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

by Susanna Gregory

  Michael inclined his head. ‘However, before you do anything rash, it is only fair to tell you that Godrich has disappeared. It may only be a three-way competition.’

  Thelnetham smiled thinly. ‘I appreciate your honesty, Brother – you could have mentioned it after you had accepted my decision to stand down. But it makes no difference. I have learned more than is pleasant about University politics these last few days, and I want no further part in it. I shall journey to Lincoln as soon as there is a break in the weather.’

  ‘Besides, Godrich has spent a lot of money on his campaign,’ added Nicholas, ‘so I doubt he will stay away long. Indeed, his “disappearance” is probably a ploy to gain support.’

  ‘Perhaps it is,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But I shall be sorry to see you go, Thelnetham. You would have been my second choice.’

  ‘That is what most people have told me,’ said Thelnetham sourly. ‘Although I do not consider it much of a compliment. However, until the weather breaks and I can safely ride north, I shall make myself useful by helping Suttone.’

  ‘You will?’ asked Suttone suspiciously. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because as long as you have Michael behind you, you are the best man for the post. I may be leaving the University, but that does not mean I want it in the hands of a fanatic or an opinionated ass like Godrich.’

  ‘That is very decent of you,’ said Michael approvingly. ‘If you encourage your supporters to vote for Suttone, we shall win handily.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ warned Thelnetham. ‘Godrich has purchased a lot of “loyalty” over the last few days, while a great many priests have been persuaded to follow Hopeman. But we shall work together to see what might be done to thwart them.’

  ‘You will not regret it,’ promised Michael. ‘I am thinking of establishing the post of Vice-Chancellor. I will offer it to you, should you change your mind and decide to stay.’

  ‘What would such a position entail?’ asked Nicholas curiously.

  ‘Stepping in when the Chancellor is indisposed or travelling – and Suttone will be required to spend a certain amount of time in Rochester. He will need a reliable deputy.’

  But Thelnetham shook his head. ‘This deputy would make decisions, only to have them overturned when Suttone comes back. It would be a mere sinecure.’

  ‘I disagree,’ argued Michael. ‘And Suttone would be delighted to have someone like you at his side – a strong man, who understands the University.’

  ‘It is kind of you, Brother, but my mind is made up. Perhaps I shall return one day – or even chance my hand in Oxford – but for now, I hanker for the serenity of Lincolnshire. It has been too long since I was there.’ Then Thelnetham grinned impishly. ‘But there is a bright side to my withdrawal: I can dress as I please once more. Black and white are dull colours, and do not suit my complexion at all.’

  He bowed and took his leave, Nicholas limping at his heels.

  ‘I have never understood him,’ said Michael. ‘He is arrogant, cruel and vain, yet also capable of great generosity. He slipped me a lot of money for the choir when he was a Fellow, although always anonymously. He thinks to this day that I never knew it was him.’

  ‘He is a swine,’ countered William. ‘And I shall not be sorry when he goes.’

  ‘Was his sneezing genuine?’ asked Langelee. ‘Because if so, he can be eliminated as a suspect – he could never have snagged the dog and held it until he was ready to lob a bone.’

  ‘It was genuine,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘It is partly why he objected to Clippesby bringing animals in here when he was a member of Michaelhouse. And he was never a suspect as far as I was concerned.’

  The first task that day was to find out what had happened to Godrich, so Bartholomew and Michael walked quickly to King’s Hall, in the hope that there had been some news. The tale of his disappearance was already all over the town, and several scholars approached to say that they were now shifting their allegiance to Suttone.

  ‘Even if Godrich is alive, we do not want a man who slopes off without explanation,’ said Master Braunch of Trinity Hall. ‘And there are nasty rumours about him anyway – that he acquitted Moleyns of murder, dabbled in witchery, and poisoned a man in Nottingham.’

  ‘Let us hope you find the killer soon, Brother,’ added the haughty Master Heltisle of Bene’t College. ‘Or people might start to wonder if you are responsible for all this slaughter. After all, the deaths of Tynkell, Lyng and possibly Godrich – and perhaps even Moleyns, too – have certainly benefited Suttone.’

