Thelnetham stood to gain the most from the plan, and was doubtless waiting impatiently for the bells to fall, so he could offer to step into the breach afforded by the death or disappearance of the other four candidates. And his colleagues would accept him without demur. He had demonstrated himself to be eloquent, decent and intelligent, a man who had stood aside and graciously lent his support to a rival.
Then there was Stoke Poges. Who had claimed that Lyng hailed from the next village, that Tynkell wanted its chapel for the University, and that both men had visited the manor? The story about a horseman bearing the Stoke Poges insignia had been Thelnetham’s, too – another falsehood probably, given that no one else had seen it. Then there was Yevele, who had left Stoke Poges and begged for work at the castle on the Gilbertine’s recommendation. And what had Yevele done? Let Moleyns out at night!
It was not only false trails that Thelnetham had left – he had contributed to the confusion about witchery, too. He had told the tale about Lyng, Moleyns and Tynkell comparing horned serpents in St Mary the Great, but it was something that would never have happened – Tynkell had gone to considerable trouble to keep his symbols hidden, and would never have risked baring them in a public place.
Bartholomew reached Piron Lane to find the drifts even deeper. His legs ached so badly that he longed to stop, but the thought of Michael and the others who were about to be slaughtered kept him slogging on. To take his mind off the agony, he thought again about Thelnetham.
Why had the Gilbertine ‘discovered’ Lyng’s body, when it would have been better to leave it for someone else? Bartholomew closed his eyes. Thelnetham was devious indeed! He had known exactly what everyone would conclude – that he would not have raised the alarm if he had been the killer. The ploy had worked – they had taken it into account when they had dismissed him as a suspect, especially as it came with a confession about his illicit relationship with Nicholas. It had lost him votes, of course, but what did that matter, when he had other plans to see himself in power?
Bartholomew reached the High Street, relieved beyond measure to find it clearer, allowing him to make better time. As he stumbled along this final leg, he pondered Cook’s testimony.
The barber had overheard the killer talking to Inge – someone ‘educated, clever and confident’, who had put the lawyer in his place. Nicholas was incapable of such a feat, but Thelnetham’s caustic tongue made him formidable. And when Moleyns had charged Cook to ‘ask the secret air’, he had not been suggesting that the secretary was the killer, but that Cook should question Nicholas about the culprit.
St Mary the Great was closer now, and the singing was much louder. Bartholomew groaned. He might have been able to yell a warning if it had been any other group of singers, but the monk had contrived to use the Michaelhouse Choir, which meant the noise inside would be deafening. He could bawl all he liked, but no one would hear him.
Answers continued to pour into his mind as he struggled along the last few steps. Lyng had quarrelled with two people the night he died: Hopeman and someone he had called a ‘black villain’ – not a Dominican, but a Gilbertine, who had ‘howled like a girl’ when he had been slapped. And finally, there was the dog. They made Thelnetham sneeze, so it was doubtless Frisby who had obliged with the lamb shank, while the Gilbertine lurked in the cloak he had stolen from Cristine, ready to ply his deadly spike.
Bartholomew reached the church at last, and stumbled inside with relief. It was packed with scholars and awash with noise. He scrambled on to the base of a pillar, and peered over the sea of heads towards the chancel. Suttone stood triumphantly next to the Senior Proctor, while Hopeman glowered ungraciously from the sidelines.
Bartholomew looked around wildly. Where was Thelnetham? Hiding, like Nicholas and Frisby, so he could claim to have been elsewhere when the disaster occurred? Then he glanced towards the tower. No! Thelnetham was meticulous, and would not risk his plan failing at the last hurdle. He would be with the bells, to ensure that they fell on cue.
He began to shove through the massed scholars, earning himself retaliatory pokes and shoves in the process. He tried to shout to them, to beg their help, but the choir was bellowing at the top of its collective lungs, and the few words he could make heard were greeted with incredulous gazes. His appearance did not help – he was wearing Isnard’s leather hat and the clothes he had taken from the warehouse, while every other Regent master was in his ceremonial best.
He reached the narthex just as the procession began to move down the nave. He would have a little time, because Suttone would walk slowly, thanking those who had voted for him, and accepting the sheepish congratulations of those who had not.
Beadles stood ready to throw open the Great West Door when Suttone reached it, but there was a problem: it was unexpectedly locked, and no one could find the key. Bartholomew watched their rising agitation helplessly. Thelnetham was thorough indeed – those at the back of the procession would push forward when those at the front stopped, creating a crush that would see a veritable massacre when the bells and their frame crashed through the ceiling.
Bartholomew managed to reach the tower door, and was startled when a frantic shove saw it swing inwards. But of course it was open – Thelnetham would want to be on hand as soon as possible after the tragedy, to take command with a show of calm competence. Locked doors would slow him down.
‘Help me!’ he howled at the top of his voice, grabbing Master Heltisle of Bene’t College by the arm and giving him a vigorous shake. ‘Please!’
He could not hear what Heltisle said in return, but the expression on the man’s haughty face made it clear that no assistance would be coming from that quarter – and also told him that trying to recruit anyone else would likely be a waste of valuable seconds. He was on his own.
Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he turned to the spiral staircase and began to climb.
Thelnetham was in the bell chamber, perched on a narrow ledge behind the frame and holding a crowbar. He jumped in surprise when Bartholomew stumbled in, and stood slowly. He had left his cloak in the doorway, folded neatly with the large purple brooch laid on top of it. For the first time, Bartholomew saw the back of the brooch – it had a long, thin pin.
‘So that is how you killed them,’ he said, watching the Gilbertine inch around the wall towards him. ‘I should have guessed.’
‘You should.’ Thelnetham was too intelligent to bother with denials. ‘I never made an attempt to hide it, and a brooch that large will inevitably have a big fastener.’
‘Come down,’ ordered Bartholomew. ‘Nicholas and Frisby are caught. It is over.’
‘Do not take me for a fool, Matthew. If it was over, there would be pandemonium. Instead, the choir is happily singing.’ He lunged suddenly, and kicked the door closed. There was a snap as the latch clicked down on the outside. ‘There. You cannot escape now. You will go down with the bells. I, of course, will be safe up here.’
‘But you will be locked in – and no one will come to let you out.’
‘I do not need anyone’s help to escape. I shall merely prise the door open with this crowbar when it is time for me to save the day.’
Bartholomew looked around quickly. Thelnetham had inserted his lever between the wall and the frame – one good heave would see the whole thing pop out, especially if Suttone set the bells swinging at the same time. The frame was already listing badly, pulled down by the great weight of the tenor. But a plan was beginning to take shape in Bartholomew’s mind, although it was a desperate one, and he was not sure it would work.