An Order for Death

Chapter 9

BARTHOLOMEW WAS COVERING ARBURY’S FACE WITH A sheet when Michael and Langelee arrived. The warm, sweet smell of wine preceded them, and Bartholomew questioned whether either was in a fit state to understand what had happened. Langelee’s florid face was sweaty, and his eyes were puffy and red. Michael looked no different than usual, although he was slightly flushed. Cynric was among those who came hurrying to see what the fuss was about, with Clippesby’s arm held firmly in one hand.

‘My God!’ breathed Langelee, looking at the body of the student in horror.

‘Two people were ransacking your room,’ Bartholomew explained to Michael. ‘I tried to catch them, but they escaped.’

‘I told you,’ wailed Clippesby. ‘I warned you tonight that there were bad men at large. You repaid me by locking me away.’

Bartholomew inspected him closely. ‘Did you see them?’

Clippesby shook his head. ‘The owls told me. But I saw them enter the College, when I was looking out of the window. I yelled to you, but Cynric told me to be quiet.’

‘Who were they?’ demanded Michael. ‘Did you see their faces?’

Clippesby swallowed. ‘Two men wearing dark clothes. They were just shadows in the dark.’

‘And what about you?’ asked Michael, turning to Bartholomew. ‘Can you identify them?’

‘No. One drew a knife, and we pushed and shoved at each other before he toppled us both down the stairs. As Clippesby says, it was dark.’

‘What were you thinking of?’ snapped Michael furiously. ‘You are not a beadle, and you should not be challenging armed intruders to fights in the middle of the night.’

‘I have no intention of making a habit of this,’ replied Bartholomew testily, nettled by Michael’s anger.

‘And these intruders stabbed Arbury on their way out?’ asked Langelee, kneeling unsteadily next to the dead scholar and pulling the sheet away so that he could inspect the young man’s face. ‘He is very cold. I must raise some funds so that the students on guard duty have a fire–’

‘He is cold because he was stabbed hours ago,’ interrupted Bartholomew impatiently. Langelee was often slow on the uptake, but large quantities of wine had made him worse. ‘I imagine he opened the door to these men, and they knifed him so that they could enter without him raising the alarm.’

‘And then they went to my room?’ asked Michael, his eyes huge in his flabby face.

Bartholomew sighed irritably. ‘I have no idea what they did next. All I can tell you is that I caught them leaving your chamber.’

‘All right, Matt,’ said Michael gently. ‘I know you are distressed by yet another unnecessary death – as am I – but that is no reason to snap at me. I am only trying to learn what happened.’

Bartholomew rubbed his hand through his hair and stared away into the darkness of the night. Michael was right: the incident had left him badly shaken. But it was his own stupidity that made him angry. He should not have tried to take on the intruders without summoning help, and he now wished he had listened to Clippesby when he had met him earlier that evening. For all his ravings, the Dominican occasionally made very astute observations, and the physician realised he should not have dismissed him so readily.

Langelee stood, grabbing Michael’s arm to steady himself. ‘Arbury is clearly beyond anything Bartholomew can do, so I commit him to your hands, Suttone. You can mount a vigil for him. Take him to the hall, though, not to the church. I do not want you leaving Michaelhouse at this hour of the night when there are killers at large.’ He turned to Bartholomew. ‘But before Suttone removes Arbury, is there anything you need to do? I know your examination of bodies in the past has helped you to identify killers.’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘All I can tell you is that he died from a single wound to the chest, and that he bled to death.’

‘And you think this happened some time ago, because he is cold?’ clarified Langelee.

Bartholomew nodded. ‘But I cannot tell you exactly when.’

‘I see,’ said Langelee. He turned to Michael. ‘We should go to your room, to see whether anything is missing.’

‘Nothing will be missing,’ replied Michael. ‘I have very little to steal.’

‘What about your collection of gold crosses?’ asked Langelee immediately. ‘And your fine array of habits and expensive cloaks? And since your office at St Mary’s is not particularly secure, I expect you store certain documents here, too.’

Michael shook his head. ‘I keep my crosses behind a stone in the hearth – and I defy even Cynric to identify which one. Meanwhile, there is not exactly a thriving market for used Benedictine garments. Mine are distinctively large, and a thief would be caught immediately if he tried to sell any of those at Ely Hall.’

‘And the documents?’ asked Bartholomew.

The monk shrugged. ‘Anything important is locked in the chests at St Mary’s or the Carmelite Friary. There is nothing in my room worth taking.’

‘We should check anyway,’ said Langelee, beginning to walk across the courtyard towards Michael’s room.

Bartholomew and Michael followed him, leaving Suttone and his students to carry Arbury to the hall and begin their prayers for a soul that had died without the benefit of final absolution. As he climbed the stairs, Bartholomew saw the deep groove where the knife had raked the plaster in the wall. He shivered, not wanting to think of the force behind a blow that had left such a mark. Michael reached out to touch it, then turned to scowl at the physician, making it clear that he was unimpressed by the foolish risk his friend had taken.

The shock of the brief encounter with the intruders and finding Arbury dead was beginning to take its toll. Bartholomew felt exhausted, while his bare feet were so cold that he could barely feel them. The chill reached right through his bones to settle in the pit of his stomach, and he wondered whether he would ever be warm again.

Langelee pushed open the door to Michael’s room and the three scholars looked around them. Michael’s possessions had been dragged from their shelves and chests and scattered, so that the chamber looked as if a violent wind had torn through it. Michael took a sharp intake of breath when he saw the mess, and Langelee whistled, holding up the lamp so that it illuminated every corner.

‘The thief was certainly thorough. I wonder if he found what he wanted.’

‘They,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘There were two of them. I heard the feet of one running down the stairs, while the other fought with me.’

‘So, the first intruder did battle with you to allow the other to escape,’ summarised Langelee. ‘Was the first bigger than the second?’

‘I did not see the one who ran,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘I only heard his footsteps. I suppose he did sound small and light, though. Or perhaps he was on tiptoe because he was in the middle of a burglary. I really do not know.’

‘And the first?’ pressed Langelee. ‘Is there anything you can tell us about him? Was he taller than you? Fatter? Was he wearing a cloak, or just hose and shirt? Was there anything at all that you remember about him – perhaps a distinctive smell or a peculiar physical feature.’

‘It was dark,’ said Bartholomew wearily. ‘And he was waving a knife at me. I noticed very little about him, other than that. He knew what he was doing, though; he was a competent fighter.’

‘And you took him on,’ muttered Michael. He slumped down on his bed and surveyed the mess with round eyes. ‘I do not know whether I am more angry with you for risking your life, or with whoever had the audacity to enter the Senior Proctor’s College and go through his personal effects.’

‘Have you been keeping a record of your murder investigation?’ asked Langelee, sitting next to him and scratching his head as he tried to think of reasons why Michael’s room should have been subjected to such treatment. ‘Perhaps that is what they were looking for, so that they could see how close you are to catching them.’

‘I am not close at all,’ said Michael gloomily. He picked up a linen shirt that had been tossed carelessly on the floor, flinging it just as carelessly on to the chest that stood under the window. As he did so, something fell out. Bartholomew leaned down to retrieve it. It was a tiny glove, like something that had been made for a child.

‘A boy was one of the intruders?’ asked Langelee, taking it from him and turning it over in his hands. ‘I suppose it makes sense. A small child could search places that an adult could not reach. I have heard of monkeys being used for such purposes.’

