‘And I thought I lived by the statutes,’ breathed Michael to Bartholomew. ‘But he makes me look like an amateur. Perhaps I should promote him to Senior Proctor’s Secretary instead.’
‘We do not want a Chancellor who swans off without explanation anyway,’ said Vicar Eyton of St Bene’t’s. ‘It means he is unsteady, and not the sort of man to serve as our leader.’
‘He might be dead,’ called someone else. ‘He may not have gone voluntarily.’
‘If his body is found in Cambridge, I suppose it means he will have kept full term,’ mused Nicholas, frowning thoughtfully. ‘So we can still vote for him, as there is nothing in the statutes about excluding corpses from the running. However, it would not be wise for us to elect one – it would find fulfilling its duties very difficult.’
There was a startled silence at this proclamation, although it did not last long.
‘A corpse could not be worse than Tynkell,’ drawled Master Heltisle of Bene’t College. ‘He might have been dead, for all the decisions he made.’
‘It does not matter if Godrich is in the land of the living or lying in a ditch,’ said Eyton impatiently, ‘because he will not be Chancellor anyway. We must choose between Michaelhouse and Maud’s.’
Those who had agreed to support Godrich in exchange for free books began to argue, unwilling to accept that the promised riches would not now be theirs. Then someone accused Hopeman’s followers of engineering a situation where his only rival was Suttone, and a furious quarrel broke out.
‘The tension might ease if we told them that Whittlesey is the killer,’ said Bartholomew to Michael. ‘Then there would be no grounds for charges of foul play, and the election could settle into a peaceful race between the two remaining candidates.’
‘No event will be peaceful if Hopeman is involved,’ remarked Michael wryly. ‘Besides, neither of us is entirely sure that Whittlesey is the guilty party, so I recommend we wait to hear his side of the story before making public allegations.’
‘Then let us hope Meadowman hurries,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He—’
He stopped when a gaggle of men from the hostels surged forward to surround them, clamouring to know why the Senior Proctor had not protected Godrich. They were led by Vicar Frisby, who was drunk.
‘You should have known that his offer of free books for the poorest hostels would make him unpopular in some quarters,’ Frisby slurred. ‘You should have kept him safe.’
‘You should,’ agreed Master Thomas of Bridge Hostel tearfully. His cloak was pitifully thin, and he was shivering. ‘We were so looking forward to having our own copy of Augustine’s Sermones.’
‘He might be alive,’ said Michael with quiet reason. ‘It is not—’
‘He is dead,’ interjected Frisby firmly. ‘Or he would be here now, buying more votes. And I am furious about it.’
‘You are?’ asked Thomas, bemused. ‘Why? You told us that Suttone would be your second choice, should Thelnetham become unavailable. Godrich is irrelevant to you.’
‘He was irrelevant, but then Cew’s brass was stolen from my church,’ explained Frisby. ‘He offered to pay for another if I switched my allegiance to him. Naturally, I agreed.’
‘So will you revert back to Suttone now?’ asked Thomas curiously.
Frisby nodded. ‘The Senior Proctor’s new puppet is infinitely preferable to Hopeman. I have never held with an overabundance of religion, and he is a bore with his pious sermons and conversations with the Almighty.’
He raised the wineskin in a sloppy salute and tottered away, leaving behind a number of baffled hostel men, all wondering why one priest should condemn another for talking to God.
Bartholomew and Michael were just passing St Clement’s on their way to the castle when Vicar Milde emerged, his face unusually sombre.
‘Have you heard, Brother?’ he asked. ‘All the pinnacles on the Holty tomb were stolen last night, probably shortly after I finished prayers at midnight. Personally, I like it better without them, but that is beside the point – which is that someone burgled a holy church. Do these people care nothing for their immortal souls?’
‘Not as much as they care about their purses,’ retorted Michael, and then frowned. ‘Do I hear Hopeman’s voice coming from your domain?’
‘I am afraid so,’ sighed Milde. ‘He just marched in and began holding forth. I shall be glad when this election is over, as I am tired of all these aggravating speeches.’
