A Grave Concern

Book 22: Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew

by Susanna Gregory

Genres: Historical Fiction; Medieval; Mystery; Amateur Sleuth; Historical Mysteries; Thrillers; Crime Fiction; Historical Thrillers; Medical Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

Identifying the murderer of the Chancellor of the university is not the only challenge facing physician Matthew Bartholomew. Many of his patients have been made worse by the ministrations of a 'surgeon' recently arrived from Nottingham, his sister is being rooked by the mason she has commissioned to build her husband's tomb and his friend, Brother Michael, has been offered a bishopric which will cause him to leave Cambridge.

Brother Michael, keen to leave the university in good order, is determined that the new Chancellor will be a man of his choosing. The number of contenders putting themselves forward for election threatens to get out of control, then more deaths in mysterious circumstances make it appear that someone is taking extreme measures to manipulate the competition.

With passions running high and a bold killer at large, both Bartholomew and Brother Michael fear the very future of the university is at stake.

Release date: June 2, 2016

Publisher: Sphere

Print pages: 448

Sample

Nottingham, late summer 1359

John Dallingridge did not know who had poisoned him. He only knew he would not live to be inaugurated as a Fellow in the University at Cambridge that October, something he had wanted to do ever since childhood. He sighed at the pity of it all. He would have made an excellent teacher – his students would have hung on his every word, his scholarly writings would have set the academic world afire, and his colleagues would have delighted in his mental agility.

He shifted restlessly in the bed. When he had first been afflicted by the griping pains in his innards, he had assumed that bad meat was responsible. He had been taken ill on Lammas Day after a feast at the castle, where the steward was notorious for making reckless economies. But as the days had turned into weeks and his agonies had only intensified, he began to realise that this was no innocent sickness – that someone had done him deliberate and serious harm.

The toxin was slow-acting, which gave him plenty of time to ponder the culprit’s identity. Unfortunately, almost everyone he knew had been at the feast, and nearly all of them had set greedy eyes on the fortune he had accumulated – and those who were not interested in his money were jealous of his formidable intellect or his influential connections. Yet try as he might, he had failed to determine which of them had resorted to murder.

He had woken that morning knowing his end was near. His friends and family sensed it, too, and began to gather, jostling with each other to spend a few moments at his side. They murmured impassioned promises to pray for his soul, each trying to outdo the one in front. Dallingridge grimaced. They were not there out of concern for his spiritual well-being – they wanted to make sure he had not forgotten to include them in his will.

The grimace turned into a bleak smile of satisfaction, for they were all going to be disappointed. He was damned if the killer was going to benefit from the crime, and as he did not know the identity of the culprit, he had decided to disinherit everyone. Instead, every last penny of his enormous wealth would be spent on his tomb, a creation so magnificent that it would be the talk of the country. It was to be in Cambridge, because if the University he had longed to join could not have him in life, then it could house him in death.

The mason he had commissioned to build the monument was among the shuffling throng at the far end of the room, so Dallingridge beckoned him forward. His name was John Petit, a short, squat man, whose thick fingers did not look capable of producing the delicate sculptures for which he was famous.

‘Are you sure you understand my exact instructions?’ Dallingridge asked softly, anxious because so much depended on the mason doing as he was told. ‘You will carve a good likeness of me, and set it on a canopied marble tomb-chest in Cambridge’s biggest and most prestigious church, just as we discussed?’

Petit nodded reassuringly. ‘It is all arranged. The scholars were more than happy to grant your request, especially once they learned the size of the donation that went with it.’

‘Good.’ Dallingridge closed his eyes to indicate the conversation was over, and the mason tiptoed away. Then an unpleasant thought occurred to him.

Business had been brisk for tomb-builders immediately after the plague, as they had been inundated with requests for memorials to lost loved ones. But that was nearly ten years ago, and the backlog had been cleared. Good commissions were now few and far between, because such undertakings were expensive and only the very rich could afford them. Petit had been idly kicking his heels for the past few months, so had he acquired poison, knowing that an affluent man like Dallingridge would certainly require his services?

Dallingridge experienced a sharp stab of dismay. If so, then he had played directly into his killer’s hands. Not only would the monument provide work for Petit and his apprentices, but it would furnish them with an opportunity to advertise their skills in a place that had no resident tomb-makers of its own. New work would flood in, and they would be set for years.

