An Order for Death

Chapter 10

BARTHOLOMEW, MICHAEL AND TIMOTHY LEFT THE Cardinal’s Cap and set off in a dull drizzle of early afternoon towards St Radegund’s Convent. When Michael tapped on the door there was a sound of running footsteps, the grille on the gate was snapped open and Tysilia peered out.

‘Oh, it is you,’ she said to Michael, sounding pleased. ‘We always like visits from Dominicans and Franciscans.’

‘I am a Benedictine, not a Dominican,’ said Michael, offended. ‘You should be able to tell the difference; you wear the habit of a Benedictine novice yourself.’

Tysilia shook her head in evident impatience with herself. ‘Dame Martyn told me that I could always tell a Benedictine from a Dominican because Benedictines are fat. I must remember that!’

Bartholomew glanced at Michael and smiled.

‘I said I would punch the next man who called me fat,’ muttered Michael in reply. ‘And Tysilia is no man.’

‘She is not,’ agreed Timothy, not bothering to mask his distaste.

‘I keep forgetting that Black Monks and Black Friars are different,’ Tysilia went on cheerfully. ‘It is like White Friars are Carmelites and White Monks are cisterns. And Grey Friars, like him, are Franciscans.’ She beamed at Timothy in his damaged cloak.

‘Cistercians,’ corrected Michael. ‘And Timothy is no Franciscan; he is a Benedictine, like me.’

‘But he wears grey,’ Tysilia pointed out. ‘And grey equals Franciscans.’

It was clear to Bartholomew that Timothy had no time for the owner of the sultry eyes that peered through the grille, although he had plenty of compassion for the struggling Yolande de Blaston. ‘Enough!’ Timothy snapped. ‘We did not come here to bandy words with you, woman. Inform your Prioress that we are here to see her.’

‘Then I suppose you had better come in,’ said Tysilia with a pout. ‘I may be a while, because she is asleep and I will have to wake her up.’

‘It is cold out here,’ said Michael, rubbing his hands to warm them as a bitter wind laden with misty droplets of rain cut in from across the Fens. He did not comment that early afternoon was no time for a Prioress with a convent to run to be asleep. ‘I do not know why the founders of this convent chose to locate it in so wild a place.’

‘They put it here so that we would be removed from men,’ explained Tysilia brightly, opening the door to admit them. ‘Of course, that just means that men have a bit of a walk to get here…’ Her hands flew to her mouth in agitation. ‘Damn it all! I forgot. Eve Wasteneys told me I am not to admit anyone into Prioress Martyn’s presence without first telling her who it is. Would you mind leaving?’

‘You mean you want us to wait outside?’ asked Michael, startled.

‘Yes,’ said Tysilia.

‘But why can we not wait here?’ asked Michael, unwilling to leave the relative shelter of the convent walls to stand in the rain while Tysilia woke the Prioress from her slumbers.

‘Because Dame Martyn may not want to see you,’ said Tysilia with an impatient sigh at his stupidity. ‘And if she does not, I shall have to tell you that she is not here and refuse you permission to come in.’

‘I see you have a clear understanding of the duties of gatekeeper,’ mumbled Michael, reluctantly stepping out. He shivered in the wind as she closed the door again, and gave Timothy a sudden grin. ‘Matt thinks Tysilia is behind these meetings of Walcote’s, and that she is a criminal mastermind who is capable of manipulating some of the most important men in the University.’

Timothy shook his head, laughing. ‘I do not think so!’

‘It is just not possible for someone to be that stupid,’ said Bartholomew, defensive of his theory. ‘It must be an act.’

‘If her stupidity is contrived, then she has taken it too far,’ said Timothy, still smiling. ‘She needs to moderate herself.’

‘Here she comes,’ said Michael, as footsteps clattered across the yard. ‘Now we will see whether the Prioress is prepared to see us, or whether she is pretending to be out.’

The door opened a second time, and Tysilia waved them in. ‘Eve Wasteneys told me to tell you that Dame Martyn is in the stellar,’ she said breezily.

‘Solar,’ corrected Michael. ‘And we know she is in, or you would not have gone to ask her whether she was prepared to grant us an audience.’

‘You what?’ asked Tysilia blankly.

‘Never mind,’ said Michael wearily. ‘Lead on.’

She led the way across the yard to the building in which the solar was located. Michael kept his hands firmly inside his sleeves this time, so that the Bishop’s ‘niece’ ascended the stairs unmolested, despite hips that swung more vigorously at every step. She shot him a look of bewilderment when they reached the top, as though she could not understand how the monk could have resisted her.

‘How is your murder instigation coming along?’ she asked.

‘Investigation,’ corrected Michael. ‘And it is not coming along at all.’

‘That is because you think Will Walcote was killed by a single person,’ said Tysilia. ‘And he was actually murdered by three.’

Bartholomew stared at her. Was she simply giving voice to whatever came into her head, or was she passing Michael a clue? ‘What makes you say that?’ he asked curiously.

‘It is obvious,’ said Tysilia with a careless shrug. ‘I heard his hands were tied and he was robbed of his purse before he was hung.’

‘Hanged,’ corrected Michael. ‘“Hung” is what you do to game. But how does this prove there were three killers?’

Tysilia sighed, to indicate her impatience at his slow wits. ‘Because it would need one person to tie his hands, another to steal his purse, and another to put the rope around his neck. One person could not have done all that, could he?’

Bartholomew had reasoned much the same, although he was disconcerted to hear such rational thinking emanating from the lips of Tysilia. He shot Michael a triumphant glance to show that this proved he had been correct all along, and that she was deeply involved. Michael declined to look at him.

‘We are wasting time,’ said Timothy distastefully, indicating with a curt nod of his head that she was to open the door to the solar. His cool disdain made it clear exactly what he thought of the novice’s comments. ‘We have a killer to catch, and we will not do it listening to this nonsense.’

Or would they? Bartholomew gazed uncertainly at Tysilia, trying to gauge yet again whether she was a cunning manipulator who was enjoying the spectacle of their floundering progress through the case, or the dull-minded harlot she seemed to be. But his intense scrutiny of her face told him nothing, and her eyes seemed empty behind their superficial sparkle. Pouting at Timothy’s brusque dismissal of her suggestion, she opened the door to admit them to the solar.

‘Brother Michael,’ said Eve Wasteneys, rising to greet her visitors. ‘Do come in.’

Bartholomew glanced around him. The few nuns present were industriously engaged in darning, and all of them were fully clothed. Dame Martyn slumbered quietly in a corner, and there was not a wine cup in sight. Matilde, still playing the part of Mistress Horner, was with them. Her eyes were bright and interested, and even with all the make-up that covered her smooth white skin, Bartholomew could see she was enjoying herself.

‘These are not the nuns from Ely who want to spy on us,’ stated Tysilia, inadvertently revealing why the day-room was not in its usual state of comfortable debauchery. ‘These are Brother Michael and his two friends, who are not as fat as him and who therefore do not look like Benedictines.’

‘Nicely announced, Tysilia,’ said Eve dryly.

‘Nuns from Ely?’ asked Michael, raising questioning eyebrows.

‘We are to be inspected by high-ranking abbesses,’ replied Eve. ‘What do you think they will say when they find us mending shirts for beggars and everyone wearing the prescribed habits with no personal deviations?’

‘They will think that you had wind of their visit and that you have prepared accordingly,’ said Michael. ‘But if you really want to fool them, you should appoint a new gate-keeper for the day, or you will find all your efforts have been in vain.’

Eve looked thoughtful. ‘You are right. Tysilia should spend the duration of the visit in the kitchen.’

‘A cellar might be a better choice,’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘She can still speak in a kitchen.’

