An Order for Death

Chapter 11

BARTHOLOMEW AND MICHAEL REACHED THE FRANCISCAN Friary just as the first gloom of dusk was approaching, and were startled to find its normally sedate atmosphere shattered, with grey-robed friars running here and there in panic. Warden Pechem stood in the middle of it, his hand swathed in the bandage Bartholomew had tied, as he answered questions put by Brother Timothy. Pechem was shivering, and Bartholomew noticed he was not wearing his cloak, as though he had been dragged from his warm quarters too suddenly to allow him to grab it.

Standing to one side was Clippesby, his eyes so wild that the white parts gleamed peculiarly against the black of his Dominican habit. His hair jutted in all directions, so that he looked even more eccentric than usual. Bartholomew saw that his robe was dirty, as if he had been rolling in mud.

‘What is the matter?’ asked Bartholomew, watching Clippesby twist one of his sleeves so hard that he threatened to do it permanent damage. ‘All this has nothing to do with you, does it?’

‘No!’ wailed Clippesby, his voice loud enough to draw the hostile attention of several Franciscans. ‘If they had listened to me, this would not have happened.’

‘I warned you to stay away from the Franciscans,’ said Michael angrily. ‘You know they do not like Dominicans on their property.’

‘But I wanted to see Father Paul,’ howled Clippesby. ‘He is the only person in this town who is not short of a few wits. I have a right to sane conversation if I want it.’

‘Lord save us,’ muttered Michael. ‘If the likes of him are demanding sane discussions, what does that say about the rest of the University?’

‘What is going on?’ asked Bartholomew of Clippesby a second time. ‘What has caused this disturbance?’

‘You will get no sense out of him,’ said Michael, giving Clippesby a disparaging glance as he took Bartholomew’s arm and pulled him away. ‘Timothy will tell us what is happening.’

‘Another robbery,’ explained Timothy as they approached. ‘And it happened just moments ago.’

‘We were lucky Brother Timothy happened to be passing when it occurred,’ said Pechem unsteadily. ‘He and Brother Janius gave chase, but the culprits disappeared into the scrub-land that leads to the Barnwell Causeway.’

‘We did our best,’ said Timothy apologetically to Michael. ‘But they were too fast for us.’

‘Was anyone able to identify the thieves?’ asked Michael. ‘Who were they?’

‘We do not know,’ said Pechem. ‘But they were brazen. Two men just joined the end of our procession as we walked home from the church after vespers. Everyone assumed they were the guests of someone else, and no one questioned their right to be inside.’

‘I did,’ shouted Clippesby, coming to join them. ‘I told you they were not Franciscans, but no one took any notice of me.’

‘They did worse than not listen to him,’ explained Timothy to Michael. ‘They ejected him from their premises, because they thought his warnings were the ramblings of a madman.’

‘Whatever gave them that idea?’ asked Michael.

‘They threw me in the mud,’ cried Clippesby, looking down at the front of his habit as though he had only just noticed that it was splattered with the grime of the road. ‘They picked me up and hurled me into the street.’

‘What would you have done if some lunatic from a rival Order thrust his way into your premises and started making wild accusations?’ asked Pechem, appealing to Michael. ‘It is not the first occasion he has made a nuisance of himself here, and there was no reason to assume that this time was any different.’

‘Did anyone recognise these robbers?’ asked Michael, exasperated that everyone seemed to be more willing to discuss Clippesby and his antics than the real culprits. ‘It is only just growing dark, so there must have been sufficient light to see their faces when they were here.’

With Michael’s appearance, the Franciscans had calmed down, and now stood in a quiet circle around the monk and their Warden, listening. They shook their heads when Michael glanced around at them: it seemed no one had recognised the intruders. Pechem began to shiver more violently than ever in the frigid breeze of early evening, and Clippesby, in a rare moment of sensitivity, removed his own cloak to drape around the man’s shoulders.

‘You should not be out here,’ Bartholomew reprimanded Pechem gently. ‘That horse bite may have unbalanced your humours and rendered you more susceptible to chills.’

‘Those thieves stole my cloak!’ cried Pechem, agitated again. He realised with a start that he was wearing a Dominican’s robe, and almost flung it away. But it was a warm garment, and he was very cold. He clutched it more closely around him.

‘So, what happened is that two strangers calmly joined the end of your procession and entered your friary,’ said Michael. ‘And not one of you asked who they were. Is that what you are telling me?’

‘We could not see their faces because their hoods were up,’ said a short, obese friar called John de Daventre, whom Bartholomew regularly treated for trapped wind. ‘All of us had our cowls drawn, because it is windy and there is rain in the air. It did not seem odd that these two men were also protecting themselves against the weather.’

‘And what happened when these two were inside?’ Michael demanded. ‘Did they dine with you, too, before they decided to commit their crimes?’

Daventre treated him to an unpleasant look. ‘We all went about our own business, and no one noticed where this pair went. But it seems they followed Father Paul to his cell and forced their attentions on him.’

Bartholomew’s stomach churned. ‘What do you mean? Did they hurt him?’

‘No,’ came Paul’s familiar voice as he elbowed his way through the watching friars. ‘They only questioned me. They did me no harm.’

‘What did they want?’ asked Michael.

‘Faricius’s essay on nominalism,’ replied Paul. ‘I am afraid I was obliged to give it to them.’

‘But you do not have it,’ said Michael. ‘You told Matt that you were distressed it had gone missing, and that you hoped it would reappear one day, so Faricius’s name would be remembered.’

‘I never told Matthew I did not have it,’ said Paul. ‘He did not ask me that specific question, and so I did not feel obliged to answer it and tell him it was in my room.’

Michael gave a heavy sigh. ‘That is hardly acting in the spirit of the truth, Father. How did it come into your possession? And why did you decline to tell Matt?’

‘I thought he would be safer knowing nothing about it, and anyway, I swore to tell no one. Oaths are sacred things.’

Angrily, Michael said, ‘You sound like Kenyngham. Has it never occurred to you that it is sometimes better to be honest with the forces of law and order? We are hunting someone who has taken the lives of four people, Father. Surely that transcends any promises you made?’

Paul’s usually expressive face was unreadable. ‘I am a novice in the world of killers and thieves, and I find it hard to see what is right and wrong in such circumstances. But suffice to say that Faricius’s essay was brought to me for safe keeping.’

‘By whom?’ asked Michael. ‘And where is Simon Lynne of the Carmelites? He seems to be missing, too.’

‘Here I am.’ Simon Lynne, wearing a Franciscan novice’s habit that was far too large for him, pushed his way past Daventre and stood next to Paul. He and his brother had been telling the truth, Bartholomew thought: they were indeed peas in a pod. He saw Pechem’s jaw drop in astonishment.

