Michael’s eyes narrowed. ‘They told us the reason they left was because they were bored with him taking so long to make his decision.’
‘Lies,’ said Edith firmly. ‘They were perfectly happy with his dithering when they thought they might be getting something out of it. Do you think they had a hand in Moleyns’ death? It would not surprise me.’
‘Would it not?’ probed Michael keenly. ‘Why?’
‘Because both are ruthless and greedy, and I know for a fact they were beginning to fear that his royal pardon might never arrive – that they might be doomed to spend the rest of their lives living as prisoners with him. Egidia told me so herself. And do not say they could just leave him. It was too late – they had hitched themselves too tightly to his wagon.’
‘Then they must be glad their ordeal is over,’ said Michael, ‘despite their protestations to the contrary. And if Egidia has inherited all his worldly goods …’
‘His store of money,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘Which will not last long now that they are obliged to pay for their bed and board, instead of living free at the castle.’
‘His “store of money” was probably larger than you think,’ said Edith. ‘Because he had a unique way of ensuring that it was regularly replenished.’
‘He did?’ asked Michael curiously. ‘How?’
‘He stole,’ replied Edith, pursing her lips in disapproval. ‘For example, the Mayor’s purse disappeared a month ago, and he is sure Moleyns took it. The coward! He dared not say anything when Moleyns was alive, but now he is dead …’
‘He was afraid of him?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Afraid of what Moleyns might tell the King – he was a royal favourite, remember, which meant that everyone was keen to stay in his good books. But now he can no longer write anything mean, all manner of unsavoury tales will emerge about the man. You mark my words.’
Lucas the apprentice had gone to fetch water from the well by the time Bartholomew and Michael had finished talking to Edith, so they loitered in the graveyard, aiming to waylay him discreetly when he returned. While they waited, they discussed what they had learned, although both conceded that it was rather less than they had hoped. Then Lucas appeared, staggering under the weight of two large buckets.
‘Talking is dangerous, so you will have to make it worth my while,’ he stated without preamble, glancing around uneasily. ‘How much are you offering?’
‘That depends on what you tell us,’ replied Michael. ‘Do you know who killed Tynkell and Moleyns? For that information, I might be persuaded to part with threepence.’
Lucas’s eyes gleamed greedily. ‘Very well then. Meet me here at midnight – alone.’
He started to walk away, but Michael grabbed his arm.
‘You will speak to us now or not at all.’
Lucas scowled as he tried to free himself. ‘Then it will be not at all. Did you not hear me? Talking is dangerous.’
‘Not talking is dangerous,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘Because the Sheriff will–’
‘So it was you who put him on to me, was it?’ spat Lucas. ‘I might have known! Well, I told him nothing – I do not deal with officers of the law. And the price is now sixpence. Come at midnight. Or not. It is all the same to me.’
He wrenched his arm out of the monk’s grasp and went on his way. Irked, Bartholomew started to follow, but Michael stopped him.
‘Leave him, Matt. Could you not see the fear behind that bluster? We will get nothing from him unless we meet him on his own terms, so we shall have to wait. After all, we do not want to earn him a burin in the heart for spilling his secrets.’
‘A spike,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘We do not know it was a burin. But Lucas will be safe once he gives us the name of the killer – he cannot be hurt if the culprit is arrested.’
‘If it were that simple, he would have told us the name and grabbed the money at once,’ said Michael. ‘Which makes me suspect that his intelligence may not be as precise as we hope.’
As they left the churchyard, they met the parish priest. His name was Roger Frisby, and he was patently unsuited to a career in the Church. He was brusque, drank too much, liked irreligious jokes, and was unsympathetic if his flock came to him with problems. He looked more like a brawler than a man of God, with thick fists and a flattened nose. He was kin to Secretary Nicholas, although there was little similarity between the quiet, scholarly clerk and the hard-living vicar.
‘I wish these tomb-builders would hurry up and finish,’ he grumbled. ‘Petit swore that I would barely notice his presence, and that any inconvenience would only last a few weeks, but it has been months and I am sick of it. The dust alone is enough to drive a man to claret.’
‘I understand you visited Moleyns at the castle,’ said Michael, tactfully not mentioning that it took far less than a bit of dirt to steer Frisby towards the wineskin. ‘Why?’
‘Because he knew how to enjoy life,’ replied Frisby with a sudden grin. ‘And I admire that in a man. There is too much sobriety in this town, and it was fun to carouse with a fellow who was not afraid to hold back. We showed that prim Tulyet a party or two!’
‘Often?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Not as often as I would have liked. But Moleyns was over sixty years old, and once or twice he had to cancel our revels or excuse himself and leave early, claiming weariness. I was nearby when he fell off his horse, and could not believe it when you declared him dead.’
‘Tell us what you saw,’ instructed Michael.
Frisby closed his eyes as he searched his memory. ‘A dog started it all. Someone lobbed a bone, and the thing tore across the road to get it.’
‘A bone?’ probed Michael. ‘You mean the dog was deliberately encouraged to dart out?’
‘Now you have made it sound sinister,’ said Frisby, folding his brawny arms. ‘Whereas all I am saying is that a bone arced across the road with a dog in pursuit. I suspect someone was just trying to get the animal to go away – you know what a nuisance these strays can be.’
‘Did you see who threw it?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘It was too dark, and I only noticed the bone because it landed by my foot. It was a lamb shank, if that is any help. I wish I could tell you more, but that is all I know.’
As the afternoon wore on, the day turned colder, and Bartholomew began to long for his little room with its welcoming fire. However, he did not object when Principal Haye of White Hostel invited him and Michael to dine – it was an opportunity to question more witnesses about the deaths of Tynkell and Moleyns, not to mention the fact that White was famous for the high quality of its victuals.
‘Yes, I visited Moleyns in the castle,’ said Haye, in response to Michael’s question. ‘Because he promised to put in a good word for us at Court.’
‘You mean for nobles to send their sons to you?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Yes, and reminding them that donations to our coffers are always gratefully received. However, he never bothered, and I am sure he was the rogue who stole my purse. I dared not mention it when he was alive, lest he avenged himself with a spiteful letter to the King, but now he is dead …’
‘Curious,’ mused Michael. ‘The Mayor thinks Moleyns filched his purse, too.’
‘And there will be others.’ Haye passed the platter of roasted meat. ‘Moleyns was a light-fingered rogue, and His Majesty should have been more careful in his choice of friends.’
Bartholomew and Michael were pleasantly replete when they left. Night had fallen, and the monk declared himself too tired for listening to more useless testimonies, so they headed home. They were almost at Michaelhouse when the physician glimpsed a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye, and knew without looking that it was the spy in the cowl.