With mounting disquiet, he looked for Petit among the well-wishers again – it was not too late to dispense with his services and appoint another mason. But his eye lit instead on Richard Lakenham, an engraver of funerary brasses, who had been hired to make the six decorative shields that would be affixed to the tomb’s sides. Lakenham was poor, so even modest commissions were important to him. Dallingridge gulped. Was Lakenham the culprit then, desperate to earn a few shillings before he and his wife starved?

Lakenham saw Dallingridge looking at him, and started to step forward, to see if he was needed, but Petit grabbed his arm and stopped him – the two men were implacable rivals and hated each other with a passion. Indignantly, Lakenham tried to break free, which resulted in an unseemly scuffle. While the other visitors watched the squabbling pair in silent disapproval, Dallingridge took the opportunity to review his shortlist of suspects for his murder, all of whom were there that day.

First, there were the folk from the castle, including its most famous prisoner – Sir John Moleyns. Moleyns was a royal favourite, and the King had been outraged when a jury had convicted his old friend of theft, extortion and murder. Eager to win His Majesty’s favour, the Sheriff treated Moleyns like an honoured guest, providing him with sumptuous accommodation, the finest food, and the freedom to roam the city as he pleased. All Moleyns had to do in return was promise not to escape. Naturally, he had been at the Lammas Day feast, so had he indulged his penchant for unlawful killing, just for the thrill of doing it right under the Sheriff’s nose? If so, Dallingridge was sorry. He rather liked Moleyns, who was entertaining, if mercurial, company.

Moleyns was standing with his wife Egidia, a cold, grasping woman, who was resentful that her husband’s ‘incarceration’ meant he could no longer add to the family coffers by stealing and terrorising his neighbours. Also with them was John Inge, Moleyns’ lawyer, whom Dallingridge disliked intensely. Inge was sly, secretive and duplicitous, and it was common knowledge that he would do anything for money.

Dallingridge eyed the three of them thoughtfully. Since he had announced that he was dying, they had made it their business to call on him every day, purely in the hope of getting money. Moleyns had been rich, but most of his property was confiscated by the courts, so a legacy would suit him very nicely. Meanwhile, Inge and Egidia hated relying on Moleyns for the occasional hand-out, and longed to be financially independent. Could one of them have killed him, in the hope of acquiring enough cash to tide them over until the King arranged for Moleyns to be released?

In another corner was a young scholar named Will Kolvyle, and the plan had been for him and Dallingridge to enrol in the University together – two Nottingham men side by side. Unfortunately, Kolvyle was jealous of the name Dallingridge had made for himself with his sophisticated understanding of contract law, so had Kolvyle dispensed the poison, lest he should be regarded as second best when they arrived in Cambridge? Dallingridge shifted uneasily. He would not put it past the lad – Kolvyle was egotistical, callous and frighteningly ambitious.

‘Lie still,’ ordered Barber Cook, the medicus who had nursed Dallingridge since the feast. ‘You will unbalance your humours if you twist around so, and then you will never recover.’

Dallingridge scowled at him, resenting the assumption that he was a fool who did not know that death was near. He would have preferred a physician to tend him, but Cook had been the first practitioner to offer his services, and Dallingridge had not been well enough to demand someone better. He studied the barber’s mean, sharp face and shifty eyes. Perhaps he was the culprit. He had, after all, earned a fortune for his ministrations over the last few weeks, and clearly expected to be rewarded further still once his patient was dead.

It was becoming difficult for Dallingridge to see the other eager, hopeful faces, but he knew who was there – friends and family from near and far, servants, neighbours and business associates. Had even one of them come out of affection for him, or were they all hoping to gain something from his imminent demise? And with that question came the knowledge of what he must do – not build a tomb, but donate his whole fortune to the University that was to have been his home. There would be no fine monument to remind future generations of what a great man he had been, but the scholar-priests would pray for his soul, which was all that really mattered.

His mind made up, he tried to call his clerk, but his tongue was suddenly thick and heavy, so all that emerged was an incoherent gurgle. As one, the horde surged forward to gabble more meaningless platitudes, jostling for space at his bedside. He looked at them in despair before his eyes grew too dim to see. Which one had condemned him to this terrible, lingering death? He supposed he would never know.

