks on this one,’ persisted Michael. ‘It is unique.’

  ‘Yes – from its spell out in the Barnwell Fields,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is impossible to say what it looked like before flying off the roof and spending five days in the mud.’

  Michael sagged in disappointment. ‘So its discovery means nothing?’

  ‘It proves that Satan was not involved,’ said Bartholomew.

  ‘It will take more than a discarded mantle to change people’s minds about that,’ predicted Nicholas. ‘They love that tale.’

  ‘I am afraid that is true, Matt,’ said Michael, seeing the physician prepare to argue. ‘More is the pity. But what do you want in the Chest Room?’

  ‘I think I know how the killer hid from us that day.’

  Michael raised questioning eyebrows at Nicholas. ‘Then why did you refuse to let him in? You know where Meadowman keeps his keys, and we are desperate for answers.’

  ‘It is against the rules,’ replied the secretary indignantly. ‘Which say that the tower should never be opened unless two University officers are in attendance.’

  Michael rolled his eyes, and indicated with an irritable flick of his hand that Nicholas was to do as Bartholomew had requested. The secretary responded with an offended sniff intended to remind the monk of who had written the guidelines in the first place.

  ‘He really is a pedantic fellow,’ muttered Michael, as he and Bartholomew followed him up the nave. ‘And I have an uncomfortable feeling that he thinks I am the killer – my motive being that I want to see Suttone safely installed before I leave for Rochester.’

  ‘What did Godrich say about being on the jury that acquitted Moleyns of murder?’ asked Bartholomew, hoping the secretary had more sense than to suspect the Senior Proctor.

  ‘Nothing,’ replied Michael sourly. ‘Because he had stormed out of Michaelhouse in a rage by the time I arrived home. I went to King’s Hall, but he was not there either. Warden Shropham has promised to let me know the moment he returns, and then he will be in for an uncomfortable interview.’

  ‘Then did you speak to Hopeman about his arguments with Lyng?’

  Michael nodded. ‘He openly acknowledges that they were often at loggerheads, but says he cannot recall specifics. I suggested that he try, and he informed me that God speaks through him, so any threats he might have issued actually came from the Almighty.’

  ‘So he might be stabbing people in the belief that he is doing God’s will?’

  ‘It is possible, although Godrich remains my chief suspect.’

  He unlocked the tower door and began to ascend the stairs, Bartholomew following and Nicholas bringing up the rear. Bartholomew paused at the bell chamber, and looked at the three metal domes, remembering Stanmore as he did so. He wondered what his brother-in-law would have made of the decision to silence them until after the election, and was sure he would have disapproved. Oswald had always loved the noisy jangle of bells.

  Michael had unfastened the two locks to the Chest Room by the time Bartholomew and Nicholas arrived, and was waiting inside, holding a lantern aloft. Bartholomew stepped across the threshold and looked around. The only thing that had changed since his last visit was that mice had been at the poison in the little dishes, because there was less of it than there had been.

  ‘The killer did not hide in here, Matt,’ averred Michael. ‘Even if he had managed to lay hold of Meadowman’s keys, the door cannot be locked from the inside.’

  Bartholomew smiled. ‘Assuming it was locked.’

  ‘It was,’ averred Michael. ‘I rattled it on my way past, and so did you.’

  ‘Go and stand on the stairs, then come back in when I call you.’

  Puzzled, Michael went to do as he was told, although Nicholas declined to join him, clearly of the opinion that the physician might make off with the University’s treasure if left unsupervised. Once the door was closed, Bartholomew took one of the plates of poison and jammed it underneath, kicking it hard to ensure it was securely lodged.

  ‘Enter, Brother,’ he shouted. ‘If you can.’

  There was a rattle as the monk seized the handle, followed by a determined series of thumps as he pushed at it with increasing vigour. The door held firm.

  ‘You have locked it!’ he shouted accusingly. ‘How?’

  Bartholomew removed the dish, and showed him what he had done. The monk was thoughtful.

  ‘Then I submit that Tynkell came up here alone, unlocking the doors with Meadowman’s keys. The killer followed, and they had some sort of confrontation. Or perhaps Tynkell saw him sneaking past, and hared after him to the roof, where they fought. Once Tynkell was dead, the villain started to descend …’

  ‘But he heard us coming up,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Fortunately for him, you fell and twisted your knee. I went back to help you, which delayed us just long enough to let him duck in here – the door would have been left open when Tynkell gave chase. He jammed it shut … you can see scratches on the floor where the dish was lodged.’

  ‘My word!’ breathed Nicholas, peering at them.

  ‘Tynkell almost certainly left Meadowman’s keys behind when he went to the roof,’ Bartholomew went on. ‘So the killer calmly waited until we had gone on upwards, after which he came out, locked the door behind him, and returned the keys to their hiding place.’

  Nicholas looked from one to the other. ‘But that means the culprit is a University officer! We are the only ones who know where they are kept.’