‘But you told us this boy was your kinsman,’ cried the Warden, regarding Paul accusingly. ‘You said he wanted to stay here until he decided whether or not to take the cowl.’

‘That is true,’ said Paul, smiling benignly in Pechem’s direction. ‘I just did not specify which cowl he would be taking – it will be that of a Carmelite, not a Franciscan. And as for him being my kinsman, well, we are all brothers in the eyes of God.’

‘That is a rather liberal interpretation,’ said Pechem sternly. ‘We Franciscans are not in the habit of taking waifs and strays from other Orders.’

‘We Franciscans also never close our doors to those in need,’ retorted Paul sharply. ‘Here is a young man who came to me because he was in fear of his life. I did what I thought was right; I would do the same again in similar circumstances.’

‘But I was not safe here,’ said Lynne unsteadily, on the verge of tears. He pressed more closely against Paul, who put a comforting arm around his shoulders. ‘I thought no one would find me in a friary of Franciscans, but I was wrong. It took those devils less than four days to hunt me down.’ He scrubbed at his nose and sniffed loudly.

‘Who are these “devils”?’ asked Michael gently. He saw the lad was frightened, and realised that now was not the time to give vent to his irritation that Lynne had eluded him for days and probably had been withholding information that might have allowed him to solve the case far sooner.

‘The men who murdered your Junior Proctor,’ said Lynne miserably. He glanced around him fearfully. ‘You must see how dangerous these men are, Brother Michael. If I, a Carmelite, feel driven to seek refuge in a convent of Franciscans – with whom we have been at loggerheads for years – you will understand how deeply I am afraid.’

‘It is clear to me that the men who have terrified Lynne are the same ones who marched in here and demanded Faricius’s essay,’ added Paul.

‘How do you know that?’ asked Bartholomew, a little bewildered by the sudden flow of information.

‘It is complex,’ said Paul. ‘And I do not want to discuss it here. It is cold and there is rain in the air. It is fine for you youngsters, but not for an old man who has just had a dagger at his throat.’

‘But you said they did not harm you,’ said Bartholomew, alarmed. ‘Now you say they held you at knife point?’

Pechem gave a hearty sigh. ‘I understand none of this. My friary is robbed, I learn that Carmelites have invaded the sanctity of our walls, and now you are talking about the murder of the Junior Proctor and stolen essays on nominalism. I think you all have some explaining to do.’

Paul agreed. ‘It is time the unpleasantness regarding Faricius’s essay was laid to rest. He was a gentle man, and would have been appalled to think that his scholarly opinions should be the cause of so much bloodshed and anguish.’

‘He should have considered that before he put pen to parchment, then,’ said Timothy, rather bitterly. ‘Faricius should have used his common sense to see that writing an essay on a subject that is currently so contentious would do nothing to improve the unity and peacefulness of the town.’

‘We should discuss this inside,’ said Bartholomew, taking Paul’s arm and leading him towards the steps to Warden Pechem’s office. ‘Father Paul is cold.’

‘Come with us, Lynne,’ instructed Michael. ‘The rest of you should be about your business. Timothy, would you mind informing the beadles what has happened, and instruct them to be on the alert for these two robbers on their patrols tonight?’

Timothy nodded dutifully, and walked briskly across the courtyard. Bartholomew saw him offer to escort Clippesby back to Michaelhouse, although it was scarcely on his way. Bartholomew was again impressed by the man: it was not safe for Clippesby to linger inside the Franciscan Friary, and now that it was growing dark, it was not safe for the Dominican to be out at all. Timothy was kind to think of him, when virtually everyone else in Cambridge wished the crazed Dominican would just disappear. Clippesby allowed himself to be led away like a tame dog.

‘Good,’ said Paul, as they reached Pechem’s office where there was a fire blazing in the hearth. He turned his sightless eyes on Bartholomew and gave a mischievous grin, speaking in a low voice so that Pechem would not hear. ‘Actually, I am not particularly cold, but this will warm me nicely before I retire to bed tonight.’

Bartholomew looked around at the men who had gathered in Pechem’s small room, making it feel cramped and stuffy. Paul huddled close to the flames, holding towards them translucent, knobbly hands that were streaked with lumpy blue veins. Lynne hovered near the door, as if he imagined he might be able to escape if Michael’s questions became too uncomfortable. Pechem had retired to his bed, piling himself high with blankets in an attempt to warm himself.

‘Right,’ said Michael, gazing coolly at Lynne. ‘I am not pleased that you ran away, thus withholding valuable information from me. But I might be prepared to overlook that if you are honest with me now, and tell me what I need to know.’

Lynne nodded miserably.

‘So,’ began Michael. ‘Let us start with Faricius’s death. He was stabbed and, as we have done, you reasoned that he had been killed after he had retrieved his essay from its hiding place – that someone killed him because they wanted to steal it.’

‘Kyrkeby,’ said Lynne unhappily. ‘He killed Faricius for the essay. He was due to give the University Lecture, and he needed something more inspiring than the dull tract he had compiled. Faricius told me that Kyrkeby had given him a ruby ring in exchange for the essay.’

‘So that is where that ring came from,’ said Michael, carefully not looking in Bartholomew’s direction so he would not have to acknowledge that the physician’s speculations about Kyrkeby had been correct. ‘We discovered it in Faricius’s spare scrip when we went through his belongings.’

Lynne nodded. ‘I was not there, but Horneby told me you had found it. Faricius took the ring from Kyrkeby, and promised to give him the essay later.’

‘Why would Faricius want a ruby ring?’ asked Pechem curiously. ‘He was a friar who had taken vows of poverty.’

‘Many friars forget that vow,’ said Paul from the fireside. ‘And Kyrkeby had a fine collection of jewels. He offered me some, too, if I would agree to write his lecture. I declined, because I do not consider it ethical for one man to pen work for another.’

Bartholomew recalled the jewellery among Kyrkeby’s personal possessions. Morden had thought some of the rings were missing, although he had been unable to specify which ones, and had assumed Kyrkeby had been wearing them when he had died, linking them with Kyrkeby’s penchant for women’s attire. He was wrong: one ring at least had been given to Faricius.

‘Why did Faricius agree to sell his work?’ asked Michael of Lynne. ‘Paul is right: it is wrong for one scholar to try to pass off the work of another as his own.’

‘Faricius wanted to go to Oxford,’ said Lynne. ‘Heytesbury had encouraged him to go to a place where a Carmelite could speak freely without fear of suppression by his Order, and Faricius planned to use Kyrkeby’s ring to pay for his education.’

‘Heytesbury!’ muttered Michael, his eyes narrowing in anger. ‘I might have known he was involved.’

