‘I thought you had keys to this place,’ he remarked, inserting it into the lock and pushing the door open. Behind him, a disappointed moan from the crowd suggested that Lucifer had just broken the Chancellor’s death grip.
‘I do, but I rarely carry them these days,’ explained the monk, shoving past him and hurrying inside. ‘There is no need, because the church is always open. It has to be – the University’s recent expansion means our clerks have urgent business day and night, while the masons working on Sir John Dallingridge’s tomb must be able to come and go at will.’
‘Then where are they all?’ asked Bartholomew, following him up the empty nave.
Michael looked around and shrugged. ‘They must have left when they heard the commotion outside. Then the doors caught the wind, which slammed them so hard that they jammed.’
‘Both of them?’ asked Bartholomew sceptically. ‘And besides, the vestry door was locked, not jammed.’ He frowned when Michael pulled a bunch of keys from his scrip. ‘I thought you just said you never carry those.’
‘I meant the ones to the outer doors,’ explained the monk. ‘These are for the tower, which, as you know, houses the University Chest. There are only two sets of keys in existence, and this is one of them.’
The Chest contained all the University’s money and most precious documents, so its security was taken seriously. Bartholomew was not surprised that only a limited number of people had the wherewithal to access it.
‘Who has the other set?’ he asked. ‘Tynkell?’
‘He did, but I took it away and gave it to Meadowman instead.’ The monk shot his friend a rueful glance. ‘I was afraid Tynkell might do something else to make a name for himself before he finally retires next summer.’
Tynkell had won the chancellorship on a technicality, but it had quickly become clear that the post was well beyond his abilities. This had suited Michael perfectly, as it allowed him to seize control behind the scenes. Loath to go down in history as the Puppet Chancellor, Tynkell had backed two schemes to see himself remembered more favourably. One was to build a Common Library – a place that would have been open to all scholars, whether rich or poor, which some masters felt set a dangerously egalitarian precedent. The other was to found a new College. Both had gone disastrously wrong, but Tynkell stubbornly refused to learn from his mistakes, and Michael lived in fear that he might try something else.
Tynkell had announced his resignation eighteen months before, but had changed his mind at the last minute, and decided to stay on. A year later, he gave notice a second time, but then had been assailed with misgivings as the leaving date had loomed. He was currently due to step down at the end of the academic year, and claimed he was looking forward to enjoying some well-earned leisure time, although no one was sure whether to believe him.
‘How did he get up the tower, then?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Borrowed Meadowman’s, I suppose.’ Michael hissed irritably when haste made him clumsy, and he could not find the right key. ‘I thought I had loaded him with enough extra duties to keep him out of mischief. He should not have time for this sort of nonsense.’
Outside, there was a collective cry of annoyance, suggesting that the action on the roof had moved out of sight. Michael muttered a quick prayer of thanks when he found the right key at last. He started to thrust it into the hole, then gaped in disbelief when the door swung open of its own accord.
‘This is always kept locked,’ he said angrily, gathering the voluminous folds of his habit as he prepared to tackle the spiral staircase. ‘Even when one of us is working up there. Tynkell has become a real menace – I need a Chancellor I can trust, not one who runs amok.’
Knowing the monk’s upwards progress would be stately, Bartholomew pushed past him and went first, climbing as fast as he dared up steps that were unlit, icy and perilously uneven. It was not easy, and he was obliged to clamber back down again when Michael fell and released a yelp of pain, although the monk flapped an impatient hand, telling him to go on without him.
The tower comprised three large chambers, set one above the other. The first contained the bells, a trio of tuneful domes suspended in a wooden frame. Bartholomew glanced in as he hurried past, noting that it was empty. The second was the Chest Room, protected by an iron-bound door with two substantial locks. He rattled it, but it was shut fast. The third was a vast empty space containing nothing but the mess left by pigeons. Then came the roof. Bartholomew opened the little door that gave access to it, and saw Tynkell slumped on the far side.
The wind buffeted the top of the tower so hard that it was difficult to stay upright, while the slates underfoot were treacherously slick with ice. As he picked his way gingerly across them, he wondered what had induced Tynkell to fight under such conditions.
‘Matt!’ yelled Michael, hobbling up the last few stairs. ‘Wait! Where is his opponent?’
Instinct had prompted Bartholomew to go to the Chancellor’s aid, and the possibility that he might be in danger himself had not crossed his mind. He looked around in alarm, but the roof was deserted.
‘He is not here,’ he called back, although Michael could see this for himself. ‘He must have fallen over the edge while we were coming up the stairs.’
He reached Tynkell and shook his shoulder. There was no response. Alarmed, he felt for a life-beat, and then stared in shock when he could not find one.
‘No!’ he whispered in stunned disbelief. ‘Tynkell … he is dead.’
For several moments, Bartholomew could do no more than stare in horror at the man who had been the University’s public face for the last six years. Tynkell had been his patient and he had liked him. Then he dragged his eyes away and looked at Michael. The colour had drained from the monk’s face, leaving it as white as snow; he clutched the doorframe for support.
‘You are wrong,’ he said unsteadily. ‘Check again.’
Bartholomew obliged, because he was unwilling to believe the horrible truth himself, but it was not long before he sat back on his heels and shook his head. ‘I am sorry, Brother.’
‘But he wants to retire,’ objected Michael, as if this would undo the terrible news. ‘And I believe he is serious this time, because he has been making plans for his future.’
‘I know,’ said Bartholomew softly. ‘And I am more sorry than I can say.’
Michael limped across the roof. ‘How can he be dead? All he and his opponent did was grapple and shove at each other.’
‘Perhaps he suffered an apoplexy.’
Michael shot him a disbelieving glance. ‘Well, at least the cause of death will be easy to determine for his rival. This tower is high, and anyone who falls off …’
He inched towards the parapet, and clung tightly to a pinnacle as he peered over the edge. He was greeted by a sea of faces, all upturned in eager expectation.
‘Who fell?’ he yelled, scanning the ground below for mangled remains.
‘No one,’ Father William bellowed back. ‘They disappeared from sight for a moment, after which Satan launched himself off the roof and flew to the Dominican Friary.’
William hated Dominicans, and was rarely logical where they were concerned.
‘What really happened?’ shouted Michael, appealing to his more sensible colleagues.
‘Just what he said,’ hollered Langelee. ‘Lucifer spread his great big wings, and soared off in that direction.’ He pointed east, which was not quite where the Black Friars’ convent was located, although it was not far away.
The other spectators clamoured to say that they had also seen it, so Michael squinted in the direction indicated, but could detect nothing through eyes that streamed in the iciness of the wind. Then he went to each side of the tower in turn, and surveyed the ground and the various roofs below, but there was no evidence that anyone had landed there.