‘I can sew, too,’ announced Tysilia. She threw herself on to a cushion, careful to treat the visitors to a flash of her legs as she did so, then held up a scrap of linen that was covered in clumsy stitches.

‘Very nice,’ said Michael ambiguously. ‘But what is your sewing supposed to be?’

‘Be?’ asked Tysilia, frowning in puzzlement. ‘Why should it “be” anything?’

‘She sounds like a realist,’ muttered Timothy. ‘Questioning the existence of things.’

‘Hardly,’ said Eve, waving a hand to indicate that Tysilia should retire to a window-seat, where she would not be able to interrupt every few moments with her peculiar announcements. ‘We are still learning basic table manners, and have a long way to go before we graduate to philosophy.’

‘Is she really as dense as she seems?’ asked Timothy baldly. Bartholomew winced and cast an anxious glance at Matilde, afraid that Timothy’s question might put her in danger if Tysilia suspected that her disguise was being questioned.

‘No,’ said Eve shortly. ‘She is trying very hard to be intelligent at the moment.’

‘She is not playing games with you?’ pressed Timothy.

Eve shook her head. ‘I thought the same when I first met her: no one could be as dim-witted as Tysilia and survive to adulthood. But I have spent a long time watching her, mostly when she thought she was alone, and I am certain her gross stupidity is genuine. Why do you ask?’

‘No reason,’ said Michael, unable to resist a victorious glance at Bartholomew. The physician remained sceptical, still thinking about Tysilia’s notion that they should be looking for more than one killer. He happened to think that she was right: it would be difficult to overpower a man, tie him up and hang him singled-handed.

‘Is there word from my kinsman?’ asked Matilde in the croaking voice she reserved for Mistress Horner’s use, fiddling with the ring on her finger to indicate that she wanted to talk to them alone. She levered her bulk from her cushions and made her way unsteadily towards Bartholomew. ‘Did you give him the message I dictated to you?’

‘I did,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And Robin of Grantchester sends greetings in return.’

‘Good,’ said Matilde, steering him towards an alcove where they could at least speak without being overheard, even if everyone could still see them. ‘Here is a penny for your trouble.’

‘Thank you,’ said Bartholomew, gazing at the brown coin she pressed into his palm.

‘My standing here dropped dramatically when they thought I was related to Robin,’ said Matilde, her eyes bright with mischief. ‘You deserve to be paid only a penny.’

‘Have you learned anything?’ asked Bartholomew urgently. ‘We do not have much time.’

‘Nothing. Tysilia rises late, has the manners of a peasant and is the most active member of the convent during the night. Sometimes she says things that are so stupid they are actually quite clever.’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘Michael and Timothy believe she is exactly what she appears to be.’

‘So I gathered. And they may yet be right.’

‘What have you learned about the other members of the convent? Tysilia is not the only one who might be involved in something sinister.’

‘Eve Wasteneys is a clever and astute woman; Dame Martyn is a drunkard who barely knows what day of the week it is. I have been trying to watch Eve, but it is difficult, because she spends a good deal of time alone.’

‘Why?’

‘Dame Martyn is incapable of running the convent, and so Eve does most of the work. I imagine a good portion of her time is spent juggling the finances, but I cannot be certain. She may well be organising meetings where Walcote left off.’

‘I want you to leave here,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Today. Tell them Robin has summoned you.’

‘But I have not yet done what I came to do,’ objected Matilde.

‘I do not care,’ said Bartholomew. ‘A student was murdered at Michaelhouse last night, and Michael’s room was ransacked. I have the feeling the killer knows we are closing in on him, and I want you well away from here.’

‘I will just stay until tomorrow,’ said Matilde. ‘It will be Saturday, and–’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Leave today. I will call on you this evening at home. If you are not there, I shall come here to fetch you.’

Matilde, seeing the determination in his face, reluctantly agreed, and Bartholomew left her to rejoin the others. Eve waved a gracious hand to indicate that her guests were to be seated near the fire. ‘How might I help you gentlemen? I would offer you wine, but you will understand that I would sooner you were gone before these nuns arrive. I do not want them jumping to the wrong conclusions.’

‘Then I will be brief,’ said Michael. ‘I want to know about Dame Martyn’s nephew.’

‘Which one?’ asked Eve uncertainly.

‘How many does she have?’ asked Bartholomew.

Eve shot him a playful grin. ‘It depends on how much trouble they are in for wandering along the Barnwell Causeway after dark.’

Michael sighed impatiently. ‘Lynne. He was here when we first visited you.’

‘Oh, him,’ said Tysilia, bored with her sewing and coming to join them. She knelt down and began to pet a cat that lay in front of the fire. Her attentions were rough, and the animal’s fur was vigorously combed the wrong way. It was not long before it fled to the sanctuary of Matilde’s lap. ‘Lynne is a dull youth. He lives with the Carmelites on Milne Street.’

‘What was he doing here the first time we came?’ asked Michael.

Eve’s expression was unreadable. ‘He came to visit his aunt.’

‘You mean he came to avail himself of your services?’ asked Timothy bluntly.

Eve smiled enigmatically. ‘He came to visit his aunt,’ she repeated.

‘I want to know more about these meetings that Walcote arranged,’ said Michael, seeing that Eve was not prepared to be more forthcoming about Lynne. ‘I want to know exactly how many of them there were, and I want to know exactly when they occurred.’

‘But I have told you all I know,’ said Eve with a sigh. ‘How many more times do you want me to say the same thing? Walcote hired our chamber eight or nine times. I observed several men whom I thought I recognised and whose names I have already told you. I do not know what they discussed, and I cannot recall specific dates.’

‘Dame Martyn did not tell the King’s Commissioners about the money Walcote gave her,’ supplied Tysilia helpfully. ‘She did not want to give them any of it for tax, so she never wrote anything down in case they saw it.’

‘Thank you, Tysilia,’ said Eve coldly. ‘Now be quiet, and do your sewing.’

‘Can you recall just one date?’ pressed Michael, turning his attention back to Eve.

Eve shook her head. ‘Although I would not have mentioned it myself, Tysilia is right. We did not record the money Walcote paid us, because we did not want to be penalised for it when the tax collectors come. Therefore we have no way to check dates and times. All I know is that the second one was around late November, because we had been able to mend the roof – using gold coins I grabbed from Master Runham’s icon. It was still leaking when he first came.’

‘And times?’ urged Michael. ‘How late?’

‘Well after dark, but not before matins. I suppose they were all some time between nine o’clock and midnight.’

‘And you never eavesdropped, to try to learn why the Junior Proctor and the heads of the religious Orders met here in the middle of the night?’

Eve shook her head firmly. ‘What if I had been caught with my ear to the door? Walcote would not have used our room again, and that money was very useful. Too much was at stake for me to risk it for mere curiosity.’

‘I listened,’ said Tysilia, beaming at them. She ignored Eve’s heavy sigh of exasperation at her orders for silence being disobeyed. ‘I wanted to know when they would be finished, so that I could be ready for them when they came out.’

Bartholomew saw Matilde hiding her laughter by pretending to inspect her sewing at close range, so that it covered her face.

‘They chattered endlessly about whether things have names, and they talked about mending the Great Bridge, because Prior Lincolne once fell through it,’ Tysilia went on. ‘He is a fat man, like you, Brother, and I expect he was too heavy for it.’

‘This is becoming intolerable,’ muttered Michael. ‘I am not fat.’

‘What else did you hear?’ asked Timothy, addressing her reluctantly.

‘Nothing. I was bored and went to bed,’ said Tysilia carelessly. ‘They were a lot of gasbags, repeating themselves and muttering about tedious things. The only interesting one was that young man with the nice fingernails. But he only came to the last meeting – the one that was held a day or two before Walcote died.’