‘He told us about it,’ said Bartholomew, recalling the evening they had spent at Edith’s house, when Heytesbury had claimed his ‘other business’ in Cambridge was poaching students. ‘He said the man he had seen was unsuitable – doubtless because by the time we asked him, Faricius was dead. He was also at Faricius’s funeral, claiming that he had admired him.’

Lynne took a deep breath and continued. ‘Faricius took the ring, and promised to give the essay to Kyrkeby. But then Lincolne nailed his proclamation to the church door, and the Dominicans marched on the Carmelites.’

‘And Faricius, being a prudent man, decided he could not risk leaving his essay in its hiding place at St John Zachary, and so he left the Carmelite Friary – via the tunnel – to retrieve it,’ concluded Michael.

Lynne nodded. ‘He had taken Kyrkeby’s payment, you see, and he felt that the essay was no longer his to stuff behind stones in graveyards. We tried to stop him, but he was adamant that he should make certain the essay was safe. When we saw his body, we realised that someone had cut the strap that attached his scrip to his belt, and that the essay had gone. I went with Horneby to check the churchyard at St John Zachary two days later – on Monday night – but it was not there.’

‘And the stone had been replaced and the bushes arranged in a way that implied Faricius had collected the thing, and had covered up his secret hole as he liked,’ said Michael.

Lynne nodded again.

‘So Kyrkeby stabbed Faricius and made off with the essay,’ said Michael. ‘But who murdered Kyrkeby? It was not the Carmelites, anxious to avenge the wholly unnecessary death of their most brilliant thinker, was it?’

‘It was not,’ said Lynne tearfully. ‘Walcote did that.’

‘Walcote?’ echoed Michael, again not looking at Bartholomew. ‘I do not believe you!’

‘Horneby and I had just climbed through the tunnel after searching St John Zachary’s churchyard for Faricius’s essay on Monday night when we heard an altercation taking place in the lane outside. Horneby said it was none of our affair and left, but I lingered. I wish to God I had not.’

‘Why?’ demanded Michael. ‘And who was involved in this “altercation”?’

‘I heard Walcote and his beadles ordering Kyrkeby to give them the stolen essay. Kyrkeby refused, because he said he had paid a good price for it. Then I heard Kyrkeby make a vile, strangled sound, as if he were trying to be sick, and Walcote urging him to stand up. At that point, I could stand no more, and I ran away.’

‘A strangled sound?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Then it was Kyrkeby’s weak heart that killed him.’

‘How do you know that?’ asked Michael sceptically.

‘Because he would not have been making strangled sounds if Walcote had hit him on the head – there would probably have been a thump and then nothing at all. And there would have been no strangled sounds if Walcote had broken Kyrkeby’s neck. All that damage must have been caused when the body was pushed inside the tunnel.’

‘So, Walcote did not kill Kyrkeby?’ asked Michael. ‘It was an accident?’

‘Yes and no,’ said Bartholomew. ‘If Walcote frightened or agitated Kirkeby to the point where his heart gave out, it may well be deemed that the death was not natural. But the real evidence is that Lynne says Walcote talked to Kyrkeby after he made this strangled sound, urging him to stand. It sounds to me as though Walcote was alarmed by the sudden seizure, and that he had not intended to harry the man so.’

‘Harrying was not Walcote’s style,’ agreed Michael. He turned to Lynne. ‘You say you were inside the Carmelite Friary when all this was taking place. The walls are high, so I know you could not have seen over them. How do you know it was Walcote demanding this essay from Kyrkeby?’

‘I recognised his voice,’ said Lynne. ‘He caught me using the tunnel the week before, so I was familiar with it.’

‘You said Walcote’s beadles were there, too,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Are you sure it was Walcote who was badgering Kyrkeby, and not them?’

‘I do not recall who said what exactly,’ admitted Lynne. ‘But Walcote did a lot of the talking, because he was the Junior Proctor. That is what his beadles kept saying.’

‘What are you talking about?’ demanded Michael. ‘You say the beadles kept telling Walcote he was Junior Proctor? I can assure you that he knew.’

‘They kept reminding him,’ insisted Lynne. ‘Everyone knows he was weak. They told him that he was the Junior Proctor, and that it was up to him to locate the essay.’

‘How curious,’ said Michael, puzzled. ‘Still, I suppose someone like Meadowman might have reminded him of his responsibilities, perhaps sensing that Kyrkeby knew more than Walcote’s gentle questions would reveal. But then who killed Walcote?’

‘I imagine the pair who have been busy searching half of Cambridge for this damned essay was responsible for that,’ said Bartholomew.

‘Yes,’ agreed Lynne nervously. ‘That is why I ran away. When I heard that Walcote had been murdered, I decided that the power of men able to kill a proctor was more than I wanted to challenge. I fled to Father Paul, because I knew he would tell me what to do.’

‘But how did you come by the essay?’ asked Michael of Paul. ‘We know that it was stolen from Faricius by Kyrkeby. But how did it get from Kyrkeby’s possession to yours?’

‘Walcote brought it to me the night he died,’ replied Paul. ‘I thought at the time he was acting strangely; he was nervous and vague.’

‘Did he look as though he had been in a fatal struggle with someone?’ asked Michael.

Paul raised his eyebrows and pointed to his sightless eyes. ‘How can I answer that, Brother? He approached me as I was walking back to the friary after the evening vigil. I was alone, and I doubt anyone else saw him. He pressed the essay into my hands, made me swear to tell no one about it, and then left.’

‘Why you?’ asked Michael.

‘I suppose he knew I am sympathetic to the views of the nominalists, and he decided it would be safer with me than with anyone else. Who would think to look for a written essay with a blind friar?’

‘Those two intruders,’ said Michael promptly. ‘They knew where to look, because they made straight for you once they had insinuated themselves on to Franciscan property. They did not hunt around or ask questions of anyone else: they came directly to you.’

‘They certainly came to the point when they questioned me,’ said Paul ruefully. ‘They said they knew I had the essay and that no harm would come to me if I handed it over.’

‘Did they say anything else?’

Paul closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. Suddenly he seemed like the old man he was, and for all his confidence and poise, Bartholomew suspected that being attacked in his own cell and having a knife pressed to his throat had been a great shock. He would never admit to such weakness but Bartholomew knew he was not as unperturbed as he wanted everyone to believe.

‘They asked whether I had read the essay,’ said Paul. ‘I told them that I was blind, and that I had read nothing for many years. They seemed to accept my statement and left – with the essay.’

‘And have you read it?’ asked Michael.

Paul smiled wanly. ‘Of course not. But I know what was in it. However, I suspect the killers allowed me to live because they believe I do not know the contents of the essay. Do not tell anyone that is not so, or I may go the same way as others who have dealt with it in various ways – Faricius, Kyrkeby and Walcote.’

