He elbowed Bartholomew and Michael out of his room and locked the door behind him. He was the only College member who took such precautions, and Bartholomew had always considered it an affront. Then, head held high, the youngster swaggered across the yard.
‘I will look the other way while you thump him, Brother,’ offered Bartholomew.
‘Do not tempt me, Matt.’
Unfortunately, several patients needed Bartholomew, and as he refused to delegate their care to his students, the monk went alone to St Mary the Great to hear his beadles’ reports, hoping one had learned something to help him catch the killer. He had ordered them to trawl the taverns the previous night, and had allocated a generous sum from the University Chest to buy any information on offer. He arrived at the church to find Whittlesey waiting for him, too.
‘Thank you for your offer to house me in Michaelhouse for the duration of my stay here,’ the envoy said. ‘But I have been lodging in King’s Hall since I arrived, and Godrich will be offended if I moved now. I am sure you understand.’
‘As you wish,’ said Michael, simultaneously relieved that Michaelhouse’s poverty would not be exposed to a man he wanted to impress, but hurt that his hospitality should be rejected. ‘Godrich is a friend of yours then? How did you meet?’
‘We are kin – both cousins to the Archbishop of Canterbury.’ Whittlesey hesitated for a moment, but then forged on. ‘My familial ties to the country’s leading cleric proved very useful for Bishop Sheppey. Moreover, I learned a lot about Church politics during my years in his service – the sort of experience that could be of considerable value to his successor …’
Michael smiled. ‘Forgive me, Whittlesey. I did not invite you to serve as my envoy, because I assumed it was a given. I am sure we can do a great deal for each other.’
Whittlesey smiled back, pleased. ‘In that case, I should like to watch you at work again – openly this time. I must make myself familiar with your ways quickly, because we shall both be busy once we reach Rochester. Do not mind me – you will not know I am here.’
Michael seriously doubted that, and was acutely aware of his beadles casting uneasy glances in the envoy’s direction as they delivered their reports. He understood why: there was something unsettling about the silent, black presence in the shadows, especially as Whittlesey liked to keep his cowl up, to protect the back of his neck from draughts. It was, the monk thought, rather like having Death looming over his shoulder.
‘So none of you learned anything to help me catch Tynkell’s killer?’ he asked when his men had finished speaking, struggling to keep the disappointment from his voice. ‘Despite spending four shillings on ale?’
‘Sorry, Brother,’ replied Meadowman, their leader and his favourite. ‘All we can say is that the culprit is more likely to be a scholar than a townsman.’
‘And why is that, pray?’ asked Michael warily.
‘Because no one has stepped forward to take credit for the deed, which a guilty townsman would definitely do, for the glory it would win him among his peers. Most real folk are delighted that the University has lost its leading scholar.’
‘And if the culprit is not a scholar, then it is the Devil,’ added another. ‘After all, he did fly away after he stabbed the Chancellor.’
Michael’s eyes narrowed. ‘Is this why you have failed to locate the cloak – you are all of the asinine belief that it was Satan you saw fluttering off the roof?’
‘It was Satan,’ the beadle assured him earnestly, while his cronies clamoured their agreement, ‘so the “cloak” will never be found, because it does not exist.’
‘Of course, the tomb-makers are also on our list of suspects,’ said Meadowman before the Senior Proctor could argue. ‘I know they are not scholars, but they cannot be classed as townsfolk either, because they have not been here long enough.’
Michael dismissed them in disgust, then attended Tynkell’s burial, a small, private ceremony for friends – a public requiem would be held later. Even so, there was an impressive turnout, and Secretary Nicholas was not the only one who wept when the body was lowered into the ground. Afterwards, heavy of heart, Michael settled down to some administration, aware of Whittlesey shuffling restlessly behind him as time ticked past and there was nothing interesting to see. Eventually, Nicholas arrived, red-eyed, but back in control of himself once more.
‘Here is the official notice for the Great West Door,’ he said, waving it to dry the ink. ‘Authorising the election for noon next Wednesday. Lyng will be disappointed, of course. He would rather it were sooner – before Hopeman and Godrich can besmirch him.’
‘Does he have anything they can besmirch him with?’ asked Michael keenly.
‘I doubt it, but they could find ways to defame a saint. A lot is at stake here, Brother, and all five candidates are determined to win.’
‘You support Thelnetham, I recall.’
‘Yes, but not because he promised to let me keep my job – Weasenham just said that for spite. It is because he will make the best Chancellor. He is intelligent, astute, dynamic, tough, a gifted teacher and a brilliant orator. The other candidates pale by comparison.’
Michael leaned back in his chair. ‘But they all have powerful backers: Lyng has the hostels, Godrich has King’s Hall, Hopeman has the Dominicans, and Suttone has me. Thelnetham has no one.’
‘He has his own order – the Gilbertines.’
‘Yes, but they only amount to two dozen voting members, and they have never been very influential in the University.’
Nicholas smiled. ‘True, but he also has the support of intelligent men – clever scholars who can see beyond simple and arbitrary allegiances. They may be a minority, but they are eloquent and persuasive. Do not underestimate them or him.’
‘Unfortunately for Thelnetham,’ said Michael, ‘I suspect even that may not be enough.’
With Meadowman walking in front, bearing the declaration like a holy relic, Michael and Nicholas, with Whittlesey trailing behind, processed to the narthex. While they were there, Nicholas took the opportunity to ring the bells, hauling on each rope in turn until he had all three clanging in a joyful cacophony. He grinned his delight at the exercise, although the noise was deafening, drowning out the sound of Meadowman nailing the proclamation to the Great West Door and the remarks of those who gathered to read it.
The bells’ clamour caused other scholars to come and see what was happening, so it was not long before there was quite a crowd. It included Hopeman, Godrich, Thelnetham and Suttone, although there was no sign of Lyng. Michael wondered why the old man had elected to stay away when it was an ideal opportunity to win more votes.
‘The bells will remain silent until a new Chancellor is elected,’ declared Michael, the moment he could make himself heard again. A sigh of relief rippled through the onlookers, although Nicholas’s face fell. ‘Then all scholars will know that the interregnum has ended.’
Vicar Frisby was grinning his amusement. ‘Five days without bells will be agony for you, Nicholas. You had better come for a drink, to take your mind off it.’
‘It is too long to be without a proper leader,’ objected Hopeman, and glared at Michael. ‘I know why you want the delay, of course – to give your creature Suttone more time to rally support.’
‘I am no one’s creature,’ objected Suttone indignantly. ‘Nor do I need to cheat. Why would I, when I have the support of the Senior Proctor and the Carmelites?’
‘And the votes of lustful rogues who aim to ravage Cambridge’s women,’ Hopeman snapped back. ‘You pander to the lowest kind of scum – the kind I shall not tolerate when I am in charge.’