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

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘Why did you send him to Trumpington, Dick?’ he asked, a little reproachfully. ‘You must see that he is no longer up to that sort of jaunt.’

  ‘I did not send him,’ replied Tulyet. ‘He volunteered. Besides, it was meant to be a short, easy ride, followed by putting a few questions in a tavern. How was I to know that he would take the opportunity to hare off in pursuit of barges?’

  ‘Speaking of barges, how is your hunt for the thieves going?’ asked Michael. ‘I am afraid I have learned nothing to help, although my beadles have been told to keep their eyes open.’

  ‘It is not “going” at all,’ replied Tulyet sourly. ‘And the rogues continue to outwit me at every turn. Your University has just lost a bell, while Holty is now missing his pinnacles.’

  ‘But you have the tomb-makers under surveillance,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘Your men would have noticed the masons or the latteners slipping away to steal, which means they can be eliminated as suspects. Yes?’

  ‘Not really,’ sighed Tulyet. ‘The nights are bitterly cold, and although my guards claim they stay at their posts every moment of their watch, I am not such a fool as to believe them. Of course they disappear for a quick walk to get their blood moving again, or even to find a warming drink. And who can blame them?’

  ‘But what Helbye saw was valuable,’ said Bartholomew encouragingly. ‘I imagine you have been concentrating on craft travelling north and east – towards the Fens. But he saw one heading south, which will give you a new place to look for the thieves’ base.’

  ‘I monitor all the waterways and roads, regardless of direction, and that barge was not carrying your bell, no matter what Helbye thinks. No boat or cart that could have been toting such an item has left the town.’

  ‘Then it is still here,’ surmised Michael. ‘Stashed away until you lower your guard.’

  ‘Yes, but where? So much material has gone missing – all of it heavy or bulky – that a house or a large shed would be needed to store it all. I have searched all the likely places, but there is no sign of it.’

  ‘Then perhaps it is cached in lots – a bit here and a bit there,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Or it has been moved piecemeal. Lead does not take up much room when it is rolled up, so perhaps it was hidden in a handcart or a travelling pack.’

  Tulyet eyed him lugubriously. ‘We would have found it, believe me.’

  At that moment the door opened and Robin walked in. The young soldier looked around doubtfully as he approached their table, clearly of the opinion that the Sheriff had lost his wits by frequenting such an insalubrious establishment. Bartholomew was inclined to agree when the taverner began to bring the food that Michael had ordered – a plate of greasy fried pork and a pot of something that reeked powerfully of garlic.

  ‘A letter has arrived for you, sir,’ said Robin. ‘I thought it might be important, so I decided to deliver it at once.’

  Tulyet glanced at the seal, but tossed it on the table when it was one he did not recognise, more interested in what else Robin had to tell him.

  ‘Well?’ he demanded. ‘What did you find out? Which boats and carts left the town last night, and what were they carrying?’

  ‘One barge and three carts,’ reported Robin promptly. ‘The men searched them all, as per your orders. The boat was empty, and the carts carried sacks of flour. Then there was the usual trickle of folk going to the King’s Head, along with two horsemen. They frisked the drinkers but not the riders.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Tulyet sharply. ‘I said no exceptions.’

  ‘Because one was that envoy from Rochester, who told them that he was on urgent University business and needed to hurry – which was true, as Cynric was there, and wished him God’s speed. Once he was through the gate, the lads say he took off like lightning – he was riding Satan, you see.’

  ‘Stephen,’ corrected Tulyet automatically. He explained to the scholars. ‘I could hardly keep the animal after what happened to Moleyns, but I could not bring myself to destroy him either, so I sold him to King’s Hall.’

  ‘Whittlesey,’ said Michael through gritted teeth. ‘Who used Cynric’s chance presence to deceive your men, because he is not on any business of ours. And the lie certainly means we shall have questions to ask when Meadowman drags him back. Who was the other horseman?’

  ‘Master Godrich of King’s Hall,’ replied Robin, ‘who left a couple of hours earlier. It is a good thing there was a full moon, or riding would have been very treacherous for—’

  ‘Godrich?’ cried Michael. ‘But we have been scouring the town for him for hours!’

  ‘Have you?’ said Robin, startled. ‘Then it is a pity you did not ask our sentries – they could have told you not to bother.’