Cambridge, October 1359

When Sir John Moleyns and his train of guards arrived in Cambridge, it was a beautiful day, and the kindly weather showed the little Fen-edge settlement at its very best. The autumn sun shone gently, and leaves were beginning to be touched with red and gold. The town’s roads were little more than strips of mature and compacted rubbish, but they added a certain rustic charm that had been absent in Nottingham, while many of its churches were very handsome indeed.

By rights, the prisoner should have been delivered directly to the gaol, but Moleyns had wanted to see his new home first, and had persuaded the officer in charge to make a detour so that they arrived from the south. Sergeant Helbye had been quite happy to oblige. After all, who would not rather swap mundane duties in the castle for an afternoon of leisurely riding?

‘There is St Mary the Great,’ said Inge the lawyer, pointing to an enormous building near the Market Square, which thronged with scholars. He hailed from the Fens, so knew the area well. ‘Also called the University Church. You may recall the name, as it is where Sir John Dallingridge asked to be buried.’

Inge had thought long and hard about his future when Moleyns had been convicted. Should he settle for a dull but safe life as a rural judge, or should he stick with his biggest client, knowing that Moleyns would eventually be pardoned, as those generous to the royal coffers always were? In the end, he had decided that his best interests lay with the devious knight, so he had followed Moleyns to ‘prisons’ in Windsor, Nottingham and now Cambridge.

Unfortunately, he was beginning to think he might have made a mistake. It had been three years since the trial, and there was still no sign that a reprieve was in the offing. And with no income of his own, Inge was obliged to rely on Moleyns for every last penny, which was a position no man liked to be in. But Inge was unwilling to cut his losses just yet. The move to Cambridge showed that the King had not forgotten his favourite, and Moleyns was fun company when he was in a good mood – which was why His Majesty loved him, of course.

Moleyns was looking around approvingly. ‘Dallingridge was right to wax lyrical about this town, and I was right to request a transfer here. It will be much more comfortable than Nottingham, where the castle was draughty and its Sheriff a bore.’

At that moment, St Mary the Great’s bell began to chime, a toneless clunk that made him wince. His wife, who rode at his side, started to laugh.

‘Do the scholars keep a bucket in the tower?’ she chortled. ‘I expected a more tuneful sound from so glorious a building.’

Egidia and Moleyns had been married for nearly thirty years, and although it had been a union of convenience, both had done well out of the arrangement. She had brought him the plum manor that had won him a place at Court, and he had provided her with a steady supply of riches from his criminal schemes – at least, until his arrest had put an end to them.

‘It cracked earlier this year,’ explained Inge. ‘But replacements have already been cast, and will be hung soon. Three of them – a gift from a wealthy benefactor.’

He pointed out more landmarks as they and their guards rode along the High Street – pretty St Catherine’s Hostel, King’s Hall with its stalwart walls, and the Hospital of St John on the corner. Then they passed into Bridge Street, and caught their first glimpse of the castle.

It dominated the northern end of the town by squatting on a ridge – an unusual feature in an area that was almost uniformly flat. It was an imposing sight, a mass of grey walls and bristling towers with the mighty Great Keep rising from its middle.

‘Its function is more administrative than military these days,’ Inge chatted on, pleased to show off his local knowledge. ‘And the most dangerous task its Sheriff performs is collecting taxes from people who do not want to pay.’

‘And running a prison, presumably,’ remarked Egidia.

‘There are cells in the gatehouse,’ acknowledged Inge, ‘but those are for common felons. We will be housed in quarters that are commensurate with Moleyns’ status as a close friend of the King.’

‘I shall be very happy in this town,’ declared Moleyns, smiling contentedly. ‘I can tell. Did I mention that His Majesty has granted me even more privileges than I had in Nottingham? I shall go hunting and hawking, as well as enjoying all the usual feasts and revels that the Sheriff will have to provide. Nottingham had palled, and we all needed a change.’

‘Regardless, I hope you are pardoned soon,’ sighed Egidia. ‘I am tired of these grim fortresses, and I want to go home to Stoke Poges.’

‘Stoke Poges is not your home now,’ Inge reminded her. ‘It was confiscated by the courts when Moleyns was found guilty.’

‘It will be returned to me the moment I am pardoned,’ averred Moleyns confidently. ‘Which will not be long now. The King swore not to rest until the verdict of those stupid jurors was overturned.’

‘He did,’ acknowledged Inge. ‘But perhaps it is time for another letter reminding him of your plight. This is a pretty town, and I do not doubt that we shall enjoy ourselves here, but who would not rather be free?’

