There was a chorus of jeers at this pronouncement, and Michael was pleased that the Carmelite’s attack on celibacy was making him popular. The statute in question could never be revoked, of course – the town would not tolerate having open season declared on its women, and relations between it and the University would become so strained as to be untenable. The rule, no matter how inconvenient, was there to stay, although that was not something he would reveal just yet, naturally.
‘Anyone who does not support me supports Satan,’ brayed Hopeman. ‘I have the Lord on my side, and He will rain down his wrath on all those who oppose me.’
Godrich gazed theatrically upwards. ‘I see nothing but clear skies, Father. You must have misunderstood Him. And I am glad the election will not be until next week, because it gives us all time to make a proper, informed decision.’
‘And him a chance to buy more votes,’ murmured Nicholas in Michael’s ear.
‘Lyng will win,’ called Father Aidan from Maud’s. ‘How can he not, when every hostel is behind him?’
‘Lyng?’ sneered Godrich, and gestured around him. ‘A man who is nowhere to be seen on this most momentous of occasions. Where is he? In bed, resting his ancient bones?’
‘Perhaps he is unwell,’ suggested Thelnetham, whose cloak was again pinned by the gaudy purple brooch, but this time he had added red hose and a pink hat to the ensemble. ‘The excitement of such an occasion must be considerable for a man of his advanced years.’
Michael took all four candidates aside and asked again for their thoughts on what had happened to Tynkell and Moleyns. All except Thelnetham admitted to being near the felon when he had died, and to watching Tynkell frolic on the roof with the Devil, but no one had seen the killer’s face.
‘I was in the Gilbertine Priory,’ said Thelnetham. ‘With Nicholas and several of my brethren, should you require alibis. So I missed all the fun.’
‘I hardly think murder constitutes fun,’ admonished Michael.
Thelnetham inclined his head. ‘Forgive me, Brother; it was a poor choice of words. By the time the tale reached my convent, both men were dead. However, I did see a rider gallop down the Trumpington road at a furious lick shortly after Moleyns is said to have perished. He was bundled up in his cloak, so all I can tell you is that he rode a brown horse. However …’
‘Yes?’
‘Stoke Poges. Have you heard of it?’
Michael nodded. ‘It was Moleyns’ manor, which he inherited through Egidia when her uncle Peter Poges was murdered.’
‘I passed through it last summer,’ said Thelnetham. ‘The village has a motif – a pilgrim’s staff – which I remember because it is similar to the crutch that is the symbol of my Order. Well, I thought I saw one embossed on this rider’s saddle.’
‘How, if the horse was going as fast as you claim?’ scoffed Godrich.
‘I saw it when the rider stopped at the Trumpington Gate to pay the toll,’ explained Thelnetham patiently. ‘Once through, he took off like lightning.’
Michael frowned. ‘Are you saying that this horseman came from Stoke Poges?’
‘No, Brother. I merely report that his saddle was marked with an emblem that matched the one that Stoke Poges uses. I do not know what – or even if – it is significant. That is for you to determine.’
While Michael questioned him further, Hopeman and Suttone went to canvass among those who milled around the door. Godrich cornered Whittlesey and began to whisper to him, although he left when Michael approached, rather too furtively for the monk’s liking.
‘What were you two muttering about, Whittlesey?’ he demanded.
‘The election,’ replied the envoy smoothly. ‘I hope he wins. Lyng might be popular, but he holds old-fashioned views. Meanwhile, Hopeman is a lunatic, Suttone a bumbling nonentity who aims to promote licentiousness, and Thelnetham is eccentric.’
‘And Godrich offers what, exactly? Other than an arrogance that will alienate everyone?’
‘Wealthy friends, who will provide vital funding. My kinsman will be good for the University, Brother. Give him a chance to prove it.’
While Michael was busy with University affairs, Bartholomew visited a patient near the Dominican Priory, then began to walk to the parish of All Saints-next-the-Castle for three cases of lung-rot. He met Isnard and Gundrede on the way – the pair had just been released from the castle after spending a night in Tulyet’s custody, where they had been quizzed relentlessly about Lucas’s murder.
‘But we did not kill him,’ declared Isnard, all righteous indignation. ‘How dare the Sheriff accuse us! We did not steal the tomb-builders’ supplies either.’
‘He had to let us go in the end,’ smirked Gundrede, ‘because he had no good excuse to keep us, although it grieved him to admit it. However, me and Isnard were in the King’s Head when Lucas was stabbed, and it is not our fault that no one there remembers.’
Bartholomew watched them go unhappily. The King’s Head was brazenly opposed to the forces of law and order, and the landlord and his regulars would think nothing of fibbing to defend fellow patrons. However, they did not condone murder, and the fact that they declined to provide Isnard and Gundrede with alibis was worrisome. And if the bargeman and his friend were lying about where they had been, then what had they been doing?
He visited the first two patients with lung-rot, and was about to enter the home of the third when he spotted Lakenham, Cristine and their elegantly clad apprentice, Reames. Like Isnard and Gundrede, they were also coming home from the castle: Tulyet had been busy.
‘He wanted to know if we had arranged to have Lucas killed,’ said Cristine, although Bartholomew had not asked. ‘He knows we did not do it ourselves, because we were with him at the time. However, he did not detain us for long this morning.’
‘Because she gave him a piece of her mind for thinking such a vile thing,’ said Lakenham, reaching up to slip an affectionate arm around her mountainous shoulders. ‘She also told him, in no uncertain terms, that it was not us who pinched the lead off Gonville Hall’s chapel roof yesterday.’
Reames shoved his hands out of sight quickly, although not before Bartholomew had seen that they were filthy, which was odd, given the care that he obviously took with the rest of his appearance. Did that mean he had stolen the lead? The metal did, after all, leave tell-tale marks on those who touched it. Or was there an innocent explanation for the stains?
‘We work hard,’ said Reames shortly, when he saw where the physician was looking. ‘And hard work means dirty hands. What of it?’
He had turned and flounced away before Bartholomew could inform him that this answer was unsatisfactory. Bartholomew started to follow, but a child came to tug at his sleeve, pleading with him to tend her ailing grandmother. By the time he had finished with the old woman, the latteners were nowhere to be seen. He tended his third case of lung-rot, then walked to his last scheduled customer of the day. This was in the castle, where one of Tulyet’s men had been injured during training. He was conducted to the barracks by Robin, Agatha’s nephew.
‘Yevele says I cut him during sword drill,’ the lad grumbled as they went. ‘But it is a lie. I wish the Sheriff had not taken him on. Do you remember coming to tend his frost-nipped nose last week? Well, he let that happen on purpose, purely to get out of guard duty.’
Bartholomew had suspected as much at the time. It had been an unusually cold night, but even so, Yevele’s claim that his nose had frozen while walking from one side of the bailey to the other was patently untrue.