She nodded to the other side of the chancel, where the lattener was attaching a metal plate to the wall, although one so small as to be virtually invisible. Bartholomew understood why Cew’s colleagues were reluctant to provide anything too conspicuous: the hapless King’s Hall Fellow had once possessed a formidable intellect, but then he had lost his reason, which had been acutely embarrassing to a foundation that put so much store by outward appearances.
‘I would not have accepted such a lowly commission,’ scoffed Petit, watching Lakenham stir the pitch that would glue the memorial in place. He raised his voice, to ensure his rival heard. ‘But Lakenham is so poor that he will accept any old job. Stanmore’s tomb will have to be carefully guarded from now on, lest bits of it disappear.’
‘I have my own supplies, thank you,’ retorted Lakenham. ‘And do not accuse me of stealing Dallingridge’s feet last night. I went nowhere near them.’
Bartholomew blinked. ‘Dallingridge’s feet?’
‘It is cheaper to carve effigies in sections, rather than using a single piece of stone,’ explained Lakenham sneeringly. ‘And niggardly masons are always looking for ways to cut corners.’
‘To save our clients money,’ corrected Petit sharply.
‘It is common practice these days,’ put in one of his apprentices, a lanky, freckle-faced lad named Peres. ‘Me and Lucas worked hard on those feet, and we finished them yesterday. They were beautiful, too – we had them resting on a greyhound.’
‘But someone came along in the night and stole them from our workshop,’ said Lucas, glaring at Lakenham.
Bartholomew was bemused. ‘Why would a thief take such a thing?’
Petit regarded him pityingly. ‘So he can sell them to some unscrupulous mason in London, who will then adapt them to fit another tomb, and pass off our work as his own. The sly b–’
‘This is why brasses are superior to sculptures, Brother,’ interrupted Lakenham smugly. ‘Feet, noses, hands and even heads are very vulnerable on effigies.’
‘But brasses can be prised off in their entirety and spirited away,’ countered Petit.
‘Not my brasses,’ argued Lakenham. ‘I use pitch and pins to anchor them down.’
‘So you say,’ jeered Petit, and shot the lattener a look of utter contempt before turning his back on him to smile ingratiatingly at Michael. ‘I have taken the liberty of designing exemplars for Tynkell and Moleyns. Would you like to see them?’
‘Exemplars cannot be put together overnight,’ said Lakenham to Michael, his expression vengeful. ‘Which means he knew in advance that those two men would die. So question him about the murders, Brother, because that is suspicious.’
Petit hauled a burin – a chisel with a wooden handle and a sharp metal point – from his belt and fingered it menacingly. ‘You have a poisonous tongue, Lakenham, and you will be wanting a funerary brass for yourself, unless you stop wagging it.’
‘You see, Brother?’ said Lakenham archly. ‘That was almost a confession.’
‘I want to know where you all were when Tynkell died,’ said Michael.
‘He was in St Mary the Great,’ said Lakenham, stabbing an accusing finger at his rival. ‘Perfectly placed to slip up the tower and pretend to be Satan while he killed Tynkell.’
‘Nonsense! We all ran outside when we heard the commotion,’ said Petit, although he licked his lips nervously and his men exchanged furtive glances. ‘When the excitement was over, we came here to work.’ Then he went on an offensive of his own. ‘And how would you know where we were, Lakenham, unless you were nearby?’
The lattener was ready for this. ‘Because the beadles told me,’ he replied smugly. ‘I, however, was in St Clement’s Church with my wife.’
‘That is not what you said yesterday,’ pounced Bartholomew. ‘Cristine claimed her cloak was stolen from St Mary the Great – she had taken it off to ring the bells.’
‘You see?’ crowed Petit. ‘Lakenham is a liar! He stabbed Tynkell and Moleyns, because he hopes to build their tombs.’
Lakenham became flustered. ‘Perhaps we did slip into St Mary the Great for a few moments, but I am not a killer. Not a thief either. Come and look in my shed – you will find no carved feet there. Petit’s workshop, however, will be stuffed full of my brasses, nails and–’
‘That tool,’ interrupted Bartholomew, pointing to Petit’s burin. ‘May I see it?’
‘Why?’ demanded Petit suspiciously, hiding it behind his back.
Michael fixed the mason with an icy glare until he handed it over, which he did with obvious reluctance. The tool was intended for fine work, and possessed a long, slender point. Bartholomew pressed it into some damp clay, where it made a tiny circular hole.
‘The murder weapon?’ asked Michael.
‘Possibly,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘Or something similar.’
Petit was pale with alarm. ‘But lots of craftsmen have these! Indeed, Lakenham has several that are longer and thinner, which he uses for engraving. You cannot accuse me of–’
‘You were in the High Street when Moleyns was killed,’ interrupted Michael. He included the grinning lattener in his proctorly glower. ‘You both were – among the crowd that clustered around him after his fall.’
‘Yes, but I was busy minding my wife,’ said Lakenham, his smirk vanishing like mist in the sun. ‘Making sure she was not unduly jostled.’
From what Bartholomew had seen of Cristine, she was perfectly capable of looking after herself. Indeed, he imagined that if any protecting needed to be done, she would be far better at it than her diminutive spouse.
‘And I could get nowhere near Moleyns,’ added Petit. ‘There were too many people.’
Michael continued to ask questions, but neither craftsman could be persuaded to say more, and nor could their apprentices, and in the end he let them go. Lakenham scuttled away in relief, while Petit and his lads resumed their work on the winch. They did so in silence, clearly unsettled by the monk’s ruthless interrogation.
When Michael had finished frightening the tomb-makers, he and Bartholomew went to find Edith, who had been unable to listen to the discussion for fear that Petit would be arrested, and her husband’s tomb would be subject to even further delays. They found her in the little Lady Chapel, lighting candles for Stanmore’s soul.
‘Moleyns told us that he was buying cloth from you when Tynkell died,’ said Michael. ‘And that he saw more of the fight than the rest of us, because he was on horseback.’
Edith smiled wanly. ‘He dared not dismount lest he was unable to get back on again – Satan is a feisty beast. However, I doubt he saw enough to identify Tynkell’s killer. His elevated position might have let him see a little more than me, but not that much.’
‘Then why did he give us the impression that he did?’ asked Bartholomew.
Edith’s expression was wry. ‘You obviously did not know him very well. He liked to be the centre of attention, and was willing to do or say anything to get it.’
‘So he was lying?’
‘Yes, if he claimed he saw the killer’s face. And if you do not believe me, then borrow Satan from the castle, and sit on him in the Market Square yourself.’
‘I believe you,’ said Michael. ‘Especially as Dick Tulyet thinks much the same. What about Inge and Egidia? Where were they?’
‘They stormed off when Moleyns announced that he was buying cloth for himself only – that if they wanted new cloaks, they would have to purchase the material themselves. They marched towards St Mary the Great, but I was more interested in making a sale to Moleyns, so I cannot tell you whether or not they went inside.’