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

by Susanna Gregory

  They arrived at the Blastons’ home to hear loud sobbing emanating from within. Isnard and Gundrede exchanged uneasy glances, wished Bartholomew luck, and melted away before they were seen.

  Bartholomew knocked on the door, and was admitted by a child with frightened eyes. He touched her shoulder reassuringly, and followed her to the bedchamber, where Yolande lay surrounded by her family. There were so many of them, all grave-faced, that he was uncomfortably reminded of the deathbed of a monarch or a high-ranking churchman.

  ‘Do not waste your time here,’ whispered Yolande. ‘I shall be dead in a week.’

  Blaston’s face was as white as snow. ‘She cut her hand last night. Barber Cook heard about it, and came to do her a horoscope. But the news is not good.’

  Bartholomew sat on the bed and unwrapped the bandages that swathed Yolande’s arm to the elbow. The wound was deep but clean, while the skin around it was pink and healthy, so there was no reason to think it would not heal. He looked at her in mystification.

  ‘My stars,’ whispered Yolande, her expression haunted. ‘They say that I shall be in my grave within seven days. Show him Barber Cook’s workings, Robert.’

  Bartholomew did not believe in the predictive power of horoscopes, and for many years had refused to calculate them at all, considering them a waste of his time and the patient’s money. Such a stance had earned him a good deal of condemnation, and had contributed to his reputation as a maverick. However, age and experience had taught him that some patients recovered more quickly if they believed their stars were favourable, so he had come to accept that astrology had its place in a physician’s arsenal.

  Yet the one Blaston handed him was like nothing he had ever produced – or seen devised by anyone else. It had a few Latin words, but they were in no particular order, and were interspersed with meaningless symbols and squiggles. All around the edges were drawings of horned serpents.

  ‘What does it say?’ he asked.

  Blaston blinked his surprise at the question. ‘You are the one who can read Greek, Doctor. Barber Cook says that particular language is the best for matters pertaining to stars.’

  ‘This is not Greek,’ said Bartholomew, feeling anger stir within him as he pushed the parchment in his bag, intending to confront the surgeon with it later. ‘It is gibberish. And he is not qualified to produce horoscopes anyway. That is the domain of physicians.’

  Yolande gazed at him, hope lighting her eyes. ‘So I will not die?’

  ‘Not yet, certainly,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘And to prove it, I will read your stars. Then I will give my calculations to Rougham and Lawrence, who will check them for you.’

  ‘Three University men,’ breathed Blaston, impressed. ‘They will know a lot more than Barber Cook.’

  ‘Of course they will,’ said Bartholomew briskly, and set to work at once, while parents and children watched in taut silence, even the babies. When he had finished, he informed Yolande that there was no reason she should not live to be a hundred. She grasped his hand tearfully, but he could not hear her whispered thanks over the delighted whoops of her family.

  He walked outside and looked around rather wildly, hoping to see Cook there and then. Instead, he spotted Rougham, who was just emerging from Trinity Hall.

  ‘Look,’ he said, all righteous indignation as he pulled the barber’s augury from his bag. ‘And Cook accuses me of trespassing on his domain! He gave this to Yolande.’

  ‘Heavens!’ Rougham took it from him gingerly. ‘It is a long time since I have seen one of these. They were sold during the plague, to those who thought the Church had deserted them. Do you see these horned serpents? They are the Devil’s mark.’

  ‘How do you know?’ asked Bartholomew, startled.

  ‘Desperate times called for desperate measures,’ replied Rougham evasively. ‘But I am told that witchery is becoming popular again – probably thanks to Suttone, who keeps announcing that the plague is about to return.’

  Bartholomew frowned. ‘So Cook is a proponent of witchcraft?’

  ‘It would seem so. Give that document to me, and I shall include it with the letter I am writing to Tulyet, asking him to banish Cook from our town. We do not want that sort of person practising medicine in Cambridge. He will give us all a bad name.’

  By noon, the hunt for the missing bell had reached fever point. Unfortunately, it was causing friction, not only between the searchers and those people who owned the places they aimed to ransack, but between students and the town. On the High Street, Bartholomew witnessed a furious fracas over who should have first dibs on exploring St Edward’s crypt.

