‘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.’
When Michaelhouse was first established, its founder, the rich lawyer-priest Hervey de Stanton, was determined that his scholars would not neglect their religious duties, so he had included a church in the property he bequeathed. St Michael’s was a pretty building with a large chancel and a low, squat tower. It was bitterly cold inside though. Icicles dangled from the place where the ceiling leaked, and the Holy Water in the stoop had turned to Holy Ice.
The Master and his Fellows took their places in the choir stalls, with the students ranged behind them. Langelee shifted impatiently from foot to foot, clearly itching to get on with something more pressing; he hated enforced immobility. Clippesby’s head was bowed in prayer, although he had a duck under either arm, and not for the first time, Bartholomew marvelled that the creatures selected for such excursions never tried to escape. William stood next to Langelee, watching with critical eyes as Suttone the Carmelite performed the ceremonies at the altar.
Portly and an indifferent scholar, Suttone was utterly convinced that the plague was poised to return, when it would claim all those who had survived it the first time. He was a theologian, and his sermons tended to reflect his nihilist convictions, which meant they could make for bleak listening. However, as he had been saying the same thing for years and none of his grim predictions had yet come to pass, people had learned to take his warnings with a good pinch of salt.
His assistant that day was Will Kolvyle, one of two scholars recruited from Nottingham. Unfortunately, the other – John Dallingridge – had died before he could take up his appointment, and was the man currently being provided with a magnificent tomb in St Mary the Great. There was a rumour that he had been poisoned, but Kolvyle assured his horrified colleagues that there was no truth to the tale, and that the hapless Dallingridge had just died of natural causes.
Bartholomew had not liked the sound of Kolvyle when he had read the lad’s application, and had voted against the appointment. The other Fellows had disregarded his concerns which meant that the motion to elect Kolvyle had passed. However, they had realised their mistake the moment the young man arrived: Kolvyle considered himself to be a rising star of unusual brilliance, who would bring fame and fortune to any foundation he deigned to grace with his presence. He was selfish, arrogant and rude, and made no bones about the fact that he considered Michaelhouse well beneath him, a mere stepping stone to better things. None of his new colleagues liked him, and he was almost as unpopular at Thelnetham had been.
That morning’s service was longer than usual, because it was the Feast of the Purification of the Virgin, also known as Candlemas, when candles were blessed and given to the scholars for their religious obligations throughout the following year. Cynric believed that these warded off storms, and insisted on displaying Bartholomew’s supply on the windowsill, where the elements would see them and move on. For the next twelve months, there would be a mute but determined battle of wills, when Bartholomew would stack them back inside the cupboard and the book-bearer would pull them out again.
When the rite was over, Langelee led his scholars at a rapid clip out of the church and down St Michael’s Lane, eager now for his breakfast. They were meant to walk in silence, but academics were talkative by nature, so it was a rule they all ignored.
‘Well, Brother?’ the Master asked. ‘Have you charged Satan with Tynkell’s murder yet?’
Michael scowled at him. ‘Are you sure you can tell me nothing useful about what happened? You are a practical man – you know the culprit was a person, and that the Devil was actually a cloak.’
‘I know no such thing,’ averred Langelee, crossing himself. ‘Especially having listened to Hopeman in the Cardinal’s Cap last night. He intends to take Tynkell’s place, and has promised that Satan will never set foot in Cambridge again if he is elected. I might vote for him, because we cannot have Lucifer flapping around our streets.’
‘Please do not,’ said Michael curtly. ‘He is a zealot, and will get us suppressed. The Church dislikes rabid opinions being brayed to impressionable young minds.’
‘There is that cleric again,’ said Bartholomew suddenly. ‘The one in the cowl.’
‘Do not bother to chase him,’ said Michael, although Bartholomew had no intention of doing anything so rash in a lane that was slick with ice. ‘He will come to us when he is ready.’
They reached Michaelhouse to find the Sheriff waiting for them at the gate, so Michael and Bartholomew stepped out of the procession to talk to him, leaving their colleagues to hurry across the yard to the smelly warmth of the hall. Again, Bartholomew found himself looking for Dickon, and smiled when he remembered that the lad had gone.
‘Moleyns,’ began Tulyet without preamble. ‘His death is a serious problem for me. The King will be vexed that I failed to protect the friend he placed in my custody, while Moleyns’ wife Egidia threatens to sue me for negligence. Will you look at the body, Matt, and tell me exactly how he died?’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘I tried to do it last night, but his lawyer – Inge, is that his name? – claimed it was outside the University’s jurisdiction.’
‘Did he indeed?’ murmured Tulyet, eyes narrowed as he reached for his purse. ‘Then here are three pennies, which means you are now officially in my employ, and if you discover anything untoward, Inge will be the first person I shall interrogate. The second will be Egidia, who is far more interested in suing me than grieving for her husband.’
‘You should question them,’ said Michael. ‘Especially if it transpires that Moleyns has been poisoned. They were both at a feast in Nottingham, during which Dallingridge is alleged to have been fed a toxin. Kolvyle assures us that the tale is untrue, but I do not trust him.’
‘He is a nasty youth,’ agreed Tulyet. ‘And if Moleyns is the victim of foul play, then he will be my third suspect. By all accounts, Dallingridge would have been successful here, and Kolvyle is not the sort of fellow to appreciate competition.’
‘Petit the mason was in Nottingham then as well,’ mused Michael, ‘and he has done very well out of Dallingridge’s death. Not only is he being paid to create his patron’s princely tomb, but the project has also won him several new customers.’
‘Yes, and one is my sister,’ said Bartholomew sharply. ‘So leave him alone until Oswald’s monument is finished, if you please. The process has already dragged on far longer than it should, and it is a strain on her.’
‘It has dragged on because Petit it trying to serve too many clients,’ said Tulyet. ‘Besides Dallingridge and Stanmore, he is also building monuments for Holty, Mortimer and Deschalers. Of course, he only accepted the last two to stop the work from going to Lakenham. He and Lakenham hate each other, as you know.’
‘Godrich of King’s Hall has retained Petit’s services, too,’ said Michael. ‘Although his monument cannot be started until I have decided where it can go – which will not be the chancel. Then there are Moleyns and Tynkell … it is a good time for tomb-makers.’
‘Speaking of Tynkell,’ said Tulyet, ‘I hear you have no plans to take his place, Brother. I wish you would reconsider. You and I work well together, and I doubt anyone else will be as effective.’
‘No,’ agreed Michael. ‘You will have to contend with Lyng, Thelnetham or Hopeman.’