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

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘Please do not leave,’ begged Robin, as the sergeant turned to go. ‘When that wretched barber sees Doctor Bartholomew with me, he will storm over and try to push him away. And I do not want Cook. Not when he killed Widow Miller and Mother Salter. You should never have sent for him.’

  ‘Of course I had to send for him,’ argued Helbye irritably. ‘He is the town surgeon – and a good one, too.’ He raised his sleeve to reveal a healing gash. ‘Look at that – a lovely neat job! Not even a woman could have done better stitches.’

  ‘You were lucky, then,’ said Robin. ‘Perhaps he likes you.’

  ‘Most folk do,’ quipped Helbye, although his grin did not touch his eyes, and Bartholomew saw he was shocked by the speed with which the trouble in the King’s Head had erupted. ‘But the hero of Poitiers can protect you from Cook, and I should hunt for Isnard before there is any more fighting.’

  ‘Isnard,’ sighed Robin. ‘I was right, you know – we should not have come in here, demanding to see him. We should have waited for him to come out, like we usually do.’

  ‘We have the authority to go wherever we please in the town we rule,’ said Helbye indignantly. ‘And that includes the King’s Head.’

  ‘Yes, but …’ began Robin, then decided there was no point in arguing. He explained to Bartholomew. ‘We wanted to ask Isnard about the new stuff that was stolen, you see – Wilson’s lid, Trinity Hall’s scaffolding, and some nails from Lakenham’s shed.’

  ‘Isnard is a rogue,’ said Helbye grimly. ‘And it cannot be coincidence that these things went missing at the exact moment that he and Gundrede returned from their mysterious excursion to God knows where.’

  His voice was flat and strained, so that Bartholomew sensed he knew he had made a serious error of judgement by invading the King’s Head, and was embarrassed by it. He muttered something about finding Isnard and hurried away, his shoulders slumped.

  Bartholomew finished with Robin and went to the next patient, a lad who had fainted at the first splash of blood and was still feeling queasy. He refused to let Cook puncture the boy’s eardrum to ‘release the excess of bad humours’, and instead settled him quietly in a corner with a cup of honeyed ale.

  ‘I have been practising my trade since I was ten years old,’ said Cook, eyeing Bartholomew with open hatred, ‘while you wasted years by reading books. I am far more experienced than you, and you have no right to gainsay me.’

  Bartholomew ignored him and moved on, gratified when this annoyed Cook far more than any retort. But the barber would not leave him alone, and was a constant presence at his side, braying that anyone who put his faith in physicians was courting Death.

  ‘For God’s sake, Cook!’ snapped Tulyet eventually. ‘I cannot hear myself think with all your carping. If you cannot hold your tongue, go home.’

  Cook opened his mouth to object, but had second thoughts when he recalled the Sheriff’s earlier threat. Wordlessly, he collected his implements and stalked out. It was easier for Bartholomew to work once he had gone, and he soon finished what needed to be done. He packed up his equipment and was about to leave when Cynric approached.

  ‘Isnard needs you outside,’ he whispered. ‘But he is hiding from Helbye, so he wants you to come discreetly. He is waiting in the stable.’

  Bartholomew arrived in the outbuilding to find Gundrede with Isnard, both showing signs of being in the thick of the trouble. The bargeman had cuts on his face, while Gundrede’s nose was askew.

  ‘Why could you not just answer the soldiers’ questions?’ Bartholomew asked them reproachfully. ‘A spat was unwarranted, and you are lucky no one was killed.’

  ‘It was the principle of the thing,’ explained Isnard earnestly. ‘They know the King’s Head is a sanctuary for … hard-working folk, but they came storming in like Pontius Pilate after vestal virgins. It was an outrage that had to be challenged.’

  ‘We would have gone outside, if they had asked nicely,’ added Gundrede, while Bartholomew was still pondering the bargeman’s curious analogy. ‘There was no need for them to race in and start making accusations.’

  ‘Besides, we never stole anything last night,’ said Isnard. ‘We were not even here.’

  ‘Then where were you?’ asked Bartholomew.

