‘It is true,’ said Lakenham, then jabbed a grubby finger towards Sheriff Tulyet, who was walking down the nave to join them, clearly wondering why Bartholomew had not yet made a start on Moleyns. ‘And he will catch you eventually. He vowed only this morning that you will not keep getting the better of him, and that you will soon swing.’
‘We are not felons,’ shouted Petit, incensed. ‘Accuse Isnard and Gundrede. They might stoop to touching the paltry contents of your vile little hut, but we would never demean–’
‘This is a House of God, not a tavern,’ snapped Tulyet, when he heard what was being bawled. ‘If you cannot behave with the proper decorum, then leave.’
Both sides backed away, unnerved by the anger in his voice, although they had not taken many steps before they resumed their spat.
‘I rue the day they arrived in my town,’ growled Tulyet, watching them in rank disapproval. Then he glared at Bartholomew and Michael. ‘It is your College’s fault, of course. Dallingridge’s death brought them here, and he was one of your Fellows.’
‘Not officially,’ objected Michael, ‘given that he died before he could be installed. It was a pity, actually – he might have served to temper some of Kolvyle’s unpleasantness.’
While he and Tulyet embarked on a detailed analysis of Kolvyle’s failings, Bartholomew decided it was time that he examined Moleyns. However, he had not taken many steps towards the Lady Chapel before he was waylaid by one of Petit’s apprentices. His name was Peter Lucas, and he was a hefty lad with a bad haircut.
‘I know things,’ he muttered, tapping a grimy finger to his temple. ‘Lots of things.’
‘What sort of things?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused.
‘You know,’ said Lucas, and winked meaningfully. ‘Events and people. I might tell you later, if you make it worth my while.’
He had gone before Bartholomew could ask him to elaborate.
Sir John Moleyns had been taken to St Mary the Great because it was the largest and most prestigious church in the town, and Tulyet was keen for the King to know that his friend’s remains had been treated with the appropriate respect. The body was in the Lady Chapel, next to Tynkell, although it occupied a coffin far grander than the one in which the Chancellor lay, and the lid was off, so that well-wishers could pay their last respects face to face.
‘Not that there have been many,’ confided Tulyet. ‘His “friends” dropped him like a hot coal once he was no longer in a position to do them favours at Court.’
By contrast, Tynkell had attracted a great many mourners. At that particular moment, most were Dominicans, led by little Prior Morden, who was perfectly proportioned, but the size of a small child. Bartholomew was pleased to note that the two beadles – both with scarves covering their faces – were dutifully keeping the curious at a respectful distance.
‘We have been praying for his soul,’ explained Morden to Bartholomew, Michael and Tulyet. ‘Which is in serious danger, given what happened to his body.’
‘You mean the deadly miasma that seeps from him?’ asked Tulyet, wrinkling his nose in distaste, while Bartholomew wondered whether to remind them that the Chancellor had smelled like that before he had died.
‘And the rest,’ said Morden darkly. ‘We know why he is in a closed coffin, with all the clasps securely fastened and armed men standing guard. You are afraid that he will break out and come to haunt us.’
‘No, we are not,’ said Bartholomew, horrified that his attempt to protect Tynkell should have been so badly misinterpreted. ‘Those are to prevent ghouls from opening the box to gawp at him. He deserves to be left in peace.’
‘He will not get much of that in here,’ remarked Morden, as a clatter of hammers and raised voices indicated that Petit and his people were back at work. ‘But it is not necessary to conceal the truth from us, Matthew. We are priests: we know all about the Devil taking possession of corpses and using them to walk among the living.’
And with that, he flung a generous glug of holy water towards Tynkell’s casket, and led his friars out. As they went, they chanted a psalm in voices so deep that it verged on the sinister, and sent a shiver down Bartholomew’s spine.
‘Now look what your ridiculous insistence on secrecy has done,’ said Michael irritably. ‘I am sure the truth about Tynkell’s … peculiarities cannot be more terrible than the notion that Satan aims to inhabit his body. It would be better for everyone concerned, if you were honest.’
‘It is not a case of honesty,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘It is a case of respecting his wishes. He made me promise never to tell.’
‘Moleyns,’ prompted Tulyet impatiently. ‘Examine him now, Matt, while the Lady Chapel is fairly empty. I assume you would rather work without too large an audience?’
‘I would rather work with no kind of audience,’ said Bartholomew. ‘So you will have to oust everyone first.’
Tulyet obliged, after which he and the beadles stood guard to ensure that Bartholomew was not disturbed at his grisly craft. Meanwhile, Michael walked to Tynkell’s office in the south aisle, and experienced a sharp pang of sorrow when he saw the Chancellor’s spare shoes under the table. When he closed the door behind him, he saw something else, too – Tynkell’s cloak hanging on a hook at the back of it. He had glanced into the office the previous day, and was annoyed with himself for not searching it properly, because the garment was important for two reasons.
First, it told him that Tynkell had not expected to be out in the elements when he had left his office or he would have taken it with him. And second, it meant it had been the killer’s cloak that had sailed off the roof – so it had to be found and identified as soon as possible. He waylaid a passing beadle and ordered him to continue looking, even giving the man money to make enquiries in the town’s less salubrious alehouses – places no Senior Proctor could go and expect to meet cooperative witnesses.
When the beadle had gone, Michael sat in the chair that Tynkell had occupied for the past six years and sighed with genuine sorrow. The Chancellor had had his faults, but Michael had liked him, and was deeply sorry that his remaining years had been so cruelly snatched away.
He reached for the nearest pile of documents and began to sort through them, alarmed to note that matters which should have been handled weeks ago had been left unattended. They included confirming a number of degrees, one of which was Kolvyle’s.
He leaned back in the chair and pondered. On reflection, the Chancellor had spent hours in his office with the door closed. Michael had assumed, not unreasonably, that Tynkell was busy with the extra assignments that he himself had devised – a ploy intended to prevent him from embarking on a third self-aggrandising scheme. Unfortunately, the mass of neglected documents suggested he had been doing anything but University duties for the past few weeks.
Vexed that he should be left with such a muddle, Michael dealt with the more urgent matters, and was about to summon Secretary Nicholas to help with the rest when he saw the corner of a letter poking from between the pages of a book. The book was Tynkell’s most cherished possession, a gift from his redoubtable mother, who had not long left the town after an extended visit.
Lady Joan of Hereford was a remarkable lady – one of few people who were a match for the hellion Dickon Tulyet – and Michael winced when he realised that he would have to tell her what had happened. He decided to delay the unhappy duty until he could also inform her that the killer had been caught. There were three reasons why this was a good idea.