‘And who might he be?’ asked Michael, trying to imagine which of the religious heads paid attention to his manicure. Neither he nor Bartholomew recalled any of them as notably clean.

‘He has good calves and a handsome face,’ offered Tysilia.

‘That is not very helpful,’ said Michael. ‘How are we supposed to guess who came to these meetings based on the fact that you found him attractive?’

‘Well, I suppose I could tell you his name,’ suggested Tysilia. ‘Would that help?’

‘For God’s sake, woman,’ snapped Michael, exasperated. ‘Tell us!’

‘His name is Richard Stanmore,’ said Tysilia, smiling her vacant smile.

‘What do you think, Matthew?’ asked Timothy as they left St Radegund’s Convent and started to walk along the causeway towards Barnwell Priory, where Michael suggested they might find Lynne. ‘Is your nephew the kind of man to embroil himself in a plot to kill Brother Michael the instant he arrives home?’

‘I have no idea,’ said Bartholomew bitterly. ‘I no longer know him. But when all is said and done, he loves his parents dearly, and I cannot see him becoming involved in something that might hurt them – as his being implicated in a murder certainly would. But I know that Tysilia is telling the truth when she says she knows him.’

‘She is?’ asked Michael, surprised. ‘How do you know?’

‘Because Richard had Matilde’s pendant,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘She mentioned last time that Tysilia had stolen it, and then I recognised it when Richard pulled it from his pocket in the Cardinal’s Cap this morning. Tysilia must have given it to him.’

Michael nodded slowly. ‘You are doubtless right.’

Bartholomew sighed as a few more pieces of the puzzle came together. ‘I should have seen this before. Eve said she took Tysilia to Bedford, to keep her occupied for a few days, and Bedford is between Oxford and Cambridge. We all know that travellers gather in large parties when they take to the roads. It is obvious that Richard joined Tysilia’s group, and that is how they met.’

‘Are you sure about this?’ asked Timothy uncertainly.

‘No,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘But Eve told us Tysilia misbehaved on the homeward journey, which was about two weeks ago. Richard arrived in Cambridge at about the same time.’

Michael thought for a moment, then said, ‘This means that Tysilia met Richard at least twice – once in Bedford and once when he attended Walcote’s last meeting here. However, you treated Dame Martyn for drunkenness the morning after Walcote was killed, and Tysilia was there. Surely you would have noticed had they recognised each other?’

‘Then there are two possibilities,’ said Bartholomew, after a moment of thought. ‘First, it may suggest that Tysilia and Richard did not acknowledge their prior acquaintance for sinister reasons. Or, second, it may be because Richard wore a scarf over his nose to mask the smell of pigs; Tysilia did not see his face and so did not recognise him.’

Timothy raised his eyebrows. ‘The first theory suggests she is your cunning demon; the second that she is even more lacking in wits than I imagined.’

Michael frowned. ‘If Richard had tampered with her on their Bedford journey, he would not want Tysilia squealing a delighted greeting in front of all those disapproving nuns. It would be in his interest to keep himself hidden.’

‘It sounded to me as though Richard had considerable knowledge of St Radegund’s,’ said Timothy thoughtfully. ‘This morning he referred to the nuns as sirens, about whom he had heard rumours. I deduce that Tysilia is telling the truth, and that Richard is more familiar with the convent than he wants us to know.’

‘But why would Richard be involved in these meetings?’ asked Bartholomew, not liking the notion of his nephew being involved in the plot. ‘Everyone else was the head of a religious Order. Richard is certainly no cleric.’

‘No,’ said Michael. ‘But it seems he was involved in these meetings some way or another. We shall just have to leave it to him to tell us why. And there is something else I want to know, too. Ever since he arrived, he has been showing off his new clothes and his new horse. I want to know how he pays for all these things.’

‘The proceeds of crime,’ said Timothy darkly. ‘But I do not think his offences are related to Walcote’s murder. I remain certain that the motive for his death was theft. Someone stole his purse, which was later recovered empty. What more evidence do you need?’

‘What about the meetings?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘A group of religious heads chatting about the Great Bridge and philosophy?’ countered Timothy dismissively. ‘How can such things result in murder?’

‘But Morden said they also discussed the plot to kill Michael,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And what about this alleged theft from the Carmelite Friary? That was mooted, too. Perhaps Walcote was using it to discredit Michael so that he could be Senior Proctor instead.’

‘I do not believe that,’ said Michael immediately. ‘Walcote did not have sufficient presence to take on a man of my standing in the University. Who do you think people would follow: a weak Austin, who is pleasant but ineffectual; or me, who has been Senior Proctor for years and whom everyone likes and respects?’

‘I am not sure everyone would see the alternatives quite in those terms,’ said Timothy diplomatically. ‘They may have seen it as a choice between a weak man, who could be manipulated to their advantage, or a man with known connections to Oxford, who is planning to give away our property to further his own career.’

‘That is not why I am dealing with Heytesbury–’ began Michael angrily.

Timothy patted his arm reassuringly. ‘I am merely voicing an opinion that may be expressed by others. Your years as Senior Proctor have not made you popular with everyone. You have made enemies as well as friends.’

Michael knocked at the gate of Barnwell Priory, and the three men were admitted by Nicholas, who was still ravaged by grief for Walcote. His red-rimmed eyes indicated that he had been crying, and the dirt that was deeply impregnated in his skin and under his fingernails showed that he had been engaged in manual labour in the gardens, perhaps to secure himself some privacy and be alone with his unhappiness.

‘Just the person I wanted to see,’ said Michael, taking the man by his arm and leading him to a quiet corner. ‘I am no further forward in catching Walcote’s killer. I know you two were close, and I want you to tell me anything – no matter how small or insignificant it may seem – that may help us.’

‘I have told you all I know,’ said Nicholas miserably. ‘I have no idea what business Walcote was involved in, which is just as well, given what happened last night.’

‘Why?’ demanded Michael. ‘What happened?’

‘Someone gained access to our grounds,’ explained Nicholas. ‘It must have been nearer to dawn than midnight, because our cockerel had already started to stir. But it was still an hour or two before we were due to rise.’

Michael exchanged a significant glance with Bartholomew. Their own intruders had been busy during the first part of the night, and now it seemed others had been in the Austin Priory near dawn. Were they the same people?

‘And?’ pressed Michael. ‘What did this intruder do?’

‘A lay-brother was stabbed,’ said Nicholas. ‘He is in the infirmary being cared for by Father Urban from the leper hospital.’

‘We will speak with this lay-brother,’ declared Michael, still holding Nicholas’s arm as he began to walk. ‘Take us to him.’

‘I am not sure whether you will be allowed into the infirmary,’ said Nicholas, alarmed by the way he was being steered in a direction he did not want to go. ‘It is full of sick people.’

‘I will be admitted,’ said Michael confidently, dragging the unhappy Nicholas along with him as he made his way through the church. ‘Now, tell me what this intruder did.’

‘He entered Prior Ralph’s solar, and ransacked the chest where we keep all our valuable documents,’ said Nicholas. ‘And then he left.’

‘Was anything stolen?’ asked Bartholomew.

Nicholas shrugged. ‘Prior Ralph says not. But although we own land, we are not really wealthy and we do not have much gold and silver for thieves to take.’

‘What about documents?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Were any scrolls or parchments stolen?’

Nicholas shrugged again. ‘You must address that sort of question to the Prior. I am only a lowly canon, and I have no idea what documents were stored in the chest.’

‘Have you learned anything more about the meetings Walcote organised?’ asked Timothy.

Nicholas took a deep breath, and cast a nervous glance over his shoulder. ‘I know he dealt with powerful men, like the heads of priories and convents. That in itself was sufficient to make me feel that I do not want to know about his business. In my opinion, life as Junior Proctor was dangerous.’