‘You said the footsteps of the second intruder sounded light,’ said Michael to Bartholomew. ‘Could they have belonged to a child?’

‘It is possible,’ said Bartholomew, snatching the glove from Langelee and inspecting it in the candlelight. ‘But I do not think this belongs to a child. I think it belongs to Prior Morden, the leader of the Dominicans.’

It was nearing dawn, and the dense black of the sky was just beginning to show signs of brightening, although it would be another hour before it was light enough to see. Even at that early hour the town was stirring, and a lone cart could be heard rattling up the High Street on its way to the Market Square. A dog barked, and somewhere two people were greeting each other cheerfully. A dampness was in the faint wind that rustled the few dead leaves remaining on the winter branches, threatening more rain that day, and the sky was its usual leaden grey.

Bartholomew sat with Michael in Langelee’s room, sipping near-boiling ale that he knew nevertheless would not drive out the chilly sensation that still sat in the pit of his stomach.

‘And you say young Arbury was alive when you returned from tending Pechem at the Franciscan Friary?’ asked Langelee of Bartholomew again. ‘He opened the gate for you?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘He had been reading Heytesbury’s Regulae Solvendi Sophismata, and he asked me a question about it.’

‘Then you went to the kitchens, and on the way back the bells were chiming for the midnight vigil and you heard him groan,’ Langelee went on.

‘Not quite,’ said Bartholomew. He did not want to tell Michael about Kenyngham’s accusation in front of Langelee, who had demonstrated in the past that he was not averse to using such information to suit his own ends. He would speak to the monk later, when they were alone. ‘I heard a groan, but I thought it was Suttone or his students making noises in their sleep. I realise now that it may have been Arbury. I wish I had checked.’

‘But Clippesby knew what was happening,’ said Michael. ‘Damn the man! If he was not so habitually strange, you would have known to take him seriously.’

‘Arbury’s injury was serious; you would not have been able to save him anyway,’ said Langelee kindly. ‘I am no physician, but I have seen my share of knife wounds. I think it would have made no difference whether you had found him three hours earlier or not.’

‘We could have asked who attacked him, though,’ said Michael. ‘And we might have caught his murderers, who then spent half the night rummaging in my room.’

‘But more important yet, I might have been able to make his last moments more comfortable,’ snapped Bartholomew, nettled by Michael’s pragmatic approach to the student’s death. ‘He would not have bled to death all alone and in the bitter chill of a March night.’

Michael’s large face became gentle. ‘I am sorry, Matt. I did not mean to sound callous. It is just that I now have four murders to investigate – Faricius, Kyrkeby, Walcote and Arbury – and I have no idea what to do about any of them.’

‘At least you know the motive for Arbury’s death,’ said Langelee. ‘He was killed because someone wanted to search your room. Either they stabbed him as soon as he opened the gate, or they killed him when he would not let them in.’

‘The former, probably,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘And if Matt is right, then they spent at least three hours searching my room – from the beginning of the midnight vigil, by which time Arbury had been stabbed, until he heard the bells chime for nocturns, when they were just leaving.’

‘What do you possess – or what do they think you possess – that would warrant such an exhaustive search?’ asked Langelee. He gestured around his own quarters. ‘It would not take anyone long to rifle through my belongings, even including all the College muniments.’

‘I really cannot imagine what they wanted,’ said Michael. ‘As I told you, I leave the most sensitive documents in the University chests.’

‘All of them?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Are you sure there is nothing that you might have brought home? And Langelee has a good point – perhaps we should consider what they may have thought you had, rather than what you actually do have.’

‘What about the deed signing the two farms and the church to Oxford?’ asked Langelee. ‘Where do you keep that? Presumably there is only one copy, because Heytesbury has not signed it yet – there would be no point in copying it until he has agreed to its contents.’

Michael dropped his hand to his scrip. ‘I have that in here. I do not know when Heytesbury will agree to sign, and so I have been carrying it about with me recently, so I can be ready the moment he relents. But why would anyone want to steal that?’

‘Because they do not want you to pass this property to Oxford?’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Thanks to Langelee, a lot of people know you have some kind of arrangement in progress, and not everyone is sufficiently far sighted to see that you have the ultimate good of Cambridge in mind.’

‘I have apologised for that ad nauseam,’ protested Langelee wearily. ‘How much longer will you hold it against me?’

‘I suppose someone may think that the best way to prevent Oxford from getting what is perceived to be valuable property is to steal the deed of transfer,’ said Michael, ignoring Langelee’s objections and addressing Bartholomew. ‘But we are forgetting that one of the culprits seems to have been Prior Morden. I did not know he felt so strongly about it.’

‘We have never discussed it with him,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps he does. He is certainly the kind of man to latch on to an idea like a limpet and follow it doggedly. He seems to have done exactly that by championing the cause of nominalism.’

Langelee sighed. ‘I am a philosopher by training, but I find this nominalism – realism debate immensely dull. Am I alone in this? Is there not another living soul who would rather talk about something else?’

‘Not among the religious Orders at the moment,’ said Michael. ‘They are using it as an excuse to rekindle ancient hatreds of each other. But I did not know that Morden was against passing property to Oxford. After all, Heytesbury is a nominalist, so Morden should approve.’

‘That is not logical,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Just because Morden is a nominalist does not mean that he is willing to share his worldly goods – or those of his University – with other nominalists.’

‘You have not explained how you happened to be outside Michael’s room at that hour of the night, Bartholomew,’ said Langelee, moving on to other questions. ‘Did you hear a sound that roused you from your sleep?’

‘The only sounds I heard were you and Michael finishing that barrel of wine,’ said Bartholomew evasively, so that Langelee would not ask him what it was that he had considered so pressing that it could not wait until the morning. ‘Doubtless the killers heard it, too, and they knew that they were safe from discovery as long as Michael was enjoying your wine.’

‘Damn!’ swore Michael softly. ‘If ever there were a moral to a tale condemning the sin of gluttony, it is this. And poor Arbury paid the price.’

‘Arbury would have died anyway,’ said Langelee. ‘And so might you, had you been asleep in your room and not here with me.’

With a shock, Bartholomew realised that was true, and that Michael’s escape might have been as narrow as his own. He considered Arbury, and how the intruders – determined to search Michael’s room whether the monk was in it or not – might have gained access to Michaelhouse. It was obvious, once he thought about it.

‘I have a bad feeling that the killers watched me when I returned from the Franciscan Friary, and then did the same,’ he said.

‘Meaning?’ asked Michael.

‘Meaning that I did what we all do: hammered on the door and demanded to be let in. Arbury opened the wicket gate, I stepped inside and then pushed back my hood so that he could see who I was. If the killers were watching from the bushes opposite, it would have been easy to do the same, and then stab the lad before he saw that he should have been more careful.’

‘But the only people who have leave to be outside the College after curfew are you two,’ said Langelee. ‘Arbury should have been more careful – especially since he had already admitted Bartholomew, and he probably could hear Michael with me.’

‘That may be true generally, but not this week,’ said Michael. ‘It is Lent, and a number of our scholars have been attending midnight vigils and nocturns, especially those in the religious Orders. Arbury probably did not know who was out and who was in.’

Langelee sighed. ‘Catch these killers, Michael. I want to see them hang for this.’

‘I will do my best,’ vowed Michael.

