‘The wind must have carried off some item of clothing,’ he yelled. ‘That is what you saw flapping away – not Satan.’
‘Nonsense!’ countered William firmly. ‘I know the Devil when I see him.’
Others roared that they did, too. Michael tried to make them see reason, but the gale was blowing harder than ever, snatching his words away before they could reach the assembled ears below. Not that anyone wanted to hear them, of course – it was far more exciting to have glimpsed the Lord of Darkness than a combatant’s cloak. Michael made his way back to where the physician still crouched next to Tynkell.
‘It was a person,’ he insisted doggedly. ‘And people do not fly.’
‘Then where is he?’ Bartholomew gestured around him. ‘He is not up here; he would have been seen falling; and he cannot have gone down the stairs, because we would have met him when we were coming up. Or is there an alcove he might have hidden in?’
‘There is not. And nor did he take refuge in one of the chambers: the Chest Room is locked, and I looked in the other two on my way up. Both were empty.’
‘But he must be in the Chest Room,’ said Bartholomew, willing to accept the monk’s point about the other two, because he had also seen that no one was in them. ‘There is nowhere else he could have gone.’
‘It is locked,’ insisted Michael. ‘Come – I shall prove it.’
He hobbled back down the stairs, Bartholomew trailing behind him, looking for a space where the culprit might have lurked while they had hurried past. But the walls were smooth and unbroken, and not even a sparrow could have concealed itself there.
They reached the Chest Room, where Michael unfastened its two locks to reveal a sparsely furnished chamber containing a table, two stools and the enormous coffer that gave it its name. Its walls were stone, the window a fixed frame that could not be opened, and the floor and ceiling were solid wood. Small dishes holding poison were scattered around, to ensure the University’s precious records were not eaten by mice.
‘You see?’ said Michael. ‘No one is here.’
‘What about inside the Chest?’ persisted Bartholomew.
Michael opened the seven great padlocks one by one, and lifted the lid. The box was packed with scrolls, books and documents, and not only was there no room for a person to hide, but someone else would have been needed on the outside to manipulate the keys.
Leaving the monk to lock up, Bartholomew descended to the bell chamber, and quickly determined that hiding there was also impossible.
The bells had originally been higher up, but when they had been augmented from one to three, the bell-hangers had decided that several tons of metal swinging around there would put too great a strain on the tower’s foundations, so they had been installed just above the church’s west porch. Bartholomew suffered a sharp pang of grief when he saw them: they had been bought with a benefaction from his late brother-in-law.
‘Oswald died too young,’ he murmured, when the monk eventually joined him. He knew he should be thinking about Tynkell’s assailant, but his kinsman’s untimely death remained a source of great sadness to him, and he could not help himself.
‘He would have liked these bells.’ Michael spoke absently, still stunned by what had happened on the roof. ‘And Tynkell was proud to have had them installed under his chancellorship. But never mind that – we must find whatever flew off the roof and prove it was not Satan, or we shall never hear the end of this ridiculous tale.’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘I will look for it as soon as I have carried Tynkell downstairs.’
‘That will be too late – the rumour will be all over the town by then. I will detail my beadles to do it. William pointed out the direction it took, so I know where to tell them to start.’
‘It is probably Tynkell’s cloak. You must have noticed that he was not wearing one.’
‘Pity. If it had been his opponent’s, it might have allowed us to identify him.’
While Michael hurried away to brief his men, Bartholomew began the tortuous business of manoeuvring a corpse down a narrow spiral staircase. By the time he reached the Lady Chapel, he was sweating heavily, warmer than he had been since Christmas, when the cold weather had started. Then the beadles chased out the gawpers and kept guard while he conducted a formal examination of the Chancellor’s body.
It was not pleasant, as Tynkell had had an unfortunate aversion to personal hygiene, and his being dead did nothing to improve matters.
Bartholomew began by checking the head for bruises or dents, but there was nothing amiss. However, when he removed Tynkell’s academic tabard, he discovered a patch of blood. He pulled away the remaining garments to reveal a tiny puncture wound in the left side of Tynkell’s chest, small enough to be almost invisible. It had not been made with a knife, so he supposed some kind of spike was responsible, although one that was unusually long and thin.
‘It was pushed through the ribs, directly into his heart,’ he told Michael, when he eventually finished and the monk came to hear his report. ‘Death would have been virtually instant, and there was very little bleeding – which is why I did not notice it on the roof.’
‘It makes more sense than a sudden attack of natural causes.’ Michael rubbed his chin, fingers rasping against the stubble. ‘So our killer stabbed Tynkell, then escaped with all the ease of Lucifer. Literally, according to at least three dozen witnesses, all of whom swear on their souls that he then flew off the tower.’
‘What did they say when you showed them the cloak?’
‘Nothing, because my beadles cannot find it. I suppose a pauper got to it first, and is reluctant to hand it over. I do not blame him – the weather is bitter, and such a garment might mean the difference between life and death.’
‘That is unfortunate,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I dislike rumours about Satan – they nearly always result in trouble.’
Michael nodded agreement, then was silent for a while, staring down at the man who had worked so closely with him for the past six years. Then he reached for the blanket that Bartholomew had used to cover the body. There had always been something a little odd about Tynkell’s person, which had resulted in some outrageous speculation among the students – one had even suggested that he was pregnant. Bartholomew knew what made the Chancellor different, but steadfastly refused to tell.
‘No,’ he said sharply, slapping Michael’s hand away. ‘Leave him in peace.’
‘Why?’ asked Michael, aggrieved. ‘It cannot hurt him now, and I have manfully swallowed my curiosity all these years. Besides, it might have a bearing on his death.’
‘It does not. Besides, how would you like it if people came to paw at your corpse for no reason other than prurient curiosity?’
‘I have no intention of shuffling off this mortal coil,’ retorted Michael loftily; he had long been of the opinion that his own death was optional. ‘And certainly not before I have been made a bishop or an abbot. Which will not be much longer in the offing, of course.’
Bartholomew regarded him searchingly. The monk had always maintained that he would one day hold high rank in the Church – without the inconvenience of climbing through the stages in between, naturally – but had something happened to prompt the remark now?
‘You had a letter from Bishop de Lisle yesterday,’ he fished.
Michael nodded. ‘He is still with the Pope in Avignon, which is a nuisance actually, because it is difficult to whisper in his ear when he lives so far away. However, I have sent him reports about the University for nigh on two decades now, and my loyal service has put him in my debt.’