‘Hardly,’ said Michael, surprised by the man’s unease. ‘Powerful men do not always have evil in their hearts, and dealing with them is not always sinister.’

‘It killed Walcote,’ said Nicholas bitterly. ‘Tell him that.’

He had a point. Someone had executed Walcote in a most grisly manner, and whatever Timothy might believe about the purse they found, Bartholomew remained convinced that there was more to Walcote’s death than a simple case of robbery. Nicholas might well be right, and that one of the powerful men with whom Walcote dealt was responsible.

‘Is there anything more you can tell us?’ pressed Michael. ‘Any cases he was working on that he may have told you about?’

‘Nothing that you do not already know,’ replied Nicholas unhappily. ‘This Oxford business was the most risky, but he said you were dealing with that.’

‘And what about his spare time?’ asked Michael, ignoring the fact that persuading another academic to sign a piece of parchment was scarcely life-threatening. ‘What did he do when he was not working for me or fulfilling his duties here at Barnwell?’

‘He liked to read,’ said Nicholas. ‘We were studying the writings of William of Occam together, and next week we had planned to move on to the works of Heytesbury.’

‘But reading about nominalism is not dangerous, either,’ said Michael, frustrated by the lack of relevant information.

‘I am not so sure,’ said Bartholomew thoughtfully. ‘Walcote would not be the first to die because of an interest in philosophy.’

‘There is Lynne,’ said Michael suddenly, grabbing Bartholomew’s arm. ‘I want a word with him. The lay-brother in the infirmary can wait.’

Lynne watched them warily as they approached, but made no attempt to flee, as Bartholomew suspected he might at the sudden arrival of the University’s Senior Proctor.

‘I have some questions I want to put to you,’ said Michael peremptorily. ‘Why did you run away from the Carmelite Friary?’

‘I have never been to the Carmelite Friary,’ said Lynne. ‘You are confusing me with my brother. We are very alike.’

‘Really,’ said Michael flatly. His hand shot out to seize a handful of Lynne’s habit at throat height; then he lifted, so that the student-friar’s feet barely touched the ground. The lad’s sullen arrogance was quickly replaced by alarm.

‘I know nothing about anything,’ he squeaked. ‘I am an Austin novice. I am not a Carmelite.’

‘My cells will be full tonight,’ said Michael softly. ‘First Morden and now Simon Lynne.’

‘This is John Lynne,’ said Nicholas, surprised by Michael’s statement. ‘We have no Simon Lynne here.’

‘Simon is my brother,’ gasped John Lynne. ‘I told you.’ He struggled out of Michael’s failing grasp and brushed himself down. ‘And I know nothing about what Simon may have done.’

‘How do we know you are not lying?’ demanded Michael unconvinced. ‘You look like Simon Lynne to me.’

‘He is my younger brother. He ran away from the Carmelite Friary on Monday night because he was afraid. He went to hide with our Aunt Mabel at St Radegund’s Convent, but you found him on Tuesday, so he was forced to go elsewhere.’

‘Where?’ demanded Michael angrily. ‘Are you hiding him? If you are, you had better tell me, because if I later discover that you knew of his whereabouts and that you concealed them from me, I shall arrest you and charge you with conspiracy to murder. And that is a hanging offence.’

John Lynne paled. ‘I do not know where he is; I doubt anyone does, even Horneby. Simon fled because he was terrified.’

‘Terrified of what?’ asked Michael.

‘Of what happened to Kyrkeby.’

‘Kyrkeby? You mean Faricius, surely? Faricius was Simon’s friend; Kyrkeby was the Dominican Precentor.’

‘I know who Kyrkeby was. And it was Kyrkeby’s death that frightened Simon.’

‘But Simon was reported missing before we discovered Kyrkeby’s body,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘He fled on Monday night, and we found Kyrkeby on Wednesday. Are you saying that he knew what had happened to Kyrkeby?’

John Lynne nodded slowly. ‘Simon knew Kyrkeby was dead. And he did not want the same thing to happen to him.’

‘Where is he?’ asked Michael. ‘If he knows who killed Kyrkeby, then he must speak out. As long as the killer is free, then Simon will never be safe.’

‘I keep telling you that I do not know,’ insisted John Lynne, and the fear in his eyes that he would be dragged into the mess created by his brother indicated to Bartholomew that he was telling the truth. ‘But if I see him, I will tell him to contact you. It is the best I can do.’

‘Then make sure you do,’ said Michael, apparently deciding to accept the young man’s story. He gave a hearty sigh and turned to Nicholas. ‘And now we will talk to this stabbed gatekeeper in the infirmary.’

‘There are sick men in there,’ said Nicholas again. ‘I do not know whether Prior Ralph will agree to an invasion by the Senior Proctor.’

‘Let me go,’ said Bartholomew to Michael. ‘I am a physician: Prior Ralph can scarcely object to me visiting the sick.’

Michael seemed reluctant. ‘Very well. But if you take too long, I shall assume this man has something worthwhile to say, and I shall come to hear it for myself.’

The patient lay on a cot piled high with blankets in the large and airy room that served as the priory’s infirmary. Two other Austins were also there, one with a thick bloodstained bandage around his hand, indicating an accident that had probably seen the removal of some fingers, while another had the sallow, yellow look of some undefined and persistent problem with his liver. All three looked up as Bartholomew entered the room, hopeful of something that would break the monotony of a day in bed.

‘How is he, Father?’ asked Bartholomew of the small man in the stained habit. Urban was the canon who cared for the inmates of the nearby leper hospital, as well as tending the sick at Barnwell Priory. ‘Is his wound serious?’

Urban shook his head. ‘The cut is little more than a scratch. He claims it aches and burns, but so might I if the alternative was a day mucking out the pigs. Nigel is malingering, Doctor.’

‘Would you like me to examine him?’

‘He would not, because you would expose him as a fraud,’ said Urban with a smile. ‘I shall allow him his day or two of ease, but if he continues to complain after Easter, you can come and tell him he is fitter than most of the rest of us.’

‘Are you here to ask about the men who almost killed me last night?’ called Nigel, energetically plumping one of his pillows in a way that indicated Urban’s diagnosis was correct. On a small table next to him was a jug of wine, which, judging from his flushed face and confident manner, Nigel had been making the most of.

‘Men?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘How many of them were there?’

‘Two,’ said Nigel. When he had first started speaking, his voice had been a hoarse whisper, but this was soon forgotten as he began to tell his story. Bartholomew smiled, suspecting that the man’s spell of ease was likely to end a lot sooner than Easter unless he worked on his malingering skills. ‘They were big brutes, all swathed in black and meaning business.’

‘What business would that be?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Stealing,’ replied Nigel promptly. ‘Prior Ralph says they were unsuccessful, although they broke into the documents chest and made a terrible mess of his room. He does not keep any gold there. That is all in the church, and no one would dare to steal from a church.’

‘How do you know the thieves wanted riches?’ asked Bartholomew, aware that many people had no such scruples but declining to argue the point. ‘Perhaps they came for something else.’

‘Such as what?’ asked Nigel, giving Bartholomew a baffled look. ‘They came for gold and they stabbed me to get it.’

‘Then tell me exactly what happened,’ said Bartholomew.

‘I was on duty at the gatehouse,’ began Nigel, fortifying himself from the jug. ‘It was very late, and the canons were preparing themselves for matins, which takes place before dawn.’

‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I attend matins myself.’

Nigel looked Bartholomew up and down, taking in his scholar’s tabard. ‘Anyway, I heard a knock on the gate, so I answered it. I was obviously slow in the wits – I had spent all day with the pigs, and then passed the night on gate duty, you see.’