  ‘Away,’ replied Isnard airily. Then he regarded the physician with eyes that were full of hurt. ‘They accused me of taking Master Wilson’s lid, but he was once a member of Michaelhouse – the College I love with all my heart. I would never steal anything from you.’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Bartholomew, aware that Gundrede was studiously looking in the opposite direction.

  ‘Michaelhouse is dearer to me than my own home,’ Isnard went on tearfully. ‘Indeed, I plan to live there when I take over the choir.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Bartholomew, startled. ‘Do you?’

  ‘Unless you can persuade Brother Michael that his future lies here,’ said Isnard pleadingly. ‘Remind him of all the good things he has – not just the biggest and best choir in the country, but friends who are devoted to him.’

  ‘And who wants to be a bishop, anyway?’ asked Gundrede. ‘All they do is eat, drink and ponder about how to get one over on their colleagues.’

  If that were true, then Michael would be in his element, thought Bartholomew. He worked in silence for a while, listening to Tulyet rounding up his soldiers in the street outside. Helbye was repeating the orders in a ringing voice, and Bartholomew supposed the sergeant was trying to claw back some of the authority he had lost with the ill-advised raid.

  ‘Incidentally, we have been looking for the woman in the fancy cloak,’ said Gundrede, breaking into his thoughts. ‘Lots of people saw her run off after Moleyns was killed – including you – so she probably knows the killer. Unfortunately, the wretched lass has disappeared.’

  ‘We want to take her to the Sheriff, see, so she can tell him that the Devil did it,’ elaborated Isnard. ‘And not us. We will keep searching. I am sure she will surface eventually.’

  ‘Unless Satan has silenced her with a claw to the heart, of course,’ said Gundrede darkly.

  Bartholomew finished tending their injuries, and left them moaning about Michael’s disloyalty to the choir. He collected Cynric and started to walk home.

  ‘Blaston claims that fight was audible in Milne Street,’ said the book-bearer. ‘Helbye was a fool to march in and start throwing his weight around. It was deliberately provocative.’

  ‘So it would seem,’ sighed Bartholomew.

  ‘He probably wanted to prove that he is not too old for a skirmish,’ Cynric went on. ‘But it did the opposite – it showed everyone that it is time he retired.’

  ‘He should not bear all the blame for the brawl. It would not have happened if the patrons of the King’s Head had shown some restraint.’

  Cynric shot him a sour glance to show he disagreed. ‘Speaking of restraint, Master Langelee should impose some on Kolvyle. That boy is a horror. In fact, it was probably him who killed Tynkell and the others.’

  ‘Was it?’ asked Bartholomew mildly. He was used to Cynric making outrageously unfounded remarks, and had learned to take them with a pinch of salt.

  ‘He murdered Tynkell because he wanted to be Chancellor, and then he stabbed Lyng for being popular. He was jealous, see.’

  ‘And why did Moleyns have to die?’

  ‘Oh, that is simple. You remember Dallingridge, the man who was poisoned in Nottingham? Well, Moleyns killed him for Kolvyle’s benefit. Dallingridge was a brilliant scholar, and Kolvyle was afraid that he would be seen as second-best.’

  ‘Right,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And what did Moleyns gain from this arrangement?’

  ‘Nothing,’ replied Cynric promptly. ‘Because the moment he asked for a favour, Kolvyle stabbed him. Now Kolvyle supports Godrich, who is the candidate least likely to do a good job, at which point he will demand another election and stand himself. There, I have solved the case. Now all you have to do is arrest the brat.’
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  At that moment, a familiar figure emerged from St Michael’s Lane with a train of beadles at his heels.

  ‘I am summoned to King’s Hall,’ said Michael worriedly. ‘Godrich is missing, and they fear the killer has struck again.’

  CHAPTER 12

  ‘Has the killer struck again, Brother?’ asked Langelee a little later that morning.

  It was still early, but he and his Fellows had already attended their devotions, broken their fast, and repaired to the conclave, where they were busily preparing for the day ahead. Michael was fluttering around Suttone with a brush and scissors, struggling to render him a little more Chancellor-like; Langelee, William, Clippesby and Kolvyle were assembling their notes for the morning’s lessons; Bartholomew was making a list of the texts he wanted his students to read; and Langelee himself was honing his letter-opener, originally an innocuous little implement but now a very deadly weapon. Clearly, he was of the opinion that only a fool would not take precautions to protect himself if Michael’s answer was yes.