  ‘We do,’ one of Hopeman’s deacons was snarling. ‘Because that bell is University property, and it will be desecrated if secular hands maul it.’

  ‘But this church belongs to the town,’ retorted a butcher’s boy. ‘And that will be sullied if the likes of you is allowed inside. So sod off and—’

  He stopped speaking abruptly when he saw Tulyet striding towards them. Under the Sheriff’s gimlet eye, both sides had the sense to break off their quarrel and slink away without further ado.

  ‘Who offered this reward, Dick?’ asked Bartholomew disapprovingly. ‘It cannot have been the University. Michael would know better.’

  ‘Unfortunately, the same cannot be said of Secretary Nicholas,’ replied Tulyet. ‘It was his idea, and he announced it before Michael could stop him. The money is his own, apparently.’

  ‘Well, he does love the bells.’

  ‘I like them myself, but it was stupidity itself to offer such an enormous sum to get one back again. But I am glad to have caught you, Matt. I have been looking everywhere for you. Will you come to examine Helbye? I think Cook did something terrible to his arm yesterday, because he is ill.’

  He turned and set a cracking pace towards the castle before the physician could reply. He spoke in short, agitated bursts as they went, and Bartholomew saw the strain the last few days had brought, with the King’s favourite dead and thieves running circles around him.

  ‘Egidia knows nothing,’ Tulyet confided bitterly. ‘Her role in the affair was to distract Moleyns while Inge sneaked out. They did not want Moleyns to know what they were doing, you see, because he would have ordered them to stop, lest it interfered with his own antics.’

  ‘What will you do about Moleyns’ crimes against his wealthy “friends”?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily, afraid of what such an investigation might mean for Isnard.

  Tulyet’s expression was wry. ‘Nothing, so you can tell Isnard not to worry. Moleyns’ victims do not want the King to know they are fools easily parted from their money, lest he tries to get some of it for himself – the royal coffers are always empty. I have been told to let it drop.’

  ‘Good,’ said Bartholomew in relief. ‘Not just for Isnard, but because Moleyns’ plan to humiliate you will fail. Now the King will never know that he escaped your custody to steal.’

  ‘True,’ acknowledged Tulyet, although his youthful face remained troubled. ‘We found no sign of Inge, by the way. I have soldiers scouring the marshes in ever-widening circles.’

  ‘Are you sure he is out there? He did not move those heavy items by himself, which means he has accomplices in the town. Perhaps one of them is sheltering him.’

  ‘You mean Isnard and Gundrede? I searched their houses – he is not there.’

  ‘No, I do not mean them! They were watching the tomb-makers when the bell was stolen – far more carefully than your guards, as it happens, because they are determined to prove their innocence. Besides, thanks to my incautious tongue, you know that they helped Moleyns. They could not have obliged Inge and Egidia as well.’

  ‘Oh, yes, they could,’ countered Tulyet. ‘But I shall give them the benefit of the doubt. However, I still want to know where they go when they disappear so slyly – such as on Saturday, when no one saw them for hours.’

  Bartholomew recalled Isnard’s suspicious demeanour when he himself had asked where they had
been, and was sure Tulyet was right to smell a rat. He said nothing, though, unwilling to betray Isnard a second time.

  ‘I suspect Inge fled the town under cover of darkness,’ Tulyet went on, more concerned with the missing lawyer. ‘We watch the gates, but he could have waded across the river or the King’s Ditch. Still, the marshes are bleak at this time of year, so he will not get far.’

  Bartholomew glanced up at the lowering sky and shivered, thinking he would not want to brave the Fens in such weather.

  Helbye was indeed unwell. His injured arm was hot and swollen, and Bartholomew was appalled to see that Cook had applied a poultice comprising what appeared to be mud and strands of riverweed to the wound. He did his best to wash it off, but some of the smaller fragments were difficult to see in the swollen tissue, and he was far from certain that he had removed them all.

  ‘Cook sewed me up once before with no ill effects,’ said Helbye defensively, when Bartholomew had finished, ‘so I do not know what happened this time.’

  ‘Wounds are often unpredictable,’ said Bartholomew non-committally.

  At that moment, there was a commotion in the bailey. Tulyet had received Rougham’s letter of complaint about Cook in the interim, and had sent Robin to bring the barber to the castle. Cook was livid, screeching his outrage so stridently that his guards were wincing.