‘Well, the day is beginning,’ said Langelee, going to the window shutters and throwing them open. A blast of cold air flooded into the room, which rustled the documents and scrolls that lay in untidy piles on the table. ‘We all have work to do.’

‘You seem out of sorts this morning,’ said Michael, as he followed Bartholomew from Langelee’s chamber and across the courtyard. By unspoken consent, they made their way to the fallen apple tree in the orchard, where they could talk without fear of being overheard. Their rooms were usually sufficient for that, but neither felt much like being in the chaos of Michael’s chamber, while Bartholomew’s tended to be plagued by students with questions in the mornings.

It was no warmer in the garden that dawn than it had been during the night, and a thin layer of frost glazed the scrubby grass and the leaves of Agatha’s herbs. Michael settled himself on the trunk of the fallen apple tree and watched Bartholomew pace back and forth in front of him.

‘What is the matter?’

‘These murders,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And the fact that I feel as though I am in a river where the current is dragging me relentlessly somewhere, but I do not know where.’

‘That sounds familiar,’ agreed Michael. ‘I have worked hard to try to discover what plot is under way that makes necessary the deaths of a talented philosopher called Faricius of the Carmelites, a very untalented philosopher called Kyrkeby of the Dominicans and my Junior Proctor. I have interviewed at least fifty people who live near the places where these men were killed or found, and you have examined their bodies. But neither of us has come up with anything.’

‘What about the cases Walcote was working on before he died?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Have you discovered anything from them?’

Michael shook his head. ‘He was busy, but there was nothing to suggest he was working on something that would result in murder.’

‘What about the plot to kill you?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘That sounds as though it might lead to murder to me.’

‘But I can find out nothing about that,’ said Michael plaintively. ‘I have questioned my beadles again and again, but none seems to know anything unusual about Walcote or secret meetings in St Radegund’s Convent. Certainly none of them accompanied him to any.’

‘Not even the ones who work closest with him?’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘Tom Meadowman follows you around like a shadow. Did Walcote have a beadle like that?’

‘If he did, then it would have been Rob Smyth, who drowned at Christmas. He latched himself on to Walcote, although I neither liked nor trusted the man.’

‘The fact that no one is honest with us does not help,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I did not want to mention it in front of Langelee, but I persuaded Kenyngham to break his vow of secrecy last night.’

‘You did?’ asked Michael, pleasantly surprised. ‘I will not ask how; I do not want my innocent mind stained by knowledge of your unscrupulous methods.’

‘There was a theft from the Carmelite Friary,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He thinks you are responsible for it, and so does Warden Pechem.’

‘What theft?’ asked Michael, puzzled. ‘Do you mean Faricius’s essay? I thought we had reasoned that it had been stolen from him after he was stabbed on Milne Street. Why do they think I had anything to do with that?’

‘I mean the theft of documents that occurred at Christmas,’ said Bartholomew.

‘What are you talking about?’ demanded Michael. ‘What documents?’

Bartholomew edged away from the monk, slightly alarmed by the anger in his voice. ‘According to Pechem and Kenyngham, Lincolne reported a theft from his friary to Walcote–’

‘Did he now?’ asked Michael softly. ‘And how is it that I have been told nothing about it?’

‘Kenyngham said it was discussed at Walcote’s secret meetings,’ said Bartholomew, regarding the monk uneasily. He had predicted outrage and indignation when he informed Michael about the rumours that were circulating about him, but not cold fury.

‘And they accuse me of this crime?’ demanded Michael.

Half wishing he had not broached the subject, Bartholomew continued: ‘They said you were seen in the Carmelite Friary the night the documents went missing; you were spotted carrying a loaded bag away from the friary towards Michaelhouse the same night; and they told me you claimed it contained bread for your colleagues, when it did not.’

‘I see,’ said Michael. He gazed into Bartholomew’s face. ‘And what do you make of this story? Do you imagine me to be the kind of man to steal from a friary in the middle of the night?’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘Of course not, Brother. And I told both Kenyngham and Pechem that they were wrong. But what is worse than this accusation of theft is that they have reasoned that whoever stole the documents also had a good reason for killing Walcote.’

Michael gazed up at the bare branches of the trees above him. ‘They think I murdered Walcote because he was about to expose me as a common thief. Damn Walcote for his suspicious mind!’

Bartholomew shot him a sidelong glance. ‘I have no doubts about your innocence. We will have to work to prove it to those who do.’

Michael gave a tired grin. ‘You are a good friend, Matt. I do not deserve such unquestioning loyalty. It makes me feel guilty.’

Bartholomew gazed at him in alarm. ‘What are you saying, Brother?’

Michael shrugged. ‘I see I have disappointed you.’

‘No!’ said Bartholomew, still staring. ‘Are you telling me that Kenyngham and Pechem are right? That you really did break into the friary and make off with some of the University’s most valuable documents?’

‘Yes and no,’ said Michael. ‘I removed documents, but I was hardly “breaking in”. I had arranged for doors and gates to be left unlocked and the porter to be drinking ale in the kitchens with a servant who owed me a favour. It was a pity I did not know about the baker’s problematic oven sooner, because obviously I would not have used buying bread as my excuse for being caught red-handed on my way home. That was poor planning on my part.’

Bartholomew rubbed a hand through his hair, his thoughts tumbling in confusion. ‘But why did you not tell me this sooner? It may be important.’

‘It is not,’ said Michael dismissively. ‘However, I understand why Walcote thought so. He must have wondered why the Senior Proctor was raiding friaries in the middle of the night.’

‘He was not the only one,’ said Bartholomew, horrified. ‘So do the heads of half the religious Orders in Cambridge.’

‘It is unfortunate Walcote did not confront me about it, though,’ continued Michael pensively. ‘Then I could have taken him into my confidence, and he would not have felt the need to chatter about it at his secret meetings with people who had no right to know my business.’

‘And what was this business?’ asked Bartholomew warily.

Michael glanced at him. ‘I can assure you it was nothing sinister. The truth is that Prior Lincolne had become somewhat fanatical in his beliefs by Christmas, and I did not like the idea of storing sensitive information at his friary. Because he is radically opposed to nominalism, I did not want him to see any of the documents pertaining to the arrangements I am making with Heytesbury – who is a nominalist.’

‘You took the deeds relating to the Oxford proposal?’ asked Bartholomew in sudden understanding.

Michael nodded. ‘I took the property deeds of the church and farms I propose to pass to Heytesbury, along with the information telling us how profitable they are. Plus, I took priceless books written by other great nominalists, like John Dumbleton and Richard Swineshead. Lincolne is the kind of man to consign that sort of text to the flames, and I do not approve of book-burning.’

Bartholomew knew Michael was right on that score. When Heytesbury’s Regulae Solvendi Sophismata had been found among Faricius’s belongings, Lincolne had ordered it burned without a moment’s hesitation.

‘That was all?’ he asked. ‘You committed the theft only to remove sensitive items from the Carmelite Friary?’

‘Yes,’ Michael confirmed. ‘But I wish you would not insist on calling it a theft. It was nothing of the kind. It was merely me taking documents from one place and securing them in another. If I were a serious thief, I would have had the gold that was stored in the chest, too, not just the texts.’

‘True,’ acknowledged Bartholomew, recalling the scrap of parchment he had found in Michael’s room when he had been writing an account of Faricius’s murder. Walcote’s list of stolen items had mentioned no missing gold.

