‘The killer did not hide in here, Matt,’ averred Michael. ‘Even if he had managed to lay hold of Meadowman’s keys, the door cannot be locked from the inside.’
Bartholomew smiled. ‘Assuming it was locked.’
‘It was,’ averred Michael. ‘I rattled it on my way past, and so did you.’
‘Go and stand on the stairs, then come back in when I call you.’
Puzzled, Michael went to do as he was told, although Nicholas declined to join him, clearly of the opinion that the physician might make off with the University’s treasure if left unsupervised. Once the door was closed, Bartholomew took one of the plates of poison and jammed it underneath, kicking it hard to ensure it was securely lodged.
‘Enter, Brother,’ he shouted. ‘If you can.’
There was a rattle as the monk seized the handle, followed by a determined series of thumps as he pushed at it with increasing vigour. The door held firm.
‘You have locked it!’ he shouted accusingly. ‘How?’
Bartholomew removed the dish, and showed him what he had done. The monk was thoughtful.
‘Then I submit that Tynkell came up here alone, unlocking the doors with Meadowman’s keys. The killer followed, and they had some sort of confrontation. Or perhaps Tynkell saw him sneaking past, and hared after him to the roof, where they fought. Once Tynkell was dead, the villain started to descend …’
‘But he heard us coming up,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Fortunately for him, you fell and twisted your knee. I went back to help you, which delayed us just long enough to let him duck in here – the door would have been left open when Tynkell gave chase. He jammed it shut … you can see scratches on the floor where the dish was lodged.’
‘My word!’ breathed Nicholas, peering at them.
‘Tynkell almost certainly left Meadowman’s keys behind when he went to the roof,’ Bartholomew went on. ‘So the killer calmly waited until we had gone on upwards, after which he came out, locked the door behind him, and returned the keys to their hiding place.’
Nicholas looked from one to the other. ‘But that means the culprit is a University officer! We are the only ones who know where they are kept.’
‘Not so,’ said Michael. ‘Most of the beadles have seen Meadowman “hide” them, and not all are discreet men. One may have let something slip in a tavern. Or sold the information.’
‘No!’ gulped Nicholas. ‘They would never betray you – they are loyal men.’
‘Generally,’ agreed Michael. ‘But none are very well paid, and all like a drink.’
Nicholas was thoughtful. ‘Even the Sheriff was betrayed by a soldier he thought he could trust. Perhaps we all put too much faith in the vagaries of human nature.’
Bartholomew continued with his analysis. ‘However, when we arrived at the church, the porch and the vestry doors were locked from the inside, and the building was empty because everyone had gone out to watch. That means those doors were secured after Tynkell had started to fight. It could not have been before, or people would not have been able to leave.’
‘What are you saying?’ demanded Michael. ‘That he had an accomplice?’
‘He must have done.’
Michael turned to Nicholas. ‘So why did Tynkell come up here? You must have an inkling – you were his secretary after all.’
‘He did not confide in me, Brother. I told you: he had grown withdrawn and secretive these last few weeks, and kept shutting himself in his office.’
‘Look in the Chest,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps something will be out of place.’
Michael obliged, and he and Nicholas began a careful analysis of its contents, although it looked like a random jumble to Bartholomew.
‘This,’ said Michael eventually, pulling out a piece of vellum. He opened it and began to read. ‘It is a deed of ownership for the chapel in Stoke Poges.’
‘Thelnetham said that Tynkell hoped to get it for the University,’ recalled Bartholomew. ‘And that he visited Stoke Poges to such an end, determined to make sure he was favourably remembered when he retired. Well, it seems he did. And as that manor once belonged to Moleyns, the chances are that he was involved in helping Tynkell to acquire it for us.’
Michael’s expression was dark with anger. ‘Moleyns murdered his wife’s uncle to get that manor – his ownership of it is tainted, which means we cannot possibly accept its chapel. No wonder Tynkell shut himself away! He knew I would stop him if I knew what he was doing.’
‘Oh, Tynkell,’ whispered Nicholas sadly. ‘We would have remembered you fondly anyway. You did not have to stoop to such antics.’
Michael stared at the deed. ‘So he came up here to deposit this for safekeeping – or perhaps to gloat over it – when his killer happened across him.’
‘It seems likely,’ agreed Nicholas. ‘So how does it help us identify the culprit?’
Michael rubbed a weary hand across his face. ‘I am damned if I know.’
Bartholomew went to bed early that night, but woke at midnight and could not go back to sleep. Eventually, he rose and went to the conclave, intending to work on a lecture he was to give on Galen’s De urinis later that term. He arrived to find he was not the only one who was restless. Michael was there, too, so they fell to discussing the murders. The monk had questioned the other University clerks about the deed to Stoke Poges chapel, but Tynkell had mentioned it to none of them, and all professed themselves astonished that he had succeeded in getting it.
‘Perhaps Moleyns helped him because of their shared interest in witchery,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Moleyns visited Marjory Starre, while we know that Lyng and Tynkell had horned serpents inked on their–’
He stopped in horror when he realised that he had just broken Tynkell’s confidence.
Michael’s jaw dropped. ‘They had what? Did you say horned serpents? But that is a mark of Satan!’
Bartholomew began to speak in a gabble about Moleyns and Lyng, in the desperate but futile hope that Michael would forget Tynkell had also been mentioned.
‘Lyng and Moleyns had snakes on their feet. Or rather, Lyng did – Moleyns was buried before I knew what to look for, so I cannot be sure about him. However, one of your clerks claims to have seen them comparing these symbols in St Mary the Great. Of course, I have not questioned the man myself, because I do not know who he is …’
‘And Tynkell?’ asked Michael sharply, when the physician trailed off. ‘He had one, too? Is that the mysterious secret you and he shared for so many years?’
Trapped, Bartholomew nodded wretchedly. ‘But he made me promise never to tell anyone. I did not understand why he was so insistent until Marjory Starre explained their significance yesterday.’
‘But I would have done, and you should have told me,’ said Michael angrily. ‘You have put the whole University at risk with your misguided principles. Do you not know what will happen if word seeps out that we had a Satanist at our helm?’
‘Tynkell was not a Satanist, Brother! There is no reason to suppose that he was anything other than a devout Christian.’
‘You are my Corpse Examiner,’ said Michael heatedly. ‘You have a responsibility to me, as well as to your patients, and your silence has done me a serious disservice. Not to mention damaging our investigation.’
‘It was not my secret to share. Besides, Tynkell always said it was the result of a youthful prank, and I had no reason to disbelieve him. Unfortunately, Marjory thinks that is unlikely, given the number of serpents he had put on himself, and the time it takes to draw them …’