‘But what about Wilson?’ asked Langelee worriedly. ‘Who will trim his lid – assuming it is ever found, of course?’
‘Perhaps we should fill his chest with soil and grow vegetables in it,’ suggested Cynric irreverently. He had not liked Wilson.
Bartholomew laughed. ‘Do not worry, Master. Dick’s engineers are confident that they will find everything that was lost. They plan to fish out the treble bell today.’
‘And Dallingridge’s executors have offered to pay for it to be rehung,’ added Michael, ‘in exchange for his mortal remains. They will take them to Sussex next month, and his monument here will be dismantled.’
Cynric frowned. ‘That is a peculiar thing to do. And why Sussex?’
‘It is the Dallingridge family seat,’ explained Michael. ‘And his executors live there – which means they can keep an eye on the new tomb’s progress. The builder will not be Petit, though: they are suing him for breach of promise, and have hired a new mason instead. Dallingridge is fortunate to have such devoted friends.’
‘Especially given that he suspected them of poisoning him,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But that was Cook, to gain himself a wealthy patient.’
‘Cook was a rogue,’ said Michael in distaste. ‘He killed Lucas, Reames and Peres in cold blood.’
‘Not to mention the harm he did to his patients,’ put in Bartholomew. ‘He would have let Isnard and Gundrede hang for his crimes, too – Dick was sure they were guilty.’
‘Isnard and the choir will miss you when you go, Brother,’ said Cynric. ‘He told me only last night that Cambridge will not be the same without you.’
‘Of course not,’ agreed Michael. ‘I am indispensable, as Rochester will also discover.’
‘Dallingridge is where all this started, of course,’ sighed Langelee. ‘He waxed so lyrical about Cambridge that Moleyns, Cook and the tomb-makers decided to make it their new home as well.’
‘Bringing with them their criminal ways,’ said Cynric disapprovingly. ‘Did you ever find out why he chose to write to Godrich, of all people, informing him that he had been fed a toxin, and appending a list of all the folk he thought might have done it?’
‘Dallingridge wrote to lots of people,’ explained Langelee. ‘Including Tynkell, the vicar of St Mary the Great and the Mayor. The poison took weeks to work, and all he could do as he lay there was try to work out who had killed him. He never did though.’
Michael’s thoughts returned to Thelnetham. ‘Perhaps we should have let him back into Michaelhouse – then he might not have felt the need to prove himself by becoming Chancellor. After all, he was an excellent teacher, and his death is a waste of a brilliant mind.’
‘Where is Kolvyle?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking of another brilliant mind.
‘Gone to Avignon,’ replied Langelee with a sudden grin. ‘Some weeks ago I wrote to our Bishop and told him that Kolvyle was the wiliest scholar I had ever met. Well, you know de Lisle – ever eager for sly minds to further his own ambitions – so Kolvyle has been offered a post in his retinue. Our Junior Fellow will be gloating over his good fortune as we speak.’
‘But?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I sense a caveat.’
‘Oh, yes. De Lisle is a fading star, beleaguered by scandal and accusation. His fall from grace has already begun, and it will not be long before he hits the bottom, taking his followers with him. Afterwards, Kolvyle will be lucky to find a village school that will employ him.’
‘My own appointment came just in time then,’ said Michael comfortably. ‘I do not need de Lisle any longer.’
‘I feel sorry for Tulyet, though,’ said Langelee, nodding to where the Sheriff stood with the other town worthies, leaning heavily on a stick. ‘He remains distressed by Helbye’s betrayal. I can scarce believe it myself. Helbye always seemed such a solid man.’
‘He liked to give that impression,’ sniffed Cynric. ‘But you should have heard him when he was in his cups, moaning and complaining. The Sheriff should have asked me about his loyalty. I would have given him the truth.’
‘But Tulyet had some good news this morning,’ Langelee went on. ‘The King is satisfied that Moleyns’ killer met his just deserts, and wrote to say that the matter is closed. The messenger is a friend of mine, and he told me that His Majesty is actually rather relieved that Moleyns is dead. They were friends, but …’
‘But what?’ asked Michael curiously.
‘But his captivity meant he was no longer as rich as he was, so he was unable to make such generous donations – at which point, he became more embarrassment than boon. Tulyet has been told to raise no monument to his memory, and to ensure he is quietly forgotten.’
‘What about Egidia?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Is she still under arrest?’
Langelee shook his head. ‘Stoke Poges has been returned to her, and she will live out her life there in quiet obscurity. Inge is dead, so she is unlikely to resume a life of crime on her own. At least, not successfully.’
‘Before she left, Dick asked her if Moleyns had a horned serpent inked on his foot,’ said Michael. ‘He did not – Thelnetham lied about that, as he lied about so much else.’
Cynric was more interested in the thieves. ‘Greed killed Inge and his cronies,’ he said. ‘If they had stolen less, their barge would not have sunk and they might have lived. It was divine justice at its best. The same is true of Nicholas – if he had not tried to kill me and the Sheriff, his leg would not have been crushed, maiming him for life.’
‘He died last night,’ said Bartholomew soberly. ‘I did my best, but he lost the will to live once he heard that Thelnetham was dead and all their plans lay in tatters.’
‘I have arranged for him to be buried next to Thelnetham and Frisby,’ added Michael. ‘Behind the Gilbertine Priory.’
‘In a muddy spot near the latrine,’ smirked Cynric. ‘Which is popular with slugs. Thelnetham would have been mortified – and it serves him right.’
A short while later, when the celebrations were over, the four Michaelhouse men were walking home when they heard the clatter of hoofs. It was Meadowman, back at last from his hunt for Whittlesey.
‘Which was a waste of time,’ muttered Cynric sourly. ‘Given that Whittlesey was innocent. Indeed, he was actually on our side, and gave Isnard a list of excellent places for begging, borrowing and stealing the supplies necessary for mending our pier.’
‘You took your time,’ said Michael, looking the exhausted beadle up and down. ‘I was worried. I sent another patrol after you, but they lost you in London.’
‘Because I went on to Canterbury,’ explained Meadowman. ‘I am not sure how to tell you this, Brother, and I have been thinking about the words every step of the way back …’
‘Oh, Lord!’ gulped Michael. ‘Now what?’
‘Whittlesey,’ began Meadowman wretchedly. ‘He rode straight to the Archbishop and told him that you would not make a very good prelate after all. He said that he should be Bishop of Rochester instead.’
Michael blinked. ‘Then I had better ride there at once! Whittlesey will not snatch my mitre from under my nose.’
‘I am afraid he already has,’ whispered Meadowman. ‘He was consecrated last Sunday. I tried to come back and warn you, but he kept me in prison until the rite was over.’
Michael regarded him in dismay. ‘But Sheppey nominated me as his successor, a decision that was approved by the King. And the Archbishop, for that matter.’
‘Whittlesey has a silver tongue, and he is the Archbishop’s favourite nephew. Moreover, he is under the impression that you paid Godrich to spy on him. He believes it is because you have nasty secrets.’