Isnard grinned as he took hold of his pole again. ‘I shall come for them later then. If we work fast, we might have finished it before Brother Michael leaves, and then who knows? Perhaps he will stay when he sees what we have done for him.’
Tulyet started to say that it had been a hypothetical offer, but Isnard was not listening, concentrating instead on navigating the boat down a series of narrow, reed-infested channels. Then they emerged into a stretch of water that was too deep for punting and the wrong direction for wind.
‘Row,’ ordered Isnard. ‘One oar between two, and pull on my orders. Now!’
Soon, they were skimming along at an impressive lick, although it was impossible to maintain such a pace for long, and it soon slackened off. Seeing it, Bartholomew pulled harder, but the boat slewed to the left, and Isnard barked at him to match his speed to the other paddle.
‘There!’ shouted Tulyet, glancing behind him to where familiar towers and turrets loomed on the horizon. ‘We are nearly home. Heave!’
The barge veered to the right, forcing Bartholomew and Cynric to tug hard to correct it.
‘I can hear the Franciscans’ bells!’ cried Isnard in dismay. ‘They are chiming for sext, which means it is noon. We are too late!’
‘No!’ yelled Bartholomew, as the bargeman slumped in defeat. ‘They will hold the rite earlier today, because of the election. We still have a chance. Come on – hurry!’
Encouraged, the others bent to the task, and they raced towards the Great Bridge. It was strange to see it from water level, and Bartholomew disliked the sense of it looming over him as they scudded underneath. He adjusted his stroke, aiming to land at the nearest quay.
‘No – we want the Michaelhouse wharf,’ panted Isnard. ‘It will be quicker than battling through the town on foot, believe me.’
They rowed quickly past the backs of St John’s Hospital, Michaelhouse and Trinity Hall, until the little craft bumped alongside the pier’s blackened remains. Bartholomew almost took a dip when he trod on a plank that crumbled under his weight, and was only saved by a timely lunge from Cynric. Exhausted by his herculean efforts, Isnard collapsed backwards, indicating with a weak flap of his hand that the others were to go on without him.
Bartholomew, Tulyet and Cynric clambered ashore, and began to struggle towards Milne Street, quickly learning that Isnard had been right to keep them on the river for as long as possible – the snow was thigh-deep in places. There was not another scholar in sight, despite the fact that Water Lane was home to seven or eight hostels.
‘Oh, God!’ groaned Tulyet. ‘Have the bells already fallen, and everyone has gone to gawp? They must have done! Students cannot vote, so you would think some would be here.’
‘They will have gone to watch the election,’ predicted Bartholomew. ‘It is not every day that a new Chancellor is voted in – they will want to watch history in the making.’
Then Cynric grabbed his arm. ‘There is Nicholas!’
The secretary was limping through St John Zachary’s churchyard with Vicar Frisby at his side. They were an odd pair – one small, neat and prim, the other hulking and dissipated.
‘He does not look like a man who has just committed murder,’ remarked Tulyet, watching him intently. ‘Perhaps he has yet to strike.’
Bartholomew wanted to believe it, but could not help recalling that Nicholas had stabbed the Chancellor and Moleyns while half the town looked on. He was a man with iron nerves.
‘Cynric and I will tackle him,’ determined Tulyet. ‘You go to St Mary the Great, Matt. If the bells are still in the tower, clear the building. If they are down … well, you will be of more use there than us.’
He and Cynric clambered over the churchyard wall – the gate was too deep in snow to be opened – and plodded towards the porch. Bartholomew turned left and began to plough along Milne Street, the wind buffeting his back. It was snowing again, a thick swirl that made it impossible to see very far ahead. However, when he reached Trinity Hall, he encountered a major problem.
Snow had drifted against the rubble, and the clearing through the middle was obliterated – all that remained was a solid cliff of white. Stomach churning, he lurched forward to see if he could scale it, but it quickly became obvious that such a feat was impossible. Cursing himself for not remembering it was there, he turned and retraced his steps. He would have to go back past St John Zachary and up Piron Lane instead.
It was difficult to move with snow beating into his face, and he felt sick with tension at the time he had lost. He reached St John Zachary, hoping to see Cynric and Tulyet emerge with prisoners, but there was only Nicholas, standing in the porch as he gazed idly up at the swirling flakes.
