Susanna Gregory was a police officer in Leeds before taking up an academic career. She has served as an environmental consultant during seventeen field seasons in the polar regions, and has taught comparative anatomy and biological anthropology.

She is the creator of the Matthew Bartholomew series of mysteries set in medieval Cambridge and the Thomas Chaloner adventures in Restoration London, and now lives in Wales with her husband, who is also a writer.

Nottingham, late summer 1359

Cambridge, February 1360

Stars were still glittering in the black velvet of the sky when the scholars of Michaelhouse prised themselves from their beds the following day. It was still bitterly cold, and frost had settled in a hard white crust across roofs and the mud of the yard. The water in the kitchen had frozen again, despite the fire that had been left burning all night, and Agatha the laundress, who ran the domestic side of the College, could be heard cursing as she tried to break it with a poker.

As usual, the College was bursting at the seams, because Master Langelee continued to enrol far more students than was practicable in order to get their tuition fees. A run of bad luck, combined with a series of dubious investments, meant that Michaelhouse remained on the brink of financial ruin, despite several recent donations from Bartholomew’s generous sister, and overloading his Fellows with pupils was an easy way for Langelee to raise much-needed cash. This had resulted in an acute shortage of space, even with all the first years sleeping in the hall.

Bartholomew had always had two chambers at his disposal, but this was a luxury the College could no longer afford. His students – at least three times as many as he should have had – were crammed into the larger one, while he slept in the room where he kept his medicines. This had originally been provided because the reek of these powerful compounds was thought to be injurious to his health, but the danger had been conveniently forgotten in the demand for berths. He did not even have it to himself, and was obliged to share with his book-bearer Cynric and Deynman the librarian.

Deynman had once been a student himself, accepted purely because his father was rich. His studies had not gone well, and everyone had breathed a sigh of relief when he had abandoned a career in medicine and had opted instead to look after Michaelhouse’s small but valuable collection of books. His proud father insisted on funding the post, and as no son of his was going to lack creature comforts, the allowance included plenty of money for firewood.

It was a pleasant change for Bartholomew, who usually shivered all through winter, while wind howled through the gaps in his windows and froze the mould that dripped down his walls. Now, he woke each morning to a blaze that had kept the three of them agreeably toasty all night, and hot water was available for washing and shaving. Better yet, his clothes were always aired when he donned them, and were comfortably warm against his skin. Sleeping with his head under a bench and his legs bent was a small price to pay for such unaccustomed delights.

Cynric had been in Bartholomew’s employ for years, and the relationship between them was more of equals than master and servant. Unfortunately, the Welshman was one of the most superstitious men in the country, so their cramped quarters were liberally adorned with bundles of herbs, amulets, charms and mysterious pouches. Those Fellows in religious Orders had asked that they be removed – or at least put somewhere more discreet – but Cynric had doggedly refused, and the witchy paraphernalia remained.

‘I am sorry that Satan stabbed Chancellor Tynkell,’ he said conversationally, reaching for one of his talismans and kissing it three times. ‘Poor man.’

‘He was killed by a person,’ Bartholomew told him firmly. ‘The Devil had nothing to do with it.’

‘Oh, yes, he did,’ argued Cynric. ‘We all saw that battle on the tower, and I watched him fly away afterwards.’

‘You saw the wind catch Tynkell’s cloak,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘That is all.’

‘Oh, yes?’ challenged Cynric. ‘Then why did Brother Michael’s beadles fail to find it? I know for a fact that he had them looking all afternoon. The answer is that it was not a cloak, but Satan, who took off from the tower and soared over to the Barnwell Fields.’

‘And why would he go there?’ asked Bartholomew archly. ‘To talk to the sheep?’

‘His ways are not for us to question,’ said Cynric darkly, then grew thoughtful. ‘I imagine he used one of his claws to inflict the fatal wound. You did say it was not a knife.’

‘Yes, but that does not mean it was a claw. It was more likely to have been a long nail or some other kind of thin spike.’

‘I imagine Satan has plenty of those,’ put in Deynman, who had been listening with avid interest. ‘He probably carries them in his purse, along with his coins and nose-cloths.’

He and Cynric began a debate about what else the Devil might keep in his scrip, so Bartholomew left them to it and walked into the yard, where his colleagues were gathering, ready to process to church for their morning devotions. While he waited, he looked around at the College that had been his home for longer than he cared to remember.

It was dominated by its hall, a handsome building with an oriel window, and a beautiful mural along one wall, which depicted Michaelhouse’s scholars listening to four great thinkers: Aristotle, Aquinas, Plato and Galen. Its shutters were closed, and would remain so all day, given that none of its windows had glass, although a light gleaming underneath one showed that the students who slept in that part of it were astir.

While the scholars were at church, the servants would stack away the mattresses, and set out benches and tables for breakfast. When the meal was over, the tables would be folded away, and the hall converted into a lecture room. Langelee and his Fellows would sit in their assigned places, and struggle to keep their own class’s attention over the competing racket from their colleagues.

Below the hall were the kitchens and a series of pantries, while adjacent to it was the conclave, a cosy parlour that was the undisputed domain of the Fellows, a place where they could escape from their charges and relax. At right angles to the hall were the twin accommodation wings, two storeys high and with four doors apiece. Each door led to a little vestibule with rooms on either side, and stairs leading to the upper floor. Bartholomew lived in the older, more dilapidated northern one.

‘I did not sleep a wink,’ grumbled Michael, coming to stand next to him. His breath plumed as he spoke. ‘I could not stop thinking about Tynkell.’

‘It kept me awake, too,’ confessed Bartholomew. ‘We saw the killer with our own eyes, as did half the town, yet we have nothing to help us identify him.’

Michael grimaced. ‘He thinks he is so clever, and it makes me even more determined to catch him. Especially after what happened to Moleyns.’

Bartholomew blinked. ‘Surely you are not suggesting a connection between the two? How can there be? One was a respectable scholar, the other a criminal; one was stabbed on a tower, the other fell off his horse; one died “fighting the Devil”, the other chatting in the street–’

‘Two well-known men and two sudden deaths in public places,’ countered Michael. ‘I want you to examine Moleyns properly this morning, Matt. No, do not argue – I need the truth. Then we shall combine forces with Dick Tulyet to find the culprit.’

‘Linking Moleyns and Tynkell might lead you astray,’ warned Bartholomew.

‘Then you will just have to keep me on the right path. We begin today, as soon as we have been to church and eaten breakfast. And do not say it is term time, and you cannot spare the time, because you have him.’

He nodded to Bartholomew’s senior student, John Aungel, who had taken on the task of minding his master’s classes when Bartholomew was busy with patients – which was greatly appreciated, as all Cambridge’s medici were currently inundated with work arising from the continued cold snap – congested lungs, chills, injuries resulting from falls, and frost-nipped fingers, toes, ears and noses.

Aungel hurried over when he saw they were talking about him. ‘I imagine you want me to teach while you find Chancellor Tynkell’s killer,’ he said, and beamed. ‘I do not mind, sir. I know Galen’s Prognostica backwards, and I would love to help.’

‘You would?’ asked Bartholomew suspiciously, wondering what mischief was brewing. Students did not volunteer for extra work out of the goodness of their hearts.

‘Oh, yes! Master Langelee has offered to make me a Fellow if I prove my worth, so I am delighted that you will be otherwise engaged for a while. It will give me a chance to show off my talents.’

Bartholomew was astonished. He was so used to his pupils racing away to earn lots of money by physicking the wealthy that it had never occurred to him that one might like a career in academia. Then he realised why Langelee was so keen to acquire another medicus.

‘Matilde,’ he said heavily. ‘He thinks I will resign when she returns to Cambridge, and he wants you as my replacement.’

Matilde was the love of his life, who had left Cambridge four and a half years ago in the mistaken belief that her affection for him was not reciprocated. The misunderstanding had since been set to rights, and a week earlier, a letter had arrived announcing that she was on her way back to him. But so much time had passed that he feared they could not just pick up where they had left off, and so he was unsure what to think about her imminent return, other than that it was seriously disturbing his peace of mind.

Aungel shrugged. ‘He could do worse. But you should marry and leave the College if she asks you to wed her, sir. You have been here too long, and a change will do you good.’

‘Out of the mouths of babes and those with agendas,’ murmured Michael, amused, as Aungel swaggered away.

‘I cannot decide what to do about Matilde,’ Bartholomew confided unhappily. ‘It has been a long time since we last met, and we are both different people now. It may be too late for–’

‘Nonsense,’ interrupted Michael. ‘Not a day has passed that you have not missed her, and her recent letter made it perfectly clear that her feelings for you are unchanged.’

‘Perhaps they are, but she cannot abandon me without a word, then expect to march in as though nothing has happened. If she really wanted a life with me, she would not have disappeared in the first place.’

‘She went because she wanted a life with you – and she thought she was not going to get one. Personally, I am all admiration for her: the moment she learned that the door was still open, she set about securing enough money to keep you both from starving once you exchange your University stipend for wedded bliss.’

‘Money should not matter,’ persisted Bartholomew stubbornly. ‘If she truly loved me, she would have come back at once. Instead, she dallied in York, meddling about with investments.’

‘Sentimental claptrap! You cannot blame her for declining to live in a hovel while you squander all your earnings on medicine for the poor. You should give her a chance when she arrives, because I believe she can make you happy.’

‘I am not so sure, Brother. Not now.’

‘Well, at least listen to what she has to say, although I cannot see that you will have to do it very soon. It is far too cold for travel, and she will have to wait for the weather to ease. You have plenty of time before you need to make a decision.’

The men who wanted to be Chancellor were still quarrelling when Bartholomew, Michael and Tulyet left the Lady Chapel, although Lyng flung up his hands in resignation before walking out, claiming he wanted no part of such an unbecoming spectacle. Scholars from the hostels nodded approval, while others came to shake his hand when he reached the street.

‘He is popular,’ mused Michael. ‘Suttone will have to ooze charm to defeat him, so let us hope he is equal to the task. After all, there is only so much I can do to facilitate his election without eyebrows being raised.’

Tulyet laughed. ‘Watch your words, Brother. It sounds as though you intend to cheat.’

Michael did not smile back. ‘I cannot work with Lyng.’

‘Why not? He seems a decent soul, albeit far too old.’

‘Because he will refuse my advice, on the grounds that he thinks he knows everything already. But times have changed since he was last in power and–’

‘There is that cowled man again,’ interrupted Bartholomew irritably. ‘I wish he would just come to talk to us. I dislike the sense of being watched all the time.’

‘Could he be the killer?’ asked Tulyet sharply, preparing to give chase if so. ‘Monitoring you to assess whether you are closing in on him?’

‘The killer will be eager to stay as far away from us as possible,’ replied Michael with conviction. ‘We must bide our time with this shadow. He will approach us when the time is right.’

Bartholomew wanted to argue, but a sudden hammering drew their attention to the Great West Door, where Kolvyle was nailing up a notice. He was with scholars from King’s Hall, who were patting him on the back.

‘His demand for an election,’ predicted Michael sourly. ‘Well, he shall have one, although his favourite Godrich will not win. I shall write a statute to keep upstarts like Kolvyle in their place when all this is over. I dislike youthful arrogance.’

‘So Suttone will be Tynkell’s successor?’ asked Tulyet. He reflected for a moment. ‘He is better than the others, I suppose. Godrich is only interested in furthering his own career, Hopeman is a reckless zealot, Thelnetham dresses wrongly, and you have just said that Lyng would not be suitable.’

Bartholomew was not sure the Carmelite would be much better. He liked Suttone, who was a good man on the whole, but he would be another Tynkell, a meek nonentity ruled by Michael. Except that Michael would be in his See, and thus not in a position to guide him, so what would happen to the University then? Would chaos reign, because a strong Chancellor was needed to govern a lot of opinionated, unpredictable and vociferous academics?

‘I cannot believe the audacity of this killer,’ Michael was saying to Tulyet, dragging Bartholomew’s thoughts away from University politics. ‘Moleyns’ murder was especially bold.’

‘Yes and no,’ said Tulyet. ‘It was dark and the torches did more to confuse than illuminate, so it was difficult to see anything well. I would argue it was a very good time to choose.’

‘I saw a woman in a cloak with an embroidered hem,’ said Bartholomew suddenly, as Tulyet’s words jolted his own memory of the flickering confusion that had ensued after Moleyns’ fall. ‘She was shouldering her way out of the press, which was odd when everyone else was craning forward.’

‘What else did you notice about her?’ asked Tulyet keenly.

‘Her hood was up, so I did not see her face. But it was cold, so everyone else’s was up as well, including my own. There was nothing suspicious about that.’

‘Could it have been Egidia?’ pressed Tulyet. ‘She does not seem overly distressed by her bereavement, and I did say that I would look to her, should any harm befall her husband. She will certainly benefit from his death, because not only will she inherit all his worldly goods, but she is now free to live wherever she wants.’

