Chapter 19
‘I told you I could lure him in, Frisby,’ said Nicholas smugly. ‘Now kill him.’
Frisby stepped forward to oblige, but he was unsteady with drink, so Bartholomew was able to roll away before the cudgel landed. The force of the blow chipped a flagstone, and caused the vicar to stumble. While he staggered, Bartholomew scrambled to his feet.
‘Matt!’ It was Tulyet’s voice, muffled and indistinct. ‘Be watchful!’
Bartholomew looked around wildly. It sounded as though the Sheriff had spoken from below him. Then he noticed that Stanmore’s vault was sealed. Or almost sealed – the granite slab had been positioned badly, so that one side was higher than the other and there was a gap all along one edge. His stomach lurched: Cynric’s hat was caught in it. The book-bearer and Tulyet were inside.
Frisby swiped with the cudgel again, dragging Bartholomew’s attention back to the fight. Bartholomew darted behind a pillar, dodging first one way and then the other as the vicar tried to reach him. At the same time, Nicholas surged forward and jumped on the lopsided stone. There was an immediate grating sound, and Cynric released a wail of terror.
‘Petit is an indifferent craftsman,’ called Nicholas tauntingly. ‘This slab is too small, and it will not take much to send it crashing down on those below. Surrender, or they die.’
Bartholomew felt despair begin to overwhelm him. Was he to lose all his friends that day? He tried to force his shock-numbed mind to work – to devise a plan to defeat Nicholas and Frisby, while staying alive to rescue Michael. Or was it already too late?
‘The bells,’ he said in a choked voice. ‘You arranged for them to fall …’
Nicholas smiled coldly. ‘I expect to hear them plummet any time now.’
So it had not happened yet. Bartholomew glanced towards the door. Could he reach it without Frisby braining him? It would condemn Cynric and Tulyet to certain death, but he might be able to avert a massacre in St Mary the Great. Or would the journey take too long in the snow – in which case, should he try to save Tulyet and Cynric? He experienced a futile surge of anger with Nicholas, for forcing him to make such a terrible choice.
The secretary seemed to read his mind. ‘Your friends stormed in here, expecting to catch me with ease, but Frisby shot Tulyet, while I knocked Cynric senseless with a slingshot.’
‘You shot Tulyet?’ asked Bartholomew in horror.
‘In the leg – we guessed he would be wearing armour,’ said Frisby. ‘But it immobilised him enough to let us shove him and the book-bearer down the vault. They will die when the slab falls on them – unless you desist this lurching about and give yourself up.’
‘Please,’ begged Bartholomew, knowing perfectly well that Nicholas would then just dispatch all three of them. ‘There has been enough killing.’
‘On the contrary, it has only just started.’ Nicholas shifted slightly, and the stone scraped against the edge of the hole; Cynric whimpered. ‘But the end is in sight. The bells will fall and we shall be rid of Michael, Suttone, Hopeman and everyone else who stands in our way. Then we can install a better Chancellor.’
‘Thelnetham will not do it,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘He will never accept a post that has been won by such foul means.’
‘Of course he will,’ slurred Frisby, lunging again. ‘And he will reward me with a nice easy living somewhere. Stoke Poges, perhaps.’
‘I doubt that is in the University’s gift.’ Bartholomew pointed at Nicholas. ‘I imagine he fabricated the deed of ownership, to make us think that manor held the key to the murders. But the connections between it and the victims are spurious.’
Nicholas could not resist a smirk. ‘They are, although you followed the crumbs I left like hungry birds. Lyng did not hail from the next village, Tynkell never tried to get its chapel, and neither ever visited the place.’
‘You will not have an easy living, Frisby,’ said Bartholomew, aiming to drive a wedge between the pair. ‘Because when you are of no further use, he will kill you as well.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Nicholas, so quickly that Bartholomew was sure the vicar’s fate was already sealed. ‘He is my kinsman: I would never harm him.’
‘He is angry with you for telling us about the dog,’ lied Bartholomew. Had he heard shouting in the distance? Did it mean the voting was over and the procession was on the move? ‘The clue that explained how he made Moleyns fall off his horse.’
Frisby frowned. ‘Yes, I mentioned the dog, but only because others must have done the same, and it would have looked suspicious to keep it quiet.’
‘It gave you away,’ persisted Bartholomew. ‘Along with telling us that the bone was a lamb shank – a detail no one else knew. There is a warrant for your arrest–’
‘Ignore him, Frisby,’ instructed Nicholas. ‘He is making it up.’
‘Nicholas is much cleverer than you,’ sneered the vicar. ‘He laid not one false trail, but two: Stoke Poges and witchery. Tynkell and Lyng made some youthful mistakes, but were good sons of the Church most of their adult lives. Moleyns was not, but Satanism is not what they discussed in St Mary the Great.’
‘I know,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We had the truth from Cook. Tynkell and Lyng went to grovel to Moleyns, in the hope of winning favourable mentions at Court.’
He glanced at the vault. Cynric and Tulyet were resourceful. Were they devising an escape plan while he kept Nicholas and Frisby talking? But the hole was deep and the stone too heavy to move from the inside, especially if both were incapacitated. He raised a hand to his head. It shook with tension.
‘But not for themselves,’ explained Nicholas. ‘For the University. You see, Tynkell did confide his plans to me. He aimed to use Moleyns to promote the University to royal ears – his parting gift before he retired. Lyng agreed to help.’
‘Why would Lyng do that?’ asked Bartholomew suspiciously. ‘His colleagues told us that he despised Moleyns.’
‘Oh, he did, but he was willing to swallow his distaste for the benefit of the University he had served for so many years. Poor Tynkell devoted his every waking moment to the scheme – at the expense of all his other duties. And when Moleyns invited Tynkell to discuss “certain business”, he referred to his power to expedite royal patronage.’
Bartholomew knew he needed to forget about Nicholas and get to St Mary the Great. He could not help Tulyet and Cynric, and it was time to be pragmatic, unpleasant though that was. He forced himself to take a step towards the door, but Frisby blocked him.
‘You told Michael that Tynkell was quiet and withdrawn,’ he said, in an effort to distract them with more words before making a dash for freedom. ‘And that he had developed a habit of muttering about Satan.’
Nicholas laughed and the stone wobbled. ‘I lied.’
Bartholomew was aware of a creeping sense of defeat as he recalled all the ‘clues’ that had led him astray: Marjory’s claim that Moleyns had spoken to Lyng before he died – perhaps he had, but it was irrelevant; Kolvyle’s association with Moleyns, which was just a continuation of a harmless friendship started in Nottingham; the curious antics of Whittlesey and Godrich; and the arguments between Hopeman and Lyng. None were pertinent to the murders.
‘You will not profit from helping Cook and Inge,’ he said desperately. ‘They are dead, and your beloved bell lies at the bottom of the river.’
‘I already have what I wanted from the thieves,’ smiled Nicholas. ‘Namely adjustments made to the remaining two bells and their frame. A share of their profits was never part of the agreement.’