  ‘You medici should have made your concerns official weeks ago,’ said Tulyet, looking out of the window at the spectacle. ‘But better late than never, I suppose. That charlatan will leave my town by nightfall or I shall arrest him for murder.’

  Helbye blinked his astonishment. ‘Murder? You mean it was Cook who killed all those people – Moleyns, Tynkell, Lyng and the tomb-builders’ apprentices?’

  ‘No, I mean Mother Salter and Widow Miller,’ replied Tulyet. ‘His patients.’

  There was a clatter of footsteps on the stairs and Cook appeared, his face as black as thunder. He threw off the guards who held his arms and stalked towards the Sheriff – until he saw Bartholomew with Helbye, at which point he stopped dead in his tracks.

  ‘You trespass on my professional domain again?’ he snarled. ‘How dare you!’

  Tulyet stepped in front of him. ‘Here is the “horoscope” you calculated for Yolande de Blaston. Perhaps you would care to explain why it is covered in demonic symbols.’

  Cook’s eyes took on a sly cant. ‘I did not give her that – she must have bought it from some other practitioner. Rougham or Bartholomew, for example.’

  ‘Do not lie,’ warned Tulyet. ‘You will only make matters worse for yourself.’

  ‘How could you do such a terrible thing?’ asked Bartholomew reproachfully. ‘Telling her she was going to die! It was cruel, and it frightened her children.’

  ‘It serves her right for going around telling everyone that I killed Mother Salter,’ flashed Cook viciously. ‘I was not the last medicus to see her before she died. You were.’

  ‘But it was you who provided the “care” that caused her demise,’ countered Tulyet. He waved the horoscope again. ‘And here is the evidence that you wilfully defrauded a townsperson – you know Yolande cannot read, so had no way to tell that she was being fobbed off with rubbish. Now, you have two choices: leave Cambridge and never return; or spend the next few months in my gaol, awaiting trial. Which will it be?’

  ‘Neither,’ snapped Cook. ‘I have complaints pending with the Worshipful Company of—’

  ‘Arrest, is it?’ interrupted Tulyet. ‘As you wish.’

  ‘Wait!’ Cook backed away hastily. ‘I will go, but I need time to pack. I own a lot of valuable equipment, and I am damned if I am going to leave it for the physicians to steal.’

  ‘You have nothing we want,’ retorted Bartholomew, unable to help himself.

  Furious, Cook started forward with the clear intention of delivering a punch, but Tulyet deftly intervened by enveloping him in a grip that he often used on awkward customers. It involved one arm around the neck, which was tight enough to restrict the barber’s airflow. Panicked, Cook began to claw at it, and as he did, one sleeve fell back to reveal the skin of his forearm.

  ‘What is that?’ demanded Bartholomew, pointing at the symbol that was inked there.

  ‘A horned serpent,’ mused Tulyet. ‘Well, well, well! Our barber is a Satanist.’

  ‘No!’ gasped Cook, once the Sheriff had loosened his hold enough to let him explain. ‘It is a symbol to ward off evil. Lots of folk have them.’

  ‘So that is why you met Lyng, Moleyns and Tynkell in St Mary the Great,’ said Bartholomew. ‘To plot with like-minded—’

  ‘You are mistaken!’ gulped Cook. ‘If you must know, Lyng, Tynkell and I went there to grovel to Moleyns – he liked to feel himself important, and he was a friend of the King. But there was no harm in it, and he had to have some pleasure in life.’

  ‘He did have some pleasure,’ said Tulyet acidly. ‘Sneaking out of the castle and depriving his wealthy friends of their money.’

  Cook managed to twist around and gape at him. ‘Wait a moment! Moleyns broke into my house and took my purse? And Lyng’s charity box and the money Tynkell had saved for the Michaelhouse Choir? We did note that he was the only other person who knew about them, but we assumed he was innocent, because they disappeared at night, when he was locked up.’

  There was a curious plausibility to Cook’s explanations, and Bartholomew found he was inclined to believe them. So was that all there was to the secretive meetings in St Mary the Great? A man who liked to be the centre of attention, and acquaintances who aimed to exploit his weakness to win themselves a good word at Court? Tulyet was obviously convinced, because he released the barber with a grimace of disgust.

