Bartholomew took a step to his left, and this time Frisby did not notice, because he had retrieved his crossbow and was fiddling with it. Fortunately for Bartholomew, its rough treatment had smashed the winding mechanism. He spoke to Nicholas again.
‘You offered two marks for its return, an enormous sum designed to cause trouble.’
‘It worked. The resulting fuss distracted the Sheriff and Senior Proctor very nicely. Of course, they are not the only nuisances we saw off …’
‘Whittlesey,’ surmised Bartholomew. ‘He is an intelligent, observant man, and you feared he might realise what was happening, so you sent a letter to Godrich, purporting to be from Bishop Sheppey, warning him to watch his cousin.’
Nicholas inclined his head. ‘Godrich did not let Whittlesey out of his sight, which made it impossible for the man to pry. How did you guess?’
‘Because Sheppey would never have written such a thing about a man he considered to be a friend. Because it was dated the day before Sheppey’s death, but the signature was too strong and firm for a dying man. And because it was addressed to a “favoured son in Christ”.
‘Which Godrich was not,’ chuckled Nicholas. ‘A small joke on my part.’
‘You wrote other letters, too,’ said Bartholomew, shifting another inch to his left. ‘To Whittlesey, telling him about Godrich’s predilection for witchery, knowing that a Benedictine would never countenance such a man in charge of a university. And to Lyng, which you had to retrieve by breaking into Maud’s.’
‘The handwriting,’ explained Nicholas. ‘Michael would have recognised it as mine.’
Bartholomew rubbed his aching head. ‘But why go to all this trouble when Tynkell was on the verge of retiring anyway? Why not wait?’
‘And give the wealthy all that time to buy the post? You saw how many scholars Godrich bribed in a few days – imagine what he would have managed over a period of months. Hah! More cheers. It will not be long now.’
‘You cannot murder people in a church.’ Bartholomew’s voice cracked with despair. ‘You will be damned for all eternity.’
Nicholas laughed. ‘You think that worries me?’ He pulled back his sleeve to reveal the horned serpent that was inked there.
Bartholomew gazed at it in despair, and tried another tack. ‘Are you skulking in here because you cannot bear to watch the results of your despicable crime? You are cowards, who dare not look on the faces of their victims?’
‘No,’ replied Nicholas. ‘We are hiding here so that no one can accuse us of having a hand in the disaster later.’ He glanced at Frisby, and his muscles bunched as he prepared for the jump that would send the granite crashing downwards. ‘Do you have a knife, Frisby? Good. Then stop messing about with that useless crossbow, and stab him.’
Even the drunken Frisby was unlikely to miss from such close range, so with nothing to lose, Bartholomew hurled himself at Nicholas, aiming to knock him off the slab in the desperate, if unrealistic, hope that Cynric and Tulyet might be able to use the respite to save themselves.
Nicholas was in the act of jumping down hard when Bartholomew slammed into him, but the physician misjudged the distance. Instead of knocking Nicholas clean away, he only spun him around, and the secretary landed on one corner of the stone. Bartholomew’s own momentum sent him tumbling across the floor to fetch up against the far wall. Cynric howled his terror as there was an unpleasant grating sound, and the stone juddered disturbingly.
At the same time, Frisby released a bellow of frustration: his wild swipe had missed Bartholomew, but the blade had flown from his fingers and was clattering away from him over the flagstones towards the vault.
Bartholomew struggled to his feet and gazed at the slab in alarm, expecting to see it in the process of crashing downwards. But it was wedged at an angle, and he saw it was held there by Nicholas’s leg, which was trapped in the space between it and the lip of the vault. The secretary was silent for a moment, then he screamed in pain.
‘Behind you, Matt!’ yelled Tulyet.
Bartholomew turned to see Frisby, ham-sized fists ready to deliver a pummelling. But the physician was faster and lighter, and was able to deliver two brisk clouts to the dissipated face before snatching up the jug he had brought from the porch. Meanwhile, despite his agony, Nicholas had managed to grab the dagger his kinsman had dropped.
‘Drive him towards me, Frisby,’ the secretary rasped in a voice that was thick with pain. ‘I will stab him, and then you can help me out. Hurry – it hurts!’
Frisby started to oblige, but Bartholomew swung the jug with all his might, and knocked him backwards. It was another misjudgement on Bartholomew’s part, because the blow sent the vicar staggering towards the vault. He could hardly bear to watch as Frisby’s foot caught on the edge of the granite and over he went. The vicar landed on top of Nicholas, who released another shriek of anguish.
But by some miracle, the granite slab still did not fall, although Frisby lay unmoving across his howling cousin.
‘He came down on the dagger,’ shouted Tulyet to Bartholomew, his eyes just visible through the slit between the stone and the lip of the vault – he was standing on Cynric’s shoulders. ‘Did it kill him?’
Bartholomew felt for a life-beat, then hauled the dead vicar away before his weight could drive the slab downwards anyway. ‘Yes. Can you push–’
‘Stop!’ cried Tulyet, as Bartholomew put his fingers under the enormous stone and prepared to heave. ‘You will bring it down on us for certain if you try to lift it on your own. Examine Nicholas. Is he still alive?’
Bartholomew winced when he saw the state of the secretary’s leg. Even if Nicholas survived the shock of such a terrible injury, the limb would have to come off in its entirety. ‘He has fainted.’
‘Here,’ said Tulyet, shoving a piece of rope through the gap. ‘Fasten that to the hoist – it will keep us safe until help arrives.’
‘How badly are you hurt? Frisby said he shot you?’
‘I will survive. Now go to St Mary the Great. Quickly!’
Outside, snow had started to fall again. Bartholomew began to wade through it, cursing the unsteadiness of his legs. Then he heard a round of applause, although not a particularly enthusiastic one. It told him that someone had been declared the University’s new Chancellor, which meant it would not be long before the procession moved towards the narthex.
He tried to move faster, legs burning with exhaustion and breath coming in ragged gasps. There came the sound of singing as the choir began the final anthem. He skidded on ice, twisting his knee, which made him limp for a few steps. His uneven gait reminded him of the way Nicholas walked. And then he stopped in horror.
The secretary was not the killer! How could he be? A lame man could never have done battle with the Chancellor on the roof, then scampered down the stairs to hide in the Chest Room. There was also the ‘woman’ in the cloak with the embroidered hem – ‘she’ had not been limping. And scrambling down the ivy at Maud’s would have been an impossible feat.
Bartholomew stumbled on again. Nicholas had taken credit for the killings, but it was a lie. However, he knew so much about the crimes that he had obviously discussed them with the real culprit – which meant that the two of them were friends. Very close friends.
Bartholomew felt sick with horror. Thelnetham! He was the clever mind behind all the plots and misinformation. And with that, answers tumbled into Bartholomew’s mind so fast that it was difficult to analyse them all.