  ‘Not so,’ said Michael. ‘Most of the beadles have seen Meadowman “hide” them, and not all are discreet men. One may have let something slip in a tavern. Or sold the information.’

  ‘No!’ gulped Nicholas. ‘They would never betray you – they are loyal men.’

  ‘Generally,’ agreed Michael. ‘But none are very well paid, and all like a drink.’

  Nicholas was thoughtful. ‘Even the Sheriff was betrayed by a soldier he thought he could trust. Perhaps we all put too much faith in the vagaries of human nature.’

  Bartholomew continued with his analysis. ‘However, when we arrived at the church, the porch and the vestry doors were locked from the inside, and the building w
as empty because everyone had gone out to watch. That means those doors were secured after Tynkell had started to fight. It could not have been before, or people would not have been able to leave.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ demanded Michael. ‘That he had an accomplice?’

  ‘He must have done.’

  Michael turned to Nicholas. ‘So why did Tynkell come up here? You must have an inkling – you were his secretary after all.’

  ‘He did not confide in me, Brother. I told you: he had grown withdrawn and secretive these last few weeks, and kept shutting himself in his office.’

  ‘Look in the Chest,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps something will be out of place.’

  Michael obliged, and he and Nicholas began a careful analysis of its contents, although it looked like a random jumble to Bartholomew.

  ‘This,’ said Michael eventually, pulling out a piece of vellum. He opened it and began to read. ‘It is a deed of ownership for the chapel in Stoke Poges.’

  ‘Thelnetham said that Tynkell hoped to get it for the University,’ recalled Bartholomew. ‘And that he visited Stoke Poges to such an end, determined to make sure he was favourably remembered when he retired. Well, it seems he did. And as that manor once belonged to Moleyns, the chances are that he was involved in helping Tynkell to acquire it for us.’

  Michael’s expression was dark with anger. ‘Moleyns murdered his wife’s uncle to get that manor – his ownership of it is tainted, which means we cannot possibly accept its chapel. No wonder Tynkell shut himself away! He knew I would stop him if I knew what he was doing.’

  ‘Oh, Tynkell,’ whispered Nicholas sadly. ‘We would have remembered you fondly anyway. You did not have to stoop to such antics.’

  Michael stared at the deed. ‘So he came up here to deposit this for safekeeping – or perhaps to gloat over it – when his killer happened across him.’

  ‘It seems likely,’ agreed Nicholas. ‘So how does it help us identify the culprit?’

  Michael rubbed a weary hand across his face. ‘I am damned if I know.’

  Bartholomew went to bed early that night, but woke at midnight and could not go back to sleep. Eventually, he rose and went to the conclave, intending to work on a lecture he was to give on Galen’s De urinis later that term. He arrived to find he was not the only one who was restless. Michael was there, too, so they fell to discussing the murders. The monk had questioned the other University clerks about the deed to Stoke Poges chapel, but Tynkell had mentioned it to none of them, and all professed themselves astonished that he had succeeded in getting it.

  ‘Perhaps Moleyns helped him because of their shared interest in witchery,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Moleyns visited Marjory Starre, while we know that Lyng and Tynkell had horned serpents inked on their—’

  He stopped in horror when he realised that he had just broken Tynkell’s confidence.

  Michael’s jaw dropped. ‘They had what? Did you say horned serpents? But that is a mark of Satan!’

  Bartholomew began to speak in a gabble about Moleyns and Lyng, in the desperate but futile hope that Michael would forget Tynkell had also been mentioned.

  ‘Lyng and Moleyns had snakes on their feet. Or rather, Lyng did – Moleyns was buried before I knew what to look for, so I cannot be sure about him. However, one of your clerks claims to have seen them comparing these symbols in St Mary the Great. Of course, I have not questioned the man myself, because I do not know who he is …’

  ‘And Tynkell?’ asked Michael sharply, when the physician trailed off. ‘He had one, too? Is that the mysterious secret you and he shared for so many years?’

  Trapped, Bartholomew nodded wretchedly. ‘But he made me promise never to tell anyone. I did not understand why he was so insistent until Marjory Starre explained their significance yesterday.’

  ‘But I would have done, and you should have told me,’ said Michael angrily. ‘You have put the whole University at risk with your misguided principles. Do you not know what will happen if word seeps out that we had a Satanist at our helm?’

  ‘Tynkell was not a Satanist, Brother! There is no reason to suppose that he was anything other than a devout Christian.’

  ‘You are my Corpse Examiner,’ said Michael heatedly. ‘You have a responsibility to me, as well as to your patients, and your silence has done me a serious disservice. Not to mention damaging our investigation.’

  ‘It was not my secret to share. Besides, Tynkell always said it was the result of a youthful prank, and I had no reason to disbelieve him. Unfortunately, Marjory thinks that is unlikely, given the number of serpents he had put on himself, and the time it takes to draw them …’

  Michael gaped anew at the implications of that revelation. ‘How many of these horrible things did he have?’