Bartholomew gaped at him. Why was he still free? Surely Cynric and Tulyet could defeat a little clerk, even if Frisby had lurched to his kinsman’s assistance with a weapon? Or was he wrong to underestimate the man who had murdered Tynkell, Moleyns and Lyng, and the Sheriff and book-bearer were lying inside with spikes in their hearts?
He hesitated, full of panicky indecision. Should he go to St Mary the Great, or see what had happened to Cynric and Tulyet? Then Nicholas turned and strolled confidently back inside, at which point Bartholomew thought he heard Tulyet cry out. Without conscious thought, he was over the churchyard wall and aiming for the door.
He stepped into the porch and listened intently. Nicholas and Frisby were talking in the chancel. He eased forward, stopping en route to grab a heavy pewter jug – the only thing lying around that would be of remote use as a weapon.
Nicholas was by Stanmore’s vault, talking in an undertone. Bartholomew advanced stealthily, aiming to disable him with a tap to the head before looking for Cynric and Tulyet. He was just raising the jug when he heard a sound from behind him. It was Frisby, who was not listening to his kinsman, but lying in ambush, while Nicholas only pretended to engage him in conversation. Bartholomew ducked in time to avoid the crossbow bolt that whipped past his ear, but fell heavily. Frisby tossed the weapon aside, grabbed a cudgel, and advanced with murder in his eyes.
CHAPTER 19
‘I told you I could lure him in, Frisby,’ said Nicholas smugly. ‘Now kill him.’
Frisby stepped forward to oblige, but he was unsteady with drink, so Bartholomew was able to roll away before the cudgel landed. The force of the blow chipped a flagstone, and caused the vicar to stumble. While he staggered, Bartholomew scrambled to his feet.
‘Matt!’ It was Tulyet’s voice, muffled and indistinct. ‘Be watchful!’
Bartholomew looked around wildly. It sounded as though the Sheriff had spoken from below him. Then he noticed that Stanmore’s vault was sealed. Or almost sealed – the granite slab had been positioned badly, so that one side was higher than the other and there was a gap all along one edge. His stomach lurched: Cynric’s hat was caught in it. The book-bearer and Tulyet were inside.
Frisby swiped with the cudgel again, dragging Bartholomew’s attention back to the fight. Bartholomew darted behind a pillar, dodging first one way and then the other as the vicar tried to reach him. At the same time, Nicholas surged forward and jumped on the lopsided stone. There was an immediate grating sound, and Cynric released a wail of terror.
‘Petit is an indifferent craftsman,’ called Nicholas tauntingly. ‘This slab is too small, and it will not take much to send it crashing down on those below. Surrender, or they die.’
Bartholomew felt despair begin to overwhelm him. Was he to lose all his friends that day? He tried to force his shock-numbed mind to work – to devise a plan to defeat Nicholas and Frisby, while staying alive to rescue Michael. Or was it already too late?
‘The bells,’ he said in a choked voice. ‘You arranged for them to fall …’
Nicholas smiled coldly. ‘I expect to hear them plummet any time now.’
So it had not happened yet. Bartholomew glanced towards the door. Could he reach it without Frisby braining him? It would condemn Cynric and Tulyet to certain death, but he might
be able to avert a massacre in St Mary the Great. Or would the journey take too long in the snow – in which case, should he try to save Tulyet and Cynric? He experienced a futile surge of anger with Nicholas, for forcing him to make such a terrible choice.
The secretary seemed to read his mind. ‘Your friends stormed in here, expecting to catch me with ease, but Frisby shot Tulyet, while I knocked Cynric senseless with a slingshot.’
‘You shot Tulyet?’ asked Bartholomew in horror.
‘In the leg – we guessed he would be wearing armour,’ said Frisby. ‘But it immobilised him enough to let us shove him and the book-bearer down the vault. They will die when the slab falls on them – unless you desist this lurching about and give yourself up.’
‘Please,’ begged Bartholomew, knowing perfectly well that Nicholas would then just dispatch all three of them. ‘There has been enough killing.’
