Free The Mark of a Murderer by Susanna Gregory

pertaining
     to the running of their University, and for when they needed to resolve some of the frequent and bitter disputes that raged
     between its Colleges, hostels, friaries and convents. The church boasted a stalwart tower that housed their various deeds,
     documents and stockpiles of coins, and the Chancellor and his clerks had offices located off its aisles.
    ‘This really is a beautiful place,’ said Bartholomew, pausing to admire the way the sunlight poured through the windows to
     form delicate patterns on the newly laid chancel floor. ‘The coloured light virtually dances across the flagstones.’
    Michael regarded him stonily. ‘You need a night away from your exertions with Matilde. It is not normal, talking about buildings
     as though they were women.’
    He moved away, leaving Bartholomew too bemused to point out that the association between the church and a lady was entirely
     one of the monk’s own devising. He opened the door to the Chancellor’s office, and Bartholomew could not help but notice that
     he did not bother to knock. Tynkell was so much under Michael’s spell after his third year in office that when the monk marched
     into the room as if he owned it, Bartholomew half expected him to leap from his seat and offer it up.
    Tynkell had not been lawfully elected to his exalted office, although few people other than Michael knew it. There had been
     violent objections when Tynkell had first been declared the victor, but these had gradually died away,and now people were reasonably satisfied with the way Michael ran matters. Indeed, Michael’s power was so absolute that Bartholomew
     had once asked why the monk did not simply declare an election and have himself voted in properly. He replied that he did
     not have the patience to endure the many dull civic functions that chancellors were obliged to attend – and there was the
     fact that while he could take the credit when things were going well, he could always stand back when they were not, and let
     Tynkell weather the consequences.
    Tynkell was a thin man with an aversion to water that led to a problem with his personal hygiene. He doused himself liberally
     with scents in an attempt to disguise the fact that not so much as a drop of water ever touched his skin, with the result
     that his office reminded Bartholomew of a rank public latrine sited near a lavender field. Tynkell suffered from digestive
     ailments, which the physician insisted would ease if the man were to rinse his hands before eating. Tynkell declined to follow
     the advice, and that morning sat clutching his stomach with one hand while the other played nervously with a pen. He was visibly
     relieved when Michael entered his domain, and Bartholomew supposed the three men who were with him had been pressing him for
     the unthinkable: a decision.
    ‘This is my Senior Proctor,’ said Tynkell, ushering Michael inside. ‘And my Corpse Examiner.’
    ‘Corpse Examiner?’ asked one of the men. ‘What sort of post is that?’
    ‘One that is useful,’ replied Michael enigmatically. ‘He has examined a corpse of your own, as a matter of fact.’
    ‘Chesterfelde’s,’ said the man. ‘His death was a pity. He was a cheerful fellow, although he did have a habit of quoting the
     Bible at you in Latin. At least, that is what he said he was doing. He could have been damning us all to Hell for all I know.’
    ‘Why would he do that?’ asked Michael. ‘Did you harm him in some way?’
    ‘Of course not,’ replied the man impatiently. ‘I am trying to illustrate my point. I am a spicer, and have no time for foolery
     like Latin. French and English were good enough for my father, God rest his soul, and they are good enough for me.’
    ‘We can hardly read the Bible in French!’ exclaimed Tynkell, shocked. ‘We are at war with France, and it would be an odd thing
     to do, anyway. Latin is the only tongue for sacred texts – and for proper academic discourse.’
    ‘Allow us