‘I could hardly be open about what I was doing, could I?’ Michael continued. ‘How do you think Lincolne would have reacted if I had told him he was no longer to be trusted with some of the University’s business?’

‘He would have been offended,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And he might even have been vindictive.’

‘Quite,’ agreed Michael. ‘This arrangement with Oxford is important, and, after losing the Mastership of Michaelhouse to it, I did not want all my work to come to nothing because an old bigot like Lincolne got wind of it by rummaging through the documents stored in his friary.’

‘Where did you put these books and deeds?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘You could not store duplicate copies in St Mary’s tower – what would be the point of keeping two sets in the same place? – and you always claim that you never keep anything valuable in your office or in your room at Michaelhouse.’

‘Right,’ said Michael. ‘But I do keep them in a damp little corner of Michaelhouse’s wine cellars. But only Chancellor Tynkell, Agatha and now you know about that.’

‘So you had good reason to assume that last night’s intruders did not find what they wanted: you knew that whatever it was would have been in the cellar?’

Michael rubbed his chin, the bristles rasping under his fingernails. ‘I have already considered the possibility that last night’s raid was related to the documents I “stole”, and discounted it. I suppose it is remotely possible that someone was desperate to get his hands on an annotated copy of Dumbleton’s Summa Logicae et Philosophiae Naturalis, but I sincerely doubt it. I do not know what these intruders thought they might find, but I cannot believe it was anything to do with my arrangements with Oxford or the nominalist texts I have safeguarded.’

‘How can you be sure?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I imagine Heytesbury would love to see the finances of the properties he plans to take from you. Has it occurred to you that he has a very good reason to search your room?’

‘Heytesbury?’ asked Michael, startled. ‘I do not think so, Matt! The man is a scholar, for God’s sake, not a burglar!’

‘He is also a cunning negotiator who is determined to do his best for Oxford,’ argued Bartholomew, declining to mention that Michael himself was also a scholar, but that did not stop him from removing what he wanted from the Carmelite Friary. ‘You cannot be sure that he was not one of the intruders.’

‘Heytesbury and Morden?’ asked Michael, amused. ‘They would make odd bedfellows.’

‘Heytesbury might have hired someone else to commit the burglary,’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘He is not stupid, and would not risk being caught stealing from the Senior Proctor’s room himself.’

‘We will put these questions to Morden later today,’ said Michael. ‘But I think you are wrong. And anyway, the person in Cambridge whom Heytesbury seems to like best is your nephew Richard. The lad has taken to carrying ornate daggers and riding black war-horses around the town. Perhaps he has also taken to burglary.’

‘No!’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘Not Richard. He may be a fool, but he is not a criminal.’

Michael shrugged. ‘As I said, we will ask Morden.’

‘Several important issues were discussed at Walcote’s meetings,’ said Bartholomew, dragging his thoughts away from the unpleasant possibility that Richard might have been the man who attacked him on the darkened stairwell. ‘Besides repairing the Great Bridge and discussing philosophy, they talked about the plot to murder you and the theft from the friary. I wonder whether Walcote thought the two subjects were connected.’

‘You think he believed that someone wanted me dead, because I am seen as a thief?’ asked Michael. He blew out his cheeks in a sigh. ‘It is possible, I suppose.’

‘Some people believe that Walcote’s investigation of the theft led him too close to the culprit,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘Pechem and Kenyngham saw an association between his death and the theft you committed.’

Michael’s face was sombre. ‘I can accept that people see me as the kind of man to steal, but I cannot imagine how they could see me – me – as the kind of man to take the life of my deputy.’

‘What shall we do about it?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘It was my original intention to prove you innocent of the theft, so that you would be absolved of the murder. Your confession just now has put paid to that plan.’

‘Then we shall just have to go one step further, and find Walcote’s killer instead. That will prove me innocent beyond any shadow of a doubt.’

They were silent for a while, each wrapped in his own thoughts.

‘Did you know that Walcote made a list of the documents you took from the Carmelite Friary?’ asked Bartholomew eventually.

Michael nodded. ‘He jotted down his initial report in rough, then scribed it more neatly for the Chancellor – who knows exactly why I removed those particular items, before you ask. Carelessly, Walcote discarded his first copy in the box where we keep used parchment. I found it later.’

‘It was among the scraps in your room.’

‘I meant to burn it, but I forgot. It must have sat there undisturbed and forgotten for three months, until you discovered it by chance.’

‘Why did the Chancellor not tell Walcote that the theft from the Carmelite Friary was not what it seemed?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Did Tynkell distrust Walcote?’

‘He considered him too gentle and too easily led. Tynkell decided not to tell Walcote the truth about the “theft”, although he was obliged to ask him to investigate. It would have looked odd had he instructed him to forget about it.’

Bartholomew was feeling exhausted by the twists and turns the plot had taken. He was also hungry, and was grateful when the bell chimed to announce that breakfast was ready.

‘And there are other things I do not understand,’ Michael went on as they walked slowly towards the hall, ‘such as what is Simon Lynne’s role in all this? I am sure he is connected in some way, because I am positive he is lying.’

‘And Tysilia and the meetings at St Radegund’s,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is a link between her and Walcote, I am sure.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Michael noncommittally, ‘although I am less convinced of that than you. We shall visit Matilde again today, to see if she has learned anything new.’

Matilde. Bartholomew sighed at yet another aspect of the case that was worrying him, and he wished with all his heart that she was anywhere but at St Radegund’s with Tysilia for company.

Michael nudged him in the ribs, and gave a weak grin. ‘Do not look so sombre, Matt. I know this has not been a pleasant night, but we will solve this mystery. And we will have Arbury’s killers brought to justice.’

‘But not by Easter Day,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You claimed we would have this mess cleaned up before Sunday, and it is Friday already.’

‘That was when I had only two deaths to investigate, and when the case seemed less complex. I had not anticipated that more people would die. The wager we had, giving the winner an evening of indulgence at the Brazen George, is now invalid. What are your plans today? Will you help me?’

‘I have patients to see,’ said Bartholomew.

‘Then I will accompany you, and you can assist me when you have finished,’ suggested Michael. ‘Now that the only decent student you ever had – Tom Bulbeck – has gone to make his fortune in Norwich, you are in need of a good assistant.’

‘I have other students,’ said Bartholomew, not wanting Michael with him while he did his rounds. Although he often did take his students with him, he preferred to work alone. Most people did not take kindly to spotty youths poking at them and asking impertinent questions, and he knew that the sick were more likely to be honest about embarrassing symptoms if there was not a crowd of undergraduates listening with mawkish fascination. And Michael would be worse. He would not like hearing descriptions of bowel movements and phlegm production, and was likely to intimidate any nervous patients with his impatience and distaste.

‘None of your students will compare with me,’ bragged Michael. ‘You will see. Once you have seen me in action, you will never want a student with you again.’

‘Very well,’ said Bartholomew reluctantly, seeing that the monk was not to be deterred and that he would have company that morning, whether he wanted it or not.

‘We shall see your patients as soon as we have eaten breakfast, and when we have done that, we will return this glove to Prior Morden and ask him how he came to lose it. And then I think it is time we paid another visit to St Radegund’s Convent. The time for lies and deceit is over, Matt. We shall put the fear of God into all these people who have been lying to us – Lincolne, Morden, Simon Lynne, Horneby and those disgraceful women at St Radegund’s Convent – and then we shall have some answers.’