  ‘You have an hour to pack,’ he said coldly. ‘You are finished here, and if I ever see your face again, I will clap you in gaol. Is that clear?’

  Cook glowered, but could see that arguing would be futile. He stalked out without another word, the soldiers at his heels to make sure he did as he was ordered. They almost collided with Robin at the door. The young soldier was muddy, breathless and triumphant.

  ‘We have had a report of Inge,’ he told the Sheriff excitedly. ‘Five miles to the east.’

  Helbye struggled to his feet. ‘Half a dozen men should be enough to run him down. Do not worry, sir. I will bring him back.’

  ‘Not this time, Will.’ Tulyet indicated a rough-looking soldier with short, greasy hair and a scar down one cheek. ‘Norys can go. You stay here and rest.’

  A short while later, Bartholomew and Tulyet walked down the hill together, aiming for St Mary the Great, where Tulyet had agreed to meet Michael. Bartholomew was surprised to hear one of its bells clanging in the distance – he had thought they were to remain silent until the University had a new Chancellor. They had just crossed the Great Bridge when Bartholomew saw Edith again. She was talking to Rougham and he could tell just by looking that something was wrong. He hurried over to her, Tulyet at his heels.

  ‘Perhaps you should offer a reward for its safe return,’ Rougham was saying. ‘Like Nicholas has done for his bell. However, I wish he had advanced a more modest sum. Every student in the University is out looking for the thing, and lectures have ground to a halt.’

  ‘What have you lost, Edith?’ asked Bartholomew anxiously.

  ‘Oswald’s tomb-chest,’ replied Edith tearfully. ‘The whole thing – top, base and sides. Lakenham says that Petit failed to cement it to the floor properly, which rendered it easy to pick up and tote away. Petit denies it, of course.’

  ‘Inge,’ muttered Tulyet between gritted teeth, while Bartholomew gaped his astonishment at the scale of the undertaking. ‘He lingered here to wreak his revenge on us for exposing his schemes, and only then did he vanish into the Fens.’

  ‘Stanmore’s grave is not his only victim,’ said Rougham. ‘Do you remember our old colleague Linton, Bartholomew? Well, his monument was stolen last night, too. Admittedly, it was smaller than Stanmore’s, but it w
as an audacious act, even so. It makes me think that Lyng had the right idea – a modest burial in the churchyard, with a simple wooden cross.’

  Bartholomew was reluctant to leave Edith while she was upset, but Tulyet’s wife arrived at that moment, and whisked her away for mulled wine and sympathy. Satisfied that she was in kindly hands, he and Tulyet continued on their way, and reached St Mary the Great to find a large gathering of scholars outside, all of whom were shouting. The horde included Michael, Suttone, Hopeman, Thelnetham and Nicholas.

  ‘I swear it!’ the little secretary was insisting. ‘I was in my office at the time, as a dozen colleagues will confirm. I did not ring the tenor – she sounded of her own accord. Unless the Devil …’

  ‘Yes!’ thundered Hopeman. ‘Satan chimed her, because Thelnetham persuaded Bene’t College to vote for Suttone. Lucifer is delighted with that outcome, because he feels it brings him closer to taking over the University. He rang the bell to celebrate.’

  ‘Satan keeps away from St Mary the Great these days,’ said Thelnetham with considerable authority. ‘Ever since he was obliged to make an undignified getaway from the tower roof. So if anyone rang the bell, it was God – because He is pleased that Suttone is winning.’

  ‘Suttone is not winning!’ yelled Hopeman. ‘I have secured far more votes, and tomorrow will see me installed as Chancellor.’

  ‘We shall see,’ said Suttone with quiet dignity. He was wearing his best habit and was freshly shaved. For the first time since he had put himself forward, he looked like Chancellor material. ‘I trust our colleagues to make the right decision.’

  ‘It is God who will decide, not them,’ countered Hopeman. ‘And anyone who votes against me will be damned for all eternity.’ He glowered around, causing several scholars to cross themselves as protection against his malign gaze. ‘Hah! Listen! The bell sounds yet again. That is the Almighty saying that I am right.’

  ‘It is a person up there,’ stated Michael firmly. ‘Not Satan or God.’

  ‘Heresy!’ shrieked Hopeman. ‘He is—’