  ‘They have benefited Hopeman, too, Heltisle,’ Braunch pointed out. ‘And he is far more likely to kill than our Senior Proctor. He is a zealot, who thinks his nasty opinions reflect the will of God. There is no reasoning with that sort of person, and we must all pray that he does not win, or our University will become a very unpleasant place to live.’

  ‘Braunch is right, Matt,’ said Michael, when the pair had gone. ‘So we shall have words with Hopeman later.’

  They knocked at King’s Hall’s handsome gate, and were conducted to the conclave, where Warden Shropham and thirty or so of his Fellows had gathered. They were sitting around a long table, and in the middle of it was a piece of parchment: Godrich’s will.

  ‘You have found his body?’ cried Michael in dismay. ‘Why did you not send word?’

  ‘There has been no news either way,’ replied Shropham. He gestured sheepishly at the document. ‘Assessing his estate is merely a precaution.’

  ‘Godrich is dead,’ stated Dodenho, an opinion that was evidently shared by the others, because a murmur of agreement went around the room. ‘We have visited all his favourite haunts, and there is no sign of him. He would never have left the town willingly – not when he was poised to win the election – so there is only one explanation: he has gone the same way as Tynkell and Lyng.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘He might just be sitting quietly somewhere, waiting for certain rumours to die down.’

  ‘The ones about his chequered past?’ asked Shropham with a grimace. ‘That claim he bought charms from Marjory Starre, and did the King’s bidding in Moleyns’ trial for murder? You think he is lying low to avoid a scandal?’

  ‘Well, it is certainly possible,’ said Michael.

  ‘No, it is not,’ declared Dodenho, ‘because he was a warrior, a man trained to stand and fight. His vanishing means one thing and one thing only: that he is murdered.’

  ‘It is a pity he never saw his tomb started,’ sighed Shropham. ‘It will be such a glorious structure. All I hope is that we shall have a corpse to put in it.’

  ‘Glorious indeed,’ muttered Dodenho acidly, ‘given that every penny he owned will be squandered on the thing. And King’s Hall will get nothing. It is disgraceful!’

  His remark – and his colleagues’ angry agreement – explained why no one was overly distressed by the notion that Godrich might be dead. There was an unwritten but inviolate rule that anyone who accepted a University Fellowship would repay the honour with a legacy, and if Godrich had indeed stipulated that everything was to be spent on his monument, then he had committed a serious breach of trust.

  ‘He took his cue from Dallingridge,’ Dodenho went on crossly, ‘who also wanted his entire estate spent on a tomb. What a wicked waste of money!’

  ‘Speaking of Dallingridge,’ said Shropham, ‘there is no truth in the tale that Godrich poisoned him. First, Godrich was more of a sword man. But second, and perhaps more convincingly, he did not arrive in Nottingham until after Dallingridge was taken ill.’

  ‘How do you know?’ asked Michael. ‘If it is because he told you so, I am not sure we can believe it.’

  ‘I sent him north on King’s Hall business over the summer,’ explained Shropham. ‘And just today, I unearthed three deeds signed and dated by several independent witnesses that prove he was in Derby on Lammas Day. He did not arrive in Nottingham until the following week.’

  ‘My mother always said th
at you cannot take your money with you to the grave,’ muttered Dodenho bitterly, more interested in his colleague’s last will and testament than his innocence. ‘But obviously, she never had met Godrich and Dallingridge.’

  ‘What have you done to find him?’ asked Michael. ‘Other than visit his favourite places?’

  ‘We made a thorough search of our grounds, and traced his last known movements,’ replied Shropham. ‘After storming out of Michaelhouse, he went to the Dominicans, where he offered Morden a bribe of ten marks for forcing Hopeman to stand down. Morden refused.’

  ‘Godrich took Whittlesey with him,’ added Dodenho, ‘although Whittlesey grumbled about it being too cold for a jaunt outside town. Afterwards, Whittlesey insisted on a warming drink in the Cardinal’s Cap to recover, so Godrich accompanied him there.’

  ‘Godrich had organised a feast in Whittlesey’s honour,’ said Shropham. ‘But neither was around at dusk, so we started without them. Unfortunately, we all enjoyed the free-flowing wine so much that it was past midnight before we realised that neither had put in an appearance.’

