‘I noticed that when we arrived,’ said Kenyngham, sounding careless of the fact that it meant someone had forced an illicit entry. ‘But you were the one who asked us to pray for Turke, so I am surprised that you should attack us for being here.’
‘I am sorry, Father,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘I hope I did not alarm you too much.’
‘You did, actually,’ said Suttone coolly. ‘I do not like being screamed at by spectres that launch themselves from graveyards.’ He turned to Kenyngham with accusing eyes. ‘You did not mention the lock was broken. I assumed you used your key to enter.’
‘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?’
