‘Godrich,’ mused Michael, thinking about the man who intended to have himself interred with such splendour in the town’s biggest and most important church. ‘Have you met him, Matt? He is a Fellow of King’s Hall, and although he has only been enrolled for a few weeks, he is already making his presence felt.’
‘I know the Warden is unhappy with him,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘Godrich is agitating for an election, so he can lead King’s Hall himself. The Warden never wanted the post, but he is reluctant to yield his power to Godrich, as he thinks it may do the place harm.’
‘Elections,’ sighed Michael, reminded of the one that would affect him personally. ‘Poor Tynkell. I cannot accept a bishopric as long as his killer is at large, so I hope you will agree to help me. After all, my entire future is at stake here.’
When put like that, Bartholomew saw he would have no choice but to oblige.
It was past five o’clock when they reached the High Street, although the town was still busy. The winter daylight hours were too short for all the business that needed to be done, so many shops stayed open well into the evening, shedding cosy golden lamplight into the dark streets outside. Bartholomew was eager to be back in Michaelhouse, wanting no more than to sit by the fire, but the monk had other ideas.
‘I need you to come to Maud’s with me, to question two of my suspects about Tynkell’s murder. Then we can go home.’
‘You have suspects?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised.
‘Of course I have suspects,’ said Michael irritably. ‘Namely the men who aim to profit from Tynkell’s death by having themselves elected in his place.’
‘Lyng and Hopeman?’
‘Yes, along with Thelnetham.’
Bartholomew frowned. ‘I can believe Hopeman is guilty, while Thelnetham can be ruthless, but not Lyng. He is a good man, liked by all.’
‘It would not be the first time a “good man” committed murder to further his ambitions. And is Lyng a good man anyway? You cannot be too scrupulous if you hold high office in the University, and he was Chancellor three times.’
‘Does that observation apply to the Senior Proctor, too?’ asked Bartholomew wryly. Michael did not reply, so he continued. ‘Lyng is too old to be the culprit, Brother. And do not say that we have encountered elderly killers in the past, because they did not engage in close combat on gale-swept roofs. Lyng is not robust enough for such a feat.’
‘He might be,’ argued Michael, ‘if provided with enough of an incentive. He probably misses the esteem he enjoyed when he was Chancellor, and aims to have it back before he dies. So we shall speak to him first, then Hopeman. We can leave Thelnetham until tomorrow – assuming Lyng or Hopeman do not confess in the interim, of course.’
At that point, both scholars were obliged to step aside smartly as four horsemen cantered by, far too fast for a time when visibility was poor and the streets were full of pedestrians.
‘That was Sir John Moleyns,’ said Michael disapprovingly. ‘He rides like a sack of grain, and should not have been given such a lively mount. A donkey would suit him better.’
Even Bartholomew, no equestrian himself, could tell that Moleyns’ skill was well below par. He wondered if the prancing horse had been provided out of spite, in the hope that the knight would take an embarrassing tumble.
Moleyns was with his wife and lawyer, who accompanied him everywhere he went, while a guard had been provided in the form of Sergeant Helbye, the Sheriff’s most trusted officer. As if he knew he was the subject of conversation, Moleyns turned his stallion in a clumsy half-circle and trotted back, leaving his companions to chat to some of the town’s wealthy burgesses.
‘Your poor Chancellor,’ he said slyly. ‘What a terrible affair! I was in the Market Square at the time – on my horse. My elevated position gave me an excellent view of what happened.’
‘So you saw who killed him?’ asked Michael, trying, unsuccessfully, to keep the hope from his voice. ‘Who was it?’
Moleyns regarded him thoughtfully. ‘I must reflect carefully on the matter before answering that question – I should hate to mislead you, even inadvertently. However, I am always willing to cooperate with the forces of law and order, and I am sure we shall reach a mutually acceptable agreement.’
Michael regarded him in distaste. ‘In other words, you want to be paid for helping us. How much?’
Moleyns put a hand to his chest, fingers splayed in a gesture of hurt indignation. ‘You misunderstand, Brother. I do not want money – I want you to remember me when you are installed in your See.’
Michael gaped at him. ‘How do you know what my future holds?’
Moleyns smiled. ‘I have powerful friends, who keep company with kings and bishops. You could do worse than win my good graces.’
And with that, he wheeled his horse around and attempted to gallop off, but the animal gave an angry snicker and trotted defiantly to a patch of grass by the side of the road, where it began to graze. In a pitiable attempt to make it appear as though this was what he had intended, Moleyns hailed a group of scholars from King’s Hall, and began to chat. One of them was the arrogant Godrich – the man who intended to be buried in St Mary the Great with more pomp and ceremony than a monarch.
‘Does he know who killed Tynkell?’ wondered Bartholomew, watching the knight laugh and joke. ‘Or is he playing games with you?’
‘Who knows?’ muttered Michael, irritated by the encounter. ‘But he is always gallivanting around the town, which is highly irregular. What is Dick Tulyet thinking, to let a prisoner out so often?’
‘I am thinking that I must obey a direct order from the King,’ came a voice from behind them, cool and rather stiff.
They turned to see Sheriff Richard Tulyet, whose youthful appearance belied a bold warrior and a skilled administrator. Unlike many secular officials, he did not consider the University a threat to his authority, and he and Michael had developed an efficient working relationship. He was also a friend.
As usual, Bartholomew found himself looking around for Tulyet’s son Dickon, a child with no redeeming qualities and a nasty habit of ‘accidentally’ battering shins with the enormous sword his doting father had most unwisely given him. Then he allowed himself to relax. Dickon was no longer learning how to be a sheriff from his sire, because Chancellor Tynkell’s mother – Lady Joan of Hereford – had offered to assign him to one of her knights as a squire. The whole town had heaved a sigh of relief when Dickon had ridden away, tall and proud on his father’s best horse, to become someone else’s problem.
‘Are you telling us that the King told you to let Moleyns roam free?’ asked Michael in disbelief. ‘But he was convicted of robbery, burglary, extortion–’
‘I know,’ interrupted Tulyet shortly. ‘And it gives me no pleasure to let him strut about, believe me. But my hands are tied: the King did not want him imprisoned in the first place, but the evidence was compelling, so he had no choice but to accept the jury’s verdict. However, he promised to make the “captivity” as pleasant as possible, and Moleyns is quick to report any grievances.’
‘Why does the King stand by him?’ asked Bartholomew curiously; he had tended Moleyns in the castle several times for minor ailments, and had not taken to him at all. ‘He is an amusing raconteur, but his amiability is a façade. Beneath it, he is selfish, greedy, sullen and vicious.’
‘Unfortunately, the King has only met the genial joker,’ replied Tulyet. ‘And the man who has been generous with funds for the French wars.’