‘On the contrary, it has only just started.’ Nicholas shifted slightly, and the stone scraped against the edge of the hole; Cynric whimpered. ‘But the end is in sight. The bells will fall and we shall be rid of Michael, Suttone, Hopeman and everyone else who stands in our way. Then we can install a better Chancellor.’
‘Thelnetham will not do it,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘He will never accept a post that has been won by such foul means.’
‘Of course he will,’ slurred Frisby, lunging again. ‘And he will reward me with a nice easy living somewhere. Stoke Poges, perhaps.’
‘I doubt that is in the University’s gift.’ Bartholomew pointed at Nicholas. ‘I imagine he fabricated the deed of ownership, to make us think that manor held the key to the murders. But the connections between it and the victims are spurious.’
Nicholas could not resist a smirk. ‘They are, although you followed the crumbs I left like hungry birds. Lyng did not hail from the next village, Tynkell never tried to get its chapel, and neither ever visited the place.’
‘You will not have an easy living, Frisby,’ said Bartholomew, aiming to drive a wedge between the pair. ‘Because when you are of no further use, he will kill you as well.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Nicholas, so quickly that Bartholomew was sure the vicar’s fate was already sealed. ‘He is my kinsman: I would never harm him.’
‘He is angry with you for telling us about the dog,’ lied Bartholomew. Had he heard shouting in the distance? Did it mean the voting was over and the procession was on the move? ‘The clue that explained how he made Moleyns fall off his horse.’
Frisby frowned. ‘Yes, I mentioned the dog, but only because others must have done the same, and it would have looked suspicious to keep it quiet.’
‘It gave you away,’ persisted Bartholomew. ‘Along with telling us that the bone was a lamb shank – a detail no one else knew. There is a warrant for your arrest—’
‘Ignore him, Frisby,’ instructed Nicholas. ‘He is making it up.’
‘Nicholas is much cleverer than you,’ sneered the vicar. ‘He laid not one false trail, but two: Stoke Poges and witchery. Tynkell and Lyng made some youthful mistakes, but were good sons of the Church most of their adult lives. Moleyns was not, but Satanism is not what they discussed in St Mary the Great.’
‘I know,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We had the truth from Cook. Tynkell and Lyng went to grovel to Moleyns, in the hope of winning favourable mentions at Court.’
He glanced at the vault. Cynric and Tulyet were resourceful. Were they devising an escape plan while he kept Nicholas and Frisby talking? But the hole was deep and the stone too heavy to move from the inside, especially if both were incapacitated. He raised a hand to his head. It shook with tension.
‘But not for themselves,’ explained Nicholas. ‘For the University. You see, Tynkell did confide his plans to me. He aimed to use Moleyns to promote the University to royal ears – his parting gift before he retired. Lyng agreed to help.’
‘Why would Lyng do that?’ asked Bartholomew suspiciously. ‘His colleagues told us that he despised Moleyns.’
‘Oh, he did, but he was willing to swallow his distaste for the benefit of the University he had served for so many years. Poor Tynkell devoted his every waking moment to the scheme – at the expense of all his other duties. And when Moleyns invited Tynkell to discuss “certain business”, he referred to his power to expedite royal patronage.’
Bartholomew knew he needed to forget about Nicholas and get to St Mary the Great. He could not help Tulyet and Cynric, and it was time to be pragmatic, unpleasant though that was. He forced himself to take a step towards the door, but Frisby blocked him.
‘You told Michael that Tynkell was quiet and withdrawn,’ he said, in an effort to distract them with more words before making a dash for freedom. ‘And that he had developed a habit of muttering about Satan.’
Nicholas laughed and the stone wobbled. ‘I lied.’
Bartholomew was aware of a creeping sense of defeat as he recalled all the ‘clues’ that had led him astray: Marjory’s claim that Moleyns had spoken to Lyng before he died – perhaps he had, but it was irrelevant; Kolvyle’s association with Moleyns, which was just a continuation of a harmless friendship started in Nottingham; the curious antics of Whittlesey and Godrich; and the arguments between Hopeman and Lyng. None were pertinent to the murders.
‘You will not profit from helping Cook and Inge,’ he said desperately. ‘They are dead, and your beloved bell lies at the bottom of the river.’