‘She was free before,’ said Michael, frowning. ‘She was not forced to keep him company in prison – she chose to do it.’

‘Because he held all their money – or what remained of their wealth after the courts had seized most of his assets,’ explained Tulyet. ‘Had she gone to live alone, she would have been as poor as a church mouse. She begged him any number of times for an allowance, but he always refused. She resented it bitterly, and so did Inge, who was also obliged to rely on Moleyns’ largesse. Such as it was.’

‘Inge has no funds of his own?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘He did, but they have long gone – he expected Moleyns to be released within a few weeks, and never imagined the ordeal would drag on for years. He could have left and struck out alone, but then what? He had sold himself to Moleyns, body and soul, so his only option was to hold fast and hope that Moleyns would one day be in a position to reward his loyalty.’

‘Now Egidia can reward it,’ remarked Michael. ‘I assume she is Moleyns’ sole heir?’

‘She is,’ nodded Tulyet. ‘She has already laid claim to the store of money he kept in his room, which was no mean sum, and I am sure Inge will help her spend it. I have the sense that they are rather more than just lawyer and client, which makes them both prime suspects for his murder in my book.’

‘But they were in the Market Square when Tynkell died,’ said Bartholomew. ‘With you. And we have decided that Moleyns and Tynkell were claimed by the same hand.’

‘Moleyns was with me,’ corrected Tulyet. ‘Egidia and Inge had gone to St Mary the Great to look at the tombs.’

‘Why would they do that?’ asked Michael suspiciously. ‘So they would know what to commission when Moleyns needed one?’

‘Perhaps. Regardless, it means they have no alibi for Tynkell’s death, and they were certainly nearby when Moleyns was killed.’ Tulyet turned back to Bartholomew. ‘So I repeat: could the cloaked woman you saw have been Egidia?’

‘Yes, I suppose. However, when I pronounced Moleyns dead, she was standing right next to me. It seems unlikely that she would fight her way out of the press, then battle back in again.’

‘Was she wearing this distinctive cloak?’ asked Tulyet, and when Bartholomew shook his head, he raised his hands in a shrug. ‘Then maybe it was bloodstained, obliging her to get rid of it before someone noticed. Then she hurried back to play the distraught widow.’

‘It is possible,’ acknowledged Bartholomew, although he doubted Moleyns’ wound had produced much gore. He would have noticed, even in the unsteady light of the bobbing torches.

‘Who else was in the crowd?’ asked Michael. ‘I am afraid my thoughts were on Tynkell, so I was not really paying attention.’

‘All the tomb-makers, plus Isnard and Gundrede,’ replied Tulyet promptly. ‘I was watching them, because I was afraid they might start a fight over these stolen supplies.’

‘Isnard has nothing to do with that,’ said Bartholomew sharply. ‘Why would he? He can hardly sell such items here.’

Tulyet regarded him pityingly. ‘He is a bargeman, Matt, which means he can transport goods anywhere he likes, and there is a huge market for illicit brass and stone in London. However, I might have given him the benefit of the doubt, if he had not developed this odd friendship with the felonious Gundrede.’

‘Who else did you see in the crowd?’ asked Bartholomew, unwilling to admit that the Sheriff might have a point.

‘Godrich, Hopeman and Lyng,’ said Tulyet. ‘The first two quarrelling, while Lyng tried to act as peacemaker – a spat I noticed, because I was afraid your other scholars would join in and start a brawl.’

‘Suttone was not there, because he was teaching in Michaelhouse, and two dozen students will testify to that fact,’ said Michael. ‘But what about Thelnetham?’

‘Not that I noticed. I spotted Kolvyle, though. He was one of the first to surge forward when Moleyns fell.’

‘Lord! I hope he is not the culprit,’ exclaimed Michael. ‘A killer in the College might damage Suttone’s election campaign.’

‘Barber Cook was also very quick on the scene,’ Tulyet went on. ‘I would not mind at all if he is the villain – I cannot abide the fellow. Of course, he does give a lovely shave …’

‘I would not let him near me with a sharp knife,’ said Bartholomew shortly.

‘That is probably wise in your case,’ remarked Tulyet. ‘He loathes physicians.’

‘So are these all our suspects?’ asked Michael. ‘Inge and Egidia; the warring tomb-builders; Isnard and Gundrede; Hopeman, Lyng, Godrich and Kolvyle; and Barber Cook?’

‘If only!’ sighed Tulyet. ‘A host of others raced to Moleyns’ side as well – the Mayor and his burgesses; scholars from King’s Hall, Maud’s and several other University foundations; the woman in the embroidered cloak …’

‘What about motives?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘What links Tynkell to Moleyns, other than their odd meetings in St Mary the Great?’

‘That is easily answered,’ said Michael. ‘Tynkell was killed either to make way for a new Chancellor or to strike a blow against the University. And Moleyns intimated that he knew the culprit, so he was dispatched to prevent him from blabbing.’

‘Which means that the killer was close enough to hear what Moleyns told us,’ said Bartholomew, ‘and launched a plan to stab him within a few moments. Is that likely?’

Michael and Tulyet had no answer.

‘Someone will have seen something,’ said Michael eventually. ‘No matter how careful he was. So I will question scholars, while you speak to townsmen, Dick. However, before we start, I should like another word with the grieving widow.’

‘Not here,’ advised Tulyet. ‘She will accuse you of heartlessness. Come to the castle at noon.’

The sun was shining the following day, although its light was pale and thin, with no warmth in it. Even so, it lifted Bartholomew’s spirits, and he found himself humming as he strode around the town, visiting patients. The man whose thumb he had amputated was doing better than he expected, while the lad with the reset leg was comfortable and cheerful.

When he had finished his rounds, he delivered a lecture on Galen’s Prognostica in Michaelhouse, then asked Aungel to read the next instalment of Maimonides’ views on breathing disorders to his first years, while he tested the remaining classes on their grasp of humoral theory. He joined his colleagues in the hall for the noonday meal, after which Aungel offered to supervise a writing assignment, so that the physician could help Michael.

The first item on their agenda was to visit Edith Stanmore, given that one murder victim had been buying cloth from her while the other had fought for his life on the tower. Bartholomew knew where she would be at such an hour – at her husband’s tomb. They arrived to discover it a flurry of activity: Petit was there with three of his apprentices.

‘Wonders will never cease,’ breathed Bartholomew. ‘I know Petit said he would work on Oswald today, but he has never kept his promises before.’

‘The Worshipful Company of Masons probably forbids it,’ drawled Michael. ‘Along with staying at one job for more than three hours in any given day.’

‘It probably also insists that all its members have at least four commissions on the go at any one time, and that while work must never be finished on schedule, bills should always be presented early.’

Michael laughed. ‘But one of those apprentices is Lucas. Dick will have interrogated him by now, but I say we also buy whatever intelligence he has to offer. He may be more forthcoming with us than the Sheriff.’

He and Bartholomew walked to the little aisle near the chancel, where Edith was watching the craftsmen build a hoist to lift the heavy granite slab that would eventually seal Oswald’s stone-lined vault. Bartholomew was glad the burial chamber would soon be closed, because every time he saw it, he was reminded that his beloved sister would lie inside it one day.

He and she were unmistakably siblings, although she had aged since the death of her husband. Her once-raven locks were streaked with grey, and there was a sadness in her dark eyes that worried him, although she smiled when she saw him and Michael.

‘There has been a miracle,’ she said serenely. ‘Petit claimed the mortar was too wet to allow work on Oswald’s monument today, but it set spontaneously when I marched into St Mary the Great and made a speech about craftsmen reneging on their vows.’

‘Your tirade had nothing to do with it,’ countered Petit stiffly. ‘I told you I would return here at the earliest opportunity, and I did. I am a man of my word.’

‘I am glad to hear it,’ said Edith, ‘because if you let me down one more time, I shall cancel the effigy, and have a brass instead. Indeed, I went so far as to discuss the matter with Lakenham, who is here to erect a memorial to poor John Cew.’

She nodded to the other side of the chancel, where the lattener was attaching a metal plate to the wall, although one so small as to be virtually invisible. Bartholomew understood why Cew’s colleagues were reluctant to provide anything too conspicuous: the hapless King’s Hall Fellow had once possessed a formidable intellect, but then he had lost his reason, which had been acutely embarrassing to a foundation that put so much store by outward appearances.

‘I would not have accepted such a lowly commission,’ scoffed Petit, watching Lakenham stir the pitch that would glue the memorial in place. He raised his voice, to ensure his rival heard. ‘But Lakenham is so poor that he will accept any old job. Stanmore’s tomb will have to be carefully guarded from now on, lest bits of it disappear.’

‘I have my own supplies, thank you,’ retorted Lakenham. ‘And do not accuse me of stealing Dallingridge’s feet last night. I went nowhere near them.’

Bartholomew blinked. ‘Dallingridge’s feet?’

‘It is cheaper to carve effigies in sections, rather than using a single piece of stone,’ explained Lakenham sneeringly. ‘And niggardly masons are always looking for ways to cut corners.’

‘To save our clients money,’ corrected Petit sharply.

‘It is common practice these days,’ put in one of his apprentices, a lanky, freckle-faced lad named Peres. ‘Me and Lucas worked hard on those feet, and we finished them yesterday. They were beautiful, too – we had them resting on a greyhound.’

‘But someone came along in the night and stole them from our workshop,’ said Lucas, glaring at Lakenham.

Bartholomew was bemused. ‘Why would a thief take such a thing?’

Petit regarded him pityingly. ‘So he can sell them to some unscrupulous mason in London, who will then adapt them to fit another tomb, and pass off our work as his own. The sly b–’

‘This is why brasses are superior to sculptures, Brother,’ interrupted Lakenham smugly. ‘Feet, noses, hands and even heads are very vulnerable on effigies.’

‘But brasses can be prised off in their entirety and spirited away,’ countered Petit.

‘Not my brasses,’ argued Lakenham. ‘I use pitch and pins to anchor them down.’

‘So you say,’ jeered Petit, and shot the lattener a look of utter contempt before turning his back on him to smile ingratiatingly at Michael. ‘I have taken the liberty of designing exemplars for Tynkell and Moleyns. Would you like to see them?’

‘Exemplars cannot be put together overnight,’ said Lakenham to Michael, his expression vengeful. ‘Which means he knew in advance that those two men would die. So question him about the murders, Brother, because that is suspicious.’

Petit hauled a burin – a chisel with a wooden handle and a sharp metal point – from his belt and fingered it menacingly. ‘You have a poisonous tongue, Lakenham, and you will be wanting a funerary brass for yourself, unless you stop wagging it.’

‘You see, Brother?’ said Lakenham archly. ‘That was almost a confession.’

‘I want to know where you all were when Tynkell died,’ said Michael.

‘He was in St Mary the Great,’ said Lakenham, stabbing an accusing finger at his rival. ‘Perfectly placed to slip up the tower and pretend to be Satan while he killed Tynkell.’

‘Nonsense! We all ran outside when we heard the commotion,’ said Petit, although he licked his lips nervously and his men exchanged furtive glances. ‘When the excitement was over, we came here to work.’ Then he went on an offensive of his own. ‘And how would you know where we were, Lakenham, unless you were nearby?’

The lattener was ready for this. ‘Because the beadles told me,’ he replied smugly. ‘I, however, was in St Clement’s Church with my wife.’

‘That is not what you said yesterday,’ pounced Bartholomew. ‘Cristine claimed her cloak was stolen from St Mary the Great – she had taken it off to ring the bells.’

‘You see?’ crowed Petit. ‘Lakenham is a liar! He stabbed Tynkell and Moleyns, because he hopes to build their tombs.’

Lakenham became flustered. ‘Perhaps we did slip into St Mary the Great for a few moments, but I am not a killer. Not a thief either. Come and look in my shed – you will find no carved feet there. Petit’s workshop, however, will be stuffed full of my brasses, nails and–’

‘That tool,’ interrupted Bartholomew, pointing to Petit’s burin. ‘May I see it?’

‘Why?’ demanded Petit suspiciously, hiding it behind his back.

Michael fixed the mason with an icy glare until he handed it over, which he did with obvious reluctance. The tool was intended for fine work, and possessed a long, slender point. Bartholomew pressed it into some damp clay, where it made a tiny circular hole.

‘The murder weapon?’ asked Michael.

‘Possibly,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘Or something similar.’

Petit was pale with alarm. ‘But lots of craftsmen have these! Indeed, Lakenham has several that are longer and thinner, which he uses for engraving. You cannot accuse me of–’

‘You were in the High Street when Moleyns was killed,’ interrupted Michael. He included the grinning lattener in his proctorly glower. ‘You both were – among the crowd that clustered around him after his fall.’

‘Yes, but I was busy minding my wife,’ said Lakenham, his smirk vanishing like mist in the sun. ‘Making sure she was not unduly jostled.’

