‘There were women, too,’ Helbye went on. ‘For example, that fat Cristine Lakenham, and a lass in the cloak with the fancy hem, who elbowed me rather hard …’
‘This dog,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘Did it run across the lane of its own volition or was it released on purpose?’
Helbye frowned. ‘Now that you mention it, the animal was chasing something – as if someone was playing a game of fetch with it. A child, probably.’
‘Or an adult, who knew that Moleyns would fall if Stephen was startled,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘And who also knew that an accident on the High Street would attract a jostling crowd, thus providing him with an opportunity to jab a spike into his victim’s chest. What kind of dog was it?’
‘A mongrel,’ replied Helbye, then added perfectly seriously, ‘Ask Clippesby about it. He probably knows the animal well, and it will have told him anything important.’
It was dusk by the time Bartholomew and Michael had finished at the castle. The physician glanced across the winter-bare fields to the east as they crossed the Great Bridge. The darkening countryside was brown and bleak, the trees stark skeletons against a lowering sky, and he was not surprised that some folk believed that the Devil had taken up residence there.
‘Egidia is right: Dick does bear some responsibility for Moleyns’ death,’ mused Michael. ‘He let his prisoner ride a horse that was well beyond his abilities, and he provided a guard who is past his prime. And he knows it.’
‘Then let us hope the King does not know it as well. It would be a great pity – for the University and the town – if he was dismissed. So we had better set about finding the culprit, for everyone’s sake. Who are your prime suspects?’
Michael considered. ‘Well, Inge and Egidia obviously. They were to hand when Moleyns died, and they were in St Mary the Great when Tynkell was on the tower. I cannot imagine why they should want Tynkell dead, but it seems he changed these last few weeks, so if we discover what he was doing in his office with the door closed, we might have our answer.’
‘But why stab their victims when poison would be so much easier?’
‘That is a good question, given that Peter Poges and Dallingridge may also have ingested toxic substances, and both have connections to that pair. Of course, Egidia and Inge are not my only suspects for the murders here. Lakenham and Cristine were not being entirely honest with us earlier. Then there are those who aim to be Chancellor – Godrich, Hopeman, Lyng and Thelnetham.’
‘No one has mentioned seeing Thelnetham in the crowd that gathered around Moleyns.’
‘No, but most folk wore hoods, so that means nothing. Then, I am sorry to say, there is Kolvyle, who thought he would be eligible to fill Tynkell’s shoes and who knew Moleyns from Nottingham. He is certainly the kind of man to solicit the good opinion of a royal favourite, and then dispatch him to suit himself.’
‘I think the culprit is Cook. He was among those who raced to “help” when Moleyns fell.’
‘And his motive?’
‘Perhaps Moleyns criticised his barbering skills.’ Bartholomew hurried on when the monk looked sceptical. ‘He also tried to make us think that Moleyns stabbed himself by accident, and he met slyly with Moleyns and Tynkell in St Mary the Great.’
Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘Does this accusation stem from the fact that he is a dire medicus, and you aim to prevent him from harming more of his patients by seeing him hanged?’
Bartholomew eyed him balefully. ‘I accuse him because I believe he might be guilty. He probably has a fine collection of thin spikes in his surgical toolkit.’
‘But what about Tynkell? Why would Cook take against him?’
‘Because he hates scholars. All scholars.’
‘I see,’ said Michael, and changed the subject before they wasted time on an argument neither would win. ‘What do you make of the dog?’
‘We should find out if Cook owns one.’ Bartholomew saw Michael’s irritable look and shrugged. ‘The story is true. I heard it bark, and I saw it dart across the road.’
‘It cannot be coincidence – the dog upsetting the horse, while the killer just happened to be waiting with a deadly spike. Yet he must have moved fast, to set the creature loose, and then dash in to stab Moleyns. Would he have had time?’
‘There is nothing to say that Moleyns was dispatched the moment he hit the ground. He may have been too shocked to get up immediately, or was prevented from rising by the sheer press of people.’ Bartholomew stopped walking suddenly. ‘There is that cowled man again! I am getting tired of him trailing after us all the time. It is disconcerting.’
Ignoring Michael’s injunction to pay no heed, Bartholomew shot across the street, aiming to lay hold of the shadow and have some answers. The figure started in alarm, then dived into the nearest shop, which happened to be the stationer’s. This was a spacious building, always busy, because academics gathered there not just to purchase what they needed for their studies, but to chat with friends, and to browse its extensive collection of books and scrolls.
Bartholomew flung open the door and looked around wildly, aware that his dramatic entry had startled everyone within into silence. All were looking at him. Most were wearing dark cloaks and there were cowls galore. Then he heard a door slam at the back, so he hared towards it. It had been jammed shut, and by the time he had wrenched it open, his quarry was gone. Disgusted, he traipsed back to the main room to find Michael the centre of attention.
‘Of course I know who will win the election,’ the monk was declaring. ‘Suttone, because he is the best man. You will all vote for him if you want your University to flourish.’
‘I shall support Godrich,’ said Geoffrey Dodenho from King’s Hall, a scholar who was not nearly as intelligent as he thought he was. ‘He is wealthy, well connected, and will attract plenty of rich benefactors.’
Godrich was next to him, all haughty superiority, an attitude that immediately antagonised a number of hostel men, including Secretary Nicholas, who limped forward to have his say.
‘But Thelnetham has by far the sharpest brain,’ he said earnestly. ‘And if we want to attract bright young minds, we must have a celebrated scholar in post, or they will all go to Oxford instead. I am Chancellor’s secretary, so I know better than most what is required.’
‘In other words, Thelnetham has offered to let you keep your position if he wins,’ sneered Godrich. ‘It is not the future of the University that concerns you, but your own.’
‘My friars and I will support Hopeman,’ said little Prior Morden, cutting across Nicholas’s offended denials. ‘We do not want another puppet of the Senior Proctor, but a man who can make his own decisions. Subject to the approval of his Order, of course.’
‘Yes, the next Chancellor must be a priest,’ nodded Father Aidan of Maud’s, a man whose missing front teeth gave him a piratical appearance that belied his timorous nature. ‘But an independent one, not a Dominican or a Carmelite. He must also hail from the hostels, who will, after all, represent the bulk of our scholars. Ergo, Lyng is the only man for the job.’
‘Well, I am voting for Suttone,’ declared Doctor Rougham of Gonville Hall, one of Bartholomew’s medical colleagues. ‘Purely for his sensible views on women. It is time we moved with the times, and abandoned these outmoded notions of celibacy. I applaud his enlightened attitude.’
Bartholomew was sure he did, given that he was a regular visitor to Yolande de Blaston, the town’s most popular prostitute.
‘Maud’s cannot be an easy place to live,’ said Weasenham the stationer. The gleeful glint in his eye suggested he would make hay with Rougham’s candid opinions later. ‘Most foundations have one candidate for election, but yours has two – Lyng and Hopeman.’