‘Did he say anything else?’
‘That he gave Huntyngdon a letter for Narboro, but he feared the errand may have caused Huntyngdon’s death.’
‘What sort of letter?’ demanded Michael. ‘Personal or University business?’
‘There was no time to ask. I heard him say litteratus, which made me think he was accusing a scholar, but then I thought he said non litteratus, suggesting someone with no claim to education. But which did he mean?’
Michael glared at him. ‘Well, you had better decide, Matt, because we must catch whoever did this. Not only was he a friend and a colleague, but we cannot have high-ranking University officers murdered with gay abandon.’
Tulyet called his son over. ‘Dickon, you have sharp ears. What did you hear the Chancellor say before he died?’
‘Not much, because he was muttering,’ replied Dickon. ‘But I thought he told Doctor Bartholomew that a scholar pushed him. It is probably true – they are a violent horde.’
Coming from Dickon, this was damning indeed.
Bartholomew raised his hands in a helpless shrug. ‘I am sorry, Brother. His voice was just too soft for me to catch.’
They stood in silence for a moment, all thinking of the man they had known for so many years. Then Tulyet became businesslike.
‘I used the ponticulus just before compline and he was not here then. Ergo, the culprit struck while the office was being recited, because the alarm was raised moments after it had finished. This may help you to establish alibis among your suspects.’
Michael glanced at the Chancellor’s body, now suspended in a cocoon of ropes. ‘What suspects? A scholar, angry with him for resigning? A townsman, aiming to strike a blow at the University? A common robber, hoping for his purse?’
‘Well, if the culprit is a scholar, you have less than ten days to find him,’ said Tulyet. ‘Most will leave on Saturday week, and some will never return. You must work fast.’
‘Brampton will,’ said Michael. ‘I have an election to win, and then a University to run. But who found the body? Do you know?’
‘The vicar of St Clement’s,’ replied Tulyet, and led the way to where the hapless priest stood wringing his hands in distress, white-faced and trembling.
‘I saw no one else in the vicinity,’ he blurted as they approached, anticipating their first question. ‘And all I heard were awful groans from the victim, which is what made me look over at the ponticulus. I shall never forget the horror of what I saw, not even if I live for a thousand years.’
‘Nor will we,’ said Michael grimly.
It was not long before Aynton was placed gently on the bridge, where Cynric was waiting to cover him with a blanket. Once the Chancellor was safe from prurient eyes, Michael knelt to pray again, while the book-bearer went to recruit bearers to carry him home. Aynton had lived in Clare Hall, where he had accepted a Fellowship after he had been made Chancellor.
Bartholomew stood with Tulyet, waiting for Michael to finish and Cynric to return, and together they watched Shardelowe dismantle the hoist. The builder was not alone for long, because Morys sidled up to him.
‘Our ponticulus must be mended by dawn, Shardelowe, or it will adversely affect tomorrow’s trade,’ he began. ‘If you do that free of charge tonight, I guarantee that the council will vote for a stone bridge on Friday.’
Shardelowe regarded him coolly. ‘I thought we had already agreed that they would.’
Morys shook his head. ‘What we agreed was that, rather than putting it out to tender, we will just appoint you to do whatever repairs you recommend. I made no mention of which materials would be used.’
‘But it must be stone!’ cried Shardelowe angrily. ‘Wood would not be worth my time.’
‘And I shall ensure it will be stone,’ said Morys smoothly. ‘But only if you repair the ponticulus tonight. Well? Shall we shake hands on it?’
Bartholomew would not have trusted Morys as far as he could spit, but Shardelowe grasped the proffered hand and allowed himself to be led away to discuss the particulars.
‘Morys did not even have the decency to lower his voice,’ he said, watching them go. ‘He just offered to fix the outcome of a council meeting, and cared nothing that the Sheriff was within earshot. I shall be glad when he steps down next month, so someone honest can take over.’
Tulyet laughed. ‘Morys flourished by being dishonest, and his replacement will likely do the same. Indeed, there is no other reason to take the job, unless you enjoy imposing unpopular taxes, dealing with fractious colleagues, and fending off the University.’
‘Will you report his antics to the King? Such brazen corruption cannot go unpunished.’
Tulyet grimaced. ‘I already have, but Morys greased the palms of a few royal judges, and my complaint was quietly forgotten. However, I have no objection to his machinations this time, because he is right to secure us a stone bridge – even more so, now I have seen what happened to Aynton. But speaking of the University’s officers, what is your Junior Proctor doing?’
Brampton was struggling to keep a group of drunken rowdies off the bridge. They were townsmen, so he had no authority over them, which they knew because they were jeering at him. His response was to flap his hands at them, which at first elicited a startled silence, then a chorus of mocking guffaws. Tulyet went to intervene, doing so with such consummate diplomacy that Brampton emerged with his dignity intact, which was nothing short of a miracle. Bartholomew wondered how Brampton would cope with a murder investigation, and hoped Aynton would not be deprived of justice because Michael’s deputy was an inept nonentity.
Because the monk had dismissed most of the gawping scholars when he had first arrived, Cynric was having trouble finding anyone suitable to carry Aynton to Clare Hall. Then two students came to offer their services, although Bartholomew was not pleased to see that they were Stasy and Hawick, who had rebelliously ignored his order to return to Michaelhouse.
‘I am not letting them near a corpse,’ hissed Cynric to Bartholomew. ‘They may swipe bits of it for dark purposes.’
Cynric was deeply superstitious and spent a lot of time with Margery Starre. He claimed to be a Christian, although the pagan amulets on his hat suggested that he was not a very committed one. He saw the hand of Satan everywhere, even – on occasion – in students.
‘I do not think–’ began Bartholomew, but Cynric cut across him.
‘They are not to be trusted. You sent them home, but here they are, clamouring to tote cadavers about. It is not natural. Anyway, I do not like them.’
Nor did Bartholomew, but as the book-bearer had failed to find anyone else to help with Aynton, he had no choice but to accept their help.
‘They can take the front, while you and I carry the back,’ said Bartholomew, seeing his consternation. ‘They will not misbehave while we are right behind them.’
‘They might,’ countered Cynric. ‘But I have a charm that should keep them in line. If they try anything nasty, they will disappear in a puff of smoke.’
Bartholomew knew better than to reason with him, and was about to walk towards the stretcher himself when Dickon arrived with the clear intention of lending a hand, too. The boy was nearly a head shorter than the two students, but considerably bulkier, and Bartholomew had no doubts that he was equal to the task, despite his tender years.
‘And he is another who Satan loves,’ whispered Cynric, shooting him a venomous glare. ‘My charm will work against him as well.’