  Michael stopped primping Suttone, his expression bleak. ‘Well, Lyng went missing, and look what happened to him. However, I can tell you that Godrich is not on the banks of the King’s Ditch, because we searched them very thoroughly – by torchlight.’

  ‘Personally, I thought Godrich was the murderer,’ said William. ‘So perhaps he sensed the net closing in around him, and fled before he was arrested.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ declared Kolvyle. ‘He would never—’

  ‘He was my main suspect, too,’ interrupted Michael, ignoring Kolvyle and addressing William. ‘He is a despicable rogue. First, he was on the jury that acquitted Moleyns of poisoning Peter Poges. Second, Dallingridge was poisoned in Nottingham, and Godrich was there at the time, although he insists on denying it—’

  ‘Dallingridge was not poisoned,’ snapped Kolvyle irritably. ‘He died of natural causes, as I have told you on countless occasions. And Godrich is telling the truth about Lammas Day – I would have noticed if he had been at the feast in the castle.’

  ‘Dallingridge wrote a list of all the people he suspected of killing him,’ Michael retorted. ‘It included you, so forgive me if I do not accept your opinion on the matter.’ He turned back to William. ‘And third, Godrich stoops to buying votes to make himself Chancellor.’

  ‘I heard that he turned to the Devil for help during the plague, too,’ said William, cutting across the response Kolvyle started to make. ‘He bought charms and spells from witches to keep himself safe.’

  ‘Many people did,’ said Clippesby, hugging a mangy dog. ‘And we should not judge them too harshly for what happened during that terrible time.’

  ‘We should if they want to be Chancellor,’ retorted Suttone. ‘Because they might do it again, when the disease sweeps through us a second time.’ Rashly, he addressed Kolvyle. ‘I trust this will make you rethink your allegiance to him?’

  Kolvyle’s face was hard and cold. ‘And vote for you? Do not make me laugh!’

  ‘I will make a good Chancellor,’ protested Suttone, stung. ‘I am a—’

  ‘You will never be elected,’ declared Kolvyle viciously. ‘But if you are, I shall threaten to resign. And that means you will not keep your post for long, because no one will choose an old man over the University’s brightest young mind.’

  ‘Be careful what you promise,’ warned Langelee, while the others blinked their astonishment at such brazen hubris. ‘Thelnetham resigned in favour of a better offer, and he ended up with nothing.’

  ‘And good riddance!’ scoffed Kolvyle. ‘But I am different, because I am a rising star, whereas he is just another elderly has-been. Like the rest of you.’

  ‘Now just a moment,’ said William dangerously. ‘I am in the prime of my—’

  ‘You are all too old,’ Kolvyle declared contemptuously. ‘And it is time a clean sweep was made to rid the University of its deadwood.’

  He turned and stalked away, but Michael raised his hand when William started after him. ‘Leave him. He is not worth the effort.’

  William scowled. ‘Even Thelnetham was nicer than him, and that is saying something. I recommend we never hire any more Fellows. They are a menace!’

  ‘Other than Aungel,’ said Langelee. ‘We shall enrol him when Bartholomew abandons us for matrimonial bliss. He has his failings, but better the devil you know.’

  ‘I am not going anywhere,’ said Bartholomew, disliking the way his future was being decided without him. ‘At least, not yet. I shall see out the academic year, no matter what.’

  ‘You will not need to go at all if Suttone is Chancellor,’ said William. ‘He will let you have your woman and keep your Fellowship.’

  ‘I will,’ agreed Suttone. ‘And why not? It is stupid to lose a good teacher, just because he has normal manly appetites. However, I hope Godrich is not dead. He has powerful friends at Court, and I do not want the King accusing me of his murder.’ Then a thought occurred to him, and he blanched. ‘Lord! Do you think I am in danger? After all, we started with five candidates, but now we are four.’

  ‘There is no harm in being careful,’ replied Michael. ‘So Cynric can stay with you today.’

  ‘Tell us what you learned at King’s Hall last night, Brother,’ said Langelee, returning to his original question. ‘Should we be concerned for Godrich’s safety?’

