‘I came in, and Lucifer was standing in the middle of the room,’ wailed Deynman, as Michael and Aidan hurried in to find out what was happening. ‘Which it why it is so cold in here – an icy blast from Hell.’
‘Hell is hot,’ said Michael authoritatively. ‘Your “icy blast” came from the open window.’
‘What was Satan doing?’ breathed Aidan, while Bartholomew struggled to get a better grip on his quarry.
‘Nothing,’ gulped Richard. ‘But I saw the red gleam of his terrible eyes – in a face that was invisible under its hood.’
‘You could see his eyes but not his face?’ demanded Michael sceptically. He hurried to the window, reaching it just as Bartholomew’s tenuous hold on the hood snapped loose, allowing the culprit to continue his escape unimpeded. ‘After him, Matt!’
‘You do it,’ retorted Bartholomew. It was a long way down, and the ivy was covered in frost and icicles.
‘With my heavy bones? Are you mad? Quickly now, or he will escape.’
‘Then go down to the yard and cut him off,’ ordered Bartholomew, unwilling to take all the risks while everyone else just stood and watched.
He clambered over the sill, and took hold of a branch, wincing at the cold, slick feel of it on his fingers. Then he began to descend, although rather more gingerly than ‘Satan’ had done. His caution was not misplaced: the invader’s frantic flight had loosened the plant’s hold on the wall, and it began to peel away. Alarmed, Bartholomew tried to move faster, aware of his quarry swearing pithily below as bits of ice and vegetation began to shower down on him.
Then, with a swishing hiss, the whole thing tore free, sending Bartholomew and the invader tumbling to the yard below, although their fall was cushioned by leaves and branches. The ivy kept coming after they had landed, though, and Bartholomew found himself submerged in foliage. By the time he had fought free of its prickly embrace, ‘Satan’ had gone.
‘Did you do all this damage, Matt?’ came Michael’s voice from somewhere on the other side of the green mountain. ‘Heavens! I am glad I did not listen to you and attempt it myself. I might have been hurt.’
‘The Devil flew away,’ shouted Richard, who had recovered from his gibbering fright and was standing with Aidan at the window. ‘If he had tried to clamber down the branches, like Doctor Bartholomew did, he would also be entangled in the leaves. But he has gone!’
‘Just as he soared away after Tynkell was stabbed,’ gulped Aidan. ‘We are fortunate he did not kill you, too, Bartholomew.’
‘That was a person,’ said Michael firmly. ‘Not Lucifer. And he stole Lyng’s letter, because it is no longer in his room. It was the killer, of course, making off with the clue that would have exposed him.’
‘Yes, and you told him you were coming for it,’ said Bartholomew in a low voice. ‘You announced your intentions in the graveyard, and lots of people heard. Most were hooded, so I cannot tell you who they were, but I am sure Cook and Kolvyle were among them.’
‘So were Godrich and Hopeman,’ said Michael. ‘It is a wretched shame that Richard raced upstairs before we could stop him. If you or I had gone, the villain would now be in custody.’
Chapter 8
As Bartholomew was keen to ensure that his students were on track with the reading he had set, he and Michael returned to Michaelhouse, where the monk took the opportunity to give Langelee an update on their findings. Suttone listened, too, on the grounds that he should know what was happening in the University he would soon be running. He nodded sagely, but when Michael asked for his opinion as to the culprit’s identity, he mumbled an excuse and shuffled off to the kitchens in search of food.
‘Are you sure he is up to the task?’ asked Langelee worriedly. ‘Obviously, I would love to see a Michaelhouse man in charge. But Suttone … well, he has his failings.’
‘Kolvyle has been saying the same,’ sighed Michael. ‘So will you keep the brat here until the election is over? His disloyalty is doing Suttone great harm, and I shall devise a pretext to expel him when I have a spare moment. Perhaps I can banish him to Oxford. That will teach him not to cross me.’
‘I know how to occupy him today,’ said Langelee. ‘He can give the Saturday Sermon.’
He referred to a tradition that he had started, where the Fellows took it in turns to lecture on a light-hearted subject of his choosing, after which there was a debate. Michael laughed.
‘Excellent! He takes himself far too seriously, and Matt’s lads will heckle him if he tries to regale them with some tedious monologue on law. It will show him that he is fallible.’
He had arranged to meet Tulyet in the Brazen George again, so he and Bartholomew hurried there as soon as the physician was satisfied that his pupils were not falling behind with their work. They arrived to find the Sheriff waiting, having ordered a very modest meal. There was one salted herring and a hard-boiled egg each, along with a dish of pickled onions to share.
‘We caught Petit lugging brasses about on a cart not long ago,’ said Michael, taking one look at the spread, and indicating that the landlord was to bring something more suitable. ‘I assume they belong to Lakenham, although Petit denied it, of course.’
Tulyet nodded. ‘Helbye cornered him by the Trumpington Gate, and brought him to the castle to explain himself. I was delighted – I thought we had our thief at last. Unfortunately, the metal is his – he has receipts to prove it.’
‘Then the thief must be Lakenham,’ said Bartholomew.
Tulyet shook his head. ‘The latest crime is to his detriment – the brass he made for Cew has been stolen. It disappeared at roughly the same time that Petit was with me, which suggests that neither is the guilty party. And there is the fact that they are under surveillance – if they had stolen Cew’s plate, we would have noticed. Which leaves Isnard and Gundrede.’
‘You were watching all the masons and all the latteners?’ asked Bartholomew sceptically. ‘Apprentices, as well as masters?’
‘Well, no,’ acknowledged Tulyet. ‘But I am inclined to drop them in favour of Isnard and Gundrede because Isnard and Gundrede have left the town.’
‘Left it to go where?’ asked Michael.
‘No one knows, which is suspicious in itself. However, I saw Isnard’s barge slipping down the river at first light this morning. I was too far away to stop it, but it was very low in the water, and I suspect it was loaded down with contraband.’
‘Wine, probably,’ said Michael. ‘We know he smuggles claret on occasion.’
‘It looked too heavy for that – more like the kind of weight that would come from ledger slabs, brasses, Dallingridge’s feet and the lead from Gonville’s chapel. Obviously, the rogues will ferry it through the Fens, then around the coast to London.’
Michael frowned. ‘But who will want second-hand tomb parts? Or is there a large population of dead Cews in the city?’
‘The back of the plate will be blank,’ explained Tulyet. ‘So a lattener will just flip it over and engrave his own design on the other side. Or scratch out Cew’s name, and etch someone else’s over the top of it. It is a lucrative business, and such a load will fetch a fortune.’
‘Well, we will soon know if Isnard and Gundrede are the culprits,’ said Michael. ‘Because they will start throwing their profits around, and we will hear about it. Neither is the kind of man to be discreet about any ill-gotten gains.’
Bartholomew sincerely hoped they were wrong.
‘We had better review what we have learned,’ said Michael, rubbing his hands eagerly as Lister began to replace Tulyet’s meagre repast with plates of meat and bread. ‘And I mean facts, not conjecture and supposition. First, Tynkell. I thought he was working on University business when he shut himself in his room, but it transpires that he was doing something else altogether. I have been unable to ascertain what. So far, at least.’