  ‘So no one saw them after they visited the Cardinal’s Cap?’ asked Michael.

  ‘I heard them,’ said Dodenho. ‘I spilled some claret on myself during the revelries, so I went to change. As I passed Godrich’s room – at roughly ten o’clock – I heard the pair of them quarrelling. I was not so ungentlemanly as to eavesdrop, but I can tell you that the conversation was heated.’

  ‘So one might have done the other harm, then fled to avoid the consequences?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Dodenho indignantly. ‘This is King’s Hall, not a hostel.’

  ‘Right,’ said Michael. ‘But this row … surely you can remember something useful about it? It could be critical to finding out what happened to them.’

  ‘Well, I cannot,’ said Dodenho shortly. ‘I told you: it would have been rude to listen.’

  ‘Even though you must have been curious as to why both had missed the feast, especially as one had arranged it in the other’s honour?’

  ‘There was a lot of wine,’ explained Dodenho sheepishly, while his cronies exchanged the kind of glances that suggested it had been quite an evening. ‘And if I thought about Godrich and Whittlesey at all, it was just to assume that they would join us when they were ready. It is only now that we realise they never did.’

  Michael plied them with more questions, but learned nothing else of use. He asked to see Godrich’s room – prudently not confessing that he had searched it once already – and he and Bartholomew were conducted to the handsome chamber in the gatehouse. The bed was loaded with furs and silks, and the floor was thick with expensive rugs. What caught Bartholomew’s attention, however – perhaps because Cynric had done something similar – were the charms that were dotted around the place, while in a chest by the window were several books on witchcraft that the University had banned. He picked one up at random, and opened it to see annotations in Godrich’s writing, suggesting that the King’s Hall Fellow had been more familiar with their contents than was appropriate for a God-fearing man.

  ‘What happened here?’ asked Michael, pointing to the shattered remains of what had been a pretty and probably expensive bowl.

  ‘I thought I heard something smash,’ mused Dodenho, gazing at it. ‘I suppose it must have been knocked over by mistake.’

  ‘There is blood on it,’ said Bartholomew, inspecting it closely. ‘I think it is more likely that one lobbed it at the other.’

  ‘Godrich was not given to hurling his belongings around,’ averred Dodenho. ‘Although I am not sure about Whittlesey. I did not take to him at all. Lord! I wish we had been more abstemious with the wine. Then Godrich might still be alive, and we could have persuaded him to make a more sensible will.’

  ‘There was a letter,’ blurted Shropham suddenly. ‘I just remembered!’

  ‘From Dallingridge?’ asked Michael innocently, not about to confess that it was currently residing in his office at St Mary the Great.

  ‘No, no – that would have been delivered months ago. I am talking about one that arrived more recently, although the messenger said it had been delayed because of the weather. Perhaps that will give us the clue we need to understand what has happened.’

  There followed a concerted effort to find it. Eventually, it was located under a chest, where it had evidently been placed to keep it from prying eyes.

  ‘It is from Bishop Sheppey,’ said Michael, scanning it quickly. ‘Written the day before he died – in a hand that is firm and strong, for which I am glad; I was afraid that he had been ill for so long that he might have … lost his reason.’

  ‘You mean you feared that you might have been nominated by a madman,’ surmised Shropham. ‘Well, you need not be concerned: Whittlesey told me that Sheppey named you weeks ago. But what does the missive say? And why would Sheppey write to Godrich?’

  Michael frowned. ‘It is addressed to his “favoured son in Christ”, and cautions Godrich to beware of black brethren arriving with false smiles and insincere offers of friendship.’

  ‘It refers to Whittlesey!’ breathed Dodenho. ‘Now all is clear. Whittlesey is the killer, and the Bishop predicted that there would be trouble when his envoy arrived in Cambridge.’

  ‘Have you searched Whittlesey’s quarters yet?’ asked Michael urgently.

  Shropham shook his head. ‘We are not in the habit of invading the privacy of important guests. They tend not to like it.’

  He led the way there, only to discover that all the envoy’s belongings had gone.