‘I disagree,’ said Michael. ‘I think they allowed you to live because you could not see them. Young Arbury of Michaelhouse was murdered so that he would not reveal their identities, and I suspect the gatekeeper at Barnwell Priory was stabbed for the same reason. I wonder why they did not finish him off?’

‘Perhaps because they saw no light of recognition in his face when they attacked him,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Arbury must have been different, and may even have addressed them by name.’

‘That implies that he knew the killers,’ said Michael doubtfully.

‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew, his mind whirling as he considered the possibilities.

‘Perhaps you are right,’ said Paul. ‘But in my case, I think they were more interested in whether I knew the contents of the essay than whether I knew who they were.’

‘Why do you think the contents of this essay are so important?’ asked Michael. ‘I thought it was just an essay on nominalism. It is hardly a list of scholars who regularly visit St Radegund’s Convent, or a document outlining my negotiations with Oxford. I do not see why the intruders want to ensure that no one knows its contents.’

‘You are underestimating the power of this work,’ said Paul. ‘You dismiss it as the ramblings of some vague-minded undergraduate. It is not. It will be an important document for many years to come, and I imagine it will be discussed in universities all over the world, not just in Cambridge.’

Michael shrugged. ‘That still does not explain why the intruders did not want you to have read any of it.’

‘Because they plan to publish it and steal the glory for themselves,’ said Bartholomew in sudden understanding. ‘The fact that they have gone to so much trouble to get it speaks for itself. They searched the Dominican Friary and Barnwell Priory, because the Dominicans and the Austin canons are professed nominalists. They looked in Michaelhouse because they thought the Senior Proctor might have seized it as evidence. And then they came here.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Michael, unconvinced.

‘These intruders were desperate to get at Lynne, because they thought he would be able to tell them the whereabouts of the essay,’ said Paul, putting into words what Bartholomew had already reasoned. ‘Their way to Lynne was through me, so they came to me first.’

‘They did not actually expect you to know where the essay was,’ said Bartholomew slowly. ‘They demanded that you divulge its location simply to terrify you.’

‘I do not understand,’ said Michael, confused. ‘Why bother asking him, if they thought he did not know the answer?’

‘Because they intended to ask him a whole series of questions that they knew he could not answer,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Every time he did not know, he would become more frightened. Eventually, he would be so relieved to be asked a question he could answer, that he would tell them immediately. It is a standard interrogation technique. Father William told me it is used by the Inquisition.’

‘I thought the robbers seemed surprised when I handed them the essay,’ said Paul. ‘Now I know why. And because they have the essay, you are now irrelevant, Simon. You can go back to your own friary without fear.’

Bartholomew was thoughtful. ‘If whoever stole the essay intends to publish it under his own name, then the Carmelites, Franciscans and Gilbertines are not to blame. They despise nominalism.’

‘Excellent,’ said Michael gloomily. ‘That only leaves all the Dominicans, all the Austin canons and most of the Benedictines.’

‘Right,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But when we deduced that a good place to hunt for Lynne was with Father Paul, there was only one Benedictine present other than you: Timothy.’

‘You think Brother Timothy is the killer?’ asked Michael, aghast at the notion. ‘But he is my Junior Proctor! Junior Proctors uphold the law, not break it.’

‘So?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Being a Junior Proctor does not seem to mean much. Walcote frightened Kyrkeby to death, and Timothy probably stabbed Arbury and the Barnwell gatekeeper.’

‘No,’ said Michael firmly. ‘This is nonsense.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Because he is a Benedictine? Because you like him, and because he seems like a nice, respectable sort of fellow? We have met that kind of person before, Brother, and it means nothing.’

‘Timothy would not commit murder, Matthew,’ said Father Paul with quiet reason. ‘He is a good man who gives alms to the poor. Also, I would have recognised his voice if he had been the intruder who demanded the essay: I did not.’

‘But everyone agrees that two men joined the end of the procession and strolled on to Franciscan property,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Did you hear both of them speak?’

‘No,’ admitted Paul. ‘But I am sure I would have known if one of them had been Timothy.’

‘How?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Does he have a distinctive smell, or a particular way of moving his feet when he walks that you might have noticed?’

‘No,’ said Paul again. ‘He does not. But I would have recognised his voice.’

Bartholomew sighed. He understood that Paul was unwilling to admit that his blindness might have been a disadvantage, when he liked everyone to believe it was a boon, but the old man’s obstinacy might lead them astray. ‘Think carefully, Father. Did both these intruders speak or did just one of them do the talking?’

‘One,’ said Paul, rather reluctantly. ‘But it was not Timothy. He has a distinctive voice, pleasant and rich. The person who spoke had a thin voice, which had a disagreeable smugness to it.’

‘Have you ever heard Brother Janius of the Benedictines speak?’

‘Now wait a moment–’ began Michael angrily. Bartholomew raised a hand to silence him.

‘I do not know Janius,’ admitted Paul. ‘So I do not know whether I have heard him speak or not. Does he have a thin, reedy voice that sounds as if he could do with a good meal?’

‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew immediately.

‘A good meal? I thought you said he was a Benedictine,’ muttered Pechem.

‘Janius does have a high voice,’ said Michael begrudgingly. ‘But that does not identify him as one of these killers.’

‘Would you recognise the voice if you heard it again?’ asked Bartholomew of Paul. ‘Was it sufficiently distinctive for that?’

‘I am not sure,’ said Paul. He flushed, embarrassed. ‘Normally, I am observant, as you know. But I was flustered by the knife at my throat, and I did not think much about voices and their timbres.’

‘Of course you did not,’ said Michael, favouring Bartholomew with a scornful look. ‘And no one would expect you to, under the circumstances.’

Bartholomew was persistent. ‘Paul would have recognised Timothy’s voice; Timothy knows that, because we have made no secret of the fact that we admire Paul’s powers of observation. So, Janius did the talking.’ He shrugged. ‘And it does not sound as though Paul enjoyed a lengthy conversation with these intruders, anyway. The dialogue seems to have comprised a few direct and aggressive questions.’

‘That is true,’ said Paul. ‘The whole incident lasted only a few moments. The essay was on my table, and I knew they would have it whether I told them where it was or not. There was little point in dying over it, so I told them.’

‘We have no strong reasons to rule Timothy and Janius out as possible suspects,’ pressed Bartholomew, seeing that Michael remained sceptical.

‘Another Junior Proctor,’ said Lynne bitterly. ‘It is as well I fled here, or one of them would have arrested me, and I would have died in his cells. You should be more careful who you choose as deputies, Brother.’

‘There is no evidence that Timothy is the culprit,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘Matt’s logic is faulty as usual.’

‘There is evidence,’ insisted Bartholomew. ‘You just do not want to see it, because you do not want Timothy to be guilty. First, there is the fact that as soon as we had identified Father Paul as someone who might help us, the killer came here.’