From what Bartholomew had seen of Cristine, she was perfectly capable of looking after herself. Indeed, he imagined that if any protecting needed to be done, she would be far better at it than her diminutive spouse.

‘And I could get nowhere near Moleyns,’ added Petit. ‘There were too many people.’

Michael continued to ask questions, but neither craftsman could be persuaded to say more, and nor could their apprentices, and in the end he let them go. Lakenham scuttled away in relief, while Petit and his lads resumed their work on the winch. They did so in silence, clearly unsettled by the monk’s ruthless interrogation.

As it was not every day that a member of Michaelhouse was offered a bishopric, the Fellows celebrated with considerable vigour that night, merrymaking with an abandon rarely seen in the College. As a consequence, there were sore heads aplenty the following day, and the students, who had been kept awake by the racket, spoke in deliberately loud voices, in a concerted attempt to make their teachers wince. It was disappointingly easy with all the Fellows, except two.

Bartholomew rarely drank to excess, lest he was summoned by a patient. He knew other medici did not allow such considerations to limit their pleasures, but he hated the notion of failing someone for the sake of a few cups of wine. He had still enjoyed himself enormously, but was quite happy to sip watered ale and smile at the antics of the others. Meanwhile, Kolvyle had sat in sulky silence all night, plainly jealous of the monk’s good fortune. His colleagues treated his pouting envy with the contempt it deserved by ignoring it.

‘There was something wrong with that wine last night,’ whispered Michael, as he joined his colleagues in the yard to process to Mass. He looked very much the worse for wear, with a pasty face and bloodshot eyes. ‘It has given me a headache.’

‘And I have a sour stomach,’ agreed Langelee. ‘Return the barrel and demand a refund.’

‘I would, but there is none left to prove our point,’ said Michael. ‘I imagine the students finished it after we went to bed. After all, the seven of us cannot have emptied it alone.’

‘The five of you,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘And you did.’

‘I think we had better let Kolvyle take our classes this morning,’ said Langelee, hand to his middle. ‘I am not well enough to teach, and if you are suffering similar symptoms …’

‘That is a good idea,’ said Suttone weakly. His portly features were grey-green above a vomit-flecked habit. It was rumpled, too, suggesting he had slept in it, and had risen too late to change. ‘I feel dreadful.’

‘I suppose I can oblige,’ said Kolvyle grudgingly. He was freshly shaven, his hair was brushed, and he was wearing clean clothes. Just the sight of him made his older colleagues feel worn, jaded and very shabby. ‘After all, we do not want the students to complain. None of you are decent teachers on a good day, so after a night of intemperate hedonism …’

‘I am much respected in the lecture hall,’ objected Suttone, albeit feebly. ‘Indeed, I promised my lads a discourse on reductio ad absurdum today, which is no easy topic. Of course, I cannot recall what I planned to say, exactly …’

‘Your thesis was that Ethel the chicken must weigh something, or she would spend all her time floating in the air,’ supplied Clippesby, who held the bird in question in his arms. His eyes were glazed, and he wore the silly grin that indicated he was still drunk. ‘You will base your argument on the fact that denial of the assertion will have a ridiculous result. In other words, it will demonstrate this very common form of logical argument.’

‘I know what reductio ad absurdum means, Clippesby,’ said Suttone irritably. ‘But was that really the example I intended to use? Lord! I had better find another, or my lads will think I have lost my reason.’

‘They will,’ agreed Kolvyle spitefully. ‘Clearly, it would be better if you all left this morning’s work to me. I will not let our pupils down.’

He flounced away, startling Langelee and his Fellows by opening the gate and walking to church by himself. Allowing the Master to lead the way was not a written rule, but it was a custom everyone followed, and all were astonished that Kolvyle should have chosen to flout it.

‘I hope we did not do anything embarrassing last night,’ said Suttone uneasily. ‘Especially in front of him. I recall very little after the Master stood on the table and recited that poem about the nuns and the dragon, and it would be a pity if our night of levity damaged my chances of being Chancellor. Kolvyle is the kind of man to gossip about any … indiscretions.’

‘It was quite a night,’ grinned William, who looked much as he usually did, given that he was not a clean man to start with, so any new spillages were difficult to detect. ‘I cannot recall the last time we enjoyed ourselves so.’

‘We had much to celebrate,’ smiled Michael. ‘My See and Suttone’s chancellorship.’

‘Suttone may not win,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘Lyng has the support of the hostels, and that is where most votes lie. It will not be easy to defeat him.’

‘I thought the same, but Michael says he has a plan.’ Suttone beamed suddenly. ‘I shall like being Chancellor even more if he is not here to push me around. I am doubly delighted that he is leaving.’

Michael’s expression darkened. ‘I most certainly will tell you what to do! I shall be watching your every move like a hawk.’

‘How?’ asked Bartholomew curiously. ‘You will be in Rochester.’

‘I have my ways,’ replied Michael mysteriously. ‘But do not worry about Lyng, Suttone. No killer will ever hold the post of Chancellor.’

‘Killer?’ echoed Langelee, startled. ‘You mean it was Lyng who made an end of Tynkell and Moleyns? Lord! He seems such a decent fellow, and I have always liked him.’

‘Most people do, which is why he felt free to commit murder,’ said Michael airily. ‘He thinks he is the last man we will accuse, just because he is charming and elderly.’

‘So you have solved the case?’ asked Bartholomew, pleased. ‘You did not mention it last night, but I am glad it is over. I shall teach my lads Maimonides’ Tractus contra passionem asthmatis today. They will prefer that to some tedious monologue from Kolvyle.’

‘I have not solved it exactly,’ hedged Michael, ‘but Lyng is my chief suspect. However, I shall need you to help me to gather the necessary evidence, so Maimonides will have to wait.’

Bartholomew regarded him through narrowed eyes. ‘Do you really think Lyng is the culprit, or have you picked on him because he is Suttone’s most serious rival?’

‘A little of both,’ admitted Michael. ‘But he does have the strongest motive for killing Tynkell – namely dispatching the present incumbent, so that he could be Chancellor once more. It makes sense – he is old, and Tynkell kept delaying his departure.’

‘And that is your scheme to secure me the post?’ asked Suttone worriedly. ‘Accusing Lyng of murder? Is that not unethical?’

‘Not if he is guilty,’ replied Michael glibly. ‘And if he is innocent … well, he will just have to weather the storm as best he can.’

Friday afternoons were dreaded by the whole town, because it was when the Michaelhouse Choir met. The choir comprised a large number of spectacularly untalented individuals who had joined solely for the free bread and ale that were dispensed after rehearsals. They compensated for their lack of skill with volume, and prided themselves on being heard over considerable distances. Michael was their conductor, and was fiercely proud of them, although Bartholomew failed to understand why, given that the monk was a talented musician, with standards.

‘At least it drove Whittlesey away,’ said Michael, when the rehearsal was over and all Cambridge heaved a sigh of relief that there would not be another for seven blissful days. ‘He asked to shadow me, to learn how I operate. I thought I would not mind, but I do – I cannot be myself with him looming over my shoulder. But a few notes from my tenors sent him running.’

Bartholomew was not surprised, but refrained from saying so, as Michael seemed frayed and downhearted – which was odd, as he usually enjoyed choir practice.

‘What is wrong, Brother?’ he asked gently.

‘My singers have heard that I am leaving,’ explained the monk wretchedly. ‘And they looked at me with such reproach … But what do they expect? I cannot stay here for ever, and they must realise that I have ambitions.’

‘The choir is important to them. For most, it is the only decent meal they have all week.’

‘Do not make it worse, Matt,’ groaned Michael. ‘I feel bad enough as it is.’

Each alone with his thoughts, they walked to Maud’s Hostel, where Michael wanted to ask Lyng about the curious encounter that Kolvyle had described – where the elderly priest had scurried between Moleyns and Tynkell in St Mary the Great.

As Maud’s catered to wealthy students, it occupied a very handsome mansion. Its teachers were not obliged to room with students, its furnishings were luxurious, and the food and drink were of the very highest quality. Its Principal, Father Aidan, came to greet the visitors, accompanied by Richard Deynman, brother of the Michaelhouse librarian. Both Deynmans were of an ilk – good-natured, ebullient and deeply stupid.

‘I am glad you are here, Brother,’ said Aidan worriedly. ‘Because Lyng went out last night at about eight o’clock, and none of us have seen him since.’

‘And you wait until now to tell me?’ cried Michael in alarm. ‘What are you thinking?’

‘That we do not want to damage his chances in the election,’ snapped Aidan. ‘You heard what his rivals sniggered when he was not there to see the notice nailed to the Great West Door – they mocked him, and accused him of resting his ancient bones.’

‘Did he tell you where he was going?’ asked Bartholomew.

Aidan shook his head. ‘But we assumed it was something to do with winning a few more votes. He is very excited about the prospect of being Chancellor again.’

‘Which he will be, of course,’ put in Richard brightly, ‘because all the hostels want him, and they comprise most of the University.’

‘Not all of them,’ said Michael coolly. ‘A good many have expressed a preference for Suttone. But never mind this now. Has Lyng stayed out all night before?’

‘Never,’ replied Aidan, ‘which is why we are concerned. He was not back when I extinguished the lamps at ten o’clock last night, but I assumed he was busy electioneering. However, when I went to see why he was late to breakfast today, I saw his bed has not been slept in.’

‘Have you spoken to his friends in other foundations?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps he decided to stay with one of them overnight, rather than walk home in the dark.’

‘Now there is an idea!’ exclaimed Richard. ‘I shall do it at once. Being old, he probably just fell asleep somewhere, and is happily napping in another hostel.’

‘If he is, I suggest he withdraws, Aidan,’ said Michael after the lad had sped away. ‘We cannot have a Chancellor who dozes off on other people’s property.’

‘Oh, I am sure you would love that,’ said Aidan bitterly. ‘But do not think it will help Suttone – scholars who would have voted for Lyng will just transfer their allegiance to Hopeman, on the grounds that he is another priest.’

‘Suttone is a priest,’ Michael pointed out.

‘Yes, but one who aims to challenge the rules of celibacy, and who terrifies everyone by telling them that the plague is poised to return. He is also a member of a College, whereas Hopeman is a hostel man.’

‘Your hostel,’ remarked Michael. ‘How fortunate for you that Maud’s is offering two candidates for election.’

‘I would much rather have Lyng,’ said Aidan stiffly. ‘So let us hope he returns unharmed.’

Michael inclined his head. ‘Tell me when Richard finds him. I shall also ask my beadles to keep their eyes peeled. In the meantime, perhaps you will answer some questions. First, I want to know how well Lyng knew Moleyns and Tynkell.’

Aidan gave a tight smile. ‘He knew Tynkell very well. They were good friends, and Tynkell often sought his advice about University affairs.’

‘Did he indeed?’ murmured Michael.

Aidan looked away. ‘But as for Moleyns … well, I cannot say I am sorry he is dead. He was a felon, and it vexed me to see him strutting freely about our town. Lyng did not like it either.’

‘Then why did he whisper to him during services in St Mary the Great?’

‘You are mistaken, Brother. Lyng would never have interrupted his devotions to chat to a criminal. He despised Moleyns, and said so several times.’

‘Did he explain why?’

‘Is it not obvious? Moleyns was a thief and a murderer. Did you not hear about the man he killed in order to inherit Stoke Poges – his wife’s uncle? He was acquitted only because he was allowed to choose his own jury, a travesty of justice that shames our legal system.’

‘Did Lyng also feel strongly about this?’

Aidan pursed his lips. ‘What you are really asking is: did Lyng kill Moleyns on a point of principle? Well, the answer is no. Lyng is a gentle man.’

‘Will you show us his room? There may be something in it that will tell us where he has gone.’

‘There will not,’ predicted Aidan. ‘Besides, I cannot let just anyone rummage through my masters’ chambers. It would be a violation of their rights.’

‘I am not “just anyone”,’ objected Michael. ‘I am the Senior Proctor, investigating the murder of our Chancellor and a friend of the King – which Moleyns was, no matter what you think of him. Now, unless you want me to tell His Majesty that Maud’s was uncooperative …’

‘Follow me,’ said Aidan quickly, and led the way up the stairs.

The upper floors were as opulently appointed as the ones below, and Lyng had been allocated a wood-panelled chamber overlooking the yard. It smelled of lavender and sage, and was scrupulously clean, although north-facing and so gloomy. Above the bed was a row of books that would have any theologian drooling with envy, while the table was well supplied with ink, pens and parchment. An unopened letter had pride of place. Michael picked it up and raised questioning eyebrows.

‘It arrived yesterday morning, but he said he would open it later,’ explained Aidan.

‘Who is it from?’

‘I have no idea – the seal is not one I recognise.’ Aidan blushed when he realised that this remark revealed that he had inspected it rather more closely than was polite.

