‘I did not want earthly concerns to distract you from your meditations,’ said Kenyngham. ‘I planned to ask Langelee to mend it tomorrow.’
‘But this means that the pair who are in there now are intruders,’ said Suttone in a hushed, appalled whisper.
‘I suppose so,’ acknowledged Kenyngham, sounding as though he did not much care. ‘They could also be folk who are weary of fiddling with our awkward latch. It seems to be much worse these days, and I am often obliged to use the south door when I want to leave.’
‘How often?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking of the day when Michael had discovered the south door open and had immediately drawn the conclusion that Harysone had done it.
‘Once or twice a week,’ came the alarming reply. ‘Why? Have I done something wrong? I do not–’
‘The people inside right now must have forced the lock,’ said Suttone, rudely cutting across his words. His voice grew unsteady, as the implications slowly sank in. ‘I wondered why they seemed nervous until we knelt and started to pray. They imagined they had been caught red-handed, and were anticipating a fight.’ He swallowed hard and leaned against the door, unnerved by his narrow escape.
‘Where are they now?’ demanded Bartholomew, pushing past him. He advanced cautiously, not wanting to barge in and have his brains dashed out with one of the heavy pewter candlesticks from the altar. ‘Who are they? And what are they doing?’
‘There are two of them,’ said Kenyngham helpfully, following him into the nave. ‘They are cloaked and hooded, so we did not see their faces – and they were in the Stanton Chapel, anyway. They were there the whole time we were saying our prayers, moving about and muttering. I assumed they were troubled souls, seeking the peace only a church can offer.’
‘Or the silver only a church can offer,’ muttered Suttone, who appreciated that folk entered churches for reasons other than to pray, even if Kenyngham did not.
‘Are you sure they are still here?’ asked Bartholomew, inching down the nave, keeping well away from pillars that might conceal an attacker. ‘They did not leave through the south door, as you have just confessed to doing?’
‘Not as far as I know,’ said Kenyngham. ‘They were in the Stanton Chapel when Suttone and I completed our devotions and left.’
Heart thumping, Bartholomew headed towards the chapel. He held one of the knives he used for surgery, and was aware that his hand was sweating, despite the chill, so the weapon felt slippery in his grasp. Kenyngham began to remonstrate with him for drawing a dagger in a church, but the physician silenced him with an urgent order to remain behind a column, out of harm’s way. The cowardly Suttone needed no such advice, and had chosen to remain outside while Bartholomew hunted the interlopers.
The physician reached the chapel and explored it carefully. But whoever had been there, ‘moving about and muttering’, had gone. Only Athelbald and Turke were there, shrouded and silent in their coffins.
Not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed, Bartholomew went to the south aisle, where the body of Gosslinge lay – as a mere servant and a stranger to the town, Gosslinge did not warrant use of the Stanton Chapel, like the wealthy Turke or members of the Michaelhouse choir. The south door had been unbarred and opened, and Bartholomew saw that the two intruders had slipped away quietly into the night.
Michael rounded up his beadles and ordered them to make a search for the two people who had been in the church, but he held no real hope of finding them. It was not difficult to remain undetected at night in a place like Cambridge, where there were plenty of cemeteries in which to hide, and taverns and alleyways into which to duck. Briefly, the monk entertained a notion that the snow might help, and that the intruders might have left footprints that could be followed, but the ground was frozen so hard it was barely possible to make an imprint by stamping. Normal walking made no kind of mark at all.
‘Damn Suttone!’ muttered Michael, watching Meadowman escort the two friars back to Michaelhouse. ‘I expect eccentric, gullible behaviour from Kenyngham, but if Suttone had been more observant, we might have had this pair by now. What were they doing, do you think?’
‘I have no idea,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is nothing in the Stanton Chapel that could interest them, so I suspect they were disturbed when Kenyngham and Suttone arrived and hid there.’
‘Then they heard you scuffling with Kenyngham in the churchyard, and realised they had better escape while they could.’ Michael rubbed his chin, fingers rasping softly on his bristles. ‘However, the fact that they were prepared to linger suggests they had not finished what they were doing when Kenyngham came, but that it was sufficiently important to warrant them waiting for him to leave.’
‘I recommend you post a guard and return in the morning, when you will be able to see. We should not look at the bodies of Turke and Gosslinge now, because we may miss or destroy clues about these intruders that will be obvious in daylight.’
‘I suppose you are right,’ conceded Michael reluctantly. ‘Of course, the presence of these burglars may have nothing to do with our investigation. They may just be opportunistic thieves.’
‘I disagree. It is common knowledge that St Michael’s does not leave its silver lying around. Consequently, there is little for anyone to do here, except stand and pray. However, we are well endowed with corpses at the moment, and it seems to me that the intruders were here in connection with them. There can be no other reason.’
‘In that case, we shall return at dawn tomorrow and search every nook and cranny of this building until we find the clues we need to sort out this mess. No shadowy figures who lurk in cold churches shall gain the better of me!’
‘I am glad to hear it,’ said Bartholomew tiredly, not liking the sound of the ‘we’ who would conduct the exhaustive survey the following day.
‘So, which of the corpses do you think warranted this pair spending all evening here?’ asked Michael. ‘Turke or Gosslinge?’
‘I have no idea. And I cannot imagine who the intruders were, either – unless you think Philippa and Giles have a penchant for this kind of thing.’
‘Or Ailred and Godric,’ suggested Michael. ‘Or Harysone and an accomplice. But speculating will do us no good. Let us do as you suggest and come back tomorrow – at first light.’
It was too dark to explore the church at prime, so Michael declared they should wait until after breakfast. Meadowman was still on duty when they returned, and reported that no one had attempted to enter the church. Based on the fact that he believed the intruders were desperate to get what they wanted, Michael had ‘mended’ the lock in a way that made it easily re-breakable, and Meadowman had been told to remain hidden, so that he could catch anyone who arrived illicitly. But Michael’s precautions came to nothing, and a weary, bored Meadowman had not heard a suspicious sound all night.
Although Michaelhouse’s scholars had completed their devotions and eaten breakfast, the friars of Ovyng still had to say their morning prayers. Like the other hostels that paid Michaelhouse a fee to use the Collegiate church on a regular basis, Ovyng had been allocated specific hours, to ensure the various institutions did not impinge on each other. That week it was Ovyng’s turn to pray at eight o’clock, and Ailred and his students began to file into the church as Bartholomew and Michael were finishing their examination of the chancel.
‘Looking for coins between the flagstones, Brother?’ asked Ailred amiably, not seeming at all surprised to see the fat Benedictine on his hands and knees. ‘You may be fortunate. I often find farthings by doing just that, and such explorations are frequently worthwhile.’
‘I do not suppose you came here last night, did you?’ asked Michael hopefully. ‘To look for pennies in the church, after everyone else had gone home?’