‘He might,’ said Michael. ‘He hails from this area, if you recall.’
‘So do I,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But that does not mean I can survive the Fens in winter without the necessary clothes and equipment.’
Michael shook his head slowly, still thinking about the confrontation in the tavern. ‘I am astonished, Matt – your wild theory was right. Who would have thought it?’
‘They did not actually admit to stealing the supplies,’ Bartholomew pointed out.
‘They did not have to – their guilt was obvious from Egidia’s reckless replies and Inge’s flight. Unfortunately, while you have solved the thefts, we still have a killer at large, given that we both have reservations about Whittlesey or Godrich being the culprit. And we are running out of suspects.’
‘It is Cook,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Hopeman would brag if he was the killer – claim that God told him to do it or some such nonsense.’
‘He would not,’ argued Michael. ‘He may be a fanatic, but he is not stupid.’
‘Then can we be sure that Inge and Egidia are innocent? It seems they killed Peter Poges, so how do we know they did not kill Tynkell, Lyng and Moleyns as well? They were near Moleyns when he died – which they later lied about – and they were in St Mary the Great when Tynkell was on the roof.’
‘They had good reason to dispatch Moleyns,’ mused Michael. ‘His imprisonment was lasting a good deal longer than they had anticipated, and he was mean with the money he stole – as evidenced by the fact that he refused to buy them new cloaks when they were inspecting suitable cloth with Edith in the Market Square.’
‘I sense a “but”,’ said Bartholomew, shooting him a sidelong glance.
Michael nodded. ‘But in the conclave earlier, I quizzed Clippesby very closely about exactly what he saw when Moleyns fell off his horse. It took some doing – and he insisted the intelligence came from that mangy dog – but I managed to ascertain that Inge and Egidia could not have reached Moleyns’ side in time to stab him. And that means they did not kill Tynkell and Lyng either.’
They walked the rest of the way in silence, aware again of the tension between those who supported one of the two remaining candidates, and those who felt they had been disenfranchised by the loss of their favourite. Quarrels were rife, and the beadles struggled to keep the peace, especially as the situation was exacerbated by the inflammatory taunts of townsfolk. When Bartholomew and Michael reached Maud’s, they ran into Thelnetham, who was just coming out.
‘There are five more votes for Suttone,’ said the Gilbertine with a triumphant grin. ‘I knew I could entice them to our side by pointing out the benefits of an alliance with Michaelhouse. This might be Hopeman’s home, but they do not like him very much.’
‘Who can blame them?’ murmured Michael. ‘I take it he is not inside then?’
‘He is at his friary, pontificating about the Devil, apparently – about whom he knows rather more than is appropriate for a man in holy orders.’
Michael decided to visit Maud’s anyway, to see what might be learned about the Dominican from his colleagues. He began by asking about the row that Blaston had overheard between Lyng and the “black villain”, followed by the one that Almoner Byri had witnessed between Lyng and Hopeman in St Botolph’s churchyard.
‘We have already told you,’ said Father Aidan, exasperated. ‘We were not at home when Blaston was mending the table, and we were certainly not in St Botolph’s churchyard after dark. And I do not believe Blaston’s story, anyway. Lyng was not a violent man – he would never have hit anyone.’
‘He threatened to kill me once,’ said Richard sheepishly. ‘But I probably deserved it, so I did not take it to heart. I am afraid I quite often irritated him into a bad mood.’
‘Lyng?’ asked Aidan in disbelief. ‘But he was a gentle man. A saint!’
‘Perhaps,’ shrugged Richard. ‘But he still had a bit of a tongue on him. He could be rather free with his fists, too, although he was old and slow, so I usually managed to duck.’
‘Lyng?’ breathed Aidan again, stunned. ‘Are you sure?’
Richard pulled a rueful face. ‘I might not be as intellectual as my brother the librarian, but I do know the difference between our teachers. Yes, Father – it was Lyng.’
‘I am astonished, too,’ confessed Michael. ‘And it makes me wonder whether we can ever really know another person. However, Lyng’s violent temper might explain why he was killed. Could Hopeman have witnessed it, and decided it meant he was possessed by the Devil?’
And dispatched him for it was the unspoken question.
‘Hopeman sees Satan in everything,’ said Aidan wryly. ‘But perhaps he did spot something in Lyng that the rest of us missed, although I would be surprised – he is not a percipient man.’
‘I hope you are wrong, Brother,’ said Richard. ‘It would be embarrassing for Maud’s if Hopeman is the culprit. After all, no foundation likes its members slaughtering each other.’
Michael and Bartholomew hurried to the Dominican Priory. It was not a pleasant journey, as the road was treacherous with ice and the wind was getting up again.
‘Marjory Starre says it will snow soon,’ gasped Bartholomew as they staggered along.
‘You should keep your friendship with her quiet,’ advised Michael. ‘Especially if our colleagues ever discover that Tynkell and Lyng were closet Satanists. There will be all manner of trouble, and you do not want to be part of it.’
‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew sincerely.
They reached the friary to discover Hopeman just leaving. He was being escorted out by Prior Morden and Almoner Byri, and through the open gate, a lot of Dominicans could be seen standing together in worried huddles.
‘Hopeman has been telling us about Lucifer again,’ explained Morden, casting a sour glance at the fanatical friar. ‘We shall all have nightmares tonight. It was a terrifying discourse.’
‘It was meant to be,’ boomed Hopeman, who looked rather demonic himself, with his blazing eyes and hooded face. ‘The Devil is not someone to be taken lightly, and there is too much complacency in this town. I shall put an end to it when I am Chancellor.’
‘Lyng,’ said Michael crisply. ‘You were heard arguing with him – twice – on the evening when he disappeared and was probably murdered. What did–’
‘Yes, all right, we argued,’ hissed Hopeman. ‘What of it?’
Michael narrowed his eyes at the abrupt capitulation. ‘You denied it when I asked you before – you said you could not remember.’
Hopeman shrugged defiantly. ‘I have since re-examined my memory. Lyng was Satan’s spawn. He pretended to be good and saintly, but he was a Devil-lover, and he carried the mark of it on the sole of his foot.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Bartholomew suspiciously. ‘I cannot imagined he showed you.’
‘I saw it at Maud’s, when he was soaking his aged toes after a day of marching around the town, telling people to vote for him,’ replied Hopeman vengefully. ‘Oh, he tried to hide it, but it was too late – I had seen. He told me it meant nothing, but I am no fool. So, yes, we quarrelled – in St Botolph’s, where I tackled him about it, as your spy reported.’
‘And you only “remember” this now?’ asked Michael accusingly.
Hopeman met his gaze with a defiant stare. ‘Yes. Why? Do you want to make something of it? However, the simple explanation is that I am busy with important matters, and I cannot be expected to recall every encounter with Satan’s minions.’
In other words, thought Bartholomew, regarding him with dislike, he had been afraid that he would be accused of murder if he had admitted to quarrelling with one of the victims, but was less concerned about it now that he had convinced himself that God was on his side.