‘The parchment is expensive,’ noted Michael. ‘Another wealthy scholar, perhaps?’

‘It is possible. Put it back, Brother. Not even the Senior Proctor can open private correspondence without good cause.’

Reluctantly, Michael did as he was told.

The King’s Ditch arced around the eastern side of the town, and was used as a sewer and a convenient repository for rubbish. Unfortunately, it was too sluggish to carry its malodorous contents far, with the result that it comprised a reeking, festering ribbon of slime that posed a serious risk to health. Although its name suggested connections to royalty, all self-respecting monarchs would have vigorously denied any association with such a revolting feature.

Master Lyng had been found on its north bank, near the Hall of Valence Marie. To the south lay Peterhouse, the Gilbertine Priory and the King’s Head tavern, a townsmen-only establishment that was famous for fighting, and was a favourite haunt of Isnard and most of the Michaelhouse Choir.

Lyng’s body had been neatly positioned, his hands folded across his middle. His robes were carefully straightened, and someone had made a pillow of his hat and tucked it under his head. He was cold, and his clothes were dusted with rime, which told Bartholomew that he had lain undisturbed for some time.

The discovery had attracted onlookers, despite the unsociable hour – scholars from the nearby Colleges, canons from the priory, and a gaggle of patrons from the inn, all being held back by a cordon of beadles. Several, including Isnard and Gundrede, carried pitch torches, although the sky was lightening in the east and dawn was not far off.

‘Murder,’ reported Bartholomew tersely, indicating the now-familiar puncture wound. ‘A lump on the back of Lyng’s head suggests that he was stunned first, then stabbed as he lay helpless. He did not arrange himself like this, so his killer must have done it.’

‘Meaning what?’ demanded Michael. ‘That the culprit is sorry, and thinks that treating the body with respect will make amends?’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Only he can answer that.’

Michael crouched next to the corpse, so they could speak without being overheard by the growing throng of spectators. ‘I am deeply sorry to see Lyng like this – a three-time Chancellor deserves to end his days peacefully.’

‘He was a good man,’ agreed Bartholomew sadly. ‘We were wrong to include him on our list of suspects.’

Michael nodded. ‘And his death is a severe blow to our enquiries. Now we cannot ask him what Moleyns whispered before he died, or about the messages that he ferried between Tynkell and Moleyns in St Mary the Great. And as all three are dead, I suspect that both matters were important.’

‘Unless he was killed because he was the man most likely to win the election,’ suggested Bartholomew, and nodded to where Thelnetham, Godrich and Hopeman were watching with wary faces. ‘In which case, the culprit is one of them. Or Suttone, I suppose – the only candidate who has not come to gawp.’

‘Which is a point in his favour, as far as I am concerned,’ retorted Michael, then added wryly, ‘Although I suspect the real reason is because he is still abed. So when did Lyng die? Give me a precise time, so we can begin exploring alibis.’

‘You know that is impossible.’ Bartholomew gestured to the bridge above their heads. ‘He is invisible from the road, so he might have lain here since he was first reported missing.’

‘Which was Thursday night.’ Michael stood and called to the crowd. ‘Who found him?’

Thelnetham raised his hand, and the beadles let him past. The flickering torchlight showed that he had taken Bartholomew’s advice to heart, because his habit was devoid of vibrant accessories, other than the brooch that fastened his cloak. He also stood more erect and seemed to be more manly – until he glanced at the body, at which point he whipped out a silken cloth and pressed it to his eyes in an effete gesture of distress.

‘I was walking along this bank when I tripped over him,’ he began. ‘It gave me a scare, I can tell you! I climbed back up to the road, and raced straight to Michaelhouse–’

‘You were walking here?’ asked Michael, glancing around in distaste. ‘In the dark?’

‘I could not sleep after nocturns, so I decided to visit the clerks in St Mary the Great – some work all night, as you know, because the University’s recent expansion is generating so much extra work. I want their votes.’

‘I see,’ said Michael. ‘However, that does not explain why you chose to make your way there via the edge of the King’s Ditch. And do not say you glimpsed Lyng while crossing the bridge, because he cannot be seen from the road.’

Thelnetham lowered his voice and spoke a little crossly. ‘If you must know, I was with a companion. But that is my business, and I would sooner not turn my personal life into the subject of prurient gossip. I am sure you understand.’

‘What companion?’ demanded Michael, although he allowed the Gilbertine to propel him away from the gathering crowd. No one would have been able hear their discussion, given that they had kept their voices low, but there was always a danger that someone could lip-read. Bartholomew followed.

‘Him.’ Thelnetham nodded towards Secretary Nicholas, who was looking simultaneously defensive and furtive. ‘Obviously, we cannot meet in my priory or his hostel, so we have taken to using other places. Here, near St Clement’s Church, under the Great Bridge. All are usually deserted, so we can … do what we like.’

‘Which does not include eating slugs, presumably,’ muttered Bartholomew. He shook his head when Thelnetham regarded him questioningly. ‘You were seen. Find somewhere else.’

‘Yes, do,’ agreed Michael with a shudder. ‘It cannot be pleasant to lurk down here, especially for a man of refined tastes like yourself.’

‘No,’ sighed Thelnetham ruefully. ‘Unfortunately, the nicer refuges are always occupied by others. You have no idea how hard it is to find somewhere private in this hectic little town.’

‘Did you come here yesterday?’ asked Bartholomew, hoping to narrow down the time that Lyng had been dead.

‘No – we have been too busy. The last time we met was on Wednesday, but that was near the Great Bridge, not here.’

‘Did you move Lyng? Or tidy his robes?’

‘I probably jostled him when I stumbled over his corpse. But the moment we realised that he was … well, we both backed away as fast as we could. I hurried to Michaelhouse, while Nicholas went to tell Lyng’s colleagues at Maud’s. He told them to bring a bier, students to carry it, and the necessary equipment for anointing a body, but they should be here soon.’

Michael gestured to his beadles, telling them to let Nicholas through.

‘It is not what you think, Brother,’ the secretary began in a frightened gabble. ‘We were looking for lost coins, to donate to the University Chest and–’

‘It is all right, Nicholas,’ said Thelnetham softly. ‘They know my habits from living with me at Michaelhouse. They do not judge us.’

‘Then I hope they will be discreet,’ gulped Nicholas, not much comforted. ‘Our friendship is private.’

‘It will not stay so,’ warned Michael. ‘People will wonder what you were doing down here together – and the tale will out if Thelnetham persists in standing for election, because he will be in the public eye. It will be better for you both if he withdraws.’

The Gilbertine smiled thinly. ‘I shall say the wind caught my hat, so I came to get it. No one need know that Nicholas was with me.’

‘But it would be a lie,’ said Michael. ‘From a man who aims to lead our University.’

‘I told you it was a mistake to trust him, Thelnetham,’ said Nicholas bitterly. ‘We should have sent him an anonymous message, as I suggested. Then no one would be trying to blackmail you.’

Thelnetham’s face was pale in the flickering torchlight. ‘I will not step down – it would be feeble to bow to pressure, and I am no weakling. Very well, then, Brother. Bray my secrets to the world if you must. I shall take the resulting censure in my stride.’

‘I am neither a gossip nor an extortionist,’ objected Michael huffily, although Bartholomew was not so sure about the second, given that he was so determined to see Suttone in power. ‘I will keep your trust. However, Weasenham is among the spectators, so do not be surprised if the truth – or some approximation of it – seeps out.’

Thelnetham inclined his head. ‘Thank you for the warning.’

‘Yet it is convenient for you that Lyng is dead,’ Michael went on. ‘He was by far the most popular candidate.’

‘Perhaps,’ acknowledged Thelnetham. ‘But I am quite capable of fighting with my tongue, and have no need to resort to physical violence. However, the same cannot be said of Godrich and Hopeman, so I suggest you look to them first.’

‘And Thelnetham has not been alone since Lyng disappeared anyway,’ added Nicholas. ‘He has either been out campaigning with me, or in his priory with his brethren. Between them and me, every moment of his time can be accounted for.’

‘You should speak to Suttone, too,’ said Thelnetham. ‘Just because he is your favourite does not mean that he is innocent. After all, why is he not here? All the other hopefuls are keen to learn what is happening in the University they aim to govern, so why does he keep his distance?’

As Bartholomew was keen to ensure that his students were on track with the reading he had set, he and Michael returned to Michaelhouse, where the monk took the opportunity to give Langelee an update on their findings. Suttone listened, too, on the grounds that he should know what was happening in the University he would soon be running. He nodded sagely, but when Michael asked for his opinion as to the culprit’s identity, he mumbled an excuse and shuffled off to the kitchens in search of food.

‘Are you sure he is up to the task?’ asked Langelee worriedly. ‘Obviously, I would love to see a Michaelhouse man in charge. But Suttone … well, he has his failings.’

‘Kolvyle has been saying the same,’ sighed Michael. ‘So will you keep the brat here until the election is over? His disloyalty is doing Suttone great harm, and I shall devise a pretext to expel him when I have a spare moment. Perhaps I can banish him to Oxford. That will teach him not to cross me.’

‘I know how to occupy him today,’ said Langelee. ‘He can give the Saturday Sermon.’

He referred to a tradition that he had started, where the Fellows took it in turns to lecture on a light-hearted subject of his choosing, after which there was a debate. Michael laughed.

‘Excellent! He takes himself far too seriously, and Matt’s lads will heckle him if he tries to regale them with some tedious monologue on law. It will show him that he is fallible.’

He had arranged to meet Tulyet in the Brazen George again, so he and Bartholomew hurried there as soon as the physician was satisfied that his pupils were not falling behind with their work. They arrived to find the Sheriff waiting, having ordered a very modest meal. There was one salted herring and a hard-boiled egg each, along with a dish of pickled onions to share.

‘We caught Petit lugging brasses about on a cart not long ago,’ said Michael, taking one look at the spread, and indicating that the landlord was to bring something more suitable. ‘I assume they belong to Lakenham, although Petit denied it, of course.’

Tulyet nodded. ‘Helbye cornered him by the Trumpington Gate, and brought him to the castle to explain himself. I was delighted – I thought we had our thief at last. Unfortunately, the metal is his – he has receipts to prove it.’

‘Then the thief must be Lakenham,’ said Bartholomew.

Tulyet shook his head. ‘The latest crime is to his detriment – the brass he made for Cew has been stolen. It disappeared at roughly the same time that Petit was with me, which suggests that neither is the guilty party. And there is the fact that they are under surveillance – if they had stolen Cew’s plate, we would have noticed. Which leaves Isnard and Gundrede.’

‘You were watching all the masons and all the latteners?’ asked Bartholomew sceptically. ‘Apprentices, as well as masters?’

‘Well, no,’ acknowledged Tulyet. ‘But I am inclined to drop them in favour of Isnard and Gundrede because Isnard and Gundrede have left the town.’

‘Left it to go where?’ asked Michael.

‘No one knows, which is suspicious in itself. However, I saw Isnard’s barge slipping down the river at first light this morning. I was too far away to stop it, but it was very low in the water, and I suspect it was loaded down with contraband.’

‘Wine, probably,’ said Michael. ‘We know he smuggles claret on occasion.’

‘It looked too heavy for that – more like the kind of weight that would come from ledger slabs, brasses, Dallingridge’s feet and the lead from Gonville’s chapel. Obviously, the rogues will ferry it through the Fens, then around the coast to London.’

Michael frowned. ‘But who will want second-hand tomb parts? Or is there a large population of dead Cews in the city?’

‘The back of the plate will be blank,’ explained Tulyet. ‘So a lattener will just flip it over and engrave his own design on the other side. Or scratch out Cew’s name, and etch someone else’s over the top of it. It is a lucrative business, and such a load will fetch a fortune.’

‘Well, we will soon know if Isnard and Gundrede are the culprits,’ said Michael. ‘Because they will start throwing their profits around, and we will hear about it. Neither is the kind of man to be discreet about any ill-gotten gains.’

Bartholomew sincerely hoped they were wrong.

It was not long before the little church thronged with people. Some carried lamps, as darkness had fallen outside. Petit huddled with his apprentices, wailing that he had been deprived of another beloved pupil, while Lakenham and Cristine stood side by side, watching their rivals with expressions that were difficult to read in the gloom. Then Vicar Frisby arrived.

‘A second murder in this most holy of places,’ he slurred, squinting at the body through bloodshot eyes, and almost toppling into the vault when he leaned over too far. ‘Poor Stanmore! He must be wondering how many more interlopers will inhabit his grave before he gets the chance to use it himself.’

‘Frisby has a point, Matt,’ murmured Tulyet, as he helped Bartholomew to pull Peres up and lay him on the floor. ‘You should arrange for Stanmore to be interred before someone else ends up down there.’

