‘How dare he!’ Cook was shouting. ‘I am the town’s barber, not him.’
‘I assure you,’ drawled Tulyet, ‘he is not giving Moleyns a haircut.’
‘I should hope not,’ snarled Cook. ‘I spent ages combing those curls last night, and no one should interfere with perfection.’
Bartholomew glanced at Moleyns’ coiffure, and thought if that was perfection, then he lived in a sadly flawed world. However, he was not surprised to learn that Cook was proud of what he had done: most barber-surgeons preferred to emphasise the medical part of their trade, but Cook liked to brag about his skill with hair. Moreover, he had an alarming habit of suspending surgical operations partway through, while he went to give another customer a trim.
‘Let me past, Sheriff,’ Cook ordered. ‘Or I shall report you to the Worshipful Company of Barbers. Only a fool challenges a man who has a powerful guild at his back.’
‘It is all right, Dick,’ called Bartholomew, although he seriously doubted that such an august organisation would race to defend the likes of Cook. ‘I have finished.’
Tulyet stepped aside and Cook thrust past him. The barber was followed by Inge and Egidia, both patently uneasy, which led Bartholomew to wonder if they knew more than was innocent about what had happened to Moleyns.
Seeing the Lady Chapel open, others crowded in on their heels. They included a gaggle of University clerks, some scholars from King’s Hall, three Gilbertines and several members of Maud’s Hostel, none of whom had a legitimate reason for being there. Michael trailed in at the end, with Secretary Nicholas and two beadles. Absently, Bartholomew noted that four of the five men who wanted to be Chancellor were among the press – Lyng, Hopeman, Godrich and Thelnetham. He was glad Suttone had the good taste not to come a-gawping.
‘You have ruffled his locks,’ declared Cook indignantly. ‘And why? For anatomy!’
He hissed the last word, giving it a decidedly sinister timbre, which had the onlookers crossing themselves against evil and exchanging uneasy glances.
‘Inspecting a corpse is hardly anatomy,’ argued Tulyet coolly. ‘It is a–’
‘Oh, yes, it is,’ countered Hopeman. ‘And it is the Devil’s work. I shall put an end to such practices when I am Chancellor.’
‘You will never be elected,’ scoffed Godrich. He was a tall, aloof man in a fur-lined cloak, with protuberant eyes and bad skin. He made no pretence at scholarship, and had made it clear from the first that the University was an irritating but necessary step towards a career in the royal household. ‘We need a leader with important connections, not a religious fanatic.’
‘Gentlemen, please!’ cried Lyng, distressed. ‘No quarrels here, I beg you. It is inappropriate.’
‘Then let us go outside,’ suggested Thelnetham. ‘We shall hold a public debate, and see then who is the strongest candidate.’
None of the others moved to accept the challenge, perhaps because they knew they were no match for Thelnetham’s razor intellect and quick tongue. Then Egidia stepped forward.
‘Well?’ she demanded haughtily. ‘What killed my husband? I imagine it is something that can be attributed to the poor level of care he suffered at the castle.’
‘He was stabbed,’ replied Bartholomew, aiming to see what a bald statement of fact would shake loose. Unfortunately, the only ones who seemed shocked by the announcement were Michael and Tulyet. ‘You can see the mark here quite clearly.’
‘You claim that as a death wound?’ asked Inge in disbelief, as everyone craned forward to look. ‘Surely it is far too small?’
‘Cook will prove the truth, by inserting a surgical probe into it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Then you will all see that the killer’s weapon penetrated his victim’s heart.’
‘I do not hold with desecrating the dead,’ declared Cook, taking a brush and beginning to rearrange the corpse’s hair. It was macabre and Bartholomew found himself unable to watch, although he knew it was actually less gruesome than what he had just proposed.
‘Wait a moment, Matt,’ said Michael, finding his voice at last. ‘Are you saying we have two murders to explore?’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘And the similarities between them suggests that both were killed by the same weapon, probably wielded by the same person. You were right to see a connection between them.’
‘Lord!’ breathed Tulyet, stunned. ‘We were there when Moleyns died. He was dispatched right under our noses!’
‘Not just ours,’ said Michael soberly. ‘Lots of people surged towards him when he fell off his horse. And Tynkell was killed in full view of half the town.’
Lyng crossed himself. ‘So the Devil strikes a second time. Poor Moleyns!’
‘Poor Moleyns indeed,’ agreed Godrich. ‘Of course, a lot of tomb-builders clustered around him when he fell. And who benefits when a rich man breathes his last?’
‘No, the culprit is Satan,’ stated Hopeman matter-of-factly. ‘And he will claim other victims until a priest – a friar, like myself – is elected to the chancellorship.’
There was a clamour of agreement from his supporters, but Godrich cut across them.
‘No vulgar commoner will ever be Chancellor. How could he, when his duties include representing our University to kings and bishops?’
Hopeman and his deacons reacted with furious indignation, and their ringing voices echoed through the church. It was some time before the racket subsided, and Bartholomew saw that Michael had let it run on purpose, in the hope that temper would result in careless admissions. Unfortunately, no one had made that mistake.
‘I am a priest, too,’ said Lyng, when he could make himself heard. ‘I can face down demons just as well as any Dominican.’
‘But I am a canon,’ stated Thelnetham loftily. ‘A cut above mere mendicants. If a religious man is needed as Chancellor, then I am the best choice.’
Gradually, perhaps realising that squabbling over the corpse of the man they intended to replace was unedifying, the four contenders took their leave, although none went very far. They stopped in the nave, where a second row broke out. Most of the onlookers had followed, although a few lingered in the Lady Chapel, to see what would happen next with Moleyns.
‘You assume that John was stabbed in the street,’ said Egidia to Bartholomew, as Cook continued to ply his comb. ‘But maybe it happened earlier, while he was in the castle – a place where he should have been safe, as I am sure the King will agree.’
‘Impossible,’ replied Bartholomew promptly, much to Tulyet’s obvious relief. ‘The wound would have been almost instantly fatal.’
Egidia shot him a very unpleasant look.
‘We all saw him fall off his horse,’ said Tulyet. ‘So did he fall because he was stabbed, or was he attacked once he was on the ground?’
‘The latter,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘Because the culprit would have had to reach up to stab him on his horse, which we would have noticed.’
‘Then perhaps someone shot him,’ suggested Tulyet. ‘From a distance.’
‘If that were the case, the projectile would still be in him,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘No, this happened when he was on the ground. I am sure of it.’
‘You do not know what you are talking about,’ sneered Cook. ‘Because wounds are my business, not yours. And in my expert opinion, Moleyns fell on something sharp. Ergo, his death is not murder, but an accident – one the Sheriff should have prevented.’
He smiled ingratiatingly at Egidia, and received a nod of appreciation in return.
‘So Moleyns speared himself on a spike that just happens to be identical to the one that killed Tynkell a few hours earlier?’ asked Bartholomew sceptically. ‘Do you really think that is likely?’