  ‘Unfortunately, I think we should,’ replied the monk unhappily. ‘Especially as Whittlesey seems to be missing too.’

  ‘Whittlesey?’ echoed Langelee, shocked. ‘God’s teeth! The Church will be livid if anything happens to him. He is the Archbishop of Canterbury’s favourite nephew, and an important cleric in his own right.’

  ‘Godrich organised a feast at King’s Hall in Whittlesey’s honour,’ Michael went on, ‘but neither appeared for it and I am very worried. As I said, Godrich was my chief suspect, but now he has vanished … well, it just bodes ill.’

  ‘This dog,’ said Clippesby, indicating the creature in his arms. ‘She is the one who was made to run across the road when Moleyns died – after a bone. A lamb shank, she says.’

  ‘And?’ demanded Michael eagerly. ‘Is she going to tell us who threw it?’

  ‘She does not know. However, she tells me that it was definitely not Godrich, because he loves dogs, and would never have put one in danger.’

  Michael seized his arm urgently. ‘Are you sure? Please, Clippesby – no madness now. This is important, because if Godrich can be eliminated as a suspect, then it means he probably is dead. And Whittlesey with him. They were rarely out of each other’s company these last few days, so Whittlesey may have been dispatched just because he was in the killer’s way.’

  ‘I am sure. I happened to be watching Godrich when Moleyns fell off his horse – one of his hounds was limping, you see, and I was waiting for an opportunity to tell him so. He did run towards the mêlée, but he did not kill Moleyns. I would have noticed.’

  ‘Damn it, Clippesby!’ cried Michael, exasperated. ‘Why did you not tell me this at once?’

  ‘Because I did not know that Godrich was a suspect until you announced it just now.’

  ‘I do not suppose you noticed Whittlesey in the scrum, did you?’ asked Michael, fighting down his frustration. The other-worldly Dominican often closed his eyes to the sordid affairs of men; most of the time, Michael did not blame him.

  ‘I did, actually,’ replied Clippesby serenely. ‘He was trailing after you and Matt, although I did not know then that he was an envoy from Rochester. When Moleyns fell, he raced forward with the rest, but I did not see what he did when he got there.’

  ‘I never did like Whittlesey,’ declared William. ‘Too greasy by half. He killed Tynkell, Moleyns and Lyng. Then he dispatched Godrich, but realised it was one murder too many, so he fled while he was still able.’

  ‘But they are cousins,’ Suttone reminded him.

  ‘Quite,’ said William tartly. ‘People are far more likely to kill their family than strangers –
you can usually avoid the one, but you are stuck with the other until death.’

  Not long after, when the debate about the killer’s identity was still in full swing, the door opened to admit Thelnetham and Nicholas. The Gilbertine was wearing pink hose, shoes with shiny silver tassels, and his cloak was fastened by the gaudy purple-jewelled brooch. He opened his mouth to address the Fellows, but sneezed twice in quick succession instead. When he tried a second time to speak, he was convulsed by four more.

  ‘It is the dog,’ explained Nicholas. ‘They always have this effect on him.’

  ‘Take her outside, Clippesby,’ ordered Langelee. ‘Or we will never hear what Thelnetham has to tell us.’

  ‘I should have known better than to visit when he was here,’ wheezed Thelnetham, eyes streaming as he glared after the Dominican. ‘It reminds me why I was so glad to leave.’

  ‘You were not glad,’ countered William spitefully. ‘You begged to be reinstated.’

  ‘Then thank the good Lord I was not,’ snapped Thelnetham, dabbing at his nose with a piece of puce silk. ‘Because it means I shall not have to wait until the end of term before I return to my Mother House in Lincolnshire.’

  Suttone blinked. ‘You are leaving Cambridge? But why?’

  ‘Because Godrich is buying votes, Hopeman is bullying everyone with threats of divine vengeance, and you have the Senior Proctor behind you,’ replied Thelnetham shortly. ‘I cannot compete against such odds, and I was a fool to think the University might consider brains to be an important quality in a Chancellor.’

  ‘They are overrated,’ said William. ‘Most officials manage perfectly well without them.’

  ‘So I am withdrawing from the race,’ Thelnetham went on. ‘Nicholas will draft a suitable notice and post it on the Great West Door today. With your permission, Brother.’