He sent his students back to College, and was about to collect Michael from St Mary the Great when he saw Langelee with Petit. Curious, he followed them into St Michael’s Church, where he found them looking at the slab of black marble that lay over the final resting place of an unpopular former Master named Thomas Wilson. It was in the chancel, but was too large for the space allotted to it, which meant it was vulnerable to collisions. Recently, a corner had been knocked off.
‘Kolvyle,’ explained Langelee grimly. ‘He claims he hurt himself when he bashed into it and is considering legal action against us, so I thought we had better get rid of the evidence.’
‘Perhaps we can sue him,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You do not break stone by brushing against it, so he must have hit it with something.’
‘That is what I told him, but he insists it was just his hip.’
‘It is only a matter of time before it happens again,’ warned Petit, running his finger along the jagged edge. ‘So I recommend you arrange for it to be mended immediately.’
‘But not by you,’ said Bartholomew coolly. ‘Not while Oswald’s tomb is–’
‘This represents a serious hazard,’ interrupted Petit sternly. ‘It would be criminally negligent to leave it in this state. It is what happens when you hire inferior craftsmen, of course. Even my rawest apprentice knows the importance of making monuments to measure.’
Langelee raised a hand to quell Bartholomew’s objections when the mason named a fee and he agreed. ‘It is not my fault, Bartholomew. Blame Kolvyle.’
‘But how will we pay for it?’ demanded Bartholomew, watching Petit swagger away triumphantly. ‘There is no income from our pier, and we no longer own the dyeworks.’
The pier had been badly damaged by fire, while the dyeworks had been sold to fund emergency repairs to the conclave roof. Losing the income from the pier had been especially painful, as it had been a lucrative venture. Replacing the charred timber would cost a fortune – one Michaelhouse did not have – and was unlikely to happen in the foreseeable future.
‘We will find a way,’ sighed Langelee. ‘We must, because if we leave the slab as it is, Kolvyle will certainly lodge a claim for compensation. And do not glare at me, Bartholomew. If you had argued more forcefully against his appointment, we would not be in this position now.’
Bartholomew regarded him archly. ‘So it is my fault he is here, even though the rest of you were the ones who insisted on appointing him?’
‘Of course. You had obviously guessed what he would be like, while we were in blissful ignorance. You should have warned us.’
Disgusted, Bartholomew went to St Mary the Great, and found Michael in the Chancellor’s office. He opened his mouth to release a stream of invective against Langelee, Kolvyle and tomb-makers in general, but shut it when he saw that a furious dressing-down was in progress.
‘How could you allow this to happen?’ Michael was yelling, while Secretary Nicholas stood in front of him, hanging his head. ‘Surely you noticed these documents piling up?’
‘He refused to let me in,’ said Nicholas, miserable and defensive in equal measure. ‘I thought it was because you had given him confidential duties, so I did not question him. Besides, I was already overwhelmed with work – he delegated, you know – and I dared not risk getting lumbered with more.’
‘Delegated?’ demanded Michael suspiciously.
Nicholas nodded. ‘For example, he took the credit for conferring all those licences to study last week, but it was I who drafted them all out.’
‘Really? He told me that he had done them himself.’
‘I know, but I let it pass, because I assumed he had been working on other important University business. After all, what else could he have been doing in here with the door so firmly closed?’
‘Tynkell is transpiring to be rather a mystery,’ confided Michael, as he and Bartholomew left the church and began to walk to the castle. ‘He misled his secretary, shut himself in his office, neglected his duties, and met Moleyns under the pretext of attending his devotions. I hope he was not doing anything untoward.’
‘Is there any reason to suppose he might?’
‘Other than the lies, the suspicious behaviour, and the fact that he had dabbled in murky waters twice before – once when trying to build a new College, and once when trying to inflict a Common Library on us?’ asked Michael caustically. ‘No, no reason at all.’
They walked in silence up the High Street, then turned towards the Great Bridge – a grand name for the wooden structure that always seemed to be on the brink of collapse, and that had been the scene of more than one distressing mishap. Before they reached it, however, Michael ducked into St Clement’s Church.
‘There is a monumental brass in here,’ he explained. ‘And I want to see whether it is nicer than a sculpted effigy before I decide which to let Tynkell have.’
‘It is your decision? I thought he had already chosen, and his executors would implement his wishes. And you are not one of them.’
‘We are talking about St Mary the Great, Matt. It is a splendid building, and it is my moral duty to ensure that it stays that way. After all, we do not want it to look like London Blackfriars, which has so many tombs that you can scarcely move for the wretched things.’
Sir John Knyt had been a member of the now defunct Guild of Saints, a charity dedicated to helping the poor. He had been much loved in the town, so the Mayor had arranged for a tomb to be built by public subscription. Enough had been raised to fund a neat marble chest topped by an engraving – of an armour-clad Knyt lying with his feet on a lion, although Lakenham, who had made it, had never seen such a beast, so it looked like a fluffy dragon.
By chance, the lattener was there that day, polishing his handiwork with a cloth. His wife Cristine was with him, and when she saw Michael, she stormed towards him angrily. She was twice the size of her husband – taller by a head and twice as fat – which made her a formidable sight.
‘Your town is full of thieves,’ she snarled. ‘You should do something about it.’
‘Her cloak was stolen,’ explained Lakenham. ‘And she is vexed about it.’
‘Of course I am vexed!’ exploded Cristine. ‘What am I supposed to wear when I go out? I am no wealthy scholar, who can afford to buy another. My husband earns too little for that sort of luxury, so I am now condemned to shiver until summer comes.’
‘Her cloak was filched yesterday morning, and a brass plate went last night,’ sighed Lakenham before Michael could respond. ‘It was my biggest one, and I was hoping to use it for Chancellor Tynkell or Sir John Moleyns. If I win one of the commissions, of course.’
‘Well?’ demanded Cristine of Michael. ‘What are you going to do about it?’
‘I am afraid it is the Sheriff’s concern, not mine,’ replied Michael. ‘He is–’
‘My cloak was stolen from St Mary the Great,’ interrupted Cristine. ‘The University Church. I took it off to have a go on the bells, you see – Secretary Nicholas let me ring them in exchange for an apple – but when I went to pick it up, it had gone.’
‘Then I shall inform my beadles,’ replied Michael, and added pointedly, ‘Although hunting it down must take second place to their enquiries about the Chancellor’s murder.’
‘Are you here to discuss his tomb then?’ asked Lakenham eagerly. ‘I hope you are not considering a sculpted effigy. A brass is much nicer.’
At that moment, the vicar arrived. Richard Milde was a friendly, amiable man with a lisp and a soft voice, a combination that rendered his sermons all but unintelligible. Fortunately, he kept them short, so his congregation did not mind.