‘It cannot have been very well constructed then,’ said Bartholomew, ‘if a few gusts could knock it over.’
He thought, but did not say, that the collapse was a blessing in disguise. The building was huge, and would house a very large number of scholars. If it had fallen when it had been occupied, the carnage would have been terrible.
Braunch shot him a baleful look. ‘No, it was not, and it is the tomb-makers’ fault. Benefactors are now more interested in commissioning grand memorials for themselves than making donations to worthy causes, so we are forced to cut corners in an effort to defray costs. Are you in a hurry, by the way? If so, you can scramble over the top.’
‘I will give you a leg up, boy,’ offered Cynric. ‘But do not ask me to come over with you.’
It was patently unsafe to attempt such a feat, so Bartholomew declined, although it meant a considerable detour, even though he could see the Blastons’ roof from where he stood. Cynric escorted him there, then disappeared on business of his own.
Yolande de Blaston supplemented her husband’s income by selling her favours to the town’s worthies. Edith had tried to reform her by providing employment as a seamstress, but sewing was not nearly as much fun, and Yolande had not plied a needle for long before returning to what she knew best.
‘Good,’ she said briskly, as she ushered Bartholomew inside her house. ‘You have come to tend my bunion, Alfred’s bad stomach, Tom’s sore wrist, Robert’s chilblains, Hugh’s stiff knee and the baby’s wind.’
‘Oh,’ said Bartholomew, daunted. ‘Is that all?’
‘No,’ replied Yolande. ‘But you can do the rest next time.’
He sat at the table and made a start, enjoying the lively chatter that swirled around him. The Blastons were among his favourite patients, and he loved the noisy chaos of their home. But then the discussion turned to the murders.
‘Tynkell, Moleyns and Lyng were Satan’s beloved,’ stated Blaston matter-of-factly. ‘And Tynkell was not fighting him on the tower, but having a friendly romp – for fun.’
‘I disagree,’ said Yolande. ‘Tynkell was not a man who enjoyed physical activity.’ She spoke with confidence, as well she might, given that he had been one of her regulars. ‘And I will hear nothing bad about Lyng. He gave us money for bread when times were hard last year. It was good of him.’
‘But he had a vicious temper,’ gossiped Blaston. ‘I overheard a terrible row when I went to mend a table in Maud’s Hostel. He was beside himself, and said some vile things.’
‘When was this?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised. He had never seen the elderly priest lose his equanimity. ‘Recently?’
Blaston nodded. ‘Thursday – the evening he went out and never came back.’
Bartholomew regarded him hopefully. ‘What had upset him?’
‘I could not hear everything, because he and whoever had annoyed him were upstairs, but the words “black villain” were howled, and so was “Satan”. My first thought was that he was arguing with the Devil, but then I heard Lyng slap him. Well, no one belts Lucifer, so I was forced to concede that it was a person who had earned his ire. Hopeman, probably.’
Bartholomew blinked. ‘And Lyng hit him? Are you sure it was not the other way around?’
‘Quite sure, because I heard Lyng say “Take that, you black villain”. I might have laughed, but I did not want him to hear and come to clout me as well.’
Bartholomew’s mind was racing. ‘What makes you think it was Hopeman?’
‘Three reasons. First, he is a Black Friar. Second, he loves to rant about Satan. And third, he is a member of Maud’s, so was likely to be there. However, I did not see him, so I cannot be certain. They were in Lyng’s room, you see, and I was in the kitchen.’
‘Aidan should have mentioned this to Michael,’ said Bartholomew crossly.
‘He does not know – everyone but those two was out.’ Blaston grinned. ‘The punch hurt though, because Hopeman howled like a girl, and called Lyng a bully. Lyng! A bully!’
‘So did Hopeman kill him for that slap?’ asked Yolande, agog. ‘Because he has learned from his experiences with Tynkell and Moleyns that he will never be caught?’
It was certainly possible, thought Bartholomew.
Bartholomew left the Blaston house, deep in thought. He could not imagine Lyng hitting anyone, yet Blaston had no reason to lie. Moreover, the Master of Valence Marie had expressed reservations about Lyng’s character, while the mark on the elderly priest’s foot suggested that there was rather more to him than simple appearances had suggested.
So was Hopeman the recipient of the slap? Bartholomew was inclined to think he was, for the same reasons that Blaston had given: because the conversation had revolved around his favourite topic; because “black villain” was an insult Lyng might well have levelled against a Dominican; and because both lived in Maud’s. There was also the fact that Hopeman was argumentative, and could needle a saint into a quarrel.
Bartholomew was so engrossed in his thoughts that he did not see Thelnetham until they collided. The Gilbertine yelped, then bent to peer disgustedly at the mud on his habit.
‘Watch where you are going, Matthew,’ he said irritably. ‘Or do you want me to lose the election by virtue of campaigning in a filthy robe?’
‘It is only a smear.’ Bartholomew smiled, to make amends. ‘You spoke well earlier.’
‘Thank you,’ said Thelnetham. ‘But I did not stop you to fish for compliments, no matter how deserving. I have been listening to rumours, and I heard a few things that might help you and Michael catch the villain who murdered our colleagues. The first is that Lyng and Tynkell were not devoted sons of the Church.’
‘Yes,’ sighed Bartholomew. ‘I know.’
‘Oh,’ said Thelnetham, deflated. ‘Do you? You do not seem very shocked.’
‘Of course I am shocked,’ said Bartholomew quickly, lest it was put about that he condoned such activities. ‘But apparently, it is not as rare as we might think.’
‘Neither is murder, apparently, but that does not make it acceptable.’
‘No,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘How did you find out?’
‘Nicholas had the tale from one of his fellow clerks. Apparently, Tynkell had a diabolical mark on his wrist, while Moleyns and Lyng had them on their feet. They were seen proudly showing them off to each other in St Mary the Great.’
‘Which clerk?’ asked Bartholomew, knowing that Michael would want to question him.
‘Nicholas refused to say, because it was told in confidence. Perhaps Michael will have better luck in prising a name from him, although do not hold your breath. Nicholas is not a man for betrayal.’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But–’
‘Did you hear that terrible roar earlier? It was Satan, calling for his dead followers to rise from their graves and follow him. Fortunately, all have been buried deep, so they cannot oblige, although woe betide anyone who disturbs them with a spade.’
Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘What nonsense! I am surprised at you, Thelnetham. I thought you were a man guided by reason.’
‘I am, but not everything in this world can be understood by human minds, not even clever ones like ours. And if you want proof, then consider the mysteries of our own faith. Transubstantiation, for example. You would not imagine that it is possible for wine to become in substance the Blood of Christ, but it happens every time Mass is celebrated.’
‘I suppose it does,’ acknowledged Bartholomew.
Thelnetham pursed his lips. ‘Of course, witchery is not all that connected Lyng, Tynkell and Moleyns.’
‘You refer to Moleyns’ manor,’ predicted Bartholomew, ‘which you visited last summer.’