‘You can do it next week,’ sobbed Petit, overhearing. ‘The granite slab will be ready to seal it up by Wednesday. Or perhaps Friday.’

‘I shall have to resanctify the whole church now,’ interjected Frisby crossly. ‘Or is that the Bishop’s prerogative? But he is in Avignon with the Pope, and might be gone for months, so how shall I earn a living in the interim? Hah! I know. Michael can do it. He is almost a prelate.’

‘Did you notice anything amiss when you came to say Mass earlier?’ asked Tulyet, obviously unimpressed that the vicar was more concerned with his own circumstances than the victim’s.

‘If I had, I would not have conducted the rite,’ said Frisby, intending piety but achieving only dissipation. ‘It is my belief that Masses should never be performed with corpses in the vicinity. Except Requiem Masses, I suppose, when it is unavoidable.’

‘When did you last see Peres?’ asked Tulyet of the mason and his remaining lads.

‘I sent him to buy a chisel,’ replied Petit tearfully. ‘Four or five hours ago now. I wondered what was taking him so long, but I never imagined he would be …’

‘Four or five hours?’ Tulyet turned back to Frisby. ‘Were you in here the whole time?’

‘No, I was in my house for most of it, praying.’

A titter of amusement rippled through his parishioners at the notion that their worldly priest would engage in anything remotely pious.

‘So who was in the church when you arrived?’ pressed Tulyet.

‘No one,’ replied Frisby. ‘I began setting out my accoutrements, and the congregation trickled in, but they all stood in the nave. I do not let them into the sacred confines of the chancel while the Host is up here. It involves wine, you know, and they might try to take it.’

‘What about the rest of you?’ said Tulyet, addressing the assembled masses. ‘Did you notice anything unusual when you came in?’

No one had. Meanwhile, Petit knelt next to Peres and began to go through his clothes.

‘What are you doing?’ asked Bartholomew in distaste.

‘Looking for the new chisel,’ replied the mason, then held up three coins. ‘But here is the money I gave him for it, which means he was killed before he reached the market. He must have come to check Stanmore’s vault first, and was ambushed here.’

‘That makes sense,’ nodded Tulyet. ‘No one saw the killer, because he had been and gone before the Mass started. What about the knife? Does anyone recognise it?’

There were a lot of shaken heads, which was no surprise, given that it was cheap and unremarkable – the kind that could be bought anywhere for a few coins.

‘Well, Lakenham?’ asked Petit, unsteadily, still kneeling next to the body. ‘Are you satisfied? Another of my boys dead at your hands.’

‘Not ours,’ said Lakenham firmly. ‘We were in St Clement’s all day, as Vicar Milde will attest. And you never liked Peres anyway, so you probably dispatched him yourself.’

‘How, when I was in St Mary the Great with a dozen witnesses to prove it?’ demanded Petit angrily, surging to his feet. ‘But I know your game, Lakenham – you murdered Peres in the hope that my distress will lead me to refuse the Tynkell commission. Well, it will not work.’

The argument swayed back and forth, and Tulyet let it run in the hope that temper would lead to incriminatory slips. Bartholomew crouched down to examine Peres more closely. Like Lucas, it had not been a clean kill, and several vicious jabs had been inflicted before the fatal blow. He was about to cover him up when he noticed something caught in one of the boy’s fingernails. It was a thread of an unusual shade of aqua.

‘From his attacker?’ asked Tulyet, peering at it.

Bartholomew nodded. ‘I think so – his nail is torn, which suggests he snatched at his assailant in an effort to ward him off.’

‘I have never seen anyone wearing an item of clothing this colour. However, it is distinctive, and I shall start my search for it in the tomb-makers’ homes. When we have the garment, we shall have our killer.’

‘You will have Peres’ killer,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘And perhaps Lucas’s and Reames’. But not Moleyns’, Tynkell’s and Lyng’s. That culprit is altogether more efficient.’

The next day was Sunday, when there was a longer service in church, followed by a marginally nicer breakfast than that served during the rest of the week. Formal teaching was forbidden, but the University’s masters knew better than to release hundreds of lively young men into the town with nothing to do, so some form of entertainment was always arranged. In Michaelhouse, it revolved around games, the reading of humorous tracts or mock disputations. The Fellows took turns to organise something, and that week Langelee ordered Kolvyle to oblige.

‘I doubt he will best what you did last Sunday,’ murmured Michael to Bartholomew. ‘My theologians are still talking about cenandum liberalis quam prandendum. They tell me they have never laughed so much in all their lives.’

The debate had been about whether it was better to eat more at breakfast than at dinner, and Michael had been one of the disputants. The monk had been unable to bring himself to say that he might consume less at either, and the seriousness with which he took the question had amused the whole College. Afterwards, there had been ball games in the orchard for those with energy to burn, or a quiz on Aesop’s fables for those of a more sedentary nature.

‘Kolvyle does not have a comic bone in his body,’ said Langelee. ‘Perhaps it is because he knows nothing about camp-ball, which is a sure sign of an undeveloped mind.’

They processed to the church, where they were startled to discover that the lid to Wilson’s tomb was gone, leaving behind an open chest containing a lot of rubbish left by the original mason. Scratches on the flagstones showed where the slab had been lugged to the door.

‘Perhaps Petit took it away,’ suggested William, as they all clustered around to look.

‘He has not, because we agreed that he would work on it in situ,’ said Langelee worriedly, ‘to save on costs. Lord! I hope it has not been stolen.’

Michael’s expression was grim. ‘I imagine it has – and we cannot afford to replace it.’

‘I heard that Isnard and Gundrede arrived home last night,’ said Kolvyle slyly. ‘Perhaps you should ask them if they took it.’

‘I know how to investigate a crime, thank you,’ said Michael sharply.

‘Do you?’ sneered Kolvyle. ‘That is not how it seems to me. We have six unsolved murders, while robbers continue to make off with whatever they please. You are doing nothing about any of it. At least, nothing that is effective.’

He took his place in the chancel before Michael could respond, then stood with his head bowed, although Bartholomew was sure he could not be praying after such a spiteful tirade.

‘I admire your patience, Brother,’ growled William. ‘I would box his ears if he spoke to me like that. Indeed, I am considering boxing them anyway, just for being an irritating–’

‘I shall deal with him in my own way,’ interrupted Michael shortly. ‘Without recourse to violence. He will not emerge the victor, never fear.’

A Dominican Priory had been founded in Cambridge not long after that Order had first arrived in the country, and its founders had chosen a site east of the town, rather than in the centre, like the Carmelites, Austins and Franciscans. This meant it had been free to expand unfettered by constraints of space, and so was enormous. It was centred around its beautiful church, which rivalled St Mary the Great in size and splendour. Other buildings included a refectory and dormitories for its sixty or so priests, and a range of sheds, pantries, storerooms and stables.

The lay-brother who answered the gate invited them to wait by the fire in his lodge while he went to announce their arrival to Prior Morden. His kindness came with a caveat, though.

‘And no stealing my bread and cheese, Brother. I know exactly how much there is, and will notice if any is missing.’

‘He seems to have a very odd impression of me,’ said Michael when the man had gone. ‘Does he really imagine that I wander around the town scoffing whatever I happen to find?’

Eventually, they were conducted across the garden to the Prior’s House, an elegant edifice that had been built that summer, and that was larger than many hostels. It had a tiled roof, and its walls were stone. Michael had developed a mischievous habit of entering the old one by flinging open the door hard enough to startle its occupant – a practice that nearly always resulted in damage to the wall. However, Morden had evidently taken this into account when he had designed his new parlour, so Michael thrust open the door with his customary vigour, only to have it snap back at him, landing him a painful crack on the nose.

‘Do come in, Brother,’ said Morden, struggling to keep a straight face.

He was in company with Almoner Byri, a plump man with white hair, who leaned against the wall while tears of mirth rolled down his plump cheeks. Bartholomew saw the door had been fitted with a thin strip of metal, which meant it would always spring back at the opener – and the harder it was pushed, the more violently it would return. The Dominicans were famous for their love of practical jokes.

‘This is dangerous,’ he said disapprovingly. ‘You could hurt someone.’

‘They have hurt someone,’ said Michael nasally. ‘I feel as though I have been punched, and the Senior Proctor can levy fines for that sort of thing.’

‘It is only a bit of fun,’ said Morden. He was sitting on a stool behind his desk, which had been piled high with cushions; his little legs swung in the empty space below them. ‘Where is your sense of humour?’

‘There is nothing amusing about visitors’ noses being mashed into the back of their skulls,’ growled Michael. ‘I have cautioned you about these pranks before.’

‘You are as bad as Hopeman,’ said Morden, rolling his eyes. ‘He is all grim business and no play, too. However, we only deployed that device when we heard you were here, Brother. My walls are new, and I do not want them dented by one of your forceful arrivals.’

‘Here is some wine to make you feel better,’ said Byri. He saw the monk’s eyes narrow, so took a sip himself. ‘Best quality claret. This is not another jest, I promise.’

Michael took the proffered goblet with ill grace, and plonked himself down on a bench. He should have known better, and squawked in shock when it tipped violently. Quick as lightning, Bartholomew grabbed the end that flew into the air, and preserved the monk’s dignity by sitting on it himself. Morden and Byri were openly disappointed.

‘I am here on a serious matter,’ said Michael sternly. ‘Murder. It is not an occasion for merriment, so I suggest you desist with these foolish antics before you annoy me.’

Morden became serious. ‘My apologies, Brother. We are very sorry about Tynkell and Lyng. Both were good men, and Lyng would have made an excellent Chancellor.’

‘Yet you support Hopeman,’ Michael pointed out, ‘who will not.’

‘Yes, because he is a Dominican,’ explained Morden. ‘We cannot vote for Thelnetham or Suttone, because one is a Gilbertine and the other a Carmelite, while Godrich will not do at all.’

‘Why not?’ probed Michael.

Morden indicated that Byri should reply.

‘He has been bribing hostels to vote for him,’ obliged the almoner, although he spoke reluctantly; he was not a man for gossip. ‘But he was overheard saying that he cannot possibly honour all the pledges he has made, and will renege on most the moment he is in post.’

‘Then there is his friendship with Moleyns,’ added Morden. ‘I assume you know what happened in Stoke Poges all those years ago, when Moleyns was charged with the murder of Egidia’s uncle, but was acquitted?’

Michael nodded. ‘He chose the jury himself.’

‘Yes, and one of its members was Godrich.’ Byri frowned when he saw Michael’s surprise. ‘No one told you?’

‘No,’ said Michael stiffly. ‘How did you find out?’

‘The village priest is a Dominican, and I met him at a conclave recently. He said that Godrich bragged about telling the other jurors how to vote. Godrich was sent there from Court, you see, to make sure that a man who was generous to the royal coffers was not convicted.’

‘Then it was a pity for Moleyns that Godrich was not available for his next trial as well,’ murmured Morden acidly. ‘I imagine he was horrified when he was pronounced guilty of all those terrible deeds – theft, cattle rustling, harbouring felons …’

‘You should have mentioned this sooner, Byri,’ said Michael aggrieved. ‘How am I supposed to solve these murders when people withhold vital information?’

‘I assumed that Godrich would tell you himself,’ replied Byri defensively. ‘On the grounds that keeping it quiet makes it look as though he has something to hide.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Michael caustically. ‘It does, doesn’t it.’

‘Do you think Godrich is the killer?’ Morden answered the question himself. ‘It would make sense: he stabbed Tynkell to force an election, Moleyns to prevent unsavoury details about his past from emerging, and Lyng to rid himself of his most dangerous rival.’

‘Are there any other “unsavoury details” that I might not know?’ asked Michael crossly.

Byri raised his hands in a shrug. ‘Not that I am aware. However, Godrich would not have done that sort of favour for Moleyns and then forgotten all about it. Moleyns will have expressed his gratitude to him in some significant way, you can be sure of that.’

Michael thought so, too. ‘But we are here on another matter, as it happens. Tell us about the argument you overheard between Hopeman and Lyng.’

Byri gaped at him. ‘How on Earth do you know about that? The only person I have told is Prior Morden, and he has been in here with me ever since, going through our accounts.’

‘The Senior Proctor has very long ears,’ replied Michael smugly.

‘Or his spies do,’ muttered Byri. ‘Very well, then. It was on Thursday night, well after nine. I had been away on priory business, and I stopped at St Botolph’s Church to give thanks for my safe return. When I came out, Hopeman and Lyng were in the graveyard. I suppose I should have made myself known, but I was very tired and Hopeman can be … wordy.’

‘You did not want him to keep you from your rest with a diatribe,’ surmised Michael. ‘So you skulked in the dark, waiting for him to leave.’

‘It sounds sly when put like that,’ objected Byri. ‘Whereas I merely decided that it would be more comfortable to have his news the next day, rather than there and then, out in the cold.’

‘So what did you hear, exactly?’