Michael and Bartholomew went to listen. The building was full, and Hopeman’s dark face burned with the power of his convictions as he informed his listeners that a vote for Suttone was an invitation for the Devil to rule the University. Michael was about to go and suggest he choose his words with more care when he was hailed by an urgent shout.
‘Brother! Brother!’ cried Nicholas, distraught. ‘My little bell has gone! Gone!’
Michael frowned his bemusement. ‘What little bell?’
‘Someone sneaked up the tower and made off with her,’ sobbed the secretary, wringing his hands in distress. ‘We only have two left. My poor bell! What will become of her?’
‘You mean one of the bells that Oswald bought?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering if Nicholas had been at Frisby’s claret. ‘But that is impossible. They are heavy – hardly something that can be tossed over one’s shoulder and toted away.’
‘Nor were Master Wilson’s ledger slab, Dallingridge’s feet and Holty’s pinnacles,’ wailed Nicholas, ‘but they were stolen. And now my little treble has suffered the same fate.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Michael, turning and beginning to hurry back to St Mary the Great. ‘Did you take Meadowman’s keys and go to look?’
‘Of course not! I never go up the tower alone, as I have told you before.’
‘Then how—’
‘I was afraid they might get stiff if they were left unused for days on end,’ sniffed the secretary. ‘So I gave their ropes a bit of a tug.’
Michael raised admonishing eyebrows. ‘But I issued an edict that they were not to be rung until after the election.’
‘I was not ringing them, Brother. I was making sure they were in good working order. The bigger two sounded faintly when I pulled their ropes, but my treble … who could have done such a dreadful thing?’
They reached St Mary the Great, where Michael began the laborious process of unlocking the tower door. Then he climbed up the stairs, with Bartholomew behind and Nicholas bringing up the rear, still weeping. They reached the bell chamber to discover that one of the great metal domes was indeed missing. When he saw it, Nicholas dropped to his knees and sobbed so violently that Bartholomew was concerned for his health.
‘Edith will buy you another,’ he said kindly. He had no idea if it was true, but he had to say something to stem the frenzied outpouring of grief.
‘But what will happen to her?’ cried Nicholas, when he had controlled himself enough to speak. ‘Will she be sold to another church or … melted down?’ The last words were spoken in an appalled gulp that precipitated a fresh wave of tears.
‘Neither,’ said Michael, patting his shoulder comfortingly. ‘As Matt said, bells are heavy, and cannot be toted about like sacks of grain. Someone will have seen the thieves, and we shall get her back. Matt – climb up to the frame and tell me how it was done.’
Bartholomew was tempted to tell the monk to do it himself, but Nicholas shot him a pleading look, so he put his foot in the stirrup formed by Michael’s hands and hauled himself upwards. However, when he put his hand on the frame to steady himself, he felt it move in its moorings, and jumped back down again fast.
‘Heavens!’ he exclaimed, glancing up uneasily. ‘It is loose.’
‘It is supposed to be loose,’ sniffled Nicholas. ‘The tower will crack if the frame is too rigidly attached to the walls. Just ask any bell-hanger. It needs to be able to rock.’
‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, making a mental note never to stand beneath the bells when they were ringing.
He turned to Michael. ‘The thieves unfastened the bolts that secured the treble to its headstock. Then they lowered it to the floor, opened the trapdoor, and winched it down to the narthex.’
The trapdoor in question had been cut into the middle of the floor when the bells had been installed, as they had been too big to fit through the windows or up the stairs. It was a flimsy affair, which had worked to the thieves’ advantage – a child could have lifted it up.
‘There was all manner of filth on the narthex floor when I went to ring … I mean to test the bells this morning,’ whispered Nicholas unsteadily. ‘Dust, feathers, pigeon droppings … I assumed those filthy masons were responsible, getting ready to work on Tynkell’s tomb.’
‘When did you last see the treble?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘When you dragged me up here to demonstrate how the thief “locked” the Chest Room yesterday,’ sniffed Nicholas. ‘However, I know she was still here at three o’clock this morning, because I gave her a bit of a tug just before nocturns. I felt her swing.’