‘You mean you had fallen asleep, and you opened the gate in a drowsy haze?’ interpreted Bartholomew.

Nigel’s pursed lips told him that he was right. ‘I had only opened it the merest crack, when they were in. It happened so fast that one moment I was standing at the door, and the next I was lying on the ground pumping my life blood on to the floor.’

‘Your injury was not that serious,’ said Urban mildly.

‘They locked me inside the gatehouse,’ Nigel went on, treating Urban to an unpleasant look. ‘I was able to shout, but only weakly.’

‘It was loud enough,’ said Urban. ‘The gatehouse is a long way from the infirmary, but I still heard it. The truth is that you only started to yell when you were sure the intruders had gone.’

Bartholomew did not blame Nigel; it must have been a harrowing experience to be stabbed and then be in fear that the attackers might return to complete what they had started. But, at the same time, Bartholomew could see that Nigel’s wound was not debilitating, and the man should have raised the alarm, not cowered in a dark corner until it was safe to come out.

‘By the time anyone heeded my cries, the two intruders had left,’ concluded Nigel. ‘And that was that. I was carried here, and now lie in great pain waiting to recover.’

He took another gulp of wine and gazed at Urban with challenging eyes, daring him to contradict him further. Urban raised his eyes heavenward, then busied himself with his other patients, declining to waste his time listening to Nigel’s exaggerations.

‘Was there anything about either of them that was familiar?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Did you see a face or a distinctive mark?’

‘I saw big men,’ said Nigel promptly. ‘I may recognise them again; I may not. It was dark and, as I said, it all happened very fast.

‘How big?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘As big as me?’

‘Bigger,’ said Nigel immediately, barely glancing at the physician as he poured himself more wine. ‘They were both huge.’

Bartholomew gazed down at him thoughtfully. Was he telling the truth, or did he feel that being overpowered by large men gave more credence to his story? If he were being honest, his evidence would certainly vindicate Morden. Even the cowardly Nigel would have to concede that Morden was not a large man. Bartholomew wondered whether Michael would be obliged to release the Dominican Prior on the basis of Nigel’s report.

‘Why do you ask about their appearance?’ queried Nigel, looking up at Bartholomew with sudden fear in his eyes. ‘Do you have a suspect you want me to identify? I will not be able to do it. I did not see a thing before they struck me and I do not want to see them. They may try to kill me again.’

Bartholomew regarded him dispassionately, unimpressed by the man’s cowardice. ‘You were lucky. Our gatekeeper was killed when these intruders invaded Michaelhouse.’

For the first time, it seemed to occur to Nigel that he really had had a narrow escape, and that the danger he had faced had been genuine. Swallowing hard, he glanced around fearfully before subsiding under his blankets and was silent.

At Urban’s request, Bartholomew examined the man with jaundice, discussing possible medicines and treatments and forgetting that Michael was waiting outside, now that he was confronted with the far more interesting and immediate question of a malfunctioning liver.

‘How are the lepers?’ asked Bartholomew, as he jotted down a recipe for tincture of hellebore on a scrap of parchment for Urban. ‘I have not had time to visit them lately.’

‘Not good,’ replied Urban. ‘It has been a long winter and supplies are scarce for everyone. Lent has not helped, either.’

‘Why not?’

‘No meat,’ explained Urban. ‘And the Benedictines used to give us all their eggs and butter during Lent, but they have needed them this year for Brother Adam. My poor lepers cannot expect good health on stale bread and cloudy ale alone.’

‘Spring cannot be far away,’ said Bartholomew.

‘It may be too late by then,’ said Urban. ‘Mistress Matilde often helps us when we are in need, but she is not at home and no one knows where she has gone. I have been to her house three times now with no success.’

‘I know where she is,’ said Bartholomew, pleased to have another reason to entice Matilde out of St Radegund’s Convent, if she had not already left. ‘I will tell her.’

Urban gave a relieved smile, while the physician turned his attention back to his writing. Everyone in the infirmary jumped when the door was thrown open violently, and Michael stepped across the threshold to glare around him. Timothy was behind him, his face apologetic, as though he had tried his best to stop the monk from bursting in, but had failed. Bartholomew started guiltily, knowing he should not have spent so long discussing the other patients with Urban while the monk was waiting for him.

‘Well?’ Michael demanded of Bartholomew. ‘What have you learned?’

Nigel gave a sudden cry of horror, and Bartholomew saw the colour drain from his wine-reddened face.

‘It is him!’ he shrieked, pointing at Michael. ‘There is the man who tried to kill me last night!’

‘I know where Simon Lynne is hiding,’ said Michael smugly, as he walked with Bartholomew and Timothy back to the town.

‘Really?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I thought his brother said he had no idea.’

‘He probably does not,’ replied Michael, pleased with himself. ‘I have worked this out for myself.’

‘How?’ demanded Timothy. ‘We have no clues.’

‘We have enough,’ said Michael, a self-satisfied smile creasing his fat features. ‘We have been told – by Ringstead of the Dominicans, by the Carmelite student-friars and by Father Paul – that two people went to one man for intellectual discussion and understanding: Faricius and Kyrkeby both spoke to Paul at the Franciscan Friary.’

‘They wanted a debate, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Simon Lynne does not want to talk: he wants somewhere to hide.’

‘And that is why he has gone to Paul,’ persisted Michael. ‘Paul is a gentle man, who is popular with students. He would never turn away a soul in need.’

‘We can try speaking to Paul, I suppose,’ said Bartholomew, unimpressed with Michael’s reasoning. ‘Although I cannot see why a Carmelite would seek sanctuary with a Franciscan.’

‘Why not?’ asked Michael. ‘He first sought sanctuary with a convent of Benedictine nuns, and probably even considered hiding with his brother at the Austin Priory. Desperate situations call for desperate measures.’

‘How do you explain Nigel’s accusation?’ asked Timothy of Michael, when Bartholomew could think of no further arguments to refute Michael’s claim. ‘He thought you were one of the men who stabbed him last night.’

‘I have no need to explain his ravings,’ said Michael haughtily. ‘While that incident was under way, I was at Michaelhouse, trying to work out what had happened to Arbury. Of course it was not me he saw.’

‘It seems he did not see enough of these intruders to identify them anyway,’ mused Timothy. ‘He remembered large men in dark clothes, then howled his head off at the first big black-robed person he set eyes on.’

‘But all the Austin canons wear dark robes,’ said Bartholomew. ‘So why did he not howl at them?’

‘All right, Nigel yelled at the first unfamiliar black-robed person he saw, then,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘Do not quibble, Matt. Nigel’s information is worthless anyway: most men wear dark cloaks in winter, and he only claimed his attacker was large because he did not want to admit to being bested by someone small.’

‘Will you let Morden go?’ asked Timothy. ‘Even the exaggerating Nigel would have noticed if one of the intruders had been Morden’s size. He is very distinctive.’

‘I will keep Morden for a while yet,’ said Michael. ‘I refuse to allow him to go free on the word of such an unreliable witness. And do not forget that his glove implicates him in the burglary of my room, even if he did not later travel to Barnwell and stab Nigel.’

‘What do you think these intruders wanted from Ralph?’ asked Timothy. ‘Was it the same thing that they wanted from you?’

Michael shrugged. ‘I cannot imagine what, although I think we are right to assume that these two burglaries were committed by the same people.’

‘Ralph and you are not the only ones to be burgled,’ said Bartholomew thoughtfully. ‘If Morden is telling the truth, then items have been stolen from him, too.’ He snapped his fingers suddenly. ‘And I think I may know exactly what those raiders were looking for.’

‘Well?’ asked Michael, when his friend was lost in thought.

‘Of course,’ said Bartholomew, as one assumption led to another and another, and gradually pieces of the puzzle began to fit together.