‘They were talking about the chancellorship, amiably at first. Then Lyng told Hopeman to stand down and support him instead. He said he was going to win anyway, and Hopeman could save himself a lot of embarrassment by withdrawing before the votes were counted.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘Lyng said that? I thought he was a modest man.’

‘So did I, which just goes to show that you never know anyone as well as you think.’

Bartholomew recalled the argument in Maud’s Hostel, where Blaston the carpenter had overheard a quarrel that had involved physical violence. Perhaps Byri was right.

‘Needless to say, Hopeman was incensed,’ the almoner went on. ‘He began to rant and screech, and said some terrible things, including …’

‘Yes?’ pressed Michael. He grimaced when Byri glanced at his prior. ‘I need the truth about this encounter, Byri. If Hopeman is the killer, he needs to be stopped. I know he is a Dominican, and you are reluctant to betray him, but think of his victims.’

‘Michael is right, Byri,’ said Morden quietly. ‘You have a duty to tell the truth.’

‘Very well,’ sighed the almoner. ‘Hopeman said he would kill Lyng if he interfered with God’s plans. Lyng retorted that Hopeman might be the one to die, but they were both seriously angry by this point, and men often say things in temper that they do not really mean.’

‘And temper often exposes their true intentions,’ countered Michael, and stood so abruptly that Bartholomew was tipped off the other end of the bench, although no one laughed. ‘We shall return to Michaelhouse and see what Hopeman has to say about this matter.’

‘He is not the killer,’ said Morden, although his voice lacked conviction. ‘He may be a zealot, but he would never break one of the Ten Commandments.’

‘If he had nothing to hide, he would have mentioned this encounter when I questioned him about Lyng’s disappearance,’ said Michael. ‘But he told me that he had not seen Lyng since noon. Which means he does break the Commandments – by bearing false witness.’

‘I suppose it does,’ conceded Morden unhappily.

‘Has the killer struck again, Brother?’ asked Langelee a little later that morning.

It was still early, but he and his Fellows had already attended their devotions, broken their fast, and repaired to the conclave, where they were busily preparing for the day ahead. Michael was fluttering around Suttone with a brush and scissors, struggling to render him a little more Chancellor-like; Langelee, William, Clippesby and Kolvyle were assembling their notes for the morning’s lessons; Bartholomew was making a list of the texts he wanted his students to read; and Langelee himself was honing his letter-opener, originally an innocuous little implement but now a very deadly weapon. Clearly, he was of the opinion that only a fool would not take precautions to protect himself if Michael’s answer was yes.

Michael stopped primping Suttone, his expression bleak. ‘Well, Lyng went missing, and look what happened to him. However, I can tell you that Godrich is not on the banks of the King’s Ditch, because we searched them very thoroughly – by torchlight.’

‘Personally, I thought Godrich was the murderer,’ said William. ‘So perhaps he sensed the net closing in around him, and fled before he was arrested.’

‘Nonsense,’ declared Kolvyle. ‘He would never–’

‘He was my main suspect, too,’ interrupted Michael, ignoring Kolvyle and addressing William. ‘He is a despicable rogue. First, he was on the jury that acquitted Moleyns of poisoning Peter Poges. Second, Dallingridge was poisoned in Nottingham, and Godrich was there at the time, although he insists on denying it–’

‘Dallingridge was not poisoned,’ snapped Kolvyle irritably. ‘He died of natural causes, as I have told you on countless occasions. And Godrich is telling the truth about Lammas Day – I would have noticed if he had been at the feast in the castle.’

‘Dallingridge wrote a list of all the people he suspected of killing him,’ Michael retorted. ‘It included you, so forgive me if I do not accept your opinion on the matter.’ He turned back to William. ‘And third, Godrich stoops to buying votes to make himself Chancellor.’

‘I heard that he turned to the Devil for help during the plague, too,’ said William, cutting across the response Kolvyle started to make. ‘He bought charms and spells from witches to keep himself safe.’

‘Many people did,’ said Clippesby, hugging a mangy dog. ‘And we should not judge them too harshly for what happened during that terrible time.’

‘We should if they want to be Chancellor,’ retorted Suttone. ‘Because they might do it again, when the disease sweeps through us a second time.’ Rashly, he addressed Kolvyle. ‘I trust this will make you rethink your allegiance to him?’

Kolvyle’s face was hard and cold. ‘And vote for you? Do not make me laugh!’

‘I will make a good Chancellor,’ protested Suttone, stung. ‘I am a–’

‘You will never be elected,’ declared Kolvyle viciously. ‘But if you are, I shall threaten to resign. And that means you will not keep your post for long, because no one will choose an old man over the University’s brightest young mind.’

‘Be careful what you promise,’ warned Langelee, while the others blinked their astonishment at such brazen hubris. ‘Thelnetham resigned in favour of a better offer, and he ended up with nothing.’

‘And good riddance!’ scoffed Kolvyle. ‘But I am different, because I am a rising star, whereas he is just another elderly has-been. Like the rest of you.’

‘Now just a moment,’ said William dangerously. ‘I am in the prime of my–’

‘You are all too old,’ Kolvyle declared contemptuously. ‘And it is time a clean sweep was made to rid the University of its deadwood.’

He turned and stalked away, but Michael raised his hand when William started after him. ‘Leave him. He is not worth the effort.’

William scowled. ‘Even Thelnetham was nicer than him, and that is saying something. I recommend we never hire any more Fellows. They are a menace!’

‘Other than Aungel,’ said Langelee. ‘We shall enrol him when Bartholomew abandons us for matrimonial bliss. He has his failings, but better the devil you know.’

‘I am not going anywhere,’ said Bartholomew, disliking the way his future was being decided without him. ‘At least, not yet. I shall see out the academic year, no matter what.’

‘You will not need to go at all if Suttone is Chancellor,’ said William. ‘He will let you have your woman and keep your Fellowship.’

‘I will,’ agreed Suttone. ‘And why not? It is stupid to lose a good teacher, just because he has normal manly appetites. However, I hope Godrich is not dead. He has powerful friends at Court, and I do not want the King accusing me of his murder.’ Then a thought occurred to him, and he blanched. ‘Lord! Do you think I am in danger? After all, we started with five candidates, but now we are four.’

‘There is no harm in being careful,’ replied Michael. ‘So Cynric can stay with you today.’

‘Tell us what you learned at King’s Hall last night, Brother,’ said Langelee, returning to his original question. ‘Should we be concerned for Godrich’s safety?’

‘Unfortunately, I think we should,’ replied the monk unhappily. ‘Especially as Whittlesey seems to be missing too.’

‘Whittlesey?’ echoed Langelee, shocked. ‘God’s teeth! The Church will be livid if anything happens to him. He is the Archbishop of Canterbury’s favourite nephew, and an important cleric in his own right.’

‘Godrich organised a feast at King’s Hall in Whittlesey’s honour,’ Michael went on, ‘but neither appeared for it and I am very worried. As I said, Godrich was my chief suspect, but now he has vanished … well, it just bodes ill.’

‘This dog,’ said Clippesby, indicating the creature in his arms. ‘She is the one who was made to run across the road when Moleyns died – after a bone. A lamb shank, she says.’

‘And?’ demanded Michael eagerly. ‘Is she going to tell us who threw it?’

‘She does not know. However, she tells me that it was definitely not Godrich, because he loves dogs, and would never have put one in danger.’

Michael seized his arm urgently. ‘Are you sure? Please, Clippesby – no madness now. This is important, because if Godrich can be eliminated as a suspect, then it means he probably is dead. And Whittlesey with him. They were rarely out of each other’s company these last few days, so Whittlesey may have been dispatched just because he was in the killer’s way.’

‘I am sure. I happened to be watching Godrich when Moleyns fell off his horse – one of his hounds was limping, you see, and I was waiting for an opportunity to tell him so. He did run towards the mêlée, but he did not kill Moleyns. I would have noticed.’

‘Damn it, Clippesby!’ cried Michael, exasperated. ‘Why did you not tell me this at once?’

‘Because I did not know that Godrich was a suspect until you announced it just now.’

‘I do not suppose you noticed Whittlesey in the scrum, did you?’ asked Michael, fighting down his frustration. The other-worldly Dominican often closed his eyes to the sordid affairs of men; most of the time, Michael did not blame him.

‘I did, actually,’ replied Clippesby serenely. ‘He was trailing after you and Matt, although I did not know then that he was an envoy from Rochester. When Moleyns fell, he raced forward with the rest, but I did not see what he did when he got there.’

‘I never did like Whittlesey,’ declared William. ‘Too greasy by half. He killed Tynkell, Moleyns and Lyng. Then he dispatched Godrich, but realised it was one murder too many, so he fled while he was still able.’

‘But they are cousins,’ Suttone reminded him.

‘Quite,’ said William tartly. ‘People are far more likely to kill their family than strangers – you can usually avoid the one, but you are stuck with the other until death.’

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-preservation, 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.’

The next day – the last before the election – was bitingly cold, but clouds had rolled in, and Marjory Starre stood in the Market Square declaring to anyone who would listen that there would be snow before the day was out. Bartholomew thought she might be right, as the sky was a dirty yellowish grey and the wind so keen that it sliced right through his clothes.

‘Heavens!’ gasped Suttone, as he stepped into Michaelhouse’s yard and was buffeted by an icy blast. ‘I hope this will not prevent people from turning out to vote tomorrow.’

‘It will not stop the young,’ said Kolvyle archly. ‘It is only the old who are bothered by inclement weather, and who cares what they think? The future lies with us, the fresh and vibrant – not tedious ancients who moan about their aching bones.’

‘I am really beginning to dislike him,’ muttered Suttone, as Kolvyle strutted away.

‘I hate to admit it, Suttone,’ said Michael, ‘but it will be a close-run thing between you and Hopeman, so you must work hard today.’

Suttone groaned. ‘Must I? I thought I might be able to relax, given how frantically I have laboured over the last few days.’

‘Hopeman will not relax,’ Michael pointed out shortly. ‘And you should take some responsibility for winning. I am doing all I can, but it has been much harder than I anticipated.’

‘Because you have been busy solving murders?’ asked Suttone, removing a slice of cake from somewhere on his portly person and beginning to eat it. Some crumbs tumbled down the front of his habit, and others stuck to his lips.

‘Yes, along with other things,’ replied Michael, looking disapprovingly at the pastry and the mess Suttone was making with it. ‘So shave, don a clean habit, and go out to persuade people that you are a credible alternative to Hopeman.’

Suttone shuffled into his place in the procession, still eating. He was wearing odd hose, one new and black, the other grey from repeated washing, and the hem of his habit had come unravelled. He yawned widely, then scrubbed at his face and hair with his hands, which did nothing to improve his appearance. Bartholomew wondered if the Carmelite had always been slovenly, or if it was just more apparent now that it mattered.

‘Lord help us!’ muttered Michael. ‘No wonder people tell me they are unhappy with the choice they are being offered – a fanatical bigot or him. I confess I expected more when he offered me his services.’

As far as Bartholomew recalled, Suttone had just stated a desire to be Chancellor, and offering his services had never been part of the equation. He changed the subject by asking if there had been any news about the hunt for Whittlesey and Godrich.

‘Yes,’ replied the monk. ‘A message arrived from Meadowman in the small hours. Whittlesey passed through a village called Walden yesterday, but no one remembers Godrich. Meadowman thinks that Whittlesey caught up with him – Satan is by far the faster horse – dispatched him, hid the body and galloped on.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘Then he is wrong, because we decided that Whittlesey was not the killer. Besides, what is not to say that Godrich turned off the road before Walden, blithely oblivious that his cousin was hot on his heels? And “no one remembers Godrich” does not mean that Godrich was never there. Perhaps he rode through this village without being noticed.’

‘True.’ Michael shook his head slowly. ‘Their flight bothers me profoundly. Even if it is unrelated to what happened to Tynkell and the others, it is still suspicious, particularly given its timing. Godrich might well have won the election had he stayed, and I do not understand why he has thrown all that away.’

‘Unless they have hatched a plot that will see him installed anyway,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘I know Godrich has rendered himself ineligible by not keeping term, but I do not see him allowing a technicality to stand between him and his ambitions.’

‘Nor do I,’ acknowledged Michael. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘We know he and Whittlesey quarrelled, but what does that mean? That Whittlesey objected to his cousin’s machinations and ordered him to desist, or that they just disagreed on tactics?’

‘And why has Whittlesey told so many lies?’ Bartholomew was more suspicious of the slippery envoy than the belligerent scholar. ‘Not just to the soldiers on the gate, but about his knee – I am sure he made up the tale about falling down the stairs. And there was the whispered discussion with Lyng on the night that Lyng died – the one Richard Deynman witnessed.’

‘I had not forgotten that – or the fact that we do not know whether to believe his claim about not being in Nottingham when Dallingridge was poisoned.’ Michael sighed dispiritedly. ‘All I can say is that the behaviour of both is odd and worrisome.’