‘Coincidence,’ said Michael.

‘Not coincidence,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It was a perfect opportunity. Timothy slipped away from us as soon as he could, by pretending to go to speak to Matilde about the lepers. He doubtless went immediately to collect Janius, so that they could act before it was too late.’

‘Too late?’ asked Michael.

‘You were coming here. Timothy knew that he had to get to Lynne – and then to the essay – before you laid hands on either and secreted them away. Once you had them in Michaelhouse, where security has been tightened since the murder of Arbury, reaching either would have been impossible.’

‘But I do not keep valuable documents in my room at Michaelhouse,’ protested Michael, carefully making no mention of the secret chest in the cellars. ‘I would not have taken the essay or Lynne there.’

‘Does Timothy know that? Have you told him where you keep your secret scrolls and parchments?’

Michael shook his head, and Bartholomew pressed on.

‘Timothy knows he cannot mount a second successful attack on Michaelhouse. The student on gate duty tonight will be cautious and watchful, given that the last person to do his job was murdered. Timothy knew that if he wanted the essay he would have to come to Paul before you did.’

‘I am not sure about this,’ said Michael uncertainly. ‘It is very circumstantial.’

‘Then think about the raid on Michaelhouse that I discovered in progress: two men, one with light footsteps who ran away first, and one who was strong enough to best me in a hand-to-hand contest.’

‘I thought you were convinced that the nuns at St Radegund’s were involved,’ said Michael disparagingly. ‘Perhaps one of the intruders was a woman. Tysilia, for example.’

‘The person I fought was no woman,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He was an experienced fighter. And Timothy told us only today that he was at Crécy. That is partly why you wanted him for your deputy – you knew that his fighting skills would come in useful for skirmishes with restless students.’

‘This is not evidence,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘This is pure conjecture.’

‘All right,’ said Bartholomew, trying a different tactic. ‘What about the fact that it was terribly convenient that Timothy just happened to be walking past when these two intruders fled the Franciscan Friary? Why was he there at such an opportune moment?’

‘On patrol, I imagine,’ said Michael, exasperated. ‘Of all the people in Cambridge, Timothy is probably the one who has more reason to be out on the streets than anyone else. It is his job; he is paid to walk around preventing trouble.’

‘And he did give chase to the intruders,’ added Lynne. ‘He followed them until he lost them among the reeds that lie between here and the Barnwell Causeway.’

‘How do you know that?’ demanded Bartholomew.

‘He told us,’ said Lynne. ‘He returned breathless and sweating to say that they had escaped.’

‘He told you,’ said Bartholomew. ‘That means nothing. He probably did run to the wasteland, with his accomplice Janius. But as soon as he reached the cover of the reeds, he left the cloak he had used as a disguise, along with the essay, and returned to tell you that the two intruders had eluded him. And that is another thing. The cloak.’

‘What cloak?’ asked Michael wearily.

‘The men who stabbed Nigel at Barnwell Priory wore dark cloaks,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Timothy did not wear a dark cloak today; he wore a pale one that he claims was ruined in the laundry. Cloaks are expensive, and I do not accept that Timothy would be so stoical if Yolande really had turned his fine Benedictine garment into one that looked like a Franciscan’s.’

‘Mine is missing,’ said Pechem, rubbing his temples, as if the accusations and counter-accusations had given him a headache. ‘He must have taken it when he came to check that all was well with us earlier today. I wondered what had happened to it.’

‘Why did he feel the need to check on you?’ demanded Bartholomew.

‘I do not know,’ admitted Pechem. ‘He told me he wanted to make sure my hand was healing.’

Bartholomew shot Michael a triumphant look. ‘Timothy paid an unexpected visit to the Franciscans with the specific intention of stealing a cloak, because he was afraid he might be recognised by Nigel if he wore a dark one. But Nigel did recognise him. It was not you Nigel was howling at, Brother: it was Timothy, grey cloak or no. He entered the infirmary just behind you.’

‘He yelled at me because I was a stranger in a dark cloak,’ said Michael tiredly. ‘And anyway, Nigel did not see enough of the intruders to identify Timothy or anyone else.’

‘Nevertheless, Timothy was not prepared to take that chance. He donned the grey gown, and would have claimed that he no longer possessed a black one if challenged about the stabbing at Barnwell the previous night.’

‘Then it is his word against yours,’ said Michael. ‘And there is no compelling evidence why we should believe you.’

‘At the precise moment when the men who attacked Paul were fleeing, you and I were on the causeway near the Barnwell Gate with Richard,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The Causeway stands proud of the land around it, and you can see for a long away. I saw no chase across the wasteland, did you?’

‘I was not looking for one,’ said Michael. ‘But I did not see Timothy double back on himself to come here when he said he was going to St Radegund’s Convent, either.’

‘I am sure he made certain you did not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is easy to stay hidden among all that scrub, if you do not want to be seen. But we should go back to the convent now, to ask whether he returned there as he says.’

‘No,’ said Michael. ‘It will be a waste of time. Timothy is innocent of these charges.’

Bartholomew did not think so, although he also knew for certain that Timothy had not returned to the convent: he would not have had time to walk all the way to St Radgund’s and then be back in Cambridge in time to chase the ‘intruders’ across the marshes. Timothy had done exactly as Bartholomew had surmised: he had grabbed Janius, invaded the Franciscan Friary and then escaped into the marshes while pretending to ‘give chase’ to the culprits.

Michael glared at Pechem, Paul and Lynne. ‘You three will say nothing about this to anyone. Matt has no evidence to support his accusations, and I do not want to lose a good Junior Proctor on the basis of a few wild guesses on his part.’

‘Then there is only one way to resolve this,’ said Bartholomew, undeterred. ‘We must pay Timothy and Janius a visit, and see whether they have an essay, two dark cloaks and a bloodied knife in their possession.’

‘No, Matt,’ said Michael yet again, stretching bare feet towards the flames that blazed in the kitchen hearth later that evening. The College cat jumped into his lap, and began to purr loudly as he scratched it under the chin. He sneezed, almost tipping it on to the floor, but it declined to abandon the comfortable haven it had located. ‘I will not allow you to invade the privacy of my Junior Proctor on the basis of the flimsy evidence you have presented.’

‘It will not be flimsy evidence when we find what we are looking for,’ persisted Bartholomew. ‘Within a few moments, your investigation will be over.’

‘I like Timothy,’ said Michael. ‘He has proved himself an excellent Junior Proctor over the last few days – better than Walcote could ever have been. I do not want him to resign just because you think he is a murderer.’

‘But he is a murderer,’ said Bartholomew, becoming exasperated. ‘He killed your last Junior Proctor so that he could step into his shoes and steal Faricius’s essay.’