‘The villains chose their time well,’ mused Michael. ‘The church is rarely empty, even in the small hours, but it was different last night. Too many scholars are angry about the election, so I told my beadles to oust everyone after each sacred office, to prevent spats.’
‘And you gave the order that the bells are not to be rung until Wednesday,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The thieves assume that they will not be missed until the election, and probably aim to come back for another tonight and the last one tomorrow.’
Nicholas stopped crying and a vengeful expression suffused his face. ‘Then I shall stand guard, and when they appear I shall run them through. Where can I get a sword, Brother? I want one with a very sharp point, because no one attacks my bells and lives to tell the tale.’
‘I think we had better let the beadles do it,’ said Michael kindly.
‘This dust,’ said Bartholomew, prodding a pile of wood shavings with his toe. ‘Someone has been sawing. Are you sure the frame is safe, Nicholas? Because if you are wrong, the remaining bells – and perhaps the frame, too – will crash through this floor and land in the narthex. On you, if you happen to be ringing them.’
Nicholas gave him a pitying look. ‘I see you know nothing about the technicalities of bell-hanging. The frame is designed to last a lifetime, and it will take more than a bit of sawing to render it unsound. The bells are quite safe, I assure you.’
They returned to the nave, where Michael detailed a few beadles to monitor the tower, as well as questioning visitors to the church about the missing bell.
‘The Sheriff will help us find it,’ he said to Nicholas, who had started to sob again. ‘A bell is bulkier and more distinctive than slabs of stone. We will catch the villains, never fear.’
‘Good,’ snuffled Nicholas. ‘Because I have set my heart on ringing them when the next Chancellor is elected. All of them, not just two.’
CHAPTER 13
For the second time that morning, Bartholomew and Michael set out for the castle, now with even more reason to speak to the Sheriff, but were saved from climbing the hill when they met Tulyet on the Great Bridge. He was striding along briskly with a wet and very muddy Helbye at his heels. The older man was struggling to keep up with him.
‘What have you been doing to get into such a state?’ Bartholomew asked the sergeant, while Michael gave Tulyet a brief summary of all that had happened since they had last met.
‘Hunting Yevele,’ replied the old soldier curtly. ‘I had a report that he was in Trumpington, but it was a lot of rubbish, because none of the villagers had seen him. Then, on the way back, I saw a barge that looked very heavy in the water. I gave chase, but it promptly cut off down a channel, where I could not follow. It was the thieves – I am sure of it.’
‘What kind of barge?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily, thinking of Isnard.
Helbye read his mind. ‘Yes, it could have been his, although it was difficult to be sure.’
Bartholomew was puzzled. ‘Yet if you saw this craft from the Trumpington road, it must have been travelling south. Why, when the sea and the Fens are north and east?’
‘Because I suspect they have a base down there,’ explained Helbye. ‘They will take their loot a few miles by boat, then load it on to carts, to be transported to London by road.’
‘I do not suppose you noticed a bell on board, did you?’
‘A bell?’ Helbye was thoughtful. ‘There was something bulky, now you mention it. Why? Have you lost one?’
‘The University Church has.’ Bartholomew nodded at the sergeant’s sodden clothes. ‘I hope you did not try to swim after this boat.’
Helbye grimaced. ‘I jumped across a ditch. I thought I could make it with room to spare, but there were roots and I stumbled … I landed with an awful thump. My arm is agony.’
‘Would you like me to look at it?’
‘Not in the street.’ Helbye looked around quickly. ‘I cannot have the lads seeing and thinking me feeble.’ He nodded to a nearby tavern. ‘But it will be nice and warm in there, and I would not mind a sip of hot ale. It is perishing out here.’
‘We shall all come,’ determined Michael, overhearing. ‘We have much to discuss, and it will be more pleasant to do it indoors.’
The tavern was the Ship, a small, seedy establishment with an owner whose eyes bulged in alarm when the door opened to admit the Sheriff and Senior Proctor. His agitation did not diminish when Michael asked what victuals were available, making it clear that he intended to stay a while. The other patrons promptly melted away, ignoring his whispered pleas not to leave him alone with such a party. Oblivious of the fact that they were ruining his day, Michael and Tulyet began to discuss murder and theft, while Bartholomew examined Helbye.
