‘Inge,’ muttered Tulyet between gritted teeth, while Bartholomew gaped his astonishment at the scale of the undertaking. ‘He lingered here to wreak his revenge on us for exposing his schemes, and only then did he vanish into the Fens.’
‘Stanmore’s grave is not his only victim,’ said Rougham. ‘Do you remember our old colleague Linton, Bartholomew? Well, his monument was stolen last night, too. Admittedly, it was smaller than Stanmore’s, but it was an audacious act, even so. It makes me think that Lyng had the right idea – a modest burial in the churchyard, with a simple wooden cross.’
Bartholomew was reluctant to leave Edith while she was upset, but Tulyet’s wife arrived at that moment, and whisked her away for mulled wine and sympathy. Satisfied that she was in kindly hands, he and Tulyet continued on their way, and reached St Mary the Great to find a large gathering of scholars outside, all of whom were shouting. The horde included Michael, Suttone, Hopeman, Thelnetham and Nicholas.
‘I swear it!’ the little secretary was insisting. ‘I was in my office at the time, as a dozen colleagues will confirm. I did not ring the tenor – she sounded of her own accord. Unless the Devil …’
‘Yes!’ thundered Hopeman. ‘Satan chimed her, because Thelnetham persuaded Bene’t College to vote for Suttone. Lucifer is delighted with that outcome, because he feels it brings him closer to taking over the University. He rang the bell to celebrate.’
‘Satan keeps away from St Mary the Great these days,’ said Thelnetham with considerable authority. ‘Ever since he was obliged to make an undignified getaway from the tower roof. So if anyone rang the bell, it was God – because He is pleased that Suttone is winning.’
‘Suttone is not winning!’ yelled Hopeman. ‘I have secured far more votes, and tomorrow will see me installed as Chancellor.’
‘We shall see,’ said Suttone with quiet dignity. He was wearing his best habit and was freshly shaved. For the first time since he had put himself forward, he looked like Chancellor material. ‘I trust our colleagues to make the right decision.’
‘It is God who will decide, not them,’ countered Hopeman. ‘And anyone who votes against me will be damned for all eternity.’ He glowered around, causing several scholars to cross themselves as protection against his malign gaze. ‘Hah! Listen! The bell sounds yet again. That is the Almighty saying that I am right.’
‘It is a person up there,’ stated Michael firmly. ‘Not Satan or God.’
‘Heresy!’ shrieked Hopeman. ‘He is–’
‘It cannot be a person, Brother,’ interrupted Vicar Milde from St Clement’s. ‘Because I was in the narthex when it donged earlier, and I saw the rope move of its own volition. No one was anywhere near it.’
‘And the tower is locked,’ added Nicholas. ‘I checked before I came out. No one is up there pushing the bells around.’
‘Then the wind did it,’ shrugged Michael. ‘The louvres are open and–’
‘What wind?’ asked Thelnetham. ‘There is not so much as a breath of it.’
‘But that will change tonight,’ brayed Hopeman. ‘Because God will send a blizzard, as a warning to all those who plan to vote for a man who wants to turn the University into a brothel. He told me so Himself.’
‘You do not need to commune with God to know that there will be snow soon,’ countered Michael scathingly. ‘There are all manner of signs – the dirty yellow colour of the sky, the way the clouds are moving, the behaviour of the birds–’
‘You have been talking to Mad Clippesby!’ spat Hopeman in disgust. ‘That is the kind of inane remark he might make. I shall petition for him to be defrocked when I am Chancellor.’
There was a roar of agreement from his acolytes, followed by a bellow of anger from those who valued Clippesby’s quiet goodness.
‘You scholars!’ muttered Tulyet in disgust. ‘Any excuse for a spat.’
‘Right,’ said Michael purposefully, removing the tower keys from his scrip as the tenor sounded yet again. ‘I have had enough of this nonsense. Hopeman, Suttone – come with me. You can help me nab this prankster – a rogue, who has the credulous all a-flutter.’
Hopeman surged forward determinedly, although his acolytes held back, preferring to let him tackle whatever was inside. Suttone turned a little pale, but gamely fell in at Michael’s heels. No one else was inclined to follow, and there was a buzz of excited anticipation as the onlookers waited to see what would happen next.
‘Should we offer to help, Matt?’ asked Tulyet. ‘Or can Michael handle the mischief-maker on his own?’
‘He can manage.’ Bartholomew nodded to where a pack of beadles had assembled nearby. ‘They will take the culprit off his hands when he comes down. I imagine a student is up there, having a bit of fun at our expense.’
‘In that case, shall we go to St John Zachary? I hate wasting time, and Michael will be busy for a while yet. Rather than twiddle our thumbs, I suggest we find out what Frisby has to say about the tomb that was stolen from his church.’
They arrived to find the vicar in the graveyard, his back resting against a tomb, while his legs were splayed in front of him. He was drinking from a very large jug. It looked dissipated, and Bartholomew wondered why the Bishop did not oust him and appoint someone more suitable to the post.
‘Another theft from my poor chancel,’ Frisby slurred, his eyes red-rimmed and angry. ‘And from right under my nose, as well.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Tulyet.
‘I mean that I guessed it was only a matter of time before something else was swiped, given that those wretched tomb-makers have been using my church as their personal battleground, so I decided to stay here all night and keep watch.’
‘And what did you see?’ asked Tulyet eagerly.
‘Nothing, because I fell asleep. It was dark and quiet, and I was very tired.’
‘But you must have heard something,’ pressed Tulyet irritably. ‘Moving an entire tomb cannot be a silent task.’
‘It is if you know what you are doing,’ averred Frisby. ‘I could hardly believe my eyes when I woke up an hour ago to discover the whole thing missing.’
‘An hour ago?’ echoed Bartholomew in disbelief. ‘You slept all night and half the day?’
‘I was tired,’ repeated Frisby, although his dissipated appearance suggested that he had not been overcome by healthy sleep, but a drunken stupor. He sighed self-pityingly. ‘Monuments might look pretty in a church, but between you and me, they are more trouble than they are worth.’
Sensing that questioning him further would be a waste of time, Bartholomew opened the door to the church, and was immediately assailed by the sound of voices raised in fury. They belonged to Lakenham and Petit, who were in the chancel, quarrelling heatedly. The mason had his apprentices to back him, but Lakenham had Cristine, and when her stabbing finger connected with a rival’s chest, it hurt. Several lads were rubbing places where bruises would appear by the morning.
But it was the empty spot where Stanmore’s tomb had been that caught Bartholomew’s eye. All that remained were gouges in the floor, where it had stood. He glanced across at the vault, noting with relief that the thieves had left that alone at least, perhaps because the sealing slab was now suspended on its hoist, so moving it would be tricky.
‘I think I am beginning to understand at last,’ he said to Tulyet, who was at his side, watching the argument wearily. ‘We know the tomb-builders are innocent of the thefts, because they have alibis in Isnard and Gundrede.’