‘Not as much fun as Maimonides,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘And do not suggest letting Aungel teach Passionem asthmatis, because he does not know it well enough. Michael’s beadles can find the evidence he needs to convict Lyng, but my duties lie here.’
‘Lyng is not the killer,’ said Langelee in a low voice. ‘I understand why Michael thinks so, but he is wrong – Lyng is not bold enough. It is far more likely to be Hopeman. However, Michael cannot leave Cambridge until the case is solved, and our College needs the glory his promotion will bring. Thus you must help him, to ensure he catches the right man.’
‘I do not think–’
‘It is common knowledge that the Bishop of Bangor has been waiting for Sheppey to die so he can grab Rochester. Thus Michael must get there as soon as possible, which he cannot do until Tynkell’s murder is properly solved. That is your duty, Bartholomew, not passionate asthma. Moreover, he cannot arrange for Suttone to be elected if he is busy hunting killers.’
Bartholomew supposed the Master was right. He capitulated with a grudging nod, and Langelee expressed his thanks with a vigorous clap on the back that made his teeth rattle. Then the bell rang to announce the start of the day’s teaching, and the students trooped into the hall to hear what Kolvyle had to say about the principles of canon law. Bartholomew was sorry for them, sure that even the lawyers among them would be more interested in Maimonides’ views on lung diseases.
As usual, Kolvyle was in no hurry to begin his work, preferring instead to let the suspense build before gracing the audience with his presence. He was still in his room, and Michael indicated that Bartholomew was to accompany him there.
‘Partly to make sure he does not dally too long – my Premonstratensians are restless today,’ he said as they walked, ‘but also to ask what he saw when Moleyns died.’
Although the most junior Fellow was usually allocated the meanest room, Kolvyle had made such a fuss that even Langelee had been incapable of withstanding the litany of complaints. As a consequence, he occupied quarters that were far nicer than anyone else’s – they were not only larger and in better repair, but also beautifully decorated.
Bartholomew and Michael arrived at them to discover that Kolvyle already had a visitor in the form of Suttone, who looked plump, soft and dissolute next to his bright and youthful colleague.
‘But it will do me harm if a member of my own College openly supports another candidate,’ he was objecting. ‘You cannot declare for Godrich.’
‘I already have,’ said Kolvyle smugly. ‘You are too old for the post anyway. There should be a rule that no one over twenty-five should be allowed to stand, because it is time our University was in the hands of younger, more dynamic officers.’
‘Do not underestimate experience,’ argued Suttone. ‘It is–’
‘What experience?’ Kolvyle shot back snidely. ‘You do not have any, and your campaign is based on two things: scaring everyone by saying the plague is about to return, and then trying to make them feel better about it by offering to lift the ban on women. You silly old fool!’
‘We created a monster by letting him have his own way every time he stamps a sulky foot,’ murmured Bartholomew to Michael. ‘It would not surprise me to learn that he killed Tynkell, and is piqued because he will not be the one to benefit from it.’
‘If so, he will suffer the consequences,’ vowed Michael. ‘Member of my College or not.’
He marched into the room, but Kolvyle was gathering notes for his lecture, and pretended not to notice. Suttone tried again to reason with him, then threw up his hands in defeat when Kolvyle began to sing, drowning him out.
‘You talk to him, Brother,’ he spat as he left. ‘He is incapable of listening.’
‘I do not listen, because Suttone has nothing to say,’ declared Kolvyle when the Carmelite had gone. ‘His jaw flaps, but only rubbish emerges.’
‘I saw you near Moleyns when he took his tumble,’ said Bartholomew, coming straight to the point so he would not have to spend a moment longer than necessary in such objectionable company. ‘Will you tell us exactly what happened?’
Kolvyle shrugged. ‘A dog barked, Satan bucked, and Moleyns hit the ground. I hurried to help him – he was swearing, so he was definitely alive – but then there was a stampede, and I dislike being jostled by inferiors, so I withdrew.’
‘Which particular inferiors were these?’ asked Michael. ‘Godrich? I know for a fact that he was there, too, because I saw him.’
Kolvyle regarded him with open dislike. ‘He is not a man for rubbing shoulders with commoners either – he followed me away. However, Lyng did not. He is probably the killer, desperate to do something meaningful before he dies of old age. Or Hopeman, perhaps, driven by his low intellect. Or a tomb-maker, for the delight of building another grave.’
‘In other words, you have no idea,’ said Michael, unimpressed.
Kolvyle smiled, an expression of such smug arrogance that Bartholomew was seized with the sudden and most uncharacteristic desire to slap it off him. ‘Oh, I have plenty of theories, all sure to be better than anything you might have devised. However, to solve the case, you need to identify exactly how the two victims are connected.’
‘Clearly,’ agreed Michael with admirable patience. ‘And do you have the answer?’
‘Of course,’ replied Kolvyle, and turned back to his notes.
‘So what is it?’ pressed Michael, while Bartholomew clenched his fists behind his back and was all admiration for the monk’s self-control.
‘There was a special service in St Mary the Great last week, to pray against a return of the plague. Suttone insisted on holding it, if you recall.’
‘Yes,’ said Michael. ‘I attended it myself. Was Moleyns there, too? I did not notice.’
‘He was,’ replied Kolvyle. ‘And he spent a lot of time chatting to Lyng. Afterwards, Lyng went straight to our Chancellor, whispered in his ear, then returned to Moleyns. Obviously, Moleyns and Tynkell had business together, and Lyng was their go-between.’
‘We know Tynkell and Moleyns met,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Tynkell was interested in siege warfare, and Moleyns was willing to give him eye-witness accounts. Moleyns sent him messages, inviting him to meet in St Mary the Great.’
Kolvyle released a shrill bray of laughter. ‘You believe that? What an ass you are, Bartholomew! Of course they were not discussing weapons!’ He turned back to Michael. ‘So there is your connection, Brother, although you should not have needed me to draw it to your attention. Now all you need to do is find out what they discussed.’
‘Do you know?’ asked Michael.
Kolvyle hesitated, but then shook his head, although it was plain he wished it were otherwise, so he could gloat a little more about his superior knowledge.
‘What about Cook?’ asked Bartholomew, fighting down his irritation by pondering whether the barber or Kolvyle was more disagreeable. ‘Did he join this discussion?’
‘He might have done. He was always hanging around Moleyns, because he knew him from Nottingham, and liked to consider himself the friend of a friend of the King.’
‘Ah, yes, Nottingham,’ said Michael. ‘The place where Dallingridge was poisoned. I wonder who could have done such a terrible thing.’
‘He claimed he was poisoned,’ said Kolvyle contemptuously. ‘But there was nothing to prove it, as I have told you before.’
‘That is not what Nottingham’s Sheriff thinks,’ said Michael. ‘He is–’
‘Nottingham’s Sheriff!’ sneered Kolvyle. ‘That man is an idiot of the first order. Now, if you will excuse me, I have work to do.’