  ‘I did ask them,’ snapped Michael. ‘They told me that they had not seen him.’

  ‘They must have misunderstood your question,’ said Robin, spreading his hands apologetically.

  Michael knew that was unlikely, but was not surprised he had been misled. He and Tulyet worked well together, but the same was not true of their people – the soldiers struck sly blows at the University at every opportunity, while the beadles did the same to the castle. The guards had no doubt taken great delight in watching their rivals hunt for someone who was not there.

  ‘When did Godrich go exactly?’ he asked between gritted teeth.

  ‘Before nocturns,’ replied Robin. ‘Perhaps two o’clock, or a little later. The lads say he also set off like greased lightning.’

  ‘Did either mention where they were going?’ asked Tulyet.

  ‘The envoy did not, but Godrich thought the boys were taking too long to open the gate, and muttered that he would never reach Royston if they worked at the pace of snails. So that is where he was heading.’

  ‘A journey of less than fifteen miles,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘But why there?’

  ‘Because it has an inn where you can hire fresh horses,’ explained Tulyet. ‘It is not necessarily his final destination.’

  ‘Did he seem frightened or uneasy?’ asked Michael urgently of Robin. ‘As if he was fleeing for his life?’

  Robin shook his head. ‘Apparently, he was just his usual self – arrogant, rude and nasty.’

  ‘Well, at least he is not dead,’ said Bartholomew. ‘That is good news.’

  ‘He was not dead at two o’clock last night,’ corrected Michael. ‘But that was hours ago, and Whittlesey is hot on his trail, riding a very fast horse. I had better send more beadles after them. Meadowman needs to know that he might be required to defend Godrich from attack.’

  ‘He also needs to know that he must bring both of them back,’ added Tulyet. ‘I will send soldiers to help. If Whittlesey is the rogue who killed my prisoner, then the castle should play a role in his capture.’

  ‘The Benedictine will not be caught,’ predicted Robin. ‘Not if he is riding Satan.’

  ‘Even Stephen will need to rest at some point,’ said Tulyet briskly. ‘Now go and pick four of our best men—’

  ‘Preferably ones who understand that we are all working to the same end,’ put in Michael acidly.

  ‘—and tell them to meet the beadles at the Trumpington Gate,’ finished Tulyet. ‘Hurry!’

  ‘I am confused,’ said Bartholomew, watching Robin stride away. ‘Everything made sense – after a fashion – when we thought Whittlesey was the killer, who fled when he realised Godrich’s murder was one too many. But now we learn that Godrich went first. Why? Could he be the culprit after all? In which case, why did Whittlesey go after him?’

  ‘Perhaps Whittlesey aims to corner Godrich himself,’ suggested Tulyet. ‘Or he wants to help him escape – they are cousins, after all. Or maybe Godrich left on some unrelated mission, and has no idea that a ruthless killer is on his heels.’

  ‘And Whittlesey is up to no good, or he would not have lied to the sentries,’ said Michael worriedly. ‘Moreover, Godrich spent a fortune on buying votes, and I strongly suspect that he did not intend to
be gone for long. The fact that he has failed to return bodes very ill, as far as I am concerned.’

  ‘Well, there is no use in speculating,’ said Tulyet practically. ‘We shall have answers when our people bring them back.’

  ‘If they bring them back,’ said Michael grimly. ‘They have a significant lead.’

  But Bartholomew was shaking his head. ‘Tynkell and Moleyns were murdered in front of dozens of witnesses, telling us that the killer is bold, confident and ruthless. He is not someone who runs at the first sign of trouble, and especially not from the paltry “evidence” that we have managed to put together. He would stay and brazen it out.’

  Tulyet frowned. ‘What are you saying? That Godrich and Whittlesey are innocent?’

  ‘Not “innocent” – they are clearly up to something untoward, or they would not have raced off in the middle of the night, telling lies and riding King’s Hall’s fastest horses. But I am not sure that either killed Tynkell, Moleyns and Lyng.’

  ‘So our culprit is still here?’ asked Tulyet. ‘Perhaps waiting to strike again?’

  ‘It seems likely,’ said Bartholomew.

