‘Why did you kill Tynkell on the roof?’ he asked, aiming to keep Thelnetham talking while angles, weights and measurements flashed through his mind.
Thelnetham smiled. ‘It suited my penchant for the dramatic, although I did not expect him to put up quite such a fight – he almost throttled me at one point. I was tempted to do something similar for Lyng, but Nicholas advised me against it.’
‘You were sorry about Lyng, though,’ said Bartholomew, walking cautiously across the trapdoor, which flexed alarmingly under his weight. He glanced up; the bells hung directly above him. ‘You arranged his body with care.’
Thelnetham shrugged. ‘I asked him nicely to withdraw, but he refused. Slapped me, in fact. Even so, I had no wish to kill an old man …’
The choir was singing even louder. Did it mean they were nearly at the narthex? Bartholomew was seized by a sudden panic. If his plan failed, the carnage would be terrible!
‘Moleyns knew you were dangerous,’ he gabbled, afraid that Thelnetham would read his mind if he remained silent. ‘He told Cook. How did he guess?’
‘Because of Yevele – the soldier who let him out at night. Rashly, I confided my ambitions to the lad, but he betrayed me to Moleyns for a shilling.’
‘So you killed him,’ surmised Bartholomew. ‘The tale about helping Yevele escape was pure fabrication.’
‘Not entirely. I did give him money. I also gave him a flask of poisoned wine.’
‘You lied about the horseman who rode away after Moleyns was killed too.’
‘Yes, and about my alibis – neither Nicholas nor my Gilbertine brethren were with me at the time, although you did not bother to check.’ Thelnetham shook his head in disgust. ‘It has been so easy to fool you that I am glad I shall soon be in charge. The University deserves better.’
‘I cannot believe that you have stooped to such evil,’ said Bartholomew, taking a small step to his right. ‘You! A monk and a friend.’
‘A “friend” who was ousted from Michaelhouse,’ countered Thelnetham bitterly. ‘And what better way to avenge myself than winning the chancellorship? When I am in post, Mad Clippesby will be locked away, and William and Langelee will be sent packing. I need not bother with you, Suttone and Michaeclass="underline" you will be dead.’
‘And Kolvyle?’
‘He can stay. He reminds me of myself at that age – ambitious, clever and undervalued.’
Bartholomew took another step. ‘If you are so clever, why did you not find the cloak that blew away from the top of the tower? I know that is why you were out in the Barnwell Fields that day – it was nothing to do with the dying Widow Miller. Your poor grasp of geometry meant you could not predict where it had landed.’
‘Well, you did not find it either,’ retorted Thelnetham, nettled.
‘Yes, I did – it is in Michaelhouse. Langelee will show it to Agatha, and she will identify it as yours. Laundresses are well acquainted with the garments they look after. You will be exposed as “the Devil” who fought Tynkell on the roof.’
Thelnetham shrugged. ‘Then I shall deny it, and who will doubt the Chancellor? But I am afraid our little chat must end now. The bell ropes are beginning to move, which means that someone is preparing to ring.’
Bartholomew had also been watching the ropes. He grabbed the one that was twitching and hauled it upwards as fast as he could, then did the same to the other. Below, the anthem petered out as the peculiar phenomenon was observed. Thelnetham laughed derisively.
‘The frame will fall regardless of whether the bells are pulled, because it will–’
He faltered when Bartholomew reached up, and swung the clapper hard against the side of the nearest bell – the self-chiming tenor had caused considerable consternation the day before, and he prayed it would do so again. The frame gave an almighty groan, and dust poured from one wall as it shifted in its moorings, but the bell sounded loud and clear. The singing stopped altogether, which was Bartholomew’s chance.
‘Satan is in the tower!’ he hollered. ‘Run for your lives!’
Thelnetham snatched up his crowbar. ‘It is too late, Matthew. The Great West Door will not open, and everyone will mill around in confusion, trapping those in front. Nothing you do can make any difference now.’
‘Lucifer is here!’ howled Bartholomew at the top of his voice, giving the bell another belt and then stamping hard on the trapdoor, so it gave a hollow and sinister boom. ‘Run!’
Thelnetham released an almighty bellow of effort as he heaved on his lever, and Bartholomew dived towards the window as the frame began to tip. There was a groaning roar as the great mass of wood and metal slid to the floor, accompanied by the distraught clanging of bells. There was a moment when it held, but then the floorboards began to buckle.
‘Goodbye, Matthew,’ called Thelnetham tauntingly.
‘Geometry,’ Bartholomew shouted back from the windowsill, watching the Gilbertine’s gloat turn to alarm as his ledge began to crumble. ‘Your grasp of it is poor, or you would have chosen somewhere else to stand.’
And then the frame and bells were gone in a tearing rumble. There was a split second of silence, followed by a crash and a massive billow of dust and plaster. Before he was enveloped in a dense cloud of it, Bartholomew saw two things: Thelnetham clinging frantically to the ledge with his fingertips before tumbling downwards, and – through the window – Michael, Suttone and the choir racing away to safety.
Epilogue
Two weeks later
‘I think Suttone will make a very good Chancellor,’ said Michael, as he stood with Bartholomew, Michael, Langelee and Cynric in St Mary the Great, where the Carmelite had just been installed. ‘I thought he lacked gravitas, but he has a lot more of it than poor Tynkell.’
The Carmelite was radiant in his new robes of office, and had addressed the University in a clear, authoritative voice that carried even to Hopeman and his resentful deacons at the back. The speech had been a masterpiece of conciliation and optimism, and every word of it had been written by Michael.
‘When do you leave, Brother?’ asked Cynric. ‘I thought you needed to be in Rochester days ago, lest the Bishop of Bangor arranged to have himself consecrated in your place.’
Michael smiled serenely. ‘I heard a rumour that he stands accused of misappropriating diocesan funds, so I felt duty bound to pass the information to Canterbury. The charge will have to be investigated, so he will not be usurping anyone’s See for the foreseeable future.’
‘So when are you going?’ pressed Cynric.
‘Tomorrow, but I shall be back after Easter. After all, I cannot leave Suttone too long.’
‘No,’ agreed Langelee. ‘Thelnetham’s machinations proved yet again just how much we need you. It was a close thing with those bells.’
‘It was a despicable thing to have attempted,’ said Michael, still angry. ‘Had it succeeded, it would have been indiscriminate slaughter – not just of Suttone, me and the other officials, but of my choir. And all for Thelnetham’s personal gain.’
‘I spoke to Cristine Lakenham yesterday,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Her stolen cloak did have an embroidered hem.’
Michael nodded. ‘I found it in Thelnetham’s room at the Gilbertine Priory, which is yet more proof of his guilt. But speaking of the tomb-makers, did you know they left this morning?’
‘What, all of them?’ asked Langelee, startled. ‘Masons and latteners?’
‘Petit and his people have gone to London, while the Lakenhams head west to Hereford. They will feud no longer.’
‘But Lakenham cut Oswald’s brass before he left,’ said Bartholomew. ‘A plain one with a simple cross – very tasteful. And the tomb-chest was the first thing we retrieved from Quy, so it is back in its place at St John Zachary. Oswald’s monument is now officially finished, and Edith is delighted.’