‘My God, Matt!’ breathed Michael, as they emerged from the single-roomed shack near the river where Dunstan, one of Bartholomew’s oldest patients, lived. ‘How can you stand to do things like that day after day?’

‘The same way you are happy dealing with the crimes of the University, I imagine,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘Although I do not see what you are making a fuss about. None of the cases this morning have been particularly difficult.’

‘Not for you, perhaps,’ said Michael fervently. ‘I have a new-found admiration for you, Matt. You have nerves of steel and nothing revolts you – not the phlegm that old man had been saving for your inspection, not that festering wound that smelled as though its owner was three days dead, and not prodding about in that screeching child’s infected ear. No wonder you do not object to examining bodies for me. It is a pleasure for you after what your living patients require you to do.’

‘Do you plan to help me in the future?’ asked Bartholomew mildly, smiling at the monk’s vehemence. ‘You promised that I would never want a student after I had been assisted by you.’

‘You probably will not,’ said Michael haughtily. ‘I have no doubts that I dealt with your patients better than would any of your would-be physicians. But I am not for hire. You will have to manage without me.’

‘How will I cope?’ asked Bartholomew, amused.

‘Now you have finished, we should begin the real business of the day,’ said Michael, taking Bartholomew’s arm and steering him up one of the lanes that ran between the river and the High Street. ‘We must talk seriously to Morden about his glove, then I want to question Eve Wasteneys again: I want to know whether Dame Martyn’s “nephew” – Lynne – still lingers with his “aunt”.’

‘Not if he has any sense,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He was frightened of something, and abandoned the Carmelite Friary very promptly. He may be at Barnwell, though. Perhaps we should look for him there, as well as St Radegund’s.’

As they walked along the High Street, they met Brother Timothy outside St Mary’s Church. He had been giving the beadles their daily instructions, and was just dispatching the last of them to go about their business. He was grimly satisfied to hear they finally had a solid clue regarding the mystery, and willingly agreed to accompany them to arrest Morden. Together, the three of them made their way to the Dominican Friary, where Timothy knocked politely at the gate.

While they waited for an answer, Timothy nodded down at his cloak. ‘Look at this. What a mess, eh?’

Bartholomew had already noticed that instead of the black prescribed by the Benedictine Order, Timothy’s cloak was a uniform and rather tatty grey.

‘You should invest in another garment,’ advised Michael, regarding it doubtfully. ‘No self-respecting Benedictine wants to be mistaken for a Franciscan – and you will be, if you wear that.’

Timothy grimaced. ‘It was filthy from wandering around Cambridge’s muddy streets, and so I took it to Yolande de Blaston to be cleaned.’

‘Yolande de Blaston?’ asked Michael. ‘The whore?’

‘She also takes in laundry,’ said Timothy. ‘She is expecting her tenth child, and her whoring days are limited now. She needs all the money she can lay her hands on for her first nine brats, so all us Benedictines send her our laundry; we feel sorry for her.’

‘She is not as good a laundress as Agatha,’ said Michael, studying the cloak critically. ‘Yolande used water that was too hot, and it has taken the colour out.’

Timothy nodded. ‘I shall have to take it to Oswald Stanmore to be re-dyed. Do not mention this to Yolande, will you? I do not want her to worry that the Benedictines will take their trade elsewhere when she is about to give birth. She has more than enough to concern her already.’

Bartholomew was impressed that Timothy should consider the feelings of a lowly prostitute when he must have been angry that his fine cloak had been so badly misused. It was true that Stanmore could re-dye the damaged fabric, but it was unlikely to be as good as it had been. Bartholomew felt new admiration for a man who was not only prepared to overlook the damage to his property and the inconvenience of looking like a Franciscan, but was also keen that the perpetrator should not suffer for it. Timothy was right: Yolande de Blaston was desperately poor, and would need any work provided by the Benedictines.

Eventually, the door was answered by Ringstead, who admitted them to the yard. He told them to wait while he informed Morden that he had visitors, but Michael was having none of that. Shoving his way past the startled friar, he thundered up the stairs to Morden’s room and flung open the door so hard that it rattled the candle-holders on the table. An inkwell rolled on to its side, then dropped to the floor, where a spreading black stain began to inch towards one of Morden’s fine rugs, and something dark dropped from the rafters to the floor. At first, Bartholomew thought it was a dead bat. Timothy shot him a nervous glance, uneasy with an approach so violent that it shook dead animals from the roof.

‘I want a word with you,’ snapped Michael, addressing the diminutive Dominican, who perched on a chair piled with cushions so that he would be able to reach his table. Small legs clad in fine wool hose swung in the air below.

‘What do you mean by bursting into my room like this?’ demanded Morden, outraged. ‘It is customary to knock. And will you please refrain from slamming that door? Next time, I shall send you the bill for the damage you cause.’

‘Does this belong to you?’ demanded Michael, ignoring the Prior’s ire as he removed the small glove from his scrip and tossed it on to the table.

Morden picked it up, turning it over in his hands in surprise. ‘Where did you find this?’

‘In my room,’ said Michael coldly. ‘It was dropped very late last night, after its owner had stabbed a Michaelhouse student to death in order to gain access. And not only did this villain kill our student, but he attacked Matt with a knife. I do not take kindly to people who threaten my friends with weapons.’

Morden’s face turned white as the implications of Michael’s words sunk in. ‘What are you saying, Brother? I can assure you–’

Michael cut through his words. ‘Is this your glove?’ he shouted. ‘Yes or no?’

Morden agreed reluctantly. ‘But it was not I who dropped it at Michaelhouse. It has been missing–’

‘How convenient,’ snapped Michael, his tone of voice making it obvious that he did not believe a word the Prior was saying. ‘And for how long has it been missing?’

Morden shrugged helplessly. ‘I do not know. I seldom go out these days, because of the cold weather. I first noticed it had gone a couple of days ago, because I had to go to St Mary’s Church to tell the Chancellor that Kyrkeby would not be able to give the University Lecture. But I have no idea whether it went missing then or whether it has been gone a lot longer.’

‘And where do you think it might have been?’ asked Timothy. The incredulous expression on his face suggested that he was of the same mind as Michael. ‘Are you suggesting that someone stole it?’

‘Of course someone took it,’ stated Ringstead firmly, leaping to the defence of his superior. ‘How else could it have ended up in your room, Brother? I can assure you that Prior Morden did not put it there.’

Michael and Timothy did not reply; they simply gazed at Morden, as if they considered him to be the lowest form of life. Bartholomew began to feel sorry for the little man – until he looked more closely at what had fallen from the rafters when Michael had flung open the door.

‘And who do you think may have taken your gloves and left them in Brother Michael’s chamber, Father?’ asked Timothy softly.

‘Glove,’ corrected Bartholomew, stooping to retrieve the object that lay on the floor. ‘Here is the twin of the one that we found at Michaelhouse. It seems that someone thought the ceiling a good place to hide it.’

‘I certainly did not put it there,’ said Morden, white-faced with worry. ‘I could not reach.’

‘You do not need to reach,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘You could have thrown it.’

‘Well, I did not,’ said Morden, shooting wary glances at his interrogators. ‘Someone else must have put it there – and placed the other one at Michaelhouse.’

