First, there was a danger that she might appear with the intention of catching the culprit herself. Second, Tynkell’s funeral would be a much more manageable affair without her interference. And third, she had declared several times that she would make a better Chancellor than her son, and Michael did not want her to stage a coup. She was ineligible on several counts, not least of which was her sex, but Joan was unlikely to let those stop her.
He pulled the document out. It bore Moleyns’ signature, and invited Tynkell to meet him during Mass, when ‘certain business’ would be discussed. The tenor of the message suggested it was not the first time recipient and sender had made such an arrangement, and that they had done it in secret then, too. There was no hint of menace, so Tynkell had clearly not been coerced into an association with the felon, but Michael was puzzled, even so. What could the Chancellor of the University have had to say to such a man?
No answers came, so Michael went to the door and called for Nicholas. The Chancellor’s secretary shook his head when Michael showed him the note.
‘I have never seen it before. However, Moleyns did seek Tynkell out when he attended services here. They often stood in the nave and chatted.’
‘Chatted amiably?’ probed Michael.
Nicholas shrugged. ‘I was never close enough to hear, but they both laughed from time to time. I did once warn Tynkell that it was unwise to keep company with such a person, especially in public, but he told me to mind my own business.’
‘Tynkell did?’ Michael was astonished. It did not sound like anything the meek Chancellor would have uttered.
‘He had changed in the last few weeks,’ confided Nicholas. ‘I do not know why.’
‘And you did not think to tell me?’
‘You are always so busy, what with the University growing apace and your teaching at Michaelhouse, that I did not like to worry you. Besides, there was nothing specific, and I was afraid you would think I was wasting your time.’
‘In what way had he changed? And what precipitated it?’
Nicholas’s expression was pained. ‘It started at about the same time that Moleyns arrived at the castle, which was October, if you recall – three months ago now. Although that is not to say that the two are connected, of course …’
‘But?’ prompted Michael when the secretary hesitated.
‘But before then, Tynkell was always very polite. After, he was irritable and withdrawn. Perhaps he knew what he would soon be facing, and feared he would prove unequal to the task.’
‘You mean meeting Moleyns during Mass?’ asked Michael, bemused.
‘I mean fighting the Devil, Brother,’ whispered Nicholas, wide-eyed. ‘Tynkell was not a man for combat – of any kind. And to challenge Satan …’
Michael regarded him balefully. ‘It was not Satan, and any man with an ounce of sense should know it.’
‘If you say so, Brother.’
‘I do say so, and I would be grateful if you could help me put an end to this foolish rumour by telling people that it was the killer’s cloak that they saw flying away.’
Nicholas inclined his head, although his sullenly stubborn expression told the monk that he believed he had seen the Devil, and nothing was going to persuade him otherwise. Disinclined to waste his time arguing, Michael changed the subject.
‘Can you tell me anything else about these assignations with Moleyns?’ he asked. ‘Such as how often you saw them together.’
‘Five or six times, I suppose. They talked while everyone else concentrated on their devotions. But Moleyns met lots of people when he was out, so his encounters with Tynkell are probably irrelevant.’
Michael would make up his own mind about that. ‘Now tell me about yesterday,’ he instructed. ‘How did Tynkell seem before he went up the tower?’
‘I did not see him, Brother. The moment he arrived for work, he came in here and shut the door.’
Michael was beginning to be exasperated. ‘Surely you can tell me something to help?’
Nicholas’s expression was stricken. ‘I have thought about nothing else all night – mulling over recent conversations in an effort to understand why he … The only thing I can tell you is that he had developed a habit of muttering about the Devil. So you see, Brother, he did know a confrontation was brewing.’
With the Lady Chapel empty, Bartholomew took the opportunity to open Tynkell’s coffin and ensure that the body had not been disturbed. The two hairs he had placed carefully across the Chancellor’s chest were still in place, telling him that Tynkell’s secret remained safe. He pulled the shroud to one side to look at what had given rise to such rumour and speculation.
Some years previously, there had been a popular fashion whereby small cuts were made in a specific pattern and then rubbed with pigment. The dye remained after the wounds had healed, leaving more or less permanent marks. Bartholomew had never been tempted to decorate himself so, but Tynkell was covered in little symbols, and all were the same: a twisting serpent with a rather diabolical pair of horns.
Shortly after his election, the Chancellor had tried to remove one with a rasp, which had resulted in a nasty infection. Bartholomew had been summoned, and Tynkell had sheepishly confided how he had come by them – after a particularly wild feast, when he had been insensible from drink, as his friends’ idea of fun. His shame of the marks was such that he had elected never to wash, lest someone burst in on him and saw them. This practice had resulted in so many upset stomachs that Deynman the librarian had once drawn the conclusion that Tynkell was suffering from the kind of morning sickness that was common in early pregnancy.
Bartholomew regarded the body sadly. Poor Tynkell! But he would be in the ground soon, and everyone would forget his eccentricities.
He replaced the hairs and the lid, fastening the clasps tightly, then turned his attention to Moleyns. He began by feeling the criminal’s head for suspicious bumps, then looked in his mouth and at his hands for burns that might suggest poison. There was nothing out of the ordinary, so he turned to the torso. Moleyns was still wearing the clothes in which he had died – fine ones that boasted an irritatingly large number of laces and buckles. Bartholomew fought his way through them, then stared in shock at what he found.
There was a wound in Moleyns’ chest that was identical to the one in Tynkell – a small round hole. He inspected it closely, sure it had been made with the same implement – or one that was very similar. He was about to call for Tulyet when there was a commotion outside the door, and he rolled his eyes when he recognised the unpleasantly strident tones of John Cook, the town’s new barber-surgeon.
Bartholomew did not like Cook, whom he considered inept and untrustworthy. The antipathy was fully reciprocated, and Cook rarely missed an opportunity to malign Bartholomew, particularly over the fact that he sometimes performed surgery. Most physicians steered well clear of such grisly work, believing it to be demeaning. Bartholomew, however, thought his patients had a right to any procedure that would make them better, and a long line of incompetent barbers meant he had learned to perform them himself.
Cook was short, sharp-eyed and bald, but had allowed the whiskers on his cheeks to grow to extraordinary length, while his chin was clean shaven. It was an odd style, particularly on a man who prided himself on his barbering skills. His clothes were of good quality, although greasy, which meant the hairs he cropped from his customers tended to stick to them, giving him the appearance of a badly cured pelt.
He hailed from Nottingham, but had accompanied the tomb-makers south, because his home town was awash with barber-surgeons, whereas Cambridge had none. He was fiercely protective of his professional rights, so it was inevitable that he and Bartholomew would clash.