  ‘The sly dog!’ cried Dodenho in dismay. ‘I was right – he killed Godrich, packed up and left. How could he? We were on the brink of counting a Chancellor among our ranks, and he has struck us a grave blow.’

  ‘So is that it?’ asked Bartholomew when he and Michael were out on the street. He felt a strange sense of anticlimax. ‘Whittlesey is the killer? The murders did start when he arrived, and I said from the start that he was a suspicious character. I am surprised it was not Cook, but …’

  ‘I suppose he came to install his kinsman as Chancellor,’ said Michael unhappily. ‘He killed Tynkell to create a vacancy, Lyng to eliminate a rival, and Moleyns lest he revealed Godrich’s dubious dealings in Stoke Poges. Then the relationship turned sour, as such alliances often do, so he brained Godrich with the bowl, hid the body and disappeared while he could.’

  ‘Why would a powerful Benedictine be interested in who leads our University?’

  ‘I told you before, Matt – we train the priests who work in dioceses all over the country. All high-ranking churchmen are interested in us.’

  ‘And Sheppey feared that Whittlesey might turn violent, so decided to warn Godrich?’

  Michael shrugged. ‘Sheppey knew Whittlesey well, because all bishops work closely with their envoys. And the warning certainly explains why Godrich was loath to let Whittlesey out of his sight – dragging him to Michaelhouse, taking him to see the Dominicans, accompanying him to the Cardinal’s Cap …’

  ‘I would have thought he would do the opposite – stay as far away from Whittlesey as possible.’

  ‘By keeping him close, Godrich could watch what he was doing. I would have done the same. I shall tell my beadles to intensify the search for him. He cannot have gone far.’

  They had not taken many steps towards St Mary the Great before they met Cynric. The book-bearer was guarding Suttone, who was strolling along the High Street, shaking hands with anyone who would stop to pass the time of day with him. Cynric’s jaw dropped when Bartholomew told him what had happened.

  ‘But I saw Whittlesey!’ he cried. ‘I returned to the King’s Head after seeing you home last night, and we went through the Trumpington Gate together – me walking and him on horseback. I wished him God’s speed, and he thanked me. Then, the moment I entered the tavern, he shot off south like an arrow. I should have known then that there was something amiss.’

  ‘How did he seem?’ dema
nded Michael. ‘Anxious? Angry? Frightened? Gratified?’

  ‘Tense and worried,’ replied the book-bearer. ‘I assumed he was just uneasy about riding in such icy weather. There was a full moon to light his way, but it was still dark.’

  When they reached the church, Michael charged Meadowman to go after the envoy and bring him back. Delighted to be entrusted with such an important task, the beadle chose four cronies and set about commandeering ponies and the necessary supplies.

  ‘Do not worry, Brother,’ he said cheerfully. ‘We will catch him, even if we have to travel to London to do it.’

  And then he and his party were gone. Michael sketched a benediction after them, and his lips moved in a silent prayer for their well-being – and the success of their mission.

  ‘Yet something about Whittlesey as the killer feels wrong,’ said Bartholomew unhappily. ‘I know he is a villainous character, but …’

  Michael turned a haggard face towards him. ‘I agree. I cannot escape the sense that we are missing something important, so I suggest we continue with our enquiries as though this had not happened. After all, even if Whittlesey is the culprit, we shall need more than a letter from a dead bishop to convict him.’

  ‘Where first?’ asked Bartholomew.

  ‘We had better tell Dick Tulyet what has happened. Then I want another word with Egidia and Inge. I have never been comfortable with their role in this affair.’

  They left St Mary the Great just as Nicholas was nailing the notice about Thelnetham’s withdrawal to the Great West Door. Regent masters clustered around to read it.

  ‘It means you must now choose between Suttone and Hopeman,’ Nicholas explained, a remark that caused a ripple of consternation to run through them.

  ‘And Godrich,’ called someone at the back. ‘He might have disappeared, but he has not withdrawn. Not officially. We can still vote for him.’

  ‘Actually, you cannot,’ said Nicholas apologetically. ‘The statutes stipulate that all the candidates must “keep full term”, which, as you know, means they must be resident here for a specific number of nights. By vanishing yesterday, Godrich cannot prove he has fulfilled this stipulation, and has thus rendered himself ineligible.’