‘What?’ snapped Michael irritably. ‘I am in no mood for games, Matt. If you know, tell me; if it is some wild guess, then you can keep it to yourself. I am already confused, and I do not want more untenable theories muddying the water.’

‘This is not a guess,’ said Bartholomew excitedly, as parts of the mystery became crystal clear. ‘It was your mention of Father Paul that made me think of the solution. All this trouble has been over Faricius’s essay.’

‘How?’ asked Timothy doubtfully. ‘And why should Paul make you think of it?’

‘The essay defends nominalism,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is our first clue.’

Michael sighed. ‘I fail to see how.’

‘Horneby and Simon Lynne went to Faricius’s hiding place in St John Zachary after Faricius’s murder; the evidence, however, suggests that Faricius had already collected his essay and was returning to the friary with it when he was attacked.’

‘It was not on his body, and his last words were spent asking you to find it,’ agreed Michael, impatiently. ‘And?’

‘Meanwhile, Kyrkeby was struggling to write a lecture defending nominalism, to be presented at the most auspicious event of the University year. He was unwell anyway – I treated him for an irregular heartbeat – and the pressure was beginning to mount. Morden thought Kyrkeby’s first attempts at the lecture were poor. But the day after Faricius’s death, Ringstead said that Kyrkeby’s lecture had improved.’

‘You think Kyrkeby killed Faricius for his essay?’ exploded Michael in disbelief, exchanging a glance with Timothy that was half-amusement and half-annoyance that they had wasted time listening to the physician. ‘Matt, you are out of your wits! I have heard you suggest some peculiar motives for murder in the past, but never one as bizarre as this.’

‘Because it is bizarre does not mean it is inaccurate,’ said Bartholomew defensively. ‘Perhaps racked by remorse, Kyrkeby may have tried to return the essay to the Carmelites by using the tunnel–’

‘Your theory fails here, Matt,’ interrupted Michael. ‘Kyrkeby did not know about the tunnel. How could he have done? Even Prior Lincolne was unaware of it and he is a Carmelite who lives in that friary, not a Dominican who has probably never set foot in it.’

‘Well, there is another possibility,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But you will not like it.’

Michael sighed. ‘I do not like this one. But go ahead. We have heard one insane idea today. Another cannot harm us.’

‘Walcote was also a nominalist, who knew Faricius and admired his work. Walcote may even have known about the essay. He was with us when we interviewed the Dominicans the day after Faricius’s murder, when Ringstead told us about the sudden improvement in Kyrkeby’s lecture. Walcote also knew about Faricius’s stolen scrip. He may have deduced that the essay was in it, and therefore reasoned that the missing essay and Kyrkeby’s sudden improvement were more than coincidence.’

‘Why should he have reasoned that?’ demanded Michael. ‘We did not.’

‘Because at the time we did not know that Faricius’s missing scrip probably contained his essay – we did not know the essay even existed.’

‘Are you suggesting that Walcote killed Kyrkeby for stealing Faricius’s essay?’ asked Timothy, exchanging another uncertain glance with Michael.

‘Walcote killed Kyrkeby for stabbing a man he knew and admired. Horneby told us that Walcote knew about the tunnel, because he had caught him using it and had ordered it to be sealed. What a perfect hiding place for a corpse! Even if the Carmelite students did find Kyrkeby’s body, they would never be able to report it without admitting that they knew secret ways in and out of their friary.’

‘I do not know about this, Matt,’ warned Michael. ‘I can see a lot of holes in your arguments.’

‘Such as what?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Such as the fact that Walcote was not the kind of man to kill, for a start,’ said Michael. ‘I complained to you many times about his gentleness and his annoying habit of looking for the good in people. Such men do not murder others.’

‘That is not true,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We have seen gentler men than Walcote commit all manner of crimes.’

Michael disagreed. ‘Your reasoning has a Dominican Precentor killing a Carmelite student-friar, and my Austin Junior Proctor murdering the Dominican. Such men do not go around slaughtering each other, Matt. And anyway, Faricius, Kyrkeby and Walcote himself were dead long before Arbury was murdered and Nigel was stabbed. How many killers do you imagine there are stalking the streets of Cambridge?’

Bartholomew regarded him sombrely. ‘I have no idea, Brother. But I suggest we should find out before anyone else dies.’

Michael wanted to go straight to the Franciscan Friary, to ask Father Paul whether he had Simon Lynne secreted away, and then question the lad about the mysterious death of Kyrkeby. They were approaching the Barnwell Gate when they became aware of a commotion taking place just outside it. A small crowd had gathered, and was standing around a prostrate body on the ground. Thinking it was probably someone in need of a physician, Bartholomew hurried forward to see if he could help. Sighing irritably at the delay, Michael followed.

Bartholomew pushed through the ring of spectators, then stopped in horror when he saw that the person lying flat on his back in the town’s filth was his nephew.

‘I want a word with him,’ muttered Michael, eyeing Richard dispassionately. ‘I want to know why he conspired against me at St Radegund’s Convent with the leaders of the religious Orders.’

‘Not now, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, unlooping the medicine bag from around his shoulder and kneeling in the mud next to his stricken relative.

‘I can do nothing here,’ said Timothy to Michael. ‘You and Matthew can visit Paul when you have carried Richard home to his mother. Meanwhile, I am worried about the plight of the lepers Matthew told us about. With your leave, I would like to tell Matilde about them, so that she can arrange for supplies to be sent today.’

Michael knew that his Junior Proctor regularly distributed alms to the poor and sick, and that he had a good deal of compassion for the unfortunates who lived in the leper hospital. ‘Go ahead. I do not like to think of them starving either, and Matilde can be relied upon to help,’ he told him.

‘I will not be long,’ said Timothy, beginning to stride away. ‘As soon as I have spoken to Matilde, I shall return to help you at the Franciscan Friary.’

Bartholomew was pleased Timothy would urge Matilde to leave the convent; he knew she would not linger if there were people who had need of her charity. She would return home immediately, and then she would be safe. He turned his attention to Richard, whose white face and bruised temple suggested that he had swooned and toppled from his monstrous black horse.

‘I was here first,’ came a petulant voice. Bartholomew glanced up to see Robin of Grantchester. The town’s surgeon held a fearsome array of rusty, bloodstained knives, and was busily deciding which one he would use to slice through the veins in Richard’s arms.

‘Leave him, Robin,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘This is my nephew and I do not want you shoving your filthy instruments into him.’

‘He needs to be bled,’ protested Robin. ‘I will do it now, and he can pay me sixpence when he revives. He will not mind paying above the odds for an operation performed in the street.’

Bartholomew ignored him. ‘What happened?’ he asked, addressing the watching crowd.

‘I found him first,’ repeated Robin angrily. ‘With those expensive clothes and that fine black horse, he can afford to pay me what I ask. I will not stand by why you take the bread from my mouth. Go away.’

‘What happened?’ Bartholomew asked again, while the crowd, anticipating a fight between the surgeon and the physician, looked on expectantly.

‘Robin did find him first,’ offered Bosel the beggar, who had been relieved of a hand for persistent stealing and who now worked on the High Street, demanding money on the fraudulent claim that he had lost an arm fighting in France. He was not a man Bartholomew liked.

‘But Doctor Bartholomew has a right to him,’ replied Isnard the bargeman, who sang bass in Michael’s choir, and who was in debt to Bartholomew for once setting his broken leg, free of charge. ‘He is kin.’

‘Did anyone see what happened to Richard?’ pressed Bartholomew loudly, before the argument could escalate and everyone started to take sides.

‘He fell off his horse,’ said Bosel, gloating. ‘One moment he was riding along, trampling us under his hoofs and pretending to be a great man, and the next he was on the ground in the muck.’