‘Really,’ said Timothy flatly. ‘This is all very curious. You are claiming that someone took one of your gloves – which coincidentally just happened to reappear in Michael’s quarters shortly after the murder at Michaelhouse – and then hurled the other into the rafters to conceal the fact that the first glove was missing?’

‘I do not understand this,’ said Morden miserably. ‘I cannot imagine how one ended up in Michaelhouse or the other on the ceiling, but I do know it has nothing to do with me. I certainly did not stab any student to gain access to his College. Why would I do such a thing?’

‘Is there someone who can verify your whereabouts between midnight and the office of nocturns last night?’ asked Michael, declining to speculate on answers to the Prior’s question.

‘The entire friary,’ replied Morden immediately. ‘Everyone knows I retire to bed immediately after compline, and that I do not rise until it is time for matins.’

‘That is true,’ concurred Ringstead loyally. ‘Prior Morden likes a good night’s sleep.’

‘That is not the same as people actually seeing him here,’ Timothy pointed out. ‘He could have retired to bed, then slipped out when everyone else was asleep. Do you share your chamber with anyone, Prior Morden?’

‘I shared it with Kyrkeby,’ said Morden bitterly. ‘But he is scarcely in a position to vouch for me. But how could I have slipped out at night, anyway?’

‘By walking down the stairs and across the yard,’ said Michael promptly. ‘Like every other night porter in Cambridge, yours dozes when he should be on watch. It would be an easy matter to tiptoe past him and leave the friary through the wicket door.’

‘Well, I did not,’ said Morden in an unsteady voice. ‘I am a Dominican Prior, and I have no need to sneak out of the friary in the middle of the night. And I ask you again, why would I want to go to your room anyway?’

‘That is what I should like to know,’ said Michael. ‘For your information, and for that of anyone else who may be interested, I never keep notes of the cases I am investigating in my room. I would not put Michaelhouse at risk like that. I keep them elsewhere.’

‘Where?’ asked Morden automatically.

‘Why?’ pounced Michael. ‘Because you did not find what you were looking for last night?’

Morden rubbed his eyes with his tiny fingers. ‘This is a nightmare! I do not know why I asked that. Even you must admit that your statement was a little provocative.’

‘Enough of this,’ said Michael, turning away from him. ‘I am too busy to waste any more time with you. You are under arrest for the murder of Martin Arbury. Brother Timothy will escort you to the proctors’ cells.’

‘What?’ cried Morden in horror, darting around to the other side of the table when Timothy took a step towards him. ‘But you cannot arrest me! I have done nothing wrong!’

‘Whoever broke into my room last night murdered the student on gate duty and attacked my friend,’ said Michael harshly. ‘Your glove was found at the scene of the crime, dropped when the culprit fled the College. That is evidence enough for me.’

Timothy grabbed the protesting Morden and led him from the room, easily encompassing the scholar’s small arm in one of his hands. Michael returned the glove to his scrip to use as evidence in the trial that would come later, then followed them down the stairs. Bartholomew brought up the rear, fending off the horrified Ringstead, who was trying to shove past him to reach Timothy and his prisoner.

‘This is an outrage!’ Ringstead shouted, his agitated voice ringing across the courtyard. Several student-friars heard it, and began hurrying to where their Prior struggled ineffectually against Timothy’s strong hand. ‘What will the Bishop of Ely say when he hears you have arrested the head of an important Order in the town?’

‘He will congratulate me for removing a ruthless killer from the streets,’ replied Michael. He glanced coolly at the assembling friars, who muttered and shuffled menacingly. ‘And unless you want more of your Dominican brethren to join Prior Morden in his cell, you will instruct your students to return to their rooms and behave themselves.’

‘Do not worry, Father,’ Ringstead called to Morden. ‘I will find the best law clerk in Cambridge, and he will have you back here in a trice.’

‘Hire that young man Heytesbury recommended,’ Morden shouted back. ‘He is said to be clever and crafty.’

‘But he is also Doctor Bartholomew’s nephew,’ said Ringstead, glowering at the physician. ‘We will have someone else.’

Meanwhile, the student-friars had been edging closer to where Timothy hauled his reluctant prisoner to the gates. Michael eyed them coldly.

‘Tell them to disperse, Ringstead,’ he ordered. ‘Or Morden will not be the only Dominican requiring the legal services of a “clever and crafty” lawyer.’

For a few uncomfortable moments, Bartholomew thought Ringstead would refuse, and that the sullen, resentful crowd would attack the proctors and prevent them from taking Morden into custody. But Ringstead was not a stupid man. He knew that Morden would end up in the proctors’ cells eventually, and that all that would happen if he fought against it would be a delay of the inevitable. He hung his head as Timothy opened the gate, still holding Morden by the arm.

‘Very wise of you,’ said Michael, as Ringstead reluctantly told the students to return to their rooms. ‘Nothing would have been gained from a display of violent behaviour, and it would have looked bad for when you try to prove your Prior’s innocence in the courts.’

‘But he is innocent,’ protested Ringstead, following them to the gate. He watched Morden precede Timothy on to Hadstock Way and head in the direction of the cells that were located near St Mary’s Church. Timothy was not an unkind man, and Bartholomew saw him bend to say something to which the small Prior nodded agreement. Timothy released Morden’s arm, and although he stayed close and was clearly alert for tricks, he did not submit Morden to the indignity of being marched through the busiest part of the town in the grip of a proctor. To anyone who did not know what had just transpired in the Dominican Friary, Morden and Timothy were simply walking side by side.

While Bartholomew approved of Timothy’s sensitivity, Michael muttered venomously that Morden deserved no such consideration, and started to compare his new junior unfavourably with Walcote, who was similarly kind to malefactors. Ringstead broke into his mumbled tirade.

‘How can you think Morden could stab students? He is not big enough.’

‘Arbury was knifed in the chest,’ said Michael. ‘Morden could easily have done it.’

‘That is no kind of evidence,’ objected Ringstead, almost in tears that he was so powerless. ‘And neither is that wretched glove. Lots of things seem to have gone missing from our friary recently – the glove was just one of a number of items we seem to have mislaid.’

‘What else?’ asked Michael, uninterested.

‘Perhaps the most important thing is Kyrkeby’s lecture,’ replied Ringstead. ‘When we learned about his death, we decided his work should not have been in vain, and we were going to publish it posthumously. But we cannot find it.’

‘Perhaps he hid it,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Some people do not like their work known before their public lectures, and he may have put it away from prying eyes.’

‘Never,’ said Ringstead firmly. ‘We have no need to hide things from each other here, and anyway, he read parts of the lecture to several of us to test his performance. He did not hide his notes. I went to collect them from his cell, and they simply were not there.’

‘Then are you suggesting that someone took them?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Or that Kyrkeby merely mislaid them?’

‘A few moments ago, I would have said the latter,’ said Ringstead. ‘But given that poor Morden is now under arrest because a missing glove has appeared somewhere I am sure he did not leave it, then I suggest that they must have been stolen.’

‘So, you wish to report a theft,’ said Michael heavily.

‘Yes I do,’ snapped Ringstead, resentful that Michael clearly did not believe him.

‘You have no evidence the lecture has been stolen,’ said Michael, exasperated by Ringstead’s heavy-handed attempts to exonerate his leader. ‘You only know that it is not in Kyrkeby’s cell. Perhaps he gave it to someone else to read; perhaps he put it in a different place.’

