‘What about the incident in Maud’s?’ he asked accusingly. ‘When Lyng slapped you and called you a “black villain”? That cannot have been pleasant.’
Hopeman regarded him askance. ‘He would not have dared to lay hands on the Lord’s anointed. And I did not confront him at home anyway, because Richard Deynman was there.’
‘Why should that make a difference?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused.
Hopeman’s eyes gleamed manically. ‘I did not want witnesses to what I had to say to him – witnesses who might gossip, and put it about that the next Chancellor hails from a hostel that houses Satanists. However, once I had exposed Lyng’s evil, God took matters in hand, and arranged for him to be eliminated.’
Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘You accuse the Almighty of murder?’
‘Of eradicating vermin,’ corrected Hopeman. ‘The Bible is full of such tales, so go away and read it, Brother. It might save your soul.’
‘Have you heard that Godrich might not be in a position to stand for election on Wednesday?’ asked Bartholomew, before the monk could take exception to the advice.
‘Yes!’ Hopeman grinned wildly. ‘The race is between me and Suttone now: the agent of the Lord and the Senior Proctor’s creature. I do not think there will be much of a contest. I shall win, and then I will revoke all the evil edicts you have passed, Brother.’
‘Hopeman,’ warned Prior Morden. ‘I thought we had reached an understanding about these radical remarks. You agreed to moderate them in exchange for our support.’
‘And we shall not vote for you unless you do,’ added Byri. ‘Just because you are a fellow Dominican does not mean–’
‘I do as God commands,’ flashed Hopeman. ‘And you will vote for me, because to support Suttone is to invite Lucifer to rule.’ He laughed suddenly, a harsh bray that grated on the ears. ‘Oh, there will be changes when I am in power! For example, no one will study any subject but theology, so do not think that you will teach here, Bartholomew.’
‘But we shall need physicians,’ objected Morden worriedly. ‘Or would you rather have someone like Cook come to tend you when you are ill?’
‘God protects the righteous from sickness,’ hissed Hopeman. ‘And the sufferings of sinners will be good for their souls, and thus assure them a place in Heaven.’
Prior Morden tried to reason with him, but Hopeman flicked his fingers at his deacons, and they all marched away, singing one of the more warlike Psalms.
‘He is deranged,’ declared Michael in distaste. ‘You should lock him away before he brings your Order into disrepute.’
‘I am sure you would like that,’ said Byri bitterly. ‘It would leave Suttone free to win.’
‘It would,’ conceded Michael. ‘But at least our University would not be in the hands of a lunatic – and one who lies about his interactions with murder victims into the bargain.’
None of the Dominicans had an answer for that particular charge, and Morden spared himself the chore of thinking one up by announcing that it was time for afternoon prayers. Relieved, the Black Friars hurried to their chapel, leaving a lay brother to shut the gate on the outside world. Bartholomew and Michael turned to trudge back to the town.
‘Did you see Morden’s face?’ asked Michael. ‘He thinks Hopeman might be guilty of these murders, even if his almoner is too stupid to see it. And if Hopeman’s own Prior thinks he might be capable of such terrible deeds …’
Chapter 14
The next day – the last before the election – was bitingly cold, but clouds had rolled in, and Marjory Starre stood in the Market Square declaring to anyone who would listen that there would be snow before the day was out. Bartholomew thought she might be right, as the sky was a dirty yellowish grey and the wind so keen that it sliced right through his clothes.
‘Heavens!’ gasped Suttone, as he stepped into Michaelhouse’s yard and was buffeted by an icy blast. ‘I hope this will not prevent people from turning out to vote tomorrow.’
‘It will not stop the young,’ said Kolvyle archly. ‘It is only the old who are bothered by inclement weather, and who cares what they think? The future lies with us, the fresh and vibrant – not tedious ancients who moan about their aching bones.’
‘I am really beginning to dislike him,’ muttered Suttone, as Kolvyle strutted away.
‘I hate to admit it, Suttone,’ said Michael, ‘but it will be a close-run thing between you and Hopeman, so you must work hard today.’
Suttone groaned. ‘Must I? I thought I might be able to relax, given how frantically I have laboured over the last few days.’
‘Hopeman will not relax,’ Michael pointed out shortly. ‘And you should take some responsibility for winning. I am doing all I can, but it has been much harder than I anticipated.’
‘Because you have been busy solving murders?’ asked Suttone, removing a slice of cake from somewhere on his portly person and beginning to eat it. Some crumbs tumbled down the front of his habit, and others stuck to his lips.
‘Yes, along with other things,’ replied Michael, looking disapprovingly at the pastry and the mess Suttone was making with it. ‘So shave, don a clean habit, and go out to persuade people that you are a credible alternative to Hopeman.’
Suttone shuffled into his place in the procession, still eating. He was wearing odd hose, one new and black, the other grey from repeated washing, and the hem of his habit had come unravelled. He yawned widely, then scrubbed at his face and hair with his hands, which did nothing to improve his appearance. Bartholomew wondered if the Carmelite had always been slovenly, or if it was just more apparent now that it mattered.
‘Lord help us!’ muttered Michael. ‘No wonder people tell me they are unhappy with the choice they are being offered – a fanatical bigot or him. I confess I expected more when he offered me his services.’
As far as Bartholomew recalled, Suttone had just stated a desire to be Chancellor, and offering his services had never been part of the equation. He changed the subject by asking if there had been any news about the hunt for Whittlesey and Godrich.
‘Yes,’ replied the monk. ‘A message arrived from Meadowman in the small hours. Whittlesey passed through a village called Walden yesterday, but no one remembers Godrich. Meadowman thinks that Whittlesey caught up with him – Satan is by far the faster horse – dispatched him, hid the body and galloped on.’
Bartholomew frowned. ‘Then he is wrong, because we decided that Whittlesey was not the killer. Besides, what is not to say that Godrich turned off the road before Walden, blithely oblivious that his cousin was hot on his heels? And “no one remembers Godrich” does not mean that Godrich was never there. Perhaps he rode through this village without being noticed.’
‘True.’ Michael shook his head slowly. ‘Their flight bothers me profoundly. Even if it is unrelated to what happened to Tynkell and the others, it is still suspicious, particularly given its timing. Godrich might well have won the election had he stayed, and I do not understand why he has thrown all that away.’
‘Unless they have hatched a plot that will see him installed anyway,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘I know Godrich has rendered himself ineligible by not keeping term, but I do not see him allowing a technicality to stand between him and his ambitions.’
‘Nor do I,’ acknowledged Michael. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘We know he and Whittlesey quarrelled, but what does that mean? That Whittlesey objected to his cousin’s machinations and ordered him to desist, or that they just disagreed on tactics?’