Moleyns wanted to dismount and inspect some of the interesting stalls on Bridge Street, but Helbye growled an order for the party to keep moving – taking the long way through the town was one thing, but going shopping in the shadow of the castle was another altogether. He was a grizzled veteran of many campaigns and the Sheriff’s most trusted subordinate, so he was the natural choice to travel to Nottingham and bring the prisoner back. He had enjoyed the excursion immensely, despite the nagging aches in his ageing joints, and was not about to risk future jaunts by letting Moleyns defy his authority in a place where it would be noticed.

When they reached the Barbican, they met Sheriff Tulyet, who was just walking out. Helbye saluted smartly.

‘Here he is, sir,’ he said, jerking a callused thumb over his shoulder at Moleyns. ‘One prisoner, delivered safe and sound.’

‘I am a personal friend of the King,’ declared Moleyns, disliking the disrespectful introduction, and aiming to let his new captor know how matters stood. ‘And I expect to be treated accordingly. If you have any doubts, read the letter your man carries.’

Obligingly, Helbye handed it over. ‘Apparently, it says the King wants him to have decent quarters, the best food, and the freedom to go out whenever he likes.’

‘The freedom to go out whenever I deem it safe,’ corrected Tulyet, scanning it briefly before shoving it rather carelessly into his tunic. ‘But Cambridge can be very disorderly, so I do not foresee many outings, I am sorry to say.’

He did not sound sorry at all, and Moleyns struggled to keep his temper. ‘You might want to reconsider that attitude,’ he said sharply. ‘I think—’

‘See him to his cell, Helbye,’ interrupted Tulyet, giving the distinct impression that he did not care two hoots what Moleyns thought. ‘I will speak to him later, if I have time.’

Outraged by the implication that his arrival was inconsequential, and alarmed by the word ‘cell’, Moleyns dug his spurs into his mount’s flanks, aiming to surge forward and give the Sheriff a piece of his mind. Unfortunately, he jabbed too hard – he had never been a very good rider – and the animal reared. He was saved from an embarrassing tumble by Tulyet himself, who jumped forward to grab the bridle.

‘You had better dismount,’ said the Sheriff coolly. ‘We cannot have you falling off and hurting yourself. Or worse, hurting someone else.’

Moleyns was incensed by the impertinence, but Tulyet was already striding away, clearly considering the conversation over. He ground his teeth in impotent fury, outraged that he should be treated with such rank and arrogant disregard.

‘We shall write to the King tomorrow,’ said Inge soothingly. ‘You will not suffer these indignities long, never fear.’

Moleyns nodded slowly, hot temper turning to something colder and darker.

‘Tulyet will be sorry he offended me,’ he said softly. ‘And so will his town.’

Cambridge, February 1360

An enormous crowd had gathered outside St Mary the Great, and everyone in it was gazing upwards. On the top of the tower, high above, the University’s Chancellor was doing battle with the Devil, a desperate, frantic struggle that surged back and forth, perilously close to the edge. More than once it seemed the pair would plummet to their deaths. Or Chancellor Tynkell would: most suspected it would take rather more to eliminate Satan.

Master Ralph de Langelee of Michaelhouse and four of his Fellows were among the throng. They had been to visit friends in Peterhouse and were hurrying home when their attention had been snagged by the spectacle. All had teaching planned for that morning, but lectures had flown from their minds when they had seen what was happening on the roof.

‘Whatever possessed him to tackle such a foe?’ breathed Father William. He was famous for three things: a filthy Franciscan habit, scandalously bigoted opinions, and a dim-wittedness rare among those claiming to be academics. ‘Even I would not dare, and I am a priest.’

‘Let us pray he is strong enough,’ whispered Clippesby, the College’s Dominican. He crossed himself, then hugged the goose he was carrying. His habit of talking to animals – and claiming they talked back – naturally led most people to assume he was insane.

‘This wind does not help,’ added Langelee. He had been a henchman for the Archbishop of York before deciding that life as a scholar would be more fun. Like William, he was no intellect, but he was an able administrator, and his Fellows were generally satisfied with his rule. ‘One false step, and they will both be blown off.’

