Kolvyle watched him go with spiteful satisfaction, so Bartholomew rounded on him.
‘Why did you bring him here? What have you achieved?’
‘I have exposed a physician who treads on the toes of barber-surgeons,’ replied Kolvyle haughtily. ‘It is time you chose between medicine and scholarship, Bartholomew, as it is obvious that you cannot do both.’
Bartholomew did not rise to the bait, but only because Whittlesey was there, and he did not want witnesses when he gave Kolvyle the benefit of a few home truths.
‘I shall bear it in mind,’ he said mildly. ‘So tell me: how well did you know Lyng, Tynkell and Moleyns?’
‘Oh, I see,’ sneered Kolvyle. ‘You aim to accuse me of being the killer now. Well, I am sorry to disappoint you, Bartholomew, but I am innocent. I cannot prove where I was every moment since Thursday night, but neither can anyone else. Including you.’
‘Moleyns, Cook, the tomb-builders,’ listed Bartholomew. ‘You were friends with all of them in Nottingham, and you have continued the association since – criminals, charlatans and men engaged in a bitter rivalry. You–’
‘My private life is none of your concern,’ interrupted Kolvyle indignantly. ‘And the tomb-makers are not my friends, thank you very much. I do not associate with commoners.’ Then he whipped around to address Whittlesey. ‘And speaking of Nottingham, you were there, too. I always thought it odd that you happened to be passing just when Dallingridge was poisoned.’
‘He was poisoned?’ pounced Bartholomew, although he was astonished to learn that the Benedictine had been in Nottingham during that fateful time – and that he should be in Cambridge now. ‘You always claim he died of natural causes. Have your changed your mind?’
Kolvyle’s face was as black as thunder. ‘Do not make an enemy of me, Bartholomew. You will not win, and you will end up being more sorry than you can possibly imagine.’
‘I have never liked him,’ confided Whittlesey, when the youngster had gone. ‘He might have a brilliant mind, but his character leaves much to be desired. I hope he cuts a niche for himself in academia, because I should not like him to join the Church.’
‘Were you in Nottingham when Dallingridge first became ill?’ asked Bartholomew. He would not mind at all if Whittlesey transpired to be the culprit, although it would not be as satisfying as seeing Cook accused, of course.
Whittlesey shook his head. ‘I arrived a few days later, with my cousin Godrich. And we did just happen to be passing, no matter what that vituperative little brat claims.’
When Bartholomew returned to Michael, having cunningly dispensed with Whittlesey’s company by advising him to rest his leg, the monk was with Father Aidan. The Principal’s face was wet with tears, which had attracted a circle of interested onlookers. Sobbing, he was telling Michael that he could not talk in the street, but that he might be able to manage a short conversation in Maud’s after he had downed a restorative cup of wine. Any number of people heard the remark, and there was much malicious sniggering. As it was so cold, hoods shielded faces, but Bartholomew was fairly sure Cook and Kolvyle were responsible for some of it. Richard Deynman came to put a comforting arm around Aidan’s shoulders.
‘I shall want that letter,’ warned Michael. ‘The unopened one from Lyng’s room.’
‘Softly, Brother,’ murmured Bartholomew, disliking the way so many spectators were brazenly hanging on their every word.
Michael lowered his voice as he continued to address Aidan. ‘It might contain a vital clue. Unless you have opened it already?’
‘Of course not!’ declared Richard, before his Principal could reply for himself. ‘Maud’s men do not read other people’s personal correspondence. We leave that for less scrupulous individuals. Like senior proctors.’
There was more chortling among the listeners, which Michael ignored. He indicated that Aidan should return to Maud’s at once, where they could talk without an audience, and fell into step behind him. Bartholomew went, too, at the same time telling the monk what had happened in the Cardinal’s Cap. Michael, however, was more interested in how Moleyns had contrived to escape from the castle.
‘Because of Helbye,’ he said. ‘The man has become a liability. Of course, it was the journey to Nottingham to collect Moleyns that did it – it was too hard a jaunt for a man his age, and it has prompted a fatal decline.’
‘Yet I understand why Dick is reluctant to replace him,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Helbye has been his right-hand man for longer than he cares to remember, just as Cynric has been mine, and Meadowman is yours. That sort of trust takes years to build.’
‘Except that Dick’s was betrayed. Not deliberately – I am sure Helbye would sooner die – but the plain fact is that he was let down.’
Bartholomew was about to return to the more interesting subject of Cook, when there was a flicker of movement in the trees at the end of St Bene’t’s churchyard. It was a strange place for anyone to be, so he stopped to look.
‘I saw it, too,’ said Michael. He pointed suddenly. ‘There! By the wall.’
Bartholomew opened the churchyard gate, which precipitated an immediate flurry of activity. Several figures materialised from behind the graves and ran to a cart, which they began shoving as fast as the frozen ground would allow. It was not quick enough, and Bartholomew soon caught up with them, although when he saw so many chisels and mallets brandished, he wished he had not bothered.
‘Put those down,’ ordered Michael sternly from behind him. ‘How dare you menace members of the University. Do you not know that I can fine you for belligerent behaviour?’
‘Oh, it is you,’ said Petit with a sickly grin, indicating that his apprentices were to lower their ‘weapons’. ‘We thought it was Isnard and his cronies. Or worse, that rogue Lakenham. He would love to catch us out here with this.’
Bemused, Bartholomew lifted the blanket that covered the cart and peered underneath. Lying there were several flat metal plates.
‘Brasses!’ he exclaimed. ‘Are they Lakenham’s?’
‘No, they are not,’ snapped Petit crossly. ‘They are mine.’
‘But you are a mason – you work with stone, not metal. Are these the materials that Lakenham thinks have been stolen from him?’
‘No, they are the supplies I ordered from London,’ replied Petit curtly. He sighed irritably when Bartholomew raised sceptical eyebrows. ‘All right, all right, I will explain. Normally, when a client wants a bit of brass on his tomb, I subcontract a lattener to do the work. However, in Cambridge, that means hiring Lakenham–’
‘And we would sooner die than do him a favour,’ put in the freckle-faced Peres. ‘So we have decided to make the brasses ourselves instead.’
‘But Lakenham will make a dreadful fuss if he finds out,’ Petit went on. ‘For trespassing on his professional domain. So we are obliged to keep them hidden until it is too late for him to do anything about it.’
‘Not to mention the fact that he will try to pinch them,’ added Peres. ‘As he has pinched so much else. Now, if you do not mind, we need to hide them before he sees.’
Petit nodded to his apprentices, and together they hastened to trundle their haul away, hoods drawn up to hide their faces. They looked so manifestly suspicious that Bartholomew was sure the Sheriff’s men would stop them if their paths crossed, regardless of whether or not they were doing anything illegal.
‘Will you tell Dick, Brother?’ asked Bartholomew, when they had gone. ‘I am sure he will be interested.’
Michael nodded. ‘Moreover, that little encounter has just placed Petit and his boys at the top of my list of murder suspects. Perhaps Lyng caught them doing something similar, so they stabbed him to keep him quiet. They also knew Moleyns from Nottingham, and may have killed Tynkell in the hope of winning the commission for his tomb.’