‘He just fell?’ asked Bartholomew, pushing Robin’s hands away as the surgeon made a grab for Richard’s arm. ‘No one threw anything at him or pushed him off?’

There was a chorus of denials, although several of the crowd muttered that they wished they had.

‘The horse was prancing and waving its front feet around,’ explained Isnard. ‘But it always does that. It is the most badly behaved animal in the town.’

‘Let me bleed him,’ pleaded Robin, trying again to lay hold of one of Richard’s wrists. ‘If you wait until he regains his senses, he will refuse my services and I will have lost sixpence.’

‘I will give you sixpence if you leave him alone,’ said Bartholomew, covering his nephew with his tabard. He tapped the young man’s cheeks until Richard opened his eyes, squinting against the white brightness of the sky.

A grubby hand was thrust under Bartholomew’s nose. ‘All right, then,’ said Robin ungraciously. ‘Give.’

Seeing that the hand was likely to remain where it was until he paid, Bartholomew rummaged in his scrip for six pennies. He could find only three, even with the one Matilde had given him, and Michael was obliged to provide the rest.

‘What is wrong with him?’ asked the monk, crouching next to Bartholomew and peering at Richard’s pale face. ‘Has he swooned?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘And then the horse threw him. That thing is far too powerful for a man of his meagre riding abilities.’

With Michael’s help, Bartholomew raised the dazed Richard from the ground, put a supporting arm around the young man, and walked him towards Milne Street, where he could be deposited at his father’s business premises. Michael paid Isnard a penny to find the escaped Black Bishop of Bedminster and bring it back before it ate someone, and then followed them.

Oswald Stanmore stared expressionlessly when he saw Richard helped across the courtyard, but did not offer to assist when the physician lowered the invalid gently on to a bench.

‘Has he been drinking with that Heytesbury again?’ Stanmore asked folding his arms and regarding his son with disapproval. ‘The man is leading him to a life of debauchery and lust.’

‘Heytesbury is leading Richard astray?’ asked Michael. He watched Bartholomew help Richard sip some water. ‘Why do you think that?’

‘Because Heytesbury is in an inn at every opportunity,’ said Stanmore crossly. ‘And when there is no tavern available, he insists on being provided with wine.’

‘Really,’ said Michael, interested. ‘Would you say that this affinity with wine is more marked than in most men?’

‘I certainly would,’ said Stanmore firmly. ‘He has already drunk the best of my cellars, and is inveigling invitations to friaries and Colleges all over Cambridge, so that he can have a go at theirs. He is one of those cunning imbibers – not the kind who becomes roaring drunk so that the whole town knows what he has been doing, but the kind who indulges himself steadily and heavily and shakes like a leaf when there is too long an interval between tipples.’

‘Like Dame Martyn,’ said Bartholomew. Stanmore nodded.

‘Well, now,’ said Michael, his eyes gleaming. ‘Perhaps Heytesbury will sign my deed sooner than he anticipates.’

‘Yes, blackmail him,’ said Stanmore harshly. ‘Then he will remove himself from my house and return to that den of iniquity he calls Oxford. I do not want to order him to leave, because he is Richard’s friend, but he cannot depart soon enough for me or Edith.’

Michael draped an arm over Stanmore’s shoulders with a grin of immense satisfaction. ‘Just leave it to me.’

‘I do not know why you needed Oswald to tell you this,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It has been apparent from the start that Heytesbury likes his wine. I have seen him in the Swan and the Cardinal’s Cap, and he carries gum mastic – a breath freshener – with him at all times to disguise the scent of wine on his breath.’

‘Then why did you not point this out to me sooner?’ asked Michael coolly. ‘Had I known, it would have made a big difference to the way I dealt with him.’

‘It was so obvious I did not think it necessary to mention it. You do not need to be a physician to detect the symptoms of a committed drinker. However, Richard has not been drinking – not today, at least.’

‘What is wrong with him, then?’ said Stanmore, finally becoming worried. ‘It is not the Great Pestilence again, is it? Oxford is exactly the kind of place it would come from a second time.’

‘It is not the plague,’ said Bartholomew, taking Richard’s wrist and measuring the pace of his life-beat. It was within the normal range for a man of his age and size, and Bartholomew did not think there was anything seriously wrong with his nephew. Richard’s eyes flickered and he began to show signs of awareness.

‘What happened?’ he asked. ‘Where am I? Where is my horse?’

‘You fell off it,’ said Michael unsympathetically. ‘It is too spirited for you; you would do better with a palfrey.’

‘I cannot be seen on a palfrey,’ said Richard, not too unwell to be indignant. ‘What would people think?’

‘They would think that you are a man who is sensible, modest and steady,’ replied Michael. ‘They would not snigger behind your back because you have purchased a mount over which you have no control, and they would not think you are an ambitious toady, who is so aware of outward appearances that there is no substance to him.’

Richard’s eyes were wide. ‘Is that what you think?’

‘It is what you tell people to think with your Black Bishop of Bedminster and your dangling ear-ring and your glittering buttons,’ scolded Michael.

Richard turned on his father. ‘I told you that horse was too ostentatious and that we should have bought the brown one instead!’

Stanmore’s features hardened. ‘You told me you wanted to make an impact on the town. The brown nag would not have achieved the same effect.’

Bartholomew gaped at his brother-in-law. ‘You bought him that thing, Oswald? It was your idea?’

Stanmore sighed heavily. ‘Damn it all, Richard! The only condition I imposed on you for my generosity was that no one should ever know who paid for the Black Bishop.’

‘What were you thinking of?’ asked Bartholomew, appalled. ‘You must have seen that the impression your son was making was not a good one.’

‘On the contrary, Richard has secured a good deal of work since he arrived here,’ snapped Stanmore. ‘Several wealthy merchants have hired him. The black horse did exactly what we hoped. But you had better not tell Edith about this. She will be furious with me.’

‘Since we are on the subject of money, how do you afford all your fine clothes and your handsome saddle?’ asked Bartholomew of his ailing nephew. ‘I am sure Oswald did not give you funds to squander on those.’

‘The saddle came with the horse,’ admitted Stanmore reluctantly. ‘A splendid horse would be no good without a matching saddle, would it?’

‘The clothes are paid for with my own funds,’ said Richard sullenly, ‘although I cannot see it is any affair of yours. I worked hard in Oxford, and I have secured several lucrative customers here in Cambridge. I have no family to care for, so why should I not spend my earnings on clothes?’

‘Well, at least this tells us that not all your young nephew’s flaunted wealth was ill-gotten,’ whispered Michael to Bartholomew. ‘The most expensive item was a gift from his loving and very misguided father.’ He turned to Richard. ‘Never mind all this for now. I have a question to ask. What were you doing at St Radegund’s with Walcote?’

‘When?’ asked Richard, a trace of his old insolence insinuating itself into his voice.

Michael’s eyebrows drew together in annoyance. ‘Do not play games, boy. One of the items on the agenda of these gatherings was my murder. Why would you implicate yourself in that?’

‘Oh, no!’ breathed Stanmore, as he slumped into a chair with one hand pressed over his heart. ‘Not again! Do not tell me that another member of my family is involved in something criminal! I thought my brother’s fate five years ago would have warned you against that sort of thing, Richard.’

Richard hung his head, and Michael eyed him with distaste. ‘You came to Cambridge to make your fortune, and immediately set about wooing the richest and most influential men in the town. These included Junior Proctor Walcote, who invited you to one of his nocturnal meetings, probably not realising that you were the nephew of my closest friend.’

‘Walcote did not know that,’ acknowledged Richard in a low voice. ‘He was horrified when he discovered I am Matt’s kinsman. He was afraid I would tell you about his business.’

‘And why didn’t you?’ demanded Michael.