‘But he did not have another place!’ insisted Ringstead. ‘His life was here, at the friary.’ He sighed and relented a little. ‘But I suppose he may have given it to someone else to read. I know he discussed it with Father Paul at the Franciscan Friary. Perhaps he passed it to Paul.’

‘Why would he do that?’ asked Michael doubtfully. ‘Paul is blind. He cannot read anything.’

Ringstead flushed with embarrassment. ‘Well, in that case, my first supposition must be right: Kyrkeby’s lecture has been stolen.’

‘What a mess,’ said Michael tiredly. ‘Still, at least we have the killer of poor Arbury under lock and key. And who knows? Perhaps Morden may confess to other crimes once he has had time to reflect on his evil deeds through the bars on his cell window. We shall see.’

Bartholomew hoped he was right and gave Ringstead a wide berth as he left the friary. It was certainly not the tiny Morden with whom he had struggled at Michaelhouse, and he realised that the young secretary could well be Morden’s accomplice.

While Timothy locked Morden in a cell, Bartholomew and Michael walked slowly along the High Street, thinking about Morden’s claims of innocence and Ringstead’s assertion that someone had been in the Dominican Friary stealing gloves and lectures on nominalism. The day was wet and dull, and clouds hung in a solid canopy over the Fen-edge town. There was no wind, and the bare branches of trees and bushes were static and skeletal, while the leaves that had fallen the previous autumn lay in brown-black soggy piles filled with worms. The market was in full swing, and the hoarse voices of competing traders rang out in the still air, accompanied by the mournful bellow of a cow that was being led towards the butchers’ stalls. Bartholomew saw its rolling eyes and quivering flanks, and wondered if it knew what was in store for it, or whether it was simply the stench of rotting blood and the sound of metal against bone as the butchers dealt with a sheep that it did not like.

Michael led the physician towards an insalubrious establishment at the edge of the Market Square called the Cardinal’s Cap. A joyous red sign hung outside, and from within came the contented murmur of men enjoying their ale. Michael did not use the front entrance, but slipped down a filthy runnel that cut along the side of the building, and entered a much smaller room via an almost invisible rear door.

Inside, a number of scholars were sitting at rough wooden tables; some were gathered around a fire that roared in the hearth, listening to a dialogue by a man Bartholomew knew to be Father Aidan of Maude’s Hostel. None seemed in the slightest disconcerted by the sudden presence of the Senior Proctor in their midst, and one or two even nodded friendly greetings in Michael’s direction.

‘I need a pot of warm ale inside me before we walk to St Radegund’s in this rain,’ said Michael. ‘And perhaps a bowl of beef stew.’

‘Not beef,’ said Bartholomew, thinking about the cow he had just seen led to slaughter. He thought he could still hear its baleful lows echoing across the Market Square. ‘It is Lent, remember. But what is this place? A room in a tavern devoted exclusively to serving scholars?’

‘Have you never been here before?’ asked Michael, raising his eyebrows in astonishment. ‘I thought every University master knew that the Cardinal’s Cap was a good place for a quiet drink. Students are not welcome here, of course. They would be rowdy, and then we would all be in trouble.’

‘Scholars are not supposed to drink in the town’s taverns,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is what leads to fighting between us and the townsfolk.’

Michael gestured to the conversations that were taking place around him. In one corner, a number of Gilbertines were discussing the sermons of St Augustine, while Father Aidan’s audience appeared to be listening to an explanation of how to deal with the problem of dry rot. At other tables, single scholars read or wrote with their cups at their elbows, enjoying the comfort of hot ale and a warm fire while they worked.

‘These men are unlikely to challenge the apprentices to a fight,’ said Michael. ‘They are all respectable people, who like a little intelligent conversation away from their own Colleges and hostels. Where lies the harm in that?’

Michael had arranged for Timothy to meet them in the Cardinal’s Cap when he had finished locking up Morden. The Benedictine arrived and sat opposite them, ordering bread and cheese, and if he noticed that Michael was breaking the rules of Lent by eating meat, then he said nothing about it.

‘What do you think about these killings, Brother?’ asked Michael, when Timothy’s food had arrived. ‘You know everything we have learned. How do you interpret the information?’

‘Theft,’ said Timothy promptly. ‘Kyrkeby’s scrip was missing; Walcote’s purse was stolen; and Faricius’s scrip was cut from his belt. These men were killed purely and simply for the contents of their purses.’

‘But they were all friars who are not supposed to be wealthy,’ said Bartholomew, not convinced. ‘Why attack them?’

Timothy shrugged. ‘First, many friars in this town are extremely rich – you have only to look at Morden or in Kyrkeby’s jewel box to see that they own a good deal. And second, Walcote and probably Kyrkeby were killed in the dark. Perhaps their killers did not know they were clerics.’

‘But it was obvious Faricius was a cleric,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘And he was killed in broad daylight. I am sure his death was connected to the essay that is missing.’

‘I think you are attributing too much importance to this essay,’ said Timothy. ‘Just because you cannot locate a few scribbled notes does not mean Faricius died for them. You know how poor many people are these days: some would kill for a loaf of bread – and Faricius’s purse almost certainly contained enough for that.’

‘I thought you admired Faricius and his work,’ said Bartholomew.

‘I did,’ said Timothy. ‘But that does not mean to say that I believe his writing was the cause of his death. He did not mention the essay specifically to you on his deathbed, so how do you know there was not something else in his scrip that he was concerned over? He had a ruby ring at the friary, so perhaps there were more riches in his purse that he was worried about.’

Bartholomew could think of no arguments to refute what Timothy said, although he remained convinced that the monk was wrong to dismiss the essay so completely. Michael was halfway through his second bowl of beef stew, and Bartholomew had just finished a dish of buttered turnips, when the door opened and more people entered the cosy tavern. Bartholomew saw Michael’s eyes narrow when he recognised Richard Stanmore, then watched the monk’s face assume an expression of innocent friendliness when Heytesbury followed the young lawyer in.

‘How does your nephew know about this place?’ asked Michael of Bartholomew, maintaining his pleasant expression, although his voice was petulantly angry. ‘It is not open to just anyone.’

‘Good afternoon, Brother,’ said Richard cheerfully, taking a seat next to Michael and peering into his bowl. ‘What is this? An additional meal to see you through to suppertime? And meat, too! Do you not know it is Lent?’

Michael glowered at him, suddenly not caring that Heytesbury saw his murderous expression. ‘I missed my midday meal, because I was engaged with important University business.’

‘A missed meal would do you no harm,’ said Richard rudely. ‘To be grossly fat–’

‘Show some manners, Richard,’ said Heytesbury sharply. ‘It is not polite to comment on another man’s personal appearance.’

‘He is not fat, anyway,’ said Timothy loyally. ‘These habits make us look larger than we are.’

‘Quite,’ muttered Michael, casting a venomous glower at Richard, whose clothes that day were green and whose ear-ring glittered tantalisingly close to the monk’s fingers.

‘I thought you said you would punch the next man who commented on your girth,’ said Bartholomew, thinking that a good thump might do Richard some good. Timothy regarded Bartholomew in alarm, and the physician had the feeling that the Junior Proctor wondered whether to arrest him for inciting a scholar to fight with a townsman.

‘Next time,’ vowed Michael. ‘I do not fight men who are unwell. What have you been doing to make you so wan and pale, Richard? You look worse than Kyrkeby’s corpse.’

