‘I do not need you, physician,’ growled Yevele ungraciously, when Bartholomew approached his bed. Robin rolled his eyes and left. ‘Barber Cook sewed me up nicely, and gave me a free haircut into the bargain. He does a special offer every Friday, see – a free trim with every medical procedure.’
Surprisingly, Cook had managed a reasonable job on the wound, although the stitches were ugly, and would leave a scar. Bartholomew suspected Yevele would not mind – the soldiers at the castle were proud of their ‘badges of honour’, and the bigger they were, the better they liked them.
‘I do not know why you called me,’ said Bartholomew to Tulyet and Helbye, who were waiting outside for him when he emerged. ‘Not when Cook has already been.’
‘Because of Mother Salter,’ explained Tulyet. ‘Dead of a scratch at the hands of that butcher. I would have refused to let him in, but he had been and gone before I could stop him.’
‘Cook is all right,’ said Sergeant Helbye, who was grey-faced with fatigue and moved as if he was in pain. ‘And he does give a lovely trim. He even made Norys look presentable.’
He nodded towards the soldier in question, a surly lout who would always look like a ruffian, no matter how many sessions he had with a barber. Then Helbye mumbled something about going to check on Yevele, and Bartholomew felt a surge of compassion for the old warrior when he saw how hard he was trying not to limp.
‘He and I questioned Isnard and Gundrede nearly all night,’ said Tulyet. ‘Then we tackled the tomb-makers, but none of them confessed to Lucas’s murder. We wasted our time.’
‘You do realise that Helbye is no longer young?’ said Bartholomew quietly. ‘You might be able to forgo your sleep, but it is more of a strain for him.’
‘Nonsense! He is as strong as an ox. Besides, he is my right-hand man, and I do not know how I would manage without him.’
‘You might have to, unless you treat him more gently.’
Tulyet grimaced. ‘He would be mortified if I suggested light duties. But do not fret, Matt – he will feel better when winter turns to spring.’
Bartholomew doubted it, but was disinclined to argue. ‘Did you ask Egidia and Inge about the discrepancy between their version of events and Weasenham’s – whether they reached Moleyns sooner or later, once he had fallen off his horse?’
‘I did, but they are sticking to their tale and will not be budged. Perhaps Helbye is not the only one who is too old for this line of work – I am sure I could have terrified a confession from the culprit five years ago. Perhaps I should take a leaf from Michael’s book, and have myself promoted.’
Cambridge would be a very different place, thought Bartholomew unhappily, without its Sheriff and its Senior Proctor, and he was not sure he would like it. Perhaps he should leave, too, and begin a new life somewhere with the woman he had once loved so deeply.
Chapter 6
Friday afternoons were dreaded by the whole town, because it was when the Michaelhouse Choir met. The choir comprised a large number of spectacularly untalented individuals who had joined solely for the free bread and ale that were dispensed after rehearsals. They compensated for their lack of skill with volume, and prided themselves on being heard over considerable distances. Michael was their conductor, and was fiercely proud of them, although Bartholomew failed to understand why, given that the monk was a talented musician, with standards.
‘At least it drove Whittlesey away,’ said Michael, when the rehearsal was over and all Cambridge heaved a sigh of relief that there would not be another for seven blissful days. ‘He asked to shadow me, to learn how I operate. I thought I would not mind, but I do – I cannot be myself with him looming over my shoulder. But a few notes from my tenors sent him running.’
Bartholomew was not surprised, but refrained from saying so, as Michael seemed frayed and downhearted – which was odd, as he usually enjoyed choir practice.
‘What is wrong, Brother?’ he asked gently.
‘My singers have heard that I am leaving,’ explained the monk wretchedly. ‘And they looked at me with such reproach … But what do they expect? I cannot stay here for ever, and they must realise that I have ambitions.’
‘The choir is important to them. For most, it is the only decent meal they have all week.’
‘Do not make it worse, Matt,’ groaned Michael. ‘I feel bad enough as it is.’
Each alone with his thoughts, they walked to Maud’s Hostel, where Michael wanted to ask Lyng about the curious encounter that Kolvyle had described – where the elderly priest had scurried between Moleyns and Tynkell in St Mary the Great.
As Maud’s catered to wealthy students, it occupied a very handsome mansion. Its teachers were not obliged to room with students, its furnishings were luxurious, and the food and drink were of the very highest quality. Its Principal, Father Aidan, came to greet the visitors, accompanied by Richard Deynman, brother of the Michaelhouse librarian. Both Deynmans were of an ilk – good-natured, ebullient and deeply stupid.
‘I am glad you are here, Brother,’ said Aidan worriedly. ‘Because Lyng went out last night at about eight o’clock, and none of us have seen him since.’
‘And you wait until now to tell me?’ cried Michael in alarm. ‘What are you thinking?’
‘That we do not want to damage his chances in the election,’ snapped Aidan. ‘You heard what his rivals sniggered when he was not there to see the notice nailed to the Great West Door – they mocked him, and accused him of resting his ancient bones.’
‘Did he tell you where he was going?’ asked Bartholomew.
Aidan shook his head. ‘But we assumed it was something to do with winning a few more votes. He is very excited about the prospect of being Chancellor again.’
‘Which he will be, of course,’ put in Richard brightly, ‘because all the hostels want him, and they comprise most of the University.’
‘Not all of them,’ said Michael coolly. ‘A good many have expressed a preference for Suttone. But never mind this now. Has Lyng stayed out all night before?’
‘Never,’ replied Aidan, ‘which is why we are concerned. He was not back when I extinguished the lamps at ten o’clock last night, but I assumed he was busy electioneering. However, when I went to see why he was late to breakfast today, I saw his bed has not been slept in.’
‘Have you spoken to his friends in other foundations?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps he decided to stay with one of them overnight, rather than walk home in the dark.’
‘Now there is an idea!’ exclaimed Richard. ‘I shall do it at once. Being old, he probably just fell asleep somewhere, and is happily napping in another hostel.’
‘If he is, I suggest he withdraws, Aidan,’ said Michael after the lad had sped away. ‘We cannot have a Chancellor who dozes off on other people’s property.’
‘Oh, I am sure you would love that,’ said Aidan bitterly. ‘But do not think it will help Suttone – scholars who would have voted for Lyng will just transfer their allegiance to Hopeman, on the grounds that he is another priest.’
‘Suttone is a priest,’ Michael pointed out.
‘Yes, but one who aims to challenge the rules of celibacy, and who terrifies everyone by telling them that the plague is poised to return. He is also a member of a College, whereas Hopeman is a hostel man.’
‘Your hostel,’ remarked Michael. ‘How fortunate for you that Maud’s is offering two candidates for election.’
‘I would much rather have Lyng,’ said Aidan stiffly. ‘So let us hope he returns unharmed.’
Michael inclined his head. ‘Tell me when Richard finds him. I shall also ask my beadles to keep their eyes peeled. In the meantime, perhaps you will answer some questions. First, I want to know how well Lyng knew Moleyns and Tynkell.’