Bingham,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But why would Eligius want to cheat on the election results? And what of Master Kenyngham? Surely he would suspect something was wrong?’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Michael. ‘Usually, one person reads out the names, while the other keeps a tally. Eligius must have done the reading, while Kenyngham did the adding. If Kenyngham had expressed surprise at any of the votes, Eligius could simply have shown him the slip he himself had written out prior to the election. Kenyngham is far too much a man of integrity ever to have asked anyone why he voted in a certain way. He would have been the perfect partner for Eligius’s cheating.’
‘But why?’ asked Bartholomew again. ‘Did Eligius admire Tynkell so much?’
‘I imagine it was more a case that he disapproved of Harling,’ said Michael. ‘Harling was among those of us who exposed that business of the false relic at Valence Marie. Eligius believed that relic to be genuine right up to his death.’ He held up a scroll. ‘Here is Eligius’s diary. He bemoans the wrong done to his College by the discrediting of the relic only the day before he died. He even mentions that he proposed to discuss the possibility of its reinstatement with the Countess when she visited the following day. And here, in an entry made last autumn – just before the election that Harling lost – he records a discussion with Tynkell, in which Tynkell agreed to allow Valence Marie to display the relic if he were elected Chancellor. Essentially, Eligius arranged to have Tynkell elected so that the relic would be returned to Valence Marie.’
Bartholomew sat on one of the beds in the cramped room and rubbed his eyes. ‘This is terrible, Brother! It means that just for the sake of those wretched bones – that we proved beyond a shadow of a doubt did not belong to a martyr – Harling was cheated out of a position that was rightfully his, and was led to all this murder and crime.’
Michael nodded. ‘Poor Harling thought he did not have the support of the scholars. The reality is that he had a vast majority of votes. People liked him, and knew he would make us a good Chancellor.’
Bartholomew sighed. ‘So what shall we do now? Harling is dead; we can hardly reinstate him.’
‘There is nothing we can do,’ said Michael. ‘Can you imagine what kind of scandal would ensue if it were known that our Chancellor of the past several months was fraudulently appointed? All the writs and charters issued by him would be rendered invalid, and the University would lose a fortune in property. And the students whose degrees were conferred by the Chancellor would have them deemed null and void. Chaos would ensue. All we can do is hope that either Tynkell makes a good Chancellor, or that he is so disastrous we can easily rid ourselves of him.’
‘But he obtained his office by cheating,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We cannot allow him to retain it.’
‘There is nothing to suggest that anyone other than Eligius knew of the deception,’ said Michael. ‘I feel certain that Tynkell is unaware of it. When it was declared that he had won, I am told he looked more startled than anyone else in the church. He had agreed to stand only because it was necessary for there to be two candidates for an election. He had no real hopes for success and all he really wanted was the name of his poor hostel to become better known among the University community.’
Bartholomew recalled Tynkell’s reaction as Kenyngham announced the result of the election, and was certain Michael was right. Tynkell’s face had registered a strange combination of horror and shock when he had been pronounced the winner. It was an expression that had been mirrored in the faces of many other scholars in the church, including Harling’s. ‘So are you suggesting that we should forget all this?’
Michael nodded and closed the lid on the box, securing it with a large lock. ‘Only you and I know, so I think it best that we keep the knowledge to ourselves. Unless it serves our purpose to reveal it at some point in the future,’ he said with a conspiratorial grin.
‘Your grandmother is quite a lady,’ said Matilde to Michael, as he sat in her house with Bartholomew that evening drinking spiced wine.
‘I know,’ said Michael with pride. ‘Her aim was as true and strong as it was when she won a knife-throwing contest at the Tower of London – against some of the finest knights in the country – when she was only seventeen.’
Bartholomew suppressed a shudder, and decided he would not want to make an enemy of a nun like Dame Pelagia.
‘Are you certain Harling is dead, Matthew?’ asked Matilde. ‘I would not like to think of him returning to wreak revenge on us all.’
‘I am certain,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The blade pierced his heart. And, anyway, I saw him buried today in St Michael’s churchyard. Of course, if he is the Devil Langelee claims him to be, that will not be much of an obstacle to him.’
Matilde and Michael gazed at him in horror.
‘Matthew!’ breathed Matilde fearfully, glancing towards the door as though she imagined Harling might crash through it at any moment. ‘Do you think he will come back?’
‘No!’ said Bartholomew, astonished that they should take him seriously. ‘Of course not. It was a joke.’
‘Not a very funny one,’ said Michael disapprovingly. ‘I have known many stranger things to happen in this town than dead men rising from their graves, and so have you.’ He shuddered, and sketched a blessing in the air, as if to ward off Harling’s evil spirit.
‘So all is well again?’ asked Matilde uncertainly, sipping her wine as her eyes went once more to the door.
Michael pursed his lips. ‘I would not go as far as that – we still have Langelee in our midst.’ He gave Bartholomew an unpleasant look. ‘Thanks to you.’
Bartholomew grimaced and wondered how long Michael would remind him of the fact. They sat in silence for a while, watching the flames creep slowly over a damp log.
‘Let us go back to when you snatched Langelee from the jaws of death,’ said Michael to Bartholomew eventually. ‘There is something I do not understand. How did you work out it was the stopper, and not the wine, that was poisoned?’
‘The Gonville cat,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It smashed the bottle and drank the wine with no ill effects, yet the rat died. That detail had been bothering me for some time. When I saw Langelee tip the bottle to draw the stopper with his teeth, I realised that I had made the assumption that both cat and rat had drunk the wine. They had not. The rat had gnawed at the cork stopper. Mortimer had been about to pull the stopper from the bottle with his teeth, too, and Armel, the apprentice down the well, and Grene did the same – or drank from the bottle itself. That was why Philius did not die: he drank wine that had been poured and diluted with other ingredients for the weekly purge that Isaac made for him.’
‘It was lucky you happened to have a lemon in your pocket,’ remarked Michael. ‘A fig or a handful of currants would not have worked nearly as well.’
‘But a handful of currants would not have smashed Master Kenyngham’s beloved window,’ said Bartholomew ruefully. ‘And I would not have to pay for its repair.’
‘True,’ said Michael archly. ‘So next time perhaps you will be a little more selective before you attempt to save someone’s life so selflessly. Langelee is a lout. Harling did right to leave him a gift of his wine. But I still cannot believe Langelee was so stupid, or so greedy, as to have attempted to drink it after all that had gone on.’
‘Did Langelee not offer to pay for the window?’ asked Matilde, surprised. ‘It would have been the least he could do.’
‘He did not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He will not even agree to re-examine Bulbeck on account of his being ill when he took his disputation.’
Michael’s eyes gleamed with humour. ‘Just before we left to come here, he asked me if I would persuade you to let him borrow your copy of Aristotle’s
‘I hope you told him to go and buy his own,’ said Matilde indignantly.
‘I said its hire for a week would cost him the price of a window,’ said Michael, leaning forward to refill his cup with spiced wine. ‘He said he would seek another copy.’
Bartholomew sighed. ‘What a nasty business! And what has been gained from it? The town is in disgrace for smuggling; Edward Mortimer and Rob Thorpe are awaiting trial; I have lost my cloak and gloves; and we are stuck with Langelee – unless Julianna can come up with a plan to spirit him away. Perhaps I should have a word with her and see what we can devise.’
