‘There was a time when I thought this place would have to be demolished,’ remarked Michael, as he opened the door. ‘But the last few months have seen it completely transformed.’
It was true. A fine hammerbeam roof now excluded the elements, and the windows were full of pretty stained glass. The floor was paved in creamy stones, and the walls were alive with murals depicting the life of St John the Baptist.
Stanmore’s tomb had pride of place, and occupied most of the south side of the chancel. The mason hired to build it was John Petit, who had come to Cambridge to erect the Dallingridge tomb in St Mary the Great. Personally, Bartholomew thought his sister should have hired someone else, as Petit was smugly aware that he was the only craftsman of his kind within a sixty-mile radius, and so tended to be both expensive and unreliable. Grand monuments were, however, currently in vogue, and Edith was determined that her beloved husband should have the best.
And even Bartholomew was forced to admit that Petit’s work was outstanding. The tomb comprised a handsome chest of pink marble with a canopy, which would eventually be topped with an effigy of him lying next to his wife. However, as Edith was still very much alive, Bartholomew found this prospect deeply disconcerting, although everyone assured him that it was common practice.
As the floor beneath the chancel was filled with the bodies of plague victims, Bartholomew had advised against disturbing them, and a separate vault was being prepared nearby. This was a steep-sided pit, large enough for Stanmore and Edith to lie side by side. Petit’s apprentices had dug it the first week that Edith had hired them, after which it had been lined with stone. Progress was painfully slow, however, and although the vault itself was finished, there had been problems with the granite slab that was to seal it, although Bartholomew had understood none of the explanations. As a result, Stanmore’s bones continued to languish in their temporary grave in the churchyard.
Bartholomew was astonished to see Petit actually at work there that day, despite the fading light. No visible progress had been made on the tomb or the vault since he had last visited, although the masons had nonetheless managed to create a tremendous mess. He opened his mouth to remonstrate, but Petit’s eyes were fixed on Michael.
‘I know why you are here, Brother,’ he said, smiling superiorly. ‘You have come to request my services for your Chancellor. Unfortunately, I am very busy, so if you want Tynkell’s tomb built in a hurry, it will cost you.’
‘Then I shall tell his executors to buy one from London,’ said Michael coolly.
Petit’s smug grin widened. ‘You can try, but the City workshops will transpire to be far more expensive in the long run – transporting large lumps of stone over such great distances does not come cheap.’
‘Then we shall have a funerary brass instead,’ shrugged the monk. ‘Those are far more reasonably priced.’
‘Brasses are rubbish,’ declared Petit haughtily and with conviction. ‘You do not want one of those, so let us do business. What do you have in mind for Tynkell?’
Before the monk could reply, the mason opened a bag and produced a series of exemplars – scale models of the different designs on offer. They ranged from the tastefully simple one that Edith had chosen for Stanmore, to the excruciatingly ornate monstrosity that was being created for Dallingridge. Bartholomew noted that since he had last been shown the collection, another template had been added – a sculpted canopy that would rise a good thirty feet into the air.
‘Please not that,’ he said, thinking it horribly vulgar.
Petit picked it up fondly. ‘This is for Master Godrich of King’s Hall. It will go in St Mary the Great, and he wants me to start it now, so he can enjoy looking at it while he is still alive.’
‘Then he is going to be disappointed,’ said Michael firmly, ‘because we are not having that thing in our nave. It would spoil the symmetry of the whole building.’
‘It will go in the chancel, not the nave,’ said Petit indignantly. ‘My work always sits in the holiest part of a church. I would not consider making tombs for anywhere less.’
Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘The chancel is not for the likes of Godrich – that is reserved for important scholars, such as myself. Or Chancellors, I suppose, although Tynkell did express a wish to be interred beneath the new bells.’
‘Under the bells,’ mused Petit, picking up a hammer and tapping desultorily at Stanmore’s lid. ‘That will put him in the narthex, where my handiwork will be the first thing anyone sees in ceremonial processions. Yes, I can live with that.’
Amused, Bartholomew envisioned the canopied monstrosity plonked in the west porch, where scholars and dignitaries would have to squeeze down the sides of it in order to get in. Then he remembered his responsibilities to his family and became serious again.
‘You cannot start another tomb until you have finished Oswald’s,’ he said. ‘Unless you want to annoy my sister.’
Petit blanched, as well he might, for Edith was formidable when riled, and he had been on the receiving end of more than one scolding for his lack of progress.
‘It is not my fault that this is taking longer than predicted,’ he whined. ‘I keep losing my supplies to thieves. Take this ledger slab, for example.’ He patted the tomb-chest’s lid, lest they did not know what he meant. ‘I had one ready cut and chamfered, but someone came along and filched it – which meant I had to start another from scratch.’
‘Someone stole a great lump of marble?’ asked Michael sceptically. ‘Why? You are the only mason in town, and it is hardly something that anyone else will want.’
‘Lakenham,’ replied Petit sullenly. ‘He took it. Have you met him? He moved here at the same time as me, and set up business in direct competition. He has been doing all he can to hinder my work and annoy my patrons.’
‘You mean there is a second mason for hire?’ asked Michael, brightening.
‘He is not a mason.’ Petit’s voice dripped disdain. ‘He is a lattener, a mere producer of brasses.’ He shuddered. ‘I should not like such a thing lying over me when I die. I want something decent.’
‘We shall bear it in mind,’ said Michael. ‘Now where can this lattener be found?’
‘Of course, Isnard the bargeman has an eye for fine stone, too,’ Petit went on, ignoring the question. ‘Him and his friend Gundrede. It is possible that they made off with my wares.’
‘Isnard is not a thief,’ said Bartholomew. Michael shot him a disbelieving look, so he hastened to modify his claim. ‘Not of large items, at least. He only has one leg, so lifting heavy objects is beyond– where are you going?’
Petit had started to pack away his tools.
‘I cannot do any more work on this until the mortar is dry,’ the mason explained. ‘If I tried, you would not be impressed with the result.’
‘What mortar?’ challenged Bartholomew, who could see that the bucket used to mix the stuff had not been moved in a week.
Petit waved an airy hand. ‘Mine is a painstaking craft, Doctor. Much progress has been made today, although no amateur eye will detect it. But I shall return first thing in the morning, and I will stay here all day.’
He slung his toolbag over his shoulder and marched out, leaving behind a muddle of discarded wood, dust and sundry other rubbish. Bartholomew supposed the vergers would be obliged to clean it up themselves if they wanted their chancel to be usable in the interim.