Bartholomew saw what Michael meant. Richard’s green clothes did nothing to improve the unhealthy pallor of his face, and even the powerfully scented goose grease that was plastered on his hair was not quite able to disguise the fact that he had recently been sick. Evidently, Richard and Heytesbury had indulged themselves in yet another night of merrymaking in some tavern or another. Michael sneezed, then yelped suddenly.

‘Sorry,’ said Richard, giving the monk a grin that was far from apologetic. He held his decorative dagger in his hand. ‘Your sneeze made you wobble into this.’

‘What is it?’ asked Timothy disparagingly. ‘I would confiscate it as a dangerous weapon, but it looks like a toy – all handle and no blade.’

‘And what would a monk know about such things?’ sneered Richard.

‘I was a soldier once,’ said Timothy. ‘I fought at Crécy with the Black Prince. He is a man well acquainted with court fashions, but he would never carry a thing like that.’

‘What is wrong with it?’ asked Richard, offended. ‘I can defend myself with it well enough.’

‘Put it away,’ said Michael, seeing that the other occupants of the tavern were beginning to wonder why a townsman was brandishing a knife at the University’s proctors. Father Aidan had already left, unwilling to be caught in a place where trouble might be brewing. ‘And tell us how you come to be looking so peaky this morning.’

‘I had a meeting with Mayor Horwoode last night,’ began Richard by way of explanation, slipping the silly weapon into an equally impractical scabbard. ‘He wanted to ask my opinion about who is legally responsible for maintaining the Great Bridge.’

‘He wanted you to find a loophole in the law that will make someone other than the town liable,’ surmised Timothy tartly. ‘He is loath to levy a tax on the townsfolk to pay for it, and is hoping that you could put the onus on the Castle or the University.’

‘How did a meeting with Horwoode make you ill?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Did he give you bad food?’

Richard shook his head. ‘He gave me a good deal of wine, although that stopped flowing as soon as I told him that the bridge was the town’s responsibility and he had better raise some funds before someone was killed on it and he was held accountable. On my way to collect Black Bishop from the stables, I met Heytesbury, and we adjourned to the Swan for a drink.’

‘It sounds to me as if you had had more than enough to drink already,’ muttered Michael.

‘I have given Richard some of my gum mastic,’ said Heytesbury, withdrawing the packet of yellow resin from his scrip. ‘Mixed with alehoof, it is an infallible remedy for overindulgence.’

Bartholomew saw that Heytesbury’s fingers were coloured a deep yellow, rather like the stains the physician had noted on the bodies of Walcote and Faricius. Had they also used gum mastic as a cure for too much drink? Neither had seemed the kind of man who drank a lot, although neither did Heytesbury, and Bartholomew guessed the Oxford scholar was actually very partial to his ales and wines. That morning, there was an amber sheen to the whites of Heytesbury’s eyes, and his hands were unsteady, as if they required a jug of something fermented to settle them.

‘And what would Oxford men know of over-indulgence?’ asked Michael archly. ‘Surely the noble men of that fine institution do not need such remedies?’

‘We use them on rare occasions,’ said Heytesbury, unruffled by Michael’s sarcasm. ‘But by the time we left the Swan it was rather late to return to Trumpington, so we spent the night at Oswald Stanmore’s business premises on Milne Street, instead.’

‘However, when I woke this morning, someone had been in my room during the night,’ Richard went on. ‘There was a bowl of burnt feathers and garlic next to my bed, and the stench was unbelievable.’

Bartholomew smiled, knowing exactly who had been responsible for placing the foul-smelling substance near Richard, and why. The superstitious Cynric was following the Franciscans’ instructions for removing the curse of an unpleasant personality. The physician recalled that William had caught the mad Clippesby taking feathers from the College cockerel, doubtless at Cynric’s request.

‘I had a rotten night,’ complained Richard churlishly. He fiddled restlessly with something he had pulled from his pocket. Bartholomew saw it was a gold pendant, and wondered whether his nephew’s excesses now ran to jewellery.

‘It looked to me as if someone had been practising witchcraft,’ said Heytesbury, amused. ‘We all know that burned feathers are a common ingredient in spells.’

‘Cynric, probably,’ grumbled Richard. ‘He is Welsh, and so believes in that kind of thing. I expect he imagined he was protecting me from evil spirits. But, what with the stink of burning feathers, the bad wine in the Swan, and the Carmelites carousing across the road, I slept badly.’

‘The Carmelites?’ asked Timothy, startled. ‘Lent is not over and they have recently buried a colleague. They have no cause for carousing.’

‘I hope it was not because they found Kyrkeby dead on their property,’ groaned Michael. ‘I thought we had averted a fight over that particular issue.’

‘Actually, I think they were just pleased that Kyrkeby is not to give the University Lecture,’ said Heytesbury wryly. ‘They were angry that he planned to talk in defence of nominalism, and were delighted to hear that the lecture will now revolve around life on Venus.’

‘Perhaps there are nominalists on Venus,’ suggested Richard. ‘Have you considered talking about what Venusian nominalists might believe? It would be a clever way to give a lecture on nominalism while still complying with the unreasonable demands imposed by Chancellor Tynkell.’

‘It would not,’ said Heytesbury sternly. ‘Such a tactic would be ungentlemanly, not to mention painfully transparent. And anyway, it would make a mockery of my beliefs. The realists would laugh at me if I claimed nominalism was followed on Venus.’

‘I still have that document ready,’ said Michael to Heytesbury, patting his scrip. ‘It seems to me that you do not like Cambridge, and I would hate to think that you felt obliged to linger here for my benefit.’

‘It has been quite an experience,’ said Heytesbury, leaning back in his chair and smiling enigmatically. ‘But I shall decide whether to sign this deed by the time I give my lecture. You are right: I do not like Cambridge, and I am beginning to miss the hallowed halls of Oxford with their atmosphere of learning and scholarship, and the stimulating presence of great minds.’

‘I see,’ said Michael icily. He opened his scrip and passed Heytesbury the document. ‘This is ready whenever you are. I can even provide you with a decent horse to speed you on your way.’

‘Just as long as it is not a large black one,’ said Heytesbury, taking the document as if he expected it to bite. ‘I would not want to be thrown off and break my neck.’

‘No,’ said Michael ambiguously.

Heytesbury folded the deed and placed it in his own scrip. ‘I shall read it myself, then ask Richard to assess it for loopholes. I must be sure that it does not harm Oxford.’

Michael pretended to be offended, although Bartholomew thought Heytesbury was acting with commendable common sense in securing the services of a lawyer. The monk stood and indicated that Timothy and Bartholomew should leave with him. ‘We must go to visit the good nuns of St Radegund’s Convent. There are questions to ask.’

‘Do not go there, Brother,’ advised Richard weakly. ‘Those are no nuns; they are sirens, who entice innocent men inside their walls. A chaste and inexperienced man like you will be easy prey.’

‘How do you know?’ demanded Bartholomew. ‘Are you one of those men who visits the nuns when decent folk are sleeping?’

‘I know the occupants of St Radegund’s Convent,’ replied Richard evasively. ‘There have been rumours about the place ever since I was a boy.’

‘Do these rumours bear any resemblance to the truth?’ asked Heytesbury, raising his eyebrows in amusement.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Richard weakly. ‘Beyond your wildest imaginings.’