  While they waited for the beadles and soldiers to don travelling clothes, pack supplies into saddlebags, and ready horses, Bartholomew, Michael and Tulyet continued to discuss what they had reasoned. Michael was torn between despair that they still did not know the killer’s identity, and relief that he might be spared the embarrassment of accusing one of the Archbishop’s nephews of the crimes. Meanwhile, Bartholomew had continued to ponder the thefts.

  ‘Pitch,’ he said, suddenly and somewhat out of the blue. ‘Lakenham lost a bucket of it to thieves, did he not?’

  Tulyet regarded him warily. ‘So he claims. Why?’

  ‘Because Rougham told me that Inge had “accidentally swallowed” some resin.’

  ‘And?’ asked Tulyet, even more mystified. ‘What of it?’

  ‘Pitch is distilled from resin,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And Lakenham’s was taken at night, when it is difficult to see. Burglary is a tense business, and anxious men are often clumsy …’

  Tulyet blinked. ‘You think Inge is the thief now? And he swallowed pitch in the process? I hardly think—’

  ‘We know Moleyns escaped from the castle to steal,’ interrupted Bartholomew, speaking urgently, because the more he thought about it, the more he was sure he was right. ‘So why not Inge and Egidia as well?’

  ‘Because I questioned them thoroughly, and I am satisfied that neither was involved. They knew what Moleyns was doing, certainly, but were not invited to take part. Which annoyed them, actually, as I suspect they would have welcomed a chance to earn some quick money.’

  ‘Exactly! Being excluded must have been extremely galling, especially as Moleyns held the purse strings, and was not overly generous. I suspect they saw how easy it was for him to steal, so they decided to do the same.’

  Tulyet made an impatient sound at the back of his throat. ‘And you think they then elected to filch great lumps of stone and metal? That is ridiculous, Matt! Even if you are right about them taking a leaf from Moleyns’ book – and I am not saying you are – they would have opted for coins, too. Cash, which is readily slipped into a purse and hidden.’

  Bartholomew shook his head. ‘First, they do not have “friends” to tell them about hidden hoards. Second, Moleyns was already targeting coins, and they would not have dared to compete with him. And third, his crimes won him only modest returns – he was careful never to take too much lest someone complained. The theft of stone and brass, however, is on a much grander scale – one that will allow them to break away from Moleyns once and for all.’

  ‘I am not convinced, Matt,’ warned Tulyet. ‘Why would a lawyer and the wife of a friend of the King opt to take building supplies, of all things?’

  ‘Because they knew the tomb-builders in Nottingham, where the cost of raw materials was almost certainly discussed. Inge is an intelligent man – he would have seen the enormous profit that could be made. Moreover, he hails from the Fens, and so will know how to spirit illicit goods away through the marshes. He may even have local contacts to help him.’

  ‘Isnard and Gundrede,’ spat Tulyet. ‘I knew it!’

  ‘Not them,’ said Bartholomew quickly. ‘They helped Moleyns to steal, not Inge and—’

  He trailed off in horror, wondering what was wrong with him. First, he had blurted the secret of Tynkell’s inked symbols to Michael, and now this. Tulyet eyed him balefully.

  ‘So that is how you found out what Moleyns had been doing: they told you. Of course, I imagine their uncharacteristic attack of honesty only happened once he was dead, and they were no longer in a position to profit from him.’

  ‘I still do not see Inge and Egidia stealing stone feet, pinnacles, bells and brasses,’ said Michael, taking pity on Bartholomew and deftly steering the discussion away from the uncomfortable topic of Moleyns and his local helpmeets.

  ‘Then how did Inge come to swallow resin?’ persisted Bartholomew. ‘It is not something that can happen under normal circumstances, which means it happened under abnormal ones – such as that he was out burgling and some splashed into his mouth.’

  ‘This is arrant nonsense,’ said Tulyet irritably. ‘I cannot believe we are even discussing it when we have so much else to occupy our minds.’

  Bartholomew raised his hands in a shrug. ‘Can we question them anyway? It will cost us nothing, and what do we have to lose?’

  ‘Nothing, I suppose,’ conceded Tulyet reluctantly. ‘But—’

  He broke off as the landlord of the Ship approached.

  ‘You forgot this, sir,’ the man said obsequiously, handing over the missive that Robin had brought. ‘You left it on the table.’

