At that moment, the door opened and Lakenham entered with his enormous wife. They walked to the place where Cew’s plate had been affixed, and he ran disconsolate fingers over the empty indent, as if he thought it might reappear if he stroked it long enough.
‘I worked hard on that piece,’ he said tearfully, when Bartholomew passed him on his way out. ‘It may not have been very big, but I gave it my all, and it was beautiful. Tynkell’s executors would have agreed, but it was stolen before they could see it – which is why they gave that commission to Petit instead.’
‘It is not fair,’ growled Cristine. ‘Petit should not be allowed to have so many jobs on the go at the same time. None will ever be finished, you know.’
‘I thought we might win Lyng though,’ sighed Lakenham. ‘Given that he was a modest man with simple tastes. But we have just learned that he did not want any kind of monument at all. Perhaps he considered himself too sinful to lie in a church for all eternity.’
Or perhaps he had not wanted to lie in a place that other deities would consider off limits, thought Bartholomew unhappily, recalling the mark on the old priest’s foot.
‘There is still Moleyns,’ he said encouragingly. ‘Petit does not have him yet.’
‘But he will,’ predicted Cristine glumly. ‘Because he moves in higher circles than us. For example, he was invited to dine in King’s Hall a few weeks ago, which is where he persuaded Godrich to invest in the sculpted effigy that will go in the chancel of St Mary the Great.’
‘And Godrich will spend even more money on the thing if he is elected Chancellor,’ sighed Lakenham. ‘It makes me sick! I could have done so much with such an assignment, whereas Petit will just churn out one of his usual scabby pieces.’
‘Yet perhaps we should not hanker too fiercely after the Moleyns commission,’ said Cristine. ‘He was a criminal, and we have standards.’ She glanced at Bartholomew. ‘We saw him sneaking around the town in the dark when he should have been locked up. Twice, in fact.’
‘Then tell the Sheriff,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘It is something he will want to know.’
‘We would rather not,’ said Lakenham. ‘He has a nasty habit of accusing us of theft every time our paths cross.’
‘And murder,’ added Cristine indignantly. ‘He thinks we killed Lucas, although we never did. Worse, he has made scant effort to find out who brained poor Reames. He was the only apprentice we had, and I cannot imagine how we will manage without him.’
Very easily, thought Bartholomew, if they failed to secure themselves new work. ‘Did he hail from a wealthy family? His fine clothes suggested he did. Perhaps they will want a brass to honour his memory.’
‘He was an orphan,’ said Lakenham glumly. ‘And the money left over from his inheritance will not buy him a funerary plate. It might have done, had he invested it with a goldsmith, but he insisted on squandering most of it on pretty tunics. Foolish boy!’
Bartholomew suddenly became aware that Petit was watching him, and as he had no wish to be interrogated about what had been said, he chose a route out of the church that would avoid the mason’s clutches. It took him past Stanmore’s vault. The hoist was finished, and beneath it sat the great granite slab that would be lifted into place once the bones were brought from the churchyard. Bartholomew was glad. Even if Petit took an age to complete the effigy, at least Oswald would soon lie in his final resting place.
Then he frowned. Was that blood on the lip of the hole? He went to look more closely, then started in shock when he saw Peres lying at the bottom with a knife protruding from his chest.
Chapter 9
It was not long before the little church thronged with people. Some carried lamps, as darkness had fallen outside. Petit huddled with his apprentices, wailing that he had been deprived of another beloved pupil, while Lakenham and Cristine stood side by side, watching their rivals with expressions that were difficult to read in the gloom. Then Vicar Frisby arrived.
‘A second murder in this most holy of places,’ he slurred, squinting at the body through bloodshot eyes, and almost toppling into the vault when he leaned over too far. ‘Poor Stanmore! He must be wondering how many more interlopers will inhabit his grave before he gets the chance to use it himself.’
‘Frisby has a point, Matt,’ murmured Tulyet, as he helped Bartholomew to pull Peres up and lay him on the floor. ‘You should arrange for Stanmore to be interred before someone else ends up down there.’
‘You can do it next week,’ sobbed Petit, overhearing. ‘The granite slab will be ready to seal it up by Wednesday. Or perhaps Friday.’
‘I shall have to resanctify the whole church now,’ interjected Frisby crossly. ‘Or is that the Bishop’s prerogative? But he is in Avignon with the Pope, and might be gone for months, so how shall I earn a living in the interim? Hah! I know. Michael can do it. He is almost a prelate.’
‘Did you notice anything amiss when you came to say Mass earlier?’ asked Tulyet, obviously unimpressed that the vicar was more concerned with his own circumstances than the victim’s.
‘If I had, I would not have conducted the rite,’ said Frisby, intending piety but achieving only dissipation. ‘It is my belief that Masses should never be performed with corpses in the vicinity. Except Requiem Masses, I suppose, when it is unavoidable.’
‘When did you last see Peres?’ asked Tulyet of the mason and his remaining lads.
‘I sent him to buy a chisel,’ replied Petit tearfully. ‘Four or five hours ago now. I wondered what was taking him so long, but I never imagined he would be …’
‘Four or five hours?’ Tulyet turned back to Frisby. ‘Were you in here the whole time?’
‘No, I was in my house for most of it, praying.’
A titter of amusement rippled through his parishioners at the notion that their worldly priest would engage in anything remotely pious.
‘So who was in the church when you arrived?’ pressed Tulyet.
‘No one,’ replied Frisby. ‘I began setting out my accoutrements, and the congregation trickled in, but they all stood in the nave. I do not let them into the sacred confines of the chancel while the Host is up here. It involves wine, you know, and they might try to take it.’
‘What about the rest of you?’ said Tulyet, addressing the assembled masses. ‘Did you notice anything unusual when you came in?’
No one had. Meanwhile, Petit knelt next to Peres and began to go through his clothes.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Bartholomew in distaste.
‘Looking for the new chisel,’ replied the mason, then held up three coins. ‘But here is the money I gave him for it, which means he was killed before he reached the market. He must have come to check Stanmore’s vault first, and was ambushed here.’
‘That makes sense,’ nodded Tulyet. ‘No one saw the killer, because he had been and gone before the Mass started. What about the knife? Does anyone recognise it?’
There were a lot of shaken heads, which was no surprise, given that it was cheap and unremarkable – the kind that could be bought anywhere for a few coins.
‘Well, Lakenham?’ asked Petit, unsteadily, still kneeling next to the body. ‘Are you satisfied? Another of my boys dead at your hands.’
‘Not ours,’ said Lakenham firmly. ‘We were in St Clement’s all day, as Vicar Milde will attest. And you never liked Peres anyway, so you probably dispatched him yourself.’
‘How, when I was in St Mary the Great with a dozen witnesses to prove it?’ demanded Petit angrily, surging to his feet. ‘But I know your game, Lakenham – you murdered Peres in the hope that my distress will lead me to refuse the Tynkell commission. Well, it will not work.’