Bartholomew regarded him with distaste, and although Michael and Tulyet had ordered him to leave the envoy for them to interrogate, he could not help himself. ‘I understand that you talked to Lyng on the night he disappeared.’
Whittlesey raised laconic eyebrows. ‘As did many other folk. Why do you want to know? To assess whether our conversation gave rise to me shoving a burin in his heart?’
‘A burin?’ pounced Bartholomew. ‘Why mention one of those?’
‘Because Michael told me it was the implement used to kill Lyng, Tynkell and Moleyns,’ replied the Benedictine smoothly. ‘But to answer your question, Lyng and I discussed the weather, like any self-respecting Englishmen.’
‘Then why did you whisper?’
Whittlesey smiled. ‘Because we were out in the street, and some residents had already retired to bed. Or would you rather we had bawled our opinions and earned complaints?’
Bartholomew was beginning to realise that Michael and Tulyet had been right to suggest he leave the slippery-tongued envoy to them. He nodded to the jug. ‘Is it not beneath your dignity to serve wine to paupers and hostel men, especially when you should be sitting down, resting your knee?’
‘Yes, but Godrich asked me to do it. He is keen to keep me close at the moment – for the prestige of having a man of my elevated status among his supporters, I suppose. He is kin, so I am under an obligation to please him.’
Bartholomew could see he would learn nothing more, so he went on his way, where he saw Suttone outside St Michael’s Church, addressing a group that comprised nothing but Michaelhouse students. Bartholomew suspected that Langelee had sent them, so the Carmelite did not end up pontificating to himself. Suttone’s discourse was rambling and uninspired, although he smiled with genuine sweetness, and was by far the nicest of the remaining candidates.
‘You spout arrant nonsense, man,’ came a scornful voice. ‘Thomas Aquinas did not say that human souls are made of vegetable matter – he said that we are different from plants because we have rational and immortal spirits.’
It was Kolvyle, his voice loud and combative. As one, the students turned to scowl at him.
‘Aquinas said it if Master Suttone claims he did,’ shouted Mallet. ‘And it is you who spouts nonsense – you do not even know who heads the tables in the camp-ball league. I have never heard such a miserable Saturday Sermon in all my life.’
There was a growl of agreement from the others, leading Bartholomew to surmise that the Master had deliberately picked a subject the youthful Fellow knew nothing about. Camp-ball, a rough game that involved kicking, punching and biting, was Langelee’s favourite pastime, and he often treated the College to analyses of statistics and fixtures, so the students were generally very well versed in them.
‘I wanted to speak about the canonical aspects of Apostolic Poverty,’ said Kolvyle sourly. ‘It would have been much more edifying, but Langelee–’
‘We do not discuss that sort of thing on Saturdays,’ interrupted Aungel, his voice dripping contempt. ‘You should know that – you have been a member of Michaelhouse long enough.’
‘He is too close to their own age to command their respect.’ Bartholomew turned to see Michael behind him. ‘That is why they challenge him so brazenly.’
‘He does not have their respect, because he has not earned it,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘He does not know how, and thinks that flaunting his intellect is enough. But I thought Langelee was going to keep him inside today.’
The words were no sooner out of his mouth, when the Master himself appeared. Langelee stalked up to Kolvyle and grabbed his arm.
‘I told you to help Deynman in the library,’ he hissed. ‘So what are you doing out here?’
Kolvyle tried, unsuccessfully, to free himself. ‘I am not wasting my precious afternoon in company with a dunce like him,’ he declared pettishly. ‘I refuse.’
Langelee’s smile was predatory. ‘Do you? Good! Your defiance means I can fine you a shilling. Now, unless you want it doubled, I suggest you do as I say.’
Kolvyle opened his mouth to argue, but the Master’s expression was dangerous, and he wisely closed it again. Langelee snapped his fingers, and Mallet and Aungel came to escort the errant Fellow back to the College. Kolvyle went with ill grace.
‘My apologies,’ called Langelee to Suttone. ‘He will not annoy you again. Now what were you saying about Thomas Aquinas’s soul being made of cabbage? Pray continue.’
Bartholomew arrived at St John Zachary to find Frisby just finishing Mass. The vicar tottered to the porch, where he greeted his parishioners by the wrong names, and asked after kinsmen they did not have. Many lingered to chat to each other in the churchyard outside, and Tulyet moved discreetly among them, asking questions about the murders. He broke off when he saw Bartholomew, and came to talk to him.
‘I have identified the guard who let Moleyns out at night,’ he said in a low voice. ‘I got the bastard because of you – and a frost-nipped nose.’
Bartholomew ran through a mental list of all those he had treated for that particular complaint. There had been any number, but only one at the castle: the surly, ungrateful soldier, who had later been injured while sparring with Agatha’s nephew.
‘Yevele? He was the traitor?’
Tulyet nodded. ‘You said at the time that his nose was unlikely to have been frozen when walking from one side of the bailey to the other, as he claimed. Well, you were right: it happened while he was lurking by the sally port, waiting to let Moleyns in and out.’
‘I assumed he had left his nose exposed on purpose, in the expectation that you would give him inside duties instead. Night patrols must be miserable when the weather is so cold.’
‘I should have seen through his lies.’ Tulyet was disgusted with himself. ‘He arrived in the summer, begging for work, and I should have refused, given that I disliked him on sight. But Helbye thought he could make something of him, and it seemed unkind not to give the lad a chance …’
‘Did he tell you anything else?’
‘Unfortunately, he sensed I was closing in on him, and bolted to the Fens. Helbye is organising a posse to hunt him down as we speak.’
Bartholomew glanced up at the dull winter sky and shivered. Dusk was not far off, and it would not be pleasant out in the open once night fell. He left Tulyet and entered the church, where Petit and his boys were busy working on the tracery around the tomb’s lofty canopy. Despite the distracting racket, Bartholomew bowed his head and whispered a prayer that Marjory was wrong. She was not – the little horned serpent was carved on a corner, near the base.
‘What is that?’ he asked of the labouring craftsmen, pointing at it.
Petit came to look. ‘Peres must have put it there – he was working on it last. I suppose he has chosen it as his masons’ mark. Why? Do you not like it? I can get him to pick another.’
‘Where is he?’ It had not escaped Bartholomew’s notice that Petit had named the one apprentice who was missing, and thus not in a position to confirm or deny the claim.
‘I sent him to buy a new chisel. But what is–’
‘Have you seen this mark before?’ interrupted Bartholomew, aiming to find out if any of the craftsmen had a penchant for witchy symbols.
All shook their heads. ‘But I agree that it is not quite appropriate for church-work,’ said Petit. ‘I shall tell him to file it off when he comes back, and replace it with something less … demonic.’
They returned to the canopy, leaving Bartholomew to stare at the little snake and think sadly about the many people whose faith had wavered in those dark and desperate times, when the plague had claimed the lives of one in three, and no one knew who would sicken next.