‘Make up your mind, Matt. Timothy cannot have turned murderer for both reasons.’

‘Does it matter?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘He and his henchman Janius have committed terrible crimes. Are they really the kind of men you want representing law and order in the University you love?’

‘You are on the wrong track entirely,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘Walcote was murdered because of these nocturnal meetings he arranged. He was trying to discredit me, so that he would be appointed Senior Proctor and assume the power that I have accrued over the past five years. And it would have been disastrous for the University: he scraped by as Junior Proctor, because I was there to help him. He could never have managed what I do alone.’

‘But you were thinking of moving on anyway,’ said Bartholomew, seeing all kinds of problems with Michael’s assumptions. ‘You were prepared to become Master of Michaelhouse last year, and it is only a matter of time before a suitably prestigious position comes and you take it. Then Walcote would have been appointed Senior Proctor automatically. Why should he feel the need to organise secret meetings to oust you when his promotion was inevitable?’

‘Perhaps he wanted the appointment now, not at some unspecified point in the future,’ said Michael. ‘He accused me of stealing from the Carmelites–’

‘But you did steal from the Carmelites,’ Bartholomew pointed out.

Michael ignored him. ‘–so I suppose it is possible that he was murdered by someone loyal to me. Everyone knows that I keep the University stable and prosperous, and it is not inconceivable that someone decided to rid me – and the University – of a potential problem.’

‘Then why did this well-wisher not simply tell you about these meetings of Walcote’s?’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘You are a man who knows how to look after himself, and you would not need to murder your Junior Proctor to stop him from spreading lies about you.’

Michael sighed. ‘You are tired, Matt. You did not sleep much last night, because of that business with Arbury. Things will look different in the morning, when you have rested.’

He settled himself more comfortably in Agatha’s chair, and within a few moments, both he and the cat were snoring comfortably. It was a cosy scene, and Bartholomew might have been amused had he not been so frustrated. He poked viciously at the fire, and then made for the door.

‘Wait, lad,’ came a voice from the shadows.

Bartholomew nearly leapt out of his skin at the close proximity of Cynric’s voice. ‘What are you doing here at this time of night?’ he asked, a little irritably. ‘You should be at home with Rachel.’

‘She has a chill from attending all the midnight vigils this week,’ said Cynric. ‘She has gone to bed with possets and blankets, and is snoring almost as loudly as Brother Michael. I came here for some peace; instead I find you two arguing.’

‘How long have you been here?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Did you hear what we were saying?’

‘I heard,’ said Cynric. ‘And I agree with Brother Michael. You only have nasty accusations, not evidence. If you accuse a man of murder, you may see him hang. Is that what you want, based on the information you have?’

‘That is why I want to search Timothy’s room,’ whispered Bartholomew, glancing back across at the sleeping Michael. ‘I am sure the essay will be there.’

‘So will Timothy, most likely,’ said Cynric. ‘It would be a risky thing to do.’

‘He will not be in his room all evening,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I will wait until he leaves.’

‘Then do it tomorrow,’ suggested Cynric. ‘It will be Saturday, and many people – especially monks – will be keeping the Easter Eve vigil. He will almost certainly be out then.’

Reluctantly, Bartholomew conceded that Cynric was right. He was restless and his head ached from tension and lack of sleep, but he felt he had to do something. He certainly did not feel like going to bed.

‘I am going to see Matilde,’ he said, reaching for his cloak. ‘I want to make sure she arrived home safe from St Radegund’s.’

‘She did,’ said Cynric. ‘I saw her at sunset. But if you feel like visiting her anyway, old Cynric will escort you to make sure you do not disregard his advice and make a detour to places you have no right to be.’

Bartholomew smiled, touched by his book-bearer’s concern, and headed towards the front gate. He told the student on guard duty that he was going to visit a patient, grateful that it was dark and that the boy would not see from the sudden flush in his cheeks that he was lying, then he and Cynric strode briskly along the High Street to the area called the Jewry where Matilde lived. It was a silent night, although rain pattered on the cobbled streets and on to roofs that were so sodden that they looked as though they would not take much more miserable weather.

‘Have you noticed any change in Richard yet?’ asked Cynric conversationally, as they walked. ‘Because he gets drunk with Heytesbury most nights, neither of them is in any condition to return to Trumpington, so they sleep at Oswald Stanmore’s business premises. As you know, Rachel and I have a chamber there, so it allows me to apply the Franciscans’ charm.’

‘I thought the dish of burning feathers he mentioned was something to do with you,’ said Bartholomew, smiling.

Cynric nodded. ‘Clippesby has a way with animals, and I persuaded him to grab me a handful of tail from the College cockerel. We were supposed to use a pheasant, but you do not see many of those around.’

‘Richard fell off his horse today,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I hope this charm is not harming him.’

‘It would be worth it,’ said Cynric, unrelenting. ‘His foul manners are upsetting his mother, and I will not see that good lady distressed if I can prevent it. A few bad mornings might do him good.’

‘It cannot make him any worse,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He is an arrogant–’

Cynric grabbed Bartholomew’s arm suddenly, and tried to pull him into the shadows of a doorway to hide. But Bartholomew did not move quickly enough, and he heard Cynric’s tut of annoyance. It was too late, anyway. He had already been seen by the two people who reeled towards them, much the worse for drink. They were William Heytesbury and Yolande de Blaston. Bartholomew saw the philosopher’s jaw drop when his wine-befuddled mind registered that it was Brother Michael’s friend who was looming out of the darkness to catch him intoxicated and in the company of one of the town’s prostitutes.

‘Damn!’ Bartholomew heard him mutter. Rather too late, he covered his face with the hood of his cloak.

‘Good evening, Master Heytesbury,’ said Bartholomew wickedly. ‘What are you doing here at this time of the night?’

‘I was lost,’ said Heytesbury, feebly floundering for a plausible excuse. ‘This kind lady offered to escort me to Stanmore’s house.’

‘Are you going to visit Matilde, Doctor?’ asked Yolande, evidently understanding that Bartholomew had just won some kind of victory over Heytesbury and deciding to even the score by making it clear that Heytesbury was not the only scholar visiting women after the curfew.

Bartholomew smiled at her cleverness. ‘I hear you take in laundry these days,’ he said, seeing an opportunity to discover whether she really had been responsible for damaging Brother Timothy’s cloak.

Yolande nodded, her hand on the bulge beneath her dress where her tenth child was forming. ‘Agatha is teaching me. She said I should learn a different profession, because every time I work on the streets I produce another baby. Of course, I have been making exceptions for my regulars, like Mayor Horwoode and Prior Lincolne, and for high-paying customers like Master Heytesbury, here.’