‘Of course, we still have two other good suspects for the murders. Namely Hopeman, who is tipped to win the election now that Godrich is no longer eligible. And Cook.’

‘Yes,’ said Michael tiredly. ‘But we have no evidence against either. So today, I shall speak to everyone who saw Tynkell and Moleyns die. Again. Perhaps time will have altered their perspective, and something has occurred to them that will lead us forward.’

Bartholomew and Tulyet left St John Zachary, noting with alarm the increasing number of scholars who gathered in groups, muttering. Some were Regent masters, vexed over the fact that their new Chancellor would be one of two men they did not much like, but most were students from the hostels, who always took to the streets when trouble was brewing.

‘They will settle down after noon tomorrow, when we have a new leader,’ predicted Master Braunch, who was standing near the rubble that comprised his fallen building. The path that had been cleared was in great demand, and he was there to prevent spats over precedence.

‘I hope you are right,’ said Tulyet worriedly. ‘Because I sense mischief in the air – and you do not need me to tell you that there are townsfolk who will join in any brawls.’

‘It is the uncertainty that bothers our scholars,’ said Braunch. ‘Even Michael’s detractors admit that he represents stability, and we are all fearful of what will happen when he leaves. The hunt for that bell is not helping either. It has turned into a contest between us and the town.’

They saw what he meant when a trio of lads from Physick Hostel engaged in a furious altercation with three villainous characters from the Swan. Tulyet quelled it with a few sharp words, after which he and Bartholomew hurried on to St Mary the Great.

They arrived to find that Michael had completed his mission to the belfry, and had prevented further debate on the self-ringing bell by sending Hopeman and Suttone off in different directions. Their supporters had gone with them, while the remaining spectators, deprived of entertainment, eventually drifted away.

‘Well?’ asked Tulyet. ‘Who was in the tower? Kolvyle? He strikes me as a lad to cause trouble, just for the delight of annoying you and seeing gullible colleagues jabber about Satan.’

‘No one was up there,’ replied Michael. ‘I can only assume that the wind set them clanging.’

‘There is no wind,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And it would take quite a gust to make those bells chime anyway – they are heavy.’

‘Then some mischievous student found a way to tug the ropes with no one seeing,’ said Michael irritably. ‘God knows, most are resourceful enough. But never mind them. Where have you two been?’

Bartholomew gave him a brief summary of their conclusions regarding the thefts.

‘So while Inge is probably the mastermind behind the scheme,’ he finished, ‘we do not know who helped him. And he did have help, given that the missing items are too bulky for him to have carried alone.’

‘We are rapidly running out of suspects for the murders as well,’ added Michael gloomily. ‘The only ones left on my original list are Hopeman, Kolvyle–’

He broke off as an urgent clatter of hoofs heralded the arrival of one of the beadles who had gone with Meadowman in pursuit of Godrich and Whittlesey. The man flung himself from the saddle and dashed towards Michael, leaving his horse lathered and trembling from the speed with which it had been ridden.

‘We found Godrich,’ he gasped. ‘In a tavern just south of Royston. He told us that Whittlesey had hurtled past on Satan a few hours earlier, going like the wind.’

‘Going where?’ asked Michael. ‘After Godrich, without realising that his cousin had stopped?’

The beadle shook his head. ‘Whittlesey believes that Godrich went north, because that is what he told him to do – slip away to live quietly in York or Chester. He does not know that Godrich ignored the advice and was aiming for France instead. You see, Whittlesey promised that if Godrich did as he was ordered, no charges would ever be brought against him.’

‘Charges?’ demanded Michael sharply. ‘What charges?’

‘Devilry,’ replied the beadle grimly. ‘Whittlesey burst in on Godrich while he was changing for the feast, and saw a horned serpent inked into his skin. He was horrified, and declared that someone bearing that sort of mark could never be Chancellor.’

‘No,’ agreed Michael, while Bartholomew recalled the number that had covered Tynkell, and wondered what the envoy would have said about those. ‘And Godrich meekly agreed?’

‘They had a blazing row, during which hot words were exchanged and a bowl was lobbed – it cut Whittlesey’s hand. But then they calmed themselves, and Whittlesey issued his ultimatum: that Godrich leave or be exposed.’

‘That explains the broken pot and the argument Dodenho heard,’ said Michael. ‘But why did Godrich bide by it? He spent a fortune on his campaign, and he is not the sort of man to shrug and walk away, just because a meddling kinsman threatened to tell tales – he would just have denied the allegations.’

‘Because of the Archbishop of Canterbury,’ explained the beadle. ‘It was him who Whittlesey threatened to tell, not our scholars.’

‘A shrewd move,’ said Michael grudgingly, and explained to Bartholomew and Tulyet. ‘The Archbishop would demand to see Godrich’s mark, and the truth would be out. Then, as no prelate can be seen condoning witchery, he would have to disown Godrich. The rest of the family would inevitably follow suit, cutting Godrich off without a penny.’

‘Right,’ said the beadle. ‘So Godrich had no choice but to do as Whittlesey ordered – unless he wanted to live in penury for the rest of his life, shunned by his kin.’

‘Godrich confided all this willingly?’ asked Bartholomew sceptically.

The beadle grinned. ‘Of course not! We told him that we had orders to hang him for Chancellor Tynkell’s murder, and Meadowman posed as a priest to hear his last confession. Godrich was livid when he realised he had been deceived, but it could not be helped. We did not have time to devise a different plan.’

‘But he did not admit to murder?’ asked Michael, smirking at the thought of the haughty Godrich quailing in terror at the prospect of summary execution.

‘He assured “Father” Meadowman that he was innocent of those. He owned up to a lot of other nasty things, though – including not pressing for justice when he found out that Inge and Egidia had murdered Peter Poges. Oh, and he also said that he was with Whittlesey when Tynkell died, so if he is not the culprit, Whittlesey is not either. It pained him to say it, though.’

‘Because he wanted Whittlesey in trouble, I suppose,’ surmised Michael. ‘And resented being the one who would prove his innocence.’

The beadle nodded. ‘And because he thought Whittlesey might be guilty of dispatching Moleyns. He received a letter, you see, from Bishop Sheppey, warning him that Whittlesey was dangerous. He kept a careful eye on him afterwards, lest Whittlesey did something to lose him votes.’

‘Which explains why he tried to keep Whittlesey close,’ sighed Michael. ‘It was not for the kudos of having an influential churchman at his side, as Whittlesey believed. But we can ask him all this when he comes back. I assume Meadowman is bringing him?’

The beadle shook his head. ‘We locked him in the tavern’s cellar, and I will fetch him tomorrow. Meadowman and the others have gone after Whittlesey.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘You just told us that he is not the killer.’

‘Because once Godrich learned that his cousin had also raced off in the middle of the night, he kept saying that it was suspicious. We agreed: that envoy is up to something untoward. So we decided we had better try to find out what …’

‘Good,’ said Michael. ‘But let us hope it does not take them too long. I need them here.’

Bartholomew opened his eyes to darkness, and for a moment, he could not remember where he was or why he was so cold. His head pounded, but he could not raise a hand to rub it because both were tied behind his back. Gradually, his wits and his memory returned. He blinked to clear his vision, and saw the faint outline of the warehouse to his left.

No one was with him except Harold, whose hands were also bound. Unfortunately, either by design or accident, the lad was lying with his face in a half-frozen puddle. Bartholomew struggled frantically against his bonds, surprised when they came loose almost immediately – he could only assume that whoever had tied him up had not had the benefit of fur-lined gloves.

He crawled to Harold and hauled him over, but the young soldier was already dead. He sat back on his heels, shock and confusion washing over him. What was going on? Where was Tulyet? He stood on unsteady legs and began to search. Then he heard voices. He lurched into the undergrowth, to hide until he could determine whether they belonged to friend or foe, but no one appeared, and he realised the sound had come from inside the shed. Norys and the others were laughing together.

He rubbed his aching head, trying to marshal his thoughts. What should he do? Run back to the horses and ride to Cambridge for help? But the guard Tulyet had left with the animals might be in cahoots with Norys, and even if Bartholomew could overpower a professional warrior, how was he to gallop all the way home, on his own and in the dark?

Then what about the manor? He slumped in defeat. That was no good either. Tulyet had drawn attention to the fact that no one had come to investigate the sound of travellers in the middle of the night, meaning they were either involved in whatever was happening, or had been paid to ignore anything suspicious.

Norys laughed again, and there came the sound of metal goblets clinking together. Bartholomew took a deep, unsteady breath and began to inch forward, to see what might be learned from eavesdropping.

He crept all the way around the warehouse, expecting at any moment to meet a guard, but everyone was inside. Other than the door, there was only one opening – a tiny window at the back, presumably for ventilation. His medical bag was gone – lost somewhere behind the hedge – but he still had the small knife he carried on his belt. Working with infinite care, and aware that even a tiny scrape might give him away, he bored a hole in a place where the wood was rotten, twisting the blade this way and that until he had created a gap big enough to look through.

The first thing he saw was Tulyet, bound hand and foot, and with a sack over his head; his sword lay on a pile of oiled sheets nearby. There were seven men with him – the six surviving soldiers, including the one who had been left to mind the horses. And Inge.

With resignation, Bartholomew recalled Norys’s previous foray to the Fens – to investigate a sighting of the lawyer five miles east. At Quy, in other words. Bartholomew was disgusted, both with himself and with Tulyet, for failing to make the connection.

Other than people and the heap of tarpaulins, the building was empty except for a few sticks of furniture, presumably for the use of those guarding whatever was stored there, and a pair of elegantly sculpted feet. Bartholomew immediately recognised them as from the Dallingridge tomb.

He stared at the men as answers began to flood into his mind. No wonder the thieves had evaded capture for so long – they were soldiers on the very patrols that Tulyet had sent to snag them! And as the likes of Norys would be unequal to organising such an audacious scheme, Inge was the sly mastermind behind it, just as he had surmised.

The pile of oiled sheets told their own story, too: they were the kind that were thrown over carts, to protect their cargoes from inclement weather – clearly, these had covered the stolen goods during the first stage of their journey from the town, discarded now they were no longer needed. The size of the heap revealed that any number of wagons had rolled into the Fens, laden down with wares that would fetch high prices in London’s illicit markets, every one of them waved through the town gates with a nod and a wink from Norys and his associates.

He froze in alarm at a sudden rattle of footsteps on the towpath, then sagged in relief. It was Helbye. The old warrior had not been content to sit at home while his Sheriff led a potentially dangerous expedition, and had come to help. Bartholomew was about to run forward and warn him when alarm bells jangled in his mind. He sank back into the shadows, heart pounding.

Helbye had chosen the six soldiers himself, after insisting that he should lead the raid. He had also objected to Harold, who now lay dead. Then there were the patrols to catch the thieves – all unsuccessful, and all briefed by the sergeant. And who claimed to have chased a boat travelling south – a totally different direction from the one the real thieves would have taken, not to mention a different mode of transport?

Bartholomew closed his eyes in disgust as more evidence of Helbye’s perfidy crashed into his mind. First, there was Inge’s escape from the Griffin – the lawyer would have been caught with ease if Helbye had not waded into the fray, trailing bandages. Second, Helbye had mounted a foolish and noisy raid on the King’s Head at the exact time that Holty’s pinnacles had gone missing – clearly, it had been a diversion. And third, Helbye had been at pains to accuse Isnard and Gundrede of the crimes: of course he had – it took eyes away from the real culprits.

But why had Helbye turned traitor? Bartholomew knew the answer to that question, too: for money, because retirement on half-pay would be bleak, and it was clear that the sergeant was about to be put out to pasture. Bartholomew also knew how Helbye had been recruited: he had escorted Moleyns – and Inge – to Cambridge from Nottingham, which had allowed the lawyer plenty of time to befriend a bitter and anxious old man.

Voices drew Bartholomew back to the hole he had drilled. Helbye had entered the hut and was stamping snow from his boots. A second man was with him, but he was so deeply huddled inside his cloak that Bartholomew could not see his face.

‘I offered to come out here instead,’ Helbye told Inge; Tulyet’s head snapped around at the sound of his sergeant’s voice. ‘But he would not let me. Where are Harold and Bartholomew?’

‘Out back,’ replied Norys. ‘They know enough to hang us, so they will have to die. So will he.’ He nodded towards Tulyet.

‘Good,’ muttered the man in the cloak. There was something familiar about his voice, but Bartholomew needed more than a single word to place it. The fellow went to sit near the window, in a place where nothing could be seen of him but his legs.

Helbye’s face was cold and hard, and Bartholomew saw the battle-honed warrior who had claimed countless lives during his long military career. There was no kindness in it, and no remorse that he had betrayed a man who had offered him friendship and trust. Then he swayed slightly, one hand to his arm, and Bartholomew noticed again the signs of fever. Unless he had medical help soon, he would not live long to enjoy the fruits of his deceit.

