‘Good afternoon, Matthew,’ came a familiar voice through the gloom. It was Thelnetham, snugly wrapped in a thick winter cloak and a scarlet liripipe – a long-tailed hood that also served as a scarf. He saw Bartholomew eyeing it in surprise, and shrugged. ‘I did not expect to meet any voters all the way out here, so I decided to indulge my penchant for colour. I shall take it off before I arrive though, as it would be inappropriate for the occasion.’
‘Before you arrive where?’ asked Bartholomew, continuing to stare at it as he imagined its soft, warm folds wrapped around his frozen ears.
‘At Widow Miller’s house,’ replied Thelnetham. ‘Lord, it is bitter today! The sky had an ugly hue earlier, and there will be snow before long. Shall we walk the rest of the way together, and pray that it holds off until we have both finished and are safely home again?’
Bartholomew’s mystification intensified. ‘What is happening in Widow Miller’s home?’
Thelnetham frowned his own bemusement. ‘She is dying, and my prior sent me to sit with her. I assume you are going there, too – to see what can be done to ease her final hours.’
Bartholomew shook his head. ‘She is Rougham’s patient, not mine.’
Thelnetham regarded him askance. ‘Then what on Earth are you doing out here? It is scarcely wise on such a foul day, and a lot of paupers rely on your continued good health for their free medical care. You, of all people, cannot afford to be reckless.’
Bartholomew gestured towards the sturdy bulk of St Mary the Great. ‘The killer’s cloak blew off the roof when Tynkell was killed, and it came in this direction. I am trying to find it.’
‘It was not a cloak,’ averred Thelnetham firmly. ‘It was the Devil – too many folk saw him for that not to be true. Nicholas was among them, and he is as honest a man as you could ever hope to meet. If he says it was Satan, then it was Satan.’
‘Hopefully, he will revise his position when I show him the garment.’
‘Or he will tell you that it is the one Satan wore when he flapped away,’ countered Thelnetham. ‘So if you do find the thing, poke it with a stick first, to make sure he is not still inside it. But I had better hurry, or poor Widow Miller will be dead before I arrive.’
He turned and trotted away, at which point Bartholomew became aware that the wind had shifted. When he reworked his calculations accordingly, they took him farther north. The ground was soggier there, and the icy puddles deeper. As the last vestiges of daylight faded and he was getting ready to concede defeat, he glimpsed something black lying in the grass.
He snatched it up eagerly. It was a cloak, too good a garment to have been discarded deliberately, even by someone wealthy. There was a tear near the collar, where the clasp that had kept the two edges together had been ripped out. It proved what Michael had suspected from the start: that it had come loose as its wearer and Tynkell had grappled, after which the wind had carried it off.
It was not much of a step forward, but Bartholomew hoped it would be enough to throw doubts on the tale that Tynkell had been unequal to besting Lucifer.
His mind full of questions and solutions, Bartholomew hurried to St Mary the Great, where he asked Nicholas to show him the Chest Room. The secretary narrowed his eyes in rank suspicion, making the physician feel as though he had asked for something untoward.
‘I think I know how Tynkell’s killer escaped from the tower,’ he explained. ‘I will show you if you let me up there – it will be easier than telling you down here.’
Nicholas remained wary. ‘I cannot – I do not have the keys. Only Michael and Meadowman do. Besides, we do not let just anyone up there, you know. It contains all our most precious documents and most of our money.’
Michael heard their voices and came to find out what was going on. Bartholomew showed him the cloak and told him where he had found it.
‘Can it be identified?’ asked the monk, seizing it eagerly. ‘Even soaked and muddy, it is obviously expensive. Someone might recognise it.’
‘It is also black,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘Like the ones owned by virtually every scholar in the University, not to mention most priests. Many can afford decent cloth.’
‘So can burgesses and merchants,’ put in Nicholas. ‘And black is by far the most popular colour. Clothiers sell it by the cartload, as Matthew’s sister will attest.’
‘But there are tears and marks on this one,’ persisted Michael. ‘It is unique.’
‘Yes – from its spell out in the Barnwell Fields,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is impossible to say what it looked like before flying off the roof and spending five days in the mud.’
Michael sagged in disappointment. ‘So its discovery means nothing?’
‘It proves that Satan was not involved,’ said Bartholomew.
‘It will take more than a discarded mantle to change people’s minds about that,’ predicted Nicholas. ‘They love that tale.’
‘I am afraid that is true, Matt,’ said Michael, seeing the physician prepare to argue. ‘More is the pity. But what do you want in the Chest Room?’
‘I think I know how the killer hid from us that day.’
Michael raised questioning eyebrows at Nicholas. ‘Then why did you refuse to let him in? You know where Meadowman keeps his keys, and we are desperate for answers.’
‘It is against the rules,’ replied the secretary indignantly. ‘Which say that the tower should never be opened unless two University officers are in attendance.’
Michael rolled his eyes, and indicated with an irritable flick of his hand that Nicholas was to do as Bartholomew had requested. The secretary responded with an offended sniff intended to remind the monk of who had written the guidelines in the first place.
‘He really is a pedantic fellow,’ muttered Michael, as he and Bartholomew followed him up the nave. ‘And I have an uncomfortable feeling that he thinks I am the killer – my motive being that I want to see Suttone safely installed before I leave for Rochester.’
‘What did Godrich say about being on the jury that acquitted Moleyns of murder?’ asked Bartholomew, hoping the secretary had more sense than to suspect the Senior Proctor.
‘Nothing,’ replied Michael sourly. ‘Because he had stormed out of Michaelhouse in a rage by the time I arrived home. I went to King’s Hall, but he was not there either. Warden Shropham has promised to let me know the moment he returns, and then he will be in for an uncomfortable interview.’
‘Then did you speak to Hopeman about his arguments with Lyng?’
Michael nodded. ‘He openly acknowledges that they were often at loggerheads, but says he cannot recall specifics. I suggested that he try, and he informed me that God speaks through him, so any threats he might have issued actually came from the Almighty.’
‘So he might be stabbing people in the belief that he is doing God’s will?’
‘It is possible, although Godrich remains my chief suspect.’
He unlocked the tower door and began to ascend the stairs, Bartholomew following and Nicholas bringing up the rear. Bartholomew paused at the bell chamber, and looked at the three metal domes, remembering Stanmore as he did so. He wondered what his brother-in-law would have made of the decision to silence them until after the election, and was sure he would have disapproved. Oswald had always loved the noisy jangle of bells.
Michael had unfastened the two locks to the Chest Room by the time Bartholomew and Nicholas arrived, and was waiting inside, holding a lantern aloft. Bartholomew stepped across the threshold and looked around. The only thing that had changed since his last visit was that mice had been at the poison in the little dishes, because there was less of it than there had been.