‘His post was non-stipendiary,’ said Michael. ‘So Clare could not appoint a successor – there was no money to fund one. You should have been more careful with your selection of victims.’
Tyrington shook his head wonderingly. ‘I chose Wenden because he was mean and did virtually no teaching. He hurt Clare in other ways, too, such as by leaving his money to the Bishop of Lincoln–’
‘Which precipitated another unhappy chain of events,’ said Michael accusingly. ‘The realisation that there would be no money from Wenden forced Clare to sell Borden Hostel before it needed expensive repairs. That served to strengthen Candelby’s hand against the University. You are a low, sly villain, Tyrington. You caused all manner of harm for your own selfish ends. You offered me twenty marks to find Kenyngham’s killer, then you wrote confessing to his murder. You penned them in different hands to confuse me.’
Tyrington shrugged. ‘You were paying too much attention to Lynton, so I decided to sidetrack you – to encourage you look into the death of a man you liked.’
‘We saw you,’ said Michael, watching Bartholomew scramble into the stairwell and wrestle with the fallen stones. ‘You delivered the so-called confession to Michaelhouse, and we saw you leave. You almost collided with a cart, but instead of yelling at the driver, like a normal man, you slunk away.’
‘I dislike drawing attention to myself.’
Bartholomew gave up on the stones, and dashed back to the Lady Chapel. The window was hot, and he knew it would not be long before it burst into flames. Then the students would push the smouldering wood inside the church, and the building would fill with smoke. Meanwhile, the door was beginning to yield, and it would not be long before the potters streamed in. He wondered whether they or the fire would get him first. He heard furious voices coming from Clare, loud and shrill with indignation, and strained to hear what was being said. It was not difficult. The speaker was almost howling in his rage.
‘Spaldynge has just found a letter in his room, bearing his forged signature,’ he said to Michael. ‘He says it was a suicide note, and there was a flask of wine with it.’
‘Poison,’ explained Tyrington. ‘My University would be better off without the likes of Spaldynge. He sold property belonging to his College and he argued against my admission to Clare. He said I spit, which is untrue. It is a pity he found the note before the wine. If it had been the other way around, he would have swallowed my anonymous gift without question.’
‘Now I see why you gave him the crossbow,’ said Michael in disgust. ‘I suppose this note contains a confession for killing Lynton, too – Spaldynge is in possession of the murder weapon, after all.’
A huge crash summoned Bartholomew back to the door. It bowed dramatically and, sensing they were almost in, the townsmen were redoubling their efforts. Meanwhile, smoke was billowing from the Lady Chapel. For the second time that day, Bartholomew began to cough.
‘You snatched the tenancy agreement from Lynton’s body,’ said Michael to Tyrington, while Bartholomew darted back to the staircase again. ‘You must have done it during the confusion of the ensuing skirmish, because no one has reported seeing you there.’
Tyrington smiled mirthlessly. ‘A lot of people had gathered that day, and I pride myself on blending in with a crowd. No one saw me – not watching the aftermath of Lynton’s shooting, and not taking the rent agreement, either.’
‘But why did you grab it?’ asked Michael, bemused.
‘Because there was no need to besmirch my new College – Peterhouse – by having Lynton’s sordid dealings exposed. But in the end I went to Michaelhouse. It is a strange world.’
‘And Ocleye?’ asked Michael. ‘We know he was spying for you.’
‘He provided me with information, but guessed what I was going to do. I predicted he would try to blackmail me, so I reloaded and killed him during the confusion of the brawl. I gashed his stomach, too, so you would think a knife, not a crossbow, was responsible.’
‘You seem remarkably calm for a man who is about to die,’ said Michael, narrowing his eyes.
The door gave a tearing groan that had the potters roaring encouragement to the fellows with the cart. Almost simultaneously, the Lady Chapel window collapsed inwards, and flames shot across the floor. They ignited a pile of leaves that had been swept into a corner, and something in the faint remains of the wall paintings began to smoulder.
‘I have wanted to be a Fellow all my adult life – to live in a College, and enjoy the companionship of like minds. Now I have lost it, I do not care what happens. But I shall die in good company, at least.’
Bartholomew was not interested in Tyrington’s confessions. When the door screamed on its failing hinges, panic gave him the strength he needed to move the stone that was blocking his way into the stairwell. It tumbled into the chancel with a resounding crash.
‘Michael!’ he shouted, squeezing through the resulting gap. ‘This way.’
The monk, keeping a wary eye on Tyrington, hurried over. He stared in dismay at the small space the physician had cleared. ‘I cannot cram myself through that!’
The door gave another monstrous groan. ‘Come on!’ yelled Bartholomew, holding out his hand. ‘You, too, Tyrington. You will not hang under canon law, and you may find your like-minded community in some remote convent in the Fens.’
The door was being held by splinters, and one more blow from the cart would see it collapse. Michael inserted his bulk into the opening. He blotted out all light, so it was pitch dark. Bartholomew grabbed his flailing arm and hauled. Michael yelped as masonry tore his habit. There was a resounding crack as the door flew open. Then the church was full of yells and screams. Bartholomew heaved with all his might, and the monk shot upwards. They were past the worst of the rubble.
Bartholomew groped his way up the stairs, trying not to inhale the smoke that wafted around him. Below, Michael was hacking furiously. Then the steps ended, and with a shock, the physician realised what had caused the debris: the upper stairs no longer existed. Appalled, he scrabbled around in the dark, and ascertained that small parts of the steps had survived, jutting from the central pillar like rungs on a one-sided ladder. Michael wailed his horror when his outstretched fingers encountered the void.
‘What is left is too narrow for me,’ he screeched. ‘I will fall!’
‘They are wider up here,’ called Bartholomew encouragingly. He coughed. ‘Hurry, Michael! Someone is coming after us.’
‘Tyrington,’ gasped the monk. ‘He has had second thoughts about dying in the nave.’
Suddenly, Michael lost his footing, his downward progress arrested only because Tyrington was in the way. He shrieked his alarm, and Tyrington made no sound at all. Bartholomew leaned down and pulled with all his might, trying to lift Michael into a position where he would be able to climb on his own. The sinews in his shoulder cracked as they took the monk’s full weight.
Then the pressure eased, and Michael was ascending again. The stairs were in better condition nearer the top, although they were littered with fallen masonry, and perilously dark. Bartholomew slipped and fell, colliding with Michael behind him. Michael gave him a hard shove that propelled him upwards, faster than he had anticipated, and he slipped again.
‘Hurry, Matt! I cannot breathe!’
Bartholomew reached the door that led to the roof, only to find it locked. His arms were heavy, and he knew he was making no impact as he pounded ineffectually on it. Michael shoved him out of the way, and his bulk made short work of the rotten wood. The door flew into pieces, and clean air and daylight flooded into the stairwell.