‘Yes, and one of its members was Godrich.’ Byri frowned when he saw Michael’s surprise. ‘No one told you?’
‘No,’ said Michael stiffly. ‘How did you find out?’
‘The village priest is a Dominican, and I met him at a conclave recently. He said that Godrich bragged about telling the other jurors how to vote. Godrich was sent there from Court, you see, to make sure that a man who was generous to the royal coffers was not convicted.’
‘Then it was a pity for Moleyns that Godrich was not available for his next trial as well,’ murmured Morden acidly. ‘I imagine he was horrified when he was pronounced guilty of all those terrible deeds – theft, cattle rustling, harbouring felons …’
‘You should have mentioned this sooner, Byri,’ said Michael aggrieved. ‘How am I supposed to solve these murders when people withhold vital information?’
‘I assumed that Godrich would tell you himself,’ replied Byri defensively. ‘On the grounds that keeping it quiet makes it look as though he has something to hide.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Michael caustically. ‘It does, doesn’t it.’
‘Do you think Godrich is the killer?’ Morden answered the question himself. ‘It would make sense: he stabbed Tynkell to force an election, Moleyns to prevent unsavoury details about his past from emerging, and Lyng to rid himself of his most dangerous rival.’
‘Are there any other “unsavoury details” that I might not know?’ asked Michael crossly.
Byri raised his hands in a shrug. ‘Not that I am aware. However, Godrich would not have done that sort of favour for Moleyns and then forgotten all about it. Moleyns will have expressed his gratitude to him in some significant way, you can be sure of that.’
Michael thought so, too. ‘But we are here on another matter, as it happens. Tell us about the argument you overheard between Hopeman and Lyng.’
Byri gaped at him. ‘How on Earth do you know about that? The only person I have told is Prior Morden, and he has been in here with me ever since, going through our accounts.’
‘The Senior Proctor has very long ears,’ replied Michael smugly.
‘Or his spies do,’ muttered Byri. ‘Very well, then. It was on Thursday night, well after nine. I had been away on priory business, and I stopped at St Botolph’s Church to give thanks for my safe return. When I came out, Hopeman and Lyng were in the graveyard. I suppose I should have made myself known, but I was very tired and Hopeman can be … wordy.’
‘You did not want him to keep you from your rest with a diatribe,’ surmised Michael. ‘So you skulked in the dark, waiting for him to leave.’
‘It sounds sly when put like that,’ objected Byri. ‘Whereas I merely decided that it would be more comfortable to have his news the next day, rather than there and then, out in the cold.’
‘So what did you hear, exactly?’
‘They were talking about the chancellorship, amiably at first. Then Lyng told Hopeman to stand down and support him instead. He said he was going to win anyway, and Hopeman could save himself a lot of embarrassment by withdrawing before the votes were counted.’
Bartholomew frowned. ‘Lyng said that? I thought he was a modest man.’
‘So did I, which just goes to show that you never know anyone as well as you think.’
Bartholomew recalled the argument in Maud’s Hostel, where Blaston the carpenter had overheard a quarrel that had involved physical violence. Perhaps Byri was right.
‘Needless to say, Hopeman was incensed,’ the almoner went on. ‘He began to rant and screech, and said some terrible things, including …’
‘Yes?’ pressed Michael. He grimaced when Byri glanced at his prior. ‘I need the truth about this encounter, Byri. If Hopeman is the killer, he needs to be stopped. I know he is a Dominican, and you are reluctant to betray him, but think of his victims.’
‘Michael is right, Byri,’ said Morden quietly. ‘You have a duty to tell the truth.’
‘Very well,’ sighed the almoner. ‘Hopeman said he would kill Lyng if he interfered with God’s plans. Lyng retorted that Hopeman might be the one to die, but they were both seriously angry by this point, and men often say things in temper that they do not really mean.’
‘And temper often exposes their true intentions,’ countered Michael, and stood so abruptly that Bartholomew was tipped off the other end of the bench, although no one laughed. ‘We shall return to Michaelhouse and see what Hopeman has to say about this matter.’
‘He is not the killer,’ said Morden, although his voice lacked conviction. ‘He may be a zealot, but he would never break one of the Ten Commandments.’
‘If he had nothing to hide, he would have mentioned this encounter when I questioned him about Lyng’s disappearance,’ said Michael. ‘But he told me that he had not seen Lyng since noon. Which means he does break the Commandments – by bearing false witness.’
‘I suppose it does,’ conceded Morden unhappily.
The wind had picked up since Bartholomew and Michael had been inside the priory, and was now blowing hard. It made the voluminous folds of Michael’s habit billow wildly, while Bartholomew struggled to stay upright. They began to trudge back towards the town.
‘I am confused,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Blaston heard Lyng quarrel with a “black villain” – we assume Hopeman – in Maud’s Hostel at dusk. But if Lyng had slapped Hopeman then, why would Hopeman risk another encounter with Lyng a few hours later?’
‘The answer is obvious: it must have been someone else who Blaston heard – he admits that he did not see this other person. And we are learning a lot about Lyng. He was no gentle saint, as we all believed, but someone who issued ultimatums, engaged in vicious rows, and used threats and physical violence. What are you doing?’
Bartholomew had stopped, and was staring across the flat expanse of the Barnwell Fields. As he watched, the rising gale whisked a piece of rubbish high into the air, where it was carried some distance before becoming entangled in an alder copse.
‘The wind,’ he said. ‘It is blowing from the same direction as it was on Tuesday.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Michael, pulling his thick winter mantle more closely around him. ‘And it is cutting right through me.’
‘The killer’s cloak was whipped from the tower and carried towards these fields.’
‘I know,’ said Michael drily. ‘My beadles and I spent hours searching for the wretched thing, and our failure to produce it has fuelled the rumour that it was Satan.’
‘Where did you look exactly?’
Michael spread his hands in a shrug. ‘Every inch of ground between St Mary the Great and the Dominican Priory. Why?’
Bartholomew stared at the church tower, angles and distances running through his mind. When there was no reply, Michael repeated the question, then sighed in annoyance when it was ignored a second time. He began to walk away, loath to stand around while the physician ruminated in silence – it was far too cold for that. Bartholomew barely saw him go.
His calculations complete, Bartholomew stepped off the Hadstock Way and began to plod in a north-easterly direction, sure that Tuesday’s gale had been strong enough to carry a garment such a distance – and equally sure that Michael had been looking in the wrong place.
The Barnwell Fields were pretty in the summer, when sun and showers created luxurious meadows of thick grass and wild flowers, but they were bleak in winter, when they tended to flood. Bartholomew squelched through knee-deep puddles, struggling to keep his balance on the uneven ground, a task made more difficult still by the buffeting wind. His feet soon turned to ice, while it was impossible to keep his hood from blowing back, so his head ached from the cold. He persisted anyway, determined to succeed where Michael had failed. Then the sun began to set.