‘He took his cue from Dallingridge,’ Dodenho went on crossly, ‘who also wanted his entire estate spent on a tomb. What a wicked waste of money!’
‘Speaking of Dallingridge,’ said Shropham, ‘there is no truth in the tale that Godrich poisoned him. First, Godrich was more of a sword man. But second, and perhaps more convincingly, he did not arrive in Nottingham until after Dallingridge was taken ill.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Michael. ‘If it is because he told you so, I am not sure we can believe it.’
‘I sent him north on King’s Hall business over the summer,’ explained Shropham. ‘And just today, I unearthed three deeds signed and dated by several independent witnesses that prove he was in Derby on Lammas Day. He did not arrive in Nottingham until the following week.’
‘My mother always said that you cannot take your money with you to the grave,’ muttered Dodenho bitterly, more interested in his colleague’s last will and testament than his innocence. ‘But obviously, she never had met Godrich and Dallingridge.’
‘What have you done to find him?’ asked Michael. ‘Other than visit his favourite places?’
‘We made a thorough search of our grounds, and traced his last known movements,’ replied Shropham. ‘After storming out of Michaelhouse, he went to the Dominicans, where he offered Morden a bribe of ten marks for forcing Hopeman to stand down. Morden refused.’
‘Godrich took Whittlesey with him,’ added Dodenho, ‘although Whittlesey grumbled about it being too cold for a jaunt outside town. Afterwards, Whittlesey insisted on a warming drink in the Cardinal’s Cap to recover, so Godrich accompanied him there.’
‘Godrich had organised a feast in Whittlesey’s honour,’ said Shropham. ‘But neither was around at dusk, so we started without them. Unfortunately, we all enjoyed the free-flowing wine so much that it was past midnight before we realised that neither had put in an appearance.’
‘So no one saw them after they visited the Cardinal’s Cap?’ asked Michael.
‘I heard them,’ said Dodenho. ‘I spilled some claret on myself during the revelries, so I went to change. As I passed Godrich’s room – at roughly ten o’clock – I heard the pair of them quarrelling. I was not so ungentlemanly as to eavesdrop, but I can tell you that the conversation was heated.’
‘So one might have done the other harm, then fled to avoid the consequences?’
‘Of course not,’ said Dodenho indignantly. ‘This is King’s Hall, not a hostel.’
‘Right,’ said Michael. ‘But this row … surely you can remember something useful about it? It could be critical to finding out what happened to them.’
‘Well, I cannot,’ said Dodenho shortly. ‘I told you: it would have been rude to listen.’
‘Even though you must have been curious as to why both had missed the feast, especially as one had arranged it in the other’s honour?’
‘There was a lot of wine,’ explained Dodenho sheepishly, while his cronies exchanged the kind of glances that suggested it had been quite an evening. ‘And if I thought about Godrich and Whittlesey at all, it was just to assume that they would join us when they were ready. It is only now that we realise they never did.’
Michael plied them with more questions, but learned nothing else of use. He asked to see Godrich’s room – prudently not confessing that he had searched it once already – and he and Bartholomew were conducted to the handsome chamber in the gatehouse. The bed was loaded with furs and silks, and the floor was thick with expensive rugs. What caught Bartholomew’s attention, however – perhaps because Cynric had done something similar – were the charms that were dotted around the place, while in a chest by the window were several books on witchcraft that the University had banned. He picked one up at random, and opened it to see annotations in Godrich’s writing, suggesting that the King’s Hall Fellow had been more familiar with their contents than was appropriate for a God-fearing man.
‘What happened here?’ asked Michael, pointing to the shattered remains of what had been a pretty and probably expensive bowl.
‘I thought I heard something smash,’ mused Dodenho, gazing at it. ‘I suppose it must have been knocked over by mistake.’
‘There is blood on it,’ said Bartholomew, inspecting it closely. ‘I think it is more likely that one lobbed it at the other.’
‘Godrich was not given to hurling his belongings around,’ averred Dodenho. ‘Although I am not sure about Whittlesey. I did not take to him at all. Lord! I wish we had been more abstemious with the wine. Then Godrich might still be alive, and we could have persuaded him to make a more sensible will.’
‘There was a letter,’ blurted Shropham suddenly. ‘I just remembered!’
‘From Dallingridge?’ asked Michael innocently, not about to confess that it was currently residing in his office at St Mary the Great.
‘No, no – that would have been delivered months ago. I am talking about one that arrived more recently, although the messenger said it had been delayed because of the weather. Perhaps that will give us the clue we need to understand what has happened.’
There followed a concerted effort to find it. Eventually, it was located under a chest, where it had evidently been placed to keep it from prying eyes.
‘It is from Bishop Sheppey,’ said Michael, scanning it quickly. ‘Written the day before he died – in a hand that is firm and strong, for which I am glad; I was afraid that he had been ill for so long that he might have … lost his reason.’
‘You mean you feared that you might have been nominated by a madman,’ surmised Shropham. ‘Well, you need not be concerned: Whittlesey told me that Sheppey named you weeks ago. But what does the missive say? And why would Sheppey write to Godrich?’
Michael frowned. ‘It is addressed to his “favoured son in Christ”, and cautions Godrich to beware of black brethren arriving with false smiles and insincere offers of friendship.’
‘It refers to Whittlesey!’ breathed Dodenho. ‘Now all is clear. Whittlesey is the killer, and the Bishop predicted that there would be trouble when his envoy arrived in Cambridge.’
‘Have you searched Whittlesey’s quarters yet?’ asked Michael urgently.
Shropham shook his head. ‘We are not in the habit of invading the privacy of important guests. They tend not to like it.’
He led the way there, only to discover that all the envoy’s belongings had gone.
‘The sly dog!’ cried Dodenho in dismay. ‘I was right – he killed Godrich, packed up and left. How could he? We were on the brink of counting a Chancellor among our ranks, and he has struck us a grave blow.’
‘So is that it?’ asked Bartholomew when he and Michael were out on the street. He felt a strange sense of anticlimax. ‘Whittlesey is the killer? The murders did start when he arrived, and I said from the start that he was a suspicious character. I am surprised it was not Cook, but …’
‘I suppose he came to install his kinsman as Chancellor,’ said Michael unhappily. ‘He killed Tynkell to create a vacancy, Lyng to eliminate a rival, and Moleyns lest he revealed Godrich’s dubious dealings in Stoke Poges. Then the relationship turned sour, as such alliances often do, so he brained Godrich with the bowl, hid the body and disappeared while he could.’
‘Why would a powerful Benedictine be interested in who leads our University?’
‘I told you before, Matt – we train the priests who work in dioceses all over the country. All high-ranking churchmen are interested in us.’