‘Isnard,’ deduced the monk when he had finished. Appalled, Bartholomew started to deny it, but Michael raised his hand. ‘Do not worry – his secret is safe with me. I suspect he would have preferred to tell me himself, but there was an incident at choir practice …’
‘One involving feathers, I understand.’ Several still adhered to the monk’s habit.
‘They gave me a lovely cushion, a gift to encourage me to stay. Unfortunately, it exploded when I sat on it – which I would not have minded if they had at least tried not to laugh.’
‘Has Lyng come home yet?’ asked Bartholomew, changing the subject before he laughed, too. ‘It would be useful to know what Moleyns whispered to him as he lay on the ground.’
‘I visited Maud’s less than an hour ago, but he is still missing. Perhaps he has fled the town, knowing we are closing in on him.’
‘Fled where? This has been his home for more than forty years. Yet it is difficult to see him as the culprit. My money is still on Cook, who is ruthless, greedy and devious.’
‘Then Cook must be a villain indeed, as it is not often that you denounce anyone so vigorously. But you fared better than me with fact-gathering – I learned nothing at all from Egidia and Inge. When I mentioned that Weasenham’s testimony contradicts theirs, they simply told me that he was mistaken, and they deny knowing anything about a horseman with the Stoke Poges insignia on his saddle.’
‘Their claims will be irrelevant if Lyng transpires to be guilty.’
‘True.’ Michael picked a feather from his lap and sighed sadly. ‘Leaving my choir will not be easy. I do not suppose you would take my place as conductor, would you?’
‘Me?’ blurted Bartholomew, startled. ‘But I cannot sing.’
Michael’s expression was wry. ‘That will not be a problem. And you play the lute, so you could lead the practice, while Matilde organises the victuals. She is good at that sort of thing.’
The remark reawakened the unease Bartholomew had experienced when talking to Edith, and it was with a troubled mind that he later retired to bed. Unusually, he found the fire in his room too hot, and he was kept awake by Deynman’s snoring. When he did finally sleep, his dreams teemed with disturbing images, although he could recall none of them when Walter came to shake him awake a few hours later.
‘Thelnetham is here,’ he whispered. ‘A body has been found by the King’s Ditch, and he says it is Lyng’s.’
Chapter 7
The King’s Ditch arced around the eastern side of the town, and was used as a sewer and a convenient repository for rubbish. Unfortunately, it was too sluggish to carry its malodorous contents far, with the result that it comprised a reeking, festering ribbon of slime that posed a serious risk to health. Although its name suggested connections to royalty, all self-respecting monarchs would have vigorously denied any association with such a revolting feature.
Master Lyng had been found on its north bank, near the Hall of Valence Marie. To the south lay Peterhouse, the Gilbertine Priory and the King’s Head tavern, a townsmen-only establishment that was famous for fighting, and was a favourite haunt of Isnard and most of the Michaelhouse Choir.
Lyng’s body had been neatly positioned, his hands folded across his middle. His robes were carefully straightened, and someone had made a pillow of his hat and tucked it under his head. He was cold, and his clothes were dusted with rime, which told Bartholomew that he had lain undisturbed for some time.
The discovery had attracted onlookers, despite the unsociable hour – scholars from the nearby Colleges, canons from the priory, and a gaggle of patrons from the inn, all being held back by a cordon of beadles. Several, including Isnard and Gundrede, carried pitch torches, although the sky was lightening in the east and dawn was not far off.
‘Murder,’ reported Bartholomew tersely, indicating the now-familiar puncture wound. ‘A lump on the back of Lyng’s head suggests that he was stunned first, then stabbed as he lay helpless. He did not arrange himself like this, so his killer must have done it.’
‘Meaning what?’ demanded Michael. ‘That the culprit is sorry, and thinks that treating the body with respect will make amends?’
Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Only he can answer that.’
Michael crouched next to the corpse, so they could speak without being overheard by the growing throng of spectators. ‘I am deeply sorry to see Lyng like this – a three-time Chancellor deserves to end his days peacefully.’
‘He was a good man,’ agreed Bartholomew sadly. ‘We were wrong to include him on our list of suspects.’
Michael nodded. ‘And his death is a severe blow to our enquiries. Now we cannot ask him what Moleyns whispered before he died, or about the messages that he ferried between Tynkell and Moleyns in St Mary the Great. And as all three are dead, I suspect that both matters were important.’
‘Unless he was killed because he was the man most likely to win the election,’ suggested Bartholomew, and nodded to where Thelnetham, Godrich and Hopeman were watching with wary faces. ‘In which case, the culprit is one of them. Or Suttone, I suppose – the only candidate who has not come to gawp.’
‘Which is a point in his favour, as far as I am concerned,’ retorted Michael, then added wryly, ‘Although I suspect the real reason is because he is still abed. So when did Lyng die? Give me a precise time, so we can begin exploring alibis.’
‘You know that is impossible.’ Bartholomew gestured to the bridge above their heads. ‘He is invisible from the road, so he might have lain here since he was first reported missing.’
‘Which was Thursday night.’ Michael stood and called to the crowd. ‘Who found him?’
Thelnetham raised his hand, and the beadles let him past. The flickering torchlight showed that he had taken Bartholomew’s advice to heart, because his habit was devoid of vibrant accessories, other than the brooch that fastened his cloak. He also stood more erect and seemed to be more manly – until he glanced at the body, at which point he whipped out a silken cloth and pressed it to his eyes in an effete gesture of distress.
‘I was walking along this bank when I tripped over him,’ he began. ‘It gave me a scare, I can tell you! I climbed back up to the road, and raced straight to Michaelhouse–’
‘You were walking here?’ asked Michael, glancing around in distaste. ‘In the dark?’
‘I could not sleep after nocturns, so I decided to visit the clerks in St Mary the Great – some work all night, as you know, because the University’s recent expansion is generating so much extra work. I want their votes.’
‘I see,’ said Michael. ‘However, that does not explain why you chose to make your way there via the edge of the King’s Ditch. And do not say you glimpsed Lyng while crossing the bridge, because he cannot be seen from the road.’
Thelnetham lowered his voice and spoke a little crossly. ‘If you must know, I was with a companion. But that is my business, and I would sooner not turn my personal life into the subject of prurient gossip. I am sure you understand.’
‘What companion?’ demanded Michael, although he allowed the Gilbertine to propel him away from the gathering crowd. No one would have been able hear their discussion, given that they had kept their voices low, but there was always a danger that someone could lip-read. Bartholomew followed.
‘Him.’ Thelnetham nodded towards Secretary Nicholas, who was looking simultaneously defensive and furtive. ‘Obviously, we cannot meet in my priory or his hostel, so we have taken to using other places. Here, near St Clement’s Church, under the Great Bridge. All are usually deserted, so we can … do what we like.’