The sergeant had fallen directly on his older wound, partly reopening it, and adding a deep cut that reached the bone. He had bound it to stem the bleeding, but the wound was filthy and would fester without proper care. Bartholomew began to clean it, a painful, laborious process that made Helbye groan and hiss between his teeth. He had not been working long before there was a familiar and unwelcome voice at his elbow.
‘What are you doing?’
Bartholomew could only suppose that one of the Ship’s patrons had gone to tell Barber Cook what was happening, probably in the expectation of getting a coin for his trouble.
‘He is tending one of my men,’ said Tulyet coolly. ‘Not that it is any of your business.’
‘It is my business,’ countered Cook, all haughty dignity. ‘That is a laceration, and those are mine to treat, as stipulated in the charter of the Worshipful Company of Barbers. Helbye, come with me. I know how to heal injuries without making my patients swoon from the pain. Better yet, I will throw in a shave, gratis.’
Bartholomew doubted the barber could be more gentle than he had been, but Helbye seized the offer with relief.
‘Thank God!’ he gulped, standing at once. ‘I can take a bit of discomfort, but no man enjoys having his wounds poked with sharp spikes.’
‘No, Will,’ snapped Tulyet. ‘Stay with Matt.’
‘Do not listen to him,’ instructed Cook. ‘He is—’
He backed away fast when Tulyet came to his feet with a dangerous light in his eyes: he had not forgotten the threat that had been issued the last time he had dared challenge the Sheriff’s authority.
‘It is all right, sir,’ said Helbye. ‘This small scratch is not worth any trouble. I will go with Cook, and he will soon set me right.’
‘It is not a “small scratch”,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘It is a serious injury that needs proper attention or it will turn bad.’
‘I know how to treat wounds,’ said Cook curtly. ‘I am a barber-surgeon. Helbye, if you value your life, follow me. If you want to die, then stay here with this physician.’
He spat the last word like an insult, before spinning on his heel and stalking out. Bartholomew opened his mouth to appeal to Helbye’s sense of self-pres
ervation, but the sergeant raised a hand to stop him.
‘Do not worry,’ he said with a lop-sided grin. ‘He did a lovely job sewing me up last time, and it barely hurt at all. You can do me a horoscope later, and then everyone will be happy.’
Bartholomew was not happy at all, and followed him to the door, where he watched Cook grin triumphantly as he took the sergeant’s arm and escorted him into the Griffin Inn opposite. He was about to return to Michael and Tulyet when he saw his colleague Doctor Rougham of Gonville Hall. Rougham was wearing a handsome, fur-lined cloak against the chill, although it was too long for traipsing around Cambridge’s mucky streets, and the bottom was sadly soiled with manure and something unpleasant picked up from walking past the slaughter-houses.
‘Did I just see Helbye surrendering to Cook’s tender mercies?’ Rougham asked. ‘I thought he had more sense. Still, when that lunatic kills him, at least he can have the satisfaction of lying in his grave with a beautiful haircut and a very close shave.’
‘Helbye’s life is not a matter for jests,’ said Bartholomew sharply.
‘Who is jesting? Cook is a menace, and should be banished from our town before he kills someone important – or worse, someone rich. He almost deprived me of Inge the other day, and he has been one of my best clients.’
‘Why did Inge need a medicus?’
‘He accidentally swallowed some resin, so Cook brewed him an emetic, which made him vomit so violently that his stomach bled. The resin would have done him scant harm, but the emetic … well, suffice to say that he was lucky I was on hand to administer an antidote.’
‘How does one “accidentally swallow” resin?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused.
‘According to Inge, he mistook it for honey, although it sounds a peculiar tale to me. But I cannot loiter here gossiping, Bartholomew. I have patients to tend.’
Bartholomew re-entered the Ship, hoping that Helbye would not take too long to come for his horoscope, so he could check Cook’s handiwork before there was a problem.
A Grave Concern: The Twenty Second Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew Book 22) Page 30