Heytesbury sighed heavily at this blunt revelation of his intentions, wafting in Bartholomew’s face a powerful scent of something nutty that only thinly disguised the wine underneath. The physician supposed it was the gum mastic he used for removing incriminating smells, although even the new import from the Mediterranean was not up to the task of hiding the fact that Heytesbury had imbibed a good deal more than was good for him that evening.

‘Please do not tell Brother Michael that I was foolish enough to lose my way tonight,’ said Heytesbury in a reasonable tone of voice. ‘He was rather cool towards me earlier, and I am concerned that he is having second thoughts about our agreement.’

‘Very well,’ said Bartholomew, suspecting that Michael no longer felt obliged to charm Heytesbury now that he possessed knowledge that rendered Heytesbury’s signing a virtual certainty. As far as Michael was concerned, the deal had been concluded, and his clever mind had doubtless already forgotten the Oxford man and had moved on to more stimulating problems.

Heytesbury blew out his cheeks in another scented sigh. ‘Something must have happened to make him act so. Perhaps those two farms and the church have suddenly become profitable, and he no longer wishes to part with them.’

‘Possibly,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Or perhaps he learned that you lied to him about Faricius.’

Heytesbury regarded him uneasily. ‘What do you mean?’

‘When we first met you claimed the “other business” you had in Cambridge was seeing one of our scholars with a view to enticing him to Oxford. That scholar was Faricius.’

Heytesbury raised his eyebrows. ‘True. But I never lied about it. I said he was “unsuitable”, if I recall correctly. He was unsuitable: he was dead.’

‘But he was obviously not dead when you first met him.’

‘No,’ said Heytesbury. He rummaged in his scrip and tore a piece of gum mastic from his ever-ready packet; even in the darkness Bartholomew saw the pale stain it left on his fingers. ‘I had heard of his excellent mind, and I sought him out because it would have been an honour to teach him.’

‘Then why did you not tell us this straight away?’

‘Why should I?’ asked Heytesbury. ‘What would you have thought if I had revealed that the one person I had spoken to in Cambridge had been murdered within a couple of days? It might have put my arrangements with Michael at risk.’

‘You may have done that simply by keeping quiet about it,’ said Bartholomew maliciously, gratified to see the Oxford man blanch. Heytesbury seemed about to protest his innocence again, but Bartholomew turned his attention to Yolande. ‘Did you wash Brother Timothy’s cloak recently?’

Yolande nodded. ‘It was filthy with muck from walking along the High Street. Why do you ask?’

‘Did the dye come out?’ asked Bartholomew.

Yolande’s world-weary face became ugly with anger. ‘It certainly did not, and you can keep that sort of tale to yourself! I will not have the likes of you accusing me of damaging the clothes I wash.’

‘I was only asking,’ protested Bartholomew. ‘It may have been made of inferior cloth or coloured with cheap dye that did not stay.’

‘Well, it was not,’ said Yolande firmly. ‘That cloak was returned to Brother Timothy just as black as when he gave it to me, and a whole lot cleaner. Agatha taught me not to use hot water on black garments for exactly that reason.’

She grabbed the agitated Heytesbury and flounced off with him down the High Street, leaving Bartholomew frowning after her thoughtfully. So, Timothy had lied about the cloak. He wondered whether he should tell Michael immediately, so that they could act on the information that night. But Bartholomew suspected that the monk would be unwilling to listen to any more accusations regarding Timothy. Reluctantly, because he wanted the whole business done with as soon as possible, he conceded that it would still be best to follow Cynric’s advice, and launch a raid on Timothy’s room during the Easter vigil the following night.

‘I have that document,’ said Heytesbury, pulling away from Yolande and calling back up the High Street to Bartholomew. ‘My lawyer has read it with care, and I am ready to sign it now.’

Bartholomew waved a hand in acknowledgement, and looked around for Cynric, who was still hidden in the dense shadows at the side of the road.

‘I will sign it tomorrow,’ Heytesbury shouted again, as he was hauled away by a huffy Yolande. ‘Tell Brother Michael I will sign whatever he likes first thing in the morning.’

Cynric, who emerged from the shadows as soon as Heytesbury and Yolande had gone, chuckled to himself. ‘This will please the good Brother. Michael tried all manner of tricks to make Heytesbury sign, but the one that worked was when he acted as though he no longer cared whether the business was concluded or not.’

Bartholomew tapped gently on Matilde’s door, then backed away hastily when he heard voices murmuring within. Appalled that he had been so thoughtless as to assume she would be alone and that he might be about to intrude on something he preferred not to think about, he began to move away. The door was opened, and Matilde peered out.

‘Matthew?’ she called, peering around her into the darkness. ‘Is that you? I have been waiting for you all evening. You said you would come.’

Reluctantly, Bartholomew stepped out of the shadows and Cynric followed him into the neat, pleasant room where Matilde entertained her guests. It was a lovely chamber, and always smelled of clean woollen rugs and the herbs that she added to the logs that burned on the fire. A golden light filled every corner, softened by the subdued colours of the wall hangings. Down-filled cushions were scattered artistically on the benches and chairs, while a large bowl of nuts and fruit stood in the centre of a polished oak table.

Bartholomew stopped dead in his tracks when he saw that Matilde’s visitors, who sat side by side on a bench with goblets of wine in their hands, were none other than Tysilia and Eve Wasteneys of St Radegund’s Convent. Bartholomew’s stomach lurched. Had they learned that the portly Mistress Horner and the slender prostitute were one and the same? Had they come to do Matilde harm for attempting to spy on them?

‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded, quite rudely.

‘I might ask you the same question,’ retorted Eve, surprised by his hostility. ‘We are women visiting a woman for sensible advice. You are a man visiting a woman at a time that is not seemly.’

‘It is hardly seemly for a pair of nuns to be out so late, either,’ retorted Bartholomew. ‘But I am a physician, and I am often called out at night.’

‘Has Mistress Matilde summoned you, then?’ asked Eve archly. ‘She does not look in dire need of a physician to me.’

‘Why visit Matilde at night, when you could come in the day?’ countered Bartholomew.

‘Dame Martyn said we had to come in the dark because we could not be seen visiting a whore in broad daylight,’ supplied Tysilia helpfully. ‘She also said–’

‘Our business with Mistress Matilde is nothing to do with you,’ interrupted Eve, giving Tysilia a none too subtle dig in the ribs with her elbow to silence her. She stood up and made a gracious curtsy to Matilde, casting a sour glance at Bartholomew as she did so. ‘We should go. I would not wish our presence to deprive you of company this evening.’

She headed towards the door, although Tysilia clearly had no intention of leaving. She remained seated, so that Eve was obliged to walk back again and grab her by the hand.

‘No!’ Tysilia cried, trying to free herself. ‘I like it here.’

‘I am sure you do,’ muttered Eve, tugging harder. ‘But we must return to the convent.’