Richard rubbed his eyes wearily. ‘I only went to one meeting; then Walcote died and there were no more. The discussion included raising funds for mending the Great Bridge, and then went on at length about nominalism and realism. There was mention that you had been seen stealing from the University Chest in the Carmelite Friary, Brother, but I told them that they were insane if they believed you would do such a thing.’

‘Quite,’ said Michael, a little mollified by Richard’s belief in his innocence, regardless of the fact that it was wholly unjustified. ‘What else did you talk about?’

‘That was all. I doubt the whole thing took more than an hour. Nothing was decided and nothing was resolved, because Walcote was not forceful enough to allow any item to be concluded.’

‘Explain,’ ordered Michael.

Richard gave a wan smile. ‘He meant well, but he wanted to please everyone. No one will ever be happy with everything, and there comes a point where you just have to go along with the majority. But Walcote did not want to offend the dissenters. We made no decisions, and everything was postponed until later. Pechem told me it had been like that from the start.’

‘Walcote was weak,’ agreed Stanmore. ‘He was a nice man, who was a pleasure to have at the dinner table, but was far too conciliatory to make unpopular decisions. I cannot imagine him ever taking a stand on anything.’

‘He was a follower of nominalism, yet he readily agreed with you that realism was just as valid,’ said Bartholomew, recalling the discussion with Michael that had taken place after Faricius’s death. ‘He also thought you should have gone to interview the Dominicans the day that Faricius died, but was too diffident to press his point when you declared otherwise.’

‘He always did as he was told,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘And I can see he would have been poor at leading discussions. Very well, Richard. I accept that you are telling the truth about that. But why did anyone bother with these meetings, when nothing was ever achieved?’

‘I think the attenders enjoyed the opportunity to rant and rave to people who were of the same philosophical persuasion. Everyone loved the slander and lies that were hurled at the other side. The only things they did not agree on were those that really mattered – spending money on the Great Bridge and useful things like that.’

‘Why were you invited?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Everyone else was a cleric.’

‘Walcote needed a lawyer to read various documents. Heytesbury recommended me to him.’

‘And who else was at these nasty little covens?’ asked Michael.

Richard rubbed his eyes again. ‘Kenyngham and Gretford of the Gilbertines, Pechem of the Franciscans, and a few of their minions. It was a waste of time. What we did afterwards was fun, though.’

‘And what was that?’ asked Bartholomew.

Richard winked. ‘The nuns entertained us in ways that were quite extraordinary.’

Stanmore regarded his son in disgust. ‘I thought you would have known better than to engage in that sort of activity. And in a convent, too! What would your mother say if she knew?’

‘Did Heytesbury join you?’ asked Michael innocently. ‘If the answer is yes, then I could have my deed signed this very afternoon.’

‘No,’ said Richard sullenly.

‘Do not lie,’ warned Michael. ‘You are already in a good deal of trouble for attending these illegal gatherings. If you are honest now, I may be prepared to overlook your role in them.’

It was an empty bluster, given that there was nothing illegal in a group of scholars meeting each other in a convent, and, although it was hardly respectable behaviour, there was nothing unlawful in the frolics they had allegedly engaged in afterwards, either. But Richard’s mind was evidently not working as quickly as it might, and he gave way in the face of Michael’s belligerence.

‘Heytesbury was not invited to the meeting itself, because the business discussed was private to Cambridge, but he waited for me in the church and joined us for the fun afterwards.’

‘He would,’ said Stanmore in disapproval. ‘Mayor Horwoode told me that he was after Yolande de Blaston the instant he set foot in the town. I have never seen a man locate his prostitutes with such speed.’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘Matilde told us days ago that Heytesbury had employed Yolande.’

Michael rubbed his hands. ‘Excellent! I could not have hoped for a better way to persuade that sly Oxford rat to sign my deed.’

‘Really, Brother,’ said Bartholomew mildly. ‘I did not expect you to stoop so low. I thought you were anticipating a battle of wits with one of Oxford’s greatest thinkers, not that you would resort to blackmail because he is fond of a barrel of wine and enjoys the company of women.’

‘If I were not investigating four murders, I would concur,’ said Michael pompously. ‘But blackmail will be a good deal quicker, and I shall be assured of a favourable result. It may not be necessary anyway. If Heytesbury agrees to sign my deed on Sunday, I will not need to mention dalliances with nuns or frequent visits to taverns. But there is something else I want to know, since you are in a mood to talk, Richard: what is Tysilia’s role in all this?’

Richard’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘Tysilia? None. Why do you ask?’

‘But you know her,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You met her in Bedford, and you travelled in the same party to Cambridge.’

Richard shook his head in disbelief. ‘Nothing escapes the notice of you two, does it? But what of it? I cannot see that my brief dalliance with Tysilia is any of your affair.’

‘You allowed that whore to seduce you?’ asked Stanmore in horror. ‘You could not resist her vile charms? I expected more of you, Richard. I credited you with good taste.’

‘I saw no reason to resist her,’ said Richard sullenly. ‘I only took what was freely offered.’

‘Like that pendant she stole from Mistress Horner?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I saw you with it this morning.’

‘This?’ asked Richard, pulling the gold locket and its chain from his scrip. ‘This is not stolen.’

‘It belonged to a convent guest, and Tysilia took it,’ said Bartholomew. He snatched it from his nephew and put it in his own scrip, determined that Matilde should have it back.

‘But it was given to me,’ said Richard indignantly.

‘By whom?’ demanded Bartholomew. ‘And why?

‘Tell him, Richard,’ said Stanmore wearily. ‘I am sure there is a good reason why you happen to have this thing.’

Richard said irritably, ‘I did not know it was stolen. Tysilia told me her uncle had passed it to her.’

‘Why did she give it to you?’ asked Michael. ‘I thought she would have demanded payment from you, not the other way around.’

Richard swallowed. ‘Because I was going to help her escape. She does not like St Radegund’s; she finds it too restrictive.’

‘Lord help us!’ muttered Stanmore, regarding his son in disgust. ‘You are a foolish boy, although not, I think, a dishonest one. How could you even think of embroiling yourself in a plan to free that whore? What do you think Bishop de Lisle would say when he learned that you helped spirit his niece away from her protectors?’

‘He might be grateful to be rid of her,’ muttered Michael. ‘She is more trouble than she is worth.’

Stanmore stood and loomed over his son. ‘I have been tolerant of your idiosyncrasies since you returned, Richard, but I am rapidly losing patience. You will abandon this life of debauchery, and you will remove Heytesbury from my household by Sunday – as soon as his lecture is over. And then perhaps we can begin to forgive and forget.’

Richard stared at the floor, and Bartholomew could not tell whether he intended to follow his father’s orders or whether he would revert to his old ways as soon as Stanmore’s back was turned.

‘And that ear-ring will go, too,’ added Stanmore as an afterthought.

Without looking up, Richard slowly removed the offending jewellery from his lobe. He drank more water, then claimed he was tired and asked that he be allowed to rest. He closed his eyes, and Bartholomew imagined he could already see a hardening of the youthful features, indicating he was unwilling to give up his pleasantly debauched lifestyle in Heytesbury’s company. Perhaps both of them would return to Oxford together.

Bartholomew stayed with Richard a little longer, then followed a chuckling Michael down the stairs and across the courtyard to the road outside. Michael sniggered all the way up the High Street, although Bartholomew was not sure whether his amusement derived from the fact that Richard had been cut down to size or that he now had two very powerful weapons with which to bully Heytesbury into signing his document.

‘Here we are at the Franciscan Friary,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Now we will find out whether Paul is hiding Simon Lynne, as you believe.’

‘And, if he is, we shall have some answers at long last,’ said Michael, rubbing his hands together in gleeful anticipation.