‘I toppled backwards when I was watching Chancellor Tynkell fight the Devil,’ the bargeman explained, as Bartholomew and his pupils crowded into the little riverside cottage. There was a powerful reek of ale, which explained exactly why Isnard’s balance had been adversely affected. ‘And I sat down so hard that I hurt my back.’
‘I found him shortly afterwards, and was obliged to carry him home,’ added another man, emerging from the shadows. ‘He could not manage by himself.’
Isnard did not always live on the right side of the law, but Bartholomew was sorry indeed to see him in company with Gundrede, a thoroughly disreputable character who could have earned a decent living from his trade as a metalsmith but preferred instead to dabble in crime. Isnard was easily led, and Bartholomew sincerely hoped that Gundrede would not drag him into trouble.
‘It is a pity the battle cost Tynkell his life,’ sighed Isnard. ‘He was a nice man.’
‘Yet there was always something a little odd about his person,’ mused Gundrede. ‘Between you and me, I suspect he was branded with Satan’s mark, and was killed trying to stop the Devil from pulling off his tabard and exposing it.’
‘What kind of mark?’ asked one of the students, agog.
‘Enough,’ said Bartholomew sharply, as Gundrede drew breath to reply. ‘The poor man is dead. Afford him some respect, if you please.’
‘Did you see Lucifer kill him, Isnard?’ asked another lad eagerly. He glanced resentfully at Bartholomew. ‘We missed it, because we were stuck in the hall, reading Maimonides.’
‘Reading your what?’ asked Isnard, then waved an impatient hand when the student started to explain. ‘Never mind. And the answer is: yes, I did see Satan strike. Afterwards, I watched him soar across the town, returning to his home in Hell.’
‘Which lies to the east,’ elaborated Gundrede darkly, before Bartholomew could tell them about the cloak, ‘in the Barnwell Fields. I always said that place was desolate. I imagine he is there now, picking his way through all the boggy puddles.’
‘Not if he can fly,’ averred Isnard. ‘He will want to avoid getting his feet wet, if he can.’
‘You saw Tynkell killed?’ asked Bartholomew, the moment he could interject a question into the discussion. ‘Because no one else did. They all say that he and the Dev– his opponent disappeared from sight at the critical time.’
‘I was further away, so had a different perspective,’ replied Isnard grandly. ‘I saw Lucifer kneel down and do something to Tynkell, after which Tynkell did not move. It looked to me as though he laid a claw on his chest and stopped his heart.’
‘Did you see his face?’ asked Bartholomew, although he knew to treat any ‘intelligence’ from the bargeman with a healthy dose of scepticism.
‘He kept his hood up to conceal his wicked visage. However, I can tell you that he wore a black cloak. I could not make out much else, though. It is a long way up that tower, Doctor.’
Bartholomew was thoughtful. The tower was high, so no one – and especially not the drunken Isnard – could have seen what had really happened, particularly in a wind that made eyes water and that was full of flying dust. The killer had achieved what Bartholomew would have considered impossible – a murder committed in front of dozens of witnesses, not one of whom could identify him.
There followed a lively debate during which students and townsmen discussed the various ways in which a demon might end a human life. It was all nonsense, and Bartholomew let it wash over him as he examined Isnard’s bruises, which, he deduced, had not come from sitting down sharply, but from the rough manner in which he had been toted home afterwards. He prescribed a soothing balm, then went to his next call. It was at the Carmelite Priory, where the talk was again about the Chancellor’s spectacular and very public demise.
‘Poor Tynkell,’ sighed one of the friars. ‘I know he wanted to leave his mark on the University before he retired, but I doubt that is what he had in mind.’
‘How do you know?’ asked another. ‘His other schemes failed, so he was probably getting desperate. He might well have staged that display to impress us all.’
‘Then it failed,’ said the first grimly, ‘because there is nothing impressive about being slaughtered by Satan. He should have stuck to founding libraries and Colleges.’
When he had finished with the Carmelites, Bartholomew went to a house on the Market Square, where a baker had been so engrossed in watching Tynkell’s mortal battle that he had burnt his hand. Then there were three cases of lung-rot near the King’s Head tavern, after which he trudged wearily homewards. He sent his students on ahead of him when he spotted Michael emerging from St Mary the Great. They did not need to be told twice, and shot away before he changed his mind, eager to warm chilled hands and feet by the fire in the hall.
‘Everyone in this town is a gullible fool,’ grumbled Michael. ‘Even rational men claim they saw the Devil flap away over the rooftops, and no one believes it was Tynkell’s cloak. How am I supposed to catch the killer when no one has anything sensible to say?’
‘Investigate Tynkell himself, then,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘See if he had any enemies.’
‘He did – lots,’ replied Michael sourly. ‘As Chancellor, he embodied the University, and there are scores of townsfolk who would love to strike a blow against us. And as for his choice of friends … well, suffice to say that I would not hobnob with the men of Maud’s.’
Wryly, Bartholomew wondered if Maud’s had been singled out for censure because two of its members had already put themselves forward as Tynkell’s successor. He was about to say so, when he saw someone standing in a nearby doorway, watching them. He could not see the fellow’s face, covered as it was by a cowl, but supposed it was a cleric.
He started to walk towards him, to ask if he wanted Michael or a medical consultation, but the fellow turned and hurried away. Michael did not seem inclined to give chase, so Bartholomew did not either, and the cleric disappeared into one of the many alleys that led to the river.
Because he had liked Tynkell, and wanted his killer caught, Bartholomew accompanied Michael to the Hall of Valence Marie, the scholars of which had also witnessed the rooftop battle. Unfortunately, their testimony was no more helpful than anyone else’s had been, and it was with a sense of defeat that the two Michaelhouse men began to walk home.
It was bitterly cold, although the wind had dropped, so the clouds overhead did not scud along with quite such frantic urgency. A frost was settling across the rooftops, and the ground was frozen like iron underfoot. Bartholomew had no idea of the time, but sensed it would not be long until dusk, the short winter day over all too soon.
‘Your brother-in-law’s tomb,’ said Michael suddenly, as they passed the lane that led to the little church of St John Zachary. ‘Can we go to look at it? Tynkell’s executors tell me that he wants … wanted something similar, and I should like to know what he had in mind.’
‘You can look, but please do not hire our mason to build it. He already has too many commissions – at least five – which means none are getting the attention they deserve. He works on Oswald for an hour, then disappears to do the same for someone else. I am beginning to think he will never finish any of them.’
‘He is a builder,’ shrugged Michael. ‘What do you expect?’
The parish of St John Zachary had suffered heavy losses when the plague had swept through the town ten years before. Almost every resident had died, and with no congregation to pay for its upkeep, the church had fallen into disrepair. It was not until the University had bought up all the empty houses to use as hostels that the area began to thrive once more. Then Bartholomew’s kinsman, Oswald Stanmore, had provided a substantial sum of money for the church’s renovation, on condition that he would be buried in its chancel one day. Of course, he had not expected to need it quite so soon.