‘Matilde is the leader of the town’s whores,’ Tysilia announced to Bartholomew, resisting the older woman and attempting to sit again. ‘She knows everything about them. Mistress Horner, that fat woman who was staying with us, told Eve all about Matilde, and said we should come to see her with our problem.’

‘What problem?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘I am sure Mistress Horner did not mean you to come to see me in the dark, though,’ said Matilde reasonably. ‘It is not safe for women to be unaccompanied at night.’

‘Whores wander the streets alone,’ said Tysilia brightly. ‘In the dark, too.’

‘No,’ said Matilde quietly. ‘They do not. They used to, but it was dangerous. These days, most of them gather their clients from taverns or more public places.’

‘Really?’ asked Tysilia, fascinated. She turned to Eve with pleading eyes. ‘Can we go to a tavern? Tonight?’

Even Eve’s composure began to slip at this brazen request, while Matilde was startled into a laugh. Bartholomew studied Tysilia carefully. Her eyes were bright and shiny, but he still could not read the emptiness behind them. Most of her conversation was vacuous, but she had asked directly about the progress of the murder enquiry on two separate occasions, and had pointed out that Walcote was likely to have been killed by more than one person. He realised he was as unable to fathom her now as he had been on their first meeting.

‘No, we cannot tarry at an inn,’ said Eve sharply, reclaiming Tysilia’s wrist and dragging her towards the door. ‘It is time for us to go home.’

‘Perhaps Cynric would accompany you,’ suggested Matilde. ‘As I said, it is not wise for women to be out alone so late, especially once you leave the town. The Barnwell Causeway is a lonely and desolate place.’

Eve looked grateful, and Bartholomew had the impression that the nocturnal mission had not been her idea, and that something had happened that had called for desperate measures. Once they had left, and Tysilia’s demands to be taken to an inn immediately had faded into the night, Matilde closed the door with a grin.

‘Tysilia is pregnant again,’ she said. ‘Eve wanted me to tell her the name of a midwife who would end it, but I told her that was not the sort of thing the sisters know.’

Bartholomew was horrified and unconvinced. ‘That is just an excuse! Do you not think it odd that they just happen to visit you the moment you leave the convent? They know what you have been doing.’

Matilde shook her head. ‘I do not see how. However, I can assure you that it was not Mistress Horner who told them I was “the leader of the town’s whores”, as Tysilia put it. Mistress Horner never once mentioned Matilde.’

Bartholomew rubbed a hand through his hair, wishing that Matilde had never agreed to try to obtain information for Michael. ‘Then how did they know?’

Matilde shrugged. ‘It is no secret that I run an unofficial guild for the sisters, and that I help them to organise themselves in a way that minimises the danger inherent in their profession. Perhaps Eve Wasteneys claimed Mistress Horner as a source of information to Tysilia, because she did not care to explain how else she knew. Mistress Horner has gone, and will never know what she is supposed to have said.’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘You may be right. But if Tysilia is as clever as we think, then she may simply be telling you that she knows Mistress Horner is a fake. I do not like this at all, Matilde. I want you to go and stay with Edith tomorrow. You will be safe in Trumpington.’

‘With lecherous old Heytesbury prowling the house?’ exclaimed Matilde, laughing. ‘I do not think so, Matthew! I will be quite safe here. You ordered me out of the convent and I complied, but I will not be ordered anywhere else by you.’

‘Very well,’ said Bartholomew reluctantly. He felt in his bag and gave her the pendant he had reclaimed from Richard. ‘Here is the locket Tysilia stole from you.’

‘How did you find it? Did she give it to you?’

‘She gave it to Richard in return for helping her to escape from St Radegund’s.’

Matilde chuckled. ‘So that is where all the nuns’ trinkets go. She gives them to various men in exchange for some undetermined help in the future. I actually heard her bargaining with William Heytesbury one night. He is her lover of the week. She seldom keeps them for longer than that; I think she is afraid they might do something dreadful, like try to hold a conversation with her, if they come to know her too well.’

Bartholomew recalled that Tysilia had once said much the same to him herself. ‘Did Brother Timothy tell you about the lepers wanting your charity?’ he asked, wishing that the Junior Proctor did not know that Matilde had been helping Michael.

She shook her head. ‘When was he supposed to come? I left the convent just before sunset.’

‘This afternoon,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He said he would tell you that the lepers desperately need the food that you sometimes send them.’

Matilde nodded. ‘The Benedictines have been giving all their eggs and butter to the ailing Brother Adam this year. Janius has taken the lepers nothing for weeks now.’

‘Really,’ said Bartholomew thoughtfully, recalling that Janius had walked with them to Barnwell the day Timothy had been appointed Junior Proctor. He had carried a basket that he said contained food for the lepers, which he had covered with a cloth, ostensibly to protect it from the rain. Why had he taken a long walk in the drizzle, when it had not been an errand of mercy that had called him? Had it been to drop Walcote’s purse near the Barnwell Priory for the eagle-eyed Sergeant Orwelle to find? Was that why he had placed the cloth over the basket, so that Bartholomew and Michael would not see that it was empty of provisions for the lepers?

Bartholomew turned to Matilde. ‘I wish you would go to Trumpington, away from all this. I would feel happier knowing that you are safe.’

She reached up and touched him gently on the cheek. ‘I know. And I appreciate your concern. You cannot know what a comforting thing it is to have a good friend in a place like this, where nothing is ever what it seems.’

‘What do you mean? Are you referring to Tysilia again?’

Matilde shook her head slowly. ‘I do not know, Matthew. Perhaps we were wrong, and there is nothing more to that woman than an empty-headed wanton. She was certainly not feigning her pregnancy. I was surprised I had not noticed it before, given that it is so well advanced.’

‘It is true, then?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I thought it was an excuse to come to threaten you.’

‘She really is with child,’ Matilde repeated. ‘Her habit disguises the signs to a certain extent, but there is no question about it. Poor Eve. The convent will miss the money the Bishop pays to have Tysilia looked after.’

‘They have not looked after her very well if they have allowed her to become pregnant. It would serve them right if the Bishop took her away.’

‘I defy anyone else to have done better,’ said Matilde. ‘The woman is virtually uncontrollable and I wonder whether she is not so much cunning as deranged.’

Bartholomew did not know what to think. He stayed for a while, drinking wine and listening to her stories about convent life until he felt himself begin to fall asleep. Cynric’s sudden appearance at the door as he was about to walk home almost made him jump out of his skin, and he was not sure whether to be relieved or more confused to learn that the two nuns had gone directly back to St Radegund’s and had not stopped at taverns or to meet any accomplices. When he reached Michaelhouse, he washed quickly and dived between his cold, damp bed-covers, his mind still whirling with questions as an exhausted sleep finally claimed him.