  Tulyet nodded his thanks and opened it. He scanned it absently, then gaped his astonishment. ‘It is from Godrich! Written in haste on his journey south. It says that—’

  Michael grabbed it and read it himself. ‘That when Moleyns was tried for the murder of Peter Poges, the evidence pointed to Inge and Egidia as the culprits, which is why he arranged for Moleyns to be acquitted. He claims there was nothing improper in the jury’s verdict.’

  Tulyet snatched it back again. ‘He also says that he requested another trial, but powerful people intervened and the matter was quietly forgotten.’ He looked up at Bartholomew. ‘So, it seems you were right to suspect Inge and Egidia of something untoward. My apologies.’

  ‘If Godrich is telling the truth,’ cautioned Michael. ‘It is difficult to know what to believe in this web of deceit and lies.’

  ‘It is,’ agreed Tulyet. ‘But I am sure about one thing: it is time we had a word with Inge and Egidia. About the hapless Peter Poges and the thefts.’

  Inge and Egidia had moved from the castle to the Griffin, the large tavern where Cook had taken Helbye for treatment. It was a pleasant, rambling affair that smelled of the fresh rushes that had been scattered on the floor and the half-sheep that was roasting on a spit over the fire. Bartholomew, Michael and Tulyet entered to see the pair by the window, although Cook and Helbye had chosen to sit in a different chamber, for which Bartholomew was grateful – he did not want another confrontation with the barber quite so soon after the last one.

  ‘We have questions,’ said Tulyet, addressing Inge and Egidia without preamble. ‘If you answer truthfully, I shall allow you to abjure the realm. Refuse, and you will hang.’

  Bartholomew blinked his surprise at the Sheriff’s opening gambit, but supposed a bombastic approach might serve to frighten them into a confession. Egidia was visibly alarmed, but Inge was made of sterner stuff, and regarded Tulyet in open disdain.

  ‘Do not threaten me,’ he sneered. ‘I know my rights. You cannot charge in here and—’

  ‘We can start with murder,’ interrupted Tulyet, brandishing the letter. ‘We have written testimony from a witness, who claims that you, not Moleyns, poisoned Peter Poges.’

  ‘Lies!’ declared Egidia, although
the flash of fear in her eyes suggested otherwise.

  ‘Is that from Godrich?’ asked Inge, trying to examine the missive as Tulyet continued to wave it around. ‘That appears to be his seal.’ He laughed derisively. ‘And you believe it? A man who is steeped in corruption, and who perverted the course of justice at Moleyns’ trial?’

  ‘Did he?’ pounced Michael. ‘I thought you said the outcome was the proper one – that Moleyns was innocent.’

  ‘We did,’ said Inge smoothly. ‘But that was when Moleyns posed a danger to us. Now he is dead, we can tell the truth.’

  ‘That is right,’ nodded Egidia, licking her lips nervously, ‘Of course my husband killed Uncle Peter, and Godrich did pervert the course of justice by bribing the jury. And if you want more evidence that Godrich is a rogue, ask him about all the gold that Inge and I paid him to—’

  ‘Paid him to buy books for impoverished hostels,’ interrupted Inge sharply, and from the way Egidia jumped, it was clear that he had kicked her under the table. He leaned back on the bench, feigning nonchalance.

  ‘Well, that explains how Godrich was able to spend so much on his election campaign,’ murmured Michael to Bartholomew. ‘He had a plentiful source of easy money.’

  ‘You had better say your prayers,’ said Tulyet to Egidia, instinctively targeting the weaker of the two. ‘Because this letter is enough to see you on the scaffold.’

  ‘It is a forgery,’ said Inge with a shrug, although Egidia blanched. ‘Why would Godrich make such a claim when he is about to be Chancellor? It damages him as much as it does us.’

  ‘Yes – he would rather forget what happened in Stoke Poges all those years ago,’ agreed Egidia. ‘It shows him in a very poor light and—’

  She jumped when Inge gave her another warning kick.

  ‘Think about it,’ Inge went on smoothly. ‘If there was any truth in those allegations, he would have made them years ago.’

  ‘Too right,’ said Egidia, ignoring the lawyer’s angry grimace for refusing to shut up. ‘That letter is a piece of dirty mischief, and you should put it in the fire, where it belongs. Give it to me at once.’