Even as he spoke, a violent gust made him stagger, then huddle more deeply into his cloak. It was bitterly cold, with streams and ditches frozen hard, and the occasional flurry of snow dancing in the air. He turned as Beadle Meadowman approached at a run. Beadles were the men who kept order in the University, under the command of the proctors. The Senior Proctor was currently Michael, a rotund Benedictine theologian, who was the third of Langelee’s Fellows.

‘We cannot open the porch door, Brother,’ Meadowman reported tersely. ‘The Devil must have tampered with it, to keep us out.’

‘Then try the one in the vestry,’ suggested Matthew Bartholomew, Michaelhouse’s physician and the last Fellow in the pack. Besides teaching medicine, he was also the University’s Corpse Examiner, which meant it was his responsibility to provide an official cause of death for any scholar who died. He sincerely hoped that his services would not be required for Tynkell.

‘That is a good idea.’ Michael sighed irritably when Meadowman only gazed up at the tower in open-mouthed fascination. ‘Well, go on then, man!’

Meadowman shuffled away, but with such obvious reluctance that it was clear his efforts to enter the building had not been as assiduous as he would have his Senior Proctor believe.

‘He does not want to go in, because he is afraid of what he might encounter in there,’ said Bartholomew, watching him.

Michael scowled. ‘Tynkell is fighting a person, Matt, not Satan. I cannot imagine what he thinks he is doing, but unless my beadles stop them soon, blood will be spilled.’

‘It is the Devil.’ William sounded astonished that the monk should think otherwise. ‘Look at him, Brother – dressed in black from head to toe.’

‘So am I,’ retorted Michael, indicating his Benedictine habit. ‘But that does not mean—’

‘And he has that hunched, impish look of all demons,’ William went on earnestly. ‘Trust me, I know. I learned these things when I was with the Inquisition in France.’

Fortunately for that country’s ‘heretics’, William’s appointment had been a short one, and he had been assigned to Cambridge when his fellow inquisitors had deemed him too extreme.

There was a collective gasp from the onlookers as the wrestling pair lurched violently to one side, dislodging a coping stone, which crashed to the ground below. Then Tynkell managed to wrap his hands around his opponent’s throat. There was a cheer of encouragement from the crowd, especially when the Devil began to flail around in a frantic effort to breathe.

‘Those wretched beadles are more interested in gawping than putting an end to it,’ said Michael crossly, glaring at them. ‘I shall have to do it myself.’

‘Then hurry,’ advised Bartholomew. ‘Unless you want the Chancellor to commit murder in front of half the town.’

‘Do not intervene!’ cried William in dismay, as the monk began to stride towards the church. ‘Not when Tynkell is winning. New scholars will race to study here once they learn that we are the kind of men who can conquer Lucifer.’

Michael did not grace the appeal with a response. He reached the church, Bartholomew at his heels, and inspected the vestry door. The beadles were more than happy to abandon their half-hearted attempts to open it, and scuttled off to join the other spectators in the High Street.

The vestry door was shut fast, but it only took a moment to ascertain that a key had been used, not some diabolical device. It was still in the hole, and a jab from one of Bartholomew’s surgical probes saw it drop to the floor on the other side. There was a large gap between door and flagstones, so it was easy for the physician to slip his hand beneath and retrieve it.

‘I thought you had keys to this place,’ he remarked, inserting it into the lock and pushing the door open. Behind him, a disappointed moan from the crowd suggested that Lucifer had just broken the Chancellor’s death grip.

‘I do, but I rarely carry them these days,’ explained the monk, shoving past him and hurrying inside. ‘There is no need, because the church is always open. It has to be – the University’s recent expansion means our clerks have urgent business day and night, while the masons working on Sir John Dallingridge’s tomb must be able to come and go at will.’

‘Then where are they all?’ asked Bartholomew, following him up the empty nave.

Michael looked around and shrugged. ‘They must have left when they heard the commotion outside. Then the doors caught the wind, which slammed them so hard that they jammed.’

‘Both of them?’ asked Bartholomew sceptically. ‘And besides, the vestry door was locked, not jammed.’ He frowned when Michael pulled a bunch of keys from his scrip. ‘I thought you just said you never carry those.’

‘I meant the ones to the outer doors,’ explained the monk. ‘These are for the tower, which, as you know, houses the University Chest. There are only two sets of keys in existence, and this is one of them.’

The Chest contained all the University’s money and most precious documents, so its security was taken seriously. Bartholomew was not surprised that only a limited number of people had the wherewithal to access it.