Dawn was still some way off, but there was a perceptible lightening of the sky in the east. The wind had dropped, and the snow no longer swirled quite so thickly. Bartholomew peered into the gloom for the towpath. It was hidden under a billowy whiteness. It would not be easy to fight their way along it, and the going would be harder still in the open.

‘Come on,’ he said urgently. ‘It will be light by the time we reach the horses, and then we can ride the rest of the way.’

They stopped at the warehouse, where Bartholomew quickly exchanged his wet clothes for some left by the soldiers – they stank and were full of fleas, but at least they were dry. Then he and Tulyet began to plough along the path towards Quy. To take his mind off their agonisingly slow progress, he considered Cook’s claims about the killer. There were only two suspects left on the original list, and try as he might, Bartholomew could not imagine young Kolvyle intimidating the likes of Inge and Helbye. Which left Hopeman.

Did the Dominican know that Michael might try to usher Suttone in by cheating, so had devised a contingency plan by poisoning the official ring-seal? After all, if the winner died at the election, the stunned University would simply invite the runner-up to take the post instead. And Michael would be killed, too, because the Senior Proctor always wore the ring-seal during the ceremony, until it was presented to the victor.

‘Ask the secret air,’ muttered Tulyet behind him. ‘What does that mean?’

Bartholomew was panting so hard that he could barely hear, and there was an instant when he thought Tulyet had said something else. He stopped walking abruptly and whipped around. ‘Not ask the secret air – ask the secretary! That is what Moleyns mumbled. Cook misheard him – as I misheard you just then.’

‘What secretary? Moleyns did not have one.’

‘But Tynkell did – and he was the first victim.’

‘You think Nicholas is the killer?’ asked Tulyet doubtfully. ‘But he is lame.’

‘A bad leg will not prevent him from sliding a spike into someone’s heart. And although he has no tower keys of his own, he knows where Meadowman’s are kept.’

‘I did not see him among the crowd that clustered around Moleyns,’ mused Tulyet. ‘Although that does not mean he was not there – I could not identify everyone, because most folk had their hoods up. But he cannot be the culprit, Matt. He is such a mouse.’

‘Even mice have teeth. And if it was he who fought Tynkell on the roof, it explains why the spectacle went on for so long – neither were natural warriors.’

‘But why would he do such a thing?’

‘So his lover Thelnetham could be Chancellor. Which is why he killed Lyng, too – the most popular candidate.’

‘Thelnetham is involved, too?’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘If he were, he would not have withdrawn – he would have battled on, to make the crimes worthwhile.’

‘Then why would Nicholas stab Moleyns?’

‘Because Moleyns knew who killed Tynkell,’ replied Bartholomew triumphantly. Aware that he was wasting time, he began to plod forward again, more determined than ever to reach Cambridge before it was too late. ‘At least, he said he did.’

‘But Moleyns told Cook to “ask the secret air” two days before he was killed. Or are you suggesting he knew in advance that someone would murder him?’

‘Why not? Perhaps the threat to their safety is what he, Tynkell and Lyng discussed in St Mary the Great.’

‘Where Cook met them, too,’ said Tulyet, then added quietly, ‘and where Moleyns was being “guarded” by Helbye.’

It was all beginning to make sense to Bartholomew, and he spoke excitedly. ‘So Nicholas unlocked the tower with Meadowman’s keys, went to the roof to fight Tynkell, then hid in the Chest Room until Michael and I had gone past on the stairs. When the coast was clear, he descended to the church, but he could not leave openly, lest he was seen. So he donned a disguise – a cloak with an embroidered hem.’

‘How do you–’ began Tulyet uncertainly.

‘Cristine had removed her cloak to ring the bells – at Nicholas’s invitation – after which it was stolen. I wager anything you like that it has an embroidered hem, and that Nicholas wore it when he went to ensure that Moleyns kept his silence.’

‘I did not see this “woman” but you did. Could it have been Nicholas?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘Which means “she” was not a witness running terrified from a murder, but a man fleeing the scene of his crime. I assumed it was female, because it was wearing a lady’s cloak. It was a stupid mistake.’

‘If all this is true, then it means that Nicholas is involved in the thefts – why else would he have talked to Inge and Helbye in the church while the bell was being stolen? Yet he was distraught by its disappearance.’ Tulyet sighed as the answer became clear. ‘What better way to avoid suspicion than pretending to be a victim?’

Bartholomew stopped walking a second time as a terrible thought occurred to him. ‘What do you do to a bell? You ring it! Cook heard the killer say “ring” to Helbye and Inge, and drew his own conclusions, but he was wrong!’

Tulyet frowned. ‘I do not understand–’

‘The killer was not referring to jewellery, but to bells, which will be rung when the new Chancellor is elected. The thieves sawed through the frame to get the treble out, and I thought then that the whole thing looked precarious. Moreover, the trapdoor beneath is flimsy. And who assured us that there is no problem and that everything is safe? Nicholas!’

‘You think that is what he intends to do? Crush his opponents with falling bells?’

‘Yes! When the new Chancellor gives them a tug, they will crash through the ceiling and kill everyone below – him, Michael, Hopeman and all the University’s most senior officials. Then Nicholas will step forward and recommend Thelnetham as the next Chancellor.’

‘But Thelnetham withdrew. He is no longer eligible.’

‘Nicholas will find a way around it – he knows how to manipulate the statutes, especially if Michael is not there to contradict him. And Thelnetham will be the only candidate left of the original five – Hopeman, Suttone and Lyng will be dead, and Godrich has run away.’

Tulyet was still unconvinced. ‘If the bells were that unstable someone would have noticed.’

‘We did notice!’ shouted Bartholomew, beginning to surge forward again. ‘Yesterday, when one slipped, and rang of its own accord. Nicholas cleverly blamed the Devil, and the fanatical Hopeman was quick to agree.’

‘Which explains why Michael did not find anyone when he took Hopeman and Suttone up the tower,’ mused Tulyet. ‘Yet if the frame is so precarious, surely they would have mentioned it yesterday?’

‘They were looking for pranksters, not structural problems. Of course it escaped their attention. Now run! We must warn Michael, because I am not letting Nicholas kill him.’

‘I told you he would be more than a match for thieves,’ said the book-bearer proudly, coming to grip the physician’s shoulder in a comradely gesture of affection. He turned to the men who were with him – Isnard and Gundrede, along with Robin and several soldiers from the castle. ‘He has killed every last one of them, and was coming to tell us what happened.’

‘Then why was he running towards the Fens?’ asked Gundrede doubtfully.

‘He got disoriented at the last moment,’ explained Cynric, and gestured at the uniform whiteness around him. ‘You can see why – it is a different world out here today.’

‘Is it true, Doctor?’ Isnard was agog. ‘All the thieves are dead?’

‘Probably – by now,’ replied Bartholomew shakily. ‘But we did not–’

‘The hero of Poitiers,’ interrupted Cynric with satisfaction. ‘Where is the Sheriff, boy? Did he help or did you manage alone?’

‘I helped,’ drawled Tulyet, ploughing forward to join them. ‘But only a little.’

‘Please,’ begged Bartholomew. ‘Where are the horses? We need to get to Cambridge.’

‘Horses are no good,’ said Cynric disdainfully. ‘The drifts are too high. Yours are safe though. We took them to–’

‘Michael is in danger,’ blurted Bartholomew. ‘We have to warn him.’

‘What sort of danger?’ demanded Isnard, protective of the man who ran his choir.

Tulyet explained in a few terse words, then asked, ‘How did you get here if the roads are blocked?’

‘By the only proper mode of transport,’ replied Isnard grandly. ‘Barge. Now come with me. I do not know if we can reach the town by noon, but we shall certainly try.’

He swung off down a track, remarkably surefooted on the treacherous surface. It was not far to the river, where several vessels were moored. He chose the smallest. Bartholomew, Tulyet and Cynric scrambled in after him, but he raised a hand to stop the others.

‘The lighter we are, the faster we shall move.’

‘We will put our time here to good use by rooting out the guilty villagers,’ said Robin, helping the bargeman to cast off. ‘Two have already confessed to turning a blind eye to mysterious comings and goings.’

The boat eased away from the bank, slowly at first, then faster as Isnard deployed a combination of pole and sail. He adapted constantly to the shifting wind and currents, and for the first time, Bartholomew began to appreciate the true extent of his skill.

‘You should have taken me with you last night, boy,’ said Cynric accusingly. ‘You know I like an adventure, and it was cruel to leave me out.’

‘You were guarding Suttone.’ Bartholomew glanced at him in alarm. ‘Is he–’

‘Mallet and Islaye are with him,’ replied the book-bearer. ‘Do not worry.’

Isnard explained how they had come to be there, taking a respite from his exertions when a lucky breeze set them skimming along a wide stretch of open water.

‘I was uneasy from the start about being sent home, and I said as much to Cynric. So we decided on a foray of our own. Then we met Robin. He insisted on coming with us, because Helbye was missing and he was worried.’

‘Then thank God for your suspicious minds,’ murmured Tulyet.

‘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 despicable 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.’

Two weeks later

Grand funerary monuments were popular among the medieval rich, and grieving kin had a choice of ways to commemorate their loved ones. The more expensive option was a tomb topped with a sculpted effigy, while the cheaper one was a brass. One of the most famous fourteenth-century latteners was Richard Lakenham, who had a wife named Cristine and an apprentice named James Reames.

A paper in Historical Research by Nigel Saul, Jonathan Mackman and Christopher Whittick relates the curious case of a mason named John Petit (he had an apprentice named Peter Lucas), who was taken to court for producing inferior work in 1421 by the executors of Sir John Dallingridge. One of these executors was Henry Cook the barber. A fragment of Dallingridge’s tomb still survives in Bodiam Castle, but it is an alabaster effigy, not the marble tomb that was specified in the contract. This suggests that Petit’s services were dispensed with, and someone else was hired to provide the finished product. Dallingridge was a Sussex man, and never made arrangements to join the University in Cambridge.

Other characters in A Grave Concern were also real. Michaelhouse scholars included Master Ralph de Langelee, Michael (de Causton), William (de Gotham), John Clippesby, Thomas Suttone, William Thelnetham and William Kolvyle (Colville). John Aungel, Francis Mallet and John Islaye were later members of the College.

Thomas Hopeman was a Dominican friar who got into trouble in 1355 for going overseas (probably to Avignon) without a licence; he wrote several commentaries on the Bible. William Morden was Prior of the Cambridge Black Friars, and Byri (or Bury) was one of his priests. James Nicholas was a University clerk in the 1360s, while John Godrich was a Fellow of King’s Hall. He was the son of the King’s cook, and later became keeper of various royal forests.

Roger Frisby was a Franciscan priest who attended the University but later embroiled himself in politics and was hanged for treason in 1402. Richard Milde was vicar of St Clement’s in the 1350s, and Hugh de Gundrede was a thief who spent time in Cambridge Gaol in the 1330s.

There was indeed an election for the post of Chancellor around 1360. This position had been held by Richard Lyng in 1339, 1345–1346 and 1351–1352. Lyng actually died in 1355. By March 1359, William Tynkell had stopped being Chancellor, and went on to an ecclesiastical career before his death in 1370. Thomas Suttone became Chancellor in March 1359, and was heavily involved in expanding Michaelhouse’s holdings. He died in 1384.

John Sheppey, Bishop of Rochester, died in 1360. He was succeeded by the Benedictine William Whittlesey, who had been Master of Peterhouse. Whittlesey was related to Archbishop Islip, which may explain his meteoric rise. He stayed at Rochester for two years before becoming Bishop of Worcester, and eventually succeeded his uncle as Archbishop of Canterbury in 1368. He died six years later, and left his law books to Peterhouse.

Sir John Moleyns was a flamboyant character, who rose from obscure beginnings to embroil himself in all manner of trouble; his entry in the Oxford New Dictionary of National Biography lists him as ‘administrator and criminal’. He married Egidia in the 1320s, and promptly murdered her uncle Peter Poges, so that she would inherit his estates. The manor of Stoke Poges then became the centre of Moleyns’ power. He was a lawyer, and avoided a murder conviction by picking his own jury. His partner in crime was fellow Justice of the Common Bench, John Inge.

Moleyns was later accused of treason, and was obliged to flee to France. He returned to favour in 1346 by joining the Crécy campaign, but it was not long before he was in trouble again. He had been appointed Queen’s Steward but by 1357 he had blotted his copy book by indulging in robbery, cattle rustling, horse theft, burglary and harbouring felons. He was found guilty and imprisoned in Windsor Castle. He was later taken to Nottingham, and then Cambridge, where he probably died in 1360. Egidia was pardoned shortly afterwards, and the estates that had been confiscated were returned to her. She died seven years later.