  Bartholomew rubbed a hand through his hair, wondering whether to answer. However, the cat was out of the bag now, so there was no point in refusing to cooperate, especially as Michael could just ask Marjory. Besides, Tynkell had lied to him, and loyalty went both ways.

  ‘Lots,’ he mumbled. ‘Two dozen or more, of varying sizes. However, I never saw any indication that he attended covens or did … whatever it is that Satanists do. It is entirely possible that this so-called connection is completely irrelevant.’

  ‘Not if Lyng and Moleyns showed each other these symbols in St Mary the Great, where we know they met Tynkell for sly discussions.’ Michael continued to glare. ‘I cannot believe you kept such vital information from me, Matt. I am stunned!’

  ‘But I did not know it was vital,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘And perhaps we are overstating its importance anyway. It is not necessarily a sinister—’

  ‘Anything to do with witchery is sinister, and all three men have been murdered. Of course it is important! Oh, Lord, here comes Cynric. Now what?’

  ‘A brawl at the King’s Head,’ the book-bearer reported tersely to Bartholomew. ‘Cook is there, tending the injured, but some are the Sheriff’s men and he wants you to see to them instead. It will mean trouble, boy. Cook will not like being deprived of customers.’

  ‘I will come at once,’ said Bartholomew, relieved to be away from the monk’s scolding tongue, even if it did mean another confrontation with the vicious barber.

  Bartholomew gathered what he needed from his room, and set off at a brisk trot, Cynric loping at his side. The streets felt oddly uneasy for the small hours, and he was disconcerted to see lights in hostels that were normally in darkness with their occupants fast asleep. Lamps also burned in the Carmelite Friary, Bene’t College, the Hall of Valence Marie and Peterhouse, while the Gilbertines’ refectory was lit up like a bonfire. Scholars darted in and out of the shadows, visiting neighbours and friends in defiance of the curfew that should have kept them indoors.

  ‘They are plotting,’ surmised Cynric. ‘About how to install their preferred candidate. But Suttone need not worry. I have bought several costly charms on his behalf, so he will win.’

  ‘Bought them from Marjory Starre?’ asked Bartholomew warily.

  Cynric nodded. ‘She is very good, and she is kindly disposed towards Michaelhouse at the moment – because of Suttone himself, as a matter of fact.’

  Bartholomew regarded him in alarm. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘People have not forgotten the terrors of the plague, and he claims it is on the brink of return. His beliefs – which he has been airing in his election speeches – have driven folk to take all the precautions they can. Scholars and townsmen alike have flocked to Marjory for warding spells, and she says business has never been so good.’

  ‘Then we must tell him to stop,’ said Bartholomew worriedly. ‘Especially if he does win. We do not want half the University queuing up for her services.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Cynric. ‘It would be a nuisance for us regulars. However, it is Suttone’s intention to let scholars loose on townswomen that concerns me more. I do not want hordes of amorous academics after my wife – she may not like it. But
Lord, it is bitter tonight! Marjory says we shall have snow the day after tomorrow.’

  Bartholomew thought she might be right, as it was as cold as he could ever remember. It hurt to inhale; his nose, ears and fingers ached; and the frozen mud on the High Street made for treacherous walking. He began to wish he was back in the conclave, but then remembered that Michael would be there, and decided he was better off outside.

  He and Cynric arrived at the King’s Head to find the carnage was not as great as they had been led to believe. Most wounds were superficial, although Cook was busily sewing them up anyway, so he could claim a fee. One victim was a ditcher named Noll Verius, who never had any money, and would almost certainly have to resort to crime to pay what was demanded.

  ‘That will heal on its own,’ he said, feeling it would be unethical to look the other way while Cook embarked on a painful and wholly unnecessary procedure.

  Predictably, Cook resented the interference. ‘I was here first, so these injuries belong to me.’ His hands were red to the wrists, like glistening gloves, and his needle was thick with gore from his previous customers. ‘Now piss off.’

  ‘Watch your mouth, you,’ said Cynric dangerously. ‘Or I will—’

  ‘Good, you are here at last, Matt,’ said Tulyet, bustling up and blithely oblivious of the fact that he had just prevented a second brawl. ‘I want you to look at Robin. He has—’

  ‘He will look at no one,’ interrupted Cook angrily. ‘Surgery is my prerogative, not his.’

  ‘You may tend the patrons of this tavern, if they are reckless enough to let you near them,’ said Tulyet coldly, ‘but stay away from my men.’

  ‘Where and when I practise is dictated by the Worshipful Company of Barbers,’ flashed Cook. ‘Not you.’

  ‘How good are you at inserting stitches into yourself?’ asked Tulyet malevolently. ‘Because that is what you will need to do if you challenge me again.’

  Even the combative barber knew better than to argue, and he prudently slunk away, although not without a vicious glower that would have unnerved any lesser man. Bartholomew went to tend Robin, who was white with shock, because someone had pinned his hand to a table with a dagger. Fortunately, the blade had missed bone, tendons and arteries, and would heal well enough. Helbye stood with a comforting hand on his shoulder, looking old, grey and tired.