‘I already have what I wanted from the thieves,’ smiled Nicholas. ‘Namely adjustments made to the remaining two bells and their frame. A share of their profits was never part of the agreement.’
Bartholomew took a step to his left, and this time Frisby did not notice, because he had retrieved his crossbow and was fiddling with it. Fortunately for Bartholomew, its rough treatment had smashed the winding mechanism. He spoke to Nicholas again.
‘You offered two marks for its return, an enormous sum designed to cause trouble.’
‘It worked. The resulting fuss distracted the Sheriff and Senior Proctor very nicely. Of course, they are not the only nuisances we saw off …’
‘Whittlesey,’ surmised Bartholomew. ‘He is an intelligent, observant man, and you feared he might realise what was happening, so you sent a letter to Godrich, purporting to be from Bishop Sheppey, warning him to watch his cousin.’
Nicholas inclined his head. ‘Godrich did not let Whittlesey out of his sight, which made it impossible for the man to pry. How did you guess?’
‘Because Sheppey would never have written such a thing about a man he considered to be a friend. Because it was dated the day before Sheppey’s death, but the signature was too strong and firm for a dying man. And because it was addressed to a “favoured son in Christ”.
‘Which Godrich was not,’ chuckled Nicholas. ‘A small joke on my part.’
‘You wrote other letters, too,’ said Bartholomew, shifting another inch to his left. ‘To Whittlesey, telling him about Godrich’s predilection for witchery, knowing that a Benedictine would never countenance such a man in charge of a university. And to Lyng, which you had to retrieve by breaking into Maud’s.’
‘The handwriting,’ explained Nicholas. ‘Michael would have recognised it as mine.’
Bartholomew rubbed his aching head. ‘But why go to all this trouble when Tynkell was on the verge of retiring anyway? Why not wait?’
‘And give the wealthy all that time to buy the post? You saw how many scholars Godrich bribed in a few days – imagine what he would have managed over a period of months. Hah! More cheers. It will not be long now.’
‘You cannot murder people in a church.’ Bartholomew’s voice cracked with despair. ‘You will be damned for all eternity.’
Nicholas laughed. ‘You think that worries me?’ He pulled back his sleeve to reveal the horned serpent that was inked there.
Bartholomew gazed at it in despair, and tried another tack. ‘Are you skulking in here because you cannot bear to watch the results of your despicabl
e crime? You are cowards, who dare not look on the faces of their victims?’
‘No,’ replied Nicholas. ‘We are hiding here so that no one can accuse us of having a hand in the disaster later.’ He glanced at Frisby, and his muscles bunched as he prepared for the jump that would send the granite crashing downwards. ‘Do you have a knife, Frisby? Good. Then stop messing about with that useless crossbow, and stab him.’
* * *
Even the drunken Frisby was unlikely to miss from such close range, so with nothing to lose, Bartholomew hurled himself at Nicholas, aiming to knock him off the slab in the desperate, if unrealistic, hope that Cynric and Tulyet might be able to use the respite to save themselves.
Nicholas was in the act of jumping down hard when Bartholomew slammed into him, but the physician misjudged the distance. Instead of knocking Nicholas clean away, he only spun him around, and the secretary landed on one corner of the stone. Bartholomew’s own momentum sent him tumbling across the floor to fetch up against the far wall. Cynric howled his terror as there was an unpleasant grating sound, and the stone juddered disturbingly.
At the same time, Frisby released a bellow of frustration: his wild swipe had missed Bartholomew, but the blade had flown from his fingers and was clattering away from him over the flagstones towards the vault.
Bartholomew struggled to his feet and gazed at the slab in alarm, expecting to see it in the process of crashing downwards. But it was wedged at an angle, and he saw it was held there by Nicholas’s leg, which was trapped in the space between it and the lip of the vault. The secretary was silent for a moment, then he screamed in pain.
‘Behind you, Matt!’ yelled Tulyet.
Bartholomew turned to see Frisby, ham-sized fists ready to deliver a pummelling. But the physician was faster and lighter, and was able to deliver two brisk clouts to the dissipated face before snatching up the jug he had brought from the porch. Meanwhile, despite his agony, Nicholas had managed to grab the dagger his kinsman had dropped.
A Grave Concern: The Twenty Second Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew Book 22) Page 40
