‘Perhaps. Regardless, it means they have no alibi for Tynkell’s death, and they were certainly nearby when Moleyns was killed.’ Tulyet turned back to Bartholomew. ‘So I repeat: could the cloaked woman you saw have been Egidia?’
‘Yes, I suppose. However, when I pronounced Moleyns dead, she was standing right next to me. It seems unlikely that she would fight her way out of the press, then battle back in again.’
‘Was she wearing this distinctive cloak?’ asked Tulyet, and when Bartholomew shook his head, he raised his hands in a shrug. ‘Then maybe it was bloodstained, obliging her to get rid of it before someone noticed. Then she hurried back to play the distraught widow.’
‘It is possible,’ acknowledged Bartholomew, although he doubted Moleyns’ wound had produced much gore. He would have noticed, even in the unsteady light of the bobbing torches.
‘Who else was in the crowd?’ asked Michael. ‘I am afraid my thoughts were on Tynkell, so I was not really paying attention.’
‘All the tomb-makers, plus Isnard and Gundrede,’ replied Tulyet promptly. ‘I was watching them, because I was afraid they might start a fight over these stolen supplies.’
‘Isnard has nothing to do with that,’ said Bartholomew sharply. ‘Why would he? He can hardly sell such items here.’
Tulyet regarded him pityingly. ‘He is a bargeman, Matt, which means he can transport goods anywhere he likes, and there is a huge market for illicit brass and stone in London. However, I might have given him the benefit of the doubt, if he had not developed this odd friendship with the felonious Gundrede.’
‘Who else did you see in the crowd?’ asked Bartholomew, unwilling to admit that the Sheriff might have a point.
‘Godrich, Hopeman and Lyng,’ said Tulyet. ‘The first two quarrelling, while Lyng tried to act as peacemaker – a spat I noticed, because I was afraid your other scholars would join in and start a brawl.’
‘Suttone was not there, because he was teaching in Michaelhouse, and two dozen students will testify to that fact,’ said Michael. ‘But what about Thelnetham?’
‘Not that I noticed. I spotted Kolvyle, though. He was one of the first to surge forward when Moleyns fell.’
‘Lord! I hope he is not the culprit,’ exclaimed Michael. ‘A killer in the College might damage Suttone’s election campaign.’
‘Barber Cook was also very quick on the scene,’ Tulyet went on. ‘I would not mind at all if he is the villain – I cannot abide the fellow. Of course, he does give a lovely shave …’
‘I would not let him near me with a sharp knife,’ said Bartholomew shortly.
‘That is probably wise in your case,’ remarked Tulyet. ‘He loathes physicians.’
‘So are these all our suspects?’ asked Michael. ‘Inge and Egidia; the warring tomb-builders; Isnard and Gundrede; Hopeman, Lyng, Godrich and Kolvyle; and Barber Cook?’
‘If only!’ sighed Tulyet. ‘A host of others raced to Moleyns’ side as well – the Mayor and his burgesses; scholars from King’s Hall, Maud’s and several other University foundations; the woman in the embroidered cloak …’
‘What about motives?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘What links Tynkell to Moleyns, other than their odd meetings in St Mary the Great?’
‘That is easily answered,’ said Michael. ‘Tynkell was killed either to make way for a new Chancellor or to strike a blow against the University. And Moleyns intimated that he knew the culprit, so he was dispatched to prevent him from blabbing.’
‘Which means that the killer was close enough to hear what Moleyns told us,’ said Bartholomew, ‘and launched a plan to stab him within a few moments. Is that likely?’
Michael and Tulyet had no answer.
‘Someone will have seen something,’ said Michael eventually. ‘No matter how careful he was. So I will question scholars, while you speak to townsmen, Dick. However, before we start, I should like another word with the grieving widow.’
‘Not here,’ advised Tulyet. ‘She will accuse you of heartlessness. Come to the castle at noon.’
The cold weather meant that Bartholomew had yet more summonses from ailing patients, so he used the intervening time to visit the most urgent cases. He trudged around the town with his older students in tow – other than Aungel, who had offered to read to the younger ones – treating a variety of colds, coughs and lung complaints. He visited his regulars first, then went to the first of three new customers. It was a butcher who had been tended by Cook a week before. Unfortunately, the barber had made such a hash of sewing up the man’s injured thumb that the only option left was to amputate.
‘It is important that all wounds are thoroughly cleaned before they are stitched,’ he informed his students, noting their pale, horrified faces and hoping they would learn from Cook’s negligence, even if it would do the patient scant good. ‘Leaving wood shavings inside them, as happened here, will always result in trouble.’
The next client had a broken leg, which Cook had failed to immobilise properly, and it took Bartholomew and two of his strongest lads – a burly pair named Islaye and Mallet – to reset it. The third was dying, because a wound that could have been treated with a simple salve had been reopened and drained so many times that her blood was now poisoned.
‘It was not a serious cut,’ whispered Islaye, when they had done all they could to make her comfortable and had left her to the parish priest. He was a sensitive lad, who was too easily distressed by the plight of others to make a good physician. ‘It should not have killed her.’
‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘So remember that all injuries must be treated with equal care. Minor does not equal inconsequential.’
‘I shall not deal with them at all,’ declared Mallet, who did not have a compassionate bone in his body, and made no secret of the fact that he had chosen medicine for its financial rewards. ‘I shall leave it to the surgeons. After all, it is their job, and Cook told me that the Worshipful Company of Barbers prosecutes anyone who trespasses in their domain.’
‘You may have no choice,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘Or will you watch a patient bleed to death while you wait for another practitioner to appear?’
‘Yes,’ replied Mallet, quite seriously. ‘If the alternative is being sued.’
‘Well, I shall dive in with needle and thread,’ declared Islaye stoutly. ‘And if that irks Cook, then so be it. When I am qualified, I shall not let a barber anywhere near my patients.’
‘Many are competent men,’ cautioned Bartholomew, although it had been a long time since he had met any. ‘Do not judge them all by … by what you have seen today.’
‘Yet Cook does give a beautiful shave,’ said Mallet, running an appreciative hand over his jaw. ‘And the lasses do love a smooth chin. You should visit him before your woman arrives, sir. It is certain to have her tumbling into your bed.’
‘Do not let Cook near your throat with a knife!’ cried Islaye, while Bartholomew gaped his astonishment at Mallet’s presumption; his students did not used to be so disrespectful. Or was he just getting old and prickly? ‘He hates you. I heard him say so to Moleyns and Tynkell.’
Bartholomew stared at him, indignation forgotten. ‘All three were together?’
Islaye nodded. ‘In St Mary the Great. Sergeant Helbye was there, too, but Egidia was railing at him over something, and he did not notice – he usually shoved folk away if they got too close. He takes his duties as watchdog very seriously.’
So Cook had been part of the curious assignations that had taken place in the University Church, thought Bartholomew. Could he be the killer? He had been to hand when Moleyns fell off his horse, while his antipathy towards the University gave him a motive for dispatching Tynkell. And who better than a surgeon to kill with such clinical precision? Or was Bartholomew allowing dislike to interfere with his reason?