‘And Sheppey feared that Whittlesey might turn violent, so decided to warn Godrich?’
Michael shrugged. ‘Sheppey knew Whittlesey well, because all bishops work closely with their envoys. And the warning certainly explains why Godrich was loath to let Whittlesey out of his sight – dragging him to Michaelhouse, taking him to see the Dominicans, accompanying him to the Cardinal’s Cap …’
‘I would have thought he would do the opposite – stay as far away from Whittlesey as possible.’
‘By keeping him close, Godrich could watch what he was doing. I would have done the same. I shall tell my beadles to intensify the search for him. He cannot have gone far.’
They had not taken many steps towards St Mary the Great before they met Cynric. The book-bearer was guarding Suttone, who was strolling along the High Street, shaking hands with anyone who would stop to pass the time of day with him. Cynric’s jaw dropped when Bartholomew told him what had happened.
‘But I saw Whittlesey!’ he cried. ‘I returned to the King’s Head after seeing you home last night, and we went through the Trumpington Gate together – me walking and him on horseback. I wished him God’s speed, and he thanked me. Then, the moment I entered the tavern, he shot off south like an arrow. I should have known then that there was something amiss.’
‘How did he seem?’ demanded Michael. ‘Anxious? Angry? Frightened? Gratified?’
‘Tense and worried,’ replied the book-bearer. ‘I assumed he was just uneasy about riding in such icy weather. There was a full moon to light his way, but it was still dark.’
When they reached the church, Michael charged Meadowman to go after the envoy and bring him back. Delighted to be entrusted with such an important task, the beadle chose four cronies and set about commandeering ponies and the necessary supplies.
‘Do not worry, Brother,’ he said cheerfully. ‘We will catch him, even if we have to travel to London to do it.’
And then he and his party were gone. Michael sketched a benediction after them, and his lips moved in a silent prayer for their well-being – and the success of their mission.
‘Yet something about Whittlesey as the killer feels wrong,’ said Bartholomew unhappily. ‘I know he is a villainous character, but …’
Michael turned a haggard face towards him. ‘I agree. I cannot escape the sense that we are missing something important, so I suggest we continue with our enquiries as though this had not happened. After all, even if Whittlesey is the culprit, we shall need more than a letter from a dead bishop to convict him.’
‘Where first?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘We had better tell Dick Tulyet what has happened. Then I want another word with Egidia and Inge. I have never been comfortable with their role in this affair.’
They left St Mary the Great just as Nicholas was nailing the notice about Thelnetham’s withdrawal to the Great West Door. Regent masters clustered around to read it.
‘It means you must now choose between Suttone and Hopeman,’ Nicholas explained, a remark that caused a ripple of consternation to run through them.
‘And Godrich,’ called someone at the back. ‘He might have disappeared, but he has not withdrawn. Not officially. We can still vote for him.’
‘Actually, you cannot,’ said Nicholas apologetically. ‘The statutes stipulate that all the candidates must “keep full term”, which, as you know, means they must be resident here for a specific number of nights. By vanishing yesterday, Godrich cannot prove he has fulfilled this stipulation, and has thus rendered himself ineligible.’
‘And I thought I lived by the statutes,’ breathed Michael to Bartholomew. ‘But he makes me look like an amateur. Perhaps I should promote him to Senior Proctor’s Secretary instead.’
‘We do not want a Chancellor who swans off without explanation anyway,’ said Vicar Eyton of St Bene’t’s. ‘It means he is unsteady, and not the sort of man to serve as our leader.’
‘He might be dead,’ called someone else. ‘He may not have gone voluntarily.’
‘If his body is found in Cambridge, I suppose it means he will have kept full term,’ mused Nicholas, frowning thoughtfully. ‘So we can still vote for him, as there is nothing in the statutes about excluding corpses from the running. However, it would not be wise for us to elect one – it would find fulfilling its duties very difficult.’
There was a startled silence at this proclamation, although it did not last long.
‘A corpse could not be worse than Tynkell,’ drawled Master Heltisle of Bene’t College. ‘He might have been dead, for all the decisions he made.’
‘It does not matter if Godrich is in the land of the living or lying in a ditch,’ said Eyton impatiently, ‘because he will not be Chancellor anyway. We must choose between Michaelhouse and Maud’s.’
Those who had agreed to support Godrich in exchange for free books began to argue, unwilling to accept that the promised riches would not now be theirs. Then someone accused Hopeman’s followers of engineering a situation where his only rival was Suttone, and a furious quarrel broke out.
‘The tension might ease if we told them that Whittlesey is the killer,’ said Bartholomew to Michael. ‘Then there would be no grounds for charges of foul play, and the election could settle into a peaceful race between the two remaining candidates.’
‘No event will be peaceful if Hopeman is involved,’ remarked Michael wryly. ‘Besides, neither of us is entirely sure that Whittlesey is the guilty party, so I recommend we wait to hear his side of the story before making public allegations.’
‘Then let us hope Meadowman hurries,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He–’
He stopped when a gaggle of men from the hostels surged forward to surround them, clamouring to know why the Senior Proctor had not protected Godrich. They were led by Vicar Frisby, who was drunk.
‘You should have known that his offer of free books for the poorest hostels would make him unpopular in some quarters,’ Frisby slurred. ‘You should have kept him safe.’
‘You should,’ agreed Master Thomas of Bridge Hostel tearfully. His cloak was pitifully thin, and he was shivering. ‘We were so looking forward to having our own copy of Augustine’s Sermones.’
‘He might be alive,’ said Michael with quiet reason. ‘It is not–’
‘He is dead,’ interjected Frisby firmly. ‘Or he would be here now, buying more votes. And I am furious about it.’
‘You are?’ asked Thomas, bemused. ‘Why? You told us that Suttone would be your second choice, should Thelnetham become unavailable. Godrich is irrelevant to you.’
‘He was irrelevant, but then Cew’s brass was stolen from my church,’ explained Frisby. ‘He offered to pay for another if I switched my allegiance to him. Naturally, I agreed.’
‘So will you revert back to Suttone now?’ asked Thomas curiously.
Frisby nodded. ‘The Senior Proctor’s new puppet is infinitely preferable to Hopeman. I have never held with an overabundance of religion, and he is a bore with his pious sermons and conversations with the Almighty.’
He raised the wineskin in a sloppy salute and tottered away, leaving behind a number of baffled hostel men, all wondering why one priest should condemn another for talking to God.
Bartholomew and Michael were just passing St Clement’s on their way to the castle when Vicar Milde emerged, his face unusually sombre.
‘Have you heard, Brother?’ he asked. ‘All the pinnacles on the Holty tomb were stolen last night, probably shortly after I finished prayers at midnight. Personally, I like it better without them, but that is beside the point – which is that someone burgled a holy church. Do these people care nothing for their immortal souls?’