‘Who has the other set?’ he asked. ‘Tynkell?’

‘He did, but I took it away and gave it to Meadowman instead.’ The monk shot his friend a rueful glance. ‘I was afraid Tynkell might do something else to make a name for himself before he finally retires next summer.’

Tynkell had won the chancellorship on a technicality, but it had quickly become clear that the post was well beyond his abilities. This had suited Michael perfectly, as it allowed him to seize control behind the scenes. Loath to go down in history as the Puppet Chancellor, Tynkell had backed two schemes to see himself remembered more favourably. One was to build a Common Library – a place that would have been open to all scholars, whether rich or poor, which some masters felt set a dangerously egalitarian precedent. The other was to found a new College. Both had gone disastrously wrong, but Tynkell stubbornly refused to learn from his mistakes, and Michael lived in fear that he might try something else.

Tynkell had announced his resignation eighteen months before, but had changed his mind at the last minute, and decided to stay on. A year later, he gave notice a second time, but then had been assailed with misgivings as the leaving date had loomed. He was currently due to step down at the end of the academic year, and claimed he was looking forward to enjoying some well-earned leisure time, although no one was sure whether to believe him.

‘How did he get up the tower, then?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Borrowed Meadowman’s, I suppose.’ Michael hissed irritably when haste made him clumsy, and he could not find the right key. ‘I thought I had loaded him with enough extra duties to keep him out of mischief. He should not have time for this sort of nonsense.’

Outside, there was a collective cry of annoyance, suggesting that the action on the roof had moved out of sight. Michael muttered a quick prayer of thanks when he found the right key at last. He started to thrust it into the hole, then gaped in disbelief when the door swung open of its own accord.

‘This is always kept locked,’ he said angrily, gathering the voluminous folds of his habit as he prepared to tackle the spiral staircase. ‘Even when one of us is working up there. Tynkell has become a real menace – I need a Chancellor I can trust, not one who runs amok.’

Knowing the monk’s upwards progress would be stately, Bartholomew pushed past him and went first, climbing as fast as he dared up steps that were unlit, icy and perilously uneven. It was not easy, and he was obliged to clamber back down again when Michael fell and released a yelp of pain, although the monk flapped an impatient hand, telling him to go on without him.

The tower comprised three large chambers, set one above the other. The first contained the bells, a trio of tuneful domes suspended in a wooden frame. Bartholomew glanced in as he hurried past, noting that it was empty. The second was the Chest Room, protected by an iron-bound door with two substantial locks. He rattled it, but it was shut fast. The third was a vast empty space containing nothing but the mess left by pigeons. Then came the roof. Bartholomew opened the little door that gave access to it, and saw Tynkell slumped on the far side.

The wind buffeted the top of the tower so hard that it was difficult to stay upright, while the slates underfoot were treacherously slick with ice. As he picked his way gingerly across them, he wondered what had induced Tynkell to fight under such conditions.

‘Matt!’ yelled Michael, hobbling up the last few stairs. ‘Wait! Where is his opponent?’

Instinct had prompted Bartholomew to go to the Chancellor’s aid, and the possibility that he might be in danger himself had not crossed his mind. He looked around in alarm, but the roof was deserted.

‘He is not here,’ he called back, although Michael could see this for himself. ‘He must have fallen over the edge while we were coming up the stairs.’

He reached Tynkell and shook his shoulder. There was no response. Alarmed, he felt for a life-beat, and then stared in shock when he could not find one.

‘No!’ he whispered in stunned disbelief. ‘Tynkell … he is dead.’

For several moments, Bartholomew could do no more than stare in horror at the man who had been the University’s public face for the last six years. Tynkell had been his patient and he had liked him. Then he dragged his eyes away and looked at Michael. The colour had drained from the monk’s face, leaving it as white as snow; he clutched the doorframe for support.

‘You are wrong,’ he said unsteadily. ‘Check again.’

Bartholomew obliged, because he was unwilling to believe the horrible truth himself, but it was not long before he sat back on his heels and shook his head. ‘I am sorry, Brother.’

‘But he wants to retire,’ objected Michael, as if this would undo the terrible news. ‘And I believe he is serious this time, because he has been making plans for his future.’

‘I know,’ said Bartholomew softly. ‘And I am more sorry than I can say.’

Michael limped across the roof. ‘How can he be dead? All he and his opponent did was grapp